The Monsters of Stephen Enchanter (19 page)

“My father was a baker,” Stump explained.  “He apprenticed me when I was old enough to crack eggs.  I’ve been saving my money for years now, in the hopes that I’d be able to buy a shop.  I’ll find an apprentice of my own—one with two good hands.”

“But what if whatever town we find is awful—like Chubblewooble?”

“Then I’ll take my horse and some food and find somewhere better.”

“Unable to wield a weapon?”

Stephen bit off his thread.  “It’s not that dangerous,” he said.  “I’ve been walking the royal roads for years, and I never carried any weapon.”

“You might have if it were legal,” Lucky pointed out.  “And you have your monsters to protect you.”

“Not always.”  Stephen ran his hands over the body of the dog.  Its hide was bristly, and it bore a resemblance to a poor example of taxidermy.  It wouldn’t be long, now.

“I could come with you, if you liked,” said Lucky, “and help until you get settled.  I don’t know much about baking, but—”

“The Jolly Executioner would never let you go,” said Stump.

“He could hire more people at the next town.”

“He could not.  You know that.”

Lucky had known that, Stephen saw.  He had simply been looking for an excuse—any excuse—to leave.

So Stephen hadn’t been the only one to figure out that the Jolly Executioner was barmy as a barn owl.  “Why not leave anyway?” Stephen suggested, not without bitterness.  “He doesn’t own you.”

Lucky shifted uncomfortably.

“Or does he?”

“No—nothing like that.”

“Then leave.”

“I can’t—the king—”

They were back to that, then.  “What about the king?”

“He’d be furious.  If the Jolly Executioner ordered me to stay, I’d have to.”

“And has he ordered you?”

“If I deserted—well, you saw how he reacted about Tinkerfingers.  It’d be worse.  You call me Lucky, but I wonder if Stump isn’t the lucky one.  If I’d known what I was signing on to—”

“You didn’t know you’d be hunting monsters?”

“Oh, I knew that.  I mean I didn’t know what the—” he lowered his voice—“what the boss would be like.”

“Lucky!” Stump exclaimed, aghast.

“What?  You were thinking it too.  Hardly any of us knew the Jolly Executioner before we agreed to go with him.  Miss Ironfist, Granite, and Craggy all did, and I’m pretty sure Tinkerfingers did, at least in passing.  What he was thinking, letting his kid brother come along—anyway, the rest of us thought this mission would be an honor, and it’s turned out—”

“Lucky!”

“All right, all right; I’m done.”  Lucky fell into a sulk.

The company left the woods and rode onto a rolling plain, covered in high grass and heavy drifts of snow.  It stretched east as far as the eye could see, but the town of Robin’s Haven—and the woods beyond—were within reach after only an hour.

Robin’s Haven was nothing like Chubblewooble.  Its streets were wide and bustling; its people wore bright colors and brighter smiles.  This was precisely the sort of town Stephen liked to stop in: plenty of money, and people who were friendly to enchanters.  He eyed an inn hopefully.  He wouldn’t mind another porridge breakfast.

Stephen wasn’t the only one with fresh food on his mind.  As soon they had set up camp outside the town, Warthog and Banananose disappeared in search of fresh bread.  Swishy, Medic, and Twitch weren’t far behind, dragging Youngster along in the hopes of cheering him up.

“I’m going to look for somewhere to live,” Stump announced.  “Are you two coming?”

“Who, me?” Stephen asked.

“No need to look so amazed,” Stump said, grinning.

“Huh,” said Lucky.  “You’ll need a shop, I suppose—maybe a small one with a bedroom over it.”  His eyes took on a faraway look, and his sulk vanished.  “Location is everything.  Location, location, location.  And if there’s nothing vacant, you could—”

Stump exchanged an amused glance with Stephen, and Stephen was once again fascinated that Stump seemed to view him as an almost normal person.

And he was about to leave.  It figured.

