The Reign of the Brown Magician

by Lawrence Watt-Evans

  And seeing what remained of the giant bat-thing would be interesting, too.

  Pel got up, dusted off the seat of his pants, and after a final glance at Warner’s distant form, he strolled off into the trees.

  * * * *

  “It’s all clear, I suppose?” Warner’s captain said; then he got a look at the lieutenant’s face as Warner stepped out of the airlock, his helmet already off and dangling from one hand, and the captain realized that something was wrong.

  “He’s down there!” Warner said, addressing his superior and ignoring the Imperial envoy who stood, half-in and half-out of a space suit, to one side.

  “Who is?” the captain asked, glancing at the array of Imperial brass up in the observation area.

  “Pelbrun! The Brown Magician!” Warner answered, ignoring the glance.

  “Where?” the envoy asked. “He’s supposed to be in his fortress, I…”

  “He’s right there! At the foot of the ladder! He came out of a cloud and found me there!”

  The captain looked up again, and caught Albright’s signal.

  “Wait here,” he said.

  * * * *

  “The telepaths say it’s possible,” Markham told the others. “Apparently they don’t have a very good grasp of the geography there, especially now that both our contacts have returned to Imperial space, but Brown does appear to have moved out of his fortress somehow.”

  “So he’s waiting for us to deliver the bodies,” Sheffield said. “He said he wanted them there, now, and he’s come to collect them.”

  “And he’s given us a specific deadline this time,” Albright commented.

  “Which we don’t know exactly, since your lieutenant neglected to check his watch,” Markham pointed out.

  “We wouldn’t know it exactly in any case, since none of your people have ever bothered to calibrate the local cycles there,” Albright retorted. “Besides, how does this Earthman define dawn? First light? Semicircle at true horizon? Sun clear of the visible horizon?”

  “Not much of a horizon in the middle of a forest,” Markham answered.

  “I don’t think we want to wait for his deadline in any case,” Sheffield said. “I think we go ahead with our original plan, and send the envoy—the only difference is that he’ll be negotiating right now, instead of days from now. Does either of you gentlemen see any reason we shouldn’t proceed thus?”

  Markham and Albright glanced quickly at one another, but neither spoke.

  * * * *

  Pel had worked his way through the mummified remnants of Shadow’s flying monster, studying the bones and skin with interest, puzzling out just why the Imperials had cut away the parts they did while leaving the rest, and was just starting a look through the wreck of I.S.S. Christopher when he heard a human voice calling.

  He hesitated. It was obvious that the Imperials had used the ship and clearing as a temporary base during their ventures into Faerie, and he was curious about just how they had set it up, and how many of them had been here—and for that matter, whether anyone might still be here.

  No, he could tell, magically, that no one was in the ship.

  He did want to see the inside—he’d felt a twinge of nostalgia when he first saw the familiar purple paint, now somewhat marred by weather and abuse. He had only been on the ship for perhaps an hour, but it had, after all, been a fairly important hour, the one that brought him to Faerie, where he had a chance to revive his family.

  But that voice was probably the Empire’s representatives, delivering the bodies, and if he had a choice between thinking about his wife and child as they were, or bringing them back from the dead, he’d be a fool to settle for memories.

  Anyone who wanted to find him here could do so readily enough, since the glow of the matrix was probably visible for miles, but still, it wouldn’t hurt to let whoever it was know that he was welcome.

  “Hello!” Pel called, stepping out of the hatchway. “Over here!”

  Perhaps two minutes later he and the Imperial envoy came face to face on the narrow track Imperial traffic had worn between ladder and clearing; Pel stopped dead at the sight of him.

