Dominion

by Fred Saberhagen

  “Drink? There’s a little bar there, fix yourself something if you like. And excuse me just one moment while I change. Things are running just a touch behind schedule.” Vivian, still toweling her dark curls, vanished into the adjoining room.

  “I’ll take a rain check on the drink if I may,” Simon called after her. “Going on duty shortly, you know. Can I fix you anything?”

  “Not just now.” Vivian’s voice remained unmuffled by intervening doors. Simon looking into the adjoining room from where he was could just see one end of a folding oriental screen; presumably she was dressing behind that. Her offstage voice added, “You’ll find an envelope there on the table. I trust the contents are satisfactory?”

  Propped against a black electric lamp with a white dragon shade that shed a glow almost as soft as candlelight, was a small white envelope. Simon took it up. The flap was folded in but not sealed. It was thickly packed with hundred-dollar bills; with a quick finger-riffle he counted fifteen of them.

  He cleared his throat. “Miss Littlewood?”

  “Call me Vivian, please.” From the other room came a prolonged rustling noise, as of some lengthy garment going on or coming off. “What is it?”

  “Well. It’s just that there’s more money here than I was promised.”

  “Pardon?” Now her voice was somewhat muffled. Women’s clothing and the rituals that went with it were still mystifying to Simon, despite the number of women with whom he’d been on dressing and undressing terms in the past fifteen years.

  He moved a step closer to the doorway between rooms. From here he could see a mirror on the far wall of the inner room, a mirror so placed that if he were to advance one more step it might show him the area behind the screen. It required some effort to refrain from taking another step. He spoke a little louder: “I said, you’re giving me too much money.”

  “Really?” Cloth-rustlings continued, but now Vivian’s voice was clear again. “That’s a complaint one seldom hears.”

  Simon was staring at the envelope. “Gregory told me that the inclusive fee was to be one thousand.”

  “Gregory is an old pinch-penny. That’s not exactly the instruction he had from us.” And now, in a swirl of red-gowned energy, Vivian emerged from behind her screen, to enter the room where Simon stood and pose before him curtseying, as if his approval might be all the mirror she needed.

  He usually had no trouble finding compliments for lovely women. But right now he was speechless. There had been no time for her to give the black curls any treatment except to dry them, and yet the curls looked perfect. There was as usual no sign of makeup on Vivian’s face; it was hard to imagine any that could have effected an improvement. And as for her dress…

  Unconsciously Simon had expected her to emerge in something very low cut, probably in flaming red. His imagination had been uncannily accurate about the color, but that was all. Vivian’s gown was cut very high and full, with long sleeves and a floor-length skirt. It was of some material of gossamer fineness, yet perfectly opaque, and almost perfectly concealing. Only with movement was there any hint of the shape of the body underneath, and then the hint was subtle. This dress was in one way the very opposite of the yellow bikini. And yet… it crossed Simon’s mind that an appeal to the imagination can sometimes be more powerful than blatant advertisement.

  Vivian was smiling; his hearty if silent approval must have been obvious. She said: “There’s a thousand dollars in there for you personally, and five hundred for expenses. I wasn’t sure what helpers or equipment you might want to bring along, or what that kind of thing costs. And I was sure that you weren’t going to stint to bring us the best show possible.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t stint, as you say. But my expenses haven’t been anywhere near five hundred dollars.”

  “But of course I insist on your keeping the whole amount anyway. Perhaps it’s wrong of me to even mention your expenses.” Vivian stood, as poised as a model, with tanned hands clasped delicately in front of her. “What I should be doing instead, shouldn’t I, is to prepare myself to undergo a convincing experience. Suspending my disbelief. Getting into the frame of mind that says the powers you are going to demonstrate for us tonight are perfectly genuine.”

  Simon waved the envelope in the air once more, slapped it against his palm, and then slid it into one of the inner pockets of his doublet. He spread his hands, “As I will of course claim them to be, as part of my patter during the show. But… well, I hope I’m misinterpreting your tone of voice.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it sounds to me like you’re saying you actually believe I might have some genuine… psychic powers.”

