A Wizard In Absentia

by Christopher Stasheff

  "My fellow noblemen will hire off-planet aid," Lord Aran rumbled.

  "They'll try," Magnus agreed, "but I think you will find that none will be willing to work for them, or sell them weapons."

  "You, however, will find them quite willing, these off-planet men," Siflot suggested.

  Lord Aran looked at him in surprise, and Magnus smiled. "Your enemies will not give up easily, though, my lord. It may be twenty years or more before they accept your dominion here as a fact they cannot change, and begin to ignore you. Even then, they will mount the occasional assault."

  "If I have the resources they have, I can withstand them," Lord Aran rejoined. "But you assume these Castlerock folk, these stalwart gentlemen and freedmen, will accept me as their lord. You forget they have worked out their own council for governance."

  "I do not doubt it, but I think you will find them turning to you for guidance more and more as the months pass. Certainly they will countenance your soliciting of off-planet help—and when they learn that the price of peace is for them to accept yourself, and your granddaughter after you, as their nominal lords, they will do so."

  "The price of peace?" The old lord frowned.

  "Of course, my lord," Siflot said softly. "If Castlerock is nominally your demesne, and the people on it not outlaws, but your serfs and gentry—why, then, your rival lords have an excuse to ignore it, a means of pretending that the status quo has been preserved, and that you have been punished sufficiently by ostracism from your own kind. In brief, if the Council accepts you as their President or some such, the other lords will have a means of saving face without continuing the war."

  And SCENT, Magnus realized, would have its nucleus of democracy, and its beacon of hope for all the other serfs of Taxhaven.

  But Lord Aran was staring at Siflot. "You are rather wise, for a fool. But of course—for you, too, are from off-planet, are you not? Tell me, what is your rank and station?"

  "Alas! I am no lord, but only the son of a politican of gentle birth—with whose policies I could not agree."

  "Which makes him the equivalent of a lord's heir, in terms of the Terran Sphere today," Magnus told Lord Aran.

  But Siflot shook his head. "Not a lord! I was not born to a title."

  "But a gentleman, certainly," Magnus insisted, "though I think you will find that such distinctions lack their accustomed force, my lord—on Castlerock."

  "Perhaps it is just as well." The old lord sighed. "But you, Captain Pike—can you not stay with us as well?"

  "I fear not, for although my friends may find excuses for Siflot's presence here, they cannot excuse my direct disobedience, my defiance of their orders. They must court-martial me, or forfeit all claim to authority and discipline. If I stay, they will find that they must besiege Castlerock to make of you the martyr they originally thought you would be. If I go, they will find excuses to support you." He smiled at the old lord. "So my duty to you, is to leave."

  Ian gave an inarticulate cry.

  "I know, lad." Magnus stepped forward to rest a hand on the boy's shoulder. "Would that I could take you with me—but your place is here. You are among your own kind, now—escaped serfs—and will find that your fellows hold you in high esteem."

  "Escaped serf?" Lord Aran looked up. "He is not, then, a . . . gentleman's informal son?"

  "He is no bastard, no, but a serf legitimately born," Magnus said. "Ian, tell him why you fled." Ian swallowed, but faced the old lord bravely. "My lord was Lord Murthren, sir, and he sought to take my sister by force. My father found a way for her to escape to the forest—but for doing so, Lord Murthren had him flogged within an inch of his life. He knew that it would go hard with me for being his son, so with his last breath, or nearly, he bade me escape." Tears rolled down Ian's cheeks, but he stood staunchly and ignored them. "I fled to the greenwood, and was lucky enough to evade the hunters till my master, Captain Pike, took me under his care."

  "The hunters! Then you are the lad who went into the Sacred Place!"

  "I—I am, sir." Ian looked frightened, and Siflot moved to clasp the lad's shoulder in reassurance. "But how is this?" Lord Aran frowned at Magnus. "Those shelters are keyed to admit only those who have the genetic pattern of the original founders!"

