The Flying Sorcerers Read online

  Then, for no apparent reason, the stranger caused the light to vanish.

  “I think that the light disturbs you,” said the speakerspell, talking for the magician. “But, no matter. We can talk as well in the dark.”

  I breathed more easily, but did not completely relax. This stranger had shown how easily he could cancel the effect of any lunar configuration. Any powers Shoogar might have hoped to draw from the sky would have to be forgone.

  I watched the striped lizard slink dejectedly into the west. The moons rode their line across the sky, milk-white crescents with thick red fringes. On successive nights the red borderlines would narrow as the suns set closer and closer together. Then there would be no colored borders.Later, blue borders would show after second sunset… and Shoogar could make no use of any of this…

  Shoogar and the new magician were still talking. by now the speakerspell had learned enough words so that the two could intelligently discuss the matters of magicians.

  The ethics of the situation are obvious,” Shoogar was saying. “You are practicing magic in my district. For this you must pay. More precisely, you owe me a secret.”

  “A secret.. .?” echoed the speakerspell device.

  Still cold and cramped, I was suddenly no longer sleepy. I cocked an ear to hear better.

  “Some bit of magic that I do not already know,” Shoogar amplified. “What, for instance, is the secret of your light like double daylight?”

  “… potential difference … hot metal within an inert … doubt you would understand … heat is caused by a flow of … tiny packets of lightning …”

  “Your words do not make sense. I take no meaning from them. You must tell me a secret that I can understand and use. I see that your magic is powerful. Perhaps you know of a way to predict the tides?”

  “No, of course I can’t tell you how to predict the tides. You’ve got eleven moons and two primary suns tugging your oceans in all directions. Tugging at each other too. It would take years to compute a tidal pattern …”

  “Surely you must know “things that I do not,” said Shoogar. “Just as I know secrets that you are unaware of.”

  “Of course. But I’m trying to think what would help you the most. It’s a wonder you’ve gotten as far as you have. Bicycles even …”

  “Those are good bicycles!” I protested. “I ought to know. Two of my sons built them.”

  “But bicycles!” He moved closer eagerly. I tensed, but he only wanted to examine them. “Hardwood frames, leather-thonged pulleys instead of chains, sewn fur pelts for tires! They’re marvelous! Absolutely marvelous. Primitive and handmade, with big flat wheels and no spokes, but it doesn’t matter: they’re still bicycles. And when all the odds were against your developing any form of … at all!”

  “What are you talking about?” Shoogar demanded. I was silent, seething at the insult to Wilville and Orbur’s bicycles. Primitive indeed!

  “… starts with the perception of order,” said the magician. “But your world has no order to it at all. You’re in an opaque dust cloud, so you cannot see any of the fixed light-in-the-sky. Your sky is a random set of moons picked up from the worldlet belt … three-body configuration makes capture easy … tides that go every which way under the influence of all those moons … moons that cross and recross at random, changing their … because of mutual …” The speakerspell was missing half of the stranger’s words, making the rest gibberish. “And then the high level of … from the blue sun would give you a new species every week or so. No order in your observable … probably use strict cut-and-try methods of building. No put-it-together line techniques because you wouldn’t normally expect a put-it-together belt to produce the same item twice in a row … but it’s a human instinct to try to control nature. You must tell me —”

  “Shoogar interrupted the babbling stranger. First, you must tell me. Tell me some new thing that you may satisfy the Guild law. What is the secret of your red flame?”

  “Oh, I couldn’t give you a secret like that!”

  Shoogar began to fume again, but he only said, “And why couldn’t you?”

  “… For one thing, you couldn’t understand it. You wouldn’t be able to work it.” Shoogar drew himself up to his full height and stared up at the stranger. “Are you telling me that I am not even a magician of the second circle? Any magician worth his bones is able to make fire and throw it!” And with that Shoogar produced a ball of fire from his sleeve and casually hurled it across the clearing.

