Simon Hawke - Sorcerer 2 - The Inadequate Adept

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THE INADEQUATE ADEPT

e-book ver. 1.0

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 nowhere 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!"

"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.

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

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THEINADEQUATEADEPT Copyright©1993bySimonHawkee-bookver.1.0 ForLeanneChristineHarper,withspecialthankstoPatMcGiveney,DarlaDunn,DougandTomiLewisofTheLittleBookshopofHorrorsinArvada,Co.,JoeDeRoseandthestaffofMuddy'sCafeinDenver,Co.,H.TraskEmery,DavidMarringly,BrianThomsen,MauroDiPreta,FredCleaver,Chris...

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Simon Hawke - Sorcerer 2 - The Inadequate Adept

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