During Alfaro’s third taking of the air, he realized that chance had granted him an opportunity he had come near failing to recognize.
He was inside Boumergarth, with a rowdy mob, all of whom would be equally suspect if The Book of Changes went missing.
3
Among Alfaro Morag’s gifts was a near eidetic memory. First time through Ildefonse’s library, he touched nothing. He examined spines, read titles where those were in languages he recognized, and, so, had nothing in hand when Ildefonse caught him staring at a set of slim volumes purportedly written by Phandaal of Grand Motholam.
“Morag?”
“Preceptor? I overstepped, surely, but I can’t help being awed. I might suspect that there is no other library as extensive as yours. Already I’ve noted three books my teachers assured me were lost forever.”
“You suspect wrong, Morag. As you often do, to no great disadvantage to yourself yet. There are much grander collections, all even more direly protected.” Ildefonse was in a bleak mood. “Return to the solarium. Do not roam unescorted. Even I don’t remember all the traps set to take an interloper.”
Alfaro did not doubt that. Neither did he doubt Alfaro Morag’s ability to cope with petty snares.
He followed Ildefonse to the salon, where the older magicians formed ever-changing groups of three or four. Knowing smirks came his way, from faces capable of smirking.
A servant in livery boasting several shades of orange on dark violet blue entered. “Should Your Lordships be interested, an historic solar event appears to be developing. It can be best viewed from the upper veranda.”
The magicians topped up their drinks and climbed to the veranda, impelled by the servant’s intensity.
The fat old sun had completed a third of its descent toward the western horizon. It revealed a portentous case of acne, a dozen blotches that swirled and scurried around its broad face. Some collided and formed larger blemishes, while new blackheads developed elsewhere. Soon a quarter of the red face was hidden behind a shape-shifting dark mask.
“Is this it?” someone asked. “Has the end finally come?”
The sun flickered, grew by perhaps a tenth, then shuddered and shook it all off. It returned to its usual size. The blotches dispersed. The smallest sank into the dark red fire.
Hours fled while the magicians remained transfixed by the drama.
Ildefonse began to issue orders. His staff unfroze. He announced, “The lower limb of the sun will reach the horizon within the hour. I have ordered my largest whirlaway readied. Let us go. Young Morag will guide us to the point where he spotted his untimely marvel.”
Apparently at random, Gilgad remarked, “The sun has developed a green topknot. And tail.” An eventuation apparent only to his unique eye. He dropped the matter quickly.
4
Ildefonse’s largest whirlaway was a palace in itself. Alfaro was hard pressed to conceal his envy.
As yet, he had no clear idea why the magicians were interested in Moadel. They ignored his questions. They were not pleased, that was plain. They were nervous. Some might even be frightened. More than a few sent dark looks Alfaro’s way, sure that he was a taunting liar working a confidence scheme.
Only Ildefonse spoke to him, and that with obvious distaste. “The sun will be behind Amuldar shortly. Where do I situate us?”
“Amuldar? I thought it was Moadel.”
“Amuldar is the place. Moadel was the artist.”
“Oh.” Alfaro had spent some energy seeking an alternative to admitting that he had been near Boumergarth. He had come up with nothing. Nor was it likely that any disclaimer would be accepted. Ildefonse had dropped hints enough.
Morag delivered the true ranges and bearings.
He would build an image of honest cooperation. That might prove useful should flexibility be called for later. “It’s difficult to judge from so grand a standpoint but I would move a hundred yards back from the Scaum and rise half a dozen.”
The palatial conveyance adjusted its position, possibly in response to the Preceptor’s thoughts.
“Here. This is almost exactly…”
“Excellent.” With an undertone suggesting that Alfaro Morag had won a stay.
Alfaro had spent little time with the elder magicians since his advent in Ascolais. Now he suspected that they were deeper than they pretended. And were very clever at making outsiders feel small.
5
The tips of the spires and bulbous towers of Amuldar rose stark black against the sun, seeming to climb it. Beforehand, the magicians had been indifferent. Now they were interested. Some dramatically so.
