The Merlin Conspiracy

by Diana Wynne Jones

  The first and most important thing I noticed about this person was that he had a little blue flame sitting on his forehead, the way our wizards do on important occasions. “Oh, good!” I said. “You’re a wizard.” But I was very nervous, because he was real and because he was somewhere else entirely.

  I knew he could see me and hear me. But he didn’t seem any too certain that he was a wizard. He mumbled something about being a beginner or just learning. My heart sank rather. He was more or less the same age as me. I could tell he was, although the blue flame distorted his face terribly. He looked demonic, with pits for eyes. But, I thought dubiously, perhaps this is how people from another world do look. In Blest, I would have said he was from India. I think. Anyway, he was dark and a lot taller than me.

  Then I told myself that he had to be right. He was the one the mullein spell had summoned, so he had to be. The flower file was most insistent that the next thing you did was to get the person to say his or her true name. So I asked him his name, and he said it was Nichothodes. It sounded very foreign to me. And he was sort of frowning at me, as if he thought—rather like Grundo—that I was being very bossy and busy with my own troubles, which I was, but I couldn’t help it. So I told him my name and tried to make a joke that we both had mouthfuls for names.

  He still seemed dubious, but he said in a very businesslike way, “What way do you want me to help you?”

  I explained or tried to. None of it seemed to mean very much to him, and we hit a snag almost at once, because he thought that the Merlin was a man with a long white beard from the days of some mythical king. I’d never heard of this King Arthur of his, but I said, “Well, a lot of the Merlins do have long white beards. The one who just died did.” I tried to go on to explain how the Merlins kept the magical powers and worked with the Kings, who kept the political powers.

  He didn’t seem to understand at all. I got a feeling he didn’t want to. I went on explaining, quite desperately, that the whole country was being threatened, along with the rest of the world, and probably other worlds with it. I see now that this was a foretaste of what happened every other time I tried to get help from someone, but at the time it seemed that it was because we were totally separate, me on a hill in Wales and he goodness knows where in the dark. I felt helpless and hopeless.

  And he couldn’t walk through from his dark place to me. He tried. He put out his hand, and it was as if he had planted it against a glass wall. I could see his palm all flattened and white, with red lines in it.

  “Okay,” he said. He seemed a great deal more cheerful about it than I was. He said he’d go and ask someone what to do. “Then I’ll come back and try to help you and Grundoon sort it out,” he said.

  “Grundo,” I said.

  “Him, too,” he said cheerfully. “Where are you anyway?”

  That made me feel as if the spell had let me down, because surely it ought to have let him know basic things like that. “I’m in Blest, of course,” I said.

  “Then I’ll see you soon,” he said, and went walking away past me, looming up blue and dark and then vanishing out of sight just beside me. The darkness stayed there for a moment, going denser and denser, and then faded back into the sky.

  “That was a fat lot of good!” I said angrily to Grundo.

  Grundo jumped a little and said, “Have you finished already?”

  “Yes!” I said. I hurled my mashed bunch of herbs to the ground. “Powers preserve me from thickheaded, self-centered, cocky teenage wizards!”

  “Wasn’t it any good?” Grundo asked.

  “Not a lot,” I said. “Now what shall we do?”

  Grundo gave a surprised look at the low sun and then at his watch. “We go in for tea, I think. That’s the trouble with having tea instead of supper. The afternoon’s so short. Anyway, your grandfather’s back. I can see the gray mare in the field from here.”

  As we went sliding and crawling down the hill, Grundo seemed quite cheerful. I couldn’t understand it. I was in a great state of gloom. All that hunting for flowers had been a total waste of time. The wizard boy was not capable of helping anyone. He was stupid. I wanted to blame the Little Person for suggesting the idea—but it was not his fault. He had no way of knowing I was going to get an ignorant idiot when I called. But that seemed to show there was no way to get help from outside. The only thing I could do now was to rejoin the King’s Progress and find out as soon as possible what it meant to raise the land and how to do it. It was not something that was in my flower files, I was sure of that. In the hurt woman’s day it was not a thing anyone needed to do. They had little Kings and small countries. Probably the magic of Blest had not even begun to be important for other places then.

  In the manse Grandfather Gwyn was waiting by the tea table to say grace. At first glance he seemed as somber and expressionless as ever, and maybe a little tired. One black eyebrow twitched impatiently as Grundo uttered cries of joy at the plate heaped with griddle cakes. But after he had thundered forth a longer grace than usual, my grandfather looked at me briefly. There was just a flick of a smile for me, private between the two of us. Now, the smile seemed to say, you know some of my secret.

  Yes, I thought, and some of that secret is that Sybil owns you for the moment. I can’t tell you anything now. But I couldn’t resist smiling back.

  “That’s better,” my grandfather said as we sat down. “Arianrhod, you are too solemn. You should learn not to take things so hard. Your cause will be much better served if people perceive you as less tense and emotional.”

  Talk about the pot calling the kettle black! I thought. “Grandfather Gwyn,” I said, “I have reason to be like this. I think Grundo and I should get back to the Progress as soon as possible.”

  “I agree,” he said. “I have ordered the car for you. Be ready to start first thing tomorrow.”

