by Joan Lennon
The figure glided round in front of him.
‘Oh now,’ it said. ‘And I made so sure you wouldn’t know I was there.’
Alpine Cordell did not respond. He rarely did. He had always found this to be an unbreachable defence in any but the most physical situations. For those, he had other aptitudes.
The figure made a tiny noise of distaste and half turned away.
‘Call it up,’ it murmured.
Cordell held out a remote and spoke a word.
Reconjured, the Perfection of the Worlds began its stately dance in the air before them, the three figures at the three points of the triangle, lustrous and glowing.
‘You are aware of what has been discussed?’ the Preceptor asked, watching its slow spin. ‘The directions to which the Council is now committed?’
‘Of course. I am the Council’s Private Secretary, as you know.’
The figure shrugged, as if it couldn’t be bothered to acknowledge or deny the fact.
‘It is dangerous,’ it said. ‘I had hoped they wouldn’t consider the old ways. Until it was too late.’
‘Yes,’ said Cordell. ‘Keeping the leakage managed for our use only, and keeping the Prelates in the dark, have been hard enough. How can we hope to control a team of made-to-measure Questors?’
‘We can’t,’ said the Preceptor.
‘But how can we eliminate them without being noticed? Denounced? Eliminated ourselves?’
‘We can’t,’ the figure said again.
Alpine Cordell had grown used to the way in which his special employer liked to conduct conversations. A sage of no inconsiderable power himself, Cordell was frighteningly intelligent, but he had never felt the need for public acclaim. He knew his worth, and did not care that others generally did not even notice he was there. It satisfied something in him to know that the people who ignored him were so often, in fact, his inferiors. The games he played with the Preceptor were more complex than that, for there he was dealing with someone who was not his inferior in any way. But Cordell understood quite clearly that he could never achieve as much on his own as he could in tandem with the Preceptor, and that was satisfactory too.
‘We can’t,’ repeated the figure. ‘But then, we don’t need to.’
It was staring at the glowing images in the centre of the room. It took a step towards them, and another. It slowly raised a hand.
‘We need only touch a gene here… a chromosome there… gently… gently…’
The hand dropped through the lines of light connecting the points of the triangle. They bent and swirled around it, and then resumed their proper state, like a candle flame ruffled by a breath. But they were not the same. The change in the lines of connection was subtle, almost undetectable, but it was there.
Cordell watched.
Three glowing figures. As each spun slowly past, the Preceptor reached out a finger and delicately stirred. As if in protest, the images blurred a little and their colours, primarily metallic before, silver and bronze and gold, bled together into browns and the odd smear of red. At last the Preceptor stepped back, cradling its hands, one in the other, while, for a long moment, it continued to watch the hologram. And as the Preceptor watched, Alpine Cordell watched the Preceptor.
‘I wonder what, exactly, has been done?’ the Secretary murmured after a while. ‘Which portions, exactly, have been altered?’
Within its hood, the Preceptor smiled. It was a slow smile, and bore no relation to laughter or common joy. It was luxurious, and lazy, and evil.
‘I have absolutely no idea,’ the Preceptor purred. ‘Isn’t it delicious. All I know is that now, whatever they are, our little heroettes – they’re not perfect.’
The Preceptor stretched, like a cat that has perpetrated a crime, and walked away.
‘Tidy that, Cordell. In case the others fancy calling it up from the files from time to time, it should seem as nice and shiny as before. And then put it away.’
The Secretary had been dismissed, like any other servant, without a backward glance. Alpine Cordell bared his teeth. It might have been a grin, or it might have been a grimace. The eyes gave nothing away.
Then he turned and did as he was told.
9
In the Kitchen
‘That’s practically my home! Tantalan can’t be more than half an hour away! What kind of tremors? How bad? What can I do?’
Cam’s voice was shrill and panicky.
‘It’s all right,’ Mrs Macmahonney was saying. They were back in the kitchen, clustered around the big table. ‘They’ll have it under control in no time. I’m sure –’
‘I’ll go and find out,’ interrupted Kate, and was gone.
