The Exotic Enchanter (12 page)

"Strike, then!" Charya cried in defiance. "Better a clean death in battle than execution in shame!"

"While there's life, there's hope," Shea said. "Miracles have happened before."

"Not for one so guilty as I!" But even as he said it, that very hope wavered in Charya's eyes, and his hand loosened on the hilt. Shea knelt and tugged the sword away.

"You speak truly," Randhir told Charya, "for I shall do all in my power to see you executed for your crimes."

"Can you control the whims of the gods?" Chalmers challenged. "Can you read
dharma
so clearly as to be able to say there is no chance of this doughty knave living? For surely, he is most admirable in his skill and courage, no matter how despicable he may be in the ways in which he uses them."

"There is truth in that," the Rajah admitted. "However, though the race is not always to the swift, that is the way to place your wager. Bind this knave, then set him on his feet!"

So because of the shred of hope that Shea and Chalmers had raised within his heart, Charya of the robbers was taken alive for the Rajah's justice, not slain on the ground where the turned stone had stretched him.

The next morning, Shea and Chalmers presented themselves in the Rajah's private audience chamber. They found Randhir standing by the window, gazing moodily out over his kingdom.

"Your Majesty," Shea prompted, "you sent for us?"

"Indeed." Randhir turned to face them. "I wish to thank you."

Alarm shrilled in every fiber, but Shea forced a bland and uncomprehending smile. "Thank us? For what?"

"It
could
have been chance or fate that placed that stone under Charya's foot," Randhir said quietly, "even though we had been back and forth over the same ground before—but I doubt it. And I
know
his sword glanced off some invisible shield when I thought it would surely cleave my head open."

Chalmers protested, "Surely Your Majesty is . . ."

" 'My Majesty' knows what I saw, and knows magic when I see it!" Randhir snapped. "Since there was no magician there, I can only conclude that it was done by one of you foreigners—or both!"

"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 back 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 aid 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 rajah 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 throughout 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 be 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 crucifixion."

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 cardamoms, 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!"

But Charya did not tremble; instead, his lips quivered, his eyes flashed fire, and deep lines gathered between his eyebrows. Finally, his face creased into a sardonic smile.

A scream echoed above the clamor of the crowd, a scream that pierced their noise enough so that many of them broke off, staring upward at the window in the grand house that the procession was passing. There, at a second-story window, stood an unveiled woman, very young, who was staring straight into the robber's eyes, for on his camel, he was only a few feet below her, and not a dozen feet away. She went pale, and quivered as though his glance was a flash of lightning. Then she broke away from the fascination of his gaze and turned to the old man beside her, saying something with great force as she pointed at Charya. As the procession moved on, Shea came near, and heard her say, ". . . Go this moment and get that thief released!"

But Shea looked at the old man's face and gasped, "Malambroso!"

So it was, or his exact double. Shea grabbed Chalmers' shoulder with one hand and pointed with the other. "Look, Doc! Our kidbaooer!"

No, Chalmers said, his eyes on the woman, "my wife."

Shea stared at him, then whirled and looked again at the young woman. It was Florimel—except that she had black hair and a much darker complexion. But hair could be dyed, and so, for that matter, could skin—not that an enchanter of Malambroso's stature would need to resort to such crude techniques to change a person's appearance. "You're right, Doc! That's either Florimel's exact double, or Florimel herself in disguise! But why would Malambroso . . ." His voice trailed off as the answer struck him.

"Yes," Chalmers said grimly. "How better to hide her from us? We would be seeking reports of a fair-skinned, brown-haired woman!"

"And, of course, that would be the only way to make her fit in with the local populace." Shea nodded. "Good hiding place, now that you think of it—but it seems to have backfired on him."

Malambroso was pleading with Florimel. "My darling Shobhani, that thief has been pilfering and plundering the whole city, and by his command scores of citizens were killed! Why, then, at my request, should our most gracious Rajah Randhir release him?"

Almost beside herself, Florimel exclaimed, "If by giving up your whole property, you can induce the Rajah to release him, then instantly do so—for if he does not come to me, I must give up my life!"

She turned away, covering her head with her veil, and sank down weeping, while Malambroso stared down at her, wounded to the core.

So was Chalmers, at seeing Florimel so obviously in love with another man.

"He called her's hobhani,' " Shea said quickly. "Maybe it's not Florimel after all, just her double! Then inspiration struck. "Maybe each universe has analogs of the people in our universe! Maybe that old man is just an analog of Malambroso!"

"No," Chalmers said, his face turning wooden. "That is Malambroso, and the young woman is indeed my Florimel."

"Oh, yeah?" Shea, in another fit of inspiration, turned him and pointed at the thief, whose face was in profile to them as he stared at the young woman. "Think of him without the beard and the muscles! Think of him as a withdrawn young scholar! Who does he look like?"

Chalmers stared, and turned ashen. "He is me!"

"A younger analog of you," Shea said quickly. "The real you is still here! But this is what you would have looked like if you had been born a Hindu outlaw! No wonder she fell in love with him!"

Chalmers' face sagged. "I feel very old, Harold!"

"
You
feel old! How do you think Malambroso feels?"

"Very angry." Chalmers turned back to the window, suddenly afraid for Florimel—or Shobhani, whichever she was. Sure enough, Malambroso's face was suffused with rage—but even as they watched, all the fight went out of him as anger gave place to misery. He nodded with resignation and said, "I shall try to give you what you want, my child." He turned away from the window, and Shobhani looked up in sudden hope.

"He
does
love her," Chalmers said in surprise. "Her happiness means more to him than his own!"

"I never would have guessed it of him," Shea agreed.

Malambroso came running out into the midst of the parade and threw himself to his knees in front of Randnir's horse. The Rajah necessarily reined in—why lose a perfectly good taxpayer?—and Malambroso cried, "O great king, be pleased to receive four lakhs of rupees, and to release this thief!"

But the rajah replied, "He has been robbing the whole city, and by reason of him my guards have been destroyed. I cannot by any means release him."