She was now down to one, with nothing open to her beyond that, and no way of getting home.
Literally no way of getting home, she added to herself with a rueful grin, watching the coachman turn the small, single-horse brougham in the drive and move briskly away down the rain-puddled road up which they had come, until it vanished beyond a copse of wet trees. Magister Magus had been horrified by her request to be taken to Court. “Are you mad, girl? With things as they are? The abomination that killed those children in the factory district last night, the rumors in the Sykerst that the religion of the old gods is coming back, the Witchfinders up in arms, pogroms in Mellidane, the Stock Exchange shaky—it always is, in autumn—mutinies on the trade-ships coming back from Saarieque and the Spice Lands, the worst harvest in thirty years ...My life wouldn’t be worth two coppers if I went anywhere near the Imperial Palaces!”
“But I have to see Prince Cerdic,” Joanna had insisted quietly from the depths of one of the dog wizard’s gilded ebony armchairs. “I may not know a lot about Courts and Princes and things, but I do know you can’t just walk in off the street and ask to see the dude who’s second-in-line for the throne. But he’s a friend of yours and he favors the wizards. If anyone could help me get Antryg out, he could.”
“If anyone,” the dog wizard repeated softly. That had been last night, after Joanna had returned from her abortive interview with Caris. They had shared a glass of port in the library while the Magus had read over the various newspapers, broadsides, and scandal sheets from which he gleaned the raw material for his seemingly magical deductions about his clients’ lives. “The problem is, child, I’m not sure anyone can help Antryg now. And in any case, I’d hesitate to ask. Part of the secret of dealing with Courts is knowing when to disappear. Now that the Prince Regent is married, he keeps an even closer eye on Cerdic...”
“Married?”
“Last month—my dear child, the town rang with it.”
The Regent’s high, harsh voice came back to her... that brainless bitch I’m to marry... and Antryg’s, in the firelight of the posthouse, Come, Pharos, you know you haven’t any use for a woman...
“Pellicida, niece of the King of Senterwing,” the Magus went on. “They say at court his Grace calls her the Black Mare. But until he gets her with child—if he ever manages to—Cerdic is still his heir; and at the moment, both Cerdic and I know it is not the time for Cerdic to be seen associating with the mageborn.”
By dint of coaxing, Joanna had managed to secure the loan of his carriage and a letter of introduction. “Anything else?” the Magus had inquired, with some acerbity. “A team of running-footmen to announce you? A brass band? Fireworks, maybe?” But he had flung himself gracefully into a chair before his desk, waved absentmindedly in the direction of the two branches of candles flanking its inlaid writing surface and caused all twelve wicks to burst into a simultaneous flutter of light, then began to write.
His sole condition had been that his coachman wait for her at the gates of the Imperial Park, not at the Dower House where Cerdic stayed when he was in Angelshand. Knowing that the Regent would probably have spies in the stables, Joanna had agreed. Last night, with the rain drumming softly on the roof, this had not seemed like such a good idea, but this morning the soft autumn ship winds had blown again from the southwest, dispersing the clinging mists. The first of the Saarieque trade fleet had finally been sighted, a day or two off the out-islands. Magister Magus, like everybody else in the city, had money invested in their cargoes and had cheered up considerably and given Joanna innumerable small pointers about the proper conduct at Court.
It appeared that Magister Magus wasn’t the only person in Angelshand familiar with the secret of knowing when to disappear. Pharos’ paranoia about Cerdic was evidently only too well-known. After a condescending scrutiny which made Joanna glad she’d invested the remainder of her dwindling funds in a new gown, an elderly majordomo conducted her to what was apparently the reception room for the better class of petitioners, a sort of long drawing room in oak and red velvet, whose French windows looked out on a vista of wet, brown garden, shivering in the windblown restlessness of the sunlight. The room boasted several life-sized bronze statues in velvet-draped wall niches, a marble fireplace in which a fire had been newly made up, and not another living soul.
“His Grace is rather occupied this morning,” the major-domo said, with a chilly bow, a statement which Joanna interpreted as a warning that she was in for a long wait. “I will inform him of your presence.” And he departed, bearing her letter of introduction and the sizable tip the Magus had advised would insure its prompt delivery.
