"You use the argument by which your father first swayed me. But then I learned that the forces released would be so strong that no ordinary sorcerer could control them. We would all be at the mercy of those others from beyond the Gate and those few of our own kind to whom it would not matter, in league with those others."
"And who might those few of our own kind be?"
"Your father was one, Henry Spier another; yourself, and those others like you--Madwands all."
Pol repressed a smile.
"I take it that you are not a Madwand?"
"No, I had to learn my skills the hard way."
"I begin to understand your conversion," Pol said, instantly regretting the words as he saw Ryle's expression change again.
"No, I do not believe that you do," he answered, glaring, "not having a daughter bound by the curse of Henry Spier."
"The ghost of this place... ?" Pol said.
"Her body lies in a hidden spot, neither dead nor alive. Spier did that when I broke the fellowship. Even so, I was willing to fight them."
Pol wanted to look away, to shift his weight, to pace, to depart.
Instead, "What exactly do you mean when you say Madwand?" he asked.
"Those like yourself with a natural aptitude for the Art," Ryle said, "those possessed of a closer, more personal relationship with its forces--its artists rather than its technicians, I suppose."
"I appreciate your explaining all these matters," Pol told him, "and I realize you are not going to believe any denials I might make concerning my intentions, so I won't make any. Why not just tell me what it is that you want?"
"You have had dreams," Ryle said flatly.
"Well, yes ..."
"Dreams," he continued, "which I sent to you, wherein your spirit traveled beyond the Gate to witness the starkness and desolation of that evil place, wherein you saw the creatures who dwell there, engaged in depravities."
Pol recalled his earlier dreams, but he thought too of the later ones, showing him the cities beyond the mountains, neither stark nor desolate, but holding a culture so complex as to surpass his understanding.
"That is all that you showed me?" he asked, puzzled.
"All? Is that not enough? Enough to persuade any decent man that the Gate must not be opened?"
"I suppose you made a good case then," Pol said. "But tell me, are dreams all that you sent to me?"
Ryle cocked his head to one side, frowning. Then he smiled.
"Oh. That," he said. "Keth..."
"Keth? He was the sorcerer who attacked me in my own library?"
Ryle nodded.
"The same. Yes, I sent him. A good man. I thought he'd best you and settle things then and there."
"What things? For all your talk about the Gate and my father and Madwands and black magic, I still do not know what it is that you want of me."
The fat sorcerer sighed.
"I thought that by sending you the dreams--showing you the menace of the thing--and then by explaining the situation carefully, as I have just done, that I might--just possibly might--win you over to my way of thinking and persuade you to cooperate with me. It would make life so much easier."
"You didn't exactly start off on the right foot by playing monster games with my anatomy."
"It was also necessary to show you the extent to which I will go if you do not choose to help me."
"I'm still not sure of that. What's left--besides death?"
Ryle rubbed his hands together and smiled.
"Your head, of course," He said. "I have begun in the easiest manner possible. But if, after suitable painful practices upon the body you are now wearing, you refuse to give me what I want, then I will complete the transfer. I will send your head to join the rest of you in exile beyond the Gate. I will be left with a somewhat maimed demon servant, and you--you have seen that place--you will have an unfortunate existence before you for all your remaining days."
"It sounds very persuasive," Pol observed. "Now, of what might it be the consequence?"
"You know where the Keys are--the Keys that can open the Gate or lock them forever. I want them."
"Presumably to do the latter?"
"Certainly."
"I'm sorry, but I don't have any such Keys. I wouldn't even know where to look for them."
"How can you say that when I saw them on the table in your study numerous times--and even as I watched your struggle with Keth?"
Pol's thoughts went back, both to that scene and to one of his dreams. He felt the resistance building within him.
"You can't have them," he said.
"I'd a feeling this was not going to be easy," Ryle remarked, rising. "If opening the Gate means that much to you, it just shows how far gone you really are."
"It is not opening the Gate," Pol replied. "It is having something taken from me in this fashion that rankles. You are going to have to work for anything you get out of me."
Ryle raised his hands.
"It may be easier than you think," he said. "Painless, in feet--if you're lucky. We'll learn in a moment how far-sighted you might have been."
As Ryle's hands began moving, Pol fought down the desire to strike back. A small voice seemed to be saying, "Not yet." Perhaps it was himself. He shifted his vision to the second seeing and saw a great orange wave rolling toward him.
When it struck, he felt a certain slowing and then a rigidity of his thought processes. A genuine stiflhess came over his body. Gone was any certainty as to what he wanted or did not want.
Ryle was speaking and his voice seemed somehow more distant than their proximity indicated:
"What is your name?"
It was with a peculiar fascination that he felt his lips move, heard his own voice reply, "Pol Detson."
"By what name were you known in the world where you grew up?"
"Daniel Chain."
"Do you possess the seven statuettes that are the Keys to the Gate?"
Suddenly, a sheet of flame hung between them. Ryle did not seem aware of its presence.
"No," Pol heard himself reply.
The fat sorcerer looked puzzled. Then he smiled.
"That was awkwardly phrased," he said, almost apologetically. "Can you tell me the location or locations of the seven magical statuettes which once belonged to your father?"
"No," Pol answered.
"Why not?" Ryle asked.
"I do not know where they are," Pol said.
"But you have seen them, handled them, had them in your possession?"
"Yes."
"What became of them?"
"They were stolen from me, on the way to Belken."
"I do not believe that."
Pol remained silent.
"...But you are to be congratulated for your foresight," Ryle continued. "You have guarded against self-betrayal with a very powerful spell. It would take me a long time to ascertain its exact nature and to break it. Unfortunately for you, I have neither the time nor inclination, and you must be forced to speak. I have already mentioned the means which will be employed."
The man began another series of gestures, and Pol felt a certain clarity return to his consciousness. As this feeling grew, the image of the flame faded.
"I have also restored your appearance, for esthetic purposes," Ryle said. "Now that you are yourself again, is there anything that you would care to add to what you said?"
"No."
"I didn't think so."
The fat sorcerer turned away, crossed the room, opened the door.
"Larick?" he called.
"Yes?" came a distant voice.
"Take this man back to his cell," he said. "I'll send for him when the interrogation room has been made ready."