Her Majesty's Wizard #1 (9 page)

CHAPTER 5

   Gibbering goblins crawled up Matt's spinal column and earnestly searched for a home in his brain. "Stegoman..."

   "Aye?"

   "I'm going to kill us all. I can't help it. There's no other Way it can turn out. Any time I try to work magic, I'll drop us all down the chute, because I don't really know what I'm doing!"

   "Take calm," the dragon told him. "Speak-art thou dead? And hast thou worked magic?"

   "Yes. Thank you." Matt drew a deep, shuddering breath. "It's always helpful to be reminded of the realities." He swallowed hard and took a firm grip on his nerves. "Every time I've worked a spell, I've felt some kind of force gathering around me-magic force. It has to be a form of energy. So it should, presumably, function according to a definite set of principles, as gravity and electromagnetism do."

   "Principles? What talk is this? Can there be rules to an art?"

   Matt shrugged. "Personally, I think art can work by rules, but I know fields of energy definitely do. And if I can figure out those rules, I can manipulate those fields."

   "What sayest thou?" the dragon rumbled. "Dust thou tell me thou canst frame rules for magic?"

   "That's what I was getting at. Of course, I must admit that finding rules for this particular form of energy might be more the province of the poet and critic than of the scientist."

   "I ken not what a scientist may be, yet this must needs be a poet's study in truth-for the greatest of wizards are poets."

   "Which tells me where I rank. But it's pretty obvious-any magic here seems to be governed by verse-and any literary idiot can tell you the word is not the thing-it's just a symbol of the thing. A poet arranges sound-symbols in whatever way gets his meaning across most powerfully."

   "post thou say the poet who's also a wizard doth the same to this magic force of thine?"

   "Right." Matt nodded vigorously. "The words are just models; they give the poet-wizard something to focus his own energies on. The little bit of energy that the wizard puts in modulates the vastly bigger magic energy that's lying around all over the place, here."

   "Modulates?"

   "Changes. Reshapes. As he changes and shapes the sounds of the words to his meaning; he's also changing and forging the magic field into whatever shape he wants-and when he finishes the verse, to and behold! The magic energy field does whatever he wants done!"

   "It sounds well," Stegoman admitted doubtfully. "But hast thou the courage to test it?"

   "Yes! If I don't wait more than a minute or so. Let's see..." Matt came to a halt, hands jammed into his pockets, looking about him. "What's a good spell to do?"

   "Thou hast promised the princess new raiment," Stegoman reminded.

   "Oh, yeah! Let's see, what will she need? Nothing too fancy, of course-I have a notion we're going to be doing some hard traveling. What's the standard riding outfit around here?"

   "For a lady? 'Tis shift, kirtle, bliaut, boots-and a cloak with a cowl, for rain."

   "We'll hold off on the last part until it gets cloudy." Matt took off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves. "Let's see, `True Thomas,' now-there's a fine old ballad with some clothes in it, and it's even got magical overtones."

   Stegoman backed off a few paces.

   Matt raised his hands and began outlining the shapes of the garments, why, he didn't know; but it felt right.

   "She'll have a shift of finest silk And bliaut made of broadcloth green; Her kirtle shall be homespun cloth, With boots as fine as ever seen."

   He was sweating during the last line; the field of force around him baked like a Juarez sun. But he finished the last line, snapping his hands apart as though tightening a knot. A patch of grass seemed to shimmer and sparkle as the air thickened above it, coalescing, gelling, acrd hardening ...

   And an ankle-length slip lay on the grass, next to a tight-sleeved underdress, a green overdress, and a pair of calf-length boots.

   Stegoman sucked in a long, deep breath. Matt ducked out of sheer reflex.

   "Yes-s-s-s-s-s," the dragon hissed. "Thou hast the Gift."

   "Gift?" Every molecule in Matt stilled. "What gift?"

   "Hast thou not come to see it?" The dragon stared at him as though he were an alien: "Thou dost not think any mere man can work magic, dost thou?"

   "Well..."

