Although spring's first growth eruption had brought a rush of tender greenery, the drenching rain that had been falling for hours numbed the landscape with a near-winter chill. Weary and reeling with pain from his injured paw, the cat dragged himself toward the one spark of light in the pouring darkness. Dim kitten-memories associated the light ahead with a warm bed near a fireside. There had been a soft human hand that fed him and stroked him… but that had been long ago. A gust of wind snapped a leafy branch across his face, and he cried out at the impact. Had he ever been dry? Pain gnawed up his foreleg from the paw crushed between rocks earlier that night when a soft stream bank he was crossing had dissolved in a treacherous mudslide. Unable now to bear any weight on the paw, he was forced to limp along on three legs. So cold… so wet.
Blinking the rain from his eyes, the cat gazed up at a large, chunky shape looming before him. Flaring lightning illuminated a thatch-roofed cottage with corners jutting out in all directions. The yellow lamplight that had drawn him spilled from one small window. The cat lurched nearer, his strength almost spent. So cold… wet… hurt.
Within, an old man sat muffled in layered robes, reading at a cluttered desk. At first, he assumed that the thin, keening wail from outside was simply the storm wind blowing through loose thatch. During an obvious lull in the wind, however, the moaning persisted. With a sigh, the old man set aside his parchment and rose from his chair.
"I suspected that it was too much to ask for a quiet evening without interruptions," he grumbled to the large white owl perched on a nearby crowded bookshelf. The owl, a rare albino specimen, briefly opened one pink eye, then shut it.
The old man rummaged in an alcove, emerging with a cloak of shiny waxed fabric. "Little use taking a lamp out in this rain," he muttered. "What I need is that small lantern. I know I had it out in the stable last week, but then I brought it back here and put it… aha, under the shelf with that crystal globe that old Botford sent me. I shan't be long," he assured the dozing owl. "It's probably only wind in the thatch, but on the other hand, one never can tell about noises in the nighttime."
The owl remained motionless. Only an occasional rustling of feathers betrayed that it wasn't merely another of the many mounted specimens tucked away on shelves or tabletops.
After a few moments, the old man returned, his cloak streaming with rain. He set down his lantern and cradled a sodden, dark lump in both dripping hands. "You see?" he exclaimed enthusiastically. "It's a cat!"
Startled, the owl emitted a complaining hoot and hopped to a higher shelf.
"It's been injured," the old man continued. "That's why it was crying. I must clear a space on my desk. Where did I put that knitted scarf from the shepherd's wife? It would be just the proper thing to set you upon, cat. My, you are wet. Are you a black cat? No, I do believe you're gray. There, let me shed this cloak of mine so I can see to drying us both."
The cat shivered as the old man stroked him gently with a soft rag, gradually fluffing out the water-soaked fur.
"I don't think I've ever seen fur quite like this before," mused the old man. "Dark gray, but silver-tipped, a bit like a badger's… and your eyes are as blue as the sky after a rain. Ha! There's a good thought for a name. I shall call you 'Raindrop.' You were certainly wet enough to qualify. I trust you feel much drier now. Let me see that paw. Hmm-mud, grit, and some sluggish bleeding still. Let me dip it in a cup of water with a little wine to clean it. Bones broken, I'm afraid. The foot must have been crushed. You fell, perhaps? Or did you squeeze it between rocks?"
The cat mewed pitifully.
"Remiss of me-that paw must be distinctly painful. I should be able, to relieve it somewhat." The old man pronounced a series of curious sounds, and lightly touched the paw.
To the cat's amazement, a cool numbness spread through the paw and part of the way up his leg.
The old man smiled. "Better, eh? That is one advantage of being a wizard, you know. Provided," he added, with disarming honesty, "you can remember the proper spell at the proper time. It is most annoying to want a spell for a night light, say, and all that comes to mind is the one for changing the color of a sheep. Now then, what we need is something to protect that paw while the bones knit back. If you were a human, I could use splints or plaster, but your paw is so small and delicate… aha, I think this lump of beeswax might serve. If I warm it by the lamp and mold it into a sort of mitten, it should hold your paw steady. How's that? You can't walk on it, but you shouldn't walk for a time as it is. Why don't you lie down on this scarf and rest? I shall be close by, here in my chair." The wizard yawned, and leaned his bald head against the high padded chairback. "I had no idea it was so late. I'll just rest a moment myself before I finish reading that interesting spell…" His head drooped to one side, and he began to snore.