Cam just sat there, stiff and straight, not looking at anybody. Bryn leaned over to Madlen and whispered, ‘I wish I knew what was going on. I saw the Council crumblies as we were leaving and you wouldn’t believe… They’d gone all mythic, you know? I don’t know about you, but I sure as snow don’t know any of the stuff they were on about. Do you?’
Madlen shook her head. ‘We didn’t do Mythic at school,’ she whispered back. ‘I don’t even know what it is, really. They must have got the wrong kids.’
And then, so suddenly that it made them all jump, Kate was back.
‘It’s OK,’ she said. ‘They stopped it before it happened.’
Cam stared for a minute and then sagged in relief.
‘Was anybody hurt?’ it asked.
Kate shook her head. ‘No one will even know anything happened.’
‘Because nothing did,’ said Cam slowly. ‘It was going to happen, and the Council fixed it so it didn’t.’
‘They sealed the leak,’ said Kate. ‘They’re having to do that a lot lately, as more and more leaks appear. The backwash just compounds that, affecting weaknesses before they might otherwise begin to bleed, which then in turn affect other weaknesses… Everything’s accelerating. The time isn’t so far off when the Council won’t be able to catch it all. They won’t be able to hold the balance.’
Madlen leaned forward. ‘What is this backwash thing everybody keeps talking about?’ she demanded.
Kate dropped into a chair.
‘It’s because of what’s gone wrong – I mean, is going to go wrong – and the wrongness is backing up along the Continuum and messing with things that are happening now, here, at the cusp…’ She looked at them. ‘Look, nobody lower than a Prelate actually understands this stuff. We don’t even know exactly when it started, though lots of us figure it began in the time when the Council was one player down. What we do know is the effect it’s having on the Worlds.’
‘Earthquakes and stuff?’ said Bryn.
Kate leaned back in her chair, looking thoroughly tired. ‘It’s more than that,’ she said. ‘The non-physical is becoming polarized as well.’
‘What do you mean?’ asked Cam. Its colour was starting to come back again.
‘Things don’t work any more, because polarized Worlds aren’t viable,’ Mrs Mac said. ‘You’ll all have noticed in your own Worlds how things have been falling apart. The systems just don’t work so well any more. Like, what used to be very formal, ritualized war games is degenerating more and more into the mess of the real thing in Bryn’s World; and in yours, Madlen, there’s all that tightening up on things – and people – that aren’t strictly scientific. And in Cam’s World, well, fewer and fewer people are in control of the dreaming that’s in control of everything else…’
Her face was bleak.
‘Extreme stuff just doesn’t work,’ she said. ‘Go too far out on a limb and, eventually, the limb breaks. But it’s even worse than that. You’ve told me about the hologram – you saw how the Worlds need each other, not just to be rich and diverse and complex organisms, but to be … at all.’
There was a long pause.
‘I really don’t see what you think we can do about it,’ said Madlen suddenly.
‘Yeah,’ said Bryn.
Cam nodded. ‘What exact
ly is supposed to be going on?’ it said.
Kate sighed. ‘What is supposed to be going on,’ she said, ‘is you three finish growing up, you get trained here at the London House, so that your native strengths can be honed, then, at the proper time, you are sent on a series of Quests to retrieve three Objects of Power, bring them back here and re-establish the balance of the Worlds by placing the Objects in relation to each other, in a Magical Field specially prepared for that purpose.’
She stopped for breath. The children waited for more, but that was it.
‘You’re joking, right?’ said Bryn.
Kate didn’t answer.
‘That is the Traditional Option,’ said Mrs Mac carefully. ‘You’re very special children, you know. It’s a Destiny thing – a great honour to be chosen – what you were, um, born for…’
Cam turned on her abruptly. ‘Yeah, right, thanks a lot,’ it said. ‘It’s not what I think I was born for.’