At least, Joanna thought, there was a fire in the fireplace, not at all a usual consideration, according to Magister Magus, in the rooms where the humble waited to present their petitions to the great. Thinking back on it later, she knew that it should have alerted her that someone else was expected and, in fact, someone fairly important—but it didn’t.
Thus the first warning she had was the sound of voices approaching in the garden beyond the French doors. She looked up, startled, in time to see through the glass Prince Cerdic himself coming up the steps of the small terrace just outside, looking back over his shoulder to talk to a man behind him.
The second man was Gary.
Joanna was so shocked, so disoriented at seeing Gary—possessed by Suraklin or not, her first impression was that it was Gary—in the context of this world that Prince Cerdic was actually starting to open the door before she moved. Her mind was staggering under the realization of what Suraklin’s presence here implied, the collapsing hurt of her last hope vanishing; only a half-second later did she realize her own appalling peril, and then it was far too late to make it across the room to the inner door. Her only refuge was in the velvet-draped niche beside the fireplace which housed a heroic bronze of some ancient warrior who bore a startling resemblance to Tom Selleck, close enough to have reached out and touched either of the two men as they came to warm their hands at the fire.
“My dear Gaire, of course he’s mad, but why should the nobles care about that?” Cerdic was asking. “As long as he doesn’t offend the Church, retains a favorable trade balance with Saarieque, and keeps the peasants in line, they wouldn’t care if he slept with sheep and pigs, never mind boys.” The young Prince had put on a little weight since Joanna had last seen him, his round cheeks somewhat rounder against the artful clusters of dark brown curls. But he still had the same pleasant expression in his painted hazel eyes and the same open brow and air of clean, healthy good looks. Against Cerdic’s resplendent mauve satin and clouds of rose-point lace, Suraklin’s dust-colored velvet seemed almost severe.
“So far.” The Dark Mage had discarded all of Gary’s old mannerisms. Even the voice sounded different, though its pitch and timbre were the same. “Nobles favor any man under whose rule they prosper. When they feel the pinch of lost revenues and when they come to you for money, you’ll find yourself a good deal more popular.”
Cerdic nodded in eager agreement. “Of course your investment advice is superb, as all advice from one in touch with the Ancient Powers of Magic must be.” Suraklin nodded in deprecating agreement. Joanna, in her hiding place and half-suffocated by the heat trapped between the fireplace wall and the crimson velvet draperies, remembered the young Prince’s slavish adherence to anything Antryg had said, too, and wondered how she could possibly have considered that kind of unthinking championship anything but moronic.
“But all support doesn’t come from money alone. Popular feeling plays a great part in it, especially now...”
“And so it shall,” the wizard responded kindly. “It’s why I asked you to extend your invitation to both your cousin and his bride today. The Lady Pellicida is surprisingly popular...”
Cerdic’s plucked eyebrows lifted. “Pella? That overdressed, homely gawk of a girl?”
“They see in her one more victim of your cousin’s evil.” He shrugged. “As indeed she is. When yo
u have your conference with the Regent, then I shall speak to Pella, to offer her your support and help.”
“But...” The Prince frowned, genuinely concerned. “I can’t allow you to endanger yourself by remaining. Indeed, the Regent might have with him one of those disgraceful catamites he keeps about him. He often brings them with him. That poor girl! If you’re seen here—if word gets to my cousin that you’re one of the mageborn...Your person is too precious to go into such peril alone!”
Suraklin smiled, like a saint making light of an impending martyrdom, but there was an amused glint in his eye, as if he snickered up his sleeve ruffles at his patron. Had he done so, she wondered, suddenly angry, at her belief in him and at Caris’ love? “Do you think I cannot deal with such matters?” he asked mildly. “You’ll see; there will be no danger or certainly not much. And in any case, it’s your cause I’m thinking about, my Prince, not mine.”
And if you were Pinocchio, Joanna thought sourly, the Prince would have just gotten impaled on about seven feet of nose.
