By the time the sun had risen, lan had made perhaps
three miles. Then, as the first rays touched him, he
looked about for a hiding place. A thicket of young fir
trees caught his eye, their branches sweeping down
to the ground. He went to them and thrust his way
between the branches into the brown circle about
the trunk.

A man dressed in a green tunic and brown leggings
leaned upon his spear, scowling thoughtfully.

lan froze and caught his breath. A gamekeeper, and
one who had no doubt been told to look for a run-
away boy!

The keeper sighed, looked up -- and saw lan.

For a moment, they both stood stock-still, staring
at one another. Then the keeper's face hardened and
he came toward lan, his hand outstretched.
, lan turned and bolted.

Christopher Stasheff

Behind him, he heard the keeper shout, heard his
heavy feet pounding, and ran for his life.

A thicket loomed up before him. Without slacken-
ing his stride, he set the heel of his staff against the
ground in front of the bushes and leaped. He swung
up on the staff and over, like a clock's pendulum in-
verted. He shoved hard, and landed on the far side of
the bushes. He stumbled and ran on, as fast as he
could. Behind him, he heard the keeper cursing as he
floundered through the bushes. He had bought a lit-
tle time. lan ran, zigzagging between the trees,
around trunks. Taking a lesson from the dwarves, he
chose trees with low branches that he could duck
under, too low for the keeper to follow. Then two
trunks appeared, so closely together that there was
scarcely room for him to pass. He scrambled be-
tween them, but the keeper could not; that would
slow him a little, too. His heart began to hammer; he
could not seem to get enough breath. Gasping, he
forced himself to run on, until suddenly the forest
fell away and he was in a meadow, a clearing in the
forest, with no place to hide. But a great round rock
with a glint of metal to it stood up in the center of
the meadow. The Stone Egg!

lan turned to run back, but heard the keeper crash-
ing through the underbrush behind him. He whirled
again and ran towards the great stone egg, swerved
around to its far side and crouched down, heart ham-
mering, drawing in quick, deep breaths through his
open mouth. Perhaps the keeper wouldn't see him,
would think he had run back into the forest, or had
run across the clearing and into the trees on the

A WIZARD IN ABSENTIA

other side. Perhaps the keeper himself would plunge
on across the grass, and not look back....

But the keeper called out, and was answered by an-
other shout from the far side of the clearing behind
lan. Another keeper!

lan shrank back, gathering himself into a ball,
pressing against the lower curve of the boulder, try-
ing to press himself into the stone. . . .

Something clicked.

The surface behind him gave way, and lan felt
himself tumbling, saw a flash of light, then sudden
darkness.

Two months earlier in time, and twenty light-
years away in apace, a very unusual asteroid drifted
through the asteroid belt around Sol. It didn't look
unusual -- it seemed to be just an ordinary, everyday
piece of space junk: lumpy, irregular, a few craters, a
lot of raw rock, a lot bigger than most, a lot smaller
than some -- but all in all, nothing special, compara-
tively speaking. And comparisons were very easy to
make at the moment, because it was in with a lot of
others of its kind. In fact, you wouldn't have noticed
it at all, if its trajectory hadn't been so different from
those around it. They were moving placidly in orbit,
just drifting along in their timeless round; but it was
barreling straight toward one of the larger asteroids
in the Belt -- dodging and weaving around all the
other asteroids, and no doubt taking a lot of hits from
the pebble-sized junk, but still coming remorselessly
toward Maxima. You just couldn't help noticing.

Especially if you were the Space Traffic Control

Christopher Stasheff

Center on that huge asteroid. "Unknown spacecraft!
Identify yourself and sheer off! Maxima Control to
unknown spaecraft! Identify yourself!"

"There is no reason not to, Magnus," the calm
voice of the asteroid's computer said to its pilot -- 
well, passenger, really; the computer was the pilot.

"I agree," said the tall, lantern-jawed young man.
His eyes never flickered from the viewscreen as he
watched the worldlet of his forefathers expand into a
discernible disk, larger than all other space-sparks
around it. "Identify us, Fess, and tell them we wish

to land."

The robot tactfully refrained from telling his aris-
tocratic young master that one did not merely in-
form Space Control that one was landing, and noted
that he would have to explain a few customs to his
young charge at the first opportunity. After all, a no-
bleman could not expect to give orders or pull rank
when he was landing on a worldlet on which every-
body was an aristocrat. "Spacecraft PCC 651919,
under the auspices of the Society for the Conversion
of Extraterrestrial Nascent Totalitarianisms, calling

Maxima Control."
There was a moment of shocked silence at the

other end of the link. Then the loudspeaker said,
"Maxima Control here. How can we assist you, FCC

651919?"

"We request permission to land, Maxima Con-
trol."

"Permission .. . very good, FCC 651919. Search-
ing for a landing slot for you. What is your cargo?"

A WIZAHD IN ABSBNTIA

"Supercargo only," said Fess, "Sir Magnus
d'Armand, Lord Gallowglass."

Magnus stirred uncomfortably. "I am not yet a
lord, Fess."

"You are the heir to the Lord High Warlock of
Gramarye, Magnus," Fess reminded him sternly.

"Yet I have not been awarded any title of mine

own."

"No doubt an oversight," Fess replied with airy
disregard. "I am certain King Tuan would have given
you an official title, for the asking."

Magnus smiled. "A lord without lands?"

"Certainly analogous to a minister without port-
folio," Fess assured him. "Since your father is the
equivalent of a duke, it follows that you must be the
equivalent of a marquis -- and in any event, you must
have a title of some sort, if you wish to be treated
with even a modicum of respect by the inhabitants
of your ancestral home."

Maxima Control recovered from shock long
enough to say, "Landing at 1030 hours Terran Stan-
dard, pad 29, berth 7-A. Approach from Galactic
Northwest, declination 38 degrees 22 minutes, right
ascension 21 degrees 17 minutes." Then a different
voice spoke, feminine and mature. "Requesting per-
mission to speak with your principal."

The lady was uncertain as to Magnus's status rela-
tive to Fess, the young man noted -- was he owner,
passenger, or captive? He leaned toward the audio
pickup. Fess said quickly, "Remember, Magnus, to
speak in modern English, and to avoid the second
person singular."

Christopher Stasheff

"Yes, yes, I know," Magnus said testily, though it
would be difficult to catch the knack of speaking
without the thees and thous with which he had
grown up. He smoothed his voice, keyed the pickup,
and said, "Magnus d'Armand speaking." The name
felt strange on his tongue -- all his life he had been
"Magnus Gallowglass," the patronymic his father
had adopted as an alias when he landed on the psi-
filled planet of Gramarye. But Magnus remembered
his manners. "Good day to you, Maxima Control."

"And to yourself, my lord." The voice kept its
punctilious politeness; Magnus may have only imag-
ined the aura of amazement about it. "May I know
your relationship to the family d'Armand?"

Magnus frowned.

"Relationships are extremely important to the
Maximans, Magnus," Fess informed him, muting
the audio pickup for the moment. "They must know
your rank and place, if they are to know how to treat
you."

The very notion rankled in a lad who had been
reared to treat everyone with courtesy, but he was
the scion of a medieval society, after all, so he could
understand the need. "I am the son of Rodney
d'Armand, who was a grandson of Count Rory
d'Armand, and is a nephew of the current Count."
At least, he hoped his great-uncle was still alive.

He was. "We shall inform his lordship that his
great-nephew is landing," Maxima Control said,
with a hint of reproach in her tone.

Magnus took it in stride. "I would appreciate the
courtesy. I sent a message a week ago by hyper-radio,

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but I could not at that time give them an exact date
of arrival."

"We understand." The voice seemed to thaw a bit.
"How has Rodney Gallowglass come into possession
of a title?"

Magnus stiffened. "In recognition of his services
to the Crown of an interdicted colony, which he en-
tered in his role as an agent of SCENT. You under-
stand that any information more specific than that is
also interdicted for protection of that colony, and
may not be spoken publicly."

"I understand." But by its tone, the owner didn't.
"Surely you can notify the head of the family of Rod-
ney's . . . excuse me. Lord Rodney ... of his loca-
tion."

She wasn't sure the title was legitimate, Magnus
noted. "Certainly," he said. "As head of a major cor-
poration, he is cleared for secure knowledge, is he
not?"

"He is. May I request visual contact?"

"At once! My apologies. Fess . . ." But before he
could say, "if you please," a smaller screen suddenly
came to life, filled with the picture of an imposing
woman, imperially slim, with coiffured iron-gray
hair and a face that was a tribute to the cosmetician's
art. "I am your great-aunt Matilda, nephew Magnus.
Welcome to Maxima."

Fess explained it on the way down -- the robots
took care of all the routine chores, such as traffic
control, but when an unusual situation arose, requir-
ing human judgement, the traffic computer would

Christopher Stasheff

refer the matter to whichever human being hap-
pened to be on duty that day -- and since everyone on
Maxima claimed to be an aristocrat, it followed that
even a countess had to take her shift at supervision.

Besides, it lightened the boredom.

There was a great deal of boredom on Maxima, as
Magnus quickly found out. Everyone thought of
himself or herself as an aristocrat, and consequently
did very little work. Of course, their ancestors had
been commoners, though outstanding ones -- 
scientists, manufacturers, and businessmen, and
many had been combinations of all three. They had
come to Maxima for the freedom to do basic research
into artificial intelligence and cybernetics without
the interference of the Terran government (which be-
came more and more restrictive as the Proletarian Ec-
lectic State of Terra took hold more and more firmly),
or to apply that research to making bigger and better
robots. To support themselves, they went into manu-
facturing, and quickly gained a reputation for making
the best robots in the Terran Sphere. Some of the sons
who matured about that time had a bent for business,
and by the second generation, every family on Max-
ima was wealthy. Since they lived like lords, they de-
cided they should be lords, and in their legislative
assembly, started ennobling each other at a startling
rate. Since they were a sovereign government, even
the Terran College of Heralds couldn't deny the tech-
nical legality of it, though they could certainly cast a
skeptical glance.

On the other hand, many of the noble houses of
Terra had had similarly disreputable founders.

A WIZABD IN ABSENTIA

After five hundred years of learning aristocratic
ways, though, the Maximans had become nobility so
thoroughly as to be indistinguishable from the old
Terran families, in behavior if not in lineage. The
more energetic of the sons ran the family businesses,
thereby giving the lie to their pretended nobility,
though they maintained the facade of leaving the
business to their robots; they merely amused them-
selves by setting policy. Those activities couldn't ab-
sorb more than a handful, though, so some of the
best and brightest began to emigrate to other
planets -- and as the centuries rolled by and the busi-
nesses came inevitably into the hands of the eldest
sons, the brain drain increased. Additionally,
Maximans tended to marry Maximans, even after
they had all become cousins of one another, and the
inbreeding took its toll.

Magnus's father. Rod, had been one of the ener-
getic ones, as well as one of the brighter souls thrown
up by inbreeding -- and if he wasn't completely sta-
ble, well, who was? In any event, he had also become
part of the brain drain, leaving Maxima for a career of
high adventure and low income. Being the second
son of a second son had had something to do with it,
but so had boredom.

Which may also have had something to do with
Magnus's feeling like a canary invited to a cats'
party, as he stepped out of the airlock of his ancestral
mansion to find himself confronted with a milling
mob of richly dressed people, loud with excited
conversation -- which stopped abruptly as they real-
ized he was there, and all eyes turned to him. Mag-

Christopher Stasheff

nus felt like bolting right back into the boarding
tunnel, but he remembered that he came of a warrior
sire, and stiffened his spine, drawing himself up to
his full height. He was much taller than the norm.
He was, he knew, an impressive figure, and he
smiled slightly at the reaction of the crowd.

Aunt Matilda stepped forward -- or the Countess
d'Armand, Magnus reminded himself -- and said,
"Welcome to Castle d'Armand, nephew Magnus."

Magnus suppressed the jolt of surprise he felt at
the term "castle" -- this glittering assemblage of ba-
roque and rococo towers and arches might have been
a palace, but certainly not a castle -- and inclined his
head politely. "Thank you, Countess."

It was the right choice; she smiled, pleased, but as-
sured him, " 'Aunt Matilda,' nephew -- we are all

family here."
That was true enough, Magnus reflected -- for the

whole asteroid, not just Castle d'Armand.

"Your relatives." Matilda gestured toward the
mob behind her, and one buxom, blonde vision
pushed forward, eyes alight with curiosity and eager-
ness, reminding Magnus that he was probably the
biggest event to happen all year -- anything to break
the monotony. The Countess tried to give the girl a
frown of displeasure, but she couldn't sustain it.
"My youngest granddaughter, Pelisse."

The lady stepped forward, extending her hand.
Magnus bowed his head and pressed Pelisse's fingers
briefly to his lips, trying to adjust to the notion of his
uncle's youngest being nearly of an age with him, the
eldest of Rod's children -- but Uncle Richard was

10

A WIZARD IN ABSENTIA

older than Rod by a few years, and had no doubt be-
gun his family at a younger age.

Then Magnus looked up into the largest pair of
sky-blue eyes he had ever seen, framed by a wealth of
blonde hair so light as to be almost white, and froze,
feeling as though he'd been filled with a humming
energy, and as though his brain were not quite
within his skull any longer. Desperately, he re-
minded himself that she was his first cousin, and
that helped -- but his hackles were still raised.

"I shall look forward to your closer acquaintance,
cousin," she said, with amusement in her heavy -
lidded glance, and the Countess cleared her throat.
Pelisse made a moue and stepped back. Aunt Matilda
said, "Your cousin Rath," and a long, lean individual
stepped forward to give Magnus a perfunctory bow,
and a look of morose hostility.

It helped bring Magnus back to the reality of the
situation. He returned the bow stiffly, and Aunt Ma-
tilda said, "Your cousin Robert..."

Inwardly, Magnus sighed, and braced himself for a
long session of bowing and kissing hands.

A long half-hour later, he straightened up from
greeting the last relative, and turned to Aunt Matilda
with a frown -- which he quickly removed. Fess, I've
not met the Count!

It would be impolitic to ask why, Fess replied,
broadcasting on the frequency of human thought,
but in the encoded mode of the Gallowglass fam-
ily. You may, however, request permission -to greet
him.

"This has been a most excellent pleasure, milady,"

11

Christopher Stasheff

Magnus said. "However, I would also be pleased to
greet my great-uncle, if I may."

"Of course, dear boy -- yet surely you must have
some refreshment first." Matilda glided over to him,
hooking a hand through his elbow and using it to
steer him through the mob of cousins. "You must be
quite wearied from your travels, if not from your ar-
rival. A glass of wine and a little nourishment will
restore your strength."

Magnus followed, wondering why she was
stalling -- or did he really need to be fortified to greet
the Count?

He did.

Count Rupert sat in bed, propped up by a half-
dozen pillows. His hair was white, his face drawn
and lined. Magnus stared, then covered the gaffe
with a bow -- surely they were mistaken! Surely this
ancient was his great-grandfather, not his great-
uncle! Fess, he is aged immensely, and so fragile
that a breath might blow him away!

"Courteous," the invalid croaked, in a voice that
still had some echo of authority, "but impetuous. I
am not a king, boy -- you need not bow at the door.
Come closer to me."

Magnus obeyed without speech, for he was listen-
ing to Fess advising him. Do not inquire as to the na-
ture of the disease, Magnus. We will no doubt learn
of it later.

Magnus stepped up to the bedside, and the Count
looked him up and down with a rheumy eye. "Your
garb is quaint. They tell me you have come from a
distant planet."

A WIZABD IN ABSENTIA

"Aye, sir -- one where your nephew, my father, has
made a place for himself."

"And you have left him?" the old man said with a
touch of sarcasm. "Well, I am accustomed to that."
He frowned up at Magnus, who was still trying to di-
gest the shock of his words. "You have turned out
well, young man -- tall, and broad. And there is
something of your father in your looks -- strong fea-
tures, let us say -- but so much broader, so much
heavier!"

The first part surprised Magnus; he had never
heard anyone comment on his resemblance to his
father -- nor to his mother -- since he had changed
from child to young man. As to the second ... "The
bulk is the gift of my mother's father, milord."
Which was true, proportionally; there was no need to
mention that his maternal grandfather, Brom
O'Berin, was scarcely three feet tall, though stocky
as a bull.

"Yes, your mother." The old man frowned -- 
almost painfully, as though even moving his face
cost him great energy. "What is she? How did my
nephew marry?" Before Magnus could answer, he
waved away the reply. "Oh yes, I know that every
mother appears as an angel to her son -- and she must
be a wonder, to hold Rodney together long enough
for him to stay till you grew. But what is she like?
Tell me the externals!"

"Well..." Magnus collected his wits; it had been
a startling view of his father, though one he could be-
lieve. "She is the daughter of a king, milord." He
didn't think he needed to mention that Brom

Christopher Stasheff

O'Berin was the King of the Elves -- or that Gwen
didn't know he was her father.

"A princess!" The Count stared, round-eyed.
"Then he is a king -- or will be?"

"No, my lord.. ." How could he phrase this?

Her line does not reign, Magnus.

"No," Magnus went on, with relief, "for her line

will not reign."

"A cadet branch." The count nodded. "Then he

will be a duke."

"Its equivalent, my lord, for he has won his own ti-
tle by service to the reigning monarch."
"What title is that?" the Countess asked.
Magnus swallowed and took the plunge. "Lord

High Warlock."

"Odd." The Count took it without batting an eye.
"But autre temps, autre moeuis. Each culture has its
own Weltanschauung, its own world-view, and its
own titles. If he is the High Warlock, then you, no
doubt, are only Lord Warlock?"

Magnus stood a moment, staring.

Say yes, Magnus.

"Why . . . quite so! How perceptive of you, mi-
lord."

"It is only reason." The old man was obviously
pleased by the flattery. "And how does my nephew?"

"He is in good health, milord." A shadow crossed
the Count's face, and Magnus hastened to add, "At
least, at the moment."

"Ah." The Count nodded. "His old malaise, eh?"

"I ... cannot say," Magnus floundered. "He has
not spoken of it."

14

A WIZABD IN ABSENTIA

"His mind, boy, his mind!" the old man said impa-
tiently. "The family's mental instability! Though he
showed it less than most -- only in a bit of paranoia,
and a frantic need to leave the planetoid."

The second, Magnus was already beginning to un-
derstand, and he didn't think it had anything to do
with mental illness. As to the first, however ... "I
regret to say that his paranoia has increased, my
lord."

"Ah." The Count nodded, satisfied. "He has his
good days, though, eh?"

"Yes, milord -- and on one of them, he sent his best
wishes to you, his uncle, and asked that I bring word
of you."

"He shall have it, have a letter! Which shall tell
him of my delight at his good fortune, and his ac-
complishments! I was sure he had been a credit to
the family! But this planet he has made his home,
young man -- what of it, eh?" When Magnus hesi-
tated, he said, "You may tell me -- I am cleared for
the highest level of security." He gestured impa-
tiently at a waiting butler. "Show him the docu-
ments, Hiram."

"No, milord -- 'tis not necessary!" Magnus said
quickly. "He hath come -- uh, has come -- to a Lost
Colony, one named Gramarye. You ... knew of his,
ah, affiliation?"

"That he had become an agent of SCENT? Yes,
yes," the old man said impatiently. "And this planet
is their concern, eh?"

"Yes, my lord. It has regressed to a medieval
culture" -- actually, Magnus wasn't sure "regressed"

15

Christopher Stasheff

was the right word for something that had been done
intentionally -- "and is ruled by a monarchy. It is my
father's intention to bring about the changes in their
social and economic structure that will result in
their evolving a form of democratic government."

"A huge undertaking, and a long one! How frus-
trating it must be, to commence a project that you
will not live to see come to fruition, that even your
children will not see finished! But is there progress,
young man?"

"Some, my lord. There have been attempts to un-
seat the monarch in favor of warlords and dictators,
but my father has held Their Majesties secure. ..."

"As a nobleman should! But has he furthered a tyr-
anny?"

"No, my lord, for he has built in systems for Their
Majesties to take council from their lords." Magnus
smiled. "In tr --  In fact, he has managed to wring
from each attempted coup d'etat some change in
government that plants yet one more seed of the de-
mocracy that will be."

The old man nodded. "Small wonder your mon-
arch has elevated him to the peerage! You inherit,
then, not only his title, but also his work! You are a
double heir." The old man frowned. "Why are you
here? Surely your place is by his side!" Again, he
waved away Magnus's answer before it was made.
"Oh, yes, I realize you must have your education -- 
but you must return to him! You must!"

Magnus bridled, but even as his emotions surged,
he remembered to analyze. Why did the Count feel
so strongly on the issue? "As you say, my lord, I must

A WIZARD IN ABSENTIA

have a modern education -- I must absorb the current
state of knowledge in the Terran Sphere, but even
more, I must learn to deal with its men of power."

The old lord nodded slowly, his eyes narrowing.
"Even so, even so! Rodney, of course, knows the
ways of such dealings, having been reared and educa-
ted on Maxima, and tried in the crucible of govern-
ment service -- but you, too, must learn such ways,
for you will have to represent your planet before the
Sphere, will you not? Yes, of course you will!"

Magnus was glad the old man had answered his
own question.

"We must see to his placement at Oxford," the
Countess contributed.

"Or Harvard, or Heidelberg, eh? Yes, of course! My
wife will make you acquainted with them, young
man, and you may choose! And in the long vaca-
tions, we shall have to see to gaining visiting posi-
tions for you in commerce and government! Eh?"

"Your lordship is ... too kind." Truthfully,
Magnus was dazzled by their readiness to help -- but
he was also wary of it, perhaps because he wasn't all
that certain that he wished to spend several years at
a university. Fess had assured him that he had
gained the equivalent in knowledge from the ro-
bot's tutelage. Still, it might be a good way to get
the feel of this strange culture.

"Not at all, not at all!" The Count brushed aside
the thanks, but seemed pleased anyway. It was hard
to tell, of course -- he spoke as though from an inex-
haustible supply of energy, but his eyelids had begun
to droop, he raised his hand as though it bore leaden

Christopher Stasheff

weights, and his shoulders slumped. Magnus
searched for some way to end the interview and let
the old man rest, but could think of none.

The Countess saved him. "We may begin that
search now, husband. Or, perhaps, the young man
should dress for dinner."

"Dinner?" The Count frowned. "Yes, Yes! I, too, I
must ..." He struggled to sit up, but the effort was
too much for him. His wife stepped up to lay a gentle
hand on his shoulder, and he sagged back against the
pillows. "Perhaps in a little while. Yes? Only a little
rest, now -- then I'll dress. ..."

"Quite right, husband. We will leave you, for the
moment." She went toward the door, bending a se-
vere glance on Magnus.

He bowed. "I thank you for this conversation, my
lord, and for your hospitality."

"Not at all, not at all! Always good to have family
come home, eh? But not so long, Rodney, not so long
again, hm?" The Count seemed to diminish, to sink
into the pillows, his eyes half-closing. "At supper,

then."

"Of course, my lord." Magnus stepped away and
moved quietly to the door. Aunt Matilda gave him a
smile with a little genuine warmth in it, and beck-
oned him out the door. It closed behind him, as the
nurse robot wheeled silently over to the Count.

Magnus's mind raced. He couldn't very well com-
ment on the Count's frailty, or his surprise at it.

Matilda seemed to sense his quandary, and said,
"He will not join us at dinner. He really must not

18

A WIZABD IN ABSENTIA

leave his bed, except for short exercise walks with
the nurses."

"Of course he must conserve his energies," Mag-
nus agreed. "He is ... a commanding presence." He
had almost said "still," but had choked it back.

"In rare moments," the Countess said. "We try not
to trouble him with major decisions just now."

Magnus took the hint. The Count was still head of
the family -- but in name only. He tried for a quick
change of subject. "It has been an honor to meet the
Count -- but I must also pay my respects to my fa-
ther's brother. May I see him?"

The Countess hesitated, her visage darkening,
biting her lip. Magnus braced himself against appre-
hension. "He doth . . . does still live, does he not?"

"He does, yes," the Countess said reluctantly.

"And I may see him, may I not?"

"If it is one of his good days, yes."

Some hours later, Magnus returned, numbed, to
the opulent guest room the robot-domo had assigned
to him. He collapsed into an overstuffed chair, loos-
ing his hold on his mind and letting it turn to the oat-
meal it felt to be. After a long interval of silence, a
voice spoke in his mind. Magnusi

Aye, Pess, he answered.

Are you well}

Magnus stirred. Well enough. It hath been sum-
mat of a shock, though, to find that my uncle Rich-
ard is insane.

I am sorry, Magnus, the robot-horse said, with
something resembling a sigh -- just "robot," Magnus

19

Christopher Stasheff

reminded himself; Fess was the computer-brain for a
spaceship now. But he still held the mental image of
the horse body that Fess had worn for as long as Mag-
nus had known him.
Sorry} POT what}

I thought I had prepared you adequately for the
insanity that has plagued the Gallowglass family
for generations -- all of Maxima, for that matter.

Magnus made a short, chopping gesture, though
Fess couldn't see him. You did all that you could,
Fess. Nothing can truly prepare a body for the sight
of a relative who has taken leave of his senses.
Was he truly as bad as that}
Oh. not bad at all, in some ways -- he doth seem to
be happy, quite happy indeed. 'Tis simply that he
doth know he is King Henry the Sixth reborn, and is
quite content to wait in his monk's cell for the rein-
carnated Queen Margaret to release him.
Fess was silent for a moment, then said, I grieve to

hear it.
Magnus laid his head back against the chair with a

sigh. At the least, he is not troubled or sunk in

gloom.

Yes. praise Heaven for that.

Oh, he doth! He doth thank Heaven for life, for
food, for housing, for the flow of blood and the
smallest worm that burrows 'neath the soil of Terra!
He doth spend hours in prayer, and is sure of his

sainthood to come!
It must be quite reassuring, Fess said slowly, to

have such confidence in the Afterlife.
20

A WIZARD IN ABSENTIA

Magnus shuddered. If that is religion, I'll none of
it. Small wonder his son fled to Terra.

Fled} Fess said, puzzled.

Magnus shrugged. Gone to university, then, and
become a scholar. Will you, nill you, he is set upon
his professorship, and hath sent word that he will
not return to Maxima.

And has only the one daughter}

Aye, my cousin Pelisse, who doth play the co-
quette with me. Magnus smiled in pleased reminis-
cence. I cannot be so pleasant to regard as all that,
can I, Fess}

You are quite imposing, Fess said slowly, and your
face has a certain rough-hewn comeliness.

More to the point, I am someone new in her life,
Magnus thought, amused. Anyone from off-planet
must be of greater interest than someone near, eh}

No doubt an inborn reflex that evolved to mini-
mize inbreeding, Fess mused. Nonetheless, in the
case of this stranger, the inbreeding would still ex-
ist.

Not wholly -- I am only half of Maxima, Magnus
thought absently, most of his mind given over to the
contemplation of the lovely vision with blonde
tresses and long lashes. He felt a quickening of
interest -- but also felt how superficial it was, how
little real emotion it held. Had the witches of Gram-
arye made him forever heartless?

Then he remembered the image of the golden box
around his heart, given him by a Victorian ragpicker
who must surely have been only a hallucination, a
projection of his subconcious, an illusion that only a

21

Christopher Stasheff

protective telepath such as Magnus himself could
engender. He had accepted the gift, had locked his
heart in a box of golden, and wondered if he could
ever find the key.

Flirting is a harmless game, Magnus, Fess assured
him, as long as you remember it is only a game -- 
and are sure the lady does, too.

Aye, only a game, and great fun. Magnus pushed
himself out of the chair, coming to his feet with a re-
newal of energy. Let us resume the play, then. And
he turned away to the closet and the modern formal
wear it held, to dress for dinner.

22

A shout of pure terror rose to lan's lips, but he bit
down on it, as much afraid of the keepers as of this
fall into the unknown.

There was a soft light about him, and his bottom
struck a yielding surface. He fell backwards head
over heels, then rolled and came up to his feet as his
father had taught him, looking about him in panic.
He was inside the Stone Egg!

Outside, the keepers must surely be looking for
him, calling to one another and running about -- but
he heard nothing except a whisper of moving air, and
a faint hum, so faint that he felt it more than heard
it. It flashed through his mind that this must be a
safe place that the dwarves had built, but when he
looked more closely at his surroundings, he found
them completely strange, alien. Surely the dwarves
could never have grown this odd golden moss be-
neath his feet, the great chair that looked to be of

23

Christopher Stasheff

leather with a row of peculiar square windows in
front of it and a greater square above -- but windows
that were blank and empty, showing only the gray of
the rock's surface. For a moment, lan strained to
understand -- what good was a window that showed

only the inside of a shell?
"Safety Base Forty-three ready to function as you

may command."

lan hunched down into a ball, his staff raised to de-
fend himself, looking about wildly -- but he could
not see the person who had spoken.

The voice spoke again, deep and resonant, a man's
voice, though with a strange lack of feeling. "This fa-
cility is completely automated. Food and drink are
prepared from cryogenic stock. Armament is acti-
vated. Communications facilities are functional.
Safety Base Forty-three is at your disposal."

The voice was suddenly silent. lan held himself
ready, looking about, waiting for it to speak again, to
demand he say what he was doing there. It was a rich
voice, a lord's voice. Surely it would demand to know
why a mere serf had invaded its hideaway... ?

The chamber was still; the voice was silent. No

one spoke, no one moved.

Slowly, lan uncurled himself; more slowly still, he
stood up, looking about at the rich surroundings, his
pulse beginning to slow. The voice must be that of a
guardian spirit -- for certainly, inside this egg, there
was scarcely room enough for two grown men. No

one could hide from him.
Except for the guardian spirit.
The flesh on his back crawled. He looked behind

24

A WIZARD IN ABSENTIA

him, and behind him again. There was no defense
against a spirit. . . .

But it did not attack him, it did not seek to take
vengeance. It had said it was preparing food and
drink. If it sought to help him ... lan breathed more
easily, and looked about him yet once more. He was
safe for the moment; he could not have asked for a
better hideaway until dark. What was this strange
place he was in?

There was an air of quiet orderliness about him, of
safety and security. lan began to relax, studying the
chamber in which he found himself. At the far side,
there was a round black hole in the floor with a low
guardrail about it. lan went over to it and peered
down. A flight of spiral steps led to a room below.
How strange that there was light, a soft light coming
from nowhere that he could find! He retreated from
the hole; perhaps that was where the guardian spirit
lived. Later he might go down there and see -- but
only if he was sure it was safe. For now, it would be
better to leave it alone.

He looked at the great chair, went closer to it, in-
specting it. If this was a sanctuary to protect anyone
who needed it, then surely this chair was for him to
sit in. He clambered up, sat down, and looked at the
table in front of him. It was shallow, only as deep as
his forearm, and set with little circles and bars that
glowed in many different colors. Their soft light
struck fear into him, but he plucked up his courage
and dared to poise a finger over one of them. Then his
boldness failed, and he snatched his finger away. No,
certainly he should not meddle with such things!

25

Christopher Stasheff

But -- why not? If the "Base" was here to protect
him, would he not be free to do as he wished? Per-
haps, though, if he pressed one of these glowing cir-
clets, the spirit would be angered, and would seek to

revenge itself on him.

"Food and drink are prepared."

lan started at the suddenness of the deep voice,
then caught himself with a hand against the table in

front of him... .

Something clicked.

His gaze darted down; he stared in horror at the
heel of his hand. Slowly, he lifted it away, and saw
that one of the green circlets had sunk into the table-
top. A low humming began. He backed away against
the chair, eyes wide. Had he angered the spirit?

One of the square windows before him suddenly
filled with light. lan thought he must be looking out
into the middle of a blizzard; there were only flecks
of black and white, chasing each other past the win-
dow. At the same time, he heard a hiss begin, and the
guardian spirit spoke. "Communication system is
activated. Beacon is broadcasting distress signal."

Then the voice was quiet. lan waited, tensed, but
nothing more happened. He looked down at the cir-
clet. Should he try to pry it back up out of the table-
top?

No. The guardian spirit did not seem angered, and

had not threatened to harm him. Better to leave well

enough alone.
But the spirit spoke again. "Food and drink are

served."
lan looked up, heart hammering -- but at last, the

26

A WIZARD IN ABSENTIA

words sank in. Food and drink! Suddenly, he was
very hungry. But where were they? He searched all
around the cabin, being careful not to touch any-
thing. As he passed the hole with the spiral staircase,
he caught the scent of fresh bread, eggs, and, wonder
of wonders, pork! His mouth watered; he swallowed
heavily, the hunger suddenly an ache in his belly.
The food was down the spiral staircase, then. But
was it safe to go down there? Or was the guardian
spirit enticing him for some other, unknown pur-
pose? He stood stock-still at the top of the steps,
wondering. Then hunger got the better of caution,
and he started down.

