“So? Bring him here; I’ll question him myself.”
“I’ll question him,” Arneth answered mildly. “Tonight. If he raises my suspicions, I’ll bring him to you.”
“And I will bring him to face Valoren Greye; that should satisfy even the king.” He stirred edgily, fussed a paper straight on his desk. “If this were not mystery enough, now we have a gardener.”
“A gardener.”
“Who may or may not be a formidable wizard. No one seems to know, not even the gardener.”
“Do you want me to question him, too?” Arneth asked, baffled.
“You haven’t questioned anybody yet,” his father said peevishly.
“I have spoken to the magician’s daughter. And I explored a little of her world when she wasn’t looking. I saw only the tools of the trade of any competent trickster, things that, seen by the light of day, would never be recognized as magical.”
Lord Pyt grunted, unconvinced. “I want a full explanation of him. Where he was born, where he has traveled, where he learned his tricks.”
“You will have it.”
“You can’t even tell me what he looks like.”
This was true, so Arneth ignored it. “I should go,” he said, feeling the restless rhythms of the Twilight Quarter pulling at him, as daylight withdrew from the streets, and night spilled behind it over the cobblestones.
“If you suspect him,” Lord Pyt said as he left, “come to me at once. I will have him put out of Kelior at dawn tomorrow while the Twilight Quarter sleeps.”
Arneth, instead of sneaking in the back door of the warehouse, took a place early in front of the stage where anyone, taking a peep between the threadbare curtains, could see him. Someone did. Before the warehouse began to fill, the dancer came out to him. He recognized her smile, with its broken front tooth, and smiled back at her.
“You see, I was right,” she told him cheerfully, “about you. You have a street warden’s eyes.”
“I must remember to wear someone else’s eyes when I come here.”
“You’ll have to wear someone else’s heart, too, then, for that is where you begin to see. Mistral sent me to bring you in; she is with Tyramin, helping him dress. You must promise to turn a blind eye at all he wears, though, because he carries many of his tricks up his sleeves.”
She led him through the little maze of corridors and rooms behind their stage, where once, Arneth assumed, merchants locked away their most precious goods and tallied their wares. At the end of a long hallway, where grimy panes overlooked the dark river, she opened the last door. Arneth saw Tyramin again, this time with arms and legs, looking oddly undersized for the great head that turned away from its reflection in the mirror toward him.
“Father,” said the magician’s daughter, “this is Arneth Pyt, warden of the Twilight Quarter. I promised him that he could ask you some questions.”
The head gave a deep, hollow chuckle. “So I have unnerved the king himself with my great powers.”
“You’ve caused speculation,” Arneth said. “May I see your face?”
The head consulted his daughter and sighed. “Must you? It takes us an hour to attach the mask properly. You see the hooks and loops.”
“We have no time to put it on again,” Mistral explained, showing Arneth the edge of silk at the neck that was attached, by means of what looked like a hundred tiny hooks, to the neck of Tyramin’s shirt. “And I have to pad his shoulders, and his legs, get his boots on, and fill his sleeves with everything he uses.”
“Like what?” Arneth asked curiously. She showed him two boxes, one for each dark, voluminous sleeve, of fake birds, paper flowers, gold coins minted out of tin, silk butterflies, other assorted oddments for making noise, Arneth guessed, and spitting fire.
“And then,” she added, “I must dress myself.”
Indeed, she wore her plainest face, Arneth saw, with its tired shadows and her hair pulled severely back. But she could not disguise those eyes, he thought, nor that deep, charming voice. Even her least remarkable face held a calm, graceful strength, and the promise of what, under the magician’s fires, it could become.
He found himself smiling at it and composed his own face, wondering at himself. For a moment he felt the magician’s attention; the flat darkness of the painted eyes seemed to study him. Then the great head turned back to the mirror, and Mistral began to tie stuffed pads of silk along his shoulders.
