A Wizard In Absentia

by Christopher Stasheff

  A lord's hideaway for a dalliance with a peasant wench!

  But on the table was a plate with thin slices of meat and, wonder of wonders, a silver fork and spoon and knife beside it! He blinked, overawed by the luxury, and, very hesitantly and carefully, came to the table.

  Nothing bad happened.

  He slid up onto one of the lords' chairs and, ignoring the knife and fork, began to eat with his fingers. If they caught him here, at least they would not be able to say he had stolen—for surely, stealing such treasure as a silver fork would be cause for hanging a serf!

  He ate like a wolf, and the food was gone very quickly. Then he huddled back in the chair, wishing there were more, and staring at the steaming cup in front of him. The meat had been salty, and his thirst grew as he stared at the cup. Finally, he reached out and lifted it by the little handle. It almost overbalanced and spilled, but he caught it in time; the fluid within it was very hot and a dark brown. He sipped at it and made a face. It was very bitter. How could a lord like such stuff? He set it down and, instead, picked up a glittering, clear cup filled with orange liquid, sipped it carefully, decided it was very good, and drank it down. Then he looked about him, frowning. Strange that the dwarves had not found this place . . .

  He shrugged. There was no point in wondering at it. He slid down from the chair. It was still daylight outside, and he could not go out again until night. How he would get out was another problem; but the spirit had been good to him so far, and he would worry about that difficulty when the time came. He stretched himself out on the moss—it was very soft—pillowed his head on his arm, and was very quickly asleep.

  * * *

  When Magnus entered the dining room in black complet and snowy shirtfront and neckcloth, Pelisse clapped her hands. "Oh! How handsome you look!"

  Robert glared at her. "Overdoing it a bit, aren't we, Pelisse?"

  "Oh, do be still, Robert! Even you must admit that he looks ever so elegant!"

  "Yes, Robert, you must," Aunt Matilda said, with a glare.

  "Well . . . a sight better than that outlandish outfit he was wearing this afternoon," Robert mumbled. Magnus felt his face flush, and was all the more careful to hold his expression immobile. "Literally outlandish, of course, and quite medieval—just the sort of thing you would wear on my homeworld."

  "Yes, but not in civilized society, is it, old boy?" Magnus let the "old boy" pass. "Perhaps you mean modern society—though I do note that these garments tend much more toward the turn of the century."

  "Turn of the century?" Robert looked up, frowning. "Stuff and nonsense! Lapels much wider then, don't you know, and trousers much looser!"

  "I was speaking of the turn of the Eighteenth Century into the Nineteenth—the decade that began in 1810, as a matter of fact."

  Robert could only glare at him, and Magnus realized, with a shock, that the young man probably knew nothing about the Eighteenth and Nineteenth Centuries, didn't know that the clothes he was wearing were very clearly based on those of the Regency.

  Aunt Matilda filled the gap. "You must remember, children, that your cousin's garb was that of his own culture; it is our costumes that would look outlandish there."

  "Like his thee's and thou's, eh?" Robert muttered. Magnus felt his face flame again, and resolved to make no more slips.

  "Yes, quite. Robert, perhaps tomorrow you will escort Magnus to the family tailor? And the haberdasher, of course."

  Robert turned red, and his jaw set—but he ground out, "Yes, Aunt."

  "Very good." Matilda favored them all with a bright smile. "Now, then, shall we dine?"

  The robots began serving, and Magnus reflected on the lovely, charming family from which he had come.

  He was braced for the shopping expedition with Cousin Robert the next day, and it was just as grueling as he had feared. Robert began with whining complaints and progressed to sniping comments very quickly. Magnus responded as politely as he could, but couldn't quite keep back a few remarks of his own.

  For example, when the airlock door dilated and Magnus found himself staring at the inside of a small but luxurious rocket boat, Robert snapped, "Don't look so surprised. You can't just walk where you please on an asteroid, you know. No air."

  "Of course." Magnus stepped in and sat down. Robert followed suit, grumbling, "Don't know why Mama picked me for this little chore. Pelisse would have been more than happy to show you around."

  "Whereas you, of course, are delighted."

