The Master spoke.
"I presume you have a reason for coming."
"Yes," said Evanie. "I can't stand itbeing imprisoned in a single room. I had to see you." Her lips quivered. She was a consummate actress, Connor suddenly realized. "You know II havemetamorphic blood in me. You know what that means. I have to move about in the open to breathe air that comes from the sky, not from Palace ventilators. So I've come to ask you for a little freedom. Just permission to walk now and then in the Inner Gardens."
Connor wondered how walking in the square of the Inner Gardens could encompass her escape, since the Palace surrounded it.
"It is my intention to release you, but not yet," the Master said. "Not until I have had what I wish from Thomas Connor."
"But I can't stand it!" the girl pleaded tremulously.
The Master turned to Connor.
"Remembering your oath," he said, "do you second this request? This is no move against me?"
"I do not break my word," Connor said.
"Well, I see no harm in it." The Master called a few syllables into the box beside him, then spoke to Evanie. "You have the liberty of the halls and the Inner Gardensno more. As for you"his eyes flickered over Connor"apparently you manage without my permission. That's all."
Evanie dropped again to her knee, rose and moved toward the archway. As Connor followed, the Master called:
"Not you, Thomas Connor."
Connor turned again toward the faintly amused face of the ruler.
"I perceive," the Master said, "that my sister has disobeyed me."
The Princess laughed in that mocking way of hers.
"Do I ever obey you, Joaquin?"
"Nominally, at times." He paused, studying his sister coolly for a moment, then again turned his attention to the man before him. "As you may know," he remarked, "I have summoned a Conclave for day after tomorrow. I am completely occupied. But I do not forget your promise, Thomas Connor, nor have I lost interest in the stores of ancient knowledge. Therefore, you will accompany the Princess to the chambers behind the Throne Room and fulfill your promise by explaining to her as much as time permits of mathematics, particularly of the meaning of logarithms and of the device I have heard termed the sliderule. She will understand you. That's all."
He met the eyes of the Princess. "I may obey you this time, Joaquin," she said, and moved out of the door. Connor followed her. The halls betrayed the activity of the coming Conclave, and were more crowded than he had observed before. Twice gravefaced, longhaired Immortals passed them, raising respectful hands in salute to Margaret of Urbs.
She turned into the South Corridor. "This isn't the way," he objected.
"We're going to the Tower." She glanced sideward at him. "You'll see soon why the Palace needs all of its size. There'll be twenty thousand Immortals here, and we have room for all of themhalf the Immortals in the world."
"Half! Evanie said there were three million."
She gave him an inscrutable smile.
"It does no harm to let the Weeds overestimate our strength."
"Then why tell me?"
Her smile was the unfathomable one of the Mona Lisa.
"I never do anything without reason," was her only reply.
He laughed. When once again they reached the aspiring pinnacle of the Tower, without a glance at the mighty city below, the Princess pulled pen and paper from a table, seated herself, and faced Connor.
"Well?" she queried. "Begin."
He did. It was a new Margaret of Urbs he saw now, unknown before save possibly in that brief moment when he had mentioned the Venus of Milo, or when earlier in the woods she had shown him how vast was her knowledge of and interest in history and world events.
She was eager, curious, questioning, avid for knowledge and uncannily quick to comprehend.
There were queer gaps in her learning. Often he had to stop to explain terms utterly elementary, while at other times she followed him through the most complex maze of reasoning without a question.
The afternoon waned, dusk crept over the great vista, and at length she threw down her pen.
"Enough," she said. "We must have tenplace logarithm tables worked out. They'll be priceless at Eartheye." Not until then did a trace of mockery creep into her voice. "I suppose you realize," she taunted, "that once we have your knowledge all reasons to keep you alive are gone, but the reasons to kill you remain."
He laughed.
"You'd like to frighten me, wouldn't you? Haven't you tried that often enough? The Master trusts my word. I trust hisbut not yours." His lips twisted. "Had I not trusted him, I could have escaped this morning. What was to prevent me from taking your weapon away, dropping you on a deserted shoreor even kidnapping youand escaping in the Skyrat? I never promised not to escape. What kept me here was my trust in his word, and a desire to see this game played out!"
