A Sudden Wild Magic

Flan was still curled in her corner, so Roz turned to her. “Worked? Who’s worked? None of you except me. I’m the only one who seems to know the meaning of the word! I’ve worked. Good stern work! That’s what this fortress responds to. I can feel it responding. And it’s responding to me. Me working. Keeping our mission going single-handed. You don’t catch me moping in a corner doing nothing. You don’t—”

“Oh, shut up!” said Flan. “You’re worse than High Horns. Your stern work my left buttock! Zillah got it right. What this fortress wants is a little fun for a change!”

“I’m not staying here to be insulted,” said Roz.

“Go away then,” said Flan.

Roz marched out. The door veiled and there was quiet. But not peace, Flan thought. Maybe she was having a nervous breakdown. She couldn’t seem to get that horrible ritual out of her mind. It sapped her of all desire to do anything but curl up in a corner and listen to the pulsing of the citadel — or it could be just the pulse in her own ears. At the moment, citadel or ears, it was a sulky, sick bumping, as insistent as Roz’s voice, which seemed to be hating all these rituals, every one of them, and urging Flan to do something to give them both some peace. Flan was fairly sure the sight of Tod turning gray and oozy had sent her mad.

There was a sort of sigh, and a feeling of release, followed by multiple movement like an army breaking step to cross a bridge. Flan raised her head. Yes, there were footsteps and voices in the distance. The latest ritual was over. Good. Roz had called for action. Let’s have some action then. But better catch them before they all went to meditate or whatever.

Flan sprang up and ran. Burst out through the door veil, raced down blue corridors. Shot past mages in groups and pairs coming the other way. Plunged through the veil into the main hall of Ritual Horn. Her friends from Ritual were mostly still there, either standing about looking jaded or packing chalices away in caskets. Nearly everyone turned to greet her. Most smiled. Even Brother Nathan, far from descending on her with more blackmail, kept over the other side of the hall, where he smiled at her anxiously and rather diffidently. How nice, Flan thought. They all like me!

“Had a good ritual?” she said. There was a glum, dead silence. “And how are the vibes?” There were shrugs. Not good, evidently. “Well then,” said Flan, “how about a bit of fun to take the taste away?” The way everyone reacted, they would have liked fun, but they thought High Horns might have forbidden it along with most other things. “There’s no harm in it,” Flan said. “It’s a very simple dance. Here, let me show you.” And, quite in her old manner — or perhaps a little more feverishly — she seized the four or five who were always ready to have a go and put them in a line with their arms around one another’s waists. She put herself at the head of the line and wrapped the arms of good-looking Alexander firmly around her. “Now, just do as I do. Four bouncing steps — left-right- left-right. And right leg out. That’s it. And again, people. Let’s all do the conga — ah! Again! Let’s all do the conga—ah!” She led the line around the hall. “Come on, people. You sing too!”

They got the idea. The conga is probably the easiest dance ever learned. “Let’s all do the conga — AH!” the five shouted, capering and shooting out legs in unison. The others, Brother Nathan among them, took up the rhythm, clapping.

“Join in!” Flan shouted.

They did. It was so easy and harmless and a great relief besides. Before Flan had made one full circuit of the hall, everybody in it was rushing to seize the waist at the end of the line and join in — step and step and step and step and leg out. Their trained voices rose lustily. “Let’s all do the conga — Ah!”

Flan, capering energetically, led them out of the nearest door and up the ramp beyond. “This is what you’re supposed to do!” she panted. “Conga, people!”

Halfway up the ramp, she knew she had got it right. She was not sure quite what was right, except that she knew it was. Mages were racing down side passages and leaping onto the ramp to join the line, laughing at the absurd dance and seizing the chance to express frustrations by being harmlessly silly. The bouncing, singing line was twice as long when it left the ramp and bounced and shot its legs out into Records Horn. By this time, Flan knew it was more than that. The sullen vibrations of the citadel were changing, rising to meet the rhythm she was making. Bursts of energy came to her in glad gusts. She knew that if need be, she could conga for the next twenty-four hours.