The staircase was steep and narrow, made out of
some eldritch material that was neither stone nor
metal nor wood, but something of all three -- clean
and smooth to the touch like metal, warm like
wood, and gray like stone. It was just wide enough
for a full-grown man, very steep, and turned upon it-
self like a corkscrew.

His eyes came below the level of the floor, and he
stopped, staring in amazement.

Ten feet below him was a circle of the odd moss,
wider than the hut in which he'd lived all his life.
The walls sloped inward, like the inside of a cone
with its top cut off. The "egg," then, was the top of
this cone, and this chamber was underground!

The strange, warm moss covered another floor,
and this time, that moss was deep blue. Great padded
chairs stood near him, and across the room stood a
round table with two stools that had backs rising
up -- why, they were lords' chairs! Trepidation rose in

27

Christopher Stasheff

him all over again, fear at trespeassing in a place so
clearly the property of some great lord -- but hunger
was greater than fear. Two chairs! Was there com-
pany, then? Or was it merely that this hiding place
was large enough for two people at a time?

A lord's hideaway for a dalliance with a peasant

wench!

But on the table was a plate with thin slices of

meat and, wonder of wonders, a silver fork and spoon
and knife beside it! He blinked, overawed by the lux-
ury, and, very hesitantly and carefully, came to the

table.

Nothing bad happened.

He slid up onto one of the lords' chairs and, ignor-
ing the knife and fork, began to eat with his fingers. If
they caught him here, at least they would not be able
to say he had stolen -- for surely, stealing such trea-
sure as a silver fork would be cause for hanging a serf!

He ate like a wolf, and the food was gone very
quickly. Then he huddled back in the chair, wishing
there were more, and staring at the steaming cup in
front of him. The meat had been salty, and his thirst
grew as he stared at the cup. Finally, he reached out
and lifted it by the little handle. It almost overbal-
anced and spilled, but he caught it in time; the fluid
within it was very hot and a dark brown. He sipped at
it and made a face. It was very bitter. How could a
lord like such stuff? He set it down and, instead,
picked up a glittering, clear cup filled with orange
liquid, sipped it carefully, decided it was very good,
and drank it down. Then he looked about him,

28

A WIZABD IN ABSENTIA

frowning. Strange that the dwarves had not found
this place.. ..

He shrugged. There was no point in wondering at
it. He slid down from the chair. It was still daylight
outside, and he could not go out again until night.
How he would get out was another problem; but the
spirit had been good to him so far, and he would
worry about that difficulty when the time came. He
stretched himself out on the moss -- it was very
soft -- pillowed his head on his arm, and was very
quickly asleep.

When Magnus entered the dining room in black
complet and snowy shirtfront and neckcloth. Pelisse
clapped her hands. "Oh! How handsome you look!"

Robert glared at her. "Overdoing it a bit, aren't we,
Pelisse?"   -

"Oh, do be still, Robert! Even you must admit that
he looks ever so elegant!"

"Yes, Robert, you must," Aunt Matilda said, with
a glare.

"Well... a sight better than that outlandish outfit
he was wearing this afternoon," Robert mumbled.

Magnus felt his face flush, and was all the more
careful to hold his expression immobile. "Literally
outlandish, of course, and quite medieval -- just the
sort of thing you would wear on my homeworld."

"Yes, but not in civilized society, is it, old boy?"

Magnus let the "old boy" pass. "Perhaps you mean
modern society -- though I do note that-these gar-
ments tend much more toward the turn of the cen-
tury."

29

Christopher Stasheff

"Turn of the century?" Robert looked up, frown-
ing. "Stuff and nonsense! Lapels much wider then,
don't you know, and trousers much looser!"

"I was speaking of the turn of the Eighteenth Cen-
tury into the Nineteenth -- the decade that began in
1810, as a matter of fact."

Robert could only glare at him, and Magnus real-
ized, with a shock, that the young man probably
knew nothing about the Eighteenth and Nineteenth
Centuries, didn't know that the clothes he was wear-
ing were very clearly based on those of the Regency.

Aunt Matilda filled the gap. "You must remember,
children, that your cousin's garb was that of his own
culture; it is our costumes that would look outland-
ish there."

"Like his thee's and thou's, eh?" Robert muttered.

Magnus felt his face flame again, and resolved to
make no more slips.

"Yes, quite. Robert, perhaps tomorrow you will es-
cort Magnus to the family tailor? And the haber-
dasher, of course."

Robert turned red, and his jaw set -- but he ground
out, "Yes, Aunt."

"Very good." Matilda favored them all with a
bright smile. "Now, then, shall we dine?"

The robots began serving, and Magnus reflected on
the lovely, charming family from which he had
come.

He was braced for the shopping expedition with
Cousin Robert the next day, and it was just as gruel-
ing as he had feared. Robert began with whining

30

A WIZARD IN ABSENTIA

complaints and progressed to sniping comments
very quickly. Magnus responded as politely as he
could, but couldn't quite keep back a few remarks of
his own.

For example, when the air-lock door dilated and
Magnus found himself staring at the inside of a small
but luxurious rocket boat, Robert snapped, "Don't
look so surprised. You can't just walk where you
please on an asteroid, you know. No air."

"Of course." Magnus stepped in and sat down.
Robert followed suit, grumbling, "Don't know why
Mama picked me for this little chore. Pelisse would
have been more than happy to show you around."

"Whereas you, of course, are delighted."

"No, not a bit." Robert turned to frown at him.
"Planned on a morning's practice at polo, actually.
Where'd you get an idea like that?"

Magmis found himself wondering if Robert knew
what the word "sarcasm" meant.

"Deuced inconvenience," Robert complained.
"Why'd you have to come, anyway?"

Magnus ground his teeth and said, "To discover
my origins. Cousin Robert -- what kind of people I
came from, what kind of environment had formed
them."

"Had your father to look at, didn't you?"

"Indeed," Magnus agreed, "but one person is not
necessarily representative of the whole family."
Thank Heaven, he added silently to himself.

"Don't know why we have to have dashed outsid-
ers, " Robert went on as though he liad not heard.
"Doing quite well enough by ourselves."

31

Christopher Stasheff

Magnus began to wonder if the man knew he was

speaking aloud.

"Bad enough trying to sort out the inheritance as it
is," Robert griped. "Of course, Pelisse will take care
of that -- but still, it's a dashed nuisance."

Magnus gave him a sharp glance. "Inheritance?
Why should that be a problem? Has someone died re-
cently?"

"Not yet, y' -- " Robert bit off the expletive, which
was just as well, Magnus thought grimly. Then his
cousin went on. "Death that's coming, of course.
Uncle can't last much longer, more's the pity, and his
son's made it very clear he doesn't want the inheri-
tance. That leaves it to Pelisse, don't y' see."

"No, I don't." Magnus frowned. "Isn't your inheri-
tance patrilineal?"

"What?" Robert gave him a narrow look. "Don't
use your fancy terms on me, my man! Say what you
mean in clear language, dash it all!"

Magnus was beginning to think that he had over-
rated Robert's intelligence, as well as his education.
"Don't you inherit, as the remaining male?"

"No, I don't -- I'm the poor relation. Don't you

know anything?"

"Nothing more than I'm told," Magnus said
shortly, "and I would thank you for doing so."

"Well, I'm a third cousin," Robert snapped, "from
the Orlin branch -- parents died young, and I was as
close to this family as to t'other. So, no, I don't in-
herit, though I expect Uncle's left me well enough
off. Have m' biological parents' estate coming, in any
case, when I reach my majority."

32

A WIZARD IN ABSENTIA

"Majority?" The man was clearly in his twenties!
Magnus decided not to ask -- he just accepted the pre-
vailing wisdom. "So Pelisse will become Countess,"
Magnus inferred.

"No reason not to," Robert muttered, but he gave
Magnus an uneasy glance, leaving his guest wonder-
ing just how Pelisse was supposed to fix any prob-
lems arising from the inheritance. In fact, of course,
Robert hadn't mentioned what the problem was, re-
ally. Somehow, Magnus thought he didn't want to
know.

Their flier circled around a huge, pastel layer-cake
of a building and docked. They stepped out into an
air lock. As they walked down the tube and through
the dilating door, Magnus said, "Surely you could
have your own robot tailors, and order anything from
outside by video screen."

"Of course, of course," Robert said impatiently,
"but then there wouldn't be any shopping, hey? Nor
any reason to get out of the house at all. Let's have a
quick one, then get on to the tailor's."

Magnus was relieved to discover that Robert was
referring to an alcoholic drink. He wasn't so relieved
when the "quick one" turned into two or three.

The tailor was a robot, after all, and all he had to do
to measure Magnus was to have him stand against a
wall screen that did the job in less than a second.
Then they sauntered down rows of fabrics, with Rob-
ert brightly extolling the virtues of each until Mag-
nus selected a few, just to shut him up -- he thought
they were rather gaudy, himself, but they were Rob-
ert's recommendations. His cousin seemed to think

33

Christopher Stasheff

Magnus's preference for quieter fabrics was very un-
sophisticated.

"And have that delivered by 1700 hours," Robert
told the robot tailor as they left.

It bowed. "As you wish, sir."

As they strolled out of the store, Magnus pro-
tested, "There was no reason for haste."

"'Course there was, old boy -- the ball next week.
Don't you remember?"

"I can't very well," Magnus said slowly, "since I
haven't been told. What ball?"

"The one Mama is throwing! In your honor, old --  I
say! There's Runcible!" And he hurried off to chat
with a churn.

Magnus observed the two, noting the degree of
loudness, the social distance between them, the lack
of physical touching, the intonations, and half-a-
dozen other signs of modern customs -- but all the
time, at the back of his mind, he was wondering why
his aunt was putting on an impromptu ball, and why
it was in his honor. Were they that desperate for
something to do, for some trace of excitement, here?

Yes. Of course they were. How could he ever have
wondered?

The haberdasher's was only a hundred meters
away, but it took them half an hour to get there -- 
Robert had to stop every few feet to greet friends, and
had to beg off coming to drink with them because he
had to squire his bothersome cousin around -- and he
didn't hesitate to use those terms, when he must
have known full well that Magnus could hear him. If
he had thought of it. Magnus was beginning to won-

34

A WIZARD IN ABSENTIA

der just how good a guide Robert was to the manners
of this people.

He was very much aware of being the outsider,
studying the customs as though he were an anthro-
pologist, though for a much more pressing reason
than academic research. It was horrifying to realize
that this subject group he was observing were sup-
posed to be his own flesh and blood, the people and
stock from which he had sprung.

He understood now why his father had left home.
In fact, he had gone beyond a mere understanding to
a very active sympathy.

The haberdashery comprised a vast assortment of
hats and ties and other accessories. They could all
have been displayed on screens, of course, and the or-
ders placed by computer -- but that would have de-
prived the young men of a reason to go sauntering
down the aisles, where they could be sure of encoun-
tering one another and pause for a good, long chat.
Magnus resigned himself to a long and boring after-
noon, the more so because he was seldom introduced
and never included in the conversation -- not that he
would have wanted to be; it seemed to be exclusively
a discussion of the latest styles, sports averages, and
local scandals about who was sleeping in whose bed.
Magnus was sure it would have been fascinating, if
he had only known what they were talking about.

So, when they arrived at home and he had endured
high tea and was finally able to seek the comfort of
his own rooms, he keyed the wall screen to news,
and spent an hour absorbing a quick summary of re-
cent events -- local, Terran, and throughout the

35

Christopher Stasheff

Terran Sphere. Where he needed additional back-
ground to make sense of the summary, he keyed for
more information -- but still, an hour just wasn't
enough time to give him more than an inkling of
what the young men had been talking about.

"The worst of it," he told Fess, "is that none of it
seems to matter much at all." Since he was alone he
could speak aloud. If anyone heard him -- well, all the
d'Armands were strange.

That will change as you come to understand more
of it, Fess assured him. An hour a day will do won-
ders, Magnus.

"I hope so," Magnus sighed. "Perhaps you can
make sense of Robert's hostility, Fess. Have I vio-
lated some taboo, done something to offend him?"

No, Magnus -- none.

"Then why his hostility? He almost seems to feel
that I am some sort of threat to him."

Fess gave the burst of white noise that was his
equivalent of a sigh and said, Magnus, I fear I must
acquaint you with some of the less pleasant aspects
of Maximan heredity.

"What?" Magnus frowned. "Adaptation to low
gravity? That would effectively trap them on this as-
teroid. Or perhaps a chromosome for vile tempers?"

No, Magnus -- inbreeding.

"Oh." Magnus's face went blank. "All of the

above."

Quite right, Magnus. Recessive traits are rein-
forced, and some of them are desirable -- but some
are not. Over the centuries, some of the more un-

A WIZARD IN ABSENTIA

pleasant traits have become widespread -- such as
low intelligence and emotional instability.

"So." Magnus thought that one over. "A surprising
number of my dear relatives will be idiots or mad-
men."

Yes, Magnus, though in many cases, they will be
neither, just. . . a little slow, or rather unpleasant.

"Which accounts for Robert." Magnus nodded.
"Nothing wrong with him but a mild case of para-
noia. And what, may I ask, is the matter with Pe-
lisse?"

Nothing that I have detected.

"Yet?"

Yet. Of course.

That also accounted for Magnus's uncle, and his
delusion. And it gave Magnus an inkling as to why
the Count's son had elected to stay on Terra. In any
event, the heir was not to be aired, and showed abso-
lutely no interest in inheriting the family estates.

Magnus learned these details the next day, as he
was escorting Pelisse through the mall. Between
lengthy stops to chat with her friends, she managed
to answer a question or two about the family.

"It is difficult to believe that Uncle Roger has no
interest in the inheritance." Actually, Magnus didn't
find it hard to believe at all.

"I know -- but he doesn't," Pelisse said, "though
it's a good guess that he'll expect a decent share of
the income."

"Of course." Magnus smiled, not pleasantly. "All

Christopher Stasheff

the money but none of the responsibility or incon-
venience, eh? He won't bring it off, will he?"

"Oh, I'm sure he'll receive a generous settle-
ment -- but even if he didn't, I don't think that would
persuade my dear uncle to come back." Pelisse
seemed to have grown rather nervous. She stopped
abruptly, facing into a store-screen. "Oh, what a
lovely gown! Come, Magnus, I must try it on!"

Magnus glanced up at the gown and wondered
what could have taken her eye about it; it seemed
quite ordinary to him. But, all things considered,
there were worse things to do with his time than to
watch Pelisse try on a tight-fitting gown, so he fol-
lowed her around behind the screen and into the
shop, not entirely reluctantly.

38

lan waked slowly, blinking, and sat up, looking
about him, puzzled. The room seemed very strange.

Then he remembered.

Nothing had changed inside the stone egg; the
light was still the same. He frowned, rubbing a hand
across his mouth. How could he tell what time of the
day or night it was? He rose, and went slowly toward
the stairway, wondering how he would get out.

There was a clicking sound behind him.

He spun about.

The voice said, "Food and drink are served."

He saw a new plate on the table with clean uten-
sils beside it, and on the plate was a dark, thick slice
of meat -- a steak, and more of the wonderful bread,
and something green, which must have been a vege-
table. Beans? And a lump of mealy white-stuff, and a
tall glass filled with white liquid. He ran to the chair,
suddenly aware of his hunger again. He picked up the

39

Christopher Stasheff

steak in both hands, bit, and chewed. When he was
done, he dropped the bone and scooped the beans
into his mouth. They tasted far better than the hard,
dry lentils he had always eaten, and the mealy stuff
was creamy and smooth in his mouth. The white liq-
uid proved to be cow's milk -- he had drunk of it now
and again -- and he drank it down in huge gulps.

When he was done, he sat back, sighing. He found
a square of white cloth next to the plate and won-
dered what it was for, then noticed the grease on his
hands. Surely the cloth must be for cleaning! He
picked it up and wiped off the grease; then, with an-
other happy sigh, he got up from the table, looking
about him, and feeling very, very happy.

Then he remembered that his problems had only
begun. He must still get out and go to Castlerock. He
could not stay in this egg for the rest of his life, de-
lightful though the prospect seemed, for the lord to
whom it belonged must come in and find him sooner
or later.

He went to the stairway again. Cautiously, he
climbed up, but the guardian spirit made no move to
prevent him.

When he came out into the upper chamber, he
went right to the wall that he had fallen through the
day before -- or was it only that morning? As he was
raising his hand to touch it, he stopped, realizing
that he had no idea how much time had passed. It
might still be daylight. He frowned, and mused
aloud, "How can I tell what time of day it is, when I
cannot see the sun?"

A WIZARD IN ABSENTIA

A bell chimed.

lan whirled, staring.

At the wall in front of the great chair, one of the
windows had come to life. Through it, he could see
the meadow outside the Great Egg, bathed in silver
moonlight. He shrank back, afraid that if there were
soldiers in the meadow, they might see him. Then he
remembered how the dots had been there before, and
came forward hesitantly, climbing up onto the chair
and reaching out. He felt a hard surface beneath his
fingers and realized that the guardian spirit had not
really made a hole in the side of the Egg. How, then,
could he see out? And if he could, surely someone
else could see in! He dropped down from the chair
and scurried around to hide behind it, peeking out at
the "window."

It was night; he had slept most amazingly. But how
was this? The guardian spirit had heard his question,
and given him an answer.

Perhaps also ...

"How may I get out from this place?" he said,
aloud. He waited a moment; nothing happened. Per-
haps the guardian spirit had not heard him.

Suddenly, a section of the wall over to the side of
the chamber slid back. lan stared at it in surprise, and
not a little fear.

The wall was open. The night was outside. He
could feel its breeze on his face.

Slowly, he picked up his staff and started toward
the opening.

Christopher Stasheff

The music spangled and glittered in an array of
high, rippling tones, while the bass notes throbbed
beneath them in a rhythm that matched his pulse,
then pulled it along to meld with the music's tempo.
It was disconcerting, this synthesized music that
was undeniably a waltz, yet far more physical than
even that scandalous dance had ever been, pounding
in his veins and making it seem the most natural
thing in the world for his hips to gyrate, his muscles
to shift against the rounded softness of Pelisse's
body, so close against his, matching the beat, and
with it, his movements, like a hand in a glove. He
looked down at her and swallowed, his throat thick
with the sensations that flooded through his body, so
rare for him and yet so unpleasantly familiar.

One of the disadvantages to being so tall was that
he was looking down at her upturned, shining face,
and could unfortunately not help seeing the
decolletage beneath it -- and, though the gown was
low-cut and revealing, he was sure it wasn't sup-
posed to be so very revealing.

Was it?
He managed to force a smile, at least a small one,

feeling his face grow hot, knowing that his eyes, at
least, were filled with incredulous delight. All he
could seem to see were her mouth, wide and very
red, with rich, ripe lips that trembled on the verge of
opening, almost begging to be caressed, tasted; the
small, delightful tilt of her nose; her huge, blue eyes;

and the equally huge, swelling mounds beneath her
neckline. He tried to minimize the view by pressing
her tightly against himself, but it was perhaps not

A WIZARD IN ABSENTIA

the wisest course of action, for she murmured with
pleasure, moving her hips languidly against his
thigh, and he felt his own body responding. "Fair
cousin," he whispered, his tongue thick in his
mouth.

Why, then, this cool, detached part of his mind
that stood back watching, and snickered?

"Handsome cousin," she breathed in return, eye-
lids lowering. "Will you not sweep me away in your
ship, to some enchanted realm where only we two
shall exist?"

Was that what she wanted, for him to steal her
away from this gilded backwater prison? For some-
how, his detached self didn't doubt that she wanted
something.

So did he -- or at least his body did. His mind,
though, was apprehensive, and his heart seemed to
have jelled. Did it sense something that his mind
only suspected, and his body ignored?

He knew it was bad, unhealthy, to think of him-
self in parts in this manner, but he couldn't help it;

though he ached with desire for pleasures he had
never fully known, he was still reluctant, hesi-
tant . . .

And amused.

He was shocked to realize it, and tried to banish
the thought, to ignore his own cynicism, to concen-
trate on the desire within him, and the beautiful,
provocative face turned up toward his, the sleepy
eyes, the trembling lips....

He brought his own lips down, to brush against
hers, and felt her whole body swelling up to meet

Christopher Stasheff

his. Then the cymbals crashed, and he pulled back,
startled. They were, after all, in public.

She made a moue of disappointment and lowered
her gaze. "Why so shy, cousin?"

"It would be a poor return for the hospitality of
your family, milady," he said, "were I to seek to se-
duce their daughter."

She tossed her head, her laugh a ripple of bright-
ness that the music tried vainly to echo. "Do you
think they care? Such concern was for the dark ages,
when intimacy meant conception. Liaisons between
cousins are no shame here, Magnus, nor even cause
for a frown! Especially when the two have grown up
apart, and are strangers, as we are -- for there can be
no incest in the mind, when we are worlds apart in
our origins!"

It was a pretty speech, for a culture that used the
language of science as social pleasantries -- and an in-
vitation so thinly veiled that he would verge on dis-
courtesy to refuse it.

And he was tempted, his body ached with it. ...

Suddenly, the longing crashed through him,
through his reserve; the furious desire to banish the
injuries of his past by immersion in her, in her body,
bathing away the aura of humiliation and heartache
that had always accompanied sexual overtures in his
past. Almost in a rage to banish those memories, to
scourge those responses, he lowered his head again
and pressed his lips to hers. They trembled beneath
his, parted only slightly, only enough to entice, to in-
vite, and he caressed them with the tip of his tongue,

44

A WIZARD IN ABSENTIA

teasing them open, letting his mouth sink into hers,
her lips warm and moist all about his, flesh sliding
over flesh, awakening a thousand burning neurons to
send their flame coursing throughout his body.
Vaguely and distantly, he was aware that they had
stopped dancing, that they stood still, engrossed in
the kiss, that her whole body seemed to reach up to
his in delight, in ... triumph?

Near the wall, her cousin Robert stared, outraged,
the blood suffusing his face -- but the Countess Ma-
tilda smiled, and exchanged a knowing, pleased look
with the Baroness.

Magnus returned to his rooms in a strange state -- 
half euphoria, his head feeling as though it were in-
flated like a balloon with a vapor that held a strange
and intoxicating aroma, the scent of Pelisse's per-
fume. But the other half was wariness, suspicion, al-
most a sense of foreboding. He sank down into a
recliner and punched the pressure pads of the table
beside it. In a second, the table delivered a tall glass
of amber fluid into his hand. Magnus took a long
drink, but it neither heightened the euphoria nor
quenched the foreboding.

A pleasant evening, Magnus} Fess asked.

"Oh yes, very pleasant indeed! Five dances with
my most attractive cousin, a long and intimate chat
on the way to her room, an invitation to step in to
continue the conversation, and when I declined, a
very long and deep kiss! I should be ecstatic!"

But you are notf Why is that}

"That's the hell of it -- I don't know!" Magnus put

45

Christopher Stasheff

the glass down too hard, but somehow it didn't
break. "Pelisse is probably the most beautiful
woman that I have yet had the pleasure of meeting -- 
though with modern cosmetics, it's hard to be
sure. At least, she looks to be the most beautiful.
And she's sympathetic, complaisant, intimate -- 
everything that should delight me! In fact, it
does -- but it also makes me nervous! Why is that,
Fess?"

Could it perhaps be linked to your not accepting
her invitation tonightf

Magnus nodded, short, choppy jerks of the head.
"Yes -- oh, most certainly yes! The instant she asked
me in, I could feel all my emotional armor clanking
into place! Why is that, Fess? The fruit of painful ex-
periences I've had in the past, with willing women -- 
all willing to be caressed, to go to bed, then to use me
in any way they could? Or is there really something
about Pelisse that sets my instincts for self-
preservation to baring their teeth?"

Something of both, certainly, the robot mused. As
to Pelisse herself, I would be cautious with any
Maximan lady -- but the only element in her con-
duct that might give you grounds for trepidation is
that she has been so quick to welcome you so very
thoroughly, and has shown so very much attraction
to you so very quickly.

"Quickly! An understatement if I ever heard one!
Only two weeks, and she's ready to invite me into
her bed! Or at least into her room late at night -- 
perhaps I'm just being conceited in thinking she
might have made the deeper offer."

46

A WIZARD IN ABSENTIA

I doubt it. She certainly is showing all the signs of
being willing -- in entirety.

"Signs?" Something about the word focused Mag-
nus's wariness. "What signs are you speaking of,
Fess?"

Oh, letting her eyelids droop, invading your social
distance, the specific sort of smile she gives you, her
seeking of proximity...

"Yes, that's it! Just the signs, the motions! Anyone
could learn them, learn how to do them! They don't
have to have an ounce of sincerity behind them!"
Magnus leaped to his feet and began to pace. "And
that phrase you used earlier -- something about 'as to
Pelisse herself.' That implies that you're seeing
something more than Pelisse, something that might
arouse my wariness. What?"

Why .. . the situation itself, Magnus.

"The situation? What about it? New relative
shows up out of nowhere unannounced, is invited to
stay with the family -- what should make me suspi-
cious about that? They might have cause for wari-
ness, but me?"

There is an uncertainty about the succession,
Magnus.

"Who's going to be the next Count after my great-
uncle dies?" Magnus stood still, looking up as
though Fess were physically present next to him,
frowning. "Why should that give me cause for wari-
ness?"

Because it is the reason why your presence has
been so unsettling to them. They thought the suc-

47

Christopher Stasheff

cession was definite, but your presence has made it
once again uncertain.

"My presence? How could it? I have no interest in
being Count of this bulwark against respectability!"

But they cannot know that, and would be foolish
to believe you even if you said it, no matter how sin-
cerely.

"But what claim could I possibly have?"

One every bit as good as Pelisse's. Consider,
Magnus -- your great-uncle is in very poor health; the
family is braced for his death. His only son is deter-
mined not to return to Maxima or accept the inheri-
tance, perhaps wisely. He has therefore abdicated in
advance, since becoming Count would mean leav-
ing Terra.

Magnus nodded, frowning. "That still does not af-
fect me."

But the succession is patrilineal. Since the current
Count has no other male offspring, the title passes to
your father's elder brother -- but he is mentally in-
competent, and cannot inherit. His younger brother,
your father, thereby became heir, but was unavail-
able -- perhaps dead, for all his family knew; so the
title would therefore pass to your Uncle Richard's
daughter.

"Then I came," Magnus whispered, "and inheri-
tance is patrilineal."

Exactly, Magnus. Your father might not be avail-
able, but you suddenly were. You are the male heir
of a cadet branch, so the title and estates could le-
gally pass to you, even though there is a female of
the senior branch.

48

A WIZARD IN ABSENTIA

"So my claim is as good as hers!" Magnus stared.
"Perhaps better! And they're all afraid that I might
try to assert it! Then who knows what would happen
to their standard of living!"

Be fair, Magnus. Would you wish to see a stranger
come in and take a prize that you had thought
would be yours?

"No, I certainly wouldn't," Magnus breathed,
"and I would do everything I could to make sure I
kept that prize, no matter what!"

Unfortunately true.

"An ideal resolution, isn't it?" Magnus said bit-
terly. "For Pelisse to marry me, thus unifying both
claims! I would have the title, she would tell me
what to do with it, and the family could relax! Do
you think this was her own idea, Fess? Or did her
mother put her up to it?"

It would 'be difficult to say, Magnus, but I think
we might conjecture that neither lady was terribly
opposed to the idea.

"But Robert was. How say you, Fess -- does my
cousin harbor a rather unhealthy interest in Pe-
lisse?"

It is unhealthy only emotionally, Magnus, as they
are not truly brother and sister, but were only raised
as such. In fact, I have determined that they are re-
lated only in the fourth degree of consanguinity, so
there would certainly be no bar to their marrying.

"Yes, and he would become Count, and have the
title, the business, and Pelisse, too! Probably had the
whole process well in train, in fact, until I came in
and derailed it! Big muscular stranger, from outside

49

Christopher Stasheff

the immediate gene pool, with the mystery of the far
traveller about him -- oh yes, very unfair competition
for the poor fellow! No wonder he was ready to use
my anatomy for fish bait! And now that I look back
on this last fortnight from this perspective, I can un-
derstand the occasional glance that passed between
him and Pelisse -- she Was enjoying his jealousy!
Fess, could it be that my fair cousin returns Robert's
interest?"

Perhaps, Magnus, though I certainly would not
characterize such interest as a prime example of ro-
mantic love.

"No, but it's as good as she's apt to do here!"

You wrong the lady, Magnus.

"Do I? I wouldn't really characterize her interest
in me as being an impassioned true love, either!
More a matter of an interesting novelty, but one that
would pall rather quickly -- and definitely would
have to be civilized and overhauled, if she were going
to keep it around for any length of time! No wonder
I've been wary! No wonder she's been so interested!
How could I possibly have been such a blockhead!"

Certainly not a blockhead, Magnus, Fess mur-
mured. I would never characterize you as such, sim-
ply because you are always willing to give the other
person the benefit of the doubt.

"Yes, but I think the time has come for modera-
tion, don't you, Fess? Time to start restricting that
impulse to situations where it doesn't really mat-
ter!"

Magnus, I fear you are becoming a cynic.

"Cynic? Oh, my heavens, no, Fess! Merely a stu-

50

A WIZABD IN ABSENTIA

dent of human nature, eh? Yes, of course. I think it's
time I had a little chat with all my relatives at once.
Don't you?"

Magnus, surely you would not be ungracious!

That stilled the young giant. He stood a moment
in thought, then said, "Yes, I was about to be unpar-
donably rude, wasn't I? Not to mention being un-
grateful and risking giving hurt unjustly. I'll have to
be a bit more circumspect when I confront them. Af-
ter all, I only wish to be helpful, don't I?"

Helpful. Magnus}

"Yes, helpful. After all, they do have a problem
with the succession. It would only be proper cour-
tesy for a guest to help them resolve it. Wouldn't it?
Yes, of course."

51

Magnus hadn't intended to risk upsetting his great-
uncle, but when the Count heard that he had asked
for a "family conference," the old man had insisted it
be held in his bedchamber. Now Magnus sat looking
about at them all, choosing his words very carefully,
not wishing to hurt any of them -- he should really
have been feeling sorry for each one. But the feeling
of outrage was still there, though firmly held down,
and he couldn't completely keep his emotions out of
the affair.

"Well, what is this all about then?" the old Count
demanded. He stirred restlessly in his bed. "Say your
piece, young man. What is it that is so important
that you wish to address it to us all together?"

"Why, Uncle," Magnus said slowly, "what should
it be but my thanks for your hospitality, and a fare-
well?"

53

Christopher Stasheff

There was instant consternation, and Magnus
found it very satisfying.

"No, not so soon!"

"You mustn't, young man!"

"Come now, after all these years?

"Surely you have a duty to your family!"

Magnus rode it out, permitting himself to feel a
very solid satisfaction -- which was somewhat tem-
pered by the glow of hope and delight he saw in Rob-
ert's face, and the relief in the Count and Countess.

Pelisse, though, was completely taken aback, even
appalled. "So soon? And so suddenly? But Magnus,
this is really too bad of you!"

"My apologies." Magnus inclined his head. "I
would not have been so abrupt, or so dramatic, if re-
cent events had not made my departure a matter of
some urgency."

"Recent events?" Countess Matilda frowned. "Of
what sort?"

But Pelisse had a look of foreboding for a few sec-
onds, before she regained her composure. "Yes, Mag-
nus. What events could you be thinking of?"

"Not events alone," Magnus said slowly, "but new
information, too. I have become aware that you may
be having a difficulty with the succession."

Instantly, the guards were up, the faces wore bland
smiles, and the family had rushed to battle stations.

"However," Magnus said, "it really is not politic
to discuss this in the presence of the current Count."

"No, no! Absolutely necessary, absolutely!" The
Count waved the objection away -- but anxiety shad-
owed his features. "How can I rest easily if there's a

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chance I'll leave the family in the lurch, eh? What
sort of problem are you thinking of, young man?
What difficulty with the succession?"

"My place in it, primarily," Magnus said slowly. "I
have become aware that you all believe I may at-
tempt to inherit, when . . . the time comes."

They should have raised a chorus of protest, they
should have claimed that such a thought could not
have been further from their minds -- but they were
silent. Pelisse wide-eyed, Robert infuriated, the
Countess frightened, and the Count grave.