‘Shut up, Cam,’ said Madlen. The Dalrodian glared at her, but Madlen didn’t notice. She was focused on the adults. ‘So tell us what’s different now. If it’s not going to work the way it’s supposed to, what is going to happen? We just start training early, that’s all, isn’t it, and then in ten years we’ll be all set to go do this Quest thing. There’ll be lessons, and exams, stuff like that. It’s just been a change in the timetable, that’s all. Right?’
Mrs Macmahonney shook her head. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘We haven’t got ten years any more. You’ve got to do it now.’ She lifted a hand. ‘But when I say “now”, what I really mean is “ten years in the Future”. We have the power to move you forward and back along the Continuum, using paths laid down by the backwash. Then you find the Objects of Power, bring them back here, to the Present, and the realignment can be achieved before any more damage is done.’
‘So…’ said Bryn slowly. ‘You want to send us off into the Future to collect these Object things. Why can’t we just collect them in the Present?’
‘Are you sure we can’t wait till we’re a bit older?’ put in Cam.
‘Or will we be older, when we get to the Future?’ asked Madlen.
Mrs Mac answered each question in turn.
‘The Objects can’t be collected in the Present, because they aren’t in the Present. They will exist, but they don’t yet, not as Objects of Power anyway. And we can’t wait ten years for you to grow, or even one year, because there isn’t time. The damage being done by the backwash has accelerated – you saw today – and we just don’t have that long. And no, you’ll be the age you are now, because otherwise you’d be unable to return. You’ll have to trust me on that one – the physics of intertemporal movement is the study of a lifetime.’
‘Or two,’ muttered Kate.
‘This is just stupid,’ shrilled Madlen. ‘We’re not grown up, and we’re not trained, and we’re not – what did you call it? – honed. So I don’t see what earthly good our being here is doing, and I’ve got exams next week, and I’d like to get back to school today, if you don’t mind, or yesterday would be better.’
‘I’m afraid that’s not possible,’ came a new voice.
‘Good heavens, what are you doing here?!’ squeaked Mrs Macmahonney, and turned bright pink.
10
Previously, in the Council Chamber
The Prelates clutched mugs of tea, catching their collective breath after dealing with the earthquake on Dalrodia. Lady Vera’s lips were pressed into a straight, stubborn line, and Lord Bullvador was not looking at all happy.
‘I don’t like it,’ he rumbled. ‘I really don’t think we can safely interfere. Shouldn’t we have some faith – let them get on with it in their own way?’
‘Trust them – have you seen them?!’ muttered Lord Metheglin.
‘A delicate touch, here and there, that’s all I’m suggesting,’ argued Lady Vera. ‘Nothing more.’
‘A hint,’ agreed Lord Metheglin.
‘I really think that would be wise,’ added Lady Mary.
‘Could it rhyme?’ said Meth. ‘I haven’t done a good cryptic couplet in ages!’
‘Of course… that would be within the rules, I’m sure we’d all agree.’ Lady Mary smiled at him.
And I’ll help,’ beamed Lady Beatitude. ‘I know a lot of rhymes. Crimes. Times. Chimes. Limes…’
‘Oh, Bull, stop scowling!’ interrupted Vera. ‘We never used to send Questors out blind! We always provided guides and charts and things.’ Then she frowned. ‘Though, of course, they already knew what they were looking for, because it already existed. The fleece. The grail. The dead girlfriend. There was none of this waiting-to-see-what-evolves business before, that’s true.’
‘Exactly,’ said Lord Bullvador. ‘This time, the Objects of Power do not yet exist. How can we tell these children what to find? We could be completely wrong.’
There was a troubled pause.
‘Could we check the database? See what the likely objects might be?’ Metheglin was reluctant to give up.
‘No harm in just having a look,’ agreed Lady Mary. Then, as each of the Prelates called up screens in the air before them, she groaned, ‘Oh no! I had no idea. It’s… gargantuan!’
‘Arrows, Cups, Rings, Stones, Jewels, Scrolls, Elixirs of Youth, Enchanted Fruits, Spells, Golden This, That and the Other, Dragon’s Teeth, Tears of the Gods…’ Lord Bullvador looked up at his colleagues a little smugly. ‘Ever so slightly surplus to requirements, wouldn’t you say?’