  Grundo looked truly miserable. He had been enjoying himself thoroughly almost for the first time in his life. “In that case,” he said, “could we have another plate of griddle cakes? I need to stock up.”

  My grandfather did his almost-smile again. “Certainly. And a packet to take with you when you go.”

  He was as good as his word. I think he always is. When Grundo and I stumbled downstairs with our bags in the very early morning, my grandfather was waiting in the hall like a tall black pillar, with a slightly greasy bag in his long white hands. The hall was unusually sunny. The front door was open into the low sunlight and a melting green and gold distance beyond. The hearse-like car cut some of the light off as it came slowly crunching to a stop on the grass outside.

  My grandfather passed Grundo the bag. “Olwen has put a packed breakfast for you in the car. Go in peace with my blessing.”

  He saw us to the car, but he didn’t, to my secret relief, insist on a kiss or even try to shake hands. He just lifted one hand as the car started. The last we saw of him, he was turning, black and upright, to go back into the manse. The road tipped us down and round a corner almost at once, and all we saw was the green shoulders of mountains. I found I was sighing with regret as strong as Grundo’s.

  Olwen had provided the usual huge packets of sandwiches and cakes. We were eating for a good part of the long drive back and didn’t pay much attention to the scenery, though I got the feeling we went a different way that was rather shorter. I certainly didn’t recall the wide, sunny gorge we went through or the full gray river hurrying in the midst of it. But then, as Grundo said, until we spent these few strange days at the manse, neither of us had made a habit of watching the country as we traveled.

  “You get trained out of it,” Grundo said. “Scenery just goes past, and that’s it.”

  We were both in a muddling mixture of regret at leaving and nervousness about what would happen when we were back with the Progress.

  “I wonder what my mother will say,” Grundo remarked. “I forgot to tell her I was going with you.”

  “My mam will have told her,” I said. “And Sybil may have been
too busy to be angry. You have to admit she’s been hard at other things lately.”

  Our mix of feelings grew much fiercer as we saw the shape of Castle Belmont on its mound against the hot, blue sky. It had turned into a truly scorching day by then. I supposed that Dad was letting the weather stay fine still for the Meeting of Kings, but as the car swept in through the massive castle gates and went winding up the gravel path past parched-looking trees, I began to think Dad might be overdoing things. He was on the way to causing a drought. It crossed my mind that this wasn’t like Dad, but mostly I was realizing that the driver was going to dump us at the castle door just where he had picked us up and wishing he wouldn’t. Grundo looked at me. But we both knew now that it was no good trying to talk to this driver, so we said nothing while he drove in a smart circle on the gravel at the top and drew up with a crunch in front of the big double door of the castle. We said nothing but “Thank you” after that, when he opened the rear doors for us and plumped our bags down on the gravel. We stood clutching our packets of spare sandwiches and griddle cakes and watched the car drive away down the path, glimmering with the heat.

  “He doesn’t understand about the camp at all,” Grundo said.

  I agreed. In some way, that driver seemed to think that my grandfather’s family was equal to the King’s. We picked up our bags and humped them over to the steep way down into the camp.

  And stood staring.

  The field where the camp had been was empty. We could see old wheel tracks and brown, trodden paths and pale patches where tents had been, but not a sign of the Progress, not even the buses that usually went off last with us in them. Not a scrap of litter. Nothing. The field looked as if it had been empty for days.

  “They’ve gone!” I said stupidly.

  “They can’t have gone long,” Grundo said. “We’ve only been away three days, and the King had to meet the Welsh King before they went. We’d better ask at the castle.”

  We left our bags and packets in a huddle overlooking the empty field and crunched over to the enormous front door, where we rang the polished brass bellpull. We had to ring three times before there was any answer. By that time we were thinking that the castle was empty, too.

  Almost as we were ready to turn away, one of the halves of the double door was noisily unbarred and opened a little by a man in shirtsleeves. He may have been Sir James’s butler. He stood half inside the opening looking annoyed at being disturbed. When he saw we were only children, his face developed new sour creases. “Yes?” he said.

  We both became very urgent in our best Court manners. “We’re sorry to bother you,” I said. “I’m Arianrhod Hyde, and this is Ambrose Temple, Court wizards’ children....”

  “We were supposed to rejoin the Progress this morning,” Grundo explained. “Can you possibly tell us—”

  “No use trying to join anything here,” the man said, as if he didn’t believe us. “Who are you trying to fool? The King left nearly a week ago now, right after he met with the Welsh King.”

  Nearly a week! I thought. This is mad! But I kept my Court manners and said politely, “Then perhaps you’ll have a message for us from my parents. In the name of Hyde or Temple?”

  “No. Sorry,” said the man. He was obviously not sorry at all. “No one left any messages. Court just packed up and went.”

  I really could not believe this. My mother would always have left a note telling me the latest far-speaker codes at least. When I went to see Grandad Hyde in London, she usually hired a car for me as well, with instructions to follow the Progress even if it went somewhere unexpected.

  While I was trying to think of a way to say this without accusing the man of lying, Grundo said, with great urgency, “Did they, by any chance, have another ceremony in the Inner Garden before they left?”