  Vivian remained standing very still. The smile with which she regarded Simon was one of solemn joy. “And that’s not an attitude you frequently encounter?”

  “Fortunately, it isn’t. But, unfortunately, I do run into it sometimes. I wasn’t really expecting to encounter it tonight.”

  “Why not?” Vivian was still cheerful.

  It wasn’t smart to argue with the boss. Simon sighed. This was important. “I was assuming that tonight’s audience would all be educated people.”

  “Education is good armor against the supernatural.”

  “It should be.”

  “You would prefer your audiences very skeptical.”

  Simon started to frame a serious answer, then gave up with a brief laugh. Vivian was in the mood for teasing, not serious discussion. “All right. Touché. Of course when I’m working I want people to believe—only what I tell them to believe. But not seriously. Not really to believe that what I’m doing is against the laws of nature. There’s no fun, there’s no art left in my profession if that happens. I’m just a—swindler.”

  “Oh, Simon.” And now that he was trying to be light, Vivian suddenly was serious. Her voice was very soft, her eyes luminous and huge. “ ‘Fun’ doesn’t sound to me like the right word. Is there no such thing as joy in serious art?”

  “I’m serious about what I do. But I’m an entertainer.”

  “And a good one, too. Never mind.” Lightness prevailed again. “We’ll have plenty of time later to talk some more… may I ask you one question now about your act?”

  “Shoot.”

  “When I saw your performance at the dinner theater, you had a lovely young lady with you as assistant; I gather she was still with you when Gregory met you at the university. I hope he made it clear that both of you were welcome here as weekend guests.”

  “He made it clear.” Simon considered. “The young lady’s name is Marge Hilbert. She hasn’t yet, ah, materialized, but I hope we’ll be seeing her later in the evening.”

  “Ah, a touch of mystery! Excellent. I just hope the young lady doesn’t get stuck on one of our back country roads, if she’s planning a late arrival. They tend to flood, and some heavy thunderstorms have been predicted.

  Vivian’s eyes were very dark and very deep. Simon had drowned somewhere in the deepness of them, about fifteen years ago. The idea struck him as a fresh poetical discovery; that it was a cliché did not occur to him for several seconds, and even when it did occur it did not matter. The idea was too fitting, in this house of candlelight and centuries.

  Vivian had taken his arm by now, and now, somehow, they were out in the torch-lit hall again. “Shall we go down?” she asked him. Stringed music, on instruments that sounded as old as the walls, drifted up to greet them as arm on costumed arm they descended the broad stone stair. The past was far more than a feeling now.

  * * *

  As dinner began, the subject of time, in several of the word’s meanings, was much in Simon’s thoughts. He felt reasonably sure that the hour was a little after eight. But if for some reason he had wanted to make sure of this, he no longer had the means of doing so. His wristwatch was upstairs with his twentieth-century clothing. As far as he could tell, no one around him was wearing a watch either.

  Saul took his place at the head of a great wooden table, a piece
of furniture that Simon could believe was really centuries old. Eleven places were set, with earthenware dishes of a simple, handpainted design. The comparatively modern silver was anachronistic but not jarring. Saul sat alone at the head; the place to his right was empty, and Vivian sat to the right of that, with Simon next, between her and Emily Wallis. Round the corner from Mrs. Wallis at the table’s foot was fat Arnaud. There was a second empty setting at Arnaud’s right.

  At Saul’s left sat Sylvia, wearing a low-cut Renaissance bodice, about the kind of thing that Simon had expected Vivian to wear. Jim Wallis was at Sylvia’s left, and at his left was Hildy. Seated next to Hildy was the one remaining guest that Simon had not yet met, a coffee-colored, youngish man introduced only as Mr. Reagan. “No relation, man,” he said, grinning, as they shook hands. Simon grinned back somewhat uncertainly. Reagan was dressed up as a cowled monk, and when he sat down with a swirl of robe and beads; Simon got the impression that something was wrong about the oversized crucifix hanging at the end of the belted rosary. Getting another look a little later he saw that the cross was fastened on upside down. An attempt at a joke, maybe, or possibly just an accident. Anyway Simon felt odder things about Reagan than just that. And about Arnaud too if he stopped to try feeling for them.