"The notion is ridiculous, of course," Magnus
said, "or should be -- but I have slowly become aware
that all of you fear I may have come to Maxima for
that purpose."

"Why ridiculous?" the Countess said, through
tight lips.

"Why, because, on my home so far away, only the
most general news of Terra and its colonies has come
to us -- and nothing from the family, though my fa-
ther mentioned from time to time that he had at-
tempted to send word to you. ..."

"We received the occasional missive," the Count
acknowledged, "but we had no means of replying."

Magnus reflected that they could not have tried
terribly hard. "Exactly -- we were isolated from you. I
grew up in the assumption that Maxima was the
family home, but of no other interest to me, for my
father's uncle was the current Count, and his son
would inherit in his turn. I never dreamed that the ti-
tle might pass to the cadet branch -- though I knew

55

Christopher Stasheff

that if it did, my uncle would inherit, not my fa-
ther. ..."

"But you had no way of knowing that he would be
non compos mentis." The Count scowled, nodding.

"Indeed," Magnus acknowledged. "Of course, if
matters came to such a pass, it would be my father
who would inherit, not I -- but as you all know, he
has won a title and lands of his own, and would cer-
tainly relinquish all claims to the inheritance."

"You, however, are available." Robert's eyes smol-
dered.

"I did not quite realize that, until yesterday,"
Magnus said. "It explained many things -- Robert's
hostility, the Countess's reticence, perhaps even Pe-
lisse's attentions."

"You lie!" Robert leaped to his feet, face red, fists
clenched.

"Really, young man!" the Countess snapped.

"Magnus!" Pelisse cried, then faltered and looked
away.

Magnus held up both palms. "My apologies; I did
not mean to offend. But you must understand that I
grew up on the fringes of court intrigue, so it is natu-
ral to me to question every attention, even the kind-
nesses that Cousin Pelisse has shown me. She is
truly a gentle and open-hearted woman -- but a man
with a suspicious mind might note that she is the
current heir and that, since she is female and the suc-
cession is patrilineal, she would only inherit if there
were no male to claim the title -- so that my claim
might be construed as being as strong as hers."

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He waited for a response, but no one spoke. Eyes
were wide and faces pale, but lips were sealed.

Grimly reassured, Magnus went on, "So suspi-
cious a person might have noted that the logical way
to remove the conflict was to unite the claimants -- 
and that Pelisse might therefore have been in-
structed to cultivate my affections."

He expected a hot and outraged denial from the
Countess and from Pelisse -- but Matilda only looked
away, her face pale, and Pelisse kept her gaze on the
floor.

The Count glanced from one to the other with a
scowl. So, then, he had not been in on it. He turned
to Magnus, starting to speak -- but, afraid it might be
an apology, Magnus beat him to it. "Quite ridicu-
lous, I know, and really showing only my own
conceit -- after all, though I would not say I was
handsome, I flatter myself that being tall, muscular,
and having a certain amount of presence, might
make me not altogether unappealing. But, as I say,
this shows only my own arrogance ..."

"Indeed," Robert muttered.

"... and after all," Magnus went on, "so beautiful
a lady as Pelisse certainly could not be in love with
me. Could you, Pelisse?"

"No," Pelisse admitted, though she almost stran-
gled on the word.

Pain stabbed Magnus, even though he had already
guessed the truth of it. But he kept his face grave and
nodded. "No, of course not. I must ask your forgive-
ness, fair cousin, for having presumed to fantasize as

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Christopher Stasheff

much -- but you are fair, after all, so I think I might
be forgiven for a masculine weakness."

"Of course," Pelisse said, managing to raise a
haunted gaze to him.

Robert stood silent and trembling, fists clenched,
glaring hatred at Magnus.

Magnus took it as tribute and fed his confidence
off the other man's dislike. "Yes, quite ridiculous, all
of it -- beginning with the notion that I might wish to
inherit."

Instant consternation. All the minor relatives
were talking at once; the Countess and Pelisse stared
at him with huge, disbelieving eyes; and Robert's jaw
dropped.

"Come, now!" The Count raised a hand and
waited till the tumult stilled, locking gazes with
Magnus. When the room was still, he said, "Not
wish to inherit? Turn your back on a billion-a-year
business? Wealth and power, and a title with it? How
could you not wish to inherit?"

Angered though he was, Magnus wasn't quite vi-
cious enough to tell the old man that he was no more
interested in life imprisonment on a twenty-mile as-
teroid than the Count's own son had been. "Worldly
considerations aside, sir, there is the matter of quali-
fication for the position. I know little about robotics
and nothing of modern industry; I haven't the slight-
est idea how to manage even one factory, let alone a
whole complex. If I were to become Count, it would
certainly be disastrous for d'Armand Automatons -- 
and the good of the family is, after all, paramount."

He thought he had done that rather neatly.

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But the Count waved these objections away. "You
could learn, young man -- and while you did, you
would have excellent advisors. Have wealth and lux-
ury no appeal to you?"

"No more than to any man." Magnus chose his
words carefully. "But I have another title waiting for
me on my homeworld, and estates and wealth with
it." He didn't bother saying that Rod's title was prob-
ably not hereditary -- he was sure the lands were.
Never mind that he would be expected to share them
with his siblings -- he wasn't all that sure that he
wanted to inherit on Gramarye, either. "But I wish
to see something more of the universe before I tie
myself down to one place. I do not yet wish to rest."

"You will, though," his great-uncle protested.
"When you're tired of rambling, you will. And you'll
have become addicted to the pleasures of the modern
world. What of the inheritance then, eh?"

Even now too polite to say that a mere asteroid
would be too small for him, Magnus assured him,
"I would find a way to carve out a niche for myself,
as my father has done."

"Quite sure of that, are you?" The Count looked
doubtful, and he wasn't the only one.

"Quite," Magnus confirmed. "In fact, I am so sure,
that I will sign any documents you wish, relinquish-
ing my claim to the title and the company."

Everyone burst into disbelieving but delighted
exclamations -- except for the old Count. He kept his
gaze on Magnus and rode out the hubbuK When it
slackened, he raised a hand again, and gradually, the
room stilled. "But what of your father?" the old man

Christopher Stasheff

said then. "What of my nephew, eh? After all, he has
the strongest claim of all. What assurance do we
have that he will not show up seeking the title, eh?"

Magnus just barely managed to choke back a bark
of laughter. The High Warlock of Gramarye, give up
his castle and estates, his title and his world, for
nothing but a tastelessly opulent mansion on an air-
less asteroid, where the use of the psionic powers he
had discovered would have to be exercised so dis-
creetly as to be virtually undetectable? Give up a
world for this7.

He didn't say that, of course. Gravely, he an-
swered, "I cannot speak for my father; however, I
very much doubt that Rod Gal -- Rodney d'Armand
will wish to give up his life's work and his world, to
take over the family business. I do suspect that he
will probably wish to see you again, sir, and his
brother, no matter Uncle Richard's condition -- but
that he will not wish to stay. Assuming he can ar-
range transportation, that is."

"Transportation?" The Count frowned. "How
could he not? He had to have a ship to get where he is
in the first place, didn't he?"

Magnus felt a stab of guilt. "He did, sir, but he gave
it to me, for my travels."

"You mean he's trapped there?" The Count shook
his head, muttering -- but Magnus saw the flare of
hope in Matilda's eyes. "We can't have that!" the old
man said. "Have to find a way to send him a ship,
yes. After all, he is family."

"I will send an inquiry, sir," Magnus said politely,
"and ask him for a formal abdication of rights to the

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claim -- though I doubt that my father will be able to
receive it" -- again, the stab of guilt -- "without his
ship, and its guiding robot."

"But I do not wish to inherit!" Pelisse cried, then
lowered her eyes instantly.

"Pelisse!" her grandmother gasped, scandalized.

Again, the Count held up a hand for silence.
"What's this, Granddaughter? Not wish to inherit!
But why?"

"Why, because I don't know enough," Pelisse
sobbed. "I don't, Grandmother! I've studied, I've
learned as much as I can, I could design and build a
robot from scratch, I know all the principles of
management -- but I'm frightened! I can't bear the
thought of having to manage the company on my
own, the thought of all the members of the family
who might suffer if I make too many mistakes!" She
looked up at Matilda through her tears. "Can't you
understand that?"

Matilda stood rigid -- then, unexpectedly, thawed.
She came over to her grandchild and put an arm
around her shoulders. "Of course, dear, I under-
stand -- far better than you can know, in fact. But we
must do what we're given to do -- must do as well as
we can, and hope, darling, only hope."

"You will not want for good advice," the Count
muttered.

"But it is I who will have to decide!" Pelisse
wailed.

"You have said yourself that you have the knowl-
edge." Magnus frowned. "It is support you need, not

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Christopher Stasheff

advice -- emotional support, the knowledge that
there is someone there to depend on, if you fail."

"Of course!" Pelisse turned a tear-streaked face to
him. "Now do you understand?"

"Quite well." Magnus held himself still against a
surge of anger, then turned to nod toward his rival.
"But you will pardon me for suggesting that your
cousin Robert might be willing to be the staff upon
which you might lean. His knowledge of these affairs
is certainly far greater than mine -- and, unless I quite
mistake him, he would be very willing indeed."

Now it was Pelisse who froze.

Matilda lifted her gaze slowly, seeking out Robert.
He braced himself visibly, and bore up under her

scrutiny.

"So that is the way of it," Matilda murmured. "All
the time, and right beneath my nose, too. Really,
child, you might have told me."

"But you don't approve of Robert," Pelisse mum-
bled.

"As a liaison? Certainly not; he's far too wild. But
as a husband? Well, when he has settled down -- who
can tell? I'll have to consider the matter -- carefully."

The Count turned a frosty glance on his kinsman.
"I think you had better be done sowing your wild
oats, young man, and very quickly, too."

"Yes, sir," Robert said meekly.

"I might also suggest," said Magnus, "that your
uncle the professor might find it possible, perhaps
even desirable, to return to Maxima during the sum-
mers, when he is not preoccupied with teaching.
What is his field?"

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A WIZABD IN ABSENTIA

"Why, robotics, of course," said the Count, frown-
ing.

Magnus restrained an urge to shout at him, and
only smiled. "How perfect! Has he never asked
d'Armand Automatons to test new ideas for him?"

"Well, the occasional notion ..."

"He really should have you manufacture all his pi-
lot models. After all, family is family. And I think
you might find that he would be available for consul-
tation even during his teaching terms, if his share of
the family inheritance were contingent on his assis-
tance. I was under the impression that consultancies
enhanced a professor's prestige."

"What an excellent idea!" The Count stared. "Re-
ally, young man, you might find you have a gift for
this sort of thing, after all."

"No, Great-uncle -- only for intrigue. Which, as
I've told you, permeated the very air I breathed as an
infant." Magnus didn't mind the occasional exagger-
ation.

But Matilda frowned. "You don't know the profes-
sor as we do, young man. I doubt that he would be
willing to return to Maxima even for three months
at a time."

Somehow, Magnus found he could believe that.

"Must be a way." The Count scowled. "After all,
family is paramount, eh?"

Magnus pursed his lips. "Perhaps I might talk to
my academic cousin?"

"Well -- I suppose you might, if you were willing to
go to Terra."

"Has he no hyper-phone?"

63

Christopher Stasheff

"Of course -- but do you really think it will do any
good?"

"There is a possibility," Magnus said.

Magnus adjourned with Matilda to the communi-
cations center of the household. Magnus, Fess's
voice said in his mind, / hope you are not planning
anything unethical.

Is persuasion unethical} Magnus returned.

It can be ethical or unethical, depending on your
methods.

Then observe my methods, and judge them when
I am done, Magnus thought curtly. He didn't need
his resident daemon to tell him that what he was
contemplating was not completely proper. He sat
with the Countess in the household's communica-
tion center. He glanced at the range of clocks above
the communicator screen and noted the time in Bos-
ton, on the continent of North America. Eight
o'clock in the evening -- an excellent time for a fam-
ily call. He glanced up at the Countess. "Will the
connection be long in coming?"

"Not terribly," Matilda answered, just as the glow
of the screen broke into snow, then cleared as a pas-
tel flower blossomed from the center outwards.
Words came from the flower's center, swelling to fill
the screen. You have connected with 27-14-30-260-
339977AZ.

Aunt Matilda nodded. "It is Roger's address."

Magnus frowned. "Why does he not identify him-
self by name?"

Matilda glanced at him with amusement and, yes,

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A WIZARD IN ABSENTIA

condescension, no matter how slight. "To guard
against theft." She turned back to the screen, un-
aware that she had left Magnus wondering how a
mere display of digits could be a charm against bur-
glary. "Please inform Professor d'Armand that his
stepmother is calling."

Stepmother} Magnus concealed his surprise. Ma-
tilda was the Count's second wife, then. He won-
dered how that affected the succession.

The display remained constant, but the music
modulated into the word, "Affirmative."

"Showy," Matilda muttered, "but cheap."

Magnus didn't understand a bit of it, so he kept his
face impassive.

Then the flower faded from the screen, revealing
the face of a middle-aged man, which hit Magnus
with a shock. The second wife must have been a
good twenty years younger than the first. He had
thought it was illness that had made the Count look
twenty years older than his wife, but now he realized
it was simply time.

The professor had a long, pallid face, and a guarded
manner. The resemblance to the Count was unmis-
takable. "Matilda! What a pleasant surprise!"

"And a pleasure to see you, Roger." There was real
warmth under the Countess's reserve. "And let me
relieve your mind before we go any further -- your fa-
ther is no worse, if no better."

"Glad to hear the former, and sorry to hear the lat-
ter." Roger glanced toward Magnus. "Would I be
right to infer that this young man is therefore the

65

Christopher Stasheff

reason for your expending so much money for this
call?"

"He is my excuse," Matilda admitted. "Roger,
meet your Cousin Magnus -- Rodney's son."

"Rodney! Then he still lives?" The professor
turned to Magnus with a quickening of interest. "We
had feared that he must have fallen prey to the haz-
ards of his profession -- a secret agent's life, and all
that. Is your father well, young man?"

"Yes, quite well." Magnus hid the shock of hearing
his father described as a secret agent -- but of course,
that was what he was, though it was no longer his
primary occupation. "I bring his greetings to all the
family -- but I must convey them to you in this fash-
ion, since I do not expect to visit Terra." That wasn't
quite true, but he was resolved to come nowhere
near anyone else bearing the name "d'Armand."

"I regret to hear it." The professor frowned. "You
would enjoy Cambridge -- it's something of an oasis
amidst the desert of the modern world."

"Is it really? I'm afraid I know so little of Terra."
Even as he spoke, Magnus's mind was reaching out,
following the tachyon beam inward past Mars' orbit,
past Luna, seeking the mind so distant in the con-
nection. He needed a bit more talk to have the feel of
that mind, the signature, the insubstantial air that
would make it distinct from all the other minds on
Earth. "I gather that Cambridge is a city restricted to
the pursuit of knowledge?"

"You might say that." The professor smiled.
"Though so many of our research institutions are al-
lied with commerce now, that we might more accu-

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A WIZARD IN ABSENTIA

rately say that Cambridge is devoted to the business
of knowledge."

"What is the appearance of the town?"

"A strange wording; I gather that your native id-
iom differs from my own." The professor gave him a
keen look. "Well, young man, we specialize in old
buildings and new postures, if that means anything
to you."

It meant more than he knew; Magnus had singled
his mind out of the throng, and was letting his own
consciousness filter through that of his cousin,
feather-light, insubstantial, but gradually perceiving
the world as the professor perceived it, soaking up
his thoughts and memories. "My own world reveres
the antique. Professor." That was putting it mildly -- 
the whole culture had been modeled on an idealized
view of the European Middle Ages. "It is an attitude
with which I can sympathize."

"Then you must come to Cambridge and discover
it for yourself." The professor smiled again, still very
much on his guard. "But surely you have not taken
the time to contact me simply for a description of
my city, young man."

"No, but I have wished to meet you, and a discus-
sion of the town in which you live gives me an
additonal sense of your personality," Magnus an-
swered. "I am embarked on a voyage of self-
discovery, you see, and I have begun it by seeking out
my roots, attempting to learn something of my fa-
ther's people."

"It is a process with which every professor is
familiar -- he is exposed to it so constantly." Roger's

67

Christopher Stasheff

features softened, his guard lowering as he gained
confidence and a sense of superiority over his young
caller. "What have you learned thus far?"

"That family is extremely important to all my rel-
atives," Magnus returned, "frequently more impor-
tant than their own welfare."

The professor frowned, not liking this view of the
topic. "And do you find this attitude healthy?"

"It is certainly to the benefit of the family," Mag-
nus returned, "and each individual's welfare seems
to depend on that of the family. All in all, I find it
conducive to the welfare of the individuals involved,
yes."

"But don't you also find it somewhat restrictive?"

There was an undertone of the defensive there -- 
Magnus pursued, and found the guilt from which it
stemmed. As he talked, his mind softened the edge
of that emotion, mellowing it into a feeling of obliga-
tion. "Quite restrictive, since I was born and raised
on a planet not much smaller than Terra. When you
have had a whole world to wander, or at least a very
large island, you come to miss the outdoors."

Matilda looked up indignantly.

"I came to miss it before I had experienced it,"
Roger said, with a smile.

"Young men are always restless," the Countess
said crisply, "and long to explore new environments.
Isn't that so, Magnus?"

"I live in witness to it." Magnus allowed himself a
slight smile, but his mind was sifting through the
memories that the conversation brought up in Rog-
er's mind. "I cannot help but wonder what attrac-

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A WIZAHD IN ABSENTIA

tions there must be on your overcrowded Terra, to
make you wish to stay there."

The question brought a flood of emotions and
memories, though the professor maintained a bland
smile. Magnus probed delicately, following linkages
of associations down to underlying attitudes. He
worked very carefully; this wasn't really his gift, but
he had witnessed his mother and sister doing it, and
had even been on the receiving end once or twice,
when he was sunk in apathy. Yes, the professor's dis-
like of Maxima was superficially due to a natural
youthful wanderlust, but it endured for a deeper
reason -- what Magnus could only think of as an
emotional claustrophobia, a feeling of suffocation
under the presence and chatter of too many people in
too small a space. Magnus examined more closely,
and found memories of never-ending demands from
the Countess, the Count, and a score of other rela-
tives. Roger had been the one on whom everyone
else had loaded the responsibility of recommending
what to do with Uncle Richard; he had been the one
who had had to support his father through the de-
cline and death of his first wife. As one of the few re-
ally stable people in the family, he had always been
the object of the others' emotional demands, had
been the one who kept the rest of them function-
ing -- and this before he was out of his teens! Magnus
sympathized; in two short weeks, he had already be-
gun to feel the attachment of those emotional ten-
drils, the conflicting pulls of several people at once.

Nontheless, family came first -- and if Cousin

69

Christopher Stasheff

Roger wanted the financial benefits of d'Armand Au-
tomatons, he would have to shoulder some of the re-
sponsibility.

The professor was answering. "Cambridge is kept
free of overcrowding, young man, except on football
Saturdays. And there is a feeling of freedom, of spa-
ciousness, that no space habitat can match."

"I concur," Magnus said. "But surely the demands
of others are present in any social environment."

"Yes, but they maintain a certain degree of reserve
in an academic setting," the professor began, and
was off into paeans of praise for the fellowship of
scholars. Beneath his words, Magnus read a dread of
intimate relationships, for his familial life had been
so stifling that he had not married even once, and
had certainly taken pains to be sure he fathered no
children. His relationships with women were fleet-
ing, and the only intimacy was that of the body. Mag-
nus felt a surge of empathy, recognizing a maimed
soul when he saw one, and identifying with it with
such intensity that it shocked him. But battle-
trained reflexes took over; he pushed his own emo-
tions to the background while he worked within his
cousin's mind, inputting reassurance that the other
members of the family had adjusted to his absence
and had found their own sources of security without
him.

Roger had finished with a description of the plea-
sures of sitting in the sun on an autumn morning,
discussing superconductor theory with his col-
leagues. Magnus noted the falling inflection and
murmured, "Such a web of relationships must be

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very pleasant, with no one pressing you for involve-
ment."

"Yes, quite." But the professor frowned suddenly,
as though a puzzle in the back of his mind had just
been solved. "Rodney's son -- then your claim to the
succession is as valid as my cousin Pelisse's!"

"True," Magnus acknowledged, "but her claim is
also as valid as mine, and she has the advantage of
knowing the situation -- and the greater advantage of
wanting to stay on Maxima for most of her life."

"I see." Roger smiled, amused. "You are no more
enamored of life on an asteroid than I, eh?" Or ofief-
ereeing a convention of madmen, his mind said si-
lently.

Magnus commiserated, and made sure the older
man felt the surge of emotion. "The problem is that
Pelisse does not wish the authority."

"Oh, she will grow into it, by the time she has to
assume the responsibility," Roger said breezily.

But Matilda contradicted him, rather severely.
"That moment could come tomorrow, Roger, or
even tonight."

"Or not for five years, or ten," Roger retorted, all
his emotional shields up and vibrating. "Father has
excellent medical care, Matilda, and you have in-
formed me that his mind is as sharp as ever. You will
pardon me if I do not show undue concern."

Matilda reddened, but Magnus said smoothly, "It
is your due concern that is perhaps appropriate."

"Indeed." Roger turned to him angrily- "And what
concern do you think is due, young man?" His tone
said: interloper.

71

Christopher Stasheff

"That of an advisor." Magnus worked at keeping
his posture loose, not letting the tension show.
"After all, you have a vested interest in d'Armand Au-
tomatons, as well as an academic one, do you not?"

"Academic?" Roger frowned. "The family busi-
ness is just that, young man -- they apply proven
principles in building their robots; they don't experi-
ment."

Magnus looked up at Matilda in surprise that was
only partly feigned. "You don't have a research and
development department?"

"Well, of course," Matilda said, nettled. "They are
constantly searching for new ways to apply estab-
lished knowledge."

"But not to discover new principles themselves."
Roger smiled vindictively. "After all, there's just so
much that artificial intelligence can do, and creative
thought is really beyond a cybernetic 'brain.' "

"Which means that it is for you to do the primary
research," Magnus interpreted. "Surely you could
see that the family has the benefit of that."

"And the rest of the world! I publish my results,
young man!"

"As is only appropriate," Magnus said smoothly.
"Still, you must verify your results repeatedly before
you publish, must you not?"

"Yes." Roger frowned, not seeing Magnus's point.

"And if d'Armand Automatons had performed
those experiments for you, they would be in a posi-
tion to investigate applications much more quickly
than the rest of the industry."

Roger looked off into space, mulling the thought.

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"There's some point in that -- but Father has never
shown any interest in participating in my work." Be-
neath his words, Magnus caught vivid, fleeting im-
ages of loud and angry arguments, of a father's chilly
silence at what he perceived as his son's abandon-
ment and rejection.

"Have you ever asked?" Magnus said quietly.

"He has not," Matilda said, while Roger was still
opening his mouth. "I confess that the idea is
attractive -- but such experiments would require
your physical presence now and again, Roger."

Alarm flared, and Magnus was quickly calming it
with the revelation that three months would never
be time for entangling relationships to form again. "I
assume that if d'Armand Automatons were to use
your discoveries, you would expect some form of
royalties."

"Of course!"

"But you receive shares in the family business al-
ready, Roger," Matilda reminded him. "Your stock in
the company has never been alienated."

Roger turned frosty. "I have never used the pro-
ceeds from that stock, Matilda, not since I came to
Terra and used some of the dividends to establish
myself. They have sat and grown, increasing in
number and value."

"Yes, I know -- I do look at the books occasion-
ally," Matilda returned tartly.

"It would seem to me," Magnus murmured, "that
if you accept the family's share, you have some re-
sponsibility toward them." This time, the surge of
guilt the professor felt was purely Magnus's doing.

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Christopher Stasheff

But feel it he did, enough to frown and look more
closely at Magnus. "You have some specific proposal
in mind, young man."

"I do," Magnus admitted. "It is simply as I've
suggested -- that you spend your summers on Max-
ima, advising the heir on business matters and test-
ing your new hypotheses." He was ready for the
surge of alarm, of defensive distancing, and lulled it,
soothed it, worked in the thought, again, that three
months was too short a time to become enmeshed in
a circle of endless demands.

The professor's face had turned stony, but was
softening already into a thoughtful frown.

"Of course," Magnus said quietly, "during the rest
of the year, you would be available for consultation
by hyperadio, as you are now."

"The notion has merit," the professor said slowly.
"Of course, for such services, I would expect a
greater number of shares in d'Armand Automatons."

It was quite a change for a man who had virtually
said he didn't really care about the money -- but Mag-
nus noted the undercurrent of emotion that con-
firmed his disregard for the family fortune. Above it
rode the thought that, by putting matters on a busi-
ness footing, he would be shielded from personal de-
mands.

Magnus did not disabuse him of the notion; he
merely said to the Countess, "That would seem
appropriate."

"Quite." She was poised, but there was anticipa-
tion in her eyes. "Surely we need not wait for your fa-
ther's death in order to see you again, Roger."

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"Not at all, Matilda -- you are perfectly free to
meet me here in Cambridge at any time; you know
you will be welcome," the professor assured her. "As
to this summer -- well, I am committed to a graduate
seminar, but perhaps I could visit during the short
vacation in August."

"That would be delightful," the Countess said.
The slightest of smiles showed at the corners of her
lips.

"I shall have to discuss it with my chairman, of
course," Roger said carefully, "but there is at least
the possibility."

Magnus noted that neither of them had said any-
thing specific about how much stock the professor
could look forward to receiving. It really didn't mat-
ter to them, after all.

And when the closing amenities had been ex-
changed and the professor's image had disappeared
from above the black square, Matilda turned to Mag-
nus, her face suffused with joy. "However did you
manage that, young man!"

Magnus decided that she didn't really want to
know.

I have observed, Magnus, Fess's voice said. Are
you certain your action was ethical}

Resolving a family dispute, and reconciling a
stepmother and stepson} Setting a man on the road
to freeing himself from the fear of intimacy that has
stunted his personal growth all his adult life} Cer-
tainly an ethical, deed, Fess!

About the means, though, Magnus wasn't quite so
certain. He had given his cousin emotional assur-

75

Christopher Stasheff

ances that he wasn't sure were true. Moreover, he
had altered the thoughts and emotions of a man who
was not an enemy, without his knoweldge or
consent -- and that definitely was unethical, so he
did feel rather guilty. Not too much so, though -- he
had adjusted a neurosis, and had left the man better
than he had found him. Besides, he could always
plead necessity.

Then too, Roger had been evading his responsi-
bility -- and family was family.

"It was amazing!" Countess Matilda was flushed
with excitement, sitting by the Count's bed and talk-
ing to the whole family. "Nephew Magnus spoke
very quietly and reasonably, even sympathetically -- 
and Roger saw his point at once!"

Pelisse stared. "You mean he didn't lose his tem-
per?"

The Countess colored. "No, and I did not even
have to speak sharply with him! Really, your Cousin
Magnus is most persuasive!"

"It is primarily a matter of seeing an equitable so-
lution that is beneficial to all parties." Magnus felt
rather uncomfortable under such effusive praise, es-
pecially since he knew just how he had done what he
had done. "And, of course, such a solution is more
easily seen by one who is external to the situation."

"But I hope you will not feel that you are outside
the family!" Pelisse turned a beaming face upon
him -- and Magnus felt a surge of the selfsame alarm
he had felt in Cousin Roger. The tendrils of demand
were already reaching out for him, with no compen-

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sating benefits. "I will, of course, delight in my
name, and my background," he lied. "I am honored
to have helped in resolving your problems with the
succession -- and to know that you can manage quite
well without me."

A look of triumph lit Robert's face, but Pelisse was
startled, and the Countess was suddenly pensive.
"Surely you do not intend to leave us so soon, young
man!"

"I fear I must." Magnus inclined his head politely.
"I have limited time to learn of my background, and
have many more courses to run. For example, I be-
lieve I will accept Cousin Roger's invitation, so that I
may see something of Terra, the source of us all."

"Laudable." The Countess couldn't really object,
if he was visiting family -- and reinforcing the mira-
cle he had just worked on Roger. "Surely you will
visit us soon after, though?"

"I look forward to the event," Magnus assured her.
Indeed, he could look forward to it so well that he
didn't intend to let it happen. "Since I must depart
today, I am glad to have been of some slight service
to you."

"Today!" Pelisse cried; and,

"No, really!" the Countess said.

But the Count nodded gravely, and only said, "You
must allow us to express our gratitude in some way,
young man."

"I have scarcely made a fitting return to your hos-
pitality," Magnus objected.

A trace of guilt flitted across Matilda's face, and

77

Christopher Stasheff

Pelisse lowered her eyes; they were shamed, for they
knew just how insincere their hospitality had been.

So did the Count. "You must, at least, have some
token from the family, some talisman that will re-
mind you of your roots, and of our gratitude!" He
turned to his wife. "My dear, see that the young man
is given one of our latest TLC robots, with a selec-
tion of bodies and a yacht to house them."

Matilda nodded, but Magnus stared in alarm, feel-
ing the shadow of obligation. "Surely that is far too
generous, Uncle!"

"You underestimate the service you have done
us," the Count said, but Magnus could not help feel-
ing the emotion that fairly blasted from the man -- 
his shame and embarrassment, for he knew very
well how they had sought to exploit their guest.

Magnus realized that if he did not accept the gift,
they would find ways to keep after him, insisting on
expiating their guilt -- but if he accepted this token,
they would be able to relax and forget him.

"Besides," the Count said, "you have told us that
you have old Fess and your father's ship, which
leaves him devoid of transportation, should he wish
to visit us -- and even devoid of communication! No,
no, we must be able to congratulate him on his hard-
won rank, and to thank him for your visit! You really
must accept a robot of your own, Nephew!"

Magnus stilled. It was an alluring prospect, having
a robot that had not served five hundred years of his
ancestors before him -- having a companion that he
had won himself, no matter how badly overpaid he
might be.

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And after all, what else did the d'Armands have to
offer that was really of them?

Magnus, Fess's voice said, your father has given
me to you, and made you my owner.

But there is merit in what he says, Magnus
thought back, and I would feel forever guilty if I de-
prived Father of you for the rest of his life -- 
especially when an alternative is available.

He was rather hurt that Fess didn't try to argue
him out of it.

79

lan stepped through, and the panel hissed behind
him. He turned, to find only the blank stony surface
of the Egg, pitted and rain-washed. He could see no
seam. It looked for all the world like a great gray
stone again. He turned away, shaking his head and
marveling.

Then he remembered that he was out in the open
once more, and that the keeper, or even soldiers,
might still be looking for him.

He ran quickly and lightly to the cover of the
nearby woods, trying to move as quietly as he could.
He threaded his way between the trees, looking for a
path. He found none, but finally saw a glint in the
night and heard the warbling of water swirling. He
pushed through the underbrush and found a small
stream, sparkling in the moonlight and babbling to
itself like an idiot. He was thirsty; he dropped his
staff, went down on his hands and knees, and drank.

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Christopher Stasheff

As he lifted his head, he saw a man sitting across
the stream from him.

Magnus stared up through the port beside the
airlock, amazed at the size of the ship. "All this, for
only one man?"

"Two, if necessary," Matilda answered, "and for a
year or more. It is a home away from home, and has
to store food and water for twelve Terran months, as
well as a selection of robot bodies for the 'brain,' and
everything our experts can think of, for survival on a
strange planet."

Magnus was awed. This close to the ship, it
seemed vast, a great golden disk whose rim was
twenty feet in the air. Beside it, the converted aster-
oid that was his father's ship seemed small and in-
consequential.

Then Magnus noticed the cable connecting the
two ships. He frowned and was about to ask, but
even as he opened his mouth, the cable disconnected
from Fess's ship and reeled slowly back into the
golden disc, waving like a snake charmer's cobra in
the negligible gravity. "Why were the two ships con-
nected?"

Aunt Matilda looked blank. "Why, I've no idea."

Magnus shrugged it off; the matter seemed incon-
sequential. He gazed up at the huge ship, sitting in
golden splendor amid the desolation of the airless as-
teroid, and felt exalted at the mere thought that it
was his ship, now. "It is magnificent!"

"Not quite as noble as it looks," Aunt Matilda
said, amused. "The color is due to a superconducting

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finish that allows the most effective force-field ever
developed, to be erected around the ship with far less
energy than ever before."

"I am glad it has a utilitarian excuse," Magnus an-
swered, "for I will feel sinfully sybaritic in such a
craft. What did my uncle term it -- a TLC?"

