CHAPTER
ONE

"It's alive! It's alive!"

"Darling... come to bed."

"Just a minute," replied Marvin Brewster, staring raptly
at the television set where Colin Clive, in the role of Dr.
Victor Frankenstein, was gripped in a paroxysm of unholy
glee as his creation twitched to life on the laboratory table.

"Darling..." Her voice was low and throaty with a
British accent. "I'm waiting..."

"Ummm." Brewster didn't turn around. If he had, he
would have seen a sight that would have reduced most men
to drooling idiots. His fiancee. Dr. Pamela Fairbum, was
standing in the bedroom doorway, dressed in nothing but a
slinky negligee that was so sheer, it looked like a soft mist
enveloping her lush, voluptuous curves. She stood in a pose
of calculated seduction, one long and lovely leg bent at the
knee, one arm stretched out above her, pressed against the
door frame, her long auburn hair worn loose and cascading
down to her ample, perfumed cleavage....

Whoa, wait a minute. Let me catch my breath.

Sorry about that. Narrators are only human too, you
1

2 • Simon Hawke

know. Okay, now where were we? Oh, right. This gor-
geous, incredibly desirable woman is exuding premarital
lust all over the place and that fool, Brewster, is simply
sitting there and watching a monster movie on TV. Any
other red-blooded male would know exactly what to do,
right? You betcha. Hit that remote control and make a
beeline for the bedroom. Any normal, sensible man hearing
that incredibly sultry and seductive voice would turn around,
take one look, and experience the hormonal equivalent of a
nuclear meltdown. (And considering how beautiful Dr. Pamela
Fairbum was, a lot of women would, as well.) However,
Dr. Marvin Brewster was not exactly normal. Or sensible.
That is to say, he was incredibly intelligent—a genius, in
fact—but he didn't have a lot of street smarts.

Nor was this just any movie. To Marvin Brewster, it was
the movie, the one that had the single most significant
impact on his formative years. The one that had made him
realize exactly what he wanted to be when he grew up. He
first saw it at the age of nine and from that moment on, he
knew. He was going to be a mad scientist.

It wasn't Boris KarlofiFs portrayal of the monster that had
so affected him, nor the idea of creating life from sewn-
together pieces of dead bodies, it was that laboratory. All
that marvelous equipment. The bubbling vials and beakers,
the intricate plumbing and wiring, the spinning dials, the
Jacob's ladder arcing electrical current.... He took one
look at that wonderful laboratory and he fell in love, a love
far deeper and more abiding than he would ever feel for any
woman, even a woman as undeniably womanly as Pamela
Fairbum.

She knew and understood this. Earlier that evening, when
she had spotted the listing for the film, she'd realized what
was liable to happen and she had hidden the TV Guide, but
Brewster had just happened to turn on the tube after their

The Reluctant Sorcerer • 3

late-night dinner, and scanning through the channels, he'd
stumbled on the film. Now Pamela knew there'd be no
prying him away till it was over.

'She sighed with resignation and walked over to the couch
where he was sitting, settled down onto the floor beside
him, and leaned her head against his knee. Without turning
from the television, he offered her the bowl of popcorn. She
took a handful and popped it in her mouth. Even in her
sexiest lingerie, she knew she couldn't compete. She didn't
really mind, however. She understood about obsession. She
had one of her own, and that was her career as a cybernetics
engineer, which was how she had met Brewster.

It had been during a symposium at Cambridge. She'd
spotted him at once. He was the only American present, but
that wasn't what had made him stand out. There was just
something about him, about his rumpled, tweedy, and horn-
rimmed appearance, his curly and unkempt blond hair, his
rather shambling and distracted manner, and his total unself-
consciousness that had struck her as incredibly endearing.
He was part little boy, part unmade t-?d. He had gotten to
her where she lived, where most women live, in fact. Right
smack in her maternal instinct. She wanted to pull him to
her breast and hug him to pieces.

She was later to discover that Brewster often had that
effect on women and part of his charm was that he was
totally oblivious to it. He was simply clueless. He was the
kind of man women wanted to mother into bed, only he was
so preoccupied and absentminded that if they succeeded, he
would probably forget why he was there. Pamela Fairbum
could have had any man she wanted. She could walk into a
crowded room and every man present would immediately go
on point. All she'd need to do to insure most men's undying
and slavish devotion would be to flutter her eyelashes and
act stupid. But with Marvin Brewster, she could be herself.

4 • Simon Hawke

Her intelligence did not intimidate him. More often than
not, it was the other way around. She could talk about her
work with him, and he could easily follow the discussion
and make acute and often brilliant observations, but then his
eyes would suddenly go dreamy and he'd launch into a
flight of technical verbosity that would leave her absolutely
breathless as his words tumbled over one another until he
became hopelessly tongue-tied and had to resort to scrib-
bling complicated equations on whatever surface was avail-
able. Even on the rare occasions when she was able to make
out his cramped scrawl, most of the time she could make no
sense of it.

Often, it was because his mind simply worked so quickly
that it would outrace his written calculations and he'd leave
things out, jumping on ahead, with no awareness that she
couldn't follow him. His brain would simply shift into warp
speed and he would rocket off into that rarified atmosphere
where only geniuses and angels fly and he'd finish off with a
triumphant, "There, you see?" And, of course, she wouldn't
see at all, but she would simply stare at him, eyes shining,
and she would say, "I love you."

They became engaged one year after their first meeting.
She had proposed to him, primarily because she'd realized
the thought would never have occurred to him. He needed
her, but he was simply too preoccupied to notice. The
ordinary details of everyday life were not Marvin Brewster's
strong point. He was the classic absentminded professor.
His socks hardly ever matched. He wore loafers because he
would often forget to tie his shoelaces. He was simply
hopeless about clothes. Until she came along, he was
dressed by an understanding local haberdashery. He would
come in and simply say, "I need some ties," or a sport coat
or a shirt or two, and the helpful female sales clerk would
pick out something appropriate for him.

The Reluctant Sorcerer • 5

It was the same with groceries. There was a young
woman who managed the local market who would call from
time to time and say, "Dr. Brewster? This is Sheila. You
haven't been in for a while and I thought you might be
running out." And he would walk over to the refrigerator or
the cupboard, stare into it absently for a moment or two,
then say distractedly, "Yes, I suppose I must be." Sheila
would then take the shopping cart around during her lunch
break, pick out his groceries for him, and have them
delivered. He never had to pay for them, either. The branch
manager at the local bank, also an attractive young woman,
had seen to it that he had accounts everywhere and that the
bills were sent directly to the bank.

The multinational conglomerate that employed Brewster
for an astronomical salary (that was still a pittance com-
pared to the profits they took in from the dozen or so patents
he'd turned over to them) always deposited his checks
directly into his accounts, so that Brewster never had to deal
with the various mundane tasks of shopping and record
keeping and checkbook balancing that plague most lesser
mortals.

How does one get a deal like this? The answer is, one
doesn't. It's not the sort of thing you can manage to
arrange, unless you happen to be born with a certain
indefinable and helpless charm that women find simply
irresistible. Ask any woman in London who knows him how
she feels about Dr. Marvin Brewster, and whether she's
sixteen or sixty, she'll sigh and her eyes will get all soft and
misty and she'll say, "He's such a dear man...."

When Pamela discovered just how many women felt this
way about her intended, she became a bit alarmed. She
seized the reins and took firm control of Marvin Brewster's
life. If there was any mothering to be done here, by God,
she was going to be the one to do it! She moved in on

6 • Simon Hawke

Marvin Brewster like Grant moved in on Richmond. Now
all she had to do was figure out how to get him to the altar.
He had already missed three scheduled weddings.

The first time she'd been left waiting at the altar, the
wedding had completely slipped his mind and a frantic
search that included a check of half the pubs and all the
hospitals in London eventually found him deep in the stacks
of the science library—about eight hours too late. The
second time, once again, all the guests arrived, and Pamela
once more donned her wedding gown, and once again, no
Brewster. This time, he had driven off to Liverpool, to an
electronics warehouse, to pick up some obscure part for a
piece of lab equipment that was "absolutely vital" and
somehow he got sidetracked and no one saw or heard
anything from him for two days. The last time—"Shall we
try for three?" the minister had wryly asked—they located
him in his high-security, private laboratory high atop the
corporate headquarters building of EnGulfCo International,
only no one could get in past the retinal pattern scanner and
they couldn't even take the elevator up to the right floor
because the special palm scanner pad would only respond to
Marvin Brewster's hand. They had called and called, but
Brewster had been distracted by the ringing of the phone,
and absentmindedly, he had simply turned it off. The last
time, when the wedding invitations were sent out, most of
the guests sent back their regrets and their assurances that
they would be with them in spirit—whenever they finally
got around to getting married. Pamela's father still wasn't
speaking to her. Still, she was undaunted. One of these
days, she'd get it done, only it would require proper
planning. Perhaps next time she'd hire some security guards
to baby-sit him and deliver him to church on time.

She sat there with him, munching popcorn while Boris
Karloff lumbered through the film in his built-up boots and

The Reluctant Sorcerer • 7

makeup, and during the commercials, Brewster would be-
come absorbed in double-, triple-, and quadruple-checking
some kind of circuit board and switch assembly he had put
together on the coffee table.

Perhaps, thought Pamela, if she got pregnant, she could
command more of his attention. Marvin was always won-
derful with children. Probably because, in many ways, he
was still something of a child himself, she thought with a
smile. The children in the neighborhood all idolized him,
and like most of Brewster's friends, they called him Doc.
Pamela drew the line at that. She never called him Doc, it
seemed too flippant. But whenever she introduced him as Dr.
Marvin Brewster, he would invariably add, "But my friends
all call me Doc." When they were finally married, she
would put a stop to that. A man of his position needed to be
treated with proper respect.

What did Brewster think of all this planning for his
future? Actually, he gave it very little thought at all. He was
more concerned with the past. Not his own past, but the past
in general. As in time. Specifically, as in time travel.

He did not really discuss this particular obsession with his
fiancee, nor with his colleagues, because as any good mad
scientist knows, when you get into the sort of stuff that
"man was not meant to know," you're simply asking for
trouble. It was one thing for theoretical physicists to debate
whether or not Einstein was right, and to play all sorts of
fanciful games (often in science fiction novels) with hyperspace
and warps in the space/time continuum, but when you
actually came out and said that you could do it, and
revealed a working prototype, that was when they broke out
the torches and the pitchforks.

No, Marvin Brewster would not make Dr. Victor
Frankenstein's mistake. First he'd do it and make absolutely
sure it worked, and then he would publish and take out the




8 • Simon Hawke

patent, which EnGulfCo would at once appropriate, since
he'd done it on their premises and with their funding, but
that was fine, Brewster didn't really mind that. The money
he would make would not be insignificant and money
wasn't really what the whole thing was about. Proving
Einstein wrong. That was what the whole thing was about.

If it had seemed to Pamela that Brewster was much more
than typically preoccupied during the past month or two,
and letting little things (such as the occasional wedding) slip
his mind, then it was because Brewster was wrestling with a
problem that had him on the threshold, as it were, of the
greatest achievement of his life.

High atop the corporate headquarters building of EnGulfCo
International, in his top secret laboratory where no one else,
not even the EnGulfCo CEO, could gain admittance, Marvin
Brewster had built himself a time machine.

H. G. Wells would have been proud. It even looked right.
About the size of a small helicopter, the front of the
machine was dominated by a plastic bubble that had, in
fact, been lifted from a chopper. It had a door in its left
side, edged by a pressure seal, and the frame of the machine
was also taken from a helicopter, so that it sat on skids.
Brewster had replaced the gearbox with high-power alterna-
tors and a turboshaft engine, mounted vertically. The intake
for the turbine extended out the top of the machine and just
behind it was a can for a ballistic parachute. The back of the
machine also housed the tanks for fuel and liquid oxygen
and environmental gas. Flanking the power systems were
the primary capacitor banks, housed in two cabinets on the
sides of the machine.

Externally, the time machine did not appear much differ-
ent from a helicopter with the rotor blades and tail removed,
except for one particular, distinguishing feature. Encircling
the entire assembly and the frame, positioned diagonally so

The Keluctant Sorcerer • 9

that it ran around the top of the bubble and behind the back
skids, was a stainless-steel tube three inches in diameter, a
torus encircled by loops of superconducting wire, the interi-
or of which was filled with a small amount of a rare
substance known by the innocuous name of Buckyballs.

Not just anyone could play with Buckyballs. The exist-
ence of this substance had first been postulated by Buckminster
Fuller (hence, the name) and it was, in fact, an incredibly
dense black powder composed of a single atom of iron
surrounded by diamond, the ash from a supernova. Its
density rendered it extremely heavy. A mere handful weighed
about two hundred pounds. It was magnetic and completely
frictionless. Needless to say, this wasn't the sort of stuff one
could pick up at the local Radio Shack. In fact, one couldn't
really pick it up at all without a forklift. It sort of had to fall
into one's hands—like, from outer space—which this partic-
ular batch had done, contained inside a meteor, a small
piece of an asteroid that had been floating around in the Big
Empty for a length of time that had more zeroes in it than
even Carl Sagan could imagine.

Brewster got his hands on this stuff with some difficulty.
The meteor in question had fallen on a small Pacific Island
that now had one very large hole. It had wiped out a small
village, and a number of small villagers who were descended
from a group of canoe-worshipers that had settled on this
island some three thousand years ago and lived there in
abject poverty and squalor ever since. One of their legends
had it that someday their wealth would fall from the skies. It
did. Now the survivors of this windfall were all living in
luxury apartments and driving Mercedes-Benz convertibles.
This had, needless to say, cost EnGulfCo quite a bundle, but
they figured that if Brewster needed this stuff, chances were
that he was onto something that was liable to be very

10 • Simon Hawke

profitable in the not-too-distant future. In the meantime,
they had obtained exclusive offshore drilling rights.

What made this substance special was that if it was
started spinning on the inside of the tube, with magnetic
coils preventing it from contacting the sides, somewhat like
in a cyclotron, theory had it that if the Buckyballs went fast
enough, at the speed approaching that of light, it would
create a warp in space/time. And whatever was inside the
field would drop through.

To where? Good question. This was what Brewster in-
tended to find out. You see, he had done this before. A
couple of times, in fact. The first time traveler in history
was a lop-eared rabbit Brewster had purchased in a pet shop
and named Bugs. (What else?) The experiment that Brewster
had set up went something like this:

(Actually, it went exactly like this, but it's complicated,
so pay close attention.) He placed Bugs inside a cage and
then he placed the cage inside the time machine, which he
then programmed to travel back in time ten minutes for ten
seconds. Before he did this, he used a forklift (which he'd
needed for the Buckyballs, remember?) to move the time
machine about fifteen feet to one side, so that when it
appeared ten minutes in the past, it would not appear on the
exact same spot where it had been sitting earlier. (Confus-
ing? Wait. It gets worse.)

Theoretically (that is, assuming it all worked), Brewster
should have wound up with two time machines sitting side
by side, about fifteen feet apart. Now, this might seem like
something of a paradox, since if he sent the machine back
ten minutes into the past, then it should have made the
journey and appeared ten minutes before it had ever left.
Which meant that there would be two time machines and
two lop-eared rabbits named Bugs sitting on the floor of

The Reluctant Sorcerer • 11

Brewster's laboratory ten minutes before he'd ever sent the
first one back.

But... wait a minute. That doesn't make sense. (At least,
not logically, which doesn't necessarily have anything to do
with temporal physics, but let's not get into that right now,
because you're probably confused enough.) Before Brewster
sent the machine back into the past, there had to be a past in
which he hadn't sent it back at all. The moment that he sent
it back, he would, in effect, have altered history. At least his
history, which meant that the moment he programmed the
machine and tripped the switch to send it back ten minutes
for ten seconds, at the very instant that it disappeared, he
should have suddenly acquired a memory of standing in the
lab and seeing two time machines, standing side by side. At
least, that's how he thought it would work. He was not
exactly sure. But then, in scientific experiments, one never
is, is one?

The problem was, that wasn't how it worked in practice.
What happened was that Brewster had programmed the
machine, entered the auto-return sequence, and tripped the
timer switch to send it back. And it had disappeared. Only
Brewster did not suddenly acquire a memory of having seen
two time machines sitting side by side, ten minutes earlier.
The machine had simply disappeared, complete with Bugs,
and reappeared on the exact same spot ten seconds later.
Where had it been? Brewster had no way of knowing. He
had repeated the experiment with more or less the same
results.

This posed certain problems. Did this mean that there was
a sort of linear factor to time, where there was now a past in
which Brewster had, in fact, seen a pair of time machines
sitting side by side, complete with two rabbit passengers,
but he could not remember it because he only had that
experience further back along the timestream? And since he

12 • Simon Hawke

had repeated the experiment, did this suggest that there were
now two past segments of the timestream, one in which he
had seen two time machines and two rabbits, and another,
slightly further back, in which he had seen three time
machines and three rabbits? The whole thing gave Brewster
quite a headache. (And if you feel like putting down the
book right now and taking a couple of aspirin, your narrator
doesn't mind at all. Go ahead. I'll wait.)

The only solution to this dilemma that Brewster could
devise was to actually get inside the time machine himself,
so that he could find out where it went after he tripped the
switch. (A video camera might have been an excellent
solution to this problem, but he had tried that and discovered
that the temporal field caused interference.) He had actually
planned to make the trip himself all along, though he would
have liked having some solid data before he made the
attempt. However, Bugs seemed none the worse for wear
after his two journeys, so Brewster felt the risk was justi-
fied. After all, nothing ventured, nothing gained.

He had set everything up again, carefully following the
same procedure, and he had programmed in the sequence,
complete with auto-return commands. He had then set the
timer, and turned around to pick up his notepad and his pen
before getting into the machine... only when he turned
around again, the thing had disappeared. The trouble was,
this time, it did not come back. This was why Brewster had
been so distracted during the past two months, while Pamela
had been trying to get him to the church. She wanted him to
say "I do," only he kept repeating, "I don't get it."

The first time he had missed the wedding, he'd been
sequestered in the library, combing through the work of
Albert Einstein to see if maybe there was something he'd
missed. There wasn't. The second time he blew it, when
he'd made the trip to Liverpool, he had gone to pick up the

The Reluctant Sorcerer • 13

special microchip component that would allow him to as-
semble several more circuit boards for the auto-return mod-
ules, so he could run tests to see where the thing might have
malfunctioned. The third time, the occasion of Pamela's
breakdown in communications with her father, he'd been
locked up in the lab, putting the circuit boards together and
assembling the modules. And so far as he could tell, there
were no problems in the wiring or the assembly.

He found the whole experience extremely frustrating and
he had taken to carrying at least one of the modules around
with him, taking it apart and putting it back together again
repeatedly, running tests and scratching his head and gener-
ally being off in the ozone somewhere, which Pamela found
rather trying. However, she was a patient woman and she
knew that as soon as Brewster managed to clear up whatev-
er problem was presently occupying his attention, there
would be a space of time, however short, in which he would
be receptive to new ideas. Such as getting married, for
instance. So Pamela didn't press. But the moment he worked
out whatever it was that he was working on, she was going
to pounce.

The commercial ended and Brewster set the little black
box that he had reassembled back down on the coffee table.
Almost absently, he tripped a little switch on it. And an
instant after he did it, it quietly clicked back to its original
position.

"Damn!" Brewster suddenly exclaimed, leaping to his
feet and sending popcorn tumbling all over the rug and
Pamela's hair. "Thafs it!"

"Marvin!" Pamela protested, brushing greasy kernels of
unpopped corn out of her hair, but Brewster was already
rushing across the room and flinging open the front door of
their apartment. "Marvin, where are you going? Marvin!
Your shoes!"

14 • Simon Hawkc

The door slammed shut behind him. She sighed heavily.
A moment later he came barging back in his stocking feet,
swept up his brown tasseled loafers, pecked her on the
cheek, and said, "I've just got to check this out, dear, but it
may take a while. Love you. Don't wait up."

' 'Marvin..."
But he'd stormed out again, carrying the little black box

under his arm, only this time forgetting to close the door

behind him.

"Oh, Marvin..." she said. With an air of resignation,

she got up and closed the door. She was more or less
accustomed to this sort of thing, but this time, whatever it
was that had been frustrating him so, he must have gotten it
licked, because he had run out in the middle of the movie,

and he'd never done that before.

"Don't wait up," he'd said. Like hell she wouldn't wait

up. If it took all night, she'd wait for him to return,
doubtless brimming over with enthusiasm over whatever
gadget it was that he'd finally managed to get working,
wanting to tell her all about it. She would sit there and she'd
listen and she'd share his pleasure and then, when he
stopped to catch his breath (by then it would be dawn, most
likely), she would put a tie and freshly laundered shirt on
him, take him by the hand, and lead him down the nearest

aisle she could find.

She picked up a handful of spilled popcorn from the

carpet and popped it in her mouth, then glanced at the clock
atop the mantelpiece. Almost two A.M. It was late.
Too late, in fact.

Brewster rode the elevator up to his private laboratory
atop the corporate headquarters building of EnGulfCo Inter-
national, all the while thinking. God, it was so simple!

A faulty counter in the timing switch, that was all it was.

The Reluctant Sorcerer • 15

He was certain of it. He had tried everything else that he
could think of in an attempt to reproduce the malfunction
that had sent the first time machine off on the journey from
which it had never returned and now he was certain that he
had it. Everything else had checked out perfectly, with each
and every one of the duplicate circuit boards for the auto-
return module he had assembled, but this one had a faulty
timing switch. The moment he tripped it, instead of the
counter sequentially going backward from "30" to "O,"
the settings he'd selected, it went from "30" directly to
"O," without going through all the numbers in between, so
no sooner had he tripped the switch than it clicked back
again to its original position. That must have been what
happened with the original machine. Some of the switches
had been faulty and the auto-return had simply turned itself
off an instant after he'd activated it. Damned English elec-
tronics, he thought, should have gone with Japanese compo-
nents. No wonder the damn thing hadn't come back. It had
departed on a one-way trip!

He passed the scanner and entered his laboratory, where
the second time machine, the one he'd painstakingly re-
created during the past two months, sat waiting in the center
of the room. He stood there for a moment, staring at it and
chewing on his lower lip. He had to be right this time. He'd
used up the very last of the Buckyballs in putting the second
one together. If it didn't work right this time, that would be
the end of it, at least until another obliging meteor containing
fragments of a supernova from some other galaxy happened
to smack into some unsuspecting piece of earthly real estate.
And that could take a while.

"It has to work this time," he mumbled to himself, "it

has to!"

Just to make sure, he double-, triple-, and quadruple-
checked all the other switches for the duplicate auto-return




16 • Simon Hawkc

modules he had assembled. He found two more that had the
same malfunction, but all the others worked properly.

"That's it," he said to himself. "That's got to be it."

So simple. He had thought something had gone wrong in
the assembly of the board, and he had done it over and over
and over again, and all the time, it had just been a faulty
switch.

He rechecked all the working switches several more
times, just to make certain, then. he selected one and
snapped the module into the control panel. That's all there
was to it.

'Wow," he said. He turned to look at Bugs, sitting in his
wire cage, looking fat and healthy and munching contented-
ly on a piece of lettuce. "Now we find out where you've
been off to. Bugs, old buddy. And we go back and get the
first machine... wherever the hell it is."

That thought brought him up short for a moment. Certain-
ly, that first machine had to be somewhere. Only where? It
should have merely traveled back into the past ten minutes,
from the time he'd sent it off, right in that very selfsame
lab, and only been gone for ten seconds. Only, of course,
since the auto-return module had switched itself off, it
hadn't returned ten seconds later and was undoubtedly still
there. Which meant he had to work out the precise settings
so that he would go back into the past exactly ten minutes
from the time he had originally sent the first machine back.
Or did he?

If it was still in the lab, and time was sort of linear, and
the new past he had altered by sending back the machine
was running about ten minutes behind him, then it was
probably still there, only ten minutes ago.

Unless I've moved it, he thought. Only why would I do
that? If I sent it back and the past me saw it appear, and not
return, then obviously the past me in that new, altered linear

The Reluctant Sorcerer • 17

past would have figured out that something had gone wrong
and would undoubtedly be waiting for the future me to
figure it all out.

"Is that what I'd do?" he asked himself aloud. "Well,
yes, of course, since I thought of it, then that's exactly what
I'd do, since I'm me and I know how I think, whether I'm
the present me or the past me. Right?" He glanced at Bugs
and nodded. "Right. Of course. That makes sense, doesn't
it?"

Bugs merely continued munching on his lettuce leaf.

"The past me must be getting very impatient with the
present me, or from the past me's viewpoint, the future me,
to figure it all out and fix it. And all this time, it was so
obvious. When I get back there, I'll have to give myself a
good talking to."

The thing to do, he decided, was duplicate the original
settings exactly, without attempting to compensate for the
time lag from the date of the original experiment. Just
repeat everything exactly the same way and travel back into
the past ten minutes earlier from the present. That way, the
first time machine would undoubtedly still be there, and he
would be too, since he'd arrived at the lab considerably
more than ten minutes ago.

He frowned and scratched his head. He hadn't seen
himself when he came in, so clearly, that seemed to support
his new theory that time ran in a sort of linear fashion,
rather like the current of a river. He tried to visualize it.

If he were sitting on a riverbank and he marked a certain
place on that bank with a stone, then took a flower petal, for
instance, and dropped it in the river some distance upstream
of the stone, then he could watch the flower petal as it
drifted downstream, past the stone- That was the normal
flow of time. A few seconds in the past, the flower petal had
been upstream of the stone, now it was downstream of it.

18 • Simon Hawke

If he now fished that flower petal out of the water, carried
it back to the spot where he'd originally dropped it in, and
went back a moment or so in the past and dropped it in
again, there would now be two flower petals floating down-
stream, side by side, toward the stone. However, since there
had to be a space of time in which there had only been one
flower petal floating down the river, that space of time was
now represented by the volume of water from which he had
fished out the flower petal before taking it back upstream
and traveling back into the past with it.

Consequently, the two flower petals now floating down-
stream side by side would be aware of each other (assuming
awareness on the part of flower petals), but the flower petal
in the original, unaltered space of time represented by the
volume of water between the place where he had originally
tossed it in the river and the place where he had fished it out
would have no awareness of a second flower petal, because
in that particular time frame, its past had not been changed.
The past had been changed behind it.

Brewster figured this was why he was unaware of having
seen himself when he walked into the laboratory a short
while ago. Because he was still existing in that space of
time where the past had not yet been changed. The moment
he went back, he'd see himself entering the lab, but he
couldn't remember that now because it hadn't happened yet.
It had happened—or would happen—about ten minutes

earlier.

He looked at the rabbit. "I sure wish you could talk,

Bugs," he said. "It would help clear up a lot of things."

He entered the settings into the console on the panel,
programming his trip, and wondered what it would feel like
to meet himself. About ten minutes ago, he'd find out.

He took a deep breath, wondering why he didn't feel a
sense of incredible elation. He was, after all, about to

The Reluctant Sorcerer    19

become the first man in history to travel back through time.
Even if it was only ten minutes. The elation, he supposed,
would probably come later, when he published his discovery
and EnGulfCo got behind him with its massive public
relations machine.

There would be lectures at universities, interviews in
magazines and newspapers, appearances on talk shows,
perhaps even a film about his life, all culminating, certainly,
in the awarding of the Nobel Prize. Doubtless, that would
bring it all home to him and he would feel elated then.
Right now, all he felt was a slight tension, an anxiety mat
always came just before an important project was success-
fully completed.

He thought of Pamela. She would be so proud of him.
This would make up for his having missed all those wedding
dates. After this, they could finally get married and then he
could take her oh a wonderful honeymoon. Perhaps to
Victorian London, he thought, or to Paris during the reign
of the Sun King.

"Well, Bugs, here goes," he said, and flipped the switch.

CHAPTER
TWO

Michael Timothy O'Fallon was, on the whole, having a
very pleasant afternoon. The sun was bright, the sky was
clear, his pipe was full, and he had absolutely nothing to do.
He had filled all his orders, and for once, there were no
annoying customers to deal with. He often wished there was
some way he could conduct his business without having to
deal with the public, but unfortunately, he had not yet found
a way around this necessary evil. In order to sell the fruits
of his labors, he required customers to buy them and Mick
O'Fallon regarded customers as an irritating inconvenience.
They were always pestering him, always haggling, always
impatient, and always trying to look over his shoulder as he
worked—which was not very difficult to do, as Mick was
only three feet tall.

He was, however, almost equally as wide, with an im-
mensely powerful upper body and short, muscular legs,
which often led people to mistake him for a dwarf, some-
thing that infuriated him no end. As far as he was concerned
dwarfs were obnoxious little cretins who dressed in loud and
clashing colors, had little intelligence to speak of, and were

20

The Reluctant Sorcerer • 21

only good for relatively undemanding, menial labor. The
finer aspects of any sort of real craft were utterly beyond
them, though they were industrious, Mick had to give them
that. Give them some simple, mindless physical task to
perform and they'd happily pitch in, singing and whistling
while they worked. Nevertheless, being mistaken for a
dwarf was rather insulting, especially if one happened to be
a leprechaun.

Mick was not especially sanguine on this issue. Whenev-
er some customer made this mistake, Mick would start to
turn crimson, all his facial muscles would get tight, and
using all his self-control in an effort to keep his temper, he
would pointedly and firmly correct them in no uncertain
terms. Then he would go out behind his shop, snarling and
trembling with fury all the way, clamp his massive arms
around the trunk of some tree, and, with one mighty heave,
uproot it. In this way, he had systematically cleared a large
section of the woods around his shop.

However, on this bright and sunny day, there were no
customers around to irritate him and he had fulfilled all his
commissions, so he had packed his tobacco pouch and pipe
and hiked up the trail to the top of Lookout Mountain, to
simply bask in the sun and smoke and laze away the day
while he enjoyed the view. It wasn't an especially tall
mountain, but it was an especially nice view.

He was enjoying the peace and quiet and the solitude
when the air above him suddenly became filled with static
discharges and an extremely loud and high-pitched whining
sound. He glanced up and saw a very strange-looking
contraption suddenly appear out of nowhere in the sky about
twenty feet above him, to an accompanying clap of thunder,
and proceed to fall at an alarming rate directly toward the
spot where he was sitting.

With a yelp, he threw himself out of the way, just in the

22 • Simon Hawke

nick of time, as the mysterious object struck the ground
with a jarring crash, barely missing him, and proceeded
to slide down the grassy mountain slope on what looked
like sled runners, picking up speed as it went. It plowed
through bushes and jounced over rocks protruding from
the mountain slope, sending off sparks as it careened
precariously down toward the bottom. Mick wasn't sure,
but for a moment, it seemed as if he'd heard a voice
issuing from inside the peculiar-looking object, crying,

"Helllllp!"

"The devil!" Mick exclaimed as he dusted himself off
and watched the thing go crashing down the mountainside,
going faster and faster, slipping sideways and tipping from
one runner to the other, miraculously without overbalancing,
kept more or less right side up by some kind of large and
shiny ring that encircled it diagonally.

"Faith, and I've never seen the like of it!" he said,
watching thunderstruck as the strange object hurtled down
the mountain slope until it finally came to a crashing halt
against the trunk of a huge tree. The object struck the tree
with a resounding impact, shooting sparks all over the
place. The tree shuddered, cracked, then splintered and,
with a loud and agonizingly drawn-out creaking sound,
came crashing down onto the ground, narrowly missing
Robie McMurphy's prize bull, which had been grazing
peacefully at the edge of the wood.

"Oh, dear," said Mick. He picked up his pipe and
hurried down the trail as quickly as his short, muscular legs
could carry him.

Brewster was stunned by the impact and he blacked out
for a short while, but fortunately, his seat belt and his air
bag safety system had prevented any serious injury. Never-
theless, Brewster was badly shaken up. Dazed, he tried to

The Reluctant Sorcerer    23

focus his vision and figure out what had happened, but
everything seemed to be shrouded in a thick, white mist. (In
fact, his face was enveloped in the air bag, but he hadn't
quite figured that out yet.)

His head was throbbing, he felt dizzy, and his entire body
ached. With a high-pitched, whiny-squeaky sound, not un-
like that of air escaping from a set of bagpipes, the air
bag slowly deflated and Brewster gratefully gulped in a
deep lungful of air. Then he heard a dull clunk, followed
by a soft whump, as the emergency parachute was auto-
matically deployed—a trifle late. It settled down over the
cracked and shattered cockpit, obscuring everything from
view.

For a moment all was still, save for the crackling and
sparking of the ruined control panel and electrical systems,
then the entire framework of the time machine rocked as
something struck it a tremendous blow. Brewster was thrown
sideways in his seat, but the belt restrained him as the
machine shuddered under the impact. He heard a loud crack
as something gave way and the entire cockpit became filled
with sparks.

There was a loud, angry, bellowing sound, followed by
the sound of galloping hoofbeats, and then the machine
shuddered once again as Robie McMurphy's enraged bull
plowed into it, head down, with the speed of an express
train. Of course, Brewster didn't know exactly what was
happening. He was still dazed and stunned, and he couldn't
see anything because of the red and white striped parachute
draped over the cockpit. However, in the dim recesses of his
mind, perhaps prompted by the instinct for self-preservation,
a thought managed to form itself and squirm through the
haze that enshrouded his consciousness.

"The LOX!"

As Robie'McMurphy's bull smashed into the time ma-




24 • Simon Hawke

chine once again, Brewster realized that with all these
sparks, if the liquid oxygen tanks ruptured, there was liable
to be a very big bang, indeed. Panic and adrenaline coursed
through him as he fumbled with his seat belt. The bull
attacked the offending machine yet again and Brewster was
almost thrown out of his seat.

"Oh, God," he said, "the LOX! The LOX!"
He shielded his eyes against a fresh burst of sparks from

the arcing control panel.

"Hallo!" a strange voice called out. "I say, is someone

in there?"

"Get me out of here!" Brewster shouted, desperately

trying to force open the damaged door of the cockpit. "The

LOX! The LOX!"

Mick frowned. Locks? he thought. Faith, the poor chap
must be locked up in there. He couldn't get out. He started
tugging on the parachute, trying to pull it free. The contrap-
tion was sputtering and sparking and there was a strange
smell in the air around it. He sidestepped quickly as the bull
made another maddened charge and slammed into the peculiar-
looking object, sending forth a fresh shower of sparks as it

bellowed with rage.

"Bugger off, you great big stupid thing, you!" Mick
yelled at it. He resumed tugging at the parachute as the bull

backed off for another go.

Brewster saw daylight as the chute was pulled away. He
also saw flames start licking from the control panel and
started kicking at the door with all his might. It wouldn't

budge.

"Hold on now, I'll have you out in a flash!" the voice

called, and then, with the sound of ripping metal and
cracking plastic, the door was torn right off the cockpit
hinges. Brewster made a dive for the opening.

"Quickly, quickly!" he said as he scrambled out, drag-

The Reluctant Sorcerer    25

ging his emergency supply kit with him. "We've got to get
away! The LOX..." and then he saw the charging bull,
bearing straight down at him. "Jesus!"

He was suddenly swept off his feet and thrown over a
shoulder (a very low shoulder, it seemed) and he gasped
with surprise as his rescuer started running with him as if he
didn't weigh a thing. Behind them, the bull' smashed into
the time machine for the final time. It was the final time
because, just as Brewster had feared, the liquid oxygen
tanks ruptured and the mixture ignited. The resulting
explosion hurled them both to the ground, where bits of
machinery and very well-cooked beefsteak rained down on
them.

Brewster covered his head and lay there on the ground,
the wind knocked out of him. For what seemed like a long
time, he didn't move. And then he heard a voice say,
"Great bloody leaping toadstools! What the devil was
that?"

It was the voice of his unknown benefactor, whom Brewster
hadn't even caught a clear glimpse of yet. He raised himself
up slightly and turned his head, then his eyes grew wide at
the sight of his rescuer. He did a double take.

At first glance, it looked like a small boy, albeit a rather
large and powerfully built small boy, but at second glance,
he realized it was a full-grown man. Well, perhaps "full
grown" was not quite the proper term, but an adult, at any
rate, with a bushy beard, shaggy brown hair that was
beginning to turn gray, and a chest and arms like a bodybuilder—
on a miniature scale.

A dwarf, he thought (and it was probably fortunate that
he only thought this rather than saying it out loud), then he
mentally corrected himself when he saw that the man, while
very small, was nevertheless perfectly proportioned, which
made him not a dwarf, but a midget. A little person,

26 • Simon Hawke

Brewster mentally corrected himself again. They don't like
to be called midgets, they like to be called little people.

"My bull!" a new voice suddenly cried out. "What have
you done to my prize bull?"

