"Who are they?"
"There's Sordamor, the Chief Executive Officer; he's the showy one. There's Gant. the drug-ridden one, who looks like a disheveled crow. And there's that smiling little villain Avain, our treasurer. But ye are not supposed to be here!" Bardi looked around. "Hide behind the curtain in yon alcove, and yarely!"
The alcove was dark save for the pale sheet of light that came through the crack in the curtain. Thorolf had to force himself in, since he had a buried fear of dark enclosures. When the soldier's eyes adjusted to the gloom, he looked around and almost jumped out of his skin. On a shelf at the back of the alcove, silhouetted against the oiled-paper window, crouched an enormous spider, with a body the size of Thorolf's two fists and hairy legs an ell in length.
Thorolf had snatched out his dagger when the sound of persons entering the sanctum made him freeze, glaring at the spider. It reminded him of the giant arachnids, with bodies the size of casks, said to dwell in the Forest of Bricken.
When the spider on the shelf remained immobile, Thorolf essayed a cautious approach and observed no response. Eventually, by touching one of the legs with the point of his knife, he satisfied himself that what he saw was either a dead spider mounted by a taxidermist or a statue.
He put his eye to the crack between the curtains. Three of Bardi's fellow magicians were taking seats while Bardi set out goblets and a bottle. Thorolf surveyed the Executive Committee.
The tall, thin, shabby man who faced him must, he thought, be Gant the drug addict. His garb was that of a common workman: a rusty black tunic and hose beneath a shapeless black hat. The fellow might have been a grave digger—or, from his unnatural pallor, one of a grave digger's clients.
Seated in profile to Thorolf was a big, handsome, clean-shaven man in gaudy raiment. Thorolf knew him by sight as Sordamor, who collected the fattest fees of any magician in Zurshnitt. His hose bore loud checkered patterns, red and black on one leg and yellow and blue on the other. When he moved his head, the jewels in his emerald earrings winked in the lamplight.
By elimination, the remaining mage, facing Sordamor, must be Avain. He was older than the other two but younger than Bardi; short, bald, rotund, and radiating bluff honesty and sterling worth.
Bardi pulled the cork and poured. As they solemnly took their first sips, their host asked: "Well, Sordamor? "
"Marvelous!" said the loudly clad man. "Whence gat ye it?"
"From Kolos, in the Helladic Isles."
Thorolf's nose felt out of joint. During all his many visits to the iatromage's sanctum, Bardi had never offered him a treat of this rare vintage. Evidently it was saved for Bardi's fellow wizards.
The meeting was called to order. After tedious organizational preliminaries—reading minutes, listening to the report of Avain as treasurer—the four engaged in a long wrangle over admission of one Alberic, a magician recently settled in Zurshnitt after fleeing persecution in Locania.
"First thing ye know," said Bardi, "every one of these damned Locanian refugees will wish to join, even if they command spells no more puissant than one for finding a lost penny. Is competition not severe enough already?"
"But if we admit them not," said Avain, "soon or late they'll assemble to form their own rival guild."
" 'Twere not legal," protested Gant.
"Not now, true." said Avain. "But in concert they can suborn—or convert, if ye prefer—sufficient senators to force a change in the law, to recognize them as a legitimate guild."
"If we admit a horde of Locanians," mused Sordamor, "we shall be hard put to it to keep out Orlandus and his minions. I shudder at that prospect. If we flatly refuse him, he'll act like the bad fairy who wasn't bid to the naming of the royal infant."
"Ye, my friend," said Avain. "have a phobia anent Master Orlandus. Methinks he'd be an ornament to our assembly."
"An ornament who'd soon control us all, as a puppeteer governs his marionettes on strings," croaked Gant. "He's a man of infinite ambition, not a magician of the first rank, and of no character whatsoever. His second, that ruffian Parthenius, is no magician at all but a mere bully-rook without a single familiar at his beck."
Bardi wheezed: "In my judgment, Orlandus began as a mere mundane mountebank, who added a few sleights of true magic to's repertory. Then he found he could make a fortune by peddling a fantastical tale. According to this, supposed to be known only by holders of his bogus advanced degrees, a million million years ago the body his soul then indwelt witnessed the destruction of reptilian man by the evil wizard Zong. A few million years later, Orlandus, in another incarnation, by a mighty spell caused the homeless spirits of these massacred folk to be incarnated in apes, of whom we are the descendants. For aught I know, he may have told that silly tale so oft that he's come to believe it himself."
Sordamor added: "From what I hear, Orlandus is somewhat of an idealist in his own ominous way. Since he thinks he knows what is best for all human beings, it's but right that he should become their universal, absolute ruler, to lead them whither they should go."
"Anyone can rob or murder and claim he did it for idealistic reasons," snorted Bardi.
"I'm sure Parthenius, at least, be no idealist," growled Gant. "but a common, sensual mundane, out for what he can get by force or fraud ..."
The argument went round and round inconclusively. Then ensued a discussion of Sordamor's project, to offer an annual prize, a golden medal, for the wizard who made the year's outstanding magical advance. A wrangle over a proposal to establish a class of associate membership followed, and then a discussion of whether to raise dues.
This in turn was succeeded by a proposal to hold a magical convention in Zurshnitt, inviting wizards from near and far. All favored the idea enthusiastically until it came to apportioning the actual work of organizing, soliciting, contracting, publishing, and record-keeping. Then each magus proved too busy, or too infirm, or too often out of town to do the task justice. Bardi finally said:
"Let us push off these tasks on our younger members, who'll embrace them as a chance to innate their self-importance."
After three hours the meeting broke up. Nothing much had been decided save to place Alberic's application for membership before the next general meeting. When Bardi, having dismissed his guests, flung back the curtains before the alcove, he found Thorolf sitting on the floor with his back to the wall and sound asleep.
Six days later, Thorolf again approached the gate on Castle Hill. This time a gate guard said: "Master Thorolf Zigramson? Ye are expected. Pray wait here."
After a wait, the scarlet-robed, gold-capped person of Orlandus appeared. Smiling broadly, the Psycho-mage came up to Thorolf and warmly grasped his hand, cooing: "Thrice welcome, dear friend! You will be happy to hear that the lady be wholly restored. Hast the promised sum?"
Thorolf produced a heavy bag of coin and handed it over. Orlandus hefted the bag and tossed it to a guard. "Give this to Master Cadolant to count." He turned back to the gate and called: "Lady Yvette!"
The Countess appeared from the far end of the gate passage; Thorolf thought that she must have been standing just out of sight inside the gate, awaiting Orlandus' call. Thorolf's eyes widened. Instead of the peasant blouse and skirt given her by the smith, she now wore a dove-gray cloak over a golden gown of ladylike quality. A little round azure bonnet topped her golden hair, and her feet were clad in silken slippers suitable for a ballroom. Thorolf cast a questioning glance at Orlandus, who purred:
"Certes, good my Sergeant, you cannot expect me to turn my choicest diaphane out into the rough, rude world appearing like unto a beggar lass, now could you? It is a matter of honor. The cost shall come out of the emolument from Doctor Bardi and your esteemed self."