Clever Rolf had been waiting for that question, but not so soon. "Ah--three silver marks."
"This is your life we're speaking of," Rigord reminded him scornfully.
"Very well, then--a whole gold piece. I am not a rich man."
"No?" Rigord leaned forward. "What about the treasure you stole from Mebodes along with your leman?"
Clever Rolf quailed. "You know too much. I'll pay you six marks."
"I want the treasure--all of it."
"Would you beggar me? I'll give you two gold pieces, or even two and a mark."
"The treasure." Implacable, Rigord folded his arms and waited.
"I've spent some of it," the scribe said miserably.
"How much? The truth--I will know if you lie." The wizard made a quick pass.
"Maybe a quarter."
"The balance will do nicely--if, of course, you truly want my aid."
Clever Rolf yielded; as Rigord knew, he had to yield. "All right," he said, very low, the picture of a beaten man.
They dickered over terms after that; the scribe did not want to pay before Mebodes was driven off. At last he agreed to let Rigord lay a geas on him, compelling him to fetch the treasure once the magician had met his half of the bargain. The spell was quickly and competently cast. Clever Rolf's mercurial hopes began to revive; Rigord knew what he was about. He might well prove a match for Mebodes.
And deep inside, where it did not show, the scribe was chortling. Mebodes' treasure was largely brass, worth a mark and a half at the outside. Rigord would have done better for himself had he been a less steely haggler. That, however, Clever Rolf thought, was Rigord's problem.
When they went back to Argentan, Rigord rode a mule while Clever Rolf walked once more. The wizard's beast had as lackadaisical a disposition as that which he affected, so the scribe, sore feet and all, had no trouble keeping up.
It was almost evening when Rigord's nostrils started twitching; he and Clever Rolf were still a mile or so outside Argentan. The scribe sniffed, too. "Night-blooming jasmine," he said. "We have some of the finest in the duchy."
"Quiet, fool." As it did at need, Rigord's laziness disappeared. "It's the reek of evil sorcery I smell." He paused, considering. "Aye, likely Mebodes. The spells have an eastern flavor to them."
"Spells?" Clever Rolf's fears flooded back. "Are they done?" If they were, he was likely doomed no matter what Rigord did.
The wizard extracted a packet of whitish powder from his robe, poured a little into the palm of one hand. He mumbled an incantation, moving his other hand in small, jerky passes. Then he spat into the powder. It bubbled and turned a faint pink. "Close, but not quite," he told the anxiously waiting scribe. "Were it red, you could visit the undertaker now and save yourself the wait."
"Heh, heh," Clever Rolf said in hollow tones. "By the gods, then, find him and deal with him before it's too late." He had an inspiration. "If you don't, you'll never see his treasure, you know."
That seemed to stir Rigord. He sniffed again, worked a quick divination with a green twig. It hung suspended in the air. "That way," he said, squinting along it. He repeated the divination several times as they got into town. Night had fallen by then; hardly anyone was--in the street to ask questions.
At last the floating twig pointed squarely at a two-story building bigger and finer than most. "He's in there," Rigord said decisively. "On the second floor, by the angle of things, behind that window there--here now, you idiot, what's so funny?"
"Angle of things, forsooth." Clever Rolf had to fight back hysterical laughter. "It's the town bawdy house."
"Is it indeed? So much the better; if Mebodes is with one of the wenches, he'll hardly be minding his wardspells. Like as not, this is what I saw back in my study."
" 'Affairs', eh? So that's what you meant. Well, all right--now nail the bastard."
"Hush," Rigord said absently. He had lit a small lamp and was heating several strong-smelling potions and liquids over it. Then he poured them one after the other into a small, deep silver bowl. A puff of pungent steam rose from it. Clever Rolf sneezed.
"Hush," Rigord said again. He was chanting now, in Iverian dialect so thick Clever Rolf could hardly follow it. The hair rose on the back of the scribe's neck; he could feel the magical force Rigord was concentrating in that bowl.
The wizard's voice went harsh and deep: "Fiery spirit of the void, I summon thee! Come forth, O salamander; come forth, come forth!" A sphere of coruscating flame rose from the silver bowl. It threw sparks--red, gold, white--into the night. Clever Rolf's mouth fell open in awe.
At Rigord's urging, the salamander slowly floated toward the sporting house. It drifted in through the open second-story window. After a moment of silence, twin screams rang out, one soprano and frightened, the other a baritone roar of outrage that changed in mid-cry to a howl of pain.
"You did it! You did it!" Clever Rolf cried. Exhaustion forgotten, he capered about, hugging himself with glee. "I hope your fireball roasts him like a capon!"
"Then you'll likely be disappointed," Rigord said. "Wizards aren't that easy to kill. But you should be rid of him for a while."
As if to prove him right, Mebodes came diving out of the window by which the salamander had entered. He was a sadly different sorcerer from the one who had terrorized Clever Rolf. Landing in the muddy street with a bone-jarring thump, he got to his feet and ran, the salamander in hot--in both the literal and figurative senses of the word--pursuit. Mebodes would have fled faster had he not had to reach down every couple of strides to haul up his unbuttoned breeches. Each time he did, the salamander scorched his bare backside.
Aila appeared at the window through which Mebodes had crashed. "Serves you right," she shouted at him as he vanished into the night. Then she looked down toward Clever Rolf, who was still cheering in the street below. When she recognized him, she said, "Come on up. You can have this one free, for ridding me of that scoundrel." As she was wearing her working clothes--which is to say, nothing much--the invitation's appeal was immediate and urgent.
"Remember the geas," Rigord called to Clever Rolf, but the scribe's hearing could be very selective when he chose.
Afterward, in the comfort of a well-warmed bed, he gave Aila the whole story (though Viviane, had she heard, would have been furious at how small her role was). Aila giggled when he told how he had used Rigord's covetousness against him. "These wizards, they're not so much," he said grandly.
The candle by the bed lured moths and other insects into the little chamber. For the first time in days, Clever Rolf listened to their flutterings and dronings without a sense of panic. Then one buzzed down to settle on his arm. Aila's face twisted with fear. "Rolf," she quavered, "look at its eyes! That's--that's Mebodes' fly!"
The scribe reached out with a thumb and killed the insect, whose eyes were indeed golden like the wizard's.
Aila stared. "How could you--?"
"Nothing simpler, my sweet." He showed her the dead fly; it had no mouthparts. "For one thing, Rigord told me his spell wasn't finished. But I didn't need Rigord to know that. After all"--he leered at her, his sense of his own quick wit at last completely restored--"didn't you just watch Mebodes running away down the street with his fly undone?"