The two men strolled back to the French window together, talking quietly of a masked ball to be given by the merchant noble Calve Dirham the following night. Against the misty brightness of the glass, Joanna saw with some surprise that Suraklin and Cerdic were the same height. She had gained the impression that Gary’s very body had altered and that he was taller, thinner, older—so much older. She knew Gary was thirty-four, ten or twelve years older than Cerdic at the most. But those brown eyes, with their disquieting yellow glint, were the eyes of fathomless age.
The hold of Suraklin over the minds of those he sought to control was almost unbreakable. She had been warned of it, over and over again; she had seen it only yesterday, in Caris’ stubborn adherence to his love for the old man. She was far too familiar with it to believe that the credulous Cerdic could be convinced to help her, or indeed to do anything but turn her over to Suraklin.
The thought made the sweat trickle down her sides under the forest-green satin of her gown. Jesus Christ, she thought suddenly, if he’s here at court, he’ll be maneuvering to get Antryg’s death expedited. The fact that to do so he would probably have to go through the Regent, suspicious of all mages, didn’t matter. She’d had devastating experience with the Dark Mage’s abilities as a manipulator. I have to get Antryg out of there!
But without support of any kind, she could see no way that she could.
There’s nothing further I can do in Angelshand, she began, falling subconsciously back into programmer mode and groping for a next step to get her beyond the panic that began to hammer in her chest. First, I have to touch Magister Magus for a monster loan. Second, I have to get to Kymil...
“My lord,” the majordomo’s voice said from the inner door. “His Grace the Prince Regent is here.”
Cerdic laid a hand on Suraklin’s sleeve and said softly, “Do be careful, lord wizard.” Turning, he hastened across the room and out into the main hall beyond. With an ironic smile, Suraklin slipped through the French doors onto the terrace.
Oh, swell, Joanna thought, weak with fear. So now I have a choice of splitting and walking smack into him outside or staying where I am and getting rousted out by Pharos’ sasenna, if they decide to search the room... Holy Christ, Pharos will recognize me, too! She leaned her head back against the paneling behind the drapes, caught between panic and an ironic understanding of the impulse to pound one’s head against a wall.
But stronger than either of those was a violent and personal loathing for the wizard Suraklin. Seeing him at San Serano, in Gary’s body, was one thing; while he was imitating Gary’s mannerisms it had seemed, at times, that it was in fact only a segment of Gary. She had known that Gary was dead. But not until now, not until she had seen Suraklin as Suraklin, gesturing casually with Gary’s hands and smiling his lies through Gary’s mouth, did it come home to her that Suraklin had killed Gary for his body and the contents of his brain as surely and as offhandedly as he’d have killed a rabbit to make slippers out of its skin. In the last year she hadn’t liked Gary much and, reading his programs and the motivations and thoughts that had watchspringed his actions, she liked him less. But her dislike of him in no way altered the callous brutality of his murder.
The door opened. The elderly majordomo ushered in the Prince Regent Pharos Destramor, Heir to the Empire and its de facto ruler, small and dainty as ever in his gold-laced black velvet and leaning on the arm of the prettiest teen-aged boy Joanna had ever seen. Only a year or so younger than Caris, the boy was darkly handsome in blueberry silk, but unlike Caris, he appeared highly conscious of his own good looks and preened himself at the Prince’s every admiring glance. Behind them walked a girl of about the same age, fully as tall as the Prince’s companion and nearly a head taller than the Prince himself, her coarse black hair curled unbecomingly around a dark, strong-featured face, wearing far too much makeup and an overdecorated pink satin gown. A pampered-looking lapdog trotted at her heels, like a miniaturized Borzoi with a diamond collar on its neck.
The Black Mare, Joanna thought, looking at that broad-shouldered, big-boned figure. It was a cruel nickname and regrettably apt. Only at second glance did Joanna see how young she was.
The Regent and his eromenos had come to stand near the fire. The perfume they wore was rank and sweet in Joanna’s nostrils. The girl Pellicida lingered awkwardly in the background, and Joanna saw a private smirk of triumph at having shut her out slip between the Prince’s pale-blue, paint-crusted eyes and his boyfriend’s violet ones. The boy whispered something and glanced; the man giggled.