"That is its model number," Aunt Matilda ex-
plained. "It stands for 'Total Life Conserver,' since it
is equipped to protect the lives of its passengers in
every way known, up to and including cryogenic
freezing, if all else fails."

"Reassuring," Magnus murmured.

"It has a serial number, of course," Matilda went
on, "but it also has a more personal designation, con-
noting its strength and abilities -- Hercules
Alfheimer."

"Hercules Alfheimer?" Magnus stared. Hercules,
of courses-was the great hero of the Greeks -- but
Alfheim was the home of the light elves of the
Norse. "You don't mind mixing your mythologies,
do you?"

The Countess's eyes glowed, and Magnus sud-
denly realized that he'd apparently passed some sort
of unexpected test. "Quite so, Nephew," she said.
"We try to do that with every new robot, to indicate
that it is not restricted to the world-view of any one
culture. Naming gives it a more convenient designa-
tion than its serial number alone, and one which
helps to humanize its behavior."

Both of which made it seem less intimidating to
the humans who had to deal with it, Magnus real-
ized.

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Christopher Stasheff

"When it is sold, of course," Matilda went on, "its
new owner can change its name to whatever he or
she pleases."

Magnus intended to; the collision of cultures
jarred on his sensibilities. "I will treasure it, Aunt. I
thank you deeply."

"Think of us always," she admonished. "Now, if
you must leave, young man, you must. Do come
again."

"It shall be a matter of great anticipation," Mag-
nus assured her. "My thanks to you. Aunt Matilda,
and to my uncle ..." He turned to Pelisse and there-
fore necessarily toward Robert, who stood behind
Pelisse with his hand touching her shoulder, still de-
fiant as he stared at Magnus -- but forcing a smile
now, at least. "Farewell, cousins," Magnus said. "My
life is richer for knowing you."

"Oh, not farewell!" Pelisse was dewy around the
lashes. "Say only, 'till we meet again!' "

"All revoir, then," Magnus said, trying to make his
smile warm. "This has been an unforgettable experi-
ence." He reached out to squeeze her hand, then
turned away and made his escape into the boarding
tunnel.

He came out into the ship; the hatch dogged itself
behind him, and a soft, deep voice said, "Greetings,
Master Magnus."

"I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Hercu-
les Alfheimer." Magnus inclined his head, remem-
bering what his father had told him: Be polite to
robots, even if they don't need it -- it'll keep you in

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A WIZARD IN ABSENTIA

the habit of being polite to people. Magnus already
knew how thoroughly all human beings are crea-
tures of habit.

"Thank you, Master Magnus," the robot's voice
answered.

" 'Magnus' alone will do," the young man said. "I
have no wish to have one call me 'master'; adjust it
in your programming."

"Noted," the computer replied. "My name, too,
can be changed to suit you, Magnus. I have found
that most human beings prefer to shorten long desig-
nations."

"Indeed." Magnus nodded. "Let us make a con-
traction of 'Hercules Alfheimer': 'Herkimer.' " He
smiled; there was something amusing about so grand
a ship having so modest a name.

" 'Herkimer' I shall be henceforth," the computer
agreed. "Would you like a tour of the ship, Magnus?"

"After we are in space," Magnus said. "For now, I
would like to be away as quickly as possible."

"The control room is straight ahead," Herkimer
informed him.

Magnus nodded; he had surmised as much, from
the blunt ending of the corridor inside the airlock.
He paced forward a dozen steps and found himself
looking through an open doorway into the bridge. To
his right was a drop shaft; to his left. . . "What is this
hatch across from the elevator?"

"A bunkroom, for those occasions when you wish
to sleep near the bridge," Herkimer answered.
"There is a more fitting bedchamber below."

Magnus could just bet there was. Judging from his

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Christopher Stasheff

guest quarters in Castle d'Armand, it was going to be
such a swamp of luxury that he'd probably prefer the
bunkroom permanently. He nodded, stepped
through the door, sat down on the control couch -- 
and suddenly felt that the ship was really his. "Warm
your engines and plot a course for ..." Magnus
paused; he hadn't thought this far ahead. Then he
shrugged; he wanted to get to Terra sooner or later.
"Plot a course inward, toward the sun; we will adjust
it in space."

"Very good, Magnus."

Magnus was barely aware of the most subtle of vi-
brations; somewhere in the ship, machinery had
come to life.

One final matter remained. "A communication
channel to Fess, please."

"Here, Magnus."

That had been suspiciously fast. "Fess, you are
once again the property of Rod Gallowglass, nee Rod-
ney d'Armand, High Warlock of Gramarye. You are
to return to him as quickly as possible."

"Understood, my former master. You will under-
stand, though, Magnus, that I leave you with some
trepidation."

"You may take it with you; I already have enough
trepidation to last me a lifetime."

"A feeble attempt at humor, Magnus."

"Perhaps, Fess, but I have become wary of senti-
ment. I will treasure your regard; and you may be as
sure as any may, of my safety."

"That is my cause for concern, Magnus."

Magnus smiled. "Still, we must bear it, old com-

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panion. Farewell, till I see you again on Gramarye!
Give my love to my parents and Cordelia, and my
warmest regards to my brothers."

"I shall, Magnus."

"Depart for Gramarye now, Fess. May your trip be
smooth."

"And yours, Magnus. Bon voyage!"

A surge of feeling hit Magnus, and he might have
said more, but Herkimer's voice murmured, "Ready
for liftoff."

"Which shall lift off, Maxima or we? Neverthe-
less, let us go."

There was absolutely no sense of motion -- after
all, it didn't take much acceleration to escape from
so small a worldlet. But escape they did, and Magnus
felt a massive surge of relief. "Viewscreen on,
please."

The screenful of stars before him faded into a view
of the "castle," with the boarding tunnel curving out
of the eastern wing. The rough, pitted form of Fess's
ship stood by it, dull in the merciless sunlight. As
Magnus watched, the lumpy ball rose and drifted up-
ward, but away from them, toward the constellation
of Cassiopeia. When it was well away from the sur-
face, it began to accelerate, dwindling rapidly. Mag-
nus watched as his last contact with home
diminished, feeling suddenly very much alone. Just
before the ship shrank from sight, Magnus mur-
mured, "Farewell, companion of my youth. You
shall ever be with me."

"You may be sure of that, Magnus," Fess an-
swered. "Farewell."

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Christopher Stasheff

Then he was gone, and Magnus was staring at the
screen, not at all sure he liked that last remark.
"Herkimer -- what did he mean?"

"There was insufficient information in his last re-
mark, Magnus; I would have to conjecture almost
blindly."

But Magnus was developing a nasty conjecture of
his own. "Why were the two of you connected by ca-
ble, just before I came aboard?"

"Why, for a data transfer, Magnus."

"Indeed." Magnus braced himself. "What data was
transferred?"

"The entire contents of his memory, Magnus, ex-
cept for personal matters that his previous owners
wished kept confidential."

Magnus's heart sank. "You now know all that Fess
knew?"

"Everything, Magnus, with the exceptions noted
previously."

"Including my entire biography."

"As much of it as Fess knew, yes."

Fess had been right -- he would always be with
Magnus. "Well, it is good to have reminders of
home," Magnus sighed. "But, Herkimer?"

"Yes/Magnus?"

"You do understand that it is not necessary to tell
everything you know?"

"Of course, Magnus. Any personal information of
yours shall not be disclosed to anyone but you."

"That, of course," Magnus said, "but I was more
concerned with family history. You understand that
there is no reason to seek to impress me with the im-

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portance of the d'Armands, or the obligations of my
rank?"

"Why ever should I wish to do that? ".Herkimer
said, in tones of mystification.

"I can't think of a single reason -- but Fess could,
and did." Magnus breathed a sigh of relief.

Then he breathed another, realizing that he was fi-
nally, really away from that cloying and clinging ex-
cuse for a Maximan family. It came to him that he
had narrowly escaped the exact mesh of entangling
relationships his cousin Roger had feared. Magnus
found himself wondering if perhaps he had not be-
trayed the man, then wondered if he had not himself
shirked his responsibilities. "I know that I must be
my brother's keeper," he muttered, "but must I also
watch over my cousins?"

"They are not your burden, Magnus," Herkimer
replied.

Magnus looked up, startled, then realized that he
had phrased it as a question. He was oddly reassured
by the machine's response. It might be logical, but it
lacked humane considerations, and was therefore
not necessarily ethical -- but it was still reassuring.

Which brought another matter to mind.
"Herkimer -- if you have all Fess's data, you are
aware of my . . . talents?"

"Your psionic abilities?" Herkimer asked. "Yes,
Magnus, I am -- and I know those of your brothers
and sister, and your mother and father, as well."

"And my grandfather, no doubt, and all of the rest
of the knowledge of Gramarye." Magnus relaxed an-
other stage; he could talk freely about home, if he

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Christopher Stasheff

wanted to. "Then you will understand that I have
been raised with certain ethical standards in regard
to the use of those abilities."

"I am so aware, yes."

"And you are aware that I used them to influence
my cousin Roger?"

"That was included in Fess's briefing."

"And that such use violated my ethical code?"

The robot was silent for a half-second, then said, "I
cannot truly discriminate, Magnus. There were ex-
tenuating circumstances."

But Magnus knew, and knew well. To get himself
out of a bind with his relatives, he had violated a ma-
jor ethical principle: he had altered the memories
and emotions of a human being who was not an en-
emy, and without that person's permission. In retro-
spect, he thought he might perhaps have committed
the equally unethical, but lesser, offense, of just
walking out on his relatives with words of rebuke.

Though truly, he could see no third choice. There
might have been one, and he could have stayed till
he had found it -- but that would have taken months,
perhaps years, and by the time he'd been able to see
it, he would have become too deeply enmeshed in
the family's troubles to be able to free himself.

But that still did not excuse the violation he had
committed. He had allowed his integrity to be
breached, and his corruption had begun.

He wondered how much further it would go before
he would be able to halt it.

Especially since he found that he had no wish to.
Now that he was clear of Maxima, he could let his

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guard down, let himself go, let himself feel the hurt
and the pain -- and the anger at Pelisse and her grand-
mother surged white-hot through him. How dare
they toy with him, how dare they seek to use him so,
to exploit him! Hadn't they realized that they would
degrade him thereby? And themselves?

The whole matter left a very bad taste in his
mouth, and great bitterness in his heart. He felt a
sudden craving to wash out the one and assuage the
other. "Herkimer! Set course for Ceres City!"

"As you wish, Magnus," the computer replied -- 
then, almost in an echo of Fess, "Are you sure?"

"Quite sure," Magnus snapped. Ceres City -- 
which, Fess had taught him, was a sink of iniquity,
to be well avoided by any young man not wishing to
be dragged down into degradation. His father had
been much more succinct. "Ceres City is Sin City,"
he had said. '"If you ever get to the Solar System, stay
away from it, unless you really want to be tempted."

Magnus was in a mood to give in to any tempta-
tion that came to hand. If he was going to be cor-
rupted, he wanted to get it over and done with.

"Seal the hatch when I've stepped through it,"
Magnus told Herkimer, "and don't open it for anyone
but me."

"Confirmed," Herkimer answered. Then some
data from Fess's memory banks must have nudged
him, because he said, "I hope you won't do anything
rash, Magnus."

"Never fear," Magnus assured him. "Everything I
do will be well thought out." And he stepped

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through the hatch, intent on a very well-considered
and thoroughly planned drunk.

He paced through the boarding tunnel and out into
the concourse. He looked about him, dazed by the
dazzle and glitter of advertising messages and direc-
tion signs. A circle of gambling machines filled the
rotunda, and asteroid miners and merchant crews
and passengers came pounding off their ships to start
feeding credit cards into the slots of the mechanical
bandits. A 30-degree arc of the rotunda wall was
taken up by a mammoth bar, and young and shapely
men and women strolled around the edges of the
crowd in tight-fitting body suits of dark colors. As
Magnus watched, one young woman's suit suddenly
turned transparent around her right breast. She
glanced down at it, then up toward a man who was
staring at her. The body suit turned opaque again,
but another circle turned transparent, highlighting a
different portion of her anatomy. Smiling, she
strolled toward her prospective customer, hips
rolling. Magnus glanced about and saw that the oth-
ers who were similarly clad were developing trans-
parent circles that came and went in response to the
stares of the passers-by. If it was like this in the
spaceport area, what would it be like in the corridors
of the city proper?

Magnus felt his hormones stir at the display of
dancing circles, and turned away just in time to
avoid a young woman who was homing in on him.
Feeling slightly sick, he stepped over to the bar, or-
dered a shot of straight grain whiskey, paid for it
with one of the coins his cousins had given him,

A WIZARD IN ABSENTIA

drank it straight down, and turned to follow the
signs that promised a way out.

"Hey, fella, what'cha lookin' up?"

Magnus turned, surprised. Could someone really
be talking to him?

It was a slender youth with shortish hair and very
old eyes, fine-boned features, and a sinuous walk in-
side a body suit which was, fortuitously, totally
opaque. "Saw y' walk away from the skirt, pard. In-
terested in a little something else?"

It came to Magnus that he was being proposi-
tioned. He felt that odd sort of locking within him,
and his face went neutral. "I thank you, no. My plans
for the evening are already fixed."

"Tightwad," the young man said contemptuously.
His left hip went suddenly transparent. He glanced
at it, then up on a line with it, and saw a matronly
looking, lumpy woman with hot eyes. Instantly for-
getting Magnus, he strolled toward her.

The sickness settled by the whiskey rose again,
and Magnus followed the signs down the concourse
and through the automatic iris that passed for a door.

The corridor was ten times what the concourse
had been, except that the businesses themselves
were hidden by partitions with doors. Floating glare-
signs and moving, three-dimensional displays lined
the sides of the broad thoroughfare, making very
clear what sort of goods or services were purveyed
behind each door. In the center, overhead, dancing
displays advertised various brands of products. Mag-
nus was overwhelmed by simple profusion -- and by
the decadence of it all. Suddenly, he was glad that he

Christopher Stasheff

had begun his introduction to modern civilization
with the much smaller-scale milieu of Maxima. He
had studied all of this in Fess's data banks and 3DT
displays, and it had prepared him for this, but not
enough -- the physical reality of it was stupefying.

So he cut it down to size. He took the first display
that showed liquor pouring from an antique bottle
into a glass, and went through the door.

There was a bar against one wall, tables and chairs
in the center, and a line of closed booths against the
far wall. Magnus could only imagine what went on
in such privacy, and from the moans and gasps, he
wasn't sure he wanted to know. Looking at the dis-
plays behind the bar, he realized why -- there were at
least as many drugs on display as there were liquors.

"Name your poison," said the man with the smok-
ing dope-stick and traditional sleeve-garters, and
Magnus didn't doubt that he meant it. He scanned
the bottles and pointed to something in a fluorescent
purple. "That one."

"Aldebaran Bouncer?" The man shrugged. "Your
life, citizen." He punched a combination on the ma-
chine in front of him. "Thumbprint."

A glowing square appeared in front of Magnus, and
he rolled the ball of his thumb across it. Didn't they
need to see the card?

Apparently not; the bartender nodded, satisfied,
and took a brimming glass from the machine. He set
it in front of Magnus.

Magnus stared; he hadn't known it would be so
large.

"'Smatter? Don't like it?"

A WIZARD IN ABSENTIA

Magnus shrugged, hoisted the tumbler, and drank.
It seared his throat, and he could feel the fire trail all
the way down into his belly, but it felt good some-
how, burning away the shame that had soiled him
within. He set the glass down, inhaled long and hard,
and found the bartender staring at him. Magnus
caught his breath, nodded, and said, "Good. An-
other."

The bartender shook himself, shrugged, and said,
"Your funeral. Thumb it again."

Magnus rolled his thumb, and the bartender set
another livid purple glass in front of him. Magnus
took a bit longer with this one -- it must have lasted
two minutes. As he lowered the empty, he looked up
to see the bartender watching him with a speculative
look. "A girl?"

"Several of them." Magnus pushed the empty
glass toward him.

"Several!" The bartender snorted. "Lucky bozo!
I'm doing good to get turned down by one! Thumb
it."

Magnus rolled his thumb across the plate and set-
tled down to a single swallow at a time. He was be-
ginning to feel numb inside, and that was good, very
good. He studied the people around him, and found
that a disconcerting number of them seemed to be
looking his way. He scowled and locked stares with
them, straightening to his full height, and one by
one, they found something more interesting to look
at -- 

Except for one man -- in his thirties, at'a guess -- 
who was nowhere as tall as Magnus but had arms far

Christopher Stasheff

longer than they should have been, and shoulders to
match. He grinned back into Magnus's glare and
shuffled over toward him.

"Hey now, Orange!" the bartender snapped. "Let
the kid alone!"

"Alone?" Orange stepped up close, grinning up at
Magnus. "I wouldn't think of it. You peaceable,
kid?"

Magnus recognized a push for a fight when he saw
one. Joy lit within him -- at least it was something
clean! " 'Orange'?" he said. "What sort of name is
that?"

"Short for 'orangutang.' Wanna make something
of it?"

"Juice," Magnus said.

"Not in here!" the bartender yelped.

Orange grinned around at the crowd. "You're all
my witnesses -- he tried to put the squeeze on me."
He lifted his hands, balling them into fists.

The bartender lifted his hand -- with a nasty-
looking little blaster in it. "Out!"

"Why, how inhospitable," Magnus murmured.
"But I was never one to stay where I wasn't wanted."
He turned away to the door. Behind him, Orange
grunted, "Then how come you're still on Ceres?"

"You don't want me, then?" Magnus said as he
stepped through the door and pivoted about.

"Just for a target," Orange snapped, as his fist
slammed into Magnus's midriff.

Magnus rolled back, not quite fast enough; the
punch hurt, and for a few seconds, his breath was
blocked. But he caught Orange's fist, sidestepped,

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and yanked, and sent the shorter man sprawling into
the wall of spectators, of whom there seemed to be
an increasing number -- and two of them were mov-
ing from person to person, punching the keys of their
noteboards. Several of the bystanders obligingly
shoved Orange back on his feet, and he snarled, leap-
ing in and out, feinting, then slamming a quick com-
bination of punches at Magnus's belly and jaw. The
second shot at the face clipped Magnus on the cheek;

he recoiled and ducked around and in, under Or-
ange's next punch, and up, hauling him by his shirt-
front and throwing him. But one of those long arms
snaked out and snagged itself on Magnus's neck,
throwing him off-balance and pulling him down.
Magnus stumbled into a fist, staggered back as two
more hit him, then caught the third and threw Or-
ange away, shaking his head to clear it and seeing
two copies of the human gorilla as he stepped back
in, hand grabbing at a flat pocket against his hip . . .

. . . and coming out with a knife that flicked open,
its blade glowing.

Magnus stepped back, recognizing a force-blade
from its descriptions. The cleanliness of punch and
pain was suddenly soiled, but not much, for he par-
ried the arm with the blade twice, then caught the
wrist with his right hand and slammed an elbow
back into Orange's solar plexus. The shorter man
doubled over, gagging; Magnus twisted the blade out
of his grip and backhanded him on the side of the
head. Orange stumbled into the cheering specta-
tors -- there were three times as many of-them now,
and four men with noteboards moving among them.

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Christopher Stasheff

The nearest watchers obligingly shoved Orange out
again. He was game, he swung at Magnus even now,
but the young giant blocked the clumsy punch easily
and slammed a right to his jaw. Orange folded and
slumped to the ground.

Magnus stood, staring down at the man, teeth
bared in a grin, heaving deep breaths. He reached
down and hauled Orange to his feet with a surge of
fellow-feeling. "Good fighting, friend. I'll stand you
to the next drink."

"If he can stand to drink," someone said, but Or-
ange only snarled and shoved Magnus away, then
tottered back toward the bar. Magnus was about to
go after him when he realized he was hearing a high,
shrill sound, and the men with the noteboards
stopped their collecting and paying-off to call,
"Peace-ers!"

The crowd melted on the instant, leaving Magnus
standing alone, looking about him, startled.

"Time to disappear, friend," said one of the men as
he passed, stuffing his noteboard into one pocket and
currency into another.

Magnus took his advice and hurried away. Glanc-
ing back, he saw an armed and uniformed man with
a pack on his back, floating through the air and de-
scending toward the bar where Magnus had just
been.

Another man with a noteboard passed in the other
direction, punching numbers and advising, "Stay out
in the open, and the bystanders will point you out to
the Peace-er. Better find another bar, pal."

Magnus did. He found three more. And three more

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fights. He was drawing larger and larger crowds, and
more and more of the little men with the note-
boards -- until the last fight turned into a full-fledged
brawl. That was when he found the Peace-ers. Or
they found him.

He didn't remember it, though. He only remem-
bered ducking, but not fast enough, and the fist ex-
ploding in his face.

Then he was coming to, his head and chest one
huge ache. He tried to sit up, which was a definite
mistake, because his stomach suddenly convulsed,
and everything he had downed the night before
started back up.

Someone shoved a bucket under his face and
growled, "In here, slob. I'm not cleaning up after
you."

Magnus was horrendously sick for what seemed
an inordinately long time. When his stomach finally
stopped contracting, he managed to straighten up
and lean back against something very hard, fumbling
out a handkerchief and wiping his face, feeling much
better inside but very, very shaky.

"Improved," someone said critically, and Mag-
nus looked up to see a uniform with a face at the
top. Over the breast pocket were the letters
"E.D.G.A.R."

"Go 'way, Edgar," he groaned. "Come back for m'
funeral."

"That's not the way you check out of here, pal,"
the guard said, "and the name's not 'Edgar.' "

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Christopher Stasheff

Magnus frowned, trying to make sense out of that.

"Says so on y'r pocket."

The guard's face came closer, frowning. "Boy, you
are from out of town, aren't you? E.D.G.A.R. stands
for the Eleusinian Drinking and Gambling Addiction
Reformatory."

"Eleusinian?" Then Magnus remembered -- in
Classical Greece, the cult of Ceres centered around
the Eleusinian Mysteries. He wished he hadn't
thought of it -- the effort made his headache worse.
He aimed himself at the bunk and fell, groaning,

"Jus' wanna die."

But the guard caught him and turned him around
so that he sat instead of lying down. '"Fraid not just
now, pal. You've got a visitor. Here, drink this." A
rough hand hauled his head back and shoved a cup at
him. Magnus opened his mouth to protest, but fluid
gushed over his tongue, and he had to swallow or
choke, then swallow again, and again. When the flow
stopped, he pushed the cup away with a grimace.
"lyuch! What was that stuff?"

"H&I."
Magnus peered up at the man's face, squinting his

eyes against the light. "What? H and I?"

"Gemini Hangover and Intoxication Oil, from
Castor Epsilon. You had yourself a real time last

night, spacer."

"I'm not -- " Magnus cut the words off -- he was a
spacer now! The realization gave him an odd feeling,
perhaps even an exhilarating one -- but his body felt
so horrible, he would never have noticed. "Analge-

\rt"

SIC'

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"You just had one," the guard informed him. "It'll
take effect in a few minutes, but time's the only
thing that's going to wipe out the aches from the
punches you took. On your feet, spacer -- you've got
company."

"Company?" Magnus looked up, frowning, then
clamped his jaw against the urge to cry out as the
guard yanked him to his feet. He almost slumped
onto the man's shoulder, but managed to catch hold
of the bars and hold himself upright.

Bars?

Magnus finally looked up at his surroundings -- 
bare plasticrete walls, uncovered toilet, sink, and
freshener. "I'm in prison!"

"Jail," the guard told him. "Just the drunk tank -- 
for prison, you get a trial first. Not that you won't, if
anybody gets serious about those brawls last night.
Let's go see your guest, now."

Magnus stared. "I'm a stranger! Who'd want to
talk to me?"

"About a dozen lawyers, considering how many
brawls you wound up in, and how much furniture
and glassware got wiped out. Don't worry, though -- 
the bookies will probably put up your bail."

Magnus let the man lead him out of the cell, be-
fuddled. "Bookies?"

"You aie green, aren't you? Every time you got in a
fight last night, the bookies laid out odds and took
bets. As the night went on, they had to give higher
and higher odds in your favor, but they started bet-
ting on you themselves. Oh, they made a pile off of
you, all right, up until the last fight -- and even then,

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Christopher Stasheff

they won, because you downed the guy who started
the fight with you, before his friends piled in and
swamped you. Not that you were alone -- everybody
who laid their bets on you piled in on your side. It
was one hell of a brawl, from what I hear," he said
reverently. "Wish I'd been there."

Magnus decided that the people of Ceres City were
very, very strange. So was the Castor oil -- it was tak-
ing effect, and the pain of his bruises was dulled, the
pounding in his head almost gone. "Who is this who
wishes to speak with me?"

"Dunno," said the guard, "but she's one hell of a
looker. If that's what they sent every time you got
drunk and disorderly, there wouldn't be a man in Ce-
res City who wasn't in jail." He opened a plain metal
door. "In you go, spacer. You sit in your chair, she
sits in hers. Don't try to go over to her, or you'll trig-
ger the alarm in the force-screen. Good luck."

Magnus stumbled into the blank, featureless
room, started to turn back toward the guard with a
protest on his lips -- then out of the corner of his eye,
saw the woman who was waiting for him, and the
protest died aborning. He turned slowly, staring -- 
she was easily the most beautiful creature he had
ever seen, save one. Of course, he had been saying
that about every woman who had caught his fancy in
the last few months -- but it had always been true.
How unfair of the women, to keep becoming more
and more beautiful! How was a man to hold himself
back from them?

But even at the thought, he could feel the shield
closing about his heart. It still ached at the loveliness

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of long blonde hair, retrousse nose, huge dark eyes,
and full red lips -- but he could contain himself; his
heart stayed in his chest, not on his sleeve, and he
was able to hide his feelings behind an imperturb-
able mask. He bowed slightly. "Good day,
madame -- or mademoiselle."

"Mademoiselle." She smiled, amused, and her
voice was a husky breath of sensual speculation.
"You're very formal, spacer."

"Until I have been introduced, or we come to
know each other well." Magnus's knees were trying
to turn to jelly -- hopefully only from the aftereffects
of his night on the town. "May I sit?"

"Of course." The woman waved to the chair facing
her, surprised. "You certainly are rigidly formal!"

Magnus frowned as he sat; he didn't consider good
manners a matter of rigidity -- but, then, he had
grown up with them. "To what do I owe the pleasure
of this visit?" He regretted the word "pleasure" as
soon as it was out of his mouth, and rightly -- the
woman caught it and smiled lazily, her eyelids
drooping. "I hope it will lead to ... pleasure ... for
both of us -- even though I don't know how to address
you. What is your name?"

Magnus opened his mouth, but caution made him
hold back his real name. He substituted the first one
that came to mind. "Ed. . ." he started, then realized
it was the initials over the guard's pocket he was giv-
ing. But it was too late to change now, so he finished,
"... gar."

"Ed Gar." The woman nodded, but didn't write it
down. Frowning, Magnus looked more closely at her.

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Christopher Stasheff

The brooch she was wearing ostensibly served no
purpose other than decoration; but he was willing to
bet it was a recording device. She said, "I am
Alleuene. You carry no identification."

"I left it aboard ship," Magnus told her. "I did not
wish to chance losing it."

She smiled as though she did not believe him, then
let the smile soften into a lazy, sensuous sultriness
as she looked him over more closely. When she lifted
her gaze back to his eyes, the sultriness had become
an invitation, though not a burning one.

It came to Magnus, with a surge of outrage, that
the woman knew exactly what she was doing, knew
each intonation and lilt and shade of expression and
what its effect would be on him, and was turning
them on and off as though they were the keys of an
organ -- but it wasn't an organ she was playing, it was
him.

The anger was good -- it annealed the seal around
his heart, strengthened his guard against her. "I am
not aware of having met you previously, mademoi-
selle -- to my regret."

The laziness focused with amusement. "You
haven't. I'm only an interested bystander -- or I was
last night. I saw you fight Orange at the Shot and Bot-
tle, and I was impressed with your style."

Style? Magnus had been deliberately trying for
clumsiness, to make the fight last! "I was scarcely at
my best."

"So I noticed. I joined the crowd that followed you
from bar to bar. The drinks only affected your tem-

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A WIZAKD IN ABSENTIA

per, not your reflexes. Your style improved with the
quality of your antagonists."

"My antagonists improved?"

"Oh, yes." Allouene smiled, moistening her lips
and shifting in her chair. "Word spread along the
street, you see, and all the toughs with reputations
came out to try you. They had to wait in line, I'm
afraid, and they finally grew impatient and all piled
in at once at the end."

"I don't really remember much of it," Magnus con-
fessed.

"Of course not; the last bartender handed you a
loaded drink to get you out of his place. I watched it
all closely, though."

Magnus tried to hide his disgust. "You must be
quite the aficionado of martial arts."

"Not at all," she said. "I'm a representative for a
secret agency -- quite legitimate, I assure you -- and
your display, and the emotions that seemed to ac-
company it, made me think you might be just what
my employers are looking for."

Magnus stared, amazed.

"If you are interested in joining us," Allouene said,
"we'll take care of any damages you owe, and whisk
you out of this jail and off to one of our training cen-
ters." Her tone dropped to load the offer with double
meaning: "Are you interested?"

His hormones thrilled, but so did the wariness of
alarm. Magnus held himself immobile and asked,
"What is the name of your agency?"

"The Society for the Conversion of Etraterrestrial
Nascent Totalitarianisms," she answered.

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Christopher Stasheff

Magnus stared at her, frozen with shock. She had
named his father's organization! Had they followed
him here from Gramarye? Had the time-travel orga-
nization that worked with SCENT alerted them to
his presence here?

But no, she had asked his name, had said he was
unidentified. Suddenly, Magnus was very glad he had
given a false name, had left his identification aboard
his ship. She was interested in him for himself
alone -- or at least, for his ability as a fighter.

If she was telling the truth.

"You seem shocked," Allouene said. "I assure you,
we're not a bunch of bloodthirsty sadists. We're
rather idealistic -- our mission is to help backward
planets develop the institutions that will enable
them to eventually evolve some form of democratic
government, and make it last. We have a strict code
of ethics, and we work hard at maintaining it."

Magnus nodded. "I have . . . heard of you."

"We are a legitimate department of the Decentral-
ized Democratic Tribunal," Allouene went on, "and
if the government of the Terran Sphere isn't enough
of a recommendation, I don't know what is."

Magnus had plenty of recommendations of his
own to bring. He had known SCENT from birth, at
least by what his father and Fess had told him of it,
and had secretly treasured the notion of someday
joining them himself, and going forth to free the op-
pressed. But as he'd grown older, he'd begun to be
concerned about living in his father's shadow.

Now, however, he was being recruited in his own
right -- perhaps. "Is SCENT so hard-pressed for

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A WIZARD IN ABSENTIA

agents that you must recruit every brawler you
find?"

"Certainly not," Allouene said, with a contemptu-
ous smile. "You're a rather exceptional brawler, you
know, and not just because of your size. You show a
great deal of skill -- and there's an intensity about
you that speaks of the disillusioned idealist."

Magnus sat rigid, amazed. Had the woman some
psionic gift of her own, that let her see into his heart?
Or was she just unusually perceptive? "I have be-
come bitter of late," he admitted.

Allouene nodded with satisfaction. "You have
seen too much of human selfishness and self-
seeking. But we try to use those urges, to channel
them into some sort of system that makes people
protect the rights of everyone, in order to protect
their own interests."

Magnus frowned. "An interesting goal. Have you
ever succeeded?"

"Never perfectly," Allouene admitted, "but we
have managed to harness self-interest into workable
systems again and again. We console ourselves with
the thought that no system can be perfect, and we
have made progress."

"Fascinating," Magnus murmured, holding him-
self very carefully. All his own near-despair, his dis-
gust with his relatives, his disillusionment in
discovering how few people really seemed to care for
anyone else's good -- it all came together and stabbed,
white-hot, toward an organization that was at least
trying to put ideals into action. But some lingering

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Christopher Stasheff

caution made him say, "I should think you would
find a great number of recruits."

Allouene's expression showed some bitterness of
her own. "It would be wonderful -- but very few peo-
ple seem to be interested in working toward anyone's
welfare but their own. Of those who are, many of
them aren't strong enough, either emotionally or
physically, to last through our training. The rewards,
after all, are only in knowing that you have left a
world better off than you found it -- and we aren't
even always successful in that."

"You must have been recruiting for a long time, to
have seen enough cases to generalize," Magnus said.