  I could see that the stranger was startled. He had not expected that. The ball of fire lay sputtering on the ground, then died away leaving only the burnt core. The stranger took two steps toward it, as if to examine it, then turned back to Shoogar, “Very impressive,” he said, “but still…”

  Shoogar “said, “You see, I can throw fire also. And I can control the color of the flame. What I want to know is how to throw it in a straight line, like you do.”

  “It is a wholly different principle .. . coherent light … tight beam … small clumps of energy … vibration of …” As if to demonstrate, he touched his spell device again, and once more the red fire lashed out. Eye-searing flame played across Musk-Watz’s cairn. Another smoking hole.

  I Winced.

  The stranger said, “It boils the rock and tells me what it is made of by telling me what color the smoke is.”

  I tried to conceal my reaction. Any idiot could have told him the smoke was bluish-gray, let alone what rocks are made of. I could tell him myself.

  He was still talking, “Absorption of light… but I couldn’t teach you how to use it; you might use it as a weapon.”

  “Might use it as a weapon?” Shoogar exclaimed. “What other use is there for a spell to throw red fire?”

  “I just explained that,” the stranger said impatiently. “I could explain again, but for what purpose? It’s much too complex for you to understand.”

  (That was a needless insult. Shoogar may be only a magician of the second circle, but that does not mean that he is inferior. In actuality, there are few secrets he is not privy to. Besides, gaining the first circle is a matter of politics as well as skill, and Shoogar has never been known as a diplomat.)

  It was high time that the oil of diplomacy be applied to the rough edges of these two magicians. I knew it was my duty to prevent friction between them, especially now that the barrier of language had been removed. “Shoogar,” I said, “let me speak. I am the diplomat.” Without waiting for his assent, I approached the speakerspell, albeit somewhat nervously.

  “Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Lant-la-lee-lay-lie-ah-no. Perhaps it may strike you as a bit presumptuous that I claim seven syllables, but I am a person of no mean importance in our village.” I felt it necessary to establish my rank from the very beginning, and my right to speak for the village.

  The stranger looked at me and said, “I am pleased to meet you. My name is …” The speakerspell hesitated, but I counted the syllables of the name. Three. I smiled to myself. Obviously, we were dealing with a very low status individual … and I realized something disquieting as well. Where did this magician come from, that individuals of such low stations controlled such mighty magic? I preferred not to think about that. Perhaps he hadn’t given his full name. After all, I hadn’t given him the secret side of mine.

  The speakerspell abruptly translated the stranger’s three syllable name, “As a color, shade of purple gray”

  “Very odd,” said Shoogar, speaking low. “I have never known a magician to be named for a color.”

  “Perhaps that’s not his name, but an indication of which god he serves.

  “Nonsense,” Shoogar whispered back. “Then he would be either Something-the-red or Something-the-blue. But he isn’t either.”

  “Perhaps he’s both — that’s why he’s purple.”

  “Don’t talk foolishness, Lant. It’s impossible to serve two masters. Besides, he isn’t all purple. He’s Purple the Gray. And I’ve never h
eard of a gray magician.”

  I turned back to the stranger, “Is that your full name? How many syllables are in the secret side of it?” He couldn’t be offended; I was not asking for the name itself.

  He said, “I have given you my full name. As-A-Shade-Of-Purple-Gray.”

  “You have no other? No secret name?”

  “I am not sure I understand. That is my full name.”

  Shoogar and I exchanged a glance. The stranger was either incredibly foolish, or exceeding cunning. Either he had betrayed his full name to us, thus delivering himself into Shoogar’s power; or he was playing the fool in order to keep Shoogar from discovering his real name. Perhaps the name he had given was some kind of spell trap. It certainly wasn’t a clue to his identity.

  As-A-Shade-Of-Purple-Gray was speaking again. “Where did you come from?”

  “From the village,” I started to point down the mountain, but covered the gesture quickly. No sense in telling this stranger where the village was located.