A man was running toward them across the field, shaking
his fist and, in his other hand, brandishing a very nasty-
looking pitchfork. He was dressed in a peculiar fashion,
tight black breeches and what appeared to be a brown potato
sack belted around his waist, with a hole in it for his head
and arms. He was wearing high, soft leather moccasins and
he had long, shoulder-length hair. For that matter, the little
man who'd rescued him was dressed in a peculiar fashion
too, thought Brewster. He had on some kind of belted,
brown leather jerkin cut in scallops around the hem and
sleeves, baggy green trousers tucked into high, laced leather
boots, and a large dagger at his waist. Brewster wondered if
he hadn't somehow transported himself to some sort of
hippie commune in the country. Or perhaps these were
circus people. In fact, he wondered, where had he transport-
ed himself? He should have been back in the lab, but this
most definitely was not his laboratory. He glanced around.
It wasn't even London. Something had very definitely gone

wrong.

"Mick O'Fallon!" said the farmer as he came running
up. "I should have known you'd be at the bottom of this!
You and your blasted alchemical mixtures! Now look what
you've gone and done! You've killed my bull!"

"S'trewth, and I didn't touch your bleedin' bull, Robie
McMurphy," the little man said as he got up to a sitting
position. "And have a care, or can you not recognize a
wizard when you see one?"

The farmer's eyes grew wide as he gazed at Brewster. "A

wizard!" he exclaimed.

"A master sorcerer, I should think," said Mick, "judgin'

The Reluctant Sorcerer • 27

by the way he blasted that great, big, foolish bull of yours.
You'd best show proper respect, else you're liable to find
yourself gettin' some of the same."

"Beggin' yourpardon. Good Master," said McMurphy,
lowering his gaze and dropping to one knee. "I didn't
know!"

"Dropped right out of the sky, he did," said Mick, "in
some kind of magic chariot. Faith, and didn't I see it
myself?"

Brewster blinked at them with confusion. "Where am
I?" he asked, looking around him. The countryside didn't
look familiar, but then again, he hadn't spent much time
outside of London. Then his gaze fell, on the blasted,
smoldering wreckage of his time machine. "Oh, no! Ruined!
It's absolutely ruined!"

"Your stupid, bloody bull attacked his magic chariot,"
Mick said to the farmer, by way of explanation.

McMurphy looked chagrined. More than that, he sudden-
ly looked terrified. "Forgive me. Good Master!" he plead-
ed. "I beg of you, don't punish me! I shall make amends,
somehow, L swear it!"

Brewster wasn't paying very close attention. Now that the
fireworks were over, it was dawning on him that he must
have seriously miscalculated. Somehow, he had transported
himself right out of the city and, worse still, the machine
had been utterly destroyed. Now he would have to find out
exactly where he was and call Pamela to come and pick him
up. He sighed heavily. She was bound to be very much
annoyed. He'd have to ask these people if he could use a
telephone.

Then it suddenly occurred to him that he hadn't even
thanked the little man for pulling him out of the time
machine before it exploded and thereby saving his life. He
turned back toward him, somewhat sheepishly.

28 • Simon Hawke The Reluctant Sorcerer • 29

"I'm sorry," he said to the little man, "I'm forgetting my
manners. I'm very grateful for your help. The door was
stuck and if you hadn't forced it open..." He swallowed
nervously as he considered his narrow escape. "Allow me to
introduce myself. The name is Brcwster. Dr. Marvin Brewster.
But my friends just call me Doc." He held out his hand.

The little -man reached out and clasped him by the
forearm, rather than the hand. Brewster assumed this was
some sort of new counterculture handshake and he politely
did the same.

"Honored to be makin' your acquaintance, Brewster
Doc," the little man said. "As it happens, I do a bit of
brewin' on the side myself, y'know. Of course, I'm strictly
a layman, a dabbler, as it were. I am a craftsman, by trade,
an armorer."

"You don't say," said Brewster absently. "Listen, do you
mind if I use your phone? I'll make it collect, but I need to
call London."

The little man frowned. "Fone?" he said quizzically. He
shook his head. "Faith, and I have no such thing, I fear.
And I know of no Lunden hereabouts."

Now it was Brewster's turn to frown. "You don't know
London?"

"I know of no one by that name. Good Brewster," Mick
replied.

"No, no, I mean the city," Brewster said. "London, the
city."

The little man and the farmer exchanged puzzled glances.
"I know of no such city," said Mick. "Is it very far?"

"I don't know," Brewster replied. "I'm not quite sure
where I am, you see. I seem to have miscalculated, some-
how. What is this place?"

"My farm," McMurphy said, trying to be helpful.

"No, no, I mean what townT' said Brewster.

" 'Town'?" McMurphy said. He looked around, uncertainly.
"But.. .there is no town here, Good Master. The nearest
village would be Brigand's Roost, I suppose."

"Brigand's Roost?" Brewster frowned again. He had
never even heard of it.

"Well," said McMurphy, "until the brigands came, it
used to be called Turkey's Roost, but the brigands shot most
of the turkeys and ate them."

Brewster was having some difficulty following the con-
versation. " 'Brigands'^. What do you mean, 'brigands'?"

"He means Black Shannon's brigands," Mick said. "They
used to live in the forest, and then they were called the
Forest Brigands, only Shannon decided the forest lacked
certain amenities, so they took over Turkey's Roost, which
is now called Brigand's Roost, you see."

Brewster didn't see at all. "What, you mean they actually
took over a town?"

"Only a small village, really," said Mick, "and not
much of one, at that."

"What are they, some sort of motorcycle gang?" asked
Brewster.

McMurphy and Mick both looked blank. Clearly, they
had no idea what he was talking about.

Brewster began to have an unsettling feeling about all
this. They didn't know about London, they didn't seem to
have telephones or know what motorcycles were, they had
brigands, and the clothing they were wearing was either
very hip or very out-of-date.

"What.. .year is this?" asked Brewster.

They both looked blank again. They exchanged puzzled
glances. McMurphy looked at Mick and shrugged. Mick
shook his head.

"Forgive me, Brewster," Mick said, "I don't understand."

"Oh, boy," said Brewster.




30

Simon Hawke

Mick stiffened and drew himself up to his full height, all
three feet of it. "I am no boy, Brewster," he said with
affronted dignity. "I am one of the little people."

"What?" said Brewster. "Oh. No, I'm sorry, you misun-
derstood. I know you are a little person, I was merely
saying 'Oh, boy' as an expression."
"An expression of what?" asked Mick.
"Dismay, I think," Brewster replied.
The full import of what had happened to him was only
beginning to register. (It would take a while yet, but let's
bring him along slowly, shall we? He's a nice enough fella,
even if he doesn't have a lot of street smarts, and we don't
want to give it to him all at once.) Now let me think, he
thought, and proceeded to do just that.

He had set the machine to take him back ten minutes into
the past, at the exact same location from which he had
departed. Obviously, this was not the exact same location
from which he had departed, so it stood to reason that it
probably wasn't ten minutes in the past, either.

The reason he had crashed, he deduced, was that he had
been located on the top floor of the headquarters building of
EnGulfCo International when he had left. He had arrived at
some point in space and time where that building did not
exist. Ergo, he'd had a bit of a drop. Fortunately, he
happened to arrive over a mountain, otherwise, the drop
would have been a great deal more significant. Fortunately,
also, that the steel torus had kept the machine from tum-
bling, otherwise the tanks might have ruptured on the way
down the mountain slope and the results would have been
fatal. And it was fortunate that the little man named Mick
had been there to force the door loose, but right about there,
the few fortunate things about this entire episode ended.

He had clearly traveled a lot further back into the past
than he'd intended. He wasn't quite sure how. In the initial

The Reluctant Sorcerer • 31

experiments he had conducted with Bugs, everything seemed
to have worked perfectly. But then, for all he knew, Bugs had
also traveled back further into the past than he'd thought.
The encouraging thing was that Bugs had made it back, and
in one piece. The discouraging thing was that unlike Bugs,
Brewster no longer had a ride. Unless...

There was still that first time machine, the one that had
departed on a one-way trip, thanks to the faulty switch in
the auto-return module. The settings on both machines had
been the same. Therefore, it stood to reason that the first
machine was here, as well. Wherever "here" was. At least,
Brewster earnestly hoped that was the case; otherwise, he
was stuck.

Brewster approached the still-smoking wreckage of what
used to be his time machine and stared at it disconsolately.

"I am truly sorry about your chariot, Good Brewster,"
said McMurphy uneasily. "If there is any way that I can
make amends, you have but to ask and I shall do it, if 'tis
within my power."

"Hmmm," said Brewster. "Perhaps there is. You wouldn't
happen to have seen another, uh, chariot like that around
here anywhere, would you?"

McMurphy frowned. "I do not think so. Good Master.
What did it look like?"

"Oh, yes, of course, you didn't really see it, did you?"
Brewster said. He turned to Mick. "K>« got a good look at
it, though, didn't you? Would you recognize one that was
just like it if you saw it?"

"Aye, that I would," said Mick confidently.

"So then you've seen one before?" asked Brewster
eagerly.

"I can say with certitude that I have not," Mick replied.

"Oh," said Brewster, his spirits falling. He sighed. Now
what?

32 • Simon Hawke

The Reluctant Sorcerer • 33

*   *   *

"Well, 'tis not much, but 'tis home," said Mick as
Brewster ducked down low to get through the tiny doorway.
"Bit close for someone your size," added Mick apologeti-
cally, "but I don't get much company, you see."

"Oh, it's... charming," said Brewster, bent over almost
completely double to avoid banging his head on the ceiling.

The little thatch-roofed cabin in the woods looked like a
child's playhouse, set in a clearing next to a somewhat
larger structure made of stone that housed Mick's forge and
shop.

"You'd likely be more comfortable in the smithy," Mick
said, "but I'll have to clean it up some. Still, at least there's
room for a human to stretch out in there."

"You're very kind," said Brewster. "I really appreciate
your hospitality. I wouldn't want to put you to any trouble."

"Oh, 'tis no trouble at all. Good Brewster," Mick
replied. " Tis not every day I have the privilege to entertain
a great personage such as yourself."

"I wish you'd call me Doc," said Brewster. "All my
friends call me Doc."

"Well, 'tis a privilege, indeed," said Mick. "Doc it shall
be, then. My fall name is Michael Timothy O'Fallon, at
your service, but most people call me Mick. Are you a
drinkin' man?"

"Yes, I think I could use a drink," said Brewster, sitting
down cross-legged behind a large, albeit very low, table.

"I have just the thing," said Mick, producing a pair of
tankards, which he filled from a large ceramic jug. Brewster
noticed that although most things in the little cabin were on
a miniature scale, the tankards were certainly man-sized.

Mick raised his tankard solemnly and offered a toast.
"May your path be free of dragons, and may your life be
long. May you never lack for maidens that will fill your

heart with song. May your courage never waver and your
blade be ever true, and should your enemy be braver, may
he not run as fast as you."

He looked at Brewster expectantly.

"Uh... over the lips and past the gums, look out, stom-
ach, here it comes," Brewster said rather lamely.

Mick beamed and drained his tankard at one gulp, then
smacked his lips, patted his middle, and said, "Ahhhhh."

Brewster took a sip and gagged. It felt as if he'd swallowed
drain cleaner. The noxious liquid burned its way down his
esophagus like sulphuric acid spiked with white phosphorus.
His eyes bugged out and he made a sound like the death
rattle of a horse as he clutched at his throat and fought for
breath.

"Good, eh?" Mick said, grinning at him. " 'Tis my
special recipie. Brewed from the root of the peregrine bush.
'Tis a lengthy process, unless you don't count the time it
takes to chase down the damn bushes and wrestle 'em to me
ground. Thorny little bastards, too."

Brewster was turning an interesting shade of mottled
purple.

"Of course, 'tis the agin' process that makes all the
difference," Mick continued, refilling his own tankard. He
held the jug up and raised his eyebrows, but all Brewster
could manage was a violent shake of his head and an
emphysemic wheeze.

"So then," Mick continued, taking another hearty swal-
low of the odious brew, "if I understand correctly, your
chariot has brought you here from a distant city known as
London, but there was somethin' to the spell that went
amiss, as this was not the intended destination of your
journey, am I right, then?"

Brewster gasped for breath and nodded weakly. His
vision was starting to blur.




34 • Simon Hawke

" Tis the sort of thing that happens, sometimes, with a
spell," said Mick, nodding sympathetically. "Even to the
best of wizards. It's happened to me, y'know, with some of
my potions, not that I claim to be an adept, of course. Far
be it from me to do any such foolish thing. I know the law, I
do. I'm merely a student of the art of alchemy. 'Tis a hobby,
bein' as I'm one of the little people and therefore fey,
though 'tis a shame we're not permitted to join the Guild."

While Mick loquaciously warmed to his subject, Brewster
simply sat there with his eyes glazing over. He didn't really
hear what Mick was saying because of the loud buzzing in
his ears.

"Not that I'm complainin', mind you," Mick continued.
"I'm sure the directors of the Guild know best, and I would
never gainsay them, but I do think we little people have
somethin' to contribute. Tisn't true, y'know, that we're all
mischievous and devious tricksters. I've no idea how that
rumor got about, for there's not a grain of truth to it. Still,
there you have it."

Brewster's pupils had become extremely dilated. He couldn't
move a muscle.

"My customers come to me because they know my
reputation as a craftsman," Mick went on. "You'll not find
a better blade in these parts than one forged by Mick
O'Fallon, mind you, yet each and every one of them comes
thinkin' that I'll cheat them. 'Tis what they've been brought
up to expect from leprechauns, y'see. Malicious gossip. Not
a word of truth in it. Don't ask me how it all got started, I
haven't the faintest clue. Unless it was the elves. I wouldn't
put it past them. Never did trust elves. Bloody great lot of
troublemakers, if you ask me. Never did a lick of honest
work in their lives. Spend all their time sittin' 'round in
coffeehouses, playin' their guitars and talkin' about philoso-

The Reluctant Sorcerer • 35

phy and whatnot. Ever try to have a conversation with an
elf? 'Tis like openin' a book in the bloody middle."

Without a word, Brewster slowly keeled over and crashed
to the floor.

"Oh, dear," said Mick, staring at his inert form on the
floor. "Poor chap must've been tired from his journey, and
here I am, talkin' his ear off. Well, we'll make up a nice
straw bed for you in the smithy and let you have a nice rest,
shall we? Then in the momin', perhaps if you're not too
busy, you might take a look at my alchemical laboratory."

He got up from his chair, went around the table, and
effortlessly picked Brewster up in his arms. He was as stiff
as a dead carp.

"Never had the benefit of a real sorcerer's advice, y'know,"
said Mick. "Always had to muddle through sort of on me
own. Still, if you're stuck here till you can build another
magic chariot, well then, perhaps you might consider takin'
me on as an apprentice. I'm a good worker, I am. Leam
fast, too. Never can tell, if I get good enough, I might even
convince the Guild to let me join, though of course, that's
probably too much to hope for."

He smacked Brewster's head against the door frame as he
carried him out of the house to the smithy.

"Ooops. Sorry about that. Feelin' no pain, are you?
Good. Be a bit of a bump though. Tell him he got it when
he fell over. Aye, that's what I'll do."

He carried Brewster into the smithy and prepared a straw
bed, well away from the forge, just to be on the safe side.
Then he laid him down gently and covered him with a
frayed and faded blanket.

"There, I guess that'll do you proper. Sleep well, Brewster
Doc. In the mornin' we'll see about gettin' you settled. We
haven't had a sorcerer in these parts for quite a spell, no pun
intended. Folks will be right pleased and excited. Never

36 • Simon Hawke

know, you might even consider stayin'. I imagine there's
many adepts in a big city like your London. What's one
less, eh? Sure, and they'll never miss you."

Brewster awoke in the morning to something rubbing up
against him. It felt scratchy. He grunted and rolled over onto
his other side. He frowned. His bed felt funny. He had
always liked a hard mattress, but the bed felt very soft for
some strange reason and it crackled when he moved. It also
felt somewhat bristly. He frowned and lay still for a mo-
ment, still on the edge of wakefulness. Something rubbed
up against him once again and he felt a pricking sensation.

"Ouch! Pamela, stop that," he mumbled. "Your nails are
long."

He shifted in bed and once again felt it crackle beneath
him. It also smelled strange, he suddenly noticed. He
sniffed several times experimentally. The scent was not
unpleasant. He opened his eyes and found that he was lying
on a bed of straw.

Straw? For a moment he felt disoriented. And then
something started rubbing up against him once again, with a
rustling sort of sound, and he felt that same scratchy,
prickling sensation.

"Pamela..."

He rolled over and got a faceful of leaves and sharp little
moms. He cried out with pain and surprise, recoiled, and
rolled out of the straw bed onto the floor. With a convulsive,
rustling movement, the small bush recoiled in the opposite
direction, scuttling off toward the wall, where it seemed to
huddle fearfully, it's reddish-gold, heart-shaped leaves trem-
bling slightly.

"What the hell..." said Brewster, staring at the little
bush, wide-eyed.

Tentatively, the little bush scuttled forward, moving to-




The Reluctant Sorcerer » 37

ward him a few feet. Brewster backed away, crablike, across
the floor. The little bush stopped, its leaves rustling. Then it
started moving toward him once again.

Alarmed, Brewster scooted back against the opposite
wall. "Get back!" he cried out.

The little bush scuttled backward a few feet, its leaves
trembling once again.

"Ah, so you're up then," Mick said. He picked up a
straw broom from the comer and urged the little bush away.
"Go on now, off with you! Go on, get! Stop annoying the
company, you foolish thing, you!"

Bewildered, Brewster watched as the little red-gold bush
retreated from the broom wielded by the little man. "What
is it?" he asked, astonished.

"What, this useless thing?" Mick jerked his head toward
the bush, now cowering uncertainly in a comer, its leaves
trembling violently. "Why, 'tis a peregrine bush. Doc."

"A peregrine bush?"

"Aye, you'll recall I was tellin' you last night how y'have
to chase the damn things down to make the brew? Peregrine
wine, I call it."

The bush started to tremble even more violently.

"Oh, calm down, you silly thing," Mick snapped at it.
"I'm not for cookin' you up yet, though if you don't behave
yourself, I just might toss you in the pot for good measure."
He turned to Brewster. "Wouldn't do much good, really.
This one's still too immature. Make the wine taste bitter and
it wouldn't be nearly so potent, y'see."

Brewster rubbed his head. "It seemed pretty potent last
night," he said, though strangely, he didn't have anything
resembling a hangover. Only a slight bump on his head he
must have got from falling over. Just the same, that one
swallow had been enough to paralyze him.

"Ah, well, it takes some gettin' used to," Mick explained.

38 Simon Hawke

"I've never heard of a bush that could move," said
Brewster, "except for tumbleweeds, and they're blown by
the wind."

"Are they, now?" said Mick. "Well, I've never heard of
these tumbleweeds myself, but there's more peregrine bushes
than you can shake a stick at in these parts. Most of the
time, they just stay planted in the soil, as any decent,
self-respectin' shrub should do, but sometimes they just
uproot themselves and take to wanderin' about. Every year
around this time, they pull up their roots and start travelin'
like a great big thorny herd, from Bimam Wood all the way
to Dunsinane Hill. Faith, and I don't know why. They just
do, that's all. Bimam to Dunsinane, Dunsinane to Bimam,
back and forth, like a bloody, great ambulatory hedge. Like
enough to drive you mad, and there's no tumin' 'em. You
get yourself caught in their path and you're liable to get
sliced to ribbons."

"That's incredible," said Brewster. "I've never heard of
such a thing! Migratory bushesT'

"Aye, silly, isn't it? But there you have it. This one's just
a wee sprout. I keep it about to amuse me, and so's I can
learn a bit about their habits, the better to catch 'em when
their roots are ripe, y'see. But it's a bloody stupid thing.
Harmless, really, but always gettin' underfoot. Still, it kind
of grows on you. Grows on you! That's a good one, eh?
Grows on you!" Mick cackled and slapped his muscular
thigh.

Brewster eyed the little thorn bush apprehensively. Its
leaves seemed to be drooping dejectedly.

"I don't seem to remember very much about last night,"
he said. "Did you bring me here?"

"Aye, that I did, after you passed out. Never did see it hit
anyone quite so hard before, but I suppose if you're not
used to it, the wine can have a bit of a kick."

The Reluctant Sorcerer    39

"I'll say," said Brewster.

"You'll say what?" asked Mick.

"That it can have a bit of a kick," said Brewster.
"Strange, though, I feel particularly refreshed this morning."

"It has that effect on you," Mick replied, nodding. "You
have to be careful, though. Drink enough of the stuff and
you'll want to be takin' on an army all by yourself. The
brigands buy it from me by the cartload, they do. Use up
just about every batch I brew each year. Drink so much of
it, they're all a bit touched in the head." Mick tapped his
cranium for emphasis.

"Brigands," Brewster repeated. "Brigands and migrato-
ry bushes. What sort of place is this? Where am I, exactly,
Mick?"

"S'trewth, and this London of yours must be terribly far
off. Well, to be exact now, you're in Mick O'Fallon's
smithy, next to Mick O'Fallon's cottage at the edge of the
Redwood Forest, by the Gulfstream Waters."

"That sounds vaguely familiar, for some reason," Brewster
said, frowning, "though I can't for the life of me remember
why." Without realizing it, he hummed half a bar of "This
Land Is Your Land." He shook his head and shrugged.
"Can't place it. We are still in England, though, right?"

"Ing Land?" Mick said, frowning. "Faith, Doc, 'tis not
Ing Land. S'trewth, and I've never heard of this Ing Land.
You are in the Kingdom of Frank."

"The Kingdom of FrankT' said Brewster.

"Aye, the Kingdom of Frank. It used to be the Kingdom
of Corwin, y'see, only Frank the Usurper had him murdered
and then usurped the throne, bein' as that's what usurpers
do. He issued a decree that had the name changed to the
Kingdom of Prank. 'Twas a long time ago, and all the kings
since then have been named Prank, y'see, because 'tis easier

40 • Simon Hawke

than changin' the name of the kingdom every time a new

heir to the throne comes along."

Brewster looked as if he wasn't sure if Mick was pulling

his leg or not. "Are you pulling my leg?" he asked.
"Well, now why would I want to do a thing like that?"

asked Mick, puzzled.

"We are in the Kingdom of FrankT'
"Aye, the Kingdom of Prank, in the Land of Dam."
" 'Dam'?" said Brewster, looking totally confused.
"You mean to tell me you've never heard of Dam?" said
Mick with surprise. "Faith, and y'must have come a fair
long way, then. Aye, I suppose you must have, for I have

never heard of Ing Land, neither."

"Where is Dam?" Brewster asked.

"Why, on the edge of the Gulfstream Waters, of course,"
Mick said. "Tis named for Dam the Navigator, who first

discovered it, y'see."

"Dam the Navigator?" Brewster said, staring at Mick

blankly.

"Aye. He discovered it by mistake. He was lost, y'see."

Brewster closed his eyes. "This isn't really happening,"
he said. "I'm just having a dream. None of this is real. I'm
going to wake up any minute now and Pamela will be lying
right beside me, wearing her green face mask."

"You sleep with a wench that wears a mask?" said Mick.
"S'trewth, and if she was that ugly, why did you take up
with her? Or is it that she came with a grand dowry?"

"Nope," said Brewster, shaking his head. "Nope, this
isn't happening." He glanced toward the comer. "Come

here, bush."

The bush rustled slightly.
"Come on, I won't hurt you," Brewster cajoled. "Come

over here."

The Reluctant Sorcerer • 41

Hesitantly, the bush rustled over toward him. Brewster
reached out and stuck his hand into its thorny branches.

"OW!"

The bush rapidly retreated to its comer, where it huddled,
quaking.

"Well, now what did you want to go and do a thing like
that for?" Mick asked, frowning at him.

Brewster stared at the scratches on his hand. They weren't
very deep, because the bush was small and its thorns
weren't very long, but it had hurt just the same. He watched
as thin lines of blood welled up in the cuts.

"I'm not dreaming," he said in a dazed tone, "unless
I'm dreaming this, too." He tried to recall if he'd ever
dreamed of feeling pain.

Mick came over and stood before him, staring at him with
concern. "Sure, and it's no dream you're havin'. Doc," he
said. "I can see you're troubled, what with your magic
chariot bein' broke and all, but in time, you can build
yourself another. In the meantime, 'tis not as if you're all
alone, y'know. You've got Mick O'Fallon to stand by you."

Brewster sighed. "You don't understand, Mick," he said
morosely. "It's not that easy. You've been very kind, and I
appreciate your hospitality, but my, uh, magic chariot is
beyond repair, and I doubt I'll ever be able to build another
one. I'll simply never be able to find the necessary materials
here. The conditions seem much too primitive. I'm afraid
I've traveled a great deal further than I intended. And there
may be no way back."

"Well, the journey may be long," said Mick, "yet each
journey begins with but a single step, y'know. In due time,
after you've rested and we've made some plans, you can
make your way to the coast and find a ship that'll take you
across the Gulfstream Waters, back to your London, in the
Land of Ing."

42 • Simon Hawkc

"I'm afraid it's not that simple, Mick," said Brewster.
"Where I need to go, no ship can take me, unless it's a ship
that can travel across time."

Mick frowned, puzzled. "I don't understand," he said.

Brewster took a deep breath. "Well, it'll take some
explaining," he said. "And, quite frankly, I don't think
you'll believe me. It's a long story."

"Is it now?" said Mick with a smile. "Well, it just so
happens that I'm in the mood for a good story. Come on,
then. You can tell me all about it over breakfast."

CHAPTER
THREE

Brewster had never been in the habit of having much
more for breakfast than a cup of coffee and a piece of toast
or two. Yet, despite the fact that he was rather hungry for a
change, Brewster knew he could never even make a dent in
all the provender that Mick had laid out on the table. He
now knew where the phrase "groaning board" had come
from.

"There, now, I think that should do for a wee momin'
snack," said Mick, surveying the table with pleasure and
smacking his lips over the smoked meats, the huge circular
bread loaves, the jars of preserves and jams and jellies, the
basket of hard-boiled eggs, the sausages, the vegetables, the
roast turkey, the fruits, the flapjacks, the pot of tea, and of
course, the jug of peregrine wine.

"Dig in, Doc, before your belly starts a-rumblin'."

Brewster watched, astonished, as his host tore off a large
turkey leg and devoured it in less time than it took him to
put honey in his tea.

Breakfast with a leprechaun can be a rather disquieting
experience if you're not used to it, as only dwarfs and
43

44 • Simon Hawke

dragons are known to have greater appetites. Dwarfs, how-
ever, are slightly larger in stature than most leprechauns,
and dragons are considerably larger, but Brewster didn't
know about either dwarfs or dragons yet. In fact, he didn't
even know about leprechauns, exactly, because he still
hadn't fully realized what sort of situation his time machine
had popped him into and he thought Mick was a midget.

To be perfectly fair, Brewster's ignorance up to this point
was not entirely inexcusable. While Mick had made a point
of mentioning that he was one of the "little people," the
term also happened to apply to midgets in the world that
Brewster came from, so Brewster had not connected it with
leprechauns. Perhaps he might have noticed that Mick's ears
were unusually large and slightly pointed (unlike elves,
whose ears are in proportion, but are very pointed), only
Mick wore his hair rather long and shaggy and Brewster
never really got a good look at his ears. And the previous
night, while Mick had been discussing things like elves and
such, Brewster had not been in any condition to pay very
close attention.

Now, the peregrine bush did, indeed, come as a bit of a
surprise to him, and you might think that would have clued
him in to the fact that he wasn't in Kansas anymore, as a
little girl named Dorothy once put it. However, if there's
one thing scientists know, especially the very bright ones,
it's that there is an awful lot they don't know. This is why
they're scientists.

Botany was never Brewster's field of expertise. Though
he had never heard of migratory bushes, he knew that didn't
necessarily mean such things did not exist. Quite obviously,
they did exist, for he had seen one. And been scratched by
one, no less. Had Brewster been a botanist, he would have
known there was no record of any such plant as a peregrine
bush. However, in that case, rather than immediately leap-

The Reluctant Sorcerer • 45

ing to the conclusion that he had somehow been transported
to another world, chances were he would have thought he'd
made a new discovery. He would undoubtedly have become
tremendously excited, with visions of publication and Latin
names such as Philodendron Brewstoricus dancing through
his head. But Brewster was not a botanist, and as is often
the case with scientists, he was not terribly concerned with
any new developments outside his chosen field. He found
the peregrine bush merely a peculiar curiosity and nothing
more.

For the moment he had a rather more pressing problem on
his hands. Namely, trying to figure out where the hell in
space and time he was. This is how scientists are, you
understand. When they're working on a knotty problem,
they tend not to let little distractions like ambulatory bushes
get in their way.

History was not Brewster's chosen field of study, either,
and while he was not entirely ignorant of the subject, he
couldn't for the life of him recall if there was a part of
England that had once been known as Dam, with a kingdom
in it ruled by a succession of monarchs named Frank. He
knew that there had been a bunch of Richards, and a George
or two, so it did not seem entirely unreasonable that a few
Pranks might have slipped in there somewhere.

He also knew that little was known about the very early
history of England, when there were Celts and Picts and
Druids and various other bogtrotters in the neighborhood.
(Even Franks, for that matter, which probably only added to
his confusion.) What little was known about this period had
come down from the Romans, in the writings of people such
as Julius Caesar, and unfortunately, Caesar had spent less
time describing the various tribes and cultures he'd encountered
than he did in describing how he butchered them. While this
general lack of knowledge made for a good deal of leeway

46 • Simon Hawke

for writers of fantasy novels, it was not much help to
Brewster. There were lots of legends, but unfortunately,
little in the way of cold, hard facts.

Brewster believed that he had somehow traveled a lot    |
further back in time than he'd intended, and that he was    '
now stranded (temporarily, he hoped) in the early pagan
days of England, when people had believed in such things
as sorcerers and magic. As a result, Mick had erroneously
assumed he was a sorcerer and Brewster had decided it
would only complicate things unnecessarily if he attempted
to disabuse him of that notion. (This was not, as it would
turn out, a very wise decision, for it would lead to more
complications than Brewster could imagine, but let's not get

ahead of the story.)

As he sat there at the large, albeit very low, table in

Mick's cottage, watching Mick wolfing down enough gro-
ceries to feed an average family of six for a week, Brewster
did the best he could to give his host an explanation of his
situation—or, at least, what he thought his situation was.
(Now this was not an easy thing to do, so there's not much
point in trying to reproduce the dialogue. To begin with,
there was a lot of hemming and hawing and nervous throat
clearing, as most scientists are not very good public speak-
ers, and the conversation was interspersed with many inter-
esting, if totally irrelevant, digressions, and explanations of
the explanations, which in turn had to be explained, all of
which was punctuated by the occasional rafter-rattling belch
from Mick. Quite aside from all this, you saw what happened
when we discussed time travel in Chapter One, and I'm sure
you wouldn't want to go through that again.)

Suffice it to say that this discussion took a while, because
time travel is difficult enough to explain to someone who's
read science fiction novels and seen Steven Spielberg films,

The Reluctant Sorcerer • 47

but Mick was a product of his world and of his time and, as
such, did not possess those cultural advantages.

Well, you can probably guess what the result was. Aside
from the fact that Mick became hopelessly confused, by the
time Brewster was finished, the leprechaun believed more
firmly than ever that Brewster was not only a master
sorcerer, but quite possibly one of the greatest wizards of all
time.

This is not an uncommon phenomenon. As most politi-
cians, evangelists, and college professors know, if you
really want to impress people with the magnitude of your
intelligence and the scope of your abilities, the best thing
you can do is to confuse them. If they can't make any sense
of what you're saying, they're likely to assume it's way over
their heads and that, consequently, you must be a genius, or
at the very least an expert in your field.

Mick was no exception. He was pretty bright, and for a
leprechaun, that's saying something, because while lepre-
chauns don't have much in the way of formal education,
they are the all-time champs at street smarts. Since Brewster,
in trying to explain things to him, made no attempt to
distinguish between sorcery and science, Mick came away
from this discussion with a slightly distorted view of the
actual facts. And the actual facts could be confusing enough
all by themselves. (Remember when we covered Buckyballs
back in Chapter One? You thought your narrator made that
up, didn't you? Well, I didn't, but don't take my word for
it. Ask Isaac Asimov about them, he knows everything.
Anyway, imagine how it must have sounded to someone
who had never even heard of science.)

To Mick, the whole thing clearly smacked of alchemy,
which was his great passion, and even though he had
trouble following Brewster's explanations, he was enormously
impressed. Awed, in fact. For Brewster, as he now per-

48 • Simon Hawke

ceived him, was obviously not only a sorcerer of the first
rank, but a master alchemist, as well. And if he was a
master alchemist, that meant he had attained the goal that all
alchemists devote their whole lives to pursuing—the secret
of the Philosopher's Stone.

The secret of the Philosopher's Stone, you understand,
was the alchemist's Holy Grail. (Actually, this is a rather
faulty analogy, since the Holy Grail was the chalice used by
Christ at the Last Supper and this is another universe
entirely, so Mick wouldn't know the Holy Grail from a
Dixie cup.) In the universe that Brewster came from,
alchemists were wizards of a sort who played with rather
primitive chemistry sets and sought the secret of changing
base metals into gold. This was known as the secret of the
Philosopher's Stone. (Don't ask why they referred to it this
way, your narrator hasn't the faintest idea. Perhaps they
thought that if they found just the right rock to toss into the
athanor, this would turn the trick. Who knows?)

In any case, in this particular universe, gold was so
common as to be relatively worthless. It could be found
lying around all over the place, in almost every streambed
and rock formation, and while it was rather pretty, it wasn't
valuable at all. It was often used for plates and goblets and
women sometimes used it for junk jewelry. (If Brewster had
been less preoccupied, he might have noticed that his plate,
his utensils, his teacup, and his saucer were all made of
hammered gold, but then he hadn't noticed that the sun rose
in the west and set in the east, either, which was definitely
not the way things normally occurred.

The point being, in Mick's universe, the secret of the
Philosopher's Stone did not refer to turning base metals into
gold at all, because there was already plenty of the stuff
around. The secret was jealously protected by the elite of
the Sorcerers and Adepts Guild (commonly known as the

The Kchictant Sorcerer • 49

Guild or, simply, SAG). It involved a series of rather crude
laboratory procedures and a whole slew of complicated
incantations, die result of which was the creation of the
most valuable metal in all the twenty-seven kingdoms—nick-
allirium.

Nickallirium was me rarest and most precious of all
metals, since only sorcerers who were master alchemists
could make it. Its chief virtues were that it was very light
and strong, resistant to corrosion, and could easily be
worked. It had a silvery color and was used chiefly as a
medium of exchange. The coins made from nickallirium
were very light, a serious consideration in an economy
based entirely on cash and barter, and since only die elite of
me Sorcerers and Adepts Guild had the secret of the
Philosopher's Stone—that is, me secret of making nickallirium
from base metals—they consequently had a lot of pull.
(Monarchs had a tendency to be polite to wizards who could
not only cast nasty spells at them, but who held the reins of
the economy, as well. The combination was almost as
dangerous as a congressman who also happens to be a
lawyer.) As a result, the Guild was the single most powerful
body in all the twenty-seven kingdoms, rather like me
Teamsters.

The Guild was very protective of its power, and because
of this, they had a certain way of doing things. Only
dues-paying members of the Guild were entitled to represent
themselves as sorcerers or adepts, and not just anyone could
join. To begin with, a Guild member had to be human.
(This was not actually written in the bylaws, as SAG did not
wish to be accused of prejudice, but in practice, that was
how it worked.) A prospective Guild member had to demon-
strate a working knowledge of magic. (There was a test,
complete with multiple choice and essay questions, at (he
end of which there was a lab quiz.) A prospective Guild

I   50 • Simon Hawke

 member also had to have a sponsor who was already a

dues-paying member of SAG, and he or she had to have

    served a period of apprenticeship with said sponsor, the
    duration of which was up to the sponsor's discretion. (In
other words, you couldn't take the test until your sponsor
decided you were ready.)

Ranking in the Guild was determined solely by the Guild
Council, elected by master members of the Guild for life.
(Rather like being a Supreme Court justice. Elections were
held only when there was a vacancy, and a vacancy occurred
only when there was a death. However, that happened fairly
frequently, as the master members of the Guild were nothing
if not competitive.) And the most jealously guarded secret
of the Guild was the secret of the Philosopher's Stone.

The only way to leam the secret was to discover it for
yourself and demonstrate it to the Council's satisfaction,
which resulted in elevation to the rank of master alchemist
and an appointment to the Ways and Means Committee.
Only a mere handful of people knew the secret and Mick
realized that if he was able to discover it, then according to
their own bylaws, there was no way the Guild could deny
him membership, even if he wasn't human. And more than
anything, Mick longed to be a master alchemist.