  "No, not a bit." Robert turned to frown at him. "Planned on a morning's practice at polo, actually. Where'd you get an idea like that?"

  Magnus found himself wondering if Robert knew what the word "sarcasm" meant.

  "Deuced inconvenience," Robert complained. "Why'd you have to come, anyway?"

  Magnus ground his teeth and said, "To discover my origins, Cousin Robert—what kind of people I came from, what kind of environment had formed them."

  "Had your father to look at, didn't you?"

  "Indeed," Magnus agreed, "but one person is not necessarily representative of the whole family." Thank Heaven, he added silently to himself. "Don't know why we have to have dashed outsiders," Robert went on as though he had not heard. "Doing quite well enough by ourselves."

  Magnus began to wonder if the man knew he was speaking aloud.

  "Bad enough trying to sort out the inheritance as it is," Robert griped. "Of course, Pelisse will take care of that—but still, it's a dashed nuisance."

  Magnus gave him a sharp glance. "Inheritance? Why should that be a problem? Has someone died recently?"

  "Not yet, d—" Robert bit off the expletive, which was just as well, Magnus thought grimly. Then his cousin went on. "Death that's coming, of course. Uncle can't last much longer, more's the pity, and his son's made it very clear he doesn't want the inheritance. That leaves it to Pelisse, don't y' see."

  "No, I don't." Magnus frowned. "Isn't your inheritance patrilineal?"

  "What?" Robert gave him a narrow look. "Don't use your fancy terms on me, my man! Say what you mean in clear language, dash it all!"

  Magnus was beginning to think that he had overrated Robert's intelligence, as well as his education. "Don't you inherit, as the remaining male?"

  "No, I don't—I'm the poor relation. Don't you know anything?"

  "Nothing more than I'm told," Magnus said shortly, "and I would thank you for doing so."

  "Well, I'm a third cousin," Robert snapped, "from the Orlin branch—parents died young, and I was as close to this family as to t'other. So, no, I don't inherit, though I expect Uncle's left me well enough off. Have m' biological parents' estate coming, in any case, when I reach my majority."

  "Majority?" The man was clearly in his twenties! Magnus decided not to ask—he just accepted the prevailing wisdom. "So Pelisse will become Countess," Magnus inferred.

  "No reason not to," Robert muttered, but he gave Magnus an uneasy glance, leaving his guest wondering just how Pelisse was supposed to fix any problems arising from the inheritance. In fact, of course, Robert hadn't mentioned what the problem was, really. Somehow, Magnus thought he didn't want to know.

  Their flier circled around a huge, pastel layer-cake of a building and docked. They stepped out into an air lock. As they walked down the tube and through the dilating door, Magnus said, "Surely you could have your own robot tailors, and order anything from outside by video screen."

  "Of course, of course," Robert said impatiently, "but then there wouldn't be any shopping, hey? Nor any reason to get out of the house at all. Let's have a quick one, then get on to the tailor's."

  Magnus was relieved to discover that Robert was referring to an alcoholic drink. He wasn't so relieved when the "quick one" turned into two or three.

  The tailor was a robot, after all, and all he had to do to measure Magnus was to have him stand against a wall screen that did the job in less than a second. Then they sauntered down rows of fabrics, with Robert brightly extolling the virtues of each until Magn
us selected a few, just to shut him up—he thought they were rather gaudy, himself, but they were Robert's recommendations. His cousin seemed to think Magnus's preference for quieter fabrics was very unsophisticated.

  "And have that delivered by 1700 hours," Robert told the robot tailor as they left.

  It bowed. "As you wish, sir."

  As they strolled out of the store, Magnus protested, "There was no reason for haste."

  " 'Course there was, old boy—the ball next week. Don't you remember?"

  "I can't very well," Magnus said slowly, "since I haven't been told. What ball?"

  "The one Mama is throwing! In your honor, old—I say! There's Runcible!" And he hurried off to chat with a chum.

  Magnus observed the two, noting the degree of loudness, the social distance between them, the lack of physical touching, the intonations, and half-a-dozen other signs of modern customs—but all the time, at the back of his mind, he was wondering why his aunt was putting on an impromptu ball, and why it was in his honor. Were they that desperate for something to do, for some trace of excitement, here?

