“We’ve begun to work out the pattern—all right, we carry on. We complete it. But what happens next?”
Coronado and the king looked at one another grimly. Prince Damian shook his head. It was a very good question. And nobody had an answer.
In the meantime, Helen’s thoughts were just as confused and uncertain. She, too, was a prisoner of the pattern that had now been established. She had a memory, though a vague one, of the conversation with the image in the mirror. She could not quite remember what had been said, but the three verses of the last will and testament of Jeahawn Kambalba were burned into her mind.
Although Ewan had the facilities of the palace library at his disposal it was Helen who was in a better position to know what kind of thing she had become involved in. Ewan could look up the biographical details of Jeahawn Kambalba’s career, but Helen knew what some of those details meant.
Jeahawn Kambalba had ended the wars of enchantment that might otherwise have been deadlocked for a thousand years. Through curse and countercurse, barrier and blockade, illusion and dimension he had battled his way to the core of each source of the magical blights that lay upon the land. Had any two of the four great mages—Elfspin, Viranian, Ambrael and Jargold—truly combined their powers they could have defeated him, but although there were notional alliances and agreements and treaties, each of the four mistrusted his allies as much as his enemies. One of the four had been utterly destroyed, one stripped of his powers. The other two were brought before a court and consigned to eternal prisons. The wars had ended. The one thing Jeahawn had not managed to accomplish was to undo any significant portion of the damage which the four and their many allies (human and inhuman) had done to the land itself. That kind of power could not be summoned instantaneously, but had to build over a period of time.
A spell, left to its own devices for a century or more, fed with energy from without the Earth, might gather such power. It could be supervised from beyond the material world, where Jeahawn’s ghost still operated though he was long dead. But the implementation of such a spell—the working of its rituals and the acceptance of its dictates—could only be done within the world, by living agents appropriate to the task.
This, Helen knew, was the greater purpose, which had ensnared her. She and one other—Prince Damian, as she believed—had been adopted by the spell as its arms and legs, its heads and hearts.
Where would it end… if it ended at all?
She knew no more than Ewan and Coronado. The last verse was as enigmatic to her as to them. Only one person might know what that verse signified, and that was Sirion Hilversun. And she could not ask him. She was ashamed of the fact that she could not, because she only half realized that it was a part of the obligation which Jeahawn had put upon her. We are all selfish with our troubles and fears, as we often are with our hopes and ambitions, and it is natural to feel a little uncomfortable in the presence of such selfishness, whether it is magically ordained or not.
Apart from this misery there was, in Helen, a deep and profound fear, for she understood—as Ewan did not—that the fulfilment of a spell such as this might easily involve the destruction of its pawns. As an enchanter’s daughter she knew the terrible price which powerful magics often exact. A spell of this power might require of its participants not only courage, enterprise and strength, but pain and terror… and even death. Magic feeds gluttonously on all the emotions, both positive and negative, and takes its power as much from the dark side of life as the bright.
Jeahawn himself was long gone—consumed by his own parasitic enchantments, eaten up by his own powers. But for those who inherited his legacy there might be a similar fate, and perhaps an even less kindly one.
Helen knew the danger implicit in the Arts magical. She also knew that Damian did not. The one thing that
she was sure of beyond all possible doubt was the fact that it would be much worse for all concerned if the spell, once started, were to fail than if it were to succeed.
She did not like Price Damian. She did not want to marry him. But she had seen what had happened to Castle Mirasol, and had deduced what had happened to Methwold forest, and she had worked out the implications of these events. Given a day to think before she had to send her answer to Jessamy she had realized how childish and how unimportant her earlier attitude had been. Bearing all this in mind, she resolved that at the due time she would go to the Forbidden City of Ora Lamae herself, to see how the prince would cope with the dreaded lamia— and, if necessary, to help.
It was well past midnight when Ewan put his pen down for the last time. He hadn’t intended to work so late, but he had known all day that the end was in sight, and he had felt obliged to see it through.
