neetha Napew - The Paths Of The Perambulator

“Oh.” Sorbl turned to place the box in his open pack. “I will be very careful with it, Master.”

Clothahump moved toward Jon-Tom and began selecting volumes from a long shelf of mini-books nearby. The much taller human spoke while watching Sorbl pack. “What’s in the vial you gave Sorbl, sir? Some kind of acid or explosive?”

“Of course not,” the wizard replied softly. “Do you think I’d be fool enough to travel with dangerous liquids? It’s lime fizz.”

Jon-Tom’s brows drew together. “I guess I don’t understand.”

“You say that far too often, but your ignorance is mitigated by your honesty. Won’t you ever learn that to handle magic effectively you must learn to manipulate people as well as formulae? Without anything to worry about Sorbl will find ways to overindulge himself in the liquor I am permitting him to bring along—would that his deviousness extended to his studies. This will give him something to worry about.”

“I thought we had plenty to worry about already, but I see your point.” He watched while the wizard thumbed through tome after tome, replacing the majority in their places on the shelf, setting the rare selection aside for packing.

“What do you think our opponent is like? Besides dangerous, I mean.”

Clothahump considered. “If you’re out of your mind, there are two things that can be done to make you feel better. You can get yourself cured, or you can make everyone and everything else you have to deal with crazy. This is the first instance I can think of where a psychotic has attempted the latter course.

“It is clear that whoever is restraining the perambulator is doing so for a purpose, with a definite end in mind. That end appears to be turning the world upside down and inside out. For to an insane individual, an insane world might be quite comfortable. No one can accuse you of being mad if they’re mad too. No one can say that you’ve retreated into a world made up out of your own mental fabrications if they’re living in the same world. That is what we are going to have to deal with, my boy. The logic of the mad.”

As he concluded on the word mad, the wizard began to change. His body attenuated and lengthened. In seconds Jon-Tom found himself conversing with a large, furry yellow caterpillar. Nor was he leaning against the wall of the wizard’s study. The oak tree had been displaced by a giant silken globe within which hung strange objects of unknown origin and uncertain purpose.

All this he took in through two pairs of compound eyes. He felt uneasy, and from the waist down he had begun to itch. Using several legs operating in tandem, he began to scratch himself, digging for mites in his orange-and-brown fur. Over in the corner of the globe a small blue moth fluttered anxiously back and forth.

“So strange,” said the moth. “In this world, Master, you are larger than Jon-Tom. Here size must be a reflection of one’s age, for I am the smallest of all.”

“Reflection of intelligence, more likely,” snapped the wizard. “This is inconvenient. You are not alarmed by your new form?”

“Oh, no. I believe I have taken this shape before.”

“Well, I don’t like it,” muttered Jon-Tom, “and I hope we change back soon.” His stomachs were doing flip-flops, and the absence of a skeleton made him fearful of taking so much as a step, even though he knew that his squishy, soft body was unlikely to collapse around him. He was determined not to throw up, not only in order to save face before Clothahump but also because he had not the slightest interest in seeing what a four-foot-long orange-and-brown caterpillar might regurgitate.

So he sat there and scratched. Several minutes slid past. Five more. Now he was itching from nervousness and not mites. “What do we do?”

“There is nothing we can do.” Clothahump was preening multiple antennae. “We can only keep calm and wait it out.”

“It’s held a lot longer this time,” an uneasy Jon-Tom observed.

“Considerably. I have already pointed out that the duration of each perturbation might increase.”

“I don’t like this one. I like it even less than I did being a blue crab.” He tried to shift his position to a more comfortable one, with little success. “I think I’m going to throw up.”

“Try not to, my boy. I expected side effects to begin appearing, but we can do without that particular one. Though it might be interesting.”

“Like hell!” Jon-Tom bawled. He started to bend over.

Only to find himself back in the familiar oak-lined study again. He was himself again, tall and human and in possession of a solid internal superstructure. The interior of that superstructure, however, was still queasy, uncomfortable assurance that the transformation hadn’t been a dream. He rushed to the sink and ran cold water over his face and hands, sipping at it when he felt able to keep it down. It stayed down, as did his breakfast. He was pale when he looked up from the basin, gripping the rim with both hands for support.

“I can see where these perturbations can be more than just awkward.”

“Quite so.” Jon-Tom couldn’t tell if the wizard was disappointed that he hadn’t thrown up or not. “For example, if you were crossing a bridge and that bridge abruptly became a thin rope, you would have only an instant to assess your new status and adapt to it by balancing yourself or grabbing tight to the rope. Otherwise you would fall, and when the world snapped back to normal, you would find yourself in pieces, no less deceased for having perished during the perturbation. That would be awkward indeed.”

Sorbl joined them. “All is in readiness, Master.”

The wizard nodded. “About time. You have your pack, my boy, and I have mine.” He trundled over to the study exit and prepared to shoulder one of the two heavy packs the famulus had prepared. Jon-Tom wrestled his own onto his back and followed his mentor into the front hall.

He halted there, wondering why the thought hadn’t occurred to him earlier. “Wait a minute. Why are we walking? Surely we’re not going to foot it all the way to the Northern Plateau?”

“Of course not,” Clothahump assured him. “Once we get to Lynchbany we’ll rent ourselves a wagon or coach.”

“But that’s a pretty good hike in itself. Why walk even that far”—he swung his duar around in front of him—”when we can ride?”

“Uh-oh.” Sorbl’s eyes sought a discreet hiding place.

“Boy.” Clothahump harrumphed, “I’m not much in the mood to try any transportation spells. I’ve too many other things on my mind. Besides, there are one or two bits of sorceral knowledge I’ve managed to forget over the past two hundred years, and we’ve no time to waste looking up the necessary formulae.”

“I know you’re not being modest.” Jon-Tom was smiling fondly down at the old conjurer. “So I have to assume that you’re worn-out from dealing with the nothing.”

“I will not deny that the effort was fatiguing.” He was eyeing the duar uneasily. “I sense what you have in mind, but I am not certain you are up to it. I know that you have had a great deal of practice lo these past many months. Despite this, the precision of your spellsinging still leaves much to be desired.’’

Jon-Tom felt himself flush. “I don’t claim to be perfect. I never did. But I’m a hell of a lot sharper than I was when I first picked up this duar and started playing. And I have conjured up transportation before. Boats and rafts and one time M’nemaxa himself.”

Clothahump was nodding slowly. “I am aware of what you have accomplished, my boy, and you have much to be proud of, but the ability of calling up simple land transportation is a talent that seems to have escaped you.”