Her Majesty's Wizard #1 (5 page)

   Matt lifted his chin and stared back stoutly. After all, there wasn't much else he could do.

   "You have some power," Malingo admitted. "Enough to be useful to me. But, alas, that also means you've enough to be troublesome. I ought to obliterate you here and now and would do so without a thought-if it weren't for the possibility of your being more help than bother."

   Matt pricked up his ears. What was this? A chance to join the local power structure?

   Malingo turned away, strolling across the chamber with elaborate nonchalance. "You refused Astaulf's offer, and that could indicate any one of a number of desirable traits."

   Sure, such as cowardice; greed, apathy, or a certain reluctance to attack while anyone was watching. Matt eyed the sorcerer's back speculatively-but of course, that was just what Malingo was expecting.

   "We must, of course, test you further to discover which one it is."

   Matt frowned. "Why bother? It's simple-I'm the cautious sort. I'm not about to choose a side before I know how the ground lies."

   "How?" the sorcerer frowned, perplexed.

   "I mean ... Look. When the king jumped you, how was I supposed to know which one would win?"

   "I see." Malingo nodded. "Well, at least you show some sense, though no great faith in sorcery. Still, there are worse values, and I can understand your uncertainty. Astaulf and I have been careful to appear on the best of terms when anyone was there to, see. How could you know which was stronger, when you had no inkling of a quarrel?"

   Apparently Malingo was forgetting that Matt was new in town. Or did he even know?

   "I congratulate you on your prudence," the sorcerer said. "Such restraint and wisdom are rare in one new to the Power. You are wise to be sure which side can best advance you before you choose."

   He strode back toward Matt and stopped, arms akimbo. "Well! You've seen it. The king cannot stand against me-but I can dispense with him, should I think it worth the trouble. League with me, and Astaulf cannot hurt you. My power still is rising, as yours will with it, if you swear fealty to me."

   Matt just sat, staring up at the man, unbelieving. From football to ally in less than two minutes ... ? No. From football to pawn!

   Malingo frowned. "You hesitate? Perhaps I should not offer. What stays your mind?"

   "Uh ... well, I'm just naturally the cautious type, as I said."

   Matt's mind raced. He had to make it sound good-but what would this trickster buy? "I'm really new in town, you see. I'd like a fuller idea of the lay of the land before I decide anything."

   "But what more need you know? Astaulf is a fool, and I the power behind him. No other power in this land can stand against us, as we've proved within these last six months. What else?"

   "Well, for starters-who's the power behind you?"

   It was a dumb thing to say, and Matt knew it after three words, but it was a little late to stop. The sorcerer turned pale. Then, after a few seconds, he smiled slowly, and Matt dared breathe again. "You do not know? You truly do not know?"

   "Well, I could guess."

   "Do so." Malingo cocked his head to the side, interested, waiting..

   Matt swallowed. "Well ... Astaulf called you a sorcerer..."

   Malingo nodded.

   Matt took a deep breath. He didn't dare show the slightest sign of squeamishness. "Which-means your power comes from Hell."

   "There! You see?" Malingo spread his hands. "You knew it all along." He quirked one' eyebrow. "You are a sorcerer, of course?"

   Matt swallowed. "Well ... that's a matter of definition." How?"

   "High definition," Matt explained, "in which case it's a hot medium, and I gather a sorcerer is supposed to be a very hot medium indeed. Of course, at the other end of the scale, there's low definition, which makes a cool medium, and I like to think I keep my cool. Then, too, I'm pretty low on being definite."

   He ran out of steam, and the sorcerer just stood, staring.

   Then Malingo lifted his head. "Indeed. You seem to be somewhat confused. Are you truly ignorant of the distinction between a medium and a sorcerer? For if you are, you can't begin to know yourself."

   "Yeah, that's it!" Matt leaped at the idea as though it were a life preserver. "The identity search, who-what-where am I. I'm very much in the middle of it! And never more than now..."

