The Reluctant Sorcerer Read online

  History was not Brewster’s chosen field of study, either, and while he was not entirely ignorant of the subject, he couldn’t for the life of him recall if there was a part of England that had once been known as Dam, with a kingdom in it ruled by a succession of monarchs named Frank. He knew that there had been a bunch of Richards, and a George or two, so it did not seem entirely unreasonable that a few Franks might have slipped in there somewhere.

  He also knew that little was known about the very early history of England, when there were Celts and Picts and Druids and various other bogtrotters in the neighborhood. (Even Franks, for that matter, which probably only added to his confusion.) What little was known about this period had come down from the Romans, in the writings of people such as Julius Caesar, and unfortunately, Caesar had spent less time describing the various tribes and cultures he’d encountered than he did in describing how he butchered them. While this general lack of knowledge made for a good deal of leeway for writers of fantasy novels, it was not much help to Brewster. There were lots of legends, but unfortunately, little in the way of cold, hard facts.

  Brewster believed that he had somehow traveled a lot further back in time than he’d intended, and that he was ‘ now stranded (temporarily, he hoped) in the early pagan days of England, when people had believed in such things as sorcerers and magic. As a result, Mick had erroneously assumed he was a sorcerer and Brewster had decided it would only complicate things unnecessarily if he attempted to disabuse him of that notion. (This was not, as it would turn out, a very wise decision, for it would lead to more complications than Brewster could imagine, but let’s not get ahead of the story.) As he sat there at the large, albeit very low, table in Mick’s cottage, watching Mick wolfing down enough groceries to feed an average family of six for a week, Brewster did the best he could to give his host an explanation of his situation-or, at least, what he thought his situation was. (Now this was not an easy thing to do, so there’s not much point in trying to reproduce the dialogue. To begin with, there was a lot of hemming and hawing and nervous throat clearing, as most scientists are not very good public speakers, and the conversation was interspersed with many interesting, if totally irrelevant, digressions, and explanations of the explanations, which in turn had to be explained, all of which was punctuated by the occasional rafter-rattling belch from Mick. Quite aside from all this, you saw what happened when we discussed time travel in Chapter One, and I’m sure you wouldn’t want to go through that again.) Suffice it to say that this discussion took a while, because time travel is difficult enough to explain to someone who’s read science fiction novels and seen Steven Spielberg films, but Mick was a product of his world and of his time and, as such, did not possess those cultural advantages.

  Well, you can probably guess what the result was. Aside from the fact that Mick became hopelessly confused, by the time Brewster was finished, the leprechaun believed more firmly than ever that Brewster was not only a master sorcerer, but quite possibly one of the greatest wizards of all time.

  This is not an uncommon phenomenon. As most politicians, evangelists, and college professors know, if you really want to impress people with the magnitude of your intelligence and the scope of your abilities, the best thing you can do is to confuse them. If they can’t make any sense of what you’re saying, they’re likely to assume it’s way over their heads and that, consequently, you must be a genius, or at the very least an expert in your field.

  Mick was no exception. He was pretty bright, and for a leprechaun, that’s saying something, because while leprechauns don’t have much in the way of formal education, they are the all-time champs at street smarts. Since Brewster, in trying to explain things to him, made no attempt to distinguish between sorcery and science, Mick came away from this discussion with a slightly distorted view of the actual facts. And the actual facts could be confusing enough all by themselves. (Remember when we covered Buckyballs back in Chapter One? You thought your narrator made that up, didn’t you? Well, I didn’t, but don’t take my word for it. Ask Isaac Asimov about them, he knows everything. Anyway, imagine how it must have sounded to someone who had never even heard of science.) To Mick, the whole thing clearly smacked of alchemy, which was his great passion, and even though he had trouble following Brewster’s explanations, he was enormously impressed. Awed, in fact. For Brewster, as he now perceived him, was obviously not only a sorcerer of the first rank, but a master alchemist, as well. And if he was a master alchemist, that meant he had attained the goal that all alchemists devote their whole lives to pursuing-the secret of the Philosopher’s Stone.