The way Mick saw it, if he could convince Brewster to
take him on as an apprentice, then he would have a sponsor,
and that would get him over the first hurdle. Once Brewster
accepted him as an apprentice, then perhaps he'd help him
leam the secret of the Philosopher's Stone, which Mick was
certain Brewster knew. And, in fact, he did. Brewster knew
what nickallirium was, you see. He merely knew it by
another name.
Aluminum.

Which explains why Mick was now staring at him with
absolutely stunned, slack-jawed astonishment as Brewster

The Reluctant Sorcerer • 51

removed a splinter he'd picked up in his palm from the
rough surface of the wooden table. Mick was staring at his
little tweezers, you see. Little tweezers made out of pure
nickallirium, the rarest and most precious metal in the
universe. (Mick's universe, that is. The mind boggles at
what his reaction might have been if he could have seen a
recycling compactor.) Moreover, these little tweezers had
been produced out of a peculiar object the like of which
Mick had never seen before in all his life. The peculiar
object was Brewster's trusty little Swiss Army knife.

Now, to those of you who might be among the uninitiated
few, those poor, deprived souls who have never had the
pleasure of owning a genuine Swiss Army knife, it should
be said that a Swiss .Army knife is unquestionably one of me
crowning achievements of human civilization. (They make
neat little Christmas presents, too.) However, this is the sort
of realization one comes to gradually.

A gift of a Swiss Army knife to someone who has never
owned one before is quite likely to result in raised eyebrows
and a somewhat awkward, "Oh. Gee... thanks. I've... uh
... always wanted one of these." To which the correct
response should be, "You're very welcome," and a know-
ing little smile. Because, you see, such an individual has
not yet been enlightened. But enlightenment will come,
don't worry. It may come soon, or it may take a little time,
especially if the recipient of this bountiful gift thoughtlessly
tucks it away inside a purse or a desk drawer and forgets
about it for a while. However, it will come eventually, for
sooner or later, that Swiss Army knife will be remembered
and its skills brought into play.

Perhaps, as in Brewster's case at the moment, it will take
a splinter that one needs tweezers to remove. Perhaps a cord
on a package will need cutting, or a screw will require
tightening when there is no toolbox handy, or a toothpick




52 • Simon Hawke

will be needed when there aren't any around, or there will
arise a need for a handy pair of scissors and there will be no
scissors to be found... but wait! Wasn't there a scissor
blade on that Swiss Army knife? And then, once a person
realizes just how useful this marvelous little piece of cutlery
can be, they will never want to be without it.

They might even go out and buy a second one, with a
different set of blades, because the one they've got doesn't
have a saw or a magnifying glass, and there may arise a
need to keep another in the toolbox or the kitchen drawer,
one for the office, a tiny one to keep on a key chain, and so
forth, until one is the proud owner of several of these
wonderful contraptions and comes to a true appreciation of
just how practical and useful they can be.

And then, when the ultimate stage of enlightenment is
achieved, that individual starts handing out Swiss Army
knives as gifts to friends and relatives, who will probably
respond with raised eyebrows and an awkward, "Oh.
Gee... thanks. I've... uh... always wanted one of these."
But then, such is the nature of the benefits of advanced
civilization. One doesn't always recognize them at first.

(You might think the preceding was a rather long and
pointless expository lump, but rest assured, it wasn't. Actu-
ally, it was an intrusive narrative aside, but we'll leave such
technical terms for graduate students and people who write
literary criticism. The point is, it had a purpose. Quite aside
from the fact that your narrator happens to be fond of
knives, due to a rather troubled childhood, Swiss Army
knives and the enlightening effect they have on people play
an important part in Brewster's story. Remember, always
trust your narrator.)

Now, where were we?

Oh, right. Brewster is sitting at a decimated smorgasbord
and trying to remove a splinter from his palm with his trusty

The Reluctant Sorcerer • 53

little pair of tweezers, while Mick is watching with amaze-
ment. Onward...

"There, that's got it," Brewster said, plucking out the
splinter with his tweezers. He glanced up at Mick, saw the
expression on his face, and frowned. "What is it?"

"Faith, and I was about to ask you that very thing," said
Mick. "A wee pair of tongs, is it?"

"Oh, you mean these?" said Brewster. "They're called
tweezers."

"Why?"

Brewster frowned again. "I'm not sure, exactly. Perhaps
because women used them to pluck out their eyebrows."

Mick raised his. "What?"

"It was called tweezing, I think," said Brewster, uncer-
tain because etymology was not his field of expertise,
either. It occurred to him that for a scientist there was an
awful lot of stuff he didn't know, but then, for a scientist,
that sort of thought tends to be reassuring.

"Women actually do that in your Ing Land?" Mick said
with amazement. "Whatever would a woman want to pluck
her eyebrows out for?"

"Well, it used to be the fashion," Brewster replied. "But
eyebrows are back in style again." He frowned. "Or at least
they will be, in another few thousand years or so."

"Faith, and I've never heard the like of it!" said Mick.
"But why is it that you have such a large sheath for such a
wee little pair of tongs?"

"Hmmm?" said Brewster. "Oh, you mean this thing?"
He smiled. "It's not a sheath. It's a Swiss Army knife."

He passed it across the table to Mick.

Now, this wasn't one of the cheaper models, but a deluxe
one, with two regular knife blades, a screwdriver, a can
opener, a bottle opener, a saw, a magnifying glass, a
scissors, an awl, a corkscrew, a toothpick, and, of course,

54 • Simon Hawke

tweezers. In other words, the whole shebang. It had red
plastic handles with the authentic Swiss cross emblem on
one side that marked it as the genuine article. Mick,
naturally, took it to be Brewster's crest.

He turned the knife over and over in his hands, and being
both an armorer and a leprechaun, as well as an amateur
alchemist (in other words, a fairly clever fellow), it didn't
take him very long to figure out how it worked. He opened
it and stared at each blade with speechless wonder.

One of the reasons for his speechlessness was the sheer
ingenuity of the thing. As an armorer, he was immediately
able to grasp its practicality. The other reason for his
astonishment, aside from the tweezers made of nickallirium,
was the material the blades were made of. Being an armor-
er, Mick knew a great deal about blades of all sorts. Most of
his were made of iron, some were made of bronze, and a
few—a very few—were made of steel. However, this was
steel of a sort known in Brewster's universe as Damascus
steel, highly prized for its strength and ability to hold an
edge, and because it was so difficult to make. It took a
master swordmaker, and a great deal of time, involving
endless folding of the metal and lots of hammering and
quenching and stuff like that (put it this way, it was compli-
cated), and the result was a thing of beauty, a tempered
blade that had colorful ripples running through it, due to the

folding and layering process.

However, Brewster's knife was made of stainless steel,
and consequently, there were no ripples in the surface of the
blades. They were bright and smooth and sharp and shiny,
which baffled Mick completely. No matter how closely he
looked at the metal, he could not detect the slightest ripple
or discoloration. He was thunderstruck.

"Truly, 'tis a thing of beauty!" he said with awe as he
held the knife up to the light coming through the window.

The Reluctant Sorcerer • 55

"See how it gleams! I have never seen such craft in all my
days! Who made this wondrous many-bladed knife for
you?"

"Victorinox," said Brewster absently, taking a sip of tea.

"Then, truly, this Victorinox must be the greatest armorer
in all the world!" said Mick as he stared at the knife with
reverential respect. "Nay, no mere armorer, but a true artist!
Oh, would that I could leam how to craft such a wondrous
blade!"

"Oh, it shouldn't be really all that difficult," said Brewster
casually.

Mick stared at him with disbelief. "Not difficult! Meanin'
no offense, Doc, but I do not think you understand what it
means to forge a blade. And a blade such as this..." Mick
shook his head with humble admiration. "I know of no
armorer anywhere in the twenty-seven kingdoms who could
make such a blade!"

Brewster shrugged as he poured himself another cup of
tea. "Well, I'm sure you're right, Mick, but it's just a
matter of knowing how, you see. It really wouldn't be that
complicated, actually." He pursed his lips, thoughtfully.
"Of course, mass production would be rather difficult, but
on a limited scale... why, yes, I don't see why it couldn't
be done. The work would all have to be done by hand, of
course, so it would be somewhat more time consuming, but
not at all impossible."

Mick looked very dubious, but he also suddenly looked
very interested. "You mean to tell me. Doc, that you would
know how to make a many-bladed knife such as this?"

"Well, I'm not an armorer," Brewster admitted, "but
then again, you are, and what I lack in specific knowledge
of that craft, you could undoubtedly supply. Actually, it
should prove rather interesting, as we would each bring
certain skills to the project that the other could benefit from.




56 • Simon Hawke

Hmmmm. As to making the steel itself, we probably couldn't
match it exactly, because the manufacture of stainless steel
would require a certain percentage of nickel, molybdenum,
and chromium, which I rather doubt we could get our hands
on, frankly, but although the technology of this era is
primitive and crude, we do have the essentials."

Brewster scratched his head absently as he considered the
problem, while Mick watched and listened with growing
interest.

"You already have pig iron," said Brewster, "I saw
plenty of it in your smithy. And you have the basic knowl-
edge, if you work with iron and bronze, and you have a
forge... well, for our purposes, we'd need to make some
modifications."

He scratched his head again and thought about it for a
moment. "We would require, I think, a double action
bellows, which we would need to power somehow... perhaps
if there's a river or a stream nearby, we could harness water
power. Of course, the bellows would have to be quite large,
so we'd probably need more room than you've got in your
smithy at the moment, but once we've got that, we could
use the bellows to pump air by piston through a pipe up to
the crucible. We'd have to construct some sort of ceramic
pipe, I should imagine... And using coke for fuel, we
should be able to melt the pig iron at fairly high tempera-
tures, then add lime to remove the,impurities, blow air over
it to remove the carbon, pour it out into the proper molds... I
imagine a wood mold would work reasonably well, not
ideal, perhaps, but it should do... and then it would be
merely a matter of finishing the blade, which means we'd
have to polish and sharpen it before it's tempered, that way
you wouldn't break the crystals when you sharpened it, you
see, and it would hold an edge better. Then we heat it up
again and drop it in oil, followed by a final polish to remove

The Reluctant Sorcerer • 57

the oil from the top layer... which means we'd probably
need a wheel, I suppose .. . and what we'd get should be a
pretty good grade of steel. Of course, it would rust unless it
were properly taken care of, but otherwise, it would be just
about the same. We'd simply use different molds for the
desired blade shapes and flat springs, then rivet the pieces
together, come up with some kind of suitable material for
the handles... and there you'd have it."

Mick stared at him with new respect as Brewster, the
problem theoretically solved, removed his pipe from his
jacket pocket and started filling it with tobacco.

"You never said you were a smith, as well!" said Mick
with amazement.

"Well, I'm not," said Brewster, "but we're really only
dealing with some basic principles here. You'd know about
the smithing part, and the rest of it would simply be a
matter of some elementary engineering."

"And you could show me how to perform this... engi-
neerin'?" Mick said, thinking it must be some sort of spell.

"No problem," Brewster said. He patted his pockets for
his lighter, but apparently, he had either forgotten it or lost it
in the crash.

"Allow me," said Mick, who was picking his teeth with
a sharpened twig. While Brewster continued searching his
pockets for the lighter, Mick held the twig out, mumbled a
fire spell, and the twig burst into flame.

"Oh, thanks," said Brewster absently, drawing on the
pipe as Mick held the burning twig to the tobacco.

The Reluctant Sorcerer • 59

CHAPTER
FOUR

By now, you're probably thinking. Now wait a minute...
Doesn't Brewster realize that by introducing technology into
the past, much less into an entirely different universe, he's
interfering with history and incurring all the risks that
implies?

Well, in a word, no.

For one thing, Brewster still hasn't figured out that he's in
another universe. (Give him time. He's actually doing pretty
well, all things considered.) For another, scientists often
tend to be rather literal-minded, and when presented with a
problem, they simply consider that problem in terms of a
solution. (Remember the Manhattan Project?)

Scientists love problems, and Brewster was certainly no
exception. He became caught up in Mick's enthusiasm and
did not really pause to consider all the ramifications of what
he was about to do. This is not at all unusual. It is
extremely doubtful that Dr. Victor Frankenstein, for in-
stance, paused to consider all the ramifications of creating
life before he embarked upon his famous project. (For that
matter, some people argue that the Creator did not really
58

pause to consider all the ramifications of creating life. Such
people are called philosophers.) In any case, it never even
occurred to Brewster that he might be meddling with histo-
ry, or playing around with things "man was not meant to
know," or any of that negative existential stuff. Like count-
less scientists and tinkerers before him, who might have
thought twice had they paused to consider what innovations
such as television, nuclear energy, or microchips might lead
to, he simply considered the problem in terms of a solution,
scratched his head, and solved it.

In theory, that is.

In practice, of course, it was somewhat more complicat-
ed, and the moment Brewster realized that Mick was seri-
ously interested in actually doing it, why then, it became
another interesting problem—the problem of putting theory
into practice, which is something else scientists dearly love
to do. They will blissfully go through life solving problem
after problem, something they have in common with engi-
neers, and as long as they're kept busy, they'll be happy.
(Trust me, you really don't want to have scientists with
nothing but time on their hands. When that happens, they
start writing novels.)

The immediate problem, of course, was finding a suitable
location for the project, as Mick's smithy—despite being
built to accommodate his normal-sized customers—was much
too small. Mick, however, had a perfect solution to the
problem.

"I know just the place," he said as they walked the trail
leading out from behind his little cottage to the foothills.
"As it happens, I'd already considered offerin' its use to
you."

He paused to yank on the rope he held in his hand.
Tethered at the other end of the rope was the little peregrine
bush. Brewster had never seen anyone walk a bush on a




60 • Simon Hawke The Reluctant Sorcerer • 61

leash before, but Mick explained that he did it every day.
Most of the time, he kept the bush inside the smithy, where
he was afraid it did not get enough light. Taking it for walks
helped, but Mick had to use the leash, not so much because
he was afraid the bush would wander off, for it didn't move
too quickly, but because it had a tendency to burrow its
roots into the ground if left alone and then it was a pain to
dig it up again.

"You never know," said Mick, once he got the bush
moving again, "it might take a while to find this other
missin' magic chariot of yours, and while I would be
honored to have you for a house guest, my humble cottage
is really much too small for your proper comfort and the
smithy wouldn't do at all, y'see. Nay, I have just the place
in mind. My laboratory would suit our purpose admirably, I
think."

Brewster's ears perked up and he stopped on the trail.
"Excuse me, but did you say... laboratory?"

"Aye," Mick replied, stopping as well. "I'm a student of
the art of alchemy, y'know. I thought I'd mentioned that."

"Oh. Well, you probably did," said Brewster. "You'll
have to excuse me, I tend to be a bit distracted sometimes."

"Sure, and I understand," said Mick. "A man like
yourself has a great many important things to think about."

There was a scratching sort of sound and Mick gave the
rope another violent tug. "Don't you start!" he snapped as
the bush started burrowing its roots into the ground. "Stop
that, you miserable shrub!"

The bush stopped its burrowing and its leaves seemed to
droop.

"I've never seen anything like that," Brewster said,
watching the peregrine bush with fascination.

"Bloody stupid sprout," Mick mumbled irritably, giving
the rope another tug.

Unaccountably, Brewster found himself feeling sorry for
the bush. "There, that's all right," he said in a soothing
tone as he leaned over the bush. "He didn't really mean it."

"Sure, and you don't think it understands you?" Mick
said, looking at Brewster with a puzzled expression. "It's
just a bloody bush, y'know."

"Well, maybe not," said Brewster, "but Pamela always
speaks kindly to her plants and they seem to grow very
nicely for her."

"I never heard of such a thing," said Mick. "Pamela. Is
she your wench?"

"Aye," said Brewster. "Uh, that is, I mean, yes, she's
my fiancee."

"Well, fancy or not, I've never met a wench yet who
spoke to plants and trees and such, unless she was a dryad.
Is she a dryad, then?"

"No, she's Protestant."

"Faith, and I don't envy you, if she goes around protestin'
and wearin' masks and speakin' to shrubbery. Still," he
added hastily, not wishing to give offense, "I'm sure she
has other fine and admirable qualities."

"Uh...yes," said Brewster, deciding to change the
subject. "Look, when you say 'laboratory,' what exactly do
you mean? What sort of laboratory?"

"Oh, y'know, the place where I keep all my alchemical
apparatus," Mick replied. "My athanor, my potions, my
tinctures and instruments and furnace, all that sort of thing."

"Ah, I see," said Brewster, not really seeing at all. "But
you do have a furnace?" That part, at least, he understood.

"Oh, aye," said Mick. "And there's a stream runnin'
past it, out back, which you said you required."

"Hmmm," said Brewster, mulling this information over
as they walked the path through the tiny woods. The bush
rustled along behind them, and perhaps Brewster only




62 • Simon Hawke The Reluctant Sorcerer • 63

imagined it, but it seemed to him that its leaves had perked
up a bit after he'd spoken nicely to it. "Exactly how far
away from your laboratory is this stream?"

"Oh, it's right there, as soon as you poke your head out
the back door," said Mick. "At one time, a wizard must
have made his home there, for when I found it, the alchemical
apparatus was still there, only all put away inside a storage
chamber where it was gatherin' dust. At some time after the
wizard left, y'see, somebody came along and decided the
place would make a fine location for a mill, so they took all
the alchemical apparatus and put it away. Probably afraid to
muck about with it too much. Then they went and built
themselves a water wheel and set up the grindin' stone
and—"

"What's that? You say there's a water wheel?" Brewster
interrupted with sudden interest. He'd been getting a bit lost
with all this talk of alchemy and wizards.

"Oh, aye," said Mick. "Great, big, bloody thing. Had to
be big to turn the millstone, y'see."

"Hmmm. What kind of condition is it in?" asked Brewster.
"I mean, is it still in a decent state of repair?"

"Oh, aye, that it is," said Mick with an emphatic nod.
"I open up the sluice gate and give it a go when it comes
harvest time. McMurphy and the other farmers hereabouts
bring me their grain to mill in exchange for some of their
produce. Whoever built it did a right proper job, they did.
Redwood construction, through and through. Good crafts-
manship, and that redwood lasts forever, y'know."

"Hmmm," said Brewster. "How much farther is it?"

"Oh, it's right up ahead," said Mick, "just around the
next bend."

They turned a bend in the trail and came to a large
clearing. Brewster stopped short and simply stared. "Good
Lord," he said. "Will you look at that?"

"Aye, but I've already seen it, y'know," Mick replied,
somewhat puzzled.

Standing at the far end of the clearing, not quite fifty
yards away, was an old stone keep built somewhat in the
Norman style. There were remnants of a wall running
around it, but most of the wall had long since crumbled, or
perhaps been battered down at some point in the past. The
ruins of it were not much more than waist high except in
one or two places. Beyond the wall was the keep itself,
dominated by a square stone tower that stood four stories
high, with crenellations at the top.

Attached to the tower was a lower structure only one
story high, also constructed of stone, with a flat roof. The
shape of the entire keep was that of an "L" lying on its
side. Built onto the side of the lower structure, where the
stream had been channeled to run past it, was a gigantic
wooden water wheel. At one time, there must have been a
moat around the walls, drawing its water from the stream,
but it had been filled in at some point, perhaps when the
keep had been converted to a mill and there was no more
use for it.

"Why, it's wonderful!" said Brewster, thinking that it
looked rather like a small-scale version of Frankenstein's
castle.

Mick beamed. "I'm pleased you like it," he replied. "Of
course, 'tis a wee bit tumble-down in spots, but some fixin'
up and it should be as good as new. I haven't put much
work in it, y'see. Still, the tower would make a right fine
residence, it would. Runnin' water, nice property, and a
pretty good view, to boot. Care to have a look inside?"

"Oh, absolutely," Brewster said, his enthusiasm mounting.

They crossed the clearing and went through the space in
the ruins of the wall where the gates must have once been.
Brewster could see from the unevenness of the ground




64 • Simon Hawke

where the moat had been filled in. Much of the grounds of
the keep were overgrown, with tall grass and bushes and a
few young saplings here and there. As they approached,
Brewster could see that the structure, while obviously neglected
for some years, nevertheless appeared to be quite sound.

The stream running past the keep and around behind it
was actually a good-sized creek running down from the
mountains, and the water babbled swiftly along the rocky
streambed. The huge wooden water wheel stood still and
Brewster could see that the sluice gate controlling the flow
to it was closed. But what struck him most was the color of
the wheel itself.

"Why is it red?" he asked, puzzled.

Mick raised his eyebrows. "Why, because 'tis redwood,"
he replied. "I thought I'd mentioned that."

Brewster frowned. "So you did," he admitted.

He moved up for a closer look and saw that the wheel
was neither stained nor painted, for neither would have held
up over time, but that the wood itself seemed to be naturally
red. A sort of bright crimson color, and rather attractive,
too.

"Redwood," he mumbled to himself.

"Aye, sure," said Mick, noticing the way Brewster was
staring at the wheel. "We're in the middle of a whole forest
of it. Y'mean to tell me that you've never seen redwood
before? Doesn't redwood grow in Ing Land?"

Brewster frowned. "No, come to think of it, it doesn't."

He scratched his head. It seemed to him that the only
redwood forest he had ever heard of was in California. He
had been to California only twice, the first time to visit Los
Angeles for a conference at UCLA, and the second to visit
the Jet Propulsion Laboratories. He had never actually seen
a redwood tree, except in photographs. He recalled the trees
being seriously huge, and while the trees around them were,

The Reluctant Sorcerer • 65

indeed, extremely large and very tall, they looked more like
English oaks than redwoods.

He could not recall the wood underneath the bark of
redwood trees actually being red in color. Certainly, not that
shade of red. He was reasonably sure that it was only
vaguely reddish. This was quite a different hue, much
brighter, almost as red as blood.

"Hmmm," said Brewster, scratching his head some more.
"Strange."

"What?" Mick asked.

"Oh, nothing, I was merely thinking out loud," Brewster
said, deciding to mull things over for a while. He had
learned long ago that this was a good way to keep from
looking foolish.

Clearly, there were some puzzling aspects to this predica-
ment, but there was a lot he didn't really know yet. Such as
where he was, exactly, and what year it was, little things
like that. Make no conclusions until all the facts are in, he
reminded himself, recalling the words of his high school
physics teacher. Still, migratory bushes and redwood trees
in England? It certainly was puzzling. It made no sense
whatsoever. Perhaps he was in Ireland.

They went inside the keep for a look around and Brewster
felt as if he'd stepped onto a movie set. The first floor of the
tower was taken up by a large, open chamber that was a sort
of great hall, only it wasn't very great. It was rather
smallish. It had a beamed ceiling and a stone floor, and the
walls were also made of stone, of course. It had a huge
fireplace and a thirty-foot ceiling, taking up the first two
stories of the tower.

There was a second inner wall constructed about twelve
feet in from the outer wall, forming a corridor running all
the way around the main chamber. A large archway led to
the lower structure attached to the tower. The inner corridor

66 • Simon Hawke

gave access to two flights of stone steps, one near the front
and one at the back, which led up to a gallery that ran all
the way around the main chamber, where the second floor
would have been. There were several small archways lead-
ing from the corridor on the first floor to the main chamber.
The archways on the gallery were roughly in line with the
small, high windows in the outer wall, allowing some light
to reach the main chamber. Still, it was rather dark and
gloomy. There were sconces in the wall for torches, with the
walls above and behind them blackened by flames.

The furnishings were rather Spartan, merely a couple of
long, heavy wooden tables and benches made from planks,
with a third, smaller table and bench on a slightly raised
stone dais near the far wall. Brewster ran his finger through
the thick layer of dust on one of the tables.

"As I said, I haven't really done much to the place," said
Mick. "Hardly ever come in here. Spend most of my time
in the laboratory, y'know."

"Can we see that next?" asked Brewster.
"Sure, and I'd be proud to show it to you," Mick said.
They went through the large archway into the lower
structure, which was divided into three smaller chambers.
The first and largest held the millstone, which was driven
by a primitive pair of large wooden gear wheels. One
wooden gear wheel was mounted vertically, on a large
wooden shaft that was turned directly by the water wheel.
Its heavy wooden pegs meshed with the second gear wheel,
which was mounted horizontally on the shaft that turned the
millstone. It was engineering at its most basic, Brewster
noted, but it worked.

The second chamber held Mick's laboratory, which bore
no resemblance whatsoever to any laboratory Brewster had
ever seen. There were several long wooden tables made of
planks, with benches and small stools behind them, and the

The Reluctant Sorcerer    67

walls were lined with crudely constructed wooden shelves
that held small ceramic pots, cloudy glass jars of various
shapes and sizes, and a wide assortment of metallic vessels.
There were glass pipettes and blocks, a stock of bronze and
pig iron, some gold and silver ingots, and a wide variety of
mineral samples of all sorts. One entire section of shelving
appeared to be full of nothing but rocks and crystals.

The tops of the tables were cluttered with more of these
mineral samples, more glass and ceramic jars, blackened
iron pots and kettles and various utensils, and iron dishes in
which the residue of partially burned substances resided like
solidified sludge. There were several small hand bellows for
puffing air onto the flames of whatever noxious mixtures
Mick burned in those pots and kettles and there were
mortars and pestles for grinding things up into a powder.

The floor of the "laboratory," aside from being littered
with the debris of Mick's experiments, was almost completely
covered with wooden buckets and wicker baskets full of
dirt-encrusted rocks of all kinds, scummy water and broken
glass and pot shards. There was a crude, heavy furnace in
one comer and a small writing table with a slanted top and
little cubbyholes containing rolled up vellum scrolls. There
was also a large, iron-banded wooden chest with a crude-
looking lock on it placed against the back wall. It looked
just like the chests pirates often used for buried treasure.

"Well, what do you think?" asked Mick, picking his way
through the clutter to the center of the room, where he stood
proudly and possessively, with his hands on his hips.

Brewster wasn't quite sure what to say. "It's, uh... certainly
impressive."

Mick beamed.

"It looks like you've been busy," Brewster added.

"Haven't had all that much success, really," Mick said.
"Still, I come here every chance I have and putter about."

68 • Simon Hawke The Reluctant Sorcerer • 69

"What have you got locked up in the chest?" asked
Brewster.

"Don't really know," Mick replied with a shrug. "I've
never had it open. Don't have the key, y'know, and 'tis a
shame to break open a perfectly good lock. Aside from that,
you never know what might be in there. If a wizard goes
and locks something up, perhaps it should remain that

way."

"Mmmm," said Brewster, thinking that the primitive
lock really wouldn't be very difficult to pick.

"You'll most likely find all you need here," Mick said
proudly.

Brewster glanced about dubiously. "No doubt," he said,
not wishing to hurt Mick's feelings. "Should we see the rest
of the place?"

The third and final chamber was largely empty except for
a number of large wooden casks stacked up against the wall
and a huge, flame-blackened iron kettle.

"This is where I store the wine," Mick explained. "Not
much left now. These casks are mostly empty. Brigands took
almost the entire last batch I brewed. Seems I can never
make enough."

"How do you make it?" Brewster asked.

"Ah, well, I cook up the roots in that big kettle there until
I have a good mash," Mick explained. "Then I let it cool
and add a bit o' the last batch to get things started. I put it in
the casks and store it in a root cellar I have out back, by the
stream, where it keeps nice and cool. In the winter, I take it
out and open up the casks, so I can skim the ice off the top
each momin' till it doesn't freeze, and then 'tis done."

"Hmmm, your basic cold brewing," Brewster said. "It
must be very time consuming."

"Aye, but 'tis the only way," said Mick.

"Well, actually, there's a much easier way," Brewster
replied. "You could make a still."

"A still what?" asked Mick.

"No, still is what it's called," Brewster explained. He
saw Mick's frown and added, "It's short for distillery... an
apparatus for brewing. It would greatly speed up the process
and allow you to have a greater yield."

"Would it now?" said Mick with interest. "And how
does one construct such an apparatus?"

"Well..." Brewster scratched his head and thought a
moment. "I suppose we could make a fairly primitive,
albeit functional, still without too much difficulty. We'd
need a big metal pot... like that big kettle there... and
then we'd need a smaller pot that could fit inside it, with
pegs to keep it off the bottom, and a heavy lid, so we could
put water in the big pot around it. Now in this lid, we'd
have to have a piece of copper tubing... well, that could
pose a problem, but I suppose we could fashion some, if we
had the copper..."

"Aye, I have plenty of copper," Mick said excitedly.
"Go on. What then?"

"Well, we'd make a tube rising up from the lid for, oh,
about a foot or so, maybe a little more"—Brewster indicat-
ed the approximate measurement by holding his hands
apart—"and at the top we would attach a second piece of
tubing that's been wound in a coil. We would have water
pouring over this coiled tubing... I suppose something as
simple as a couple of leaky buckets would do the trick... and
at the bottom of the coil, we'd stretch it out and run it into a
container. You'd heat the water in the big pot, only you
wouldn't want it to boil, you understand, just keep it warm
and steaming, so it condenses out. That way, you could
make your brew anytime you wanted, and you could make a
lot more of it, and in a lot less time."




70 Simon Hawke

"S'trewth!" said Mick. "And you could show me how to
make such a still apparatus?"

Brewster shrugged. "I don't see why not. It really isn't
very complicated."

"Sure, and 'twould be a great boon to me if you could
teach me this thing," Mick said with wonder. "And we'd
split the profits, of course."

"Well, I'm not really interested in that," Brewster said.
"It's the least I could do to repay you for your hospitality.
And if you can help me find my other, uh, magic chariot...."

"I'll see to it the word is spread," Mick assured him
emphatically. "In the meantime, you'll need a proper place
to stay. Come on, then, I'll show you the rest o' the place."

They went back into the main chamber, where Mick tied
the bush to one of the bench legs. Brewster followed him up
the flight of steps to the gallery, then on to the third floor.
There wasn't very much to see. A large room with a wood
plank floor laid over the beams, another fireplace, another
crudely made wooden table and two benches, and some
ancient, torn, and moth-eaten tapestries hanging on the
walls. There were mouse droppings on the floor and lots of
cobwebs.

"Very nice," said Brewster with a wan grimace.

"Oh, perhaps 'tisn't much now," said Mick placatingly,
"but a bit of cleanin' up and some new wall hangin's and
you'd be surprised at what a difference 'twould make."

"I'm sure," said Brewster dubiously.

"And now, the top floor," Mick said, heading for the
stairs.

"Penthouse suite," Brewster mumbled as he followed
Mick.

The fourth floor of the tower was also a large, open room,
similar to the one below, only with one difference. It had a

The Reluctant Sorcerer • 71

bed. Or rather, what was left "of one, which was little more
than a crude, dilapidated wooden frame.

"All the comforts of home," Brewster mumbled.

"I can fix up that bed as good as new, never fear," Mick
assured him. "But look at the view, eh?"

Brewster looked out the window. "Very nice."

" Tis even better up top," said Mick.

"Up top?"

"Aye, come on," said Mick, going up a narrow flight of
stone steps at the back of the room.

Brewster followed him up to the top of the tower and out
onto the battlement.

"Well, it is a rather nice view," Brewster admitted,
looking out over the wall. "And I can see company coming."

"Aye, you can easily see anyone approachin' from up
here," said Mick.

"No, I mean I can see company coming, right now,"
Brewster said, pointing.

Mick looked in the direction he was indicating, where
two figures had just come out of the woods and were
crossing the clearing.

"Sure, and 'tis Robie McMurphy, as I live and breathe,"
he said with a frown. "And that great, big, lumberin' oaf
with him can be none other than Bloody Bob. Ach! He'll be
needin' a new sword again, I'll wager. This'll be the fourth
time since last winter."

The two figures stopped just inside the ruins of the wall
and the man Mick identified as Bloody Bob put his cupped
hands up to his mouth and called out in a deep basso voice
that was loud enough to raise the dead, "Ey, Mick! Mick
O'Fallon!"

"Come on, then," Mick said with a sigh. "We'd best get
down there before that great oaf's yellin' makes the mortar
crack."

72 Simon Hawke

They hurried downstairs.

"Best let me do most o' the talkin'," Mick said as they
descended the stairs. "Bobby's got himself a nasty temper,
he has. Tis on account of his infirmity, y'see. Best make no
mention of it."

"What sort of infirmity?" asked Brewster.

"He's blind as a bat, he is," Mick replied. "Bob was a
fearsome warrior in his time, y'see, but now Tie's with the
brigands. Still strong as a bull, but he's gettin' on and he
doesn't see so well now, though he flat refuses to admit it.
Goes around squintin' all the time and knockin' into trees,
then challengin' them to fight him. Can't see much past his
big red nose."

"So then he's nearsighted?" Brewster said.

"Aye, I suppose 'tis one way you can put it," Mick
agreed, having never heard the term before. "Sees only
what's near him, and that none too well. But makin'
mention of it only goads him to a bloody fury, and that's
right dangerous. But he'll suffer more from me than others,
on account of I make wine for the brigands and they need
my services as an armorer, y'see. Especially old Bob. He's
one of my best customers, though 'tis a cryin' shame the
way he keeps losin' the perfectly good swords I make for
him."

By this time, they'd reached the ground floor and come
out through the front door. Standing a short distance in front
of them were Robie McMurphy and the biggest, most
fearsome-looking man Brewster had ever seen.

Bloody Bob stood close to seven feet tall and weighed
three hundred pounds or more. His chest was massive, his
arms were huge, and his girth was considerable, as well.
His physical dimensions were formidable enough, but his
appearance made him look even more frightening. Most of
his face was covered by a huge gray beard and his graying

The Reluctant Sorcerer • 73

hair was worn down to his shoulders. He had a weathered,
ruddy complexion and a large scar on the side of his face,
partly hidden by the beard. His hands were huge, easily
twice the size of Brewster's, and looked perfectly capable of
crushing skulls. He wore chain mail over a leather jerkin, a
metal helmet with a spike on top, old buckskin trousers, and
knee-high, laced leather moccasins. Brewster thought he
looked like a cross between a Viking and a Hell's Angel.

"McMurphy said you might be here, Mick," rumbled
Bloody Bob.

"Aye, I'm here," said Mick. "What is it you'll be
needin' from me?"

The huge man looked a bit embarrassed as he towered
over little Mick. He shuffled a foot and cleared his throat, a
sound similar to that made by a bear with a lousy disposition.

"I'll be needin' a new sword, Mick."

"And what happened to the last one that I made for
you?" Mick asked, a touch belligerently.

"Uh... somebody must have stolen it."

"Stolen it, you say? And who, might I ask, would have
the temerity to steal from a great, big, overblown bear such
as yourself, eh?"

"I dunno, Mick. If I'd have caught the blackguard, I'd
have torn him limb from limb, I would have, but 'twas
some dastardly footpad made off with it."

"A footpad, was it? The last time 'twas a burglar, was it
not?"

"Aye, a burgler," the big man said, nodding emphatically.

"And what might be the difference 'twixt a footpad and a
burglar?"

Bloody Bob frowned. "Well, uh... one's a footpad... and
one's a burglar."

"Aye, and the last time before that 'twas-a thief."

"Uh ... I believe 'twas, aye."




74 • Simon Hawke

"A thief, and then a burglar, and then a footpad," Mick
said sarcastically. "You seem to be plagued by criminals
these days. Faith, and I don't know what the world is
comin' to when you can't even trust your fellow brigands."

"Aye, 'tis a terrible thing," said Bob, nodding.

"Oh, come on now, Bobby, tell the truth," said Mick.
"You lost it again, didn't you?"

"Uh, no, Mick, 'twas a thief..."

"You mean a footpad."

"Aye, a footpad."

It seemed strangely incongruous and almost comical to
Brewster that such an imposing and fearsome-looking giant
should be so deferential to a man who barely stood higher
than his kneecaps, and yet Bloody Bob stood there, squinting
down and shuffling his foot in the dirt and looking very
much abashed.

"A footpad, my buttocks," Mick repeated wryly. He
sighed. "I don't know what I'm goin' to do with you,
Bobby. I keep makin' great big blades for you and you keep
losin' them. You know how much work goes into making a
sword for a great big oaf the likes of you?"

"I know, Mick, I know," Bloody Bob said apologetically.
"I'm right sorry about this, I am. But I'm needin' another
sword, Mick. Please?"

"Please, he says." Mick glanced over at Brewster with a
long-suffering expression. "What's a body to do. Doc,
eh?"

Bloody Bob peered around, squinting hard. "There some-
body with you, Mick? Where's he hidin'? Tell him to come
out, I won't be hurtin' him if he's a friend of yours."

"Why, he's standin' right in front of you, you great ox!"
said Mick with exasperation.