At that point the lapdog, sniffing exploringly around the room, reached the wall niche in which Joanna had taken refuge. It cocked its feathered ears toward her. Joanna had one instant’s total fright; then the Prince said, loudly enough for his miserable bride to hear, “Useless bitches, all of them.” He knelt and snapped his fingers peremptorily. “Kysshenka—Kyssha...”
The little dog, her attention diverted from Joanna, trotted obediently over; the Prince’s soft hand stroked the tiny head. “Mangey little ragmops—this one and those two fat pugs. I’ve always wanted to shave the lot of them...”
“Stop it,” Pellicida said from the other end of the room. Hearing her voice, the little dog made an effort to get away, but the Prince, with that surprising quickness of hand Joanna had noticed in him before, caught the scruff of the slender neck.
“‘Stop it,’” Pharos mimicked in a nasal whine and added to the dog, “Bite me, would you?” as the little creature, panicking, made a hesitant nip or two at his sleeve ruffles, though it was obvious she knew full well she was forbidden to bite humans. There was a look of terror and horrible dilemma in her enormous brown eyes.
Pellicida strode down the length of the salon, her vast carnation petticoats bringing down a small table unnoticed in her wake. “Let her go.”
“Why should I, my little Princess? She’s my dog, after all—as all your property is mine to do with as I choose. If I decided to set that fluffy little tail on fire...” He caught the dog Kyssha’s feathery tail in his other hand and pulled her by it toward the blazing hearth.
Whether he would actually have thrust the terrified lap-dog’s tail into the fire or not Joanna never found out, though she had her suspicions. This was because Pellicida, reaching him, grabbed him by the shoulder of his coat and hauled him to his feet, making him release the dog in sheer surprise. With the other hand she delivered an open-hand slap across his face that staggered him back against the marble mantel.
For an instant Joanna thought he would strike at her. From where she hid in the thick folds of the niche curtains, she could see him pressed against the pink and white carvings like a snake coiling, an ugly red bruise mottling his pasty skin. Pellicida faced him, tears of anger blazing in her hazel eyes. Kyssha, flattened against her mistress’ skirts, seemed to sense the violence of his rage and bared her tiny fangs in a soprano growl.
Quietly, Pharos said, “You’ll regret that.” He
walked unhurriedly past her and out the hall door, his boyfriend hurrying solicitously in his wake. The Princess looked after him until the door shut. Then she crumpled down onto one of the settees near the fire, gathered up the dog who had jumped immediately into her arms, and began to cry.
As in her dream of the Silent Tower, for an instant Joanna felt trapped where she was, held from comforting this big, dark, homely child by her fear of discovery should Pharos come suddenly back. To hell with that, she thought, stepping out of the dusty tangle of crimson curtains. Anybody who has to put up with that kind of public humiliation every day needs all the help she can get. She was halfway to the settee when a shadow crossed the garden windows and the dog Kyssha raised her head with a quick, high-pitched growl. Looking across at the tall, narrow bands of window light, Joanna recognized Suraklin’s returning shape.
The Princess had seen him, too. Still holding Kyssha in her arms she got quickly to her feet, stumbling when she trod on the hem of one of her flowerlike layers of skirts, and headed for the curtained niche by the fireplace, blundering straight into Joanna.
For an instant the two women stared at each other, startled and disoriented; then Joanna turned back and made a dash for the niche, the tall Princess at her heels.
“I can’t let him see me!” Joanna gasped, and Pellicida shook her head in agreement and felt quickly behind the deeply carved molding of the wall panels at the back of the niche. A narrow door opened.
“Through here,” whispered the Princess. “I can’t let him see me, either.”
The panel slid back into place behind them, the sigh of air settling from beneath the heavy drape as Suraklin the Dark Mage was left to enter an empty hall.
“Why not?” asked Joanna quietly. “Gaire, I mean.” She used the name Cerdic had called him.
Pellicida glanced quickly down at her, then away. After a moment she let out her breath in a sigh. “It isn’t important.” Her mouth trembled on the words, but she pursed it closed.
The Silicon Mage Page 6
