L. Camp - The Exotic Enchanter

“More to the point,” said Chalmers, “is the possibility that we have just encountered a member of the band.” He shuddered. “Who would know better of their existence — or have a better reason for wishing us to go indoors, where we cannot see what he does?”

He obviously didn’t doubt the man for a second. “I guess you’re right, Doc, After all, why else would he make such a clumsy attempt at disguise?”

“You mean the thread around his nose? Yes, quite so. Presumably, that tells us two things: that the thieves are ruthless, and that they are flat-nosed.”

Shea stared in surprise “You mean we just talked to a local cop?”

“It is a possibility,” Chalmers said, “but more pertinent is his advice. Let us find a hole to hide in, Harold.”

It was good advice indeed. Shea looked around, able to make out a bit more of their surroundings now that his eyes had adjusted to the moonlight. The larger buildings in the distance were elaborate and intricate — and he was sure he recognized the silhouette of a slim tower, “I think we’re in India, Doc. More to the point, we’re in a genuine city not just a big town.”

“I quite agree.” Chalmers looked around, frowning. “Now, where do you hide in a city if you can’t find a hotel?”

“A back alley is a good place,” Shea drew his sword. “Of course, the local muggers might not have gone to bed yet, and they like alleys, too. Want to take a chance on it, Doc?”

“Let me consider the proposition,” Chalmers steepled his fingers, resting his lips against them for a minute. Then he drew a circle in the dust with his toe, reciting,

“ . . For knowledge if anyone burns.

We’re keeping a very small prophet,

A prophet who brings us unbounded returns!”

Them was a burst of light like a photographer’s flash, and a two-foot-high man with a long beard and a longer gray robe stood before them, bald bead gleaming in the moonlight. “Good evening, sir! May I help you?”

“Victorian,” Chalmers muttered to Shea, and to the prophet, “You may indeed, O Wise One! Can you tell me where we are?”

“Where? Why summon me for such trivialities sir? Well, it is your money. You are in India — the city of Chandradoya, to be precise.”

“You guessed well, Harold,” Chalmers observed. Then, to the diminiutive prophet, “Thank you, O Fount of Wisdom. Can you also tell me the identity of that man whom we addressed but now?”

“He with the horsehair round his nose? To be sure, sir! That was Randhir, the rajah of this fair city! will there be anything else?”

“The rajah himself, eh?” Chalmers mused. “Running about at night without a bodyguard, dressed as a peasant Well, well! Quite eccentric . . . No, thank you. Esteemed One. I need no further information at this time.”

“A pleasure to serve you, sir. That will be six shillings, please.”

“Pay the man, Harold,” Chalmers said.

Shea favored Chalmers with a quick glare, then fished in his purse. “I’m a little short on shillings at the moment. How about a Russian grivna ?”

“I am sure that will be equal or better in value,” the prophet said quickly. He took the coin and bowed. “Call upon us whenever you have need, sir!” With another flash, he disappeared.

As Shea blinked away afterimages, Chalmers told him, “So magic works in this universe — but not very well.”

“Not well? Why?”

“Come now, Harold! Do you honestly believe the King himself would be going about at night dressed as a commoner, with a horsehair round his nose? This isn’t the Arabian Nights, you know.”

“Oh, isn’t it? Any particular myth you recognize, Doc?”

Another flash, and there stood the miniature prophet again. “You are in the midst of a tale from the collection Vikram and the Vampire , compiled by the sage Bhavabhuti, and translated by Sir Richard Francis Burton — yes, the explorer who helped search for the headwaters of the Nile.”

Shea goggled, but Chalmers said, completely unruffled, “Which tale exactly?”

“The fifth,” the prophet said, and held out a cupped palm. “Two shillings, please.”

Feeling numb Shea handed over another Russian coin. The prophet took it and bowed. “Thank you, gentlemen! Call again, whenever you please!”

Shea found his voice. “But we didn’t. Call again, I mean.”

“True, but we make unbounded returns. Good evening.” The prophet disappeared brilliantly.

“Don’t ask any more questions,” Chalmers advised, “or he’ll be back in a flash.”

“I won’t,” Shea promised. “I’m having trouble enough adjusting to the idea of a plainclothes rajah.”

“Surely you do not believe the little man!”

“You mean the Prophet of Profit? Why not? We’ve run into stranger things,” Shea sighed. “Besides, his being king would explain the attempt at disguise.”

Chalmers frowned. “How so?”

“Because if his royal nose is of a size with his rank, of course he’d want to make it look shorter. Hadn’t we better go looking for that alley now?”

“Yes, by all means,” Chalmers followed Shea along the dusty street. “We must see to obtaining local clothing as soon as possible.”

“I think we’ll have to wait for daybreak, when the shops open. What caste do you think I should opt for?”

“Persian robes — a traveler from the West will be your best role here. That avoids the whole issue of caste as well as it can be avoided.”

“But not too far to the west, hm?”

“Indeed. Our Medieval Russian garb must be quite incomprehensible to most of the local residents. We want to be believable as foreigners, not maniacs. For myself, a simple saffron robe will do nicely — I shall be a sunnyasi , a wandering holy man.”

“With your Northern European complexion? Whom do you think you’re fooling?”

“Philosophers can be of any breed, and still be credible,” Chamers replied, with a loftiness that made Shea wonder about suppressed impulses toward asceticism, He decided a quick change of subject was in order. “I thought our little philosopher was Victorian English.”

“He was — he came from John Wellington Wells’ shop at Number Seventy, Simmery Axe.”

“But we’re speaking a Hindu dialect right now. How come we understood him?”

“He is magical, you know,” Chalmers sighed, “unlimited knowledge, and all that sort of thing.”

“Oh.” Shea let that one sink in. Then he asked, “You mean he’s apt to show up any time I ask a question now?” He danced at the darkness about him with apprehension, realizing too late that he might have triggered another visit.

So did Chalmers; he let out a sigh of relief when nothing flashed. “Only if it’s a matter of knowledge we do not have, or cannot gain locally, I would presume. Still, I would be careful what you asked for.”

“I know — I might get it.” Shea pointed. “There’s a likely looking alley.”

“What its looking like, I will not say.” Chalmers eyed the black space between buildings with misgiving. “Still, if it is our only hope of avoiding the gang of thieves, let us hie ourselves thither.”

“Thither?” Shea echoed, but he headed for the mouth of the alley anyway.

Stepping in, they passed from bright moonlight into sudden shadow. “Where are you, Harold?” Chalmers whispered.

“Right beside you — or your voice, anyway. This place is as dark as the Black Hole of Calcutta.” Then Shea remembered that they might not be all that far from Calcutta, and swallowed. Sweat would have sprung out all over his body, if it hadn’t already. “Why are we whispering?”

“Because it’s da-ah-uh-HO!” Chalmers stumbled, lurched, and reached out to catch hold of Shea, who braced himself just in time to keep both of them on their feet.