L. Camp - The Exotic Enchanter

The attacker landed on Shea’s back and the Ohioan felt the pressure of a knife seeking to pierce his armor. He tried to keep his balance and draw his sword, but did neither. He went down, his sword caught under him and the attacker on top of him. Shea felt another stab, this time higher up. He tried to free one arm to draw his dagger, because he had the feeling that the third time his attacker stabbed, the knife wasn’t going to hit armor — Something cracked, something else thumped, and a third something went wssssh . The attacker let out a scream and released Shea. The psychologist rolled clear, drawing his sword as soon as his right arm was free, then leaping up ready to go into action.

He didn’t have to, The attacker, a thickset man with a Rus robe and a scarf over his face, was sprawled on the trampled grass. Reed Chalmers stood over him, with a long pole from the wagon’s cover in one hand.

Shea took a deep breath. “Thanks, Doc. You’re improving.”

“I thought of killing him, but I suspect he may have something to tell us.”

Definitely improving, thought Shea.

The scuffle had drawn the attention of the guards, and the prisoner was soon dragged to the center of camp and stripped of his scarf and headdress. In the light of fires and torches, it could be seen that in spite of his Rus merchant’s dress, the prisoner had Polovets blood in him.

Chalmers looked closely at the man for a minute, then frowned.

“Do you how this man, Rurik Vasileyevich?”

Igor had come up, although both of the psychologists were too numb to notice. Chalmers stiffened like an icon. Those words wore all too clearly etched in his mind.

“Yes, Your Highness,” he said. “This is the man who approached me in Seversk.”

“Doubtless a spy,” Igor said. “But if I find out he had the cooperation of the merchants’ guilds, they will pay.”

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 Ohians’ 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 toast 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 ball 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 bogatiri 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 honor. “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 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 be 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.