The Exotic Enchanter (6 page)

He shouted for Mikhail Sergeivich. "Learn what you can from this one," the prince told his captain. "If he survives, he goes to Krasni Podok."

The return to Seversk took as long as ever, and what seemed like the final failure to rescue Florimel raised neither of the Ohioans' spirits. Chalmers was also frustrated and a little frightened at the failure of his spells. Shea did his best to help his mentor find an answer, but none of their speculation brought them any closer to Florimel or home and Belphebe, and chilly nights made it clear that winter was coming on fast.

They reached Seversk before the weather turned completely sour, and were promptly invited to the victory least in the palace. Neither of the psychologists was in the mood for a party, but neither of them wanted to insult their host by refusing to celebrate his victory, particularly when he owed much of it to them and was not backward in saying so.

By the standards of his time, Shea realized, Igor probably was a great and noble warrior-prince. So they put on their best robes and new boots of the finest kidskin, and went to the party.

They might as well have gone in monk's robes, for all the attention they drew. Everyone had brought out their finest garments, some of which had obviously been in storage a bit too long. Shea wondered if Igor would appreciate a gift of mothballs.

Cloth of gold, brocades with half a dozen colors in them, fine wool and linen with borders of gold thread and jewels, a dozen kinds of fur, swords with jeweled hilts—for once the diners in the great hall were brighter than the painting on its walls. The food was just as lavish; the stuffed-sturgeon dish appeared again, this time with the innermost item some kind of shellfish, and a sauce poured over the whole thing that made Shea ask for more ale several times.

As authentic
bogatyri
, Shea and Chalmers were seated at the head table, one on either side of the Patriarch.

He listened with fascinated amusement to their account of the piles of Polovtsi.

"You never tasted any of it?" he asked Shea.

"I didn't dare. And if I had known what the effects would be—a soldier who drank the mead said that at first he felt as if he could carry the world on his shoulders, and then felt as if the world had fallen on him. There is a riddle in this, for all that I cast the spell myself."

"There is another riddle to be solved here, is there not?" the Patriarch said. He looked at Chalmers in a way that told both psychologists that someone had been talking. "You were not able to defeat a single Polovtsi sorcerer, while your comrade was able to defeat entire bands. It may be that warriors with no magic are no match for a wizard, my son, but there may be another answer. Cast a small spell for me. Now."

Both psychologists looked at the Patriarch as if he'd grown a second head.

He smiled. "I grant you absolution if they are harmless. But I think I see the answer to your riddle."

Shea recited:

"Who hath a book hath friends at hand,

And gold and gear at his command."

Shea nearly dropped the small gold-stamped photo album into the sauce. It looked like—but it couldn't be. He opened it. Belphebe stared back at him from the photograph.

"Go back where you belong," he told the album. His voice nearly broke.

The album vanished.

Chalmers tried the same spell. The three waited expectantly for a minute. Chalmers tried again. Still no results.

Chalmers' face now showed stark horror. "Have I lost my ability?" His voice shook.

"You shouldn't have," Shea said. "Symbolic logic is a constant, all across the continua. It hasn't stopped." Shea did stop, as he realized that he still had more questions than answers, which wasn't helping Chalmers.

"You took the prince's bread and salt the night you met," the Patriarch said. "You, Rurik Vasilyevich, betrayed that bread and salt. This has become far too common among the Rus, and it is never pleasing to God. Sooner or later a traitor's luck deserts him. And your magic was your luck—at least that is how I read this riddle."

"But it was for my wife's sake—I didn't betray her!"

"Were you able to help her, when she needed help?"

"What can we do?" Shea asked. Chalmers was past speech, apparently not knowing whether to curse or weep.

"If you wish to help your wife, you must do penance for the wrong you did the prince. But it must be true repentance," the Patriarch warned.

Chalmers was a good academic; "repentance" was a religious concept and more than a little alien to him. He hemmed and hawed and blustered longer than Shea cared for. At any moment he was afraid Chalmers would use the word "superstition" or even "nonsense," and he didn't want to think about the Patriarch's reply.

