The Inadequate Adept Read online

  This, in itself, was a source of puzzlement to many of the brigands. As a rule, they didn't like to bathe at all, and considered it an unhealthy practice. Since the infrequent baths they took at the insistence of Black Shannon, who was averse to body odor, were normally taken in the ice-cold waters of the rushing stream, it wasn't difficult to see where they had come up with this notion. As for the shower Brewster had designed, they had no idea what to make of that, at all. Nor could they comprehend Brewster Doc's other new alchemical mystery.. .a strange concoction he called "soap."

  They had all crowded around to watch as Brewster directed Bloody Bob and Robie McMurphy in rendering the fat from butchered spams, which were squat and ugly, hoglike creatures with rodent faces and hairless, pink-speckled bodies. Their fat content was high, McMurphy had explained, and the meat tasted so vile that even starving hunters passed them up. However, since animal fat had been required for Brewster's "alchemical recipie," the brigands had slain half a dozen spams they found rooting in the forest.

  Standing over a boiling cauldron that Mick had brought out from his smithy, McMurphy and Bloody Bob worked under Brewster's direction, skimming the top until the "sorcerous brew" was clear. Then Brewster had them pour it through some hand-woven cloth which they had filled with ashes, to add lye to the mixture, into a mold where it was left to solidify. Mick had wrinkled his nose as he gazed at the soap solidifying in the molds.

  "And you say the purpose of this magically rendered fat is to cleanse the body?" he'd asked dubiously.

  "Well... yes," Brewster had replied.

  "And how does it do that?" asked Mick. He wrinkled his nose again. "You're not going to eat it, surely?"

  Brewster laughed. "No, no, of course not, Mick. You stand under the shower and scrub yourself with it."

  "Aye? And then what happens?" asked McMurphy.

  "Well, then you rinse off," said Brewster. "And the dirt washes away, leaving you fresh and clean."

  McMurphy shook his head in amazement. "Think of it!" he said. "A magical dirt remover!"

  "And it only works when the water is hot?" asked Mick.

  "No, it works whether the water is hot or cold," said Brewster. "Only it's a lot nicer when it's hot."

  " Tis something I will have to see," said Mick.

  "You can try it for yourself," said Brewster. "In fact, I encourage all of you to try it. There's plenty of soap to go around."

  Of course, once he had said that, they all wanted to see him try it, first. And no amount of recalcitrance on Brewster's part would dissuade them from witnessing his first hot shower. Brewster felt a bit self-conscious about the prospect of taking a shower in front of a crowd, but since it was in the interests of science and general cleanliness, he decided he could put up with a small amount of embarrassment. The only condition he'd insisted upon was that none of the women could watch.

  Once the solar collectors had been installed and the water in the tank adequately heated, a small crowd gathered in front of his spacious shower stall, which Bloody Bob had constructed out of stone, mortar, and copper, with Mick handling the plumbing, which he was rapidly becoming quite expert at. Even the peregrine bush was present, having learned to climb the stairs to Brewster's quarters in the tower, where Bloody Bob had placed a large wooden planter filled with earth, so the bush could burrow its roots in while Brewster slept.

  The little red-gold thorn bush had taken to following Brewster around everywhere, so Mick had given it to Brewster, for the curious little ambulatory shrub had attached itself to him like an affection-starved puppy. It had always been afraid of Mick, who had caught it while it was wandering around the forest near his smithy, and the fact that Mick always yelled at it and constantly kept threatening to throw it in a pot for his next batch of peregrine wine had made it very nervous. Its branches shook violently whenever Mick came near, and when he yelled at it, its leaves drooped disconsolately. However, Brewster had always spoken nicely to it, remembering that Pamela had always spoken to her houseplants, and the peregrine bush had responded to his kindness. Its leaves had taken on a brighter sheen and its branches were sending forth new growth shoots.

  "Sure, and you can keep the bloody thing," said Mick, "for 'twas forever getting underfoot and being a damned nuisance. Mind you, though, 'tis but a wee shrub now, and you'll have yourself a thorny problem when it grows to its full height. When you tire of it, let me know, and I'll brew it up for wine."

