"You must act as if you are still under control. Be standing paralyzed in the same position in which he left you when Larick returns. Follow all of his orders as if you had no choice. The moment you deviate, you lose your chance to learn anything further. You will probably also have a fight on your hands."
Pol nodded. He looked down at himself as he did, seeing the monstrous appearance once again but not feeling it.
"I'll mask this illusion for everyone else now, as Larick had it," the sorcerer said, "but leave the appearance for you, as he also had it, as a reminder to act in keeping with it--with clumsiness and obedience."
Pol watched the man's hands as they commenced an intricate series of gestures.
"Do you see strands when you work?" he asked him suddenly.
"Sometimes," the sorcerer replied. "But right now I see beams of colored light, which I intercept. Hush. I'm concentrating."
Pol fixed his eyes on the man's changing face, trying to guess at his true features. But there was no pattern to the changes.
When the movements ceased and the man straightened, Pol said, "You told me on that night you came to me in our camp that our interests might not be entirely conjoined."
"Oh, there is a possibility that we might wind up at odds," the other replied. "I hope not, but there you are. It could happen. If so, it won't be because I didn't try, though. And at least for the moment we want the same thing: to get you out of here intact, to deceive your enemies, to position you strategically."
"Have you any idea what will happen when I leave here?"
"Oh, yes. You will be spirited away almost immediately--to Castle Avinconet."
"Larick did say that much. But who else is involved. And what will I meet at that end?"
"It is for better for you to learn these things yourself, to keep your responses normal."
"Damn it! There's more to it than that! You're hiding something!"
"In what way does that make me different from other men? Play your part, boy. Play your part."
"Don't patronize me. I need more information to carry this thing off."
"Bullshit," the sorcerer replied and turned away. "And strike your pose again. I believe I hear someone coming."
"But--"
"The rest is silence," the changing man said, as he vanished around the corner.
VII
Mouseglove hunkered in a rocky recess to the left of the cavemouth, his hood raised and cloak drawn about him against the morning's chill. To his right, the fresh-risen sun constructed morning above the foothills, skimming a layer of glory from the magical city he had quitted hours before. Eight of the initiates had so for passed him, each in the company of Larick, to salute the dawn, then make their ways back toward the town, alone, or in the company of a servant or former master. When he heard footsteps once again, Mouseglove stirred slightly, turning his head toward the opening. When he saw Pol approaching with the leader, he rose, joints creaking, but did not immediately depart his station.
Unlike those who had preceded him, Pol had already removed his white robe. His gait was slower and more awkward than usual. Larick, too, was dressed only in his day garments and head cloth. His face bore a far less solemn aspect than it had when he was bringing the others forth from Belken. He was snapping orders at Pol as they emerged. The two immediately turned to their left and began walking quickly in that direction.
Puzzled, Mouseglove stepped out from his niche and hurried after them.
"Good morning," he said. "How did you fere during the night?"
Larick almost stumbled in halting, and he placed his hand upon Pol's arm. By the time he turned, his face was composed. Pol, moving more slowly, was without expression.
"Good morning," Larick replied. "Your friend is well enough physically, but some who go through initiation experience mental disorganization in varying degrees. This has occurred with him."
"How serious is this thing?"
"That depends upon a great many factors--but it is generally treatable. I was hurrying him off right now with that end in mind."
"That is why you skipped the dawn salutation?"
Larick's eyes narrowed for the briefest moment, as if assessing the other's knowledge of the matters involved.
"We were not going to dispense with it entirely," he said. "But perhaps you are right, since this is the traditional spot."
He turned toward the place where the others had stood to perform the final ritual function.
"Pol! Do you at least understand me?" Mouseglove said.
Larick turned back.
"I am certain that he does," he told him. "But, technically, he should not address anyone until he has finished with this part of things. You can see in a few minutes what his response will be."
He led Pol over to the place, speaking softly and rapidly to him. Mouseglove shifted about, glancing in every direction. A little later, he saw Pol raise his arms and lift his face toward the light in the east. As Pol began to mutter, Larick moved a short distance away from him. Mouseglove watched carefully, hands beneath his cloak.
When Pol had completed a hurried version of the sun-rite, he turned toward the smaller man.
"It may not be all that serious," he said then. "But I must go away with Larick for a time. I can afford to take no chances in something like this."
"How long?"
"I do not know. For as long as is necessary."
"It could take a week or two," Larick put in. "Possibly even longer."
"Where is it that you are taking him? I'm going with you."
"I couldn't tell you that until I have conferred with some experts. Perhaps he can be treated here. Then again, he may have to go away."
"Where?"
"That remains to be determined."
"Pol," Mouseglove said, "are you certain that this is what you want to do?"
"Yes," Pol replied.
"Very well. We will go and find out. If it is to be here, I will wait. If it is to be elsewhere, I will accompany you."
"That will not be necessary," Pol said, and he turned away. "I don't need you."
"Nevertheless ..."
"You are an encumbrance!" Larick said, and he raised his hand.
Mouseglove moved, but not fast enough. All strength and sensation fled his limbs. He fell, his hand still gripping the butt of the pistol he had been unable to draw.
For some time before he opened his eyes, Mouseglove was marginally aware of a slow, intermittent, shuffling sound. When finally he did open them, his field of vision was occupied by a small, gray, mossy rock and a scattering of gravel. He noted that the day had grown perceptibly brighter.
He moved his left hand slowly, placing its palm flat upon the ground near to his shoulder. It remained there for long seconds before he became aware of the coldness of the stone. The shuffling sound came again and he raised his head a few inches, suddenly aware of a stiffness in his neck. He pushed hard with the hand, heaving himself upward, rolling into a seated position, fighting a tendency to slump forward. As his gaze moved across the area, passing the place where Pol and Larick had stood, his memory of the morning's events poured into his mind. He turned his head to the east. The station of the sun told him that an hour or more had passed since that encounter. He rehearsed the entire exchange, seeking clues as to what had occurred within the mountain and what might now be afoot. He resolved that the next time he argued with a sorcerer he would have the weapon drawn and pointed at its target.
A series of small sounds reached him from within the cave, turning itself into several rapid footfalls and then halting. He drew one knee beneath him and pushed himself up into a crouch. He rose slowly as the footfalls came again, nearing the mouth of the cave. He drew the weapon and pointed it at the opening, the hammer making a clicking sound as he set it.