But Chalmers had no alternatives to offer. The Patriarch had the patience of those who take on the work of leading strayed sheep back into the flock. He listened calmly, until there was more grief than anger in Chalmers' voice. Finally, the older psychologist put his head in his hands for a moment, then looked at the Patriarch.

"What must I do?" he asked.

"You must fast tomorrow—that shouldn't be difficult, after tonight—and come to the basilica tomorrow night. I will meet you there."

The next night a thunderstorm raged as the Patriarch led Shea to the door of the basilica. Shea wore a heavy wool cloak with a hood that so far had kept him no worse than damp, but the mud underfoot was another matter. It kept trying to pull his boots off, and he wished paving wasn't another of those little conveniences this continuum hadn't developed.

The basilica was the snuggest building Shea had yet seen here, and one look at the sanctuary told him why. A vast iconostasis—a screen of icons—rose higher than Igor's head and spread out wider than most rooms in the palace. On the left were Old Testament scenes—Cain slaying Abel, Noah leading the animals aboard the Ark, Moses breaking the Golden Calf, Daniel in the lion's den.

On the right, Shea recognized other scenes, from the New Testament—Christ walking on the water, performing the miracle of the loaves and the fishes, and on the cross. Above the two wings was the Holy Trinity—and Shea couldn't tell if the Holy Spirit was intended to be incorporeal or if the artist hadn't known how to draw.

The whole iconostasis and many of the individual icons' frames were gold or silver or at least gilded or silvered wood. Elaborate carvings or castings, inlaid ivory and jewels, tapestry-work that made any formal-dress brocade look drab—the iconostasis outshone even the elaborately painted walls and ceiling of the basilica.

The only way to make that thing any brighter, Shea thought, would be to set it on fire. Then he hastily chased the irreverent thought out of his mind. This was a place that could almost make one believe in blasphemy.

It did make Shea remember Sunday school, and discreetly kneel.

The Patriarch returned, leading Chalmers, who was wearing a dun-colored penitent's robe. Facing the iconostasis, the Patriarch pointed out one just over halfway up the New Testament side. "Judas' kiss, the betrayal of Our Lord to His enemies. Meditate upon that, my erring son."

They watched Chalmers prostrate himself on the floor. The Patriarch turned to Shea.

"We must leave now."

The priest extinguished the basilica lamps and picked up their lantern. It penetrated the darkness but feebly, but it got them out, leaving Chalmers with only the sanctuary light.

"Let us pray that though he lie in darkness, God will lead him to the light," the Patriarch said. He began to pray, loudly enough not to notice that Shea was only mouthing words.

The problem wasn't that paryer might not work. Here the problem was that it
might
.

Shea had finally worked up an appetite for breakfast the next morning, when Chalmers entered their chamber. The older man still wore his penitent's robe, but he had the first smile on his face that Shea had seen in weeks.

"My penitence seems to have worked," he said. "I cast a small spell, and it worked. I changed wine into water."

Shea swallowed a chunk of dry bread. "I suppose the other way around might have been in bad taste."

Chalmers' smile turned into a grin. "Who cares about bad taste? Now that we can follow Florimel, all I want to do is leave this world. I have never been in one I shall be so happy to see the last of!"

His ending a sentence with a preposition told Shea just how excited his colleague was. Nor did he disagree—although there was no point in even thinking about returning to Ohio, not with Chalmers in this mood.

It took them barely ten minutes to dress and pack. Five minutes more and they were standing hand in hand, one on each side of a large puddle on the floor, the result of a leak opened by last night's storm.

"By the power of saints, and the might of princes, by the strength of men and the wit of women, may all the powers of the sky above, and the earth beneath, and the waters under the earth grant that if there is P, and there is Q, then P equals not-Q, and Q equals not-P. . . ."

They were off.

Part II

The lights faded, the ground jolted up under their feet, and Shea and Chalmers found themselves alone in the dark. Shea had a confused impression of single-story houses with curving adobe walls and thatched roofs, with bigger buildings of stone looming behind them in the moonlight. A world of aromas filled his head, sharp and pungent, some familiar, most not; the only one he could name was something that smelled like curry. The ground beneath him was just that—ground, the packed earth of an unpaved street. He seemed to be in a sort of expanded intersection, not big enough to call a plaza.

