Wistril Compleat (3 page)

"There are goats," said Wistril slowly, "In
my study."

"Those aren't just any goats," said Kern
cheerfully. "They're the best pair in the valley. Remember how you
complimented the innkeeper on the cheese he gave you?"

Wistril took a deep breath. "I remember,
apprentice," he said. "I have a very good memory."

The Mayor of Dervanny sidled into Wistril's
study and cleared his throat. The Mayor's two youngest sons marched
forward, holding aloft a home-made iron helm on a threadbare velvet
chair-cushion.

The larger goat bleated and sniffed Wistril's
desk speculatively. Wistril took the helm and placed it wordlessly
on his head. The Mayor produced a rolled parchment from beneath his
coat and prepared to read.

"Apprentice," said Wistril quietly, "I could
have made the proper preparations, had I known a ceremony was
planned."

"Master," said Kern, "You'd have rendered
yourself invisible and hidden until First Snow and you know it.
You're a hero now, like it or not, and this is what heroes do."

"Indeed," said Wistril, glaring at the
goats.

"The villagers wouldn't leave without
expressing their gratitude, Master," said Kern, in a language known
to none of the villagers. "They were adamant about it. Would you
shield them from injury only to subject them to insult?"

Wistril shifted his glare from the goats to
Kern.

"Apprentice -- "

The Mayor harrumphed and began to read.
Wistril fell silent.

Kern put his back to the wall, crossed his
arms, and forced himself to stifle a grin.

Wistril
Afloat

by Frank Tuttle

"Vapid flummery," said Wistril of Kauph,
thumping his just-emptied ale-stein down on his ironwood desk for
emphasis. "Ignorant prattle. Rumor and superstition run amuck. Lake
monsters. Pfui."

"Pfui," repeated the goblin-clock from its
perch by Wistril's glowstone pen-holder. "Nine of the clock," it
added, its voice loud and shrill in the carpeted expanse of
Wistril's fourth-floor study. "Nine of the clock."

Kern, Wistril's apprentice, sighed and capped
his pen.

"Master," said Kern, pushing himself back
slightly from his own smaller oak writing-desk, "Are you sure?
After all, two dozen people watched something rise up out of Lake
Ovinshoon."

Wistril glowered. "Then two dozen people
mistook flotsam for kraken," he said. "What of it?"

Kern scooped up the papers on his desk,
straightened them, and stacked them in his "out" basket. "You're
right, Master," said Kern. "So what if the villagers are afraid to
fish from the Lake?" Kern leaned back in his swivel-chair, crossed
his hands behind his head, and stared at the ceiling. "Of course,
we'll never have fresh-caught Lake trout in Kempish wine sauce
again. And no more baked cypress bass on a bed of cherry rice,
topped with ripe spring gentrees and twice-glazed orentra buds. No
more fried catfish, either. I'll miss the hush-puppies most, I
think."

Wistril glared. "Apprentice Kern," he said.
"Are you attempting to coerce me into a demented search for
sea-monsters by threatening me with an interruption of my culinary
preferences?"

"Essentially," said Kern, swiveling his chair
away from his writing desk to face Wistril. "But keep in mind I'm
not making this up. Something big and ugly rose up out of the Lake
four days ago, and all three fishermen fled their boats and are
discussing potato farming. Of course, if you'd rather not exert
yourself, I'm sure we can get fish from somewhere. Trentil, maybe,
or perhaps Ligget. Both are only a few days’ ride from here. Oh, it
won't be like having fresh fish, but we'll bear up like men, we
will."

Wistril sighed. "A lake monster," he
muttered. "Why not a haunt, or a vampire, or a rafter-goblin? If I
must face myths, might they at least have the courtesy to dwell
indoors?"

Kern kept his face blank. "I hear the Lake is
beautiful this time of the year, Master," he said. "Some of the
villagers even camp there just to enjoy the sun and the water."

Wistril smiled. "Then you shall enjoy your
stay, Apprentice," he said. "I believe we even have a tent, in the
south tower store-room. It should be erected and aired, before you
leave." The fat wizard snapped his fingers, and his ale mug
refilled with a small burp and a lingering yellow flash. "I'm told,
Apprentice Kern, that the days are warm and bright, and the nights
cool and refreshing."