  "Those founders were scarcely miserly about their genes, my lord," Magnus said grimly, "and their descendants were quite profligate with them. I think you will find that there are very few serfs who cannot be admitted to the Safety Bases if they wish it. Why else would Lord Murthren be so concerned about enforcing the taboo against their use?"

  "A fascinating notion." Lord Aran turned to Ian. "And if you have noble blood in you, lad, you have some claim to gentility—indeed, I would say you have proved that claim, in your warding of the Lady Heloise. Nay, you shall be of my household and retinue now—my squire, and the Lady Heloise's bodyguard. Will you accept such service?"

  "A—a squire?" Ian's eyes were huge and round. "To you, my lord? Oh, yes!"

  "Oh, how wonderful, Ian!" Lady Heloise clapped her hands. "You will always be by us now!"

  How easily the boy was impressed with even so minor a title as "squire"! Magnus reflected sourly that the people of this planet were indeed far from being ready for democracy.

  * * *

  The ferryman rowed him ashore in the hour before sunrise, his oars feathered in case of ambush. Magnus thanked him and stepped ashore, wrapped in a dark cloak. It was rough homespun, serf-made from the wool of the sheep who grazed the interior of the twenty-mile-long island, but it was warm, and dark enough to hide him.

  Magnus strode up to the center of the beach and thought the command, Herkimer. Come pick me up now.

  Coming, Magnus, the voice answered inside his mind.

  It would take some time, Magnus knew, even though Herkimer had stayed in geostationary orbit above wherever Magnus happened to be at the moment. Twenty thousand miles does take time to traverse, even if it's straight down. He composed himself to wait, and looked around for a boulder to sit on.

  She stepped forth from among the rocks, in her own skin-fitting garb again, a body stocking of electric blue, covered by a golden vest with stiffened shoulders that tapered to cover her hips. Her hair was a golden cloud, loosed to catch and hold; her eyes were huge and so dark as to seem almost purple in the false dawn.

  Magnus felt the old, familiar thrilling throughout his whole body, felt the wrenching within—and felt the automatic closing of his emotional armor as he gazed at her.

  "So," she said as she came up to him, "you have won." She bowed her head, her face solemn, looking up at him through long lashes.

  So it was to be seduction today, Magnus reflected wryly. When last they had met, it had been rage. "Perhaps," he said, "but you have, too."

  "Oh yes, we have. We realized that almost as soon as your boat touched the island—that with Lord Aran there, we had a nucleus of democracy. By itself, it was doomed—and if it had survived, it could have only been a dictatorship. But with a lord there, and one who is a hero to all the serfs, there is the basis for the restraints of tradition, and a functioning constitution could emerge, complete with recognition of human rights."

  "It could," Magnus allowed, "with careful guidance."

  "Yes, guidance. So we must support Castlerock, mustn't we? Make sure that they can hold off the lords, insinuate the notion that they can be recognized as just one more ducal fief so that the peers can overlook their existence—and advise and guide them, and through them, the rest of the planet."

  Magnus nodded. "It should work out quite well."

  "Yes, it should—and since Siflot is already established there, we'll have to overlook his peccadillo in helping you and Lord Aran, give him credit for having worked his way into the confidence of a group we need to influence, and restore him to good standing in the team."

  Magnus nodded. "That would be the prudent course."

  "Yes, wouldn't it?" Allouene said, with some irony. "You planned it this way all along, didn't you?
"

  "No, not really," Magnus said. "I only knew that Lord Aran was too good a human being to let die, and that the ideals he represented had to be preserved. I worked out the rest of it after the fact, while we were on the run. In fact, I didn't realize how to bring it all together, until we were safe on Castlerock."

  "But once there, you took the final steps to make sure we'd have to support them." For a moment, bitterness showed; then Allouene was all demure sweetness again. "We were honored to have you with us, Magnus."

  Magnus stood frozen, letting the surge of emotion wash over him and recede. "So. You uncovered my true identity."