"Oh, so he is," said Bloody Bob, squinting even harder
and obviously not seeing a thing.

r

The Reluctant Sorcerer « 75

Mick rolled his eyes. "Say hallo to my friend, Brewster
Doc, Bob. And be civil about it, mind you."

"Pleased to meet you," Bloody Bob said, sticking out his
hand. The effect was somewhat spoiled by the fact that he
held his hand out in a direction about two feet to one side of
where Brewster was standing.

Brewster obligingly moved to where he could shake the
big man's hand. Once again, he was clasped around the
forearm instead of by the hand, and he returned the grip.

"He's a sorcerer," McMurphy whispered.

Immediately, Bloody Bob stiffened, and probably by
reflex, his grip on Brewster's arm briefly tightened to the
point of pain before he let go abruptly.

"A sorcerer!"

"Aye," said Mick, "so you be on your best behavior,
hear?"

"Call me Doc," said Brewster. "Could I ask you to bend
over a bit?"

Bloody Bob looked puzzled. "Bend over?"

"Yes, just bend down toward me a little."

"You won't be puttin' a spell on me, will you?"

"No, no, I just want to see something."

"Do as the man says, Bobby," Mick said, cleariy wondering
what Brewster had in mind.

Hesitantly, the big man bent down toward Brewster, who
reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and took out his
hom-rimmed glasses. He was nearsighted, as well, but
though he often wore contacts because Pamela liked him
better without his hom-rimmed frames, he never went
anywhere without his glasses. He'd lost his contacts on
more than one occasion.

He slipped the glasses onto Bloody Bob's face. "Try
that," he said.

The big man's eyes suddenly grew very wide and Brewster




76 • Simon Hawke

could see that they were a startling bright blue. Bloody
Bob's jaw dropped in amazement.

"S'trewth!" he exclaimed.

"Is that any better?" Brewster asked him.

"I can seel" said Bloody Bob, glancing all around him.

"How well?" asked Brewster. "I mean, is your vision
sharp now or are things a little vague and blurry?"

The big man gazed at him with awe. "I can see you well
enough. Sorcerer," he replied, "but in the distance, things
still look as if I'd had too much to drink. Yet, truly, I never
thought to see this well again! Tis a wonder to behold!"

He took off the glasses and held them gently, staring at
them reverently, then put them back on again and held his
breath with astonishment.

" 'Tis a magic visorV he said. "I would give anything
for such a wonder!"

"Well..." said Brewster, "that, uh, 'magic visor' is
mine, but I think we might be able to make you one of your
own. I saw some glass blocks in Mick's laboratory back
there, and if we could make the right sort of wheel, I could
try grinding up some lenses for you. It would have to be a
process of trial and error, you understand. We'll probably
have to make several pairs before we get it right, because
I'm not an optometrist and there's no way I can establish a
prescription. Still, with your help and a bit of luck, I'm sure
we could improve your vision beyond what it is now."

"And what would you be askin' of me for such a
wondrous boon?" asked Bloody Bob. "Name your price,
Sorcerer, and I shall pay it if it takes a lifetime!"

"Well..." said Brewster, "I'm a stranger here and, uh, I
could use some help..."

The giant dropped down to one knee and bowed his head.
"I will serve you faithfully, Great Wizard, if you would
help me to regain my sight."

The Reluctant Sorcerer • 77

"Sure, and I think you've made a friend for life, Doc,"
Mick said.

There was a clattering, banging sound and they turned to
see the peregrine bush come rustling out through the front
door, still tied to the wooden bench and dragging it along. It
came up to Brewster, stopped, and raised its branches
toward him.

"Two friends," said Mick wryly. "An ox and a shrub."

"Three," said Brewster, putting his hand on Mick's
shoulder.

"Nay, four!" said McMurphy.

Brewster grinned and clasped forearms with the farmer.
"Well, now we're getting somewhere," he said. "Come
on, then. We've got a lot of work to do!"

CHAPTER
FIVE

Arthur C. Clarke once said that any sufficiently advanced
technology would seem like sorcery to those who didn't
understand it. (That was only a paraphrase, of course.
Clarke said it a lot more elegantly, which is why he gets the
big bucks.) And it's quite true. It is an inescapable fact of
human nature that we often tend to fear that which we do
not understand, or at the very least, we respond to it with a
disquieting uneasiness. And it was with a disquieting uneas-
iness that Brewster's newfound friends regarded him, for
while he seemed to be a nice enough fella, he was also one
heck of an adept, as far as they were concerned. They knew
enough about adepts to treat them with respect. Even to fear
them. Some of them were downright terrifying.

Brewster didn't know it yet, but he was not the only
sorcerer around, even if he was the only one in the general
vicinity. (He had yet to leam about the Guild, but we're
getting ahead of the story again.) Mick, as we have seen,
has some slight skill with magic, but not because he is a
sorcerer (which requires years of disciplined study and
staying up nights cramming for exams). It's because he's

78

The Reluctant Sorcerer • 79

fey. This is a characteristic shared by all leprechauns and
nymphs and fairies (and to some extent, by elves), and it
does not, as is often supposed, refer to campy mannerisms,
but to being touched by enchantment. (If you don't believe
me, look it up. I'll wait.)

When a human is said to be fey, it means that person has
a sensitivity to things that are magical—which, perhaps, is
why some people see such things as ghosts and others don't.
Otherwise, the term means that enchantment is inherent in
the creature itself. Mick, being a leprechaun, possessed
some inborn magical abilities, but his abilities were little
more than parlor tricks compared to what a real sorcerer
could do. (Natural talent is all well and good, but it's no
substitute for hard work, training, and experience. So stay
in school, kids, do your homework, and don't goof off in
study hall. The preceding has been a public service message
from your narrator.)

Since he was unable to distinguish between sorcery and
science, Mick was convinced that Brewster's knowledge of
the thaumaturgic arts was quite extensive. Robie McMurphy
was equally impressed, but no one was more overwhelmed
than Bloody Bob, for in loaning him his glasses—or, as
Bloody Bob put it, his "magic visor"—Brewster had tem-
porarily restored to him his sight. As it happened, while
Brewster's prescription lenses were not exactly right for
Bloody Bob, they did improve his vision significantly. Of
course, in Bloody Bob's case, just about anything short of a
blindfold would have been a significant improvement.

Now, while Bloody Bob was not the brightest brigand in
the forest, by any stretch of the imagination, he was
undoubtedly the biggest and the strongest. In his younger
days, he had been a very famous warrior, feared and
respected throughout all the twenty-seven kingdoms. How-
ever, that was a long time ago and people have short




80 Simon Hawke The Reluctant Sorcerer 81

memories. (Just ask Mark Spitz.) The days when Bloody
Bob was eagerly sought after by every kingdom and duke-
dom and offered substantial salaries, profit sharing, great
benefits, and Beltane bonuses were long gone and now only
the old-timers remembered who he was. And most of them
thought that he was dead. He wasn't dead, but he had
foolishly neglected to put anything aside for his retirement.
This meant he had to work. Unfortunately, there wasn't
much work available for a man his age (which was probably
around sixty or so, he wasn't sure himself), nor for a man
who couldn't see the broad side of a bam, much less hit it.

This dearth of employment opportunities had left him
with few options. He had tried working as a bouncer in a
series of seedy little taverns, but due to his failing eyesight,
he kept bouncing the wrong people and was, in turn,
bounced himself (which resulted in a number of taverns
being forced to close down temporarily for renovation). Bob
had slowed down some in his old age, and he couldn't see
well, but he was still as strong as an elephant and he
angered quickly and easily. Pretty soon, word got around
and no one wanted to hire this nearsighted, albeit highly
dangerous, old man. So, having run out of options, Bloody
Bob turned to a life of crime.

He fell in with the Forest Brigands (back when they still
made their headquarters in the forest) and finally found a
situation where his abilities were properly appreciated. It
wasn't a great job, but it was okay. There wasn't very much
money to be made in the brigand trade, at least, not until
Black Shannon took over and brought her managerial skills
to the operation, but Bob was able to get by and he enjoyed
the camaraderie.

Brigands have always been, by nature, a rather rough-
and-tumble lot, and many of them were ex-warriors like
Bob, who were getting on in years, so they were able to

trade lots of old war stories. (In some cases, they'd fought
for opposing sides, but it was only business, so no one had
any hard feelings.) The younger brigands were generally
warrior wannabe types who'd failed to make the grade for
one reason or another, but they knew enough to show proper
respect to the old troopers. (And if they didn't, they general-
ly learned fairly quickly.) So, all things considered, Bloody
Bob was pretty happy with his lot in life. He could have
done much worse. However, his failing eyesight had been a
source of considerable anguish to him. (Imagine how you'd
feel if you could once bend a longbow and hit the bull's-eye
every time from a hundred yards, only now you couldn't
even see the target unless you were close enough to touch

it.)

Worst of all for Bloody Bob was the embarrassment, the
sheer mortification, of losing his swords. To a true warrior,
nothing was more important than his sword. He ate with it,
he slept with it, but he never, ever misplaced it. It was the
worst possible sin. And Bob had done it more than once. He
couldn't help it. He'd put his sword down somewhere and
then be unable to find it again because he couldn't see well
enough. The other brigands had learned to be considerate
and if they happened upon his missing blade, they'd
surreptitiously place it within his reach and then arrange for
him to notice it.

("Ooops! Sorry, Bob. Didn't mean to trip over your
sword. Didn't see it lying on the floor there, right next to
your chair. Nay, on the other side of your chair. Bob.")

However, when it happened in the woods, or on the trail,
or while he was taking a bath in a stream, there was no hope
for it. He'd crawl about on his hands and knees, desperately
feeling around for it, racking his brain to remember where
he'd put it down, but almost invariably, he'd never find it,
even if it was only a few feet away. The humiliation was




82 • Simon Hawke

unendurable. He could take growing old. He could take
getting fat. He could even take irregularity and the painful
itch of hemorrhoids, but he could not take having his
eyesight fail him. Then, suddenly, out of nowhere, Brewster
had come and shown him a miracle.

If Brewster had saved his life, if he had fixed him up with
the most gorgeous woman who had ever lived, or if he'd
given him the winning ticket to the Irish Sweepstakes, he
could not have inspired greater devotion. From the moment
Brewster placed his hom-rimmed glasses on Bloody Bob's
red nose, he became the center of the old warrior's universe.

The keep soon became the hub of frenetic activity. First,
of course, it was necessary to clean up me place and make it
a suitable residence for a sorcerer of Brewster's stature.
Mick busied himself with the construction of new furniture
while Bloody Bob and Robie McMurphy pitched in to help
sweep out the cobwebs and the mouse droppings.

McMurphy was eager to get in on the ground floor, so to
speak, because Mick had shown him the Swiss Army knife
and told him about their plans. McMurphy knew a good
money-making opportunity when he saw one. They had a
working mill, and a soon-to-be-expanded brewery, a smithy
and an armory business, the proposed many-bladed knife
manufacturing facility, and the opportunities presented by
working as apprentices to a master sorcerer. McMurphy
didn't know what the word "conglomerate" meant, but he
had an instinctive grasp of the concept.

Bloody Bob didn't really have a head for business, but for
a magic visor of his own, he would have sold his soul. His
brawn came in very handy. While the others worked, Brewster
supervised and drew up plans and concentrated on making a
suitable pair of spectacles for Bob. It proved to be a bit
more difficult than he'd expected.

He had never thought it would be easy. He understood the

The Behictant Sorcerer • 83

principles involved, but he was not a trained optometrist and
he had realized that this was not going to be one of those
"get-your-glasses-in-one-hour" jobs. He had access to glass,
because Mick kept a stock of crude glass blocks and pipettes
in his laboratory, but he didn't have access to any modem
grinders, and so he had to improvise.

It had been necessary for Mick to make two wheels,
constructed to Brewster's specifications, one for grinding
and one for polishing. They were essentially similar in
design to potter's wheels, but grinding and polishing on
them took forever. To grind the lenses, Brewster had to use
fine sand and water from the stream, and to polish them he
used hide and sheepskin. The result was hardly comparable
to a modem pair of lenses, but in time, he was able to come
up with something more or less serviceable, even if it did
take a lot of elbow grease.

It was also, unavoidably, a trial-and-error process, most
of it simply guesswork. He would make one pair of lenses,
try mem out on Bloody Bob, see how well they worked—or
didn't work—and then go back to the drawing board. (Or,
more properly, the grinding wheel.) There was also the
problem of testing them. Initially, he had prepared an eye
chart, handprinted on a board, only to discover that the
letters meant nothing to Bloody Bob because he couldn't
read. McMurphy came to the rescue, however, and drew
another sort of eye chart.

Brewster would point to one large picture at the very top.
"What's this, Bob?"

"Uh...'tis a cow. Doc."

"Okay. Good. Now, let's move on to the next line, with
these smaller pictures here. What animal is this?"

"Uh... a rabbit?"

"Good. Now how about this one?"

"A pig."




84 • Simon Hawke

"Well, no, actually, this one's a sheep."

"Looks like a pig."

" Tis a sheep. Bob," McMurphy would put in.

"Still looks like a pig. You drew it wrong, McMurphy."

"You think a farmer can't tell the difference 'twixt a

sheep and a pig?"

"I say 'tis a pig!" (Rasp of a new sword being drawn

from its scabbard.)

"Okay, okay, 'tis a pig!"
"Uh, maybe we'd better try this again later," Brewster

would say.

Eventually, he was able to make a pair of lenses that
allowed Bloody Bob to see reasonably well, even if his
vision was still a little blurry, but to Bloody Bob, this was a
miracle. And the fact that it took so long obviously meant it
was a very complicated thaumaturgic process, indeed.

Then there arose the problem of making frames for the
lenses. Plastic, obviously, was out of the question, so they
would have to be metal frames. And while metal frames
could be fashioned without too much trouble, someone like
Bloody Bob would require something pretty strong and
durable. Wire rims simply wouldn't do. It was Bloody Bob
himself who finally gave Brewster the solution to the prob-
lem. He had referred to Brewster's glasses as a "magic
visor," so what Brewster came up with and had Mick make
was, in fact, a sort of visor, made from two pieces constructed
out of bronze and riveted together, between which the lenses
could be sandwiched. In fact, the finished product bore a
strong resemblance to the sort of wraparound glasses that
were popular for a time among musicians and surfers.

Bloody Bob was ecstatic. Not only did they help him see
better than he had in years, they were also a unique fashion
statement that gave him an even more fearsome appearance.
When he first put them on, he did so with as much

The Reluctant Sorcerer • 85

reverence and solemnity as a king putting on his crown.
From that moment on. Bloody Bob was Brewster's loyal
friend and stalwart champion, which he declared formally
by dropping to one knee and swearing his lifelong allegiance.

All this took time, however, and as the keep slowly
started to shape up, there were other projects in the works,
as well. Mick and McMurphy undertook the construction of
me still, working under Brewster's supervision. They fashioned
copper tubing by using iron rods from the smithy, wrapping
copper sheets around them, then heating them and beating
them into solid tubes, which they then pulled off tHe rods.
Solder was made from a blend of tin and gold, which
Brewster thought rather extravagant, but Mick dismissed his
concerns by telling him that he had plenty of the stuff and it
wasn't really worth anything, anyway.

This was yet one more tidbit of information that gave
Brewster pause, for gold had always been valued throughout
history and he could not think of a time when it had been
considered essentially worthless. He did not know what to
make of it. He watched as the molten blend of gold and tin
was poured into a mold, so that it came out in the shape of a
thin rod, and then all it took was an iron rod heated in the
furnace to make a crude yet effective soldering iron. Slowly,
but surely, what he thought had to be the most expensive
still in history started to take shape.

Another project they devoted time to was the construction
of a Franklin stove, to heat Brewster's new residence in the
tower. Brewster drew up the plans and Mick fashioned a
square box of iron plate, with a hole in the top and bricks
inside it to hold the heat.-Then they made a pipe to conduct
the smoke out through the chimney of the fireplace, which
worked just fine once they cleared out all the squirrels'
nests.

The next project they began was the construction of a

86 • Simon Hawkc

cistern to be placed atop the tower. The plan was to run it
off the large wooden water wheel by devising a set of three
smaller wooden wheels, one of which was mounted on the
outer wall beside the main water wheel, while the other two
were mounted on the exterior wall of the tower, one at the
bottom and one at the very top. These were all connected by
a crude belt drive system made from rope and wooden pegs.
The large, main water wheel turned the first smaller wooden
wheel mounted beside it. This wheel was connected to the
second smaller wheel by a horizontal belt, and that second
wheel, in turn, was connected to the third wheel by a
vertical belt that ran up to the top of the tower. Between the
pegs of the vertical belt drive, wooden buckets had been
mounted to lift water from the sluice to the cistern at the top
of the tower, where a tipover allowed the buckets to auto-
matically dump the water in a small wooden trough that
filled the cistern. There was an overflow trough that allowed
the excess water to drain back down to the sluice.

To improve this operation even further, Brewster had
redesigned the sluice itself, so that instead of the gate being
opened at the channel which diverted water from the stream
to the bottom of the wheel, an elevated wooden sluice was
constructed, starting a short distance upstream of the keep,
which brought water to the top of the wheel—in principle,
much like a Roman aqueduct. This allowed the main water
wheel to turn faster and operate more efficiently.

The purpose of the cistern was to provide fresh drinking
water for Brewster's residence and, he hoped, eventually a
flush toilet. To this end, Brewster drew up plans for a septic
tank and a leach field. The excavation would be located
about thirty feet downstream of the keep.

All of these projects were somewhat labor intensive, and
would certainly have been a lot of work for just four people.
However, they had help. Each day, as work progressed, new

The Reluctant Sorcerer • 87

volunteers were added to the labor force. The first had been
Fuzzy Tom, who showed up the day after Bloody Bob to
meet the new sorcerer and see this interesting construction
project Bob had told him about.

Fuzzy Tom was one of the brigands, a retired warrior like
Bloody Bob, with a rotund body and a thick mass of wavy,
black hair that fell down to his shoulders. He had a large
and bushy black beard that started at his cheekbones and
grew down to his chest, so that all anyone could see of his
face was a short expanse of forehead and two twinkling
brown eyes. He possessed a rather pleasant, laid-back dispo-
sition that under any other circumstances would have prevented
him from doing anything that even remotely resembled
work. However, Mick explained that this was sorcery, not
work, and Fuzzy Tom fell for it. He pitched right in, and
when he came back the next day, he brought Froggy Bruce,
Malicious Mike, and Pikestaff Pat.

Froggy Bruce was a quiet, soft-spoken brigand with long,
fine, sandy-blond hair, a wispy beard, and large, sad-
looking eyes that gave him something of the aspect of his
namesake. He also happened to be very fond of frogs. Not
eating them, collecting them. He owned dozens and dozens,
all of which he kept in his room at the tavern in Brigand's
Roost. He liked to entertain and his place, one might say,
was always jumping.

Malicious Mike was a dark and brooding young man who
always dressed in black and apologized politely whenever
he crushed somebody's skull. He could not abide rudeness
in a person and always said "please" and "thank you"
whenever he robbed someone. Some people thought he was
being maliciously sarcastic, hence his name, but the fact
was that Mike simply believed in good manners, regardless
of the circumstances.

Pikestaff Pat was almost as thin as his weapon of choice,

88 • Simon Hawke

a long, slim pikestaff that he always carried with him on his
shoulder. He had dark red hair and a neatly trimmed beard.
What he lacked in size compared to the other brigands, he
made up for with aggressive energy and a sharp wit. He was
one of the few married brigands and he never went any-
where without a lunch wrapped in a kerchief and tied to his
pikestaff by his wife, Calamity Jane, who relentlessly pur-
sued the fruitless task of trying to put some meat on his

bones.

Calamity herself showed up on the third day, partly
because she was curious and partly because she wanted to
make sure her husband had enough to eat. An intense,
voluptuous, young woman with short dark hair and a perpet-
ual squint, she arrived in a cart loaded with provisions for
the boys. She stood up to wave at Pat and promptly
executed a near-perfect half gainer off the cart, ending with
a face-plant in the mud. Over the next few hours, she
tripped over everything in sight, knocked over tables, fell
from ladders, and took no less than three impromptu dips in
the creek. She caused such consternation that Mick suggested
she stop trying to help with the construction and concentrate
on cooking for the hungry crew, which effort she took up
with enthusiasm. She only scalded herself six times.

As word of what Brewster was doing began to spread,
more people showed up to see these wonders for themselves
and wound up volunteering for the project. It was like an
old-time frontier house-raising. Everyone pitched in until
there were over forty people bustling about, which constitut-
ed almost the entire population of Brigand's Roost and all
the surrounding farms. Mick assigned tasks to everyone, so
that some people worked only on the still, while others built
the elevated sluice, the cistern, the wheels, and the belt
drive for the water lift, and so on. Each of them took great
pride in what they were doing, and set to with enthusiasm,

The Reluctant Sorcerer • 89

for it was both an opportunity to help get a sorcerer settled
in their neighborhood and participate in important magical
works.

The grounds of the keep soon had awnings erected on
them, beneath which the labor force could rest during their
breaks, and the brush and tall grass were soon trampled
down by all the activity. Small pits were dug for cookfires,
and as night fell and work ceased, the kettles were removed
and logs were added, making for cheery campfires around
which people gathered to tell stories and sing songs.

Storytelling, Brewster soon discovered, was by far the
most popular form of entertainment, and most of these
stories were built around the actual experiences and exploits
of the storyteller, usually embellished considerably for dra-
matic effect. There were also legends, which were stories
that had been passed down through the generations, and
made for a kind of historical record, though not a very
reliable one, as each individual storyteller usually added
something to the tale.

Brewster's presence at these campfire tales was especially
appreciated, as most sorcerers had a tendency to hold
themselves aloof from the common throng and avoided
socializing with the general populace. Each storyteller tried
to top the others for his benefit, and the audience was
nothing if not critical. Each tale was followed by a chorus of
"Well told! Well told!" or "Bah, I've heard it better!" or
"Nay, you forgot the part about the virgin!"

Brewster heard "The Tale of Frank the Usurper and How
the Kingdom Got Its Name," an abbreviated version of
which he'd already heard from Mick; "The Tale of the
Undeflowered Whore," which was apparently a very popu-
lar one; "The Life and Times of Bloody Bob," told halting-
ly by Bloody Bob himself, in which most recalled encoun-
ters ended with the phrase "And then I smote him good!"

90 • Simon Hawke

and "The Lament of Handsome Hal," who was driven mad
by a nymph who fell in love with him, a story Brewster
thought was a marvelously witty fairy tale, never suspecting
for a moment that it had really happened, which it had.

"Pat, tell the tale of The Werepot Prince," said Calamity,
nudging her husband sharply in the ribs with her elbow.

"Jane, they've all heard it a dozen times or more,"
protested Pikestaff Pat.

"Perhaps Doc hasn't," Calamity replied. "And anyway, I
like the way you tell it."

"Yes, I'd like to hear it," Brewster said.

"Mike tells it better," Pikestaff Pat replied.

"Nay, go on, you tell it. Pat," Malicious Mike insisted.

And after a bit more coaxing. Pikestaff Pat stood and
embarked upon his tale.

" 'Tis 'The Tale of the Werepot Prince,' " he began, "and
they say it happened hereabouts, a. long, long time ago.
Perhaps"—he paused significantly and glanced around—"at
this very place where we are gathered on this night."

There was a collective "Oooh!" and someone remarked,
"Nice touch, very nice touch, indeed."

"The prince I speak of was a handsome, bold, and
strapping young chap name of Brian," Pat continued, "sole
heir to his father's throne. Now, bein' an only child, Brian
was a wee bit spoiled by his folks and allowed to have his
way in most things. If he wanted to have himself a brand-
new puppy, why 'twasn't good enough that he had one, but
he was given three. If he wasn't up to finishin' all the
veggies on his plate, why no one made him do so, never
mind that kids was starvin* off in India."

"India?" said Brewster.

"Aye, well, no one knows quite where this Kingdom of
India was, y'see, and ain't no one anybody knows what's

The Reluctant Sorcerer    91

ever been there, but 'twas gen'ral knowledge that kids was
always starvin' there," said Pat.

"I see," said Brewster with a puzzled frown.

"Anyways," continued Pat, "Prince Brian ain't never
had to do no chores around the palace, never had to mow
the lawn or clean his room, nor even make his bed. Had
servants for all that sort of thing, y'know, provided by his
mum, the queen. And he never said 'please' nor 'thank
you,' neither," Pat added with a glance at Malicious Mike,
who nodded in acknowledgement that he hadn't left that
important part of the story out.

"Prince Brian the Bold was his proper, officially sanctioned
appellation," Pat continued, "but to most folks in the
kingdom, he was merely Brian the Brat, and a bit of a royal
pain, to boot. The young girls of the kingdom loved him
dearly, they did, for he was comely to look upon, what with
his curly golden locks and pleasin' form, and word had it he
was right properly endowed, as well, though 'twas only
hearsay, mind. Y'know how young girls talk.

"Many's the time our Brian hopped a fence and had
himself a lovely moonlight interlude with some fair young
village maid, but he was never caught, y'see, so either he
was very much adroit or else the lad was blamed for every
other swollen belly in the kingdom, like as not to protect a
boyfriend who wasn't royalty, y'see, and therefore not
immune to parental retribution. But either way, by the time
our lad was some twenty summers old, there was more
lovely little gold-haired rug rats in the kingdom than you
could shake a stick at, and a surprisin' number of them was
named Brian, too.

"Yet one day, there came a time when our Prince Brian
cast his wanderin' orbs in a somewhat unfortunate direction.
Unfortunate for him, as 'twould turn out. He got himself
right bent out of shape over a young maid name of Katherine,




92 • Simon Hawke

who was as pretty a wench as you could ever hope to see.
Fifteen summers old, she was, a ripe bloomin' young thing,
with big blue eyes and lovely bosoms and a saucy look
about her what made you want to throw her down and
mount the pony- Leastwise, she had that effect on Brian,
whom she discommoded somethin' awful.

"Now Brian, used to havin' his own way, went and set
his cap at her, and some other parts what were located lower
down, as well. He started sendin' her love notes and flowers
and the like, which gifts the wench did not refuse, but she
went and showed 'ena to her father, which was when the
trouble started.

"Saucy Katherine's father, as it turns out, was the local
sorcerer, a fearsome wizard name of Catrack or Hatrack or
some such thing—"

" 'Twas Catrack," Malicious Mike said.
"Nay, 'twas Hatrack," Fuzzy Tom disputed.
" 'Twasn't neither, 'twas Camac," someone else called
out, and a loud and vociferous argument ensued, which
ended abruptly when Pikestaff Pat put two fingers in his
mouth and whistled loudly and piercingly.

"As I was sayin'," he continued, "there seems to have
been some dispute as to his name, but whatever in bloody
hell his name was, he wasn't pleased with this attention
bein' royally bestowed on his one and only child. He went
to the king and said, 'Now listen here. Your Majesty, boys
will be boys and all that sort of thing, but I'd kindly
appreciate your tellin' your young whelp to keep his royal,
homy little mitts to his own self, if it please Your Majesty.
I'd sorta had my heart set on Katherine marryin' an adept
and keepin' to the family tradition and all that sort of thing,
and while I've nothin' against royalty, y'understand, I'd just
as soon she not go marryin' beneath her station, if 'tis all
the same to you.'

The Reluctant Sorcerer • 93

"Now, such remarks ain't gen'rally considered proper
protocol when speakin' to your basic monarch," Pat explained,
"but be that as it may, the king had no choice but to
swallow it, or else risk bein' turned into a toadstool or
havin' himself struck with a spell what makes his loins go
dry, and so he grinned and bore it and nodded that he
understood and told the wizard, 'Aye, indeed, I quite see
what you mean. I'll have, a word with my young royal son
and see to it that it won't go happenin' again.' Whereupon
the wizard left and His Majesty the King turned to Her
Majesty the Queen and said, 'Go tell Brian to leave young
Katherine alone or he's liable to cock everything up.' "

A collective groan went up around the campfire.

"Well," said Pat, as he resumed the tale, "the queen
spoke to Prince Brian about young Katherine, but young
blood runnin' hot and all that, our lad was not dissuaded.
He pursued his suit, and one night after Katherine's dad set
out for a meetin' of the Guild, he pressed it home. Her
father was not expected back for quite some time, y'see, as
the journey would have taken many days and then there was
the meetin', what with banquets and speech-makin' and
activities and all, and then the journey back, so Katherine
and Brian made the most of Daddy's absence and frolicked
with great vigor every night he was away.

"The trouble came much later, after Katherine's dad
came home. One day, he noticed that his daughter was
puttin' on a little weight, y'see, and then she started feelin'
sickly in the mornin', and fairly soon it all came clear that
Katherine was carryin' a child. She confessed all to her
father, who flew into a frothin' rage and retired to his
wizard's chambers, from whence he did not emerge for
many days and nights."

Pat paused for dramatic effect, looking around at his
audience, who waited eagerly for the tale to resume.




94 • Simon Hawke

"In the meantime," he continued after a moment, "Prince
Brian was hangin' about the palace with his falcons and his
hounds, dashin' off on huntin' expeditions and carousin'
with his mates, little suspectin' that he was about to be a
father... nor that Hatrack—"

"Catrack," Malicious Mike corrected him.
"Katherine's dad," said Pat pointedly, "was gatherin'
his powers to cast a nasty evil curse, a spell most horrible
and frightful. The way he saw it, his daughter had been
spoiled, her honor and her dignity besmirched, and nothin'
would do but for Prince Brian to suffer the same fate. So, in
the darkness of his wizard's chambers, the sorcerer conjured
up a spell, usin' a lock of hair that Brian had carelessly

given to Katherine as a keepsake.

"And as the legend has it, one day, the servants came to
tidy up Prince Brian's room and make his bed, and what
they found betwixt the sheets, and not beneath the bed,
where such contrivances are usually kept, was a bright and
shiny golden chamberpot, embellished with some emeralds
and rubies, much like the ones that Brian always wore on a

chain around his neck."

He paused again and looked around, nodding significantly.
"Well, need it be said, there was no sign of Brian, and
though the king sent men to search throughout the land, no
trace of him was ever found. The chamberpot, 'twas said,
had disappeared as well, stolen by a servant who thought to
prise the jewels from it and sell 'em, but when he tried, lo
and behold, the chamberpot cried out! The frightened ser-
vant left well enough alone and sold it to the first trader he
came across, and what became of it after that is anybody's

guess.

"However, legend has it that when the moon is full,

Prince Brian walks again as his normal self, such bein' the
nature of the curse, so that he can always remember how it

The Beluctant Sorcerer    95

feels to be human, a cruel and brief reminder to torment him
when he turns back into a receptacle for human waste,
which is what Katherine's father considered him to be, and
had thus condemned him for eternity. So if you should ever
find yourself in some strange hostelry or tavern, take care if
you should feel the call of nature in the middle of the night,
especially if the moon be full. For should you reach down
underneath your bed and happen to pull a golden chamberpot
with gems set in it, have a care... for you never know, it
just might turn out to be a royal pain in the arse."

"Well told! Well told!"

"Bah, I've heard it better."

"Nay, I liked the bit about the starvin' kids in India. And
the frolickin' with vigor, 'twas a nice touch."

And so it went, with critical appraisals being exchanged
and argued back and forth, until the evening started to grow
cold and they all retired to the great hall in Brewster's keep.
They built a big fire in the hearth and Mick broke open a
fresh cash of peregrine wine. Torches were lit and placed up
in the wall sconces. Brewster sat in the honored place at the
table on the dais, with Mick on his right and Bloody Bob on
his left, while all the other brigands and a few of the
farmers in the crowd packed the other tables, drinking
heartily and laughing boisterously, pounding each other on
the back and looking very much like a scene from an Errol
Rynn movie.

And what of poor Pamela, waiting patiently in London
for her fiance to return? Well, Brewster had not forgotten
about Pamela and was concerned that she might be worried
about him, but under his current circumstances, there was
really nothing he could do. He was stuck until he could
locate the missing time machine, and though he had sal-
vaged what he could from the one that had exploded,
intending to use some of the parts for his project in the




96 • Simon Hawke

keep, there was no hope whatsoever of rebuilding it. The
best he could do was to make himself as comfortable as
possible in his new and unfamiliar surroundings, and hope
that word would spread about the missing time machine and
that someone would turn up some information.

Mick had announced to everyone that Brewster Doc had
lost a magic chariot and then Brewster gave them all a brief
description of it, asking that if anyone should see or hear
about such a device, they should immediately let him know.
However, no one had stepped forward, though they all
promised to keep their eyes and ears open.

All of them except three of the younger brigands, that
is—Long Bill, Pifer Bob, and Silent Fred, who looked at
each other nervously when Brewster described the appear-
ance of the missing time machine. However, Brewster
didn't notice this, nor did anybody else. (Nor will the
narrator explain at this point why they did not step forward,
for they obviously knew something. This is a technique of
storytelling known as foreshadowing and all will be made
clear at the proper time. Don't worry, remember, always

trust the narrator.)

Anyway, where were we? Oh, right, we're in the middle
of this rowdy, boisterous banquet scene in the great hall,
with Brewster sitting in the place of honor at the table on
the dais, Mick on his right. Bloody Bob on his left, torches
flickering, fire burning in the hearth, peregrine wine flow-
ing, food being thrown, and a good time generally being
had by all... but wait. What's this? The sound of hoof-
beats rapidly approaching, unheard by the revelers because
they're making so much noise. Unheard, that is, until the
horse and rider came bursting into the great hall with a
noisy clattering of hooves on the stone floor.

A table overturned, and people scattered, and the hand-
some, jet-black stallion reared up dramatically and neighed

The Reluctant Sorcerer • 97

as it was reined in by the black-clad rider in the center of the
hall.

Silence descended like an anvil... only much softer.
Silence that was not broken by a single whisper or a
murmur, save for a very quiet "Uh-oh" from Bloody Bob.

The black-clad rider dismounted and dropped the reins,
and the stallion obediently remained standing still as the
rider took several steps forward and stopped in the exact
center of the room, sweeping it with her smoldering gaze as
she stood, legs braced wide apart, one hand on the dagger in
her belt, the other on her sword hilt.
"What the devil's going on here?"
"Who is that?" Brewster asked with awe.
"That," Mick replied in a soft voice, "is none other than
Black Shannon."




CHAPTER
SIX

Some entrance, huh? The funny thing is. Shannon did not
think of it that way at all. Which is not to say she lacked a
sense of drama. Under most circumstances, she was very
good at thinking things out in advance, which was one of
the reasons she was the leader of the brigands. She knew
how to plan a job, and she often planned them quite
dramatically, indeed. However, when she lost her temper
(and it didn't take much), it was like a case of spontaneous
combustion. She rode her horse into the great hall of the
keep not so much for effect, but because it was the quickest
way to get there. She had never been one to waste much
time, especially when she was angry.

She had been away, casing a few jobs and doing a little
cruising on the side. She often did this sort of thing. She
would leave her trademark, black leather, lace-up jerkin,
and matching, skintight, leather breeches and high boots, in
Brigand's Roost, then ride off to some town or village,
looking quite demure in a long, sweeping peasant skirt and
low-cut blouse, with dainty little slippers on her feet. Once
there, she would circulate and keep her eyes and ears open,

98

The Reluctant Sorcerer • 99

on the lookout for any gossip about trade shipments and the
like.

Often, she would take a job for a few days, working in a
local tavern, where one could hear all sorts of things. With
her stunning looks, she never had any trouble getting hired
or getting men to talk about their business, the better to
impress her. While she struck up conversations and remained
on the lookout for income-producing opportunities, she kept
a lookout for possible romantic opportunities, as well.

To say that Shannon was beautiful would be an under-
statement. Ordinary adjectives simply wouldn't do her jus-
tice, only superlatives sufficed. She stood five feet seven
inches tall and was perfectly proportioned, with the kind of
body that could only be described as luscious. Her face was
breathtakingly lovely and deceptively angelic. She had pale,
creamy skin and blue eyes that were so bright, they almost
seemed to glow. All the usual cliches applied—lips just made
for kissing, raven tresses that simply begged to be caressed,
etc., etc.—only more so. However, these were only her
most obvious and superficial attributes.

What most men failed to note was that she was astonishingly
fit. Her arms were slender, but they were firm and hard, and
if she were to flex, disconcertingly developed biceps would
stand out. Her shoulders were lovely, but they were also
broad and well defined. And if her waist did not betray an
ounce of fat, it was because she had stomach muscles like a
washboard. The way she held herself, and the catlike way
she moved, revealed to the observant eye that this was no
ordinary peasant girl, but a young woman who had trained
long and hard, and not at waiting tables.