Relieved of his major pain, the cat relaxed into the warm nest of knitted wool. Dry, he thought, then slept.
In the morning, the cat woke to a miscellany of sounds-rattles, clunks, whisks, and bangs. The wizard was busily engaged in what he fondly considered his daily tidying. Since the jumble in his cottage remained equally multitudinous and obstructive after his rearrangings, it was hard to distinguish any real progress.
While the wizard puttered about, the cat surveyed the room. The large white owl he'd noticed briefly the previous night was still apparently asleep on a high bookshelf. Beginning with that distinctive owl scent, an entire intriguing array of smells jostled for the cat's attention. He had never before been in a place with so many nose-tingling sensations. Closest to him came the wizard's human scent, tinged with hints of dust, ink, and some puzzling accents for which the cat had no name. Also from nearby wafted a strong metallic tang of copper and brass from a set of scales and weights on an upper shelf of the desk. Mingling with these, he could detect whiffs of musk, amber, and oil of cloves. A faint odor of snake was temporarily disquieting until the cat saw a dried snakeskin rolled up and stored in a cubbyhole. The concentrated sweetness of dried fruits hanging in nets from the ceiling beams roused the cat's hunger.
Famished by his ordeal, the cat scanned the desktop for anything edible. Various nooks above his head were jammed with bundles of dried herbs, packets with powders sifting from their corners, and countless twists of leather and parchment. Close by his shoulder was a squat, tawny glass bottle sealed with dark wax over a cork stopper. Judging from its dusty surface, the cat concluded it must have been undisturbed for a long time. During the previous night's activity, however, the bottle had tumbled over on one side. Over time, the sealing wax had cracked, and the cork stopper had split, so that some of the bottle's contents had spilled out on the desk. The cat idly noted the amber-red pellets, then his nose twitched. Were those pellets the source of that tantalizing minty scent? He stretched out his forepaw and batted a pellet closer. It smelled delicious, and he was hungry. He lapped it into his mouth, where it melted at once, like a cool, flavored snowflake. But, but… cold-hot-COLD going down! The cat tried to arch his body and spit, but something was suddenly awfully wrong with his body. He was growing, much too large to fit on the desk. With a terrified yelp, he fell off the desk onto the floor.
The noise attracted the immediate attention of both the owl and the wizard. "Oh, my," said the wizard. "What have we here? I left a cat on my desk, and now I see no cat, but instead a boy. No, wait-there is a strong feeling of magic here." The wizard peered at his desk, noticing the opened bottle. He then carefully surveyed the boy, who stared back, speechless, from the floor.
"Most interesting," observed the wizard. "I see before me a boy of ten or so years, with unusual dark gray hair edged with silver, and-yes, azure eyes in a rather triangular face. Can you speak, lad?"
The cat-now boy-tried to yowl his dismay, but produced only a wretched croaking sound.
"I thought so!" exclaimed the wizard. "You are the cat! That is to say, you were the cat; you are now a boy. Oh, I do feel most keenly responsible for this, you understand. I could have sworn I'd given those shape-changing lozenges to Otwill ages ago… or was it Otwill who gave them to me? There was supposed to be a parchment attached to the bottle…" He sorted unsuccessfully amid the clutter for a moment, then sighed. "I shall seek it later, but I do fear… well, no need, to borrow trouble. Quite likely I am recalling the wrong strictures entirely. What should we do first? Arrange for you to speak, I should think; most frustrating otherwise for us both. I have a spell for speech tucked away here somewhere-aha! Here, in fact. Now, pay attention." He intoned more sounds unintelligible to the cat/boy, but suddenly the sounds were intelligible.
The wizard watched expectantly. "Can you say my name, boy? My name is 'Flax.' "
His mind whirling from all the unimaginable changes that had befallen him, the cat/boy opened his mouth, producing a grating sound. "Fflleeckss?"
"Not at all bad for a first try," said the wizard, nodding encouragingly. "Take a moment to settle yourself. You might be more comfortable sitting in a chair… or then again, perhaps not."
