"A princess!" The Count stared, round-eyed. "Then he is a king—or will be?"
"No, my lord . . . " How could he phrase this? Her line does not reign, Magnus.
"No," Magnus went on, with relief, "for her line will not reign."
"A cadet branch." The count nodded. "Then he will be a duke."
"Its equivalent, my lord, for he has won his own title by service to the reigning monarch."
"What title is that?" the Countess asked. Magnus swallowed and took the plunge. "Lord High Warlock."
"Odd." The Count took it without batting an eye. "But autre temps, autre moeurs. Each culture has its own Weltanschauung, its own world-view, and its own titles. If he is the High Warlock, then you, no doubt, are only Lord Warlock?"
Magnus stood a moment, staring. Say yes, Magnus.
"Why . . . quite so! How perceptive of you, milord."
"It is only reason." The old man was obviously pleased by the flattery. "And how does my nephew?"
"He is in good health, milord." A shadow crossed the Count's face, and Magnus hastened to add, "At least, at the moment."
"Ah." The Count nodded. "His old malaise, eh?"
"I . . . cannot say," Magnus floundered. "He has not spoken of it."
"His mind, boy, his mind!" the old man said impatiently. "The family's mental instability! Though he showed it less than most—only in a bit of paranoia, and a frantic need to leave the planetoid."
The second, Magnus was already beginning to understand, and he didn't think it had anything to do with mental illness. As to the first, however . . . "I regret to say that his paranoia has increased, my lord."
"Ah." The Count nodded, satisfied. "He has his good days, though, eh?"
"Yes, milord—and on one of them, he sent his best wishes to you, his uncle, and asked that I bring word of you."
"He shall have it, have a letter! Which shall tell him of my delight at his good fortune, and his accomplishments! I was sure he had been a credit to the family! But this planet he has made his home, young man—what of it, eh?" When Magnus hesitated, he said, "You may tell me—I am cleared for the highest level of security." He gestured impatiently at a waiting butler. "Show him the documents, Hiram."
"No, milord—'tis not necessary!" Magnus said quickly. "He hath come—uh, has come—to a Lost Colony, one named Gramarye. You . . . knew of his, ah, affiliation?"
"That he had become an agent of SCENT? Yes, yes," the old man said impatiently. "And this planet is their concern, eh?"
"Yes, my lord. It has regressed to a medieval culture"—actually, Magnus wasn't sure "regressed" was the right word for something that had been done intentionally—"and is ruled by a monarchy. It is my father's intention to bring about the changes in their social and economic structure that will result in their evolving a form of democratic government."
"A huge undertaking, and a long one! How frustrating it must be, to commence a project that you will not live to see come to fruition, that even your children will not see finished! But is there progress, young man?"
"Some, my lord. There have been attempts to unseat the monarch in favor of warlords and dictators, but my father has held Their Majesties secure . . . "
"As a nobleman should! But has he furthered a tyranny?"
"No, my lord, for he has built in systems for Their Majesties to take council from their lords." Magnus smiled. "In tr—In fact, he has managed to wring from each attempted coup d'etat some change in government that plants yet one more seed of the democracy that will be."
The old man nodded. "Small wonder your monarch has elevated him to the peerage! You inherit, then, not only his title, but also his work! You are a double heir." The old man frowned. "Why are you here? Surely your place is by his side!" Again, he waved away Magnus's answer before it was made. "Oh, yes, I realize you must have your education—but you must return to him! You must!"
Magnus bridled, but even as his emotions surged, he remembered to analyze. Why did the Count feel so strongly on the issue? "As you say, my lord, I must have a modern education—I must absorb the current state of knowledge in the Terran Sphere, but even more, I must learn to deal with its men of power."
The old lord nodded slowly, his eyes narrowing. "Even so, even so! Rodney, of course, knows the ways of such dealings, having been reared and educated on Maxima, and tried in the crucible of government service—but you, too, must learn such ways, for you will have to represent your planet before the Sphere, will you not? Yes, of course you will!"
Magnus was glad the old man had answered his own question.