Ildefonse and Rhialto lined the rail of the promenade. Alfaro leaned against that rail between them. Rhialto mused, “We may have misjudged our new associate.”
“Possibly.” Ildefonse seemed to doubt that.
“I, for one, am pleased. This could be a splendid opportunity. Alfaro, tell us more.”
“There’s nothing to tell that hasn’t been told.”
“Indeed? So. Why go home and contact Ildefonse rather than investigate?”
“I am neither a fast thinker nor particularly courageous in the face of something that should not be.”
Ildefonse said, “Any of these starry old bull erbs would have swarmed straight in, hoping to strike it rich.”
Alfaro noted that Zahoulik-Khuntze and Herark the Harbinger, both, had developed a furtive manner. Nor were his immediate companions demonstrating their customary flash and bravura.
Panderleou presented himself. “Ildefonse, I have recalled a critical experiment I left active in my laboratory. Return to Boumergarth. I must get home quickly.”
“And thence, whither?” Rhialto inquired.
“This is no time for your superior airs and snide mockeries, Rhialto. Preceptor! I insist.”
“Dearest Panderleou, companion of my youth, you are entirely free to come and go as you will.”
“A concept exceedingly appealing but one you have rendered impracticable.”
The sun declined behind Hazur. The after light revealed no sign of Amuldar. Nothing could be seen but a brace of pelgrane circling.
With little expectation of a useful answer, Alfaro asked, “Will someone tell me something, now? Anything?”
Ildefonse said, “We will honor Panderleou’s request. I set course for Boumergarth. After a suitable evening repast, we will repair to the library, research, and consider what actions we should take or should not take tomorrow.”
The grand whirlaway soared, leaned, swept away across the dying light. The hundred colorful banners dressing its extremities cracked in the passing air.
6
A scramble commenced as the whirlaway docked. Most of the magicians rushed the buffet, determined to further deplete the Preceptor’s larder. A few fled to the lawn and their conveyances. Those returned in a squawking gaggle, righteously outraged.
Ildefonse said, “After protracted soul-searching, I suffered a change of heart. Prudence demands that we remain together and face the future with a uniform plan and resolute purpose.”
Mune the Mage, mouth filled with lark’s liver croquets, observed, “The most salubrious course would be to continue the exact policy pursued since the incident of Fritjof’s Drive. Ignore Amuldar.”
A strong minority were swift to agree.
Herark the Harbinger declared, “I put that into the form of a motion. Though it would seem that Amuldar inexplicably survives, it has offered no provocation since the age of Grand Motholam. Let sleeping erbs lie.” The Harbinger had not yet recovered his color. Alfaro feared the man might have caught some dread scent drifting in from the future.
Rhialto said, “An admirable strategy, tainted by a single flaw. When Alfaro became aware of Amuldar, Amuldar became aware of Alfaro.”
Morag enjoyed a barrage of dark looks. These magicians seldom let reason sweep them away.
“When we went out to learn the truth of Alfaro’s sighting, Amuldar sensed us looking.
Te Ratje knows we know.”
“Unacceptable,” Panderleou declared.
And Herark, “I call for a vote of censure against Alfaro Morag, the penalty to include confiscation of all his possessions.”
Ildefonse stepped in. “Control yourselves. Alfaro is but the messenger. In any event, did he possess anything of merit someone would have taken it for safekeeping already.”
Alfaro suffered a chill. This might be an ideal time to refill his pockets and hurry home, then move on, perhaps into the wastes beyond the Land of the Falling Wall.
Herark grumbled, “Will no one second either of my motions?”
No. But Haze of Wheary Water, leaves again in a ruff, offered, “I make a motion that Ildefonse, Rhialto, and others with the apposite knowledge, render the rest of us fully cognizant of the truths concerning Amuldar, being candid in all respects and reserving no salient point.”
“Hear! Hear!” from a dozen throats. The young insisting on knowing what the old had gotten them into.
