Danger In The Palace
Hidden by magic... but for how long?
Randal moved quickly into the inner room and gestured at
the stranger to follow him. Once they were both
inside, Randal closed the door after them-and not a
moment too soon. Footsteps sounded in the outer
room. Someone was coming. The young wizard and the man he
had rescued flattened themselves against the wall
Quickly, Randal cast the spell of invisibility
over himself and his companion. A second later a
pale blue light showed around the
edge
of the door as it opened. Carvelli came in, a
magical coldflame glowing above one
upraised hand.
So
Carvelli is the magician,
thought Randal,
but not trained at the School of Wizardry. If
we're in
be.
tuck, he won't detect us.
Carvelli drew a dagger from his belt with
his left hand, while he pulled a sword with
his right. "Whoever is here," he said slowly,
***
... sh
ow
yourselves now"
CIRCLE OF MAGIC
Originally published under the title
Circle of Magic: The Prince's Players.
Copyright [*copygg'1990 by Troll
Communications L.l.c.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be
reproduced or utilized in any form or by any
means, electronic or mechanical, including
photocopying, recording, or by any information
storage and retrieval system, without
written permission from the publisher.
Cover photography by Steven Dolce. Printed
in the United States of America 10 9 8 7
6 5 4 3 2
For Bruce Coville,
who provided encouragement and example, and who beat
some sense into our heads
I. Market Square Magician
"A PENNY, a penny for art!"
Randal gave his cry again and showed the crowd an
empty hat. The small cap of green felt
belonged to Lys, his friend and traveling companion. The
black-haired girl in boy's clothing sat on the
rim of the enormous bronze-and-marble fountain in the
center of Peda's market square, ready to begin her
performance. Randal flourished the hat a second time
and placed it on the ground. Then he sat
crosslegged on the pavement and waited for Lys
to start singing.
Behind him, the first notes of the girl's song floated
out over the sound of falling water. Most of the people in the
small crowd turned their attention to her. Those who still
looked at Randal saw a tall, sturdily built
youth in his middle teens, with untrimmed brown hair
falling down into his eyes. Over his
travel-stained garments he wore the widesleeved
black robe of a journeyman wizard trained at the
Schola Sorceriae -- the School of Wizardry
in Tarnsberg, on the western sea.
Time to start earning my bread,
he thought, as Lys sang on. He didn't understand
the words of her song-they were in her native
Occitanian, the language of these parts, and Randal
knew little more of that tongue than the few memorized
phrases he'd already spoken. But he and Lys had
practiced this routine every day on the road south from
Widsegard; he knew the exact moment at which
to begin weaving his own spells into the music.
Now the young wizard calmed his mind and began to call
forth sound from the air around him a deep-pitched, steady
chord to underlie and harmonize with Lys's melody.
The chord came in well-balanced and firm on the
first try.
Good,
thought Randal.
Now for the high tone.
He concentrated again and set a mellow flute like
tone playing along an octave above the tune Lys
sang.
The flute sound also came in on key and
followed the melody without any fumbles or
mistakes. Randal allowed himself a smile of
satisfaction- the music was going well today.
Now for the lights.
He tried for a glowing cloud of color, like a veil
between Lys and the spray of the fountain, and it appeared.
With a little more concentration, he gave the cloud a wash of
red for the low note of his chord, mingled with green and
blue for Lys's clear alto voice and dappled with
flecks of gold sparkling in time with the highest notes
of the flute.
The first magic Randal had ever seen had been just such
a display of sound and light. But Madoc
the Wayfarer, the wizard who had performed those wonders
in the great hall of Castle Doun, had been a
master of the magical art and not a mere journeyman.
Randal himself had spent the past few months in
acquiring, by trial and error, the fine control that
produced a particular sound or color without
accident every time.
Some days the magic had worked well, while on other
days Randal's efforts had brought him more
embarrassment than success. But as traveling
entertainers went, he and Lys had prospered they'd
always had enough money to buy food, and here in the
southland, where nights were warm and dry, they slept in
the open and seldom needed to pay for lodging.
As Lys's song came to an end, Randal ended the
sounds and the cloud of colored light. He looked
down at the cap and found it empty.
I don't understand,
he thought, feeling at once puzzled and disappointed.
I've had the spells working right for weeks now, and
Lys doesn't even need magic to sound good. We
should have gotten one or two pennies at least from this
crowd.
Instead, only thin applause came from the small-and
rapidly dwindling-audience. Randal sighed and reached
out to pick up the empty cap. His fingers had just
touched the brim when a small bag of black
velvet sailed through the air and landed in the cap with a
metallic
chink.
Randal picked up the bag. It felt heavy in his
hand, and the contents shifted and clinked inside it.
Carefully he undid the silver cord of the
drawstring
and pulled the bag open. His sudden hopes were not
dashed. The bag contained gold coins-more money than
he'd seen in one place since leaving his
uncle's castle to study wizardry.
Randal closed the bag and slid it into the deep
pocket of his robe, next to his spell-book.
Then he looked to see who had made the donation. The
young wizard's gaze traveled upward from a man's
high leather boots, to a short tunic of black
velvet trimmed in silver, to a clean-shaven,
intelligent face framed by bright red hair. At his
waist, the stranger wore a long, narrow-bladed
sword.
"Many thanks, my lord;" said Randal in
Occitanian, thus exhausting his entire stock of the
language.
The well-dressed stranger gestured at Randal
to rise and said something in a clear, pleasant voice.
Randal looked around to Lys for a translation.
The Occitanian girl swung down from the rim of the
fountain onto the pavement. Randal saw that her eyes
were dancing. "Come on, Randy," she said. "We're
going with this gentleman. He wants us to play at the
palace."
"The palace?" Randal said in amazement as they
fell in behind the stranger. "I knew we were good, but
I didn't think we were that good"
"Here in Occitania," said Lys, "every city
is its own country-and the lords of the city-states are
rich and powerful. Just take what you can and smile.
At the very least we can expect a good meal, and
maybe even new clothes, when we play for His
Grace"
Randal nodded, still uncertain whether the sum
mons was for good or ill. Lys, though, seemed to have
no doubts at all; she was smiling as they followed
the stranger away from the marketplace. The red-headed
man led them through the town and uphill along wide
streets, through ranks of tall stone houses. At the
top of the hill they came to a huge marble
building-actually a collection of buildings joined
together by walls and set in the midst of green lawns and
sweet-smelling gardens.
Randal and Lys followed their guide onward through a
maze of corridors, cloisters, enclosed gardens,
and winding stairways. Everywhere they looked, they saw
luxury. Frescoes covered the walls and the
ceiling; dark and light woods made patterns on
the polished floor underfoot; and bronze and marble
statues filled the corners along the way.
This has to be the palace,
thought Randal, feeling shabby and insignificant in his
mud-stained robe.
No one but a prince would live in such
magnificence.
At last the three of them came to a small room
where another man waited. The two strangers spoke
together, and then the red-headed man said something to Randal.
"He wants you to go with him;" Lys translated.
"I'm supposed to stay here"
"Do I have any choice?" Randal asked.
"No;" said Lys. "He's the Prince's
messenger you'd better go with him:"
Randal followed the red-headed man down another
series of corridors to a room filled with books.
The messenger stopped, turned to Randal, and spoke
a short phrase. Randal guessed that it
meant something like "stay here"; he nodded, bowed, and
clasped his hands before him in a gesture of patience.
The response appeared to satisfy the dismessenger.
He departed through another door, leaving Randal behind
to look around curiously.
One side of the long, narrow room was all windows,
opening onto a walled garden. Bookshelves lined
the other walls from floor to ceiling. The sight of the
rows of books carried Randal back for a moment
to his early days at the Schola.
The library in Tarnsberg,
he remembered with a smile,
was the
first
one
Id
ever seen.
If truth be told, in those days he'd barely been
able to read. In kingless, unsettled Brecelande, where
he'd been born, knowledge of letters had mattered less
than skill with a sword. But Randal had given up
his future as heir to a northern barony to study the
art of magic and had forsworn the use of knightly
weapons forever. Now the fat, leather-bound volumes
seemed to call to him from the library walls.
He contented himself, however, with scanning the titles
of the ones nearest to him. The names intrigued him, and
he was debating with himself the wisdom of taking down a
book when he heard the sound of the far door opening.
The redheaded man beckoned to him from the doorway.
Randal left the bookshelves and went past the
messenger into the next room.
The door closed behind him. Suddenly, the air was
filled with the intense, neck-prickling sensation of
powerful magic. Randal felt other, nonmaterial
locks and barriers slip into place.
Is this a trap?
he thought, fighting a surge of panic. But when no
immediate dangers arose to menace him, he forced himself
to look calmly around the chamber. The books and
equipment scattered about only confirmed what he had
already guessed-he was in the workroom of a master
wizard.
The dark, hawk-nosed man waiting at the desk,
then, must be the wizard to whom the room belonged.
To Randal, he seemed richly enough dressed to be the
Prince himself. His long robe was cloth-of-gold,
embroidered over with mystic signs in silver and
black, and the ankle-length tunic beneath it was made of
crimson silk. He waved away the messenger,
then gestured at Randal to come forward.
"Come here;" he said. "I want to look at you."
Randal obeyed. The dark man had spoken in the
Old Tongue, the common language of wizards and
wizardry. Now the man placed the tips of his long
fingers together and regarded Randal with a penetrating
gaze.
"Are you aware;" the dark man continued, "that here in
Peda all magic is the property of the Prince?
And that I am the only wizard whom His Grace
sees fit to let practice the Art?" He
paused. "And are you aware of the penalties for
violating His Grace's will?"
Randal felt cold.
Lys never warned me about anything like this,
he thought.
It wasn't enough that I got myself and Nick thrown
into jail back in Widsegard, just for
looking
like I might be a wizard.
The memory hurt. Nicolas Wariner had been the
first friend Randal had made among the apprentices at
the Schola, and Nick had died by magic in
Widsegard-died while aiding Randal to fight off the
attack of an outlaw wizard.
If I hadn't
asked
for help, Nick
would be alive today.
For a moment Randal's guilt threatened to overwhelm
him, as it had so many times since then, but he forced
himself to push it aside. At least the pain of
remembering had helped him in one
way, by
driving out the fear that the Prince's wizard had
aroused. "No, Master," he said aloud.
"I wasn't aware of the laws in Peda. I only
arrived here a day ago."
The master wizard nodded. "You gave your first
performance in the market square yesterday evening, and by this
morning I had heard the news:" He leaned back
in his chair, and his voice took on a more kindly
tone. "Fortunately, Prince Vespian the
Magnificent, the Prince of Peda, gives me
much freedom of action in magical matters.
Therefore, I ask you comamaze me:"
It sounded more like an order than a request. Randal
shook his head. "I beg your pardon, Master, but
I don't understand"
"Amaze me;" the master wizard repeated. "Show
me some magic. Let me see your best."
Randal looked at the dark man for a moment without
speaking.
How am I supposed to amaze a master wizard?
he wondered. Finally he gave a sort of mental
shrug and decided that he might as well do an easy
color-spell.
Better something simple that I know will work,
he thought,
than something complicated that might fail.
He held up his hands a few inches apart and
called up a ball of floating light comn the cold
blue flame most wizards used for reading at
night, but a warm yellow glow that shone against his
upraised hands, making the long white scar across his
right palm stand out in sharp relief.
Randal let the ball of light burn for a moment between
his hands, and then set it free to circle around the
room. He gave a mental command, and the globe
split into first two and then four separate balls of
light, each a different color. All four lights
began to pulse with an inner rhythm, going bright and
dim and bright again, faster and faster. At last they
exploded, filling the air with silver sparkles that
glittered and vanished before they hit the ground.
When the last sparkling flicker had died away,
Randal let his hands fall to his sides and waited.
The master wizard sat looking at him for a long time
before he spoke.
"Two questions come to mind;" the dark man said.
"First-what is a northerner like yourself doing so far
away from home? And second-why is a Schola
trained wizard with so much magical power at his
disposal wasting his time on trivial games of sound
and light?"
The questions cut closer to the bone than Randal
liked. He drew a deep breath, and then let it out
again slowly before he answered. "There are a master
wizard and a powerful lord in Brecelande, both of whom
want me dead. That's why I don't go back"
The dark man nodded. "A good reason;" he said.
"And truthfully spoken, as befits a wizard. But
you haven't answered my second question."
Randal looked away and clenched his fists so hard that
his right hand-the one with the scar-began to throb.
"I dealt with powerful MAGIC'S once;" he said.
"A good friend died. Sounds and lights may be
trivial, as you say ... but they make people happy and
they don't do any harm:"
This time, the master wizard was silent for so long that
Randal began to wonder if he had given offense with
his abrupt reply. But when the dark man spoke,
Randal heard no anger in his voice, only a
certain amount of sympathy.
"Well, then, I am answered-though I suspect
there's more to the story than you're telling." The master
wizard smiled at Randal for the first time. "So-what
should I call you while you're here?".
"My name is Randal;" he said. "But why do you say
"while I'm here'?"
"His Grace the Prince gives me
leave to dispose of illicit magicians however I
choose;" said the master wizard. "I do not bother him
with the details. In your case, young Randal, I
intend to make use of your abilities to ease my
own burden"
"For how long?" Randal asked.
"A few weeks comuntil Midsummer, at
least:"
Randal relaxed a little. At least it didn't look
like his visit to Peda was going to include a stay in the
local jail, or worse. "What will I have to do?"
he asked.
"You've already worked with magical ENTERTAINMENT'S;"
said the dark man. "They are, as I said,
trivial-but it still takes a certain flair to do them
well, and you seem to have the knack."
Once again, the master wizard regarded Randal over
the tips of his steepled fingers. "Your presence here
at this time is a stroke of good luck for me;" he
said, "since Prince Vespian is a passionate
lover of theatrical ENTERTAINMENT'S. He finds
them a relief from the cares of rulership, and for the most
part I'm delighted to help make each performance
something to remember. But at the moment, other matters
are more pressing."
"I see;" said Randal. "So I'm going to be one
of the Prince's players whether I like it or not?"
"I'm afraid so, yes;" said the dark man. Again,
he smiled. "You won't go unrewarded, I
promise you. The Prince is generous to those who
serve him, and I myself will teach you everything I know about
the uses of the magical Art for illusion and disguise.
With that knowledge, you can take over for me in the theatre while
I pursue my other duties."
Randal was silent for a moment. He wasn't quite
certain how he should feel about the wizard's offer.
No, not an offer,
he corrected himself.
I'm not being
given a choice.... But room and board here in the
palace will make a pleasant change from life on
the road-and learning new magic is what being a
journeyman wizard is all about.
"When do I begin?" he asked.
The master wizard clapped his hands sharply, and the
door opened to admit the red-haired messenger whom
Randal had followed earlier. The master wizard
spoke to the man in Occitanian, and then turned
back to Randal.
"This man will show you to your rooms in the east
wing;" he told the journeyman. "We will begin our
studies together tomorrow morning after breakfast. And one more
thing-1 notice you have some difficulties with the
native speech. By morning, you will have found an
answer to that particular problem."
Randal was silent for a moment, and then said,
"Master... his
"Petrucio;" said the dark man.
"Master Petrucio;" Randal went on, "I would
be glad to learn from you whatever you have to teach, and help
you however I can-but what about my friend Lys? What
happens to her?"
Petrucio smiled again. "The singer? She hasn't
violated any laws that I know of and can come and go as
she pleases. But if her singing is as good as I've
heard it is, there will surely be a place for her in
the Prince's troupe. Go now, and I will see you in
the morning"
II. Backstage Wizard
RANDAL SLEPT THAT night in more comfort than he
had known since leaving his home for a life of
wizardry. In fact, the chamber he was given in the
servants' wing of the huge, rambling palace made
his old room at Castle Doun look poor and
cramped. Here, instead of a small,
stonewalled room shared with his cousin Walter, he had
a room of his own with wooden floors and
white-plastered walls. Instead of a narrow, lumpy
cot, he had a soft bed, and-as a final touch of
luxury-the tall wardrobe closet standing in one
corner was filled with new garments cut to his own
measure.
He woke to sunlight coming through the glass windows
onto his face and had no sooner finished dressing
than a knock sounded at the door. He opened it and
found another of the palace messengers waiting for him.
The messenger bowed and said, "Master Petrucio
bids you to break your fast with him, as soon as you are
ready."
Randal's boyhood as first a page and then a
squire in his uncle's castle had trained him
well in courtly
behavior. He bowed to the messenger in return and
said, "Pray, lead on, sir."
A sudden thought brought the young wizard up short:
What language did we just use?
Then, recalling that Petrucio had promised him
an answer to his problems with the local speech,
Randal realized that the messenger had addressed him in
Occitanian, and that he had answered in the
same tongue.
Randal's guide left him outside the door
to Petrucio's workroom. The journeyman opened the
workroom door and found Petrucio waiting for him
at a small table set for two.
"Good morning;" said the master wizard as Randal
entered. He waved a hand at the empty chair. "I
trust you slept well?"
"Oh, yes;" Randal said as he took his seat
opposite Petrucio. "I could get too fond
of living like this, I think-there's nothing like it in the
northern lands"
Petrucio looked at him narrowly. "So you do
plan to return some day, after all?"
"Back to Tarnsberg, at least;" said Randal.
"I'll have to, if I ever go before the Regents of the
Schola to be examined for Mastery."
But that
"s a long way off,
he thought.
And I
'm not sure I want to do the kind
of magic
that's required of a master wizard. It hurts too
much.
Before Randal could say more, the workroom door opened
and a serving-man appeared, bearing a tray of silver
topped with a silver lid. The man placed the tray
on the table between the two wizards and removed the lid.
"Besides;" Randal finished as the servant withdrew,
"Brecelande is my home:"
"Indeed;" murmured the master wizard, as he
looked over the dishes on the tray. "Excellent
. . . nothing like buttered eggs for breakfast."
Randal nodded and turned his attention to the silverware
at his own place. The knife and the spoon were
familiar enough, even if more elegantly made than
any he had seen, but the small, two-pronged
utensil on the tablecloth beside them had him frowning in
puzzlement.
He heard Petrucio chuckle. "It's called a
fork. You still have a few things left to learn, I
see."
"A fork;" repeated Randal. He looked at the
little tool for a moment longer, and then laid it back
down beside the knife and spoon. "You spoke of having
things to learn ... but I have one thing less to learn
than I thought I had. How is it that I speak the
language of the. people here, Master Petrucio, when
yesterday I knew fewer than a dozen words
of the tongue?"
"Come, now," said Petrucio with a smile.
"Surely a journeyman wizard can recognize the
effects of a spell:" "Yes;" admitted Randal.