“Ask away,” Tyramin said. “What does the king want to know?”
“Where were you born?”
“I was born in a village in western Numis. The magician Tyramin came to life in a desert kingdom far south of Numis, one blazing summer when I had a wife, a tiny daughter, and no money whatsoever. I borrowed a mask, slipped a few odd things into my pockets, and became Tyramin, Master of Illusions and Enchantments.”
“You invented all your tricks?”
“Every one of them. They are my art, my toys, the delights of my heart’s conception. In other words, I enjoy what I do, and strive unceasingly to outdo myself with wonders always more wonderful than the last.”
“You did not study with mages or wizards in other lands?”
“No one with true power would take me seriously.”
“The king does.”
Tyramin shrugged. “He has no power. He fears illusions.” He gestured, opening his arm, and then his hand. A butterfly rested in his palm, its wings gently moving to his breath.
“Father, you have no time,” Mistral murmured. She coaxed one foot into a huge boot. Tyramin closed his hand, opened it again; the butterfly was gone.
“A trick. Something to charm the eye, bring a smile. Nothing more.” He settled himself into the other boot, then balanced himself and grew until the great mask loomed suddenly over Arneth. Mistral dropped oddments into the inner pockets of a long, black silk cloak and held it up to him. He tied it at his neck, settled the darkness around him. Arneth blinked at the burly giant with his secret face, fire up his sleeves, his pockets full of mysteries. Looking down at him, Tyramin laughed, a huge, buffeting sound that seemed to echo through the corridors and continue into the streets to become the night laughter of the Twilight Quarter.
“Illusion,” the magician said.
Mistral opened the door. Arneth felt the questions in his head, scattered like a swarm of indigo butterflies, suddenly transformed by the magician’s enchantment into one. He followed the magician’s daughter and the echo of the laughter down the hallways to the stage, where as he passed through the curtain it spilled over him again from the crowd overflowing the warehouse.
Who, he asked the illusion on its way to entertain them, is behind your mask?
TEN
Walking toward the tower steps in the early afternoon on his way to teach, Yar caught an unexpected glimpse of Ceta through the open doors of the library. He did not hesitate; his waiting students could ‘wait another moment. He slipped into the chair next to her at the long table; she brought her attention out of the faded lines of what he recognized as Od’s handwriting, blinked at him, and smiled.
“What are you doing here?” he asked softly.
“I’m reading what Od wrote about her labyrinth.” She showed him her notes; he saw her copy of the little thumbnail sketch that Od had made of it. “Which is not much at all; she scarcely does more than mention it in passing, here. Is there a piece of writing I’ve missed?”
“That’s all we have. The royal library might have something more.”
“I looked there,” she said. “I only found something that I wasn’t looking for. But nothing more about the labyrinth. Will you have time to take me through it this afternoon?”
“Are you sure you want to go, in view of its peculiarities? Who knows where you’ll find yourself?”
“Yar, I can’t believe that Od didn’t know it undergoes such changes.” She tapped the little map. “This is what she says it looks like.”
“The changes are well documented; the librarian will
show you all the complaints about it.”
“I want to see it for myself.”
“Then I’ll take you,” he promised, “it you want to wait for me.” He rose. “I’d better go.”
“Wait.” Her fingers brushed his wrist, and he stood still. “Just let me show you something. I found it in a cobwebby corner of the royal library. I think I understand it, but I don’t know what it means or how important it is.” He sank down into the chair again, watching the play of her dark brown hair against the light blue and gold of her flowing silks as she took a scroll out of her notecase and opened it. Several students at another table were watching her raptly as well, Yar noticed.
He leaned close, read over her shoulder as she whispered to him: “‘I went again to Skrygard Mountain. The sun does not go there, so you would never notice that they cast no shadows on the snow. Unless you shed a light and looked for shadow. Something drove them into hiding. Into waiting. To this place. I do not know yet if they are of Numis or of other lands. Maybe I can make a path for them back into the world if we can begin to understand each other.’”