   Malingo shook his head sadly. "You'll be no use to me until that's resolved, and you know what you are. Oh, I've heard of such cases before-young men discovering they've the Power, but not knowing what they would do with it, uncertain whether to work for Darkness or Light. Yes, I know your case-some of my best junior sorcerers were poised in such precarious state not long agone. They're greatly to be valued, I assure you-as you yourself may be, once you've resolved your doubts. No, we'll keep you yet awhile." He turned to the door and yanked it open. "Guards! Step now within!"

   Two armored guards came in, pikes at the ready.

   "Escort him to the dungeons." Malingo motioned toward Matt. "We'll give you, then, a while. I can afford it. You seem to have a spell or two I've not encountered. I must study this native power of yours more closely-when I have the time. For now, I have a cell to hold you, so think at length, deeply and carefully, on what you are and what you seek to be. Then, when you know you do seek sorcery, you'll swear allegiance to me." He flipped a hand to the guards. "Take him away."

   They hauled Matt to his feet, but he turned back to the sorcerer. "Uh ... I hate to ask foolish questions, but-what happens if I decide I'm, say, a wizard?"

   The sorcerer bared his teeth in a sort of grin. "Why, then I've some particularly vile spells I've read about, but never tried. I'm quite curious as to how they'll work, actually. If you wish to side with Light, by all means, do-you'll still contribute to my power."

CHAPTER 3

   For all the darkness and the ominous scurryings, the dungeon felt safe, though it was as chill and dank as any dungeon should be. How they could store food down here, Matt couldn't see; but he'd definitely noticed the smell of salt pork in the cell next door. And why else would those small, clawed paws be running around in the darkness? Actually, he had a notion he'd been filed between the salt meats and the extra arrows. If that was an indication of his importance here, Matt was willing to accept it. He felt as if he belonged.

   It was really a relief to have a place of peaceful solitude where he could think things over. There was a lot that needed thinking! He let his head loll back against the slickness of the wall, closing his eyes and deliberately emptying his mind for a few minutes.

   When he finally lifted his head, he felt better, though he still had to deal with the realities of the moment, if he could only find them.

   Well, he wasn't in his own world any more; matter of fact, he probably wasn't even in his own universe. The parchment had done it, of course, with its line about "Cross the void of time and space." He had a momentary vision of thousands of universes, stretching away in a serried rank, each leaving its own bright streak of elapsed time across the lightless, primordial void, each with its own history, its own natural laws. He'd read once that it was entirely possible that an alternate universe could have a completely different set of laws, and that what was superstition in his own universe could be science there.

   Well, magic did seem to work. But how about science? Thoughtfully, Matt pulled out a matchbook, tore out a paper match, and struck it by feel. It made a satisfactory rasp, but shed no light on the subject. So... science didn't work.

   But wait-the soldiers' swords had looked like steel, not plain forged iron. So science did have to work here, after a fashion, the way the medieval smiths had fashioned iron-or maybe the pagan smiths; Matt seemed to remember that they'd been regarded as specialized wizards who sang spells to the iron as they worked it.

   Matt fumbled out another match and struck it, intoning:

   "Fire, fire, burning bright In the jungles of the night, What mortal hand or earthly eye Could trace thy fearful symmetry?"

   A twelve-inch flame roared up from the match-head with the fury of William Blake. Matt dropped it in stark terror. Then he saw the heap of damp straw it had fallen into and leaped to his feet, stamping furiously. The light ebbed, faded-and was gone.

   Matt breathed a sigh of relief and slumped down against the wall again in the blessed darkness. So science would work, but only by magic.

   And there was something else.

   He'd felt it before, been aware of it, in the street just before the beggars appeared. Now that he looked back, it had been there every time he'd worked a spell-that feeling of great forces gathering around him, modulating and fitting themselves to his words. But it couldn't be very important, if he had barely noticed it when he was under pressure.

