A Wizard In Peace

by Christopher Stasheff

  The inspectors-general were more difficult, for the obvious reason-nobody knew who they were. Still, it was possible to make guesses, possible to assign teams of men to follow travelers and join merchants' caravans, and one inspector-general after another went to the Lost City. Bade and the Guardian found that they were much less likely to accept their imprisonment willingly, though; or to be swayed to the ideas and ideals of the New Order. After all, they had given up more to gain their current rank in the Old, and that rank was very high; each of them. had very real hopes of becoming Protector, or at least a minister. They had labored all their lives to achieve it, and weren't about to throw it away by eliminating the Protector and his office, nor the system in which they held so much power.

  Miles conferred with the Guardian, and finally sent the inspectors-general to a separate ruined city, one guarded much more closely by its computer and robots. For them, at least, the imprisonment was real-still luxurious, but nonetheless real. Women came to join them, though-women who weren't very pretty, but knew how to use cosmetics to make the most of the looks they had; women who walked gracefully and spoke in cultured tones, women who knew the arts and the sciences, who could talk with the exiled inspectors-general about history and politics. Gradually, even these hardcase adherents of the Old Order began to think there might be something to be said for the New.

  "Your Honor, come quickly!" The butler appeared in the doorway, looking harried for once. "Magistrate Plurible is coming! He's sent a runner ahead; he's only a mile away!"

  Magistrate Athellen-formerly Lord Llewellyn in delusion-looked up from his desk, face ashen. Usually visiting magistrates sent word ahead, and he had plenty of time to prepare, but this surprise visit scared him thoroughly. In desperation, he fell back on the stratagem he had used before. "Tell Constable Garrick and Watchman Porry to come into my study, quickly! Tell Mistress Paysan to prepare a quick tea! I'll hurry and change into my formal robe!"

  "I must assist Your Honor!"

  "There's no time! You set the preparations in motion!" Athellen bolted from his desk.

  The formal robe still held the blackjack and dagger hidden in its folds from its last such use-in fact, Athellen had begun to take comfort from knowing they were always there. He shaved quickly, ducked back into the empty study to prepare the teacups, and was out in front of the courthouse five minutes before the coach rattled around the curve of the road.

  The horses stopped, and the footman jumped down to open the door. Magistrate Plurible stepped down and toward Athellen, arms spread wide, a smile of greeting on his face, a smile that froze, then died as he saw who was waiting for him.

  Athellen's worst fears had come true-but he remembered what Miles had told them all to do if this happened. After all, sooner or later, some of them were bound to meet people who knew the man they were pretending to be. It was just Athellen's bad luck that it had been sooner.

  He stepped forward with a broad smile. "Magistrate, Plurible! You do me great honor!" Then, close enough for Plurible to hear a whisper, Athellen hissed, "Yes, I know I'm not who you expected to see, but there's an excellent reason, and no one else must know of it!" Aloud, he fairly trumpeted, "Come into my study; and take refreshment!"

  Sudden dread filled Plurible's face, but it was quickly masked. He whispered, "As you say, Inspector."

  Athellen turned away, arm in arm with Plurible, hiding a surge of elation. The man had assumed he was an inspectorgeneral impersonating a magistrate-and whatever reasons there might be for such an action, they had to be horrible.

  And kept secret....

  They came into the study. "Take a seat, Your Honor!" Athellen waved his visitor to a chair as he went around behind the desk. "May I introduce you to my trusty Constable Garrick and Watchman Pory!"

  The two officers bowed. Plurible nodded to acknowledge them as he sat, then turned back to Athellen. "What does all this mean, Inspector? I know I can't be told all of it, but surely you can give me some small hint. Is my old friend Athellen in trouble?"

  "I wouldn't like to use such a word," Athellen said, and rang the small bell on his desk. A side door opened, and the butler ushered in a maid, who set down the teapot.

  "Explanations must wait till you have a cup in your hand!" Athellen insisted. "You have been traveling all morning, at a guess, and need refreshment!"

  "It would be welcome," Plurible said reluctantly. Clearly, he would rather hear the news first, but dared not say so. He took the cup and sipped. "Now, sir?"

