The Mistress of Illusions

by Michael D. Resnick

  It will.

  “Fine. My best friend was Skip Nelson, I grew up in Barrington, Illinois, and my first love—well, the first girl I was attracted to—was Marcia Barelli.”

  Very good, Eddie.

  “Big deal. Now tell me what this is all about.”

  In just a moment.

  “What next?” demanded Raven.

  I’ve forgotten the names. Tell them to me again—your best friend, your home town, your first love.

  Raven was about to answer, and suddenly nothing came out. He closed his eyes and concentrated. And frowned. And concentrated harder. And muttered an obscenity. Finally he opened his eyes and glared at Rofocale. “What the hell is going on here?” he demanded.

  Your childhood memory is totally blank?

  “You know it is,” growled Raven.

  Yes, I do.

  “What have you done to me?”

  Nothing recent.

  “Explain!” yelled Raven.

  Those were memories that were given to you, Eddie. On loan, so to speak. I have just returned them to their rightful owner, a man you will never meet, and who is completely unaware of your existence.

  “Can you do that?” asked Raven.

  Let’s see. Please answer my question again.

  Raven concentrated and frowned again. “I still can’t.”

  You’re sure?

  Raven tried again and shook his head in bewilderment. “I have no past—or, rather, I can’t remember one prior to the last few months.”

  I know.

  “Explain,” said Raven, trying to fight back the sense of panic that threatened to overwhelm him.

  It will be difficult to assimilate, but you must try, Eddie.

  “Just get on with it.”

  You were too powerful to kill in your true form, but your enemies were able to wipe out your memory, your very identity, and place your consciousness in another body—the body you now inhabit.

  “Why?” demanded Raven.

  Because they fear who you really are.

  “Who I am?” growled Raven. “I sell wholesale suits and dresses in the Garment District, for Christ’s sake!”

  That is your disguise, Eddie. It was given to you—imposed on you, actually—once it became apparent that you were on their trail.

  “Do you know how little sense this is making?” said Raven irritably.

  How much more sense have the past few weeks made to you, Eddie? Believe me, you were given your physical appearance and your memories so that no one—and especially not you—would ever guess who you really are.

  “And who is that?”

  It is enough that you are their greatest enemy.

  “Whose greatest enemy?” Raven all but bellowed.

  Calm down, Eddie. Any further information could cause you to act in ways that are detrimental to our cause.

  Raven stared at the creature on the cot. “What the hell is our cause?” he asked at last.

  Everything will become clear in time. If you learn too soon, you will try to use your powers prematurely, with catastrophic results.

  “What powers, goddammit?” yelled Raven.

  Quiet, Eddie. No sense alerting them to your presence.

  “Talking to you in your dingy apartment will alert some mysterious ‘them’ to my presence? Those bullets did you more damage than you think.”

  By now you must know better.

  “I don’t know anything,” muttered Raven, reaching into his pocket for a cigarette and suddenly realizing that he didn’t smoke. “I came here for answers. All I get is double-talk.”

  All will become clear in time.

  “Screw it!” snapped Raven, getting angrily to his feet. “I quit. I’m going on strike until you tell me what the hell this is all about.”

  You can quit, but they won’t. You—and those who depend upon you—are in mortal danger.

  “I don’t care,” said Raven. “No answers from you, no cooperation from me.”

  You are our only hope, came the silent words, and the desperation Rofocale transmitted to Raven was almost palpable. You must act!

  “Then tell me what I want to know,” said Raven, standing by the door. “This is the last time I’m going to ask.”

  There was no answer, and Raven could see that the extended effort of communicating telepathically had robbed Rofocale of his remaining strength, and that he had lapsed into unconsciousness. Raven, who couldn’t differentiate a faint from a coma, especially in a creature like this, decided to see if he could reestablish contact and peek inside Rofocale’s mind, but all he got were nightmare images that drove him to the brink of madness before he was able to finally break the connection.

  “Great!” he muttered as he walked out the door, down the stairs, and began wandering distractedly through the darkened streets. “The only two people who can help me figure out what’s going on are both comatose!”

  3

  Okay, thought Raven as he stood on a corner, trying to ignore the drizzle that was rapidly becoming a heavy rainfall. I’ve been a saloon keeper, a Munchkin, and a wizard. Maybe it’s time I became something of my own choosing, something that can help me figure out what the hell is going on—always assuming that it is still my life.

  He closed his eyes, tensed his body, and waited.

  Nothing happened.

  Damn it! I’ve done it before, three times in fact. Now I’ve got to concentrate. Just how the hell did I do it?

  He stood still and tried to picture himself as Humphrey Bogart in The Maltese Falcon. All that happened was that he got wetter and colder, and a cop began staring at him as if he might start tearing off his clothes or maybe pull a gun and begin shooting up the neighborhood.

  He forced a smile at the cop.

  “I’m okay, officer,” he said. “Just working off a little too much to drink.”

  “Watch out for traffic,” replied the cop in a friendly voice.

  “I’m not that drunk,” said Raven.

  “I’ll take your word for it—but if you stand that close to the curb, you’re going to get drenched.”

