And then it was winter again, the snow swirling about the small dwellings, the magi fighting boredom and cold and hunger, the Field Catalyst huddled in his dwelling, his hands wrapped in rags, reading to himself of the Almin’s great love for his people….
Mosiah’s shoulders slumped, his head bowed. The images he had painted above the crowd dissolved as the Life drained out of the young man. The people regarded him in silence; and, fearfully, Mosiah raised his eyes, expecting to see faces bored, scornful, derisive. Instead he saw puzzlement, wonder, disbelief. These people might have been watching a portrayal of the lives of creatures living on a far distant world instead of humans, like themselves, living on their own.
Mosiah saw Merilon for the first time, truth illuminating the city in his eyes with far greater brilliance than the light of the meek spring sun. These people were locked in their own enchanted realm, willing prisoners in a crystal kingdom of their own manufacture and design. What would happen, Mosiah wondered — looking at them with their costly robes and soft bare feet — if someone would wake up?
Shaking his head, he glanced around in search of Simkin. He wanted to leave, get out of this place. But suddenly people were crowding around him, reaching for his hand, touching him.
“Marvelous, my dear, absolutely marvelous! Such a delightful, primitive style. Colors so natural. How do you achieve it?”
“I’ve been crying like a child! Such quaint ideas, living in trees! Strikingly original. You must come to my next gala …”
“The dead baby. A bit overstated. I prefer more subtle imagery myself. Now when you present that again, I believe I’d change that to … mmmm … a lamb. That’s it! Woman holding dead lamb in her lap. Much more symbolic, don’t you think? And if you altered the scene with the —”
Mosiah stared around, bewildered. Making incoherent replies, he was backing away when a firm hand gripped his arm.
“Simkin!” cried Mosiah thankfully. “I never thought I’d be grateful to see you, but —”
“Flattered, I’m sure, old chap, but you’ve put yourself in rather a bad situation and this is no time to share hugs and kisses,” Simkin said in an urgent whisper.
Mosiah looked around in alarm.
“Over there.” Simkin nodded his head. “No, don’t turn! Two black-robed observers have decided they’re art critics.”
“Name of the Almin!” Mosiah swallowed. “Duuk-tsarith.”
“Yes, and I believe they got a great deal more out of your little exhibition than the tea-and-crumpet set here. They know reality when they see it, and you’ve just proclaimed yourself a Field Magus as blatantly as if you’d sprouted corn out your ears. In fact, that might have been less damaging. I can’t think what put it into your head to do something so inane!” Simkin raised his voice. “I’ll take that under advisement, Countess Darymple. Dinner party a week from Tuesday? I’ll have to look at his schedule. I’m his manager, you see. Now, if you’ll just excuse us a moment — No, Baron, I really can’t say where he conjures up these crude clothes. If you want some like them, try the stables….”
“You were the one who got me into this!” Mosiah reminded him. “Not that it matters now. What are we going to do?” He glanced fearfully at the black hoods hovering on the outskirts of the crowd.
“They’re waiting for the excitement to die down,” Simkin muttered, pretending to fuss with Mosiah’s shirt, yet all the while keeping his gaze fixed on the warlocks. “Then they’ll move in. Do you have any magic left?”
“None.” Mosiah shook his head. “I’m exhausted. I couldn’t melt butter.”
“We may be the ones melting,” Simkin predicted grimly. “What was that, Duke? The dead baby? No, I don’t agree. Shock value. Audible gasps. Women fainting….”
“Simkin, look!” Mosiah felt faint himself with relief. “They’ve gone! Perhaps they weren’t watching!”
“Gone!” Simkin glanced about in increased agitation. “Dear boy, I hate to burst your bubble — it’s so frightfully messy — but that means that they are no doubt standing next to you, hands outstretched —”
“My god!” Mosiah clutched at Simkin’s multicolored sleeve. “Do something!”
“I am,” said Simkin coolly. “I’m going to give them what they want.” He pointed. “You.”
Mosiah’s mouth dropped open. “You bastard,” he began angrily, and stopped in amazement. It was his own sleeve he was hanging onto in a state of panic. It was his own arm beneath that sleeve, the arm was attached to his body. In fact, his own face looked back at him, grinning.