  "Yes, now." Athellen took a long sip, playing for time, then sat back and said, "Not in trouble, no. Your old friend Athellen, though, needed ... a rest."

  Plurible stiffened in alarm. "A collapse?"

  "I would rather call it exhaustion," the fake Athellen said, "but it's bad for morale for people to know of it-so when it came time for reassignment, we sent him to a secluded retreat, and I took his place."

  "Thank heavens it could be managed so neatly!" Plurible sighed. "Is he recovering quickly?"

  "I hope so, but no one has told me anything."

  "Of course, of course," Plurible muttered, and sipped again. A quick glanced showed Athellen the thoughtful look on his visitor's face. At a guess, Plurible was revising his estimate of the fake Athellen's rank downward from inspector-general to one of the second-rank bureaucrats who kept all the records of the land and coordinated all the reeves-specifically, one of the group of troubleshooters who were always kept ready for such occasions. No one knew for sure if they really existed, but nobody really doubted it, either. Plurible sipped again, then asked, "What will you tell the people here when he has recovered?"

  "Oh, we'll arrange a mid-term reassignment, and explain that another magistrate died unexpectedly," Athellen assured him. "Of course, it's possible the doctors will insist he take the whole five years as a vacation; I've heard of it happening."

  "Yes.... To write his ... impressions of ... duh peeble he . . . hazzz governed." Plurible sipped again, then looked up, blinking bleary eyes.

  "I think the journey has tired you out," Athellen said, fairly oozing sympathy. "Perhaps you should nap before dinner."

  "Nnno, nnno! Mid ... day ... zleeb? Nev ... nev . . ." But Plurible's eyes closed, and he slumped in his chair.

  Porry stepped forward just in time to catch the teacup before it fell. "How much of the drug did you put in his teacup, Your Honor?"

  "Enough." Athellen rose. "Put him to bed, and watch over him. Then, Porry, go into the forest and. . ."

  "Hoot like an owl and tell the forester who answers that we need a replacement." Porry nodded. "I remember, Your Honor."

  "Good." He watched the two men carry the magistrate out, then rang the bell again. The butler came in. "Your Honor?"

  "Are my watchmen making Magistrate Plurible's men comfortable, Satter?"

  "Quite comfortable, Your Honor." The butler's face showed his disapproval. "They're already half drunk."

  Athellen nodded with satisfaction. "Tell the watchmen to keep it up, and tell Plurible's men that their master has suddenly taken ill and gone to bed in one of my guest rooms. They have the afternoon to relax, but they must stay in the courthouse compound. They will probably be staying the night, so tell the bailiff to make arrangements."

  "As you will, Your Honor." Satter's tone left no doubt as to his opinion of the events, but he bowed and left to carry out his orders anyway.

  Athellen sank into his chair with a sigh. The crisis was past, and successfully survived-or the first stage, of it, anyway. Still, he didn't doubt that the men the Guardian would send would successfully cart away Plurible and his drunken watchmen, leaving a new and false Plurible in his place. Athellen heartily hoped he would never again meet someone who had known the real Athellen.

  CHAPTER 19

  Dilana glanced up from her embroidery, watching her husband furtively. It was winter, but he sat gazing at the garden beyond the window anyway. It was pretty enough, she had to admit, even buried under snow-or would have
been, on a sunny day, but this one was overcast, and so was William's face. Considering the case he had before him at the moment, that 'wasn't surprising. She laid down the stretched linen, folded her hands in her lap, and said, "Would it be so bad as all that if young Charyg became a cabinetmaker?" William looked up with a start. Then he smiled and reached out to touch her hand. "How did you know what I was thinking?"

  She returned the smile, clasping his hand: "You were quite upset about it when you came to dinner yesterday, and have been gloomy ever since. It's not hard to guess. Come, husband-what harm in the boy's going to apprentice to old Wizzigruf, if it makes him happy?"

  "Perhaps because it would make his father sad."

  "Only for a while. He thinks the boy is taking a step back in the world, after all. But when Toby Charyg becomes a guildmaster, I suspect his father will be quite proud of him."

  "If he becomes a guildmaster," William cautioned.

