Majestrum

by Matthew Hughes

  #

  Hobart Lascalliot proved an uninteresting traveling companion, although he was grateful for his release from Chalivire's attentions. At our first meeting, when we had bandied a few inconsequential words in Lord Afre's Blue Parlor, I had received a distinct impression of intelligence as well as the self-assurance needed to navigate successfully among the dangerous rocks and shoals of Old Earth's morally deteriorated aristocracy. Now, as we sat in the Orgillous's forward lounge, I found myself in the presence of a young man of the most ordinary sort, the kind of fellow one would expect to meet in a rural area of a placid and unremarkable secondary world.

  "What was your occupation on Great Gallowan?" I asked him.

  "I was an assistant to Palam Thresiger, the stock tender. I carried her instrument bag and restrained animals while she ministered to them." This statement was interrupted by two copious yawns; after Lord Afre's footmen delivered him to the yacht, his first need had been for a long sleep. By the time he awoke we were most of the way toward the first whimsy on the way to his home world.

  "What were your interests, beyond exerting a tight grip on skittish beasts?"

  "My pastimes were simple. My friends and I would meet at each other's homes or go to dances at the Generality. Sometimes we would go to the Brass Bucket to drink ale and play shove-and-shake --"

  "Shove-and-shake?" I said.

  "It involves a hat that incorporates a tankard. You fill it then you have to make your way through a maze laid out on the floor, while your friends try to make you spill."

  "Were you particularly adept at this activity?"

  "Not particularly. Why?"

  "I am wondering where you acquired the self-confidence not only to go among the likes of Chalivire Afre but to convince her to perform unlikely acts before the Archon and all her peers."

  I saw, now that the question had been put to him, that Lascalliot was brought to wonder the same thing. "It is hard now to recall what I was feeling," he said. "I have a sense that I was always calm, even when I heard the most remarkable words coming out of my mouth. But, at the time, it was the most natural thing to be doing."

  My alter ego was awake and listening. "Magic," he said.

  "To one whose only instrument is a drum, all melodies are much the same," I answered inwardly.

  "And the blind deny the existence of color," he shot back. "There are spells mentioned in some of Baxandall's books whose effects must be much like what the man is describing."

  "Indeed?" In truth, I remembered reading of a couple such: Albernoth's Nagging Itch and Sringitan's Subtle Compulsion when I had looked through the texts. "And do we then add this Osk Rievor to our growing list of thaumaturges?"

  "If we know of the impending change, why is it not likely that others will have come across the same knowledge?"

  I made a rapid mental computation then showed him the results. It was hugely improbable that, among all the teeming billions of humans inhabiting the Ten Thousand Worlds, the tiny few who were drawn to dabble in magic should become connected by so few degrees of separation.

  "That," he said, "is merely the rational answer."

  "Merely?"

  "By the logic of sympathetic association, the expectation that those who wield magic, even rudimentary magic, will connect to each other is very strong. 'Like finds like' is the rule. I am increasingly sure that Osk Rievor is connected to the rest of this business."

  "It still seems ridiculously overcomplex to me."

  "Then apply your own logic to it," he said. "Say that Osk Rievor is indeed a thaumaturge. He would have an interest in knowing who the other thaumaturges are and what they are doing. He would make an effort to acquire that knowledge."

  "All right," I said. "That is reasonable."

  "If, within a short time, two thaumaturges, such as Bristal Baxandall and Turgut Therobar, come to unfortunate ends, then that, too, must attract his attention."

  "Yes. Very well."

  "And if the same person was on the scene when Baxandall and Therobar met their fates, wouldn't that connecting person become an object of scrutiny?"

  "Ah," I said.

  "What are you thinking of?" Hobart Lascalliot asked me.

  I realized that I had been sitting across the table from him for quite some time, gazing into the middle distance with my inner debate reflected in the movements of eyes, brows and mouth. "It would be premature to say," I said. "Tell me again about Osk Rievor."

  He looked at me with puzzlement. "He was Toop Zherev's friend," he said, "not mine."

