Blue Adept

by Piers Anthony

  Still Stile was perplexed. “My motive is simple. Thou didst murder mine other self, rendered the Lady Blue bereft, attempted to slay me also in Proton and in Phaze, and slew my friend Hulk. For two murders I owe thee, and that debt shall be paid.”

  She grimaced. “Thou claimest that we should have had no quarrel, but for my actions against thee?”

  “As far as I know,” Stile said. “Mine other self, the Blue Adept, had no designs against thee as far as I know; his widow, now my wife, had no notion what enemy had murdered him, or why. As for me—I could never have crossed the curtain without the death of the Blue Adept, and I would not have left my profession as jockey had not my knees been lasered.” He paused. “Why were my knees lasered, and not my head? Had I been killed then, thou wouldst have suffered no vengeance from me.”

  “The laser-machine I smuggled into the race was programmed against killing,” she said disgustedly. “Citizens like not fatal accidents, so machines capable of dealing death must have a safety circuit. Also, it is easier to destroy the narrow tissues of the tendons than to kill a man by a single beam through the thickness of his skull. Thou probably wouldst not have died regardless; thy brain would have cooked a little, and no more. And the Citizens would have reacted to such a killing by lowering a stasis field over the entire raceway, trapping me. I had to injure thee first, subtly, while I escaped the scene, then kill thee privately when thou wert stripped of Citizen protection. Except that the robot balked me.”

  “The robot,” Stile said. “Who sent the robot?”

  “That I do not know,” she admitted. “I thought thou knewest, that it was part of thy plan. Had I realized that thou didst have such protection, at the outset, then would I have planned that aspect more carefully. I thought the Blue Adept was the hard one to climinate, rather than thee.”

  Not an unreasonable assumption! Of such trifling misjudgments were empires made and lost. “There remain mysteries, then,” Stile said. “Someone knew of thy mission, and acted to protect me. Enemies we be, yet it behooves us both to learn who that person is, and why he or she elected to act anonymously. Hast thou some other enemy—perhaps one who could be identified as ‘Blue’ though no Adept? Thou must surely have mistaken the Oracle’s reference, for I was innocent until that message generated a self-fulfilling prophecy. Now Blue will destroy Red, for there can be no forgiveness for thy crimes—but I would not be here now, if that Oracle had not set thee against me.”

  “A hidden enemy, pitting Red against Blue,” she repeated. “Fool that I was, I queried not the identity of mine enemy, but only my two-month fate—and so the Oracle answered not what I thought it did. The Oracle betrayed me.”

  “I think so,” Stile said. “Yet there must be a true enemy—to both thee and me. Let us make this further pact: that the one of us who survives this encounter shall seek that enemy, lest it pit other Adepts against each other similarly in future.”

  “Agreed!” she cried. “We two are in too deep; we must settle in blood. But there is vengeance yet remaining for us each.”

  “Could it be another Adept?” Stile asked. He was not letting down his guard, but he did not expect an attack until this was worked out. Enemies could, it seemed, have common interests. He had operated in ignorance of the forces that moved against him for so long that he was determined to discover whatever truth he could. “One who coveted thy power or mine?”

  “Unlikely. Most Adepts cannot cross the curtain. I labored hard to cross myself, and paid a price others would not pay. I arranged to have mine other self dispatched, then I crossed over and took her place, hoping to be designated the heir to our mother the Citizen. But the wretch designated another, an adoptee, and I had to take tenure and practice for the Tourney.”

  Stile was appalled at her methodology, but concealed it. Her mode had always been to do unto others before they did unto her. That was why she had struck at the Blue Adept. Probably her Proton-self had been conspiring to do the same to Red. And, possibly, Red was now trying to put Stile offguard so she could gain an advantage. “Thou playest the Game?”

  “That I do, excellently—and well I know thou art my most formidable opponent in the current Tourney.”

  “I know not of thee on any ladder.”

  “Never did I enter any ladder until the final moment. I practiced privately, in my Proton-Citizen mother’s facilities.”

  “Even if the Oracle referred to my defeating thee in the Tourney, and thus destroying thy remaining chance for Citizenship,” Stile said slowly, “I had three years tenure remaining, and would not have entered this year’s Tourney but for thy intercession.”

  “The Oracle betrayed me on many levels, it seems,” she said.

  How right he had been to analyze the nature of the Oracle’s statements carefully! Yet the mischief of the Oracle was only in its confusing answers; it did not initiate things. Someone must have taken this into account. But what a devious plot this was! “Could anyone in Proton-frame seek revenge? A friend of thine other self, perhaps, avenging her demise?”

  “She had no friends; she was like me. That was why she was disinherited. And no one knows she’s gone; they think I’m her.”