He had finished cataloguing the library. All that he had to do now was send the catalogue to Heliopolis, where the archivists would look it over, fix a price, and— if necessary—delegate one of their number to come and sort out any final queries before drawing up an agreement. There was unlikely to be much haggling. The university knew perfectly well that Rufus Malagig IV had to sell and would only offer what the books were worth so as not to prejudice their reputation for fair dealing (not everyone who sold books to them was in a state of desperation).
All in all, Ewan felt well satisfied as he climbed down from his stool. He had a strong suspicion that if he had done the work well the university would take him back even in the absence of a government grant. He thought
that all would be well even if the prince didn’t win his bride—always provided, of course, that he could survive his two further ordeals at the World’s Edge.
He picked up the candle from the shelf where it had stood in order to illuminate his work. He began to make his way between the bookshelves, with little thought in his head except how tired he was. As he turned a corner, however, he became aware that his candle wasn’t the only light in the room. Just inside the door, apparently waiting for him, was a shape cut out of the shadow by an odd kind of silvery haze. The haze had the form of a man—a small man with a little goatee beard and an oddly childlike face.
Ewan stopped dead, staring at the ghost.
The ghost seemed to fade a little under the stare. In the candle’s light the shape blurred.
“I’m sorry,” said the ghost. “I’m trying to get a better manifestation, but it’s not easy. I’ve never been here before.”
“Really?” said Ewan. There was a slight quaver in his voice. “You know, I never quite believed in ghosts until this moment.”
“That doesn’t help much, either,” said the ghost. “Scepticism is so demoralizing. Couldn’t you try harder? It’s in your own interests.”
“Oh,” said Ewan, faintly. “I believe now. In fact, unless I wake up in the morning thinking this is a dream, I don’t suppose I’ll ever doubt again.”
“Promises, promises…” muttered the ghost, trying hard to get himself back into focus. Finally, he managed it, and the rounded face reappeared, every hair in the goatee perfectly formed.
“Have you come to haunt me?” asked Ewan.
“Why?” asked the spectre. “What have you done?
Oh, never mind… just a joke. I’m not that kind of ghost. In fact, I’d rather you didn’t use the word ‘ghost’ at all. Personally, I think it’s rather vulgar. I’d rather be thought of as an apparition, or if you really must, as a phantasm. Spelt with a P-H, of course—only the snobs use an F. Anyhow, no terrible moans, no atmospherics, and I promise not to let my watch-chain clank. The voice is hollow, but I can’t help that in my condition. I’ve come to help you, not to haunt you.”
“Oh,” said Ewan, utterly at a loss for words. The prickling sensation that was running up and down his spine refused to yield to these assurances.
“My name,” said the apparition, “is Wynkyn. Please don’t bother with the usual jokes, or even the unusual ones. I’ve heard them all before, and I don’t doubt that it’s my fate to go on hearing them through all eternity. Let’s skip them just this once
. I’m from the Vaults Beyond.”
“Beyond where?” asked Ewan, feeling that he ought to say something.
“Beyond here, of course,” replied Wynkyn. “Where else?”
Ewan shook his head and shrugged his shoulders. He was most uncomfortable.
“The thing is,” said the apparition, “that you’re entitled to a little help on the second verse. It’s the hard one, you see, where you have to deal with creatures which are… well, not to put too fine a point on it… rather nasty. Inimical, one might say, always assuming that one knew what the word meant. Did I tell you that I was a poet when I was alive? Still am, in a way… Where was I?”
“Inimical,” said Ewan, obligingly.
“Oh, yes,” said Wynkyn. “The lamia and the monster.
Not nice. Kill you as soon as look at you. So you’re entitled to a little protection. Jeahawn put a codicil on
the will, you see…. It’s not in the short version, but it’s in the original which is on file in the Vaults–-“
“Hang on,” said Ewan, who felt decidedly weak at the knees. “Do you mind if I sit down?”
