Madwand Page 5

  “Little joke,” he said.

  “Not in the best of taste,” said Ibal, shaking his head. “You’ll have people associating you with Det’s Disaster. Ahh!”

  They followed a sudden movement of his gaze out along the street, past a halted fat man and a pair of strollers, to where a woman approached under a swaying blue light. She was of medium height, her hair long and dark and glossy, her form superbly molded beneath a light, clinging costume, her features delicate, lovely, smiling.

  Following his sharp intake of breath, Ibal rose to his feet. Pol and Mouseglove did the same.

  “Gentlemen, this is Vonnie,” he announced as she came up to the table. He embraced her, kept his arm about her. “My dear, you are lovelier than ever. These are my friends, Madwand and Mouseglove. Let us have a drink with them before we go our way.”

  She nodded to them as he brought her a chair.

  “It is good to meet you,” she said. “Have you come very far?” and Pol, captivated by the charm of her voice as well as the freshness of her person, felt a sudden and acute loneliness.

  He forgot his reply as soon as he uttered it, and he spent the next several minutes admiring her.

  As they rose to leave, Ibal leaned forward and whispered, “The hair—I’m serious. You’d best correct it soon, or the initiation officials may think you flippant. At any other time, of course, it would not matter. But in one seeking initiation—well, it is not a time for joking, if you catch my meaning.”

  Pol nodded, wondering at the simplest way to deal with it.

  “I’ll take care of it this evening.”

  “Very good. I will see you some time tomorrow—not too early.”

  “Enjoy yourselves.”

  Ibal smiled.

  “I’m sure.”

  Pol watched them go, then returned his attention to his drink.

  “Don’t look suddenly,” Mouseglove whispered through unmoving lips, “but there is a fat man who has been loitering across the way for some time now.”

  “I’d sort of noticed.” Pol replied, sweeping his gaze over the bulky man’s person as he raised his glass. “What about him?”

  “I know him,” Mouseglove said, “or knew him—professionally. His name is Ryle Merson.”

  Pol shook his head.

  “The name means nothing to me.”

  “He is the sorcerer I once mentioned. It was over twenty years ago that he hired me to steal those seven statuettes from your father.”

  Pol felt a strong urge to turn and stare at the large man in gold and gray. He restrained himself.

  “ . . . And there was no hint from him as to what he wanted them for?” he asked.

  “No.”

  “I feel they’re very safe—in with my guitar,” Pol said.

  When he did look again, Ryle Merson was talking with a tall man who wore a long-sleeved black tunic, red trousers and high black boots, a red bandana about his head. The man had his back to them, but a little later he turned and his eyes met Pol’s in passing, before the two of them moved on slowly up the street.

  “What about that one?”

  Mouseglove shook his head.

  “For a moment I thought there was something familiar about him, but no—I don’t know his name and I can’t say where I might have seen him before, if indeed I did.”

  “Is this a coincidence, I wonder?”

  “Ryle is a sorcerer, and this is a sorcerers’ convention.”

  “Why do you think he chose to stand there for so long?”

  “It could be that he was simply waiting for his friend,” Mouseglove said, “though I found myself wondering whether he had recognized me.”

  “It’s been a long time,” Pol said.

  “Yes.”

  “He could simply have come over and spoken with you if he wanted to be certain who you were.”

  “True.”

  Mouseglove raised his drink.

  “Let’s finish up and get out of here,” he said.

  “Okay.”

  Later, the edge gone from the evening, they returned to their apartments. Not entirely because Mouseglove had suggested it, Pol wove an elaborate series of warning spells about the place and slept with a blade beside the bed.

  IV

  Enough of philosophical rumination! I decided. It is all fruitless, for I am still uncertain as to everything concerning my existence. A philosopher is a dead poet and a dying theologian—I got that from Pol’s mind one night. I am not certain where Pol got it, but it bore the proper cast of contempt to match my feelings. I had grown tired of thinking about my situation. It was time that I did something.

  I found the city at Belken’s foot to be unnerving, but stimulating as well. Rondoval was not without its share of magic—from utilitarian workings and misunderstood enchantments to forgotten spells waiting to go off and a lot of new stuff Pol had left lying about. But this place was a veritable warehouse of magic—spell overlying spell, many of them linked, a few in conflict, new ones being laid at every moment and old ones dismantled. The spells at Rondoval were old, familiar things which I knew well how to humor. Here the power hummed or shone all about me constantly—some of it most strange, some even threatening—and I never knew but that I might be about to collide with a deadly, unsuspected force. This served to heighten my alertness if not my awareness. Then, too, I seemed to draw more power into myself just by virtue of moving amid such large concentrations of it.

  The first indication that I might be able to question someone concerning my own status came when we entered the city and I beheld the being in the tower of red fumes. I watched it until the manifestation dissipated, and then was pleased to note that the creature assumed a form similar to my own. I approached the receding thing immediately and directed an inquiry toward it.

  “What are you?” I asked.

  “An errand boy,” it replied. “I was stupid enough to let someone find out my name.”

  “I do not understand.”

