The Inadequate Adept Read online

  THE

  INADEQUATE

  ADEPT

  Simon Hawke

  Copyright © 1993

  CONTENT

  DEDICATION

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  DEDICATION

  For Leanne Christine Harper, with special thanks to Pat McGiveney, Darla Dunn, Doug and Tomi Lewis of The Little Bookshop of Horrors in Arvada, Co., Joe DeRose and the staff of Muddy's Cafe in Denver, Co., H. Trask Emery, David Marringly, Brian Thomsen, Mauro DiPreta, Fred Cleaver, Chris Zinck, the Mad Scientists Club of Denver and all the understanding friends who supported me during this madness. You all know who you are, and some of you have asked not to be identified. It's okay, I understand.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Once upon a time...

  No. Let's try that again.

  Long, long ago, in a universe far, far away...

  Nah, that doesn't work, either.

  Oh, hell, you think it's easy being the narrator? You try it. Only don't send your manuscripts to me, whatever you do. I've got enough problems of my own. Such as trying to figure out how to begin this book, for instance.

  Let's see now, according to conventional wisdom, you're supposed to begin a story with a narrative hook. What's a narrative hook, you ask? It's a slam-bang opening sentence that's so compelling, it "hooks" your interest right away and makes it damn near impossible not to read on further. Well... I guess I've already blown that.

  On the other hand, another tried-and-true technique is to get into the action right away, just plunge the reader headfirst into the story with the speed of an express train and never let up for an instant. Hmmm... too late for that, I suppose.

  Well, there's always the classic approach used by all those literary authors. You know, Dickens and that whole crowd. First, you set the scene with lots of colorful, evocative, descriptive writing, then you gradually introduce the main characters as you develop the plot, but then that's a rather dated approach and modern readers aren't really all that patient with-

  "Get on with it," said Warrick.

  What?

  "I said, get on with it," Warrick Morgannan repeated, looking up toward the ceiling as he sat behind his massive desk, bent over his ancient vellum tomes and scrolls.

  "Get on with what, Master?" asked his troll familiar, Teddy.

  "I wasn't speaking to you," said Warrick.

  The hairy, little troll glanced around the sorcerer's sanctorum apprehensively, noting that the two of them seemed to be alone.

  "But, Master..." he whined, plaintively, "there is no one else here!"

  "Of course, there is no one else here," snapped Warrick irritably. "I was speaking to the voice in the ether."

  "The voice in the ether, Master?" said Teddy, picking his nose nervously.

  "Yes, you know, the one that calls itself the narrator," Warrick replied.

  Teddy swallowed hard and seemed to shrink into himself, which isn't easy to do when you're only two feet tall. He'd heard his master speak of this narrator before, this mysterious voice in the ether that only he could hear, and it always made him feel frightened. Now, the fact is, there's not much that frightens trolls, because although they may be rather small, they are extremely strong and aggressive. However, Teddy had no idea what to make of this invisible, omniscient presence that his master kept referring to. It made him very nervous.

  "What is it saying, Master?" Teddy asked.

  "It's talking about your nerves now," said Warrick with a wry grimace.

  "My nerves?" said Teddy, becoming increasingly more nervous.

  "Yes, and wasting a great deal of time, I might add," said Warrick, frowning. "If there is one thing I cannot stand, 'tis a storyteller who hems and haws and cannot seem to get the tale started properly."

  Of course, not being a storyteller himself, Warrick was not really in a position to appreciate the difficulties involved with beginning the second novel in a series, while at the same time trying to take into account the reader who may not have read the first one.

  "Well, why don't you simply do one of those 'in the last episode' things?" asked Warrick impatiently. "Now do get on with it, will you? I have work to do."

  Ahem... In our last episode, we met Dr. Marvin Brewster, a brilliant, if pathologically vague, American scientist in London, in the employ of EnGulfCo International, one of those huge, multinational conglomerates that owns companies all over the world and has lots of large buildings with bad art in their lobbies. Brewster had what many men might call an enviable life. He was making a great deal of money doing what he loved, working out of his own private research laboratory with virtually unlimited funding, and he had become engaged to a highly intelligent and socially prominent British cybernetics engineer named Dr. Pamela Fairburn, who also happened to be drop-dead gorgeous.