The rest of the afternoon was spent in town.  Walking with two obviously ordinary people, and not trying to sell enchantments, Stephen found he was actually enjoying himself.  They perused street after street, peering in storefront windows, chatting with shopkeepers—Lucky and Stump did, anyway; there was a limit to how willing people were to openly converse with enchanters—and stopping in every bakery in town.  The fourth and last was owned by an elderly childless gentleman who—after he heard Stump’s intentions, and commiserated with him over the loss of his hand—hinted repeatedly that he was hoping to sell his bakery and retire.  “If only I could find someone to take my place,” he lamented.

“You’ve decided to take him up on it,” Lucky said, as they stepped out of the shop.  “I know you have.”

Stump nodded.  “I like this place.  The people are kind.  I do have to wonder if it isn’t all too perfect.  What do you think, Enchanter?”

“My professional opinion?” Stephen had been wondering why he had been included; here was his answer.

“Yes.  Magically speaking, is this town all right?  Is its prosperity real?  Is it—could it be anything like Chubblewooble?”

Stephen looked around him, squinting in that enchanterly way that clarified the lines of magic in any place, made them easier to distinguish.

Stump seemed to think something more was needed.  “I just thought . . . you realized something was going in Chubblewooble—enough that you managed to stay safe, somehow—and I thought you might be able to see something here, to warn me if there’s something wrong.”

Stephen considered the town carefully and, with much delicate probing, found his answer.  “An enchanter has been here before me,” he said, “or rather, many other enchanters.  There is magic everywhere—it’s built into the very foundations of every house.  But it’s not black magic; most of it is warding.  There are stronger defenses, but they are passive unless the town is attacked.  The magic is strong, stronger than any I could lay or remove, and it is sympathetic to the needs of those born here.  But I think—I think it would protect anyone who moved here, also.”  This answer was rather longer than Stephen had intended, but the more he examined the town, the deeper and more complicated he found the enchantments, and the more he marveled at the skill of the enchanters.  It must have taken weeks—and would, Stephen thought wistfully, have cost a fortune.

“If it were you,” said Stump, “would you want to live here?”

Stephen nodded, trying not to let his jealousy show.  Yes, he would live here, if he could.

Maybe Stump really should have been the one named Lucky.

Ignoring the wisdom of youth

(as adults invariably do)

It soon became clear to everyone except the Jolly Executioner that one night’s rest in Robin’s Haven was not going to be enough.  The company was weary.  Not simply a little tired from a little travel, but filled with real, honest, bone-deep weariness that came from endless trials, life-and-death struggles, and tragedy.  They needed time to recover their spirits as much as their bodies—although much physical healing was needed also, and both Medic and Letitia were much in demand.

“What did you expect?” rumbled the Jolly Executioner.  “Did you think it would be easy, going on this mission?  Did you think no one would die?”

“We knew,” said Miss Ironfist, who was the only one willing to stand up to him.  “But we’re human, and we need to rest.  When we’ve recovered a little, we’ll work all the better for it.  It won’t hurt you to rest, sir.”

“I!”

“Maybe not, then.  But we need to.”

“And what do you say to that, Medic?” the Jolly Executioner asked.  “Must we waste yet more days in this place?”

“Sir,” said Medic, “two weeks would not be too much.”

“And you, Witch?  What do you say to that?”

Letitia shrugged.  “The strong will heal and the weak will die.  Is that not always the way?”  She held up her bandaged hands.  “I have an injury as dire as any here, and I was long in the servitude of the old witch—and yet I do not demand special treatment.”

“No,” said Miss Ironfist, “you give yourself special treatment, though.  And we have no proof that your hands actually were burned.  You use them as though they were not.”

“If you need any salves for your injuries, old woman, you need only ask.”

“You should have offered!”

“She’s right,” said Granite, and both turned on him, expected that he referred to the other.  “Too many of us are injured.  Sir, give us a week in which to recover.”

“A week, then,” said the Jolly Executioner, with poor grace.  “Not a day longer.”

A week was little enough.  Of the fifteen remaining members of the company, six sported grave injury—from the Beast of Quag, Chubblewooble, the wolves, and just the general troubles of travel in the depths of winter.