  Dilana shrugged. "The lad has talent, we've all seen it in the scraps of wood he's carved and the knickknacks he's made for his mother. That cradle he gave his sister for her wedding was nearly a work of art. But even if he doesn't, husband, isn't it right for the lad to be happy?"

  "Not if it makes his father gloomy."

  "If old Charyg really loves the boy, the lad's happiness will make him happy," Dilana pointed out, "and if the boy is sad being a merchant, that will make his father unhappy, too-and probably angry. They'll quarrel, maybe even come to blows. No, surely it's right for the boy to be happy."

  "Happiness isn't something that's right or wrong," William grumbled. "It's simply good luck."

  "If that's so, I've been very lucky indeed." Dilana squeezed his hand, then let it go.

  He looked deeply into her eyes and smiled. "I too," he said softly, "and I see what you mean, for it's very right."

  "Then surely we all have a right to try to become happy." "Have a right?" William frowned. "Odd phrase, that." Dilana was suddenly tense; this was the delicate moment, and she hadn't been able to see it coming. She turned to look out at the garden, choosing her words carefully, deliberately changing their meanings. "Surely something that is right, is something that we have, my husband. But some of those `rights' are ours simply because we're born. Everyone has a right to try to stay alive, for instance, and to defend himself or herself against thieves and murderers."

  "Yes, that's true; certainly I can't deny it," William said slowly. "But life is something that happens to us whether we want it to or not, my love-though our parents may have some choice in the matter."

  His hand caught around hers again, and she looked up to meet the warmth of his smile with a glow of her own. "Happiness, though, doesn't come with the first breath of life," William went on. "It happens to you, or it doesn't. Even those who choose their own mates often make mistakes; you can do all the things that you think will bring happiness, and still find yourself sunk in gloom. It's not a right."

  "No," Dilana said slowly, never looking away from him, "but you can try to be happy. Surely that much is a right, at least."

  William's look turned thoughtful. "Perhaps," he said slowly, and turned to gaze out at the garden again. "Perhaps . . ." Watching his face, Dilana breathed out a silent sigh of relief. It had been a very difficult moment, but she seemed to have managed it fairly well. Except, of course, that he was now deep in thought, though she seemed to have rescued him from his dark mood.

  Still, she also seemed to have thrown away an intimate moment that might have led to a night of ecstasy. She sighed again, and reminded herself that they all had to make sacrifices for the Cause.

  The night fulfilled its promise, though, and more. The next day, William gave his judgment: that young Charyg should be apprenticed to the village cabinetmaker. Then he took old Charyg into his study for a long, long talk. The merchant emerged looking somber, but no longer angry-and very, very thoughtful.

  Later that spring, Dilana astounded both William and herself by conceiving. She was nearly forty, but somehow she survived the birth of her first child, and was amazed that William seemed overjoyed, even though the baby was a girl, not a boy. Three years later, he was having long "conversations" with their daughter, which generally meant listening to her prattle as she sat on his knee. Little by little, Dilana began to mention the rights baby Luisa had gained by virtue of being born, and as the result of William's and her own decision to encourage that event. William assured her that he was thoroughly aware of his responsibilities to the child-but bit by bit, he began to believe that women's rights had to be stated as clearly as men's:

  Thus the genuine magistrates who stayed in office talked of human rights with their new wives, and slowly, little by little, began to think of some changes to the government, ways following from that idea of individual human rights. Miles found that, although he didn't have enough madmen to replace all the officials, he didn't need to.

  "You don't really think you can hold us here if we really want to go, do you?" Magistrate Flound said with a hard smile.

  "Oh, yes," Bade said, his voice soft as velvet. "Yes, I think we can hold you here no matter how badly you want to leave."

  "A mere five of you?-" Flound scoffed. He sat back with a sneer of contempt. "Against five hundred of us?"

  "Five of us, and the Guardian with its thousand robots." Actually, there were only a hundred robots on duty at any one time, but they moved around so often and so quickly that Bade was sure none of the magistrates could count them. "They could hold you fast even without we five jailers. In fact, we're only here to watch for trouble signs the Guardian might not catch."