"There is no safety anywhere in the world for you, Thomas Connor," said the Flame softly, "except in my favor. And why you still live is a mystery, so much so that I wonder at it. I have never before been so indulgent to one I hate." She flashed her glorious emerald eyes to his face. "Do I hate you?"
"You should know hatred better than I."
"Yesand yet I wonder." She smiled slowly. "If ever I love the way I hate, not death itself could thwart me. But there is no man strong enough to conquer me."
"Or perhaps," he retorted, "that one isn't interested."
She smiled again with almost a trace of wistfulness.
"You're very strong," she admitted. "I should have loved to have lived in your ancient days. To have lived among your great fighters and great makers of beauty. At least those were menyour ancients. I could have loved one of those."
"And haven't you," he asked ironically, "ever loved a man?"
He could detect no mocking note in her voice.
"Loved? I have thought myself in love a hundred times. At least a dozen times I have gone to Joaquin to beg immortality for some man I have loved. But Joaquin swore to Martin Sair long ago to grant it only to those worthy of it, and he has kept that oath."
She smiled wryly. "It takes all a man's youth to prove himself worthy, and so the Immortals are all dry scientistsnot to my taste! Joaquin refused me each time I asked for the favor, wanting to know if I were sure I'd never tire of him for whom I beggedto swear I was sure. And of course I couldn't swear." She paused thoughtfully. "He was always right, too; every time. I did tire even before old age blighted them."
"And what did you do to prove yourself worthy?" Connor mocked.
"I'm serious today," the Princess said. "I'm not teasing now. I think I could love you, Thomas Connor."
"Thank you." He grinned, suspecting the glitter in the green eyes though he did not see it. "In my time it was the custom for the man to make such declarations." "Your time!" flared Margaret of Urbs. "What do I care for your primitive customs and prehistoric prejudices? Would you have the Black Flame as shrinking and modest as little Evanie pretends to be?" "I'd dislike you less if you were."
"You don't dislike me. You're merely afraid of me because I represent everything you hate in a womanand yet you can't hate me. Indeed, I rather think you love me."
He laughed, mocking now, himself. "I'm Margaret of Urbs!" she flashed. "What do I want of you?
Nothing! I don't really want you at all, Tom Connor. You'd be like all the others; you'd age. Those mighty limbs of yours will turn skinny, or else fat and bloated. Those clear eyes wiil be pale and watery.
Your teeth will yellow and your hair fall out, and then you'll be gone!"
She pulled a cigarette from the box and blew a plume of smoke in his impassive face.
"Go brag of this when we release youif we do! Go tell it up and down the world that you alone of all men were strong enough to reject the love of Margaret of Urbs. Go say that the Black Flame failed to scorch youfailed even to warm you." Her voice quivered. "And go say too that no other man save you ever learnedhow unhappyshe is!"
The
deep eyes were tearbright. He stared into them perplexed. Was this merely more acting? Was there nothing left of Margaret of Urbs save a lovely mask and a thousand posesno real being within?
He forced a sardonic grin to his lips, forced it, for the impossible beauty of the girl tore at him despite his will.
At his smile her face darkened.
"And then say," she said, from between tight lips, "that the Black Flame doesn't care what talk you make of her, because she burns on while youand those you talk toin so very few years will be dust!
Dust!"
Again he laughed at her and the Flame turned suddenly away.
"I suppose you may go now," she said dully.
But Connor hardly heard her. He was caught in speculations concerning the strange black and golden soul of the Princess, baffling, hateful, fascinating to the point of deadliness, and yetsomehow wistful, almost pitiful. It was almost, he thought, as if in the glimpse he had caught of her in the freedom of the woods he had seen the true soul of the woman, and all the rest was masquerading.
He stared across at the glory of her face, now subdued to sadness as she gazed out at a million lighted windows. Then a flicker of motion caught his eye, far, far beneath him in the well of shadows in the Inner Gardens.
"Someone's in the Gardens," he observed absently.