A hubbub of voices started all around him, laughing, exclaiming, crying out in wonder. Dazed, Mosiah turned and saw himself. He saw himself drifting in the air above himself. Everywhere Mosiah looked, in fact, he saw Mosiahs as far as the eye could see.
“Oh, Simkin, this is your best yet!” cried a Mosiah in a distinctly feminine voice. “Look, Geraldine — that is you, isn’t it, Geraldine? We’re dressed in these simply wonderful primitive clothes, and look at these trousers!”
“Play along!” said the Mosiah who Mosiah was holding, giving him a swift poke in the ribs. “This spell won’t last long and it won’t fool them forever! We’ve got to get out of here! I say, Duke! Absolutely brilliant of old Simkin this, what?” said Mosiah in a loud voice. “Play along!” he ordered in an undertone.
“Uh, right, B-baron,” Mosiah stammered in a deep bass, hanging onto what used to be Simkin as his last link with reality.
“Start moving!” Simkin/Mosiah hissed at him, drawing him along toward the exit. “I must go and show this to the Emperor!” he called out. “His Highness simply will not believe what Simkin, that genius, that sheer master of magic, that king of comedy —”
“Don’t overdo it!” Mosiah growled, shoving his way through the throngs of himself that surrounded him.
But he couldn’t make himself heard.
“The Emperor! Let’s go show the Emperor!”
Everyone picked up the cry. Laughing and pushing, Mosiahs began to call for the carriages. Mosiahs conjured up carriages. Some Mosiahs simply vanished. Corridors popped open in multitudes, large holes into nothingness, until the air in the Grove began to resemble rat-gnawed cheese. Mosiahs by the hundreds stepped into these, throwing the Thon-Li, the Corridor Masters, into vast confusion.
“You know,” said Simkin/Mosiah in satisfaction, pulling a bit of orange silk from the air and dabbing at his nose with it, “I am a genius.”
Stepping into a Corridor, he dragged another Mosiah after him. “I say, old chap,” one of the befuddled Thon-Li heard him ask, “that is really you, isn’t it?”
11
On the Run
“Mosiah, that fool!” Joram fumed, packing back and forth. “Why did he leave the house?”
“I think Mosiahs been remarkably patient. After all, you can’t expect him to share your interests in gardening,” Saryon said acidly. “He’s been cooped up in this house for well over a week with nothing to do but read books while you have —”
“All right, all right!” Joram interrupted irritably. “Spare me the sermon.”
Sighing, his brow furrowed in concern, Saryon lay back among his pillows, his hands plucking nervously at the sheets. It was evening. Mosiah had been gone all day, no one knew where. Not that anyone in their host’s household was particularly worried. It was perfectly natural that the young man should get out and see the sights of Merilon.
Joram ate dinner with the family, and though Lord Samuels and Lady Rosamund were polite, they were cold and detached. (Had they known about the incident in the family garden, they might have been decidedly warmer, but Marie kept her young mistress’s secret.) The talk at dinner centered around Simkin. He’d performed a marvelous illusion in Merlyn’s Grove that afternoon. No one knew the details, but it had created a sensation in the city.
“I hope Simkin comes back tomorrow, to escort us to the ball, don’t you, Joram?” Gwendolyn dared address this remark to the young man. Before he
could answer, however, Lord Samuels intervened.
“I think you should go to your room now, Gwen,” he said coolly. “Tomorrow will be a busy day. You need your sleep.”
“Yes, Papa,” Gwen replied, obediently rising from the table and retiring to her room; not, however, without a backward glance at her beloved.
Joram took the opportunity to leave the table as well, saying abruptly that he must return to the catalyst.
Weak but now conscious, Saryon was able to sit up in his bed, and even consume a small amount of broth. The Theldara had visited him in the morning and pronounced him recovered, though she had advised rest, the continuation of the soothing music, aromatic herbs, and the broth of a chicken. She had also hinted strongly that she would be willing to talk about anything the catalyst felt like discussing. Saryon had accepted the music, the herbs, and broth, but had said humbly that he had nothing to discuss. The Theldara had left, shaking her head.