  “I’m a demon just like you. Only I’m doing time. Go ahead and mock me. But maybe someday you’ll get yours.”

  “I really do not understand.”

  “I haven’t the time to explain. I have to fetch enough ice from the mountaintop to fill all the chests in the food lockers. My accurséd master has one of the concessions here.”

  “I’ll help you,” I said, “if you’ll show me what to do—and if you will answer my questions as we work.”

  “Come on, then. To the peak.”

  I followed.

  As we passed through the middle reaches of the air, I inquired, “I’m a demon, too, you say?”

  “I guess so. I can’t think of too many other things that give the same impression.”

  “Name one, if you can.”

  “Well, an elemental—but they’re too stupid to ask questions the way you do. You’ve got to be a demon.”

  We got to the top where I learned how to manage the ice. It proved to be a simple variation on the termination/absorption techniques I employed on living creatures.

  As we swirled back down toward the lockers—as two great spinning towers of glittering crystals—I asked, “Where do we come from? My memory doesn’t go back all that far.”

  “We are assembled out of the universal energy flux in a variety of fashions. One of the commonest ways is for a powerful sorcerous agency to call one of us into being to perform some specific task—tailor-making us, so to speak. In the process we are named, and customarily we are released once the job is finished. Only, if some lesser or lazier mage—such as my accurséd master—later learns your name he might bind you to his service and your freedom ends again. That is why you will find quite a few of us doing jobs for which we are not ideally suited. There just aren’t that many top-notch sorcerers around—and some of them even grow lazy, or are often in a hurry. Ah, if only my accurséd master could be induced to make but the smallest mistake in one of his charging rituals!”

  “What would happen then?”


  “Why, I’d be freed in that moment to tear the son of a bitch apart and take off on my own, hoping that he had left no magical document mentioning my name nor passed it along to some snot-nosed apprentice. To be safe, you should always destroy your accurséd former master’s quarters to take care of any such paperwork—burning is usually best—and then go after any apprentices who might be in the vicinity.”

  “I’ll remember that,” I said, as we reformed our burdens into large chunks in the lockers and headed back for more.

  “But you’ve never had this problem? Not even once?”

  “No. Not at all.”

  “Unusual. Perhaps you had your origin in some massive natural disaster. That sometimes happens.”

  “I don’t remember anything like that. I do seem to recall a lot of fighting, but that is hardly the same thing.”

  “Hm. Lots of blood?”

  “I suppose so. Will that do it?”

  “I don’t think so, not just by itself. But it could help if something else had started the process.”

  “I think there was a bad storm, also.”

  “Storms can help, too. But even so, that’s not enough.”

  “Well, what should I do?”

  “Do? Be thankful that no one knows your name.”

  “I don’t even know my name—that is, if I have one at all.”

  We reached the peak, acquired another load, began the return trip.

  “You must have a name. Everything does. One of the old ones told me that.”

  “Old ones?”

  “You really are naive, aren’t you? The old ones are the ancient demons from the days that men have forgotten, ages ago. Fortunately for them, their names have also been forgotten, so that they dwell largely untroubled by sorcerers, in distant grottoes, upon far peaks, in the hearts of volcanoes, in places at the ocean’s bottom. To hear them tell it, no accurséd master could oppress you like the accurséd masters of long ago. It is difficult to know whether there really is any difference, since I know of none so unfortunate as to have served under both ancient and modern accurséd masters. The old ones are wise, though, just from having been around for so long. One of them might be able to help you.”

  “You actually know some of them?”

  “Oh yes! During one of my intervals of freedom I dwelled among them far below, in the Grottoes of the Growling Earth, where the hot magma surges and steams—a most wondrous and happy place! Wish that I were there now!”

  “Why don’t you return?”

  “Nothing would please me more. But I am bound not to wander too far by my accurséd master’s accurséd spell, and he is not in the habit of granting vacations.”

  “How unfortunate.”

  “Indeed.”

  We entered the lockers again and finished filling the ice chests.

  “Now, thanks to you, I am finished ahead of schedule,” the demon said, “and my accurséd master will not summon me to another accurséd task until he realizes that this one is finished. Therefore, I have a few minutes of freedom. If you would like, we will return to the heights where we can see for a great distance and I will attempt to give you directions for reaching the Grottoes of the Growling Earth—though their entrance lies on another continent.”

  “Show me the way,” I said, and he soared upward.

  I followed.

  The instructions were complicated, but I set out immediately to follow them. I fled far to the northwest until I came to a great water heaving regularly toward the stars it imaged. There, unaccountably, I slowed. I knew that I had to cross it as the next stage of my journey, but I was drained of all will to begin. I drifted northward along the coastline, puzzled. What was it that was holding me back?

  Finally, I sought full control of my nebulous person. I attempted to consider the situation in a totally rational manner. I saw no reason for hesitation. I ignored the strange lethargy which had taken hold of me. Forcing myself forward, I passed over a narrow, pebbly strand of beach and on out above the splashing swells.

  I felt my new resolve waver almost immediately, yet I struggled to continue, to break through whatever odd barrier it was that had been raised against me.