   What was important was figuring out some quick rules for the maintenance and operation of magic. In spite of Malingo's poise, Matt had sensed a definite undercurrent of anxiety; the sorcerer wasn't quite as much in control of the situation as he wished to appear. Which meant, since he was easily Astaulf's master, that there were forces in the land opposing him. Malingo claimed to be an agent of Darkness, so his opposition would be agents of Light.

   Matt had a notion he'd like to meet them.

   Well, no man ever got anywhere by wishing. Though in this universe ... No. Even here, he'd have to know how to wish properly. And he'd better learn fast; Malingo might get impatient.

   How do you cast a spell?

   So far, from all indications, it was done by poetry-or verse, anyway. And Malingo's gestures seemed to have a place in it, too. Would Matt's beggar summons have worked if he hadn't adopted a Statue of Liberty pose?

   Matt took a deep breath. The next move was to experiment, validate the theory. Okay, he'd conjure up something-something safe, such as light. Only without a match at all, this time; he didn't need a bonfire.

   Then a happy thought struck him; instead of fire, why not call for a fire-lighter? Or a lamplighter, at least ... No, the way things worked here, he might wind up with a Victorian streetboy with a match on the end of along pole. He wanted a local; might as well get some information, as well as company.

   He felt the familiar gathering of force as he began to recite, but stronger now; much stronger.

   "It's light to which I do aspire; Send someone quick to light my fire! And long or short, by any name, So long as he's equipped with flame!'

   There was a shattering roar, and light seared Matt's eyes. He fell back against the wall, covering his face, while something huge and scaly rasped and grated against the stone walls. Fool! Matt's monitor-mind gibbered. When will you learn to be specific?

   The roaring slurred into words; heat seared Matt with syllables. "Who? Who hath done zhish to me? ... Thou!"

   Matt jerked his head up, staring. The light winked out, but the afterimage showed two burning eyes...

   Light came again, a five-foot gout of glaring flame, showing a mail-scaled snout with flaring nostrils over pointed teeth and huge, scaly-ridged eyes. "Thou! Vile dung-heaped hunter of hatchlings! What! Dursht summon a grown dragon to ambush?

   Temeritoush idiot! If thou dosht hope to drain Shtegoman's blood to shell to a shorsherer, thou'rt a fool, and will shoon be a dead one!"

   A gout of flame seared out again. Matt yelped and leaped aside just in time. The dragon took a breath like a bellows and lurched against the wall with a clash. "Where art thou, worm of a man? Thinkesht thou to hide from Shteo ... Shtegoman ... in sho shmall a shpace? Thou'lt ... thou'lt..."

   The flame suddenly seared out again, and Matt leaped. But he needn't have worried; the fire missed him by five feet as the dragon lurched to the side. The great eyes were filmed and bleary in the firelight.

   Then light snapped out like a strobe and, in the darkness, Matt realized. The fool beast is drunk! And getting drunker.

   But apparently he was the unpleasant type of boozer, the kind that gets mean in its cups; and he was taking another blast-furnace breath.

   "Hold it!" Matt snapped up a hand, palm out. "I'm innocent!"

   "Indeed?" the behemoth sneered. "Then thou art the firsht man to be sho, shince Adam. Wherefore didsht thou shummon me here, if not to drain dragon'zh blood?" The glowing eyes seemed to wince slightly.

   "Well ... curiosity! I was just doing research!"

   "Belike," Stegoman sneered. "And what wazh thish `reshearch?' Didsht thou sheek to dishcover the limitsh of a dragon'zh enduranshe? How mach pain I might withshtand? Nay!" The blowtorch spat again -- but it wavered this time, inscribing a zigzag of soot on the wall; and in the light, Matt definitely saw the dragon wince again, eyes almost squeezing shut with pain.

   Then it was dark once more, but Stegoman was inhaling. Delay! Matt thought frantically and called out, "What's the matter?"

   There was a moment of silence; then the slurred voice asked suspiciously, "Matter? What dosht thou shpeak of?"