  That had been a neat operation! “Someone in Phaze, then. Unable to attack an Adept here, so he interferes with thee there? Perhaps a vampire, able to cross the curtain in human guise—” Suddenly Stile wondered whether Neysa, now hovering behind him, would be able to cross the curtain in girl-form. Had she ever tried it? Unicorns did not exist in Proton, but girls did, and if there was no girl parallel to—

  “Why send a robot to defend thee, then? Why not simply send it to attack me? That’s one expensive robot thou hast; for that value, it would have been easy to send a competent execution squad after me. It is as likely that the attack was directed at thee, at thy magic self, with protection sent to thy Proton-self so that it could come after me.”

  Food for thought! “There is that,” Stile agreed. “The Oracle must have known that despite thy attack on the Blue Adept, his alternate self would find thee. The key seems to lie in the unknown party who sent the robot. Find that party, and we may be on the trail of the true enemy. There does seem to be more afoot here than merely my convenience or thy demise; the plot be too convoluted to account for these.”

  “That’s for sure! It isn’t much, but it will have to do.” She raised her right hand. “On thy mark, get set, go! End of truce.” And she threw an object at him.

  Stile dodged the object. It looked like a small knife, a stiletto—which it could be. But it was also an amulet, and he didn’t want to invoke it. It stuck in the wall behind him and remained there, a bomb awaiting detonation.

  Red threw another object. This one resembled a ball. When Stile dodged it, the thing bounced off the wall and settled to a stop near his feet. He was floating a few inches off the floor, since his flying spell remained in operation, so the ball did not touch him.

  She threw a third. It was like a beanbag, dropping dead behind him. But none of them could hurt him as long as he didn’t invoke them.

  Then Red invoked one herself. She held the amulet in her hand, spoke to it, and dropped it on the floor. It formed into a hissing snake with glistening fangs. “Go for that man,” she told it.

  The snake crawled rapidly toward him. Rather than flying upward as Red might want, Stile drew his sword and decapitated the reptile.

  Already she was activiting another amulet—a bat. Stile did not want to kill it, because it might be a member of the vampire tribe who had given him safe lodging for the night. A captive of the cruel Adept, bound to do her bidding. Yet if it attacked him—

  It did. Its little eyes gleamed insanely, and droplets of viscous saliva fell from its teeth. It could be rabid. There was no help for it; he had to use magic.

  “Bat—scat!” he sang. The bat vanished.

  But now the three inert amulets near him animated. One was turning into a demon resembling a goblin, growing larger each second. Another was hissin
g out some kind of greenish vapor, perhaps a toxic gas. The third was catching fire, becoming a veritable ball of flame.

  Stile could not ignore any of these. For the moment he floated clear of all three—but all were expanding, and there was not any great clearance, and the ceiling was festooned with amulets. If he flew high, and banished them with his own spells, hell would break loose from that ceiling. Red had more amulets than Stile had immediately available spells, so this sequence could be disastrous. That was the disadvantage of bracing the Adept in her own Demesnes; her power was overwhelming here. It would be better to deal with the three activated threats some other way.

  The Red Adept, smiling wickedly, was already throwing more amulets. Stile had either to act or to retreat—and to retreat would be tantamount to defeat, for he surely would have more trouble passing her defenses a second time. Now was the moment of decision.

  Neysa, who had been hovering as the firefly, shifted to mare-form. She speared the demon on her horn, then shoved it into the green vapor. The demon screamed in agony, then expired. That was poison, all right! Neysa backed off, the demon still impaled on her horn. She did not dare touch that vapor with her nonmagical flesh. Meanwhile, the ball of fire blazed fiercely, and it was floating up toward Stile.

  Stile had an inspiration. He began playing his harmonica. The music filled the room, summoning his magic—but he did not sing any spell. He just kept playing. He knew now that the music-magic could have a certain effect itself, without any specific spell, if he directed it with his mind. So he willed it to suppress other magic. If this had the force of new magic itself, the effect would be opposite, and he would be in twice as much trouble as before; but if it worked—

  The fireball guttered and dimmed and sank, finding itself slowly stifled. The green vapor ceased its expansion and lost some of its color. None of the new amulets were activated. Phew! The gamble had paid off.

  Neysa approached the vapor cautiously, seeing it become denatured. She used the dead demon on her horn as a crude broom to shove the vapor into the fire. The two joined instant battle, destroying each other. Stile broke off his music, and the battle intensified as its compass narrowed: the fire tried to burn up the vapor before the vapor could smother it. But the vapor was stronger; soon the fire was out.

  Neysa mopped up the remaining vapor on the demon. Then with a strong motion of her head she hurled the demon directly at the Red Adept.

  The woman was caught by surprise. She scrambled off her couch just before the sodden demon landed. Her collected amulets scattered across the floor like so much jewelry. The green vapor sank into the material of the couch, rendering it uninhabitable, while the demon lay on it as if asleep.

  Stile had another inspiration. He had noticed that Red was careful which amulets she threw and which she kept. Obviously some amulets served the invoker, while others attacked the invoker. Benign and malign spells, as it were. If he could get hold of some of the benign amulets, he could use them against her. That should turn the tide.

  But she was alert to the threat. She dived for the spilled collection, reaching it before Stile got there.