"We must see to his placement at Oxford," the Countess contributed.
"Or Harvard, or Heidelberg, eh? Yes, of course! My wife will make you acquainted with them, young man, and you may choose! And in the long vacations, we shall have to see to gaining visiting positions for you in commerce and government! Eh?"
"Your lordship is . . . too kind." Truthfully, Magnus was dazzled by their readiness to help—but he was also wary of it, perhaps because he wasn't all that certain that he wished to spend several years at a university. Fess had assured him that he had gained the equivalent in knowledge from the robot's tutelage. Still, it might be a good way to get the feel of this strange culture.
"Not at all, not at all!" The Count brushed aside the thanks, but seemed pleased anyway. It was hard to tell, of course—he spoke as though from an inexhaustible supply of energy, but his eyelids had begun to droop, he raised his hand as though it bore leaden weights, and his shoulders slumped. Magnus searched for some way to end the interview and let the old man rest, but could think of none.
The Countess saved him. "We may begin that search now, husband. Or, perhaps, the young man should dress for dinner."
"Dinner?" The Count frowned. "Yes, Yes! I, too, I must . . . " He struggled to sit up, but the effort was too much for him. His wife stepped up to lay a gentle hand on his shoulder, and he sagged back against the pillows. "Perhaps in a little while. Yes? Only a little rest, now—then I'll dress . . . "
"Quite right, husband. We will leave you, for the moment." She went toward the door, bending a severe glance on Magnus.
He bowed. "I thank you for this conversation, my lord, and for your hospitality."
"Not at all, not at all! Always good to have family come home, eh? But not so long, Rodney, not so long again, hm?" The Count seemed to diminish, to sink into the pillows, his eyes half-closing. "At supper, then."
"Of course, my lord." Magnus stepped away and moved quietly to the door. Aunt Matilda gave him a smile with a little genuine warmth in it, and beckoned him out the door. It closed behind him, as the nurse robot wheeled silently over to the Count.
Magnus's mind raced. He couldn't very well comment on the Count's frailty, or his surprise at it. Matilda seemed to sense his quandary, and said, "He will not join us at dinner. He really must not leave his bed, except for short exercise walks with the nurses."
"Of course he must conserve his energies," Magnus agreed. "He is . . . a commanding presence." He had almost said "still," but had choked it back.
"In rare moments," the Countess said. "We try not to trouble him with major decisions just now." Magnus took the hint. The Count was still head of the family—but in name only. He tried for a quick change of subject. "It has been an honor to meet the Count—but I must also pay my respects to my father's brother. May I see him?"
The Countess hesitated, her visage darkening, biting her lip. Magnus braced himself against apprehension. "He doth . . . does still live, does he not?"
"He does, yes," the Countess said reluctantly. "And I may see him, may I not?"
"If it is one of his good days, yes."
Some hours later, Magnus returned, numbed, to the opulent guest room the robot-domo had assigned to him. He collapsed into an overstuffed chair, loosing his hold on his mind and letting it turn to the oatmeal it felt to be. After a long interval of silence, a voice spoke in his mind. Magnus?
Aye, Fess, he answered. Are y
ou well?
Magnus stirred. Well enough. It hath been summat of a shock, though, to find that my uncle Richard is insane.
I am sorry, Magnus, the robot-horse said, with something resembling a sigh—just "robot," Magnus reminded himself; Fess was the computer-brain for a spaceship now. But he still held the mental image of the horse body that Fess had worn for as long as Magnus had known him.
Sorry? For what?
I thought I had prepared you adequately for the insanity that has plagued the Gallowglass family for generations—all of Maxima, for that matter.
Magnus made a short, chopping gesture, though Fess couldn't see him. You did all that you could, Fess. Nothing can truly prepare a body for the sight of a relative who has taken leave of his senses.
Was he truly as bad as that?
Oh, not bad at all, in some ways he doth seem to be happy, quite happy indeed. 'Tis simply that he doth know he is King Henry the Sixth reborn, and is quite content to wait in his monk's cell for the reincarnated Queen Margaret to release him.