  The secret of the Philosopher’s Stone, you understand, was the alchemist’s Holy Grail. (Actually, this is a rather faulty analogy, since the Holy Grail was the chalice used by Christ at the Last Supper and this is another universe entirely, so Mick wouldn’t know the Holy Grail from a Dixie cup.) In the universe that Brewster came from, alchemists were wizards of a sort who played with rather primitive chemistry sets and sought the secret of changing base metals into gold. This was known as the secret of the Philosopher’s Stone. (Don’t ask why they referred to it this way, your narrator hasn’t the faintest idea. Perhaps they thought that if they found just the right rock to toss into the athanor, this would turn the trick. Who knows?) In any case, in this particular universe, gold was so common as to be relatively worthless. It could be found lying around all over the place, in almost every streambed and rock formation, and while it was rather pretty, it wasn’t valuable at all. It was often used for plates and goblets and women sometimes used it for junk jewelry. (If Brewster had been less preoccupied, he might have noticed that his plate, his utensils, his teacup, and his saucer were all made of hammered gold, but then he hadn’t noticed that the sun rose in the west and set in the east, either, which was definitely not the way things normally occurred.

  The point being, in Mick’s universe, the secret of the Philosopher’s Stone did not refer to turning base metals into gold at all, because there was already plenty of the stuff around. The secret was jealously protected by the elite of the Sorcerers and Adepts Guild (commonly known as the Sorcerer Guild or, simply, SAG). It involved a series of rather crude laboratory procedures and a whole slew of complicated incantations, die result of which was the creation of the most valuable metal in all the twenty-seven kingdoms-nickallirium.

  Nickallirium was me rarest and most precious of all metals, since only sorcerers who were master alchemists could make it. Its chief virtues were that it was very light and strong, resistant to corrosion, and could easily be worked. It had a silvery color and was used chiefly as a medium of exchange. The coins made from nickallirium were very light, a serious consideration in an economy based entirely on cash and barter, and since only die elite of me Sorcerers and Adepts Guild had the secret of the Philosopher’s Stone-that is, me secret of making nickallirium from base metals-they consequently had a lot of pull. (Monarchs had a tendency to be polite to wizards who could not only cast nasty spells at them, but who held the reins of the economy, as well. The combination was almost as dangerous as a congressman who also happens to be a lawyer.) As a result, the Guild was the single most powerful body in all the twenty-seven kingdoms, rather like me Teamsters.

  The Guild was very protective of its power, and because of this, they had a certain way of doing things. Only dues-paying members of the Guild were entitled to represent themselves as sorcerers or adepts, and not just anyone could join. To begin with, a Guild member had to be human. (This was not actually written in the bylaws, as SAG did not wish to be accused of prejudice, but in practice, that was how it worked.) A prospective Guild member had to demonstrate a working knowledge of magic. (There was a test, complete with multiple choice and essay questions, at (he end of which there was a lab quiz.) A prospective Guild member also had to have a sponsor who was already a dues-paying member of SAG, and he or she had to have served a period of apprenticeship with said sponsor, the duration of which was up to the sponsor’s discretion.
(In other words, you couldn’t take the test until your sponsor decided you were ready.) Ranking in the Guild was determined solely by the Guild Council, elected by master members of the Guild for life. (Rather like being a Supreme Court justice. Elections were held only when there was a vacancy, and a vacancy occurred only when there was a death. However, that happened fairly frequently, as the master members of the Guild were nothing if not competitive.) And the most jealously guarded secret of the Guild was the secret of the Philosopher’s Stone.

  The only way to learn the secret was to discover it for yourself and demonstrate it to the Council’s satisfaction, which resulted in elevation to the rank of master alchemist and an appointment to the Ways and Means Committee. Only a mere handful of people knew the secret and Mick realized that if he was able to discover it, then according to their own bylaws, there was no way the Guild could deny him membership, even if he wasn’t human. And more than anything, Mick longed to be a master alchemist.