"Every time I put together a new mission team,"
Allouene assured him. "When we are appointed Mis-
sion Leaders, you see, we are given the responsibility
of finding our own agents, of recruiting them and
training them."

Magnus stared. "You mean that if I join SCENT, I
will be working with you?"

"After your training," Allouene said, "yes."

And that, of course, decided the matter.

108

lan froze. Then, before he could catch up his staff and
bolt, the man smiled and laughed. It was a warm,
friendly laugh, and lan relaxed a little. Surely the
man could not be an enemy if he behaved in so
friendly a fashion. Besides, he wore no livery; he
could not be a keeper, or any other servant of Lord
Murthren -- at least, no more than anyone was. He
was a broad-shouldered man, and his arms and legs
were thick with muscles. lan could see this easily,
for he wore a tight-fitting jerkin and leggings. His
body looked very hard underneath the gray, belted
tunic, and his leggings were so smooth they might
have been a lord's hose. His black hair was cut short,
no longer than his collar. His face was craggy, with a
long, straight nose and lantern jaw. His eyes were
large, but above them, his brows seemed knit in a
perpetual frown. It was a harsh face, and grim -- but
when he smiled, as he did now, it turned into friend-

109

Christopher Stasheff

liness. Somehow, lan felt he could not fear such a
man, or had no cause to -- this, in spite of the sword
that hung belted at his hip, and the dagger across
from it. These, and his short hair, told lan the man's
profession, as surely as though it had been written on
his forehead. He was a free-lance, a soldier who wan-
dered about the country and sold his services to
whatever lord needed him that month. He was not a
serf, but a gentleman, free to travel where he wished,
as long as he did not offend the great lords. His boots
came up to his calves and had high, thick heels -- a
horseman, then. But where was his horse?

Dead, of course -- or the property of some lord.
Like as not, he owned no mount of his own, but rode
whatever nag was given him by the nobleman who
employed him. He might leave, but the horse would
stay.

"Look carefully before you drink," he said to lan,
"and listen more closely. If you had, you would have
heard me step up to the stream and sit down." Then
he frowned, and lan shrank back from the sudden
grimness of his face. "What are you doing, out here
in the middle of the forest, alone at night? Your par-
ents will be worried."

lan heaved a sigh of relief. This soldier did not
even know that his parents were dead, so he could
not have been sent here to search for a runaway serf
boy.

The soldier was looking impatient. "Come, boy -- 
how is it you are out here late, and alone?"

"I. . ." lan bit his lip. "I came out to ... to gather
nuts." He didn't even sound convincing to himself.

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A WIZARD IN ABSENTIA

Nor to the free-lance. "So late at night?"

"It was this morning, sir," lan improvised. "But I
lost my way, and try as I would to find my home, I
think I'm even further lost. So I have no idea where
I am, or where my home is."

The free-lance scowled, like a thundercloud. "You
are a very poor liar," he said severely. Suddenly, he
smiled again. "Well, I am properly served. It is no
business of mine, why you are out here -- and if you
lie about it, you seem to feel no need of my help to
get home again." He looked lan over, puzzled. "Too
young to have a brand on you. Still, there is no doubt
you are a serf's son. If the soldiers catch you here,
late and alone at night, it will go hard with you." He
seemed to come to a decision, and stood. lan stared
up at him, awed, for the process of standing seemed
to go on and on as the man unfolded and expanded.
He was a giant, or at least, much taller than any man
lan had ever seen!

He held out a hand. "Walk with me, then, boy, and
I'll be your protection from them. You are my ap-
prentice, accompanying me to polish my armor and
mend my clothes."

lan seized the hand with relief and gladness -- here
was a friend where he had least expected to find one,
his passport out of the forest and to safety.

But...

"Sir," he said, "will the foresters believe it?"

The free-lance smiled. "It is rare, true. Few blank-
shield soldiers would wish to burden themselves
with a child. Still, it is not unknown,* and when
we've come out of the forest, I will buy you some

ill

Christopher Stasheff

clothes that befit your new station. We will say that
you are my nephew."

But lan remembered that the soldiers who were
looking for him would scarcely believe such a tale -- 
and that they were still looking for a young serf boy
who had run away.

It was almost as though the soldier heard his
thoughts. "There were foresters and soldiers thick
about here just now. Like as not, they were hunting
for you. They would scarcely believe such a tale." He
nodded, agreeing with himself. "Yes. We had better
go quickly, then, boy, and very quietly, by back trails.
What have you done, that they should search for you
by night in this wilderness?"

lan's heart leaped into his throat -- but he swal-
lowed, and forced himself to speak. What could he
say, except the truth? Anything else would be to
abuse this new-found friend. If he chose to have
nothing to do with a runaway, well, then lan was no
worse off than before -- but if he found it out later,
then he might betray lan to the foresters in anger. "I
have escaped, sir." Not all the truth, perhaps, but
enough.

And the soldier seemed satisfied. He nodded and
said, "Come, then. I know what it is, to escape -- and
be found."

lan looked up, startled at his tone -- but the free-
lance was no longer smiling, nor looking at him. He
was gazing straight ahead, frowning -- and remem-
bering.

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A WIZARD IN ABSENTIA

Basic training was a crashing bore. Magnus
couldn't understand why the other recruits com-
plained so much -- ten-mile hikes in the middle of
the night were an inconvenience, of course, but
nothing he hadn't had to do at home, now and then.
Learning to ride was no problem for a young man
who had virtually grown up on horseback, though
his city-bred companions had quite a few choice
words to say about the hardness of their saddles as
they were learning to post. He became used to hear-
ing them grumble, "Where are the brakes on this
thing?" and, "Show him who's boss, she says! Con-
founded beast knows who's boss, no matter who's in
the saddle!"

Magnus had the good sense to keep his mouth shut
when the instructor was teaching them how to pitch
camp, and did pick up a few useful tricks without
giving in to the impulse to mention a few of his own.
He went on keeping his mouth shut while Svenson,
the grizzled old field agent who was in charge of
martial arts, gave them a ritual dressing-down and
challenge before he began teaching them.

"Ed Gar!" he snorted as he passed Magnus, check-
ing his name from the list. He looked him up and
down, mostly up, and said, "Gar Pike, more likely, as
long as you are, and with that length of jaw!"

Magnus didn't respond, recognizing the gambit of
insult, to make him know his place. Svenson eyed
him hungrily, hoping for indignation, for a challenge
to put down, but didn't get it, and only sighed as he
turned away to the next recruit, shaking his head.

Then he gave them a brief lecture about martial

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Christopher Stasheff

arts, telling them why they wore such outlandish
uniforms for practice, and how the color of the belt
denoted the level of their skill, which was why theirs
were white. To his credit, he told them a little of the
philosophy underlying it, too, though it was mostly
as a guide to how to defeat an attacker.

Then he put them through their paces in unarmed
combat. Magnus dutifully mimicked every move the
man made, duplicated every sequence of blows, but
forgot to do it clumsily at first, and the veteran
pulled him aside at the end of the second session.
"Done this before, haven't you?"

"I didn't think it showed," Magnus answered.

"When you do every move exactly right the first
time? You bet it shows! What belt do you hold?"

Magnus could have claimed to be a belted knight,
which was true, but he knew it wasn't quite what
the man had in mind. "None."

"No belt?" Svenson frowned -- up, of course. He
was a foot shorter than Magnus, though just as heav-
ily built, and almost as fast. "Your instructor's guilty
of gross negligence! What school did you go to?"

"None, for martial arts," Magnus said.

Svenson's frown deepened. "Where'd you learn it,
then?"

"From my father, as I grew up."

Svenson turned away, looking exasperated, and
nodded. "Yep, that explains it, all right. Here I am,
trying to teach these lunkheads something that you
took for granted. I don't suppose he ever took you to
competition?"

Magnus knew he was speaking of formal tourna-

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A WIZARD IN ABSENTIA

ments, not actual combat. "No. We lived very far out
in the . . . boondocks." The word was unfamiliar, but
he managed to remember it.

"Too far to go to the nearest tournament, eh? What
did he teach you? Rung fu? Karate? Jujitsu?"

Magnus stared, then spread his hands, at a loss.
"He taught me to fight."

"A little bit of everything," Svenson interpreted,
"all rolled together into a system that can take on
any of them -- which is just what I'm teaching you.
No, cancel that -- what I'm teaching the rest of these
would-be heroes. Maybe I oughta have you join the
teaching staff."

Magnus picked his words with care. "By your
leave, sir, that might be damaging to morale."

Svenson gave him an approving glance. "Yes, it
might, and it might set them all against you, too.
Good point, Gar Pike. We'll just keep on as we're go-
ing, shall we? With you pretending you don't know
anything -- and who knows, you might pick up a few
new techniques."

"Yes, sir," Magnus agreed. "I'll try to be a bit more
clumsy from now on."

He wasn't the only one who already knew martial
arts, but the other had much better sense than to let
it show. His name was Siflot, and he was wiry and
nimble, but pretended to be clumsy. He had a mar-
velous sense of humor, though, and every trip, every
stumble, brought laughter from those around him.
Siflot always came up grinning, which Magnus at
first ascribed to good sportsmanship, but eventually

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Christopher Stasheff

realized was satisfaction -- Siflot had intended to get
a laugh, and was grinning because he had succeeded.

During the first evening, though, he stepped aside
from the campfire, took three balls out of his pock-
ets, and began to juggle. Conversation gradually
stilled as the other recruits watched him, waiting for
a fumble, a dropped ball -- but it never came. Finally,
Siflot caught all three balls and tucked them away,
turning back to the campfire -- and noticed all eyes
on him. He laughed, embarrassed. "I have to practice
every day, that's all, or I'll lose my touch." He sat
down by the fire.

"I can see why you'd want to keep it, a skill like
that," Ragnar said.

"That could be useful in a medieval society,"
Lancorn added.

"It's an old skill," Siflot admitted, smiling at her.
She smiled back with a slumbrous look, but it
seemed to go right past Siflot; he turned back to the
fire, asking Ragnar, "What tricks do the jugglers do,
in your home?"

The conversation picked up again, but Magnus
gazed at Siflot, weighing him. He certainly had in-
tended his mates to notice his skill, though Magnus
didn't doubt he did need to stay in practice -- and if he
could juggle like that, he certainly couldn't be as
clumsy as he pretended. No,more -- deliberately tak-
ing pratfalls like his required a great deal of skill and
control over his body. Why, Magnus wondered, was
he playing the fool?

He had his answer in the others' reactions to
Siflot. Within days, everyone liked him -- and were a

116

A WIZARD IN ABSENTIA

little consdescending. Everyone knew that Siflot
could never be a threat -- which meant that if he ever
did need to fight one of them, he would have the ad-
vantage of tremendous surprise. In the meantime, he
had become everyone's friend and everyone's
confidant -- there was no one who didn't trust Siflot.
Why not? He could never hurt them.

But Magnus had a different notion of the matter,
and the second day, he managed to pair up with Siflot
in unarmed combat class. True to his promise to
Svenson, he did his best to be clumsy, stumbling as
often as Siflot and falling down in the middle of a
throw just as he did. The climax of the day came
when they both kicked at each other at the same mo-
ment, and both missed. Siflot laughed, and Magnus
grinned, then stepped in for a hip-throw and stum-
bled, giving Siflot the perfect opportunity to pin him
with an elbow-lock, which the juggler dutifully
did -- then skidded in his own turn, and landed right
beside Magnus, who looked over at him, grinned,
and said with all the sarcasm he could muster,
"White belt, sure."

A wary look flickered over Siflot's face, then was
swallowed in an impish grin. "Why, Gar Pike, how
could I be anything else?"

Svenson stamped up to spare Magnus an answer.
"If you two clowns are through with the circus now,
we might get on with the lesson."

"Oh yes, sir! Yes, sir!" Siflot rolled up to his feet,
nodding -- no, bobbing. "It was the hip-throw, wasn't
it, sir?" And he grabbed Magnus and executed the
move perfectly -- except that when Magnus was at

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Christopher Stasheff

the top of the arc, Siflot collapsed. Magnus couldn't
help it -- he burst into laughter as he rolled off Siflot,
then caught the smaller man's shoulder, asking,

"Are you all right?"

Siflot came up grinning. "Why, of course, friend
Pike -- you landed as a feather would." Then, to
Svenson, "I'm learning, sir."

"Sure are," Svenson growled. "Pretty soon, maybe
you won't fall until he hits the ground. A little more
effort and a little less humor, Siflot." He turned
away, fighting to keep his face straight.

They faced off again. Siflot asked, "And how old
were you when you took your black belt, friend

Pike?"

"I never did," Magnus answered. "We don't use

them."

"Ah. Suspenders, no doubt."
"No, garters. Think you can stay on your feet this

time, friend Siflot?"

"No, friend Pike, but I might stay on yours."
They all called him "Pike" by the third day, fol-
lowing Svenson's lead. Ragnar claimed the name

suited him.

Siflot kept the classes from being boring, with his
mock clumsiness and wide-eyed innocence that led
him to ask the most hilarious questions. Still,
Svenson was only teaching Magnus what he already
knew, and he had to summon all his patience to take
them with good grace.

But the acculturation classes were another matter,
partly because it was material he didn't know at
all -- the background, social system, and customs of

A WIZARD IN ABSENTIA

the world he was being sent to -- and partly because
Allouene was teaching them. Soaking up the history,
dialect, and laws of a new planet was fascinating, and
watching Allouene was a pleasure that Magnus felt
to his marrow, even though she was all business as
she paced before the class, with nothing seductive or
alluring in her manner. But the honey of her hair still
shone, her eyes flashed as she told them about the in-
equities of the aristocratic system, and her move-
ments were poetry.

Apparently, Magnus's heart was not locked up
quite as tightly as he had thought -- but even if it had
been, the rest of his body was not. Watching
Allouene roused physical sensations that permeated
Magnus's whole body, even though his emotions
stirred only slightly.

Of course, he feigned a relaxed posture and kept
his face impassive, showing none of what he felt.

"We'll begin by telling you why we're going," she
said, "and the answer is that the agent in charge has
called for help."

"I thought SCENT didn't like to send in lots of
agents," Ragnar said.

Allouene nodded, making her hair sway around
her face in a way that Magnus found enchanting.
"SCENT rules are very strict about disrupting indig-
enous cultures, and the fewer agents involved, the
less the chance of disruption. The ideal is to send in
one agent only, and have him put the planet on the
road to democracy single-handed -- but that almost
never happens."

The words transfixed Magnus -- for that was ex-

Christopher Stasheff

actly what his father had done: come to Gramarye as
an agent of SCENT and set it on the road to democ-
racy, single-handed. Well, not by himself, no, but
without calling in any other SCENT agents. He
made do with local talent -- very well: he married
one, and raised some others.

Of course, that was unjust. Magnus knew quite
well that Rod Gallowglass had stayed on Gramarye
because he had fallen in love with Magnus's mother.
He knew it not just from his parents' report, but
from several others of the older generation who had
witnessed it -- including Fess. And anything the chil-
dren had done had been incidental.

Until now.

"Usually the scout agent calls for help," Allouene
went on, "just as he has in this case. His name is
Oswald Majorca, and he has set up a thriving busi-
ness as a merchant, which allows him to travel any-
where he wants, even to other continents. It also
gives him an excuse to send his own agents to any
other city, and they might 'just happen' to stop over
at any place in between. He has situated himself ad-
mirably, and given us a great start. It's up to us not to

blow it for him."

Allouene turned to key the display screen to a dia-
gram of a solar system, showing a yellow sun tinged
with orange. "It's a G-type star, but it's cooler than
Sol, so even though the planet's only the second one
out and is closer to its sun than Terra is to Sol, it has
about the same temperature range. It has three
continents -- the largest has an inland sea -- and a
host of islands. Serfs flee to those islands now and

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A WIZARD IN ABSENTIA

then, so the lords have to mount expeditions to clean
them out periodically."

"They could just leave them alone," Lancorn ob-
jected.

There were only the four of them in this class -- 
presumably, Allouene was keeping her mission
small. Magnus was glad to see that Siflot was one of
the four.

"Of course the lords could leave them alone,"
Allouene agreed, "but they aren't about to. The offi-
cial exuse is to eliminate piracy -- but they also, inci-
dentally, wipe out any possibility that somebody
besides the ruling elite might have a decent life, and
make sure that the serfs don't go getting ideas about
rising above their station. There's a pocket of es-
caped serfs growing to the critical point right now,
on an island they've named Castlerock ..." An is-
land toward the northern coast of the inland sea be-
gan to glow. "... and the lords are getting ready for a
full-scale expedition. They've already sent a small
band, but the serfs killed off the officers and per-
suaded the soldiers to join them."

"Dangerous," Siflot murmured, and Lancorn
looked at him in surprise.

"The lords think so, too," Allouene agreed.
"That's why they're preparing the big expedition -- 
but I'm getting ahead of myself. Back to the basics.
History next."

Her four students keyed their notebook displays to
the topic.

"This all started seven hundred years ago, when
the government of the Terran Sphere was still the In-
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Christopher Stasheff

terstellar Dominion Electorates. A thousand or so
financiers set up the planet as a tax haven. They had
the arrogance and audacity to name it just that -- 
Taxhaven. They were ready for retirement, so they
found an undeveloped world and bought it outright.
Then they shipped in all the machinery necessary for
a luxurious life-style, and each declared it to be the
permanent site of residence for his or her whole fam-
ily. They left their sons and daughters on Terra to

look after business."
Ragnar raised a hand. "But wouldn't they still have

come under the Terran tax laws?"

"Technically, no," Allouene said, "and the techni-
calities were exactly what their lawyers went to
court with. The financiers gave up their citizenship
and declared themselves to be a sovereign govern-
ment, so they didn't have to pay tax to the I.D.E."

"The businesses would still have been taxed,"

Ragnar objected.

"Their accountants arranged things so that the
businesses were either operating at a loss, or show-
ing so little profit that it didn't matter -- not hard,
when all the real profits were going to Taxhaven."

"The I.D.E. allowed that kind of gold flow outside
its boundaries?" Lancorn asked, amazed.

"No -- the younger generation officially sent all
the profits to their parents' Terran accounts, which
were only nominally taxed, since the older genera-
tion were foreign citizens. Of course, the 'kids' had
the use of their parents' mansions and yachts, and
were paid excellent salaries for pocket money -- but
officially, they were just hired help."

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"Neat," Ragnar said sourly. "Very neat."

Magnus had trouble following it all; where he
came from, you paid what tax you were told, or you
went to prison. He made a note to look up Terran tax
laws.

"Didn't the second generation feel as though they
were getting short shrift?" Lancorn asked.

"No -- they knew their day was coming, and in the
meantime, they were enjoying power and privilege.
When they reached retirement age and grew weary of
the fleshpots of Terra, they moved to Taxhaven and
left the third generation to take care of business on
Terra and the inner planets."

"Of course, they had been waiting in demure pa-
tience for their turn at power," Siflot murmured.

"Very good, Siflot," Allouene said, with surprised
approval. "I thought you'd never say anything. Gar,
you might work on that, too. No, the grandchildren
had been fuming at not being the big cheeses, so they
didn't mind being left holding the moneybag when
Poppa and Momma wanted to retire to the boon-
docks."

"Then Poppa and Momma could champ at the
bit." The idiom came easily to Magnus, and he was
probably the only one there who understood what it
really meant.

"A word to the wise was sufficient." Allouene
gave Magnus a slow smile. "Will you always do as I
bid you?"

Magnus felt the thrill pass through him, and give
her a smile in return. "Always awaiting your 'come
hither,'Madame."

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Christopher Stasheff

She turned back to the screen with a self-satisfied
smile, and Magnus felt the danger pass, though the
thrill still vibrated within him. "You're right about
the second generation," Allouene said, "but when
Grandma and Grandpa finally died, the fortune offi-
cially stayed on Taxhaven, and the second genera-
tion became the dukes and marquises and counts.
Then the third generation retired and moved up to
take over the estates and fortunes, while the fourth
took over the business -- and so it went."

"And the government never caught on to them?"
Lancorn asked, outraged.

"They caught on right away, but there was a limit
to how much they could do about it. As the genera-
tions passed, the government put increasing pressure
on Taxhaven to become an official dominion, part of
the I.D.E., and therefore subject to the same tax laws
as the rest of the Terran planets, but Taxhaven ada-
mantly refused, and had the Sol-side lawyers and lob-
byists to be able to prevent a takeover. Their
lobbyists and tame Electors were also able to keep
the I.D.E. from boosting taxes on Solar System earn-
ings much past five percent, and to frustrate every
other strategem the Executive Secretary of the I.D.E.
could think of."

"There had to be a limit to that kind of influence,"
Ragnar said, frowning. "I thought the I.D.E. turned
to a rob-from-the-rich, give-to-the-masses program
toward the end."

Allouene nodded. "During the last, dark days of
the I.D.E., the rabble-rousing Electors of the LORDS
party rammed through legislation forcing the Tax-
124

A WIZABD IN ABSENTIA

haven barons to pay their back taxes. The move
gained them a lot of support from the masses, but the
Taxhaven families had just finished selling off all
their holdings. They retired to the 'home planet' en
masse -- except for those family members who were
also in the LORDS party, making sure that no matter
which way fortune fell, the Taxhaven families would
prosper. These members were instrumental in the
coup d'etat that finally buried the I.D.E. and set up
the Proletarian Eclectic State of Terra, which cut off
contact with the outer, and unprofitable, planets -- 
including Taxhaven."

"Alas!" Siflot wiped away an imaginary tear.
"That must have broken all their clinking hearts!"

No one laughed, but everyone's lips quirked in
amusement. Allouene smiled broadly and nodded.
"It couldn't have worked out better for them."

"Meaning it was their offspring who set it up,"
Ragnar interpreted.

"Certainly they supported the idea. After all, it
was in perfect accord with the wishes of the
Taxhaven artistocracy, as they termed themselves -- 
they had officially cut off communication with Terra
from their end, anyway. So the families relaxed and
lolled back among their local riches, and devoted
themselves to every pleasure they could think of,
while their younger members saw to it that they still
received their dividends from all the Terran-sphere
companies in which they owned stock."

Lancorn frowned. "I thought you said they had
been cut off from Terra."

"Only officially," Siflot said.

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Christopher Stasheff

"Very good," Allouene said. "Yes, there was still a
tiny but constant stream of communication with
Terra and its richer colonies -- unofficial, clandes-
tine, technically illegal, but carefully protected by
wealth and privilege at both ends of the line. It sent
not only money, but also every luxury the Terran
planets could boast, and every new one that was in-
vented. This even included a few items of state-of-
the-art technology, but not many."

"I thought they wanted every luxury they could
think of," Ragnar said.

"Perhaps," Magnus murmured, "but they did not
want to have to look at the technology that produced
it."

Allouene looked up sharply. "You sound as though
you know, Gar."

Magnus felt the tension, so he shrugged very casu-
ally. "I've seen people like that."

"Well, you're right." Allouene was eyeing him in a
new light. "The founding families had decided that
the most graceful and elegant age of Terra's history
had been the late Seventeenth Century, the age of
Charles the Second and Louis the Fourteenth, of the
Drury Lane Theater and the Three Musketeers, and
had devoted themselves to living with all the luxu-
ries of that age but none of the inconveniences. They
dressed in their own versions of 1670's clothing, took
the waters at spas, attended reproductions of Resto-
ration theaters, rode horses and drove in carriages,
flocked to each other's balls, and paraded in their
own court masques."

"Very pretty," Magnus murmured. "I understand

A WIZAHD IN ABSENTIA

the real seventeenth century had its share of filth
and sickness, though."

"Let us not be too historically accurate," Siflot
said softly.

Allouene laughed with them, then nodded. "Yes,
they wanted limits -- renovation, not restoration.
Modern medicine banished the specter of disease
that had so ravished the real Seventeenth Century,
and modern building materials prevented a re-
creation of the Great Fire of London. Their carriages
rode on hidden anti-gravity units that cushioned the
jarring of springless iron wheels, and modern weap-
ons guaranteed their safety."

"Safety?" Magnus frowned. "From whom? Are
there ferocious animals you have not told us about?"

Allouene shook her head, and her golden mane
swirled prettily, almost making Magnus miss the
next few words. "Anything that looked like a dan-
gerous predator had been annihilated when they first
arrived, except for a few specimens kept in zoo-parks
as curiosities."

"What else was there to fear?" Lancorn demanded,
but she looked as though she didn't want to know.

"What else?" Allouene repeated, with a grim
smile. "What was the Restoration without Nell
Gwyn? Who was going to perform in their theaters?
Who would warm their beds when they wished to be
naughty, who would shift the scenes . . . ?"

"Who would grow the food?" Magnus murmured.

"Robots could do that," Ragnar protested.

"Of course," Lancorn agreed, "but who would
cook it?"

Christopher Stasheff

"Again, robots!"

Allouene nodded. "Robots could have done it -- 
but it was so much more satisfactory to have a liv-
ing cook to scold and threaten. In fact, when you
really get right down to it, one of the greatest plea-
sures of the aristocracy has always been having peas-
ants to lord it over and kick around, and wait upon
you hand and foot."

Magnus sat immobile. He couldn't quite claim in-
nocence, but he had always been angry with lords
who mistreated their people. He'd even done some-
thing about it, once or twice -- personally.

"The ladies needed maids to help them dress and
undress, after all," Allouene went on, "and the men
needed valets. The land needed tenants to care for it,
and living human beings were so much more aes-
thetic than soulless robots."
"So they brought slaves," Lancorn growled.
"Serfs," Allouene corrected. "They're tied to the
soil -- even if the land changes hands, they don't.
They stay on the estate. The one good thing about it
is that they can't be bought and sold."
"The only good thing," Lancorn snorted.
"Where did they get them?" Ragnar growled.
"The original would-be aristocrats each recruited
a hundred ordinary people who badly needed
money," Allouene told them. "Some were horribly
in debt to the founders, some were chronic gamblers,
some were alcoholics and drug addicts, some were
poor, some wanted enough money to have families.
All were seduced by the offer of a lifetime's income
in return for five years' service on a new world, the

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A WIZARD IN ABSENTIA

salary to be held in a Terran bank for them, earning
interest until their return. A hundred recruits for
each plutocrat, a hundred who gladly agreed to come
along -- or sometimes reluctantly, not that it mat-
tered."

"A hundred thousand serfs in the making," Lan-
corn said, paling.

Magnus sat frozen. Was this how the peasants of
his own world of Gramarye had been recruited -- 
with lies and coercion? But no -- he remembered; Fa-
ther Marco Ricci had left records, and Magnus's
parents had gone back in time and talked with peo-
ple who had been there. The ancestors of Gramarye's
people had volunteered, and gladly -- they had been
trying to escape the depersonalized society that had
evolved with high technology. No doubt they hadn't
realized how their descendants would live -- but peo-
ple seldom thought things through to the end.

Including himself?

For the first time, Magnus wondered what he was
getting himself into.

"Why didn't they leave when their five years were
up?" Siflot asked, but from the tone of his voice, he
had already guessed.

"Because they couldn't," Ragnar snorted.

"They never came back, of course," Lancorn
agreed. "How could they, if their lords didn't want
them to? Who owned the spaceships, who controlled
the police?" She looked to Allouene for confirma-
tion.

The lieutenant nodded. "The hundred thousand
were immediately locked into serfdom, and never

129

Christopher Stasheff

came out of it. Moreover, the lords demanded that
they have families, and there weren't very many of
them who had the strength to risk the punishments
waiting for anyone who disobeyed. The few who
held out were tortured, and caved in quickly -- 
especially since the very few who refused to give in
in spite of the pain, died in the process."

"So the lords were sure they wouldn't run out of
servants," Lancorn said, her face stony.

"The next generation was guaranteed," Allouene
said, "and the first batch of rebellious genes had been
weeded out. The second generation of serfs grew up
with the habit of obedience, and learned how to
swallow their anger -- and outrage and rebellion."

"Weren't there any who couldn't quench the
fires?" Siflot asked softly.

"Of course," Allouene said. "In every generation a
few rebelled -- and were hanged, or drawn and quar-
tered, or killed in battle. No matter which way, over
the generations, their genes were weeded out.

"But other genes were reinforced."

Ragnar frowned, puzzled; Lancorn cocked her head
to the side, finger to her cheek; but Magnus just sat
rigidly, and Siflot stared in horror. "Of course!" he
cried. "Only a hundred thousand! Inbreeding!"

Allouene nodded. "A hundred thousand isn't a
very large gene pool, after all, and after a few genera-
tions, no matter who you married, he or she was
probably related to you, one way or another. By the
tenth generation, they definitely were, no 'probably'
about it -- and recessive gene reinforced recessive
gene. The consequences of inbreeding began to ap-

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A WIZARD IN ABSENTIA

pear: loss of intelligence, dwarfism, giantism, hemo-
philia -- and mental illness. Coupled with genius
sometimes, other times with idiocy, sometimes all
by itself -- but madness nonetheless."

"They had to have known," Ragnar growled. "The
original lords must have known what they were
doing to the future generations."

But Magnus shook his head. "Why should they
have thought it through? They didn't care."

"But they should have cared about their own de-
scendants!" Lancorn turned to Allouene. "It hit
them too, didn't it?"

Allouene nodded. "Not as fast as among the serfs,
nor as badly -- they always had a steady stream of
new blood trickling in from Terra, after all -- but they
did have occasional outbreaks. Far more often, it
showed up among the gentry."

"Gentry?^' Ragnar asked. "Did they coerce some
bourgeois into coming along, too?"

"No," Allouene said. "They made them locally."

Ragnar shook his head, missing the reference.
"Where did they come from?"

"Oh, Ragnar!" Lancorn snapped. "Don't be any
more dense than you have to be!"

Ragnar glowered at her. "Maybe I'm just too naive.
Spell it out for me, 0 wise one."

"Well," she answered, "what do you think is going
to happen when a lord brings in a buxom serf wench
to warm his bed?"

Ragnar froze.

"There will be a child who looks remarkably like
that lord," Siflot said softly.

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Christopher Stasheff

Allouene nodded, her face hard. "Occasionally/ a
bastard might result from a lady's inviting some
strapping, handsome young serf in for the night, but
far less frequently than the lords' by-blows -- it was a
rare noblewoman who wanted to go through nine
months of pregnancy ending in labor, for a peasant
man. Far more often, the ladies, like the lords, only
wanted pleasure, not more children. The lords could
have used birth control medications of their own
with their peasant wenches, of course, but they
wanted to increase the population. Why not? The
more there were, the more servants they had."

"After all," Magnus murmured, "a lord's valet
should be a gentleman, not a serf, should he not?"

Allouene frowned, even as she nodded. "You
sound as if you know. Gar. But you're right -- and the
steward of the estate should be better-born than the
average laborer, and there was a need for lawyers,
and for clerks to handle the drudgery of the trickle of
trade, and to oversee the building of new houses and
the laying out of new gardens, and to act in the thea-
ters. ..."

"So a class of petty aristocracy came into being,"
Ragnar interpreted.

Allouene shook her head. "Gentry aren't noble,
Ragnar -- the lords make a very big point of that.
They're a middle class, between the serfs and the no-
bility. In Europe, they came from the knights and the
squires, and from the merchants; on Taxhaven,
they've been given the same jobs, if not the titles.
But they've developed their own pedigrees and mo-
res anyway. They've never owned land legally, but

132

A WIZARD IN ABSENTIA

when the same family of gentry has been in charge of
the same hundred acres for three generations, it cre-
ates the illusion of ownership, and certainly a tie to
the land. They're allowed to earn money and save it
in their own right, and are comfortably well-off, even
sometimes wealthy in a small way. They resent their
neglectful parent class, of course, but nonetheless,
they side with the lords against the serfs, more or
less automatically -- they have something to lose, af-
ter all. Of course, there are always new gentlemen
coming into being, not of the established families,
and they're scorned and looked down upon, and only
allowed to marry one of the new gentlewomen -- but
their children are accepted, so the class keeps in-
creasing in number. They're the middle-rank officers
in the army, the mid-level managers on the estates,
the tax collectors and magistrates and squires.
They're resented by the serfs, and resent the lords in
their own turn -- but each class knows its place, and
knows the painful, even lethal, penalties for stepping
out of that place, so the society endures, though not
happily."

So they were bound for a planet governed by
grown-up spoiled brats who intended to stay that
way, lording it over a population of serfs dressed in
medieval simplicity and filth, with an intermediary
class of gentry to take care of the day-to-day adminis-
tration and the direct contact with the serfs.

Magnus could see why Allouene had decided they
needed changing.

133

The free-lance asked, "Can you move quietly, in the
wood?"

lan tried to smile. "I can try."