Alfaro, having heard no actual second, declared, “I second the motion offered by the esteemed Haze.”
The “Hear! Hear!” chorus gave way to protests of Alfaro’s audacious conceit. He had no standing.
“Quiet,” Ildefonse said. “I have another second from Byzant.”
Startled, the Necrope turned his back to the buffet and glared at the Preceptor.
“Panderleou, you were in the front rank at Fritjof’s Drive. You have an agile tongue. Tell the tale. Cleave close to the truth. Neither fanciful embellishment nor self-effacing modesty are appropriate.”
Sourly, Panderleou suggested, “Let Rhialto tell it. He was nearer the action than I.”
Ildefonse demurred. “Rhialto was too near. And, as we well know, Rhialto holds himself too dear to relate any story involving Rhialto with precise accuracy.”
Morag smiled. Even Rhialto’s closest crony had reservations about his character.
Sullen, Panderleou growled, “All right. Gather round. I’ll tell this once, touching only the critical moments.”
The magicians gathered. Those with only two hands had difficulty managing their food and wine. And Ildefonse was of that inhospitable breed who did not allow guests to use magic inside his house. Which could explain his continued robust health.
Panderleou said, “At some undetermined point in the 16th Aeon, the first Great Magician rose, Te Ratje of Agagino, who may have been greater than Phandaal himself. Long gone, he is recalled only in footnotes in the most ancient tomes, where his name is inevitably misspelled Shinarump, Vrishakis, or Terawachy.”
Panderleou headed for the buffet.
Ildefonse cleared his throat. “Panderleou, that was far too spare for those unacquainted with the name or situation.”
Panderleou grumbled, “I blame modern education. Very well. In his day, Te Ratje was known as the Good Magician. All magic, he claimed, was a gift that should be used to benefit mankind as a whole. In his self-righteousness, he was more objectionable than is Rhialto in his egotism. He was smug, he was absolute, he was too much to endure. His fellow magicians concluded that an intervention was necessary. Te Ratje’s eyes had to be opened. In consequence, much of the earth was burned clean of life. A wave of emigration took most of the survivors to the stars. Their descendants return occasionally, so changed we fail to see them as human.”
Alfaro scanned faces. None of the magicians resented that remark.
“This was in the time of Grand Motholam. Many magicians since have wondered how Valdaran the Just, a mere politician, could have decimated the mages of Grand Motholam. The answer is, Te Ratje, the Good Magician. In the end, though, Te Ratje and his perambulating city were extinguished. Or driven into the demon dimensions. Valdaran succumbed to time’s bite. The Earth went back to being what it always was, absent a few hundred million people.”
“Until today,” Ildefonse observed. He gestured. Amuldar reappeared. “Moadel painted this after Te Ratje disappeared. From a dream, he said. From a time mirage haunting the dreamlands, Vermoulian said at the time.”
Vermoulian the Dream-walker pulled a thrush’s drumstick out of his mouth. “I did advise you that I had found no trace of any such dream when Moadel made his claim.”
“Yes, you did. I was complaisant. Te Ratje was no longer under foot. Evidence sufficient to consider the problem solved.”
Alfaro tried to think himself beneath notice. He was at risk of being swept up in a quarrel that harkened to an ancient confrontation between vigorous rectitude and a relaxed attitude toward corruption.
The past might have come back.
Alfaro worried that it might bite him, too.
7
Once Boumergarth was a palace of vast extent. The countless towers and rooms—some in realities not of Earth—were fading with their master. Ildefonse was nearing his dotage, despite the mysteries spun by Lutung Kasarung. Or had lost his taste for the grand show. When guests were not present, he and his staff lived no better than common tradesmen, in a fraction of Boumergarth. Heroic expenditures of effort had been needed to provide for the current infestation.
It was, indeed, tempting misfortune to roam Boumergarth without Ildefonse. Who, occasionally, fell prey to his own forgotten snares.