Over and over, Saryon considered his dilemma. In a fevered dream, he saw Joram as the fool in the tarok deck — walking the edge of a cliff, his eyes on the sun above him, while a chasm yawned at his feet. More than once, Saryon started to tell him the truth, to stretch out the hand that would keep him from tumbling over the cliff. But just as he started to do so, he woke up.
“That would open his eyes to the chasm,” the catalyst muttered to himself, “but would he meekly draw back from the edge? No! Prince of Merilon. It would be all he dreamed. And he wouldn’t understand that they would destroy him…. No,” the catalyst decided after endless reflection. “No. I will not tell him. I cannot. What is the worst that will happen to him now? He will meet this Theldara and be revealed as an imposter. Lord Samuels will not want to create a scene at the Palace. I will take Joram and we will leave the Palace quickly and quietly. We will go to Sharakan.”
Saryon had it all figured out, all arranged. And then this … Mosiah disappearing….
“Something’s happened to him!” Joram muttered. “There was all that talk about Simkin at dinner. Some illusion he performed. You don’t suppose Mosiah was with him?”
Saryon sighed. “Who knows. No one in the house saw Mosiah leave. No one’s seen Simkin for days.” He was silent a moment, then he said, “You should leave, Joram. Leave now. If something did happen to him —”
“No!” Joram said sharply, coming to a halt in his pacing and glaring at the catalyst. “I’m too close! Tomorrow night —”
“He’s right, I’m afraid, Joram,” said a voice.
“Mosiah!” Joram said in grim relief, watching as the Corridor opened and his friend stepped out. “Where have you —” his voice died in astonishment as another Mosiah materialized right behind him, this one wearing a bit of orange silk tied around his neck.
“Helps me to tell us apart,” the orange-silk Mosiah said by way of explanation. “I was getting slightly muddled. ’Pon my honor,” he continued languidly, “I’m beginning to find this life of a fugitive from justice quite entertaining.”
“What is this?” Joram demanded, staring at the two in amazement.
“It’s a long story. I’m sorry. I’ve put us all in terrible danger,” Mosiah — the real Mosiah — looked at his friend earnestly. Once in the light, it was easy to tell him from Simkin, even without the orange silk around the neck. His face was pale and strained with fear; there were smudgy shadows beneath his eyes. “They haven’t been here, have they?” he asked, glancing about. “Simkin said they wouldn’t, not while they thought I was in fashion.”
“Who hasn’t been here?” Joram asked, exasperated. “What are you talking about — in fashion?”
“The Duuk-tsarith,” Mosiah answered, barely above a whisper.
“You better tell us what happened, my son,” Saryon said, his voice breaking, fear catching him in the throat.
Hurriedly and somewhat incoherently, his eyes darting around the room, Mosiah told them what had occurred in the Grove of Merlyn. “And there are copies of me everywhere,” he said in conclusion, spreading his hands as though to encompass the world. “Even when Simkin’s illusion began to fade, people started conjuring up the image on their own! I don’t know what the Duuk-tsarith must be doing or thinking …”
“They may be confused for a while,” Saryon said gravely, “but it won’t take them long to recover. Of course, they will have connected you with Simkin. They will go to the Palace first, make discreet inquiries …” He shook his head. “It will be only a matter of time before they find out where you’ve been staying. He is right, Joram, you must leave!”
Seeing Joram’s rebellious face, the catalyst raised a feeble hand. “Hear me out. I’m not saying you should leave the city, though that is what I would most strongly advise. If you are determined to attend the Emperor’s party tomorrow —”
“I am.”
“Then, stay in Merilon. But at least leave this house tonight. It would be a pity,” Saryon added, asking the god he no longer believed in to forgive him his lie, “to come so close to gaining your inheritance, then to lose it through lack of caution. I think —”
“Very well! Perhaps you are right,” Joram broke in impatiently. “But where could I hide? And what about you?”
“You could hide where we’ve been hiding all day — the Grove of Merlyn,” said Simkin. “Bored to tears, too, I might add.”
“I’ll be all right here,” Saryon said. “As Father Dunstable, I am the safest of any of you. My leaving, in fact, would look extremely suspicious. As it is, perhaps I can throw them off the trail.”