"But why don't they use
spells like that at the Schola? When I think of how
many nights I stayed up late trying to learn how
to say "the candle is on the table' in the Old
Tongue ... his
Petrucio spooned some eggs onto his own plate,
and then some onto Randal's. "The spell is a new
one of my own, I'm afraid- I developed it out
of my researches into the nature of language.
Unfortunately, casting the spell requires a
near-perfect understanding of how a given language
works, and such knowledge requires a lifetime of study'
Conversation lagged as the two wizards ate. When
breakfast was over, Petrucio leaned back and
clapped his hands. The servant reappeared and cleared
the table.
After the man had left, Petrucio looked over
at Randal. "Some little while ago;" said the master
wizard, "I heard a strange story from the
northlands, of an apprentice wizard who, in
defiance of all tradition, killed a man
with a sword. Have you heard of the case?"
Randal clenched his right hand over the raised scar that
marred the palm and swallowed hard. I
can't lie to him. No true wizard can lie. If
he does, then in the end his own magic will grow
twisted and turn against him.
He met Petrucio's eyes, though it took an
effort of will on his part. The master wizard's lean,
dark face was unreadable.
"Yes;" Randal said. "I was that apprentice"
Pride kept him from saying anything more, although he could
have justified himself by saying that the blow had been struck
out of desperation. He had been trapped by a master
wizard who meant to offer his blood to the princes of the
demonic realm, and he'd cut his own hand to the bone
when he seized the blade.
I've already paid for breaking the law that says a
wizard can't defend himself with steel,
he thought.
If Prince Vespian's wizard still wants to throw
me out on that accountwell, I'm no worse off than
I was at this time yesterday.
But Petrucio was smiling. "Good;" said the master
wizard. "Then I can carry out a promise I
made to the old friend who brought me that tale.
He said that a journeyman wizard with a scarred hand
might come here some day, and asked me to help him to the
best of my ability."
Randal unclenched his fist. With the release of tension
came curiosity-there weren't many people who were likely
to be talking about him with a master wizard. "Your friend
wouldn't have been named Madoc the Wayfarer, by any
chance?"
Petrucio smiled. "By chance, yes."
"Master Madoc was the first wizard I ever met;"
said Randal, "and a good friend to me." For a moment he
fell silent, remembering the traveling wizard who
had filled the great hall of Castle Doun with
marvelous creations of sound and light. Madoc had
been a shrewd judge of character as well as a powerful
wizard; if Master Petrucio called him friend,
then the Occitanian wizard was someone worthy of
trust and respect.
"I haven't seen Madoc since I left the
Scholar" said Randal finally. "How is he?"
"As footloose as ever," Petrucio said. "He
didn't stay here long-but he talked of you fondly,
and spoke well of your skills and ability."
"I hope I can live up to his good opinion of
me," said Randal. "I'm afraid I
wasn't always the most promising of apprentices."
"I think we can trust Master Madoc's
judgment;" Petrucio told him. "From what you
showed me yesterday, I'd say you'll only need a
little practice in the spells of color, disguise,
and illusion, and then you'll be ready to spend the afternoon
working with Prince Vespian's players."
The morning passed in the study of magical spells
in particular, the specialized illusions needed for the
Prince's theater. About noon, a peculiar tapping
on
the inner door of Petrucio's workroom interrupted
Randal's lessons comtwo knocks close together, a
pause, and then three more.
Petrucio looked over at the door, and then back
to where Randal stood. The young wizard had just completed
the spell which magically altered his features to make
him appear years older and pounds heavier.
Petrucio frowned. "Randal;" he said, "be a
good lad and step into the library, will you? You can read
anything you like-but don't come back in until I
call you. See how long you can maintain your
illusion"
Randal was baffled, but he followed Petrucio's
orders. Still wearing another man's face and
form, he went into the outer room, pulled out a book
at random, and settled down into a chair beside the
windows. He sat reading for quite some time, while
voices -- Petrucio's and another's -- rose
and fell behind the wizard's study door.
It was early afternoon before the door opened and Petrucio
came out. "My apologies for interrupting your work
like that, said the master wizard. "Sometimes such things
happen. Now it's time you went to the theatre-when you
get there, tell Vincente you're my new
assistant and ask him to let you know what effects
he's going to need for the Midsummer performance next
month. Anything you can't manage on your own,
we'll go over tomorrow morning:"
Randal resumed his own appearance and went to do as
he'd been told. Locating the theatre took him
longer than he'd expected-for one thing, he'd never
seen a theatre before. At last, he pushed open a
pair of doors inlaid with ebony and mother-of-pearl
comblack and silver
must be the Prince's colors,
he thought, and paused for a moment on the threshold
to look around in amazement.
The theatre was an immense, empty, high-ceilinged
room, longer than it was wide, with a large
stage at the far end. An arch of marble rose above the
stage and supported heavy black curtains, now
drawn back, that could be let down to conceal most of the
stage area. Light came into the room from windows
high up near the vaulted ceiling; wall brackets
for candles showed how the room would be lit at night.
A group of men and women stood together down at the far
end of the room. Among them Randal recognized
Lys, busily talking with the same man who had
escorted them to the palace. Today, instead of a
velvet tunic, the man wore a plain white
shirt and black hose, but there was no mistaking his
bright red hair.
As Randal came down toward the stage, the redheaded
man hurried forward to meet him, saying, "I see
Master Petrucio's found us poor players a
wizard of our own. I'm Vincente, by the way, and the
rest of us you'll know soon enough. Tell me, can you
do a ghost?"
Randal blinked. "A ghost?"
"We need one for the last act of the tragedy;"
Vincente explained. "Master Petrucio's been
promising to work one up for us, but the Prince keeps
him so busy at court that he doesn't have the time
to spare."
"A ghost... was murmured Randal. He thought for a
moment, and then cast the spell of visible illusion.
A cloudy figure drifted down the length of the
room
from the double doors to the stage. "Something like that?"
"Not bad;" said Vincente. "We'll have to give it
the right face and walk, and work on getting a
voice-but if that's what you can do on short notice,
I think we're set
"I told you Randy was good;"
Lys said to Vincente. She turned to Randal, her
blue eyes alight. "You'll like working here, I know
you will. Prince Vespian loves plays comt's why
he built this theatre, and why he has his own troupe
of actors, instead of hiring whoever comes through town"
Another of the actors nodded agreement. "Once the
Prince had his own theatre inside the palace, every
other ruler in Occitania had to do the same, or be
out of fashion-but most places still hire traveling
players to fill the stage. You won't see
performances like ours anywhere comelse, I can tell you
that. It's the rehearsals that do it, and you can't "get
those on the road:"
"Speaking of rehearsals, Montalban;" said
Vincente, with a meaningful glance at the other
actor, "it's time we all got back to work.
Randal comforthe first act, we need light that goes from
dawn to early morning. Can you do that?"
"I think so;" said the young wizard. "Where do you want
me to be while I'm casting the spells?"
A few minutes later, Randal stood behind the
black velvet curtain, calling up the rosy
light of sunrise over the stage where Vincente and
Montalban rehearsed the play's opening scene.
By the time a distant gong sounded and the Prince's
troupe broke off their work for the dinner hour, Randal
had, by his own count,
caused the sun to rise a dozen or more times.
Vincente, it turned out, had definite ideas about just
what color the sky should be at every line he and
Montalban spoke-and Randal soon realized that
while the actors only had to remember their own
parts, the backstage wizard would have to know the entire
play by heart.
Thank goodness the Schola taught me how
to memorize things,
he thought, as he went back to his room that evening.
I'll just have to
pretend
that a play is a peculiar sort
of spell.
The next few days passed in much the same manner
as the first, with Randal studying magic in the morning
hours and passing the afternoon with Vincente and the other
actors in the Prince's theatre. Under
Petrucio's guidance, Randal's skill at
illusion increased until he could keep as many as
four different actors disguised at once without
feeling the strain.
Lys, for her part, seemed to be enjoying herself in her
stage role as the hero's sister. For the first time in
several years, the young singer was among people who spoke
her own language and followed her own custom. More
than that, she plainly reveled in the chance to be part
of a troupe of actors. Sometimes, watching her at
work during rehearsals, Randal wondered if she had
found a permanent home among the Prince's
players.
If she had, he knew that this time in Peda might be
the last he would spend with Lys. For now, he was
content to live in the palace and work with Master
Petrucio-but he remained a journeyman wizard,
bound by the rules of the Schola to wander the world in a
quest for magical knowledge.
I won't be staying here,
he admitted to himself a few days after his arrival, as
he stood in the theatre with Vincente, watching Lys
and Montalban rehearsing a scene together.
Not if I'm going to be a master wizard. If I
want to make myself ready to return to Tarnsberg and the
Schola, I won't be able to keep away from the open
road forever. Lys, though ... this is the life she was
born to.
"Watch this bit;" said Vincente quietly at
Randal's elbow, interrupting his thoughts. "The
entrance. You've only seen it with Montalban being
lowered down on a rope from the prop-loft. Today
we're trying the trap door from the under-stage-see
if you think it's any better."
Randal nodded and turned his attention to Montalban,
who was making his entrance as the wicked uncle. "Neither
way is going to look like a magic portal;" he
said finally. "I'm surprised that the Prince
didn't have Master Petrucio construct a portal
or two to go with all those trap doors."
"He thought of it;" said Vincente. "But the theatre
wasn't newly built from the ground up. It was
made over from an older wing of the palace."
"I see;" said Randal. Magic portals, if
built by a wizard who wanted something
permanent, had to be constructed along with the building
they were part of comanda temporary portal called for more
power than even a master wizard could afford to spend for
anything short of life and death.
Randal considered the stage for a moment. "The
trap-door entrance is the better of the two;" he
decided. "But it still doesn't look much like real
magic"
"It doesn't need to;" said Vincente. "Give
us a flash of light and a loud bang, and that'll cover
up anything awkward"
Randal nodded and went back to watching the actors.
When the scene was finished, Lys came forward to the
edge of the stage.
"How did it look?" she asked.
"Better than the last time;" said Vincente. "I was
afraid we'd have to cut the scene, but we'll get it
right yet."
The black-haired singer sat down on the lip of the
stage with her feet dangling over the edge. "Good;"
she said. She stretched, catlike, and then smiled
at Vincente. "You can't imagine;" she said, "how
good it feels to be acting again. I've been singing,
mostly, for about three years now, with a bit of
acrobatics thrown in for good measure-but I
was born into a family of actors, and acting is
what I do best."
Vincente smiled back at her. "You make a fine
addition to the troupe.... Will you be staying with us here in
Peda after the Midsummer performance?"
Randal held his breath and looked away, not wanting
to hear his suspicions confirmed. But Lys shook
her head regretfully and said, "I don't know.
It's good to be back with my own people, and the Prince
isn't a bad man to serve. But Randy and I have
been partners almost since we met. He saved my
life, you know- I stay as long as he does, no
more:"
Randal felt a warm glow of surprise. He'd
always been grateful for Lys's friendship but hadn't
realized that she herself put such a high value on it.
"And besides;" Lys continued, "there's something about
Brecelande. The song hasn't come to its final
verse, if you follow me:" She hesitated, as if
searching for the right words. "My family wanted to go to that
country, and I feel, somehow, that I have to finish what
they began"
Randal was puzzled, both by what Lys said and by the
hesitant way in which she spoke, so unlike her
usual self-assured tone. Before he could
say anything, however, the doors at the far end of the
theatre opened. A messenger in the Prince's
black-and-silver livery hurried down to the group
standing in front of the stage. The man sketched a
hasty bow to Randal and Lys, and then beckoned
Vincente aside.
The actor stood for a little while, listening as the
messenger spoke in a rapid undertone. After the man
had finished, Vincente turned back to the others.
"Your pardon;" he said, "but it seems I'm
urgently needed elsewhere. We'll take up again
tomorrow where we left off." The red-haired actor bowed
and walked quickly away.
Randal watched him go. A puzzled frown began
to form between the young wizard's brows. For some reason,
Vincente's abrupt departure had called to his
mind the unexpected knock at the door of
Petrucio's workroom his first day in the palace.
That time, the master wizard had sent him out of the room
with no more explanation than Vincente had just given.
Maybe it's just because I'm a foreigner here,
he thought.
But I get the feeling sometimes that there's more going on
in Peda than meets the eye.
III. Hidden Ways
BETWEEN STUDY AND practice, the next few
weeks went by swiftly. As Midsummer Night
grew closer, the rehearsals became more intense.
Vincente, while unfailingly cheerful and courteous,
was just as unfailingly reluctant to settle for less
than everyone's best effort, and often Randal didn't
return to his chamber in the east wing until well
after dark.
The last rehearsal before Midsummer proved
especially long and exhausting. Randal made the
illusory sun come up over the opening scene again and
again, and walked the transparent, moaning ghost up and
down the length of the theatre more times than he could count,
before Vincente called for a break.
A cool stone jar of mint-and-honey-flavored water
stood on a trestle table backstage; Randal
dipped himself out a mugful and drained it in one long,
grateful swallow.
Disguises and illusions may be trivial,
he thought as he filled his mug again,
but do enough of them at a stretch and they leave you just as
drained as throwing a lightning bolt or looking into the
future.
Still carrying his mug, he joined Lys and Vincente out
near the front of the stage. The two actors
and the journeyman wizard watched as a half-dozen
palace servants went in and out through a small door
beneath the stage, carrying out cushioned benches from the
storeroom where they were kept and setting them up in
rows.
Randal tried to guess from the seats how many people were going
to be watching the Midsummer performance. The number
startled him. "Where are all these people going to be coming
from?" he asked Vincente.
"Everywhere;" answered the red-haired actor, with a
broad gesture. "These
are
the Midsummer Revels, after all, and our Prince
has a reputation to uphold. All the notable
families of Peda are invited, the other
Occitanian states are sending
ambassadors-you'll even see people from as far away as
Brecelande:"
Randal took a sip from his mug. "I didn't know
the merchants of Peda traveled that far north."
Peda's merchants don't trade much farther away
than Widsegard," admitted Vincente. "But His
Grace, our Sovereign Ruler, has been known
to lend some of Peda's gold-at a moderate rate
of interest, naturally -- to one or another of
your northern earls:" Lys looked curious.
"Whatever for?"
"Wars cost money," Randal said. "Supplies .
. weapons . . . pay for the mercenaries . . . was
He thought of the chest of gold coins that his uncle
kept in the strongroom at Castle Doun, in case
one day the unrest in Brecelande brought more trouble
than Doun's knights and men-at-arms could deal with
alone. "In Brecelande, there's always fighting going
on someplace-and when there's fighting, the winner takes
all. If the Prince supports the right side, he
gets his money back with interest.
"So he does;" admitted Vincente. "I can't
say I care much for that part of it myself. But I've
heard that our Prince-may Fortune continue to smile
on him-has a tender conscience, and that only those with just
causes may borrow from Peda's treasury. An
envoy from Brecelande is here right now, in fact, on
just such a mission"
"Do you know his name?" Randal asked curiously, not
really expecting an answer.
And even if I get one,
he thought,
who's to say I'll recognize him? It's been
a. long time since I left home.
Vincente shrugged. "Ambassadors and actors
don't mix, I'm afraid. But he's said to be
an honorable man."
Lys was looking doubtful. "Honorable or not," she
told Vincente, "I still think that Peda gets the
better part of the bargain"
Randal was forced to agree. He could see that Prince
Vespian was rich-everything about the palace spelled
wealth, from the ample meals in the servants' hall
to the marble statues in the formal gardens. He had also
seen the same prosperity reigning in the city
outside the palace walls. Even the poorest
townspeople here looked happier and better-fed
than the well-off in northern cities like
Tattinham and Cingestoun.
He stood for a while in silence, watching the palace
servants set up more benches. A commotion
at one of the side doors drew his attention, and he
turned to see four of the strongest men bringing in something
large and heavy-a massive high-backed throne with
leaping dolphins for the armrests and a snarling lion's
head on the back, all carved from a single block of
some dark wood.
Randal nodded toward the servants wrestling with the huge
chair. "I suppose that belongs to the
Prince."
Vincente nodded. "Ugly, isn't it? And
uncomfortable, or so I'm told. But you have to admit
it looks impressive."
Before Randal could answer, a shout came from the
servants bringing in the throne-one of them had stumbled
against the corner of a bench. As Randal watched, the
man went down on one knee and lost his grip on the
back edge of the throne. The other three men fought
to keep their burden from going over, but in vain-the heavy
chair swayed, toppled, and came down with a crash
on the fallen man, trapping his leg under the weight
of solid wood.
The man screamed. Vincente leaped down from the stage
and reached the overturned chair in three long
strides.
"Lys!" the actor shouted over his shoulder as he
ran. "Fetch the palace healer, and hurry!
Randal, come help us shift this thing!"
But even from his place on the stage, the young wizard
could see bright red blood spurting from the man's leg
where the weight of the throne pressed down.
The bone's broken,
Randal thought,
and it's cut the artery. He'll bleed to death
before a healer gets here.
He didn't hesitate, but called out the words of a
levitation-spell. The great wooden throne rose
into the air. By the time it hit the floor again several
yards away, Randal had already jumped from the stage
to join the group around the injured man.
"I know the healing-spells;" he said. "I can help
him."
The others drew back, and Randal passed his hands
along the man's leg, feeling for damage with the
wizardly senses that went beyond sight and touch.
Mend the cut artery
first
, to stop the bleeding ... then bring the Pieces of
bone into place and start them growing back together again
...
then build his strength and ease the pain.
The healing-spells that Randal had learned from Master
Balpesh were still fresh in his mind-spells that the master
wizard had called the high point of the wizard's art,
even though few of the Schola's wizards chose
to follow them. Randal spoke the words and felt the
man sink into the healing sleep. As Vincente,
Lys, and the others watched, the bleeding stopped and the
broken leg grew straight again. The man's
breathing deepened and became more regular.
Randal stood. "He'll sleep until he's
well. Put a blanket over him-sometimes healing
produces a chill
The young wizard moved a few steps away from the
crowd of people around the sleeping man and half-sat,
half-collapsed onto one of the benches.
Healing-spells always tired him, and this one had taken
more out of him than most, because of the speed with which he'd had
to work.
After a minute or two, Vincente came over and
sat down on the bench beside him. The red-haired
actor's face was almost as pale as the injured
man's had been, and his expression was sober.
"That was a good thing you did;" he told Randal.
"We're glad you were with us today-but if you can do magic
like that, then why in the name of Fortune aren't you working as
somebody's court wizard instead of providing stage
effects for a troupe of actors?"
