A Sudden Wild Magic

To add to his troubles, Edward, on whom he was accustomed to rely for sane and self-effacing advice, seemed thoroughly out of sympathy with any of his worries. Take breakfast that morning. The two of them had as usual arrived in the spare blue room to find it reeking of coffee. Edward had sniffed the stuff as if it were nectar, poured himself a great mugful, and announced, “It’s even better than yesterday! Goddess, it’s years since I tasted good coffee!” After this he had eagerly snatched the silver cover off the heated dish on the table to reveal a great mound of buttered mushrooms, nine-tenths of which he had eaten as if he actually enjoyed the things. Then he had set about the hot bread, wrapped in a crisp blue napkin. “Reprimand Brother Milo?” he said, with evident astonishment, when the High Head suggested it. “Why? He’s working miracles! Try some of this ginger conserve.”

Nor did Edward seem to feel any urgency about the women. “They’re doing no harm,” he said, and then, leaning forward eagerly, with his face slightly flushed, “Besides — did I tell you? — the live ones have rather interesting physiology. I haven’t by any means got all my results yet, but it’s beginning to look as if all of them have what we’d call gualdian blood. The pretty one — Zillah — would probably count as eighty percent gualdian in our terms. That’s quite unusual, you know — or it would be in the Pentarchy. Gualdians make a great thing about the purity of their race, but the fact is that they’ve been interbreeding with humans for centuries. You hardly get one who’s as purebred as he likes to claim. In fact, the nearest thing to a purebred gualdian I’ve ever come across is that latest serviceman — what’s his name? — Philo, and I think he may be some kind of throwback. He doesn’t look like modern gualdians at all.”

And to the High Head’s suggestion that half a dozen well-shielded alien gualdians might be more than enough to disturb the vibrations of Arth, Edward simply laughed and advised his friend to center himself.

The High Head had no leisure to do that. Once in his office, he found his daily routine constantly interrupted by urgent calls from the Pentarchy. Everything poured in with the tide. Trenjen reported that the passet crop had failed and required an instant review of expected climate changes for next season’s planting. The King in Council sent majestic formalities and, embedded in them, a disturbing request to Arth to match the observation made by the Orthe surveyors which suggested that the energy flows of the Pentarchy were becoming seriously deranged. And of course, there was Leathe. Leathe Council came on the ether several times in the persons of various High Ladies wishing to know if there was any progress yet in the experiment with otherworld.

The High Head answered the ladies politely and wished he knew too. It nagged at him increasingly that he must plant another agent there, and soon; and, since otherworld seemed to have located at least two of his best, this agent would have to be both exceptional and cunningly planted. But naturally he did not betray this anxiety either to the ladies or to Lady Marceny. Lady Marceny wanted to know as badly as the rest— probably more so, because her aim was transparently to get him to tell her ahead of the rest of the Pentarchy. She gave strong hints that she might impart the secret of her private experiment with otherworld in exchange. But since she left the talking to that wretched son of hers, the High Head doubted if she had any such intention. What Lady Marceny knew, she always kept to herself. This was just as well, because the High Head knew he would have been sorely tempted by now. He looked with disfavor at the vitiated face of her son in his mirror and promised him results soon. Rumor had it that the young man was half-gualdian, but if so, his mother had put him beyond sympathy.

To meet the various demands of the Pentarchy, he was forced to draft more mages to Observer Horn, rearrange schedules, interrupt and curtail routine rituals — He worked through lunch, dourly ordering himself a plate of the parched passet he so sorely missed. It came with honey on the side, which he ignored, with contempt. His temper was already very badly frayed when the news came from Brother Wilfrid.

He stared at the simulacrum of Tod embracing Zillah. Behind them a small, lazy shoal of fishes swam, fluttering gauzy fins, opening foolish mouths, and for a moment the fish seemed to have all his attention.

He pulled himself together and gave the required orders. “Bring the serviceman here at once, and use the strongest mages for the guard. Remember the man has Pentarch birthright and could be dangerous. Keep the young woman apart. I’ll see her when I’ve dealt with the serviceman.”