And hot. The heat beat all about him, stifling. By the time his head stopped spinning, Shea was already sweating. "Whew! If this is what it's like at night, I'd hate to be here at noon!"

"Brace yourself," Chalmers said grimly. "We probably will still be here."

"Where are we, Doc?"

"To judge by the heat, I would say it must be somewhere in the tropics." Chalmers swayed.

Sea caught his arm to steady him. "Only a minute, Doc—then you'll stabilize."

"I shall recover," Chalmers muttered. "Am I growing weaker, Harold? Syllogismobile travel has never struck me so hard before"

But Chalmers lurched, bumping against Shea, who might have toppled himself, if it had not been just at that moment that someone bumped into him from the other side. "Oh, excuse me!" he said. Just to be on the safe side, he stepped quickly away, right hand dropping to his sword hilt—but with his left still holding to Chalmers just in case he was still woozy. He could have sworn the other party muttered something about a stupid beggar, but he must have been wrong, because the man said, softly but exuberantly, "Brother! Comrade in thievery! How are your pickings tonight?"

Shea stared, taken aback—and looked the man over in one quick glance. He wore a dark-colored cloth wrapped about his hips, sandals, a sword, and a forked beard with moustaches that curved up to the corners of his eyes. Besides that, he had a very flat nose—but the real distinguishing characteristic was the turban. They were in India !

No, wait a minute—there were other countries where people wore turbans, from Arabia through Persia. . . .

But they didn't eat curry.

Not exactly conclusive evidence, but the aroma, the heat, and the turban all added up, so Shea decided to operate as though this were India until proven otherwise. The syllogismobile had made him a natural speaker of the local language, so she he said, "Sorry, friend—the darkness must be deceiving you. We're not thieves, we're foreigners. We, uh, were traveling late—decided we were so close to the town that we might as well keep pushing until we arrived."

"Foreigners? Well, that does explain your outlandish clothing." Flat-nose eyed them suspiciously. "But how did you come into the city after the gates closed?"

A straight-line gleam caught Shea's eye and, looking more closely, he saw that the man had a thread tied over his nose and around his head. No wonder his nose was flat! For a wild second, he thought it was a fly-fishing leader, then realized that, in a pre-industrial town it must be something less exotic—horsehair, say, or catgut. But why the disguise? "After the gates closed? We didn't."

Chalmers nodded, muttering, "Quite true, quite true."

Shea hoped he was only indulging in irony, not shock. "We've, ah, just been wandering around, trying to find a good hotel."

"Wandering! Yes," Chalmers agreed.

Shea noticed he didn't commit himself to the questionable part of the statement, "Would you know of a good inn, kind sir?"

"An inn? Not if you have no money! And you do not, from the look of you."

Obviously, the man still thought they were thieves—or at the best, beggars. Unfortunately, his comment hit home—they didn't have any money, at least not in local currency. "What can you recommend, then?"

"To get out of sight! As quickly as possible! There is a gang of thieves plaguing this city, and if you run afoul of them, they may kill you rather than risk your bringing witness against them!" Flat-nose shouldered past them with a hasty, "May you have good fortune!" and disappeared into the night.

Shea's blood chilled; he had heard of such things, but had not thought they happened until the 1920s. "You don't think there really is a gang working the town, do you, Doc?"

"More to the point," said Chalmers, "is the possibility that we have just encountered a member of the band." He shuddered. "Who would know better of their existence—or have a better reason for wishing us to go indoors, where we cannot see what he does?"

He obviously didn't doubt the man for a second. "I guess you're right, Doc. After all, why else would he make such a clumsy attempt at disguise?"

"You mean the thread around his nose? Yes, quite so. Presumably, that tells us two things: that the thieves are ruthless, and that they are flat-nosed."

Shea stared in surprise. "You mean we just talked to a local cop?"

"It is a possibility," Chalmers said, "but more pertinent is his advice. Let us find a hole to hide in, Harold."

