Ellen Under The Stairs

by John Stockmyer

  Dock workers, sailors, and his own guard surrounding him -- John fast-walked down the splintered planking, dodging loading cranes, barrels, and boxes, to arrive as the ship's gang plank thudded on the wharf, a man walking down the plank, bowing his thanks as he stepped off on the levee.

  Even in the half-dark of down-light, John knew him!

  Golden!

  But far from the elegant young man who'd been part of John's team on both cross-band trips. Now dirty. Disheveled. Defeated.

  "Golden. Welcome."

  "Great Mage ...."

  The emotion of the moment preventing Golden from saying more, he could only make a ragged bow.

  "I'm back, at least for a time," John explained.

  "Thank you for taking me in, sir," Golden said, in his stiff manner.

  "Say no more," John commanded, John having to leave at once to make it back to his palace quarters before full dark! "What you need is food and rest -- also for your men," John motioning to his guard that the foreigners were also to be treated with respect. "Food and sleep, first. Explanations tomorrow!"

  * * * * *

  Chapter 14

  Early afternoon. John again in the Mage room, most of the morning spent in fending off Ellen's reasons for why she should be allowed to explore the city. Why was it that a woman's definition of a crisis was when she didn't get her way? Not that it wasn't fascinating to talk to Ellen about anything on any occasion, beautiful, intelligent, and vivacious as she was. It was just that being a year or two older than John didn't make her worldly-wise in this strange place.

  In between Ellen bouts, John had to listen to the "needs" of a bevy of palace officials, John willing to make promises in exchange for assurances that his entourage -- now to include Golden's cohorts -- were being well cared for.

  He'd taken time to chat with Platinia, the girl with little to say on any occasion. He'd even tried to converse with befuddled, if not outright crazed, Zwicia.

  After that, Qrig, the palace barber, had caught John in the hall, Qrig trying for tact, while at the same time expressing displeasure at John's hair style. Too short for Stil-de-grain fashion, he'd said, Qrig suggesting the Mage wear a wig until John's hair had grown out sufficiently to be in style. Even hinted -- wink, wink -- that the "ladies" would be more attracted to the Mage if he paid more attention to his personal appearance.

  The only polite way for John to get rid of the fussy little man was to announce that John had decided to wear his hair short from now on, short hair giving him less trouble and so allowing more time for government business -- a suggestion that had produced a completely unexpected result. A new hair style, what fun! The other men of the band certain to copy the new Mage-look, Orig saw himself as leading this fashion trend, cleaning up financially by franchising his intimate knowledge of Mage haute couture.

  Petty politics like this was why John hadn't been ready to see Golden until now. Not a bad thing, really, Golden needing sleep and more sleep by the look of him last night -- nothing promoting rest like being safe in your beddy-by (or reasonable facsimile.) Reviewing Golden's desperate run for the harbor had John thinking Coluth was right -- that if Malachite naval personnel were willing to risk death by chasing Golden to the bitter end of the day, they must really want him.

  In the War Room at last, John had made it the first order of the afternoon's business to summon Golden, John passing the waiting time by studying the map of Bandworld he'd gotten Golden to drawn, a world map a novelty in this backward place. The truth was that few natives knew much about surrounding Bands, "traveling for pleasure" an unknown concept here, this insularity attributable to "Band Sickness."

  John wondered what this world must be like to produce different gravitational pulls along Band lines. Was the ground more densely packed in some Bands than in others? Was the land under your feet "deeper" where gravity was stronger? Just another unanswerable question in a world of unanswerable questions -- a "curiosity itch" no more likely to be "scratched" than to ask why the light shown from the "iron dome" sky in rainbow colors. (Could the god-like creators of Bandworld have a lot in common with color coordinating decorators? Correction. Color coordinating and gravity shifting decorators?)

  Speaking of religion, while each band seemed to have its own beliefs, religion was more a game played by priests than a set of beliefs providing moral instruction to commoners. Rather like in John's world, come to think of it.

