Calling on Dragons Page 4

  Telemain shook his head. “No. No. Absolutely not. I have no intention of riding on that uncomfortable contraption of yours ever again. Once was quite enough.”

  “Wimp,” said Scorn.

  “You only think broomsticks are uncomfortable because you insist on riding astride,” Morwen said to Telemain. “If you’d sit sidesaddle, the way you’re supposed to—”

  “No!”

  “Well, if you really want to hand-carry a bucket of soapy water mixed with a little lemon juice on a twenty-minute walk—”

  “What? Morwen, you didn’t say anything about buckets.”

  “Water?” Fiddlesticks sat up very straight, his nose twitching. “Buckets of water? With soap? Maybe I won’t come with you this time, either, Morwen.”

  “I thought the buckets were obvious,” Morwen told Telemain. “If there are wizards around, I want to be able to get rid of them in a hurry.” And the only way to do that, so far as anyone knew, was to dump a bucket of soapy water mixed with a little lemon juice over the top of them. For some reason, this made them melt into a gooey puddle, and it usually took several days for them to put themselves together again. Cimorene had discovered the method by accident, back when she was living with the dragon Kazul.

  “Soapy water,” Telemain muttered. “Buckets. I still say it’s terribly inelegant.”

  “If you’d finish working out a spell to do the same thing, the buckets wouldn’t be necessary,” Morwen pointed out.

  Telemain flushed. “I’ve designed a prototype, but it requires the immediate accessibility of a target. It has therefore been impossible for me to run the necessary tests to ascertain its effectiveness.”

  “What?” said Fiddlesticks.

  “He’s invented a spell for melting wizards, but he can’t tell whether it works because there aren’t any wizards around to try it on,” Miss Eliza said.

  “Oh. Why couldn’t he just say that?”

  “Because that’s how he is,” said Aunt Ophelia.

  “We still need the buckets,” Morwen said to Telemain. “I haven’t the slightest objection to your testing your new wizard-melting spell on any wizards we run across, but I want to bring something that I know works, in case your spell needs some adjusting.”

  “Reasonable.” Telemain rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “But I still categorically refuse to travel on that broomstick of yours.”

  “Morwen?” Even muffled by the front door, Trouble’s tone was clearly far too casual, and when he strolled out onto the porch Morwen felt a strong twinge of misgiving. Every whisker dripped the kind of deliberate unconcern that usually meant he’d been living up to his name.

  “Excuse me a moment, Telemain,” Morwen said. “What is it, Trouble?”

  “You know that rabbit you wanted us to watch?”

  Morwen’s misgivings deepened. “Yes?”

  “Well, he’s kind of upset,” Trouble said. “Murgatroyd thought I’d better come tell you.”

  If Murgatroyd thought Morwen should be told about it, it was probably serious. Not urgent, though, or he’d have come himself, at a dead run. And he didn’t expect Morwen to be happy about it, or he wouldn’t have sent Trouble. Morwen sighed. “What is Killer upset about?”

  “Oh, things. I wouldn’t have bothered you if Murgatroyd hadn’t insisted.”

  “Such a fuss about a rabbit.” Aunt Ophelia sniffed.

  Trouble studied the porch roof, as if he were hoping to spot a fly. “Not exactly.”

  “I see.” Morwen turned to Telemain. “I appear to be needed in the garden. You’re welcome to come along.”

  “Certainly.”

  All of the cats followed them, except Jasmine, who had fallen asleep on the window ledge, and Jasper, who was presumably still napping under the porch. When they reached the garden, they found the grass inside the gate trampled flat and a six-foot donkey with a blotchy brown-and-white coat standing next to the vegetable patch. The donkey wore a mournful expression, and half a cabbage leaf was stuck to the side of his muzzle. The green cabbage directly in front of him was missing a large chunk from its left side.

  “Hello, Killer,” Morwen said to the donkey.

  “I thought Killer was a rabbit,” Telemain said, frowning in mild puzzlement.

  “He was, until he started eating my cabbage.” Morwen eyed the donkey reprovingly.

  “He ate a cabbage?” Fiddlesticks said, horrified. “Why would he do that?”

  “I was hungry,” said the donkey. His tail switched and he jumped, startled.

