by Paula Volsky
“What, you mean he just took the palanquin you’d both paid for and abandoned you here? He had no right to do that.”
“I hope I do not presume too greatly in hoping you will allow me to share your conveyance.”
“I’ll very much enjoy your company. And I think Girays v’Alisante ought to be ashamed. He’s played you a miserable trick.”
“I do not see it that way. We race, and he is not obligated to pause for anyone. It is something I may choose for myself, but cannot expect of another.”
“Neither can I,” she returned. “This isn’t right, you shouldn’t damage your chances of winning on my account.”
“Ah, almost you speak like the grandlandsman.”
“That is not my ambition. Where is your uncle, anyway? I haven’t seen him in a long time.”
“He has gone on ahead. Preferring to shorten the tedium of the journey, he has proceeded directly to Lis Folaze, where I shall meet him next.”
“Somehow I suspect you aren’t so very eager to overtake him.”
“I am far more eager to overtake v’Alisante,” Karsler parried. “His lead increases by the minute.”
Quite right.
“Go!” Luzelle commanded sharply, and the Quiet-fellows marched.
Karsler smiled at her, and she remembered the sun.
“That is better,” he said.
“Much better,” she replied, and smiled back at him.
20
“MAJESTY, I AM PLEASED to announce an accomplishment. Our Masterfire has attained new levels of dexterity and control,” proclaimed Nevenskoi.
“Has he?” King Miltzin appeared to suppress a yawn.
“Indeed.” Resolved to overcome his monarch’s obvious ennui, the adept adopted an air of dignified enthusiasm. “We have prepared a demonstration, a new marvel to stimulate Your Majesty’s sense of wonder.”
“Another of the fire things? How many of those have I seen? Really, Nevenskoi, hasn’t it occurred to you that this is all becoming a trifle repetitive? Isn’t it about time for you to expand your horizons a bit?”
“But, Sire—” The adept’s intestines stirred uneasily. “The Sentient Fire is a discovery of enormous significance, one whose potential has scarcely begun to be explored—”
“To my mind it’s been explored to the limit and beyond, these past few months. Can’t you come up with anything new?”
New? One of the great arcane advances in history at his disposal, and this royal retardate was already bored with it? Nevenskoi’s innards began to churn.
“Sire—” The adept moistened his lips and spoke with exquisite restraint. “I beg leave to observe that Masterfire’s talent to amuse remains very much intact. Your Majesty need only recall the enthusiasm of the audience at the opera house—”
“Yes, that was a triumph, wasn’t it?” Miltzin’s eyes kindled briefly. “The spectacle was astounding! Even the Zoketsa professed herself amazed. But there is all the trouble, you see. The triumph was a disaster in disguise. Ever since that night I’ve been pelted with pleas and demands, most of them originating among my own subjects. I should never have whetted the public appetite. It was a splendid show, but I know now that it was a mistake, exposing our green friend to the view of the vulgar—a mistake that I shall not repeat.”
“I see.” Another hope dashed. Nevenskoi strove to contain his resentment, but his creation, presently stationed beneath the king’s chafing dish, caught the emotional emanation. The fire leapt responsively, and green tongues licked out across the desk.
Down. Small, my beauty, small, Nevenskoi soundlessly enjoined, and Masterfire subsided without argument.
“Hereafter Masterfire must limit his activities to the confines of the Waterwitch,” the king decreed. Frowning, he selected a deep-fried oyster puff from the inevitable platter of appetizers. “And that being so, it’s only too clear that the novelty of the various little demonstrations and displays has quite exhausted itself.”
“Majesty, allow your servant the honor of proving you wrong,” Nevenskoi suggested.
“Ha! Wrong! You are very blunt. Never mind, I take no offense. Well, then, my friend, prove me wrong by all means. I shall be pleasantly surprised if you can do it.”
“Sire, I do not boast when I assure you that Masterfire has achieved new heights of proficiency.”
“Proficiency in what?”
“In molding and shaping his own substance. He has developed a remarkable degree of control and precision, combined with infinite versatility. In short, Your Majesty, Masterfire is capable of assuming virtually any shape imaginable. I will show you.”
Loveliness. Having caught his creation’s attention, Nevenskoi issued silent commands.