"I'm only a journeyman, remember;" said
Randal, with a grimace. "Hardly court-wizard
material" "The rank doesn't matter,"
Vincente persisted.
"There're more princely courts in Occitania
looking for wizardly aid than there are master
wizards to supply it. You could be a power in the
state, wherever you decided to go-our own Master
Petrucio is Vespian's right arm, here in
Peda"
Randal shook his head violently and clasped his hands
together. The scar across his right palm throbbed from the
pressure. "I don't want to be "a power in the
state; thank you," he said. "I've seen what comes
of meddling with the great MAGIC'S and trying to cure the
world's problems ... and I don't want to do it
anymore:"
Lys had joined the two of them during this speech.
Now she laid a hand on Randal's shoulder. "Let
him be, Vincente;" she said before the actor could
speak. "He's got his reasons. I was there, and I
know."
The actor rose to his feet. "Not a word more, then.
Let's finish shoving His Grace's blasted chair
into place and get on with our rehearsal.... Are you
coming, Randal?"
It was almost midnight when Vincente finally declared
himself more or less satisfied with the troupe's
performance. Randal was yawning outright as he said good
night to Lys and the others and started back to his
room.
The halls were dark and quiet around him as he made
his way through the palace. Elsewhere in the great
building, the nobility might stay awake and revel
into the small hours, but in the servants' quarters
only the Prince's actors-and their journeyman
wizard-were still moving about. With that thought uppermost in
his mind, he rounded the last corner and almost bumped
into a palace messenger going the other way.
"Are you looking for someone?" Randal asked the man,
feeling suddenly anxious. A messenger sent at this
hour couldn't mean anything good. "Does Master
Petrucio need me?"
The messenger shook his head and hurried on without
speaking. Randal watched him go. The young wizard's
sense of puzzlement grew as the messenger's
black-and-silver livery blended into the shadows and
vanished.
Odd,
thought Randal.
Usually those
fellows
are models
of courtesy
, but this one didn't even apologize for almost
running into me.
Randal shrugged.
And who do I think I am, to want the Prince'
s servants bowing every time I walk by? I'm
only a penniless journeyman, not even a permanent
member of the Prince
His
s
household-Iv
better start remembering that more often.
Still, he couldn't help feeling uneasy. And when he
undid the locking-spell he'd placed on the door
of his room, he became even more concerned: The spell
gave way far too easily, as if it had been
broken and then recast by another. For a moment, he
paused with his hand still on the doorknob, fighting the
impulse to turn and run.
This is how the trouble in Widsegard began,
he thought,
with the lock on my room broken and someone waiting
inside.
Then he drew a deep breath, straightened his
shoulders, and opened the door.
The room was just as he had left it. The cold blue
glow of his witchlight showed no one lying in wait.
Feeling a bit foolish, he pulled open
the door of the tall wardrobe closet and found
nobody lurking there, either. But his investigations did
tell him something else-while nothing was out of place,
the whole room had been thoroughly searched.
Something strange is going on,
thought Randal, as he prepared to recast the
locking-spell. He made the charm a stronger one this
time, so that he would sense any attempt to break it,
even in his sleep. Then, feeling as secure as he
could under the circumstances, he climbed into bed. His
last thought as slumber overtook him was that he would have
to consult Master Petrucio in the morning.
At breakfast the next day, over crusty rolls and
butter, Randal said, "I think someone searched my
room last night."
Petrucio looked interested. "Indeed? Did you have
the usual door-guards up on your room?"
"Yes;" said Randal, "and door-guards were still there
when I came back from rehearsals. But I
could tell that someone had broken the spell and cast it
again." He paused to go through his memories of the night
before. "And another thingon my way back to the east
wing, "I ran into a man going the other way. He
wore the palace livery, but I think he may have
been a stranger just the same."
The master wizard frowned. "Can you show him
to me-create his image as you would on the stage?"
"I'll try," said Randal. He turned back again
to his
memories of the stranger. When the man stood before him
in his mind's eye, Randal spoke the words of
visual illusion, and a clear image of the messenger
appeared before them in the middle of the workroom.
Petrucio rose from the breakfast table and walked
all around the figure. "You're sure?" he asked.
"As sure as I can be"
The master wizard nodded. "I was afraid that something
like this might happen;" he said to Randal. "Close
down the illusion and come with me:"
He turned and pushed against one of the panels on the
inner wall of his workroom. The polished wood slid
to the right with a faint click, revealing a dark opening.
A
secret
p
assage,
thought Randal, with a thrill of excitement. I
wonder where it leads.
Petrucio had already stepped through the doorway and was
looking back at Randal. The young wizard
smiled to himself at his own
eagerness-wherever
the passage goes, it looks like I'm about to find
out-and
went in after him.
The master wizard slid the door closed. Then he
called up a cold-flame for light and began
to stride
along the passage, with Randal hurrying after him.
At last, they came to a low door. Petrucio
pulled it open, and Randal realized that they were looking
into the next room through the back of a fireplace.
Before he could say anything, Petrucio ducked under
the mantelpiece and stepped out onto the carpet.
Randal followed and looked around the room
curiously. On one wall, a black-and-silver
heraldic device of lions and dolphins hung
above a set of double doors. At the other end of the
room, another set of doors opened onto one of the
palace's many corridors.
Again Petrucio gestured at Randal to follow. The
master wizard strode over to the doors beneath the
dolphins and lions and pushed them apart without
knocking. They swung open to reveal a spacious
room with high windows, containing only a few
chairs and a writing desk. A dark man wearing
plain, almost severe clothing lounged in a comfortable
chair before one of the windows, reading from a small
scroll.
The man looked up as Petrucio walked in. The
master wizard bowed and held the pose. Randal
hesitated a moment, caught by surprise. Then his
old training as a squire in his uncle's castle
took over. He, too, bowed and waited to see what
would happen.
The man spoke in a quiet, pleasant-sounding
voice. "Well, old friend, what brings you here
today?"
"It's just as I feared, Your Grace;"
Petrucio said, straightening as he spoke. "The
Duke is up to his old tricks
Randal straightened as well when he caught the
wizard's movement, lifting his head in time to see the
man put aside the scroll and look keenly at
them. From Petrucio's words and actions, Randal
realized that they had come into the presence of Prince
Vespian the Magnificent, Sovereign Ruler
of Peda.
So that's what he looks like,
thought Randal, with an odd feeling of
disappointment.
Not particularly magnificent, really ... There's
nothing handsome about him, and even Vincente's a better
dresser.
Then Randal stole a second glance and
reconsidered. In spite of his plain appearance, the
Prince had an air of authority about him that
reminded Randal of his friend Madoc the Wayfarer.
Master Madoc looked and dressed like an
uncivilized tribesman from the far north, but no
one who met him ever doubted that he was one of the most
powerful wizards in Brecelande. In the same way,
Randal realized, anyone who looked twice at
Vespian would know him for what he was -- the
absolute ruler of Peda and all the surrounding
territories.
The Prince looked from Petrucio to Randal, and then
back to the master wizard. "You will, of course, find
out what the Duke is planning and thwart him"
"Of course said Petrucio, with another, briefer
bow.
"Then good day, wizard. We appreciate your
efforts."
Randal and Petrucio turned to go but stopped at the
sound of the Prince's voice saying, "One more
thing, Master Petrucio"
Petrucio turned again. "Your Grace?"
"Just once, I wish you would knock." The man
chuckled, as if to show that he was joking.
Petrucio chuckled, too. "If I knocked,
Your Grace, how would you know it was I?"
Still smiling, the master wizard departed with Randal
close on his heels. They entered the secret
passage behind the fireplace and walked back through the
narrow ways to Petrucio's workroom.
To Randal's surprise, the room was occupied but the
lean, plainly dressed man who sat writing at
Petrucio's desk was certainly no wizard. The
stranger wore a serviceable dagger at his belt,
and the long, narrow-bladed sword at his side had a
grip worn smooth with use. I
don't know who he is,
thought Randal,
but he looks dangerous.
At their entrance, the man looked up from his writing.
The master wizard, seemingly unsurprised by the
presence of a stranger in his workroom, raised a dark
eyebrow at his visitor and said only, "Back so
soon?"
The man nodded. "New developments."
He looked at Randal, then back at
Petrucio, and handed a scrap of parchment to the master
wizard. "It's all in here:"
Petrucio scanned the parchment. "It isn't much.
"I can get more information;" said the stranger, "but you know
where I'd have to go to do it"
"Handle the affair as you think best;" said the master
wizard. "But be discreet about it."
"Right;" said the man. "I'll be off, then:" He
stood and left the room.
After he had left, silence filled the workroom.
Petrucio looked at the closed door for a few
seconds, then turned to Randal. "Today you've been
shown things that most folk in Peda never suspect;"
said the master wizard. "Now I need your assistance.
Will you give it?"
Randal thought for a moment. "If I can;" he said
finally. "In every honorable way."
Petrucio smiled-Randal thought for a second
that he looked relieved. "Very good;" said the wizard.
"By now, you've probably guessed that I do more than
keep His Grace amused"
"I'd wondered what you were doing while I was
working on magical disguises for Vincente and the
rest;" admitted Randal. "But what does
that have to do with my room being searched? I just came
to Peda this summer, and I haven't got the faintest
idea what's going on around here:"
"What you know or don't know remains a mystery
to most people;" said Petrucio. "And you are, after
all, a wizard. They were probably just trying to find
out as much as they could about you from your possessions"
Randal gave a brief laugh. "They wouldn't have
found out much-except for my spell-book, I
don't have anything here that didn't come from the palace
to start with. And the spell-book stays in my
pocket:"
"Wise of you," said Petrucio, "since-as you may
also have guessed-there are those in Peda who don't share
most people's love for His Grace. Because Vespian
employs me to inform him of their plots, and because you are
known to be my assistant,
you will have come under their suspicion as well:" Randal
considered the odd happenings and
conversations of the past few hours. "You think that
somebody is conspiring to overthrow the Prince?" "I
know they are;" said Petrucio. The master
wizard sighed. "It's a problem of long standing,
I'm afraid. The Prince is a kindhearted man
sentimental, one might call him. He
coddles his greatest enemy, gives him a villa
outside the city walls, provides him with money and
all that he might require. And how does this
fellow repay that kindness? With constant plotting and
treachery. But Prince Vespian is sentimental,
as I said. He refuses to have Bartolomeo put
to death:"
"Bartolomeo?" asked Randal. "Who's he?"
"Vespian's brother," said Petrucio. "His
identical twin brother. Some fifteen minutes
younger and as wicked at the Prince is good"
IV. Secret Mission
SO THE PRINCE
has a twin brother he doesn
His
t trust,
thought Randal.
That
would
make things
difficult for
His Grace.
"I must admit I'd rest easier at night knowing
that Duke Bartolomeo had met with a fatal
accident;" the master wizard went on, "but
Prince Vespian has expressly forbidden
anyone in Peda to harm his brother. As a result,
I'm often kept busier by the Duke's plottings
than I'd really like."
Randal looked at Petrucio. "I said I'd
help if I could;" he said, "and I will"
"Good;" said Petrucio. "Do you suppose you could
cast one of those theatrical spells upon yourself, so that
you look nothing like the young man who spends his afternoons
with the Prince's actors?"
Randal thought for a moment. Since his first day of study
with Master Petrucio, he'd never tried maintaining
a magical disguise on his own person for very long,
since-except for mirrors-he didn't have any
means of checking on his appearance once the illusion
was in place. But the principle was the
same, whether he cast the spell on himself or on
another, and he'd been getting a lot of practice
over the past few weeks.
"Yes;" he said finally. "I can do it."
"Then listen carefully;" said Petrucio. He
read from the scrap of parchment the other man had given
him. ""A tall man, but thin and stringy;
blue-eyed; short black hair mixed with gray; a
small, pointed beard; dresses after the
local fashion but
carries no weapons""
"That's not much to go on," said Randal. "Just do the best
you can;" Petrucio told him. Randal closed his
eyes and began to work the
spell-taking Petrucio's brief description and
letting his imagination play with it until an entire
man emerged from the few short phrases. Then he
thought, rather than spoke aloud, the words that set the
illusion in place around him.
He didn't feel any different, but when he stole
a glance at his reflection in the polished brass
base of a candlestick, a stranger looked back.
It worked,
he thought with relief. Aloud, he said, "Will this do?"
"Close enough;" said the master wizard. "now can you
keep that illusion going all day, if you must?"
"After all the work with Vincente and the rest of
them for tonight's performance;" Randal said, "I'd
better be able to."
"Good;" said Petrucio. "I knew I could count
on you:" The master wizard picked up a piece of
white chalk from the table and handed it to Randal. "Now-go
to the fountain in Peda's market square:"
"I remember the place;" said Randal.
"Lys and I
performed there our first two days in the city." "Then you
know that the fountain has a flight of
steps leading up to the basin;" the master wizard
replied. "Use that chalk to mark an X on the
left end of the third step on the north side. Then
go to the nearest inn, take a seat, and have lunch. Here
are five silver pennies. Use all of them to pay
for your meal"
"All
of them?" Randal pocketed the pennies new minted
silver, marked with Prince Vespian's seal and
image-but he still felt curious. A single copper
coin would buy a meal and lodging in most of the inns in
Brecelande, and even here in the southlands the prices
weren't so high that a man had to pay for his meals in
silver.
"All;" said Petrucio firmly. "And then
what?"
"See what happens;" said the master wizard, "and
return when you feel you should. Before the performance at
midnight, certainly."
When I feel I should.
Randal sighed inwardly. "How will I know when that
is?"
"Come, come;" said Petrucio, with a flash of
annoyance. "A Schola-trained journeyman should
know better than to ask a question like that-there are too many
possible answers. But unless I've misjudged,
you'll know the time when it arrives:"
Petrucio went over to the workroom's inner door and
pushed it open. Randal saw that it opened not onto a
palace corridor, but to the outside, with the rest of the
city of Peda sloping away downhill.
"Off you go;" said Petrucio. "I'll be waiting
in my study when you return"
Randal stepped across the threshold and heard the door
close behind him. He turned back and faced the
blank outer wall of Prince Vespian's
palace. No door was visible. Randal looked
about, trying to memorize the location for his return,
then started out for the city and the market square below.
As always, when he left the palace grounds and went
out into the streets of Peda, Randal marveled at the
buildings he saw around him-large, open, and airy,
with thin walls of soft stone or brick. No one in
the north would have dared to put up such beautiful but
flimsy buildings. He remembered his uncle's
castle of Doun, in the middle of Brecelande. The
walls there were granite, cut in huge
blocks many feet thick, to make the castle strong
in case of attack.
Remembering Castle Doun made Randal feel
homesick. It had been several months since
he'd left Brecelande, longer than that since
he'd last been in Tarnsberg, where the Schola
was-and he hadn't been inside the walls of
Castle Doun since he was not quite thirteen. He
hadn't heard a voice speaking in the accents of his
homeland since his friend Nicolas Warmer had died and
he had turned south from Widsegard.
With Master Petrucio's language-spell on
me,
Randal thought, I
don't even sound right to myself.
By the time he reached the bottom of the hill, he found
himself willing to trade Peda and all its riches for the
taste of a brimming mug of dark brown northlands
cider or the sound of his cousin Walter's voice.
The melancholy mood clung to him as he
made his way through the streets. But Peda's market
square-a large open space thronged with people buying and
selling everything from fruits and vegetables to bowls of
beaten gold-was an excellent antidote
to gloom. In spite of himself, Randal felt
his spirits lighten as he pushed through the crowd to the base
of the fountain and climbed the steps.
On the third step he sat, stretching his legs out
with the air of a fellow who had all day to spend watching
the citizens of Peda do their marketing. He reached
into his pocket and closed his fingers around the chalk
Petrucio had given him. After a little more time had
passed, he bent over as if to adjust his shoe and
traced a cross on the marble step.
So far, so good,
he thought.
Now for the next part.
Finding the closest inn wasn't easy-the north
face of the square alone had three. Still, it wasn't
impossible. One of them, The Egret, was clearly
almost clearly-the closest of the lot.
Randal stood up again, crossed the square to The
Egret, and walked in. He stood for a minute just
inside the door, blinking as his eyes adjusted to the
dim light. The inn's common-room was half full
of patrons and appeared clean and prosperous.
Randal walked up to a large man in a white
apron who was busy wiping bread crumbs off a
recently vacated table.
"I'll have lunch;" Randal said." He
pulled the five silver pieces out of his pocket and
slapped them down onto the table.
The man scooped up the coins without missing a
beat. "You'll be wanting the special, then;" he
said.
"Come with me"
Randal followed the innkeeper into a smaller room,
where more tables stood ready. So far, Randal
seemed to be the only customer in this part of the
inn. Then the innkeeper departed, closing the door to the
common-room behind him and leaving Randal alone.
The young wizard sat and waited for what seemed a
long time. When nothing happened, he began to wonder,
nervously, if he'd picked the right place after
all. The Dolphin had been his second choice --
what if Petrucio had meant him to go there instead?
While he was still caught in his indecision, the door from
the common-room opened again. A serving-maid bustled
in with a plate of meat and cheese and a tumbler of cool
water.
Randal ate hungrily-breakfast had been cut
short. The meal wasn't as fine as what he had
been getting in the palace, but it was equally filling.
Life here in Peda, he reflected, was a sharp
contrast to most of his experiences since he had
walked away from Castle Doun to study magic.
Madoc the Wayfarer had been right about the life of a
traveling wizard. "You'll be hungry more often than
you're fed;" he'd said to Randal, "and spend more time in
danger on the road than safe under a roof." The
past few weeks, on the other hand, had been the most
comfortable Randal had ever known. It had taken the
searching of his room to make him wonder if something was
going seriously wrong in Peda-something that he didn't
understand.
The possibility frightened him.
Because Madoc was right about everything else, too,
Randal thought.
"Maybe you'll survive it all," he told me,
"but most of your friends will have died a long time bef8And
now Nick's dead, for no better reason than that
I asked for help and he gave it.
"Lys," Randal muttered under his breath. "What about
Lys?" Risking himself was one matter-but if another
friend was to suffer for his choices, that would be more than he
could bear. Randal looked at the heavy glass
tumbler of water sitting on the table. The means were
at hand to take a look into the future-why not try
it? He picked up the tumbler, cleared his mind, and
spoke the words of the scryingspell.
For a long time, the water in the glass remained clear
and untroubled. Then, down in the bottom, a bloom
of color appeared, the red of a flowering rose, or a
sunset, or blood.
Blood,
thought Randal, as the color spread and filled his
vision, until the world seemed full of it. Then he
drew back from the color and saw that the blood was a
river flowing through a parched and dusty land.