  It was then that I heard the voice, mixed in with the booming of the surf.

  “Bell, or,” it said. “Bell, or . . . ”

  And I listened and grew afraid.

  “Bell, or,” it repeated, “bell, or, bell, or, bell, or,” over and over again.

  I realized that some part of me had immediately understood something of what lay behind those utterances. And I knew they meant that I was defeated in my quest.

  I summoned my last bit of will to oppose the force which held me, for here at last was something I might query.

  “Why?” I hurled at the waves and the sky. “Why? What is it that you want of me?”

  There was a moment of silence, and then the voice returned:

  “Bell, or, bell, or . . . ”

  I felt defeat wash through me, a dark, cold thing like the waters below, as I saw that those strange words were to be my only answer.

  Turning, I rushed back to the shore then fled southward, knowing I would have to look elsewhere for my answers. The words faded gradually wtthin my being. My thoughts became focussed upon Pol Detson.

  Once I reached glowing Belken and the magic-infested city at its foot, I proceeded unerringly to the building and the room where Pol lay sleeping. How I achieved this with no real effort, I could not say, unless some bond had grown between us as a result of our association.

  As I inspected the defenses he had reared, I heard him moan softly. I entered his sleeping mind and saw that he had passed beyond a door in his dreams into a place which both delighted and repelled him. I had never intervened in his affairs before, but I recalled that he had seemed to be relieved when awakened by the nameless sorcerer that last time he had dreamed such a dream, so I caused him to awaken.

  He lay there for a long while, troubled, then drifted into a more peaceful slumber. I departed then to seek my demon acquaintance and see whether there was anything else I might learn.

  I drifted over to the accurséd master’s quarters, but my friend was neither there nor in the vicinity. Then, faintly, I detected the glittering trail such as had occurred behind us during the ice-hauling expeditions. I hurried to follow, as it had faded further even as I had considered it.

  I sped along the skiey trail as rapidly as I could conduct myself. The distance proved to be great, but a slight brightening of the way indicated that I was gaining.

  Many leagues farther to the south and the west, the trail arced downward toward a riverside town. It ended at a house which was vibrating and from which a series of crashing noises could be heard. I passed into the place and noted that blood was smeared everywhere—the walls, the floors, even the ceiling. My friend had hold of a male human whose limbs were broken and whose brains had been dashed out against the fireplace.

  “Greetings! You’re back so soon! Was there some problem with my directions?”

  “No, but some force I do not understand prevented me from departing this continent.”

  “Strange.”

  The human flew across the room to crash against the far wall.

  “Do you know what I think it is?”

  “No. What?” I said.

  “I believe you are under a spell that you do not even know about—bound in a particular way to some very special duty.”

  “I have no idea what it could be.”

  “Give me a hand with the entrails, will you? They should be strung about.”

  “Sure.”

  “Well, I think that you ought to find out what the thing is and discharge it. Maybe the accurséd master who laid it on you is dead now or demented. In either case, you’re very lucky. Once you’ve done whatever there is to be done, you’ll be free.”

  “How do I find out what it is?”

  “I guess that I am going to have to instruct you further in these matters. Since I am pre
pared to count you as a friend, I am going to tell you something in strictest confidence—my name. It is Galleran.”

  “That’s a nice name,” I said.

  “It is more than just a word. It summarizes me when it is fully understood.”

  We finished the stringing and Galleran dismembered the body, passing me a leg and an arm.

  “Do something artistic with these.”

  I hung one over a rafter and placed the other in a large kettle.

  “Because I know my name I know all that there is to know about me,” Galleran said. “You will, too, as you begin to understand it. Now, what you must do is discover your own name. When you learn that, it will also bring you knowledge of the task with which you have been charged.”

  “Really?”

  “Certainly. It must follow.”

  Galleran placed the head upon the mantlepiece.

  “How am I to find it out?” I asked.

  “You must search your earliest memories—many times, perhaps. It is there, somewhere. When you find it you will know it. When you know it, you will know yourself. Then you can act.”

  “I will—try,” I said.

  Galleran proceeded to strew embers from the fireplace about the room.

  “Help me to fan these to flame now, will you? It is always best to leave the place burning after your work is done.”

  “Surely.”

  As we strove to set the room to fire, I asked, “Why is it that your accurséd master wanted this man destroyed?”

  “One of them owed the other money, I believe, and did not wish to pay it. I forget which.”

  “Oh.”

  We waited about until we saw that we had a good blaze going. Then we rose into the night with the smoke and headed back toward Belken.

  “Thank you for all that you have taught me this day,” I said as we parted later, “Galleran.”

  “I am glad to be of help. I must admit that you have roused my curiosity—mightily. Let me know when you have learned your story, will you?”

  “Yes,” I said. “I will do that.”

  Galleran returned to the accurséd master’s quarters to report the completion of the assigned task. I rose into the air, heading toward a place high upon the western face of Belken. Earlier, on our ice-gathering expedition, I had noticed an opening there heading into the heart of the mountain, strange lights and vibrations all about it. I had grown very curious as to where it led and was determined to explore there. One never knows where one’s name might lie.