And then there was Youngster, who had an injury of a different sort.

By the end of the week, the company was much revived, if not yet ready to move on, and the Jolly Executioner had called a meeting to discuss their plan of action.  Stephen took the opportunity to sneak out of camp, the dog clutched in his arms.

The dog was heavy and cumbersome, and so full of magic that Stephen’s arms tingled and itched.  His shoulders ached as he carried it out into the plain, over a snowy hill to where he could no longer see the company’s fire.

Stephen lowered his dog to the ground and sat in the snow, maneuvering the dog’s head onto his lap.

“All right, Dog,” Stephen said.  His voice sparking with magic, he spoke the long, rolling words that melted snow and gleamed off the stars, but made no sound.  “Wake up, Dog.  No playing dead.”

Dog shivered and groaned.  His tail thumped once and fell still.  He lay there, unmoving for several long seconds before opening one human eye to gaze dolefully at Stephen.

“Don’t give me that,” said Stephen.  “I can’t be tricked.”

Dog’s dolefulness increased tenfold, but he climbed painfully to his feet, meaningfully limping with each of his four legs in turn.

Stephen was not impressed.  “Lazy, that’s what you are.  There’s enough magic stuffed in you that you could run for a week, and look at you—!”

Dog’s head drooped and his tail tucked itself between his legs.  Lazy?  Him?  The shame of it!  What a victim he was, what a poor, sad little—

His head tilted abruptly, eyes perked.  A moment later, he was off, hurtling over the plain, barking furiously, completely ignoring his master’s calls.

Stephen ran after him, wheezing and clutching his side.  “Dog?  Dog!  Stop!”

Dog dove at the ground and came up with something clamped in his jaws.  He growled and shook it vigorously.

“Dog!” Stephen yelled, leaning over to catch his breath. 

Dog bounded back effortlessly, looking delighted with himself.

“What,” Stephen demanded, “do you have in your mouth?  Give it to me.”

Dog backed away, his entire backside wagging with the force of his tail.  Only his eyes betrayed his artificial nature, human as they were.  Even Stephen, who had been working on them for days, found them eerie.  Somehow, it was difficult to lunge forward and tackled Dog, with eyes like that looking at him.

He did it anyway.  Who knew what Dog had found to eat, out here.

After much maneuvering, Stephen managed to pry Dog’s mouth open, and pull whatever it was out.  He held it close to examine it by moonlight.  “You attacked dirt?”

Dog wiggled out from under him. 

“Dirt?  Why?”

Dog smiled a mysterious doggy smile.  And that, Stephen thought, was all the response he was likely to get.

When Stephen returned, the company was still gathered in a meeting—but now they had acquired a small, sandy-haired boy.  The boy stood with his hands in his pockets, looking immensely pleased with himself.

“If Robin’s Woods are that dangerous,” the Jolly Executioner was saying, “why would anyone dare live this close?  Your town bears no signs of the destitution I would expect.”

The boy laughed.  Like everyone in that town, he was lighthearted, educated, and well fed.  “Of course not,” he said.  “This is Robin’s Haven.  We’re safe here—all travelers are safe up until the first bridge.”

“And beyond the first bridge?”

“No one goes past the first bridge—and nothing comes past, either.”

“No travelers?”

“None.  Nor wild animals, bandits, fairy creatures—which are the biggest concern this close to the border—nor—”

This close to the border of Faerie?  Stephen hadn’t known they had gone that far north.  Traveling by horse was much faster than walking, faster than he had realized—especially when one didn’t stop and spend days enchanting in every large, friendly town to which one came.

The Jolly Executioner nodded, and turned to the company.  “There has been a change of plans,” he announced.  “We will detour into Robin’s Woods.  We will leave in the morning.  Be ready.”

No one grumbled.  They had already stayed far longer than expected.

“You weren’t listening to me,” the boy said with patient exasperation.  “Robin’s Woods is dangerous.  People who go past the first bridge don’t come back.”

“I heard you,” said the Jolly Executioner.  “And that’s precisely why we’re going.”