He rose- still higher above the river, like an eagle
searching for its prey, and saw that the river was really a
rope, blood red, tying two men together. They both
wore masks, plain white masks with crude
features drawn on them, and both were dressed in
rich robes-one in a white cloak with a black
lining, and the other in a black cloak with a white lining.
Back and forth they pulled on the red rope. The
brown color that Randal had seen as the banks of a
river now changed and became the boards of the stage in
the Prince's palace. Then Randal saw that the
rope was tied around the neck of the wizard
Petrucio, and the two men pulling on it were
strangling him.
As Randal watched, he seemed to hear Madoc the
Wayfarer speaking in his mind: "You're the one
who can stop them, lad. Magic was meant to be used,
not wasted."
"I can't," murmured Randal, unable to look away
from the struggle below. "The price is too high-I
know that now."
"High or low," said the well-remembered voice,
"we all have to pay it. That's what makes us
wizards." The sound of a latch opening jolted Randal
back
to reality. He was in the tavern, looking into a glass
of plain water, and the door was opening. All that
Randal could see in the water was his reflection, and the
face was his own. Hastily he recast the spell of
illusion, hoping that the disguise would take effect in
time.
The door opened, and a man stepped in.
"Yes?" Randal said, in tones as bored as he could
manage. He turned his head to look at the man
who had entered.
Well-dressed, and he carries a sword, but
he's not in the palace livery ... now, what made
me think of that?
Then he remembered.
That's the man I saw last night, when my room was
searched.
"We only now got the news that you had arrived;" the
man said. "You found the terms satisfactory, I
hope?"
Who does he think I am, anyway,
Randal thought,
and what are those terms he's talking about?
Then another thought came to him.
How on earth am I to continue this disguise business
without telling any lies? No true wizard can
tell a lie and ever trust his own magic again.
Instead, he told the truth comcarefully, and in
small pieces. "I've been waiting here a long
time;" he said. "And I want to get on with my
business:"
"Excellent;" the man said. "Come with me."
The man escorted the young wizard through the common-room
and out into the market square. Randal saw that the day was
older than he'd expected-the time he'd spent
gazing into the clear water had seemed brief, but now
the sky between the buildings was dark, while lower down,
Peda's torches and lanterns filled the streets with
flickering light.
Do they miss me at the palace?
Randal thought.
The actors will be getting ready soon for
tonight's performance and they expect me to help them set
up.
"The coach is ready," the man said. "Is there
anything you need to take care of before we go?" "No;"
Randal replied truthfully, and the man led
the way into a nearby alley. A second man
stood waiting in the darkness, holding the heads of a
team of horses hitched to a tall coach.
"It took you long enough;" he said as they appeared.
"I get nervous every time I come here:" Randal and the
man from the inn climbed into
the coach. The driver closed the door after them, and
Randal heard him climbing up onto his box. Then,
with a cry of "Gee-ah!" the coach lurched forward.
They drove out of the city and into the farmland that surrounded
Peda.
Where are they taking me?
Randal wondered. I
saw the Prince's theatre in my vision, but we're
headed in the opposite direction.
After a while, they passed through the gates of a farm and
drove into one of the outbuildings. Inside the
building, another coach awaited them. This one,
Randal saw, had heavy black curtains drawn
over the windows, so that no one outside could
tell who the coach carried, and no one inside would be
able to tell where it was going. Randal and his guide got
into the second coach and once more drove into the night.
With the curtains drawn, riding in the coach was like
sitting inside the toe of a boot. Fortunately,
Randal reflected, it took more than a few layers
of cloth to confuse a wizard about which way was which.
He'd drawn enough magic circles by now each one
exactly labeled at the four directions -- that he
could find true north by his magical senses
alone, even on a dark night.
The coach was traveling in a large circle, heading
back in the direction of Peda. Randal kept his knowledge
to himself and waited. Eventually the sound of the carriage
changed, and the vehicle swayed, slowed, and stopped.
The door of the carriage swung open, and Randal and
his guide stepped down into a graveled courtyard.
Surrounding the courtyard was what by daylight would be a
garden in the formal, style favored here in the south, and
beyond the bushes and statues rose the moonlit walls
of a country villa.
Armed men lounged about the dark courtyard. Randal
saw that they carried heavy killing swords more like the
ones he had trained with during his days as a squire
in Brecelande than the lighter weapons of
Vespian's court.
Randal and his guide walked through the gardens and into the
long front hall of the villa. The walls here, like
the ones in the palace, were plastered and painted.
Alcoves here and there held bronze and marble
statues in heroic poses. The guide led the way
to a door where two more men-at-arms stood guard.
Randal and his companion went past the guards into a
small room furnished with a table and chairs. Light
from lanterns in the four corners shone down on the
center of the room, where a man stood in chains. With a
sense of shock, Randal recognized the prisoner as
the man he'd seen in Petrucio's hidden workroom
only that morning.
Suddenly, the young wizard felt frightened. So far,
all this had been an adventure mysterious, perhaps, but
exciting. Now a cold wind blew through him, and the
pleasure went out of what he was doing.
"We know your reputation well, Master Edmond;"
said Randal's guide. "But my master needs
proof." He pointed to the chained figure. "A
spy we caught this afternoon. Kill him"
For a moment, Randal couldn't answer-he was too
busy keeping his face from showing the dismay he felt as
one thing after another fell into place in his
mind.
He called me "Master," and he can see that I
don't carry steel. These people must have brought a wizard
into Peda to do their killing for them
.
. .
and they think I'm he.
Randal looked more closely at the chained man and
saw that he had been savagely beaten. Still, the
prisoner drew himself up as best he could within his
chains and met Randal's gaze without flinching.
I can't kill him,
thought Randal.
But if I refuse, these other fellows will kill him
anyway, and probably do their best to kill me.
Maybe I could make it past all those swordsmen
out in the courtyard-but not without killing some of them,
too.
No, he realized, there was only one way out of this
one. He called all his magic to him and cast the
spell of visual illusion-and a couple of other
spells as well.
"Fiat!"
he shouted as a lightning bolt streaked from his fingers
to the manacled man, struck him, and splashed
blue-white fire throughout the room.
Thunder boomed. The man staggered and fell, his body
crumbling into ash. A high wind blew through the closed
chamber, picking up the little pile of ashes. They
swirled for a moment in the air and vanished. All that
remained were the empty chains.
The man who had guided Randal was silent for a
moment. Then he spoke. "I thank you, Master
Edmond. I'm sure my master will be well
satisfied with your efforts"
As
long as nobody walks behind the chairs,
Randal thought. A
healing-spell tends to make a man sleep
deeply, and an invisibility-spell will last only
as long as he
doesn't move. But if they find him, then we've
both had it.
But the guide was already moving, leading
Randal to a inner door. They passed into another
room, where a man stood waiting. Randal nearly
gasped. He had seen this man before, only this
morning. He was once more in the presence of Prince
Vespian.
Then he looked more carefully. No, there were
differences. Small ones-more in the man's expression
and the way he held himself than in anything
physical-but real differences nonetheless.
It's not the Prince. So it must be Randal bowed low
"I am here, Duke Bartolomeo;" he said.
Vv
Into the Dungeons
RANDAL ROSE FROM his bow to encounter
Bartolomeo's unblinking gaze.
"No, Master Edmond," Vespian's brother
said. "Not "Duke. Practice calling me
'Prince"-since, with your help, I soon will be"
Randal bowed again to cover his shock.
So that's what the vision meant ... twin brothers
struggling ... and I've fallen right into their feud.
"As you will, my lord Prince
Bartolomeo smiled and turned to the messenger. "This
fellow will do, Carvelli. Show him to his room, and
return. We have much to discuss"
"Come, Master Edmond," Carvelli said. "Your
chamber is already prepared"
The Duke's messenger led Randal back out through the
other room. The young wizard glanced over at the
spot where the manacled man had stood. With an
inward sigh of relief, he saw that his former
victim was still invisible-and presumably still
unconscious. The simple invisibility-spell
would break as soon as the subject moved.
I've got to get back here before he wakes up,
thought Randal.
He's one of Prince Vespian's men. If
he's recaptured, it will be the worse for him. And for
me.
The young wizard followed Carvelli through the
passageways to a sumptuously decorated room
furnished with a curtained bed and a carved marble
washstand-but no windows. There the messenger left him.
The door closed behind Carvelli, and the bolt
snicked into place.
I have to get back to the palace and warn Master
Petrucio,
Randal thought as he began to prowl around the room.
No other doors presented themselves, and the fireplace
was blocked a few feet above the grate
by close-set iron bars. This was a luxurious
prison, but a prison nonetheless.
He tried the door.
Locked. Why am I not surprised?
He laid an ear to the crack.
Someone's standing there, trying to be quiet. A
guard
-I
think.
Randal cast the spell of magical resonance. The
spell would come back like an echo from any magical
object or spell nearby, and from any other
wizard.
A faint trace of magical energy returned to him
on the spell's echo, but the power was weak, coming from
nothing more than a healwife or a self-taught
hedge-wizard.
If I'm lucky, whoever it is won't even have
noticed the resonance-spell. And if he
does-well, why shouldn't Master Edmond be looking
over his new accommodations?
Reassured, he cast the spell of silent
unlocking. The young wizard sensed, rather than heard, the
bolt slide open. He waited for a second, and
then opened the door a bit and peered through the
narrow gap. His view of the hall outside was
blocked by a broad, armored back.
Randal eased the door shut, uncertain whether the
emotion that gripped him was fear or contempt.
Prince Vespian's laws against the use of magic
in the city of Peda had done this much:
Bartolomeo and his henchmen had no clear idea of
how to deal with wizards.
They need more than bolts and guardsmen, if they
don't want the hired help to run away.
Randal paused a moment to draw breath, then cast the
spell he'd been using to provide offstage sounds
for Vincente and the other actors back in Peda. A
second or so later, he was pleased to hear the
noise of footsteps approaching, sounding like someone
sneaking up around the corner.
The tap-tap of phantom heels on tile stopped
just short of the corner. Randal listened for the sound of the
guard going to investigate. He waited a moment
longer, then cracked the door again. This time the
guard's back no longer blocked his view.
Quickly, before the man could return from checking on the
noise, Randal slipped out. By the time the guard
returned, having found no one, the door was shut
again, and Carvelli -- or at least a fair
imitation of him-stood waiting.
I think I got Carvelli's appearance right,
Randal said to himself. I
hope the illusion of his voice works as well.
He did his best to put an arrogant snap in his
tone as he looked down his nose at the
guard. "When was the last time you polished that
breastplate?"
The guard looked sheepish. "This morning, my lord,
before I came on watch."
"See that you do it better next time." "Yes, my
lord;" mumbled the guard.
Randal stalked off down the corridor.
That will give him something to think about,
he reflected, so
he won't remember he was ever away from his post.
Still wearing Carvelli's face, he retraced his
steps to the room where he had left the unconscious
man.
Two men guarded the outer doors.
My guess is that these fellows aren't paid to think,
or to question what they see,
Randal thought.
If my disguise worked once, it'll work twice.
He strode up to the doors as if he owned the
villa and all its contents. The man-at-arms on the
right pulled one door open for him as he approached.
Randal stepped through. The door clicked shut behind
him.
The sound of voices brought him up short-from what
Randal could hear, a heated argument was going
on in the next room. He paused for a moment
to listen. Maybe he could learn something useful.
"By thunder and death;" said the voice of the real
Carvelli, "I don't like it. I never liked the
idea of bringing in an outsider, Your Grace, and
I still don't:"
Duke Bartolomeo's smoother voice answered,
"We need him, Carvelli. While I
appreciate all that you have done for me in the past, and
will do in the future, we can't get inside my
brother's defenses without using disguise-and that, you have
told me, lies beyond your skill. Not only that, we
need someone who can kill Petrucio. These things
require a wizard. My brother knows as much. Why
do you think he's banned all magic from the city?"
"If you must rely on purchased wizardry;"
persisted Carvelli, "you'd do well not to keep this
Master Edmond alive beyond his usefulness"
"Nor will I," said Duke Bartolomeo. "But for
now, we need him-and midnight approaches. It's
time we started getting ready."
Footsteps approached the inner door. I
can't let them see me in here,
Randal thought. He pressed against the wall and cast a
spell of invisibility on himself. As
long as I don't move, and they don't touch
me...
The door swung open. The real Carvelli and
Duke Bartolomeo came out, followed by other men
whom Randal didn't recognize. The Duke and his
attendants passed out into the corridor, and the door
crashed shut behind them.
With a sigh of relief, Randal dropped all the
spells he'd been holding in place, except for
his own earlier disguise as the mysterious Master
Edmond. Then he walked over to where he'd hidden the
man he'd been told to kill. The stranger lay
motionless, but Randal saw that his bruises had already
faded under the influence of the healing-spell.
I have to get him out of here,
he thought.
Maybe he can tell me more about what's going on.
Randal touched the man lightly, and the stranger's
eyes opened. The young wizard clamped his hand across the
man's mouth to stop him from talking. The gesture was
needless; the man made no effort to speak.
Randal removed his hand. Laying a finger across his
lips to warn the man to be silent, he stood up again
and walked over to the outer door.
He listened a moment for sounds in the
corridor.
Footsteps. Someone's coming.
He moved quickly back toward the inner room where he
had first met Duke Bartolomeo. No light
showed, and Randal was certain the room was empty. He
went in and gestured for the stranger to follow him.
Once they were both inside, Randal closed the door
after them-and not a moment too soon. Footsteps
sounded in the outer room. The young wizard and the man he
had rescued flattened themselves against the wall.
Again, Randal cast invisibility over himself and his
new companion. I
hope he knows not to move,
Randal thought.
A pale blue light shone around the edge of the door
as it opened. Carvelli came in, the coldflame
glowing above one upraised hand.
So Carvelli is their hedge-magician. That's how
he managed to search my room,
thought Randal.
But if he's been Schola-trained, then I'm the
King of Elf land.
Carvelli turned to Bartolomeo's desk and began
shuffling through the papers that covered it. He scanned
each sheet rapidly before casting it aside.
And all the time he muttered, "Where is it? Where is
it?"
At last, Carvelli found what he was looking for.
He folded the piece of paper and stuffed it into the
pouch at his belt. Then he froze.
Oh, no,
Randal thought.
He suspects something.
Carvelli stepped from beside the desk. He drew a
dagger from his belt with his left hand, even as he
pulled his sword with his right. "Whoever is here, show
yourself," Carvelli said in a low tone as he slowly
circled the desk. He slashed the air in front of
him, a whistling blow, then spun and slashed behind.
He knows someone invisible is here -- he heard one
of us breathing, perhaps-but he doesn't know who or where.
And he doesn't know how invisibility
works,
either.
But Carvelli knew some tricks of his own. The
hedge-wizard cast the cold-flame at the floor.
The light formed a pool at his feet, then began
to spread, slowly illuminating all the objects in
the room. Randal knew that when the magical blue
glow came to the two invisible watchers by the
door, it would cover and outline them both.
Carvelli watched the spreading pool of blue
light. I
could ambush him with a shock-spell, and he'd never have
a chance,
Randal thought.
But I haven't used any of the fighting-spells
since Nick died in Widsegard, and I don't
want to start now. If I have to, I'll cast a
heat-spell on the metal of his sword's grip, so
that he drops it, and then levitate him out the window.
The pool of light reached Randal's feet and began
to climb his legs. Randal didn't dare move his
head to look down, lest the motion break the spell of
invisibility all at once. But Carvelli saw
him anyway.
"Caught you, spy;" Carvelli hissed. "I was
right not to trust you all along" He lunged, his
sword's point aimed at Randal's heart. Randal
jumped aside. The blade missed, ripping the
wide sleeve of Randal's robe as it went by.
Carvelli recovered from the lunge and came back
into line facing Randal. Randal knew that he
himself was no longer invisible -- and the next lunge would
strike true.
Now for the spell of heat,
he thought.
But he had scarcely framed the idea when the man
he'd rescued stepped forward to a point just behind
Carvelli and punched the hedgewizard savagely in
the back of the skull. The coldflame vanished as
Carvelli started to crumple. The other man caught
him and lowered him to the floor without a sound.
"Did you have to do that?" Randal muttered. Almost
automatically, he summoned up a coldflame of
his own to supply enough light to see by, now that
Carvelli's was extinguished. "I had everything under
control"
The other man was rummaging through the pouch at
Carvelli's belt. He looked up as Randal
spoke. "I don't know who you are, wizard-all
I know is that you can't be who you're pretending to be.
So why don't you stay out of my way?"
"You met me this morning;" said Randal, speaking in a
low tone so as not to alert the guards who waited just beyond
the next room. "I'm Petrucio's
journeyman. If you tell me what you're after,
maybe I can help"
The man ignored him. "Aha. Got it." He
pocketed the slip of paper.
"What's that?" Randal asked.
"The list of all the traitors in the palace. Now
let's get out of here and back to Peda"
"You can't walk out of here looking like yourself," Randal
pointed out. "You need a disguise:"
The man nodded toward the unconscious Carvelli.
"How about making me look like him?"
"I can do that." Randal looked again at the man he
had rescued. "By the way, what's your name? I can't
see spending the rest of the night saying "Hey,
'99
you. "You can call me Hernando;" said the man, with a
thin smile. "It's not my name, but it'll do:"
"Well, then-stand still for a moment, Hernando, while I
work the spell:"
For a second time that evening, Randal created a
magical likeness of the unconscious Carvelli.
With the real Carvelli lying close at hand, andwiththe
opportunity this time to observe and make corrections
in his own work, the young wizard felt sure that this
disguise was even better than the first time he'd tried
it.
"There;" he said, stepping back when he was done.
"His own mother couldn't tell the difference now"
Hernando ignored his comment and bent over
Carvelli's limp form. "Give me a hand tying this
fellow up and stuffing him somewhere:"
Together Randal and Hernando stripped Carvelli's
stockings off his legs and used the fabric to bind the
unconscious man's hands and feet. "I'll shove
him under the desk;" said Hernando, pulling the final
knot tight as he spoke. "Can you do something to keep
him there for a while?"
Randal nodded. "I'll put an
invisibility-spell on him and a binding-spell on
the knots. The invisibility won't lift until
he moves, and he can't
move until he manages to break the
binding-spell. That should give us plenty of time to get
past the guards and back to Peda."
The young wizard helped Hernando wrestle the bound and
unconscious Carvelli into place under the desk,
then spoke the words of invisibility and of binding over
the henchman's unmoving form. Then Randal and
Hernando-in the guise of Master Edmond and
Carvelli-walked out of the suite and past the waiting
guards.
Except for those guards, the hallway was deserted.
