Niven, Larry & David Gerrold - The Flying Sorcerers

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The Flying Sorcerers -- David Gerrold and Larry Niven -- (1971)

(Version 2003.01.07)

Shoogar was on the warpath. The villagers wondered uneasily if they should

pack. The last time their protector had done this he had blown the whole

village to hell and they had all had to trek to find a new area. Still, he had

proved his point. Shoogar was indeed a mighty witch doctor -- and his flock

took a kind of resigned pride in his power. After all, who knew what the new

invader could do? Better the protector you know than the one you don't. Had

they but known the marvels and monstrosities that Shoogar in his rage would

bring about they would have fled shrieking. Which of course they did -for a

while. But Shoogar drew them back, for his power was great. And they didn't

really have any place else to go. No place, that is, that had as many

interesting possibilities as Shoogar's wild and woolly mind could conceive ...

Dedicated to the men of NASA;

We understand their problems

I WAS awakened by Pilg the Crier pounding excitedly on the wall of my nest and

crying, "Lant! Lant! It's happened! Come quickly!"

I stuck my head out. "What's happened?"

"The disaster! The disaster!" Pilg was jumping up and down in excitement. "I

told you it would happen."

I pulled my head in and dressed. Pilg's joy was a frightening thing. I felt my

fur rising, fluffing out in fear as I wondered...

Pilg the Crier had been predicting disaster for weeks -- as was his habit. He

predicted his disasters twice a year, at the times of the equinox. The fact

that we were leaving the influence of one sun and entering that of the other

would make the local spells completely unstable. As we approached conjunction

-- the time when the blue sun would cross the face of the red -- Pilg had

increased the intensity of his warnings. This was disaster weather: something

dire would certainly happen.

Usually it did, of course. Afterward -- and after we of the village had

somehow picked up the pieces -- Pilg would shake his heavy head and moan,

"Wait until next year. Wait. It'll be even worse."

Sometimes we joked about it, predicting the end of the world if Pilg's "next

year" ever arrived...

I lowered the ladder and joined Pilg on the ground. "What's the trouble?"

"Oh, I warned you, Lant. I warned you. Now maybe you'll believe me. I warned

you though -- you can't say I didn't warn you. The omens were there, written

across the sky. What more proof did you need?"

He meant the moons. They were starting to pile up on one side of the sky.

Shoogar the Magician had predicted that we were due for a time of total

darkness soon.- perhaps even tonight -- and Pilg had seized on this as just

one more omen of disaster.

As we hurried through the village I tried to get Pilg to tell me what had

happened. Had the river changed its course? Had someone's nest fallen from its

tree? Had the flocks all died mysteriously? But Pilg was so excited at having

finally been proven correct that he himself was not sure what exactly had

happened.

One of the hill shepherds, it seemed, had come running into town, panic-

stricken and shouting something about a new magician. By the time I got this

information out of Pilg, we were already at the village clearing where the

frightened shepherd was leaning against one of the great housetrees, gasping

out his story to a nervous group of men. They pressed in close to him,

badgering him with questions. Even the women had paused in their work, and

hanging back at a respectful distance, listened fearfully to the shepherd's

words.

"A new magician," he gasped. "A red one! I saw him!" Someone handed him a

skin; he sucked the Quaff from it noisily, then panted, "Near the cairn of the

wind-god. He was throwing red fire across the mountains."

"Red fire. Red fire."

The villagemen murmured excitedly among themselves. "If he throws red fire, he

must be a red magician." Almost immediately, I heard the word "duel'. The

women must have heard it too, for they gasped and shrank back from the milling

group of men.

I pushed my way through to the center of the crowd. "Ah, Lant," said one of

the men. "Have you heard? There's going to be a duel."

"Is there?" I demanded. "Have you seen the runes of the duel inscribed across

Shoogar's nest?"

"No, but-"

"Then how do you know there's going to be a duel?"

"A red magician-" gasped the shepherd. "A red magician-"

"Nonsense. No red magician could have the powers you describe. Why don't you

wait until you know something definite before you start spreading silly rumors

that frighten women and children?"