  "Yes. Something you said during our last . . . conversation . . . made me realize that you didn't sound like the raw recruit you pretended to be."

  Magnus shrugged. "I was. I learned a great deal in training."

  "Yes, but you already knew a lot more. We checked the registration on your ship, found out it was brand-new and from Maxima, made by d'Armand Automatons, and that showed us where to look. We asked, and your relatives were glad to tell us what a wonderful young man you were, how helpful you had been, but no, you weren't part of the household, just a relative from a frontier planet, but that you couldn't tell them its name or location, because it was secret. That rang bells, and we checked the files under d'Armand. You might have told me you were the son of one of our most illustrious agents."

  Magnus felt the stab of mingled pride and resentment that went with the recognition of his father's status. "I hadn't known Rodney d'Armand ranked so highly in the regard of his peers."

  "Oh, he does, you may be sure! To turn a whole planet toward democracy, without having to send for a backup team? And to keep it that way, against the coordinated efforts of two extremely sophisticated enemy organizations, with almost no assistance except what he could raise locally? You bet he's famous!"

  Magnus could have wished she had used some term other than "raised."

  "Then you can understand why I wish to be known for my own accomplishments, rather than for my father's."

  She softened considerably—perhaps too much. "Yes, I can understand that. But the long and the short of it is, you grew up learning how to engineer social change, didn't you?"

  Magnus shrugged impatiently. "I suppose I did, but I wasn't aware of it. It was in the air about me, in the food I ate—or at least, the conversations at table. But yes, you're right—once you had taught me the basics that Father never thought to state outright, once I began to try to work out such a puzzle for myself, it seemed to come naturally."

  "And you're an esper, aren't you? A telepath and telekinetic, and everything else?"

  "Not quite. I'm not a clairvoyant."

  "Oh, yes, but you are everything else! You've known what I was thinking all along, haven't you?"

  "No." Magnus shook his head emphatically. "We don't do that. It's the cornerstone of our ethics. We don't eavesdrop on other people's minds—unless they're enemies, or there's some other damn good reason." He thought of his cousin the professor with a pang.

  Alloune stepped closer to him, very close, arms down at her sides, frowning a little, peering up into his face. Magnus stood braced, though his body seemed to thrum with the nearness of hers.

  "You can tell what I'm thinking right now, can't you?" she said.

  Magnus's face broke into a sharp smile, amused. "Yes, but it doesn't take telepathy."

  She stared at him, paling, then turned away, flushing. "I thought you were attracted to me . . . Magnus. When we first met."

  "And every time I've talked to you since," Magnus said softly. "Oh yes, I've been attracted, painfully attracted—and you didn't just think it, you knew it."

  She turned back to him with a lazy smile of amusement, eyes half-lidded. "Yes, and it was wonderful. Every woman wants to feel wanted. I was quite flattered—really."

  "Why, thank you." Magnus inclined his head gravely.

  "Oh, can't you stop that?" she cried. "Can't you drop your guard, just for an instant? Can't you talk to me as man to woman for a little while?"

  "Why, of course." But for a fleeting instant, Magnus wondered if he still could. "However, if I did, could you talk to me without thinking of me as a potential asset? Could you talk to me without being aware of how I could help you, be useful to you? Could you talk to me as just Gar Pike, forgetting that I'm Magnus d'Armand?"

  "Of course I couldn't!" she cried. "Could you talk to me without being aware of my body, my face, my hair? What you can do, who your father was, they're as much a part of you as my beauty is a part of me! Can you talk to me without being aware of what I can do for you?"

  "Of course," Magnus said, "beyond the immediate and personal."

  "Oh, so sex isn't part of what I can do for you!"

  "I would be quite content," Magnus assured her, "if sex was the only thing you wanted of me."

  "It's not the same!"

  "I think it is," Magnus said, "but even if it is not, it is certainly analogous."

  "Must you be so damn formal!" she cried, clenching her fists.