Randal and Hernando went down that corridor, and then
down others that were equally empty, always heading
in the general direction of the villa's courtyard.
Suddenly Randal stopped. He could hear voices and
footsteps somewhere nearby-and growing nearer.
"We may have trouble;" he said. "I don't think
Master Edmond is supposed to be out of his room just
yet."
Hernando wasted no time. "Quick;" he said. "This
way." The spy took Randal by the forearm and pulled
him down a narrow side corridor, one plainly
meant for the use of the duke's servants. After turning
a couple of sharp corners, the passageway led
straight to a dead end, closed off with a locked and
barred door.
"Where are we now?" asked Randal. "The
dungeons;" said Hernando.
"I didn't know Bartolomeo had any." "He
does. Can you open the door?"
Randal used the unlocking-spell. The door to the
villa's prison swung open. Hernando and the
journeyman locked it again behind them.
They found themselves in a dim hallway with heavy barred
and bolted doors at the far end. The only light
came from moonlight slanting in through the windows of
barred cells that opened off the long hall. All the
cells were empty, except for the last. That
cell contained a white-shirted form, lying on the
straw that covered the floor.
As Randal and Hernando drew near, the prisoner
stirred and looked up. Randal could barely conceal his
surprise-it was Vincente. The actor was
battered-looking and unshaven, but his bright red hair still
proclaimed him unmistakably the same man with
whom Randal had been rehearsing only last night.
Randal dropped his disguise as Master Edmond and
stepped up to the iron grille that separated the cell
from the hallway. "What on earth are you doing here,
Vincente?" he asked.
"Someone caught me as I was walking home;" the
actor replied. "They pulled a sack over my
head and carried me off. When the sack was removed,
here I was-and here I've stayed ever since."
"How long have you been here?" Hernando asked.
"I'm not certain;" Vincente told him. "But it's
been two days, at least, since I arrived."
A cold feeling ran down Randal's spine. Two
days? He had spoken with the actor only last
evening.
If this is the real Vincente, then there's an
IMPOSTOR in the Prince's troupe.
Then another, even colder feeling shivered
through him: A key was turning at the far end of the
corridor, where they had entered. Hastily, Randal
cast the disguising-spell again-barely in time.
The door swung open. Into the pale silver moon
light stepped Bartolomeo, with bodyguards all
around him.
VI. Conspiracy
RELUCTANTLY, RANDAL MADE ready to throw a
shock-spell.
I
His
ll have to trust Hernando to open the far
door while I hold off
the guards
,
he thought,
and I don't know
what
to do about poor Vincente....
But before he could act, Duke Bartolomeo broke
the silence. "Ah, Carvelli;" he said
to Hernando. "I see you've fetched Master Edmond
already. good let's start things moving"
The Duke turned to Randal. "How about it, wizard?
Can you make me look like that man in the
cell?"
Randal let the shock-spell fade away unused.
"Easily, Your Grace;" he said
to Bartolomeo.
His words were true. The Duke and Vincente were already
close to the same height and weight, and while
Bartolomeo was a few years older than Prince
Vespian's leading actor, the gap wasn't wide
,enough to give the young wizard any problems.
"I hope for all our sakes that you're right said
Bartolomeo. "This disguise must pass the inspection
of my brother's wizard, Master. Petrucio-and
I'm
told he has a great reputation in such matters:"
"So he does;" said Randal. "But what he
doesn't suspect he won't look for"
Although if Petrucio doesn't suspect the worst
already,
Randal added to himself,
he certainly will after I've had a word or two
alone with him.
He kept his thoughts to himself. Raising his arms high in
a theatrical gesture borrowed from the appearance of the
ghost in tonight's performance, Randal began the conjuration
to make the Duke look exactly like the
imprisoned actor. He drew out the spell-working
for as long as he could, making the magic a performance in
its own right, as he shaped and colored the Duke's
face and figure.
"Fiat!"
he concluded. It was done. No one looking at the
two men could have told the difference, except for the
dirt and bruises on the face of the real Vincente.
Randal lowered his arms, hoping as he did so that
nobody had noticed the unlocking-spell he'd
worked on the cell door while he was creating the
disguise. There wasn't much he could do for the actor
without betraying himself, but he didn't like the idea of
simply leaving him in Bartolomeo's power.
The Duke looked over at Hernando. "Well,
Carvelli-do you still say we shouldn't have brought Master
Edmond into our plans?"
Hernando shook his head. "No, my lord. The
illusion is an excellent one. But how long will it
hold?" Randal suppressed a smile: The
disguised spy was
clearly worried about the durability of his own
current appearance, as well as the Duke's.
"It's good
until I let it go;" the young wizard said.
"Like all such spells."
"Well, then;" Bartolomeo said, "to the coaches,
and away with us. We have great things to accomplish tonight:"
The Duke turned, his long cloak flaring, and
strode from the cell block. Randal and the others
followed, leaving Vincente alone in the dark.
If he tries the door even once,
Randal thought as he made his way back through the
villa with the rest of the Duke's henchmen,
he'll notice that the lock's been opened. Anything
else will have to be up to him.
In the courtyard, a pair of carriages waited.
A footman opened the door of one for
Bartolomeo, and the Duke climbed inside, motioning
to Randal to come with him. The young wizard entered the
carriage and looked over his shoulder in time to see the
disguised Hernando climbing into the second carriage
with another of the Duke's men.
The Duke reached up and rapped sharply with his
knuckles on the roof of the carriage. The
coachman's whip cracked once in response, and the
carriage lurched forward.
This time the curtains were not drawn, and Randal could
watch their progress across the countryside toward the
city of Peda. As the carriage horses
trotted on, the young wizard leaned back against the
silk cushions and tried to look as though none of this
was a mystery to him. Inwardly, however, his mind was
awhirl with a multitude of confused guesses.
How much do I know,
Randal asked himself,
and
how much do I only suspect? Bartolomeo is
planning to do something tonight during the performance, that much is
certain ... probably to hill Vespian, since
he wants to make himself Prince in his brother's
place.
Randal's thoughts raced on as he sat opposite the
Duke in the swaying carriage.
How can I save the Prince? He's a good ruler,
as far as I've seen, and this brother of his is a
wicked man.
"You're prepared to play your part, of course;"
Duke Bartolomeo began, breaking into Randal's
thoughts. "But if you'll listen for a moment, I can offer
you a reward far greater than what you were already
promised."
The young wizard looked across at Bartolomeo, now
perfectly disguised as the actor Vincente.
Why shouldn't I blast him as he sits?
Randal wondered. It took all his self-control
to keep the temptation from showing on his face, despite
the magical disguise he wore as Master Edmond.
I've known both the shockspell and the lightning
bolt-spell for years, and I've used them both
against men before. Why do I hold my hand now?
Randal sighed inwardly. He knew why he had been
shrinking away from the powerful battlemagics, and the knowledge
was no help at all. I saw
a friend die by magic. I don't know if I can ever
bring myself to use spells like that again.
"You'll still do what you've been hired for, of
course;" Bartolomeo went on, apparently taking
Randal's silence for interest. "Disable the wizard
Petrucio in whatever way seems best to you, but not
before I stand before them all on the stage. When I
enter, make your move comthen, and no sooner."
Randal nodded. "All that I agreed to, I will
perform;" he said.
And that's no lie,
he added to himself. I
promised this man nothing at all.
The thought brought him to the promises he had actually
made.
The Prince doesn't want his brother
harmed, and I can't change the decision for him on my
own.
"Good;" said the Duke. Bartolomeo might be a
cruel, cold man, Randal concluded, but the tension
of the evening was loosening his tongue and making him talk
to relieve his own nervousness. Now he looked at
Randal and said, in a lower voice, "But say, will you
stay on with me and be my court wizard? The gold
I offered to you is still yours, regardless of your
answer."
Randal didn't answer.
Let him think my silence is caution.
The Duke went on after a brief pause. "Once
Petrucio is dead, you will be the only wizard in
Peda.. Think of the power and wealth',
Bartolomeo leaned forward toward Randal and
whispered, "And I need another service, in any
case. I want you to kill Carvelli. I don't
trust him comhe'll be a threat to me as long as he's
alive." The Duke leaned back and continued in
louder tones, "And besides, who needs a
self-taught conjurer when a Schola-trained wizard
can have the honor?"
Randal felt sick.
This man betrays even his own people. I heard
him promise Carvelli that I would be killed as
soon as I'd performed my job.
He forced his voice to remain neutral. "Much
remains to be done tonight,
before we can speak of tomorrow, Your Grace;" he said.
"But this I promise: I will give you your answer
when the Prince is dead"
"Call it done, then;" the Duke said. "Dear
brother Vespian will not see another dawn, and my
blade will do the deed"
With another inward sigh, Randal turned away from
Duke Bartolomeo and went back to looking out the
window.
Prince Vespian doesn't want anyone to harm
his brother. But if Petrucio and I fail, and the
Prince dies
.
.
.
then what Vespian does or doesn't want
isn't going to matter.
And then the time for self-questioning was past. The carriage
reached the palace gates-massive wrought-iron
doors worked with the lion and dulphin device-and
rattled up the long drive between ranks of
armored guards.
Randal sank back against the cushions, trying
to conceal a sudden feeling of dismay. None of the
soldiers who stood guard looked like the ones he'd
seen before, even though over the past weeks he'd come
to recognize most of the palace men-at-arms. But
he had recognized some of the liveried figures-they
were the fighting men who had lounged around the courtyard
of the Duke's villa. Whether Prince Vespian
knew it or not, his brother Bartolomeo already held
the palace.
The two carriages jolted to a halt before a lighted
doorway. Before Randal could decide what to do, the
carriage door opened, and the false Vincente
stepped down and was gone.
Randal hesitated a moment. The man who had
ridden with Hernando in the second carriage walked
up and spoke to him. "Come with me, Master Edmond.
I'll take you to where you'll be standing"
The young wizard nodded, not trusting his voice. The
two of them left the coach and walked through the palace
doors into a lighted passage leading to the grand
ballroom of Prince Vespian's palace.
Inside the ballroom, music and laughter filled
the air. Men and women in elegant clothing
stood in the yellow radiance of countless wax candles.
The Midsummer Revels had indeed drawn guests
from all over the known world-Randal spotted
ambassadors from the surrounding city-states, as
well as a plump Widsegardan merchant and one
or two men in the flowing robes of the far east.
Master Petrucio, however, was nowhere in sight, and
neither was Prince Vespian.
Then Randal heard Lys's familiar alto voice
singing at the far end of the ballroom, and he smiled.
Lys would be able to come and go unhindered.
She'll be able to get word to Petrucio backstage,
he thought,
even if I'm not able to slip away long enough to do it
myself.
He hurried off through the crowded ballroom, heading
for the music, but when he reached his goal, he frowned.
Lys was there, all right, dressed in a fine gown of
black and silver, and playing on a new lute with
exquisite sweetness. But she was seated up above in
the musicians" gallery, where Randal couldn't reach
her.
Still frowning, he stood looking upward for a
moment.
How do I let her know that I'm here?
Then the answer came to him. Just as he had done so
many times before, in market squares across Occitania,
he set up a magical chord below her own music,
then layered on melody and harmony to make a moving
tapestry of sound.
Lys looked down at the crowd below the musicians'
gallery with a surprised expression on her face.
But, polished entertainer that she was, she didn't
miss a beat or sing a false note. Instead, she
switched effortlessly into another song, the same tune
they had used to entertain the crowds as they worked their
way from Widsegard to Occitania.
She knows I've come back,
Randal thought with satisfaction.
But how can I tell her where to find me, without alerting
the entire hall?
He glanced back up at the balcony and bit his
lip in irritation. Lys had vanished while Randal
was thinking about the problem, and now a quartet of
musicians stood in her place. Behind the performers,
a tall, red-haired man stood watching.
Vincente.
No,
Randal reminded himself.
Duke Bartolomeo. I have to get away
and tell Petrucio what's going on. The Prince
mustn't attend the performance tonight.
Randal stole a quick look around the room. He
noticed with relief that the nearest doorway was an
inconspicuous one leading back into the servants' and
actors' quarters. As he looked down the
passage, he saw a tall, red-haired form walk
across the hall and disappear down an intersecting
corridor.
Vincente again.
Randal doubted his eyes for a moment: Perhaps it
had been one of the palace messengers.. Then he
shook his head. No, he was sure. It had been the
actor. Then he looked back to the balcony.
Vincente stood there, just as before.
One of them must be the real one,
thought Randal.
Or
else it
His
s the IMPOSTOR in the troupe
.
But why would that one be here,
if his
master Duke Bartolomeo has taken
his place ... and if he
doesn
't work for
Bartolomeo
,
then where does
his loyalty lie?
Now the young wizard- knew that simply passing a
warning through Lys wouldn't be good enough. Things had
gotten too complicated for that. He had to tell
Petrucio everything-and soon, before matters really
got out of hand. He started toward the guard blocking
the passage out of the ballroom.
I have to get past him somehow without being noticed,
Randal thought.
It's too had invisibility doesn't work on
a moving object.
He considered using another disguise-spell.
No,
that won't work either. People would notice the change.
Besides, I'm keeping up three disguises already.
That's not
my limit, but it's close.
Randal shook his head.
I'm a journeyman wizard; I
should be
able to
slip out of a room full of people without
being seen.
Just as he was about to give up, he suddenly
recalled the actor Vincente's own words from that
interrupted rehearsal of a week or so ago: "Just
give us a flash of light and a loud bang, and it'll
cover
anything awkward"
I've got
it!
Randal thought, smiling to himself. He
started off toward the guarded doorway. When he was
only a pace or so away, he cast the spell
he'd been preparing as he walked.
Without warning, the bracket of candles nearest
the guard blazed up in a flare of brilliant
light. All eyes --including the guard's-turned
to the flash of blue and yellow fire, as all ten of the
candles burned down to their holders at once. In that
moment, Randal took three quick paces past the
guard and into the hallway, then started running.
Nobody followed him.
When all this is over,
he
thought,
I'll
have to thank Vincente
for giving
me the idea I
needed,.:--..
He ducked down passages at random for a while,
and then began to work his way toward Petrucio's
study.
Maybe hg's still there waiting for me
-I
didn't see him in the crowd back in the
ballroom. If he isn't, at least I.can
try to find the Prince from there.
As he hurried through the palace corridors, he
heard in.:ea.the distance the sound of a giant gong being
struck, . and disa herald crying, "All are
invited to the theatre, to join His Grace, Prince
Vespian the Magnificent, Sovereign Ruler
of Peda, in viewing the Midsummer Night's
performance of
The Nephew's Revenge!"
The- young wizard ran even faster, afraid that a
worse tragedy was about to befall the Prince
than had ever been acted for him by his players.
VII. Masks
THE DOOR TO PETRUCIO'S study was closed
when Randal got there, but yellow light showed around the
edges.
Good,
thought Randal.
He's still working.
He turned the knob and entered without knocking.
"Master Petrucio!" he called out as he stepped
over the threshold. "Master Petrucio!"
"Stand right there, you," said a low female voice.
Randal turned toward the sound and saw Lys, already
dressed in her costume for the play. The light from a
many-branched candlestick glittered off the silver
threads in her brocaded gown-and off the knife she
held at the ready in her hand.
"I don't know who you are" she said, "but you shouldn't
have been able to open the door like that "Lys;" said
Randal. "You can put away the knife. It's me."
"Randy?" Lys's blue eyes looked puzzled.
That's right,
Randal thought. I
still look like Master Edmond.
"I should have left you back in Tarnsberg;"
he said
in the language of Brecelande, and let the illusion
lapse.
Lys lowered the knife and smiled. "It
is you!"
"That's right;" said Randal. With his own disguise gone,
he felt less fatigued, although he could still sense the
disguises on Hernando and Bartolomeo draining at
his powers. "But what are you doing here? The play's
about to start.
"I know," she said. "Master Petrucio is
covering for you at the theatre. He told me to meet
you here when you showed up-the door would let me in and out,
he said, but you were the only other person it would open
for. I think Petrucio was worried about you.
"So was I;" said Randal. "Did he give you a
message?"
Lys nodded. "He said that things were changing too fast
to-give you any directions, and you should do as you think
best"
"That's all?" Randal asked in disappointment.
He'd hoped that when he found the master wizard he
could hand him the entire confusing problem. "Duke
Bartolomeo is trying to kill the Prince, and
somebody has to stop him"
Lys put away her knife. "Then let's get
back to the theatre."
Randal extinguished the candles with a puff of magical
breeze, and then he and Lys headed back out into the
palace corridors. They reached the players"
entrance to the theatre, and Randal paused. "You can
look for Petrucio backstage;" he said.
"Tell him to stop Vincente any way he can:"
"Vincente? But what's he-was
"I'll explain later," said Randal hurriedly.
"I'd better go around to the front to warn the
Prince:" Before mingling back among Bartolomeo's
men,
he cast the disguise-spell on himself again-the
appearance of Master Edmond was becoming easier and
easier to slip into each time he made the change.
Then he started down the hall. When he got close
to the main entrance of the Prince's theatre, Randal
slowed to a pace more befitting a gray-haired wizard
of Master Edmond's years and walked unquestioned past
the guards at the door.
Inside the theatre, Prince Vespian's guests
packed the ranks of cushioned benches. From where
Randal stood at the back of the room, he could see
the Prince sitting in the center of the front
row-the ruler's massive throne rose up out of the low
benches like a wooden mountain. Master Petrucio
sat in the row behind the Prince, just a few feet
away from him.
I've got to warn them,
thought Randal. He began edging along the side of the
room, making his way toward the Prince a row or so
at a time. He hadn't gone far when a hand fell
on his shoulder. He turned and recognized the man
who had escorted him from Bartolomeo's carriage
into the palace.
"Thank goodness you're here!" said the Duke's
henchman. "I thought I'd lost you. Hurry up and
get into position-if Vespian's wizard isn't
taken care of, our endeavor will be over before it even
starts, and so much for all our hopes."
He took Randal by the elbow and pushed him
farther . forward, until the young wizard was standing against
the wall in a spot directly in line with where
Master Petrucio sat.
So close,
thought Randal.
But he doesn't know I'm here. If I call out,
Bartolomeo's man will probably kill me ...
unless I take care of that one first.
Randal slowly clenched his right hand into a fist. His
disguise as Master Edmond hid the long scar across
his palm, but he could feel the old wound aching with the
gesture.
This is no quarrel of mine,
he thought. I
could still walk out of here and let these southerners fight
each other without my help.
But Master Petrucio had trusted him. . . . The
young wizard sighed and began to make ready the spells
that would render the Duke's henchman unconscious and
allow Randal to defend himself against Bartolomeo's
other followers in the theatre long enough to call out his
message. Then he had another idea. I
can use the spell of magical resonance instead,
he thought, with relief.