"You know Shoogar as well as we! As soon as he discovers there is a new

magician in the district, he'll-"

"You mean Shoogar doesn't know yet?"

The man looked blank.

I raised my voice. "Has anyone thought to tell Shoogar ?"

Silence. No one had. My duty was clear. I must prevent Shoogar from doing

something rash. I hurried through the trees toward the magician's nest.

Shoogar's nest was well suited for a wizard, a squat misshapen gourd hung from

a forbidding black ogre of a tree well beyond the limits of the village. (The

Guild of Advisors was afraid to let him move closer; he was always

experimenting with new spells.)

I found Shoogar already packing his travel kit. His agitated manner told me he

was worried. Then I caught a glimpse of what he was packing and I was worried.

The last time he had used that ornate bone-carved tarinele was when he had

hurled the curse of the itching red boils at Hamel the Failure.

I saw what he was packing in on top of the tarinele and I flinched. "I believe

that's against the Guild rules," I said.

For a moment I thought he'd hurl a spell at me. I cringed and instinctively

made a spell-cutting gesture, (forgetting for the moment that Shoogar himself

had made the protective amulets I wore; he couldn't possibly break through his

own protections; at least not for a few more days -- they would expire with

the coming of the blue dawns).

"You!" he snapped. "What do you know of magic? You who call yourself my

friend! You didn't even have the courtesy to inform me of this intruding

sorcerer !"

"I didn't even know of him myself, until just a few moments ago. Perhaps he

only arrived today."

"Arrived today? And immediately began throwing red fire about? Without first

informing himself of the local gods, tidal patterns, previous local spells and

their side effects? Ridiculous! Lant, you are a fool. You are an idiot of the

first circle where magic is concerned. Why do you bother me?"

"Because you are an idiot where diplomacy is concerned!" I snapped back, my

fur bristling. (I am one of the few people in the village who can bristle at

Shoogar and survive to tell about it.) "If I let you go charging up the

mountain every time you felt you had been wronged, you'd be fighting duels as

often as the blue sun rises."

Shoogar looked at me, and I could tell from his expression that my remarks had

sunk home. "Smooth your fur, Lant. I did not mean that you were a complete

fool..I just meant that you are not a magician."

"I'm glad you are aware of my skill as a diplomat.." I said, and allowed

myself to relax. "Our abilities must complement each other, Shoogar. If we are

to succeed in our endeavors, we must maintain a healthy respect for each

other's powers. Only thus can we protect our village."

"You and your damned speeches, he scowled. "Someday I'm going to make your

tongue swell up to the size of a sour melon -- just for the sake of some peace

and quiet."

I ignored that remark. Considering the circumstances, Shoogar had a right to

be testy. He closed up his travel kit, tugging angrily at the straps.

"Are you ready?" I asked, "I'll send a message up to Orbur, telling him to

ready two bicycles."

"Presumptuous of you," Shoogar muttered, but I knew that he was secretly

grateful for the thought. Wilville and Orbur, my eldest two sons, carved the

best bicycles in the district.

-----

WE found the new magician near the cairn of Musk-Watz, the Wind-god. Across a

steep canyon from the cairn, there is a wide grass-covered mesa with a gentle

slope to the south. The new magician had appropriated this mesa and scattered

it with his devices and oddments. As we pulled our bicycles to a shuddering

halt, he vas in the process of casting a spell with an unfamiliar artifact.

Shoogar and I paused at a respectful distance and watched.

The stranger was slightly taller than me, considerably taller than Shoogar.

His skin was lighter than ours, and hairless but for a single patch of black

fur, oddly positioned on the top half of his skull. He also wore a strange set

of appurtenances balanced across his nose. It appeared that they were lenses

of quartz mounted in a bone frame through which the stranger could see.

The set of his features was odd and disquieting, and his bones seemed

strangely proportioned. Certainly no normal being would have a paunch that

large. The sight of him made me feel queasy, and I surmised that some of his

ancestors had not been human.

Magicians traditionally wear outlandish clothing to identify themselves as

magicians. But even Shoogar was unprepared for the cut of this stranger's

costume. It was a single garment which covered most of the stranger's body.