The cat/boy swallowed, and tried to move his paws. But they weren't paws any more… and he was so LARGE. His whole viewing perspective seemed horridly wrong, shifted dizzyingly far up in the air above where it should be. And… and he had no fur-except for that on his head-and no whiskers, and-he gazed frantically down at himself-no tail! However could he walk, or jump? With a low moan, he tried to extend his claws… but he had no proper claws, either. Instead of his formerly elegant paws, he now had great long finger-things, with blunt, flat nails that wouldn't extend or retract. Apprehensively, he tried to stand on his four legs… but he now had only two-great LONG legs, with peculiar bent feet. He fell over with a resounding thump.
The wizard hurried to assist him. "I know," he said kindly. "Your balance must feel quite askew, but then your body proportions have altered significantly. Before you harm yourself falling, try sitting in this chair. Yes, the rump goes there, and you must bend your legs-what were your back legs-at the knees. Those joints are knees, you know, although they must seem oddly placed. The feet stay flat on the floor, by the way. That position will be different to you as well, I fear, for cats' feet are more like our human fingertips and toetips. At the moment, you are quite frankly clumsy, but you'll soon adapt. We must call you something. I had named you 'Raindrop' last night while you were a cat, but that seems a trifle poetical for a lad's name."
The wizard paused, regarding his shivering guest. "And there you sit, naked. I must find you some clothes before you suffer a chill. Weren't there some lad-sized clothes in this chest? Ha, try on this sleeved jerkin. It fits on over the head. No, no-arms through those holes, and head out the top hole. Never mind, I'll pick it up. Try again, a bit less vigorously. Much better. Not 'Raindrop,'-no. 'Drop.' That should do admirably for the present. I shall call you 'Drop.' Can you say it? Very good. Anything else you care to say-no? In my experience, cats usually aren't loquacious creatures. So much more restful to have about the house than parrots. I once treated a parrot with an eye ailment. I finally had to settle a dumbness spell on the wretched bird. He wouldn't give a person peace to think in-always prattling on and on. Ah, here are some breeches of a reasonable size, and some soft slippers that should fit your feet. "When you have dressed, you might try moving about a bit. Yes, the breeches fit over the legs. While you're finishing, I shall search for Otwill's parchment. I know I saw it quite recently. The cord around the bottle had frayed, you see, so I slipped the parchment into one of these cubbyholes for safekeeping."
Drop wrestled with the hideously uncooperative clothing, then subsided into the chair, breathing hard. His exquisite sense of cat-balance was asserting itself, adjusting to his new body shape. He flexed his curiously divided fingers, pondering the other changes that intruded into his awareness. Scents, for one thing, were now much less keen and distinct. That was discouraging, but perhaps compensated for to some degree by the enormous expansion of his color vision. Before, as a cat, he could tell a difference between blue-to-green colors and orange-to-red ones, but only in bright light. Now the world was a riot of colors, for which the wizard's speech spell obligingly provided him names. He wondered briefly about his night sight-so important to a hunting cat; his loss or gain there would be revealed later. The humans he remembered seemed to take shelter at night. Perhaps, he reasoned, they couldn't see as well in dim light as in full sun.
Drop looked curiously at the preoccupied wizard. Although the old man had initially appeared bulky because he was swathed in so many layers of cloth, it was now clear that he wasn't actually much larger than the cat-boy's own body size. His head was completely bald and beardless; frost-white eyebrows shaded a pair of bright blue eyes flanking a beak of a nose.
"Aha!" The wizard triumphantly waved a dusty scrap of parchment, then brought it near the lamp to read the faded writing. "I thought so-it was Otwill's, for here's his rune. I don't know what possessed him to create this spell." The wizard frowned at the scrap as he read aloud, " 'Reveals the true character of the user: what his spirit might otherwise have been but for the accident of birth.' Meddlesome-I always said Otwill was a meddler, although generally well-intentioned. I remember now… he sent me these lozenges shortly after they had turned his servant into a toad. Most unfortunate. Still, the fellow really was rather toadlike, and Otwill did take good care of him afterward. Put him in a walled garden, I believe. Hmm."
The wizard read on, then paused and sighed. "I must be honest with you, Drop. This Keep-Shape Spell of Otwill's is not, I fear, reversible… at least, that is, he neglected to specify how to reverse it." For an instant, his face brightened, then fell back into an apologetic expression. "I was about to say that I could transmit a query to Otwill concerning this spell, but I just recalled that he has been missing for some time-went on a quest for phoenix feathers or some such rare thing. Bother. I shall simply have to puzzle it out by myself." He stopped and gazed thoughtfully at Drop. "Until I can return you to your proper cathood, you are most welcome to stay here and lend a hand." He waved vaguely at their muddled surroundings. "Would you care to learn a bit of magic? First, of course, you'd have to learn to read. I've never before taught a cat to read, but I feel sure you should be quite capable of learning. Oh, do speak up! I hate talking to myself all the time."