At once Masterfire shot out from under the chafing dish, sprang from the desktop, raced to the center of the room, and reached for the ceiling. A column of green flame roared into being. For a few moments the column whirled wildly, its light almost unendurable to the eye, then gradually the revolutions decelerated, the fierce radiance palpitated like a stricken heart, and the shape of the fiery mass began to change.
Branches of flame snaked out from the trunk, twigs sprouted from the branches, the twigs divided, and broad green leaves of fire extruded themselves. The small whorls crowning the twigs gave birth to buds that quickly opened to blazing blossoms, distinct down to the smallest detail of pistil and stamen.
“Well. It’s a tree,” said the king.
“Perfect in every part.” Nevenskoi’s eyes feasted. “Majesty, observe the astonishing accuracy—the texture of the bark, the curve of each individual petal, the fiery knots along the bole, the precise fashioning of every part—”
“It’s very nice. It looks just like a tree. What does it do?”
“Do?”
“Does it just stand there like a tame forest fire, or does it do anything?”
“What, if I may be so bold as to inquire, does Your Majesty expect it to do?”
“How should I know? Some sort of trick, I suppose, something entertaining. That’s your concern, isn’t it? Really, Nevenskoi, do you expect me to do your work for you? Use your imagination, man!”
“Sire, you see before you a fire that is sentient and aware, the first of its kind, capable of altering its own shape at will, capable of assuming to perfection an infinite variety of forms, and you complain that it is not sufficiently entertaining? Your Majesty, I should like to point out—” Nevenskoi caught himself up with an effort. There was no good at all in pointing out the king’s pathetic paucity of vision; quite the contrary, in fact. Biting back his contempt, he continued quite smoothly, “I should like to point out that Masterfire’s abilities have barely begun to express themselves. Only watch, Sire.”
What shape, what form, was likely to capture Mad Miltzin’s capricious fancy? Use your imagination, man! Nevenskoi opened his mind to the universe, and inspiration accordingly found entrance.
He spoke again in his thoughts, fashioning his instructions with care, and Masterfire instantly responded. The flowering tree whirled out of existence. The column of flame reappeared, spun briefly on its axis, then shrank and dwindled, molded and reshaped itself, sculpting a richly curved naked female form, slender shapely limbs, and the radiant face of a debauched fairy. The green siren that was Masterfire smiled and shook back her blazing cloud of hair.
“Oh,” breathed Mad Miltzin. His grasshopper eyes bulged expressively. “Oh.”
“You see, Sire.” Nevenskoi noted his monarch’s reaction with satisfaction. “Masterfire’s potential remains largely untapped. Will you not concede as much?”
“Magnificent,” whispered the king. “Spectacular. She is so very beautiful!”
“Your Majesty’s pleasure is my greatest reward.”
“She is the most glorious creature I have ever beheld,” opined His Majesty. “Flawless. Peerless. Never have I encountered such intensity, such unabashed ardor!”
“It is but one form among countless possibilities, each
more wondrous than the last,” Nevenskoi suggested with a significant smile.
“To think how we’ve misjudged!” marveled the king. “This entity that we’ve known as Masterfire should by rights bear the title of—Mistressfire. Yes, it is perfect—she is perfect. The very essence of true femininity—and we did not perceive it, until now! How could we have been so blind?”
“Majesty, all mortals err.”
“Nevenskoi, I must touch her! It’s possible, is it not? Do not deny me, my friend, do not deny her—for I sense her longing, it burns in those incomparable eyes!”
“I believe that a certain limited contact may be possible,” Nevenskoi consented cautiously. He considered. He controlled Masterfire, he could trust Masterfire, up to a point. “Yes. You may hold her hand. Briefly.”
“It is a start.” Miltzin’s eyes traveled the undulant green form. “The start of a journey, I am certain.”
“One moment, Sire.” Nevenskoi concentrated his thoughts and spoke with his mind. Loveliness. You have done well, I am proud of you. Now hear me. It is important, very important.
Whatwhatwhat? asked Masterfire.
The king desires to touch you.
Eateateateateateat—
None of that. You will suffer his touch, and you will consume nothing.
Badmeat touches me, I eat.