"Well, then, let's away." The soldier turned to go,
then stopped and looked back over his shoulder. "I
cannot go on calling you 'boy,' " he said. "It's too
clumsy. What's your name?"

More danger -- but lan was in the thick of it
now. He might as well pray for the best and tell the
truth. "lan," he said. "Son of Tobin."

"And I am Gar Pike." The free-lance smiled.
"Well, then, lan Tobinson -- let's away."

They went onward under the trees, between the
trunks, Gar as silent as the wind and almost as silent
as the dwarves in his soft boots. lan plucked up his
courage and followed.

They threaded their way through the back trails,
so faint that lan could barely make them out. Every

Christopher Stasheff

now and then. Gar would stop, cock his head, and
listen. Then he would nod and lead lan forth. Several
times, though, when he stopped to listen, he turned
quickly into the nearest thicket, parting the bushes
before him and stepping into their center, holding
the bushes back for lan to follow, then pressing them
back together and crouching down, motioning for
lan to do likewise and pressing a finger to his lips for
silence. When this happened, lan would do as Gar
bade him and stay very still, breathing through his
mouth. Then, after a while, he would hear the crash-
ing and the crunching of the soldiers as they moved
nearer. Several times they came almost to the thick-
ets where Gar and lan were hiding and lan would
hear them talking. They were afraid the lord would
punish them for not having found the runaway
youth. Each time this happened, lan's body knotted
with fear. Not so much as he had felt before -- he did
not panic; Gar would protect him, he knew, if it
came to a fight. lan saw his own hands tighten on his
quarterstaff, though, and remembered very well that
Gar was, after all, only one man. If he had to fight
trained soldiers, perhaps he would not be able to pre-
vail. If that happened, lan resolved to guard his back
for him. Though he was only a boy against full-
grown men, he knew his quarterstaff-play well, and
might be able to delay a second soldier long enough
for Gar to finish with the first.

They travelled through the forest all night in this
fashion, and the near brushes with the soldiers be-
came less frequent. But near dawn, when they were

136

A WIZARD IN ABSENTIA

about to hide for the day, Gar suddenly turned aside
from the trail. "Take cover, and quickly!"

lan leaped after him, pushing through some under-
brush into the center of a thicket. There they
crouched on the bare earth, for all the world like
deer. "Down," Gar murmured, though he himself
only sat, "and be very still."

There was more tension in him than usual. lan
huddled under the leaves, wondering what was so
much more dangerous this time.

Then he heard three voices. One of them was a
cutting nasal whine -- and lan's heart raced, for he
recognized it. "If we do not find him, serfs, the hide
on your back will be scored!"

"But, my lord..." The soldier sounded exhausted.
"We have searched all night, we have searched all
over the wood. Surely one of the other bands will
have found him by now."

"Impossible," the other soldier snapped. Then, in
a placating tone, "It is our duty to our Lord Murthren
to search for the boy until we drop in our tracks, if
need be."

My lord Murthren! It was well the soldiers did not
find them then, for lan could not have moved a hand
or a foot. He was frozen, frozen with fear.

Gar cocked his head to the side, listening, inter-
ested.

"Well said, though fawning," the nasal voice
sneered. "Now get on and do your job, and search for
him!"

lan trembled, recognizing Lord Murthren's voice.

The lord snapped, "You would be wiser to die

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Christopher Stasheff

searching for him, than to suffer my displeasure. He
has violated one of the Sacred Places of the Old
Ones! If we do not find and slay him, a curse, a mur-
rain, shall fall upon all my land, my domains!"

lan's eyes widened with fear. A murrain, a dread
disease, spreading over all the whole duchy! Cattle
wasting away and dropping dead in the fields -- 
perhaps people, too! He bowed his head, and
squeezed his eyes shut against tears as the feeling of
guilt within him grew, gaining strength. "One of the
Sacred Places of the Old Ones" -- was that the
strange "Safety Base" into which he had strayed?
And how, then, did Milord Murthren know of it?

But the voices faded away. When lan could no
longer hear them, he started to get up -- but Gar's
hand fell on his shoulder, holding him in place. lan
froze, then looked questioningly at Gar. The free-
lance laid a finger across his lips again, head cocked
to listen.

Perhaps ten minutes longer they stayed in their
places. Then Gar rose slowly, and lan, with a sigh of
thanks, rose with him. His legs tingled as the blood
flowed back into them. He stretched sore, stiff mus-
cles, then looked up to find Gar gazing down at him
quizzically. "So that was your crime! 'One of the Sa-
cred Places of the Old Ones'! That great stone egg in
the center of the meadow -- was that it?"

lan nodded, unable to speak.

Gar chuckled, shaking his head. "What supersti-
tious fools, to fear such places!" he said. "Though
I'm sure the lords cultivate the rumor. I know some-
one who sheltered in an Old Ones' place himself

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A WIZARD IN ABSENTIA

once, when his side lost the battle and the enemy
was searching for him. He told me that the guardian
spirits the Old Ones left are gentle to those who
claim their protection -- and if they laid a curse upon
him, it was a strange one, for he lived well, and
longer than many soldiers I have known."

He looked about him, sniffing. "I smell dawn com-
ing." He turned away. "Come, lan! We must be out
of this forest before the sun rises."

lan looked after him, then stumbled into a run un-
til he caught up with Gar. His legs seemed leaden
with exhaustion, but if the free-lance could push on,
so could he. And within him, there was relief -- if Gar
had said it, it must be true. He need not fear the
curse, nor the murrain upon Milord Murthren's do-
main.

They came out onto the roadway as the sun
peeked over the hills, and the sky was streaked with
rose and gold. Gar looked around him, breathing
deeply of the scents of the morning, then looked
down at lan. "We are nearly to the end of our jour-
ney," he said. "Half a mile down this road is a town,
and I know a man there who will shelter us and ask
no questions." He smiled, warm and friendly. "Let
your head lie easy, my lad. Once you are dressed in
my livery, no man will question you. You are twelve
good miles from the edge of Lord Carnot Murthren's
domains. In fact" -- he chuckled -- "they are apt to
think you are still hiding in the forest, not far from
wherever you entered it." He cocked his head to the
side. "How long has it been since you ran away from
your home?"

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Christopher Stasheff

lan started to answer, then stopped to think back.
So much had happened . . . "Two days, sir. Two days,
and two nights."

Gar nodded. "Yes, they will still think you are very
close to home. Lord Murthren must have been
searching beyond his own borders, out of sheer frus-
tration. Whoever would believe a boy of twelve . . .
Ten? Very well, ten . . . could forge his way through
the whole of the forest, alone and at night?" He
turned away, chuckling again and shaking his head.
"Come, lad. Beds and hot porridge await us -- 
nowhere nearly such excellent fare as you had in the
Sacred Place of the Old Ones, no doubt, but nonethe-
less most welcome after a long night of walking."

lan stumbled after him, sodden with fatigue, but
with his heart lightened. Gar had proved that he had
indeed spoken with a man who had been inside an
Old Ones' place -- for how else could he have known
what lordly meals the guardian spirits prepared
there?

Indeed, Magnus had spoken only the truth, though
the man he had spoken of had been a merchant, not a
soldier -- Oswald Majorca. It had been one of the
many anecdotes Master Oswald had related, to break
the ice with his new agents while giving them some
idea of the culture that had grown up on this outpost
of inhumanity. But he had heard of the Safety Bases
before that, from Allouene. She had finished up the
briefing aboard ship -- even in H-space, it took two
weeks to reach Taxhaven.

That was two weeks together, with no one else to
buffer personality clashes, and the cracks in the unit

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A WIZARD IN ABSENTIA

began to show. Ragnar was growing impatient with
Allouene's occasional flirtations, especially since
she never let him follow up, but always kept a wall of
formality between them. Magnus kept the same
kind of wall up from his side, too, so she spent larger
portions of allure on him, the more so since, to all
appearances, he wasn't responding -- at least, not as
much as she wanted.

Inside, though, he was, and it was driving him
crazy, and by that, he knew her for a flawed leader.
She was trying to bind her male agents to her by sex-
ual attraction, not stopping to realize that she was
creating rivalries that must sooner or later tear the
group apart.

She was certainly tearing Magnus apart. He had to
get away from the woman for a while -- either that, or
become very much closer; but whenever he thought
about that last, something would slam shut within
him, leaving him distanced from all emotions.

Lancorn was alert to every flirtation, every
nuance, and resented it more and more with every
day. Relations with her commander became very
strained; they started being coldly polite to one an-
other.

In short, Magnus expected them to be at each oth-
er's throats by the time they reached Taxhaven -- as
they probably would have, if it hadn't been for Siflot.

He always had a kind word for everyone, a com-
ment that would make them all suddenly feel absurd
to have been resentful, some quip or antic that
would make tension explode in a burst -of laughter.
Siflot was the buffer, Siflot was the peacemaker -- but

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Christopher Stasheff

by the time they dropped back into normal space and
Taxhaven showed a discernible disk, even he was be-
ginning to look frazzled. Magnus wasn't surprised -- 
the chafing of others' emotions must have left him
seriously abraded.

Siflot took refuge in playing his flute -- a slender
stalk that he carried hidden somewhere in his cloth-
ing. He hid himself away, either because it was a very
private thing or because he knew that the lilting
notes, sometimes shrill, could grate on others'
nerves. Presumably he played in the privacy of his
own cabin -- no one would have known; the walls
were soundproofed -- but their cubicles were claus-
trophobic, so Magnus wasn't surprised, in his ram-
bles through the bowels of the ship, to hear flute
music drifting out of a darkened corridor now and
again.

He rambled for the same reason that Siflot played
music -- to release tension, and to get away from the
others for a little. He was sure Siflot felt the same
needs, so whenever he heard the skipping notes com-
ing out of the dark, he turned aside.

But as the disk that was Taxhaven swelled in their
viewscreens, the thought of taking on a whole world
began to make their personal conflicts seem unim-
portant, and they settled down for the last of the
briefing.

"Why hasn't the D.D.T. done something about
this place before now?" Lancorn demanded.
"They've had more than a hundred years since they
killed off PEST!"

"The Taxhaveners got to liking their life as petty

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tyrants," Allouene explained, "and as the economy
of PEST ground down under its reactionary, isola-
tionist policies, the lords sold off all their Terran
Sphere assets and moved everything to Taxhaven.
The last few out did a very thorough job of burying
the records -- not hard to do, considering that there
had been no official communication for five hundred
years. The Interplanetary Police Force knew there
was some kind of smuggling going on, but they were
very firmly discouraged from pursuing it, so
Taxhaven stayed buried in their files. The only trace
of it was a standing joke that you've all probably
heard gowing up -- 'I'll get so rich that I'll move to
Taxhaven!' "

"Well, sure, I heard that." Lancorn frowned. "But I
thought it just meant a tax haven."

"That's what we all thought," Allouene said
grimly. "But when the D.D.T. revitalized the Inter-
planetary Police and expanded them to interstellar,
one of the first things they did was to assign some-
one to go through all the dead files, looking for unfin-
ished business. Fifteen years ago, she found the
mention of Taxhaven. Ten years ago, SCENT finally
worked through its agenda far enough to start
searching for the planet. They assigned Oswald
Majorca to the job -- and five years ago, he found it.
Last year, he finally admitted that he wasn't going to
be able to handle it by himself and called for help."

"And we're it." Lancorn looked somber. "Just five
of us and him, against a whole planet."

"Not the whole planet." Siflot looked pained.
"Just a few thousand aristocrats."

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Christopher Stasheff

"Seven thousand six hundred forty-two, as closely
as we can count," Allouene said, "but you have to re-
member that there are about twenty thousand gen-
tlemen and gentlewomen, who will side with the
lords."

"I should think they could be made to see the ad-
vantages of democracy," Magnus murmured.

"Yes! Precisely, Gar!" Allouene beamed at him,
and he felt it all the way to his toes. "If we can just
make them see that they can be the ones who run
things under a democracy, they'll start pushing for
representation in councils!"

Magnus swam upstream against his yearning and
said, "Then they will be the ones who oppress the
serfs."

"Not if they're basing their democracy on univer-
sal principles." Allouene shook her head, and Mag-
nus held his breath. "If they appeal for a voice in the
government on the basis of basic human rights,
they'll have to honor those same rights for the serfs.
We just have to make sure they shift to that basis."

"So." Magnus frowned, suddenly freed from her
spell by the grip of the problem confronting them.
"Our strategy is to spread rumors about human
rights. How are we to do that without subjecting
anyone who mentions it to arrest and imprison-
ment?"

"By hiding it in a joke, or a story," Siflot answered,
"so that the lords themselves are the ones who first
spread it."

Allouene nodded. "Excellent idea. You were plan-

144

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ning to be a strolling entertainer anyway, weren't
you, Siflot?"

"All my life," the slender man murmured.

"I applaud you," Magnus said to Siflot, "but I am
not suited to such tactics."

"You can repeat his stories and jokes, though, and
tell them to other people," Allouene pointed out.
"What kind of role can you find for yourself, in this
kind of society?"

Magnus had been thinking that one over. "A mer-
cenary, Lieutenant -- a soldier of fortune."

"Good." Allouene nodded. "You can get close to
the gentry that way -- free-lance soldiers are all gen-
try, and they're hired as officers. You'll be in an ideal
position to spread ideas, and even to get them up to
the lords. But it's risky, you know."

Magnus nodded, not trusting himself to speak.
Surely the woman must know the effect she had on
his hormones, must know that she had supercharged
him with the need for action! But, equally surely, she
would show no sign of it. Yes, he might die, might be
maimed -- but he had to have action now, and he
didn't see any way he could avoid the risk. "I'll call
for help, if I need it," he promised.

Allouene nodded; she knew he was talking about
the golden ship that was following them. She turned
to Ragnar. "What role have you decided on, Ragnar?"

"A merchant." Ragnar shrugged. "I might as well
make a few pieces of silver, while I'm at it."

"You'll work through Master Oswald, at first,
then," Allouene said. She turned to Lancorn, and her

145

Christopher Stasheff

voice became a little too casual. "What were you
thinking of, Lancorn?"

"A gypsy," the woman said, staring levelly at the
lieutenant. "The reports indicate that there are a few
bands. The lords tolerate them for amusement."

"Descended from escaped serfs, probably," Al-
louene agreed, "but as you say, tolerated. A good
idea."

"Ten minutes till we begin approach," the pilot's
voice said from the intercom.

Allouene clapped her hands. "Enough! Ready or
not, here we go! We'll land in the inland sea at night,
on a bleak stretch of coastline. We'll row ashore,
then strike out overland for Master Oswald's. He'll
be there with a wagon and a cargo of trade goods.
Lancorn, Siflot, and I will be merchants until we get
to Master Oswald's; Ragnar and Gar will be our hired
guards. Go pack your last few personal items, and
web in!"

The landing craft was twice as good as its name -- 
it brought them down in the water, then moved
toward the shore with no sound other than the
rippling of its wake, soon lost in the surf. When its
bottom grated against sand, the forward hatch
opened and the gangplank extruded. The five ag-
ents walked ashore without even getting their feet
wet. Then the gangplank withdrew, the hatch
closed, and the landing craft turned away and was
lost in the night.

They turned and looked after it, somber, tense.

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Siflot had the good sense not to try to relieve the ten-
sion.

Then a new star shot up from the sea and climbed
into the sky. They watched it shrink, then disappear,
trying to hold off the apprehension, the feeling of
loneliness. They were committed now.

Then a golden star winked overhead and sailed by
like a meteor -- only it didn't fall, just kept on going.
Magnus's heart warmed; before they had departed,
Allouene had asked him to have his ship park in or-
bit, rather than trying to hide it on the surface. Mag-
nus had given Herkimer instructions by radio -- not
that they were needed; Fess had already taught the
robot about human thought-frequencies, modula-
tion modes, and encoding, so Herkimer could hear
his owner easily, if he thought hard enough. The re-
verse applied, too, of course, but Magnus didn't re-
ally think it would be necessary.

"We're here to stay, folks." Allouene turned to
them, her grim face shadowed in the starlight. "From
now on, our only help is each other." There wasn't
the slightest trace of sexual allure about her now.

Then Siflot said, "I don't know how we'll ever last,
all cooped up together on this planet."

The shout of laughter was much louder than the
joke deserved, because it had been badly needed. The
absurdity of their grating on each other's nerves with
a whole planet to roam, compared to living in each
other's laps as they had for the last two weeks, was
hilarious -- under the circumstances.

"Very good," Allouene said, smiling as they qui-

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Christopher Stasheff

eted. "But from now on we keep silent, until dawn.
Let's go."

They trudged up the beach toward the boulders
and marsh grass at its top. As they came up, a
shadow detached itself from the rocks, and they all
stopped, tensing, hands on their weapons.

"Good thing I'm on your side," the shadow said.
"With that kind of noise, any guardsman within five
kilometers could have heard you."

Allouene relaxed. "You gave me a start, Oswald.
Agents, meet your Chief of Mission -- Captain
Oswald Majorca."

"Master Oswald, when any locals might be listen-
ing," the man said, extending a hand. He was short
and very stocky -- fat at first appearance, until you re-
alized how much of it was muscle -- and balding,
with black hair around the sides. His face was round
and snub-nosed, with quick, alert eyes. He clasped
Lancorn's hand. "And you are Mistress . . . ?"

"Madame," Lancorn said, her voice brittle, but she
took his hand. "Sheila Lancorn."

"Not 'Madame,' " Majorca corrected. "That's only
for married female gentry, here. Aristocrats are ad-
dressed as 'milady.' Unmarried gentry, such as you
are from now on, are 'Mistress.' Anything else, and
you'll have the guardsmen on you for breaking the
sumptuary laws." He released her hand and turned
to Siflot. "And you are Master... ?"

"Siflot," the lean and lively one said, clasping his
hand. "Do they call vagabonds 'Master' here?"

"A good point." Oswald looked him up and down
in a quick glance. "And a travelling entertainer is an

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excellent cover -- but it's risky; serfs of any kind can
be clapped into prison at any moment, no reason
given. You might want to have a gentleman-identity
ready to hand. And you, Master . . . ?" He held his
hand out to Ragnar.

"Ragnar Haldt," the big man said, returning the
clasp, "and this is Gar Pike."

"Pleasure to meet you. Master Gar Pike." Oswald
clasped Magnus's hand -- and so it was fixed; Gar
Pike he was, and Gar Pike he would remain.

"I've a wagon waiting. You can bunk in with a load
of cloth." Oswald waved them on. "I piled it high
around the edges and put muslin over the bales on
the bottom, in case you wanted to sleep."

It was a tempting offer, but everybody was too
tense -- and too eager for a sight of their new world.
They sat down among the bales, craning their necks
to get a look at the night-veiled countryside as they
passed. There wasn't much to see, since the moons
had already set, but they could make out hedges, and
the usual crazy-quilt pattern of fields of a medieval
society, with the occasional dark blots that were
peasant villages, and once, high up on a hilltop, a
palace -- but one that was surrounded by a curtain
wall with crenellated towers. The thread of excited,
whispered conversation ceased as they passed under
the threat of that grim combination of pleasure and
oppression -- until Siflot murmured, "Could they be
uncertain of the loyalty of their serfs?"

There was only a chuckle or two, until Magnus an-
swered, "You've made your Marx." Then a real laugh

Christopher Stasheff

sounded, though kept low, and conversation began
again as they passed out of the shadow of the lord.

They came within sight of the town gate as the sun
was sending in an advance guard of crimson rays.
Master Oswald reined in his team and turned back to
his passengers. "Down, now, all of you -- I might be
able to pass one of you off as a new factor and get him
through the gates, but not a whole throng. I'm afraid
it's going to be a while -- fifteen minutes at least,
then another fifteen from the gate to my shop. Stay
low, and when the wagon starts to move again, don't

breathe a word."

They lay down with some grumbling, and Al-
louene helped Oswald spread the tarpaulin over
them and tie it down. After that, the conversation
was muted, and restricted to such comments as,
"Would you get your knee out of my ribs, Ragnar?"
and "I never noticed what a lovely boot-sole you
have, Pike!" "How come Allouene gets to stay out in
the fresh air?" "Privileges of rank ..."

Suddenly the wagon jerked into motion, and they
all fell silent. The tension mounted as the wagon

rolled.

Then they heard voices. "Ah, good morning, Mas-
ter Oswald! Back from your journey, eh?"

"And what a lovely prize you've brought! Who
would you be, Mistress, eh?"

"Mistress Allouene de Ville," Allouene answered,
her voice slow, rich, and amused.

In the dim light under the tarp, Lancorn glowered,
and Magnus realized that it wasn't just rank that had
kept Allouene out in the open air. She could distract

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the gate-guards well enough so that they might not
think to inspect the cargo.

"De Ville! Ah, have you brought back a devil, Mas-
ter Oswald?"

"Best not to find out. Corporal," Oswald coun-
selled. "She could set fire to more than your heart, I
assure you."

The gate-guards' laughter was coarse and heavy.
"You sound as though you know, Master Oswald!"

"Well, I've seen the damage she's left behind her.
The woman has a sharp mind. Sergeant, and a sharp
tongue to match it; be wary of her. I'll have no worry
about trusting her to take my cloth out for trading, I
assure you."

"A gentlewoman?" The soldier sounded outraged.
"Alone?"

"Oh, I'll hire a bodyguard or two to go with her,
and another gentlewoman to help her, never fear."

"Ho! Four, in place of yourself alone? What profit's
in that, Master Oswald?"

"Quite a bit," Allouene said in her most musical
tones. "I drive a hard bargain, soldier."

They whooped, and the sergeant bantered with
her, a few gibes about the worth of her goods -- but
Magnus realized that the corporal was silent. They
respected class barriers, indeed -- only gentry could
flirt with gentry.

Finally, the sergeant said, "Well, there's no reason
to search your wagon. Master Oswald, and we've a
serf with a cart coming up behind you. Be off with
you now, and good trading to you!"

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Christopher Stasheff

"Why, thank you, Sergeant, and a good day to

you!"

The wagon began to move again, and all four hid-
den passengers let out a silent sigh of relief. Magnus
began to realize just how solid a base Master Oswald
had established here, if he was so well-known and
trusted that the guards at the city gate would let him
pass without the slightest search -- and he realized
from that, that Master Oswald had been taking
something of a risk in calling for additional agents.
What did he really know about them, after all? Only
that if SCENT had accepted them, they must be
trustworthy -- and Magnus knew, from his own res-
ervations, what kind of limits there might be to that.

The wagon turned corners twice. Then the rumble
of the wheels changed timbre, from the grating of
cobblestones to the hollow rumble of wood. They
came to a stop; then the tarpaulin was pulled back,
and they sat up, breathing deeply of the fresh air -- 
well, relatively fresh; it was redolent of hay and
horses and their by-products, but it was still a pleas-
ant change.

"Out with you, and down." Oswald pointed to a
dark stairway at the side of the stables.

They sighed, jumped down, and filed into the hole.
Wooden steps led down six feet, to Allouene, who
was lighting a lantern. Its light showed them a cellar,
walled with fieldstone and floored with earth. Sec-
tions of tree trunk held up wooden beams seven feet
overhead; Magnus almost had to stoop. Casks lined

one wall, bottles another.
Oswald came down and saw the direction of their

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gaze. He grinned. "I'm a draper, but I do a little tav-
ern trade on the side, with a room or two to let out by
the night. It's a convenient cover to have people
coming and going."

"Going where?" Lancorn asked, but Oswald only
shook his head. "Not out here. Come along." He
led them through a timber door and into another
room. Magnus noticed that the door was four
inches thick, and solid. He looked up and saw a
wooden ceiling. "Is that as thick as the door?"

Master Oswald nodded. "Four inches thick, with
the beams closely fitted -- and even if there were a
gap or two from shrinkage, it wouldn't matter; that's
only a pantry above us, and the cook and scullery
maids don't linger long in it."

Footsteps sounded overhead, and they all fell si-
lent, looking up -- but the footsteps crossed the ceil-
ing, then crossed back, and they heard a door closing.

Master Oswald looked back down at them, grin-
ning. "See? This room is secure." He stepped around
a large table that held a sheaf of papers, a large
leather-bound book, and an abacus. "This is my tav-
ern office, if we need an excuse." He pulled out a
drawer and drew out a large roll of parchment. He
unrolled it across the top of the desk, set paper-
weights on the corners, and they found themselves
looking at a map of the continent. "Now," said Mas-
ter Oswald, "I'd like the five of you to wander about
the city -- in pairs or threes, mind -- just to get the feel
of things, and make sure your dialect matches one of
the ones you'll hear. Then, when you'releeling se-
cure, I'll send each of you on a trading mission, so

Christopher Stasheff

you can get the lay of the land and come up with
ideas for tactics. But I'll tell you the broad strategy."
He put a finger on the map, near the large blue amoe-
boid of the inland sea. "This is where we are -- 
Orthoville, the capital city. The King's here, not that
anyone ever sees much of him, and it's the natural
place to spread ideas." He traced boundary lines with
his fingers, and pointed to large dots. "These are the
duchies, and the dukes' capitals. The roads run out
as rays, from Orthoville to the dukes' seats."

"Convenient," Ragnar muttered.

Oswald nodded. "Everything is for the lords'
convenience -- and protection; those roads follow the
high ground, and give the King a quick way to send a
strike force to reinforce any lord who's having
trouble -- not that this particular king seems about to
do much. So any ideas we can plant in a lord's reti-
nue, will go right out to the country with him."

"Are there no roads that connect town to town?"
Silfot asked.

"Yes, dirt roads, only wide enough for one cart at a
time. But I see your meaning, friend, yes." Oswald
nodded. "Your best bet is to go from village to vil-
lage, singing for your supper. Let's get together on
the lyrics, though, eh?"

Siflot smiled and ducked his head in answer. It was
their first reminder that Oswald was in charge, and
that whatever they were going to do, they were going
to do it his way.

"So much for Propaganda of the Word," Oswald
said. "We'll plant ideas, in conversation or in stories
or, best of all, songs. People will repeat the message

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A WIZABD IN ABSENTIA

more often if we can hit upon a tune that catches
on -- and they'll repeat it with less distortion,,be-
cause of the rhyme. In fact, I've worked out a few var-
iations on popular songs already -- if we change them
as they circulate, we'll get across some basic ideas of
human rights."

"I could redo Robin Hood so that his band voted on
decisions," Siflot offered.

Master Oswald nodded. "Good idea, but not yet.
Right now, just having Robin Hood at all, is enough.
Same idea for Propaganda of the Deed -- no terror-
ism, no bombings, just helping serfs escape and
teaching them how to defend themselves in their
hideouts. If we can build up a few bands of free men,
word will spread, and other people will get the idea."

Magnus frowned. "But if they gain too much fame,
the lords will send armies to wipe them out."

"Unfortunate, but probably unavoidable," Oswald
agreed. "If they make a gallant last stand, though, it
will fire the minds and hearts of serfs everywhere -- if
we make sure they hear about it."

Magnus stood immobile, telling himself that Mas-
ter Oswald couldn't really have meant that to be as
cold-blooded as it sounded.

"But if we can build up large enough bands,"
Ragnar objected, "couldn't they strike back at the
lords?"

"I said, not yet." Oswald held up a hand. "We're
not after a revolution here -- that's standard SCENT
policy. If we overthrew the lords right now, who
would take their place? Just peasants who were
rougher and tougher than average -- and the first

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Christopher Stasheff

thing you know, you'd have the same system in
place all over again, but with different masters.
Only this time, they'd know what to watch out for,
and they'd be even tougher to overthrow. No, we'll
work the fundamental concepts of democracy into
their culture first, then move toward a new system
one change at a time. That way, when the lords are
finally kicked out, they'll stay out, and government
by the people will have a chance."

"All right," Lancorn said. "Technological determi-
nism. We introduce a technological innovation -- 
say, the printing press -- and it will cause a change in
the economy, which will cause a change in the social
structure, making the middle class dominant. That
will cause a change in the political structure, making
them move toward parliamentary government -- and
that would change the value structure."

This time both Allouene and Oswald shook their
heads, and Allouene said, "No major technological
innovations -- that's the cornerstone of SCENT pol-
icy. Bring in earthshaking inventions like that, and
the social change will be an explosion, not normal
growth. The society will tear itself apart trying to re-
adjust, and thousands of people will be maimed and
killed in the process. The English Civil War was a
mild example -- but 'mild' only because the techno-
logical innovations had been imported two hundred
years before. Even with that much time, the society
still couldn't adapt fast enough to avoid war."

"Besides," Oswald said, "technological innova-
tions don't come just one at a time. The printing

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press wouldn't make much difference without the
rise of a literate merchant class to read the books."

"And the middle class rose because of better ships
and better navigation equipment, such as the astro-
labe and the pendulum clock." Lancorn nodded, cha-
grined. "You can't take just one."

"Not even in a culture that doesn't know anything
about modern technology," Master Oswald con-
firmed. "But here, the lords do know about the astro-
labe, the compass, the pendulum clock, and the
printing press -- and they know about the English Civil
War, too. Worse, they know about the French Revolu-
tion, when the social changes had been dammed up
too long and broke loose in a flood. So they're very
wary, very watchful -- and at the slightest sign there
was a printing press around, they'd track it down,
break it to splinters, and kill the printer."

"I thought you were a merchant," Ragnar said,
frowning. "Can't you justify new and improved
transportation?"

"Such as the steam engine?" Oswald shook his
head. "They'd be onto me in a minute. I do my trad-
ing by ox-cart and wagon. It's enough to keep a mer-
chant prosperous, and keep the necessary minimum
of trade going. But any sign of improvements, the
lords would eliminate instantly -- I've seen it hap-
pen. One merchant started building his own roads,
going places the lords didn't want -- and he disap-
peared in the middle of the night, was never heard
from again. Another one started to set up an ex-
change network with other merchants -- and they all
disappeared. No, the aristocrats know what new in-

Christopher Stasheff

ventions and new systems mean, and they make sure
they don't happen."

"Well, won't they stop our songs?" Lancorn asked.

"They can't, even if they outlaw them -- people
will just sing them in secret, and that by itself will
stimulate the spirit of defiance. But more impor-
tantly, you need to come up with stories and songs
that the lords themselves will like, and that are such
good fun, and seem so innocent, that any aristocrat
who starts analyzing them for messages will be
pooh-poohed by his fellows."

"How can we do that?" Lancorn asked.

"Try," Oswald suggested. "The Robin Hood bal-
lads were just as popular in the medieval courts as
they were in the peasant villages. Nobody wants to
identify with the bad guy, after all. Technological de-
terminism ends with a new political system devel-
oping a new value-system, and that means the
pyramid can be worked in reverse -- change the value
system, and you can change the political structure."

Magnus shook his head. "They will not allow it.
These lords are firmly entrenched, from what you
say; only war will rid the serfs of their yoke. The
lords have the monopoly on violence, after all."

"True," Oswald admitted, "but if we do the
groundwork well enough, we can keep it down to a
series of skirmishes. We have to prepare for that out-
break, or you'll have nothing but an abortive rebel-
lion with an awful lot of dead peasants, and nothing
but worse oppression for the survivors."

They were all quiet, looking at one another, recog-
nizing the truth in Oswald's words.

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"For now, breakfast." Oswald rolled up the map.
"Then you can start roaming the city -- and looking
for weak spots in the social wall."

The day passed quickly, in a dizzying kaleidoscope
of dialects and locations -- markets, workshops,
churches, prison. Before long, Siflot was juggling in
front of an audience, then demonstrating his exper-
tise as an acrobat, which none of his team had
known about. He brought home quite a haul in cop-
per coins, too.

The others didn't trust themselves to say much,
especially Magnus, who stood tall enough to stand
out horribly, and drew suspicious looks from guards-
men all around town. He was challenged on more
than one occasion, but the guards seemed satisfied
with his explanation that he was a new bodyguard
from a small village, hired by Master Oswald to pro-
tect his shipments of cloth.

It made Magnus realize how strong the police pres-
ence was.

Ragnar found out, too, by pretending to get drunk
and picking a few fights. The guardsmen were there
very quickly, though they just stood and watched.

"Three fights, and not a single criminal contacted
me," he told the rest of them that night, in disgust.
"Don't they have any crime here?"

"Only as much as the aristocrats want," Oswald
assured him. "The vices flourish, because the lords
like to take advantage of them now and then -- but
theft and violence are squashed at the first sign;

they don't want to take any chances that serfs

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Christopher Stasheff

might learn to fight back. They don't waste crimi-
nals, of course -- they just send them to the mines,

or the galleys."
Magnus shuddered; there was something inhuman

in back of it all.