It was good advice indeed. Shea looked around, able to make out a bit more of their surroundings now that his eyes had adjusted to the moonlight. The larger buildings in the distance were elaborate and intricate—and he was sure he recognized the silhouette of a slim tower. "I think we're in India, Doc. More to the point, we're in a genuine city, not just a big town."

"I quite agree." Chalmers looked around, frowning. "Now, where do you hide in a city if you can't find a hotel?"

"A back alley is a good place." Shea drew his sword. "Of course, the local muggers might not have gone to bed yet, and they like alleys, too. Want to take a chance on it, Doc?"

"Let me consider the proposition." Chalmers steepled his fingers, resting his lips against them for a minute. Then he drew a circle in the dust with his toe, reciting,

". . . For knowledge if anyone burns,

We're keeping a very small prophet,

A prophet who brings us unbounded returns!"

There was a burst of light like a photographer's flash, and a two-foot-high man with a long beard and a longer gray robe stood before them, bald head gleaming in the moonlight. "Good evening, sir! May I help you?"

"Victorian," Chalmers muttered to Shea, and to the prophet, "You may indeed, O Wise One! Can you tell me where we are?"

"Where? Why summon me for such trivialities, sir? Well, it is your money. You are in India—the city of Chandradoya, to be precise."

"You guessed well, Harold," Chalmers observed. Then, to the diminutive prophet, "Thank you, O Fount of Wisdom. Can you also tell me the identity of that man whom we addressed but now?"

"He with the horsehair round his nose? To be sure, sir! That was Randhir, the rajah of this fair city! Will there be anything else?"

"The rajah himself, eh?" Chalmers mused. "Running about at night without a bodyguard, dressed as a peasant? Well, well! Quite eccentric . . . No, thank you, Esteemed One. I need no further information at this time."

"A pleasure to serve you, sir. That will be six shillings, please."

"Pay the man, Harold," Chalmers said.

Shea favored Chalmers with a quick glare, then fished in his purse. "I'm a little short on shillings at the moment. How about a Russian grivna?"

"I am sure that will be equal or better in value," the prophet said quickly. He took the coin and bowed. "Call upon us whenever you have need, sir!" With another flash, he disappeared.

As Shea blinked away afterimages, Chalmers told him, "So magic works in this universe—but not very well."

"Not well? Why?"

"Come now, Harold! Do you honestly believe the King himself would be going about at night dressed as a commoner, with a horsehair round his nose? This isn't the Arabian Nights, you know."

"Oh, isn't it? Any particular myth you recognize, Doc?"

Another flash, and there stood the miniature prophet again. "You are in the midst of a tale from the collection
Vikram and the Vampire
, compiled by the sage Bhavabhuti, and translated by Sir Richard Francis Burton—yes, the explorer who helped search for the headwaters of the Nile."

Shea goggled, but Chalmers said, completely unruffled, "Which tale exactly?"

"The fifth," the prophet said, and held out a cupped palm. "Two shillings, please." Feeling numb, Shea handed over another Russian coin. The prophet took it and bowed. "Thank you, gentlemen! Call again, whenever you please!"

Shea found his voice. "But we didn't. Call again, I mean."

"True, but we make unbounded returns. Good evening." The prophet disappeared brilliantly.

"Don't ask any more questions," Chalmers advised, "or he'll be back in a flash."

"I won't," Shea promised. "I'm having trouble enough adjusting to the idea of a plainclothes rajah."

"Surely you do not believe the little man!"

"You mean the Prophet of Profit? Why not? We've run into stranger things," Shea sighed. "Besides, his being king would explain the attempt at disguise."

Chalmers frowned. "How so?"

"Because if his royal nose is of a size with his rank, of course he'd want to make it look shorter. Hadn't we better go looking for that alley now?"

"Yes, by all means." Chalmers followed Shea along the dusty street. "We must see to obtaining local clothing as soon as possible."

"I think we'll have to wait for daybreak, when the shops open. What caste do you think I should opt for?"

"Persian robes—a traveler from the West will be your best role here. That avoids the whole issue of caste as well as it can be avoided."

"But not too far to the west, hm?"