  Yes. Of course they were. How could he ever have wondered?

  The haberdasher's was only a hundred meters away, but it took them half an hour to get there—Robert had to stop every few feet to greet friends, and had to beg off coming to drink with them because he had to squire his bothersome cousin around—and he didn't hesitate to use those terms, when he must have known full well that Magnus could hear him. If he had thought of it. Magnus was beginning to wonder just how good a guide Robert was to the manners of this people.

  He was very much aware of being the outsider, studying the customs as though he were an anthropologist, though for a much more pressing reason than academic research. It was horrifying to realize that this subject group he was observing were supposed to be his own flesh and blood, the people and stock from which he had sprung.

  He understood now why his father had left home. In fact, he had gone beyond a mere understanding to a very active sympathy.

  The haberdashery comprised a vast assortment of hats and ties and other accessories. They could all have been displayed on screens, of course, and the orders placed by computer—but that would have deprived the young men of a reason to go sauntering down the aisles, where they could be sure of encountering one another and pause for a good, long chat. Magnus resigned himself to a long and boring afternoon, the more so because he was seldom introduced and never included in the conversation—not that he would have wanted to be; it seemed to be exclusively a discussion of the latest styles, sports averages, and local scandals about who was sleeping in whose bed. Magnus was sure it would have been fascinating, if he had only known what they were talking about.

  So, when they arrived at home and he had endured high tea and was finally able to seek the comfort of his own rooms, he keyed the wall screen to news, and spent an hour absorbing a quick summary of recent events—local, Terran, and throughout the Terran Sphere. Where he needed additional background to make sense of the summary, he keyed for more information—but still, an hour just wasn't enough time to give him more than an inkling of what the young men had been talking about.

  "The worst of it," he told Fess, "is that none of it seems to matter much at all." Since he was alone he could speak aloud. If anyone heard him—well, all the d'Armands were strange.

  That will change as you come to understand more of it, Fess assured him. An hour a day will do wonders, Magnus.

  "I hope so," Magnus sighed. "Perhaps you can make sense of Robert's hostility, Fess. Have I violated some taboo, done something to offend him?" No, Magnus—none.

  "Then why his hostility? He almost seems to feel that I am some sort of threat to him."

  Fess gave the burst of white noise that was his equivalent of a sigh and said, Magnus, I fear I must acquaint you with some of the less pleasant aspects of Maximan heredity.

  "What?" Magnus frowned. "Adaptation to low gravity? That would effectively trap them on this asteroid. Or perhaps a chromosome for vile tempers?" No, Magnus—inbreeding.

  "Oh." Magnus's face went blank. "All of the above."

  Quite right, Magnus. Recessive traits are reinforced, and some of them are desirable—but some are not. Over the centuries, some of the more unpleasant traits have become widespread—such as low intelligence and emotional instability.

  "So." Magnus thought that one over. "A surprising number of my dear relatives will be idiots or madmen."

  Yes, Magnus, though in many cases, they will be neither, just . . . a little slow, or rather unpleasant. "Which accounts for Robert." Magnus nodded. "Nothing wrong with him but a mild case of paranoia. And what, may I ask, is the matter with Pelisse?"

  Nothing that I have detected. "Yet? "

  Yet. Of course.

  That also accounted for Magnus's uncle, and his delusion. And it gave Magnus an inkling as to why the Count's son had elected to stay on Terra. In any event, the heir was not to be aired, and showed absolutely no interest in inheriting the family estates.

  Magnus learned these details the next day, as he was escorting Pelisse through the mall. Between lengthy stops to chat with her friends, she managed to answer a question or two about the family.

  "It is difficult to believe that Uncle Roger has no interest in the inheritance." Actually, Magnus didn't find it hard to believe at all.

  "I know—but he doesn't," Pelisse said, "though it's a good guess that he'll expect a decent share of the income."

  "Of course." Magnus smiled, not pleasantly. "All the money but none of the responsibility or inconvenience, eh? He won't bring it off, will he?"

