Sheffield’s expression was resigned, with no trace of self-righteousness that the Emperor could see. “He can always get more blasters,” the Emperor said. “He started out with just three or four, didn’t he, Bucky?”
“Yes, your Majesty,” Sheffield admitted.
“We wish we knew what he wants,” the Emperor said, drumming his fingers again. “We gave him the bodies, and he hasn’t made any other demands.” He gazed thoughtfully at Sheffield, then at the telepath, and at last he shrugged.
“The simplest way is probably the best,” he said. “Send that envoy, Curran, through the warp, and have him ask Brown what he wants.”
“Yes, your Majesty,” the telepath said, bowing.
* * * *
The matrix kinked suddenly, startling Pel so that he almost dropped Rachel.
He was lifting her over his head, bouncing her up and down, trying to make her laugh-and failing. He was trying to keep a smile and a good attitude, to have fun, but Rachel’s solemn little face wasn’t helping at all.
And now the Empire had opened another warp.
“Screw ’em,” Pel said to Rachel. “Let ’em burn villages if they want to. I don’t care any shy;more.”
He didn’t mean to pay any attention, but as he lowered Rachel to the floor he couldn’t help noticing that the warp was in the Low Forest, in Sunderland.
They probably wanted to talk, then.
Screw ’em.
* * * *
Curran explored the treehouse thoroughly, evicting a squirrel and several birds in the process; the strange little servants, creatures like furry, misshapen dwarves, stood aside and let him search. None of them could speak-or at least, none of them did speak, so they could not tell him anything.
It was quite clear, even without confirmation from the servants, that the Brown Magician was not here, and had not been here in some time. He did not appear to have been near the shipwreck, either.
That left Curran in something of a quandary. How could he negotiate with someone who wasn’t there?
The only solution seemed to be to go where Brown was, and while he didn’t know for certain, the best guess was that fortress, in the place called Shadowmarsh-two hundred miles to the west.
And the only way to get there was by walking.
Curran sighed. He really didn’t have any choice; his orders had come directly from the Emperor himself.
He started walking.
* * * *
“Where do you want to live?” Pel bellowed.
“I don’t care,” Nancy repeated.
“You have to care!” Pel shouted at her. “Think about it, for God’s sake! You can live here, where I have all the magic in the world and we can probably use it to live forever, or you can go back to Earth, where we can go back to a normal life, see your folks, all your friends, where I can talk to my mother and my sisters on the phone-where you’d have phones, and indoor plumbing, and books and TV and radio and we have a goddamn VCR, instead of magic! How can you not care?”
She shrugged. “It just doesn’t matter to me.”
Pel stared at her, frustrated beyond all control.
She had been alive again for a week, and all the initial euphoria was gone.
She didn’t argue. She didn’t complain. She didn’t laugh. She never seemed to do anything on the spur of the moment, or show any real enthusiasm for anything.
She wasn’t as obedient and agreeable as the simulacra; this was a different thing altogether. Instead, Nancy and Rachel seemed as closed and impervious as Susan.
But it had seemed natural in Susan, because she had always been quiet and reserved and calm, all the time Pel had known her.
Nancy hadn’t. Nancy had had spirit.
But she didn’t now.
And worse, neither did Rachel.
Pel couldn’t stand it.
He raised both arms over his head and blasted a hole in the ceiling.
It didn’t matter; he could repair it later. But the boom and the shower of dust and debris were oddly satisfying.
For a moment.
* * * *
Curran staggered along the causeway, hoping that he could make it to the fortress before he collapsed.
His fancy coat was long gone, stolen in the first village he had passed through; the cummerbund had been traded for a meal, the silk sash for a night’s lodging. The hat had fallen off in a storm, and never been recovered.
The soles of his shiny black boots were worn paper-thin, but still intact, though one of the nails holding the right heel had worked its way up through the sole and was now poking into his foot, so that he limped slightly.
The ruffles on his white shirt were stained, torn, and flattened; the shirt itself was more brown than white now.
His velvet pants had shredded, and been replaced with a stolen pair of soft leather breeches.
He hadn’t shaved in almost a fortnight, his hair was shaggy and uncombed, and he had developed a nasty cough that he hoped wasn’t anything serious.
Mostly, though, he was simply exhausted. A two-hundred-mile walk through a hostile country was no joke, and this country had definitely turned out to be hostile.
In fact, it had appeared to be on the verge of anarchy. His clothing had marked him as a figure of fun, not someone to be taken seriously as a threat, which had probably saved his life, as several groups he had encountered had seemed prone to strike first and ask questions later.
The Brown Magician did not appear to be a strong ruler. There were apparently several factions claiming to act in his name, and he had done nothing to settle the disputes.
As several people mentioned, Shadow had never allowed this sort of thing.
All the same, the Brown Magician was the ruler, as everyone agreed, and he was undoubtedly the one behind the raids into Imperial space, so he, and no one else, was who Curran had to speak to.
The causeway really seemed unreasonably long; why had Shadow, or whoever it was, built that fortress so far out in the marsh?
Curran staggered again, and decided he really needed to just sit down for a moment and rest, he wouldn’t go to sleep or anything, he would just sit down, maybe close his eyes for a second…
* * * *
At first, Pel didn’t recognize the bedraggled figure the fetches held upright before him.
Then the ruffled shirt caught his attention, and something clicked.
“Ambrose Curran?” he asked. “The Imperial envoy?”
Curran, still not entirely conscious, nodded weakly.
“Good heavens,” Pel said. “What happened to you?”
Curran managed to mutter, “It’s a long walk.”
“So it is,” Pel agreed, amused. “You came through the warp in the Low Forest? That was almost two weeks ago!”
Curran nodded again.
“Here, take him somewhere and feed him and get him rested up,” Pel ordered the fetches. “Mr. Curran, you take your time, and come back when you feel up to talking. And don’t worry, I haven’t been launching any more raids lately.”
He watched as the fetches dragged the semi-conscious envoy away, and shook his head in amazement.
Were all those other warps delivering envoys and ambassadors? The Empire had been opening space-warps every day or two, in various places, and then shutting them down again after one or two people had come through; Pel had assumed that they were all spies.
But maybe not.
He hadn’t worried about it in any case; he hadn’t cared. If the Empire wanted to subvert and conquer Faerie, it wasn’t any skin off his nose-he still controlled all the magic, so they couldn’t touch him or his, and he could leave and go home to Earth any shy;time he wanted.
At least, he could if he could get Rachel and Nancy to agree.