Petrucio has to notice it-he'll know that it's
me.
Randal cast the resonance-spell. As he'd
expected, magical power came back at him from
several sources. Randal could sense a number of
minor charms at work on the stage and in the wings the
actors' disguises and the illusory effects for the first
act.
Petrucio's covering for me like he said he
would.
Over and beyond the lesser MAGIC'S, the master
wizard's power echoed back at the journeyman like
silent thunder. But as the effects of the resonance
spell died away, Randal frowned. He'd
purposely directed most of the spell's force
toward the spot
where Master Petrucio sat, only a few paces
away from the Prince-but the dark-haired figure in the
cloth-of-gold robes had no feeling of magic about
it at all.
Illusion?
Randal wondered. He thought of casting the spell of
true seeing, but an elbow jabbed into his ribs before
he could act.
"Make yourself ready now, Master Edmond,"
whispered the conspirator. "And look to the stage"
Randal looked, in time to see a pale and
distracted-seeming Lys turn to stage left and
deliver the line that heralded Vincente's first entrance
as the Nephew:
"But who is this who walks the house by night?"
Promptly on cue, Vincente comno, Randal
reminded himself, Bartolomeo -- strode from the wings
onto the stage. Bartolomeo's likeness
to the red-haired actor was exact, but with a closer
look, Randal was able to detect the lingering traces of
his own magic clinging to the disguise. The Duke wore
the black and silver costume Vincente had chosen
for the Nephew as a compliment to the Prince, and carried
the Nephew's drawn sword in his hand.
As Randal watched, Bartolomeo strode forward to the
front of the stage, as if to deliver the first
soliloquy-only to cry out in a loud voice,
"Happy Midsummer, brother!" and leap down
to drive his sword..-point through Vespian's
body.
In the same moment, Master Petrucio, or the
illusion of him, vanished completely. Bartolomeo
pulled out his bloodied sword and ran back up the
steps at the side of the stage.
"People of Peda!" he shouted.
The men and women in the audience had rushed forward
toward the slumping figure of the wounded Prince. At
the sound of Bartolomeo's voice, they halted-and
then drew back gasping as another figure in
black and silver ran out of the wings with sword in hand.
Vincente!
"Coward!" the actor shouted, in a voice that carried
to the balconies. "Killer of unarmed men!
Fight
me!"
Bartolomeo turned, his sword-point red.
Blades clashed as the two Vincentes faced one
another across naked steel.
The Duke's henchman was babbling in Randal's
ear-something about "doing a good job there with Vespian's
wizard"-but Randal barely heard him. The young
wizard was too busy casting the spell of magical
resonance again, in a desperate attempt to find the
vanished Petrucio. But once more he failed
to locate the older wizard. Worse, the sense of
Petrucio's magic had weakened and started to fade.
I've got to get to the Prince,
Randal thought.
If I don't work the healing-spells soon, he's
going to die
. . .
and a wound like that isn't something I can handle from across the
room.
He looked at the frightened audience, some of them
pressing forward toward the front row, others struggling
to escape out the rear of the theatre, where guardsmen
turned them back. The uproar
was deafening. I'll
never make it through all these people.
Randal glanced at the Duke's henchman. His
attention was focused on the two swordsmen, Duke
and actor, fighting on the stage.
Time to do my vanishing act again,
Randal thought, and ran out the back of the theatre.
A guard moved as if to stop him, lowering a halberd
across the doorway. Randal snapped, "The Duke's
business!" and pushed the halberd aside.
Then he was out in the hallway and running. The
stairway to the prop-loft was nearby, off a turn in
the corridor. Randal found the door, unlocked it
with a quick spell, and started climbing the staircase.
At the top, the stairs opened into a wide, flat
area with a trap door in the center. Randal lifted the
trap door and found himself looking down onto the
stage from above.
The play had broken off in mid-scene with
Bartolomeo's entrance, and the actors had scattered
into the wings, but directly below Randal, Bartolomeo
and Vincente still fought to and fro across the boards.
Another time, Randal might have been amused by their
style of fighting-all thrust and parry, with none of the
long, arcing edge-cuts that enabled the heavier swords
of Brecelande to cut through chain mail and
leather-but now his eyes were fixed on the men themselves.
I saw this, too, in my vision. Identical men,
struggling, with Petrucio trapped between them.
"How much;" he heard one Vincente say to the other
as their sword-blades met and parted, "how much-do I
have to pay you comto lay down your sword?"
"Assassin!" snarled the other Vincente, as he
lunged again. "Keep your-blasted money!"
The fight went on. Beyond the two swordsmen,
Randal saw Vespian slumped, bleeding, in his
chair. One of the Prince's courtiers was trying
to stop the flow of red with what looked like a
lace-trimmed handkerchief. A few feet away,
the disguised Hernando was pushing his way toward the
Prince through the crowd of spectators.
He's going to need some help,
thought Randal.
He'll never be able to get Prince Vespian out of
there alone.
He looked about the crowded prop-loft. A coil of
rope hung from a peg nearby. Randal took it and
made one end fast to a beam that supported the roof
overhead.
He paused for a moment on the lip of the trap door.
I'd better look like myself again,
he decided.
Bartolomeo's people don't know who I really am, and
this way, "Master Edmond" won't be seen helping
the Prince.
With a word, he dispelled the illusory features of
Bartolomeo's hired wizard and resumed his own
appearance. Then he tossed down the rope. Before it
fell completely, Randal wrapped the heavy
sleeves of his journeyman's robe around his hands.
He grasped the rope through the cloth and launched himself
into space, sliding down onto the stage below.
Lys ran out to him from the wings as soon as his feet
hit the boards. "Randy-you have to heal the Prince!"
"I'm trying to get to him;" Randal said. "But
everybody's in the way!"
He gestured at the strip of stage between the two of
them and Prince Vespian. Back and forth across that
space, the two Vincentes fought on, so deep in
their combat that they didn't notice Randal's
arrival.
"Come with me;" said Lys. She ran back off into the
wings, and Randal went after her in time to see her
lifting up a trap door like the one overhead. She
dropped down through it, and Randal followed.
"We keep props and supplies down
here;" he heard her say, in a calmer voice, "and
there's another door under the front of the stage. You
remember they brought the benches out through it yesterday
evening" And then, "Oh, no. The storeroom
door's locked from the outside:"
"Let me;" Randal said, as he cast yet another
in what felt like the longest series of
unlocking-spells he'd ever cast. He heard a
clank as the outer bolt moved aside, and then he and
Lys pushed the door open. From under the stage, they
could see the Prince sagging in his throne, the blood still
flowing from the wound in his shoulder.
"Close your eyes," Randal said to Lys. He
threw a ball of brilliant light into the air,
strong enough to dazzle the onlookers, and then ran out of
his hiding place before anyone could recover. He
grabbed the Prince, pulling him from his seat, and
half-dragged, half-carried the bigger man back
to the stage-front.
"Grab his legs!" he called to Lys. He pushed
Vespian's limp body through and scrambled back
into the storage space after it, swinging the door shut
behind him.
It was dark in the storage room under the stage.
Randal summoned up a sphere of
cold-flame and looked down at Prince
Vespian by its chilly, bluewhite light.
The ruler of Peda was in a bad way. Blood
matted the black velvet of his tunic, and more of the
dark fluid flowed from the wound in his shoulder. His dark
features had gone pale, reminding Randal of how his
cousin Walter had looked after the demon fight in
Master Balpesh's tower, when the young knight had
lain near death from his wounds.
"Is it too late?" asked Lys. "Can you still
help him?"
"I hope so," said Randal. Most wizards
scorned healing-spells as work that any untaught
healwife or country shepherd could do as well-but
Randal had learned the spells from a master wizard
who had made them his particular study.
Lys bent closer to the wounded Prince, and then
looked up at Randal. "He's trying to say
something;" she said. "But I can't understand him."
Randal halted his preparations. Lys was right the
Prince was muttering a continuous stream of words. The
young wizard leaned forward to listen.
It's no wonder Lys can't understand him,
Randal thought in astonishment. The young wizard looked
up at Lys. "He's talking in the Old
Tongue"
"Can you tell what he's saying?"
Randal nodded. "It's a continuation-spell-it makes
other spells permanent, so that they can stay in place
after the death of the wizard who cast them"
"But Prince Vespian isn't a wizard!"
protested Lys.
"No, he isn't;
his
said Randal. He spoke the words that would dispel
illusion and caught his breath as the magic took
effect. The man who lay bleeding on the floor was
the master wizard, Petrucio.
"Master Petrucio!" Randal cried. "What are
you doing here? And where is the Prince?"
The master wizard gave no answer, but kept on
muttering the words of his conjuration.
"Fiat!"
he ended, and drew a long, gasping breath. He
let it out in a sigh. "The spell is done -- and so
am I, I think"
"You're not going to die;" Randal said. "I'm going
to heal you. But tell me first, quickly-where's the
Prince, and what's going on?"
"Ah, Randal;" whispered Petrucio.
"I thought it was you." His eyes opened and focused on
the young journeyman. "Bartolomeo is trying
to kill the Prince -- I didn't expect his
The master wizard's eyelids started to flutter and
close again, and Randal said urgently, "The Prince
Master Petrucio, where is the Prince?"
"Vespian?" Petrucio's voice was fading.
"Where he always is, in the . . . was The words
trailed off into silence.
VIII. The Prince's Friends
"HURRY, RANDY!" exclaimed Lys. "He's
almost gone."
Randal was already speaking the words of strength and
wholeness. Petrucio's breathing slowed and steadied,
and the blood stopped trickling down his chest as the wound
closed over. Soon the master wizard lay deep in
a healing sleep.
Randal sat back against one of the thick wooden
pillars that supported the stage from underneath. His own
breath came ragged and heavy for a few moments.
Casting a healing-spell always tired him, and now he
had done it twice in one day, once for Hernando and
once for Petrucio.
Overhead, the stage floor vibrated with the noise
of the sword fight going on above, where
Vincente or his double-still held the Duke locked in
single combat. Randal was tempted to rest in the dark
storeroom for a while longer, but he forced himself back
onto his feet.
Whether he knows it or not, and wherever his true
loyalties may lie, Vincente is buying us time.
We can
't afford
to waste
any of it.
Lys had followed Randal's upward glance. When
he stood, she rose to her feet, as well. "What
do we do now?" she asked.
"We save the Prince;" Randal told her. "Or
we try to, anyway. Wherever he is."
He heard her give a faint sigh. "Before we go
any further, let me see if I have this straight.
You really are Randal of Doun, and not some other
wizard who happens to look like him for the moment. Right
so far?"
Randal nodded.
Lys crossed her arms on her chest. "Then you have
to be the same Randal of Doun who swore last
night at rehearsal that he'd given up trying
to cure the world's problems. Are you sure you
know what you're doing?"
"I'm me, and you're Lys, and this man lying here is
Master Petrucio. And that;" Randal concluded in
weary tones, "is about
all
that I'm sure of. But I've taken the Prince's
hospitality, and I can't stand by and see him
murdered:"
"You picked a fine time to get back your sense of
duty;" Lys told him. She looked at him for a
moment in the glow of the witchlight. "So you're going out
there. What then?"
"Find the Prince;" said Randal. "And save him,
if I can. was He glanced down at the motionless form
of Master Petrucio, still deeply asleep on the
dusty floor of the under-stage, and then he looked
back at
Lys. "You'll be safe down here. IT put a
locking-spell on all the entrances as I go out, just
in case. Master Petrucio should be able to break it
easily enough once he recovers, but I don't think
anybody else in Peda is that good:"
Lys was already shaking her head. "I'm not going to stay
idle down here in the dark while you're up there trying
to get yourself killed"
"Killing a wizard is harder than it looks;" said
Randal. "But we don't have time to argue. Come on,
then."
The young wizard retraced his way to the trap door that
led up into the wings of the stage and flung it open. He
climbed out as fast as he could, with Lys following.
As soon as she was clear, he slammed down the
trap door and cast the locking spells.
At least Master Petrucio is safe,
he thought, and turned his attention to the theatre.
From where Randal and Lys stood in the wings,
they could tell that nothing had changed for the
better. Vincente and Bartolomeo still fought up and
down the front of the stage-seeing them together, Randal
could pick out the Duke by the disguise-spell covering
him.
But when I concentrate
,
there's something about Vincente
that feels funny
, too.... I wish I knew what it was.
Out beyond the stage, people no longer crowded around
Vespian's throne as they had a few minutes
before. Men-at-arms in black and silver lined the
walls of the theatre and blocked its entrance.
Some of the guards carried heavy crossbows, with
short, stubby bolts already laid in place and ready
to shoot.
A crossbow bolt could go through metal: Randal
didn't blame the silk and velvet-clad audience
for keeping still.
So far, though, the guards hadn't interfered with the duel
onstage, where Vincente and the disguised Bartolomeo
were engaged in a precise and deadly passage of
arms. Identically booted feet stamped on the
wooden stage as the two men lunged back and forth,
and the slender blades of their swords clicked as the
weapons met and parted. Guards and audience alike
watched as if held in place by a powerful spell.
It
's fear,
Randal realized,
fear that's holding them
.
Nobody can tell the two Vincentes apart, and
nobody wants to chance shooting the wrong man.
Suddenly the duelists separated and stood for a moment
as if frozen, with their blades still crossed near the
tips. Bartolomeo and Vincente seemed as
closely matched in skill and speed as if
they had been twins in truth, and Randal knew that in
that motionless silence each man would be watching the
other-looking for that first hint of flinching or hesitation
that would provide an opening.
Then a third slender, red-headed figure sprang
out of the wings, on the side opposite Randal and
Lys, and joined the two duelists in the center of the
stage. Vincente.
The
real
Vincente, Randal was sure of it comth one was
Bartolomeo's kidnapped original, still. wearing the
black hose and loose white shirt he'd comworn
in the cell at the villa.: Like his two
duplicates, the actor held a sword in his hand.
But if
that's
Vincente,
Randal thought,
and one
of the
others is Bartolomeo,
then who's the third one-and which side is he really
on? The newcomer swept his blade down onto the
crossed swords of the duelists in a
stroke that beat all
three blades point downward toward the floor. In
ringing tones, he declaimed the opening words from Act
Two of
The Nephew's
Revenge:
"So, brothers, we are met again!"
Bartolomeo spat out a curse. With a little
concentration, Randal could see through his disguise and discern
the Duke's features beneath.
But to Randal's surprise, the other blackandsilver
Vincente laughed aloud as he stepped back into the
guard position. "Well met, indeed, my
brother!" he called out-the next line of the play, and
one that made the actor laugh in his turn. As if
on an unspoken signal, the two men turned together
to threaten Bartolomeo.
The Duke stepped back, and Randal saw his eyes
go to the crossbowmen lining the walls of the theatre.
No, you don't!
thought Randal.
Before anyone could give the order to shoot, the young
wizard summoned up a blast of magical wind.
The wind blew down the length of the theatre like the first
gust of a blizzard, and all the candles
extinguished themselves as one. Darkness filled the room,
and a woman screamed. Randal heard the thrumming
noise of a single released bowstring, and the solid
chunk!
of a crossbow bolt burying itself in wood.
With a smell like burning string, the spluttering
candles lit themselves again.
Who did that?
wondered Randal.
It wasn't me, and Petrucio would never be so
clumsy.
A quick motion out in the audience caught the young
wizard's eye. It was Carvelli comn the disguised
Hernando;
that
man was pushing his way toward the nearest side door,
with the expression of one who wasn't going to let a
mere guard halt his escape. The Carvelli who
stood framed in the theatre's rear entrance was the
genuine article, the Duke's hedgewizard whom
Hernando had stunned and left behind in Bartolomeo's
villa.
"My Lord Bartolomeo!" he shouted, from the back
of the theatre. "My Lord Bartolomeo! Treason!"
But the disguised Bartolomeo was gone;
only the other two Vincentes remained. As Randal
watched, the two men-one in black and silver, one in
a prison-stained white shirt and plain black
hose exchanged glances and ran offstage.
"Where are they going?" Lys exclaimed at
Randal's elbow.
"I don't know ..." began Randal, and then all his
memories of the palace clicked together. "Secret
door;" he said. "There has to be a door
backstage to the secret passage."
"Can you find it by magic?" she asked.
"Not fast, but I can try-no, wait. Master
Petrucio's study!" Once more he invoked the
disguise-spell and assumed the form of Master
Edmond, Duke Bartolomeo's hired wizard.
"Let's hope the guards at the actors" entrance
still think I'm on their side. Come on"
Luck was with them; a curt "Duke's business"
got them past the guards and out into the hall. As soon
as Randal and Lys were out of sight around the first
corner, the young wizard changed back to his own
appearance. Then he started off at a run through the
narrow corridors of the servants' wing, with Lys
following behind as fast as her long skirts would allow.
She caught up with him while he was opening
the door to Petrucio's study. "Now I
remember why I always liked short tunics and
stockings for the road;" she said ruefully. "There's enough
cloth in this gown to make a tent"
The door to the room swung open as she spoke.
Randal hurried across to the panel that hid the secret
door and slid it aside. "From here we can get to the
Prince's private apartments;" he said over his
shoulder to Lys. "If we find Vespian alive
anywhere, it'll be there."
"Then what are we waiting for?" Lys stepped past
him into the dark mouth of the entrance. Then she drew
back again, almost bumping into him in her haste.
"Listen!" she exclaimed. "What's that noise?"
Randal froze. Now he, too, could hear a sound that
had become familiar to him during the past hour-the
clash and whisper of a pair of thin, sharp Pedan
swords striking and sliding against one another.
"They're coming this way;" he said. "Let's get
back out into the hall:"
Together, they retreated to the far side of the hallway.
"Don't move;" murmured Randal as soon as
he felt the cool wood of the paneled wall at his
back. "I'm going to make us invisible. I want
to see what's going on."
He said the words of the spell-and barely in time. The
clashing of metal on metal grew louder. Within the
darkened workroom, a pair of shadowy figures
emerged from the open door of the secret passage.
Faint candlelight slanted in from the hallway and
glinted off the blades of their swords as they fought.
The two figures were identical in size and
height, but Randal could tell them apart by their clothing,
even from where he stood. One man wore black and
silver, making him a darker patch of shadow where
metallic threads picked up the light and glittered
like distant stars. The loose white shirt of the
second man was a pale, moving blob in the dimness
as he parried his opponent's thrusts.
That one's Vincente,
Randal thought.
The Vincente I
freed from the cell
at the Duke's villa
,
anyway
.
So the other must be Bartolomeo
himself.