No! You will not eat. Not a morsel. You will not so much as frizzle a hair on his head. Do you understand me?
NoNoNo.
Yes you do.
Who is badmeat to touch Masterfire?
Our sovereign, our ruler.
Not mine.
No more argument. Nevenskoi focused his will. You hear my commands. You will obey.
No fun.
Offer your hand to the king.
Not a real hand, anyway. Complaints notwithstanding, the blazing beauty extended a graceful green arm.
Miltzin hesitantly accepted the proffered member. The slim hand of fire lay harmlessly across his open palm, and an entranced smile overspread his face. Very gently he closed his fingers to clasp the hand of Masterfire, and for some moments stood savoring the contact.
“I sense the wild flare of her emotions,” the king proclaimed at length. “And I believe that Mistressfire likewise senses mine. We are kindred spirits, she and I. We have bonded.” Lightly he stroked the long green fingers, which flickered at his touch. “Ah, she is exquisitely responsive.”
EAT! Masterfire shivered with eagerness, and for a split second the human guise wavered. Pleasepleaseplease!
No. I absolutely forbid it.
WHY?
“She is passion personified,” observed the king. “She is divine. I must know her fully, Nevenskoi—I must experience her totality. You will find a way of effecting our union. I am relying on you, my friend.”
“I—well. Union. Your Majesty has taken me by surprise,” Nevenskoi answered with perfect truth.
Eateateateateateateateateat—
“But it is not so amazing,” Miltzin IX observed reasonably. “You are the creator of Mistressfire, her father and teacher. Surely you, who know her so well, must have perceived that she and your monarch possess twin souls of fire. What could be more natural than the longing of two such spirits to merge? For I trust I do not flatter myself in assuming that Mistressfire shares my desires.”
Eateateateateateateateateateat—
“I can safely report that she is not indifferent, Sire. Still—”
A sharp knock at the study door spared Nevenskoi the necessity of further invention.
“Ah, I had quite forgotten.” Miltzin shook his head. “But then, my attention has been fully occupied!” He raised his voice. “Come!”
The door opened. A footman hovered at the threshold. He took in the naked green flaming female handfasted to the king, and his eyes rounded. His jaw dropped, but no words emerged.
“Send him in, send him in,” Miltzin commanded, amused.
The footman bowed deeply and retired mutely.
“It quite slipped my mind, I’ve sent for that marvelous new sous-chef,” the king explained blithely. “That talented fellow shall have a royal commendation, and perhaps a little pourboire to go with it. I’m sure you’ll agree, my friend, that he deserves both.”
“The sous-chef?” Nevenskoi froze, paralyzed as if some blood vessel in his brain had burst, and he could only repeat helplessly, “The sous-chef?”
“The new sous-chef, man! The genius, the rising star, the Architect of Appetizers. The gifted—what was his name, again? Oh, yes—the gifted Master Giggy Neeper!”
A new figure appeared in the doorway.
“You may approach,” Miltzin invited graciously.
The newcomer bowed low, entered, and there was Cousin Giggy, much as Nitz Neeper remembered. Fifteen years older, of course. The snub-nosed, freckled, skinny adolescent of yore had thickened around the middle and his sandy hair was receding, but Giggy remained entirely recognizable.
Terror welled within Nevenskoi, and he cast desperate eyes around him. Trapped.
Giggy Neeper’s astounded eyes fastened on Masterfire. For a moment or two he saw nothing else. Recollecting the presence of his sovereign, he tore his eyes from the green woman, fixed them on the king, and held them there with obvious effort.
“Master Neeper, I have summoned you to my presence in order to commend the excellence of your work,” the king announced. “I have been most favorably impressed—indeed, I’ve been delighted—by your manifestations of skill, imagination, and virtuosity. Your ganzel puffs are the lightest in the world. Your truffled tartlets beggar description.”
“I am greatly honored, Sire.” A flush of pleasure suffused the sous-chef’s face.
“Truly, my dear fellow, you are an artist marked for greatness in your chosen field. It gives me pleasure to surround myself with men of talent, I revel in the juxtaposition of masterly minds. Thus I’m doubly pleased to present you to a fellow admirer of your work, the ingenious adept Nevenskoi, creator of this gorgeous fiery stunner here, whose presence I think you haven’t overlooked. Nevenskoi can’t resist your brandied dormice. Eh, Nevenskoi?”