  “Hmph,” said Aunt Ophelia. “Just what I’d expect from a rabbit.”

  “Yes, you’d think anyone would have more sense than to nibble on plants in a witch’s garden,” Miss Eliza said.

  “I thought the gray cat said it was all right. And it tasted very nice. Almost spicy. And the crunch—” The donkey stopped as all the cats glared, and his ears drooped. “I must have misunderstood.”

  Morwen glanced around. Trouble was nowhere in sight. “I don’t think you misunderstood him at all.” She looked sternly at Chaos and Murgatroyd. “Why didn’t you stop him?”

  “You’ve got plenty of donkey-cabbages,” Chaos said. “And donkeys are nearly as stupid as rabbits, so it’s not as if Killer lost anything by it.”

  “I think it’s a definite improvement,” Murgatroyd said, nodding.

  “A six-foot donkey doesn’t look nearly as silly as a six-foot rabbit,” Aunt Ophelia put in.

  “Seven feet, eleven inches, counting the ears,” said the donkey, twitching them. “I always know how big I am.”

  “That is not the point,” Morwen told the cats. “You were left here to prevent any untoward happenings. This is an extremely untoward happening. I am seriously displeased.”

  “And you know what that means,” Scorn said. “No fish in the food bowl tonight.”

  “No fish?” Fiddlesticks looked up at Morwen with large, distressed eyes. “Not even for me?”

  “I’m sorry about this, Killer,” Morwen said. “Those cabbages aren’t supposed to work on rabbits.” She paused, considering. The red cabbages on the other side of the row were an antidote, but she wasn’t sure she wanted to mention that. It was entirely possible that they wouldn’t work, or that Killer would end up turning into a twelve-foot-tall rabbit or something even more inconvenient.

  “Can’t you do anything?” the donkey said. “It’s not that I mind being a donkey, exactly, but I don’t like what it did to my coat.”

  “He is awfully blotchy,” Scorn said.

  “Interesting,” Telemain murmured. “You say these plants aren’t supposed to work on rabbits, Morwen? And this rabbit was already under the influence of a magnifying enchantment. So the layered interaction of the two magical energies produces a synergistic effect . . .”

  Killer looked at Telemain, and his ears twitched forward. “Is that why my coat is all funny?”

  “Highly unlikely,” Telemain said. “The two spells seem to affect primarily the parameters of form and stature, rather than coloration.”

  Morwen stared at the donkey. Suddenly her eyes narrowed. “Killer, do you dye your fur?”

  “I, um—well, actually . . .”

  “I thought so. That’s what your problem is. Spells are hard on cosmetic changes. The dye job lasted through one spell, but now that you’ve been enchanted twice it’s wearing off.”

  “Oh no,” said Killer. “You mean if you turn me back into a rabbit, I’ll look even worse?”

  “Probably,” Morwen said. “And you won’t be able to redye it until the residue of the spell wears off. That usually takes about six weeks.”

  “How do you know all this?” Telemain asked her.

  Morwen gave him a look. “Why do you think witches never color their hair?”

  “This is terrible.” Killer’s ears waggled in distress, and several of the cats snickered. “I won’t be able to hold up my head. This is awful. Can’t you do anything?”

  “Not right now,” Morwen said
. “We have some wizard hunting to do. And if you’re willing to help, you may have solved a little problem for us.”

  “I don’t mind being helpful,” said Killer. “What problem?”

  Morwen turned to Telemain. “You can ride him instead of the broomstick. He knows how to find the clover patch, and at that size he ought to move fairly quickly. I’ll take the broomstick and a bucket and meet you there. And you can study the interaction of the size- and shape-changing spells on the way.”

  Less than ten minutes later, Morwen, Telemain, and Killer met at the half-eaten patch of clover. As Morwen landed her broomstick—with some care, so as not to spill the bucket she had hung on the front end—Scorn and Fiddlesticks slid out of the bushes and sat down at the foot of the nearest tree. The two cats wore identical smug expressions.

  “What are you doing here?” Morwen said.

  “We all discussed it and decided you might need help,” Scorn replied. “Aunt Ophelia and Miss Eliza came last time, Trouble and Murgatroyd and Chaos are in disgrace because of the cabbages, and Jasmine didn’t want to be bothered. So it came down to the three of us.”