What most men also failed to see (because they were too
busy looking elsewhere) was that behind those coyly fluttering
eyelashes, her eyes were not only blue enough to get lost in,
but alert, direct, and penetrating in their gaze. Men also

100 • Simon Hawke

never noticed now easily she led them into talking about
themselves, about their business, their plans, their personal
lives, their foibles, and how much money they had. They
were so busy trying to impress and flatter her that they were
never aware of being cleverly manipulated.

Men, however, have always had a tendency to see that
which they want to see in women, and then to act, often
compulsively, on their impressions. This was something
Shannon learned while she was still quite young, and she
had also learned how to take advantage of it. Men, so far as
she was concerned, were really only good for two things—
sex and lifting heavy objects. Beyond that, she didn't have
much use for them. However, as Shannon saw it, just
because men were rather limited in their uses was no reason
not to use them. At least once.

Shannon had started early and learned quickly. At the age
of thirteen, she had been seduced by the handsome, eighteen-
year-old son of a very wealthy merchant. Within about six
weeks, that merchant gradually lost a significant proportion
of his inventory. Shannon sold the goods her ardent swain
had stolen from his father and turned a tidy profit in the
bargain. The profits, she had told the merchant's son, would
be used to start a brand-new life. She somehow neglected to
mention that this new life did not include him.

Thus Shannon had embarked upon an ever-escalating life
of crime. At one time or another, she had been called an
evil bitch, a soulless heartbreaker, an accomplished liar, a
crafty thief, a merciless killer, and an amoral slut (which
raises the question of what a moral slut would be, and the
answer is, of course, an honest one). Though Shannon
would have reacted quickly and decisively had anyone the
foolishness to call her any of those things to her face,
privately she would admit to all of them, for she was not
given to hypocrisy. Men had taught her what she knew and

The Reluctant Sorcerer • 101

she merely paid them back in kind. She was not, she often
told herself, completely without scruples. If a man came
along who treated her with civility and honesty, she would
treat him likewise. However, she had learned that such men
were in very rare supply.

Not even the brigands whom she led knew much about
her history, though by the time her path crossed theirs, she
had already developed quite a reputation. She was known to
be a swordswoman of extraordinary skill, and when she first
took up with the brigands, a few of them had this confirmed
for them the hard way. This gave her no small measure of
respect. By virtue of her abilities and her intelligence, she
soon became their leader and they prospered under her
direction.

Though Shannon was a woman of lusty and, some might
say, rather excessive appetites, she had always avoided
romantic entanglements with any of the brigands. She knew
that it would only complicate things. She had an instinctive
grasp of the fact that excessive fratemalization does not
make for good leadership. Aside from that, she did not find
any of the brigands especially attractive. Most of them were
great, big, hairy louts who rarely washed—though she
insisted they bathe in the creek whenever the stench became
too rank. In general. Shannon preferred to indulge her lusty
appetidtes on her frequent scouting expeditions, or by abducting
the occasional handsome male traveler encountered during
one of their holdups.

She was never recognized, because whenever the brig-
ands plied their trade, she always wore a mask consisting of
a large black bandanna with two eyeholes cut in it, which
covered her entire face except her mouth and chin. In
imitation of her, the other brigands wore black masks as
well, which led to their becoming known as the Black




102 • Simon Hawke

Brigands, which they thought had a very nice ring to it,

indeed.
Most of the local citizenry knew what Shannon looked

like without her mask, but she had nothing to fear from
them. The bandits never robbed the locals and Shannon
never hesitated to provide assistance if local citizens were in
need of help. She never asked for any compensation in
return. This, she reasoned quite correctly, was merely good
public relations. The result was that every time one of the
king's patrols came to Brigand's Roost, there was not a
brigand to be found and no matter whom they asked, the

replies were always the same.

"Brigands? What brigands? We've never been troubled

by brigands around here. Actually, we only changed the
name from Turkey's Roost to attract tourism."

Which brings us back to Shannon's angry and dramatic
entrance, just in case you thought your narrator got sidetracked.
When she returned from one of her scouting expeditions,
much like king's patrols, she found the town almost completely
empty, except for a few old people who were habitually
cranky and never felt like going anywhere. From them, she'd
learned that everyone had gone off to a revel at Mick
O'Pallon's mill. They didn't bother telling her about the
sorcerer who'd recently arrived, because the oldsters were
rather crotchety and rather liked the thought of getting the

young folks into hot water.

Shannon did not take kindly to this news. She had gone
to all the trouble of setting up a system to be followed in her
absence, whereby the brigands would work in shifts, lurking
by the forest trails, waylaying coaches and unwary travelers,
and instead of following instructions, they were goofing off.
She paused only long enough to change before galloping off
to kick some brigand butt. As she rode, she grew angrier

The Reluctant Sorcerer • 103

and angrier, and as she approached the keep and heard the
sounds of revelry, she became absolutely furious.

Had she paused to think, she would have realized that
there was something unusual about this situation. For one
thing, .Mick O'Fallon was not known to be especially
gregarious. For Mick to hold a revel was decidedly out of
character, and it was unlikely that he would allow anyone
else to hold a revel at his mill. Furthermore, just about
everyone in Brigand's Roost had gone, including One-Eyed
Jack, the tavern keeper, who never left his place of busi-
ness, and Dirty Mary with her fancy girls, who were
actually rather plain, and even the Awful Urchin Gang, a
band of grubby little children whose awfulness was mea-
sured by the fact that all their parents insisted they were
orphans. And no one, least of all Mick, would ever consider
inviting them anywhere.

Shannon had not paused to consider any of these things,
however, and as she approached the keep, all she could
think of was that the brigands were Absent Without Leave,
and for that, heads were going to roll. Or at the very least
get generously thumped. She kicked her horse and went
charging up to the front door.

Rascal Rick had chosen that unfortunate moment to go
answer the call of nature. As he opened the door, he saw the
fearsome apparition of Shannon mounted on her black
stallion. Big Nasty, bearing down on him. He froze in his
tracks and was knocked ass over teakettle as she rode right
over him and galloped straight into the hall.

She dismounted and angrily demanded to know what in
hell was going on. When a reply was not immediately
forthcoming, she grabbed the nearest brigand by the hair
and violently yanked him backward off the bench, onto the
floor.

"Explain yourself!" she demanded.




104 • Simon Hawke

Unfortunately, the brigand she had grabbed was Silent
Fred, who spoke only about once or twice a year. No one
could recall him ever actually speaking an entire sentence in

a conversation.

"Well...." said Fred, and shrugged elaborately, which

was quite a speech for him, all things considered.

Shannon grunted with disdain and kicked him aside, then
gave him another kick in the rump for good measure as he
scuttled away. She seized the next nearest victim by the ear.

This misfortune fell to Froggy Bruce.

"What is the meaning of this?" she demanded, twisting
his ear painfully. "Who gave you miserable curs leave to

depart the Roost?"

"Well, actually," said Froggy Bruce, speaking in a calm

and level tone of voice, despite the painful grip she had on
him, "there's a perfectly reasonable explanation for all this.
You see, the fact of the matter is that..."

She walloped him across his head, which made his eyes
bulge out even more than they normally did. The sound of
the blow echoed in the hall and made everyone who heard it

wince.

"Ow," said Froggy Bruce with characteristic understatement.

Shannon's hand flashed to her sword hilt and the blade
sang free of its scabbard, whistled through the air, and came
down on the table, passing uncomfortably close to Long
Bill's left ear and splitting an entire roast turkey in half.

"Who watches the trails?" she demanded furiously. "Who
lurks in the hedgerows? Who waylays unsuspecting travel-
ers? Am I expected to do all the work around here? Am I to
bear all the burden of responsibility? Do you think money

grows on trees?"

Brewster stood and cleared his throat politely. "Uh... ex-
cuse me. Miss Shannon?"

The Reluctant Sorcerer • 105

Shannon turned and, for the first time, noticed his unfa-
miliar presence.

"I'm afraid I'm the one who's responsible for all this,"
he said. "I'm sorry, I truly didn't realize that it would cause
a problem. I hope you won't hold that against me."

"And who might you be?" she asked with a frown.

"Uh, this is Brewster Doc," said Bloody Bob helpfully,
getting up to perform the formal introductions. "He's—"

"Did I ask you, you great oaf?" Shannon interrupted
brusquely.

"Uh...no..."

"Then sit down and be silent! Let the man speak for
himself," she snapped.

With a sheepish grimace. Bloody Bob meekly resumed
his seat.

"Brewster Doc, eh?" Shannon said, approaching so she
could look him over.

"Well, most of my friends just call me Doc," said
Brewster with a smile.

" Tis early yet to presume friendship," Shannon replied.
The entire hall was silent, every eye upon them.

"Well, yes, I suppose I see your point," said Brewster.
"However, I'm very pleased to meet you, just the same."
He held out his hand.

She stared at him thoughtfully for a moment, then sheathed
her sword and clasped his forearm.

"I am called Shannon," she said.

"You have a strong grip," said Brewster.

"For a wench, you mean?" she said sarcastically.

"For anyone," said Brewster with a shrug.

She looked him over appraisingly. " 'Tis strange garb you
wear. You have not the aspect of a native of these parts."

"Well, actually, I came from London," Brewster said.




106 • Simon Hawke

"Lun-dun?" She looked puzzled. "I know of no such

place."

" Tis in the far distant Land of Ing," said Mick, "in

another place and time."

"Another place and time?" said Shannon, glancing at
him sharply. "What do you mean?"

" 'Tis a mighty sorcerer, he is," said Mick. "His magic
chariot fell from the sky."

"Are you drunk?" she asked him.

Mick drew himself up with affronted dignity. "We little
people do not get drunk," he said with an air of wounded
pride. "We merely grow loquacious."

"Babbling nonsense by any other name is still babbling
nonsense," Shannon replied. "I have never heard of wiz-
ards who could fly."

"Faith, and I was there, wasn't I?" said Mick. "I saw it,
I tell you. 'Tis a place of mighty sorcerers, this Land of Ing.
People fly there all the time in magic chariots. 'Tis such a
commonplace occurrence, they do not even call 'em magic
chariots; they call 'em plains. He told me so himself."

"And you say you saw this magic chariot fall from the
sky with your own eyes?" said Shannon dubiously, glancing
from Mick to Brewster, then back to Mick again.

"Aye, that I did, and didn't it almost crush me when it

fell?" said Mick.

"Where is this chariot now?" asked Shannon, still not

entirely convinced.

"'Twas broken in the fall," said Mick. "And then
McMurphy's foolish bull attacked it, and Doc had no choice
but to blast it with a bolt of thunder."

"Aye, 'tis true," McMurphy added. " 'Twas nothing left
of it but bits of roasted meat scattered about."

"Hmmm," said Shannon, pursing her lips thoughtfully
and staring at Brewster with new interest.

The Reluctant Sorcerer • 107

He certainly did not look like a mighty sorcerer, she
thought. He dressed strangely, but there was nothing noble
or fearsome about his appearance. She knew that most
sorcerers took great pains to look noble or fearsome, prefer-
ably both at the same time, and if they couldn't manage
that, they at least sought to look striking. This one did not
even look striking. He looked rathei1 rumpled, and there was
something about him that brought to mind a little boy. A lost
little boy. She decided to find out more about this sorcerer.

"Leave us," she said to the others. "All of you, back to
the Roost! And, you farmers, back to your turnips and your
milk cows! I would speak more with this sorcerer, alone."

Some of the brigands exchanged nervous looks and Dirty
Mary's fancy girls hid smug little smiles behind their hands,
but no one questioned Shannon's orders. They all left, with
much scraping of benches and shuffling of feet and clinking
of swords and other accoutrements, until only McMurphy,
Mick, and Bloody Bob were left with Shannon and Brewster
in the hall.

She raised her eyebrows. "Well?" she said.

"You mean us, too?" McMurphy asked innocently.

"I said that I would speak with the sorcerer alone, did I
not?" she said, a dangerous edge to her voice.

"But Mick and I are his apprentices," protested McMurphy
unwisely.

"Uh ... and I am his loyal retainer," Bloody Bob added.

"Retainer, eh?" said Shannon, "Well, if 'tis your teeth
you'll be retaining, theti you'll do as you're bloody well
told, you great ox. As for you 'apprentices'..."

"We're going, we're going," McMurphy said hastily.

Mick glanced uneasily at Brewster.

"So long as you would not object, of course," said
Shannon, her voice dripping with irony as she turned to




108 • Simon Hawke

Brewster. "Far be it from me to order your apprentices
about," she added with a nice dollop of sarcasm.

"Oh, no, I have no objection," Brewster said.

"How nice," she said wryly. "My thanks for your indul-
gence." She gave him a little mock bow and then turned to
the others. "Out!"

With uneasy glances at Brewster, they departed without
another word, leaving him alone with Shannon.

"So," she said, coming around the table and stepping up
onto the dais, "now we may become properly acquainted."

She came closer, gazing at Brewster with an intense,
predatory look.

"You shall be my first adept," she said. "And I do hope
you are. Adept, that is."

"I beg your pardon?" Brewster said.

"Of course, if you really are a wizard, you could strike
me with a spell," she continued, drawing nearer. "Or
perhaps a thunderbolt. You could have me completely at
your mercy."

She reached out and grasped the lapels of his jacket with
both hands, then abruptly pulled him toward her and gave
him a kiss that would have weakened the resolution of a
priest. (Some priests, of course, have more resolve than
others, but this is merely a figure of speech. Suffice it to say
that Shannon's skill at kissing was exceeded only by her
willfulness.)

Brewster's eyes were wide with astonishment as Shannon
broke off the kiss, smiled, and said, "You see, I also know
how to cast a spell."

She unsheathed her sword and swept off the surface of the
table with the blade, sending goblets, meats, and fruit
baskets crashing to the floor. Then she tossed her sword
aside, swung him down onto his back on the tabletop, sat
astride him, and ripped open his shirt.

The Reluctant Sorcerer • 109

Now, it is a recognized fact of life that most men are
intimidated by self-confident, aggressive women. This is
because men, generally speaking, like to feel that they are
in control. And most women know that so long as a man
thinks that he is control, he's not too difficult to manage.
Shannon understood this very well. She was an expert at
making men think they were in control, when she was
actually controlling them quite subtly. However, when she
chose to, she could also take control directly and there was
nothing subtle about it whatsoever. She knew that both
approaches had their uses.

If Brewster was, indeed, as powerful a sorcerer as the
others claimed, then he represented a potential threat. She
had seen how quickly he had upset her system and had
everyone in Brigand's Roost and the surrounding farms at
his beck and call. Mick, who was hardly the gregarious
sort, had a fascination for the thaumaturgic arts and if he
was going to be this sorcerer's apprentice, then he would
have less time for making arms and brewing wine, which
were both commodities the brigands needed. McMurphy
and the other farmers would have less time to tend their
fields and provide the Roost with produce. Bloody Bob had
even sworn allegiance to this sorcerer as his retainer, as if
he were a king or something, and the other brigands had
actually been working here, performing physical labor, which
was unheard of. She'd seen the signs of it when she rode up
to the keep. Her brigands, working? Nay, she thought, this
wouldn't do at all. This was clearly a threat to her leader-
ship and one that needed to be dealt with quickly and
decisively.

She knew that taking on a sorcerer entailed a certain
amount of risk; however, this sorcerer was nevertheless a
man and men were all pushovers. The thing to do was take
control of this situation in no uncertain terms, and do it

110 • Simon Hawke

quickly. She was confident of her abilities to arouse passion
in a man and she knew that if she took the initiative in a
firm, aggressive, brook-no-nonsense manner, she would

quickly gain the upper hand.

The more important a man was, she'd learned, and the
more power he wielded, me more susceptible he was to
being dominated. Especially by a woman. Deep down
inside, it was what they really wanted—to have the pins
knocked out from under them by a strong, maternal figure
who would tell them what to do. hi her own uneducated
way. Shannon was quite the student of human behavior,
particularly male behavior, and she felt confident that this
was the proper course to take. Besides, the guy was kinda

cute.

"Uh... excuse me," Brewster said as she started to undo

his belt, "but I think you have the wrong idea. You see, I

happen to be engaged."

"Engaged in what?" she asked, momentarily thrown off
her stride by the zipper and the little metal hook on the
waistband of his gray flannel trousers. She frowned with
puzzlement, uncertain how to proceed.

"Engaged to be married," replied Brewster.

"Oh," said Shannon, plucking at his waistband uncertainly.
"You mean you are betrothed? What matters that to me?"

"Well, it matters to me," said Brewster. "And I expect it
matters to Pamela, as well."

"Pamela? Is that the name of your intended?" The hook
on the waistband popped free and Shannon uttered a satis-
fied "Ah! I see."

"It's not that I don't find you attractive, you under-
stand," said Brewster, looking up at her, "it's just that I
love Pamela, you see, and, well... I guess I'm a bit
old-fashioned when it comes to this sort of thing. Besides,
we hardly even know each other."

The Reluctant Sorcerer • 111

Shannon had finally figured out the zipper. She pulled it
down, and her face lit up with a childlike delight.

"Oh! How clever!"

She pulled it back up again, then down, then up, then
down and up, repeatedly, like a kid with a new toy.

"I mean, you said so yourself," continued Brewster, over
the sounds of zipping, " 'tis a bit early to presume friend-
ship, isn't it?"

"What?" said Shannon, looking up from his trousers to
his face.

"I said..."

"I heard what you said," she replied irritably. Somehow,
this wasn't going according to plan. "Who said anything
about friendship?"

"Well..." Brewster hesitated awkwardly. "I mean, that
is my zipper you're playing with, isn't it?"

"Zipper?" said Shannon. She zipped it up and down a
couple of times. "Oh! I see. It does make a sort of zipping
noise, doesn't it?"

"Yes, well, ripping open someone's shirt and unfastening
their trousers does presume a certain degree of intimacy,
doesn't it?" said Brewster.

Shannon frowned. She wasn't used to being distracted
like this. Or to men being recalcitrant in such a situation.
"Intimacy?" she said, raising her eyebrows. "What has this
to do with intimacy? You're being ravished, you fool!"

"Oh," said Brewster. He cleared his throat. "I see.
Well, if it's all the same to you, I'd really rather not be
ravished right now, if you don't mind."

"You wouldn't?"

"No, I wouldn't," Brewster said. "I mean, don't get me
wrong, I'm sure you're very good at it, but I'd really rather
not."

"S'trewth!" said Shannon. "I've never heard of such a




112 • Simon Hawke

thing. I'll have you know that most men would go quite out
of their way to have me ravish them!"

"Oh, I'm sure of that," said Brewster, "and my reluc-
tance is no reflection on you whatsoever. It's just that I
happen to be spoken for and I think commitments are

important, don't you?"

Shannon sighed. "Well.. .1 suppose."

"This doesn't mean we can't be friends," said Brewster.

She put her hands on her hips and stared down at him
with interest. "You are a most uncommon sort of man," she
said. "Your Pamela must be quite a woman."

"Well, so are you," said Brewster diplomatically. "Actually,
in some ways, the two of you would probably have much in

common."

"Would we, indeed?" said Shannon with surprise. "Is

she an outlaw, too?"

"No," admitted Brewster, "but she can be rather uncon-
ventional. She's also intelligent and very self-assured. Of
course, she doesn't carry a sword, but she does look good in

leather."

"Hmm," said Shannon, sitting back on Brewster's legs.

She gazed down at him thoughtfully. "Is she... more beau-
tiful than I?"

"Well, I don't know that I'd say that, exactly," Brewster

replied. "I suppose you and she are beautiful in different
ways, neither more than the other, merely different."

"Is her form more pleasing to you?"

"Uh.-.no, I wouldn't say that," Brewster replied
awkwardly. He was unaccustomed to such frank discussions
of comparative female anatomy, especially when such an
incomparable piece of female anatomy was sitting right on
top of him. "Actually, I've never really thought about it."

Shannon raised her eyebrows at this. A man who never
really thought about a woman's body? This was a first.

The Reluctant Sorcerer • 113

Perhaps sorcerers really were different. "She is clever,
then?"

"Well, yes," said Brewster. "She's very educated. She
has doctorates in electrical engineering, mathematics, and
computer science. She specializes in cybernetics."

Shannon frowned. She had no idea what those words
meant, but they certainly sounded impressive. And then
understanding seemed to dawn.

"Ah! She must be a sorceress!"

"Uh... well... uh..." Brewster shrugged. "Yeah, what
the hell. She's a sorceress."

Shannon nodded, apparently satisfied with this explana-
tion. "That makes a great difference, then," she said.
" 'Tis your devotion to the magic arts which binds you.
This I can understand."

"Good," said Brewster with relief. "Uh ... do you think
you could let me up now?"

"Oh, aye, of course," said Shannon, getting off him.

Brewster sat up, feeling very much relieved. "You've
torn all the buttons off my shirt," he said, looking down at
his exposed chest. And then he stood and exposed some-
thing else as his trousers fell down around his ankles.

Shannon's eyes grew wide. "S'trewth!" she exclaimed.
"Never have I seen the like of this!"

"Umm... they're called boxer shorts," said Brewster
with embarrassment as he hastily pulled up his trousers.

"What is their purpose?" Shannon asked in a puzzled
tone.

"Uh... well..." Brewster hesitated. He had never been
asked such a question before and it suddenly occurred to
him that he had absolutely no idea. "They... uh... they
... er... it has to do with magic. It would be too complicat-
ed to explain."




114 • Simon Hawke

"And the significance of the little red lips?" Shannon

asked.

"Uh..." Brewster blushed, cursing the day Pamela had

bought the shorts for him. She had thought they were cute
and liked to see him wearing them. "Well... uh... it has

to do with a spell, you see."

Shannon frowned, and then her look of puzzlement changed
to a knowing expression and a sly smile. "Oh! I see. "Tis a
spell of potency. Perhaps I was too hasty in letting you up."

"You're not going to—" Brewster began, alarmed, but
Shannon chuckled and shook her head.

"Never fear. Wizard," she said. "I shall respect your
pledge of troth, for in truth, you are the first man I have met

who is true to his troth."

"I beg your pardon?" Brewster said, "Could you repeat

that?"

Shannon shook her head. "I think not. It tangles the

tongue. However, you are safe from me, for the sake of the
beauteous sorceress Pamela. But never let it be said that a
comely man escaped unravished from Black Shannon."

"I won't say anything about it," Brewster assured her.
"As far as I'm concerned, nothing happened. All we did

was talk."

"Nay!" said Shannon. "I said, never let it be said that a

comely man escaped unravished from Black Shannon and I
meant it, by the gods! I have a reputation to uphold, you

know!"

"Oh," said Brewster. "Well... gee, I don't think I'd

feel right saying that you'd ravished me."

"Then say nothing," Shannon replied. "None shall dare
ask. You are a mighty wizard, after all, and I am Black
Shannon. Let them think what they will."

Brewster cleared his throat. "Yes, well, I don't suppose
we can do anything about what people choose to think."

The Reluctant Sorcerer • 115

"Indeed," said Shannon. "We shall be friends, then."

She held out her hand and they clasped each other's
forearms.

"Friends," said Brewster with a nervous smile.

"But see here," Shannon said, "you have placed me in
something of a quandary."

"I have?" said Brewster.

"Aye, you have, indeed," she replied. "You have all my
brigands working here upon your... your works. True, 'tis
a great boon to have a sorcerer settled in these parts, but my
brigands have their outlaw trade to ply, you know. I cannot
have them working! They will have no time left to steal and
plunder! You see my difficulty, do you not?"

"Mmmm, yes, I see your point," said Brewster, nod-
ding. "However, has it occurred to you that you might be
overlooking a potential for far greater profit?"

"Indeed?" said Shannon, suddenly looking very interested.

"Well," said Brewster, "suppose I were to tell you that I
know of a way for you and your brigands to at least double
your profits and, eventually, perhaps to increase them even
further, without having to waste all that time skulking by the
trails and lurking in the hedgerows?"

"Increase our profits?" she said. "With no lurking or
skulking? How?"

"By a process known as manufacturing," said Brewster.

" 'Man-u-facturing'?" she repeated, enunciating the un-
familiar word with care. " 'Tis some sort of sorcery?"

"Well... in a way," said Brewster.

Shannon sat down on the table, crossed her legs, placed
her elbow on her knee, and rested her chin on her fist. "Tell
me more, friend," she said.




The Reluctant Sorcerer • 117

CHAPTER
S E VEN

Warrick Morgannan was unquestionably the most power-
ful sorcerer in all the twenty-seven kingdoms, so powerful
that he even disdained to use a magename. Wizards general-
ly went in for that sort of thing, because there was an old
belief that knowledge of one's truename rendered one poten-
tially vulnerable to enemy adepts. While this belief was not
entirely without substance, most adepts used magenames
primarily because they sounded more dramatic.

In fact, all adepts had their truenames registered with
SAG, as that was one of the requirements of the Guild,
partly to keep track of its membership and partly to insure
that there would be no disputes over magenames. If some-
one had already chosen Graywand or Wyrdrune and regis-
tered it, then you simply had to pick another name, no
matter how much you had your heart set on it.

This sort of thing could prove rather taxing to the imagi-
nation, as the membership rolls of the Guild accounted for
every adept in all the twenty-seven kingdoms and most of
the good names had already been taken. If an adept died,
then it was sometimes possible for his name to be passed on

116

to someone else, but only provided that provision had been
made for it in his will prior to his death and this didn't
often happen. The only exceptions were generally with
sons who were inheriting the business or with apprentices
who had gained especially high favor. Most of the time,
the magenames were simply retired and entered on the
Scroll of Eternity.

Because of this system, newly sanctioned adepts often
found themselves stuck for an original magename, or were
so fond of the one they'd picked, only to find out that
someone else already had it, that they had to settle for a
number. While this practice was not encouraged, it had been
adopted out of necessity. It saved the Guild Membership
Committee having to come up with new magenames all the
time for newly sanctioned adepts to draw out of a hat.
Consequently, on the rolls of the Guild, there was now a
Darkrune 4, a Blackthorn 2, and Gandalfs 1 through 6.

Warrick sounded quite properly dramatic all by itself, and
with Morgannan added to it, it even sounded dashing and
romantic, but that wasn't why he stuck with it. Warrick used
his truename because, when he had first been sanctioned, he
had wanted to ram it down everybody's throat. He had
wanted to be an adept since early childhood and he had
never even considered any other occupation, despite the
fact that everyone had told him he had no talent. This
only infuriated him and made him study that much
harder.

It had taken him years to find a Guild member who would
take him on as an apprentice, and then the only one who
would accept him had been Batshade, a blind, arthritic, and
senile old humbler who lived in a cave and was more
popularly known as Batshit, because of all the droppings
covering his pointy hat and robe. It had been a miserable
existence, but old Batshit had all the necessary scrolls and




118 • Simon Hawke

lab equipment, and on the days when he wasn't stumbling
around the cave and raving to himself, he could actually be
a pretty decent teacher. Still, Warrick had served a fifteen-
year apprenticeship, when even the slowest students gener-
ally made it through in ten.

Finally, there had been some controversy over his sanctioning
exam, which occasioned a debate among the Membership
Committee. Some of the committee members had felt that
he wasn't sufficiently dramatic with his technique, and they
didn't like that he eschewed most of the traditional sepul-
chral chants and ancient gestures, accomplishing everything
he did with a minimalist approach. In other words, they felt
he lacked a certain style. However, in the end, it was
decided that this was not sufficient grounds to exclude him
from membership, especially since he had the secret of the
Philosopher's Stone down pat, and knew all the other
requisite spells as well. So they accepted him, but several
members of the committee were rather condescending in

their final personal evaluation remarks.

Warrick was not the type of man to overlook this sort of
thing. When they asked him if he had chosen a magename,
he had replied that he would use his own truename, which
had raised more than a few eyebrows. "I shall be
remembered," he had told them firmly, "and in time, I
shall eclipse each and every one of you with my abilities.
Mark well my words, for I shall be the greatest wizard of

them all!"

Well, the committee took some exception to this, but they

wrote off his remarks to youthful arrogance and merely gave
him a lecture on proper deportment and respect for his
elders. However, as time passed, they were forced to eat
those words, especially in the cases of those members of
the committee who had been rather harsh in their personal
evaluation remarks, for Warrick had hit them each with a

The Reluctant Sorcerer    119

spell that made them go down to the Guild Records
Chambers, go through all the files until they found the
evaluations they had written, then stuff them in their
mouths, chew them up, and swallow them. Needless to
say, this display of power had not gone unnoticed and in
the very next election he was voted Grand Director of the
Guild. His words had proved prophetic. He had, indeed,
eclipsed them all.

As Grand Director (or as the Guild members referred to
him, "the G.D."), he was entitled to do things pretty much
his own way. He avoided the traditional trappings of the
Guild and never wore robes, but dressed in a plain, un-
adorned white velvet suit consisting of a high-buttoned
cleric's tunic, close-fitting breeches, and matching, calf-
high, velvet boots. The color went well with his long
ash-blond hair, green eyes, and sharp features, but it was a
most unsorcerly appearance. The most popular colors were
generally murky green, deep purple, midnight blue, and, of
course, blackest black, but his white suit set him apart, and
in time, he became known as Warrick the White.

He had come a very long way, indeed, which only goes to
show how far you can go if you apply yourself, and
whatever he may have lacked in natural ability in the
beginning, he had more than made up for with diligent
study, perseverance, and just plain hard work. He lived for
his art, and had developed powers and thaumaturgic sensitivities
of a very high order, which—

"Who's there?" said Warrick, turning away from his
massive study desk to peer anxiously over his shoulder.

" 'Tis only I, Master," replied his familiar, an ugly old
troll whom Warrick had named Teddy.

"I didn't mean you," said Warrick, scowling and glanc-
ing around. "I suddenly had the distinct sensation that
someone was talking about me."




120 • Simon Hawke

Teddy had been with the sorcerer ever since the day the
troll had the misfortune to jump the teenaged Warrick from
beneath a bridge. Trolls generally weren't very large, though
they were quite strong in proportion to their size, but Teddy
was a runt as far as trolls go, standing only two feet tall,
with arms as long as he was high, so that his knuckles

perpetually dragged upon the ground.

"Talking about you. Master?" Teddy said, glancing around.

"But there is no one else here!"
Warrick frowned. "I heard a voice," he said. "But it

seems to be talking about you, now."

"Me?" said Teddy, sounding alarmed.

He had been lurking underneath the bridge, as trolls do,
when Warrick had passed by overhead and Teddy jumped
him. Warrick, who was no slouch himself in the physical
strength department, had pounded the living daylights out of
him and then placed a spell of submission on the troll,
whose hairiness and musky smell reminded him of a bear
cub. Having never been given any toys or stuffed animals
when he was a child, Warrick had named him Teddy and
had kept him around ever since. He had tried sleeping with
Teddy at first, but trolls are fitful sleepers and Teddy
squirmed too much. Besides, the musky smell had a tenden-
cy to build up on you, so Teddy had been banished from the
warm covers of the bed to the dust balls beneath it.

"Hmmm," said Warrick. "There are strange forces abroad
in the land tonight. Voices in the ether. I don't know what

the world is coming to."

He shook his head and turned his attention back to the

musty scrolls spread out on his desk. From time to time, he
would glance back over his shoulder again and scowl,
frowning at the strange contraption that sat on the stone
floor of his laboratory. It looked somewhat like a large

The Reluctant Sorcerer • 121

bubble on sled runners, with a curious, shiny tube running
all around it.

It was, needless to say, Brewster's missing time machine
and here is how it came into Warrick's possession:

You will recall that it had been programmed to travel back
into the past ten minutes for ten seconds, so that it should
have appeared in Brewster's top secret London laboratory
high atop the corporate headquarters of EnGulfCo Interna-
tional, remained in Brewster's immediate past for a scant
ten seconds, and then returned automatically. However, it
had not done so, because of the faulty switch in the
auto-return module. Brewster had thought that he had diag-
nosed the flaw, but in fact, something else had happened, as
well, something Brewster hadn't counted on at all.

Ripping holes in the time/space continuum can be a dicey
business, and what happened was that when the machine
dropped through the field of temporal disruption it had
created, it experienced a sort of temporal version of an
atmospheric skip, the result of an intangible temporal con-
gruity of a universe that existed in a continuum plane
parallel to our own. Now Giordano Bruno was burned at the
stake for talking about stuff like this, so your narrator isn't
going to push his luck by going into any greater detail.
Suffice it to say that Brewster, quite by accident, had not
only discovered time travel, but travel to parallel realities as
well. What one might call "a real trip."

When the first time machine arrived in the Kingdom of
Frank, in the Land of Dam, its temporal skip had been
slightly greater than the one Brewster himself had experi-
enced, so as a result, it had not materialized in the same
place. It had actually arrived about twenty miles away from
Lookout Mountain, at a somewhat greater altitude. Its
parachute had automatically deployed and carried it a certain
distance downwind before it landed without mishap in the




122 • Simon Hawke

middle of the road leading from Franktown, the capital city
of the kingdom, through the Redwood Forest, to the town of
Dudley's Port, on the coast. The first people to spot it were
Long Bill, Fifer Bob, and Silent Fred, who had been serving
their shift lurking in the hedgerows.

Long Bill and Silent Fred were playing chess with a little
set that Fred always carried around with him, while Bob
played on his little wooden fife and watched the road. He
had finished off one tune and asked, "Any requests?"
"Aye, put that stupid thing away," growled Long Bill.
Bob put his fife to his lips and started playing a ribald
ditty called "Put That Stupid Thing Away," which had
pretty racy lyrics but lost something when it was performed
as an instrumental. Besides, it wasn't what Long Bill had in
mind, anyway. He fetched Pifer Bob a clout on the back of
his head, which succeeded in jamming the fife halfway

down Bob's esophagus.

"You sure you want to make that move?" asked Silent
Fred, who spoke in complete sentences only when he played

chess.

"Aye, why not?" asked Long Bill, frowning.

"Well, 'tis mate," Fred replied with a shrug.

"What? Where?"

"Oh, in about sixteen moves," said Fred.

"I don't like you," Long Bill groused.

"Afmpfrrgh!" said Pifer Bob.

Without looking at him. Long Bill walloped Bob on the
back and the fife was dislodged. It flew out of Bob's mouth
and landed about six feet away.

"By the gods!" said Fifer Bob. "What in thunder is that

thing?"

They turned to gaze in the direction he was looking at just
in time to see the time machine bump to a gentle landing in

The Reluctant Sorcerer • 123

the center of the road. The parachute collapsed and draped
over it.

"S'trewth!" said Long Bill.

They ducked down even lower behind the shrubbery and
stared at the thing fearfully for a while, but when nothing
more happened, they ventured out cautiously. After a while
of circling around it, they reached out to touch it hesitantly,
not having any idea what to expect. Clearly, this was some
sort of magical contrivance. When none of them was blasted
into oblivion by contact with it, they cautiously joined
efforts and dragged it off the road a short distance into the
trees, where they covered it up with leafy branches.

A quick and heated debate then ensued as to what should
be done about this discovery. Normally, they would have
reported it to Shannon, but she was away on a scouting
expedition and there was no telling when she would return.
The immediate question, therefore, became how best to
profit from this situation. It was quickly decided that the
best way to profit from it would be to ensure a three-way
split, rather than a split with all the brigands. This ran
directly counter to Shannon's articles (no one knew exactly
why she called them "articles," but it was generally thought
she chose this term because it sounded slightly more palata-
ble than "rules"); however, what Shannon and the other
brigands didn't know could hardly hurt them. Or, more to
the point, it could hardly hurt Long Bill, Fifer Bob, and
Silent Fred.

A cart was obtained and then, after much perspiration and
heavy breathing, they managed to lift the time machine up
onto the cart, still covered with the parachute, upon which
they threw a lot of mud and dirt, so that no one would think
anything terribly interesting was underneath it. They then
drove the cart to the residence of Blackrune 4, who was the

124 • Simon Hawke

nearest adept and lived alone in the forest about six days

travel north.

All the way, they argued about how best to negotiate the

deal, because concluding business arrangements with a
sorcerer could be somewhat risky. Adepts, after all, could
bargain from a position of considerable strength. It was
finally decided to send Fifer Bob to the sorcerer's residence
to initiate the dealings, while Silent Fred and Long Bill
waited nearby with the cart. This decision was reached by
casting lots, which meant that Fifer Bob was cast from the
cart lots of times, until he finally got tired of running after
it, only to be dumped off again, and agreed to undertake the

task.

After some cautious negotiation, in which Fifer Bob

outdid himself by describing this wonder that fell from the
sky, it was arranged for Blackrune 4's apprentice to accom-
pany Bob back to the cart and see for himself if this
mysterious commodity was everything it was cracked up to
be. So excited was the apprentice when he returned, for he
had never seen anything like it and was convinced it was
highly magical, that the deal was quickly concluded, and
the three brigands went off in their unloaded cart, well
satisfied with the bargain they had struck. At least, they
were well satisfied until they were almost halfway home, at
which point they discovered that the coins they had been
paid in had turned into acoms, at which point Long Bill and
Silent Fred took out their frustration on poor Bob by
drubbing him soundly and shoving his fife up his nose.

