RS01. The Reluctant Sorcerer (9 page)

To improve this operation even further, Brewster had redesigned the sluice itself, so that instead of the gate being opened at the channel which diverted water from the stream to the bottom of the wheel, an elevated wooden sluice was constructed, starting a short distance upstream of the keep, which brought water to the top of the wheel-in principle, much like a Roman aqueduct. This allowed the main water wheel to turn faster and operate more efficiently.

The purpose of the cistern was to provide fresh drinking water for Brewster’s residence and, he hoped, eventually a flush toilet. To this end, Brewster drew up plans for a septic tank and a leach field. The excavation would be located about thirty feet downstream of the keep.

All of these projects were somewhat labor intensive, and would certainly have been a lot of work for just four people. However, they had help. Each day, as work progressed, new volunteers were added to the labor force. The first had been Fuzzy Tom, who showed up the day after Bloody Bob to meet the new sorcerer and see this interesting construction project Bob had told him about.

Fuzzy Tom was one of the brigands, a retired warrior like Bloody Bob, with a rotund body and a thick mass of wavy, black hair that fell down to his shoulders. He had a large and bushy black beard that started at his cheekbones and grew down to his chest, so that all anyone could see of his face was a short expanse of forehead and two twinkling brown eyes. He possessed a rather pleasant, laid-back disposition that under any other circumstances would have prevented him from doing anything that even remotely resembled work. However, Mick explained that this was sorcery, not work, and Fuzzy Tom fell for it. He pitched right in, and when he came back the next day, he brought Froggy Bruce, Malicious Mike, and Pikestaff Pat.

Froggy Bruce was a quiet, soft-spoken brigand with long, fine, sandy-blond hair, a wispy beard, and large, sadlooking eyes that gave him something of the aspect of his namesake. He also happened to be very fond of frogs. Not eating them, collecting them. He owned dozens and dozens, all of which he kept in his room at the tavern in Brigand’s Roost. He liked to entertain and his place, one might say, was always jumping.

Malicious Mike was a dark and brooding young man who always dressed in black and apologized politely whenever he crushed somebody’s skull. He could not abide rudeness in a person and always said “please” and “thank you” whenever he robbed someone. Some people thought he was being maliciously sarcastic, hence his name, but the fact was that Mike simply believed in good manners, regardless of the circumstances.

Pikestaff Pat was almost as thin as his weapon of choice, a long, slim pikestaff that he always carried with him on his shoulder. He had dark red hair and a neatly trimmed beard. What he lacked in size compared to the other brigands, he made up for with aggressive energy and a sharp wit. He was one of the few married brigands and he never went anywhere without a lunch wrapped in a kerchief and tied to his pikestaff by his wife, Calamity Jane, who relentlessly pursued the fruitless task of trying to put some meat on his bones.

Calamity herself showed up on the third day, partly because she was curious and partly because she wanted to make sure her husband had enough to eat. An intense, voluptuous, young woman with short dark hair and a perpetual squint, she arrived in a cart loaded with provisions for the boys. She stood up to wave at Pat and promptly executed a near-perfect half gainer off the cart, ending with a face-plant in the mud. Over the next few hours, she tripped over everything in sight, knocked over tables, fell from ladders, and took no less than three impromptu dips in the creek. She caused such consternation that Mick suggested she stop trying to help with the construction and concentrate on cooking for the hungry crew, which effort she took up with enthusiasm. She only scalded herself six times.

As word of what Brewster was doing began to spread, more people showed up to see these wonders for themselves and wound up volunteering for the project. It was like an old-time frontier house-raising. Everyone pitched in until there were over forty people bustling about, which constituted almost the entire population of Brigand’s Roost and all the surrounding farms. Mick assigned tasks to everyone, so that some people worked only on the still, while others built the elevated sluice, the cistern, the wheels, and the belt drive for the water lift, and so on. Each of them took great pride in what they were doing, and set to with enthusiasm, for it was both an opportunity to help get a sorcerer settled in their neighborhood and participate in important magical works.

The grounds of the keep soon had awnings erected on them, beneath which the labor force could rest during their breaks, and the brush and tall grass were soon trampled down by all the activity. Small pits were dug for cookfires, and as night fell and work ceased, the kettles were removed and logs were added, making for cheery campfires around which people gathered to tell stories and sing songs.