  “Thanks,” said Raven, moving across the sidewalk to stand under the protection of an awning.

  “Take it easy, fella,” said the cop, walking away.

  Okay, thought Raven. How did I do it?

  He tried to remember the circumstances of his transformations, and realized that he hadn’t willed them at all. Casablanca—Bogart and Bergman’s Casablanca—didn’t exist, neither did Oz, and there was no reason to think he purposely willed himself back over the centuries and across the ocean to Camelot.

  Then I didn’t do it, he concluded. They—whoever they are—did it to or for me.

  So he was at a dead end, three minutes after walking out of Rofocale’s room.

  And then it hit him: Maybe not.

  He latched on to the thought. I may not have chosen the destinations or the eras, but I was the one who was transported. That is my ability. I can move from here to—well, to anywhere. All I have to do is dope out how to steer through time and space and reality.

  He stopped and frowned. It felt right, but it seemed too crazy to be true.

  After standing there for another five minutes without reaching any further conclusion, he realized that he was getting hungry. He looked down the block, saw six or seven establishments with their lights still on, and began walking toward them. The first five were bars, the sixth was a still-open magazine shop that wasn’t even subtle about booking bets on the next day’s races, and the seventh—the Golden Biscuit—was a diner.

  He entered the diner, looked around for a table, found that the only three were in use, and sat down on a stool at the counter, where he ordered a cup of coffee and a grilled cheese sandwich.

  “Still pouring?” asked the counterman.<
br />
  “Yeah.”

  “Oh, well,” said the counterman, “how much muddier can Belmont get than it already is?”

  “You sure you shouldn’t be working next door?” asked Raven with a smile.

  “Nah,” said the man, returning his smile. “If I stopped betting and went to work there, they’d go broke in a week.”

  Raven chuckled, and began sipping his coffee as the man went off to make his sandwich. When he returned he laid the plate down in front of Raven.

  “Thanks,” said Raven.

  “My pleasure. Maybe we ain’t as fancy as the Carnivore, that snazzy restaurant over on the next block, but who the hell wants hippo ham or crocodile steak anyway?”

  “They really sell hippo and crocodile?”

  The counterman nodded. “You wouldn’t believe what they sell. If it’s wild and not native to North America, it’s on their menu—and if you live on Park Avenue or thereabouts, you can probably even afford it.”

  “Probably half the price goes to the guy who risked his life to kill what they’re serving in the first place,” suggested Raven.

  “If it was me, I’d want ninety percent,” said the counterman. “Hell, I get nightmares when my neighbor’s cat hisses at me. I can’t imagine what it feels like to stand there and face a charging lion.”

  I wonder what it does feel like?

  And suddenly there he was, on the African veldt, staring down the barrel of his rifle as a huge dark-maned lion bore down upon him, roaring hideously.

  This can’t be happening, he thought—but then he remembered the very real pain he experienced in Oz and Camelot, and pulled the trigger as the lion was making his final leap. The huge cat fell dead at Raven’s feet. His left forepaw twitched a few times, and then he was perfectly still.

  “Well done, Bwana,” said a voice next to him, and he turned to see a black face. The face belonged to a tall, lean man who reached out and took Raven’s rifle away from him, and so was clearly his gun bearer.

  Okay, thought Raven. That helps narrow it down. He called me “Bwana,” not “Baas,” so we’re in East Africa rather than South or southern Africa. But who am I, and what the hell am I doing here?

  He had no answer, and rather than head off in the wrong direction and walk into the jaws of the lion’s companions or mate, he waited until his gun bearer started walking away and fell into step behind him.

  They walked across the lush green veldt for perhaps a quarter mile, then came to a narrow river lined with acacia trees and began walking along it. In a few minutes a tented camp came into view, and a lovely auburn-haired woman waved at him. As he drew closer, he was able to make out her facial features. They were Lisa’s.

  Of course, he thought. You’ve been everywhere else, so why not here too?

  “I heard the shot,” she said as he approached her. “Did you get him?”

  “Yes.”

  She nodded her head. “I assumed so, since there was no second shot. You are quite the marksman, Mr. Quatermain.”

  So I’m Alan Quatermain. And now let me hazard a guess as to your identity.

  “Thank you, Elizabeth.”

  Just a pleasant smile, no other reaction at all. So you’re Elizabeth Curtis, not Sir Henry Curtis, and that means we’re in the movie, not the book—for whatever that’s worth.

  “You must be thirsty,” she said. “Can I have one of the camp boys get you a drink?”

  “I wouldn’t say no,” he replied. He walked over to a camp chair. “Mind if I sit down?”

  “It’s your camp, Mr. Quatermain,” said the British noblewoman with Lisa’s face and voice.

  “True,” he agreed. “But you’re paying for it.”

  “I expect to be well-compensated when we find the mines,” she replied.

  “If we find them,” said Raven.

  “I have untold faith in your abilities, Mr. Quatermain.”

  “If you really mean that,” he replied, “please start calling me Alan.” Oops! I almost said “Eddie.”

  “Certainly, Alan,” she replied. “Do you think we’re getting close to them?”

  Raven frowned. Where the hell did Haggard put them? It’s been a couple of decades since I read the damned book. “Difficult to say, ma’am.”

