L. Camp - The Exotic Enchanter

“Surely we’re not so foreign as that,” Shea objected.

“Are you not? You do not even know the proper forms of address for a king! You can address me as nothing but ‘majesty!’ ”

“Why, if that is so,” Chalmers said quietly, “we could not be very powerful magicians, or we would have known those forms.”

“Aye, if you deemed it worth your trouble! Do not deny what a Rajah knows — you are magi from Persia, are you not?”

Shea exchanged a glance with Chalmers, who sighed and turned hack to the rajah. “Not from Persia, O Fount of Wisdom, but from much farther to the west.”

“ Much farther,” Shea agreed.

“And we are not magi, for they are Zoroastrian priests,” Chalmers went on, “Rather, we are scholars who study magic for its own sake.”

“Then you are magicians!”

“Just so.” Chalmers said quietly, “magicians, nothing more — not sorcerers, nor necromancers, nor even magi, though the word ‘magic’ stems from that term.”

“I knew it!” Randhir slapped his thigh in glee. “You are indeed magi, and I thank you for your help — nay, for my life! But just how far-ranging are your powers?”

Shea stared, his mind racing. They had to say enough to make themselves look important, but not enough to make Randhir want to keep them as permanent assets. Before he could decide on the right balance, though, Chalmers said, We can work defensive magic only O Eye of Insight — spells to protect, and spells to aid. Slaying and other evil works we are more than glad to leave to those who are sorcerers and necromancers.”

“Good, good!” Randhir nodded energetically, and Shea breathed a secret sigh of relief. Once again. Chalmers’ skill at the conference table had turned the tide.

Or maybe not, “The protection you gave me during the fight,” the rajab said “can you do that for a city. For an army perhaps?”

Chalmers let his shoulders slump with disappointment. “I fear not, O Gem of Rectitude. Magic on such a scale is simply beyond my strength — or even that of our combined powers, my friend and I. It would require a virtual corps of magicians, all working together in concert — and quite frankly it is almost impossible to persuade so many of us to acknowledge any one of our number as leader or to work together without arguing.”

True enough. Shea reflected — at least, if you substituted the word “scholar” for “magician.”

“I had feared as much,” Randhir said, disappointed. “Still, I will trouble you to stay near me as we take Charya out to be executed. A dozen or more of his gang escaped, and I would not put it past them to try to rescue him at the last minute, even at the cost of slaying their Rajah.”

“How horrendous!” Chalmers said, with just the right amount of horror. “Be certain we shall stay close by you, O Rajah!”

Shea listened to it all with foreboding. He didn’t mind staying close to the Rajah — for a day or two, or even until they managed to locate Florimel. After that, though, the Rajah’s possessiveness could become a serious problem.

“Why have you come to my city of Chandrodoya?” the rajah demanded.

“We have come seeking my wife,” Chalmers explained. “She was kidnapped by a wicked enchanter named Malambroso. He is old, about my height, and lean, with a graying beard and moustache and long graying hair. She is perhaps the height of my ear, slender, brown-haired, and remarkably sweet-faced.”

“I should hope you think the last, if you are her husband,” Randhir said with a smile. “Well, I shall have my spies seek troughout the city for any word of such folk — but I am certain that if a woman with brown hair had appeared, word would already have come to me. They are not unknown, but they are rare in Chandrodoya.”

“I shall he grateful for whatever boons you may bestow, O Ocean of Compassion.”

The Rajah smiled with grim amusement. “Only remember that those boons require I remain alive, O Magus. Remember it well, and guard me closely.”

* * *

Charya’s last day began with a bath at the hands of servants who were guarded by vigilant soldiers. They dressed him in fine clothes, then turned him over to the soldiers, who mounted him on a camel and led him parading around the city, followed by the Rajah with Shea and Chalmers right behind him and in front of his bodyguard. In front of the thief marched a herald who proclaimed, “Who hears! Who hears! Who hears! The king commands! This is the thief who has robbed and plundered the city of Chandrodoya! Let all men therefore assemble themselves together this evening in the open space outside the gate leading toward the sea. And let them behold the penalty of evil deeds, and learn to be wise.”

“What is the penalty, O Cleaver of Criminals?” Shea called to the monarch in front of him.

“He is to be nailed and tied to a scaffold, with his hands and feet stretched out at full length in an erect posture until death takes him,” Randhir answered. “He shall have everything he wishes to eat, so that we may prolong his life and misery — but when death draws near, melted gold will be poured down his throat until it bursts from his neck and other parts of his body.”

Shea shuddered. “Talk about royal treatment!”

“I would just as soon die by a more lowly, but faster, method,” Chalmers said grimly. “It would seem the Romans were not the only ones who practiced crucifiction.”

Shea stared. “Why, that is what he’s talking about, isn’t it?” He turned back to Randhir, “Is that the usual punishment, O . . .” He swallowed, thinking up an appropriate honorific that wouldn’t be too insulting. “. . . O Hammer of Retribution?”

“Impalement is more common,” the rajah replied, “but since this man has caused so much suffering, he should endure a longer death — and since he has slain so many, the manner of his own dying should be as painful as possible.”

“But why so expensively?”

Now Randhir turned back to give Shea a wintry smile. “He wreaked misery upon his victims, and slew so many for no better reason than to gain gold, Shea. Now let him drink it.”

Shea had to admit that the punishment did fit the crime. That however, did not make it any less gruesome.

* * *

The evening was still hot when they led Charya out to his execution. Crowds lined the streets, Jeering and making obscene gestures. Their jostling and stamping churned up an amazing amount of dust, and between that and the heat of the setting sun, Charya and those who followed him were soon stifling and coughing. The air was probably rich with the scents of curry and cardomoms! but all Shea could smell were the horses of the soldiers who mounted guard on the prisoner through his long march.

Now the procession turned into a broad boulevard, passing beneath the windows of some of the wealthiest merchants in town — and the ones who had lost the most to the thieves. Revilement and abuse poured from the windows above, turning into a chant:

“This is the thief who has been robbing the whole city! Let him tremble now, for Randhir will surely crucify him!”

Unfortunately, the man didn’t look like the villain they described — anything but. Now that he was cleaned up and riding tall, straight and proud in the ruddy light of sunset, that light showed him to be handsome, very handsome, carrying himself with pride and bravery, meeting the jeers of the people with a faint sneer. Wicked or not, everyone knew of his strength and courage, and in the silks and satins the king had put on him, he looked like a prince himself His gaze was calm and steady as he glared with disdain at the tormentors about him.

They saw, and redoubled in their rage. “Let him tremble now! Let him tremble now!”