  "Oh, I'm sure he'll receive a generous settlement—but even if he didn't, I don't think that would persuade my dear uncle to come back." Pelisse seemed to have grown rather nervous. She stopped abruptly, facing into a store-screen. "Oh, what a lovely gown! Come, Magnus, I must try it on!"

  Magnus glanced up at the gown and wondered what could have taken her eye about it; it seemed quite ordinary to him. But, all things considered, there were worse things to do with his time than to watch Pelisse try on a tight-fitting gown, so he followed her around behind the screen and into the shop, not entirely reluctantly.

  CHAPTER 3

  Ian waked slowly, blinking, and sat up, looking about him, puzzled. The room seemed very strange. Then he remembered.

  Nothing had changed inside the stone egg; the light was still the same. He frowned, rubbing a hand across his mouth. How could he tell what time of the day or night it was? He rose, and went slowly toward the stairway, wondering how he would get out.

  There was a clicking sound behind him. He spun about.

  The voice said, "Food and drink are served."

  He saw a new plate on the table with clean utensils beside it, and on the plate was a dark, thick slice of meat—a steak, and more of the wonderful bread, and something green, which must have been a vegetable. Beans? And a lump of mealy white stuff, and a tall glass filled with white liquid. He ran to the chair, suddenly aware of his hunger again. He picked up the steak in both hands, bit, and chewed. When he was done, he dropped the bone and scooped the beans into his mouth. They tasted far better than the hard, dry lentils he had always eaten, and the mealy stuff was creamy and smooth in his mouth. The white liquid proved to be cow's milk—he had drunk of it now and again—and he drank it down in huge gulps.

  When he was done, he sat back, sighing. He found a square of white cloth next to the plate and wondered what it was for, then noticed the grease on his hands. Surely the cloth must be for cleaning! He picked it up and wiped off the grease; then, with another happy sigh, he got up from the table, looking about him, and feeling very, very happy.

  Then he remembered that his problems had only begun. He must still get out and go to Castlerock. He could not stay in this egg for the rest of his life, delightful though the prospect seemed, for the lord to whom it belonged must come in and find him sooner or later.

  He went to the st
airway again. Cautiously, he climbed up, but the guardian spirit made no move to prevent him.

  When he came out into the upper chamber, he went right to the wall that he had fallen through the day before—or was it only that morning? As he was raising his hand to touch it, he stopped, realizing that he had no idea how much time had passed. It might still be daylight. He frowned, and mused aloud, "How can I tell what time of day it is, when I cannot see the sun?"

  A bell chimed.

  Ian whirled, staring.

  At the wall in front of the great chair, one of the windows had come to life. Through it, he could see the meadow outside the Great Egg, bathed in silver moonlight. He shrank back, afraid that if there were soldiers in the meadow, they might see him. Then he remembered how the dots had been there before, and came forward hesitantly, climbing up onto the chair and reaching out. He felt a hard surface beneath his fingers and realized that the guardian spirit had not really made a hole in the side of the Egg. How, then, could he see out? And if he could, surely someone else could see in! He dropped down from the chair and scurried around to hide behind it, peeking out at the "window."

  It was night; he had slept most amazingly. But how was this? The guardian spirit had heard his question, and given him an answer.

  Perhaps also . . .

  "How may I get out from this place?" he said, aloud. He waited a moment; nothing happened. Perhaps the guardian spirit had not heard him.

  Suddenly, a section of the wall over to the side of the chamber slid back. Ian stared at it in surprise, and not a little fear.

  The wall was open. The night was outside. He could feel its breeze on his face.

  Slowly, he picked up his staff and started toward the opening.

  * * *

  The music spangled and glittered in an array of high, rippling tones, while the bass notes throbbed beneath them in a rhythm that matched his pulse, then pulled it along to meld with the music's tempo. It was disconcerting, this synthesized music that was undeniably a waltz, yet far more physical than even that scandalous dance had ever been, pounding in his veins and making it seem the most natural thing in the world for his hips to gyrate, his muscles to shift against the rounded softness of Pelisse's body, so close against his, matching the beat, and with it, his movements, like a hand in a glove. He looked down at her and swallowed, his throat thick with the sensations that flooded through his body, so rare for him and yet so unpleasantly familiar.