The shape of the cloth had been woven to match his own precisely; and an oddly

bulging shape it was. There was a hood, thrown back. There were high-flared

cuffs on the pantaloons to allow for his calf-high boots, and over his heart

was a golden badge. Around his middle he wore a wide belt, to which were

attached three or four small spell devices.

He had also set up a number of larger devices. Most of them had the blue-white

glimmer of polished metal. (There is little metal in our village -- it rusts

quickly -- but I am a man of the world and have traveled much. I am familiar

with the sight of metal, having seen it in the highlands; but nothing so

finely worked as this.)

These devices stood each on three legs so that they were always level, even

where the ground was not. As we watched, the stranger peered into one of them,

peered across the canyon at the sacred cairn of Musk-Watz, the god of the

winds, and then into his device again. Muttering constantly to himself, he

moved across the clearing and adjusted something else. Evidently this was a

long and complicated spell, though just what its purpose was neither Shoogar

nor I could fathom.

Occasionally he would refer to a large egg-shaped nest, black and regular of

shape, sitting on its wide end off to one side of the pasture. As there were

no trees in the area large enough to hang it from, he had set it on the

ground. (An unwise course, to be sure, but the shell of that nest looked like

nothing I had ever seen -- perhaps it was able to resist marauding predators.)

I wondered how he had built it over-night. His power must be formidable.

The stranger did not notice us at all, and Shoogar was fidgeting with

impatience. Just as Shoogar was about to interrupt him, the stranger

straightened and touched his device. The device responded by hurling red fire

across the canyon -- directly at the cairn of Musk-Watz!

I thought Shoogar would suffer a death-rage right then and there. The Weather

gods are hard enough to control at best, and Shoogar had spent three long

lunar configurations trying to appease Musk-Watz in an effort to forestall

another season of hurricanes. Now, the stranger had disrupted one of his most

careful spells.

Redder than ruby, eye-searing, bright and narrow, straight as the horizon of

the ocean (which I have also seen), that crimson fire speared out across the

canyon, lashing Shoogar's carefully constructed outcrop. I feared it would

never end: the fire seemed to go on and on.

And the sound of it was dreadful. There was a painful high-pitched humming

which seemed to seize my very soul, a piercing unearthly whine. Under this we

could hear the steady crackling and spattering of the cairn.

Acrid smoke billowed upward from it, and I shuddered, thinking how the

dissipating dust would affect the atmosphere. Who knew what effects it would

have on Shoogar's weather-making spells? I made a mental note to have the

wives reinforce the flooring of our nest.

Suddenly, just as abruptly as it had begun, the red fire went out. Once more

the silence and the calm descended over the mesa. Once more the blue twilight

colored the land. But across my eyes was a brilliant blue-white afterimage.

And the cairn of the wind-god still crackled angrily.

Amazingly enough, the cairn still stood. It smouldered and sputtered, and

there was an ugly scar where the red fire had touched it, but it was intact.

When Shoogar builds, he builds well.

The stranger was already readjusting his devices, muttering continuously to

himself. (I wondered if that were part of the spell.) Like a mother vole

checking her cubs, he moved from device to device, peering into one, resetting

another, reciting strange sounds over a third.

I cast a glance at Shoogar; I could see a careful tightening at the corners of

his mouth. Indeed, even his beard seemed clenched. I feared that a duel would

start before the stranger could offer Shoogar a gift. Something had to be done

to prevent Shoogar from a rash and possibly regrettable action.

I stepped forward boldly. "Ahem," I began. "Ahem. I dislike to interrupt you

while you are so obviously busy, but that bluff is sacred to Musk-Watz. It

took many cycles to construct the pattern of spells which ..."

The magician looked up and seemed to notice us for the first time. He became

strangely agitated. Taking a quick step toward us, he made a straight-armed

gesture, palms open to us, and spoke quick tense words in a language I had

never heard. Instantly, I threw myself flat on the ground, arms over my head.

Nothing happened.