  "Did anyone else meet him?"

  He thought for a moment, then said, "I remember that many folk mentioned his name, but I cannot say for certain that this one or that one reported dealing with him."

  I put several more questions to him and ascertained that, though his memories of his normal life were intact and properly interrelated, he had no recollection of ever meeting the man who had conceived of the Derogation.

  "Toop Zherev would be the one to ask," he said.

  "Then ask him I will." I suggested he repair to his cabin to make ready for our transition through the whimsy.

  "Interesting," I remarked to my sharer when Lascalliot was gone. "I am tempted to apply a mnemoamplifier to see if his memories of Rievor have been tampered with, perhaps occluded behind some implanted blockage."

  "They will not be there," he predicted. "I believe we are seeing the effects of Ramaram's Progressive Rescindment, or perhaps Hooley's Scrub."

  It went against my grain to grant any substance to what I had so long dismissed as nothing more than the tools mountebanks used when separating the gullible from their valuables. Yet I was forced to admit the possibility.

  Now other thoughts occurred to me: if my other self was right, then Osk Rievor was a more effective wielder of magic than either Bristal Baxandall or Turgut Therobar; he had set in motion a complicated series of events whose aim I could not yet fathom; and I was proceeding, at best half-blind, along a course that he might well have laid out for me -- with no idea as to where it would all lead, nor what would be required of me once I arrived at where he wanted me to go.

  I followed that line of thinking and found that it led me to another worrisome realization.

  It now seemed likely that Toop Zherev's flambord station, where the Thoon met the waters of Balwinder Sound, was another dimple. Lurking there might be a powerful thaumaturge who had taken an interest in me, if that particular memory of Lascalliot was accurate. If so, he would have had ample time to prepare whatever welcome awaited me. For my part, my vaunted powers of ratiocination would be of scant use. As I had when in Therobar's clutches, I would have to rely on my alter ego's mastery of the incantations contained in Baxandall's few books. Unfortunately, his abilities were largely untried; most of the spells he had essayed had simply not worked. Some of them were undoubtedly pure hunkum-bunkum. Others were probably jumbled copies of copies derived from ancient grimoires, now lost somewhere along the trackless paths of the ages.

  So we might well be entering a combat in which the adversary commanded an array of powerful weapons, with which he had practiced to expert level. On our side, my sharer might be the equivalent of an overconfident youth who was entering the lists armed with the equivalent of a papier-maché sword and an ill-made grenade that might blow up in our hands.

  While I had been thinking these uncomforting thoughts, I had allowed him to take charge of our body and direct it to the master cabin. Here was assembled Baxandall's books, my alter ego having insisted on bringing them with us so that he could continue to try to sift the real incantations from the merely hopeful. He had also brought the Late Horthalian tome -- "Just in case," as he put it, "we run across something that unlocks its secrets."

  I spoke to him now as he studied the most promising of the spellbooks. "I've been thinking. Suppose you are correct that the business of Osk Rievor is connected to the Archon's case."

  "I do suppose it," he said.

  "Well, then, may
it not be that the purpose of the whole Derogation was to cause us to come to Rievor's lair, to a place where he undoubtedly has power, bringing the book with the unmentionable name?"

  "Indeed, it may."

  "Then are we not being unwise, even downright foolish, in doing precisely what he wants us to do?"

  I felt him weighing up the proposition. "Perhaps," he said, "but it seems that, these days, the definitions of wisdom and foolery are become interchangeable."

  A gentle chime sounded and the ship's integrator announced that we would soon enter the whimsy. I had my other self ask the device how Hobart Lascalliot was faring.

  "He lies upon the pallet, staring at the curve of the hull above his head," it said. "The medications sac is in his hand. Now he squeezes it, his eyes close and he falls away."

  "We should do the same," I said to my sharer.

