«If we go back. And also if the curvature of the spacetime vectors is uniform. There might be sine curves in the vectors, you know.»
«Never thought of it. Say, how come your dragon spell was so extremely successful?»
Chalmers permitted himself an under-the-breath chuckle. «A property of the mathematics of magic. Since it’s based on the calculus of classes, it is primarily qualitative, not quantitative. Hence the quantitative effects are indeterminate. You can’t — at least, with my present skill I can’t — locate the decimal point. Here the decimal point was too far rightward, and I got a hundred dragons instead of one. It might have been a thousand.»
Shea lay still a moment digesting that thought. Then: «Can’t you do something about that?»
«I don’t know. Apparently the professionals learn by experience just how much force to put into their incantations. It’s an art rather than a science. If I could solve the quantitative problem I could put magic on a scientific basis. I wish, Harold, that tomorrow you could. uh. manage to distract Dolon for long enough to allow me to possess myself of one of his testbooks. His place is such a hurrah’s nest that he’s certain not to miss it.»
* * *
The three riders — Dolon had conjured up a horse because, he said, taking the form of one for a long journey would be fatiguing — had been going for miles through Loselwood. They saw deer, but no other living creatures. Conversation was scarce till they came out on a road, once wide and well graded, now much overgrown. Shea reasoned that this was one more sign of how the enchanters were getting the best of the Faerie knights.
He pushed his mount alongside the magician. «With your superlative powers, Dolon, I wonder they didn’t elect you head of the Chapter instead of Busyrane.»
Dolon shrugged. «I could have had the post at good cheap, ho-ho! But I would not strive and moil for it. I’m really a very good judge of human nature, so I arranged Busyrane’s election, knowing he would do it well.»
«You must be just about perfect,» said Shea.
«‘Just about’, my ’prentice friend, is a weak phrase. I am perfect. I’ve no doubt that people in ages to come will date the history of true wizardry from my entry into the field.»
«Modest, too,» remarked Shea, drawing a quick glare from Chalmers.
Dolon dropped his eyes. «Too modest, I sometimes think. Yet do I guard against such affectation — hola! Here’s an encounter!» An armoured horseman had appeared at the far end of the defile through which they were riding. His lance came down and he trotted towards them.
Dolon cried: «Ten thousand devils, ’tis Artegall himself! Flee, or we are undone!» Looking a bit undone himself, the magician whirled his horse sharp round on its hind legs.
A woman’s voice behind them called, «Stand, all of you!» Belphebe was perched on a rock at the side of the defile, covering them with bow bent full.
«To the air!» screeched Dolon, the last word going beyond human pitch as he changed to hawk and flapped slanting upward. There was the flat snap of the bow, the whistle of the arrow and there was a puff of feathers. Down hurtled the hawk, changing to Dolon with an arrow through his arm as he fell. He landed, plop, in a soft spot. Shea observed that these people really knew something about swearing in the minute or two before Artegall’s lance jabbed him.
«Dismount, runagates!» roared the knight. It seemed the best thing to do. The man was as big as Cambell, cased in steel, yet moved quickly. Besides, Belphebe had another arrow already nocked.
Artegall pushed up his visor to show a stem, swarthy face with a broken nose. He produced a couple of looped chains, which he slipped over the victims’ heads, tightened, and locked. «You’re in arrest,» quoth he.
«What for?» asked Shea.
«For judgment by the high justice of the court of her majesty, Queen Gloriana.»
Chalmers groaned. «The high justice,» he explained in a low voice, «means the death penalty if we’re found guilty.»
«Then I’ll take low,» said Shea.
«You had better not ask it. He probably has the privilege of low justice himself, which means he can sentence you to about five years in prison right here. He probably would.»
Belphebe had come down from her rock. «Dolon, by the splendour of Heaven!» she cried. «I bear witness, Sir Artegall, that when I met this pair in Loselwood but yesterday, they were asking after magicians. Guard the young one well; he bears a blade of much power, which I doubt not has some enchantment on it.»
«Say you so!» observed Artegall, with an unpleasant expression. «By my halidome, we are well met, then. A pretty gift for the queen’s justice! Let’s see that little sword.» He yanked Shea’s baldric up over his head, nearly taking off an ear.
He climbed back on his horse, holding the end of the chains. The prisoners had no choice but to trot along behind him.
Chalmers managed to whisper: «Don’t try to tell them we’re on the right side. Britomart will clear us if necessary. We must. uh. retain Dolon’s confidence.»
They plodded on. The more Chalmers thought about it the less he liked the idea of being dragged off to the Faerie court for judgment. If they were released with Britomart’s help, any enchanters they met afterward might reasonably ask them how they came to escape when Dolon was condemned. Of the master magician’s condemnation there could be little doubt. Artegall looked at him with pure detestation. Belphebe, trotting along beside them, was amusing herself by catching the enchanter’s eye, putting one hand around her neck, and making strangling sounds. The great Dolon did not seem to be enjoying it.
Shea? Shea was admiring Belphebe’s springy stride. Anything Chalmers did would have to be on his own. Fortunately, Chalmers had succeeded in purloining and sneaking a look into one of Dolon’s textbooks that morning. There was a simple weakness spell in it; not much of a spell, lasting only a few hours and easily guarded against if one knew it were coming. But it required no apparatus beyond twelve blades of grass, a small piece of paper, and some water.
Chalmers stooped and pulled up the grass blades as he stumbled along, holding them in his mouth as though he merely warned something to chew on. He slipped a hand inside his robe, ostensibly to scratch, really to tear a page corner from Dolon’s book. This also went into his mouth; saliva ought to be a fairish substitute for water. He mumbled the incantation. If it worked, Artegall and Belphebe ought to be weakened enough to let the prisoners escape.
Shea decided that he liked the little spray of freckles across Belphebe’s nose, but that it was difficult to admire a girl who had a bead drawn on one’s right kidney with a longbow. He would like to see more of Belphebe. She had about everything, including an adventurous spirit not unlike his own — Why the devil was he so tired? He could barely drag one foot after the other. He should be hardened to strenuous living by now. Belphebe was drooping, too; the spring had left her walk. Even the horse’s head hung.
Artegall swayed in his saddle. He made one monstrous effort to balance himself, overcompensated, and slowly fell into the road with the dignity of a toppling factory chimney. The crash halted the procession. The horse sat down jerkily and sprawled beside its rider, its tongue lolling out. Chalmers and Dolon followed suit, their chains jangling.
Artegall heaved himself up on one elbow. «Sorcery!» he drawled languidly. «The rascals have tricked us! Skewer them, Belphebe!»
The girl fumbled with her bow. Chalmers rolled over and reached hands and knees. «Come on, Harold! Rouse Dolon!» he said. He smothered a yawn and started to crawl. «Dear me, I wish I could learn to keep these spells within bounds.»