When I looked up, Shoogar was still beside the other bicycle with his arms

outstretched in a spell-breaking pattern. Either the stranger's spell had

miscarried, or Shoogar had blocked it. The stranger threw no more spells.

Instead, he backed toward his oddly shaped nest, never taking his eyes from

us. He continued his strange words, but now they were slow and low pitched,

like the tone one uses to calm an uneasy animal. He disappeared into his nest

and all was quiet and blue.

Except for the crackle of cooling rock which still reached across the canyon

to remind us that Musk-Watz had been defiled.

-----

I TURNED to Shoogar, "This could be serious."

"Lant, you are a fool. This is already serious."

"Can you handle this new magician?"

Shoogar grunted noncommittally, and I was afraid. Shoo-gar was good; if he

were not sure of his skill here, the whole village might be in danger.

I started to voice my fears, but the stranger abruptly re-appeared carrying

another of his metal and bone carved devices. This one was smaller than the

rest and had slender rods sticking out on all sides. I did not like its looks.

It reminded me of some of the more unpleasant devices that I had seen during

the dark years.

The magician watched us all the time he was setting it up on its three slender

legs. As he turned it to face us I tensed.

It began to make a humming noise, like the sound of a water harp when a string

bow is drawn across its glass tubes. The humming rose in pitch until it began

to sound disturbingly like that of the device of the red fire. I began gauging

the distance between myself and a nearby boulder.

The stranger spoke impatiently to us in his unknown tongue.

"You are discourteous," rumbled Shoogar. This business can wait, surely?"

The spell device said, "Surely?"

I landed behind the boulder. Shoogar stood his ground. "Surely," he repeated

firmly. "You violate custom. In this, my district, you must gift me with one

new spell, one I have never seen. Were I in your district-"

The spell device spoke again. Its intonation was terrifying and inhuman. "New

spell gift -- never known -- surely."

I realized that the stranger had spoken first. His device was attempting to

speak for him, but in our words. Shoogar saw it too, and was reassured. The

device was only a speakerspell, and a poor one at that, despite its powerful

shape.

Shoogar and the speakerspell and the stranger stood on that wind-swept mesa

and talked with each other. Or rather, they talked at each other. It was

infant's talk, most of it. The thing had no words of its own. It could only

use Shoogar's; sometimes correctly, more often not.

Shoogar's temper was not improving. He had come to demand gift or duel from an

intruding warlock only to find himself teaching a simpleminded construct to

talk. The stranger seemed to be enjoying himself, unfortunately at Shoogar's

expense.

The red sun was long gone, the blue was near the horizon, and all the world

was red-black shadow. The blue sun settled behind a clump of deep violet

clouds. Suddenly it was gone, like a taper blown out by the wind. The moons

emerged against the night, now in the configuration of the striped lizard.

During certain configurations Shoogar's power is higher than during others. I

wondered if he were master or servant to the striped lizard. He was just

drawing his robes imperiously about his squat and stubby form. Master,

apparently, from his manner.

Abruptly, the stranger repeated his palms-out gesture, turned, and went back

to his nest. He did not go inside. Instead. he briefly touched the rim of the

doorway, and there was light! Garish light -- it spurted from the flank of the

nest, bright as double daylight.

And such a strange light. The ground and the plants seemed to take the wrong

colors and there was something not right with their shadows, an odd blackness

of shade.

The new magician's motive was obvious, even to me -- and even more so to

Shoogar. He leapt back out of the light with his arms raised for defense. But

it was no use. The light followed him, swept over him and dazzled him,

effectively cancelling out the strength of the lunar light. The stranger had

effectively negated the power of the striped lizard. Shoogar stood trembling,

a tiny figure pinned in that dazzling odd-colored glow.

Then, for no apparent reason, the stranger caused the light to vanish.

"I think that the light disturbs you," said the speakerspell, talking for the

magician. "But, no matter. We can talk as well in the dark."

I breathed more easily, but did not completely relax. This stranger had shown

how easily he could cancel the effect of any lunar configuration. Any powers

Shoogar might have hoped to draw from the sky would have to be forgone.