  Enough of that. He was supposed to use the atmosphere to support the act, not be overcome by it himself.

  “I’m expecting one more guest, a very important one,” Vivian told Simon quietly, as conversation got under way. “Besides your young lady, I mean. I’m not sure if my friend will be able to make it or not.” And her gaze turned for a moment to the empty setting and chair at her own left, between her and Saul. The quick turn was the closest thing to an involuntary movement that Simon had ever seen Vivian make, today or any other time, and it conveyed to him forcefully the idea of the guest’s great importance.

  “Then I hope he does make it. Or she,” said Simon, wondering. Then he was suddenly sure, without quite knowing why, that the expected one was a man. He now observed belatedly that there were on Vivian’s hands no rings that might indicate marriage or engagement. So far at the party she’d had no obvious companion except himself. He supposed she was between lovers and/or husbands at the moment. That she might really be without some male attachment for any length of time had not really occurred to Simon as a possibility, though so far he had not the least evidence that any such attachment existed.

  He added: “Will your important guest be here before I start the show? I mean, do you want me to wait for him, or—”

  “Oh no.” Vivian was quite positive, and for some reason lightly amused at the thought. “No, you must assume that your audience is now complete.”

  `“Okay,” said Simon, and turned to answer Emily Wallis, who had just spoken to him from his other side. Old Emily looked a little lost, he thought; she probably hadn’t found much in common with Arnaud, who sat at her right hand.

  And where, mused Simon in the next interval without chat, where is the promised show business connection? Not that he had all that much hope for it, but he was curious. Could Reagan, if that was really the man’s name, be in the business, some kind of an oddball performer? The more Simon thought about that name, the more he became convinced that it was false, only an evening’s joke. What about Arnaud?

  He looked more closely at the fat man, who, garbed elaborately enough to be a king, sat at the foot of the table beside the empty place reserved for Marge. Marge would be glad that dinner was over when she popped out. Arnaud’s costume covered his neck where it was presumably still bandaged; he looked steadier and stronger now than he had a little while ago. His face was still somehow as familiar as it had seemed when Simon first saw it at poolside.

  1And in a moment Simon had it. Arnaud’s face was that of the news photographs of Prince Something-or-other, the renegade from the royal family of the tiny middle eastern country. The exile, the one who had been called the latter-day Farouk. A year or so ago he’d been a star of the jet set and the sensational press, trailing denunciations and photographers behind him around the world. In this case Simon had no trouble understanding the use of an assumed name. If this was supposed to be his contact with the big time, forget it.

  On the other side of the table Saul’s bride Hildy was chatting comfortably with old Jim Wallis. Saul, meanwhile, did not give the impression of presiding at the head of the table, so much as sitting where he had been told good form required him to sit. He continued to look much as he had looked at poolside: mildly bothered, mildly bored. As if he’d really rather be off in his study or his office and taking care of business. Several times his sister caught his eye with what must have been a meaningful look, for each time Saul roused himself and with an evident effort brought himself back to the job of playing host.

  The second time this happened, Saul revealed a hitherto hidden talent for entertaining discourse, by turning the conversation to medieval things and customs. He apparently knew much more on the subject than Simon would have thought. For example, how, if an effort had been made for real authenticity at the dinner table tonight, there would have been no forks, and each pair of people would have shared a plate and bowl between them.

  Just at this juncture, Simon felt Vivian’s hand touch his, as if she were demonstrating privately to him certain advantages of a shared dish. And for a simultaneous moment her knee brushed his thigh under the table. The lower contact had the subjective effect of a spark of electricity.

  It wasn’t the first time their legs had touched… but he wasn’t going to think about that now. He was here on business. There was a performance to give in a few minutes.

  Courses came and went. The service was extremely skillful, in what appeared to be a practiced compromise between antique ways and modern. The skillful servants came and went on swift and silent feet. None of the servants’ faces that he saw now were familiar.

