Wistril Compleat (7 page)
by Frank Tuttle
Noon found Kern and half a dozen gargoyles
stalking warily about the shrub-lined base of Castle Kauph's squat
South Tower. The gargoyles, in pairs, held nets; Kern brandished a
stout oak catching-stick with a cloth-wrapped fork at the nether
end.
Kern crept up to a waist-high dandyleaf bush
and halted. A loud, rough purring issued from deep within the
bush.
"Here we go, gents," Kern whispered, waving
the gargoyles near. "Ready with the nets!"
Kern gently moved aside a heart-shaped
dandyleaf frond.
Three things happened, nearly at once. First,
thunder broke, full over the courtyard of Castle Kauph, with force
sufficient to shatter window-glass and rattle Kern's teeth in his
head.
Second, Kern realized that it could not have
been thunder that broke the clear midday sky. And, Kern reasoned,
if not thunder, it must be Wistril.
Thirdly, though, the wumpus arcanus felineae
resting in the dandyleaf bush awoke, howled, and leaped. Kern
glimpsed a furious blur of fangs and claws and mad red cat-eyes and
threw himself flat on his back. Nets were cast, but too late; the
arcanus felineae spread its feathered wings with a whiplike crack
and soared skyward, both tails switching the air in feline
triumph.
Kern rose to his feet, touching his nose and
ears just to assure himself they were intact. Sir Knobby, the
largest, most gnarled of the gargoyles, stared gape-jawed at the
East Tower, where Wistril's study occupied the whole of the fourth
floor.
Glass still tinkled and fell from the
shattered study windows. Kern dropped his stick and sprinted for
the Tower stair. Sir Knobby took to the air, ignoring the faint dot
of the wumpus cat winging away west in favor of the wizard's
shattered windows.
"Master!" shouted Kern. And though his ears
still rang from the unnatural thunder, he heard, faint from
Wistril's study, Wistril himself shouting. The words were strange,
until Kern recognized them as Oomish, Wistril's native but
seldom-spoken tongue.
"Betrothed," bellowed the wizard, in Oomish.
"Oh, doom! Betrothed!"
Kern doubled his pace, bolted through the
Tower doors at a dead run, and charged up the winding tower stairs,
three treads at a time.
Wistril paced, hands clasped behind his back,
small round mouth set in a scowl, eyes fixed firmly on the floor.
Occasionally the rotund wizard would mutter to himself, or turn
abruptly, as if starting for his desk or the door -- but after a
pace or three he would turn, ball his fists, and resume his small
but determined march.
Kern leaned against the edge of his
writing-desk and watched.
"Begone," muttered Wistril, after a time.
"Master--" began Kern.
"Confound it, Apprentice, get thee hence."
Wistril halted, wiped sweat from his bald head with the sleeve of
his wrinkled brown robe, and put his hands on his hips. "You
allowed a wumpus arcanis felineae to escape the Castle environs --
"
"The wumpus cat will be back, Master," said
Kern, quickly. "It likes the South Tower. All we need do is leave a
shutter open." Kern paused. "Anyway, maybe you should conjure up
another one. The missus might like a basket of kittens."
Wistril's wet blue eyes narrowed. "Have a
care, Apprentice."
Kern pulled himself upright and met Wistril's
glare. "I do, Master," he said, quietly. "And I'd be less prone to
make insensitive jests if I knew what led you to hurl
lightning-bolts at the furniture earlier today."
Wistril's scowl deepened. After a moment he
reached into his robe, pulled out a folded paper, and thrust it at
Kern.
"Read," growled Wistril. He turned his eyes
from the paper, as though it were a thing of horror. "Read it
carefully. And apprentice -- when you speak of it, as you surely
will, let your words be tempered with the depth of my
distress."
Kern took the paper, unfolded it, and read.
Wistril stood unmoving before him.
Done, Kern folded the letter, handed it back
to Wistril, and walked to stand behind his writing desk. "Master,"
he said, "I need to sit down. Won't you do the same?"
"No," growled Wistril, his wide face
reddening. "I cannot be still. I can not rest, until I have plotted
a safe course through this confounded . . ." Wistril flailed with
his hands, groping for a word.
"Matrimonial maelstrom?" offered Kern.
"Flurry of fiancées? Siege of suitors?"
Wistril threw up his hands, stamped to his
own massive, ancient desk, and sank into his wide, worn
rolling-chair. Kern shook his head.