  "Oh, I couldn't possibly do that, Mick," protested Brewster. "It.. .trusts me."

  "Well, don't be saying that I didn't warn you, then," Mick had replied.

  "Oh, I'm sure that Thorny and I will get along just fine," said Brewster.

  Mick had raised his eyebrows. "Thorny?"

  "Well... that's the name I've given it," admitted Brewster sheepishly.

  Mick shook his head and sighed. "First you go speaking to the shrubbery, and now you've taken to naming it, as well. Faith, Doc, and you're a different sort o' man entirely."

  So with even his pet bush in attendance to watch the inauguration of the soap, Brewster stripped down awkwardly as the others watched curiously. He turned away, blushing, as he took off his boxer shorts with the little red lips on them. The shorts had been a gift from Pamela, who had thought that they were "cute," but none of the brigands snickered when they saw them. They knew that adepts often went in for all sorts of cabalistic symbols on their clothing, each of which had a sorcerous purpose, and when they saw the shorts, they merely looked at one another significantly. Though Brewster wouldn't be aware of it, the women of Brigand's Roost would soon be busy sewing boxer shorts with little red lips on them, the better to improve their menfolk's potency.

  Brewster stepped into the shower. He turned on the tap, and as the warm water flowed through the perforated copper showerhead Mick had constructed, he began to soap himself. The brigands gasped and drew back when they saw the soap begin to lather up.

  " Tis the foam of madness!" Pikestaff Pat cried out.

  "No, no," protested Brewster, looking back over his shoulder at them. "It's supposed to do this. The lather... the foam is what gets you clean, you see."

  With a rustling sound, the little peregrine bush reacted to the sound of water dripping. It shuffled forward quickly on its roots and jumped into the shower with Brewster, so it could get under the spray.

  "Thorny! No!" shouted Brewster, crying out as the bush's thorny branches scratched him. He hopped about in the shower stall as the confused bush scuttled about beneath the spray with him, its sharp little thorns pricking his skin.

  Unable to help themselves, the brigands burst out laughing uncontrollably as the dejected little bush hopped out of the shower stall and went to huddle, quaking, in a corner, water dripping from its drooping leaves. Facing them, naked, wet, and foamy, Brewster saw Black Shannon standing in their forefront, her hands on her hips and a mocking little smile on her face.

  She had come in while his back was turned, intent on not missing the demonstration, and now her gaze traveled appreciatively up and down his body. As the laughter died down, Brewster blushed furiously and covered himself up with his hands.

  Shannon merely smiled and held out a cloth towel for him to dry himself off with.

  Brewster stepped out of the shower, hunched over, took the towel from her, and hastily wrapped it around his middle. "Th-thank you," he stammered. "Well... anyway ..." he added, clearing his throat awkwardly, "that's how it works."

  "We shall all try this magic soap," Shannon said, with a glance around at the others, who looked rather uncertain about this new development.

  Pikestaff Pat shook his head. "If you ask me, 'tis not seemly for a man to be all lathered up, like some bloody horse run half to death."

  "I didn't ask you," Shannon snapped. Her blade scraped free of its scabbard and she put its point to Pikestaff Pat's throat. "I said that we shall all try it. Any questions!"

  "Uh ... no," replied Pikestaff Pat, with a nervous swallow, his gaze focused on
the sword 'point at his throat.

  "From now on, each and every brigand will possess a piece of this magic soap," said Shannon. "And each of you will use it, understood?"

  There was a chorus of grumbled, "Ayes." With a satisfied nod at Brewster, Shannon sheathed her sword, turned on her heel, and strode out of the room.

  "Well," mumbled Pikestaff Pat, as the remainder of them filed out, "at least we found a use for the bloody spams."

  Sean MacGregor had spent the better part of the evening sharpening his blades by the campfire. It took a while because he was meticulous about their being sharpened properly and because he had better than a dozen of them, of various shapes and sizes, worn on his belt and in crossed bandoliers over his chest. He also had his sword, which was a true work of art indeed, as was only fitting for MacGregor the Bladesman, who had yet to meet his match.