I watched the striped lizard slink dejectedly into the west. The moons rode

their line across the sky, milk-white crescents with thick red fringes. On

successive nights the red borderlines would narrow as the suns set closer and

closer together. Then there would be no colored borders.Later, blue borders

would show after second sunset... and Shoogar could make no use of any of

this...

Shoogar and the new magician were still talking. by now the speakerspell had

learned enough words so that the two could intelligently discuss the matters

of magicians.

The ethics of the situation are obvious," Shoogar was saying. "You are

practicing magic in my district. For this you must pay. More precisely, you

owe me a secret."

"A secret.. .?" echoed the speakerspell device.

Still cold and cramped, I was suddenly no longer sleepy. I cocked an ear to

hear better.

"Some bit of magic that I do not already know," Shoogar amplified. "What, for

instance, is the secret of your light like double daylight?"

"... potential difference ... hot metal within an inert ... doubt you would

understand ... heat is caused by a flow of ... tiny packets of lightning ..."

"Your words do not make sense. I take no meaning from them. You must tell me a

secret that I can understand and use. I see that your magic is powerful.

Perhaps you know of a way to predict the tides?"

"No, of course I can't tell you how to predict the tides. You've got eleven

moons and two primary suns tugging your oceans in all directions. Tugging at

each other too. It would take years to compute a tidal pattern ..."

"Surely you must know things that I do not," said Shoogar. "Just as I know

secrets that you are unaware of."

"Of course. But I'm trying to think what would help you the most. It's a

wonder you've gotten as far as you have. Bicycles even ..."

"Those are good bicycles!" I protested. "I ought to know. Two of my sons built

them."

"But bicycles!" He moved closer eagerly. I tensed, but he only wanted to

examine them. "Hardwood frames, leather- thonged pulleys instead of chains,

sewn fur pelts for tires! They're marvelous! Absolutely marvelous. Primitive

and handmade, with big flat wheels and no spokes, but it doesn't matter:

they're still bicycles. And when all the odds were against your developing any

form of ... at all!"

"What are you talking about?" Shoogar demanded. I was silent, seething at the

insult to Wilville and Orbur's bicycles. Primitive indeed!

"... starts with the perception of order," said the magician. "But your world

has no order to it at all. You're in an opaque dust cloud, so you cannot see

any of the fixed light-in-the-sky. Your sky is a random set of moons picked up

from the worldlet belt ... three-body configuration makes capture easy ...

tides that go every which way under the influence of all those moons ... moons

that cross and recross at random, changing their ... because of mutual ..."

The speakerspell was missing half of the stranger's words, making the rest

gibberish. "And then the high level of ... from the blue sun would give you a

new species every week or so. No order in your observable ... probably use

strict cut-and-try methods of building. No put-it-together line techniques

because you wouldn't normally expect a put-it-together belt to produce the

same item twice in a row ... but it's a human instinct to try to control

nature. You must tell me-"

"Shoogar interrupted the babbling stranger. First, you must tell me. Tell me

some new thing that you may satisfy the Guild law. What is the secret of your

red flame?"

"Oh, I couldn't give you a secret like that!"

Shoogar began to fume again, but he only said, "And why couldn't you?"

"... For one thing, you couldn't understand it. You wouldn't be able to work

it." Shoogar drew himself up to his full height and stared up at the stranger.

"Are you telling me that I am not even a magician of the second circle? Any

magician worth his bones is able to make fire and throw it!" And with that

Shoogar produced a ball of fire from his sleeve and casually hurled it across

the clearing.

I could see that the stranger was startled. He had not expected that. The ball

of fire lay sputtering on the ground, then died away leaving only the burnt

core. The stranger took two steps toward it, as if to examine it, then turned

back to Shoogar, "Very impressive," he said, "but still..."

Shoogar" said, "You see, I can throw fire also. And I can control the color of

the flame. What I want to know is how to throw it in a straight line, like you

do."

"It is a wholly different principle .. . coherent light ... tight beam ...

small clumps of energy ... vibration of ..." As if to demonstrate, he touched

his spell device again, and once more the red fire lashed out. Eye-searing

flame played across Musk-Watz's cairn. Another smoking hole.