"Master," said Kern. "As painful as this may
be, I need to make sure I understand your situation. Oomish isn't
my first tongue, or even my second. May I?"
Defeated, Wistril shrugged.
"The letter appears to be from a Lady
Emmerbee Hohnserrat," said Kern, carefully. "Furthermore, this Lady
Emmerbee claims to be -- and I must be misreading this part -- your
fiancée."
"Correct," said Wistril, his bald head
flushing.
Kern blinked. "Fiancée," he said, pronouncing
the word carefully. "That would imply that you, Master, asked this
woman -- pardon me, the Lady Hohnserrat -- to marry you."
"Of course I did," snapped Wistril. "Else why
in blazes would she title herself my fiancée?"
Kern counted silently to ten.
"Then I must ask, Master, why are you
surprised?" asked Kern. "You asked. She said yes. A wedding is the
inevitable -- some might say inescapable, but I'm far too sensitive
to use such a harsh term -- conclusion to the state of being
affianced."
Wistril took in a bushel of air. "All Oomish
ladies are affianced," he said, with a pained expression. "Some
twenty-three are, in fact, affianced to me."
Kern ogled. "Twenty-three?" he mouthed,
silently.
Wistril closed his eyes and shook his head,
his expression grim.
"Twenty-three," repeated the wizard. "Which
is by no means considered an unusually large pool of suitors," he
added. "Kauph is a lesser House of the lesser Houses -- were I
Strampish, or a Hool, I should require two scribes and a
mathematician merely to keep my records in order."
Kern shook his head. "How long have you been,
um, betrothed?" he said.
"I was twelve, at the time," said Wistril.
"The Lady Hohnserrat was, I believe, nine. We have neither seen
each other nor communicated since that day." Wistril shuddered.
"Oomish betrothals are merely a bloodless means of conquest among
the Houses," he said. "And since conquest of Kauph would, by any
reasonable standards, constitute an enormous waste of time, I
thought myself safe from any matrimonial . . . predations."
Kern let the silence linger on for a few
moments. Crows cawed frantically in the pines just beyond the
castle walls, and Kern wondered idly if the wumpus cat was the
source of the disturbance.
"So," he said, at last, "Your fiancée --
pardon, the Lady Hohnserrat -- is bound for Kauph, in search, as
she says, of the wedding flag." Kern frowned. "I didn't know we had
any flags, Master," he said. "Especially not a wedding flag. What
does that look like, anyway? A frightened groom rampant, set
against a field of scowling in-laws?"
Wistril glared. "The wedding flag is also a
custom among Oomish families of high rank," he said. "When a lady
of noble birth comes seeking matrimony, she looks first to the
ramparts of the prospective groom's keep. By flying a white flag,
the groom signals acceptance of the suit."
"How appropriate," said Kern. He raised his
forefinger. "What if we hoist a green flag, then? Will the Lady
ride on in search of new suitors?"
Wistril sighed. "Such is the custom," said
the wizard. "But we shall fly no flag of any color until first I
speak to the Lady Hohnserrat." Wistril stared up toward the
heavens. "Since mindless ardor cannot be her motive in pressing
this absurd suit, hope remains that I can dissuade her without
resorting to rebuff and insult."
Kern nodded sagely. "Just don't charm her
unintentionally, Master," he said. "Be a pity if you found
happiness. Think of the disruption to your reading schedule!"
A knock sounded the study door.
"Enter," said Kern, after seeing the set of
Wistril's jaw.
Sir Knobby gently opened the study door and
padded through. Behind him crept three much smaller gargoyles. Two
wore lace-trimmed pink aprons; the third was wearing a red
lady-in-waiting dress, complete with silver-wrought sash and frilly
white trim. The gargoyle's folded wings protruded through a pair of
lace-trimmed slits in the dress-back, and though Kern couldn't see
the gargoyle's face he imagined the sheer silk veil that hung from
the gargoyle's horns would probably fall just short of covering the
gargoyle's fangs.
Kern snapped his mouth shut.
"Splendid," said Wistril, no trace of dismay
in his voice. "Thank you. The Lady Hohnserrat will be most
pleased."
Sir Knobby beamed.
"These shall tend to the Lady Hohnserrat when
she arrives," said Wistril.
Sir Knobby hooted softly, and the three
gargoyles executed stiff-kneed curtsies.