  The man was wearing the most outlandish outfit Pel had encountered since leaving Earth, somewhat the worse for having been stuffed inside a space suit for the climb through the warp. The pants were black velvet with broad purple silk stripes down either side, stuffed into shiny black jackboots; the shirt was white silk with elaborate lace ruffles down the front, artfully fluffed up around a diagonal purple silk sash that combined with a purple silk cummerbund to make a bizarre imitation of a Sam Browne belt. Over this, the stranger wore a bright red cutaway jacket with gold braid on the cuffs and shoulders, and the Imperial seal on the breast—a lion and unicorn rampant against a sunburst, a seal that Pel had first seen on the door of an aircar on Psi Cassiopeia II.

  Pel couldn’t tell whether the gold-and-white ruffled lace collar that flared out from the man’s neck was part of the shirt, the jacket, or neither.

  The crowning glory of this comic-opera outfit was undoubtedly the hat, a curling, almost brimless, vaguely conical thing of red velvet and white and purple ostrich plumes.

  That the sunlight was gone and the only illumination came from the shifting colors of the matrix made this costume all the more bizarre. Pel tried to shift the light toward white, so as to see this thing better, and belatedly thought to make sure that the matrix was transparent, so that this character could see him, as well.

  Why on Earth had they sent this person to deliver the bodies, instead of just a soldier or two?

  “My Lord Pelbrun?” the man asked, standing straight and snapping his heels together.

  “Yeah,” Pel managed.

  The apparition took off his hat and bowed, with a flourish. After a moment of frozen formal subordination, he rose, reached into an inside pocket, and pulled out a packet roughly the size of a business envelope, which he proffered to Pel. “My credentials, sir.”

  Too dazed to even laugh, and feeling a twinge of dread, Pel reached out with a tendril of magic and took the packet; it felt like parchment, and was sealed with gold leaf and purple sealing wax. He pulled it open and tugged out a large sheet of paper—or more likely parchment—which he unfolded and glanced at.

  It was in elaborate old-fashioned script, and Pel didn’t care to bother reading it by matrixlight, but he did notice the signature and elaborate blue seal at the bottom.

  Georgius VIII Imperator et Rex.

  That sounded pretty official.

  “Okay,” Pel said, “the Emperor sent you. Who the hell are you?”

  “My name is Ambrose Curran, my lord, and I am an accredited Imperial envoy. His Imperial Majesty has sent me to negotiate the terms under which he will yield to you the mortal remains of Nancy and Rachel Brown.”

  “Terms?” Pel needed a second or two to absorb that; he was still bemused by Curran’s appearance.

  Then it sank in, and the matrix turned angry red as he repeated, “Terms?” His voice rang and echoed, and tree-branches creaked warningly.

  Chapter Twenty

  Ambrose Curran stepped back involuntarily and threw up an arm to shield his eyes as the ragged man vanished behind a blazing, surging cloud of scarlet energy. White and red light flashed across the forest, interspersed with sharp-edged stripes of black shadow where the trees blocked the furious brilliance.

  “Yes, my lord,” Curran said, “but I assure you, the terms are not onerous in the least. As His Imperial Majesty’s representative, I promise you we seek only the friendship natural between two great and puissant lords and their respective realms.”

  According to accepted protocol that was a proper way to phrase it, but Curran had some doubts as to whether this Brown would like it. From his speech and appearance the man seemed to be rather a rough and ready sort, not a traditional aristocrat at all—and that was hardly surprising, since he was, after all, a usurper.

  “I don’t want your fucking emperor’s fr
iendship,” said the roaring voice from the glowing cloud. “I want my wife and child!”

  “Of course,” Curran said, just managing to keep his voice steady. He wished he knew whether this obscenity was an indication of the Brown Magician’s fury, or simply a lower-class usurper’s natural style. “And we intend to deliver them, just as soon as we have your assurance that you will cease your interference in Imperial affairs.”

  “I don’t give a shit about Imperial affairs!” the voice screamed, and Curran heard branches crack and fall. The cloud was showing several colors now, changing too fast for Curran to name them all. “I want Nancy and Rachel, I want them lowered down a rope from that fucking hole in the sky you’ve got up there, and I want it done now, or you can kiss your whole fucking Galactic Empire good-bye!”