  He stretched our body on the pallet and reached into the headboard compartment for the sac. A moment later I felt the injector prick our palm, then coolness welled up our arm as the drugs made their way into our being. Drowsily, I turned my head to one side, and my fading gaze fell upon the books of magic strewn across the table. Darkness was reaching for me, pulling my eyes closed, but moments before I succumbed I saw a tiny figure blink into existence in the air in the middle of the room. It instantly enlarged and became the boy who had appeared in my workroom. He glanced at me with mild curiosity, then turned toward the table. I saw his hand reach out to open the ragged leather-bound book, then I was gone.

  #

  The spaceport in the Thoon looked much the same as it had on my last visit. Baltaz Thoring again appeared as I descended from the Orgillous and asked me the same questions.

  "I am unable to resist a second taste of your flambords," I told him.

  "You have been here before?" he said.

  "Quite recently. Do you not remember our conversation?"

  I watched him closely, saw him grasp for a wisp of memory that must have evaporated even as he reached for it. "I am sorry," he said. "I vaguely recall you and this spaceship, but nothing else. Many of us here have lately experienced memory lapses. We believe it may have been an allergic reaction."

  I tried another tack. "We spoke of Toop Zherev and his excellent flambords."

  Again, I saw him struggle toward a recollection that evanesced from his mind. "I do not recall it," he said.

  "What about Zherev's foreign friend, Osk Rievor?" I said. "Do you remember him?"

  His face showed that he was working at the question, but getting no great result. "I know the name," he said. "But I can't quite. . ."

  "Never mind," I said. "Allergies can be troublesome."

  "They can, indeed," he said with a shrug, "but if it's Zherev's flambords you seek, I don't believe he's brought any in lately."

  "Why might that be?"

  "I haven't thought to wonder about it till now," the claviger man said. "Isn't that curious?"

  "Indeed," I said. ""And where is Zherev's station?"

  "Just north of here. The only one on this stretch of the Sound."

  I thanked him and inquired where I might hire a ground vehicle. He gave me directions to an office some distance past the hotel where I had stayed and I set off. But as I passed through the gate I said to Lascalliot, "Let us go into the hotel. I wish to experiment further."

  He acquiesced and we entered the lobby. Ylma, the same young woman who had dealt with us on our previous visit looked up from whatever she had been doing behind the front desk and said, "You're back."

  "You remember me?"

  "Of course. You had the odd little animal on your shoulder. He is not with you?"

  "No. I left him at home, with some important tasks to perform."

  She smiled at the notion, thinking that I was making a joke.

  "When I was here before, I inquired about a flambord station operator named Toop Zherev. Do you recall our conversation?"

  She looked inward for a moment then said, "I do. I believe I advised you to speak to Bleban, the cook."

  "And the name, Osk Rievor, you recall that, too?"

  "Yes, I think so," she said. "People spoke of him, though I never met him."

  "Do people speak of him still?"

  She reflected before saying, "I have not heard his name in some time." She looked through into the dining room and called to someone there. I turned to see the gangly young man who had cleared my table. "Fileo," she said, "this gentleman is inquiring about someone named Osk Rievor."

  "I believe he may have left the district," the fellow said.

  "You knew him?"

  "No, I never met him, but I used to hear of him. Though not for a while now."

  I said, "Do you remember our conversation about the 'Derogation?'"

  He made a face, as if at an unpleasant thought. "I do. But I think that nonsense is all over now. No one speaks of it any more."

  "Thank you," I said and departed the hotel for the place where vehicles could be hired.

  As Lascalliot and I walked along the beachfront road, I said to my sharer, "This much seems clear: Osk Rievor came to Great Gallowan, met a man who grew and sold flambords, and used him to create a secret society of minions who went out with a comic song. The means may have been chemical or magical; either way, the effect was the same. Then we came, observed the night of the convening and left. Soon after, Lord Afre arrived to scoop up Lascalliot. Not long after that, all memory of our visit began to fade from the minds of the participants -- though, oddly enough, everyone recalls Rievor's name."

  "Perhaps thaumaturges cannot erase their names without losing their power," he suggested.