I Winced.

The stranger said, "It boils the rock and tells me what it is made of by

telling me what color the smoke is."

I tried to conceal my reaction. Any idiot could have told him the smoke was

bluish-gray, let alone what rocks are made of. I could tell him myself.

He was still talking, "Absorption of light... but I couldn't teach you how to

use it; you might use it as a weapon."

"Might use it as a weapon?" Shoogar exclaimed. "What other use is there for a

spell to throw red fire?"

"I just explained that," the stranger said impatiently. "I could explain

again, but for what purpose? It's much too complex for you to understand."

(That was a needless insult. Shoogar may be only a magician of the second

circle, but that does not mean that he is inferior. In actuality, there are

few secrets he is not privy to. Besides, gaining the first circle is a matter

of politics as well as skill, and Shoogar has never been known as a diplomat.)

It was high time that the oil of diplomacy be applied to the rough edges of

these two magicians. I knew it was my duty to prevent friction between them,

especially now that the barrier of language had been removed. "Shoogar," I

said, "let me speak. I am the diplomat." Without waiting for his assent, I

approached the speakerspell, albeit somewhat nervously.

"Allow- me to introduce myself. My name is Lant-la-lee-lay-lie-ah-no. Perhaps

it may strike you as a bit presumptuous that I claim seven syllables, but I am

a person of no mean importance in our village." I felt it necessary to

establish my rank from the very beginning, and my right to speak for the

village.

The stranger looked at me and said, "I am pleased to meet you. My name is ..."

The speakerspell hesitated, but I counted the syllables of the name. Three. I

smiled to myself. Obviously, we were dealing with a very low status individual

... and I realized something disquieting as well. Where did this magician come

from, that individuals of such low stations controlled such mighty magic? I

preferred not to think about that. Perhaps he hadn't given his full name.

After all, I hadn't given him the secret side of mine.

The speakerspell abruptly translated the stranger's three syllable name, "As a

color, shade of purple gray"

"Very odd," said Shoogar, speaking low'. "I have never known a magician to be

named for a color."

"Perhaps that's not his name, but an indication of which god he serves.

"Nonsense," Shoogar whispered back. "Then he would be either Something-the-red

or Something-the-blue. But he isn't either."

"Perhaps he's both -- that's why he's purple."

"Don't talk foolishness, Lant. It's impossible to serve two masters. Besides,

he isn't all purple. He's Purple the Gray. And I've never heard of a gray

magician."

I turned back to the stranger, "Is that your full name? How many syllables are

in the secret side of it?" He couldn't be offended; I was not asking for the

name itself.

He said, "I have given you my full name. As-A-Shade-Of-Purple-Gray."

"You have no other? No secret name?"

"I am not sure I understand. That is my full name."

Shoogar and I exchanged a glance. The stranger was either incredibly foolish,

or exceeding cunning. Either he had betrayed his full name to us, thus

delivering himself into Shoogar's power; or he was playing the fool in order

to keep Shoogar from discovering his real name. Perhaps the name he had given

was some kind of spell trap. It certainly wasn't a clue to his identity.

As-A-Shade-Of-Purple-Gray was speaking again. "Where did you come from?"

"From the village," I started to point down the mountain, but covered the

gesture quickly. No sense in telling this stranger where the village was

located.

"But, I saw no village from the air .. ."

"From the air ...?" Shoogar asked.

"Yes, when I flew over the area."

At this Shoogar's ears perked up. "Flew? You have a flying spell? How do you

do it? I have not yet been able to get anything larger than a melon to fly --

and I have been trapping the bubbles of noxious odor as they rise from the

swamps." Indeed, Shoogar had been trying to perfect a flying spell for as long

as he had been a magician. He had even contrived to get two of my sons to aid

him, Wilville and Orbur. Often they would neglect their bicycle carving to

work on some strange new device for him. So great was their enthusiasm for

Shoogar's project that -- much to my annoyance -- they had been accepting no

payment at all for their labors.

The new magician smiled at Shoogar's description of his flying spell.