  A hesitant knock, John returning to his seat at the head of the table, arranging his Cinnabar robe before calling, "Enter."

  Golden -- coming in -- bowing with the flourish of Stil-de-grain protocol. Looking ... better ... a bath, sleep, and a clean robe doing much to repair dispirited people in any world.

  "Good to see you looking so well," John said, motioning Golden to sit beside John in a seat of honor.

  With the grace that marked him as an entertainer -- actor, dancer, rope walker, wall scaler, singer, knife thrower, and who knew what other specialties -- the youth came forward, bowing again before sliding into the indicated chair, at once looking as formal as the most senior of statesman and as fluid as flowing water.

  "Again, accept my gratitude."

  Could Golden's stilted/stiff lingo be because he'd had to learn several of the Bands' tongues, the young man not "at home" in any one of them? Needing to travel to make his living as a performer, entertaining mostly at night when light magic no longer served as a universal translator, Golden had to learn to speak the various languages of the Bands.

  Enough speculation. "Did you know I was back in Bandworld?"

  "No, Lord."

  "Then you were taking a chance trying to reach the harbor. In a Malachite ship, no less."

  "Some chances must be taken, great Mage."

  Great Mage? What was Golden? Five years younger than John? Addressed that way -- and by everyone -- John felt ... ancient. There was no help for it, though. As long as John was the power behind the throne of Stil-de-grain, he'd be seen as ten feet tall.

  "As you know, I've been gone for some time."

  "Yes. After escaping from Hero Castle, we waited for you, but you did not come."

  "Because, as I think I hinted, I ... had a change of plans.

  "Rather than feel left behind, I was glad you made it up and out -- all of you. Where would I be if you, Coluth, and his sailors hadn't rescued me?

  "As it was, I had a way of getting to my world. But now I'm back to find that you, yourself, have been away. And in a bit of trouble, judged by the Malachite cutters that were doing their best to run you down."

  "Yes." The down cast look added emphasis to Golden's agreement.

  "Why don't you start with when we were parted and finish with last night at the harbor."

  "I owe you that, great Mage. Though the story is ... embarrassing."

  "There's just the two of us here and anything you say will stop with me."

  "Thank you, sir." Golden sighed, whether from fatigue or relief, John couldn't tell.

  "In the tower room," Golden began, "you had used the strange fire of your world to keep the men of Pfnaravin back." Golden meant the hot fire of John's world, as compared to the cool flames of this place. "This gave us time to exit the room through the roof, Coluth and the sailors climbing first. When all had left the room, I reminded you that I was Cleadon, son of Cleadon, and that Lithoid, my father's traitorous brother, had killed my father and stolen the throne."

  "Yes." With Golden "rolling," it was time for John to keep his answers brief.

  "I knew -- as did you -- that I could not work magic with the Crystal. For only you could do that, Mage-Disks loyal to their owners."

  "Yes." And Golden was right about the Crystal. No one but its current "owner" could work magic with it. And a lethal magic it was -- seducing whoever possessed it into believing he was god and a self-righteous god at that. John had used the Gem as a weapon in the war against Auro. And used it. And used it. Until its power was exhausted. Only then did John "return to him
self," shocked and ashamed at the indiscriminate killing he'd done at the Crystal's insistence. Thank God that Mage-gems had only so much stored power, needing periodic recharging in this world's light! Otherwise, John might have found himself trapped by the Crystal's magic ... forever.

  At the same time, John was aware that as long as he lived, the Crystal would serve no one but him. Not Golden. Not anyone.

  "Go on," John prompted, Golden at full stop, head in his hands.

  With a struggle, the youth sat up. Cleared his throat. "After escaping, we went different ways, Coluth to Xanthin, his sailors with him. Though feeling no loyalty to Pfnaravin, the Admiral was honor bound to oversee this Band's naval reconstruction.

  "And I must confess that I took your Crystal from its hiding place," John waving forgiveness before Golden fainted from fear.

  "After that, alone, I traveled Beak-ward, avoiding the land of the giants."