"Oh," said the Princess listlessly, "it must be an Antarctic Immortal, enjoying a garden under the sky."
She clicked the vision screen. "Garden," she ordered dully. "North bank of the pool."
A burst of choked laughter startled him. He swung about. There, shown on the screen before his eyes, was Evanie, seated on a garden bench, her head on the shoulder of Jan Orm, his arm about her waist!
"A waiter!" the Black Flame said scornfully. "A Palace waiter!"
But despite her laughter and his own confusion, Connor did not fail to notice that there were still tears in her eyes.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
THE DINNER AT THE SLEEPER'S
CONNER AWOKE LATE next morning, and to an instant memory of the shock he had experienced at the sight of Evanie and Jan Orm. Most of the night he had spent in improvising possible excuses for the girl. Perhaps it was an innocent scene he had witnessed.
After all, she and Jan were lifelong friends, born and raised in Ormon and it might be that Evanie had turned to him in loneliness, even in pique at his, Tom Connor's own involuntary attendance on Margaret of Urbs. But the mocking suggestions of the Princess, and the memory of Evanie's contented face in the vision screenthose troubled him. And he remembered, too, Jan's confession that he loved Evanie.
Dressing, he glimpsed her far below in the Inner Gardens, with her bronze hair glinting. She was lying at full length on the grass. He forgot breakfast and hurried into the corridor, where the guard, remembering the medallion of the Princess, merely saluted respectfully, unaware that Connor no longer possessed the disc of gold.
He descended at once to the ground level, followed an interminable passage toward the Palace's center, and flung open a door at its end. Instead of daylight, a dimlit chamber with glowing walls lay beyond, wherein, after a moment of blinking, he descried a row of perhaps twenty men. Some stared at him, surprised, but most kept their eyes fixed steadily on the shining wall.
"I'm sorry," he said to the nearest man. "I was looking for the Gardens."
Unexpectedly, a voice spoke beside him.
"The Gardens are two stories above us, Thomas. And I see you still wander."
It was the tall, ebonyhaired Master. Beside him was another Immortal, graveeyed and sandyhaired.
"This is Thomas Connor," said the Master, "our storehouse of ancient knowledge. Thomas, this is Martin Sair, here from Austropolis." He added, "Thomas is one of those who affect not to kneel in our presence. I indulge him."
"Indulgence is a habit of yours, Urbanus," rumbled the sandyhaired man. "Does the Princess alsoindulge?"
"Not willingly. Margaret is having one of her restless years, I'm afraid." He frowned. "But they passthey pass. Look there, Thomas." He gestured toward the wall. "This is our seeing room. Here is focused every scanner in Urbsin any of my cities, if I wish. If the Palace is the world's brain, this room is the visual center."
Connor took his eyes from a fascinated scrutiny of the legendary Martin Sair, the Giver of Life, and glanced at the walls. Millions of tiny pictures covered them, each small as a thumbnail, glowing some in colors, and some, when the distant origin was in darkness, in the dull bluegray of the short waves. He saw flickers of movement as the pictured men and women went about their daily business.
"We can enlarge any scene there," said the Master, pointing at a row of wider screens, some even now illumined. "In this room I can follow a man's life from birth to death, so long as he remains in one of my cities." He paused musingly, then shrugged. "The Gardens are two floors above us, Thomas."
It was dismissal. Connor cast a last glance at Martin Sair, feeling as if he were gazing on a demigod.
Martin Sair, the Giver of Life, greatest except the Master among all the heroic figures in the dazzling age of the Enlightenment. Then he backed away from the great Immortal and betook himself to the Gardens.
Evanie was there, lovely as a bit of the ancient statuary that dotted the square, as she lay in the barbaric costume of Urbs watching a twentyinch column of water slip smoothly from the mouth of a giant stone lion. She gave Connor a cool glance as he approached.
"Evanie!" he said unhappily. "I've looked everywhere for you."
"Why?" she asked indifferently.
"To be with you, of course. You know that."
"I don't know it. Or has the Flame burned you at last?
Her coolness baffled him.