"Primitive," he said, "but it could work. My own vehicle uses somewhat more

complex and efficient principles." He pointed at his huge black nest. No. he

must have meant one of the devices in it, or near it. Who could conceive of a

flying nest? A nest is a home, a fixed place, a locality of refuge, a place of

returning. Philosophically a nest cannot so much as move, let alone fly. What

is philosophically impossible is impossible to magic. This law constrains even

the gods.

"Well, show me how it works. Teach me your flying spell!" Shoogar begged

excitedly.

The stranger shook his head. "I could not show that one to you either. It is

beyond your understanding. ...."

This was too much for Shoogar. All evening long, this new magician had

continued to insult him. Now, he refused even to gift him with a secret.

Shoogar began jumping up and down in exasperation. He pulled his tarinele from

his travel kit. and had actually begun to pack the blow chambers with cursing

powder before I could calm him.

"Patience, Shoogar! Please!" I begged him. "Let us return to the village. Call

for a meeting of the Guild of Advisors first! Don't challenge him to a duel

until we have a chance to talk this thing out."

Shoogar muttered something under his breath. He muttered a whole bunch of

somethings. "I ought to use this tarincle on you. You know how I hate to waste

a good curse." But he emptied the blow chambers, wrapped it up again in its

protective skins and returned it to his pack.

He stood and fared the new magician. "We return to our village to confer. We

will visit you again before the time of the blue dawns."

But the stranger did not seem to hear this. "I will accompany you," he said.

"I would like to see your village."

Shoogar can be clever when he puts his mind to it. "Certainly you may

accompany us," he said. "It would be inhospitable for us not to welcome you.

But you cannot leave yourself so far from your nest. Tonight the moons are

down and the red curses roam the land." (I wished Shoogar hadn't brought that

up. I remembered how far we were from home.)

Shoogar spread his hands helplessly. "If we had empty nests in the village,

you would be welcome to use one -- but as it is, with the time of total

darkness approaching, I would not recommend straying too far from one's own

nest."

"That's all right," said the stranger, "I'll just bring it with me."

"Huh?" said Shoogar. "How? We certainly are not going to help you. That is,

neither of us has the strength to-"

As-A-Shade-Of-Purple-Gray seemed to laugh. I was becoming most tired of his

laugh. "Don't worry about that," he said. "You just lead the way and I'll

follow."

Shoogar and I exchange a glance. Obviously this dumpy-legged stranger would be

unable to keep up with our bicycles -- especially if he was going to try to

bring his nest. We waited respectfully, however, while the magician collapsed

his artifacts and devices. I was amazed to see how easily they folded up and

how compactly they stored, and made a mental note to get closer to one of them

if I could. I was curious to see how the bone was carved and how the metal was

worked. Perhaps I could learn something from the construction of such devices.

They were carved too precisely, too delicately for me to see much in the dim

light.

I glanced involuntarily at the sky. We were fast approaching the time of total

darkness. Only six of the moons were left in the sky. No wonder the light was

fading. I certainly did not intend to tarry for this stranger.

Within a remarkably short time, the stranger had packed up all of his devices

and stowed them within his nest. There was something about his manner that

made me feel vaguely uneasy; "All right," he said. "I'm ready," and he

disappeared into his nest, shutting the door behind him. That was when my

feeling of unease gave way to one of pure terror. Purple Gray's whole nest

began to hum, like the speakerspell and the red-fire devices within it, but

louder. Suddenly it rose into the air and hung there at twice the height of a

man. It began to glow with a color we had never seen before. The plants and

the trees shone like garish hallucinations. Green is a. dark color -- not a

dreadful bright fluorescence.

I thought Shoogar would fall off his bicycle from astonishment. I was having

trouble with my own hands and feet. Even when you are not trembling all over,

a bicycle is hard enough to control.

The ride back to the village was a nightmare. Shoogar was so unnerved, he

forgot to chant any of his protective canteles and we both kept looking back

over our shoulders at that huge looming egg which came floating silently,

dreadfully after us, throwing off light in all directions, like some

terrifying manifestation of EIcin, the thunder god.