Fess was silent for a moment, then said, I grieve to hear it.
Magnus laid his head back against the chair with a sigh. At the least, he is not troubled or sunk in gloom.
Yes, praise Heaven for that.
Oh, he doth! He doth thank Heaven for life, for food, for housing, for the flow of blood and the smallest worm that burrows 'neath the soil of Terra! He doth spend hours in prayer, and is sure of his sainthood to come!
It must be quite reassuring, Fess said slowly, to have such confidence in the Afterlife.
Magnus shuddered. If that is religion, I'll none of it. Small wonder his son fled to Terra.
Fled? Fess said, puzzled.
Magnus shrugged. Gone to university, then, and become a scholar. Will you, nill you, he is set upon his professorship, and hath sent word that he will not return to Maxima.
And has only the one daughter?
Aye, my cousin Pelisse, who doth play the coquette with me. Magnus smiled in pleased reminiscence. I cannot be so pleasant to regard as all that, can I, Fess?
You are quite imposing, Fess said slowly, and your face has a certain rough-hewn comeliness.
More to the point, I am someone new in her life, Magnus thought, amused. Anyone from off-planet must be of greater interest than someone near, eh?
No doubt an inborn reflex that evolved to minimize inbreeding, Fess mused. Nonetheless, in the case of this stranger, the inbreeding would still exist.
Not wholly—I am only half of Maxima, Magnus thought absently, most of his mind given over to the contemplation of the lovely vision with blonde tresses and long lashes. He felt a quickening of interest—but also felt how superficial it was, how little real emotion it held. Had the witches of Gramarye made him forever heartless?
Then he remembered the image of the golden box around his heart, given him by a Victorian ragpicker who must surely have been only a hallucination, a projection of his subconcious, an illusion that only a projective telepath such as Magnus himself could engender. He had accepted the gift, had locked his heart in a box of golden, and wondered if he could ever find the key.
Flirting is a harmless game, Magnus, Fess assured him, as long as you remember it is only a game—and are sure the lady does, too.
Aye, only a game, and great fun. Magnus pushed himself out of the chair, coming to his feet with a renewal of energy. Let us resume the play, then. And he turned away to the closet and the modern formal wear it held, to dress for dinner.
CHAPTER 2
A shout of pure terror rose to Ian's lips, but he bit down on it, as much afraid of the keepers as of this fall into the unknown.
There was a soft light about him, and his bottom struck a yielding surface. He fell backwards head over heels, then rolled and came up to his feet as his father had taught him, looking about him in panic. He was inside the Stone Egg!
Outside, the keepers must surely be looking for him, calling to one another and running about—but he heard nothing except a whisper of moving air, and a faint hum, so faint that he felt it more than heard it. It flashed through his mind that this must be a safe place that the dwarves had built, but when he looked more closely at his surroundings, he found them completely strange, alien. Surely the dwarves could never have grown this odd golden moss beneath his feet, the great chair that looked to be of leather with a row of peculiar square windows in front of it and a greater square above—but windows that were blank and empty, showing only the gray of the rock's surface. For a moment, Ian strained to understand—what good was a window that showed only the inside of a shell?
"Safety Base Forty-three ready to function as you may command."
Ian hunched down into a ball, his staff raised to defend himself, looking about wildly—but he could not see the person who had spoken.
The voice spoke again, deep and resonant, a man's voice, though with a strange lack of feeling. "This facility is completely automated. Food and drink are prepared from cryogenic stock. Armament is activated. Communications facilities are functional. Safety Base Forty-three is at your disposal."
The voice was suddenly silent. Ian held himself ready, looking about, waiting for it to speak again, to demand he say what he was doing there. It was a rich voice, a lord's voice. Surely it would demand to know why a mere serf had invaded its hideaway . . . ?
The chamber was still; the voice was silent. No one spoke, no one moved.
Slowly, Ian uncurled himself; more slowly still, he stood up, looking about at the rich surroundings, his pulse beginning to slow. The voice must be that of a guardian spirit—for certainly, inside this egg, there was scarcely room enough for two grown men. No one could hide from him.