“I don’t know why you’re all worried about our bald friend here,” Simkin remarked, his very mustache drooping with gloom. “It’s me who should be depressed! I’ve started a new fashion trend that I find personally disgusting! Everyone in court is dressed like he planned to go out wallowing with pigs or mucking about in the beans.”
“We should be going,” Mosiah said, fidgeting nervously. “I have the feeling I’m being watched by eyes I can’t see, touched by hands I can’t feel! It’s getting on my nerves. But I don’t think we should hide in the Grove. I think we should leave the city. Now. Tonight. We can travel safely tonight. There are still hundreds of me running around. Simkin can change us all into Mosiahs. We could slip out the Gate in the confusion.”
“No!” Joram said impatiently, turning away.
But Mosiah moved to stand in front of his friend, so that Joram was forced to confront him.
“This place isn’t for us,” Mosiah said earnestly. “It’s beautiful and it’s wonderful but … it isn’t any of it real! These people aren’t real! I know I’m not explaining this very well …” he hesitated, thinking, “But when I created the images of our home, the illusions of our friends and families seemed more alive to me than the living people watching!”
“The people are like their seasons here in Merilon,” Saryon said softly, his eyes staring at the ceiling. “It is always spring for them. Their hearts are as green and hard as the buds of a young tree. They have never blossomed in the summer, nor given fruit in the fall. They have never felt the touch of winter’s chill winds to give them strength….”
Joram glanced from Mosiah to Saryon, his gaze dark. “A Field Magus who’s a catalyst and a catalyst who’s a poet,” he muttered.
“You always have me,” said Simkin cheerfully. Going over to the harp, he proceeded to disrupt the spell surrounding it and began to play a gay dance tune that set the taut nerves of everyone in the room vibrating. “I’m the fixed point of insanity in any sane situation. Many people find this comforting.”
“Stop that!” Angrily, Mosiah placed his hands over the harpstrings. “You’ll wake the whole house!”
Joram shook his head. “It doesn’t matter what you say. I’m not going. And neither are you,” he added, his dark gaze turning to Mosiah. “Tomorrow night, my identity will be established. I will become Baron Fitzgerald, then no one can touch any of us!”
Flinging his arms wide in exasperation, Mosiah looked at
Saryon pleadingly. “Isn’t there anything you can say, Father, to convince him?”
“No, my son,” the catalyst replied in quiet sorrow. “I’m afraid not. I’ve tried …”
Mosiah stood silently a moment, his head bowed in thought. Then he held out his hand to Joram. “Goody-bye, my friend. I’m leaving. I’m going back home. I miss it —”
“No, you’re not!” snapped Joram tensely, ignoring the hand held out to him. “You can’t go yet. It’s too dangerous. Lay low, for one more day. I’ll come with you to this Grove, if that will make you happy.” He glanced at the catalyst. “And by tomorrow night, everything will, be fine! I know it!” His fist clenched.
Mosiah drew a deep breath. “Joram,” he said sadly, staring out the window into the moonlit garden. “I really want to go home —”
“And I want you to stay,” Joram interrupted, catching hold of Mosiahs shoulder. “I’m not much better at saying things than you are,” he said in a low voice. “You’ve been my friend ever since I can remember. You were my friend when I didn’t want one. I did … I’ve done everything I could to drive you away.” His hands tightened their grip on Mosiah, as though now fearful to let go. “But, somewhere deep inside me, I —”
A discordant twang came from the harp. “Beg pardon,” said Simkin, shamefacedly grabbing the strings to silence them. “Must have nodded off.”
Joram bit his lip, his face flushed. “Anyway,” he continued, speakng now with an effort, “I want you to stay and see this through with me. Besides,” he added with an attempt at lightness that failed completely in the tense atmosphere, “how can I get married, without you at my side? Where you’ve always been …” His voice died. Abruptly, Joram withdrew his hands and turned away. “But you do what you want,” he said gruffly, staring out the window in his turn.
Mosiah was silent, staring at his friend in wonder. He cleared his throat. “I — I guess one more day … wouldn’t matter so much,” he said huskily.
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