“But it’s dangerous!”

“I know.”  The Jolly Executioner gave the boy several small coins.  “For your trouble.”

“Might as well give me the rest—you’ll have no use for it, where you’re going!”  The boy stuffed the coins in his pocket and sprinted away, laughing.  He was not at all frightened by the Jolly Executioner, but Stephen rather thought he was disgusted.

Stephen ran after him.  He had obviously missed something important, and . . . there would be worse things than to give up enchanting entirely, hide until the Jolly Executioner had left, and work in Robin’s Haven.  He’d rather desert than die horribly.

Although desertion might mean that anyway. . . .

The boy spotted Stephen chasing him, gave a little wave, and ran harder.

Cursing the weeks he’d spent on Noble Steed instead of walking, Stephen picked up his robes and pelted on. 

The boy rounded a corner and when Stephen followed, he found the street devoid of boy.  Ah—but there was a door open.

Stephen smoothed his clothes and rapped gently on the doorframe.  When no one answered, he stepped inside and looked around.  It was an ordinary house, if rather dirty and bare.  “Boy?” Stephen called.  “Boy, where are you?  I want to talk to you—I want you to tell me about Robin’s Woods.  Please come out; I know you’re here.”

“There is no boy here,” said a woman, emerging from the back room.  She was tall, as tall as Stephen, and astonishingly beautiful.  Chocolate hair fell in waves over one shoulder, her eyes were large, and all the little details and proportions of her face had been designed to please.  She looked, Stephen thought, like a doll from the hands of a master craftsman: inhumanly beautiful and coldly delicate.

“Did you know,” he said, “that you’re the third unbelievably beautiful woman I’ve met recently?”

“If that’s meant as flattery—”

“You aren’t identical, mind.  You all have different colorations.  What will the next one have?  Red hair?  Purple?”

“I have never,” said the woman, “seen you before in my life.  Nor do I wish to see you again.  You are not welcome here.”

Stephen wasn’t listening—he was thinking furiously.  Could it be—was it possible that there was a conspiracy of beautiful woman, intent on following him?

It hardly seemed likely.

One beautiful woman, following him around—why?  Revenge?  He didn’t think he’d ever done anything interesting enough to merit revenge.

Or had he, without knowing it?  Did this have something to do with the accusation at Crying?

“I want to ask you a few questions,” said Stephen, “since the boy isn’t here.  What do you know about Robin’s Woods?  Have you ever been to Crying?”

“If you do not depart immediately,” said the woman, “I shall call the constable and have you arrested.”

She was serious.  Stephen had trespassed in her house, and—

He was an enchanter.  He had gotten out of the habit of towns; he had gotten too used to traveling in the company.  Stupid, foolish.  What if he were arrested?  Worse, what if the Jolly Executioner tried to break him out again, and found all the warding magic of Robin’s Haven rising against him?  The company—including Stephen—would not survive.

Stephen bowed deeply and sincerely.  “My apologies, lady.  Thank you for your time.”  He withdrew quickly, and heard the door slam behind him.

That could have gone better.  And he still hadn’t learned anything about Robin’s Woods.

But he knew one thing: in whatever town he settled, if he ever did settle, it would have to be somewhere no one knew he had ever done magic.

“Enchanter!”

Stephen jumped.  Was that—Miss Ironfist’s voice?

“Enchanter!”

Yes, yes it was.  Stephen turned his feet toward camp and strolled back, whistling.

“Enchanter, get back here immediately!”

Stephen rounded the last corner and beheld a peculiar sight: Miss Ironfist standing on a log, truncheon in hand; Letitia sitting, arms folded disapprovingly; Medic and Twitch racing every which way; and Youngster rolling about it what seemed to be agony, but was in fact silent paroxysms of laughter.

“What?” said Stephen, which made Youngster laugh harder.

“You!” cried Miss Ironfist.  “You’ve loosed a monster in our midst!”

“I don’t think I have.”

“She means,” Youngster gasped, “your—” he collapsed again, unable to finish.