   "Disabuse thyself of such innocent's thought. This magical Gift is given to few, very few. Grimoires and old tomes notwithstanding, even the most learned of scholars cannot work a spell if he hath not the Gift."

   "Oh." Matt's lips framed the letter carefully. "You mean, not everyone can sense the magic field gathering around him when he recites poetry, so he can't interact with it?"

   "If that is what a wizard doth, aye. I would not know; I have not that Gift."

   "Yes. Of course." Matt cleared his throat. "And these, uh, people who do have the Gift-does it do them any good, without training?"

   "It may," Stegoman said judiciously, "though an untrained man, only newly aware of his gift, is far more likely to destroy himself and everyone near him. Why, I cannot say-but I've heard of many such cases."

   "How very interesting! Do you realize I've been a walking critical mass every time I've worked a spell? It's worth your life to be near me!"

   "Nay," Stegoman said, with full certainty. "Thou art a learned man; thy spells are safe."

   "Yeah, well.. ." Matt's eye fell on the riding habit. "I think the princess must be thoroughly clean by now." He had a brief flash of Alisande wading out of the stream and tried hard to suppress it; the euphoria wasn't worth the dizziness it caused him.

   "Aye." Stegoman's head swooped down to the clothing. He mumbled something that Matt couldn't understand through the fabric and turned to scrabble back to the stream, leaving Matt sitting alone on the log, head in his hands, wishing very heartily that he was nowhere but in his own cluttered, messy apartment.

   "Master Wizard."

   "Unh?" Matt jerked his head up, dimly aware that he'd been lost in a fog of reminiscence.

   Then he saw Alisande. If she'd been beautiful before, she was staggering now. The green gown set off the gold of her hair in a radiant halo, and her wide eyes were huge in the gaunt-cheeked face, almost enveloping ...

   She smiled roguishly and laughed, pirouetting. "You have excellent taste, sir. If you should ever wish to forsake magic, I doubt not you'd do famously as a couturier ... Now!" She snapped to a halt, facing him, skirts swirling about her. "You have done so well by my clothing, I pray you-can you remedy near-starvation? I've had naught but a few mouthfuls a day for a fortnight!"

   "Uh-sure," Matt mumbled, eyes glued to her. He squeezed his eyes shut, gave his head a quick shake, and didn't open them again till he'd turned away from the princess. Her laugh trilled about him, warm and melodious.

   Food! If she had been on a starvation diet, she shouldn't eat much at once, and even that ought to be easy to digest. Soup!

   "Beautiful soup, so rich and green, Awaiting in a hot tureen! Who for such dainties would not stoop? Appear before us, wondrous soup!"

   And soup there was, complete with a hot tureen.

   Alisande started, then stared at the tureen. Slowly, her brow furrowed.

   Matt also frowned. "What's the matter? Prefer bouillon?"

   "Nay, the dish is fine, sir, and so's that which is in it, but... Well, I had in mind your perchance hunting a hare."

   Matt's lips thinned. "You shouldn't eat anything solid, if you're nearly starved. Maybe you'd like me to dig up a silver service, too!"

   "Nay, nay!" She waved impatiently. "I fault not your efforts, Master Wizard. But, little though I know of magic, I have heard one should be chary of its use. It must not be tossed about at every whim or small desire. If it's not treated with respect, it may treat its user with contempt and cause much trouble."

   "Isn't that a bit much?" Matt demanded. "It isn't a person, with emotions and a personality; magic's just a force, a kind of energy, impersonal and--"

   A cloud of yellow smoke erupted with a whoosh! twenty feet away, in the meadow.

   Matt swiveled to face it, his back hair standing on end. Then the first whiff of smoke hit. Sulfur! What was in that cloud, anyway?

   It tattered in the breeze and blew away, revealing an ancient crone in a black, hooded robe, with a nose and chin that hooked to meet each other below yellowed, rheumy eyes. A few warts completed the effect.