  Pamela patiently kept trying to get her absent-minded fiance to the altar, only Brewster kept failing to show up for his weddings. It wasn't that Brewster was gun-shy about marriage, it was simply that he couldn't seem to keep his mind on little things like weddings when he was on the verge of perfecting the greatest scientific discovery the world had ever seen. Assuming, of course, the world would ever get a chance to see it. And therein lies our tale.

  For those of you who were thoughtless enough to miss our first installment (The Reluctant Sorcerer, Warner Books), never fear, your faithful narrator will bring you up to date. The rest of you, hang in there while we wait for the late arrivals to catch up. Or simply skip ahead to the next chapter. It's okay, I don't mind.

  What Brewster had constructed in his top-secret laboratory, high atop the corporate headquarters building of EnGulfCo International, was the world's first working model of a time machine. We'll skip the details of how he did it, because that was covered in our first episode (The Reluctant Sorcerer, Warner Books), aside from which, explaining time travel always gives your narrator a frightful headache. Suffice it to say that the thing worked, which should have assured Brewster's fame and fortune and made him as much of a household name as, say, Gene Roddenberry, or maybe even Isaac Asimov, except for one, minor, little problem....

  Brewster lost it. That's right, the time machine. He lost it. How do you lose something the size of a small helicopter? (Yes, that's how big it was, and if you'd read our first episode-The Reluctant Sorcerer, Warner Books-you'd have known that already.) Well, it had to do with a faulty counter in a timing switch that was part of the auto-return module. It's really rather complicated, but if you've ever owned a British sports car, then you'll understand how little things like that can really screw up the whole works.

  As a result of this malfunction, Brewster accidentally sent his time machine off on a one-way trip. To get it back, he had to build a second time machine, go back in time with it and find the first one... well, you get the idea. It seemed simple and straightforward enough. So Brewster built a second time machine and that was when his trouble really started.

  Due to some kind of freak temporal version of an atmospheric skip (either that, or the bizarre machinations of the plot), Brewster wound up in a parallel universe that suspiciously resembled the setting of a fantasy novel. And since he'd crash-landed his second time machine, Brewster was stuck there, with only one chance to make it back. Unless he could find the first time machine he'd built, there was no way for him to get back home again. Unfortunately, the first time machine was nowhere to be found.

  (The reason it was nowh
ere to be found: three brigands had found it in the Redwood Forest and sold it to a nearby sorcerer, who managed to stumble onto a spell that tapped into its energy field.) However, the time machine was not designed to be operated by magical remote control, and as a result, it hadn't functioned quite the way it was supposed to.

  There was a temporal phase loop, or maybe a short circuit, and the sorcerer disappeared, while the time machine remained exactly where it was. When the sorcerer did not return, his frightened apprentice took this mysterious and terrible device to Warrick Morgannan, the most powerful wizard in all the twenty-seven kingdoms, and the bane of your faithful narrator's existence.

  "What?" said Warrick, glancing up from his vellum tomes and scrolls.

  Nothing. Go back to work.

  Warrick scowled and went back to his paperwork again while Teddy the Troll continued to sweep the floor, nervously glancing up toward the ceiling.

  Now where were we? Right, we were discussing Brewster's strange predicament. The first person Brewster ran into in this primitive and magical new world was Mick O'Fallon, whom he first took to be a midget, but who actually happened to be a leprechaun. Mick witnessed Brewster's dramatic arrival in his world and naturally assumed that Brewster was a mighty sorcerer. He also mistakenly assumed that "Brewster" was a title, not a name, as in "one who brews." In other words, an alchemist. And since Brewster habitually told everyone he met to call him "Doc," Mick called him "Brewster Doc," and the name, as well as the mistaken assumption it engendered, stuck.