  It was certainly true that the master computer had never had to be a jailer before. The madmen had all wanted to stay.

  Bade still wanted to stay, too, but not to wallow in delusion anymore. Hatred burned white-hot within him, and he wanted to be in Voyagend to visit the revenge of imprisonment on every magistrate brought to him. He would never forget his father's angry shouts at Lado, their village magistrate, because the man had kept the father's money, while turning Bade out of school for learning too slowly. (But what he had learned, he had learned well!) He would never forget the sight of his father in the stocks, with neighbors jeering at him and throwing rotten vegetables, the moldy pulp dripping down over half of Papa's face. He would never forget his mother's tears, or her loud arguments telling Papa to stop pushing the boy.

  But Papa hadn't been pushing Bade-he had only tried to give him the chance for the learning he so loved. Here in the Lost City, Bade had found that chance, and had spent hours in a learning carrel every day, with the Guardian feeding him pictures and words on a viewscreen, stopping to explain anything that he didn't understand. He had still learned slowly, though not as slowly as with a village teacher who snarled and berated his students. The Guardian told him now that he knew as much as any magistrate, though he was behind in local events by a few hundred years.

  Now, of course, Orgoru and the other impostor magistrates were sending back law books and history books, and their own observations on the intrigue that underlay it all. Little by little, Bade was catching up.

  So he gave back hard smile for hard smile and told Flound, "You couldn't want to break out of this city more than you do already. There isn't a one of you who doesn't ache for the reward and career boost that would come from telling the nearest reeve all about us rebels in this city, and letting the Protector's spies know about our agents all over the land."

  Flound lost his smile, glaring in hatred at Bade.

  The glare satisfied Bade's need for revenge-a little. He leaned back in his chair, crossing his legs. "Yes, the Guardian hears everything you say, Flound."

  The magistrate's eyes sparked anger at the impertinence of this peasant, addressing him without his title.

  "Everything you say," Bade went on softly. "You can't plan an escape attempt without its knowing-and if the Guardian knows, I know."

  It wasn't true, of course-the computer had audio pickups in every room i
n the city and quite a number in outdoor public places, but scarcely everywhere. It was quite possible to find some sheltered nook, some end of an alley, where the computer couldn't hear-but it wouldn't hurt for Flound and his lackeys to think the machine knew everything.

  "How do you think the Guardian knew enough to send his skeleton to push you back, when you tried to climb the wall in the dead of night last week?" Bade asked.

  Flound's glare was a dagger, and Bade grinned in return, knowing the magistrate's stomach was sinking as he began to believe the computer had overheard his planning with his score of confederates. Of course, the robot who had stopped them had really only been on sentry duty, making his rounds by a randomized schedule-but Flound didn't need to know that. The man left Bade's office with a snarl, and Bade allowed himself to feel the warm glow of triumph.

  The house stood as near the wall as any, for a thirty-foot width of clear pavement circled inside the wall all around the city. But thirty feet was close enough for Flound's purpose. Of course, the house was made of stone, like all the buildings that still stood in the ruined city-a very strange, ruddy stone, warm to the touch, but stone nonetheless, for what else could it be if it were so hard? The floors were made of the same stone, all flat, all one piece, and Flound marveled that the ancient builders had been able to find or cut such large sheets of rock. Maybe the old tales were true, maybe the ancients really had secrets of building, miraculous tools and methods that had been lost!

  But the house was built around a courtyard, and the courtyard was paved with flagstones. Oh, Flound had found only a mass of weeds, but had dug down beneath them, then cleared away the dead herbage, exulting. Flagstones they were, though carved into beautiful shapes and fitted together like a puzzlebut separate stones, and the weeds sprouting between them, showed there must be dirt below!

  No one objected to his moving in and making the house his own, neither Bade nor the Guardian nor any of its "robots," as Bade called them-its strange smooth-boned eerie skeletons with their heads like eggs, with jewels for eyes, jewels that Flound had already learned could shoot out spears of light, spears that burned and cut like swords. He told himself he didn't fear the creatures, but he was very glad they didn't object to his taking the house for his dwelling, or to his having a dozen friends in to talk and drink every day.