  Stile reacted with a spot decision he hoped he would not regret. “Each spell farewell!” he sang, willing all the amulets within range out and away from the castle. Since he had been playing his harmonica, his magic should be strong enough to affect most of them.

  The result was confusion. His act of magic invoked all the nearby amulets—but it also banished them. They tried to animate and depart simultaneously. Since there were many of them, their magic outmassed his. Thus they were coming to life faster than they were moving out.

  Rapidly-forming things and creatures were scrambling for the exits. One resembled a squid, crawling on its tentacles. Another was like a yellow sponge, rolling along, leaving a damp trail that stank of putrefaction. Several were bats or other flying creatures. Some were colored clouds and some were blazes of light or darkness. One was a small flood of water that poured down through the crevices; another was a noisy string of exploding firecrackers. Stile had to keep dodging and ducking to stay clear of them. His incantation had also abated his flying spell; he was confined to the floor again, where he didn’t really want to be. For one thing, the Red Adept was there, avoiding creatures with equal alacrity. At the moment she was trying to brush a swarm of tiny red spiders out of her hair. Both Red and Blue were now too busy to concentrate properly on each other.

  Why was he fooling with all these incidental spells, when he could solve the whole thing by simply abolishing the Red Adept herself? Maybe he had held back at the notion of killing a human being, despite his oath. But he thought again of the way Hulk had died, and his resolve firmed. “Red be dead!” he sang.

  There was a kind of soundless implosion and explosion centering on the woman. Her clothing burst into smoke. But in a moment she stood naked—and alive. “Fool!” she spat. “Knowest thou not that no Adept can be destroyed readily by magic alone? Only the unguarded and vulnerable succumb.”

  “But thy amulet killed the Blue Adept!” he protested.

  “It never would have worked, had he been properly paranoid. He was a trusting fool. Even so, I am surprised he did not save himself; methinks he could have had he tried hard enough.”

  As Stile had saved himself from the same spell, by fighting hard enough. He should have known it could not be that easy to abolish her. Otherwise, he could simply have uttered his spell from the sanctity of the Blue Demesnes, and let Red die in her sleep. Many things were difficult against a person on guard. One stab with a knife could kill—but if that person were alert, the knife would never score, or would be turned against its wielder. Also, the White Adept had said his spells could not really hurt her. He had thought that mere bravado, but evidently it was not. Still, with the local amulets clearing out of the way, he had another option.

  Stile drew his sword. “Then shall I slay thee without magic.”

  Quickly she snatched a similar weapon from its place on the wall. “Thinkest thou I am untrained in such arts? Look to thyself, midget!”

  They engaged. She was proficient, and she had a longer reach than he. She was in superb physical condition, and had a fiery will to win. Yet this was the broadsword, Stile’s preferred weapon. In this he was more than proficient; he was expert. He fenced with her, foiling her attacks readily, setting up for his proper opening. He could take her.

  Red realized this. Suddenly she stepped back into an opening behind the couch and disappeared. Stile plunged after her. But a panel slammed across, blocking him off. He hacked at it with his sword, and wood splintered—but by the time he cleared it, the Red Adept was gone.

  CHAPTER 11

  Trap

  Now was the time to use his magic. “Trace her place!” he sang, and a new light appeared, leading the way into the passage. “Fret the threat,” he added, to abate whatever nasty little surprises lurked along the passage. This wouldn’t stop them all, but it should help. A little alertness should do the rest.

  Stile charged into the passage, following the light. Then the light stopped. But the Red Adept wasn’t there.

  Baffled, Stile retraced his steps. He squinted at the glow from one side and the other.

  “The curtain,” Neysa said. She was back in girl-form.

  Now he saw it—the faint shimmer of the curtain across the passage. What a neat device! No enemy confined to Phaze could follow her there.

  He had little time if he was to catch her. “Neysa—I must go through. I—” He could not find the words to tell her what he had to: his gratefulness for her vital help and support right up to this moment; his continued need of it; but the impossibility of having it in Proton-frame. Unless she could cross in girl-form—but then she would be fixed in that form, unable to revert to natural status, and highly vulnerable in the unfamiliar world. No, he did not want her there! So he simply grabbed her and kissed her.

  “Make a spell for me to follow,” she said.

  Good idea! In
fact, why not put tracers on both himself and the Red Adept? If this device worked, he could check with Neysa every time he lost track of his enemy, and receive guidance. That would ensure his success. His magic was more versatile than Red’s; he might not be able to abolish her by a direct spell, but he could at least track her. Maybe.

  The present glow-tracker was designed to follow where Red had gone; it was balked by the curtain, so hovered there helplessly. Stile hesitated to step through at the same spot; no telling what Red had in store there for the unwary.

  A small demon-animal blundered down the hall. One of the animated amulets, running late. Stile and Neysa flattened themselves against the wall and let it pass. The thing wandered on past the curtain, never perceiving it, seeking escape from the Red Demesnes. It turned the far corner—and there was an explosion.