L. Camp: The Exotic Enchanter

Igor muttered curses against another list, starting with Boris and Oleg. “They will do anything for silver,” he growled. “And you, who have come so far, and seen so little, tell me — are you for hire also?”

Shea couldn’t tell if they were being insulted or recruited. “We are pledged to return to our own lands if we live, but on a journey such as this, it is no disgrace to earn some extra silver.”

Further aminadversions were interrupted by a servant who hastily passed the prince’s table on his way to the door. “Your Highness, the princess’ personal guard is here!”

The sound of hoofbeats and jingling harness now penetrated the noisy room. Igor woke up and so did Harold’s curiosity. He had seen a princess or two in his travels, and wondered how this one would measure up.

When Euphrosinia Yaroslavna entered the room, all heads turned in her direction. Every man got to his feet and bowed as she saluted the icon. Igor left the table and embraced her warmly.

She and her escort wore the boots, trousers, and coats of hunters; the escort carried longswords and shields instead of spears, and wore mail. All had grim faces.

“The Polovtsi attacked Yuri the Red’s estate at Nizhni Charinsk two days ago,” she announced. “They were rebuilding the palisade after it burned last month, and were caught completely off guard.”

From the curses that rent the air, the psychologists drew two conclusions: the Polovtsi had raided a “safe” location, and they had no business knowing that the palisade was down. Sure enough, the word “spies” came up.

“Yuri’s son Boris rode to Seversk to report,” the princess continued. “The raiders took the entire household, including that young woman who is neither Rus nor Polovets nor Greek nor anything else we have been able to discover.”

Chalmers’ face suddenly matched Euphrosinia’s for grimness. “Is she a small woman, Your Highness?” His voice didn’t break. “Good-looking, very fair skin and brown hair?”

“It seems that you know her,” Euphrosinia replied. “What is her name?”

“lady Florimel, Your Highness.”

“So is she named.”

“What — ?” Chalmers’ voice did break.

“Can she — they — be ransomed or rescued?’ Shea asked, noting that many far from friendly looks were now aimed their way.

“Perhaps,” the prince said. “What is she to you?”

“She is Sir Reed’s wife, Your Highness.”

Shea didn’t notice any warming of the atmosphere, but Igor suddenly gave a bark of laughter.

“So that is why you said so little! ‘Reports to your superiors.’ Pig swill! You’re trying to find her! But how did you — what happened?”

“She was stolen by a powerful enemy, Your Highness.”

“He must have been. You don’t look it, but I’m thinking you are bogatyri yourselves.” He grinned. “Perhaps you really have seen hippogriffs and the rest of it.

“Regardless, we now have a common foe. We must rescue your wife and Yuri’s family before they go to the Krasni Podok slave market.” He filled his cup with an unsteady but practiced hand and rose on still more unsteady legs.

“By Our Lord who saved us, His Mother who bore Him, the Saints who followed Him, the honor of Seversk, and my own honor as its prince, I swear that I will do all that may be needed, yea unto holding my own life as naught, until the Lady Florimel is rescued from her captivity among the Polovtsi.”

Then he fell forward on the table and began to snore. Chalmers looked stricken, but the other Rus at the table, after hearing the snores, paid no heed to the fallen prince. Shea took a close look and a strong sniff “Just drunk,” he reassured his colleague.

Euphrosinia Yaroslavna’s handsome face looked thoughtfully at Reed Chalmers’ hopeful one. “You should know,” she said. “that by both the laws and customs of the Rus, no man may be held to anything he promises while drunk.”

Shea thought that spoke well for the good sense of the Rus, but wasn’t about to say so, “What says the law?” he asked, covering for Chalmers.

“ ‘If two men, both being drunk come to an agreement, and after, when they have both slept their drunkenness off, one of them is not satisfied with the agreement, it shall be void.’ ” Her fluent quotation gave Shea some notion of how often it was cited. “By custom, no vow, contract, or promise is valid unless all parties are sober.”

“There is reason to go after them,” Chalmers said, his voice showing that he’d bounced back, for the moment. “Folk of the Rus were captured too.”

The princess shrugged her elegant shoulders. She couldn’t hold a candle to Belphebe were that lady present, Shea decided, but she definitely held the eye on her own. “There are boyars of princely houses in the tents of the Polovtsi at this moment. Yuri was a muzh , yes, but a border lord.”

She looked directly at them; her words might give pain, but she didn’t turn away from her victims, “Done is done. For now, it is more important to prevent further raids. The Polovtsi should not have been able to strike this close to Seversk.”

In an academic setting, Dr. Shea might have appreciated her realpolitik . She showed more logic than most political commentators in the twentieth-century U.S. But thinking of Belphebe had triggered a gut reaction: if she were in a mess, politics could take a bath until she was out of it. And Reed Chalmers would back him up.

Ergo, since Florimel is in a mess, politics can take that same bath, and I will back Reed. QED.

Time for my realpolitik, Your Highness.

Shea’s gut had also generated an inspiration. He looked in the kindling box (the prince’s table was close to the stove). Good, it held unpeeled willow branches as well as birchbark. Now to unruffle the princess’ feathers . . .

“If I may, Your Highness, I would like to return His Highness’ hospitality by giving him a healing draught. He needs to be able to ride tomorrow, no matter where he goes.”

“I will watch you prepare it, and you will drink it yourself before you give him any of it.”

Shea had no problem with that, although he wished the samovar wasn’t still a few centuries in the future. “Please ask your servant to boil water in a clean pot.”

While that was being prepared, Shea stripped the bark from the willow branches, and cut about two dozen small pieces.

“What are you doing?” Chalmers murmured.

“Using your synthesis spell to make aspirin, Doc. Mark these, please; the formula is C9H8O4.”

Chalmers perked up and set to work with his knife, while Shea shredded the rest of the bark. The Rus were quiet, but Shea knew that if this didn’t work, the trouble Igor had mentioned would come, with a vengeance.

A servant, his hands muffled in rawhide, brought in a pot of water, Shea indicated where it should go on the table, a fair distance from Igor. Then he arranged the marked pieces of bark around it, and dropped the rest of the bark into the pot.

Finally, he and Chalmers stood on either side of the pot, Shea reciting, the older man gesturing.

“When I consider how my life is spent,

The time ill-used, the wealth I fling askance

On fleeting follies tuned to my own bent.

Or joined with others, dance delusions dance;

O Willow! Emblem of the soul’s own tears,

O weep with me, a-pent in mine own snare,

Yet healing bring lest prey to mine own fears,

I fall into the pit of black despair.

Although thy leaves our dreary truths bespeak,

Thy bark, now shredded, ’s balm to make us whole,

This bitter draught gives strength, unlike the sweet