“Not at all,” said the apparition. “I’ll stand, if you don’t mind. Sedentary job, you know. And besides which, it’s easier to stay in focus while in the upright posture-— it says so in the manifestation handbook.”
Ewan sat down on a convenient heap of out-of-date grimoires, and leaned back on a shelf loaded with alchemical journals. They felt reassuringly solid.
“I say,” said Wynkyn, holding up his hand. “I’m getting brighter. The last little bits of your doubt must have disappeared. You believe in me now, all right.”
“Well,” said Ewan, feeling slightly better now, “I’m an open-minded sort of a chap. Always ready to believe the evidence of my eyes.”
“I wouldn’t go quite that far,” said the apparition. “I’ve seen some things nobody could believe. But no matter. The thing is, do you understand what I’ve told you?”
“In a word,” said Ewan, “no.”
The apparition clicked his insubstantial tongue. “Oh, dear,” he said. “All right, let’s start again. Slowly. My name’s Wynkyn. Please don’t bother with the jokes–-“
“All right,” Ewan intervened. “I got that bit. You’re name’s Wynkyn, it isn’t funny, and you’re a friend of Jeahawn the Judge, right?”
Wynkyn shuddered slightly, losing his focus momentarily. “No, no, no,” he said. “I’m just a civil servant. I’ve nothing to do with enchanters and that sort of thing. I work in the Vaults Beyond.”
“What are the Vaults Beyond?” asked Ewan, feeling quite lost.
“The Vaults Beyond are the offices of the Supernatural Bureaucracy.”
“I was afraid you were going to say something like that,” said Ewan, with a slight groan. “Look, I’m tired. Do you think you could explain? Carefully?”
“You are a dull one,” complained the apparition. “It’s very simple. You don’t think that magic just works by itself, do you? Records have to be kept. Spells don’t just work… they have to go through channels. Who do you think keeps all the curses that were ever laid on file? Who do you think sees to it that whenever the conditions of a curse are transgressed the transgressor suffers the effects of the curse? Who do you think keeps accounts of all the things that are conjured up by wizards, and balances out the conjurations by subtracting the objects elsewhere? Do you have any idea at all of the colossal amount of paperwork that goes into the business of keeping magic working?”
“I didn’t realize…” said Ewan.
“Of course you didn’t realize,” said the apparition, who was by now quite incensed. “No one gives a thought to us! Every spell registered, every curse on file, every magical object, its properties and penalties, properly classified. Oh, yes, you think a lot of enchanters reciting their silly rhymes and getting a result with a flash and a bang—but you never think at all about the poor clerks working behind the scenes to make sure the spell works properly, or even at all, and balancing out the books, and keeping an accurate record. We make occasional
mistakes, I know, but we’re only superhuman…. Nobody understands, all we get is insults and jokes, insults and jokes….”
Ewan coughed. “I think I understand now,” he said.
“Oh,” said Wynkyn, calming down. “Oh, well… that’s all right. You understand. I’m just a messenger, Jeahawn Kambalba’s will has a codicil, and I’m here to carry out its dictates. Just doing an honest job, working my way toward the Eternal Reward.”
“What’s the Eternal Reward?” asked Ewan. He tried to stop himself, but he was too late, and nearly bit his tongue. But Wynkyn didn’t immediately launch into another tirade.
“It’s what you go on to when you’ve done your stint,” he said. “Nobody knows what it’s really like, but we all look forward to it. We reckon that there’s probably a whole series of different ones for people with different ideas. We talk about it a lot during our tea breaks. Mostly we think it ought to be a kind of summery, pastoral place, although one or two of us would like a little more action. We have one fellow who reckons the Eternal Reward is a castle where everyone spends all their time eating, drinking and fighting, and another who thinks it’s a perpetual round of dressing up in funny clothes and hunting little brown animals with packs of dogs. You get all sorts in the Vaults, I can tell you… or, rather, I can’t, because I’ve got work to do. There’s a big flap on right now, you see—not much going on this side but a proper blitz in the Vaults, getting everything tidy and all sorted out, everything in its file and the like, triple-checking the records and auditing the accounts. Rumor has it we’re packing up the whole operation soon and all going to our Eternal Reward at once, but that’s just wishful thinking, if you ask me. I think it’s just a routine panic.”