   "And what have we here?" she whined. "Surely it would be nothing less than another Bright Young Wizard! I said to myself, as soon as I felt two piddling spells in the half of an hour, `Molestam, who else would be tossing magic about as if it were cracklings?' So I came for a look and, sure enough, there he is, fairly burning with ambition to oust poor old Molestam and have her lands for his own, to terrorize and bleed! If there's aught I despise, 'tis a pushy new magician!"

   "Madam!" Matt straightened, trying to look the soul of offended righteousness. "I assure you, I have no-"

   "As if there weren't enough competition in the magic business as it is!" Molestam wheezed. "Just when you think you're secure and can settle down to lord it over your own terrified peasants in peace, there's another cheeky young challenger to be put in his place. Not like the old days, it isn't, when a person could mind her own business and milk her own peasants, and no one to trouble her a bit about it. But now, a body can't do the first thing she wants in her own country, no she can't, especially not since that upstart Malingo started throwing his weight around. But not in my district! Let any young wonder-worker try his hand here and he'll not have a hand left-nor his life!" Her arms sliced down in an arc, fingers writhing into an intricate symbol while she shrieked,

   "Murrain and jaundice now all betide ye,

   May Hell's devils and demons all leap a--

   "Nay!" Stegoman roared, leaping forward, and a ten-foot tongue of flame slashed out before him.

   Molestam looked up, startled and horrified; then her eyes narrowed, and her symbol-hand darted out at Stegoman.

   "By all the foul gargoyles that ever did plate it, Turn this fool monster to basalt and granite!"

   Stegoman froze as if he'd been dropped into a block of quick-setting plastic. Slowly, his scales darkened into dull, black stone.

   "Get down!" Matt shoved the princess into a dip in the ground and threw himself in after her. With that much carbon-based compound suddenly transmuted into silicon, there might be a hellish lot of loose radiation in the air, and he wasn't taking any chances. At least now they were out of the line of sight.

   Above them he heard Molestam's voice screeching closer. "Ye'll not hide from me, audacious youth! I'll seek ye and find ye, and then woe betide ye!"

   "Can you not stop her?" Alisande demanded.

   "I'll try," Matt said grimly. He whirled a finger about as if he were spinning a top and chanted:

   "Now the crone begins turning, just like a corkscrew, And her rash revolution I think she'll soon rue. For her conduct was such that she's long overdue To be drilled down to bedrock and vanish from view!"

   With a startled screech, Molestam began to turn on her pointed toes. She howled with despair as she reached dervish speed. Her toes bit into the earth, and her whole body began to sink into the ground.

   Then Matt began to regret the extremity of the fate he'd decreed. She was an evil witch, but he had no proof she deserved the death penalty. He set his jaw and added lines:

   "She is drilling through rock, but she'll come out alive, Where it's lightless and damp, down at full fathom five. She will spend her last days driving Pluto's pale kine, Where it's dark as a dungeon and deep as a mine!"

   With one last tearing shriek of rage, the witch sank out of sight.

   The princess sank against Matt with a sigh, limp with relief. He took hold of her elbows, holding her up. "All right. It's all right now. She's gone, and we're alive."

   "Aye.. We live." Alisande seemed to recollect her royalty. Her body moved a little from him. Matt was staring at what had been Stegoman, and she followed his gaze. "Oh, the dragon! The poor beast!"

   Matt stepped toward the unwilling statue. "Well, he can't feel pain, at least. Let's see if we can do something about that. Uh, I mean

   "Aye, I know." The princess caught up her skirts and came after him. "But what's to be done, Wizard?"

   "I don't know," Matt admitted, coming to the statue. He laid a hand on the neck. "It's warn-but not hot. Look at the detail! If this were sculpture, I'd say it was the greatest piece of kitsch I ever saw!"

   "'Tis your friend, not a statue," Alisande reminded him with a touch of apserity. "How will you thaw him?"

   "Thaw? No, your Highness, I don't think it's so much a matter of thawing as of ontogeny recapitulating philogony."

   "Of what?"

   "The development of the individual summarizing the history of the species." Danger from new spells or not, the dragon was his friend, and he had to make an effort. "Some people claim all life began as chemicals leached out of rock by rain."