  “Elizabeth,” she corrected him.

  “Elizabeth,” he amended. “The thing to remember is that finding them is only the first part of the problem. They figure to be very well protected. They could have hundreds of warriors guarding the place.”

  “Ah, but we’ve got you,” she replied with a smile.

  “I admire your confidence, Elizabeth,” he said. “But I’d rather have forty or fifty armed men.”

  “No you wouldn’t,” she said.

  “I wouldn’t?”

  “If you did, we’d have to split the treasure fifty ways, and I probably couldn’t pay your salary out of what’s left.”

  He chuckled. “I guess you’re in luck after all,” he said. “How much can it cost to bury one used-up old hunter?”

  “Don’t talk like that, even in jest,” she said.

  “I apologize, ma’am.”

  “Elizabeth.”

  “Elizabeth,” he corrected.

  She turned to one of the natives who were hovering around a small campfire. “I’ll have a cup of tea, please.”

  The man gave her a snappy military salute, which looked rather ludicrous since he was wearing nothing but a loincloth and a colorful blanket, picked up a kettle, poured a cup of tea, and carried it over to her.

  “Thank you, Njobo,” she said.

  He bowed, saluted again, and walked back over to the fire.

  “Once again, Mr. Quatermain, how far do you think we are from the mines?”

  “From the map’s placement of the mines,” he corrected her. “Let me see it once more, please?”

  She instructed one of the camp attendants to bring her the ancient folded paper, not quite parchment, and handed it to him.

  He studied it for a moment, then looked up. “It all depends, ma’am.”

  “Elizabeth,” she said.

  “I’m sorry. Elizabeth.” He pointed to a spot on the map. “We’re here,” he said. “And we have to go”—he pointed to another spot—“here.” He paused for a moment. “Now, if this was a map of England, I’d say we could be there in two days without relying on public transportation. But of course, this is Africa, and there’s not a sidewalk or a paved road within a couple hundred kilometers. And there are other factors. First, are there hostile tribes—or, just as bothersome, hostile animals—along the way? Second, is the map accurate?”

  “I have been assured that it’s authentic,” she replied. “The paper, the ink, the—”

  “I didn’t ask if it was authentic,” replied Raven. “I asked if it was accurate.” He paused. “The map is hundreds of years old, possibly even a thousand. Is that correct?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Then clearly you are not its first owner. So how do we know that some prior owner hasn’t used it and plundered King Solomon’s Mines already?”

  “You’ve been in Africa too long, Mr. Quatermain,” she said.

  “Trust me, if the mines have been found, no one could keep it a secret for a month, let alone a millennium.”

  “Let’s hope you’re right.” She added, “And let’s hope there are no surprises.”

  The biggest surprise I keep getting is meeting you in all these mythical places. You were charming as Dorothy, and captivating as Ilsa, and every inch a sorceress as Morgan le Fay—but I was never happier than when we were just Lisa and Eddie, meeting for meals, going on dates, and planning to spend the rest of our lives together. He grinned wryly. Who’d have guessed that the rest of our lives included wizards, kings, magicians, Nazis, and man-eating lions?

 
“You smiled,” she noted. “Is something funny?”

  “Probably I’m just happy the lion didn’t eat either of us.”

  “You have a very strange sense of humor, Mr. Quatermain.”

  “Perhaps,” he said. “But I persist in thinking it would be considerably less funny if the lion had won.” He looked at the sky. “It’s going to be dark soon, Lisa. Maybe we should have the camp boys start preparing dinner.”

  “Fine,” she said. “And I’m Elizabeth.” She stared at him. “Who is Lisa?”

  “Beats me,” he answered. “Sometimes I think I imagined her.” Hell, sometimes I think I’m imagining all of this.

  But you’re not, said Rofocale’s voice within his head.

  Then what the hell am I doing here, a fictional character hunting for a probably fictional treasure, in a fictional version of a country I’ve never been to?

  Just persevere, said Rofocale, and all will become clear.

  You said that the last three times.

  The thought that came through was hazy and garbled, and Raven knew Rofocale was losing consciousness again.

  An hour later the camp crew had fixed dinner—steaks taken from a Grant’s gazelle he had slain earlier in the day—and he sat down on a canvas chair a few feet away from Elizabeth Curtis.

  “It’s very good,” she said, indicating the steak.

  “I prefer kudu,” he replied, “but there’s certainly nothing wrong with Grant’s gazelle.”

  “So when should we reach the mines?” she asked, then added, “Assuming nothing distracts us.”

  “I’m more concerned about being attacked than distracted,” replied Raven, forcing a smile. “The mines have existed for a millennium or two. Someone has got to be guarding or protecting them against intruders.”

  She gave an unconcerned shrug. “They’re just guards. You’re Alan Quatermain.”

  “But they’ve never read H. Rider Haggard,” he replied.

  She frowned. “Who?”

  Oh, hell, of course you wouldn’t know. You’re living the story, not reading it.

  “Nobody very important,” he said with a shrug. “What do you plan to do with all the trillions we find?”

  “First, of course, I’ll pay off any debts Henry left when he died.”