The days passed quickly, and before he knew it, he
and Ragnar were out riding guard for a pair of wagons
driven by husky serfs, with Lancorn and Allouene to
take care of the goods and do the buying and selling.
Siflot disappeared about the same time, to go wan-
dering from village to village and eventually castle to
castle, singing songs, doing gymnastics, carrying
news -- and spreading hints that serfs were fully hu-
man, not a subspecies. He surfaced every few weeks,
either at Master Oswald's, or just "coincidentally"
showing up in the same village the others were stay-
ing in for the night -- at which time, they exchanged
news of a different order from Siflot's stock in trade.

"I always wanted to be a journalist," he confided
to Magnus one evening.

Magnus, however, had not always wanted to be a
bodyguard. Two trips riding shotgun for Lancorn and
Allouene, and Master Oswald officially discharged
him from his service, sending him out to look for
employment on his own. Magnus found that his size
made him very desirable to other merchants, and
even for one lord who wanted a larger-than-usual
troop to march around his estates for a week, to over-
awe his serfs. Magnus was glad there was no offer of
permanent employment; he wasn't anxious to be
tied down to one lord just yet.

There actually was a battle; two lords had a bound-

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ary dispute, and let the serfs fight it out for them.
Magnus found himself in the position of temporary
lieutenant, trying to train and command a bunch of
plowboys. He devoted himself to trying to get as
many of them as possible through the skirmish alive.
His tactics worked in more ways than one -- he lost
only two, and his side won; a quick victory was the
easiest way to save lives. The other officers were sus-
picious of him, knowing he'd had a great deal more
to do with the victory than he should have, but un-
able to say why -- so they were very glad when the
lord discharged him and sent him on his way.

So was Magnus; the oppression of the serfs was be-
ginning to sicken him, and seeing men toss away
their lives just to settle a lord's argument was the
worst yet.

In between, as he rode the dusty roads looking for
work, he studied the other travellers he saw -- 
clerics and merchants, couriers and farmers with
carts, lords with their entourages, vagabonds and,
yes, madmen -- or, at least, very simple-minded beg-
gars. No one gave them much money, but no one
paid them much attention, either -- and Magnus be-
gan to realize that he had another cover available, if
ever he needed one.

All through it, he waited impatiently for an es-
caped serf to rescue, or even to hear of one -- but
there was never a word. Apparently, no matter how
oppressed they were, the serfs knew better than to
try to flee.

Finally, though, a troop of soldiers stepped out

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Christopher Stasheff

from a tree and stopped him with raised pikes. Mag-
nus stopped, but did not raise his hands, only frown-
ing down at the men.

"State your name and business!" the sergeant
barked.

"Gar Pike, and I am a mercenary looking for
work." Magnus took him in at a glance. "From the
look of you, I'd say you could use my services."

"We'll do well enough without any strangers!" the
sergeant barked. "You know the law -- say if you've
seen a serf boy fleeing."

Inside, Magnus's heart sang, but he didn't let it
show in his face. "Not a trace."

"If you do, Milord Murthren will pay you five
pounds of silver for him," the sergeant growled.
"Three pounds, if he's dead."

Magnus gave him a wolfish smile. "I'll see what I
can find." Two more pounds, alive! What informa-
tion did the boy have that the lord wanted?

"Watch carefully," the sergeant warned. "He's
only ten, and not yet branded."

That by itself was something of a shock. Magnus
had never yet seen a serf without the telltale brand
on the back of one hand -- a gothic letter S, for "serf."
He hadn't known there was an age limit.

He nodded, and assured the sergeant, "I'll bring in
anything I can find." But he didn't say to what desti-
nation he would bring the boy.

He hunted, and eavesdropped telepathically -- so,
although he hadn't heard the Safety Base's radio bea-
con himself, he read Lord Murthren's thoughts and

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learned of it. It was going to be a race, he knew -- to
see if he could get there before the soldiers did.

But he had, and lan was hiking by his side now,
safe unless Lord Murthren could recognize every sin-
gle one of his serfs. All in all, Magnus felt fairly se-
cure.

The house seemed magnificent to lan. It was two
stories high with a gable above the second story, and
half-timbered -- the walls outside were very rough
plaster, with the great wooden beams of the house-
frame showing clearly. The windows were divided
into twelve little squares, each filled with glass, real
glass, and the door had a metal lock as well as a bar-
latch. The shop was open, though it was barely past
sunrise, so Gar and lan went right in, and stepped
into a heady scent of dye and cloth.

Inside, the house was divided into two rooms. The
front was huge, as wide as the house, and square. It
was filled with tables, upon which were piled bolts
of cloth in all manner of colors and textures. There
were velvets, satins, even silks, as well as common
broadcloth and monk's cloth. Gar's friend was a
draper, a cloth-merchant.

The back room, in which they met the merchant

Christopher Stasheff

Oswald, was much smaller, only twelve feet deep
and half the width of the house. It was still quite
large to lan's eyes, and was Master Oswald's office.
He had a great wooden table for a desk with a
counting-frame propped up at an angle, and his most
precious bolts of cloth locked in great wooden chests
with huge iron padlocks. Master Oswald looked
up, surprised, when Gar walked in. Then he saw lan,
coming in behind Gar, and stared, astonished -- and,
yes, alarmed. He recovered quickly, though, and
stood up, arms open in greeting and smiling. "So,

you are back so soon, Gar!"

"It was this young fellow who speeded me,
Oswald." Gar clapped lan's shoulder. "Meet my new
apprentice. His name is lan Tobinson, and he has
agreed to bear my shield, should I have one, and to
cook my meals and pitch my tent."

lan looked about him, wondering. He had hoped
for a home for a little while -- but he had scarcely
imagined something so grand as this!

"Well, well!" Master Oswald's gaze swiveled to
the boy. "And young enough to have no brand, I see!
We shall have to dress him as befits his station." He
frowned. "You've apprenticed yourself to a hard

trade, my boy."
lan felt obliged to say something. He thought

quickly and forced out the words: "I am thankful to

Master Gar for taking me, sir."

Oswald smiled, amused, and nodded. "So you
should be, my boy. Days of strife are coming for this
land. It will be well for a man to know how to use a

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sword, and you could have no better teacher than
Captain Pike."

lan looked up at Gar, astonished. He hadn't known
the free-lance was a captain!

Oswald cocked an eyebrow at Gar. "Have you
fed?"

"Not for hours," Gar said, grinning.

"Well enough, my lad," Oswald chuckled,
"though you've called me an old mother hen often
enough." He thrust back his sleeves. "Naetheless, I
think we can fill that belly of yours, even if 'tis with
naught but porridge. Come along."

He led them down a short flight of stairs, and lan
found himself marveling. This was the second time
in his life he had seen such a staircase, the first hav-
ing been in the Stone Egg. What a fine thing it was to
be a gentleman!

They came down into a hall walled with rough
plaster. Oswald turned to his right and led them
through a narrow door into a kitchen. A lean woman
with a sharp chin leaned over a pot, eyes narrowed
against the smoke.

"Two more for breakfast, Matilda!" Oswald called.

"We would be grateful for the porridge, Matilda,"
Gar said. "I have journeyed all night on your mas-
ter's business, and the least he owes me is a hearty
meal."

The old cook gave him a gap-toothed smile, which
seemed surprising in so severe a face. "Eh, seat your-
self, Master Gar. I'll have your porridge shortly -- 
another pot for me master." She squinted, peering at
lan. "And who is this?"

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"My new apprentice," Gar said easily. "His old
master thought him too quarrelsome to be a

weaver."
Matilda frowned. "A blank-shield soldier, taking

an apprentice?" She hobbled over to lan and bent
down to peer into his face. Then she grinned again
and turned back to her stove, cackling and shaking
her head. "Aye, he's naught but your apprentice,

Master Gar! Aye, surely!"

"How now, you old hag!" Gar's voice was still

good-natured. "He is my apprentice, nothing more

and nothing less, I say!"

"Aye, aye." Matilda nodded, stirring her porridge.
"Your 'prentice and nothing more, I'll be bound, and
no reason to take him save to aid a poor weaver who
had a ruffian on his hands! Oh, aye, Master Gar! And
there is none of your blood in him, as these old eyes

can see!"

"Well..." Gar contrived to look embarrassed, and

cleared his throat. "You have caught me fairly, Ma-
tilda. He is, my, uh, nephew."

"Oh, aye." Matilda looked up at him wide-eyed,
then nodded wisely. "Bless thee, Master Gar. Oh,

how you could have fooled me."

lan looked up at Gar in surprise. Could there really
be any resemblance between himself and the

swordsman?

Then he realized that the cook was old, near-
sighted, and probably half-blind, and the resem-
blance was probably more in her mind than in his

face.

Gar squeezed his shoulder, and lan looked up to

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see the free-lance wink and smile. He grinned back.
If the cook believed the story Gar had intended to
tell anyway, so much the better.

"Seat yourselves," Matilda called, tilting the pot
and scraping out two huge bowlfuls of porridge. "Sit
and eat your breakfast, before it sets."

They ate in a room just for dining, with Master
Oswald -- and they ate hugely, with milk and honey
on their porridge. lan could scarcely believe his eyes,
or his mouth -- milk and honey were for the lords,
and thick porridge was only for the gentry! His own
breakfast, as long as he could remember, had been
only thin gruel.

He ate his fill and a little more, until the bowl was
empty; then he sat back with a great sigh and a very
full stomach.

Gar looked up and smiled. "Had enough, lad?"

lan nodded and blinked. Suddenly, he felt very
sleepy. He yawned hugely, and Gar chuckled. "Aye,
I'm beginning to feel the night's strains a bit myself."
He turned to the cook. "Where shall my nephew
doss down?"

"In the attic, good soldier," the cook answered.
"He can fall asleep on a pile of straw, like any other
young 'prentice." She hobbled over to lan and
scooped him out of the chair, more by gesture than
by strength, and ushered him out into the kitchen.

Once there, though, she paused, pursing her lips.
"Nay, I think not -- the other 'prentices will be just
waking as you'd be lying down. Bad for them, that -- 
give them ideas of laziness, it would. Besides, you'll
need long sleep, after being on the road all night,

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Christopher Stasheff

with Master Gar." She glanced down at lan. "You did

ride by night, didn't you?"

lan wasn't sure whether or not he should tell her,
then realized he couldn't dissemble much if he were
going to sleep during the day. "Aye, mum."

"So I thought." Matilda thrust her lower lip out
and sucked on her few remaining teeth, considering.
"We'll put you in the pantry for the day. Let me see,
now -- what stores will I need? A sack of potatoes, an-
other of flour, and two measures of dried pease." She
nodded, satisfied, and pushed him toward the door at
the back of the kitchen. "Bring me those, then settle

yourself!"

lan made two trips of it, reflecting that this fetch-
ing and carrying didn't guarantee him a sound sleep.
Matilda was bound to think of something she'd for-
gotten, and come bustling in to fetch it, or to send
her scullery maid, if she had one -- and she might
make a second trip, or a third. lan determined that he
would sleep soundly no matter how much noise she
made. He brought the sack of flour last, and could
just barely manage it -- it was very heavy. Matilda
blinked at him, surprised. "Well, then, manikin!
Master Gar may make a soldier of you yet!"

But lan scarcely heard her; he had already turned
away to the pantry, nodding. He threw himself down
on three huge bags of flour, and was instantly asleep.

lan was awakened by a loud clatter of dishes and
Matilda scolding at her scullery maid. He sat bolt up-
right, startled by the noise, then realized what it was,
smiled, and lay down. The sun was coming in the

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eastern window; he could only have slept a few
hours. He closed his eyes and settled himself for
sleep again. . . .

"But how did the boy find the entrance to one of
the Safety Bases?"

lan opened his eyes, surprised. He frowned and
looked over the side of his improvised bed. There
was a crack between the floorboards; through it, he
could see Master Oswald's bald head. Was there a se-
cret room beneath him? No, surely not, he chided
himself -- only a very ordinary, and un-secret, cellar.
Surely. He heard Gar's voice rise in answer to the
draper: "It must have been an accident. He certainly
could not have reasoned out how to open the hatch."

lan squirmed. It wasn't right to eavesdrop. He was
sorely tempted, but he resolved to be good. He forced
himself to turn over, face away from the crack in the
floor, and closed his eyes tight, willing himself to
sleep.

However, he might have been willing, but sleep
was not, and he couldn't shut out the voices -- nor
could he come out into the kitchen after so short a
while. What would he say if Matilda asked him what
he was doing up and about when he'd been told to
sleep? That he was turning away from the voices?
When he wasn't even supposed to know about them?

"How could they have known he was there?" It
was Master Oswald's voice. "They must have, for
they came to bring him back."

"He must have activated the beacon by accident,"
Gar answered. "Certainly a boy from this culture

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Christopher Stasheff

would never have figured out a control panel by him-
self. Serfs can't even read."

"True," Master Oswald rumbled. "Even the free-
lance who hid there with me couldn't figure it out,
and he was a gentleman, who had had some educa-
tion, or what passes for it in a medieval culture. But
how do you know this boy isn't a spy from the lords,
who does know how to operate such controls?"

lan stiffened. Could Master Oswald really think
such of him? But no -- Captain Gar's voice indicated
that by its tone, as he answered. "Possible, of
course -- but unlikely, since he's a child. And if he
were, why would he have come out before his help

arrived?"

"Perhaps he knew it was close."

lan could hear the smile in Gar's voice. "If his help
had arrived, why would he have run away with me?
No, I'm almost certain he's a local boy."

"Almost certain." Master Oswald pounced on it.
"You're not really sure, then."

"Quite sure." Gar was still amused.

"But just in case, we have him where we can

watch him."

So that was why Gar had helped him! A knot
twisted itself up in lan's belly. Had the free-lance
aided him only because he did not trust him?

"Besides," Gar went on, "I like the boy."

The knot loosened, a little.

"You've taken a liking to him awfully quickly."
Master Oswald growled.

"Amazingly so," Gar agreed. "Any kid who's will-
ing to brave the dangers of that forest, and take on a

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two-hundred-mile walk at his age, just because he
wants to be free . . . well, I'm on his side."

"So am I," Master Oswald admitted. "But encum-
bering yourself with a child could be very foolish. I
needn't remind you how much of a liability he could
be, to someone who has to stay on the move -- and se-
cretly!"

"Or how much of an asset," Gar countered. "He
knows things about this culture I could only guess
at -- and I'd trust him a lot further than any adult."

The knot loosened the rest of the way, and lan re-
solved that he would prove Captain Pike right to
have trusted him. •

"Yes," Master Oswald mused. "That brings us to
why he ran away from home. As to that, I had some
news last night, after you had gone. It seems one of
Lord Murthren's serfs had helped his daughter to es-
cape into the forest -- just in time, too, because Lord
Murthren had noticed her, all too favorably."

Gar whistled. "The lord himself? The poor lass
was in for trouble!"

"A lot," Master Oswald agreed, "a great deal of
trouble. Her father helped her escape, and they
whipped him within an inch of his life for it."

lan squeezed his eyes shut and clenched his jaw,
fighting to keep from crying out, trying to banish the
sight of his father lashed to the post.

"Brave man," Gar whispered.

"Very," Master Oswald agreed. "He went on to
urge his son to run away -- when he'd just been taken
down from the whipping-post and needed somebody
to care for him, he told his son to run away right

Christopher Stasheff

then, when they'd least expect it. The kid ran -- a boy

too young to have a brand."

"And they flogged the father again?" Gar asked.
"No, he cheated them. He died first, before they

discovered the boy was missing."

The cellar was very quiet. lan felt the ache within
him expand, hollowing him out; two hot tears forced
their way through his clenching eyelids.

"So." Gar's voice was soft. "Our young guest re-
ally needs a friend."

"He's a brave boy," Oswald admitted, "and an or-
phan now -- the mother had died a while before."

"You had the news quickly," Gar said, in tones of
respect, "and thoroughly."

"That's my job," Oswald growled.

"Well, I have some information for you, too," Gar
said, "something we very narrowly managed to

avoid on the way back here."
"A troop of soldiers, of course."
"More than that -- Lord Murthren himself."
"Lord Murthren!" Master Oswald sounded

amazed -- and, yes, alarmed. "Out hunting a simple

serf boy by himself?"

"No, he had a troop with him," Gar said grimly,

"but yes, he was definitely leading them in person.
He said something about the boy having violated one
of the Secret Places of the Old Ones."
It was very quiet in the room below. lan lay very

still, and tried not to breathe.

"He couldn't have known that when the boy es-
caped," Master Oswald said.

"No," Gar said. "So . . ."

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"So he received the distress beacon, too," Master
Oswald snapped, "which means he has a scanner."

"And knows how to operate it," Gar pointed out.

"Yes." Master Oswald's voice had hardened, but
began to sound sarcastic now, too. "And, although
Lord Murthren is one of the two or three top aristo-
crats in the land, he's hacked his way to that position
on his own. His father was only a count."

"Of course," Gar said, "it's possible that the King
gave him a scanner, and taught him how to use it af-
ter he'd become a top counsellor. However ..."

"However." Master Oswald sounded as though he
were grinning like a cat, licking cream from his
whiskers. "However, he probably inherited the rig
from his father, who inherited it from his father -- 
and on and on back."

"Chances are that it's probably been there since
the colonizing ship landed," Gar put in.

"Exactly," Master Oswald grumbled. "And if even
a petty count in the backwoods has a scanner and
knows how to use it..."

"Probably," Gar finished, "all the lords do."

"So that's one more piece of technological knowl-
edge they've kept," Oswald said, with an air of satis-
faction. "Possibly ritualized -- you know, you push
this button, and then that button, and twist this dial,
and the thing does what it's supposed to do, and they
do it as part of their daily duties. ..."

"The same way that they know how to operate
their machine guns and pocket nuclear bombs," Gar
agreed, "and how to make more ammunition. And

Christopher Stasheff

they're lucky their ancestors made the blasted things

damn near indestructible."

"They know how to clean them and maintain

them, presumably," Oswald said, "but again, only as
a ritual. 'You must do this and this and this to your
machine gun when you waken every morning, or it
will fail you when you need it.' That's how they
know how to make gunpowder, too -- just follow the
recipe, pour the powder into the casing, and squeeze

the bullet in on top."

"Making brass casings is a strain on a Baroque

metalsmith, I'll agree, but it's possible, especially
with hand-me-down equipment from a high-tech
culture," Gar said, "once he's been shown how. He
wouldn't understand what he was doing or why, but

he could do it."

"Rimfire," Master Oswald said. "Who couldn't?

And that's why the ancestors went to slug-throwers
instead of beamers, of course -- something just barely
within the capabilities of a Baroque society. That's
probably the way they use their safety bases -- by

rote."

"Self-repairing," Gar said, "not that they'd need

anything beyond cleaning, hardly any maintenance.

Last forever."

"As they have," Master Oswald agreed, "or for five

hundred years, at least."

They were silent a moment. Then Master Oswald

said suddenly, "Where's the boy heading, anyway?"
"Castlerock," Gar said. "So he says, anyway."
"Castlerock!" Master Oswald was delighted. "No!

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You mean it? That far in the backwoods, and he's
heard of Castlerock?"

"Heard enough about it to want to go there," Gar
confirmed. "After all, it's the only place an escaped
serf can go and be even halfway safe."

"So even here, they've heard there's an island off
the north coast that serfs have been escaping to for
the last dozen years! That campaign is taking very
firm hold."

"Word gets around," Gar said, "especially among
an oppressed population. When virtual slaves hear of
an island in the Central Sea where serfs can actually
hold off their masters' armies, it captures the imagi-
nation."

"Hope," Master Oswald agreed. "Even if they can't
escape, they can hope -- for themselves, but even
more for their children."

"Which plants the seed of unrest," Gar noted,
"and which is why the masters have to stamp it out,
as quickly as they can."

"They may have better capabilities than we've
seen so far," Master Oswald growled. "If they have
scanners, they may have blast-cannon, and fliers. Be-
sides, there's that slender, very well-contained off-
planet trade. What's to stop them from hiring a
merchant captain to land on Castlerock, and burn
everyone to cinders with his exhaust?"

"Nothing but his conscience," Gar said grimly.
"Are our men working on the captains?"

"We're making some progress there ..." And Mas-
ter Oswald was off into a sea of terms that lan didn't

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Christopher Stasheff

understand, words like "capital" and "interest" and
"extension of terms."

Actually, there had been so many of those that he
had only barely been able to grasp the gist of what
they had said. What was a "scanner," he wondered,
and a "distress beacon" and a "machine gun"? He
grasped the general idea, though: when he had acci-
dentally pressed that circle on the table in the Stone
Egg, it had somehow sent out a message that had
called in Lord Murthren. Fortunately, though, Gar
seemed to have heard it, too, and had come and saved

him.

The nobles had magical things -- everyone knew
that...

Except, perhaps. Gar and Master Oswald? They
had been talking as though these magical talismans
were news to them, as though they had just discov-
ered something that they had only suspected before.
And, since everyone in the kingdom knew about the
talismans, these two men must be from a foreign
country.

Spies!

lan's blood chilled, sending a shiver through him.
He lay there wondering, dread pooling in him. . . .

Then he remembered -- they had spoken of Castle-
rock, spoken of it as though they had something to
do with it. They were helping Castlerock, then!
Helping serfs, like himself! They were on his side, to
protect him against the lords, against Lord
Murthren. He relaxed again, smiling -- his judgement
of Gar had been right -- the man was good . . .

And Castlerock was real.

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lan closed his eyes and drifted off to sleep in spite
of the murmuring voices from beneath the floor. He
would go to Castlerock, and be free!

lan woke after sunset. He came out of the pantry,
yawning and rubbing his eyes. Matilda peered at
him. "Eh! It's you, is it? Slept well enough, did you?"
She pointed a finger at a chair by the wall. "There be
your new clothes. Into them quickly, and don't be
long about it, for your new master ..." (and for some
reason lan could not understand, she giggled at this)
"... your new master has a wish to be up and away
right soon. You're to be setting out for the north to-
night, the both of you."

The north! lan's heart leaped. Yes, he would cer-
tainly be dressed quickly!

He turned toward the chair to pick up the clothing,
then stood still, frozen in amazement. "But -- these
cannot be for me!" There on the chair were not a
serf's rough tunic and leggins and cross-gartered san-
dals, but a jerkin and hose, such as a gentleman's son
might wear, though they were made out of plain
broadcloth -- a green jerkin and brown hose, and real
leather boots! And hanging over the back of the chair
was a sword, a real sword -- boy-sized, but real for all
that!

Matilda gave him a gap-toothed grin. "Aye, they're
for you, manikin. Not what you're used to, I'll wager.
But your new master is a man of means, and you'll
have to get used to it." She brandished her big
wooden ladle in a mock threat. "Get along with you,
now, for there's no time to waste!"

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Christopher Stasheff

lan gathered up the clothes and ducked back into
the pantry. He came out a few minutes later, feeling

like a prince in his finery.

"Sit ye down, now," Matilda said, jabbing her
spoon at the table. "Don't bother about what you're
eating, and be quick about it, for you must travel
long and far tonight, and you can't manage it on too

full a stomach."

lan stared at the plate of beef for a moment. Then
he shook himself and sat down at the table. He won-
dered if he would get used to having meat so often.

He was just finishing when Gar came in, with
Master Oswald behind him. He grinned at lan.
"Well, then! Finished, are you?" He sat down at the
other side of the table. "Still, take your time. We've
quite a bit to tell you before we set out for the north.
We must look as though we're only going for a short

stroll in the moonlight."

lan swallowed and stood up. "I'm ready now, sir."
"I'm not." Gar tapped the table with a forefinger.

"I've much to tell you, as I said. Matilda! Some tea, if

you have it!"

"If I have it?" The old cook snorted in indignation.

"When was the day that there wasn't a simmering
kettle on the stove in this house, and a pot of tea
ready to brew! If I have it, indeed!" And in very short
order, there were mugs of tea before each of them.
There was a third cup at the side of the table where
Master Oswald was just sitting down. "Now, then,
Matilda!" he chuckled. "I do imagine the captain had

no idea."

"Live like animals, that's what," Matilda snorted.

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"Now don't bother me, silly menfolk! We've dishes
to wash and pots to scour, and a kitchen to get in or-
der."

lan sipped at his hot, strong tea, marvelling at its
flavor while Gar explained their journey. "A lord in
the north has need of troops, lan, for he is beset by
his rival noblemen. They haven't marched on him
yet, but they will soon, or I mistake the news com-
pletely."

"He is a most worthy lord," Master Oswald rum-
bled. "He treats his serfs well. They say that when
one of them dies, he weeps as though at the death of
a kinsman."

Or a favorite dog, lan thought -- but he didn't say
so.

"They die mostly of old age, or disease," Gar put
in.

"Only diseases that can't be cured," Master
Oswald said, nodding. "He keeps three doctors on
his estates, besides his own personal physician. If
one of his serfs falls sick, he -- or his lady, while she
lived -- goes out to look after that one, themselves."

"So they die on his estates only rarely," Gar said.
"You may have heard of him -- Lord Aran."

He caught lan with tea in his mouth; he swallowed
convulsively, and almost choked on it. He coughed;

Master Oswald leaned over and thumped him on the
back, grinning. "Ah, yes -- I'd say you've heard of
him, lad."

lan looked up, wiping his streaming eyes, and nod-
ded. He had heard tales of Count Aran's estates -- was
there a serf in his village who hadn't? They said he

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Christopher Stasheff

treated his serfs as though they were free men, with
respect and honor. "They say," he said, "that serfs
are whipped on his estates only rarely -- and then
only for harsh offenses, such as striking another man
who is weaker than he, or stealing."

"But stealing from another serf." Master Oswald
nodded. "He doubles the number of strokes if they
steal from a gentleman, and triples it for a noble-
man -- but the punishment is the same. It is the
crime he punishes, not its object."

"But even so, they are never flogged more than
forty lashes," Gar said. "Ten for a serf, twenty for a
gentleman or a serf woman, thirty for a nobleman or
a gentlewoman, forty for a noblewoman. That is his
code. Beyond that, it is death for murder or rape."

Master Oswald nodded. "His justice is famous. He
treats his serfs as men, not as animals who are his
property."

"He is a man I could fight for with a good con-
science." Gar winked at Oswald and sipped from his
cup.

lan wondered about the wink.

Master Oswald said, with sarcasm, "Good con-
science -- and I understand he pays well, too."

"Aye, that is one thing about good treatment of
serfs." Gar leaned forward, suddenly serious. "His
land produces much more than that of his neigh-
bors."

Master Oswald spread his hands. "What can you
expect? He gives each serf a plot of land and says,
'This is your own, for as long as I am lord here. You
must give me half of your harvest, but the rest is

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yours to do with as you will. Keep it, or sell it -- and if
you sell it, the money is yours.' Will not the serfs,
then, labor harder on the land, to produce more?"

Gar nodded. "Yet they are still there to labor to-
gether on one another's fields, and on his. Of course

they produce more -- and his neighbor lords are jeal-
ous."

"Certainly, certainly! No man likes to see his equal
get ahead of him. But will they follow his methods,
and mimic his ways of dealing with his serfs, so that
they may produce more on their own land?"

"No, of course not. They will band together to tell
him he must cease to treat his serfs so well."

"You cannot blame them." Master Oswald
grinned. "If his ways caught on, their serfs might be-
gin to think they have rights as human beings, too -- 
that they are humans, not animals. They might even
begin to show some evidence of self-respect. Thus
does he breed discontent."

lan followed the conversation, looking from man
to man, wide-eyed. "Rights?" What were those?
"Yes, the rights of men," Gar agreed, "and what

happens then, to the privileges and the tyranny of
the lords?"

A whole new world was opening within lan's
mind. That serfs might consider themselves men -- 
poor and uncultured, but just as good inside as gen-
tlemen, or even lords! Even more, though -- that the
power of the lords was not absolute, that it could be
resisted, perhaps even lessened! He almost gasped
out loud -- it was an amazing thought, and the possi-
bilities it opened were limitless! Whole companies

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Christopher Stasheff

of serfs might go to places like Castlerock, or bury
themselves in the fastnesses of the forest, and farm
for themselves, and be free in their own right, be
their own lords! As far as he could tell, Count Aran
ruled his people, but did not oppress them -- his serfs
did not think to disobey, but they dared to stand in
his presence, and even disagree with him! What
could they do, he wondered, if Count Aran became
like all the others, like Lord Murthren? Would his
serfs submit, as his fellows had? Or would they oust
Count Aran, and choose another lord?

His brain reeled, and he shut off the speculations;

they were too confusing, he could not deal with
them. What manner of men were Master Oswald and
Master Gar, that they could speak of such things so
casually and with no sign of fear? That one fragment
of conversation he had overheard last night, still lin-
gered in his mind. Castlerock . ..

"Enough of talk." Gar rose to his feet, clapping a
hand to the sword hilt at his hip. "I must be off to ac-
tion. I would see this paragon of governance with my
own eyes, and how he manages his estates. Rumor is
interesting, but it also has a way of being only half-
true."

"Still," Master Oswald demurred, "there is always

a grain of truth at the bottom of it."

Gar smiled sourly. "Not always. I have known
men to start campaigns with rumors, Master
Oswald. If they could discredit the leaders they
hated, their men would fight with less verve." He
grinned. "Thus have I come to have a taste for seeing

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with my own eyes." He cocked an eyebrow at the
boy. "Haven't you, lan?"

"Aye, most assuredly," lan gasped, pulling himself
together and jumping to his feet. "Whenever you go,
Master Gar, I will ride wherever you wish!"

Gar's face twisted into a sardonic smile, and lan's
heart stopped for a moment, afraid that he had of-
fended his protector. But Gar looked at Master
Oswald and said, "How quick to obey. My wish is his
law."

"It is not good," Master Oswald agreed heavily,
"but I do not doubt that, under your tutelage, he will
develop some belief in himself, Gar Pike. You will
make a man of him."

"I will indeed." Gar eyed lan, measuring him. "He
will have the strength of the serfs when he's grown,
but will combine it with the hardness and toughness
of a warrior -- and from such iron, we can forge a stal-
wart blade." He came around the table, clapping lan
on the back. "Come, lad! Horse and hattock! Ho, and
away!"

Ten minutes later they were mounted, Gar on a
tall roan stallion and lan, still not quite believing it
was happening, on a pony.

"Stay well, Oswald," Gar said, raising a hand in
farewell to his friend. "May the world prosper for
you."

"Make it prosper, Gar," Master Oswald returned.
"There's little enough I can do here, with my buying
and selling; it is you who must go out into the field
and make the great things happen."

Gar answered with a flat laugh. "I have more

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Christopher Stasheff

knowledge than to believe that, Oswald," he said. "I
don't underestimate my own part, mind you -- I can
visit the noblemen in their courts, and give things a
shake here and there around the country. But you are
the one who sees the points of weakness and sends
us out to make the changes happen, whether I will it

or not."

"Oh, I can find the right place to push," Master
Oswald growled, "but those tremors might yield a
harvest of bloodshed and suffering. It is you and your
kind who will keep the cost down." His voice grew
wistful. "Good luck to you -- and farewell."

Gar waved in return, knocked his heels into his
horse's sides, and rode off at a trot. The pony lurched
into motion, and lan hung on in a panic, barely
managing to keep his seat. Gar looked back, grin-
ning, then stared in surprise, and stopped his own
mount. "I see," he said. "You haven't ridden before.
Well, hold the reins above the saddlebow, lad, and
keep to a walk until you get the knack of it."

Gar started up again, his horse at a walk. "And,
lan -- slap his back with your reins." lan did, and the
pony began to walk forward after Gar's great roan.

So, walking their mounts, they passed out of Mas-
ter Oswald's stableyard, and set off on their journey
to Lord Aran's castle.

They moved through the town without talking, Gar
humming softly. It wasn't a long ride; houses and
shops lined the street for only a hundred yards. They
rode out past its limits and up a grade to the road.
Gar turned right, to the north. lan turned as well -- 
but his mount did not.

Gar heard him calling to the pony, and looked back
with a grin. "Pull on the right rein, and he'll turn."

lan pulled, but too hard; the pony tossed his head,
neighing in protest. "Gently, gently," Gar cau-
tioned. "The bit rubs against the soft corners of his
mouth. He'll answer to a gentle tug, mind you."

"I'm sorry." lan stroked the pony's neck, hoping it
wasn't angry with him.