  Had he ever paid the kid who’d rowed him twice across the river? He must have. But the trip back, like the paying, was still lost in utter blankness.

  The medieval music, played offstage somewhere, had stopped about the time dinner began. Were these people now waiting on table the musicians also? There was a strangeness about them, as about so much else that Simon had seen today. They were all physically small, to begin with, which was a bit odd. And all costumed for the occasion, of course, but it was more than that. Simon thought they all looked… well, servile-looking, as perhaps real medieval servants ought to look. And it wasn’t acting. Or, if it was, they were all wasting great and subtle talents on menial jobs.

  The more Simon looked at the people serving dinner, the more he thought that all of them were quietly, desperately, and deeply frightened.

  “I see you are observing the staff.”

  Simon almost jumped. “I didn’t mean to.”

  “Of course you did. And there’s no reason why you shouldn’t. They’re quite well trained, wouldn’t you say? I’ve borrowed most of them for the occasion. Try a glass of this wine.”

  The staff was well-trained indeed, for the glass had appeared on the smooth wood of the table, right at Vivian’s fingertips, without Simon being aware of any servant bringing it. He wished his own sleight-of-hand could match that.

  “I think I’ve had enough,” he objected uncertainly.

  “But not of wine like this. This isn’t going to hurt your concentration. If anything it’ll enhance it. In fact, it’s just what you need before a performance, to give you the clearest possible vision.” Was Vivian laughing at him? No, she was happy but deadly serious. “If this wine should prove too much for you, if it doesn’t actually help, or harms, the fault will be all mine.”

  The wine was ruby red in a small crystal glass. Simon picked up the glass and sipped. This, then, was the kind of thing the very rich could afford to enjoy. Simon, no expert, couldn’t place the wine as to type, but it was quite simply the best he’d ever tasted.

  The dinner went on, with conversation flourishing cheerfully around
the table. Everyone had his or her own little wineglass, though the colors of the contents differed. Simon sipped his own glass again. He certainly wasn’t taking enough to get drunk on, but all the same he was beginning to feel a little odd. Not drunk, no, not at all. His mind was very clear.

  He leaned back in his chair and briefly closed his eyes, while behind his lids a parade of the day’s strange visions came and went. Yes, anyone who saw the things that he had seen today really ought to seek help, medical assistance. The thought came, but there was no urgency in it, and very little worry. Actually, if he’d been having strange visions off and on for most of his life, they couldn’t very well indicate a brain tumor or anything of that sort, now could they?

  Oh yeah, he’d been bothered by visions for a long time, all right. At least since adolescence. Sometimes he’d had them right on stage. It was just that he’d taught himself to recognize them as outside of ordinary reality, and to ignore them once he knew what they were. So the reason he wasn’t worried now about going for a medical exam was that he knew he really wasn’t going to have one. He’d considered having checkups before, at various points in his life, for similar reasons, and in the end he’d never had them. Because he knew they were unnecessary.

  Ruby wine before him. Even with eyes closed he could see the glass, how much was left in it, its exact position. The clearest possible vision: maybe Vivian for once had told the truth.

  A couple of hours ago Marge had signaled him that all was well. And Marge was probably watching him right now from her vantage point behind the wall, ready to do the act. Was it really credible that Vivian didn’t know about the passage? Anyway she was pretending she didn’t know. Too late to worry about all that now. Now it was almost show time.

  Eyes still closed, Simon reached for his wine again. His fingers, with perfect sureness of the position of the glass, closed on it gently. He drank all that was left.

  Surrounding the great house were all the sounds of summer night in rural northern Illinois, sounds well-remembered by Simon from the visits that he’d made to the country in his childhood. He’d dwelt then not in the castle but in one of those huts… little houses… over there across the river. Those little dwellings were, if you could discount the water, almost at the castle’s foot. Like the huts of peasants. Land-bound creatures who were once owned, body and soul, as part of some great lord’s dominion. Maybe that was why, when Simon was growing up, he’d never thought of the castle in romantic or adventurous terms. It wasn’t his castle, and he knew it. It sat on him.