  An amateur alchemist himself, Mick was seeking the secret of the Philosopher's Stone, which in this particular universe had nothing to do with turning base metals into gold, but into a much rarer metal known as nickallirium, the chief medium of exchange in the twenty-seven kingdoms. The secret of making nickallirium was controlled by the Sorcerers and Adepts Guild, which meant they also controlled the economy in all the twenty-seven kingdoms. They guarded this power jealously, and allowed no one to practice magic unless they were a dues-paying member of the Guild. Brewster was ignorant of all these details, however, and in the universe in which he found himself, ignorance was anything but bliss.

  When word began to spread that a new wizard had arrived, the residents of the nearby town of Brigand's Roost began to drop by to make the new sorcerer's acquaintance. As the town's name might lead one to believe, the residents of Brigand's Roost were mostly outlaws who plied their trade along the trails and thorny hedgerows of the Redwood Forest. They were known as the Black Brigands, for the black masks they wore in imitation of their leader, the infamous Black Shannon, a deceptively angelic-looking woman with the disposition of a she-wolf and the morals of an alley cat. Now while such character traits might be regarded as shortcomings in most social situations, they happen to be extremely useful in conducting business, and Shannon quickly saw certain advantages to having a wizard in the neighborhood.

  Meanwhile, Warrick was busy trying to solve the mystery of Brewster's missing time machine.

  "Yes, what is it now?" snapped Warrick.

  Teddy gave a guilty start and dropped his broom.

  "I am very busy, Teddy," Warrick said. "Whatever it is, it can wait."

  "But, Master-"

  "I said, it can wait!"

  Teddy stuck his lower lip out petulantly, picked up his broom and resumed sweeping, mumbling under his breath.

  Now, due to unforeseen circumstances, your narrator has to be extremely careful when it conies to writing about... you-know-who, because as we have already discovered back in our first episode, the Grand Director of the Guild is a very powerful adept, indeed. So powerful, in fact, that he can detect the presence of the narrator. This could make things rather sticky.

  The thing is, as any good writer can tell you, characters who are properly developed tend to take on lives of their own and... you-know-who is certainly no exception. His characterization demanded highly developed thaumaturgical abilities and magical sensitivities of a very high order. The trouble is, when you start playing around with things like magic, there's no telling what might happen, and in this case, what apparently happened was that your faithful narrator did his job a shade too well.

  As a result of overhearing some narrative exposition in the previous episode, War...uh, Teddy's master has already discovered that the mysterious 'apparatus now in his possession is something called a "time machine," though he has yet to figure out exactly what that means. He has deduced that it is a device for transporting people somewhere, but he has no idea where or how. To solve this mystery, he has offered a reward for the capture of the brigands who had found the strange machine, in the hope that they can lead him to its creator.

  Brewster was unaware of all these ominous machinations, and when last we left our unsuspecting hero, he had made an agreement with a dragon by the name of Rory, who promised to help Brewster find his missing time machine. In return, Brewster would tell the dragon stories of the world he came from. Unfortunately, Brewster neglected to take into account the fact that dragons live forever, and they love hearing stories almost as much as they love to frolic in the autumn mist, so this could develop into a rather open-ended deal.

  Having set up housekeeping in a crumbling, old keep, Brewster must now reluctantly live up to his reputation as a sorcerer, which is a bit of a trick, since he can't do any magic. However, as Arthur C. Clarke once said, any knowledge that is sufficiently advanced would seem like magic to those who didn't understand it, and while Brewster knew nothing about magic, he did know a thing or two about science.

  In exchange for help in seeking the whereabouts of his missing "magic chariot," Brewster has set about the task of bringing progress-and, hopefully, some profit-to the muddy, little town of Brigand's Roost. He is aided in this task by Mick, the leprechaun; Bloody Bob, the huge, nearsighted brigand; a local farmer named McMurphy, who has visions of becoming a tycoon; and Brian, the enchanted werepot prince, who many years ago had been turned into a golden chamberpot by an irate sorcerer whose daughter Brian had seduced. During each full moon, Prince Brian reverts to his human form, which has remained agelessly youthful, while the child he had fathered has grown up to become none other than the Grand Director of the Sorcerers and Adepts Guild, Warrick Morgannan.