Ceta stopped, gazed at Yar with raised brows. “What is she talking about?”
He was silent, grappling with various strange images. “It’s like a riddle,” he breathed. “What is it that casts no shadow?”
“Well, what does? Or doesn’t?”
He shrugged slightly, baffled. “Something that doesn’t wish to be seen.”
“But what are they?”
“I don’t know. In my world, it takes magic not to cast a shadow.”
“Skrygard Mountain is in the north country. It’s a cold, craggy, bleak place, uninhabited except by mountain goats and eagles. I’ve never heard anything more mysterious about it than that.”
“When was this written?”
“Several centuries ago, I would guess, from references she makes in it of other journeys, lands she visits for the first time. Yar, could the path she wants to make for them have anything to do with the labyrinth?”
“I don’t know,” he said again. “It seems unlikely. Maybe, in another scroll, she rescues those strange beings.”
“Maybe in yet another, she explains them.” Ceta rolled the scroll carefully; still she left a trail of fragments like bread crumbs on the table. “I’ll keep looking.”
He rose, kissed her cheek swiftly, ignoring the intake of breath across the room. “I must go. I’ll come back as soon as I can.”
The odd image she had put into his head, of power and age and great fear, accompanied him up the tower steps, and even through his classes, lingering at the edge of his thoughts as the mysterious beings themselves waited endlessly at the edge of shadow.
He dismissed his students at the end of the afternoon, and his thoughts turned again to Ceta. As usual, Elver lingered after class with a question, a comment, a passage in a book he didn’t understand. Yar, packing up books and papers in his leather case to take with him to Ceta’s, found Elver underfoot everywhere he turned. He seemed determined to be annoying, his thin face alight, intent, as he worried a point of argument like a bone.
“But how does the king keep his power over the wizards if he himself has no power?”
“The king chooses wizards as counselors and protectors; they guard his power for him.”
“But what if they rebel against him?”
“They are trained in this school; those of such conniving or restless temperament rarely finish a year here, if they even make it through the gates. And they are closely watched throughout their lives.”
“But—” Elver, close as a shadow, dodged out of Yar’s way as he turned abruptly to reach for a book. The students had been discussing the history and methods of magic earlier that day. Most, having followed fathers, siblings, cousins, through the gates, were familiar with the close connection between king and school, the power of state and the power of magic. Nobody bothered to question it but Elver, who seemed to have followed his nose through the gates. “But if the wizards in other lands learn different ways of magic that are forbidden here, they could attack the king, and no one could stop them.”
“Magic itself is not forbidden; methods of learning it are forbidden. You may not study magic outside of this school, for instance, without the permission of the king, or without the advice and guidance of someone who has studied here and passed through the wizards’ gates into the world again. Elver, these are all good questions—”
“So—”
“And I wish you would—”
“But what if—”
“I wish you would save them for discussion when we are with the other students.”
“They don’t care,” Elver said with such offhanded accuracy that Yar stopped to gaze at him. Elver, pursuing his thought, nearly bumped into him. “They only want to know what the rules are so they can follow them. That’s what the king wants, isn’t it? Wizards who follow his rules?”
“Yes.”
“What if they change their minds after they are trained?”
Yar looked at him silently, wondering if the boy had been catching at the drift of his own thoughts. “Then,” he answered grimly, “they face the very formidable powers of king and school together.”
“But why—”
“Elver—”
“But why do wizards become subject to the king in the first place? Od was far more powerful than King Isham. She rescued the king from his enemies; she saved the king’s realm for him. She could have taken Numis from Isham and ruled it herself. Why didn’t she?”
“Because she was—still is—a very great wizard. Great wizards pursue knowledge and magic, not power. They are never content with what they know, what they possess. They search constantly for the farthest boundaries of magic, moving at whim across the world and pushing those borders farther if they can. They are not confined by the boundaries of a king’s power, nor by any law except the laws of magic, which are exacting and as compelling as any king’s.”