Except for the guardian spirit.
The flesh on his back crawled. He looked behind him, and behind him again. There was no defense against a spirit . . .
But it did not attack him, it did not seek to take vengeance. It had said it was preparing food and drink. If it sought to help him . . . Ian breathed more easily, and looked about him yet once more. He was safe for the moment; he could not have asked for a better hideaway until dark. What was this strange place he was in?
There was an air of quiet orderliness about him, of safety and security. Ian began to relax, studying the chamber in which he found himself. At the far side, there was a round black hole in the floor with a low guardrail about it. Ian went over to it and peered down. A flight of spiral steps led to a room below. How strange that there was light, a soft light coming from nowhere that he could find! He retreated from the hole; perhaps that was where the guardian spirit lived. Later he might go down there and see—but only if he was sure it was safe. For now, it would be better to leave it alone.
He looked at the great chair, went closer to it, inspecting it. If this was a sanctuary to protect anyone who needed it, then surely this chair was for him to sit in. He clambered up, sat down, and looked at the table in front of him. It was shallow, only as deep as his forearm, and set with little circles and bars that glowed in many different colors. Their soft light struck fear into him, but he plucked up his courage and dared to poise a finger over one of them. Then his boldness failed, and he snatched his finger away. No, certainly he should not meddle with such things!
But—why not? If the "Base" was here to protect him, would he not be free to do as he wished? Perhaps, though, if he pressed one of these glowing circlets, the spirit would be angered, and would seek to revenge itself on him.
"Food and drink are prepared."
Ian started at the suddenness of the deep voice, then caught himself with a hand against the table in front of him . . .
Something clicked.
His gaze darted down; he stared in horror at the heel of his hand. Slowly, he lifted it away, and saw that one of the green circlets had sunk into the tabletop. A low humming began. He backed away against the chair, eyes wide. Had he angered the spirit?
One of the square windows before him suddenly filled with light.
Ian thought he must be looking out into the middle of a blizzard; there were only flecks of black and white, chasing each other past the window. At the same time, he heard a hiss begin, and the guardian spirit spoke. "Communication system is activated. Beacon is broadcasting distress signal."
Then the voice was quiet. Ian waited, tensed, but nothing more happened. He looked down at the circlet. Should he try to pry it back up out of the tabletop?
No. The guardian spirit did not seem angered, and had not threatened to harm him. Better to leave well enough alone.
But the spirit spoke again. "Food and drink are served."
Ian looked up, heart hammering—but at last, the words sank in. Food and drink! Suddenly, he was very hungry. But where were they? He searched all around the cabin, being careful not to touch anything. As he passed the hole with the spiral staircase, he caught the scent of fresh bread, eggs, and, wonder of wonders, pork! His mouth watered; he swallowed heavily, the hunger suddenly an ache in his belly. The food was down the spiral staircase, then. But was it safe to go down there? Or was the guardian spirit enticing him for some other, unknown purpose? He stood stock-still at the top of the steps, wondering. Then hunger got the better of caution, and he started down.
The staircase was steep and narrow, made out of some eldritch material that was neither stone nor metal nor wood, but something of all three—clean and smooth to the touch like metal, warm like wood, and gray like stone. It was just wide enough for a full-grown man, very steep, and turned upon itself like a corkscrew.
His eyes came below the level of the floor, and he stopped, staring in amazement.
Ten feet below him was a circle of the odd moss, wider than the hut in which he'd lived all his life. The walls sloped inward, like the inside of a cone with its top cut off. The "egg," then, was the top of this cone, and this chamber was underground!
The strange, warm moss covered another floor, and this time, that moss was deep blue. Great padded chairs stood near him, and across the room stood a round table with two stools that had backs rising up—why, they were lords' chairs! Trepidation rose in him all over again, fear at trespeassing in a place so clearly the property of some great lord—but hunger was greater than fear. Two chairs! Was there company, then? Or was it merely that this hiding place was large enough for two people at a time?
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