"P… paw?" asked Drop, extending his injured hand, which had swollen and was darkening with bruises.
"Forgive me," exclaimed the wizard. "That little beeswax mitten I made for you last night couldn't possibly contain the mass of a human hand." He bustled around the room, collecting materials. "My numbing spell should still be in full effect. Now I can attend properly to those broken bones. I shall need some dry plaster, water, strips of cloth, and perhaps some light wooden splints."
Working briskly, the wizard soon constructed a damp, but quickly stiffening bandage immobilizing Drop's swollen hand. As he tied the last knot and dabbed it down with a glob of plaster, he observed, "There-that should serve. Once those bones mend, your hand ought to be perfectly usable. A bit awkward, I expect, but then having hands will seem awkward to you for a time until you get used to them. Now that you're presentably dressed and bandaged, what should we do next?"
"Food?" suggested Drop, in a hopeful tone.
"Food!" The wizard's eyes widened. "My word-haven't we had any? Of course there's food. The cowherd left me some milk and cheese, and I have bread in the larder… and some dried herring. You should quite fancy that."
They had almost finished their breakfast when they were interrupted by a shy tapping at the door. By the time the wizard opened it, no one was in sight, but a basket of brown eggs had been left on the doorstep.
"It's because of the pig, you know," said the wizard, shaking his head. "I can't imagine why they still feel obliged."
"Pig?" prompted Drop. '
"I worked a magical cure for it, you see," explained the wizard. "The poor creature had a palsy… or was that the farmer's aunt? Perhaps it was colic. In any case, they're grateful for my help, the nearby folk, but most of them are mistrustful of magic." He sighed. "I've always had a talent for magic, ever since I was a child. It quite upset my parents. They expected me to become a wool merchant. I can't think of any other excuse for the name they gave me."
Puzzled, Drop said, "Flax?"
"Er, no." The wizard hesitated. "Woostrom," he confided, making a sour face. "What sort of name is that for a wizard? Still," he conceded, "they didn't know that I was to become a wizard. Fortunately, everyone soon began calling me 'Flax,' for the obvious reason."
"Reason?" Drop could perceive no reason to relate the wizard to a vegetable fiber which the speech spell informed him could be spun into linen.
"My hair, of course," retorted the wizard, then added with a rueful smile, "when I had some, that is. It was just the color of flax."
"Ah," said Drop, enlightened.
"Before I forget," the wizard continued, "do let me introduce you to the others who share my cottage. You will have noticed Ghost, our resident owl." Flax pointed toward the pale puff of feathers on the high shelf. At the sound of its name, Ghost briefly opened both pink eyes. "After I mended his broken wing, he chose to stay on. Very keen hearing, owls," the wizard observed, then added in a low tone, "I try not to disturb Ghost by speaking loudly, and most especially avoid shouting his name. For some reason, that agitates him unduly, and he tends to fly to one's head and… er, um… pull one's hair." Flax patted his own bald head reminiscently. "In my present condition, I do not welcome such aggressive attention. And there is, of course, Cyril, who had a most dreadful injury to his tail. I feared for some time that he could not recover, but he has assumed his place under the table, and nowadays I seldom even see a mouse.
Most satisfactory."
Drop stared under the table, seeing nothing but bare wooden legs and the wizard's own buskined feet.
"No, not this table," said Flax, following his glance.
"The side table."
What Drop had previously dismissed as ornamental rings of carved wood now slowly uncoiled into a sizable snake, albeit a snake with a much truncated tail.
Flax bent down to rub Cyril's head. "So few people recognize the real virtues of snakes. I'll wager there's not another snake in the kingdom who can rival Cyril for learning. Not scholarly learning, you understand," he hastened to add. "No, I can't claim that, but Cyril responds famously to patterns of taps on his head. I rather suspect that snakes may well be deaf; certainly Cyril doesn't appear to hear at all. You can imagine how long I bellowed at him with absolutely no result-except to agitate Ghost. Then I thought he might possibly feel vibrations, so I tried the tapping. Cyril now knows that two taps mean 'come,' three mean 'food,' and four mean 'danger.' Most accomplished of him."