  “My lord…”

  “Just shut up with that ‘lord’ crap while you’re at it, and get your ass back up that ladder!”

  “I have my orders, Mr. Brown…”

  “Then they’ve ordered you to die, you stupid son of a bitch! Last chance!”

  “And you think they’ll deliver if you kill me?” Curran shouted, backing away another step.

  The air suddenly stilled, and for a moment an unnatural silence fell. Then the voice spoke again, and to Curran it sounded more like growling machinery than like anything human.

  “State your terms, then, errand boy.”

  Curran did not think this was the time for formality or protocol; he gave his position in the simplest, most direct way he could. “We want your spies withdrawn, that’s all. We know we didn’t get them all. We want them out of the Empire, and your word that you won’t send more. As soon as they’re gone, we deliver the bodies.”

  Again there was a moment of eerie stillness. Then the voice, once again sounding human, said, “That’s all?”

  “That’s all.”

  “You really want them withdrawn, or would you rather they turned themselves in? You could question them about whatever they did for Shadow before I took over; might be interesting for your cops.”

  Curran hesitated. That hadn’t been covered in his instructions; no one had considered the possibility that Brown could be so ruthless as to turn his own people over to Imperial Intelligence.

  It seemed an irresistible opportunity, and after all, if Secretary Sheffield decided it was a mistake, he could just have them all sent through the warp.

  Or killed.

  “Either one would be satisfactory,” he said.

  “They’ll turn themselves in, then,” the voice said. “Easier for me—I don’t have any use for them here.”

  “As you please.”

  “It may take a few days for word to reach ’em all.”

  “Of course.”

  “If you get back up that ladder and get the gears turning on your end, I’ll get started on mine. I want those corpses soon—you tell your people that. No more stupid delays; as soon as my people start surrendering, you get those bodies here.”

  “I’ll deliver your terms, of course.” Curran bowed again.

  “Go on, then!”

  Curran turned and walked off with as much dignity as he could muster, hoping he wouldn’t have any difficulty finding the ladder and donning his space suit in the dark.

  He was not looking forward to that long climb.

  The welcome at the top should be pleasant enough, though; Brown had, after all, agreed.

  * * * *

  Pel didn’t bother to watch as the Imperial geek put his space suit on and started up the ladder; despite his shouting, he knew it would be hours before Curran could get his message through and the bureaucracy could process it. He didn’t really expect the bodies to be delivered for a day or so.

  Pel shook his head as he trudged back toward I.S.S. Christopher.

  That outfit Curran wore was really amazing; now that Pel was over his initial surprise and subsequent fury, he could marvel at its absurdity. The Galactic Empire really did have some odd quirks. Why would they dress their ambassadors, or whatever they were, like that?

  It certainly made them distinctive, anyway.

  Which was probably the point.

  If that regalia was what ambassadors wore, what did the Emperor wear for formal occasions?

  It didn’t matter, of course. What mattered was getting Nancy and Rachel back. And that would be easy enough; all he had to do was order Gregory to spread the word—everyone was to pass the message on, then surrender to the Imperial authorities.

  That was really reasonable enough; when Pel had first heard that the Empire had terms he had expected something difficult or unpleasant. Once he had his family back, though, what did he need spies for?

  He wondered what the Empire would do with them all; Pel didn’t know himself how extensive Shadow’s network of spies actually was, but he was fairly sure there were at least a couple of dozen. He supposed they’d wind up serving time in prison for espionage.

  If they had been real people, Pel might have felt guilty about that, but surely they were all simulacra or fetches or other Shadow-creatures, and from everything he’d seen of those, they had such a flattened emotional response that prison probably wouldn’t bother them much.

  And maybe he could work some sort of trade later on, buy them free somehow.

  Maybe he should have said that he’d withdraw them, rather than suggesting that they turn themselves in—but what would he have done with them all, here in Faerie? They’d have just been in the way.

  And it would have taken ages to round them all up.