  “But, I saw no village from the air .. .”

  “From the air …?” Shoogar asked.

  “Yes, when I flew over the area.”

  At this Shoogar’s ears perked up. “Flew? You have a flying spell? How do you do it? I have not yet been able to get anything larger than a melon to fly — and I have been trapping the bubbles of noxious odor as they rise from the swamps.” Indeed, Shoogar had been trying to perfect a flying spell for as long as he had been a magician. He had even contrived to get two of my sons to aid him, Wilville and Orbur. Often they would neglect their bicycle carving to work on some strange new device for him. So great was their enthusiasm for Shoogar’s project that — much to my annoyance — they had been accepting no payment at all for their labors.

  The new magician smiled at Shoogar’s description of his flying spell. “Primitive,” he said, “but it could work. My own vehicle uses somewhat more complex and efficient principles.” He pointed at his huge black nest. No. he must have meant one of the devices in it, or near it. Who could conceive of a flying nest? A nest is a home, a fixed place, a locality of refuge, a place of returning. Philosophically a nest cannot so much as move, let alone fly. What is philosophically impossible is impossible to magic. This law constrains even the gods.

  “Well, show me how it works. Teach me your flying spell!” Shoogar begged excitedly.

  The stranger shook his head. “I could not show that one to you either. It is beyond your understanding. ….”

  This was too much for Shoogar. All evening long, this new magician had continued to insult him. Now, he refused even to gift him with a secret. Shoogar began jumping up and down in exasperation. He pulled his tarinele from his travel kit. and had actually begun to pack the blow chambers with cursing powder before I could calm him.

  “Patience, Shoogar! Please!” I begged him. “Let us return to the village. Call for a meeting of the Guild of Advisors first! Don’t challenge him to a duel until we have a chance to talk this thing out.”

  Shoogar muttered something under his breath. He muttered a whole bunch of somethings. “I ought to use this tarincle on you. You know how I hate to waste a good curse.” But he emptied the blow chambers, wrapped it up again in its protective skins and returned it to his pack.

  He stood and fared the new magician. “We return to our village to confer. We will visit you again before the time of the blue dawns.”

  But the stranger did not seem to hear this. “I will accompany you,” he said. “I would like to see your village.”

  Shoogar can be clever when he puts his mind to it. “Certainly you may accompany us,” he said. “It would be inhospitable for us not to welcome you. But you cannot leave yourself so far from your nest. Tonight the moons are down and the red curses roam the land.” (I wished Shoogar hadn’t brought that up. I remembered how far we were from home.)

  Shoogar spread his hands helplessly. “If we had empty nests in the village, you would be welcome to use one — but as it is, with the time of total darkness approaching, I would not recommend straying too far from one’s own nest.”

  “That’s all right,” said the stranger, “I’ll just bring it with me.”

  “Huh?” said Shoogar. “How? We certainly are not going to help you. That is, neither of us has the strength to —”

  As-A-Shade-Of-Purple-Gray seemed to laugh. I was becoming most tired of his laugh. “Don’t worry about that,” he said. “You just lead the way and I’ll follow.”

  Shoogar and I exchange a glance. Obviously this dumpy-legged stranger would be unable to keep up with our bicycles — especially if he was going to try to bring his nest. We waited respectfully, however, while the magician collapsed his artifacts and devices. I was amazed to see how easily they folded up and how compactly they stored, and made a mental note to get closer to one of them if I could. I was curious to see how the bone was carved and how the metal was worked. Perhaps I could learn something from the construction of such devices. They were carved too precisely, too delicately for me to see much in the dim light.

  I glanced involuntarily at the sky. We were fast approaching the time of total darkness. Only six of the moons were left in the sky. No wonder the light was fading. I certainly did not intend to tarry for this stranger.