  “Three of you?”

  “Jasper’s around somewhere.”

  “I came because I’m very brave,” Fiddlesticks announced. He rose and sauntered over to the clover patch. “Don’t you think I’m brave, Morwen? What’s all this prickly stuff?” He sniffed at the bare stalks on the eaten portion of the patch.

  “That’s Killer’s clover patch,” Morwen said. “Don’t eat any of it.”

  “Eat it?” Fiddlesticks looked up, green-gold eyes wide. “Why would I eat it? It’s some kind of plant.”

  “We know,” Scorn said. “Shut up.”

  Telemain slid down from Killer’s back, stepped quickly to one side, and shook himself as if to check that everything still worked. Then he walked over to Morwen. With a glance over one shoulder to make sure Killer was out of hearing distance, he said in a low voice, “Morwen, this is absolutely the last time I agree to one of your . . . your ideas. That beast has a gait that would rattle the teeth out of a troll.”

  “It’s not my fault,” Killer said. “I’m supposed to be a rabbit.”

  Telemain looked startled, then chagrined.

  “You forgot how long his ears are,” Morwen said. “Never mind. The tracks I told you about are over here.”

  She led the way to the cluster of brown pencil-sized holes at the far side of the clover patch. When he saw them, Telemain immediately lost interest in the rest of his surroundings.

  “Fascinating,” he murmured. He pulled something that looked like a bright metal tube in a wire cage from one of his pockets and began twisting and pulling and unfolding. In less than two minutes, he held a small telescope attached to three long, spidery legs. He jabbed the legs into the moss and peered through the end of the telescope. “Absolutely fascinating. The residual energy displays the characteristic spiral, but its concentration—”

  “Tell me about it when you decide what it is,” Morwen said. She was in no mood for one of Telemain’s long digressions into magical theory, even if she was one of the few people who actually understood most of what he said. Besides, listening only encouraged him.

  Telemain peered through his telescope again, then pulled out several other peculiar instruments and poked at the holes. Finally he looked up. “Where’s the other one?”

  “Other one?” Morwen said. Even when he was being simple, Telemain didn’t seem to be able to make himself clear.

  “The full-sized, er, splotch. I believe you said there was one?”

  “Trouble found it.” Leaving Killer to nibble disconsolately at the moss and the cats to wander as they pleased, Morwen led Telemain to the two-inch circle of brown moss. “There.”

  “This is really amazing. Look here, Morwen, along the perimeter. There’s no regeneration occurring at all. And—”

  “Yes, of course,” Morwen interrupted. “But all I want to know is, is it wizards?”

  “Oh, certainly. That’s what I was saying,” Telemain replied with maddening innocence. “And it looks as if they’ve figured out how to evade the enchantment the King and I worked out. You were quite right to call me.”

  “Quite right?” Scorn said with considerable indignation. “That self-centered, conceited idiot! Of course you were quite right. Magicians, bah!” Tail stiff with disapproval, she stalked off.

  “Exactly,” said Morwen. “Now, what was the bit about that enchantment of yours?”

  “Of mine and the King’s.” Telemain was a stickler for accuracy, even when it meant sharing the credit for a major magical achievement. He pointed at the brown spot in front of him, then waved back toward the clover patch. “None of these should be here.”

  “Well, obviously. Wizards aren’t supposed to come into the Enchanted Forest any—” Morwen stopped short. “That isn’t what you meant. Very well. Explain what you did mean, and none of your jargon. I’ve too much on my mind already without trying to unravel your sentences.”

  Telemain looked hurt. “I’m only trying to be precise.”

  “Right now I’ll be quite content with fast and sloppy. Now, why shouldn’t there be any dead patches in the moss?”

  “Because the spell Mendanbar and I worked out should—should repair them as soon as they’re made,” Telemain said carefully. “As long as the spell is working, the absorptive properties of the wizard’s staff should be balanced immediately by the recirculation of—”

  “Telemain!”

  “I’m trying,” Telemain said in a plaintive tone. “There just isn’t any other way to say it.”