Storytelling, Brewster soon discovered, was by far the most popular form of entertainment, and most of these stories were built around the actual experiences and exploits of the storyteller, usually embellished considerably for dramatic effect. There were also legends, which were stories that had been passed down through the generations, and made for a kind of historical record, though not a very reliable one, as each individual storyteller usually added something to the tale.

Brewster’s presence at these campfire tales was especially appreciated, as most sorcerers had a tendency to hold themselves aloof from the common throng and avoided socializing with the general populace. Each storyteller tried to top the others for his benefit, and the audience was nothing if not critical. Each tale was followed by a chorus of “Well told! Well told!” or “Bah, I’ve heard it better!” or “Nay, you forgot the part about the virgin!” Brewster heard “The Tale of Frank the Usurper and How the Kingdom Got Its Name,” an abbreviated version of which he’d already heard from Mick; “The Tale of the Undeflowered Whore,” which was apparently a very popular one; “The Life and Times of Bloody Bob,” told haltingly by Bloody Bob himself, in which most recalled encounters ended with the phrase “And then I smote him good!” and “The Lament of Handsome Hal,” who was driven mad by a nymph who fell in love with him, a story Brewster thought was a marvelously witty fairy tale, never suspecting for a moment that it had really happened, which it had.

“Pat, tell the tale of The Werepot Prince,” said Calamity, nudging her husband sharply in the ribs with her elbow.

“Jane, they’ve all heard it a dozen times or more,” protested Pikestaff Pat.

“Perhaps Doc hasn’t,” Calamity replied. “And anyway, I like the way you tell it.” “Yes, I’d like to hear it,” Brewster said.

“Mike tells it better,” Pikestaff Pat replied.

“Nay, go on, you tell it. Pat,” Malicious Mike insisted.

And after a bit more coaxing. Pikestaff Pat stood and embarked upon his tale.

“ ‘Tis ‘The Tale of the Werepot Prince,’ “ he began, “and they say it happened hereabouts, a. long, long time ago. Perhaps”-he paused significantly and glanced around-“at this very place where we are gathered on this night.” There was a collective “Oooh!” and someone remarked, “Nice touch, very nice touch, indeed.” “The prince I speak of was a handsome, bold, and strapping young chap name of Brian,” Pat continued, “sole heir to his father’s throne. Now, bein’ an only child, Brian was a wee bit spoiled by his folks and allowed to have his way in most things. If he wanted to have himself a brandnew puppy, why ‘twasn’t good enough that he had one, but he was given three. If he wasn’t up to finishin’ all the veggies on his plate, why no one made him do so, never mind that kids was starvin* off in India.” “India?” said Brewster.

“Aye, well, no one knows quite where this Kingdom of India was, y’see, and ain’t no one anybody knows what’s ever been there, but ‘twas gen’ral knowledge that kids was always starvin’ there,” said Pat.

“I see,” said Brewster with a puzzled frown.

“Anyways,” continued Pat, “Prince Brian ain’t never had to do no chores around the palace, never had to mow the lawn or clean his room, nor even make his bed. Had servants for all that sort of thing, y’know, provided by his mum, the queen. And he never said ‘please’ nor ‘thank you,’ neither,” Pat added with a glance at Malicious Mike, who nodded in acknowledgement that he hadn’t left that important part of the story out.

“Prince Brian the Bold was his proper, officially sanctioned appellation,” Pat continued, “but to most folks in the kingdom, he was merely Brian the Brat, and a bit of a royal pain, to boot. The young girls of the kingdom loved him dearly, they did, for he was comely to look upon, what with his curly golden locks and pleasin’ form, and word had it he was right properly endowed, as well, though ‘twas only hearsay, mind. Y’know how young girls talk.

“Many’s the time our Brian hopped a fence and had himself a lovely moonlight interlude with some fair young village maid, but he was never caught, y’see, so either he was very much adroit or else the lad was blamed for every other swollen belly in the kingdom, like as not to protect a boyfriend who wasn’t royalty, y’see, and therefore not immune to parental retribution. But either way, by the time our lad was some twenty summers old, there was more lovely little gold-haired rug rats in the kingdom than you could shake a stick at, and a surprisin’ number of them was named Brian, too.