A moment's concentration confirmed his guess
the disguise-spell he had wrought for the Duke was still in
place. The other man must have overtaken
Bartolomeo somewhere in the secret passage and
tried to stop him. But before Randal could act to stop
Bartolomeo and bring an end to the fight, the Duke
lunged and put his sword through his enemy's body.
The other man fell bleeding to the floor. The Duke
stood looking at his former opponent for the space of a
few heartbeats. "You were clever" he said, "but you
came too late. As for your twin, whoever he
really is -- I'll serve him as I did my own,
once Peda
is mine:"
He bent down and wiped the blood off his sword
with the tail of the man's shirt, then stepped back through
the open entrance of the secret passage and vanished
into the dark.
Randal dropped the invisibility-spell as soon as
he
dared and ran into the workroom with Lys close at his
heels. He struck up the cold-flame, filling
the chamber with pale blue light, and knelt over
Vincente's body.
Blood still flowed from the man's wound,
spreading out over the white linen shirt in a
dark, ugly stain. Lys knelt down opposite
Randal. In the witchlight, her face looked
unhappy and bleached of color.
"Is he dead?" she asked.
"No," said Randal. "The wound isn't a mortal
one -- I can heal him:" He laughed briefly,
without mirth. "If Bartolomeo had been the type
to make certain, instead of making speeches, the story
might be different."
"Heal him if you can;" said 'a voice from the
hallway behind them -- Vincente's voice, grown
familiar to both of them through the long hours of
rehearsal. Randal looked around quickly and saw that the
speaker was indeed the Vincente in black and silver,
the one who had first challenged Bartolomeo while
Petrucio lay stricken. Now the newcomer.-con :
comtook a step forward to gaze at the bloodied
figure of his double.
"Here's another one who has paid dearly tonight
for his loyalty," said the man in black and silver.
"Do
your best for him--but hurry. I know where the Duke will
be going."
Randal nodded and worked a spell to close the
wound and keep the injured man safely
asleep until help could come..
Thank goodness he wasn't hurt as badly as
Master Petrucio. This makes the third healing
I've done today.
When the work was finished, Randal rose to his feet,
swaying a little with momentary dizziness. The man in
black and silver caught him by the arm and steadied him.
"Neatly done;" he said to . the young wizard. "Now
let's be off."
"Wait a minute:" It was Lys who spoke, standing
on the threshold of the secret passage with her
knife once more in her hand. "Just who
are
you, anyway?"
"The same Vincente you've always known,
Demoiselle Lys;" said the man with a courtly
bow. "And a true friend of the Prince-which is more
important now, I think." He stepped past her
without another word, ignoring the knife as if it
didn't exist, and became a shadow moving swiftly
off into the darkness.
Randal and Lys hurried after him, with the coldflame
lighting their way. Several minutes later, the man
ahead paused, pushed aside a sliding panel, and
stepped out of the passage into a darkened
room. Randal and Lys followed.
By the light of the cold-flame, Randal saw that the
room contained a simple bed and rows of
bookshelves. The man in black and silver-call
him Vincente,
Randal thought,
since he seems to think he's got
a right to the name-closed
the panel and motioned Randal and Lys forward to the double
doors on the other side of the room.
Vincente put his eye to the crack where the two
doors met, peered through, and shook his head. "He's
here already;" he said. "That's going to make things a
bit harder."
Curious, Randal bent and looked through the keyhole
of one door into the adjoining room. The narrow view
wasn't the best he could have asked for, but he
glimpsed enough of the next room to recognize the
royal apartments he had seen that morning-or was it
yesterday morning by now8when he had accompanied
Master Petrucio to his audience with the Prince.
There was a man seated at the Prince's desk. But
it wasn't the Prince. The seated figure moved,
putting his booted feet up on the desk and leaning
back in a comfortable position. Now Randal
recognized him-Duke Bartolomeo's
hedgewizard, Lord Carvelli.
A door opened in the far wall beyond the desk, and
Duke Bartolomeo -- still disguised as Vincente
stepped into the room. Carvelli swung to his
feet.
"Which one are you?" the hedge-wizard asked.
Bartolomeo gave a triumphant laugh. "You
know me, Carvelli. Vespian is dead by my hand
comand I am the rightful ruler of Peda!"
Ix.
Sword Dance
RANDAL SQUINTED THROUGH the keyhole at the two
men in the next room. With his view so limited, and
both the Duke and Carvelli moving in and out of
sight, it was hard to tell reality from illusion without
casting a spell of magical resonance. He
closed both eyes and concentrated instead on the feel
of magic in the air.
"Wait a minute;" he murmured, as much to himself as
to Vincente and Lys. "That's not Carvelli, that's
Hernando"
"Who?" whispered the others, as one voice.
"One of Petrucio's men;" said Randal. "He's
on our side"
In the other room, Bartolomeo strode up and
down, gesturing grandly with the sword he still carried in
his right hand. "I rule now, Carvelli. Fetch
Master Edmond, so that I can regain my true
face and form"
Randal saw the disguised Hernando hesitate.
Bartolomeo lifted the tip of his sword slightly
and pointed with it toward the door. "Make haste,
Carvelli. My loyal subjects await me in
the theatre." In the darkened inner chamber, the man
called
Vincente touched Randal on the arm. "This Master
Edmond," said the older man, low-voiced. "Do you
know him well enough to put on his face?" -- "Yes;"
said Randal, biting back a smile. "I do:"
"Good. Go back into the passage and turn left
you'll find another door opening out through a
fireplace."
Randal nodded, remembering his journey through the
secret passage with Petrucio the morning before.
"I know the door you're talking
about:"
"Then let the Duke's henchman find Master
Edmond there;" Vincente continued. "The sooner
Bartolomeo puts on his true face, the
sooner we can begin to work our way out of this tangle"
Randal gave another nod and ducked back into the
passageway, assuming the guise of Master
Edmond as he went. He came out through the
fireplace in time to watch Hernando striding past him
toward the doors at the far end of the long room.
Randal stepped away from the hearth and cleared his
throat.
Hernando turned. "It's about time you showed up again;"
the spy growled in an angry whisper.
"Bartolomeo's won, thanks to you-if you'd been
doing your job, Vespian wouldn't be dead."
"He's not dead;" said Randal. "I still don't know
where the Prince is, but I know Bartolomeo got the
wrong man"
Hernando drew a sharp breath through his teeth.
"Then the game may not be lost ... at least not
yet. Come on, let's play it out to the end"
The disguised agent turned and headed back into the
royal apartments with Randal following close behind him.
They walked through the doors surmounted with the
lion-and-dolphin ornamentation, into the room where
Randal had met Vespian the day before. This time,
however, it was Bartolomeo who waited, still wearing the
actor Vincente's face.
The Duke smiled as Randal entered. "Now then,
Master Edmond, we are met in much happier
circumstances. Only undo what you did before, and the
evening will be ours."
"Easily done, Your Grace;" said Randal,
suiting the action to his words. The disguise fell
away from Bartolomeo, revealing once more the
Duke's true features-so like, and so unlike, those
of the Prince. "You are yourself again."
"Our thanks, Master Edmond;" said the Duke.
"In days to come, you will find us suitably
grateful. In the meantime . . ." Bartolomeo
reached into his brother's desk and pulled out a handful
of gold coins. "Consider this a partial payment for
services already rendered" . Randal shook his head.
"We can settle accounts
later, Your Grace:"
"Very well;" said Bartolomeo. He pocketed the
coins and turned to the disguised Hernando. "Come,
Carvelli-it's time we presented ourselves at the
theatre"
Bartolomeo strode out of the Prince's study, with
the disguised Hernando close on his heels. Randal
waited for a few moments, until he was sure the
two men were out of earshot, and then looked at
the doors leading to the bedchamber.
"Lys?" he called softly. "Vincente?"
The doors opened, and the others emerged. The man who
called himself Vincente had a tenseness about him that
Randal hadn't noticed before.
"So the usurper has his own face again;" Vincente
said. He turned to Randal and Lys. "Now to see
who in the palace is loyal and who is not. Are you
with me?"
"Where are we going?" Lys asked.
Vincente gave a brief laugh. "Where else should
actors go but to the theatre? Most of the guests will
prove true to Vespian, I think-if they
believe they have some choice besides Duke
Bartolomeo or chaos."
The actor stepped through the secret door and
beckoned to Randal and Lys to follow. Once again,
his shadowy black-and-silver figure led them
rapidly along the hidden passage. Some of the
narrow, tunnel-like corridor Randal remembered from
the day before, when he had come to the Prince's quarters
with Master Petrucio, but the rest of it was
unfamiliar. Vincente, however, seemed to find his
way without pausing to think.
"You certainly know your way around the
palace;" Randal observed as they half-walked,
half-ran down a cramped and sloping hallway that
was lightless except for the glow of Randal's
coldflame.
"I was born and raised here;" Vincente said.
"Secret passages make wonderful hiding
places for a small boy. By the time I grew up and
joined the Prince's players, I knew as much about
His Grace's palace as he did himself." Once
again, the actor laughed. "I never suspected my
old pranks would turn out to be useful someday-and here
we are:"
"Where's here?" asked Lys. The passage had
narrowed to a dead end where the three of them stood facing
a closed door set into a brick wall. "This
place has more secret doorways than a cheese
has holes."
"We're inside the archway over the front of the
stage," Vincente told her. "On stage right it's
solid masonry, but this side is hollow.
Bartolomeo escaped through here when the candles went
out-^wh doing was that, anyway?"
"Mine;" admitted Randal. "He was about to order his
crossbowmen to shoot:"
"Reckless of him;" said Vincente. "But
typical. Most of the other guards are still loyal to the
Prince, I think-they've just been given bad
orders. Once things have settled down, the Prince
can sort out the confused ones from the turncoats
easily enough:"
"What makes
you
so sure the Prince is alive?" Lys asked.
"Call it a hunch;" said Vincente. The actor
turned to the door and opened it a crack. He
looked out through the tiny opening, nodded to himself with an
expression of satisfaction, and turned back to the
others. "Randal-put one of your disguise-spells
on me, to make me look like Vespian, and together
we can end this farce:"
Randal thought back to the healing-spell he'd worked in
the theatre the morning before, and how Vincente had
spoken to him then of being a power in the state. "If
I help you;" the young wizard said slowly, "how can
I be certain that you'll return the Prince's throne
to him after you've played your part?"
Vincente met Randal's gaze without flinching. "On
my honor-Vespian will rule by dawn, or I will
be dead:"
Randal looked at the actor for a moment
longer, and then nodded. "I'll hold you to that."
"So be it," said Vincente. The actor's face was
pale and solemn in the blue-white glow of
Randal's coldflame. "But why should you care who
governs Peda?"
"I don't know," Randal replied. "I've
scarcely met the Prince ... but I've seen his
city, and it seems to me that no one but a good man could
produce such peace and plenty, and such lack of
fear. And if I don't help a good man when he
needs it, then who will help me?"
"Well spoken;" said Vincente. "We are
agreed, then."
Randal nodded. "Stand still a minute while I work the
spell:" Once more, he murmured the words that would
create a magical disguise-but this time, the spell was
at once harder and easier to cast than it should have
been.
There's something here that I'm missing,
Randal thought as the red-headed actor took on the
dark, irregular features of the Prince. I
wish it wasn't so late and I wasn't so tired.
"When I give the word;" Vincente said after the
spell was finished, "I want you to do that ghost-effect
we've been working on -- and make it as
dramatic as you possibly can, because we're going
to be walking out in front of Bartolomeo's
crossbowmen while they're all looking the other
way. Once we're center stage with the Duke, they
won't dare shoot for fear of hitting him instead"
"I'm ready," said Randal. Vincente drew his
sword. "Begin:"
Again Randal whispered the words of illusion and called
on the spells of sound and light. He couldn't see
the theatre from here in the secret passage, but he'd
worked on the ghost's appearance for almost a month now,
always standing out of sight in the wings, with only
Vincente's criticisms to guide him.
But I never thought that so much would ride on the
performance. First the ghost itself, pale and bloodied, and
tall enough for everyone in the theatre to see it. And then the
sound .. .
Outside in the theatre, a low moaning began, first
softly, then louder, like the wind in pine trees.
Now start the ghost walking forward ... and let it
seem to speak.
... Still working blind, Randal set the phantom's mouth
to moving and shaped the moaning of the wind into words.
"Treason ... revengeff99
Vincente opened the secret door.
"Now," he said, and stepped out onto the stage, with
Randal and Lys close behind him. Randal forced himself
not to look out toward the audience and the horrid, half
transparent ghost that he had spent so much time
and trouble in perfecting. Instead, he concentrated on
the two men in the center of the stage: Duke
Bartolomeo, no longer disguised, and Hernando, still
wearing the face of Bartolomeo's henchman
Carvelli.
Both men stood looking out toward Randal's
illusory ghost. "Traitor! Usurper!" the
apparition moaned again as Vincente, sword in hand,
paced softly to within a few feet of the Duke. Then
the actor made a brief cutting gesture with his
free hand, and Randal made the phantom disappear.
Vincente took one more step forward.
"How now, brother," the actor said into the sudden,
echoing silence, "do you think you are grown so great that you
can sit on my throne and rule my lands?"
Bartolomeo turned. If he felt any shock
at seeing what appeared to be Vespian still alive
and whole, he hid it well. "I thought you were dead;"
he said. "I see now that I was wrong. But that's a
minor problem, and easily corrected."
He drew his own sword.
Randal heard a commotion out in the theatre, and then a
man pushed his way through" the audience and ran up the
steps at the side of the stage. It was the real
Carvelli -- I
d almost forgotten about him,
Randal thought;
that was foolish-and
the hedge-magician's features were contorted with
anger.
"You have a fellow at your side who wears my
face;" he called out to Bartolomeo. "Kill
him-he is our enemy!"
"The man lies;" said Hernando coolly.
"He
is the IMPOSTOR. Shall I kill him for you, Your
Grace?"
"As you will, Carvelli;" said the Duke.
"Settle it between yourselves. My business is with the
Prince:" Bartolomeo had not taken his eyes off
Vincente. Now he smiled. "What do you say,
brother: Shall we see which of us is the better
man-sword against sword, and winner take all?"
"You leave me no choice;" said Vincente. Without
looking away from Bartolomeo, the actor said
to Randal, "Whatever happens,
wizard-hold your hand. This is my fight, not yours"
"Fair enough;" said Bartolomeo with a harsh laugh.
He turned and called to the guards in the theatre,
"This is single combat-you take your orders from the
winner."
A few feet away, Hernando and Carvelli already
stood facing each other over drawn swords. Now
Bartolomeo and Vincente also took positions
opposite one another with their swords at the ready.
For a moment, nobody moved.
Then Hernando stamped his foot, straightened his arm,
and lunged at Carvelli. The hedgewizard swept
the spy's blade aside with his own, so that the point
missed his body, and thrust with his own sword toward.
Hernando. Too late- Hernando had already stepped
back out of range.
Lys tugged at the sleeve of Randal's robe,
pulling him back upstage, out of the way of the fighting.
Randal followed slowly, watching the duelists as he
went-in spite of himself, he was fascinated by the
unfamiliar style of swordwork. To an onlooker
accustomed to the heavy broadswords and thick armor
of the northern countries, the combat looked more like a
dance than like a fight to the death. The four men in the
center of the stage were weaving in a complex
pattern: thrusting, parrying, cutting, lunging,
charging, and withdrawing, their narrow blades moving so
fast the tips could not be seen.
I'd better get a shock-spell ready,
thought Randal.
Just in case the wrong man wins and Lys and I have
to fight our way out of here.
The fight continued, the four men moving gracefully
amid the sound of steel blades clashing together. Then,
as Randal watched, Carvelli stepped back a
pace and gestured with his free hand. The grip of
Hernando's sword began to glow-first dull red, and
then bright.
Carvelli's heating the metal!
thought Randal. He'd used the trick once himself, in
a pinch, to disarm an opponent bent on killing him.
A smell of scorched flesh wafted over the stage,
but Hernando didn't drop the sword. Instead, he
lunged. The point of the spy's weapon touched
Carvelli's chest and slid on home, penetrating
so smoothly that it barely depressed the cloth of the
hedge-wizard's tunic. Hernando snapped back
into guard, still holding his blade before him-and now fresh
blood stained the red-hot metal.
Carvelli looked surprised. Then his
sword fell from nerveless fingers to clatter onto the
floor of the stage. A moment later, Carvelli
toppled, joining his blade. Only then did
Hernando let go of his own sword.
The death of Carvelli seemed to propel
Bartolomeo and Vincente to even more furious
movement. Back and forth they fought. Then the man
closer to the front of the stage -Bartolomeo comreached
back into his pocket with his left hand. In one
smooth movement Bartolomeo snapped his arm
forward, and a handful of gold coins flew
into Vincente's eyes.
The actor flinched back, his eyes involuntarily
shutting, as Bartolomeo followed up his
advantage with a deadly lunge. But Vincente must
have anticipated the attack. He sidestepped, and the
blade passed by, slashing through the black velvet
of his tunic. Red blood stained the white linen beneath.
But Bartolomeo's lunge had carried him too far
forward, and now he was unable to draw back to guard in
time. Vincente, his eyes once more open, drew his
blade in a large circle, binding Bartolomeo's
weapon. Then he stepped forward pressing
Bartolomeo, tightening the circle of his blade.
A final motion of the actor's wrist, and the
blade tore from Bartolomeo's hand and flew across
the stage. Bartolomeo sank to his knees,
Vincente's point at the hollow of his throat.
For a long moment, nobody moved. Finally Vincente
drew back his sword. "I should kill you;" the
actor said to the kneeling Duke. "But we are of the
same blood, after all. Go back to your villa, and
trouble me no more"
Then Vincente turned away from Bartolomeo and
stepped back upstage toward where Lys and Randal still
stood watching. "My friends, I must tell you his
Behind the disguised actor, Bartolomeo rose to his
feet-swiftly, silently, drawing a knife from his
boot as he came. Before Randal's horrified
gaze he started forward, knife at the ready, and
all his attention focused on the center of
Vincente's back.
X.the Gratitude of Princes
FOR RANDAL, THE piece of steel in the Duke's
hand appeared to be moving with almost infinite slowness.
But nobody else on the stage, or in the crowded
theatre, seemed to see it at all. Carvelli lay
dead, and Hernando stood cradling his burned hand against
his chest, gazing down at the hedgewizard's body.
Lys had looked toward Vincente as soon
as the actor turned away from his vanquished
adversary. Vincente himself had his back to the
glittering blade.
Everything was moving so slowly, like falling in a
nightmare. But Randal was all too aware that he was
awake.
