Ryle studied Pol.
"I saw you at Belken," he said at length.
"And I saw you," Pol said, returning the older man's stare. "On the street, talking with Larick, in front of the cafe where I sat."
"You have a good memory."
Pol shook his head.
"I can't recall giving you cause for abduction and abuse."
"I suppose it must look that way to you."
"I suppose it would look that way to anybody"
"I don't want to start off with you on the wrong foot--"
"I didn't want to start off with you on any foot. What do you want?"
Ryle sighed.
"All right. If that is the way it must be. You are my prisoner. You are in jeopardy. I am in a position to grant you any discomfort, up to and including death."
The fat sorcerer rose, moving around the table to stand before Pol. He made a simple gesture and followed it with another, his movements similar to those Larick had used. Pol felt nothing, though he realized what was occurring and he wondered whether the disguise within the disguise would hold.
It did.
"Perhaps you have grown fond of your present condition?"
"Not really."
"Your face is masked by your own spell. I will leave it in place, since I already know what you look like. I suppose we could start with that."
"You've a captive audience. Go ahead."
"Last year I heard a rumor that Rondoval was inhabited again. A little later, I heard of the battle at Anvil Mountain. By magical means, I summoned up your likeness. Your hair, your birthmark, your resemblance to Det--it was obvious that you were a member of that House, and one of whom I had never heard."
"And of course you had to do something about it, since nobody likes Rondoval."
Ryle turned away, padded across the room, turned back.
"You tempt me to agree and let it go at that," he said. "But I have reasons for the things that I do. Would you care to hear them?"
"Of course."
"There was a time when Det was a very good friend of mine. He was your father, wasn't he?"
"Yes."
"Where did he have you hidden, anyway?"
Pol shook his head.
"He didn't. As I understand the story, I was present at the fell of Rondoval. Rather than slay a baby, old Mor took me to another world, where I grew up."
"Yes, I can see that. Interesting. For whom did he exchange you?"
"Mark Marakson, the man I killed at Anvil Mountain."
"Fascinating. A changeling. How did you get back here?"
"Mor returned me. To deal with Mark. So you knew my father?"
"Yes. We engaged in a number of enterprises together. He was a very accomplished sorcerer."
"You speak as if there was a point where you ceased being friends."
"True. We finally disagreed on a very fundamental issue concerning our last great project. I broke the fellowship at that time and sent him packing. It was then that he initiated the actions which led to the conflict and the destruction of Rondoval. The third party to our enterprise left him when things began looking bad on that front."
"Who was that?"
"A strange Madwand of great power. I don't really know where Det found him. A man named Henry Spier. Odd name, that."
"Do you mean that if you both hadn't deserted him Rondoval might have stood?"
"I am sure that it would have, in a cruelly changed world. I prefer thinking that Det and Spier deserted me."
"Of course. And now you want some extra revenge on the family, for old times' sake."
"Hardly. But now it is your turn to answer a few. You say that Mor brought you back?"
" 'Returned me' is what I said. He did not accompany me. He seemed ill. I believe that he went back to the place where I had been."
"The exchange... Yes. Were you returned directly to Rondoval?"
"No. I found my own way there, later."
"And your heritage? All the things that you know of the Art? How did you come by this?"
"I just sort of picked it up."
"That makes you a Madwand."
"So I've heard. You still haven't told me what you want."
"Blood tells, though, doesn't it?" Ryle said sharply.
Pol studied the man's face. Gone now was the bland expression which had accompanied most of their earlier exchanges. Pol read menace in the narrow-eyed look now focused upon him, in the rising color and the tightness about the mouth. He noted, too, that one pudgy hand was clenched so tightly that its rings cut deeply into the flesh.
"I don't know what you mean," Pol said.
"I think you do," Ryle replied. "Your father tipped the Balance which prevailed in this world, but did not succeed in his attempt. I stopped him here and Klaithe's forces finished him at Rondoval. There had to be a reaction sooner or later. Mark Marakson brought it into the world at Anvil Mountain, where you stopped him. Now it must tip in the other direction again--your father's way--toward total sorcerous domination of the world. It can be stopped for good at this point, or it can go all the way--your father's dream realized. I have been waiting all these years to stop it again, to end it, to see that it does not come to pass."
"I repeat. I don't know what--"
Ryle came forward and slapped him. Pol fought down an impulse to strike back as he felt a ring cut his cheek.
"Son of a black magician! You are one yourself!" he cried. "It can't be helped! It's in your blood! Even--" He grew silent. He stepped back. Then, "You would open the Gate," he said. "You would complete your father's great work for this world."
Pol suddenly felt that this was true. The Gate... Of course. He had forgotten. All those dreams... They began phasing now into his consciousness. With this, a certain wiliness came over him.
"You say that you were party to the entire business, at its beginning?" he asked softly.
"Yes, that is true," Ryle admitted.
"And you were talking about black magic ..."
Ryle looked away, walked back to the table, drew the chair farther back and lowered himself onto it.
"Yes," he said, his eyes directed toward the remains of his breakfast, "in both senses, too, I suppose. Black because it was being used for something that was morally objectionable, and black in the more subtle sense of its deepest meaning--the use of forces which must warp the character of the magician himself. The first is always arguable, but the second is not. I admit that I was once a black magician, but I am no longer. I reformed myself long ago."
"Employing Larick to perform the actual spells for you hardly seems to avoid the spirit of black magic. As in my case ..."
His words trailed off as Ryle raised his eyes and fixed him with them.
"In your case," he said, "I would--and will, if necessary--do it myself. It would at worst be an instance of the first sort--employed to prevent a greater evil."
"On the general theory of morals--that others need them?"
"I am thinking of more than the two of us. I am thinking of what you would do to the entire world."
"By opening the Gate?"
"Exactly."
"Excuse my ignorance, but what will happen if the Gate is opened?"
"This world would be flooded, submerged, by the forces of a far older world--in our terms it is an evil place. We would become an extension of that land. Its more powerful, ancient magic would completely overwhelm the natural laws which hold here. This would become a realm of dark enchantment."
"The evil may well be relative then. Tell me what objection a sorcerer could have to something which would make sorcery more important."