Kern rolled his eyes. "Yes, Master," he said.
"I'll get packing right away. Shall I fetch a tent for you?"

Wistril pretended not to hear. Kern rolled
his chair back to face his writing-desk, put his pens away, and
rose.

"I'll bring back the monster's head," Kern
said. "We can put it over the mantel in the Red Room, or you can
have stuffed and mounted on the front doors as a warning to others
who might wish to join you as apprentice."

Wistril picked up his book and opened it.
Kern marched for the door, and was met by the tall, thin gargoyle
that was the closest thing Castle Kauph had to a butler.

"Fetch me an ale and a tent, Greeves," said
Kern. "I'm going fishing for sea serpents, and that's thirsty
work."

The gargoyle nodded and padded off down the
hall. Kern followed, pausing for a moment at the tall, narrow
window that overlooked the courtyard and Wistril's perpetually
struggling rose-garden.

A green and blue tent sat amid the roses.
Beside the tent sat a wagon, its bed stacked high with barrels and
crates and blankets.

The gargoyle that normally tended the south
furnace lay sprawled atop the cargo, his wings spread wide to catch
the midday sun.

"Always a step behind," said Kern cheerily.
"I hope His Near Omniscience packed the good cheese."

The tall gargoyle at Kern's side said
nothing, but Kern would have sworn it was hiding a toothy grin.

Kern sat on a stump and wrote.

Dear Master, he wrote, then pointedly crossed
out the "Dear" and continued.

Life in the wilderness has taken its toll. I
have sunburnt my nose, and Sir Knobby -- that's the gargoyle you
sent with me, he needed a name so I gave him one -- Sir Knobby has
barked his left shin upon a pine tree. We are down to our last hoop
of cheese, one of the sausages has gone spoiled, and while we were
fleeing from the lake monsters I lost my right boot.

Yes, lake monsters. Plural. Serpentine
creatures of the sort featured in Chapter Seven of your Jot's
Fantastical Bestiary (specifically, I think, pages eight hundred
and eight hundred and one). There are at least four of them
residing here in Lake Ovinshoon. The largest is approximately fifty
feet long and four feet in diameter; the other three are much
smaller, ranging in size from six to ten feet long, and about as
big around as my waist.

Snake-like, but not snakes. The blink, they
sing like birds, and they play like otters.

One of the smaller ones has my boot. I kept
my foot, so I guess we're even. They come out of the water at
night, which is when Sir Knobby and I first encountered them.

Sir Knobby grew frightened at the monsters
and fled into the woods. I followed, lest Sir Knobby lose his way
and fall prey to wolverines. The serpents, in turn, followed me for
a bit, then headed south, toward the village. They returned to the
Lake just before dawn. The smallest serpent, as I mentioned, has my
boot. Sir Knobby counsels against diving for it.

The villagers have begun to drop by my tent.
Tales of missing sheep are the talk of the day. The villagers
wonder what manner of beast infests our fair lake, and what the
Great Wizard is going to do about them.

I nod sagely and make cryptic remarks to the
effect that the Great Wizard is even now crafting a mighty charm
against sheep-eating boot-stealing lake monsters.

Please forward the aforementioned charm and a
new pair of boots via Sir Knobby. I shall remain here and beat back
the bloodthirsty sea-beasts with a ball of twine and the spoiled
sausage.

Yours in noble vigilance, Kern.

Kern folded the letter, closed it in a
leather pouch, and handed the pouch to Sir Knobby. "Fly this back
to His Lethargic Majesty, if you please," said Kern. "I'll keep an
eye out for the you-know-whats."

Sir Knobby hooted, leaped, and was gone.

Kern rolled up his sleeves, found the axe,
and eyed the pines along the edge of the woods. "I feel the need to
chop some firewood," he said aloud. "Must be the clean country
air."

Something far out on the lake rolled and
splashed.

Kern hefted the axe and marched briskly for
the trees.

Kern's bonfire roared and belched columns of
sparks and embers sailing high into the night. Kern sat as close as
he dared, his back to the flames, his eyes on the tree-line and the
dancing shadows before him as he awaited the return of the serpents
to the Lake.

"Apprentice Kern!" bellowed Wistril. Kern
leaped to his feet.

"What is the purpose of this
conflagration?"

Wistril's voice came from deep within the
flames.