"Evanie," he pleaded, "why are you so offended?"
Her mouth hardened. "You've deserted the Weeds, Tom. Do you think I could ever forgive that?"
"See here, Evanie," he said hastily. "There's one thing you seem to have forgotten. I was thrust in among the Weeds of Ormon without choice. Does that mean I have to accept your social theories blindly? Perhaps I'm too primitive for anarchybut I think you are too!" He went on defiantly. "I don't think your theories will work, and I do think the Master's government is what this world needs. It isn't perfect, but it's better than the Weeds offerand even for you, Evanie, I won't give up freedom of thought."
"You mean you won't think!" she blazed. "You're not fooling me, Tom! I know the way the Black Flame poisons men, and you've been with her too often! You've been burned and" Her anger mounted. "Oh, go away!"
"Evanie," he began earnestly, and paused. Was he untouched by the devastating charm of the Princess? The dizzying warmth of her lips, his reeling brain in the hour on the Pacific "She's the daughter of Hell!" he muttered.
"Go away!" flared Evanie. "Quitter!"
Hot words rose to his lips. But he suppressed his anger, even as the picture he had seen of Jan and Evanie flashed on his mental screen, and turned away into the Palace.
For an hour he stamped through the endless halls now crowded with arriving Immortals from Africa, Antarctica, Australia, and South America. Now and again one turned cool eyes on his forbidding countenance or smiled gravely after him. None stopped or addressed him.
He must have completed the somewhat less than a mile of circuit several times when a guard approached him. He turned a furious scowl on the fellow, but he had only a tiny black envelope inscribed in white in the precise script of the Princess. Connor ripped the missive open. A short note was inside. It read:
Come to my chambers at half after the seventh hour to escort me to dinner. Wear the black costume in your quarters, and the black cape.
Margaret of Urbs.
Merely an invitationbut a royal invitation is a command. He laughed bitterly. Why not? The Black Flame could burn no more painfully than she had already, and at least he could vent his anger on her.
Although hours remained before the appointed dinner hour, he went back to his quarters, glancing ind
ifferently at the Urban formal dress laid carefully on his bed. It was exactly like his present garb save that it shimmered black with metallic scales, and was edged with silver. Crossing to the window he sat staring down at Evanie in the Gardens, bathing her rounded limbs in sunlight, until a man in Urban dress who could only be Jan Orm joined her. He turned angrily away then, fuming.
With no breakfast or lunch, he was both shorttempered and ravenous. So when the hours had dragged by, and he finally located the Chambers on the hundred and seventh level of the South Tower, he was in no pleasant mood. Two armed guards stepped aside, and the serving woman, Sora, admitted him with a clumsy curtsy.
He passed into the anteroom, furnished, as was the Black Flame's laboratory behind the Throne Room and her place at the summit of the Tower, lavishly and ornately. But surprise leaped to his eyes as he saw the gigantic black Persian cat that gazed steadily at him, with green eyes that seemed almost a replica of those of the Princess.
"A cat!" he exclaimed. "I thought they were extinct."
"Satan is immortal," said the soft voice of Margaret of Urbs.
He whirled and faced her as she emerged from the inner chamber, and hunger and anger alike drained out of him as he stared.
She was magnificent! Garbed in a jetblack cape that dropped to her greencrystalled sandals, she seemed taller as she advanced into the room. A circlet of green gemsemeralds, he thoughtbound her ebony hair, and beneath it her eyes were smoldering seagreen fire.
But he felt the thrill of surprised shock as she threw open the cape. Her brief kirtle and corselet glittered in a solid surface of green gems, and at her waist sparkled that mystic crystalline flower of many colors, glistening from red to violet, blue, and purest emerald. Then she moved toward the lamp, and in its yellow radiance her whole costume was green no longer, but the deep lavender of wine.
"Alexandrites," she laughed, answering his unspoken question. "Green by day, lavender by artificial light. Synthetic, of course. There aren't this many natural stones in the world." She turned. "Like it?"
"Exquisite!" he whispered. "You daughter of Lucifer!"
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