When you have led through the Court Ceremonies a maritime magnate almost like a bear save that he had braided nostril-hair and broke wind with every ponderous step, then a well-mannered wizard was perhaps an acceptable relief. The Mage Vergil was more than civil to the Master of the Ceremonies. The Master of the Ceremonies was never more than civil to anyone.
Except to his wife.
When he was with her.
Vergil sat alone by lantern-light, closeted with books. He was alone. Save for Ma, of course. Who was (politely, admittedly, oh, invariably politely) hectoring him again. He must learn fang-shwee, path of dragons, paint a circle on the wall, place a mirror before the door so that any goblins entering would see their reflections and flee, direct a stream just so through the courtyard. All in the name of harmony and balance. It was easy enough to ignore, though every now and then a sentence would pop up out of the murmurous flow and astound:
“Must drink own urine every morning. Then never get sick.”
A less charming way to start the day Vergil could not imagine. Scowling, he concentrated on his grimoires, grammaryes, and tomes of discouraged lore (it would be centuries before anybody would be so foolishly selfless as to actively forbid such useful learnings). And here, now, before him, what was this? A rarely employed technique labeled Magica Alba. White Magic. A magic of blizzards and milk, presumably, of lilies and ivory and goose down. Yes. With rising excitement, he began to read.
Yet even as his mind sought to fix itself upon the words, they wavered on the page, growing fluid in outline. Moistly the ink pulled itself up and off the parchment and formed into globs like quicksilver that rolled off the book and plashed from the slanted top of the reading table.
Leaving him with ink-blackened floor and a manuscript book of virgin parchment.
With a groan, Vergil raised his hands to the heavens (indeed, the roof was in the way; yet his intent was clear) and cried, “Where… how can I learn the secret of the Black Man’s power?”
“That easy,” said Ma. “I tell you.”
Was Count Mar surprised when the Emperor Festus made Vergil Magus his King Without Country? No one ever knew if Count Mar ever was surprised. If he thought (others thought) (some others thought) that a background as the adopted son of a former servant to a company of wandering astrologers turned farmer was scarcely an aristocratic one, the Count Mar said not so. Said the Count Mar, at the point The King Without Country kneels upon his left knee: so. The King Without Country now arises. So. Let here at this point The King Without Country kneel upon his right knee, bow his head once… twice… thrice… so.
Such, the conversations between Vergil King Without Country and Count Mar. The Master of the Ceremonies and the Roy Saunce Royaume. In fact, the neither of them gave a much thought about the other one of them. And then one day—
But wait. Earlier.
For full six months now, more and more seldom were the gaunt old he and the buxom young she seen together. When last had they dined at the high table in the Chastel at which nom else dining had been there for decades? Long. It beseemed the aged Count. Seldom were he and wife seen together? Seldom were together. More and more as the auld conde sat in the cold library in his chilly chastel unrolling the rent rolls of a hundred years before, looked down upon by gesturing posturing sword-brandishing members of the Line of the House in their dusty likenesses and limnings, or making notations for the tenth time about the Journal of his Grandser’s campaign against the Kingdom of Carsus—or some such prideful and utterly vain antiquarian-izing—more and more often did he realize it was and was only on the said third day, The Third Day, when his chamberman brought him a message and an elaborately carved and adorned case containing straw-padded covered dishes: “My Lord the Count, my ser and sire. My Lady the Countess much regrets that her work at Court with the Empress’s Silk Woman [Attiring Woman] [Embroidery Woman] must needs alas prevent my Lady the Countess,” babble… babble… babble… “and send herewith a disk of one brace of partridges farced with liver of lark and almondbread,” babble…
…babble…
…babble…
…babble…
Suddenly.
(What? when the Empress, never coming to Court, had no use of silk, embroidery, or attire soever! of a surety the things were for the use of the Countess, sole; what then?)
Suddenly there entered vision of a scene small thought of at the time. Vergil King passing through the Hall at Court wearing his trews of white samite and a broidered tabard, looped round with ropes of wire of gold the scabbard of a sword that only a King might wear at Court, passing in a quiet and full-seemly pace; should pass at angle before him and at once kneel and quickly kiss his hand, who? Oria, the Countess Mar. So. Of course she needs kneel and kiss the royal hand, the hand of any roy, cum royaume or saunce royaume. It was seemly that the king would at once half-bow and raise her. A word of grace between them. She passed on her way. He passed on his. A thing of nought.
And now this day, The Third Day of the Third Week of the Month, what? She was not to be here. Thus, what. Kissed the hand of the King Without Country. Was not to be here to be one sole day with her vir, her own husband. Was at Court, was perhaps even now a-kissing the hand of—Lightning-bolt: Why should not Count Mar, of his ancient House and Line, why should he not be, have been, King Without Country’? There came to his mind: reply? nom. Count Mar’s pride was high and deep. It was also very narrow. High and narrow. Narrow and deep. And thus he sat alone at his table, suddenly full of bitterness. And brooding sullen, ancient pride.
Sat he there long? None marked the time. In tumbling seeds of sand, selected by some long-dead sandifer for the hour-glass, perhaps not long at all. He sat. His chamberman stood. Usually Count Mar would flick his fingers at the courtly kickshaws, the chamberman would then serve a tepid polenta with cheap cheese, take away the dainty victuals and eat them with his family (his family would rather have had the common, coarse feeds to which they were accustomed, but the chamberman considered it a stiver saved and carefully dropped a stiver in his savings-pot; someday he thus hoped to buy a milch-goat for his thrall-mother, growing too old for chewing even turnips, even grain). (Even common-folk have feelings, some philosophies know it not, eheu.) Usually, then, indeed, always, disturbed in his reflections on family pride, senile hunger satisfied and sated with traditional porridge or such loblolly, the Count’s habits inclined him rise and go to Court.
To duty.
To duty.
For—family dead… or… all save one… and he half-dead—what remained?
Duty remained. Duty. Duty. Therein the real glory of the Line of the house of Mar of the gens of Marius Marcus, not sword and spear and brave death in battle, not for them alone, but in this: Duty. Duty. And if duty took the form of one who had usurped a place that should by rights have been and be his own? That scrawn stirk of the outlands? son of really who knows whom? Called “Marius” too, was he? All the more, then! Some day the stirk would stumble. The knacker would have already made sharp the knife.
So Vergil listened while Ma explained a totally new (to him) system of divination.