  No need to take him through that desperate time again, Golden already shivering. "I crossed into Malachite through The Gap, that pass through the mountains open to travelers since the end of the war. From there, I went to Bice, to contact my father's loyal aides, finding that most were dead. Something I should have anticipated. They were old. Lithoid was hunting them down, one by one.

  "Some were left who believed in me. But too few. For no sooner than I had declared myself king than I was ... hunted, with only enough loyal men to capture a ship in Bice harbor. Even then, I had to escape after down-light."

  Again the shiver, the drawing inward, John knowing the desperation of Golden and his crew to risk being eaten by the "night activated" sea monsters.

  When Golden looked up, John nodded to show he understood.

  "I thought that all I had to do was to proclaim that I was Cleadon's son and many would rally around me. The tales of Lithoid's brutality ...."

  John could have comforted Golden with the story of the U.S. fiasco at the Bay of Pigs, but didn't think it would help.

  Instead said: "There'll be another time."

  A change of subject was in order. "As for Pfnaravin, he's disappeared. Too much to hope that he's fallen off a cliff. But for the moment, at least, he's out of the picture. I'm 'back in the saddle again' as cowboys used to sing in the old days of B-westerns."

  "Cowboys?"

  "Never mind. Anyway, for now, you're safe here with me."

  It was Golden's turn to nod, then to reach into a fold in his robe, locals carrying coins and the like in robe-folds, the young man taking out something to trail on the table.

  "Your Crystal, great Mage. Though it did not impress people when in my hands, it will do your bidding."

  And there it was again. The golden Crystal of Stil-de-grain, a gleaming, two-inch-in-diameter Disk, its golden bezel threaded on the neck chain. As for the Crystal's power, Golden was right. Once John put on the Mage-Gem, its power was his to command.

  Even now that he knew better, it was a temptation to reach for the Crystal, the Gem calling to him, seeming to thrum with force -- too much power prompting insanity in the potentates of both worlds.

  "Thank you, Golden," John said, stalling.

  A door knock.

  A bad time for John to be interrupted, John still deciding what to do about the Crystal.

  The way he'd handled the Mage-Gem before, was to carry it in a pocket of his robe, the Crystal less apt to seduce him there than when around his neck. In those days, he'd also felt Platinia had somehow helped him avoid the Crystal's seduction, believing this so strongly he had the girl by his side, day and night.

  For the first time, John was glad he'd brought Platinia along.

  Now, though, there was that knock.

  "Golden, will you see who that is?"

  Bowing again, the young man got up gracefully, turning to glide along the table to do as John asked.

  With no other choice at the moment, careful to avoid touching the Gem itself, John fingered up the Crystal by its chain, trailing the Gem into one of the deep pockets he'd had added to the standard Mage robe.

  Checking his emotions, it was as he'd feared: John feeling the Crystal's pull. A force he could control as long as he wasn't actually wearing the Gem, but ....

  "It is Gagar," Golden called from the door.

  Gagar. Now, what? "Have him come in."

  Golden backing away from the door, the bird-man entered, another parrot on his arm, this one like the last, but larger.

  "Come," John said beckoning, Golden flowing, Gagar mincing forward, Golden standing back so Gagar could approach John directly. "Another message?"

  "Yes, great Mage," Gagar shrilled.

  "Make it talk."

  "Its message is for you, alone," Gagar warned, meaning Golden.

  "It's alright if Golden hears. I have no secrets from him." Few secrets, at any rate, one of them the reservations John had about Golden the first time they'd met in Yarro-the-first's dungeon. Later, John had come to believe that if Golden thought John was in the way of Golden becoming king of Malachite, no telling what the ambitious young man might do.

  With the return of the Crystal, John's additional worry was that, should he have a fatal "accident," the next person to pick up the golden Crystal would be Mage of Stil-de-grain, the Crystal making John more, rather than less, vulnerable. He'd do well to watch his back when near anyone who might wish to possess the Gem's power.