  He stumbled over a broken branch, and, annoyed, vaporized it in a shower of emerald-green sparks.

  Then he was in the clearing, the bat-thing’s remains rearing up before him in an eerie maze of black flesh and white bone; he marched past without paying much attention, up to the hatchway of Christopher.

  He’d open his portal to Gregory’s place, whatever it was, aboard the ship; he didn’t want to do it out here in the open, where stray birds or chipmunks or something might wander through it. He wondered if birds ever flew into the Empire’s space-warp up there, to emerge into vacuum and die.

  That was a nasty thought.

  And for that matter, he wondered why air didn’t flow constantly through the opening into the space beyond. Did the warp create some sort of static field, perhaps, that held it back?

  He didn’t know—and it didn’t matter.

  The interior of the ship wasn’t quite as he remembered it; there were dead leaves here and there, a few seats had been removed, and it appeared that something had chewed at some of the maroon leatherette upholstery.

  Squirrels, probably.

  The lights didn’t work, of course, but the matrix made them superfluous in any case.

  He settled in one of the aisle seats that was still clean and intact, and began concentrating on opening a portal.

  It was much more difficult than he had expected; the nearness of the space-warp created a fierce counter-pressure that he had to struggle against, and the relative weakness of the matrix so far from any power spot left him with far less energy than he had ever had available before when attempting such a task.

  Nonetheless, after about half an hour of effort that left him sweating and trembling, he forced open the portal.

  Nothing happened. No one stepped out.

  “God damn it!” Pel shouted. Fighting to maintain the spell, he reached a magical tendril back into the aft storeroom and swept out everything he could reach.

  Steel bottles of oxygen, purple cotton packs and bedrolls, black folding shovels, pieces of space suits, and a great pile of unidentifiable equipment came tumbling through the hatchway into the passenger compartment; Pel let most of it drop as he snatched up an oxygen cylinder and heaved it through the portal.

  It vanished, instantly and silently, but Pel was sure it made a suitable clatter on the other side.

  He waited.

  The portal refused to stabilize completely; keeping it open took a const
ant effort, and after five more minutes Pel wasn’t sure how long he could hold it. The matrix seemed to be fighting him, rather than cooperating.

  He found a piece of equipment with glass parts—he had no idea what it was, some sort of scientific apparatus by the look of it—and heaved that through the opening.

  Then he waited again.

  Finally, Gregory’s head appeared, and a moment later Pel’s chief spy stood aboard the ship, looking around with mild interest.

  “Yes, master?” he asked.

  Pel cleared his throat, and began explaining.

  When he got to the main point, that everyone was to surrender, Gregory’s usual bland expression turned uneasy.

  “O Great One, are you sure that…”

  “Sure enough. Do it.”

  “Yes, master,” Gregory said unhappily.

  It was the first time Pel had seen such unhappiness on a simulacrum’s face, and he felt a twinge of guilt.

  “Listen, if you think they’ll mistreat you…”

  “No, O Great One, it’s not that,” Gregory explained. “It’s that we’ll no longer be able to serve you. We won’t have a master to tell us what to do.”

  Pel blinked.

  Shadow had obviously done a thorough job of indoctrinating her creations—or maybe it was something in the nature of simulacra.

  “All right, then,” he said, “if you want, and they allow it, you can swear fealty or whatever to the Emperor, and make him your new master.”

  Gregory’s relief was evident. “Thank you,” he said.

  “Now, get back there and get it started!”

  * * * *

  Curran was startled to not see any officials in the prep room when he emerged from the airlock. He had expected Markham and Albright and Secretary Sheffield to be waiting impatiently, had thought they would reprimand him for taking the time to remove his space suit.

  Instead there was just an ordinary soldier standing there, ready to welcome him back.

  “This way, sir,” the young man said, gesturing.

  Curran followed, puzzled, as he was led out of the warp facility and into the main working area of Base One, down corridors and up lifts until he arrived at the door of a conference room.