  The way Mick saw it, if he could convince Brewster to take him on as an apprentice, then he would have a sponsor, and that would get him over the first hurdle. Once Brewster accepted him as an apprentice, then perhaps he’d help him learn the secret of the Philosopher’s Stone, which Mick was certain Brewster knew. And, in fact, he did. Brewster knew what nickallirium was, you see. He merely knew it by another name. Aluminum.

  Which explains why Mick was now staring at him with absolutely stunned, slack-jawed astonishment as Brewster removed a splinter he’d picked up in his palm from the rough surface of the wooden table. Mick was staring at his little tweezers, you see. Little tweezers made out of pure nickallirium, the rarest and most precious metal in the universe. (Mick’s universe, that is. The mind boggles at what his reaction might have been if he could have seen a recycling compactor.) Moreover, these little tweezers had been produced out of a peculiar object the like of which Mick had never seen before in all his life. The peculiar object was Brewster’s trusty little Swiss Army knife.

  Now, to those of you who might be among the uninitiated few, those poor, deprived souls who have never had the pleasure of owning a genuine Swiss Army knife, it should be said that a Swiss .Army knife is unquestionably one of me crowning achievements of human civilization. (They make neat little Christmas presents, too.) However, this is the sort of realization one comes to gradually.

  A gift of a Swiss Army knife to someone who has never owned one before is quite likely to result in raised eyebrows and a somewhat awkward, “Oh. Gee... thanks. I’ve... uh ... always wanted one of these.” To which the correct response should be, “You’re very welcome,” and a knowing little smile. Because, you see, such an individual has not yet been enlightened. But enlightenment will come, don’t worry. It may come soon, or it may take a little time, especially if the recipient of this bountiful gift thoughtlessly tucks it away inside a purse or a desk drawer and forgets about it for a while. However, it will come eventually, for sooner or later, that Swiss Army knife will be remembered and its skills brought into play.

  Perhaps, as in Brewster’s case at the moment, it will take a splinter that one needs tweezers to remove. Perhaps a cord on a package will need cutting, or a screw will require tightening when there is no toolbox handy, or a toothpick will be needed when there aren’t any around, or there will arise a need for a handy pair of scissors and there will be no scissors to be found... but wait! Wasn’t there a scissor blade on that Swiss Army knife? And then, once a person realizes just how useful this marvelous little piece of cutlery can be, they will never want to be without it.

  They might even go out and buy a second one, with a different set of blades, because the one they’ve got doesn’t have a saw or a magnifying glass, and there may arise a need to keep another in the toolbox or the kitchen drawer, one for the office, a tiny one to keep on a key chain, and so forth, until one is the proud owner of several of these wonderful contraptions and comes to a true appreciation of just how practical and useful they can be.

  And then, when the ultimate stage of enlightenment is achieved, that individual starts handing out Swiss Army knives as gifts to friends and relatives, who will probably respond with raised eyebrows and an awkward, “Oh. Gee... thanks. I’ve... uh... always wanted one of these.” But then, such is the nature of the benefits of advanced civilization. One doesn’t always recognize them at first.

  (You might think the preceding was a rather long and pointless expository lump, but rest assured, it wasn’t. Actually, it was an intrusive narrative aside, but we’ll leave such technical terms for graduate students and people who write literary criticism. The point is, it had a purpose. Quite aside from the fact that your narrator happens to be fond of knives, due to a rather troubled childhood, Swiss Army knives and the enlightening effect they have on people play an important part in Brewster’s story. Remember, always trust your narrator.) Now, where were we? Oh, right. Brewster is sitting at a decimated smorgasbord and trying to remove a splinter from his palm with his trusty little pair of tweezers, while Mick is watching with amazement. Onward...

  “There, that’s got it,” Brewster said, plucking out the splinter with his tweezers. He glanced up at Mick, saw the expression on his face, and frowned. “What is it?” “Faith, and I was about to ask you that very thing,” said Mick. “A wee pair of tongs, is it?” “Oh, you mean these?” said Brewster. “They’re called tweezers.” “Why?” Brewster frowned again. “I’m not sure, exactly. Perhaps because women used them to pluck out their eyebrows.” Mick raised his. “What?” “It was called tweezing, I think,” said Brewster, uncertain because etymology was not his field of expertise, either. It occurred to him that for a scientist there was an awful lot of stuff he didn’t know, but then, for a scientist, that sort of thought tends to be reassuring.

