“Or Harvard, or Heidelberg, eh? Yes, of course! My wife will make you acquainted with them, young man, and you may choose! And in the long vacations, we shall have to see to gaining visiting positions for you in commerce and government! Eh?”
“Your lordship is … too kind.” Truthfully, Magnus was dazzled by their readiness to help—but he was also wary of it, perhaps because he wasn’t all that certain that he wished to spend several years at a university. Fess had assured him that he had gained the equivalent in knowledge from the robot’s tutelage. Still, it might be a good way to get the feel of this strange culture.
“Not at all, not at all!” The Count brushed aside the thanks, but seemed pleased anyway. It was hard to tell, of course—he spoke as though from an inexhaustible supply of energy, but his eyelids had begun to droop, he raised his hand as though it bore leaden weights, and his shoulders slumped. Magnus searched for some way to end the interview and let the old man rest, but could think of none.
The Countess saved him. “We may begin that search now, husband. Or, perhaps, the young man should dress for dinner.”
“Dinner?” The Count frowned. “Yes, Yes! I, too, I must…” He struggled to sit up, but the effort was too much for him. His wife stepped up to lay a gentle hand on his shoulder, and he sagged back against the pillows. “Perhaps in a little while. Yes? Only a little rest, now—then I’ll dress…”
“Quite right, husband. We will leave you, for the moment.” She went toward the door, bending a severe glance on Magnus.
He bowed. “I thank you for this conversation, my lord, and for your hospitality.”
“Not at all, not at all! Always good to have family come home, eh? But not so long, Rodney, not so long again, hm?” The Count seemed to diminish, to sink into the pillows, his eyes half-closing. “At supper, then.”
“Of course, my lord.” Magnus stepped away and moved quietly to the door. Aunt Matilda gave him a smile with a little genuine warmth in it, and beckoned him out the door. It closed behind him, as the nurse robot wheeled silently over to the Count.
Magnus’s mind raced. He couldn’t very well comment on the Count’s frailty, or his surprise at it. Matilda seemed to sense his quandary, and said, “He will not join us at dinner. He really must not leave his bed, except for short exercise walks with the nurses.”
“Of course he must conserve his energies,” Magnus agreed. “He is … a commanding presence.” He had almost said “still,” but had choked it back.
“In rare moments,” the Countess said. “We try not to trouble him with major decisions just now.” Magnus took the hint. The Count was still head of the family—but in name only. He tried for a quick change of subject. “It has been an honor to meet the Count—but I must also pay my respects to my father’s brother. May I see him?”
The Countess hesitated, her visage darkening, biting her lip. Magnus braced himself against apprehension. “He doth … does still live, does he not?”
“He does, yes,” the Countess said reluctantly. “And I may see him, may I not?”
“If it is one of his good days, yes.”
Some hours later, Magnus returned, numbed, to the opulent guest room the robot-domo had assigned to him. He collapsed into an overstuffed chair, loosing his hold on his mind and letting it turn to the oatmeal it felt to be. After a long interval of silence, a voice spoke in his mind. Magnus?
Aye, Fess, he answered. Are you well?
Magnus stirred. Well enough. It hath been summat of a shock, though, to find that my uncle Richard is insane.
I am sorry, Magnus, the robot-horse said, with something resembling a sigh—just “robot,” Magnus reminded himself; Fess was the computer-brain for a spaceship now. But he still held the mental image of the horse body that Fess had worn for as long as Magnus had known him.
Sorry? For what?
I thought I had prepared you adequately for the insanity that has plagued the Gallowglass family for generations—all of Maxima, for that matter.
Magnus made a short, chopping gesture, though Fess couldn’t see him. You did all that you could, Fess. Nothing can truly prepare a body for the sight of a relative who has taken leave of his senses.
Was he truly as bad as that?
Oh, not bad at all, in some ways he doth seem to be happy, quite happy indeed. ‘Tis simply that he doth know he is King Henry the Sixth reborn, and is quite content to wait in his monk’s cell for the reincarnated Queen Margaret to release him.
Fess was silent for a moment, then said, I grieve to hear it.
Magnus laid his head back against the chair with a sigh. At the least, he is not troubled or sunk in gloom.
Yes, praise Heaven for that.
Oh, he doth! He doth thank Heaven for life, for food, for housing, for the flow of blood and the smallest worm that burrows ‘neath the soil of Terra! He doth spend hours in prayer, and is sure of his sainthood to come!
It must be quite reassuring, Fess said slowly, to have such confidence in the Afterlife.
Magnus shuddered. If that is religion, I’ll none of it. Small wonder his son fled to Terra.
Fled? Fess said, puzzled.
Magnus shrugged. Gone to university, then, and become a scholar. Will you, nill you, he is set upon his professorship, and hath sent word that he will not return to Maxima.
And has only the one daughter?
Aye, my cousin Pelisse, who doth play the coquette with me. Magnus smiled in pleased reminiscence. I cannot be so pleasant to regard as all that, can I, Fess?
You are quite imposing, Fess said slowly, and your face has a certain rough-hewn comeliness.
More to the point, I am someone new in her life, Magnus thought, amused. Anyone from offplanet must be of greater interest than someone near, eh?
No doubt an inborn reflex that evolved to minimize inbreeding, Fess mused. Nonetheless, in the case of this stranger, the inbreeding would still exist.
Not wholly—I am only half of Maxima, Magnus thought absently, most of his mind given over to the contemplation of the lovely vision with blonde tresses and long lashes. He felt a quickening of interest—but also felt how superficial it was, how little real emotion it held. Had the witches of Gramarye made him forever heartless?
Then he remembered the image of the golden box around his heart, given him by a Victorian ragpicker who must surely have been only a hallucination, a projection of his subconscious, an illusion that only a projective telepath such as Magnus himself could engender. He had accepted the gift, had locked his heart in a box of golden, and wondered if he could ever find the key.
Flirting is a harmless game, Magnus, Fess assured him, as long as you remember it is only a game—and are sure the lady does, too.
Aye, only a game, and great fun. Magnus pushed himself out of the chair, coming to his feet with a renewal of energy. Let us resume the play, then. And he turned away to the closet and the modern formal wear it held, to dress for dinner.
CHAPTER 2