Realizing they'd been had, they also realized that it would
be in their best interests to keep their mouths shut about the
whole thing. Not only had they botched a business deal, but
they had gone against the articles and tried to cheat their
comrades out of their fair share. When they returned to the
Roost and, soon afterward, met Brewster, they decided it

The Reluctant Sorcerer    125

would be much wiser to keep mum about it than to tell him
what they'd done. One brush with a sorcerer was enough for
them. They didn't want to push their luck.

Meanwhile, Blackrune 4 used all his magic spells of
divination in an attempt to find out what this strange new
apparatus was. He tried one spell after another, working
feverishly for days, until he inadvertently came up with one
that magically tapped into the machine's temporal field and
caused a sort of temporal phase loop. Unfortunately, he
happened to be inside it at the time, and what happened was
that the temporal phase loop pulled him through the space/
time continuum field while the machine remained exactly
where it was. In other words, much to the consternation of
his apprentice, the machine stayed put while the wizard
disappeared.

When a considerable amount of time had passed and
Blackrune 4 did not return, his apprentice decided that
whatever this thing was, it was far too powerful to risk
having around and that it would probably be best to turn it
over to the Guild. Quite aside from which, he still had
several years of his apprenticeship left to serve and he'd
need to see the Guild Registrar about a transfer.

So it was that Warrick, in his position as the Grand
Director,. wound up with the machine, for Blackrune 4's
apprentice had sought an audience directly with him, certain
that this strange device was so powerful and malevolent that
only Warrick the White could deal with it. Besides, the
apprentice figured it wouldn't hurt to get in a few brownie
points with the G.D.

Warrick had questioned the apprentice extensively about
everything that had happened, including which spells his
master had used and, in particular, which one had effected
his disappearance, and about the three strange characters
who had brought the device to him in the first place. The

126 • Simon Hawke

apprentice did not know their names—for the three brigands
had wisely refrained from identifying themselves—but he
supposed that they had either found the device somewhere
or stolen it.

To test this information, for he was nothing if not a careful
adept, Warrick compelled the apprentice to step into the
machine while he spoke the spell Blackrune 4 had cast just
before he disappeared. And, sure enough, with a crackling of
static discharges and a strange smell of ozone in the air,
accompanied by a small thunderclap, the apprentice had
disappeared from sight while the machine remained exactly
where it was. It had not, after all, been designed to be
activated by magical remote control and one can never tell
what electrical appliances are liable to do if they are not
operated according to instructions.

The bewildered apprentice appeared in the center of
Houston Street in New York City's Greenwich Village,
where his unusual appearance excited no comment whatso-
ever, and after an extremely confusing period of about two
weeks, he wound up living with a cute nineteen-year-old
performance artist and singing lead vocals in a thrash rock
band. Unfortunately, his former master, Blackrune 4, had
considerably greater problems in adapting to his new
environment.

Busted for vagrancy in Los Angeles, he spent a great deal
of time ranting and raving in the county jail, unable to
understand why none of his spells would work and scream-
ing over and over again, "I am Blackrune 4! I am Blackrune
4, I tell you!" This only complicated matters, because the
LAPD assumed by these outbursts that he was confessing to
being a grafitti artist and he was sentenced to thirty days in
the slam and six weeks community service.

Meanwhile, Warrick continued—albeit very carefully—
seeking to divine the purpose of the curious apparatus.

The Reluctant Sorcerer • 127

Clearly, it was an object of great power and whoever had
made it was undoubtedly a very powerful adept, perhaps
even more powerful than Warrick, for the construction of
the device was baffling. This was a rather unsettling notion.

As Grand Director, Warrick knew all the senior members
of the Guild and he did not think any of them would be
capable of constructing such a device. It was beyond his
comprehension. The curious, bubble-shaped dome looked as
if it had been made from glass, but it was not glass. It was
made from some mysterious substance the like of which he
had never seen before. He was at a loss to explain the
bright, metallic ring that encircled the device. What was it?
How had it been made? What was its purpose? And if the
exterior of the device was baffling, then its interior was even
more so.

Warrick hesitated to enter the glasslike bubble enclosure,
for he did not wish to disappear himself, but he stood
outside it and looked in, his gaze traveling over the control
panels and lingering on the instrumentation, and he was
very much impressed. He had no idea what any of it meant,
but it was easy to see that whoever had made this strange
and frightening device possessed knowledge and skill that
was far beyond his own. And this was not good. Not good
at all.

It did not seem possible that one or more of the other
members of the Guild could have secretly developed their
powers to such a level. Surely, he would have known about
it, for he had an extensive network of spies, assassins, and
informants. He liked to keep tabs on the competition. He
had also devised a spell to detect auras, so that in the event
he ever encountered magic other than his own, he could
read the aura of the spellcaster. He was familiar with the
auras of all the senior members of the Guild, and of many
of the junior members, as well, but this mysterious piece of




128 • Simon Hawke

apparatus had no aura. It gave off emanations of tremendous
power, but he could detect no magical aura whatsoever,
which meant that the adept who had constructed it had
found a way to either conceal his aura or to block spells of
detection. Worrisome. Very worrisome, indeed.

Warrick tried every divination spell he knew—while
remaining what he hoped was a safe distance away. He tried
the Postulations of Padrick the Prognosticator, the Chant of
Carvin the Clairvoyant, the Divination of Devon the Deter-
minator, and the Ritual of Ravenwing the Revenant, all to
no avail. He consulted each and every ancient scroll and
vellum tome he owned and nothing seemed to help. Clearly,
this was some sort of entirely new kind of magic, more
powerful than anything he had ever encountered or even
heard of. His anxiety increased and he started losing sleep

and chewing on his fingernails.

He had not told anyone else about this strange and baffling
device that had come into his possession. With the excep-
tions of Blackrune 4 and his apprentice, who had disappeared
into the unknown, only his troll familiar, Teddy, knew about
it. And, of course, the three mysterious strangers who had
brought the device to Blackrune 4 in the first place. Warrick
wondered if anyone else knew about it. Obviously, whoever
had made it knew and was probably looking for it.

There were simply too many things that Warrick Morgannan
did not know. He did not know who had made the strange
device. He did not know how it had been made. He did not
know how whoever had made it was able to mask the aura
of his handiwork or why no warding spell had been placed
upon it, for Warrick could detect no magical safeguards
protecting the device. Of course, with something this dan-
gerous and powerful, perhaps its maker thought no protec-
tion was required. And if whoever made it was as powerful
as Warrick suspected, as powerful as he (or possibly she)

The Reluctant Sorcerer    129

would have to be in order to make such a thing, then how
had those three mysterious strangers managed to get their
hands on it?

Somehow, he had to find those three strangers, for they
were surely the keys to this mystery. He had obtained a
detailed description of them from the apprentice and he had
sent word to all his spies, assassins, and informants, instructing
them to be on the lookout for anyone matching those
descriptions. Whoever those three strangers were, they were
not to be harmed. If they could not be apprehended, they
were to be followed discreetly and identified, and then he
would take over from there. But so far, there had been no
word of them.

For hours and days on end, Warrick sat and simply stared
at the device intently, as if such intense scrutiny could
somehow penetrate its mysteries. At first, he thought that
perhaps it might be some sort of execution device, but he
had quickly discarded that idea. Why go to so much trouble
merely to kill people? There were far easier ways to do that,
both with magic and without, and they were numerous, so
what would be the point?

Blackrune 4 and his apprentice had disappeared without a
trace. No lingering auras from them could be detected, so it
did not seem as if they had been transmuted somehow, or
rendered invisible. But if they had not been killed or
transformed, what had become of them? Where had they
disappeared to?

His magic having failed him, in frustration, Warrick
turned to logical deduction, a much more complicated
discipline. If one stepped into the bubble-shaped dome
enclosure of the device, and the device was activated, then
one simply disappeared. If whoever was in the device was
not killed or transmuted, then he had to be somewhere. So
logic seemed to dictate that the strange device was an




130 • Simon Hawke

apparatus for sending people somewhere. Only where and
how? And once they were sent there, what happened to
them? Was there any way they could return?

Warrick could think of nothing else. He had to solve this
mystery somehow and divine the secrets of this marvelous
and frightening apparatus. He had to discover who had been
responsible for its creation, for whoever it was unquestion-
ably possessed far greater power than he did. A Guild
member? Warrick did not think so. A Guild member who
had attained such power could easily have deposed him as
Grand Director and would not have hesitated to do so.
Therefore... it was an adept who was not a member of the

Guild.

And that, thought Warrick, was even more unsettling than
the idea of one of the other Guild members becoming more
powerful than he was, for it suggested that the creator of
this device had gained his knowledge and skill independently
of the Guild, without ever having served the requisite
apprenticeship, or taken the exams, or being sanctioned as a
practicing adept. It meant this was an unregistered adept,
one completely outside the authority of the Guild. One who
did not pay dues.

For someone to disregard the entire Guild so completely
... it was simply unthinkable. It suggested that whoever this
adept might be, he possessed such power that he did not
consider the Guild a threat. That seemed impossible. How
could anyone hope to stand against the combined powers of
the Guild? Of course, the members of the Guild had never
combined their powers before. There had never been any
reason for them to do so, and sorcerers being a competitive
lot, it had never even occurred to them to try. However, that
was quite beside the point. No one adept could possibly
hope to stand against all the rest of them together, no more

The Reluctant Sorcerer • 131

than one man, no matter how brave and strong, could hope
to stand against an entire army.

There simply had to be another explanation. Warrick
racked his brain to find it. He had to solve this mystery and
discover how to gain mastery over the power of the device,
and the adept who had created it. He could think of almost
nothing else. He had become obsessed with it.

"I am not obsessed," said Warrick irritably. "I am
merely intrigued."

"What, Master?" said the troll.

"I said that I am not obsessed, merely intrigued," repeat-
ed Warrick.

"But, Master, I said nothing!" the troll protested, shrug-
ging his hairy little shoulders elaborately.

"Voices," Warrick mumbled, glancing all around him.
"Voices in the ether."

"But I heard nothing, Master!" Teddy said, picking his
nose nervously. Trolls were gifted with a remarkable sense
of smell, and when they grew anxious or nervous, they
often picked their noses to clear the nasal passageways and
make sure they could smell anyone trying to sneak up on
them.

"Hmmm," said Warrick with a frown. "Come to think
of it, I heard nothing, too. But there was a voice. I... sensed
it."

Teddy's eyes grew wide, or more to the point, they grew
wider, for trolls have rather wide eyes to begin with and
when they get surprised, their eyes don't simply open wider,
as humans eyes do, they actually move farther apart. If
you're not used to it, this produces a rather disconcerting
effect.

"Talking about your eyes now," Warrick said, narrowing
his own in the accepted human fashion.

"My eyes?" said Teddy, glancing around with alarm and




132 • Simon Hawke

picking his nose furiously. "What does it want with my

eyes?"

"I'm sure I don't know," Warrick replied. "It was—
... describing them. It seems to have stopped now."

"I'm frightened, Master."

"Nothing to be frightened about," said Warrick. "Voices
in the ether cannot harm you." He frowned again. "At least,
I do not think they can."

"You mean you do not know. Master?" Teddy asked with
wonder. "But you are the most wise and powerful sorcerer
in all the twenty-seven kingdoms! How can there be any-
thing you do not know?"

"There is much I do not know, Teddy," Warrick replied.
"I merely know more than most people. Yet there are some,
it would appear, who know even more than I." He glanced
at the time machine and scowled. "Things have been most
peculiar since that time machine came into my possession.
Most peculiar, indeed."

"Time machine. Master?" Teddy said.

"What?"

"You said, time machine. Master."

"I did, didn't I?" said Warrick, looking puzzled. "Time
machine.... Time machine.... I wonder what it means.
And I wonder how I knew to call it that."

"Perhaps the the voice told you. Master," offered me
troll helpfully.

"The voice," said Warrick. "Aye... the voice. I sense a
presence, Teddy. It seems to come and go, but most surely
do I sense it."

"What sort of presence. Master?"

"An ominiscient presence."

"A god?" asked Teddy fearfully.

"A sort of god, perhaps," said Warrick, staring up at the
ceiling. "Not unlike a minor deity."

The Reluctant Sorcerer • 133

"What does it do?" asked Teddy, trembling.

"I am not certain," Warrick replied, furrowing his brow.
"It seems to observe. And comment. It troubles me."

He crossed the room and stood in front of the mysterious
apparatus, staring at it thoughtfully.

"No, sorry, it won't work," said Warrick.

"What won't work. Master?" asked the troll.

"Calling it a mysterious apparatus. I already know it is
called a time machine. Only I am not certain what that
means. Time' I know the meaning of, but what is the
meaning of 'machine'?"

H» walked around it, slowly, rubbing his chin as he
thought out loud.

"Machine, machine." He shook his head. "A device or
contrivance of some kind? Hmmm. Time machine. A device
for time?"

He was uncomfortably close to the concept of a watch, but
he was on the wrong track. Besides, devices for telling time
had not yet been invented.

"You mean a watch?" said Teddy.

"Don't be silly, that hasn't been invented yet," said
Warrick. Then he frowned. "A watch," he said. "Now
what in thunder is a watch?" He turned quickly, as if
expecting to see someone sneaking up behind him. ' 'Something
very strange is happening."

"I sense nothing. Master."

"That is because you are not a powerful adept," said
Warrick. "Nevertheless, it seems to be affecting you,
somehow."

"It is? Make it stop. Master!"

"I am not certain if I can," said Warrick, glancing about
uncertainly. "You have felt nothing, sensed nothing before
this?"
"I feel nothing and sense nothing now. Master!"

134 • Simon Hawke

"Hmmm. Curious. You are unaware of it, yet for a
moment, you seemed affected. Perhaps because you were
influenced by my own sensitivity. That could be a possible
explanation. But whatever it is, it all started when this... this
time machine came into my possession. Somehow, I am
going to get to the bottom of this."

And chances were he would, too.

Warrick glanced up irritably. "Didn't I just say that?"

CHAPTER
EIGHT

Well, that last chapter gave your narrator a rather nasty turn.
Everyone knows fictional characters are not supposed to be
able to detect the presence of the narrator and start talking
back to him. (This is against all the rules of good writing,
just like "breaking the rule of the fourth wall," which is
what happens when an actor breaks character and starts
talking to the audience, or when a narrator addresses the
reader directly, which is exactly what I'm doing now, so I
suppose it serves me right.)

Anyway, in all the books I've written, I've never had this
kind of experience before, and I don't mind telling you, I'm
not quite sure what to do about it. It's pretty weird. (Not to
mention potentially confusing.) However, if you look at it
another way, perhaps it really isn't all that strange.

Writers are always going around talking about how their
characters suddenly "take on a life of their own," or how
the story starts "telling itself and all they're really doing is
writing it down as it goes along. A lot of writers tend to say
those kinds of things, for some peculiar reason, as if it were
a form of false modesty, like they really don't create the
135




136 • Simon Hawke

stories somehow, but they're only "vessels through which
the wine is poured" and stuff like that. To be perfectly
honest, I've always thought it was a lot of nonsense. I've
written a lot of books and the only thing that's ever been
poured through me was lots of beer, and believe me, / was
the one who did the pouring. However, I'm older and wiser
now and I rarely drink anything stronger than coffee, so I'm
stone-cold sober as I'm sitting here pounding on the key-
board, which means I can't claim being drunk as an excuse.
Frankly, this sort of thing just isn't supposed to happen.

This is going to take some thought. (Bear with me,
otherwise there's no telling where this book is liable to wind
up. Christ, I can hear the critics now....)

As we've already discovered, the rules of reality in this
particular universe are rather different from the ones we're
used to, so perhaps I shouldn't be surprised. If you've got a
universe where magic works, and leprechauns study alche-
my, and bushes uproot themselves and start wandering about
like triffids, then maybe it's not unreasonable to assume that
a powerful adept can detect the presence of the narrator. I
suppose it's my own fault, in a way. I wanted to make him
really powerful, so that we could have ,a truly nasty villain,
and I guess I simply went too far. Well, okay, that's my
responsibility; I'll simply have to live with it.

So far, it seems he can detect my presence only when the
story focuses on him, and even then, it seems to come and
go. However, that doesn't necessarily mean his sensitivity
won't increase. (Now why did I have to go and write that?
Boy, I am just asking for trouble....) Obviously, I'm going
to have to be very careful what I write when Warrick is the
viewpoint character, because he's already picked up that the
"mysterious apparatus" is a time machine. He doesn't
exactly know what that means yet, but he already knows a
lot more than he should. (At least, he knows a lot more than

The Beluctant Sorcerer • 137

he should know by this point, according to the way I've
plotted the story, which means I'm going to have to really
watch it or else I'll lose control completely.)

Anyway, you've been very patient through this weird
digression, and by now you're probably having some seri-
ous doubts about trusting your narrator, and frankly, I don't
blame you. But remember, we're all in this together, and if
you haven't thrown the book across the room by now,
chances are we'll make it through this thing. (I hope.) So,
let's get back to Brewster, shall we?

The once-dilapidated keep had undergone a transforma-
tion. Wooden scaffolding now covered most of the tower,
with people clambering all over it, tuck-pointing the stone
bricks. The elevated aqueduct bringing water from upstream
to the top of the water wheel had been finished and the
smaller wheels powering the water lift had been installed.
The buckets attached to the crude, but effective rope con-
veyor belt ran up the side of the tower, tipped over into the
trough that filled the cistern, and traveled back down again
to be refilled. While it was running, the water lift made
rather pleasant, creaky, splashy sounds, and the people who
had been involved in its construction watched it with fasci-
nated admiration and no small amount of pride. Truly, it was
magical and wondrous, and the spell it cast upon them was
directly proportional to the amount of work they had put
into it, which was considerable.

The leaching field for the septic tank had been completed.
Brewster figured it would be only a matter of a week or so
until he had functional indoor plumbing. In the meantime,
he made sure the work crews used the latrines that had been
dug an environmentally correct distance from the stream,
under the supervision of Shop Foreman Bloody Bob, who
was just as proud of his new title as he was of his newest




138 • Simon Hawke

and most prized possession, the bronze-mounted magic
visor that not only improved his vision beyond all expecta-
tions, so that he could now identify every animal drawn on
the eye chart, but gave him a most fearsome and dramatic
aspect, as well.

The next project Brewster was considering was wiring the
keep for electricity. He figured he could rig up a belt driven
off the water wheel shaft, which was now turning with more
force thanks to the aqueduct raceway dropping it a full ten
feet onto the paddles. He planned to hook up the salvaged
alternator from the time machine by constructing different-
sized wooden pulleys, connected by a crude belt that was
actually a rope plaited from vines. Mick had said this rope
was very strong and held up well, which was proving to be
the case so far with the water lift. To prevent the rope from
slipping, Mick used a rosin made from bees' wax. Initially,
Brewster figured, wire could be salvaged from the remains
of the time machine, but eventually, he could show Mick
how to draw it out of copper or gold, heating it and pulling
it on a crank. He'd have to paint it with something for
insulation, pitch, perhaps, or some other kind of substance.
He didn't think any of that would present much of a
problem. The problem was light bulbs. He tried explaining
it to Mick.

"You see, Mick, to make a light bulb you need a small
piece of wire, like I showed you, only smaller, heated to
incandescence. That means it's heated to a point where it
gives off a bright yellow sort of glow. The problem is, we'd
need a vacuum to prevent the heated wire from burning up.
I figure we could probably manage to blow some kind of
glass bulb, but the trouble is getting the vacuum, you see."

"Va-kyoom," said Mick, carefully enunciating the unfa-
miliar word. He liked the sound of it. It sounded very
magical, indeed.

The Reluctant Sorcerer • 139

"Yes, that's right," said Brewster. "Vacuum."

"And this va-kyoom prevents the wee piece of wire from
bumin' up, is that it?"

"Exactly."

"Ah," said Mick. "I see."

"You do?" said Brewster with some surprise. He had
expected Mick to ask for a more detailed explanation.

"Aye," Mick replied. " Tis a bit like a Prevent Bum
spell, this va-kyoom."

"Uh... well, yes, I suppose so," said Brewster with a
wry smile. "The only trouble is... well, how can I put it? I
don't really have the proper apparatus here to make a
vacuum."

Mick frowned. "Ah. Pity. And we must have this va-
kyoom? A simple Prevent Burn spell on this heated wire
would not do?"

"Well..." Brewster hesitated. He was, after all, sup-
posed to be a sorcerer, and he didn't want to disillusion
Mick by admitting that he didn't know any simple Prevent
Bum spells. He wondered where Mick got such peculiar
ideas. "I'm... uh... not really used to doing it that way,"
he replied.

"Sure, and I understand," said Mick, nodding. "I'm like
that when it comes to maldn' swords. There's some that
don't finish 'em off as well as I do, and for an ordinary
fightin' blade, there's really not much need for that, but 'tis
a matter of craft, you see, and you like to do the job the best
way you know how."

"Exactly," Brewster said, relieved and thinking that he'd
have to give a bit more thought to this sorcerer nonsense. So
far, it had proved helpful for these simple, superstitious
people to accept science as sorcery, but it wouldn't do to
have them thinking he could do absolutely anything.

"Say no more." said Mick. "I understand completely.

140 • Simon Hawke

'Twould be beneath your dignity to resort to such a simple

spell. Leave it to me."

Brewster raised his eyebrows. "Leave it to you?"
"Aye. S'trewth, and I'm only a beginner, not a great
sorcerer like yourself, and such simple spells are but fey
magic to us little people. We do them all the time."
"You do them all the time?" said Brewster, raising his

eyebrows.

"Aye. Tis no great matter." Mick picked up a wood
splinter from the construction site and held it upright. He
mumbled something quickly in a language Brewster didn't
understand, and the tip of the wood splinter burst into flame.
Mick mumbled something else, made a quick pass over the
piece of wood, and though the flame continued to bum
brightly, the wood itself was not consumed.

" 'Tis handy to light your way on a dark night in the
woods," said Mick. "True, 'tis wood this, but I see no
reason why 'twould not work with your wire."

Brewster stared wide-eyed at the burning, yet not burning
splinter. "That's a good trick," he said after a moment.

"How'd you do it?"

But before Mick could reply, there was an alarmed cry
from the keep, followed by Shannon shouting, "'Doc! Doc,

come quick!"

Thinking that perhaps someone had been injured, Brewster
ran back into the keep, followed by Mick and most of the
brigands on the work crew. They found Shannon in the lab,
as Brewster now thought of the room where Mick kept his
alchemical equipment. With all the work that had needed to
be done, no one had done anything in the lab and Mick
didn't like anyone going in there, so no one had disturbed
the messy clutter. No one, that is, except Shannon, who had
not been able to resist the temptation of the iron-banded
chest left behind by the keep's former occupant.

The Reluctant Sorcerer • 141

She had picked the lock and the lid of the trunk was wide
open. There was nothing inside but cobwebs, dust, and little
spiders. The sole object the trunk had contained had been
removed and it now sat on one of the worktables. It was a
dust-covered chamberpot, made of solid gold and set with
precious stones below its rim.

Shannon stood about six feet away from the table, a
dagger clutched in her hand. She was staring fearfully at the
chamberpot. She glanced toward Brewster and the others as
they came running in, then looked back toward the chamberpot
on the table.

"// spoke!" she said.

"What?" said Brewster.

"It cried out!" said Shannon, pointing at the chamberpot
with her dagger. "And then it spoke!"

"Of course I cried out, you silly wench, what did you
expect? You'd cry out too, if someone started poking at you
with a dagger!"

"You see?" Shannon said excitedly, waving her dagger
about. "It speaks! The pot speaks! 'Tis enchanted!"

Everybody looked at Brewster. Brewster, in turn, looked
at everybody else. He did not, for a moment, think that the
chamberpot had actually spoken. Someone was throwing
their voice. He glanced beneath the table, expecting to see
someone hiding under there and giggling. Maybe this was
an example of brigand humor, he thought, some kind of
practical joke. Maybe they were playing a trick on him to
see what he would do. Maybe Shannon had something
sneaky up her sleeve. Maybe they suspected that he really
wasn't a sorcerer, after all.

"Is this a test?" he said uncertainly.

" 'Tis Brian!" said Pikestaff Pat with awe. " 'Tis the
werepot prince!"

"The werepot prince!" the others echoed in hushed voices.

142 • Simon Hawke

"You opened the wizard's trunk!" said Mick, looking at

Shannon accusingly.
"The werepot prince?" said Shannon. "You mean Brian

the Bold, the werepot prince of legend?"

"How many other werepot princes do you know?" asked
the chamberpot sarcastically.

Brewster frowned. He approached the table and looked
down at the pot. He bent over and peered at it intently. Then
he wondered what he was looking for. Quite obviously,
there couldn't possibly be any hidden little speakers. Some-
one in the room clearly had a talent for ventriloquism.

"If you brush some of the dust off me, you'd be able to

get a better look," the pot said wryly.

Brewster jerked back. It was really startling. The voice
had actually seemed to come from the pot.

"Sure, and I knew that trunk meant trouble," Mick said.
"Anytime a wizard locks something away, 'tis prudent to
leave it be. Faith, and I should have tossed the bloody thing

in the river!"

"Oh, thank you very much," the chamberpot said sarcas-
tically. "How would you like to be locked up in a trunk and

tossed into a river?"

Brewster scratched his head. There had to be a point to
this, a punchline or something. He decided to play along

and wait for it.

"How long have you been in there?" he asked.
"Seems like forever," the chamberpot replied. "I had
almost given up hope of ever getting out of there when the
wench picked the lock and opened the trunk. I was about to
thank her, until she started trying to pry my jewels loose

with that pigsticker."
"It cried out," said Shannon as everyone turned to stare

at her.

"That's because it hurt, you stupid trollop."

The Reluctant Sorcerer • 143

"Who are you calling a stupid trollop?" Shannon said,
raising her dagger and advancing on the pot menacingly.

"Wait a minute," Brewster said, grabbing her arm,
which was not the wisest thing to do, but she was so
surprised he did it that she stopped and simply stared at him
with disbelief. Aside from which, she did not know what a
minute was and found the remark confusing.

"I can appreciate a practical joke as well as anyone,"
said Brewster, "but don't you think this has gone on long
enough? There's still a lot of work to be done and we've all
got a full day tomorrow. Frankly, I'm tired and I'm not
really in the mood for pranks."

They all stared at him with puzzlement.

"Prank?" said Shannon. "What prank?"

"Well, it's very clever," Brewster said, "and whoever's
doing the talking for the pot is very good, but I'm afraid I
wasn't really taken in. It's a good trick, though."

" 'Tis no trick!" said Shannon. "The pot speaks! You
heard! 'Tis the werepot prince!"

"Yes, yes, I heard Pat tell the story," Brewster said with
a smile. "It was really quite a setup and I'm sorry if I've
ruined the joke, but you didn't really think I'd fall for this,
did you?"

"No, of course not," said the chamberpot. "A clever
man like you? You are clearly far too wise to believe in
talking chamberpots. Should have known from the start that
we couldn't take in the likes of you."

"All right," said Brewster with a sigh. "Come on now,
boys, enough's enough. You've had your little joke, but we
still have a lot of work to do, you know."

"Yes, run along now," said the chamberpot. "Back to
your chores, or whatever it is you were doing."

"Okay, now look..." said Brewster, picking up the
chamberpot.




144 • Simon Hawke

"Put me down, you oaf!"

Brewster dropped the chamberpot.

"Ow! Careful, you idiot!"

Brewster stared at the pot. It had felt warm to the touch,
not like cold metal at all, but more like... like body
temperature, he thought irrationally. And when it spoke, it

seemed to vibrate slightly....
When it spoke? Come on now, get a grip, he thought to

himself. He shook his head, as if to clear it.

"Okay, very funny," he said with an awkward chuckle.
"Now if you'll all—" His voice trailed off as he turned
back toward the others. Aside from Mick, Shannon, and
Bloody Bob, there was no one else in the lab. He heard the
sounds of running footsteps receding through the keep.

Bloody Bob had his hand on his new sword. It was
difficult to see his eyes behind the homemade prescription
visor, but his mouth was drawn into a tight line. Shannon
kept glancing uncertainly from Brewster to the chamberpot
and back again, her body tense, poised as if she were ready
to either strike or flee. Mick stood with his arms folded
across his chest, his lips pursed, a thoughtful expression on
his face as he gazed at the golden pot.

"It doesn't look very dangerous to me," he said. He
shrugged. "Sure, and it speaks, but... what can it do?'"

"You want I should cleave it in twain. Doc?" asked
Bloody Bob, his fingers tightening around his sword hilt.

"Keep that big ox away from me!" the pot cried out.

Bloody Bob's sword rasped free from its scabbard.

"All right, now stop!" said Brewster.

They looked at him expectantly.

"You don't really expect me to believe this, do you?"

Brewster asked.

"Believe what you like," said Shannon, stepping for-

The Reluctant Sorcerer    145

ward with a determined expression on her face, "but I'm
for prying free those jewels."

"Now hold on there!" Mick said, stepping forward to
block her way. "That pot happens to be my property!"

"Your property?" she said.

"That's right," said Mick. "You found it in that trunk
there, which was in my laboratory, I'll have you know, and
that makes it my property!"

"You tell her. Shorty," said the pot.

"Shorty?" Mick said, slowly turning back toward the pot
and glaring at it malevolently.

"Step aside, Mick," Shannon said.

"You stay right where you are, Mick," said the pot.
"That crazy wench is dangerous."

"I still think I should cleave it in twain," Bloody Bob
said, hefting his sword.

"Right, that does it! Everybody out!" shouted Brewster
angrily.

They all turned to stare at him.

"I said, 'out,' " He pointed toward the door.

Bloody Bob looked down at the floor sheepishly, then
sheathed his sword and shuffled out. Shannon took a deep
breath, trying to control her temper, for she wasn't used to
being ordered about like this, but on the other hand, she
hadn't seen this kind of firmness from Brewster before and
he was a sorcerer, after all. She gave Mick a hard look,
sheathed her dagger, spun on her heel, and stalked out
without a word.

"You, too," said Brewster, looking at Mick.

"But, Doc—"

"Out!"

Mick quickly followed the others, leaving Brewster alone
in the lab. With the pot.

Brewster took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "Damn,"




146 • Simon Hawke

he said to himself. "What the hell's wrong with you,
Brewster? You can't even take a joke?" He shook his head
and sighed. "Hell, I wish I could get back home. This

whole thing's getting on my nerves."
"Try being a chamberpot."

Brewster froze. "What?"
"I said, try being a chamberpot. I've been locked up in

that bloody chest so long, I've almost forgotten what it's
like not to be caked with dust and having spiders spinning
webs around me. You think you have problems?"

"All right, this is ridiculous!" said Brewster. He started
rushing around the lab, looking under benches and tables
and behind shelves. "Come on out! I know you're in here!"
"I'm right here, in front of you, you dolt!"
Brewster stared at the chamberpot. There was no one else

in the lab. Slowly, he approached the pot.

"Go on, come closer," said the chamberpot. "I don't

bite, you know."

"This isn't happening," said Brewster. "It's stress, that

what it is. I'm under too much stress. Inanimate objects do

not talk."

"Very well, have it your way," said the chamberpot.

"I'll sing instead. How's this:

"When I was lad, oh, the times that we had,
'twas nothing that we couldn't do...
But the best times of all, were the times when we'd call
on saucy, young Janie McDrew..."

"Stop it! Stop it!" Brewster shouted, picking up the
chamberpot with both hands and shaking it.

The pot fell silent.
"What am I doing?" Brewster said, staring at the pot.

The Reluctant Sorcerer • 147

He put it down on the table and rubbed the bridge of his
nose. "I must be losing my mind!"

"There now, 'tis not madness, never fear," the pot
replied. "I had a bit of a time believing it myself, at first.
And if you think 'tis hard to credit, try looking at it from my
point of view."

Brewster swallowed hard, then reached out slowly as if to
touch the pot, but drew his hand back at the last instant.

"Go on," the chamberpot said. "Touch me if you think
'twould help. I mean no harm."

Brewster reached out tentatively. It was warm to the
touch. "Say something else," he said.

"What would you like me to say?"

Brewster pulled his hand back quickly. He moistened his
lips. "I'll be damned," he said. "You really can talk!"

"Well now, what do you think we've been doing?" asked
the pot.

Brewster shook his head with disbelief. "There has to be
a rational explanation for this," he said.

"Very well," the pot said. "You tell me. Take your time.
I've nowhere in particular to go."

Brewster sat down heavily on the bench behind the table.
"It's impossible," he said. "How can this be happening?"

"Well, you said you heard the story," the chamberpot
replied. "I understand it's gotten around a bit. 'The Legend
of Prince Brian the Bold, The Werepot Prince.' I've heard it
a few times, myself. Doesn't portray me in a very flattering
light, I fear."

"This is simply astonishing!" said Brewster with awe.
"You mean to tell me that story's actually true?"

"No, of course not," replied the chamberpot wryly.
"Everybody knows that chamberpots can't speak. 'Tis all a
lot of nonsense."

148 • Simon Hawke

"But... but... there's no such thing as magic!" Brewster

protested.

"There isn't?" said the chamberpot. "Well, you certainly

could have fooled me!"

Brewster suddenly remembered what Mick had done
outside with the wood splinter only moments earlier.

"Fey magic," he said to himself. "Mick made that piece
of wood burst into flame and called it fey magic!"

"Ah, well, 'tis because he is a leprechaun," the pot said.

"A leprechaun?'"
"Aye," the chamberpot replied. "One of the little people.

You mean to tell me that you didn't know?"

"One of the little people," Brewster repeated slowly. "I
thought he meant he was a midget! But... a leprechaun?"

"Aye, a leprechaun," the pot said, sounding puzzled.

"What's a midget?"
"Well, a midget is ... oh, now wait a minute! There's no

such thing as leprechauns!"

"Aye, and there's no such thing as magic, and chamberpots
don't speak," the pot replied. "Tell me, where do you get

such peculiar notions?"

"All right, now let me get this straight," said Brewster.
"Your name is Brian, and you're a prince who's been the
victim of a sorcerer's spell, and Mick isn't a midget, but a
leprechaun who can actually do magic, and / can't believe
I'm sitting here having a conversation with a fucking
chamberpot, for crying out loud! Oh, God. I'm either
dreaming or having a nervous breakdown!"

Brewster put his head in his hands.

"There now, settle down," the pot said. "You're getting

yourself all worked up."

Brewster raised his head and looked at the pot with
amazement. He gave a little snort and got up, shaking his
head. "I don't believe this," he said to himself.

The Reluctant Sorcerer • 149

He walked over to the window and looked out, feeling the
cool night breeze on his face. There were no campfires
outside and it was quiet. Everyone seemed to have left
following his outburst. Probably gone back to the Roost, he
thought. Makes sense. You don't want to hang around after
you've annoyed a sorcerer. He's liable to turn you into
something. Like a chamberpot.

"It's all a dream," he said to himself. "It has to be a
dream."

"Aye, I said much the same sort of thing, at first," said
the voice of the pot, behind him. Only, somehow, it sudden-
ly sounded different. Brewster turned around and his mouth
fell open.

There was a young man sitting on the edge of the table,
with one leg casually propped up on the bench, the other
dangling. He had long, curly blond hair and blue eyes,
attractive features, and a slightly mocking expression around
his mouth. He was dressed in tight-fitting striped breeches
of brown and black, brown leather boots, a loose-fitting
white blouse that laced at the neck, and a short brown velvet
jacket and cape. Around his neck was a gold necklace of
rubies and sapphires.

"Must be a full moon," said Prince Brian.

The battlement atop the tower had been turned into a sort
of penthouse patio. Brewster had one of the tables brought
up, as well as several wooden benches and stools. He had
Mick and Bloody Bob bring up a couple of braziers, as they
were heavy, and the result was a rather cozy, medieval,
outdoor lounge that offered a very nice view.

The full moon was high in the sky and the flames in the
braziers gave forth a flickering light as the gentle night wind
blew. Prince Brian stood looking out from the battlement at
the moonlit meadow below, while Brewster sat smoking his




150 • Simon Hawke

pipe. He had been talking with Brian for several hours and
he had smoked five bowlfuls. It usually helped him relax.
Usually. Tonight, it wasn't quite getting the job done.

" Tis good to feel the cool night breezes on my skin
again," said Brian, breathing in deeply. "I had almost
forgotten how it felt to be in my true form."
"How long has it been?" asked Brewster.
Brian shook his head. "A long, long time," he said. "In
that dark and dusty chest, days seemed like nights. Seasons
passed, countless winters turned to spring. I was unaffected
by the moon's light while locked inside that cursed chest,
though I suppose 'twas fortunate."