It didn't help matters that every time I looked up, another moon had set,

plunging us ever closer to the time of total darkness. One of us was moaning,

but I wasn't sure whether it was Shoogar or me.

The bicycles clattered roughly down the mountain path, and I was so concerned

about getting safely back to my nest that I did not even think to urge Shoogar

to be careful with my other machine. The way he kept looking back over his

shoulder I was sure he would hit something and split a wheel. Fortunately, he

did not; I did not know if I would even have stopped to help him. Not with

that bright black egg chasing us, always keeping perfectly and terrifyingly

up-right.

Somehow we made it down to the grasslands. Several of the women saw us coming

-- they were out in the fields gathering the night fungi -- but when they saw

that huge glowing nest looming along behind us, they turned and ran for the

safety of the village. Shoogar and I did not even think to park our bicycles

on the hill, but rode them right down into the settlement. (Well, the women

would have to clean the mud from the wheels later.)

We reached the village none too soon. The last of the moons was just settling

in the west. We paused, out of breath, in the center clearing. The great black

nest floated ominously above us, lighting up the whole village with its odd-

colored aura. The great trees and the gourd-shaped nests hanging from their

mighty branches took on strange and terrifying colors.

From out of the air the magician's voice boomed louder than any natural voice,

"... no wonder I didn't see it from the air ... houses are structured spheres,

suspended from the limbs of tremendous trees ... must be at least. ... Wait

until ... hears about this! Where should I park?" he asked suddenly.

"Anywhere ..." I gasped weakly, "Put it anywhere," and made an appropriate

arm-sweeping gesture. I looked around myself to see if we had any trees strong

enough to hang such a nest from. There were none big enough that were not

already occupied; but if this magician could make his nest fly, then he could

surely hang it even from a sapling.

But even this the stranger did not do. He landed it on the ground.

And not just on any ground. He swept through the village toward the river, and

brought it to land on the crest of the slope overlooking the frog-grading

ponds. The ponds were dry now, drained for their ritual purification and

reseeding spells, but I was appalled at such callous disregard for the

property of the village. I winced as the magician's nest sank into the ooze

with a loud squishy phloosh.

-----

I DID not sleep well at all. By the time the smoky rim of the red sun began to

appear over the horizon, I was already up and about. I felt better after my

cleansing and purification, but still haggard and drawn. The events of the

night before had taken their toll.

A glance out the door of the nest was enough to confirm that the stranger was

still in our midst. Pilg the Crier was already moving through the trees

moaning of this new development. Disaster was all the more certain now that

the strange magician had moved his nest into the village. Even from here I

could see a curious crowd gathering around it -though keeping a respectful

distance.

Ang, the frogmonger, was wringing his hands and moaning over his frog-grading

ponds. He would have to repurify them again after the stranger left, and if

that were not soon, he might miss the spawning season altogether.

Shoogar and I went out to watch him, that first day. As soon as he saw us he

straightened from his examination of a local herb and disappeared into his

nest. He returned almost immediately with an object in his outstretched hand.

"A gift." he said. "A gift for Shoogar, the magician."

Shoogar was caught by surprise. He had not expected the stranger to produce

the required gift. Now he had fulfilled his obligation as a magician, and had

the legal right to remain in the district. By the same convention, Shoogar was

bound to respect the rights of the new magician as well as his spells. Guild

rules are quite specific.

Shoogar, as resident magician, had the seniority. The stranger could do

nothing to interfere with Shoogar's practice or previous spells; but aside

from that, he was free to do as he chose.

Shoogar examined his gift. It was small and light, easily held in one hand.

One end had a glass lens mounted in it.

The stranger demonstrated how it worked. When one pressed forward on the

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TheFlyingSorcerers--DavidGerroldandLarryNiven--(1971)(Version2003.01.07)Shoogarwasonthewarpath.Thevillagerswondereduneasilyiftheyshouldpack.Thelasttimetheirprotectorhaddonethishehadblownthewholevillagetohellandtheyhadallhadtotrektofindanewarea.Still,hehadprovedhispoint.Shoogarwasindeedamightywitchdo...

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Niven, Larry & David Gerrold - The Flying Sorcerers

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