  Attached to the breast of his brown, rough-out leather tunic was the coveted badge of the Footpads and Assassins Guild, in the shape of a double-edged dagger. MacGregor's badge was different from all the others, in that it also had a star inscribed upon its blade, which identified him without question as the number-one assassin in the Guild, entitled to command top rates. He had been the number-one assassin ever since he had assassinated the previous number-one assassin, which was generally how rank was determined in the Guild. Since inept assassins did not usually last very long as a result, this practice ensured a consistent, high level of professionalism.

  Seated across from him, on the other side of the camp-fire, were his three apprentice henchmen, the brawny brothers Hugh, Dugh, and Lugh. They were as alike as peas in a pod, and hardly anyone but Mac could tell them apart. They were strapping, young bruisers with straw-colored mops of hair and amiable, round, peasant faces that generally wore expressions of bovine placidity, except for when they had to fight or think. When they were forced to think, their faces contorted into such pained expressions that one might have thought they were suffering from terminal constipation. But when faced with a fight, their ploughboy faces lit up with an innocent, childlike joy.

  Mac had first met them in a Pittsburgh watering hole known as The Stealers Tavern, famed hangout of assassins, cutpurses, and alleymen. The three brothers had just finished taking on all comers and the tavern was a shambles, with limp bodies slung about all over the place. Recognizing potential when he saw it, Mac had offered them positions as his apprentices and they had eagerly jumped at the opportunity of learning a good trade, and from no less an accomplished instructor than the famous Mac the Knife.

  They had been on the road for several weeks now, on the trail of three men sought by Warrick the White, who was paying not only Mac's top rate, but offering an attractive bonus, as well. This was the first actual assignment in the field the three brothers had ever participated in, and they were eager to learn as much as they could. The only problem was, there was only so much their dense craniums could handle at any given time, and instructing them in the finer points of stalking and assassination was a taxing process. It was fortunate that MacGregor was a patient man.

  He grimaced as he glanced across the campfire at his three apprentices, who were busily stuffing themselves with roasted spam. They had killed two of the creatures earlier that afternoon, and despite Mac telling them that spams didn't make good eating, the brothers had cooked them up anyway and now they sat mere, chewing and belching happily, brown fat juices dribbling down their chins onto their tunics.

  ''You actually like spam?" MacGregor asked with disbelief.

  "Aye, 'tis powerful good, Mac!" Dugh replied. " 'Ere, tear yourself off a chunk!"

  He held out a dripping, suety mass of roasted, pink-speckled flesh. Mac winced and recoiled from it. The smell alone was enough to stunt your growth, he thought.

  "No, thank you, I am not very hungry," he replied with a sour grimace of distaste.

  "Suit yourself, then," Dugh replied, elbowing his brothers gleefully. "Just means more for us, eh, lads?"

  Mac reached for the wineskin and squirted a stream into his mouth. He sighed, leaned back against a tree trunk, and lit up his pipe. "Right, then," he said, when he had it going. "Time to review our progress, lads."

  They all sat up attentively, like acromegalic schoolboys.

  "What have we learned thus far?"

  "About what, Mac?" asked Lugh with a puzzled frown.

  MacGregor rolled his eyes and drew a long, patient breath. "About our quarry, lads, the three men we are seeking for our esteemed patron, Warrick the White."

  "Well... there's three of them," offered Dugh.

  MacGregor shut his eyes in patient suffering. "Yes, very good, Dugh, there are three of them. But if you will recall, we knew that to begin with, did we not? What else?"

  The brothers screwed their faces up in expressions of fierce concentration. "One of 'em likes wee wooden horses!" Hugh finally said triumphantly.

  MacGregor reached into his pouch and removed a small, hand-carved, wooden chesspiece. "Right," he said, holding it up. "And what, exactly, does this wee wooden horse signify?"

  "Uh... a knight?" asked Lugh.