" 'Twas?" said Brewster. "I mean, it was?"
"Can you imagine what would have happened had I
regained my true form while still locked within that bloody

thing?"

"Oh. Yes, I see what you mean. I suppose it would be

rather cramped," said Brewster.

"I do love a moonlit night," said Brian, taking a deep
breath. "On nights such as these, the forces of magic are
strong throughout the land. I can walk as a man again. The
fairies dance and unicorns go into rut."

"Unicorns?" said Brewster.

"Aye. Pretty little beasts, but foul-smelling and mean-tem-
pered."

"Are they dangerous?" asked Brewster.

"They can be," Brian replied, "though they tend not to
bother men. However, should they see a woman, they will
charge her. They .don't like women. Virgins, in particular.
They absolutely loathe virgins."

"Really? Why?"

"I have no idea. Perhaps 'tis something about the way
they smell to them. Or perhaps because women find them
winsome and want to pet and stroke them. 'Tis believed that

The Reluctant Sorcerer • 151

if a virgin strokes a unicorn, she will find true love, so each
spring, the woods are full of eager virgins, stalking unicorns
with carrots and garlands of fresh flowers. We lose a lot of
virgins that way."

"Hmmm," said Brewster. "And you have fairies, too?"

"Oh, aye. Lots."

"What are they like?"

"Bit like nymphs, really, only much smaller and not as
mischievous. About the size of your little finger, most of
them. They are especially active in the spring, when the
flowers bloom and they can drink the nectar. It makes them
quite drunk. They flit about like maddened butterflies,
smashing into one another and crashing into trees and such.
But they are harmless, and they do not often venture out of
the deep woods."

Brewster shook his head. "Amazing. All this time, I had
absolutely no idea there were such creatures around. I
thought I'd simply traveled back into the past." He snorted.
'As if time travel could be simple. But then, compared to
what I've done, I suppose it is."

" 'Tis a very strange place you come from. Doc," said
Brian, turning back to face him. "Your tale strains belief."

"My tale strains belief?" said Brewster. "Right. This
from a man who spends most of his time as a bathroom
fixture."

"Aye, but then you saw that with your own eyes," Brian
replied. "I have only your word this place you claim to
come from has castles that scrape the sky, and horseless
chariots that travel faster than the swiftest stallion, and
vessels that wing their way through the clouds."

"I suppose it does sound hard to believe, at that," said
Brewster morosely. He sighed. "I should probably be thrilled.
I've not only succeeded in inventing time travel, but I've
apparently stumbled onto the secret of interdimensional




152 • Simon Hawke

travel, as well. It's the only possible explanation. Either
that, or I've died and gone to some kind of fairy-tale
heaven. It's ironic. The idea of parallel universes has always
been nothing more than an amusing theory, a popular theme
for science fiction writers, but never something anyone took
seriously. Yet, here I am. Except I'm not feeling very
excited at the moment."

"You speak words that are unknown to me," said Brian.
"What is a science fiction writer?"

"A sort of storyteller," Brewster said. "One who tells
tales that are very clever and fascinating, only no one takes
them seriously because they're not about people in New
York or Los Angeles."

" 'New York?' " Brian said. " 'Los Angeles'?"

"Cities," Brewster said absently. "Very large cities, full
of people who think that living anywhere else would be
uncivilized."

"Ah," said Brian. "You mean like Pittsburgh."

Brewster looked up at him sharply. " 'Pittsburgh'?"

"The largest city in Dam," said Brian. "Named for Pitt
the PIunderer, though he was not its founder. He merely
plundered it, then decided he liked it and chose to stay on as
its ruler. 'Tis a center for commerce, knowledge, and the
arts, where all roads from the twenty-seven kingdoms meet.
'Tis the most refined city in the land."

"Pittsburgh?" Brewster said, shaking his head with dis-
belief. "Go figure."

"Aye. 'Tis where the three rivers meet in confluence,"
said Brian. "A grand place, indeed. But what were those
other words you said? Para-lel? Inter.. . travel something?"

"You mean parallel universes? Interdimensional travel?
Hmmm. Well, that's a bit tougher to explain. I'm not sure
how I could put it so that you would understand."

"Try," said Brian, looking very interested.

The Reluctant Sorcerer • 153

"Well, okay," said Brewster, taking a deep breath.
"Imagine, if you can, that everything you know to be real,
the earth, the sky, the stars, everything, can be contained in
a single drop of water."

"Like a raindrop?" Brian said.

"Well... yes, but more like a single drop of water in a
river," Brewster said. "We'll call this drop the universe.
Now it takes a great many drops of water to make a river,
but if you put enough of them together, that's what you'd
have, wouldn't you?"

"Or a lake," said Brian.

"Yes, or even an ocean," said Brewster, "but let's stick
with the river, because the river flows, you see, and that
flow is like the passage of time. Imagine that this river is so
long that it has no beginning and no end, it simply flows
forever. Just as time has no beginning and no end. You with
me so far?"

Brian frowned thoughtfully and nodded. "I think so. You
are saying that time is like a river, with no beginning and no
end, and all that we see around us—the earth, the sky, the
stars—is but like a single drop of water in that river?"

"Yes, that's very good," said Brewster, "But you will
remember that it takes many individual drops of water to
make that river. If each drop of water is a universe—in
other words, everything that we know to exist—then it
follows that there are many different universes, only we
don't know about them, you see, because all we know
about, all we can perceive, is that which is in our own
universe, our own drop of water. But all these different
drops of water, these different universes, are intermingled as
parts of the same river—the river of time. And though they
all flow in the same river, they are still separate drops of
water. They are merely so close together, and there are so

154 • Simon Hawke

many of them, that if you stand on the bank, you can never
see them as separate drops. You only see the river."
Brian was frowning with concentration as he tried to

visualize Brewster's explanation.

"Think of it this way," Brewster said. "We draw a cup
of water from that river. And from that cup of water, we
draw an even smaller amount, merely a couple of drops."

Brewster held his right hand out flat, fingers together,
palm down. "Let's say that my hand is one drop." Then he
held out his left hand and placed it flat on top of his right
hand. "And this is another drop. Each drop is a universe.
And there are many other drops like this, layer upon layer of
them, and these layers are called dimensions."

He separated his hands. "Only if we live in this dimen-
sion," he said, holding up his right hand, "there is no way
for us to travel to this dimension." He held up his left hand.
"Because they are like separate drops of water, you see,
and while they may flow very, very close together, so close
that they appear to merge, there is no way for them to
merge, because no matter how close together they may
come, they still remain separate."

He dropped his hands and shrugged, not really satisfied
with his explanation, but unable to think of a simpler way to
put it for the benefit of someone with no knowledge of

science whatsoever.

"Anyway, that's the idea of parallel universes," he said.

"How do we know that this"—he held his arms out, to
encompass everything around them—"is all there is? If you
had been born in that chest you were locked up in, and had
lived all your life in there and never seen the outside, then
you might think that the inside of that chest was your entire
universe. Of course, once you got out, you'd see that there
was more. Well, you're locked up in your universe, in your
dimension, just like you were locked up in that chest.

The Reluctant Sorcerer • 155

There's never been any way for you to get out and see if
there was anything else. You may think there is, or you may
think there isn't, but because you can't get out, you can
never really know for sure."

Brian put his hand up to his chin and furrowed his brow.
"Only you did get out of your chest," he said. "And you
somehow managed to enter mine."

Brewster smiled and nodded. "Yes! Yes, that's it, exact-
ly! You understand! That's what interdimensional travel is!"

"I am not certain that I do understand," said Brian
slowly. " 'Tis a weighty thing to ponder. But you said that
this... this travel from one dimension to another could not
be accomplished. Yet, you claim to have accomplished it."

"By accident," said Brewster. "I never meant to do it. I
wasn't even thinking about doing it. I was trying to do
something else entirely. I was trying to travel back into the
past."

"Into the past?" said Brian. "You mean, you meant to
travel from today back to yesterday?"

"Well, yes, more or less," said Brewster.

Brian frowned. "But..." He shook his head in confu-
sion. "How is that possible? It cannot be done."

"That's what a very wise man named Einstein thought,"
Brewster replied. "Only I thought he was wrong. I believed
it could be done. And I built a device that I thought would
let me do it."

"This magic chariot of yours," said Brian.

Brewster nodded. "Exactly. Only it looks as if Einstein's
had the last laugh. Maybe it can't be done, after all. At
least, not in the same dimensional plane. Maybe the only
way you can travel back into the past is to enter another
dimension. I don't know. I don't know what happened, or
how. I only know I'm here, and if I can't find that first time
machine, I'll be stuck here for the rest of my life."




156 • Simon Hawke

"Would that be so bad?" asked Brian.

"Maybe not, but I don't belong here, Brian," Brewster
said miserably. "I don't even know where I am. The
Kingdom of Frank, in the Land of Dam... it could be
never-never land, for all I know, a fantasy land straight out
of a dream. I don't even know anything about this place.
I've been hanging around with a leprechaun and I hadn't
even known it. Leprechauns, fairies, nymphs, unicorns...
they're all creatures of myth in my world. They don't exist!
And as for magic ..." He exhaled heavily. "The others all
think I'm a sorcerer and I let them think that because I
thought it was convenient. I thought they were just primi-
tive, superstitious people and it would be easier, and proba-
bly safer, to have them think I was a sorcerer than to try
explaining the truth to them. I tried explaining it to Mick
and I only wound up confusing him. Now I'm the one
who's confused. And I'm certainly no sorcerer."

"But.. .these things you have done here," Brian said.
"They are most wondrous, indeed. Are they not sorcery?
And to travel from your dimension to mine, is that not

sorcery?"

"It's science, Brian, not sorcery," said Brewster. "And

as for what I've done here, it's just some basic engineering,

not magic."

"I do not understand," said Brian, frowning. " 'Tis most

puzzling. You call it science, yet it seems very like magic to
me. And I know of no sorcerer who could do such things."

"That's only because they don't know how," said Brewster.
"With the right knowledge, anyone could do these things.
In fact, I didn't even do them, really. The brigands and the
local farmers did. Mick and McMurphy and Bloody Bob
and the rest. They did most of the work. I helped and I
showed them how, but they were the ones who did it. I took
advantage of their superstitions... well, what I thought

The Reluctant Sorcerer • 157

were only superstitions, but there's nothing magical about
any of this. They could have done it by themselves, without
me. They just didn't know how until I showed them."

Brian folded his arms across his chest and paced slowly
back and forth, the wind ruffling his long blond hair. "And
you call this knowledge science?" he said.

"Yes, that's all it is. Science is merely a form of
knowledge."

"Merely knowledge," Brian said. "What, then, is sorcery?"

Now it was Brewster's turn to frown. "I'm sure I don't
know. I didn't even think there could be such a thing as
sorcery."

"Sorcery is a form of knowledge, too," said Brian. "An
apprentice to a wizard knows nothing when he embarks on
his apprenticeship. In time, if he is diligent and clever, he
learns. As an apprentice, he could not cast any spells,
because he did not know how, but once he had the knowl-
edge, he could do it. How does that differ from your
science?"

Brewster grinned. "Now you sound less like a prince and
more like a philosopher," he said.

"What is a philosopher?"

"Never mind," said Brewster. "If you thought parallel
universes and interdimensional travel were confusing, you
don't want to get anywhere near that one."

"No? Well, I shall take your word for it for now.
Perhaps, one day, you will explain it to me. Still, you have
not answered my question. How does your science differ
from sorcery, if both are knowledge?"

"Well, for one thing," Brewster said, "in my world,
sorcery doesn't work and science does."

"Indeed?" said Brian. "Yet, your science seems to work
here, in my world."

"I see what you're getting at, but it's not the same

158 • Simon Hawke

thing," said Brewster with a wry smile. "Just because
magic seems to work here is no reason why science shouldn't.
Science is merely an understanding and an application of the
way natural forces work. And it isn't just one thing, really.
For example, if you want to understand the life processes of
living organisms, then you study the science of biology. If
you want to find out more about the stars and other heavenly
bodies, then it's the science of astronomy you want. Or if
you're more interested in the origin of your own world, then
it's the science of geology you want to study. If you want to
leam about the natural laws that govern matter and energy,
then it's the science of physics you're interested in, and to
get more specific, there are different categories of each
science, known as fields, depending on which branch of
natural phenomena you wish to investigate. In physics, for
example, there's mechanics, thermodynamics, acoustics, nu-
clear physics, particle physics, plasma physics..."

He saw the expression of dismay on Brian's face and
stopped. "You have absolutely no idea what I'm talking

about, do you?"
Brian shook his head. "At first, it seemed as if I were

beginning to understand, but as you went on, it became

more and more confusing."

"Well, it's pretty complicated for someone who's never
had any formal education," Brewster said. "Maybe I just
went too fast. It's not your fault, Brian, it's mine. 1 guess I

just didn't explain it very well."

Brian leaned back against the wall of the battlement and
scratched his head. "I wish to understand. Doc, I truly do.
This science, it appears, 'tis not just one thing, but many

things."

"Well, yes, in a way," said Brewster. "You see, science

is basically a discipline, an approach to learning about
things. But there are many different things to leam about, so

The Reluctant Sorcerer    159

the branch of science you choose depends on which specific
thing you wish to leam about."

"Ah," said Brian. "You mean like war."

"War?" said Brewster with a puzzled frown.

"Aye. If you wish to be a warrior, then you must study
the art of war. But there are many different things that make
up the art of war. There is the art of swordsmanship, and the
art of archery, the art of disposition of the troops, and of
making fortifications..."

"Yes, exactly! That's an excellent analogy," said Brewster.

"What is... analogy?"

"Oh, boy," said Brewster, rolling his eyes. "Well, it's
what you just did, Brian, when you compare things that are
different, but are similar in their relationships. Like war and
science."

"Ah," said Brian. "So then the many different skills that
make up the art of warfare are like the different fields of
science that you spoke of?"

"Yes, that's a good way of looking at it," Brewster said.
"You grasp things very quickly, Brian. You're a very clever
young man."

"I am?" said Brian with surprise. He sat down at the
table opposite Brewster, an expression of intense interest on
his face. "No one has ever said that to me before. I had
never thought that I was clever. Tell me more about this
science! I wish to leam!"

"Well, said Brewster with a smile, "that's the most
important thing you need to have to be a scientist. The
desire to leam. But there's so much to leam.... To be a
scientist means to devote your whole life to learning."

"Then I shall be a scientist!" said Brian excitedly.
"Teach me how!"

"I don't really think you know what you're asking me to
do," said Brewster. "There's a great deal to leam."

160 • Simon Hawke

"To learn, one has to think, is that not true?" asked
Brian. "Well, there is little else that I can do but think. I am
doomed to my enchantment for all eternity, and all I have
had to think of until I met you was my misery. How stupid,
vain, and foolish I had been, how I had wasted my life in
idle pursuits of pleasure, how I had accomplished nothing,

learned nothing..."

Brian's voice trailed off and he sighed heavily as he
looked up at the sky. "Soon, it will be morning, and the
enchantment will take hold again. I, a prince, born of noble
blood, shall once again be nothing more but the most
common sort of object, meant to serve the most common
and demeaning sort of purpose. Tis a terrible enchantment,
Doc. I can feel, I can think, somehow I can speak and see
and hear, but I can do nothing! 'Tis enough to drive one
mad. And, sometimes, I think perhaps I am mad."

"Isn't there anything that can be done?" asked Brewster.
" 'Tis said that any enchantment can be broken," Brian
said, "if one has the proper knowledge." He glanced at
Brewster sharply. "Knowledge. Like your science!"

"Oh, now wait a minute," Brewster said. "We're talking
about two different things here. Magic is not science."
"How do you know?" asked Brian.
"How do I know? Well... I... that is...."
"You said yourself that science is but a way of knowing
things about the way the world works. Well, perhaps in your
world—your dimension, as you call it—magic does not
work, but in my world, it does. Does that not make it part of

how the world works?"

"Well.. .yes, I.. .1 suppose you could say that," Brewster

replied uncertainly.

"When an apprentice to a sorcerer embarks upon a study
of the ways and secrets of magic," Brian continued excitedly,
"he is said to be studying the thaumaturgic arts, which is

The Reluctant Sorcerer    161

what sorcerers call the discipline of magic. And if thauma-
turgy is the art of learning how magic works, then is not
thaumaturgy like a branch of science?"

Brewster stared at Brian for a long moment. "Well...
looking at it that way.. .1 suppose it would be," he said
slowly.

"And you are a scientist!" said Brian. "That means you
could be a sorcerer! All you lack is the proper knowledge!"

"Well... I don't know about that," said Brewster.

"But / do!" said Brian. "In my enchantment, I have
passed through many hands, and among them have been the
hands of sorcerers. I am no sorcerer myself, but there is
much that I know about them. You teach me about your
science, and I shall teach you what I know of sorcerers and
their ways, and together, perhaps we may find a way for my
enchantment to be broken!"

Brewster took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "Well,
as a scientist confronted with a new and inexplicable phe-
nomenon, I can hardly resist. But, Brian, there are no
guarantees in science. I can't make any promises, you
know."

"But you can promise to try," insisted Brian.

Brewster pursed his lips and thought about it for a
moment. "Yes, I can promise to try."

"Huzzah!" cried Brian, shoving the bench back and
leaping up into the air with joy. And in that moment, the
moonlight faded in the early light of dawn and Brewster did
a double take as a golden chamberpot came clattering down
onto the stones of the battlement.

"Oh, bollocks!" said the pot in a disgusted tone.




CHAPTER

NINE

As Warrick Morgannan watched impassively, the latest
"volunteer" was dragged kicking and screaming toward the
mysterious apparatus.

"Time machine," mumbled Warrick under his breath.

Uh ... right. (The sorcerer nodded with satisfaction.) Word
had gotten out and it was getting more and more difficult to
find volunteers. No one knew exactly what happened to the
people taken into the gleaming tower of Warrick the White,
located in the center of downtown Pittsburgh, but none of
them was ever seen to come out again. Every time Wamck's
white-caped attendants ventured out of the tower, the nor-
mally crowded streets of downtown Pittsburgh cleared in a
flash.

The king had received a considerable number of protests
and even several petitions demanding that he do something
about this routine abduction of citizens off the streets, but
there wasn't much that Bonnie King Billy could do.

King William VII of Pittsburgh was the great-great-great-
great-grandson of the original Pitt the Plunderer, but he had
not inherited his great-great-great-great-grandfather's brook-
162

The Reluctant Sorcerer    163

rio-nonsense disposition. He was basically a cheerful sort,
altogether a rather pleasant individual who didn't go for
throwing his weight around with a lot of edicts and such,
and basically pursued a laissez-faire method of monarchy.
He genuinely loved his queen, Sandy, even though the
marriage had been arranged by his father for political and
business reasons, and he treated his subjects well, for
which they had bestowed upon him the appellation of
Bonnie King Billy, which he liked so much he even had it
embroidered in red on the back of his black brocade
dressing gown.

However, lately, the people's affection for him had waned
somewhat and several new monarchial appellations were
starting to make the rounds, the least offensive of which was
"Bullied King Billy." He had become aware of this, primar-
ily because the last petition he had received had been
addressed to "His Not-So-Bloody-Royal-These-Days Majes-
ty, Bonehead King Billy," and the situation was causing
him considerable distress. Which was why, after thinking
about it long and hard, and having a serious discussion with
Queen Sandy, he had decided to pay a call on Warrick and
talk to him about it.

As the panic-stricken "volunteer" screamed and clawed
at the floor while Wamck's familiar, the two-foot-tall, yet
extremely strong troll named Teddy, dragged him by his feet
toward the mysterious—

Warrick glanced up sharply and frowned.

—the, uh, time machine, there came a loud knocking at
the heavy wooden door.

"What is it?" Warrick called out, but he could not be
heard over the screaming of the volunteer.

The knocking was repeated.

"Bloody hell," said Warrick. "Teddy, see if you can
quiet the subject down, will you?"

164 • Simon Hawkc

"Yes, Master," Teddy said obediently. He tucked the
subject's wriggling legs under one arm, then twisted around
and fetched him a mighty clout on the head, which silenced
his screaming. Unfortunately, it also fractured his skull and
killed him instantly. "Ooops," Teddy said, looking up at
Warrick with an embarrassed grin.

Warrick looked up toward the ceiling and shook his head
with weary resignation. The knocking was repeated.

"Yes, yes, what is it?" he said, striding angrily over to
the door and opening the little, sliding wooden window that
was set in it at eye level. "Did I not leave word that I was
not to be disturbed?" he snapped at the attendant on the
other side.

"Forgive me. Master Warrick," said the worried-looking
attendant, "but 'tis the king."

"What about the king?"

"He's here. And he insists on seeing you. Master Warrick.
He said 'tis very important."

Warrick sighed. "Oh, very well. Tell him I'm on my
way."

He slid shut the little wooden window and turned to
Teddy. "Clean that up," he said with a dismissive little
wave of his hand toward the corpse.

"Sorry," Teddy said sheepishly. Or, perhaps, trollishly.

Warrick opened the door and shut it once again behind
him. He didn't want anyone but Teddy to know what was
inside his "sanctorum," as he called his laboratory, and his
servants knew better than to risk going in there. Most of
them didn't even want to risk a peek. It was a well-paying
job, but not without its risks. Occasionally, servants disappeared
without a trace, as well.

Warrick ascended the stairs to the second floor, which
was actually the first floor in the sense that the long and
handsome flight of marble steps leading from the street gave

The Reluctant Sorcerer • 165

entrance to it and only large iron double doors at the back, a
sort of delivery entrance, gave admittance to the ground
floor. He crossed the wide expanse of the ornately tiled
entrance hall, with its marble columns and white-on-white
decorator scheme, and went through the doors into the
reception hall, where Bonnie King Billy was pacing nervously
back and forth by the huge fireplace with the heavily veined
marble mantelpiece.

"Your Majesty," said Warrick as he came in and gave the
king a curt, perfunctory bow.

"Don't you get tired of all this white?" Bonnie King
Billy said, gesturing generally at the room. " 'Tis so bright
it hurts the eyes."

"I suppose I have grown used to it. Your Majesty," said
Warrick.

Bonnie King Billy grunted. He was not certain quite how
to proceed. He had not dressed formally for this occasion,
for it was bad enough to have the king calling on the royal
wizard rather than the royal wizard calling on the king, but
Warrick Morgannan wasn't just any royal wizard. He was
the most powerful wizard in all the twenty-seven kingdoms,
with a tower that rivaled the royal palace in luxury, if not in
size, and a salary that only the tax base of a city the size and
richness of Pittsburgh could support. Still, powerful or not,
protocol was protocol, so Bonnie King Billy had left his
formal crown and royal robes at home, choosing instead to
come dressed in his hunting outfit, which consisted of
riding breeches, a short jerkin and cloak, and a thin gold
circlet that was his traveling crown. He never actually
used this outfit for hunting, for he was a very urban king
and not much of an outdoorsman, but he often wore it on
shopping excursions with the queen and it looked pretty
snappy.

166 • Simon Hawke

"See here, Warrick," said the king, "we, uh, need to

have a talk."

"Certainly, Your Majesty," said Warrick. "What about?"

"Well, 'tis a somewhat awkward matter," said the king,
hesitating slightly. "I've, uh, been receiving some complaints."
"Complaints, Your Majesty?" said Warrick, raising his

eyebrows.

"Aye," said the king, "complaints. Petitions and the

like. You know me sort of thing."

"Ah," said Warrick, nonconunittally.

"Well... something must be done," the king continued.

"About what. Your Majesty?"

"Well... there have been, uh, certain disappearances."

"Disappearances, Your Majesty?"

"Aye, disappearances. People being snatched off the street
and suchlike. You know."

"Ah. I see."

"Well.. -as I've said, there have been complaints."

"Aye, Your Majesty. You said that."

"Umm. Well... something must be done."

"You said that, too. Your Majesty."

"I did?"

"You did, sire."

"Umm. So I did. Well. What about it?"

"What about what. Your Majesty?"

"The disappearances, Warrick, the disappearances!" the
king said irritably. "Something must be done!"

Warrick merely raised his eyebrows slightly.

"I mean... well... you must understand my position,"
the king said awkwardly. "I realize you have your work to
do and all that, whatever it may be, but try to look at it from
my point of view. I can't have your people snatching
citizens off the streets in broad daylight. 'Tis damned
awkward, you know."

The Reluctant Sorcerer • 167

"I see," said Warrick.

"You do?"

,"I do, indeed. Your Majesty. However, I require subjects
for... certain weighty purposes of thaumaturgical research.
'Tis most important, sire. Most important, indeed. I am
afraid I cannot do without them."

"Oh," the king said. "I was afraid of that. I don't
suppose you could use some sort of substitute? Cats or
something?"

"Cats?" said Warrick, frowning. "I hadn't thought of
using cats."

"Well, wouldn't they do?"

Warrick pondered the question for a moment. "Perhaps,
but it wouldn't really be the same, sire. Besides, I rather
like cats."

"Oh. Well, what about dogs?"

"There are no dogs about the streets these days. Your
Majesty," said Warrick. "Your Majesty may recall his edict
concerning dogs."

"Oh, that's right," the king said. "I banished dogs,
didn't I? Well, the streets were becoming damn near impass-
able for all their droppings. The queen ruined her favorite
pair of slippers, you know."

"I recall the incident. Your Majesty. But as you see, I
cannot very well use dogs."

"Hmmm," said the king. "Well, 'tis most unfortunate,
most unfortunate, indeed. Still, something must be done."

"What about prisoners. Your Majesty?" said Warrick.

"Prisoners?" the king said.

"Aye, sire. If I could use prisoners for my subjects,
there would be no need to seek for subjects in the
streets."

"Hmmm, good point," the king said. "Very good point,




168 • Simon Hawke

indeed. That could solve the entire problem. Very well,
then, you may use prisoners."

"Then Your Majesty's sheriff will have to make some
more arrests," said Warrick.

"Eh? Why's that?"

"Because I have already used up all the prisoners in the
royal dungeons," Warrick replied.

"You have? Well... dash it all, Warrick, that makes
things very inconvenient. You might have asked me, you
know."

"I did not wish to trouble Your Majesty with matters of
so little import."

The king grunted. "Well... I appreciate that, Warrick, I
truly do, but if you have already used up all the prisoners,
then it might take a while to fill up the dungeons once
again, you know."

"Perhaps if Your Majesty sent the royal sheriff to see me,
we might be able to come up with a solution," Warrick
said. "A minor new edict or two might be devised, some
stricter enforcement might be implemented, there's really no
need for you to trouble yourself about such things. Merely
give the royal sheriff your approval and it will be seen to."

"And you think that would take care of it?" the king
asked.

"Undoubtedly, sire. I am sure that it would solve the
problem."

"Well.. .good," the king said. "Very good, indeed. I
am glad we had this little talk."

"Always happy to oblige Your Majesty," said Warrick
with a smile.

The king left, satisfied. However, he would not remain
that way for long. His easygoing, laissez-faire method of
monarchy was about to undergo considerable modification,
which would make the royal sheriff very happy, for it would

The Reluctant Sorcerer • 169

give him a great many new edicts to enforce, very strict
edicts that Warrick would diplomatically suggest and that
the royal sheriff would eagerly implement in the king's
name. Being even slightly late with revenues, spitting on
the street, public drunkenness and lewd behavior, not having
proper change for the tollgates, and a host of other things
that most citizens of Pittsburgh had never thought twice
about would suddenly become crimes punishable by imme-
diate imprisonment and the dungeons would provide Warrick
with a steady supply of subjects for his thaumaturgical
research. And poor, bumbling King Billy would bear the
brunt of the people's resentment.

"There is, of course, another way," said Warrick, looking
up toward the ceiling. "A certain voice in the ether could
supply me with the answer to the riddle of the so-called time
machine."

Unfortunately, the narrator couldn't really do that, be-
cause it would cause serious interference with the plot.

"Well, in that case, 'poor, bumbling King Billy's' predic-
ament would be the narrator's responsibility and not mine,"
said Warrick.

Nevertheless, it was Warrick who came up with the idea
of instituting strict new edicts to fill the royal dungeons with
prisoners he could use as his subjects.

"Perhaps," said Warrick with a sly smile, "but 'tis your
plot, unless I am mistaken."

Back at the keep (and not a moment too soon), Brewster
hadn't slept a wink all night. He'd been on adrenaline
overdrive, talking to Brian and trying to assimilate every-
thing he'd learned. Suddenly, it was a brand-new ball game.
In a brand-new ball park, so to speak. The trouble was, the
rules were slightly different here. In this stadium, the
runners didn't steal third base, they waved their fingers at it

170 • Simon Hawke

and made it disappear. The bat boys were leprechauns, the
team mascot was a unicorn, and the fireflies hovering over
center field were actually fairies. (And having belabored
that analogy to death, we should probably move on.)

After Brian's enchantment had kicked in again, Brewster
had carried him downstairs to the kitchen of the keep—which,
he'd decided, would be the next area in need of modernizing—
and they talked until the sun came up. Brewster heated
some water and made himself some tea from an herbal
mixture Mick had given him. It tasted rather lemony and
was about ten times more stimulating than coffee. It had the
effect of keeping Brewster wide awake—very wide awake—
and giving him a nervous energy that would have kept him
up for the next forty-eight hours even if he wasn't too
wound up to sleep.

Brian had been a great deal easier to deal with as a
handsome prince than as an ornate chamberpot, and not
only because it felt a lot more natural to talk to a person
than to an appliance. (Or was it a utensil? Anyway, you get
the general idea.) As a chamberpot, Brian was somewhat
caustic and sarcastic, not that Brewster could really blame
him, and though his personality didn't really change in any
significant way, there was an edge to him that took some

getting used to.

In fact, the whole idea of man turning into an object took
some getting used to. Talking with him while he was in his
enchanted form was positively surreal and a graphic remind-
er of the sort of world Brewster had wound up in. Though
several weeks had passed, Brewster hadn't really seen
anything that would have led him to suspect he had been
transported to another universe in some kind of parallel
dimension. The peregrine bush, he realized belatedly, should
have been his first clue, but he had merely assumed it was

The Reluctant Sorcerer • 171

some rare plant, perhaps some sort of localized mutation,
that had not survived into the modem age he came from.

He had seen nothing of the creatures Brian had mentioned,
unicorns and fairies and nymphs, and while the existence of
such creatures might have seemed improbable, he had little
difficulty believing they existed after seeing a chamberpot
turn into a man and back again.

Brian had told him all about how he had wound up being
enchanted. His version of the events leading up to his
current predicament closely followed the legend related by
Pikestaff Pat, and Brian told it with a surprising amount of
candor.

Following his disappearance from the palace, after he'd
been stolen by one of the palace servants, Brian had passed
from hand to hand, often fairly rapidly, as those into whose
possession he fell became aware that he was no ordinary
chamberpot—and not just because he was encrusted with
gems. The people of the twenty-seven kingdoms were
extremely wary of enchanted artifacts, and rightly so. Ad-
epts were always experimenting with strange new spells and
it was not uncommon for such spells to be dangerous, or
even to go wrong somehow.

At first, Brian had raged at his successive owners, and
then pleaded with them, begging to be taken to a sorcerer
who could reverse the spell, but it was all to no avail. As
soon as people found out their new, ornate chamberpot
could talk, they couldn't wait to get rid of it, jewels or no
jewels. And as the legend of the werepot prince grew,
passed on by his former owners, adepts became aware of it
and grew highly interested in finding him. A number of
them did.

At first, Brian had seen this as a sign of hope, because he
knew his father would reward any adept who could restore
him. However, no adept had ever succeeded in breaking the

172 • Simon Hawke

enchantment. Worse still, none of them would return him to
his family, for to do so would have meant admitting they
had failed to restore him to his rightful form. None of them
had wanted to admit that another adept had devised a spell
he couldn't break. Brian had found this particularly frustrat-
ing, because the result was that he spent a great deal of time
languishing in storerooms, trunks, and secondhand shops.

He eventually had become more or less adjusted to his
fate, if not totally resigned to it. Though he may have been
spoiled and pampered by his family, Brian was an intelligent
young man, as Brewster had already observed, and his
anger and bitterness over what had happened to him fre-
quently manifested itself in a personality that could be
highly ascerbic and sarcastic. In other words, as Pikestaff
Pat had put it, Brian could be a royal pain to those who
came in contact with him.

Adepts did not take kindly to such behavior. Having
failed to restore him to his proper form, they generally
concluded that there was no profit in a talking chamberpot,
regardless of its value as a curiosity, and little point in
keeping it around. Especially if it was going to be abusive.
So they either unloaded him on someone else, or if Brian
had really gotten on their nerves, they tried destroying him.

"You mean they actually tried to kill you?" Brewster

said.

"Life is cheap to most adepts," Brian replied, "so long
as 'tis someone else's life. Aye, they tried to kill me, some
out of spite, some out of fear that I would tell others their
powers had not been sufficient to restore me. But 'twas not
so easily accomplished. I was beaten with large hammers,
thrown from great heights, tossed down wells, struck with
axes, once I was even thrown into a fire in an attempt to
melt me down."

The Reluctant Sorcerer    173

"My God!" said Brewster. "How horrible! How on earth
did you survive?"

"Ah, 'tis the nature of the enchantment, you see, that I
cannot be destroyed," Brian replied. " 'Twas meant I should
suffer throughout all eternity. Pound me with hammers from
now until the end of time and you shall not make a single
dent. Toss me down a well and I shall float until some
peasant comes along to fish me out. Strike me with the
sharpest axe, yet you shall fail to split me. Toss me into a
blacksmith's forge, yet no matter how fierce the heat, I
simply shall not melt. I may blacken somewhat, but wipe
me off and I shall look as good as new. Oh, but I shall feel
the pain of it! Though I may not be allowed to perish, I am
indeed allowed to suffer pain."

"That's the most awful thing I've ever heard!" said
Brewster with chagrin. "God, you poor kid!"

"Well, I thank you for your sympathy," said Brian, "but
sadly, sympathy shall not break this damnable enchantment."

"No, I don't suppose it will," said Brewster. He took a
deep breath and exhaled heavily. "Frankly, Brian, I just
don't know what I can do. I've never encountered anything
like this before. I know I promised that I'd try to help you,
but... in all honesty, I don't know how I can."

"Well, 'tis grateful I am that you promised to make the
attempt," said Brian.

"Attempt? I wouldn't even know where to start," said
Brewster. "If real sorcerers couldn't break the spell, I don't
see how / could. I'm not a sorcerer, I'm merely a scientist."

"Nay, not merely a scientist, Doc," said Brian. "You
must be a very great scientist. Has any other scientist ever
succeeded in doing what you have done, whether by acci-
dent or by design? Has any sorcerer? Where sorcerers have
failed, perhaps a scientist may succeed."

"I wish I had your confidence, kid," said Brewster sadly.




174 • Simon Hawke

"You have done things no sorcerer could do," Brian
assured him. "You can use your.. .what did you call it,

your method?"

"Scientific method," Brewster said.

"Aye, you can use your scientific method to study thau-
maturgy, and thereby divine the secrets of the thaumaturgic

arts."

"I don't know," said Brewster dubiously. "Wouldn't it

be better if we just got a bunch of sorcerers to put their
heads together and see if they couldn't find a way to—"

"Nay, Doc, nay! 'Twould be disaster! You must keep
away from sorcerers, else ..."

Brian's- voice trailed off. "Else what?" asked Brewster.

The chamberpot remained silent.

"Brian?"
A soft sigh came from the pot. "We need each other,

Doc. I need you because you may be my last hope to break
this enchantment and live a normal life. And you need me
because there is much about this world you do not know,
and would not understand."

Brewster stared at the chamberpot and frowned. "I'm not
sure I understand now. Why should I keep away from
sorcerers? Is there something you haven't told me, Brian?"

For a moment there was no reply, and then the pot sighed
once again, a strange, tinny sort of sound. "Aye, Doc, there
is. Faith, and I do not wish to tell you, for I do not mean to
frighten you, and yet, 'twould be best if you were to know

the truth."

"What truth?" asked Brewster uneasily.

"The people here believe you are a mighty sorcerer,"
said Brian, "and I fear 'twould not go well for you if you

were to admit the truth."

"Well, I could explain it to them and surely they would—"
"Nay, Doc, you do not understand. You must never tell

The Reluctant Sorcerer • 175

them the truth. You must never tell anyone. Your very life
depends upon it."

"My life?" said Brewster. "Surely, you don't think
they'd kill me?"

"Perhaps not," said Brian. "But 'tis not the brigands nor
the local farmers from whom you have the most to fear. 'Tis
the Guild."

"The Guild?" Brewster frowned.