  "Yes," Magnus said, "I must. You know I must." She glared at him, outraged, then remembered herself and dropped her gaze, forcing her fists to unclench, her emotions to smooth out. Finally, she looked up at him with a smile that held some fraction of her usual allure. "All right. If I do what you want, will you do what I want?"

  "No," he said. "That would be wrong now."

  "But why!"

  He gazed down at her for the space of ten heartbeats while she glared back up, and he debated whether he should say it or not, whether it would hurt her or not, then decided that it would hurt right now, but help her later.

  "Because," he said, "it would need love."

  She stared at him, her face slowly blanching, then finally looked down, but he could tell from the set of her shoulders how enraged she was.

  "At least do me this much," she said, her voice low and strained, not looking at him. "If you won't help me, at least don't louse things up for me. All right?"

  "Certainly." Magnus inclined his head. "I will go."

  She looked up, startled by the ease of her victory. "Go? Where?"

  Magnus shrugged impatiently. "Wherever the mood takes me."

  "Of course," she whispered. "You can, can't you? You're rich."

  Magnus didn't disillusion her. After all, he was rich, in a fashion—he could make gold whenever he wanted to, or diamonds.

  "I'll tell them to watch out for you," she said softly.

  "Thank you." Magnus bowed again. "That tells me where not to go."

  She smiled, amused for a second, solacing herself with a small victory. "I don't believe you."

  Magnus gave her a real smile in return. "You're wise."

  They stood a moment in silence, as the sun painted the sky in voluptuous tones behind her. Then finally she whispered, "Will you ever come back?"

  Magnus shrugged. "I doubt it—but I'm not promising anything."

  "Of course you wouldn't," she said, with irony. Then she pulled herself together, turned the soulful eyes on him, and made one last try. "I could have loved you, Magnus—but I'm hurt, I'm so terribly hurt, by your turning against me."

  He realized the name of the game, the theatrical aspect of it, and gave her the solace she was asking for. "Forgive me."

  "I might." She looked up at him through long lashes again. "I could love you again, even now—if you could join with me once more, and help me undo the damage you've done."

  Magnus tried to look anguished. "But what about the people? What about the sufferings of the ones who are alive today? Of their children? Their children's children?"

  She stared—this wasn't what she had been expecting—but she said, mournfully, "We have to learn who we can help and who we can't, Magnus, and be content with doing what little we can that will someday result in everyone being free."

  "But I cannot stand by and watch others suffer. I lack the self-discipline." Magnus smiled sadly for her. "I could have lo
ved you mightily, Allouene—but the good of the people has come between us."

  She held still for a moment, staring, her eyes growing large. Then she said, her voice husky, "Promise it to me, after all—promise you won't come back."

  He bowed his head. "As you wish. Yes. I owe you that much."

  And the great golden ship fell down from the sky.

  * * *

  After he was aboard, after they had hovered over Castlerock and dropped a parachute with a transceiver into Siflot's waiting hands, after the hatch had closed safely behind him again, he turned away to collapse into his acceleration couch and let the despair overwhelm him for a few minutes—overwhelm, and recede, and dwindle. Then he could think once again, and reflect in bitterness that love had once more passed him by, that Cupid had once again led him to a woman who was far more interested in using him than in loving him. He began to suspect that the Archer had a grudge against him, that True Love might be the reality for some, but would probably prove only a myth for him.

  Finally, he roused himself, sitting up a little straighter and telling Herkimer, "Prepare to leave orbit."

  "Prepared," the robot confirmed. "Where would you like to go, Magnus?"

  Magnus waved a hand. "Oh, someplace interesting. Look through your files and see what you can find."

  "What parameters shall I look for, Magnus?"

  "Oppressed peasants." Magnus's voice took on strength and conviction again. "Dissipated, tyrannical lords. Leaders who recruited a bunch of ordinary people and went off with them to try to build their own private kingdoms. Someplace where my life might do some good."

  "Searching."

  So was Magnus.

  — The End —