“Yet one day, there came a time when our Prince Brian cast his wanderin’ orbs in a somewhat unfortunate direction. Unfortunate for him, as ‘twould turn out. He got himself right bent out of shape over a young maid name of Katherine, who was as pretty a wench as you could ever hope to see. Fifteen summers old, she was, a ripe bloomin’ young thing, with big blue eyes and lovely bosoms and a saucy look about her what made you want to throw her down and mount the pony- Leastwise, she had that effect on Brian, whom she discommoded somethin’ awful.

“Now Brian, used to havin’ his own way, went and set his cap at her, and some other parts what were located lower down, as well. He started sendin’ her love notes and flowers and the like, which gifts the wench did not refuse, but she went and showed ‘ena to her father, which was when the trouble started.

“Saucy Katherine’s father, as it turns out, was the local sorcerer, a fearsome wizard name of Catrack or Hatrack or some such thing-“ “ ‘Twas Catrack,” Malicious Mike said. “Nay, ‘twas Hatrack,” Fuzzy Tom disputed. “ ‘Twasn’t neither, ‘twas Camac,” someone else called out, and a loud and vociferous argument ensued, which ended abruptly when Pikestaff Pat put two fingers in his mouth and whistled loudly and piercingly.

“As I was sayin’,” he continued, “there seems to have been some dispute as to his name, but whatever in bloody hell his name was, he wasn’t pleased with this attention bein’ royally bestowed on his one and only child. He went to the king and said, ‘Now listen here. Your Majesty, boys will be boys and all that sort of thing, but I’d kindly appreciate your tellin’ your young whelp to keep his royal, horny little mitts to his own self, if it please Your Majesty. I’d sorta had my heart set on Katherine marryin’ an adept and keepin’ to the family tradition and all that sort of thing, and while I’ve nothin’ against royalty, y’understand, I’d just as soon she not go marryin’ beneath her station, if ‘tis all the same to you.’ “Now, such remarks ain’t gen’rally considered proper protocol when speakin’ to your basic monarch,” Pat explained, “but be that as it may, the king had no choice but to swallow it, or else risk bein’ turned into a toadstool or havin’ himself struck with a spell what makes his loins go dry, and so he grinned and bore it and nodded that he understood and told the wizard, ‘Aye, indeed, I quite see what you mean. I’ll have, a word with my young royal son and see to it that it won’t go happenin’ again.’ Whereupon the wizard left and His Majesty the King turned to Her Majesty the Queen and said, ‘Go tell Brian to leave young Katherine alone or he’s liable to cock everything up.’ “ A collective groan went up around the campfire.

“Well,” said Pat, as he resumed the tale, “the queen spoke to Prince Brian about young Katherine, but young blood runnin’ hot and all that, our lad was not dissuaded. He pursued his suit, and one night after Katherine’s dad set out for a meetin’ of the Guild, he pressed it home. Her father was not expected back for quite some time, y’see, as the journey would have taken many days and then there was the meetin’, what with banquets and speech-makin’ and activities and all, and then the journey back, so Katherine and Brian made the most of Daddy’s absence and frolicked with great vigor every night he was away.

“The trouble came much later, after Katherine’s dad came home. One day, he noticed that his daughter was puttin’ on a little weight, y’see, and then she started feelin’ sickly in the mornin’, and fairly soon it all came clear that Katherine was carryin’ a child. She confessed all to her father, who flew into a frothin’ rage and retired to his wizard’s chambers, from whence he did not emerge for many days and nights.” Pat paused for dramatic effect, looking around at his audience, who waited eagerly for the tale to resume.

“In the meantime,” he continued after a moment, “Prince Brian was hangin’ about the palace with his falcons and his hounds, dashin’ off on huntin’ expeditions and carousin’ with his mates, little suspectin’ that he was about to be a father... nor that Hatrack-“ “Catrack,” Malicious Mike corrected him. “Katherine’s dad,” said Pat pointedly, “was gatherin’ his powers to cast a nasty evil curse, a spell most horrible and frightful. The way he saw it, his daughter had been spoiled, her honor and her dignity besmirched, and nothin’ would do but for Prince Brian to suffer the same fate. So, in the darkness of his wizard’s chambers, the sorcerer conjured up a spell, usin’ a lock of hair that Brian had carelessly given to Katherine as a keepsake.