"Aye, SAG, the Sorcerers and Adepts Guild," Brian
said. "You see, when these people here first met you, they
took you for a mighty sorcerer, and in your innocence, you
allowed them to believe that. You did not know that there
was such a thing as sorcery, nor did you know about the
Guild. Had you but known, you never would have allowed
them to mistake you for a sorcerer, no matter how hard
'twould have been to convince them of the truth."

"Somehow, I suddenly have the feeling I'm not going to
like this," Brewster said.

"I fear 'tis so," said Brian. "You see. Doc, the Guild is
a body of adepts united in a common cause, to govern the
practice of sorcery. Its Council of Directors is made up of
the most powerful adepts in all the twenty-seven kingdoms,
and the Grand Director of the Guild is Warrick Morgannan,
called Warrick the White, the most evil, dangerous, and
powerful adept of them all. And 'tis law that all adepts must
be members of the Guild, and submit to its authority."

"You mean it's like a union?" Brewster asked.

"Aye, 'tis a union of adepts," said Brian, "all adepts in
all the twenty-seven kingdoms. No one may practice sorcery
without being a member of the Guild."

"So what are you telling me?" asked Brewster. "I'm a
scab?"

" 'Scab'?" said Brian, puzzled.

"Never mind," said Brewster. "Go on."




176 • Simon Hawke

" 'Tis a lengthy and most difficult process, becoming an
adept," said Brian. "You must first find an adept willing to
take you on as an apprentice, and that adept must be a
member of the Guild. As an apprentice, you must serve
your master faithfully, and spend your every waking hour in
the study of the thaumaturgic arts. Many of its secrets you
must discover on your own, and when your master feels that
you are ready, the Guild will test you.

"Should you pass the test," Brian continued, "you will
be elected to the Guild and you may then call yourself an
adept and practice magic. Should you fail to pass the test,
you must either forsake your goal of becoming an adept or
remain an apprentice to your master until such time he feels
that you can take the test again, though if you fail, 'tis a bad
reflection on your master and odds are you will be punished.
You may never be allowed to take the test again, and you
may be forced to spend the remainder of your life as an
apprentice. Or possibly as something much less pleasant,
say a toad or... well, perhaps even a chamberpot. 'Tis very
strict, the Guild is. They are especially strict concerning
those whom they allow to call themselves adepts and prac-
tice magic. The penalities for pretending to be an adept, or
calling yourself a sorcerer if you are not a member of the
Guild, are quite severe."

Brewster moistened his lips nervously. "How severe?"

"Believe me, you do not wish to know," said Brian. "I
am but a small example of how imaginative an adept can be
when he decides to punish someone. And it could have been
much worse, you know. Far worse."

Brewster swallowed hard. "I see. Well, all the more
reason to clear things up, then. I have enough problems
without getting a sorcerers guild mad at me. The sooner I
tell everyone the truth, the better."

"Nay, Doc, 'tis much too late, I fear," said Brian. "By

The Reluctant Sorcerer    177

now, everyone in Brigand's Roost and all the surrounding
farms believes you to be a powerful adept. I doubt they
would understand the truth. More likely, 'twould frighten
and confuse them."

"It didn't frighten or confuse you," said Brewster.

"/ frighten and confuse them," Brian said. "You saw
how they ran. Yet even were they not to become frightened,
they would have a hard time believing you. You tried telling
the truth to the leprechaun and what was the result? Nor did
you tell him the entire truth, for you did not know it at the
time. You told him you came from a future age and this only
convinced him further of your powers as a sorcerer. What
would he think if you told him you came from another
world, from another dimension?"

"But I was able to explain it all to you," said Brewster,
"even if it did take all night, you finally understood."

"Aye, 'tis true, perhaps the leprechaun might understand
as well, but can you vouch for all the others? Though what
you have done here may be science, 'tis sorcery to all the
others and the Guild would look on it as sorcery, as well.
Even if you could convince them that science and sorcery
are different things, they would see your science as a threat
to their own power. And anything that would threaten the
power of the Guild is eliminated by the Guild. Quickly, and
most decisively."

"Great," said Brewster with a sour grimace. "So what
am I supposed to do?"

"You must keep up the pretense, for your own safety,"
Brian said. "You must avoid adepts. Tell the others, the
brigands and the farmers hereabouts, to say nothing of your
presence here to anyone."

"What... what reason should I give?" asked Brewster.

"Tell them you require solitude," said Brian, "to pursue
the perfection of your art. Tell them you have grown weary




178 • Simon Hawke

of towns and cities, with their crowds and ceaseless noise,
and that 'twas your decision to remain here for the peace
and quiet of the Redwood Forest. They will understand this,
and so respect your wishes. Adepts command respect be-
cause adepts are feared. 'Twould not be safe for you to take
away their fear."

"But.. .what about my missing time machine?" asked
Brewster. "Unless I find it, I'll never get home. I can't just
stay here and hope that it turns up somehow. If someone
doesn't bring me word of it, I'm going to have to start
looking for it myself."

"Are you certain your time machine is here?" asked
Brian.

"It has to be here somewhere," Brewster replied. "If it's
not... then I'll never get home."

"Then we must try to find it somehow," Brian said. "I
shall try to think of something."

"Yes, but I'm afraid that's not going to help you," said
Brewster with a sigh.

"Perhaps it may," Brian replied, "if you were to take me
with you to your world."

"Take you with me?"

"Aye," said Brian. "You said there is no magic in your
world. If that be true, then perhaps the enchantment will not
hold there."

Brewster nodded. "Maybe. I suppose that's possible.
Only what if it doesn't work that way?"

"What have I to Lose?" asked Brian.

"You have a point," said Brewster. "Okay, kid. It's a
deal."

There was a loud knocking at the door. Brewster picked
the pot up and tucked it under his arm, then went to open
the door. The little peregrine bush came shuffling in, drag-

The Reluctant Sorcerer • 179

ging Mick along on its rope leash. It started rubbing its
thorny little branches against Brewster's legs.

"Ouch!" said Brewster, backing away. "Stop that!"
The little bush rustled backward a few feet, its branches
drooping slightly.

"It seems to have taken a likin' to you," Mick said.
"Dragged me all the way over here, it did." He grimaced
sourly. "I see you still have the werepot."

"Mick, this is Prince Brian," Brewster said. "Brian, this
is my friend Mick." He blinked and shook his head. "Look
at this, I'm introducing a leprechaun to a chamberpot."

"Greetings, Mick," said Brian. "I'm sorry I called you
Shorty yesterday."

Mick merely grunted and gave a curt nod.
"You could accept his apology, you know," said Brewster,

trying to play the peacemaker. "He is a prince, after all, and

princes don't usually apologize, do they?"

Mick grunted again. "I accept your apology," he said.
gruffly.

"Thank you," Brian said.

Mick grunted a third time. " 'Tis most civil it's bein' this
momin'."

"He's being," Brewster corrected him. "He is a person,
you know. In fact, he really was a person last night. It was a
full moon."

"So that part of the legend's true, then?" Mick said with
interest.

"Aye, most of the legend's true," said Brian, "save for a
few embellishments that some have added to the story."

"I promised Brian I would try to help him," Brewster
explained.

"Can you?" Mick asked.

"I honestly don't know," Brewster replied, "but I prom-
ised him I'd try." He glanced outside. "You're alone?"

180 • Simon Hawke

"Aye, none of the others came," said Mick. "Scared off,

they were."                                   ,    ,
"You see?" said Brian. "I told you that I frightened

them."                                        ,,   .,
"Oh, 'tis not for fear of you they didn't come, said

Mick. " 'Twas for fear of the dragon."
" 'Dragon'?" Brewster said.
"Aye, the dragon."
"What dragon?"
"The one sittin' up there on the tower," Mick replied,

pointing up.

CHAPTER

TEN

For a moment that seemed to hang in eternity, Brewster
stared at Mick, standing there just a couple of feet or so
inside the open doorway with his peregrine bush on a leash,
and thought that he was joking. Then hoped that he was
joking. Hoped very, very hard. Only the expression on
Mick's face was not the deadpan look of someone pulling
someone else's leg. It was the normal expression of some-
one mentioning something he'd just seen and did not find
especially remarkable, the look of someone who'd just
glanced up at the clouds and said, "I think it's going to
rain."

"A dragon?"

As if he were sleepwalking, Brewster moved past Mick
and stepped up to the open door. He wasn't sure what he'd
intended. Perhaps he had intended to step outside, walk out
into the yard, and look up at the tower, but he never got any
farther than the threshold, for what he saw through the open
doorway was the shadow of the keep's tower angling across
the yard, and right about where the shadow of the tower
181




182 • Simon Hawkc

should have ended, there was another shadow, a shadow of
something very large, with huge, reptilian wings.

Brewster reached out with his right hand, took hold of the
door, and gently closed it. Then he turned around and
leaned back against the door. His knees felt weak and his
mouth had gone completely dry.

Something clanged loudly on the floor and a voice cried
out, "Ouch! Doc!"

Brewster had dropped the chamberpot. He bent down and

picked it up.

"I'm sorry, Brian," he said in a dull voice. He clutched
the chamberpot to his chest with both hands and looked at

Mick.

"Is that..." he started, but his voice had broken and
sounded extremely high. He shook his head, cleared his
throat, and tried again. "Is that... really... a dragon?"

"Aye," said Mick simply.

"How ..." His voice broke again and came out soprano.
He cleared his throat with a deliberate effort. "How...
long ... has it been... up there?"

"Sure, and I don't know," said Mick. "It was sittin' up
there when I came." He frowned. "You didn't know about

it, then?"

"No," said Brewster, his voice coming out in a high
squeak again. He cleared his throat hard, three times in
succession. "Didn't that..." He fumbled for words, and
then settled for simply pointing up toward the ceiling.
"... strike you as... rather unusual?"

Mick merely shrugged. "Sure, and I thought you must

have summoned it."

Brewster cleared his throat again. "It... you... weren't

.. .frightened?"

"What, of the dragon?" Mick said. He shrugged again.
"Why should I be? Dragons don't eat leprechauns."

The Reluctant Sorcerer • 183

"Oh," said Brewster. "What about .. .people?"

"Sometimes," Mick said. "They prefer cows, though.
More meat on the bones."

"Ah," said Brewster, nodding. "I see."

"You didn't summon it, then?" asked Mick, speaking as
if seeing a dragon sitting up on your neighbor's roof were a
perfectly normal occurrence.

"Noooo," said Brewster, swallowing hard. He handed
the chamberpot to Mick. "Hold on to Brian for a moment,
will you?"

Mick took the pot and Brewster ran upstairs to his
bedroom, just below the battlement of the tower. As he ran
into the room, he could see a large, scaled tail flicking back
and forth, just outside the window.

"Oh, boy..." he said. "Oh, boy ... keep calm, now, just
keep calm...."

He tiptoed over to the bed, reached down underneath it,
and slid out the pack that contained his emergency supply
kit, which he had pulled out of the time machine just before
the fuel tanks had exploded. Glancing up at the window, as
if expecting some giant clawed hand to come reaching in for
him, he fumbled inside the pack until his fingers felt what
he was looking for. He pulled out a snub-nosed stainless-
steel revolver and a box of cartridges.

His hands trembling, he opened the cylinder and started
loading it. He loaded all six chambers, then closed the
cylinder. It was a .357-caliber Smith & Wesson Combat
Magnum, specially polished and engraved, with a two-and-
one-half-inch barrel and pearl grips, one of a matched pair he
had been presented with by the CEO of EnGulfCo Interna-
tional, who was also on the board of Smith & Wesson. Its
companion revolver was an equally fancy .38-caliber Chiefs
Special, which he had packed in the emergency supply kit
of the original time machine. He hadn't really thought that

184 • Simon Hawke

he would ever actually have need of it, but it seemed like
the sort of thing an emergency supply kit should contain, so
he'd opted for the smaller caliber, less intimidating gun at
First. However, the .38 was now in the missing time ma-
chine, and as he gazed down at the loaded, snub-nosed .357
in his hand, he was suddenly very glad he had the more
powerful one. Nevertheless, it seemed very small compared
to what was sitting on the tower just above him. Brewster
was suddenly painfully aware of his lack of experience with

firearms.

He had only gone shooting once before, when the CEO of
EnGulfCo took him to the range to "try 'em out." He had
instructed Brewster in the use of the matched revolvers,
giving him a short lecture on gun safety, proper sight
alignment, trigger control, and so forth, and Brewster had
turned in a game, if not quite adequate performance. Actually,
he had gotten quite a kick out of shooting them, but the
guns hcd made Pamela nervous and he'd put them away.

"Are you goin' up to see it, then?"

Brewster jumped about a foot and almost dropped the
gun. He took a deep breath and turned around. "Dammit,
Mick," he whispered harshly, "don't do that!"

"Why are you whisperin'?" asked Mick, coming into the
room with the chamberpot tucked under his arm.

Brewster merely pointed toward the ceiling.

"Ah," said Mick. "You're plannin' to sneak up on it and
blast it, like you did Robie McMurphy's foolish bull?"

Brewster looked down at the revolver in his hand. What
the hell was he planning to do? Suppose bullets didn't work
on it? Suppose it was magical and invulnerable to gunfire?
Suppose it breathed fire?

He glanced up at Mick and his gaze focused on the
chamberpot. "You didn't tell me about dragons!" he ac-
cused Brian.

The Reluctant Sorcerer    185

"Didn't think of it," said Brian. "You don't see many of
them about these days. They're quite rare, really."

"Not rare enough, if you ask me," said Brewster. "What
the hell are we supposed to do?"

"You might ask it what it wants," suggested Mick.

"Ask it what it wants?" said Brewster.

"Aye," said Mick.

"And I suppose it'll answer me," said Brewster. "No,
never mind, don't say anything. It talks, right?"

"Aye, it speaks," said Mick. "You've never met a
dragon before, then?"

"Actually, no, I haven't," Brewster said. "This'll be my
first." He snorted. "What am I saying? I'm not going up
there!"

"Good morning," said a loud, deep voice just outside the
window. It sounded a cross between a human voice and a
threshing machine.

Brewster jumped and spun around, raising the revolver.
He found it difficult—no, he found it impossible to keep his
hands from trembling.

"Well, now that's not very friendly, is it?" There was a
large head just outside the window. Brewster couldn't see all
of it. Just a huge yellow eye and some iridescent scales.
"Do you always threaten your visitors with a gun?"

Brewster stared at the fearsome yellow eye and tried to
will himself not to be afraid. And then, suddenly, something
occurred to him. He lowered the revolver slightly and
frowned. He glanced from the revolver to the dragon's eye
outside the window. "You know what this is?" he said
with surprise.

"Of course, I know what it is," the dragon replied. "It's
a revolver. And a rather small one, at that."

Brewster lowered the gun. He lowered his jaw, as well.

"Oh, come on up," the dragon said impatiently. "I am




186 • Simon Hawke

not going to hurt you, but I am getting a crick in my neck,
looking down like this."

The head disappeared.

Brewster shook his head. "I don't believe this." He
dropped the gun on the bed, took off his glasses, and rubbed
the bridge of his nose. "No, this is too much! I don't care

what happens, this I've got to see!"

He ran up the stairs to the top of the tower, with Mick

following close behind.
The dragon was sitting perched on the wall, its talons dug

into the stone. Brewster stood and simply stared at it with

openmouthed astonishment.

It was about the size of an eighteen-wheeler, with a long
tail; huge, batlike, leathery wings; gleaming, iridescent
scales; and a large, triangular-shaped head on a long neck.
It was lapping water out of the cistern, like a dog drinking
from a toilet bowl, only much louder.

"Jesus Christ," said Brewster.

"No, Rory," said the dragon.

" 'Rory'?" Brewster said.

"Actually, it's only a nickname," said the dragon. "Human
throats cannot make all the sounds necessary to pronounce
my given name. Rory is sort of an abbreviation. How do

you do?"

"Uh ... fine, thank you," Brewster said weakly.

"And you are?"

"Uh.. .Brewster. Dr. Marvin Brewster. But my friends
just..." His voice trailed off. "My God, you really are a

dragon!"

"Allow me to compliment you on your powers of obser-
vation, Doctor," Rory said wryly. "I see you have compa-
ny. I hope I haven't dropped in at an inconvenient time."

"Oh... uh... no, that's... quite all right," said Brewster.

The Reluctant Sorcerer • 187

"Uh ... this is my friend Mick O'Fallon, and... uh... the
chamberpot he's holding is actually Prince Brian the Bold."

The dragon nodded. "Always happy to greet one of the
little people," it said. Then it squinted at the chamberpot.
"Prince Brian, eh? I see you've run afoul of Caithrix."

"That's the wizard who enchanted me!" said Brian.
"How did you know?"

"I can smell his aura on you," the dragon said. "Caithrix
always had an especially pungent aura."

"Had?" said Brian.

"Well, he's been dead these past one hundred years or
so."

"One hundred years?" said Brewster, staring at the
chamberpot.

"Is that a long time?" asked Brian.

"You don't look a day over eighteen!" said Brewster.

"One of those 'for all eternity' enchantments, eh?" the
dragon said. "You must really have annoyed him. Although
Caithrix always did annoy rather easily. Arrogant little
adept, he was. Even disdained to use a magename, just like
his grandson, Warrick."

"Warrick the White is Caithrix's grandson?" Brian said.

"His daughter Katherine's son," the dragon said. "Even
more arrogant than his father was, doubtless because he was
born a bastard and felt he had a lot to prove."

"Katherine's son?" said Brian. "Bom a... then that
means... Oh, gods! Warrick the White is my son?"

"Ah," the dragon said. "That would seem to explain
your current predicament."

"I can't believe any of this," said Brewster. "And I had
to leave my video camera behind!"

"Pity," said the dragon. "I would have enjoyed seeing a
videotape of myself. Though I am not entirely certain it




r

188 • Simon Hawke

would work, you know. I am not sure if you can photograph

magical creatures."

"Wait a minute," Brewster said. "You know about vid-
eo? And you knew a revolver when you saw it! How?"

"Oh, I know all about your world," Rory replied. "I
have seen it often in my dreams. Dragons dream in different

dimensions, you know."

"In black and white or color?" Brewster asked, repressing

a sudden urge to. giggle.

"In color, of course," Rory replied. "I hope you don't
mind my dropping in like this and taking a drink from your
cistern, but I was merely passing by on my way back home
and I could not help noticing what you've done here. A
water lift, an aqueduct, a nice job of tuck-pointing on the
stonework... I really like what you've done with the place."

"Uh... thanks."
"I merely wanted to pop in and say hello. I have never

met anyone from the dream dimensions before. However

did you manage to cross over?"

"Well... that's rather a long story," Brewster said.
"Excellent!" the dragon said with a rumble of content-
ment. "I do so love a good story!"

MacGregor the Bladesman, better known as Mac the
Knife, stood outside the cottage of Blackrune 4, looking
very grim. It was actually a rather sizable dwelling for a
cottage, since its former occupant had been a wizard, after
all, but it was still basically a cottage, complete with thatch
roof and wooden shutters, garden, whitewashed picket fence,
and all the cozy accoutrements. Sort of an upscale cottage.

Mac and his men had ridden quite a long way, all the way
from Pittsburgh, and they were tired and dusty from their
journey. Fortunately, while en route, they had been set upon
at least three times by various groups of highwaymen and

The Reluctant Sorcerer • 189

ruffians—four, if you counted the ones who recognized their
mistake before they got too close and ran like hell—and
these slight diversions had served to break up the monotony
of what would otherwise have been a rather dull and
tiresome trip.

"Anything?" said Mac as his three henchmen came out
of the cottage.

The men simply shrugged. They bore a strong resem-
blance to one another, which was only proper, as the three
of them were brothers.

Mac gave a low grunt and frowned. "Well, I suppose
'twas too much to hope for," he said.

He had a wonderful speaking voice, deep, melifluous,
and very manly, and if he had been bom about a thousand
years later, and in another dimension, he could have had a
great career as a radio broadcaster or a Shakespearean actor,
or perhaps dubbing the voices of malevolent villains in
science fiction films.

He could also sing and play guitar, and those talents,
combined with his rugged, virile good looks, set many a
female heart aflutter. He had dark, curly hair; a handsome
beard that he kept nicely groomed and trimmed, unlike the
facial forests sported by most of his contemporaries; and he
had dark, piercing brown eyes that could either flash with
merriment or glower with malevolence. His features were
ruggedly angular, with a square jaw, a straight and well-
shaped nose, and good cheekbones.... In short, he was a
dam good-looking guy. (Or a good-looking guy from Dam,
take your pick.) He was a manly man with a massive,
six-foot two-inch frame and a likable, charming disposition.
The fact that he also happened to be a professional assassin
was purely incidental.

Sean MacGregor looked upon it as a job and nothing
more. Whenever he was asked why he chose this particular




190 • Simon Hawke

occupation, he would simply shrug and say, " "Tis a gift."
And 'twas, too. He was remarkably good at it.

He was an accomplished swordsman and had yet to meet
his match, but as good a swordsman as he was, he was even
better with a knife. His prowess with knives of all shapes
and sizes was legendary. It was said that he could trim the
wings of a fairy in flight, which was actually an exaggera-
tion, because fairies could outfly just about anything, from
hummingbirds to bees, and Mac had never even attempted
the feat. He could, however, draw one of the many knives
he wore in his crossed leather bandoliers and hurl it with
such lightning speed that the eye could hardly follow it. He
unfailingly hit wherever he aimed it, nor was he particular
about whether he hit it from the front or from behind.
Assassination was assassination, and Mac didn't allow any
sporting sensibilities to interfere with his job. He was, after

all, a professional.

Unlike many cheap, lower grade, nonguild assassins, who

were often very good at skulking and being generally
sneaky, but whose fighting prowess varied widely, Macgregor
proudly wore the guild badge of his profession on his
brown, rough-cut leather tunic. The badge was a tasteful
silver dagger pin, four inches long, two inches wide at the
crossguard, with an inch wide blade tapering to a sharp
point. He wore it pinned to his breast, over his heart, and it
identified him as a member in good standing of the Footpads
and Assassins Guild, and anyone who valued their life knew

better than to abbreviate that into an acronym.

For a long time, there had been a movement in the Guild
to shorten the name simply to Assassins Guild, but many of
the old guard professional assassins did not wish to have
their occupation demeaned by having a guild called the
Assassins Guild that also admitted footpads, however neces-
sary they might be to the profession as auxiliaries. An

The Reluctant Sorcerer    191

alternate proposal had been made to reverse the order of the
names, and have it be known as the Assassins and Footpads
Guild, but the footpads liked having top billing, and since
there were many more footpads than assassins, they kept
voting it down at the annual meetings. It was a problem.
Assassins who were members of the guild usually circumvented
it by referring to themselves as pros, and everyone else,
regardless of how gifted they might be, as amateurs.

MacGregor was one of the top pros in his profession. In
fact, he was the top pro, having succeeded in assassinating
the former top pro, which entitled him to command the
highest fees in the guild. However, since Mac was an equal
opportunity assassin, he often used a sliding scale, for the
benefit of those who couldn't afford his regular rates. Every
now and then, someone came along who really needed
killing, and Mac figured it would be a shame to let people
like that live simply because their victims could not afford
his rates.

In this particular case, though, he was getting his top
rate, plus an attractive bonus, and he didn't even have to kill
anyone. All he had to do was find three individuals and
deliver them to Warrick the White. The problem was, he
didn't really know who these individuals were. All he had
was a general description. One was tall and lean, with
brown hair and a long face. One was short and stocky,
balding, with a long fringe of light brown hair. And one was
of medium height, slim, with red hair and a beard, and he
never spoke. Or, perhaps, he very seldom spoke. Granted,
this wasn't much to go on, but Mac knew that the three of
them had been together, and were possibly thieves, and they
had last been seen at this cottage, where they had delivered
a certain apparatus of unknown and possibly magical prop-
erties, which they had brought here in a horse-drawn cart
and sold to Blackrune 4.






192 • Simon Hawke

This still wasn't much in the way of information, but then
that was the reason for the attractive bonus. If these three
had been easy to find, anyone could have done it. Then
there was the fact of Blackrune 4's mysterious disappear-
ance, and that of his apprentice, as well. MacGregor did not
know the reason for these disappearances, but the fact that a
sorcerer and his apprentice had vanished without trace
shortly after encountering these three suggested that there
might be a certain element of danger involved in this
assignment. However, Mac liked danger. Almost as much as
he liked attractive bonuses.

"Look about the grounds," hesaid to the brothers. "And
inspect the area nearby."

"What are we seeking?" one of them asked.
"Anything out of the ordinary," Mac replied. " 'Tis an
isolated place, this. It does not have the look of a place that
gets many visitors. See what you can find."

"This is no work for assassins," the youngest of the
three brothers said irritably. "Skulking about and seeking
things, 'tis work for footpads!"

"You are not assassins yet, Hugh," Mac reminded them,
"but merely apprentice henchmen. If you wish to be profes-
sional assassins, you must leam your trade from the ground
up. There is more to assassination than simply coming up to
somebody and killing them. You must first leam to stalk
your target, and to stalk him, you must first find him. So,
go and start looking. See if our targets have left any traces

of their visit."

"Suppose we find no traces?" the middle brother asked.
"Well, now, suppose you don't, Dugh," Mac said. "What

would be your next step, do you think?"
Dugh frowned in concentration.
"Lugh?" said Mac, turning to the oldest brother.
"Follow that road there and attempt to retrace their

The Keluctant Sorcerer • 193

route," said Lugh. "Perhaps we may find some local
people on the way who might have seen them."

"Very good, Lugh," Mac said. "You're coming along
nicely. Now, why couldn't you have thought of that, Dugh?"

"I'm sorry, Mac," said Dugh, shuffling his foot on the
ground.

"Aye, well, next time, you'll know better," Mac said.
"Now go and have a look around."

As the three brothers split up to look around the area,
Mac sat down on a tree stump and idly flipped one of his
knives. Hugh, Dugh, and Lugh were actually pretty decent
henchmen, he thought, fierce and deadly fighters, if a trifle
overeager. A little bit of seasoning and they'd make excel-
lent assassins.

He had found them in a Pittsburgh tavern called The
Stealers, a popular gathering spot for pickpockets, cut-
purses, and alleymen (the term "muggers" not having been
coined yet). They were the only ones left standing after a
brawl that had involved most of the patrons. It was a brawl
that had started when the ticklish Dugh had discovered a
stealthy hand in each of his pockets and realized that he was
being simultaneously dipped by two different thieves. One
was bad enough, but two was simply intolerable and Dugh
had taken serious exception to this rudeness. His two
brothers had joined him in the ensuing fight, while all the
other patrons of the tavern, save for a wench or two, had
joined the opposition.

It had been no contest. Mac had dropped in for a drink,
mere moments after it was over, and was confronted by the
sight of limp bodies lying all about the room, under overturned
tables and draped over the bar, and in the middle of it all
stood the three strapping, bruised and bloody brothers with
great big grins on their simple peasant faces.

"You three did all this by yourselves?" he'd asked, and




194 • Simon Hawke

when they'd started for him, Mac had raised his hands and
said, "Nay, not me, lads. I just came in for a drink and I'd
be honored if you'd join me. Though it appears we shall

have to pour our own."

He'd recruited them right then and there. Mac enjoyed
helping out talented young people and giving them a leg up.
He had been fortunate in his own career and this was merely
his way of giving something back.

"Mac! Over here! I think I've found something!"

It was Dugh. Mac hurried toward the sound of his voice.
By the time he got there, Dugh's two brothers had already
joined him. Dugh was standing underneath some trees
behind a hedgerow at the edge of the meadow.

"What have you found?" asked Mac.

"A wee wooden horse," said Dugh in a puzzled tone,
staring at something he was clutching in his hand.

Mac held his hand out and Dugh dropped a handmade
wooden chesspiece into his palm. " Tis a knight," said

Mac.

"Don't look nothing like a knight," said Hugh. "Looks

like a horse, to me."

"Nay, 'tis called a knight, I tell you," Mac replied.

" 'Tis a chesspiece."

"A what?" said Lugh.

"A chesspiece. 'Tis a game one plays with a checkered
board and little wooden figures carved in different shapes.
Kings, queens, bishops... this one is called a knight."

"Why is it called a knight if it looks like a horse?" asked

Dugh.

"Because a knight rides upon a horse, I suppose," said

Mac.

"Why not carve a knight, then?" Hugh asked.
"Because a horse is merely used to represent the knight,"

Mac explained.

Hie Reluctant Sorcerer    195

"Do they carve a throne to represent the king?" asked
Lugh.

"Nay, they carve a king."

"Then why not carve a knight, then? I don't see the
point."

Mac rolled his eyes. "Never mind. 'Tis not important."
He glanced around. "Tell me what else you can see here."

The brothers looked around.

"Wagon tracks," said Hugh.

"Very good," Mac replied. "And what can we discern
about these wagon tracks? Look closely, now."

"They're deep," said Lugh.

"And what does this tell us?"

" 'Twas something heavy in the wagon."

"Good. Very good. What else?"

"Footprints," Dugh said, pointing.

"Aye. What about them?"

"Ground must've been damp when they was made," said
Hugh.

"Aside from that."

"They're different sizes," Lugh said, bending down to
examine them more closely.

"Which means how many men?" Mac prompted him.

"Two," said Dugh.

"Nay, three," his brother Hugh corrected him.

"Excellent," said Mac, clapping them each on the shoul-
der. "We know that they were here, then."

"Well, we already knew that," said Lugh.

"Nay, we had merely been told that," Mac said. "Now
we know for certain. One must never take such things for
granted. Remember, when you stalk someone, you must
make certain of all your information for yourself. That way,
you know you have the correct information. So now we
know that three men with a loaded wagon were here, and

196 • Simon Hawke

that at least two of them play chess, for it takes two to play

the game and one would not likely bring it along if he was

the only one of the three who played."

"Is it important, about the chess?" asked Dugh.
" 'Tis one more thing we know about those whom we

seek," said Mac. "Each thing we leam shall make finding

them a little easier."

"S'trewth, you sure are clever, Mac," Hugh said with

admiration.

" 'Tis merely experience, lads."

"I wish we could have experience, too!" said Dugh.

Mac sighed. "We're working on it, lads. We're working

on it."

"... so, there you have it," Brewster said. "Unless I can
find that missing time machine, I'll never be able to get
home. The trouble is, I have no way of knowing if it's here.
It was programmed the same way the second one was, the
one that brought me here, but there's been no sign of it and
no one around here seems to know anything about it. I have
to proceed on the assumption that it's here somewhere, for
the alternative is simply too unnerving to contemplate.
Perhaps the emergency chute opened and it was carried
farther by the wind. Maybe it came down in the forest
somewhere and no one's spotted it yet. But one way or
another, somehow I have to find it. Otherwise..." Brewster's

voice trailed off.

"Well, that certainly is quite a story," said the dragon.
"It seems you have quite a problem on your hands. Perhaps
there is something I can do to help."

"You think so?" said Brewster.

"I could keep an eye out for this machine of yours," said
Rory. "Perhaps I will be able to spot it from the sky.
Dragons have remarkable vision, you know."

The Keluctant Sorcerer • 197

"Oh, if you only could," said Brewster. "I would be
very grateful."

"I shall expect something in return," said Rory.

"Whatever I can do," said Brewster.

"You can tell me more stories," said the dragon.

"Stories?"

"About your dimension, the world you came from,"
Rory said. "There are some things I have seen in dreams
that I do not completely understand. Perhaps you could
explain them to me."

"That's all?" asked Brewster.

"To a dragon, a good tale is more precious than any
treasure," Rory said. "A tale is like a waking dream, and
dreams are the roots of hope and wisdom. I will fly over the
forest and search for your machine. And in return, you shall
tell me tales of your world. Is it a bargain?"

"It's a deal," said Brewster, holding out his hand with-
out thinking.

Rory reached out with a huge, curved talon and gently
touched his hand. Brewster stared at it and swallowed hard.

"I shall speak with the fairies, too," said Rory, "and ask
them to help me look. If your machine is out there, we shall
find it. But you must promise not to leave till I have had my
fill of stories."

"I promise," Brewster said.

"Excellent," the dragon said. "Excellent, indeed. I will
look forward to it. We can begin tomorrow night."

And with that, the dragon spread its wings and plummeted
off the tower. It came up again in a large and graceful arc,
beat its wings, and soared up into the sky, receding rapidly
into the distance until it was no more than a faint dot high
up in the clouds.

"Amazing," Brewster said with awe. "Truly amazing! I




The Reluctant Sorcerer    199

198 • Simon Hawke

can hardly believe it. I've actually met J& dragon, and
spoken with it! Isn't it wonderful, Mick?"
"Perhaps 'tis not so wonderful," said Mick.

"What, are you kidding? Why?"
"You made a promise to the dragon," Mick replied.

"You made a bargain with it."

"So? What's wrong with that? I fully intend to live up to

it. All 1 have to do is answer some questions and tell some

stories. What's so hard about that?"

"You promised not to leave until it's had its fill of tales,"

Mick replied. "Dragons dearly do love tales, y'know. They

can never get enough o' them."

"Well, so I'll stay a little longer," Brewster said. "This

is an incredible world, Mick, and I've barely even scratched
the surface of it! There's so much to discover, so much to ,

learn... it could take years!"

"It could take forever," Mick replied.

"Forever?"
"Aye. That's how long dragons live."

"Dragons live forever?"
"Aye. Forever. And they love tales even more than they

love to frolic in the autumn mist," said Mick. He grinned
and patted the chamberpot. "We may as well help our new
friend get good and settled, Brian. It looks as if he might be
stayin' for a spell, no pun intended."

And so, as Brewster considers the fact that one of the
disadvantages of a verbal agreement is that you can't read
the fine print, we take our leave of the reluctant sorcerer,
but only for a short while, because strange and nefarious

new developments are afoot.
The plans for the production of the "many-bladed knife"

are about to see fruition, and as soon as Mick is finished
with the molds, the first Swiss Army knives will appear in

the Land of Dam and find their way into the hands of
itinerant traders, which will cause Brewster more trouble
than he could ever imagine.

The innocent introduction of technology, however primi-
tive, will bring about significant changes not only at the
keep, but at Brigand's Roost, as well. And despite Brewster's
enbrts at keeping a low profile, his reputation will gradually
spread and cause ripples of gossip that will eventually reach
all the way to Pittsburgh.

And as the three brigands. Long Bill, Fifer Bob, and
Silent Fred, nervously maintain their silence about the
missing time machine, they remain unaware that they are
being stalked by the fearsome Mac the Knife and his three
apprentice henchmen, the brawling brothers Hugh, Dugh,
and Lugh, who have been sent out on their mission by the
most powerful sorcerer in all the twenty-seven kingdoms.

Will the bumbling brigands be able to protect Brewster?
For that matter, will they be able to protect themselves? Will
the beautiful Black Shannon finally meet her match in the
handsome Sean MacGregor? Will Brewster find a way to
help Prince Brian, or will the werepot prince be doomed to
his enchantment for all time? Will Warrick Morgannan, the
evil Grand Director of the Sorcerers and Adepts Guild,
penetrate the mysteries of Brewster's time machine, or will
he continue to give the narrator a lot of grief?

"I heard that," said Warrick, looking up from his mas-
sive desk while he perused his ancient scrolls.

And what about poor, seductive Pamela? Join us again for
our next exciting and bizarre adventure. The Inadequate
Adept, or The Pittsburgh Stealers.




The author wishes to acknowledge the contributions of
a group of people known as The Mad Scientists, many of
whom acted as technical advisors on The Reluctant Sorcerer.

Special thanks to C. Pat McGivney and Jane Labie-
McGivney, Mike Bakula, Bill Lemieux, Bruce Miller, Sandy
Diersing, Bob Pfeifer, Jay Bonnier, Rachel Drummond, John
and Bonnie Doran, Fred Cleaver, Claude N. Warren, Jr.,
John Morse, Charles Harrison, Bill Llewellin (got it right
this time. Bill), Paula Johnson, David Gibbons, Christyna
Ivers, Doug Lott, Cheryl Green, Charlotte Taylor, Mary
Heller, Leanne Christine Harper, Ed Bryant, Adele Leone,
the members of the Denver Area Science Fiction Association,
Megan McDowell, Robert Asprin, Robert M. Powers, Harlan
Ellison (not that you did anything, Harlan, but "just because
you're you"), Frank Frazetta, whose art inspired Black
Shannon, Dave Mattingly, a constant inspiration, and Brian
Thomsen, who got me thinking along these lines in the
first place and maybe now doesn't wish to be held
responsible. A very special debt must be acknowledged to
the late Jay Ward, who subverted an entire generation and
whose like will not be seen again. And to Jeffrey C. Kraus,
the original "voice in the aether," who taught me much.
If I hadn't worked on "Sterling Bronson," I may never
have written this.