“Yes,” said Ewan, quickly. “I see. Perfectly. So, if you could just give me the message, or whatever–-“
“Ah!” said Wynkyn. “Glad you reminded me. That’s what I came here for, isn’t it?”
The apparition reached a spectral hand into the blackness of the deep shadow which surrounded him, and drew out a ghostly guitar. He placed it on the floor, where it gleamed whitely. Ewan reached out to touch it, but his hand went straight through it, and he recoiled quickly.
“Wait a minute,” said Wynkyn, crossly. “Hold your horses. Don’t rush me. There’s a spell that goes with it,
if I can just… oh, yes–-Pluck the strings and play a tune, soft and subtle, sweet and slow; watch her dance and hear her croon, she’ll whisper the name you need to know.”
The guitar became solid.
“Well,” said Wynkyn. “It worked. Though I can’t say I think much of the rhyme. Pure doggerel, you know. I can’t think why they call magic an art. No real poet would write silly jingles like that. More suited to th advertising industry, if you ask me.”
Ewan reached out again to touch the guitar. This time he managed it. It was ordinary wood, slightly cold to the touch.
“Had to get special powers to do that, you know,’ said the apparition. “Three different forms to fill in.”
Ewan picked up the guitar and touched the fibrous strings lightly. Then, reassured that it was quite real, he brought it into position and began to pick out the chords of “Baa, baa, black sheep.”
“Oh, dear,” said the watching apparition. “That’s terrible. Can’t you do better than that?”
“Can you?” retorted Ewan.
“That’s not the point,” said Wynkyn, sniffing. “The point is that you’ll have to work extremely hard to keep the lamia dancing to that.”
Ewan scowled and began to pick out a traditional dance tune. The apparition raised his eyes disdainfully, and his gaze fell upon the serried ranks of books for the first time.
“I say!” he said. “This is a library!”
Ewan sat the guitar aside.
“What did you think it was?” he asked, nastily. “One of your precious filing cabinets?” He wa
s a little hurt by the derisory references to his guitar playing.
Wynkyn ignored the sarcasm. “You don’t suppose,” he said, with a slight catch in his voice, “that they’ve got any of my books here. I’m a poet, you know… when I was alive.”
“I’ve got a catalogue here,” said Ewan, moving back into the darkness to take up his pile of parchment. “It’s in alphabetical order. What’s your surname?”
“Wilkinson,” said the apparition. “Wynkyn Wilkinson. I was one of the esoteric school, you know.”
Ewan flipped through the pages and found the appropriate one. “Wilkinson, Wynkyn,” he read out. “Synchronous Sonnets, The Esoteric Press, undated. Spine rubbed, slight foxing. No dust wrapper. That’s all.”
Wynkyn released a long, hollow sigh of ecstasy. “Synchronous Sonnets,” he whispered. “Ah, youth! So long ago, and still remembered! Beloved by posterity!”
Ewan felt that it might be extremely undiplomatic to point out that none of the books in the library had been read for decades, and many of them had undoubtedly never been read at all.
“I suppose,” said the apparition, dreamily, “that this in itself is a form of Eternal Reward. My work survives! O joy! O rapture!”
And so saying, the emissary from the Vaults Beyond faded out.
Only the candlelight remained… and the guitar.
Ewan picked up the guitar and tucked it under his arm. He made as if to open the door, and then had an afterthought. Candle in hand he went back into the maze of shelves, and quickly located the book he sought: Synchronous Sonnets, by Wynkyn Wilkinson. He tucked that under his arm, too, and took it away to read in bed.
The Last Days Of The Edge Of The World Page 8