Drop warily watched Cyril's blunt head approach his slippered foot, but apart from flicking out a forked tongue, Cyril politely refrained from touching Drop. In his cat form, Drop had usually avoided snakes. He had definitely never seen a snake as large in girth as Cyril, whose broadest dimension rivaled Drop's own wrist.
"Large," Drop observed, looking from his own forearm to the snake.
"Oh, yes, Cyril's size," the wizard replied. "I was given Cyril by a traveler who had acquired him in a distant, warmer land. Cyril dozes a good deal in cold weather, and, for that matter, he also frequently basks in the garden in the summer. While indoors, he generally curls around that table base. He doesn't care to be trodden upon, you know-much better to stay out of the way of people's feet. Now, let us carry these dishes to the kitchen, and I shall show you how to wash them."
"Why?" asked Drop, carefully balancing his plate between his uninjured fingers.
"Because we shall want to use them again," the wizard explained. "When you were a cat, you washed yourself, to stay tidy. We humans have to use soap and water instead of our tongues, but the object is the same. Come along."
Over the next few days, Drop gradually became accustomed to the shape and uses of his new body. Learning how to grasp objects took some practice, but soon he could brace things against the hard bandage protecting his broken hand, and was able to fetch most of what the wizard needed. As his natural feline grace of movement emerged, he stopped blundering into things, to Ghost's considerable relief. The owl much preferred a quiet, steady household, without the crash of shattering dishes or items cascading from jostled shelves.
Drop discovered anew that humans were creatures of habit, insisting upon three meals a day, and sleeping most of the night. Fortunately for Drop's cat nature, the wizard tended to indulge in frequent naps during the day, and often worked far into the night. The wizard patiently answered Drop's questions, and encouraged the lad in his efforts to decipher the curious marks called "writing."
"Until your hand heals," the wizard said, "I don't think I shall trouble you with a stylus or quill, but you can learn the shapes of the letters and how words are made from them."
They were somewhat impeded in their activities by the wizard's explosive fits of sneezing.
"I must have become overly chilled the night I brought you inside," Flax remarked, dabbing at his reddened nose. "Bother-most frustrating when one is trying to weigh something small like this mustard seed… a-choo!"
It was late that afternoon when they were startled by a volley of thuds on the front door.
"My hat," complained Flax as he hurried to open the door. "There's no need to batter your way in. Well, what can I do for you?"
A stocky figure enveloped in a black cloak was just raising his cudgel for another thump. "At last!" he exclaimed in a rasping voice. "Am I in the presence of the illustrious Woostrom?"
The wizard sneezed convulsively. "Yes, I am Woostrom, although I prefer being called 'Flax.' Come in, come in, before the draft sets me to… a-choo!"
The unexpected visitor strode past Flax, pausing in the main room to pivot on a burnished boot heel. "A splendid house-for, if I may say so, a splendid wizard. Your fame, Master Woostrom, has spread over considerable distances."
The wizard blinked in surprise. "I can't imagine why," he said. "I exchange a few spells now and then with some colleagues, but chiefly I am occupied here, in this rather isolated cottage."
"You are entirely too modest," declared the visitor. "I have traveled far, and always when potent magic was being discussed, the name of Woostrom arose. But allow me to introduce myself." With a flourish of his cloak, he bowed imperiously. "I am Skarn, a humble apprentice at the noble craft of wizardry."
"Indeed. I am Flax," the wizard asserted, "and this is Drop, my assistant."
Skarn scarcely glanced at the silent lad, who was pondering a growing sense of instant dislike to the stranger. His face seemed unremarkable-he had a rather narrow, pointed nose, long, dark red hair, and beady eyes the color of grimy green bottleglass. But there was something about Skarn… Drop's human nose twitched. Skarn exuded a curiously peppery scent that made Drop's nose tingle. Surely Master Flax was aware of it-but one look at the wizard's swollen nose confirmed that in his congested state, he likely could not distinguish catnip from turnips. There was, however, one other of the cottage's inhabitants who appeared to be disquieted by Skarn's arrival. The humans didn't notice, but from the corner of his eye, Drop saw that Ghost was sidling quietly along his bookshelf toward the corner near an interior door. In a moment, he glided soundlessly away down the hall.
Meanwhile, Skarn was continuing in a wheedling tone, extending a gloved hand importunately toward Flax. "I have searched for you for such a time. Could you permit me to bide here for the night? It would be a great honor to confer with you, at your leisure, of course."