  "Very good, Lugh! It signifies a knight. And what is the name of the game in which this knight is a game piece?"

  "Cheese!" said Dugh.

  "Close," said MacGregor with a wry grimace. "Actually, 'tis called chess. Try to remember that. Now, let's all say it together, shall we?"

  "Chess," said the brothers in unison.

  "Very good," said Mac. "And what is the significance of this information?"

  Silence.

  "It tells us that at least two of the men we seek are players," said MacGregor, "and it also tells us that they are probably somewhat clever, as chess is a game for clever men. Further, the fact that they had brought this game with them on their journey indicates that they are avid players, and chances are that they had probably played this game whenever they had stopped to rest. So...." He gave them a prompting glance, hoping for the best.

  Silence.

  "Hugh?" said MacGregor. "Come on, now, lad, you can do it...."

  Hugh concentrated with such intensity that he let loose a tremendous fart.

  "Oh, blind me, what a bloody stench!" cried Dugh, scuttling away from his brother. Lugh grabbed his own throat dramatically and made gurgling, choking noises.

  "You shut up now!" shouted Hugh.

  "Argh!" said Lugh. " Tis like a bloated corpse, all burst apart and squirmy with bleedin' little worms and maggots..."

  "You shut up!" cried Hugh, fetching his brother a clout on the head. "I'll bloody well kill you, I will!"

  "Argh! Kill me, too!" cried Dugh, performing a mock swoon. "A quick death would be merciful!"

  Hugh leaped upon his other brother and in seconds, the three of them were scrabbling around in the dirt, pummeling each other and laughing hysterically.

  MacGregor looked up toward the heavens and addressed a quiet plea to the gods. "For pity's sake," he said, "don't just look down. Help me."

  Whereupon the sky was suddenly split with lightning, followed by the crash of thunder, and it began to rain, a deluge that quickly put out the campfire and had the hot coals steaming.

  MacGregor glanced up at the sky again and murmured, "That wasn't quite what I had in mind." He frowned and pulled his cloak over him for shelter. Meanwhile, the narrator, feeling playfully omniscient, smiled smugly and went on to the next scene.

  Bonnie King Billy sat leaning back against the headboard of his royal bed, wearing his royal nightgown and his royal nightcap and feeling royally depressed. He frequently felt depressed when it was raining, but on this night, he felt especially depressed, and not just because of the rotten weather.

  Next to him, the beautiful Queen Sandy reclined gracefully with her head on her down pillow, her long and slim legs bent at an attractive angle underneath the covers, the slinky outline of her body underneath the sheets making a fine, aesthetic counterpoint to the way her long, golden hair was spread out across the pillow, lik
e an angel's halo. (None of this has anything to do with the following scene, of course, your narrator simply likes to entertain himself every now and then.)

  "Petitions," mumbled King Billy disconsolately.

  "Mmmmm?" murmured Queen Sandy.

  "Nothing but petitions," said King Billy, sticking out his lower lip in a royal pout. "Petitions, petitions, and more petitions. Each one worded more nastily than the one before it, too."

  Queen Sandy sighed. "Are you still on about that?" she murmured. "Go to sleep, William. 'Tis late."

  "How can I sleep with all these petitions hanging over my head?" asked King Billy grumpily. "I always thought my subjects loved me. You always told me that they did."

  "They did, and they do," replied Queen Sandy, burrowing down into her pillow. "Now go to sleep."

  "Well, if they love me, then why do they assail me with this avalanche of petitions?"

  Queen Sandy sighed wearily. " 'Tis because of the new edicts," she replied.

  King Billy frowned. "What new edicts? I have issued no new edicts."

  "You did," she insisted. "The royal sheriff issued them in your name. And he continues to issue new ones all the time, as quickly as he can think up new laws for the people to break."

  "Really?" said King Billy. "Well, what's he doing that for?"

  Queen Sandy sighed again and sat up in bed, turning toward her husband. "He's doing it because Warrick told him to," she said. "And you gave Warrick your blanket approval, don't you remember?"