The adept inclined his head in wordless assent.
“I am most grateful, Majesty. Your praise overwhelms me,” Giggy declared with becoming modesty. He turned to Nevenskoi. “And I thank you, too, sir. Maybe it would interest you to know that the brandied dormice recipe is a refinement of a dish that my grandmother used to prepare for special family gatherings. I can still remember sitting at her big polished table as a boy, feasting on her soused dormice. Everyone loved them, and I had one cousin in particular who used to gobble them by the handful—” He stopped. He stared. His eyes rounded and his voice rose an incredulous octave. “Nitz? Nitz Neeper, is it you?”
“I do not understand you.” Nevenskoi’s Rhazaullean accent was more than ordinarily pronounced. Behind the façade of polite incomprehension his heart hammered and his guts twisted.
Badness? asked Masterfire.
“It is you!” Giggy decided. “I can hardly believe it! Nitz, we all thought you were dead!”
“You jest, Master Neeper?” Nevenskoi frowned, mildly puzzled. Out of the corner of his eye he noted the king observing the scene with interest, and his alarm approached panic.
Whatwhatwhat? Masterfire demanded.
“Wait until Dosie and Jilfur hear that you’re alive! They’ll be absolutely bowled over! They speak of you often, you know. Why in the world haven’t you been in touch all these years?”
“And what is all this, my dear fellow?” inquired the king. “You and my Nevenskoi know each other?”
“Know each other! Sire, this is my dear cousin Nitz Neeper, missing these fifteen years. It’s like a miracle, finding him here like this!”
“Majesty—” Attempting a faintly bemused smile, Nevenskoi produced a pained facial contortion. “This kitchen person makes a joke or else a mistake. I have never seen him before in my life, nor have I encountered any member of h
is family.”
“Nitz, how can you say that?” Giggy Neeper reproached. “What’s the matter with you? You can’t have forgotten your own kin!”
“Master Neeper, I believe you commit an honest error,” Nevenskoi returned generously. “This I can understand. Perhaps I bear some resemblance to this long-lost cousin of yours. Such things happen. But please understand, we have never met before this day.”
“Nitz, that’s plain ridiculous. Do you think your own first cousin won’t know you, just because you’ve gone and colored your hair? I don’t remember you ever having that much hair, though. Oh, I see. It’s a wig.”
“You are very much mistaken. You—”
“Gad, is it a wig?” demanded the king. He stared. “He’s right, isn’t he? I never noticed that!”
“No, Sire, this is a great misunderstanding—”
“Give it a tug, then. A good, firm tug.”
“Majesty, I take exception. This is most demeaning, most distasteful—”
“Give it a tug, Nevenskoi, or I’ll call in one of the footmen to do it for you.”
“That will not be necessary.” Nevenskoi’s innards were up in rebellion. Ignoring the internal tumult, he drew a deep breath and met his sovereign’s eyes squarely. “I confess it is true, Sire. I wear a wig. A small vanity, harmless and quite meaningless. I hope you will not think too ill of your servant.”
“And what of your name, man? Is that likewise a small vanity?”
“Never, Sire. I am born of an ancient and noble Rhazaullean line.”
“Oh, come off it, Nitz,” Giggy Neeper advised. “You ought to be ashamed, spinning such tales. Your father was Klisp Neeper, shopkeeper of Flenkutz, and a very good man too. What do you think he’d say if he could hear you now?”
“My family’s estate stood above the village of Chtarnavaikul, as Your Majesty already knows.” Nevenskoi’s eyes watered with desperate sincerity. “Then came the deadly mudslide—”
“You and your whoppers.” Giggy Neeper shook his head. “I’d almost forgotten those incredible lies, but now it all comes back to me. All right, Nitz. If we’ve never met before, then how is it I know about that scar on your right wrist? You were about seventeen years old, and you were fooling around at Granny’s hearth—you had some wild notion that you could make the fire do some sort of trick, I forget what, and it didn’t work anyway—you only managed to give yourself a beauty of a burn, which left the scar. What about it?”