  “No?” Morwen thought for a minute. “How about this: When a wizard’s staff sucks up magic from the forest, your spell sucks it back. And it works so fast that the moss shouldn’t die this way.”

  “Or it should regenerate,” Telemain said, nodding. “This has obviously not done either.”

  “Can you tell how they did it?”

  “Not without an examination of the primary link­ages.” Telemain frowned down at the dead moss. “If something has damaged one of them, it might account—”

  A loud cat squall erupted from behind a nearby bush, followed by a high shriek. Morwen started forward, but before she had taken two steps, Fiddlesticks came trotting around the left side of the bush. He held his head very high, and his tail was a long brown exclamation mark. Dangling from his mouth by a bunched-up wad of blue-and-brown wizard’s robes was a man about six inches tall.

  5

  In Which the Plot Thickens

  FIDDLESTICKS HALTED just in front of Morwen’s feet. The man he was carrying kicked, then tried to punch backward and overhead at the cat’s nose. Fortunately, he missed. Fiddlesticks growled and shook his head, and the man shrieked as he swung back and forth.

  “How interesting,” Telemain said. “Morwen, your cat appears to have captured a miniature wizard.”

  “So I see,” Morwen said. “What did you do with his staff?”

  “Mmmph hmmmph uff,” said Fiddlesticks, and jabbed his tail back toward the bush.

  “Good. Don’t let him anywhere near it.” Morwen turned and started for the clover patch.

  “Where are you going?” Telemain said.

  “To get the bucket,” Morwen called over her shoulder. There was another high-pitched shriek from the wizard and a jumbled protest from Telemain, both of which she ignored. Having collected her bucket, she returned to find the wizard on his feet with Fiddlesticks standing guard. Telemain sat cross-legged in front of them, holding something that looked like a silver watch with an orange dial and four hands. He kept looking from the watch to the wizard and back.

  “Has he told you what they’re up to yet?” Morwen said, setting the bucket down a little to one side, where it would be handy but out of the immediate way.

  Telemain looked up, frowning. “I haven’t asked. Do you realize that this is the first opportunity I have had to observe a wizard in situ? Of course, the magical
connections would be clearer if his staff were a little closer.”

  “You leave that staff where it is,” Morwen said. “Fiddle, if either of them tries to go get it, stop them. I don’t care how.”

  “You don’t? That’s easy, then.” Fiddlesticks curled his lips back, showing most of his teeth. “Did I do good? Does this mean I can have fish for dinner?”

  “It certainly does,” Morwen said. “And possibly a bowl of cream as well. Where’s Scorn?”

  “With Jasper, watching the staff. Do they get fish, too?”

  “Yes, if they want it.” Morwen transferred her attention to the six-inch wizard. He had a sharp, angular face half-covered by an untidy brown beard, and he seemed a little young compared to most of the wizards Morwen had met. Not to mention short. “If it won’t interfere with your observations, Telemain, I’d like to ask this fellow a few questions.”

  “Hmmm? Oh, not at all.” Telemain did not even glance up.

  “Good. Now, wizard, who are you and what are you doing in the Enchanted Forest?”

  The wizard drew himself up to his full height, which brought his head about even with Fiddlesticks’s nose. “I am Antorell, and if you know what is good for you, you will not meddle with me!” he said in a shrill voice.

  “I might have known,” Morwen said.

  “What’s that?” Telemain said, looking up. “Morwen, these readings are absurd. This fellow can’t be very good.”

  Antorell’s face turned bright red. Morwen smiled. “He isn’t. This is Antorell, Telemain.”

  “Antorell, Antorell. Oh. The son of Head Wizard Zemenar?”

  “That’s right,” Antorell said. “And you’ll regret—”

  “Isn’t he the one Cimorene keeps melting?” Telemain said. “And shouldn’t he be larger?”

  Antorell’s face became downright purple. Curious about the change, Fiddlesticks leaned forward, and his whiskers brushed the side of Antorell’s head. The wizard shrieked and jumped away, the cat pounced, and bits of moss flew in all directions. After a moment, the rapidly moving tangle resolved into Fiddlesticks crouched over the wizard. One front paw, with claws fully extended, rested on each of Antorell’s shoulders. Antorell looked terrified.