  Back to the moment.

  Gagar given permission, he made the motion that set loose the bird's talk.

  "Lithoid . to . Pfnaravin . master . of . Stil-de-grain . surrender . the . traitor . or . we . will . be . at . war . furthermore . you . are . commanded . to . return . to . Malachite."

  A lot of information for such a short message. First, that Lithoid, king of Malachite -- Golden would say usurper -- thought Pfnaravin still controlled Stil-de-grain. (So much for the fear that Malachite spies were among them.) Second, that Lithoid had already learned that Golden was in Stil-de-grain -- still wanted Golden enough to threaten a war to get him. Additionally, that Lithoid had ordered Pfnaravin back to Malachite, putting Pfnaravin's Mage power at the command of the king.

  "How," John said, "did Lithoid find out so soon that Golden was here?"

  "Messenger birds are quick on the wing, great Mage. Even I do not know how fast they can fly, given the proper incentive. There is, perhaps, magic in them." Gagar shrugged.

  "Or is it possible that King Lithoid is with his navy at Sea Throat?"

  "The bird was taught by Dato," Gagar shrilled. "I can tell because ...."

  "Dato," John said, cutting the bird man short. "And where is he located?"

  "Malachite. Though more than that, I cannot tell. He would travel to put himself in the best position to relay information."

  "Then he could also be in Sea Throat with the Malachite navy?" It was quite a ways from that narrowing of the sea to Xanthin island. At least, by ship (boats in this land making their way by circumnavigation of the sea's vast currents.) Considerably shorter as the "parrot" flies.

  "That is possible."

  A speculation to consider. If Lithoid was with his navy, it meant he had taken personal command of the military -- another indication of how badly the king wanted to capture Golden. Perhaps Cleadon-the-younger had come closer to overthrowing his uncle than Golden thought.

  John looked at Golden. Saw what he'd never seen in the young man's face, Golden looking ... stricken. Clearly, the youth thought it possible that John might turn him over to prevent a war that the odds said Malachite would win.

  And as leader of "his" people, John had to contemplate surrendering Golden, John knowing of instances where giving in to political pressure had preserved the peace. ... But not often.

  A personal reason for "repatriating" young Cleadon, of course, was to have Golden locked up in Malachite where the talented -- another term for slippery -- young man would be far away from John and John's Crystal.

  At the same time, John knew he couldn't turn Golden over.

&nb
sp; "Don't worry, Golden. You're safe here with me."

  "Thank you, Lord," Golden said, obviously relieved, John at least confident of the young man's sincerity on this occasion.

  "Gagar. My response is that Cleadon, son of Cleadon has found sanctuary with me. Also warn Lithoid that Stil-de-grain, under my leadership is, again, invincible."

  "Yes, Lord."

  "How soon can this be done?"

  "A short message for the bird to learn. It can fly at tomorrow's up-light."

  "Will it go to the Malachite capital or to the pretend-king," a nod in Golden's direction, "wherever he may be?"

  "I should think to the impostor's handler," Gagar said, picking up on the sudden change in foreign policy, John referring to Lithoid as pretender to the throne, Gagar's political savvy continuing to surprise John. "If the handler is with the usurper, then the message will arrive late tomorrow."

  "Good enough. Gentlemen, that will do it for now."

  * * * * *

  Two days. Another messenger bird. The Gagar wave.

  "Malachite . navy . advances . on . Stil-de-grain."

  Short and ... sour.

  And the war was on, soon to be a confrontation of siege and starvation. (So much for the impact of John's lie about the renewed strength of Stil-de-grain.) While it was customary for each combatant to blame the other for starting any war, the side with overwhelming force was generally the guilty party.

  Viewed that way, Lithoid's first-strike move against Stil-de-grain was a nightmare of things to come!

  * * * * *

  Chapter 15

  Worn down. That was John's excuse. Too much to do. As a consequence, finding himself giving in to people's desires in order to save time for what must be done: plan the defense of Stil-de-grain.