  “They did,” the man admitted. “Big do, for everyone to drink the waters. Went to it myself. What of it?”

  “Just thank you,” Grundo said politely.

  I knew what had happened then. Mam had drunk the charmed water, too, and was now doing whatever Sybil wanted. And Sybil had always been only too ready to forget about me and Grundo. “Then have you,” I asked the man, “any idea where the Progress is now? Please.”

  “No idea,” the man said definitely, and started to slide back inside the half-open door.

  “Or where they were going?” Grundo put in quickly.

  The man paused. I could see he was going to enjoy telling us. “Only know it was one of the big ports,” he said. “King went to settle a dispute, where was it? Southampton? Liverpool? Somewhere like that. May have been Newcastle. Can’t help you anymore. Sorry.” He slid inside and shut the door with a clash.

  “You haven’t helped us at all!” I more or less shouted at the closed door. “Grundo, he was lying, wasn’t he?”

  “I’m not sure. I think we need to know today’s date,” Grundo said.

  “You mean,” I said, “like the stories? More time’s passed than we thought?”

  Grundo nodded glumly.

  We went over and picked up our belongings. There seemed no point staying here. We began trudging away down the hot gravel drive. About halfway to the gate, Grundo said, “I don’t think they mean to do this thing with time, these people like your grandfather. Time’s different for them. They probably just can’t help it.”

  “That’s all very well,” I said, “but what shall we do?”

  6

  NICK

  ONE

  About five steps later, round the first bend, in fact, was the weirdest city I’d ever been in.

  I was in a crowded shopping arcade, surrounded by bustling, busy people. That was all I noticed at first, because everyone turned to stare at me. For a moment I couldn’t think what they were staring at, until I happened to see my reflection in the window of one of the big fancy shops inside the pillars of the arcade. I saw a sopping wet youth with a blue light standing up off the soaking hair on his forehead. Anyone would stare at that—particularly under the roof of a dry arcade.

  I said, “Damn!” and somehow managed to suck the witchlight into myself. I was not sure I was going to be able to get it back again, but I couldn’t help that. The stares were really hostile. And it didn’t help that everyone around me was really elaborately dressed. The women wore tight tops with loose sleeves and swirling skirts in bright colors, absolutely stiff with embroidery. The men had hip-hugging blouses and baggy trousers covered with embroidery, too. I’d never seen so much embroidery in one place. The shop I could see myself in was selling rolls and rolls of differently embroidered cloth. I looked really out of place.

  Get back and take the other path! I told myself. Quick!

  But by that time I’d been swept along in the crowds quite some way and jostled out toward the chest-high parapet lined with enormous pillars that seemed to separate the arcade from the street. I couldn’t tell where the path was now. I’d just turned back to look for it when everything went suddenly quiet and sedate, with almost no sound except hundreds of walking feet and music playing in the shops. It reminded me of the way everything goes law-abiding on a motorway when a police car drives past.

  That was more or less what it was. The crowds drifted away sideways to make a clear space for two men in bright yellow who came slowly pacing through. They had embroidery, too, in official-looking shield shapes, and more official embroidery on the fronts of their tall caps. The most noticeable thing about them, though, was the curly yellow sheepskin boots they wore from the knees down. It made their feet look vast. I remembered Dad once saying that you can always tell policemen by their boots. I’d never seen policemen who looked like this, but I knew at once what they were.

  I also knew that I’d better keep out of sight. The best way seemed to be to cross the road, so I went on drifting toward the parapet with the rest of the crowd. I had a real shock when I got to the wall. It wasn’t a road beyond it. It was a huge ravine.

  It plunged down and down, hundreds of feet. And I
could see it going up, quite as far, on the other side. What I had taken for the row of shops on the other side of the street was just one arcade in a whole stack of them, built one on top of another against the face of a cliff, rows of shops, rows of houses above and below, and rows of blank-looking factories lower down. Every so often there were fancy iron bridges where people could get from one side of the city to the other.

  Keeping half an eye on those slowly pacing policemen, I craned over sideways to see farther. The place was all different canyons winding away in different directions, with more houses and shops stacked up the sides of them and more bridges between—as if the land here had cracked into a set of branching ravines and people had decided to live up the sides of them. It looked spectacular. There were huge cargo hoists, or perhaps lifts, in the spaces made by the massive pillars that held each layer of buildings up. Really complicated machinery, those were, painted in bright colors.

  As the policemen paced slowly out of sight, I heard a sort of grinding and rushing coming from the depths below. There has to be a river down there, I thought, and I hitched myself on my stomach so that I could look down.

  It wasn’t a river, it was a train—two trains actually, like long silver bullets, coming smoothly into a stopping place far, far below. I watched tiny specks of people come milling out of the trains in the milky electric lighting down there.

  By this time I was really interested. Nobody seemed to be staring at me anymore, so I decided to stay for a while. Two of the hoists across the way were working now, bringing the people up from the trains, and I told myself I’d look for the path when they’d stopped. I also told myself—knowing it was just an excuse—that the drunk had said I was supposed to help two more people on my way, and there were surely two I could help here. So I stayed hanging over the parapet.