  "Perhaps. This whole business of the importance of names remains alien to me." I returned to my previous train of thought. "Note, too, that Ylma and young Fileo still remember us, presumably because they were not part of the Derogation, and thus not exposed to the spell or the psycho-active substance. We need to identify which it is."

  "At Toop Zherev's station, I believe we will."

  "Do you sense danger there?"

  "No," he said. "But then, if we are walking into a thaumaturge's lair, he would have the means to blunt my intuition."

  "That is not reassuring."

  "If it is any help," he said, "I believe this will all work out well."

  It was not any help, but I did not share that assessment with him.

  #

  With Lascalliot perched on the rear jump seat, I guided our rented skimmer north along the beach road. On our left, Balwinder Sound rolled smoothly toward us, wave after undemonstrative wave. I commented over my shoulder to my passenger that the placidity of the landscape matched the mood of the Thoon's inhabitants.

  "We do not value ostentation," he agreed. "He speaks loudest who speaks softest, as the saying goes."

  It was not an unworthy attitude, though Osk Rievor had perverted the Thoonian's modesty into an urge to punish through public ridicule those who held a different view of right conduct. Still, that observation prompted a useful thought. I said to my inner companion, "Note that Rievor used what he found. He did not create complete automatons to do his bidding. Instead, he took a strong streak of the Thoonian's character and warped it to his own ends."

  "So it seems."

  "That is a good sign," I said. "It means that if he is a thaumaturge, his powers are limited, even in a place where 'dimpling' enhances them. He cannot do whatever he wants."

  "Yet here we are at the place where he wanted us."

  Up the road and near the shore stood a low white building with a flat roof. I asked Lascalliot, "Have you been here?"

  "I once accompanied Palam Thresiger when some of Zherev's flambords were struck by a gill fungus."

  I leaned the skimmer against a neatly painted fence that ringed the establishment's small front yard and entered through the gate. The door offered no who's-there -- I suspected such a device might clash with the Thoonian world view -- but there was a simple mechanical device that amplified my knock. Lasc
alliot and I waited but there was no answer, nor any sound from within.

  "I smell something," my inner companion said.

  "It would be difficult not to," I answered. A sweet reek of putrefaction hung in the air.

  The door was bolted from within but Lascalliot led the way around to the back. Here we found that the beach had been dug out all the way to the surf line to create an artificial lagoon lined with concrete and separated from the sea by a fence of heavy metal links. The lagoon itself was divided into pens of differing sizes by lighterweight mesh fencing. Floating walkways crisscrossed the pool, allowing access to the open-topped enclosures.

  I stepped onto the nearest boardwalk, holding my nose against the stench of corruption that emanated from one of the pens. The corpses of small, multi-legged animals with hard exoskeletons and a complex arrangement of mouth parts and sensory feelers floated on the surface of the water, some with their chitinous backs split open by the expanding gases of decomposition. The other pens, however, were populated by healthy specimens.

  Hobart Lascalliot indicated the floating corpses and made a sound that combined pity and disgust. "These poor creatures have not had their pen flushed in who knows how long," he said. "They have suffocated in their own waste." He picked up a long handled implement with a mesh basket on one end and used it to clear some of the floating bodies out of the way, then said, "I must activate the recycler."

  He went seaward to where a metal pedestal stood at one corner of the lagoon, flipped up a hemispherical lid that covered its top and pressed a stud and repositioned a slider. A whirring sound came from a pump near the fouled enclosure and the surface of its water gently roiled.

  Lascalliot stood back from the controls and said, "That will do it. But we must skim the dead ones from --"

  He was startled by the sound of a heavy body striking the strong fence that separated the enclosure from the wild sea. He soon recovered, however, and went to look over the barrier, saying, "The tainted water stimulates the appetites of the hungries. We might as well throw them the dead flambords. They're as good a disposal method as --"

  He was interrupted by a shout from the house. We both turned to see an angry Toop Zherev in the doorway. He came forward onto one of the walkways, a length of polished wood in one hand that he brandished as a cudgel.