  Within a remarkably short time, the stranger had packed up all of his devices and stowed them within his nest. There was something about his manner that made me feel vaguely uneasy; “All right,” he said. “I’m ready,” and he disappeared into his nest, shutting the door behind him. That was when my feeling of unease gave way to one of pure terror. Purple Gray’s whole nest began to hum, like the speakerspell and the red-fire devices within it, but louder. Suddenly it rose into the air and hung there at twice the height of a man. It began to glow with a color we had never seen before. The plants and the trees shone like garish hallucinations. Green is a. dark color — not a dreadful bright fluorescence.

  I thought Shoogar would fall off his bicycle from astonishment. I was having trouble with my own hands and feet. Even when you are not trembling all over, a bicycle is hard enough to control.

  The ride back to the village was a nightmare. Shoogar was so unnerved, he forgot to chant any of his protective canteles and we both kept looking back over our shoulders at that huge looming egg which came floating silently, dreadfully after us, throwing off light in all directions, like some terrifying manifestation of Elcin, the thunder god.

  It didn’t help matters that every time I looked up, another moon had set, plunging us ever closer to the time of total darkness. One of us was moaning, but I wasn’t sure whether it was Shoogar or me.

  The bicycles clattered roughly down the mountain path, and I was so concerned about getting safely back to my nest that I did not even think to urge Shoogar to be careful with my other machine. The way he kept looking back over his shoulder I was sure he would hit something and split a wheel. Fortunately, he did not; I did not know if I would even have stopped to help him. Not with that bright black egg chasing us, always keeping perfectly and terrifyingly up-right.

  Somehow we made it down to the grasslands. Several of the women saw us coming — they were out in the fields gathering the night fungi — but when they saw that huge glowing nest looming along behind us, they turned and ran for the safety of the village. Shoogar and I did not even think to park our bicycles on the hill, but rode them right down into the settlement. (Well, the women would have to clean the mud from the wheels later.)

  We reached the village none too soon. The last of the moons was just settling in the west. We paused, out of breath, in the center clearing. The great black nest floated ominously above us, lighting up the whole village with its odd-colored aura. The great trees and the gourd-shaped nests hanging from their mighty branches took on strange and terrifying colors.

  From out of the air the magician’s voice boomed louder than any natural voice, “… no wonder I didn’t see it from the air … houses are structured spheres, suspended from th
e limbs of tremendous trees … must be at least. … Wait until … hears about this! Where should I park?” he asked suddenly.

  “Anywhere …” I gasped weakly, “Put it anywhere,” and made an appropriate arm-sweeping gesture. I looked around myself to see if we had any trees strong enough to hang such a nest from. There were none big enough that were not already occupied; but if this magician could make his nest fly, then he could surely hang it even from a sapling.

  But even this the stranger did not do. He landed it on the ground.

  And not just on any ground. He swept through the village toward the river, and brought it to land on the crest of the slope overlooking the frog-grading ponds. The ponds were dry now, drained for their ritual purification and reseeding spells, but I was appalled at such callous disregard for the property of the village. I winced as the magician’s nest sank into the ooze with a loud squishy phloosh.

  I did not sleep well at all. By the time the smoky rim of the red sun began to appear over the horizon, I was already up and about. I felt better after my cleansing and purification, but still haggard and drawn. The events of the night before had taken their toll.

  A glance out the door of the nest was enough to confirm that the stranger was still in our midst. Pilg the Crier was already moving through the trees moaning of this new development. Disaster was all the more certain now that the strange magician had moved his nest into the village. Even from here I could see a curious crowd gathering around it — though keeping a respectful distance.

  Ang, the frogmonger, was wringing his hands and moaning over his frog-grading ponds. He would have to repurify them again after the stranger left, and if that were not soon, he might miss the spawning season altogether.

  Shoogar and I went out to watch him, that first day. As soon as he saw us he straightened from his examination of a local herb and disappeared into his nest. He returned almost immediately with an object in his outstretched hand. “A gift.” he said. “A gift for Shoogar, the magician.”