So Alfaro learned in discourse with Ildefonse’s staff, during a night when sleep proved hard to secure. During a night when discontent plagued the full company.
Ildefonse was determined to deal with Amuldar as soon as daylight drove more mundane dangers into forests and caves.
The breakfast buffet was basic. Fuel for a hard day’s work.
Why go gourmet for the condemned?
By way of elevating spirits, the Preceptor announced, “I deployed my sandestins during the night. Expect a dead city, if we find anything more than a time mirage. Te Ratje detected would have acted by now. His recollections of us would be less affectionate than ours of him. So. One last sup of wine, and away!”
The magicians arrived on the lawn in a grumbling scrum, only to be disappointed again. Ildefonse did grant leave for individuals to provide their own transport. Woefully, that transport would proceed exclusively to the destination the Preceptor chose.
Most whirlaways used a minor demon called a sandestin to move them about. The Preceptor had suborned those with threats and loose talk of a release of indenture points, which were within his power to award.
He told Rhialto, “Lead the way, with young Alfaro. I will come last, sweeping up stragglers.”
Alfaro thought Rhialto approached this morning with no more enthusiasm than did Panderleou or Zahoulik-Khuntze. Both continued to plead a pressing need to attend to business at home.
Ildefonse, from behind, shouted, “Each of you came to Boumergarth armed with several spells. I hope that, collectively, we’re armed with a broad variety.”
“Spells?” Alfaro gobbled. “I didn’t…Why would…”
Rhialto looked at him with what might have been pity. If not disdain. Assuming that was not just the wind in his eyes.
8
The magicians neared Hazur. Ildefonse relaxed control. They buzzed round the headland like giant gnats. Alfaro remained near Rhialto, keeping that magician between himself and the haunted country the best he could.
Magicians sparking about attracted attention, first from the road hugging the far bank of the Scaum, then from above. Yonder, travelers stopped to gawk. Above, the activity attracted pelgrane, monsters remotely descended of men. Their slow brains understood that all that sweet meat bobbing around Hazur could be deadly. Ao of the Opals underscored the point with his Excellent Prismatic Spray.
The gallery beyond the river roared approval when a hundred scintillant light spears pierced a too daring pelgrane. Sizzling, the monster plunged toward the Scaum.
The magicians closed with the headland, which consisted of rocky ground strewn with deadwood and clusters of stunted brush.
Ildefonse called to Rhialto, “Do you apprehend any cause to avoid the Forthr
ight Option of Absolute Clarity?”
“It costs but a spell to try. Though it is absolute. And unlikely to have a broad impact on a target as grand as Amuldar.”
The Preceptor made sure none of the magicians were slinking away. He whispered. His whirlaway plunged toward the forest choking the approaches to Hazur. He curved round above the treetops and hurled his spell.
The Forthright Option was new to Alfaro. Few magicians used it because it banished all illusion, not just what the spell caster wanted brushed aside.
The air coruscated. A patch an acre in extent became the flank of a transparent dome rising from barren rock. A city lay behind that patch.
The orbiting magicians swooped in to look.
The Preceptor preened.
Rhialto told Alfaro, “That took the aeons off. He’s a boy again.”
Morag was more interested in the city. The not-mirage.
Nothing moved there. There was no obvious decay, but the place had the look of having been abandoned to vermin and dust for ages.
For aeons, Alfaro reminded himself. Meaning there were potent sustaining spells at work.
The older magicians, so recently determined to attend interests elsewhere, now chattered brightly of what might be unearthed here.
Terror had been forgotten. Greed reigned. There was much snickering at the certain disappointment soon to grip those who had failed to respond to Ildefonse’s summons.
The Preceptor observed, “Once again avarice trumps caution.”
Alfaro saw something. “There! Did you see?”
“What?”
“A blue moth. It was huge.”
Ildefonse said, “Blue was not Te Ratje’s favorite color.”
“An understatement,” said Rhialto. “Te Ratje appears to be out of patience. He is ready for the test direct.”
Songs of the Dying Earth Page 49