Had Drop been a dog, his mounting distrust would have made him growl; instead, Skarn's pungent scent made him sneeze.
"Bless you," said Flax, instantly concerned. "I do hope that you have not contracted my own difficulty."
Skarn harrumphed loudly, displeased that the wizard's attention had been distracted. "I should not require much room," he persisted. "Any small space where I might roll up in a blanket…"
"Eh? Oh, a place to sleep," said Flax. "We have a number of spare rooms here-no problem at all. Take off your cloak, then, Master Skarn, if you are staying. Drop, put on the kettle, if you will, and we shall offer our guest some herbal tea. He can use the back room two doors down from my study… I believe that its bed is made."
"So warmly hospitable." Skarn grimaced, showing narrow, rather sharp teeth that reminded Drop of a wharf rat he had once chased on a dockside. Unaccountably, the hair stirred at the back of Drop's neck.
Skarn whipped off his cloak, and tossed it at Drop without any word of thanks. Drop hurried to fold the cloak across a chair in the small guest room. Wrongness, he thought-there was something unnatural about Master Skarn, something besides his unmistakable reek of pepper.
During the evening meal, Skarn withdrew an ornamental metal shaker from his vest and liberally dusted his plate of stew. "A weakness of mine," he confided. "I don't invite you to try this spice blend, Master Woostrom, since most folk find it exceedingly strong. I encountered the ingredients in far Druzan years ago, and plain food now seems insipid without it."
Drop and Flax sneezed simultaneously as a faint whiff of the spice mixture reached them.
"I'm sure that would be too lively for my simple tastes," commented the wizard. "Pray tell me, is it true as I have read, that Druzan is much afflicted by sorcerers?"
Skarn airily waved a sharp-nailed hand. "I did not find it so. The Druzanians seemed most willing, even eager to share their knowledge. But doubtless I have bored you with my lengthy traveler's tales." His mouth gaped in a vast yawn. "Forgive me-I find I am wearier than I thought. If I might retire for the night?"
"Of course. Drop, light a lamp for Master Skarn. Thank you. Let me show you to your room. This way." With a final sneeze, Flax bade his guest good night, and shortly afterward, the household settled into peaceful slumber.
It seemed peaceful until Drop roused-sharply, suddenly wide awake. What had caught his ear? Some unusual sound? Not waiting to tug on his slippers, Drop padded barefooted along the twisting hallway toward the wizard's study. Furtive sounds were emanating from that direction, and even Drop's now woefully inadequate night vision could distinguish glimmers of light around the closed study door.
Closed? Master Flax never closed his study door. Drop crept silently to the threshold and listened. Something or someone was definitely moving about inside. Spreading his fingers wide, Drop gently pressed his unbandaged hand against the door. The rough wooden surface eased back until Drop could see into the study. Fitfully illuminated by a yellow-greenish witchlight, Skarn was rummaging through the cubbyholes and drawers of Flax's desk.
A surge of anger swept through Drop. Taking a deep breath, he cried out loudly, "Thief! Flax-Come!"
Skarn spun around at the call, gesturing at the door, which slammed violently open, revealing his accuser. "Be quiet!" Skarn snarled, but both of them could hear the sneezes of the awakened, approaching wizard.
Flax stopped behind Drop, and peered over his head into the study. In a deceptively mild tone, the wizard observed, "Why, Master Skarn… if you couldn't sleep. I would gladly have recommended a soothing spell-although surely a man of your talents could have managed that on his own." With a quiet word, Flax gestured, and the candles in the study kindled. Skarn's witchlight contracted to a point, then vanished.
"Bah!" Skarn bared his teeth in a thoroughly unpleasant smile. "The time for acting is past. I mean to have Kryppen's potion. Where have you concealed it?"
Flax appeared genuinely puzzled. "Kryppen's potion? I do assure you that I have no idea what that might be. I frequently make up Kraffen's poultice for drawing out boils, and of course, there's Warpin's pitch for sealing leaky vessels, but as for Kryppen's…"
"Silence, you garrulous old fool!" bellowed Skarn. "Do you realize how much trouble you have caused me? So far, I have had to kill four men and one demon to trace the path of this precious potion to your door."
"My door?" Flax shook his head. "I fear you must have been misled. I have no such item."
