And the walls were lined with doors like the one through which Havelock had just entered the room. They were all bound with iron and heavily bolted. Orison, she realized, must be honeycombed with secrets.
Ignoring her completely now, the Adept moved to the checker table, seated himself with his back to her, and hunched over the board as if he were absorbed in a game.
Terisa cleared her throat to speak, then caught herself. She and Adept Havelock weren’t alone. A man whom she had somehow failed to notice at first turned on his stool, leaning his elbow on the desk beside him and propping his cheek against his fist. “Ah, there you are.” He wore a plain gray robe that looked warm enough to combat the chill in the room (a chill that the Adept didn’t appear to feel, in spite of his inadequate garments), and that increased his ability to blend into the background. But over his shoulders was draped the yellow chasuble of a Master.
Looking at him sharply, she realized that she had seen him before. He had a rabbity face with bright eyes, a nose that twitched, and protruding teeth. She wasn’t likely to be mistaken about him. He was the one who had agreed with Geraden that her appearance before the Congery proved something.
“Geraden finally condescended to reveal who you are,” he commented, his sarcasm distinct but not severe. “The lady Terisa of Morgan.” He didn’t seem particularly impressed. On the other hand, his tone was polite: he clearly intended no offense. “I am Master Quillon.
“Adept Havelock—“Master Quillon paused to glance around him. “Incidentally,” he interpolated, “these are his rooms, not mine. I believe I would find some way to have them cleaned. Even if I had to do it myself.” Then he returned to what he meant to say. “Be that as it may, however, he has asked me to tell you a bit about Mordant’s history – the background, so to speak, of our present problems.”
When he said that, Terisa’s head filled up with air and started to float. Sudden hope and relief danced together in her chest. At last, somebody was going to tell her what was going on.
A moment later, however, her expectations fell out of the top of her head into the pit of her stomach with a leaden thud. Havelock had asked Master Quillon to talk to her? Abruptly, she demanded, “How?”
The Master looked at her inquiringly. “How?”
“How did he ask you that? How do you know what he wants?”
Master Quillon twitched his nose and shrugged, his cheek still resting on his fist. “He has his lucid moments. And you must remember that he has been like this for years. We have had time to become accustomed to him. Occasionally he is capable of making himself understood.”
Well, she thought, that seemed true enough, as far as it went – if dragging people down stairs by main force counted as “making himself understood.” But as an explanation it didn’t suffice. “Then why?” she asked. “Assuming that you’re right – that you haven’t missed what he really wants – why do it? Both Master Barsonage” – she stumbled fractionally over the name – “and the King told Geraden – no, they ordered him not to answer any of my questions.” What she was saying felt increasingly audacious to her, increasingly dangerous. When had she started talking to people like this? But her momentum kept her going. “Why disobey both of them? Whose side are you on?”
In response, he blinked at her as though the logic of his position were self-evident. Nevertheless he was slow in replying. “It is not as simple as you make it appear. In spite of his” – the Master glanced at Havelock – “um, his affliction, Adept Havelock is still the nominal head of the Congery. And there are those among the Imagers who consider his past services to us—and indeed to all Mordant—so great that he continues to deserve gratitude and respect, even compliance. Would you flaunt your father’s wishes if he began acting somewhat strangely in his old age?”
Fortunately for Terisa, that was intended as a rhetorical question. Without waiting for an answer, Master Quillon went on, “In addition, there are times when you must define your loyalties. Master Barsonage is an honorable man who tries to be impartial, but in his heart he stubbornly fears the consequences of any decision or action. As for King Joyse – “He sighed. “Years have passed since he showed any significant grasp on what happens around him, and his judgment is suspect.”
This didn’t satisfy her, but she had pushed her temerity as far as it would go. The old habit of reticence and deference, her emotional protective coloration, reasserted itself and held her back. Master Quillon clearly meant to talk to her, and yet she was irrationally afraid that by speaking she had forfeited what he wanted to tell her, what she needed to know.
Nevertheless her doubts refused to go away. Cautiously, she took a different approach. Indicating the Adept, she asked, “Why do they call him ‘the King’s Dastard’?”
Quillon sighed again and straightened himself on his stool. “My lady” – he gestured vaguely around him, as if he were suddenly tired of the whole thing – “will you sit down?”
Obediently, she located a free stool and moved it to the desk nearest him. She wasn’t accustomed to the robe she was wearing – it made her feel awkward climbing onto the high perch of the stool. But when she was seated with her back supported by the edge of the desk, she was steady enough.
Master Quillon began.
“I will assume that you know nothing about us or our troubles.” He still looked like a rabbit, and his nose seemed to twitch whenever he collected his thoughts; but the way he spoke contained a note of dignity. “If that is untrue, please do not be insulted. There is no other way that I can respect whatever secrets you may have.
“It is difficult to know how or where to begin. We have, in a sense, two histories – that of the kingdoms and that of Imagery – which did not become one until relatively recently – in fact, until King Joyse and Adept Havelock forced them together. You can hardly believe it, I am sure, looking at them now, but in their prime they bestrode Mordant and the rest of our world like heroes, shaking it into a new shape simply because they believed that the job needed to be done.
“Both histories, however, are histories of fragmentation.
“In fact, there was no Mordant – and no Congery, for that matter – until King Joyse created them. Oh, there was a region which went by the name ‘Mordant,’ but it was nothing more than a collection of petty princedoms caught between the ancient power of Cadwal to the east and the newer strength of Alend to the north and west. These princedoms were what we now call the Cares – the Care of Armigite, the Care of Perdon, and so on – but they were in reality less substantial than what the Alend Lieges call baronial holdings. They survived only because together they served as a kind of buffer between Alend and Cadwal, which were always at war.
“Alend and Cadwal are actually contiguous along the last eighty miles or so of the Swoll River, but that area is impassable, a swamp to the sea and along the coast—“He started looking around the room as he spoke, and after a moment his explanation trailed off.
“Havelock,” he asked distantly, as though he were talking to himself, or didn’t expect an answer, “do you have a map? There must be one in this chaos somewhere. I ought to show her where these things are in relation to each other.”
Adept Havelock didn’t glance up from his board. Concentrating fiercely, he rearranged the pieces he imagined in front of him, and began to study the new configuration.
“Well, never mind,” murmured the Master. Returning his attention to Terisa, he resumed. “Even without a map, I am sure you will understand the point. Because of the swamp, Cadwal and Alend can only approach each other through Mordant, which is, essentially, a fertile lowland between the Pestil and Vertigon rivers. Alend is too mountainous – Cadwal, too dry. Therefore they have desired Mordant for centuries, both for itself and as a large step toward defeating each other.