"It's tradition, Master," said Kern, turning
and shielding his eyes. "A stump for a chair, a blanket for a bed,
a gentle campfire crackling at your feet -- all part of the charm
of the great outdoors."

"Nonsense. You appear to have lighted a
winter's worth of timber. Aquatic creatures will never draw near a
blaze such as this."

Kern tilted his head. "Really, Master?" he
said. "I never thought of that."

Wistril sighed. "Bah. This will never do,
Apprentice. Step aside. I'm coming through."

Kern stepped back. The flames shot skyward,
turned a pure snow white, and then Wistril himself stepped out of
the bonfire.

Kern bowed. "Welcome to the trackless wild,
Master," he said. "I see you've dressed the part."

Wistril was clad in an enormous fur-lined
greatcoat, loose leather pantaloons, and knee-high, hob-nailed
boots. In his right hand the wizard held his favorite iron-shod
staff; in his left, he bore a steaming picnic basket. Two loaves of
fresh-baked wheat bread peeked through the cloth cover.

"We will dine," said Wistril. "And we shall
allow this infernal blaze to abate. Then perhaps I shall see these
monsters for myself. Shall we?"

Kern pointed the way to the tent. Wistril
lowered the picnic basket to the ground and marched away.

The flames roared suddenly up again, and a
pair of gargoyles stepped out of the fire. The gargoyles bore a
full-length mirror, its glass covered with a sheet; Kern thought he
recognized the dark wood frame with the dragon carvings as the one
usually located in the south-tower entry hall.

The gargoyles found a patch of level ground
and uncovered the mirror.

Kern saw the south tower entry hall reflected
in the glass, but not the Lake or the bonfire or even himself.

"Master," said Kern quickly, "Could one
perhaps step into that mirror and step out again at home, perhaps
near a comfortable chair and a bath-tub?"

"One could," said Wistril from the shadows.
"But then one would miss Cook's fricasseed vimmet, sliced ham in
honey, and a generous portion of blueberry pie."

Kern marched away from the mirror without a
backward glance.

"The sun will rise within the hour," said
Wistril, holding his palms out to warm them by the faint warmth of
Kern's dying bonfire. "Are your monsters always prompt in their
returns?"

"Always," said Kern. From the trees a hundred
paces away came a quiet, stealthy crackling of dry leaves. Kern
rose.

"There, Master," he said, pointing.
"There!"

The largest serpent flowed into the clearing,
halted, and lifted its feathered head a man-height off the ground.
The head swiveled, pausing only briefly on Wistril and Kern before
turning back to the forest and trilling out a bird-like chirp.

Three much smaller serpents tumbled out of
the shadows in a writhing tangle. The largest serpent made a very
human sighing noise and tapped the wrestling sea-serpents with the
tip of her tail.

The small serpents separated and raced for
the lake. The big one cast her eyes back toward Wistril and Kern,
hissed, and followed the others beneath the waters.

Wistril stared, open mouthed. Kern lifted an
eyebrow. "Flummery, you said," said Kern. "Or was it flotsam? I
forget."

"Serpentia Giganticus Aquatica," said Wistril
at last. "Extinct since the last Ice Age. Here, in my lake."

"Serpentia Giganticus Aquatica," said Kern.
"Big water snakes."

"They are neither snakes nor truly aquatic,"
said Wistril. "The feathered manes -- the obvious nurturing
behavior -- high heavens!" Wistril rubbed his palms together. "I
must have my equipment," he said. "Books. Pen and paper. A decent
chair. There is work to be done here, apprentice. These specimens
must be studied."

Kern frowned. Through the trees, he could see
a torch bobbing closer, and another, and another.

"Master," he said. "You'd better do some fast
talking, or you'll be studying skinned carcasses." Kern pointed
toward the torches. "Nobody from Dervanny would be out following
your specimens." The torches reached the last line of pines. "Those
must be the hunters the villagers were talking about hiring."

Wistril squinted and bristled. "Hunters?"
Wistril shook his forefinger at Kern. "The serpentia are not to be
harassed, apprentice. "Not harassed, not hunted, and certainly not
clubbed and skinned."

Seven men, counted Kern. And eight, nine,
ten. Kern hoped Sir Knobby was out rounding up the other fellows,
and they were out rounding up clubs.

Wistril glared, rose from his bench, and
hefted his staff.