A Sudden Wild Magic

The room filled with call-chimes, and the master mirror lit with the sigil of the double rose, the call sigil of Leathe. Leathe had yet more to say. It caught the High Head off balance. He was still trying to turn his mind from Zillah, and sign the call to the outer office on Hold, when the double rose vanished and the face of Lady Marceny’s nasty son filled the glass instead. “Good morning, High Head of Arth.”

The High Head whirled on the mirror. “Oh, what is it now?”

The young man was not in the least perturbed. He smiled malicously. “Caught you at a bad moment, have I? Well, this won’t take long. It’s only an ultimatum.”

“Ultimatum?” repeated the High Head. “What are you talking about?”

Behind his back, Zillah leaned forward, staring, frozen into a stiff bend, with the word “Mark!” on her lips, frozen too. She knew it was not Mark. It had to be another analogue like Tod’s image of Amanda. But God! He was like him, whoever he was! This man seemed younger than Mark, in spite of bagging under his eyes and seams on his cheeks, and where Mark was cleanshaven, this one sported a little curl of mustache and a small, pointed beard. Rather like a goat, Zillah thought dispassionately. unlike Mark again, this one’s face was full of malicious glee, with a suggestion of much greater viciousness hidden behind the satyr’s smile. But the voice was identical — and somehow the very differences in him served only to show how like Mark he was. Zillah’s frozen heart banged until her chest ached with it. And the misery of her loss poured through her again like a flood through a lock-gate. It had only been in abeyance after all.

“Ultimatum is the word,” the face in the mirror agreed. His hand, long and elegant and white, and very like Mark’s, appeared and gave the little beard a mischievous tug. “There’s been a great deal going on here in the three days since I last spoke to you, Magus. The upshot is that we in the Pentarchy are going to give you six weeks — six of our weeks, Magus — to get some results. If you don’t have something to stop this flooding by then, Arth is going to be discredited and disbanded.”

“Nonsense,” said the High Head, pulling his mind around to the point. “Leathe has no right in law to threaten Arth. Go and tell your mother that she’s making a fool of herself.”

“Ah, but it isn’t just Leathe.” The young man chuckled — no, giggled, Zillah thought, like a particularly vicious schoolboy. “This is the whole Pentarchy, High Head. The Ladies have consulted with all the other Fiveirs. Frinjen and Corriarden joined us at once — they’re both getting swamped, Magus, while you sit in your fortress doing nothing — and Trenjen came in when the Orthe did. The king agrees with us, Magus. If you don’t make a move, he’ll use his powers.”

“Oh indeed?” said the High Head. This had to be a bluff. “Then why haven’t I heard from the king direct?”

“I’m sure you will,” answered Lady Marceny’s son. “But you know how slowly Royal Office moves. Red tape. Protocol. Leathe decided to give you advance warning so that you can get a move on now.”

“My humble thanks,” the High Head retorted. “Now, do you mind leaving me in peace? I happen to be very busy.”

“But certainly,” said the young man and vanished from the glass.

His insolence, the High Head thought, was beyond even Tod’s. Goddess! How he hated the ruling class! He turned back to Zillah, fueled with additional anger and prepared to break her. To his further annoyance, she was staring at the master mirror with eyes that had become wide and large. Around them the rest of her face seemed pinched in and bluish white, as if she were suddenly near death from exposure.

“Who was that?” she said. “On the screen.”

“Only the chief Lady of Leathe’s despicable son,” he said. “I’m told it’s not really his fault he’s like he is. His mother has steadily perverted him from the cradle up.”

“What’s his name?” Zillah asked, in a strange, breathless, unhappy way.

“Herrel — Herrel Listanian, I suppose — he’d take his mother’s name since the gods alone know who his father was, though it’s rumored the poor wretch was a gualdian—” The High Head stopped himself, exasperated. What was it about Zillah’s peculiar powers that always caused him to be sidetracked into patiently answering her questions? No more. “Let us now return to yourself and the way you broke the law,” he said coldly. “Arth’s laws were not made lightly, you know. By your amorous seduction of young Gordano, you have seriously imperilled the stability of the citadel. I explained this when we first took your people in — and yet you still behave like a whore! What are you — a rutting bitch?”