He stopped. Elver, eyeing him curiously, commented, “You don’t say such things in class.”
Yar sighed. “Of course not. The students are trained only to work for the king.” He tied the fastenings on his case, slung it over one shoulder. “I must go. Someone is waiting for me in the library. Raise the question in class if you want,” he added recklessly. “It might be interesting to hear what your fellow students say.”
“I know what they’ll say. I’ve already asked them. They say things are the way they are because that’s the way they are.”
Yar chuckled, shepherding Elver toward the open door, and found, as they reached it, Valoren taking shape suddenly and noiselessly on the threshold in front of them.
Elver backed up, startled, stepping on Yar, who took one look into Valoren’s eyes and slid the case off his shoulder. He gave Elver a gentle nudge. “Go,” he said, and Valoren, without taking his eyes off Yar, stepped aside to let him out.
“Master Balius suggested that I keep an eye on Elver,” he told Yar when the boy had vanished. “I found him with you when I got here, so I decided to listen to what he had to say for himself.”
“The boy has a flexible and inquisitive mind.”
“Master Balius suggested that he might have a dangerous mind. He knows more than he should, and he is unruly. You,” he added, “seem to encourage him.”
“He asks,” Yar said tersely. “I answer. That’s what I do here. Give him some time; he’ll lose his flexibility and conform like everyone else.”
“Perhaps,” Valoren murmured. “But why put ideas into his head that will never be possible except for Od?”
“It was an ideal I had once. A glimpse of possibilities.” He saw no dawn of comprehension in the younger wizard’s eyes, only the stubborn refusal to admit that there was anything to see. “You, I take it, were never troubled by such dreams.”
“I have all I dreamed of having,” Valoren said simply. “My place in King Galin’s court, his confidence and trust, and his daughter. I don�
�t need to dream.” He paused, asked Yar curiously, “Do you, still? You have your reputation, a life of respected work and comfort here, your place in my cousin’s affections. Do you still dream of more?”
“What more could I dream of,” Yar asked him with no irony whatsoever, “in Numis?”
“I’m not sure,” Valoren answered slowly. “It occurred to me to wonder.”
“Why? Why are you wondering about my life?”
“I’ll let King Galin tell you,” Valoren said without a flicker of expression. “He is waiting for you in Wye’s chambers.”
The king’s own expressive face resembled a mottled seething pot of something about to boil over. Wye stood behind her vast worktable, her face drained of color and covered with a delicate lacework of lines. Gazing helplessly at Yar, she started to speak.
But the king, staring at Yar himself, said abruptly, “I know you.”
“Yes, my lord,” Yar said, for the king knew everyone who taught in his school. “Yar Ayrwood.”
“No.” The ire was banked; the colorful mottling in Galin’s face lessened a little. “I remember. You were that young man out of nowhere who rescued Kelior from the monster.”
“Yes, my lord. I was that young man, once.”
“Yar also entered the door beneath the cobbler’s shoe,” Valoren reminded the king, and Yar blinked. He met Wye’s eyes very briefly, saw the apology in them.
“I take it,” he said ruefully, “this is about the gardener.”
“Wye told us that you met him first when he came in,” the king said. He was controlling his temper because of Yar’s legendary act and his blameless reputation. But it still bubbled, Yar sensed, and would spill if Galin was not happy with the answers he received.
Wye spoke quickly. “My lord, I am responsible for his silence and your ignorance.”
“No, you’re not,” Yar said. “I am responsible for my own silence.”
“It was at my request,” Wye said stubbornly, and succeeded only in fanning the flames.
“He has a mouth,” Galin said pithily. “He should have opened it. Who exactly is this gardener of remarkable, untrained power who was sent under the cobbler’s shoe by Od?”
Od Magic Page 11