  "Now what?" snapped Warrick, looking up from his ancient vellum tomes and scrolls once more.

  "But, Master, I said nothing!" Teddy the Troll protested.

  "I distinctly heard my name mentioned," Warrick said severely.

  Teddy swallowed hard and glanced around anxiously. " 'Twasn't me, Master. It must have been the narrator." However, he looked very guilty and his denial was not entirely convincing.

  Warrick narrowed his eyes suspiciously. "Are you certain 'twas not you?"

  "Nay, Master, I said nothing! Nothing!"

  "I do not care for pranks, Teddy."

  "But I could never play a prank on you, Master," Teddy insisted vehemently. "I would not know how! Trolls have no sense of humor."

  "Aye, 'tis true," said Warrick, scowling. "It must be that the narrator has begun the tale."

  "It has a tail?" said Teddy with alarm.

  Warrick rolled his eyes. "Oh, never mind. Fetch me that stack of scrolls over there."

  Teddy put down his broom and went over to the stack of ancient scrolls Warrick had indicated. "All of them, Master?"

  "Aye, all of them. Somewhere, there has to be an incantation that will allow me to summon up this narrator and compel him to do my bidding. I shall not rest until I find it."

  Fortunately, Warrick would never find such a spell, because your faithful narrator has no intention of writing it into the plot. So there.

  Warrick slammed his fist down on the table, then angrily swept all the scrolls onto the floor, making Teddy jump back in fear.

  "There shall be a reckoning," he said, through gritted teeth. "You mark me well."

  "But, Master, you said to fetch the scrolls!"

  "Blast it, Teddy, I wasn't speaking to you!"
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  "Oh," said Teddy. "Forgive me, Master, I thought-"

  "Don't think!"

  "Yes, Master. I mean, no, Master, I shan't."

  Warrick shut his eyes in patient suffering. "Of all the familiars I could have chosen, I had to pick a stupid troll. I could have had a nice black cat, or an intelligent owl, perhaps, but nooooo...."

  Teddy looked stricken. He sniffled, men waddled back to his grubby little corner in the sorcerer's sanctorum, where he sat all hunched up, hugging his hairy little knees to his chest and pouting.

  "I hate the narrator," he mumbled to himself. "I hate him, I hate him, I hate him!"

  A large glass beaker filled with noxious fluid suddenly fell off the shelf above where Teddy sat and shattered on his head, covering him with foul-smelling ooze.

  "Teddy!" Warrick shouted.

  With a whimper, the little troll bolted out the door.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The stone keep looked decidedly odd with the solar collectors mounted in place. Angling up from the roof of the lower section of the keep, the collectors ran up to the tower, just below the fourth floor. Mick had been puzzled by the project from the very start, and thought that the collectors looked "bloody peculiar," but Bloody Bob, the immense old brigand who was Brewster's self-appointed "loyal retainer," thought that they looked pretty. But then again, he had been the foreman in charge of their construction, and had developed quite a proprietary attitude about them.

  Ever since Brewster had appointed him construction foreman on the projects at the keep, Bloody Bob had undertaken his new duties with an earnest zeal. He insisted that everyone address him as "Foreman," and any brigand who forgot and called him Bob was fetched a mighty clout upon the head that usually rendered him unconscious. And when Foreman Bob stood back for the first time to take a good look at the fruit of all his labors, his massive chest had swelled with pride.

  The construction of the solar collectors had entailed building wooden frames on which were mounted loops of copper pipes, made by bending copper sheets around rods of pig iron and then forming them and soldering them together. They were then painted black with pitch and connected to the water tank on the fourth floor with a loop running through Brewster's brand-new Franklin stove, which Mick insisted on calling an "O'Fallon stove," since he had made it in his smithy to Brewster's specifications and had already taken orders for half a dozen more from the residents of Brigand's Roost. The water tank was kept filled by the cistern on the roof, and the collectors stored the solar heat that would enable Brewster, for the first time since his arrival in this primitive, medieval world, to take hot showers.