‘We’ll just have to cull a little,’ said Lady Vera firmly. ‘There’s no point putting it off.’
With a sigh, the Council addressed their screens and, for a long time, the room was quiet.
Then, out of the blue, Lady Beatitude let out a whoop.
‘YES!’ she cried. ‘YES!’
The others jumped up and clustered round to see what her monitor had to say.
It was a computer game, its title in lurid letters across the top of the screen – ‘The Pinnacle of the Worlds’.
‘I won!’ she exclaimed. ‘Now I can go on to Level 2!’
‘Oh, Bea.’
The others started to go back to their seats, but Lord Metheglin stayed at Lady Beatitude’s shoulder to watch for a moment. He reached over and pressed a few buttons on her keypad and then, slowly, straightened up.
There was an extremely thoughtful look in his eye.
‘You’re not going to believe this,’ he said. ‘But it’s all here – already – in this stupid computer game – exactly what we’re looking for –’
‘Oh, don’t be dim!’ snorted Bullvador, joining him. ‘They build those things entirely out of cliches and stereotypes and…’ His voice trailed off as he looked more closely.
‘The Ribbon of Abstract Thought… the Crystal of Courage… the Fruit of Dreams…’
‘What if they’re not cliches and stereotypes, but icons… and archetypes!?’ Lord Metheglin squeaked.
Bullvador growled, but the others were busy chattering about icons and iambic pentameter.
They didn’t appear to notice when he stumped crossly away.
11
Meanwhile, Back in the Kitchenn
Lord Bullvador stood in the doorway, filling it completely and looking awkward.
‘Hello, Maggie,’ he rumbled. ‘We’ve… I’ve…’ Uncharacteristically, he seemed at a loss for words. Then he shook himself and tried again. ‘I’ve come to help,’ he said.
Mrs Macmahonney was staring at him with her mouth open and her eyes like soup plates. When she realized everyone was now staring at her, however, she tried to act casual.
‘Help, is it? Sit down, then!’ she said, clearing her throat. ‘If you remember how!’
‘It’s been too long, Maggie,’ smiled the Prelate carefully. He opened his mouth slightly, almost as if tasting the air, then gave a great stretch. He grinned. ‘I’d forgotten how good this kitchen feels,’ he said. ‘The shielding… it’s wonderful.’
Mrs Mac snorted.
Lord Bullvador bowed deeply.
‘Dear lady, how well you know me!’ he said.
Mrs Mac snorted again and looked away.
Kate and the others exchanged glances, and wondered what the story was. But whatever it was, it would have to wait. They turned expectantly to Lord Bullvador.
Prelates do not age the way ordinary humans do. Lord Bullvador gave the appearance of being vigorous, healthy, mature, with the incompleteness of youth left behind and the frailties of age not yet on the horizon. In fact, he had been around for a very long time indeed, and he was an old man in the ways of the Worlds. He knew perfectly well the lure of what he was about to say, the almost irresistible attraction of being seen to be the Hero, of being needed, of being the one to save the World. It was a lure he had trailed before grown men and women, many of whom had excellent reasons for saying, ‘I won’t. I can’t. Not me. Choose somebody else.’
They might start by saying that, but they always ended up by saying, ‘I will.’
He didn’t think that children could resist the temptation, any more than the adults had. But was it fair, to put three apparently pleasant adolescents to the test? Lord Bullvador was quite sure that it wasn’t.
He sighed and did it anyway.
By the time he had finished presenting the nature of the Quests and the role of the Questors. he was almost ready to sign up himself.
It was Kate who sat with them at lunchtime, and the great and mighty Lord Bullvador who scuttled about with Mrs Mac, filling the midday meal order sheets. There was no sign of the Prelate about him now – he seemed much more like somebody’s favourite uncle on a Christmas visit. And, if they hadn’t known better, the children would have sworn that the two old people were flirting with each other. There was certainly much more giggling, and pretend tug-of-warring over dishes, and brushing up against each other, than seemed absolutely necessary.
It was very embarrassing.