"Ha! You can't deceive me. Master Kryppen created it twenty years ago, and I have sought it for ten. You have hidden it!" Skarn glared at the jumble of items he had already disarranged. "I know it is somewhere here, and I intend to find it."
"But I have never heard of Master Kryppen," Flax objected.
Skarn ignored the assertion as he impatiently scrabbled through a file of dusty bottles on a desk shelf. "He sold some of it to Nementh of Goor, whose lackwitted nephew gambled it away. Never mind its trail over the years-it came to you after you performed some service for Mistress Wryfern, who, not knowing what she had, gave it to you."
"Dear Mistress Wryfern," exclaimed the wizard with genuine warmth. "I do hope she fares well nowadays."
"She's as hard to pry news from as a clam embedded in stone," rasped Skarn. "Still, I determined what she had done, and I have come to claim my prize."
"Why?" inquired Flax.
"What do you mean, 'why'?" retorted Skarn. The wizard sighed, employing his most patient tone, familiar to Drop from his reading instruction. "I mean, why do you consider it your prize? If this particular potion had been given to me as a token of gratitude, why should you claim it as yours?"
"Because I know how it should be used," snapped Skarn. "In my hands," he added with gleeful satisfaction, "it could slay hundreds… thousands."
"Nonsense!" said Flax stoutly. "I distinctly recall that particular potion now. Mistress Wryfern described it to me clearly as a mere entertainment for parties-a prank potion."
Skarn guffawed. "No doubt that was as far as that fool Kryppen could envision a use for it. But consider the possibilities on a battlefield or against the crowded populace of an enemy city-when I applied my mind to that aspect, I was quite inspired. I thought of the rot-flesh fungus almost at once."
Drop saw all trace of color drain from the wizard's face.
Evidently appalled, Flax blurted in a strained voice, "Skarn-you would not. You could not!"
Skarn rubbed his hands together. "Oh, but I could, and I did. Just ponder the glorious combination-start with an innocent potion that spreads your intended effect from person to person by touch. What merriment at a party to have first one guest brush another, who touches a third, and each one commences to sneeze or laugh or twitch-most amusing, wouldn't you say? Picture that multiplying effect transferring the activity of the rot-flesh fungus. You will have seen what happens to any luckless animal who brushes against those fungal growths from the far southern swamps? Something like the action of quicklime, or general corruption, only much accelerated."
"You could not loose such a plague," said Flex hoarsely. "You would yourself be caught up in the contamination."
Skarn bobbed his head, smirking as if pleased by his listener's insight. "And so I would, should I be demented enough to be present-but I do not intend to be present. Someone else will be my agent. They will necessarily perish, of course, but then every great plan has its minor costs."
The wizard's pale face seemed stricken, but he also appeared to have come to a decision. "Drop," he said quietly, "you did well to summon me. This is far worse than a case of mere thievery." His voice hardened with resolve. "Skarn-if that be your true name-you are contemplating murder on a hideous scale. You shall not have that potion."
"Ah, but I do have it within my very grasp," purred Skarn. "Is that not the private seal of Mistress Wryfern on that quaint little blue glass bottle I have just uncovered at the back of your desk?"
Throughout this confrontation between Skarn and the wizard, Drop's sense of unease and alarm had been mounting. It was clear to him that Skarn was a dangerous creature who must be prevented from stealing Master Flax's property. Giving no advance warning sound, Drop leaped toward Skarn, hoping to bear him to the floor, away from the desk.
Skarn, however, whirled at the initial movement, and pronounced some harsh sounds. Instantly, Drop found his forward thrust jolted to a stop, and his limbs immovable.
"Relying on a one-handed lad to defend you, eh, Woostrom?" crowed Skarn. "My binding spell will deal with him."
"Deal then with me!" roared Flax, raising both hands. As he intoned a spate of awesome sounds, great thick ropes formed in the air and spiraled around Skarn, pinning his arms to his sides.
Drop felt greatly relieved, until Skarn spat other sounds, at which the ropes withered away to mere threads he cast contemptuously to the floor.
"You dare to oppose me?" he sneered. "I am Skarn the sorcerer! No man stands before my wrath." Flinging up his hands, he conjured a gust of murky flame that blasted toward Flax, but it was quenched in mid-flight by an equally fierce geyser of conjured water sent by the wizard. Spells and counterspells erupted in the quivering cottage, clashing between the magical combatants.