"Go now and prepare the guest rooms," Wistril
said, his face ashen. "Apprentice, assist. I understand a few of
the younger haunts have taken up residence in the Red Room. I want
them removed before the Lady's arrival. Gently, but removed. Is
that clear?"
Kern stood. "I'll see to it, Master," he
said. He waved the gargoyles out into the hall, took hold of the
door, and pulled it halfway closed. "Master," he said. "What of the
flag? Shall I find a white one, just in case it's love at first
sight?"
"Go!" roared Wistril. Tiny lashes of
lightning whipped the air about his hands. "Confound you, go!"
Kern bit his lip and shut the door.
"No, no, no," said Wistril, with a sigh of
exasperation. "Salad fork. Victual fork. Dessert fork. Here, here,
here." The wizard held up each implement as he pronounced its name,
and set them down beside Kern's empty Delve-worked dinner plate.
"Do try again, Apprentice," said Wistril. "We are gentlemen, here
at Kauph, and we must dine in the fashion of gentlemen while in the
presence of Lady Emmerbee."
Kern rubbed his eyes. "Salad, victual,
dessert," he said, pointing. "Three tines for the salad. Five for
the victual. Seven for dessert, unless we're having creme Orlot, in
which case we break our shasta pastries in two and use the halves
as implements."
Wistril nodded, and Kern sagged. "No wonder
you fled Oom," said Kern.
"I did not flee," said Wistril.
"Not far enough, at any rate," said Kern. He
picked up his glittering silverware -- Wistril's family utensils,
freshly unpacked from their solid silver case -- and placed them
carefully in the plate. "I'd better see if the patrol is in,
Master," he said. "With your permission?"
Wistril sighed and waved Kern on. "Yes, yes,"
he said. "Three days," he added, glumly. "What the devil is keeping
that infernal woman?"
Kern shrugged. "She's probably hoping she'll
drive you mad with passion," he said, rising. "Is it working?"
Wistril merely glared.
Kern shrugged. "Perhaps she changed her mind
and turned back for Oom," he said. "There's a lot of rough country,
between Kauph and everywhere else."
"The letter was written from Ollabat," said
Wistril. "Scant miles from Kauph." Wistril rose. "No, Apprentice,
we must prepare for the inevitable, not court the implausible."
Kern made for the door, but a knock and a
hoot sounded first.
Wistril went pale. His heirloom dining-set
rattled in his hands, and he set it quickly down upon the desk.
"Enter," he boomed.
The door swung open, and Sir Knobby darted
into the study. "Hoot," he said, hooking a black-taloned claw in
the direction of the castle gates. "Hoot."
Kern frowned. "What did he say?" he said.
Wistril's frown deepened. "Men are coming,"
he said. "Armed men, on horseback. With wagons and pack-mules and
tents."
"The Lady and her entourage?"
"Hoot," said Sir Knobby, and Kern needed no
translation to hear the gargoyle's firm "no."
"They fly a standard before them," said
Wistril. "A unicorn amid a field of swords. The sigil of house
Hohnserrat is that of a rose entwined about a lance."
Kern matched Wistril's frown. "So it's not
the Lady," he said. "Who, then? Do you recognize the standard?"
Wistril grunted. "It sounds familiar," he
said. "But then so would any collection of weapons, flowering
plants, and mythical beasts. It is perhaps not even Oomish." The
rotund wizard put his finger to his lips and stalked off toward the
tall oak bookcases that lined the wall behind his ironwood desk.
"Let us see. . ."
Kern crooked his finger to Sir Knobby. The
gargoyle's wet brown eyes met his.
"How many?" asked Kern. "One finger for every
ten men."
Sir Knobby considered, held up both
five-fingered hands, and spread his fingers wide.
Once, twice, thrice, four -- Kern's eyes
widened.
"Four hundred men?" muttered Kern.
The gargoyle nodded.
Kern backed across the study, pulled back his
chair, and fell into it.
"Master," he said, his face obscured by his
hands, "Are conflicts over fiancées common occurrences within the
grand and wondrous scheme of Oomish betrothals?"
"Of course," said Wistril, his back to Kern
as he sought out a book of heraldry. "Need you even ask?"
Kern groaned.
"Aha," said Wistril. "Here it is." He turned,
plunked a thick book down on his desk, and sat as he rifled through
it. "Unicorns, unicorns -- heavens, what is this fascination with
the ill-tempered beasts?"