"Indeed. Our Medieval Russian garb must be quite incomprehensible to most of the local residents. We want to be believable as foreigners, not maniacs. For myself, a simple saffron robe will do nicely—I shall be a
sunnyasi
, a wandering holy man."

"With your Northern European complexion? Whom do you think you're fooling?"

"Philosophers can be of any breed, and still be credible," Chalmers replied, with a loftiness that made Shea wonder about suppressed impulses toward asceticism. He decided a quick change of subject was in order. "I thought our little philosopher was Victorian English."

"He was—he came from John Wellington Wells' shop at Number Seventy, Simmery Axe."

"But we're speaking a Hindu dialect right now. How come we understood him?"

"He
is
magical, you know," Chalmers sighed, "unlimited knowledge, and all that sort of thing."

"Oh." Shea let that one sink in. Then he asked, "You mean he's apt to show up any time I ask a question now?" He glanced at the darkness about him with apprehension, realizing too late that he might have triggered another visit.

So did Chalmers; he let out a sigh of relief when nothing flashed. "Only if it's a matter of knowledge we do not have, or cannot gain locally, I would presume. Still, I would be careful what you asked for."

"I know—I might get it." Shea pointed. "There's a likely looking alley."

"What it's looking like, I will not say." Chalmers eyed the black space between buildings with misgiving. "Still, if it is our only hope of avoiding the gang of thieves, let us hie ourselves thither."

"Thither?" Shea echoed, but he headed for the mouth of the alley anyway.

Stepping in, they passed from bright moonlight into sudden shadow. "Where are you, Harold?" Chalmers whispered.

"Right beside you—or your voice, anyway. This place is as dark as the Black Hole of Calcutta." Then Shea remembered that they might not be all that far from Calcutta, and swallowed. Sweat would have sprung out all over his body, if it hadn't already. "Why are we whispering?"

"Because it's da-ah-uh-HO!" Chalmers stumbled, lurched, and reached out to catch hold of Shea, who braced himself just in time to keep both of them on their feet.

"Stupid fool!" hissed a voice that started below them, then rose quickly in both pitch and elevation. "Can you not see where you step?"

"N-no, actually, we can't." Shea huddled back against Chalmers, then remembered himself and stepped in front, hand going to his sword. He could only just make out the gleam of reflected light from eyes and an earring. "Can't see a thing." But his eyes were adjusting to the deeper darkness, and he could detect a vague, irregular circle low down in the wall opposite him, with another man coming out of it on hands and knees. Chalmers had tripped over their current conversationalist as he made his exit—but who came out of a building through a hole in the wall? Especially with a bagful of hard-looking lumpy objects over his shoulder?

Thieves—and ones who didn't pussyfoot around with such niceties as lockpicks or glass-cutters. But how did they knock a hole in a wall without making a racket that would bring down every policeman in the neighborhood?

Easy—no police. And the neighbors didn't bother the men because they were scared stiff. "Doc," Shea hissed, "I think we've found our gang of thieves."

"Not mine," Chalmers assured him, then forced a smile and stepped forward. "Greetings, O Man of Skill! We are strangers in your fair city, and . . ."

"Strangers indeed, not to know enough to keep within doors at night!" A knife suddenly appeared at Chalmers' throat—rough and homemade, by Shea's twentieth-century standards, but with a gleam of sharpness to its edge that showed it was quite functional. "What shall we do with these two, Chankoor?"

"Hold them a moment, Din," the other man said as he stood up. "When we are all out, we shall take him to the captain."

"Even as he says," Din told Chalmers and Shea. "Hold yourselves quite still now, or my hand might waver."

Chalmers swallowed convulsively, almost nicking his Adam's apple in the process, and stared at the man with bulging eyes. Behind his back, Shea stiffened a finger and let it relax, very slowly, as he began to mutter something about melting, but Chalmers clamped a hand onto his arm, and Shea decided that Doc hadn't quite given up hope of talking his way out of this.

"Take your hand from your sword-hilt, cow-eater," Din sneered, and twisted the knife for emphasis. Below him, a third man, then a fourth, crawled out of the hole, the last reaching back to drag out two more bags of plunder.