Wizard
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[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Astounding Science
Fiction May 1960. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor typographical
errors have been corrected without note.]
WIZARD.
By Larry M. Harris
_Although the Masquerade itself, as a necessary protection against
non-telepaths, was not fully formulated until the late years of the
Seventeenth Century, groups of telepaths-in-hiding existed long
before that date. Whether such groups were the results of natural
mutations, or whether they came into being due to some other cause,
has not yet been fully determined, but that a group did exist in
the district of Offenburg, in what is now Prussia, we are quite
sure. The activities of the group appear to have begun,
approximately, in the year 1594, but it was not until eleven years
after that date that they achieved a signal triumph, the first and
perhaps the last of its kind until the dissolution of the
Masquerade in 2103._
--Excerpt from "A Short History of the Masquerade," by A. Milge, Crystal
704-54-368, Produced 2440.
Jonas came over the hill whistling as if he had not a care in the
world--which was not even approximately true, he reflected happily. The
state of complete and utter quiet was both foreign and slightly
repugnant to him; he was never more pleased than when he had a job in
hand, a job that involved a slight and unavoidable risk.
This time, of course, the risk was more than slight. Why, he thought
happily, it was even possible for him to get killed, and most painfully,
too! With a great deal of pleasure, he stood for a second at the crest
of the hill, his hands on his hips, looking down at the town of Speyer
as it baked in the May afternoon sunlight.
_"Behold the Tortoise: He maketh no progress unless he sticketh out
his neck." But he maketh very little progress unless he pick the
right time and place to "sticketh out his neck"--which can be quite
a sticky problem for a man in a medieval culture!_
Illustrated by Schoenherr
Jonas did not, in spite of his pose, look like the typical hero of folk
tale or scribe's tome; he was not seven feet tall, for instance, nor did
he have a handsome, lovesome face with flashing blue eyes, or a
broad-shouldered, narrow-waisted marvel of a figure. He was, instead,
somewhat shorter than the average of men in Europe in 1605 and for some
time thereafter. He had small, almost hidden eyes that seemed to see a
great deal, but failed completely to make a fuss about the fact. And
while his figure was just a trifle dumpy, his face completed the rhyme
by being extraordinarily lumpy. The nose, as a matter of strict truth,
was hard to distinguish from the other contusions, swellings and marks
that covered the head.
Nor, of course, did he carry the sword of a great hero, or a noble.
Jonas had no _von_ to stick on his name, and he had never thought it
worth his while to claim one and accept the tiny risk of disclosure.
After all, a noble was only a man like other men.
And, besides, Jonas knew perfectly well that he had no need of a sword.
His adventures, too, were a little out of the common run of tales. Jonas
had, he thought regretfully, few duels to look forward to, and he had
even fewer to look back on. And, as a maid is won by face, figure and
daring, and a wife by riches, position or prospects, there was a notable
paucity of lissome ladies in Jonas' career.
All in all, he thought sadly, he was not a _usual_ hero.
But he refused to let the thought spoil his enjoyment. After all, he was
a hero, though of his own unique kind; there was no denying that. And,
in his own way, he had his reward. He took one hand off his hip to
scratch at the top of his head, wondering briefly if he had managed to
pick up lice in the last town he had visited, and he took another look
at the city.
Speyer seemed a lot better, at first glance, than some of the other
places Jonas had visited. For one thing, it had a full town hall,
built--no less--of honest stone, and probably a relict of the Roman
times. There was the parish church, of course, a good solid wooden
structure, and a collection of houses strung along the dirt paths of the
town. The houses of the rich were, naturally, wooden; the poor built of
baked mud. There were a great many baked-mud structures, and only one
wooden one, besides the church, that Jonas could see.
The paths were winding, but comparatively free from slop. That was
pleasing, he told himself. And the buildings themselves, wood, mud and
stone, clustered in the valley below him as if they were afraid, and
needed each other's protection.
Which, in a way, they did. Jonas reflected on that a trifle grimly,
thinking of the Holy Inquisition with its hierarchy of priests and lay
folk, busily working in Speyer just as it worked in every other town
throughout Offenburg, and throughout the civilized world.
Ordinarily, he would not have given it a thought, beyond a passing sigh
for the ways of the world; he had other business. But now--
He grinned to himself, and the grin turned to a laugh as he started down
the hill. The grislier methods of the Inquisitorial process were
well-known to him by reputation, and soon he might be testing them out
for himself. There was absolutely no way to be sure.
That thought pleased him greatly; after all, he told himself, there was
nothing like a little danger to spice the boring business of living. By
the time he reached the bottom of the hill, he was whistling loudly.
* * * * *
He stopped at the first house, a mud construction with a
badly-carpentered wooden door and a single bare window that looked out
on the street. It smelled, but Jonas went up to the door bravely and
knocked.
There was no answer. He went on whistling "_Fortuna plango vulnera_"
under his breath, and after a time he knocked again.