Bartolomeo lunged forward. Nothing could stop the
motion that threatened to drive the dagger into Vincente's
body.
I have to knock him aside somehow, and there's no
time-Randal
lifted his hand and cast the shockspell. The magical
blow that he had made ready at the fight's beginning
ripped free from his mind and struck Bartolomeo
full in the chest.
The young wizard watched, his empty hand still upraised.
Too hard. I hit him too hard,
he thought in despair, as the force of the spell
toppled Vespian's brother and sent him flying
backward off the stage, down into the Prince's high,
carved wood throne.
There was a sharp crack as he hit. Randal saw
Duke Bartolomeo sitting in the throne where he had
fallen, the throne he had tried to steal. The
Duke's head was tilted against the back of the
heavy chair at an unnatural angle. The edge
had taken him squarely in the neck and broken it.
He's dead,
Randal thought numbly. I
only wanted to stop him, but he's dead just the same.
Vincente spun around. The disguised actor strode
to the foot of the stage and stood for a long moment looking
down at the dead form so similar to the one he now
wore. He lifted his head and called out in a
tight, controlled voice to the audience and the guards,
"Leave us! Leave us, all of you!"
The people left. Vincente did not look away from the
theatre until all the benches were empty. Then he
turned, and Randal saw that the actor's borrowed
features were pale and stiff with anger.
"How dare you?" Vincente demanded. "How
dare
you strike him down after I forbade it?"
Randal felt his own anger rising in response.
He flung out his arm and pointed at Bartolomeo's
dagger where it had fallen onto the boards of the stage.
"That's why," he said. "The Duke was about to stab you
in the back. And as for forbidding anything you're no more the
real Prince than I am, and I think you've
forgotten the promise you made to me."
The young wizard spoke the words that ended illusion. The
spy Hernando once more had his own features, and not
those of the dead Carvelli, while Vincente's
disguise as Prince Vespian faded away and
left the red-headed actor behind.
Then a deep voice spoke from the theatre, out beyond the
stage. "Acting hastily and speaking hastily are the
two great errors -- especially for a wizard. Let
all of reality be seen, and then we can determine
truth'
The voice belonged to Petrucio. The master
wizard-still pale from his near-fatal wound, but
healed-came up the steps at the side of the stage and
lifted one hand. As he spoke, Randal felt the
snapping sensation of a powerful spell breaking. Behind
him, he heard Lys gasp.
Vincente no longer was Vincente. All trace of the
popular actor had disappeared with the breaking of that last
illusion. The man who stood before Randal was
Vespian the Magnificent, Prince of Peda.
Randal lowered the hand that still pointed to Bartolomeo's
dagger. There was nothing he could think of to say to change
what he had already said, nothing he could think of
to do-no, that was wrong. There was one thing left to do.
He went down on one knee before the
Prince.
"I submit myself to Your Grace's justice;" he
said. He knelt there without looking up for what
seemed like a long time.
Finally the Prince spoke. "Go to your chambers, and
remain until you are sent for."
Randal stood, bowed without meeting the Prince's
eyes, turned, and walked away, forcing himself not
to run. He made his way through the hallways of the
palace like someone in a daze, arriving at his room
more by luck than by conscious effort. He threw himself
across the bed, still fully dressed.
He couldn't sleep. Instead, he lay with his face
buried in his arms, trying to blot out the image of
Duke Bartolomeo sprawling limp and lifeless in
the Prince's carved wood throne. I
didn't mean to kill him. I only wanted to stop
him
-
is it my fault that he lost his balance and fell?
But his wizard's training wouldn't let him lie, even
to himself.
If I hadn't thrown that shock spell at
Bartolomeo, he wouldn't have died.
His memories changed and shifted. Instead
of Bartolomeo, he saw Nicolas Wariner lying
dead in a narrow street in Widsegard.
My fault, too. If I hadn't asked Nick
for help
-
If I hadn't been so quick to get myself involved in
stronger magic than I could handle--then he'd still be
alive.
Randal groaned aloud and for a moment wished he could
forswear magic entirely, even the tricks and
illusions he'd used in the Prince's theatre. But
he hadn't been able to do that before, not even when grief
over Nick's death was still fresh in his mind; he
knew that he could no more abandon wizardry than he
could leave off breathing.
Nick couldn't either,
he realized.
He tried to find a life for himself outside the
Art-but in the end he made his choice and died as a
wizard. I'll always feel responsible for his death,
but he wouldn't want that to stop me from using my own
power when it's needed.
Then another thought came, even more tempting than the
idea of quitting wizardry had been. I
could use my
p
ower now
,
to leave the
p
alace. Lys would come with me, and Petrucio wouldn
His
t stop me.
But when I left Doun to study magic, I made
the decision to accept the consequences of my actions.
I put myself under the Prince's justice, and that
means abiding by
his sentence
,
whatever it might be.
At last, Randal dropped into fitful, exhausted
sleep, only to dream all night of trials and
punishments, of axe and noose and flame.
The next morning, Petrucio himself came
to Randal's chamber at first light. The master wizard
entered the room without knocking, as if the
locking-spells had been nothing more than chains of
paper. He carried a large tray with him, and the
scent of good food leaked out from under the silver lids
of the covered dishes.
"Rise up, young Randal;" said Petrucio,
setting the tray down on the room's only table.
"You have a long road ahead of you, and a good breakfast
is always the best start."
Randal struggled out of the last moments of a troubled
nightmare and sat up amid the tangled bed covers.
"So it's banishment, then;" he said. He was still too
weary to feel anything more than a kind of dull
relief.
"In a manner of speaking;" said Petrucio. The
master wizard piled eggs and bread and strips of
thick bacon onto a dish and held it out to Randal.
"It is not, in fact, His Grace's intent
to punish you, in
spite of what you seem to fear. I was able to convince
him that the Duke's death was an accident, and that you
did the best you could under trying circumstances. No
one could ask more, and no harm will come to you because of it."
Randal nodded without speaking. After he had finished the
plateful of food, he felt somewhat less worn
out in body and mind and experienced the first real
stirrings of curiosity.
"If the Prince isn't going to punish me;" he
asked, "then why do I have to leave?"
Petrucio smiled kindly. "I could say
that as a journeyman, you belong on the road ... but
that would be considerably less than the whole truth.
The fact of the matter is that His Grace can't afford
to let you stay in Peda, now that you know his secret."
"That he's Vincente?" Randal picked up a
scrap of bread and frowned at it as he crumbled it
into his plate. "But if the Prince is Vincente,
then who was the man Bartolomeo had in prison at
his villa?"
"Perhaps you'd better tell me all your
adventures;" said the master wizard. "I may be
better able to explain things to you once I know everything
that happened"
Randal told him about the events of the day before. When
he had finished, Petrucio nodded. "Now many things
are clearer to me than they were. The Duke's
plans were more subtle than usual-if you hadn't
spotted Carvelli on. his way back from searching
your room, we might not have known until too late.
But even yesterday, I didn't think everything would
start happening so soon-so when
Hernando brought me word that the Duke was expecting a
stranger from outside Peda, I took a chance on
sending you out fishing for information. I tried to set up a
meeting with you after your return, through your friend
Lys-but events moved too swiftly for us."
"That still doesn't explain who the third Vincente
was, protested Randal. "One was Bartolomeo,
whom I disguised. The second was Vespian, and that
was your doing. But who was the man I found in the
Duke's villa?"
"Ah, yes;" said Petrucio. "Vincente. Like
Hernando, he works for me. Vincente is kind enough
to allow his name and appearance to be borrowed, as it
were, by the Prince during the hours His Grace
spends with the actors"
Randal thought for a moment. "Then the Vincente I worked
with all that time in the theatre his
"com was really the Prince;" finished Petrucio.
"Yes. I
don't believe you met Vincente himself more than
three times-once on that first day in the market
square, once in Bartolomeo's prison cell,
and once when you healed him. You did an excellent
job there, by the way; when I visited my workroom
earlier this morning, I found him well on the road
to recovery."
"That's good;" said Randal. He pushed his empty
plate aside. The journeyman's robe he'd
fallen asleep in the night before swirled
down around his calves as he stood up. He began
gathering together his few possessions-clothing mostly,
all of it new since he'd come to live in the
palace. "If I'm leaving
Peda this morning, does His Grace have any
particular place in mind for me to go?"
"As a matter of fact, yes;" said
Petrucio. He smiled a little. "You know that the
Prince lends money, from time to time, to the dukes and
earls of Brecelande."
"I know," said Randal. "Vincente-I mean,
Prince Vespian-told me as much one day in the
theatre." Petrucio nodded. "Good. An envoy from
one of
your northern barons is leaving this morning with gold
borrowed to pay for a military campaign. As it
happens, Vespian's paymaster has been
complaining that the envoy's own fighting-men can't
provide enough protection. The presence of a wizard with
your abilities ought to settle his stomach a little."
Randal gave a short laugh. "So His Grace
gets rid of me and finds a guard for his pack
train, both at the same time"
"It's a position of considerable trust;" said
Petrucio gently. "The Prince asks
that you stay with the campaign until all the gold has
been paid out, to keep the paymaster's courage equal
to his task-but once you leave Peda, there's nothing
holding you to it except your own word"
"I'll watch his gold for him;" said Randal with a
sigh. He put the last of his clothing onto the bed and
tied the whole thing into a bundle with a spare belt.
"What happens to Lys?"
"She travels with you," said Petrucio. "She
knows Vespian's secret as well, you see"
Randal picked up his bundle of clothing and slung
it over one shoulder. "Then I might as well be
off," he said. "Where do I find this envoy?"
"I'll show you the way," said Petrucio. They
left the room together and proceeded through the quiet,
unawakened corridors. As they walked, the master
wizard said, "I'll be sorry to lose your
assistance, young Randal. Looking into the future has
never been the strongest of my talents, but I can see
that you have a promising career ahead of you"
If I survive that long,
Randal added mentally. The thought called another question
to mind. "What happened to the real Master Edmond?"
he asked aloud.
"Hernando dealt with him yesterday morning;"
said Petrucio. "Rather permanently, I suspect.
It doesn't pay, I've found, to look too
closely into Hernando's methods"
They came out of the palace into a large courtyard
near one of the rear gates. A dozen heavily laden
pack mules waited there, along with a score of
foot soldiers armed in mail and leather after the
northern fashion. One of the palace grooms held
the bridles of three riding horses, and a second
groom devoted his energy to restraining a high-spirited
warhorse-a big, heavily muscled animal bred
to carry the armored knights of Brecelande
into battle.
Randal looked around for Lys and spotted her standing
near the groom who held the smaller horses.
Once again she was dressed in the boy's garb she
wore on the road. A new lute was slung over
her shoulder in a leather case. That was good, Randal
reflected. Lys's old lute had been lost
back in Widsegard, and though she'd never complained,
he
knew she'd missed the instrument sorely.
"Well;" she said to Randal as he joined her,
"we're on the road again. And back to Brecelande
at that." "I'm sorry we aren't staying
longer in Peda;" he
replied. Lys's words had sounded cheerful enough, but
he still couldn't help feeling guilty about their sudden
departure. "I know that Occitania's your home --
it can't be easy for you to leave it again. so soon.
She shook her head. "I'll miss it, that's
true. But I meant what I said that day during
rehearsal, about staying as long as you did and no
longer. There's something waiting for us in Brecelande
that's been left unfinished. If we're going back
now, it's because it's time."
As she spoke, a small man dressed after the
local fashion came into the courtyard from one of the
side entrances. He was complaining loudly to the taller
man who paced along beside him. The second man
wore the armor and surcoat of a knight of
Brecelande. For a moment Randal stared at him in
disbelief. Then he let out a yell that echoed off the
palace walls.
"Walter!" he shouted. The knight halted and stared
in turn. Then he, too, gave a shout.
"Randy!" The knight strode forward, and Randal found
himself caught up in his cousin's mail-clad,
backpounding embrace. Then Walter stepped back,
laughing, and held Randal at arms"
length.
"So you're the wizard the Prince's man kept going
on about;" Walter said. "The last time I saw you,
it
looked like you were heading toward Cingestoun. What on
earth are you doing here in Peda?"
"Leaving town in a hurry, as usual;" said
Lys, coming up from behind Randal.
Walter's broad smile grew even broader.
"Demoiselle Lys, as I live and breathe! Still
trying to keep my cousin out of trouble, I see"
"And failing;" said Lys, with a smile of her own.
"We've had some adventures, let me tell you,
since you left us to go off questing in the Western
Isles."
Randal gave his cousin a curious glance. "How
did that go, anyway? Stories I've heard about the
Isles talk of everything from pirates
to sea-dragons, with mermaids in between"
"It's all true;" Walter assured him. "I
had enough trouble on that quest to last me the rest of my
days I give you my word, I'd sooner it had
happened to someone else, especially the parts where I
was seasick:"
"So what are you doing here?" asked Randal,
laughing.
Walter looked a bit sheepish. "Word about my
adventures got back home to Brecelande," he
admitted. "So when the baron needed his gold fetched
northward from Peda, people said, "Why not send a hero
to guard the gold?"" The knight shrugged. "Since
I didn't have anything else to do, here I am"
"You've sworn fealty to this baron, then?" Randal
inquired.
"Only that I'd see his money delivered and kept
safe;" said Walter. "Nothing more. And he's an
honorable man, by all accounts, so I saw nothing
wrong with the plan. The trip's been easy enough so
far." He paused a moment. "You don't have any
premonitions about it, do you?"
"No;" said Randal. "Any bad dreams I've
had lately have been strictly my own."
"Well, I'm grateful for your company just the
same;" said Walter. "And I won't deny that a
wizard's. help might come in handy along the way.
Let's mount up and be off- I want to be out of the
city by full daylight."
Randal turned to bid farewell to Master
Petrucio, but the wizard had gone. The party mounted
their horses-Randal, Lys, and
Vespian's paymaster on the smaller palfreys
and Walter on the charger. Walter gave a command
to his troop, and the pack train moved out through the
palace gates.
The streets of Peda were still empty as Randal and the
others made their way through the town and into the
countryside. The close-packed houses gave way
to cottages and small gardens, and then to the open
road.
As the pack train went on past fields of grazing
cattle, Randal became aware of hoofbeats on the
road behind them, the noise loud in the morning
stillness. He looked over his shoulder and saw a
single rider on a black horse, coming up fast.
The early sunlight caught on the rider's bright red
hair.
"I think I know who this is," said Randal quietly
to Walter. "I'll talk to him." He turned his
horse and headed back past the tail of the pack
train to meet the oncoming rider and speak with him
alone.
As Randal had expected, it was Vincente. The
actor looked tired, as if he hadn't slept at
all between midnight and this morning. Randal quietly
cast the spell of magical resonance as the
actor drew closer, and nodded to himself as the echo of
powerful magic came back at him. I
thought so. But if he wants to speak as Vincente, and
not as the Prince, I'll give him the chance.
"What brings you out of the palace so early?" he
asked, as Vincente reined his horse to a halt.
"An errand for His Grace;" said Vincente.
"He wishes to apologize for hustling you out of town
so abruptly . . . and if I'm not mistaken, for
words spoken in anger as well"
"There's no need;" said Randal. "He had reason
enough, I think, to be angry with me."
Vincente was silent for a minute, while the black
horse moved restlessly beneath him. "That may be so;"
he said finally. "But he's in your debt for his life
and wouldn't have you leave thinking him ungrateful:" The
red-headed actor reached into a pocket of his tunic
and drew out a black velvet bag. He handed it
to Randal. "His Grace desires you to have this, as
some small repayment"
Randal took the bag and hefted it in the palm of his
hand. Coins rolled and shifted inside the black
velvet-gold, from the weight and sound of them. He
held the bag for a minute, and then handed it back
to Vincente with a shake of his head.
"I can make my way without it," he said. "Tell
His Grace for me that I don't need his money ...
and I would much rather have his friendship than his gratitude"
Vincente took the bag of coins and tucked it
into his pocket. "Princes deal in gold, not
gratitude;" he said, with a rather melancholy
expression, "and they can't afford friendship. But an
actor sometimes can."
He held out his hand again, and this time it was empty.
"You'll be missed, Randal-it's a pity we never
got a chance to present that ghost of yours properly."
Randal laughed and clasped the outstretched hand with his
own scarred one. "I'd call it a success just the
same;" he said. "Goodbye, Vincente"
"Goodbye, and good luck." The actor turned and
spurred his horse toward the city. Randal sat for a
while watching him, and then rode back to join
Walter and Lys at the head of the pack train.
"Who was that man?" asked his cousin.
"Nobody you'd recognize;" said Randal.
"Only a friend, saying goodbye"
He looked back again at the road behind them, but
Vincente was gone. Randal sighed, straightened his
shoulders, and rode on away from Peda, toward
Brecelande and home.
Read the other exciting books in the series
CIRCLE OF MAGIC 0
by Debra Doyle and James D. Macdonald
Randal thought he wanted to be a wizard ... As a
young squire, Randal seems assured of a future
as a knight-until a mysterious wizard enters the
castle gates. To his astonishment, Randal
discovers that he himself possesses special powers.
He leaves the security of life as a squire
to become a student at the School of Wizardry.
Once his training in the mystic arts has begun,
however, Randal soon learns that there are many
perils-and one deadly enemy-to be overcome before he
can advance from sorcerer's apprentice to journeyman
wizard....
ISBN 0-8167-6936-2
Available wherever you buy books.
by Debra Doyle and James D. Macdonald
What's a wizard without magic?
Randal broke his promise-the vow that all
apprentice wizards must take never to use a
weapon. Now Randal can graduate from the School of
Wizardry only on" one condition: that he not use
magic until he is pardoned by a master wizard.
Randal must travel to the wizard's faraway
tower ... a journey made all the more perilous because
he may use neither sword nor magic for
protection.
When Randal finally reaches the mysterious tower, it
appears to be abandoned. But he soon discovers that the
building holds a deadly secret ...
ISBN 0-8167-6937-0
Available wherever you buy books.
CIRCLE OF MAGIC Q
by Debra Doyle and James D. Macdonald
Is this magic worth dying for?
Randal begins a dangerous adventure when a dying
man gives him a mysterious statue. The man's
last request is that Randal give the statue to a
mercenary named Dagon.
Randal soon discovers that the statue possesses
great power, and that Dagon is not to be trusted.
But the mercenary is not the only one who wants the
statue. A warlord, a wizard, and many others in the
strange walled city of Widsegard are after Randal
and his friends. What's more, the statue's power seems
to be growing. Can Randal find a safe place for it,
before its magic destroys him?
ISBN 0-8167-6938-9
Available wherever you buy books.