Without warning, Adept Havelock raised his head as if he had suddenly decided to listen to what Master Quillon was saying.
“Five years passed before the King found means to break the cabal,” the Master went on. “And then most of its members had to be slain. They had become too acclimatized,” he muttered sourly, “to Cadwal’s arid morals and lush pleasures. They could not accept transplantation. At the time, it was believed that the arch-Imager had perished also. But now he is thought to be alive – alive and in hiding somewhere, plotting malice.
“The High King’s Monomach, of course, was executed for his failure, and another was chosen to take his place.”
With a wide movement of his arm, Havelock wiped his board as though he were sweeping all his men off onto the floor. Then he rose to his feet. Walking over to Terisa and Quillon, he touched her sleeve, leered, and nodded in the direction of the still-open door which had admitted her to this room. When she stared back at him, he rolled his eyes and beckoned determinedly. “Time and tide wait for no man,” he said as if he were in one of his lucid phases, “but everybody waits for women.”
“No, Havelock.” Quillon spoke with more firmness than Terisa had expected from him. “Doubtless you know better than I. But I am going to tell her the rest.”
For an instant, ferocity came over the Adept’s face. He clenched one eye closed so that he could scowl murderously at Master Quillon with the other. But Quillon didn’t flinch, and Havelock’s mood changed almost immediately. His expression relaxed into a fleshy smile.
“Wait for me, Vagel,” he said in a high voice, like a child at play. “I’m coming. Hee hee. I’m coming.”
Casting a wall-eyed wink at Terisa, he turned away and began rummaging through the clutter on one of his desks.
The Master shrugged. Tilting back his head, he drank what remained of the wine and set the decanter down beside him with a thump. His eyes were starting to look slightly blurred, and two red spots on his cheeks matched the end of his nose.
“That was ten years ago, my lady,” he said in a glum tone. “For five of those years, we were relatively secure. The defenses King Joyse had created kept us relatively safe. Most of Mordant lived in relative peace. The Congery thrashed out the worst of its conflicts, both of personality and of trust, and became relatively unified, especially as the older generation – the men who remembered fondly what life had been like before King Joyse came along – passed away. By creating the Congery, of course, King Joyse could not control or limit the birth of the talent for Imagery anywhere in the world. But he had control of the knowledge of Imagery. Talent could find its outlet only by coming to Orison and accepting the servitude of an Apt.
“Alend and Cadwal were relatively quiet. Most of us” – his sarcasm returned – “were relatively immune to the disorder of the King’s domestic affairs. For five years, we did not notice, because we did not want to notice, that his spark was dying out. Perhaps because he had nothing enormous or heroic left to do, he was ceasing to be the man so many of us had loved.
“But eventually we had to notice. Oh, we had to.” Master Quillon became more bitter by the moment. “We could not ignore that there was something evil running loose in Mordant.
“An Imager had begun to translate horrors and abominations out of his mirrors and unleash them to rampage across the land wherever they could find victims.”
In the cool of the room, a sensation of tightening scurried from Terisa’s scalp down the length of her spine.
“It is easy to assume that he is Vagel. That is as reasonable a guess as any. He was always expert at finding in his glasses men and monsters and forces of destruction. And he did not trouble his conscience much about the consequences of his translations. But no one knows where he finds the patronage, the resources, to make such mirrors.
“We would also assume that he found them in Alend or Cadwal – but all his Images strike deep into Mordant, and it is inconceivable that such mirrors could be made elsewhere and then brought here across those distances without some word of the matter finally reaching the ears of Orison.
“But if not in Cadwal or Alend, then where? Who in Mordant would level such a threat against the realm? And why does King Joyse do nothing about it?
“Perhaps in the early years of the peril, patience and caution were indicated. After all, the attacks did not come often. Either Cadwal or Alend appeared to be the likely source. It seemed understandable that the King was waiting for his spies or his friends to discover the secret and bring it to him, so that he would know what to do.
“But the attacks grow worse, and no explanation comes. Instead, his spies and friends bring word that Alend and Cadwal have learned what is happening from their spies and friends, and are mustering their forces to take advantage of Mordant’s danger. Armies gather beyond the Vertigon and Pestil rivers. Raids probe the Cares, testing their defenses. Angry because they are compelled to defend their own without assistance from King Joyse, some of the Cares begin to mutter against him. And still the abominations being translated against us worsen, both in magnitude and in frequency. The arch-Imager, if it is he, forms mirrors at an unheard-of rate as well as in perfect secrecy. And still the King does nothing.
“Well, not nothing, exactly,” the Master muttered as if he had acid in his mouth. “He plays more and more hop-board.
“The Congery, of course, has not been blind to the problem. Even if we did not hear the same reports that reach every ear in Orison, we would have our auguries – and we have learned a great deal about auguring since our efforts were united.
“We can see Mordant dying, my lady, slaughtered by forces which we understand, but which our King, in founding the Congery, has forbidden us to act against. He will not allow us to be a weapon. Though he will do nothing to save Mordant, he is quick enough to march into our laborium and shatter any glass that offers a means of defense. He only permitted us to search for a champion because we agreed, after much squabbling debate, that whatever champion we chose would not be translated involuntarily, but would rather be approached with persuasion and given the opportunity to refuse.
“In short, our King has brought us to the verge of ruin. Unless more men become disloyal – and do it soon – Mordant will return to the days when it was nothing more than a battleground for Alend and Cadwal. And if Vagel is strong enough by then, he will join with one and devour the other, and so will make himself ruler over all the world.”
Brusquely, Master Quillon picked up Terisa’s goblet and tossed down the wine she hadn’t tasted. Into the goblet, he muttered hollowly, “I, for one, do not relish the prospect.”
She was listening to him so closely that she didn’t notice Adept Havelock until he touched her sleeve.
He was grinning like a satyr.
“I remember,” he whispered. His breath smelled like swamp gas. “I remember everything.”
“He remembers everything,” growled the Master sardonically. “Mirrors preserve us.”
“Yes,” Havelock hissed. “I remember.” His grin was more than lascivious – it was positively bloodthirsty.
Quillon sighed disconsolately. “You remember, Adept Havelock,” he murmured as though he were playing his part in an especially dull liturgy.
“Everything.”
Abruptly, the Adept gave a capering jump that made his surcoat flap above his scrawny knees. He followed it with a pirouette, then confronted Terisa again, grinning like murder.
“I remember Vagel.
“He had a glass that poured fire. I had one full of water. He had a glass with a raving beast. But the beast could not breathe water. He had a weapon that fired beams of light which tore down walls and turned flesh to cinders. But the beams only changed water to steam. I remember.