Literally spellbound, Drop watched, his mind racing. There had to be some way he could aid Master Flax… but first he had to be able to move. Skarn had mistakenly assumed that Drop was a normal human lad; but Drop was not merely that. A binding spell meant to restrain a lad might not necessarily fully bind a magically transformed cat. Drop cautiously endeavored to move his toes… they responded slowly, leadenly, but they did move. Now for one arm, then the other… very slowly. He could not afford to attract Skarn's attention. Fortunately, Skarn's attention was most fully engaged by Flax's magical assaults.
As light-bolts blazed, sounds crashed, and weird smells curdled the air of the study, Drop realized that he might possibly call on two other allies for Flax. The very floor boards had been shuddering beneath their feet for some time, and Drop now distinguished one particularly broad bar of shadow near his own feet. It was Cyril the snake, understandably disturbed by the bizarre lights and upheaval, who had abandoned his table base to seek the cause. Drop eased his bandaged hand down until he could tap on Cyril's questing head. One, two, three, four-there. Cyril should now be alerted to the danger to Flax.
For the last short while, Drop had also become dimly aware of a persistent clicking sound. In a brief lull between spells, he suddenly located the source: Ghost, who had been dozing as usual on a high shelf, had been awakened by the wild activity below, and was snapping his beak in decided disapproval. Drop recalled what Flax had said about Ghost and loud noises. His desperate plan lacked only one other element.
While Skarn and Flax were totally absorbed in their duel by magic, Drop edged quietly toward the desk. At first, he couldn't locate the tawny bottle he sought, then he recognized it over to one side, where Skarn had thrust it during his search. Extending his free hand, Drop extracted a Keep-Shape lozenge. He succeeded just in time, for Skarn produced a wave of force that flung Flax bodily against a bookcase, temporarily dazing the wizard.
Skarn stepped forward, gloating. "So much for you, you feeble old fool. I have dawdled with you long enough. Feel now my Death Spell, you and your useless apprentice!"
Unluckily for Skarn, he had earlier discarded his fancy riding boots in order to pursue his thievery quietly. When he now strode forward, he planted one stockinged foot flatly on Cyril's back, prompting the offended snake to rear up and sink his fangs into Skarn's unprotected leg.
Seizing this splendid opportunity, Drop yelled as loudly as he could, "Ho! Ghost! GHOST!"
The owl, driven to frenzy by all the blinding lights, swooped down from his shelf, talons extended. He landed on Skarn's head, buffeting the sorcerer with his great soft wings, while yanking cruelly at the man's long red hair.
Skarn, understandably, yowled under this multiple, totally unexpected attack. As his mouth gaped open, Drop lunged toward the floundering sorcerer and popped the lozenge between his lips.
There was a frozen instant of startled silence, a gasp from Skarn, then a gulp. The tormented sorcerer wrenched Ghost from his head, and would have dashed the owl to the floor had it not twisted from his hands and flown safely to its ceiling shelf.
Skarn gibbered, shuddered, and slowly shrank in size. Drop watched with keen interest to see just what Skarn's True Shape might be. It was momentarily concealed by the heap of Skarn's human clothing, then there was a jerky stirring, and tearing aside the fabric, a rather warty yellow-brown demon emerged from the folds.
Flax, by now recovered from his breathless impact against the bookcase, pointed at the demon, pronouncing a stern magical order.
The demon shook its claws defiantly at him, but was summarily vanished, leaving behind a cloud of foul smoke.
"Faugh!" exclaimed Flax, gesturing open all the adjacent doors and windows. "A cleansing breeze should suffice to disperse this. All-much better. And there is one more item that needs to be destroyed-Mistress Wryfern's gift potion. Although it was intended only to be an innocent diversion, I now perceive what a deadly threat it could pose in wicked hands." Snatching up the blue glass bottle, the wizard vaporized it in a flash of white light.
From his lofty perch, Ghost emitted a loud hoot of protest.
"My dear Ghost," said Flax, "and Cyril, and above all, Drop! I thank each of you for your valiant efforts. Had you not assisted when you did, I fear that we all should have perished. You must all be fairly rewarded. Let me see-some nice brown eggs for Cyril, I think, and pickled herring for Ghost and Drop. How does that sound? Where did I put that jar of herring? Was it in the kitchen, or the back storeroom?"
As Drop followed the wizard to aid in the search, he privately regretted only one thing. He had not had the chance to try a bite of the demon, which had smelled most deliriously of mouse.