Mebodes' Fly

Clever Rolf was not listening anymore.

When he got an idea, he seized the bit in his teeth and ran away with it. He set out that very night, leaving a rolled-up blanket in bed in the hope that Mebodes might think he was still at home. He even left his mule behind and went by shanks' mare. By the time the sun came up, he was halfway to Estreby, which was a larger town than Argentan and boasted a wizard in residence.

Clever Rolf was footsore and yawning by the time he found the wizard's establishment on a side street between a farrier and an apothecary. The sign simply said "Rigord". Either one knew who he was, or not.

Rigord proved to be a tall, sleepy-looking fellow in his forties; his chamber was dustier than Bardulf's record room. He was not, however, lightly befooled. When Clever Rolf tried to present a circumspect version of his difficulties, the wizard drawled, "Ah yes, heard about you: the fellow who diddled Mebodes. Wants his own back now, does he?"

"Well--yes," Clever Rolf admitted.

Without haste, Rigord got up and dug out an astrological tome and an abacus. He cast a quick horoscope, flicking beads back and forth and muttering to himself as he calculated. At last, when Clever Rolf was quivering with anxiety, he said, "I can help, I reckon. Mebodes is strong, but so full of his affairs that he leaves himself vulnerable to magic. Now"--and Rigord's sleepiness fell away--"what's it worth to you?"

Clever Rolf had been waiting for that question, but not so soon. "Ah--three silver marks."

"This is your life we're speaking of," Rigord reminded him scornfully.

"Very well, then--a whole gold piece. I am not a rich man."

"No?" Rigord leaned forward. "What about the treasure you stole from Mebodes along with your leman?"

Clever Rolf quailed. "You know too much. I'll pay you six marks."

"I want the treasure--all of it."

"Would you beggar me? I'll give you two gold pieces, or even two and a mark."

"The treasure." Implacable, Rigord folded his arms and waited.

"I've spent some of it," the scribe said miserably.

"How much? The truth--I will know if you lie." The wizard made a quick pass.

"Maybe a quarter."

"The balance will do nicely--if, of course, you truly want my aid."

Clever Rolf yielded; as Rigord knew, he had to yield. "All right," he said, very low, the picture of a beaten man.

They dickered over terms after that; the scribe did not want to pay before Mebodes was driven off. At last he agreed to let Rigord lay a geas on him, compelling him to fetch the treasure once the magician had met his half of the bargain. The spell was quickly and competently cast. Clever Rolf's mercurial hopes began to revive; Rigord knew what he was about. He might well prove a match for Mebodes.

And deep inside, where it did not show, the scribe was chortling. Mebodes' treasure was largely brass, worth a mark and a half at the outside. Rigord would have done better for himself had he been a less steely haggler. That, however, Clever Rolf thought, was Rigord's problem.

When they went back to Argentan, Rigord rode a mule while Clever Rolf walked once more. The wizard's beast had as lackadaisical a disposition as that which he affected, so the scribe, sore feet and all, had no trouble keeping up.

It was almost evening when Rigord's nostrils started twitching; he and Clever Rolf were still a mile or so outside Argentan. The scribe sniffed, too. "Night-blooming jasmine," he said. "We have some of the finest in the duchy."

"Quiet, fool." As it did at need, Rigord's laziness disappeared. "It's the reek of evil sorcery I smell." He paused, considering. "Aye, likely Mebodes. The spells have an eastern flavor to them."

"Spells?" Clever Rolf's fears flooded back. "Are they done?" If they were, he was likely doomed no matter what Rigord did.

The wizard extracted a packet of whitish powder from his robe, poured a little into the palm of one hand. He mumbled an incantation, moving his other hand in small, jerky passes. Then he spat into the powder. It bubbled and turned a faint pink. "Close, but not quite," he told the anxiously waiting scribe. "Were it red, you could visit the undertaker now and save yourself the wait."

"Heh, heh," Clever Rolf said in hollow tones. "By the gods, then, find him and deal with him before it's too late." He had an inspiration. "If you don't, you'll never see his treasure, you know."

That seemed to stir Rigord. He sniffed again, worked a quick divination with a green twig. It hung suspended in the air. "That way," he said, squinting along it. He repeated the divination several times as they got into town. Night had fallen by then; hardly anyone was--in the street to ask questions.

At last the floating twig pointed squarely at a two-story building bigger and finer than most. "He's in there," Rigord said decisively. "On the second floor, by the angle of things, behind that window there--here now, you idiot, what's so funny?"

"Angle of things, forsooth." Clever Rolf had to fight back hysterical laughter. "It's the town bawdy house."