This time he heard movement inside the house, and nodded to himself in a
satisfied fashion. But almost a minute passed before the head of an old
woman showed itself at the window. She was really extraordinarily ugly,
he thought. She wore a bonnet that did nothing whatever to enhance her
doubtful, wrinkled charms, or to conceal them; and besides, it was
dirty.
"Nobody's here," she said in the voice of a very venomous toad. "Go
away."
Jonas smiled at her. It was an effort. "Madam--" he began politely.
"Nobody's home," she repeated, drawing slightly back from the window.
"You go away, now."
"Ah," Jonas said pleasantly. "But you're home, aren't you?"
The old woman frowned at him suspiciously. "Now," she said vaguely.
"Well."
"This _is_ your house?" he said. "The house where you live?"
"Never saw you before," the old woman said.
"That's right," Jonas said equably.
"You come to turn me out?" she demanded. Her eyebrows--which were almost
as big and black as her ancient mustache--came down over glittering
little eyes. "I hold this house free and proper," she said in a
determined roar, "and nobody can take it from me. It belongs to me, and
to my children, and to their children, and to the children of those
children--"
The catalogue seemed likely to go on forever. "Exactly," Jonas said
hastily.
"Well, then," the old woman said, and started to draw back.
Jonas gestured lazily with one hand. "Wait," he said. "I am not going to
take your house away from you, madam. I am only here to ask you a
question."
"Question?" she said. "You come from Herr Knupf? I'm an old woman but I
do no wrong, and there is no one can accuse me of heresy. I am in church
every week, and more than once; I keep peace with my neighbors and
there's none can say a mystery about me--"
The woman, Jonas thought, was full to the eyebrows with words. Probably,
he told himself, trying to be fair, she didn't have anyone to talk to,
until a stranger came along.
He sighed briefly. "I do not come from the Inquisitor," he said
truthfully, "nor is my question one that should cause you alarm."
The old woman pondered for a minute. She leaned her elbows on the window
sill, getting them muddy. But that, Jonas thought, didn't seem to matter
to this creature, apparently.
"Ask," she said at last.
Jonas put on his most pleasant expression. "Madam," he said, "I wish to
know if there be any family in this town to give room to a
wayfarer--understanding, of course, that the wayfarer would insist on
paying. Paying well," he added.
The old woman blinked. "You looking for an inn?" she said. "An inn in
this town?" The idea appeared to strike her as the very height of
idiocy. She covered her face with her hands and shook. After a second
Jonas discovered that she was laughing. He waited patiently until the
fit had left her.
"Not an inn," he said. "There is no inn here, I know. But a family
willing to take in a stranger--"
"Strangers are seldom here," she said. "Herr Knupf watches his flock
with zeal."
Which meant, Jonas reflected, that he was in a fair way to get himself
burned as a heretic unless he watched his step carefully. "Herr Knupf's
fame has reached my own country, far away," he said with some truth.
"Nevertheless, a family which--"
"Wait," she said. "You have said that you will pay well. Yet you do not
appear rich."
Jonas understood. Fishing in his sewn pocket, he withdrew a single,
shiny coin. "I also wish," he said smoothly, "to pay for any help I may
receive--such as the answering of an innocent question, a question in
which the respected Inquisitor Knupf can have no interest whatever."
The old woman's eyes went to the coin and stayed there. "Well," she
said. "It is said that the family called Scharpe has a house too large
for them, now that the elder son is gone; there is only the man, his
wife and a daughter. It is said that the man is in need of money; he
would accept payment, were it generous, in return for sharing room in
his house."
"I would be most grateful," Jonas murmured. He passed the coin over; the
old woman's hand snatched it and closed on it. "Where might I find this
family?" he said.
"It is now late in the afternoon," the old woman said. "Perhaps they are
at home. You will see a path which takes you to the left; follow it
until you reach the last house. Knock at the door."
"I shall," Jonas said, "and many thanks."
The old woman, still clutching her coin, disappeared from the window as
if someone had yanked her back. Jonas turned with relief and got back on
the path, but it stank quite as badly as the house had.
He endured the stench--heroically.
* * * * *
Scharpe proved to be a barrel-shaped man who was unaccountably
cheerless, as if the inside structure had been carefully removed, and
then replaced by sawdust, Jonas thought. Even the offer of seven kroner
for a single week's stay failed to produce the delirious joy Jonas had
expected.
"The money is needed," Scharpe said in a dour, bass voice, staring off
past Jonas' left ear at the darkening sky. "And for the money, you will
be welcome. I must take your word that you are not dangerous; I can only
pray that you do not betray that trust."
It was far from a warm welcome, but Jonas was satisfied with it. "I
shall work to do you good," he said, "and not evil."
"Stranger," Scharpe said, "work for your own good; do nothing for me.
This is an accursed family; there is no good to be done to me, or my
wife or child."
Jonas tried to look reassuring. He thought of several things to say
about the sunny side of life, and decided on none or them. "My
sympathy--" he began.
"Your sympathy may endanger you," Scharpe said. "My son is gone; I pray