  “Women actually do that in your Ing Land?” Mick said with amazement. “Whatever would a woman want to pluck her eyebrows out for?” “Well, it used to be the fashion,” Brewster replied. “But eyebrows are back in style again.” He frowned. “Or at least they will be, in another few thousand years or so.” “Faith, and I’ve never heard the like of it!” said Mick. “But why is it that you have such a large sheath for such a wee little pair of tongs?” “Hmmm?” said Brewster. “Oh, you mean this thing?” He smiled. “It’s not a sheath. It’s a Swiss Army knife.” He passed it across the table to Mick.

  Now, this wasn’t one of the cheaper models, but a deluxe one, with two regular knife blades, a screwdriver, a can opener, a bottle opener, a saw, a magnifying glass, a scissors, an awl, a corkscrew, a toothpick, and, of course, tweezers. In other words, the whole shebang. It had red plastic handles with the authentic Swiss cross emblem on one side that marked it as the genuine article. Mick, naturally, took it to be Brewster’s crest.

  He turned the knife over and over in his hands, and being both an armorer and a leprechaun, as well as an amateur alchemist (in other words, a fairly clever fellow), it didn’t take him very long to figure out how it worked. He opened it and stared at each blade with speechless wonder.

  One of the reasons for his speechlessness was the sheer ingenuity of the thing. As an armorer, he was immediately able to grasp its practicality. The other reason for his astonishment, aside from the tweezers made of nickallirium, was the material the blades were made of. Being an armorer, Mick knew a great deal about blades of all sorts. Most of his were made of iron, some were made of bronze, and a few-a very few-were made of steel. However, this was steel of a sort known in Brewster’s universe as Damascus steel, highly prized for its strength and ability to hold an edge, and because it was so difficult to make. It took a master swordmaker, and a great deal of time, involving endless folding of the metal and lots of hammering and quenching and stuff like that (put it this way, it was complicated), and the result was a thing of beauty, a tempered blade that had colorful ripples running through it, due to the folding and layering process.

  However, Brewster’s knife was made of stainless steel, and consequently, there
were no ripples in the surface of the blades. They were bright and smooth and sharp and shiny, which baffled Mick completely. No matter how closely he looked at the metal, he could not detect the slightest ripple or discoloration. He was thunderstruck.

  “Truly, ‘tis a thing of beauty!” he said with awe as he held the knife up to the light coming through the window. “See how it gleams! I have never seen such craft in all my days! Who made this wondrous many-bladed knife for you?” “Victorinox,” said Brewster absently, taking a sip of tea.

  “Then, truly, this Victorinox must be the greatest armorer in all the world!” said Mick as he stared at the knife with reverential respect. “Nay, no mere armorer, but a true artist! Oh, would that I could learn how to craft such a wondrous blade!” “Oh, it shouldn’t be really all that difficult,” said Brewster casually.

  Mick stared at him with disbelief. “Not difficult! Meanin’ no offense, Doc, but I do not think you understand what it means to forge a blade. And a blade such as this...” Mick shook his head with humble admiration. “I know of no armorer anywhere in the twenty-seven kingdoms who could make such a blade!” Brewster shrugged as he poured himself another cup of tea. “Well, I’m sure you’re right, Mick, but it’s just a matter of knowing how, you see. It really wouldn’t be that complicated, actually.” He pursed his lips, thoughtfully. “Of course, mass production would be rather difficult, but on a limited scale... why, yes, I don’t see why it couldn’t be done. The work would all have to be done by hand, of course, so it would be somewhat more time consuming, but not at all impossible.” Mick looked very dubious, but he also suddenly looked very interested. “You mean to tell me. Doc, that you would know how to make a many-bladed knife such as this?” “Well, I’m not an armorer,” Brewster admitted, “but then again, you are, and what I lack in specific knowledge of that craft, you could undoubtedly supply. Actually, it should prove rather interesting, as we would each bring certain skills to the project that the other could benefit from.