"We're going to trot now," Gar said. "There's a
trick to it -- when the pony trots, he'll move up and
down a great deal, and you don't want to be going
down as he's going up, or you'll meet in the middle

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with a smack that will jar your spine all the way up
to your skull. You must rise in your stirrups as he
goes up, then let yourself back into the saddle as
he goes down. So set your feet well, lad -- that's what
the high heels on your boots are for. Put your weight
on them -- have no fear, the straps won't break. Stand
in your stirrups halfway as his back comes up, sit
down as his back goes down, and you'll have a com-
fortable ride. Enough talking -- are you ready?"
lan swallowed. "Aye, sir."

"Try it, then." Gar knocked his heels gently into
his horse's sides, and the roan began to trot. lan took
a deep breath, braced himself, kicked with his heels
tentatively -- and the pony began to trot! He remem-
bered what Gar had said and rose in his stirrups, but
not fast enough, and the saddle spanked him
soundly; then, as he was letting himself down, he
was too fast, and the saddle kicked him up again. He
pushed up and down frantically, but the saddle kept
spanking him. He almost thought the pony was get-
ting even for that tug on the mouth.

"Try for the rhythm, lad!" Gar called out. "Like a

country dance!"

lan tried.

It took a while, but he finally caught the knack of
it, with Gar calling encouragement. lan began to ac-
tually enjoy it -- but his legs began to ache, and he de-
cided that there was more to riding than there looked

to be.
Gar took mercy on him and slowed his horse to a

walk. "Pull back on the reins, and he'll slow -- but re-

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member the tenderness of his mouth, and be gen-
tle!"

lan did as Gar bade him, and the pony slowed to a
walk. Gar nodded in approval. "You catch it quickly,
lad."

Quickly! lan's bottom was already so sore that he
wondered if he'd be able to walk when he
dismounted -- and he wasn't at all sure he'd ever
want to ride again. But, "You'll be a decent horse-
man, by the time we reach Lord Aran's castle," Gar
assured him. "It will take a year or more for you to
learn it fully, though, even if you are a quick study."

"So long, sir?" lan bleated in dismay.

"Oh, you'll be able to ride by the time we reach the
castle," Gar said, lounging in his saddle. "That's two
nights' ride. You take to the saddle so well, lad, that
it will be like walking for you -- or running. But to be-
gin to think like a part of the horse? No, that takes
time." He grinned down at lan. "Don't let it bother
you, lad. You've much else to learn, betimes.
There're the dagger and the sword, for instance, and
you must learn three different styles: saber, rapier,
and straight sword. Then there's archery, as soon as
we get you a bow. Never touched one, I gather?"

"Never." lan shook his head. "Such things are
only for serfs who are appointed soldiers by their
lords -- and for gentlemen like yourself."

"Of course." Gar nodded. "Serfs are allowed no
weapons at all. I have seen it."

lan wondered at the last phrase. Had the free-lance
not grown up knowing that serfs were forbidden

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weapons? Again, he wondered: what manner of man
was Gar?

"Then, too, you must learn to play the harp," Gar
said, turning back to look at the road ahead. "A song
may take you places where swordplay cannot. War
does not always stride through this land; a merce-
nary should be able to turn his hand to a peaceful oc-
cupation, as well as a warlike one."

" 'Mercenary'?" lan looked up. "What is that, sir?"

"Why, bless you, boy, that is you!" Gar grinned.
"You and myself! A mercenary is a free-lance -- a sol-
dier who fights for money, rather than for friendship,
or loyalty, or land. A mercenary is a soldier like me,
lan."

"Then that is what I wish to be." lan nodded, sure
that this much, at least, he would remember forever.
"I shall learn quickly and well, sir!"

"I am certain of it." Gar leaned down to clap him
on the shoulder. "But you must become a gentle-
man, lan, and it will help if you know something of
it, and therefore must I question you. To begin with,
know you nothing of fighting?"

"With my fists, a little," lan answered. "We boys
were always fighting amongst ourselves in the vil-
lage, though the men were not allowed to -- and
wrestling, of course."

Gar nodded. "Better than nothing, certainly. And,
of course, the quarterstaff?"

"Oh, yes," lan said. "The bailiff and soldiers en-
couraged us to learn that. Lord Murthren said that it
was so that he could call us to fight for him as sol-
diers, if he needed us."

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Gar frowned. "Strange."

lan looked up. "Why, sir?"

Gar was slow in answering. "I should think your
lord would not let you learn any skills that would al-
low you to fight against his soldiers, if it came into
your head to do so."

"But it would not," lan said, surprised. "What
quarterstaff could hold against a sword, or even a
halberd, my lord?'

"Any," Gar said flatly, and the answer jolted lan.
"If they never tell you that, though, you would never
think of it. But there is a way a quarterstaff can best a
sword -- and be sure I'll teach you that. And, if you
know a quarterstaff, you can learn a blade easily -- 
well, not easily," he amended, "but you'll catch the
knack of it more quickly."

"But Master Gar, it is against the law for a serf to
touch weapons! If I am caught, they will hang me!"

Gar smiled, amused. "You are already a fugitive,
lad. If they catch you, they'll flog you within an inch
of your life, then make you walk home, and you'll
probably die on the way. Which way would you
rather pass?"

lan swallowed, and was silent.

The free-lance was as good as his word; by the time
they reached the castle of Lord Aran two days later,
lan had already learned how to care for the horses,
saddle and bridle his own mount, pluck a few chords
on the harp, and thrust and parry with his sword. Of
course, Gar would not let him use the real blade,
when the two of them dueled in practice, nor would

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Christopher Stasheff

he himself -- he insisted they use willow wands.
Then, after the practice, he demanded that lan stand
still, holding his sword across his palms at arm's
length for a minute, then two, then three, then four,
then five . . . lan was amazed at how quickly his
arms began to ache, but found he could bear it.

They chatted as they rode, Car telling lan amusing
stories of his travels, and exciting tales of battle. Be-
tween them, he asked lan about himself, even
though the boy protested he had never done anything
interesting, only lived in a little village and done his
chores. But Gar pressed him for details anyway, and
seemed fascinated by the homely accounts of lan's
boyhood friendships and conflicts, of his games and
fights, of the holy day celebrations and the winters'
tales against the darkness and the blizzards. lan was
reticent at first, but talked more and more easily as
the sincerity of Gar's interest became apparent, until
he was chattering away, warming to Gar's attention
as a flower opens to the sun, until he found himself
telling of his father's flogging and his own escape.
Here Gar reined in the horses and dismounted to
walk a while with his arm around the boy, saying lit-
tle, but comforting him by his mere presence. When
the tears had dried, Gar said gently, "What I can't un-
derstand is how you lasted through the first night,
until I found you. Did you spend it all in the Stone

Egg?"

"No, sir. I hid with the Little People."
"The Little People?" Gar looked up, startled. "Are

they real, then?"

"Oh yes, sir!" lan looked up at him, wondering

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again how Gar could have lived all his life in this
land and not known so simple a thing. "They hid me
in their hall, but only for the one night -- they feared
Lord Murthren's searchers would lead him to me,
and they would be discovered."

"So they fear the soldiers, eh?"

"Yes, sir."

"How is it I haven't seen them?"

lan shrugged. "Because of that fear, sir. They hide
in their halls, and none see them unless the dwarves
themselves wish it."

"Well." Gar paced a moment in silence, then said,
"If you should chance to see them again, tell them I
said they have suceeded far better than they know."

lan wondered at that, but knew better than to ask.
They mounted again, and rode on their way through
the night.

They came to Lord Aran's castle shortly after
dawn. The country was flat here, farmlands and
woodlots spreading out as far as the eye could see,
with no hill on which to build a castle -- so Lord
Aran's stronghold sat in the middle of a cleared plain,
on an island in a small lake. The villages of his serfs
were scattered all about the shore, three or four of
them, and a score more out in the fields.

The castle itself was of granite, with four tall, bat-
tiemented towers around the squat central cylinder
of the keep, which rose high above the sixty-foot cur-
tain wall. A long wooden causeway, built of timbers
a foot thick, stretched out to the castle, but stopped
twelve feet short of its gate, and the drawbridge that
made up the rest of its length was drawn up now.

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There was another drawbridge at the shoreward end
of the causeway; it too was drawn up.

Gar and lan rode up to the shore opposite the draw-
bridge. Gar dismounted and said, "Out of the saddle,
lad, and let your pony graze. We've a wait before us,
till they open up for the day."

It was about half an hour before the castle's draw-
bridge came down with a clatter and a boom. Four
soldiers rode out toward the shore. Their leader stiff-
ened in his saddle as he saw lan and Gar waiting on
the shore. He waved to his companions, pointed
ahead, and the four came onward at a trot.

"Into the saddle, lad." Gar swung aboard his tall
roan. "They'll have a few words for us, you may be

sure."

"Why?" lan managed to mount his pony, still
rather clumsy about it. "We've come to join them."

"They don't know that yet," Gar said, grinning.
"For all they know, we could be spies disguised as
soldiers, or renegade gentlemen fleeing from the
law -- or, for that matter, nothing but footsore, weary
travellers who need a place to rest."

"Would travellers seeking rest come at daybreak?"

lan wondered.

"Probably not," Gar conceded, "so they'll think
we're enemies, until we've proved otherwise. After
all, who would ride by night, if he had nothing to

fear?"

The drawbridge before them came down with a
crash, and the guardsmen trotted across it. The one
in the forefront leveled his pike and cried, "Friend or
foe?"

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A WIZARD IN ABSENTIA

"Friend," Gar replied. "I am Captain Gar Pike, a
mercenary soldier, and this is lan Tobinson, my ap-
prentice. We seek employment with Lord Aran."

"Employment, eh? Looking for a job, is it? What
worth to Lord Aran is a man who sells his sword?"

Gar's smile vanished. "You know our code -- once
we've accepted a man's coin, we are loyal till the bat-
tle is over."

"Aye," the lieutenant admitted, "but there are
tales of blank-shield soldiers who have turned traitor
for pay."

"And tales of other mercenaries, who rode them
down and killed them for their treachery," Gar coun-
tered with a scowl. "Then too, I mind me an I have
heard of no few serf-soldiers, and even gentlemen,
who have done the same, though they fought for
their own lord, and not for pay."

The lieutenant rested his hand on his sword and
moved his horse closer. Gar touched his own sword.
"It is not for you to judge my loyalty," he said softly,
"nor to hire me or send me on my way. Your duty is
only to bring me to your lord."

"Aye, and to clap you into irons if you are a traitor
or a spy," the lieutenant snapped.

Gar slid his hand inside his doublet and brought
out a roll of parchment. "Here is a testament from
my last employer. Lord Gascoyne, attesting to my
loyalty, and to my quality as a soldier. See there his
seal!"

The lieutenant took the parchment, unrolled it,
and looked at the drop of sealing wax with the im-

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Christopher Stasheff

print of Gascoyne's ring. He nodded reluctantly and
handed it back. "Have you many such others?"
"Five," Gar answered, "and all of them speak of

my virtue."

"Only five?" The lieutenant peered sharply at

him. "You have not been a soldier long."

"I have not been a free-lance long," Gar corrected.
"It is scarce a year since I left the private companies,
where I gained my rank, and struck out on my own."

The lieutenant nodded slowly, frowning. "Blank-
shield soldiers usually come in companies. There are

few of you who ride alone."

Gar nodded, smiling. "Then you will understand
why I have only five other testaments. From this, I
gather that I must be the only blank-shield soldier
who has come to Lord Aran's castle."

"And a fool you were to do it," the lieutenant
blurted, then clamped his jaws shut, looking angry

and downcast.
"True," Gar said, grimly nodding. "No mercenary

soldier in his right mind would seek to join a side
that has so small a chance of victory, and so great a

chance of defeat."
"We will not be defeated!" the lieutenant cried.

"We will defend my lord Aran to the death!"

"And so shall I," Gar said softly. "Lord Aran, alone
of all the lords in this land, is as just and merciful as a

lord should be."
The lieutenant frowned. "Strange words, from a

man who fights only for money."

"Aye, and a strange lord's gentleman who is will-

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ing to die, to defend him! How many battles have
you heard of, in which the gentlemen died?"

The lieutenant's mouth tightened. "Few."

Gar nodded. "The serfs die; occasionally a gentle-
man, by accident; and the lords, never, of course.
Think you that I am so young that I do not know this
rule?"

"Even as you say, Aran is a lord worth dying for,"
the lieutenant said, stone-faced. "But I was born and
raised his man. You were not, and therefore must
you be a fool."

"Indeed," Gar retorted, "for any wise gentleman
would have ridden over this bridge, turned his coat,
and sold his allegiance to one of the neighboring
lords, so that he would be on the winning side when
they come to fight Lord Aran."

The lieutenant's face darkened. "Do you say I am
mad?"

"Mad as a hatter," Gar said cheerfully, "and so am
I -- and therefore have I come here to die with you."

The lieutenant's face lost some of its hardness,
then grew somber. "It may be that we shall not die. It
may be that Lord Aran shall prevail against those
who seek to pull him down."

Gar sighed and shrugged. "It is possible," he
agreed, "but scarcely likely."

"Aye," the lieutenant agreed. "It would take a mir-
acle."

"Then it is for us to provide such a miracle." Gar
grinned. "Come, Lieutenant. Take me to your lord."

The lieutenant stared, then finally smiled -- but

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Christopher Stasheff

Gar suddenly lifted his head, then turned to look off
to the west. lan looked too, but heard nothing.

Far away, a small dark line was crossing the hori-
zon, reaching out toward the causeway.

"The serfs, with their wagons, livestock, and
goods," Gar said softly. He turned back to the lieu-
tenant. "I heard their carts creaking, far away. Will
the battle be so soon as that?"

"So the reports do say." The lieutenant's face was
set, grim. "The rival lords have assembled their ar-
mies. They may ride today; they may be at our gates

at any time."

"It is well that I came when I did," Gar said.

The lieutenant turned his horse. "Follow," he said.
"I will bring you to his lordship."

Gar turned to lan. "You have heard of Lord Aran,
lad. Would you like to meet him?"

lan gulped and nodded.

The three serf soldiers turned their horses, encir-
cling lan and Gar from behind. The mercenary
smiled and rode across the causeway toward the cas-
tle.

lan followed.

As they rode down the long pier, lan wrinkled his
nose. The wood smelled abominably.

Gar saw his look and smiled. "It is pitch, lad. The
boards are soaked with it. When the enemy comes,
Lord Aran will burn this causeway."

lan looked up at him, wide-eyed, then stared down
at the blackened wood. His stomach twisted at the
thought of the inferno to come -- and twisted again as
he realized what it meant: that anyone in the castle

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would be completely isolated from the shore. True,
they might be safe in an impregnable fortress, able to
thumb their noses at the world -- but they might also
be trapped.

They rode over the second drawbridge, under the
huge iron spears of the portcullis, through a stone
tunnel whose walls had arrow slits, and out into the
bailey.

lan looked around, amazed. He had never been in-
side a castle before, and could scarcely believe that
so much land could be contained within a stone
wall. It seemed far bigger than it had from the out-
side. But large as it was, there was a flurry of activity;

soldiers were drilling in the center of the yard, gen-
tlemen with swords were fencing with one another;

servants hurried to and fro, marking out squares on
the ground with powdered lime and bearing loads of
straw to dump within those squares. Smoke
streamed into the air from a low building against
the western wall, and hammers rang within it -- a
smithy, lan guessed, and the smith and his appren-
tices were making more weapons. A shiver ran down
his back as he realized that he was going to be in the
center of a battle -- but if he wished to be a mercenary
like Gar, he had better become accustomed to it.

Besides, he reflected, it was far better than staying
on Lord Murthren's estates, and watching those he
loved be scourged and beaten.

The thought brought memories of his father to
mind; he shook them off and hurried after Gar.

They dismounted near the keep, and a hostler
stepped forward to take their reins. lan turned to fol-

Christopher Stasheff

low the man, but the lieutenant called out, "Nay,
lad!" and to Gar, "His lordship will wish to see the
boy, too, if he is your apprentice."

Gar nodded to lan, but the boy glanced at the
horses, worried that he might not be doing his job.

"Don't worry, lad, I'll treat them well," the hostler
said with a gap-toothed grin. "I'll leave the currying
to you, though."

"Oh! Yes, sir! Thank you!"

But the man shook his head. "No 'sir,' lad -- I'm
but a serf, and you are a gentleman, or will be."

lan swallowed hard, realizing that he had given

himself away.

But the hostler hadn't noticed. "Go along with
you, now," he said, and turned away, leading the
horses. lan turned to follow Gar and the lieutenant;

he had to hurry, for they had gone ahead without
him, assuming he would follow.

The lieutenant led them up a flight of stairs that
curved against the side of the keep; another like
it curved down from the landing before the great
portal where two soldiers stood on watch. They
struck their chests in salute as the lieutenant came
up to them; he responded with a nod, and went in
through the high, wide doorway.

They came into a large antechamber that seemed
very dim after bright sunlight, but lan could see
benches around the walls, arms racked in brackets,
and soldiers standing on guard at either side of an in-
ner door, with a third by the stairway. He saluted as
the lieutenant passed; the officer responded with a
nod and led his guests up the narrow steps that

A WIZARD IN ABSENTIA

curved to follow the wall of the keep. They passed
two landings lighted by arrow-slits, then came into a
wide hallway that ended in a large window filled
with real glass. Sunlight streamed in, so lan knew
they must have gone a quarter of the way round the
keep, and that the window would look out into the
bailey, though from the side.

The lieutenant led them down the hall to a door
guarded by two footmen. They struck their chests in
salute; he responded with a nod. "Announce me to
his lordship."

One of the guards went in and came back a few
moments later. "His lordship will see you, Lieuten-
ant."

They went in, and lan stopped, staring at the
white-haired, white-bearded man in a rich velvet
robe who stood bending over a table, frowning down
at its surface. A prickling passed over his head and
down his back as he realized he was looking at Lord
Aran himself, the man about whom stories were
whispered between serfs indoors during the long
winter evenings, stories that lan had heard as long as
he could remember, stories of mercy and justice and
compassion -- for serfs! For mere serfs, who were lit-
tle better than most animals and worse than some,
who had no right to expect such gentle treatment but
received it anyway. No one knew why, but it was
whispered that in his youth. Lord Aran had been in
love with a beautiful serf who had died bearing him a
child, and it was for her sake that he treated all his
serfs as he had wished to treat her. lan wondered if
love could really make so huge a change in a man.

Christopher Stasheff

The old lord looked up. "Yes, and who is this, Lieu-
tenant?"

"He is a free-lance, my lord -- Captain Gar Pike and

his apprentice lan Tobinson, who wish to serve with

you."

"Serve with me!" The old lord swung to Gar,
frowning. "Die with me, you mean! Are you ready

for that, gentleman?"

"If we must," Gar said, with a ghost of a smile.
"But I would rather fight for you, my lord, and gain a

victory."

"Victory!" The old lord slapped a hand on the ta-
ble. "Come, look at this map and tell me the odds of

victory!"

"I can tell you that from having ridden in, milord."
But Gar came to the table and looked down at the
chart. He pointed with a finger. "We halted awhile
on this height, and I saw that it is a mile from your
castle. Nothing but a cannon or an energy projector
could reach you here."

The lord looked up sharply. "What know you of
cannon and energy projectors?"

"I have fired cannon, and know them well. As to
energy projectors, I know only what I have heard
from officers who have survived them -- or used
them. They are said to throw lightning bolts for ten
miles and more; cannon can hurl huge balls of lead at

least as far."

"True, so far as it goes." The lord nodded. "And
those weapons are, of course, the ones that I fear -- 
those, and the flying boats that can hurl lightning at
us from the skies."

202

A WIZARD IN ABSENTIA

"Flying boats?" Gar looked up, interested. "So the
tales are true! But have you no concern about float-
ing boats, milord7."

"Not greatly," Lord Aran said. "Even a catapult
could sink one, and I have cannon of my own."

"Then what need to fear those of other lords?"

"Because cannon require gunpowder and leaden
balls, young man, and projectors require energy.
Those who besiege us may make as many of either as
they wish, but we must make do with what we have
within our walls."

Gar frowned down at the map. "How long will
those endure?"

"Perhaps three months -- perhaps less," the old
lord said heavily.

Gar nodded. "Then we must break the siege at
once, while we still have the ammunition to do it."

"And how shall you do that?" The old lord
scowled.

"Why, by breaking their projectors and cannon."
Gar grinned. "From what I have heard, they cannot
make more."

The old lord just stared at him a moment, then
slowly smiled. "Aye, they cannot. But how shall you
break their pieces, young gentleman?"

"By very well-placed shots with cannon of your
own, milord -- or by small raiding parties who shall
go by night with hammers and axes."

Lord Aran's smile stayed, even though he said, "It
will take somewhat more than hammers and axes,
Captain, and they who do the deed are like to die in
the trying -- but you give me hope. Yes, just the

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Christopher Stasheff

faintest glimmer -- we may yet survive." He turned
to the lieutenant. "Give him a coat of my cloth, my
shilling for his pouch, and a troop of serfs to train."
He turned back to Gar. "I know not what imp of per-
versity urges you to join with us, young gentleman,

but I am glad of it."
lan knew the name of that imp, though -- Master

Oswald.

They came back out into the courtyard, and lan
halted, amazed. The huge space seemed somehow
dwarfed, for it was filled with a churning mob and a
roaring of noise. Mothers called after their children,
men yelled to one another, cattle bawled, sheep and
goats bleated. Every serf on the estate must have
been within those walls -- or on his way; looking up,
lan saw that soldiers were hurrying new arrivals out
of the way, so that more could stream in through the

gatehouse tunnel.

"Lord Aran is serious," Gar said, gazing out over

the mass of people. "The siege will begin soon."

"Not today," the lieutenant said grimly, "but the
lords may well begin to move tomorrow. We must
get this horde sorted out and bedded down before the
enemy arrives at our walls." He called back through

the doorway. "Corporal!"
A young man came out and saluted. "Sir!"
"This is Captain Pike," the officer said. "Conduct
him and his apprentice to the barracks, then bring
him to me; I'll be by the gate." He turned back to
Gar. "Be as quick as you can; we will need your help
in sorting out this mob."

204

A WIZABD IN ABSENTIA

"Why, then, I'll come now," Gar said, and turned
to the corporal. "Show my apprentice where we'll be
quartered, then take him to the stables. He'll take
our saddlebags to the barracks, and he can show me
there himself when the day's done." He turned back
to lan. "Curry the horse and pony first, lad, then
stow the saddlebags. After that, go about where you
may and make yourself useful. Good enough?"

"Aye, sir!" lan said, though within, he trembled at
the thought of being alone in the midst of such noise
and such strangeness.

"Good lad. Enjoy the adventure." Gar grinned,
clasped his shoulder, then turned to follow the lieu-
tenant.

lan swallowed heavily and turned to look up at the
corporal. "Where are the barracks, sir?"

"Over there, against the south wall." The soldier
pointed. "We'll follow the curve of the keep -- that
should get us out of the worst of the jostling. Come
along, then." He strode off down the stair, and lan
hurried after him, his heart in his mouth.

205

Gar had taught him how to use the curry comb, so
lan was able to see to both animals. He mucked out
the horse's stall too, since no one had done so re-
cently, then took the saddlebags back to the bar-
racks.

He remembered the corporal's advice, though, so
he stayed near the curtain wall, and did indeed move
more quickly, even though the route was longer.
When it joined the keep, he turned to follow that
wall, so he passed by the stairs at the doorway again.

"Boy!"

lan halted and looked around.

"Boy!" the voice called again, demanding. It was
high-pitched and clear, an imperious treble. Looking
up, lan saw a girl about his own age leaning over the
stone stair-rail. She wore rose-colored satin, and her
skirts spread out in a prodigal display of cloth.
"Come here, boy -- I want you."

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Christopher Stasheff

lan swallowed and climbed the stairs toward her -- 
she was clearly a gentleman's daughter, at least.

But as he came up to her, she smiled eagerly, and
her voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. "Oh,
good! I was hoping you would hear me!"

"Yes, miss -- uh, ma'am . . . uh, 'selle ... uh ..."

She laughed, a clear cascade. "Oh, don't be so silly!
Don't you know who I am?"

"No, miss .. . uh, ma'amselle ..."

"Milady," she corrected, rather primly. "You must
call me 'milady,' for I am Lord Aran's granddaughter,

the Lady Heloise."

"Yes, milady," lan said, relieved to know how to
address her, and in a near-panic at the thought that

he had made a mistake.

She saw his confusion and laughed again. "Oh, you
must not worry so! I think it's all silliness anyway,
these titles and bowing and all, especially since
you're the first child I've seen in a year! You will play

with me, won't you?"

lan's heart sank; he had seen girls' games in his vil-
lage, and didn't relish the thought of being a mock fa-
ther to a doll. In a last, desperate attempt at
salvation, he asked, "Wouldn't his lordship be an-
gry?"

"Not at all, if I command you to do it." She

glanced at the saddlebags. "But you're on an errand
for your master, aren't you?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Well, go do it, then come right back!" she said
firmly. "And if anyone tries to stop you, tell them
you're running an errand for the Lady Heloise!"

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"Yes, milady! Surely, milady!" lan bobbed his head
and turned away in relief, but also in trepidation.
There was hope, though -- perhaps, before he came
back, Heloise's mother would have found her and set
her to her lessons or embroidery, or something.

He found out later that Lady Heloise didn't have a
mother -- the Lady Constantina had died not long af-
ter Heloise was born. She had died from nursing
serfs -- there had been an outbreak of disease, and she
had caught it herself, on her errands of mercy.
Heloise's father, Lord Aran's son, had died of a bro-
ken heart, some said -- but others pointed out that he
had devoted himself to the welfare of his people,
working night and day to take care of the serfs in
tribute to his wife's memory, and had died protecting
them from robbers -- though some said he had been
hoping for death all along, not wanting to live with-
out her.

All of that was in the future, though. For the pres-
ent, lan duly deposited the saddlebags beneath the
bunk that would be Gar's, in the little private room
at the end of the barracks, then dodged and twisted
his way through the crowd (hoping it would take
longer that way) and arrived back at the keep stairs,
crestfallen to see the little figure in rose-colored
satin still waiting for him.

Though, truth to tell, he could have been more
crestfallen than he was. Heloise had long blonde
hair, huge blue eyes, a button of a nose, and a wide,
full-lipped smile. lan couldn't help noticing the skip
in his heartbeat, couldn't help thinking she was the
most beautiful girl he had ever seen -- but then, he re-

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Christopher Stasheff

minded himself sternly, he had never seen a lady of
his own age before.

"Come!" she demanded imperiously, and swept in
through the keep door.

The conference of war was over; Lord Aran nodded
at his captains and said, "To your places. They can-
not be long now."

The officers bowed and turned to file out.

"Captain Pike," Lord Aran said, "remain a mo-
ment."

Magnus looked up, startled, then turned back to
the white-haired nobleman, ignoring the jealous
glances of the local captains. "Yes, my lord?"

Lord Aran glanced at the door, waited till it closed,
then turned back to Magnus. "My granddaughter
tells me that she commanded your apprentice to be
her playfellow yesterday."

Magnus stood stock-still a moment, letting it reg-
ister. Then he said, "Indeed, my lord!"

"Indeed," Aran confirmed. "I see the lad has not
told you of this."

"No, my lord." Magnus could understand why.

"It will not, of course, interfere with his duties to
you," Lord Aran said, "and I am glad to learn of it, for
she has had few enough playmates in her life."

Magnus relaxed.

"Indeed, from her reports, he is a wondrously po-
lite little fellow," the old lord said, "and quite atten-
tive to her desires."

"I am glad to hear it," Magnus murmured.

A WIZARD IN ABSENTIA

Lord Aran nodded. "Still, I would wish that he
were reminded not to forget his place."

Small chance of that, Magnus thought as he
bowed his head in assent -- but Lord Aran was think-
ing of lan as a gentleman's son, not knowing that he
was a serf, and overawed by nobility.

Lord Aran misinterpreted Magnus's expression.
"No, no, do not misunderstand, he shows no sign of

such impudence! But it would not hurt to remind
him."

"I shall, my lord."

"It is well." Lord Aran relaxed. "Of course, with
the battle come upon us, it does not grieve me to
have a free-lance's apprentice near my daughter -- she
might give the slip to her bodyguards, but she would
be apt to take him along."

Magnus smiled. "True, your lordship. I had not
thought of that."

There was a commotion in the hall, and a sentry
burst in. "My lord! They come!"

"To the battlements, at once!" Lord Aran strode
out of the room. Magnus followed in his wake.

From the top of the keep, they could see the entire
plain, with the ridge line to the southeast and the
rocky outcrop to the north. Below them, the last few
peasants were straggling across the drawbridge with
their carts and livestock. Magnus knew they had
been coming in all night, and that the causeway had
been so jammed last evening that many of them
had had to wait until it cleared. These were the last

Christopher Stasheff

and most exhausted, and as they came, the draw-
bridge rose behind them.

"Where?" Lord Aran demanded.

"Yonder, my lord!" The captain of the guard
pointed. "From the southeast."

A file of men had begun moving down the slope.

Lord Aran nodded. "They will be here by sunset."
He turned to his officers. "While we wait, drill your
men. Warn them that there will likely be no work for
them until the morrow -- it would be a foolish enemy
who would attack with tired troops."

The officers glanced at one another, then back at
Lord Aran, waiting for the command that had not
come.

"Be about it," Lord Aran said, with a slight smile.

"Yes, my lord!" The captains saluted and turned
away.

But the enemy did not wait for the morrow -- in the
middle of the afternoon, a loud noise reached the
sentries, and they sent for Lord Aran. Seconds later, a
foot-thick ball of rock splashed into the lake not far
from the drawbridge. A few minutes later, another
explosion sounded, and hard on its heels, a ball
crashed into the curtain wall. It bounced off with no
damage they could see from the inside, but another
followed it, and another.

Lord Aran came out into the battlements, saw a
fourth ball hurtling through the air as the explosion
echoed in the distance, and grunted. "Bombards," he
said. "They are staying in period for the beginning, at
least."

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A WIZARD IN ABSENTIA

Puzzled frowns answered him, but Magnus knew
what he meant. The enemy surely had modern big
guns at their disposal, as well as energy projectors.

The ball cracked into the castle's granite and
bounced into the lake.

"The wall will break if they keep that up long
enough," Lord Aran said. He glared off toward the

southeast. "Captain Pike, I hope you are as good as
your word."

"Well, it may take me several shots, my lord."
Magnus went over to one of the huge bombards that
poked between crenels. "Load, men!"

A serf crew poured in gunpowder and heaved a ball
into the cannon's mouth.

A distant boom sounded again.
Magnus looked up, gazing toward the southeast,
then saw the speck of darkness appear against the

sky. He gauged its trajectory and called, "Everyone
down!"

"Clear the bailey!" a sentry bawled, and other
voices took up the cry. Open space appeared in the
center of the courtyard as if by magic, as serfs took
cover against the walls -- but in orderly fashion, with
none in danger of being trampled.

Magnus was impressed. Lord Aran had good offi-
cers, who saw to it that there was good discipline.

The cannonball landed with a flat crack, burying
itself in the turf of the parade ground.

Everyone was silent.

"How good of them to send us ammunition," Lord
Aran rumbled.

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Christopher Stasheff

A howl of laughter answered him, and the old lord

smiled.

Grinning, Magnus turned back to his cannon, lay-
ing hold of the crank and raising the muzzle a touch,
then cranking it around just a few minutes clock-
wise. It was all for effect, though -- he had fired such
antique bombards before, and knew they were
scarcely precision instruments. He watched the ho-
rizon and saw a sudden puff of smoke. "Fire!"

A huge explosion rocked the battlements. The
cannon slammed back against its chain, and smoke
streamed out over the courtyard. Magnus waited for
it to clear, gazing anxiously at the sky, trying to find
his cannonball, hoping it hadn't gone astray.

There it was, diminishing even as he watched. He
reached out to touch it with his mind, changing its
trajectory just a little, feeling the pressure of wind
against it, resisting. . . .

Another puff of smoke appeared on the horizon.

Magnus guided the ball straight toward the puff. It
sank down right where the smoke had been. What-
ever noise it made was too little to be heard from
where they were, but Magnus felt the first stab of
pain in the minds of the gunners before he managed
to turn his attention away.

Lord Aran was staring after the ball. "I do believe
you may have hit them."

"Or come close enough to scare them, at any rate,"
another captain said.

"I hit them," Magnus said, with grim certainty.

Another puff of smoke appeared -- but quite some
distance from the first.

A WIZARD IN ABSENTIA

A cheer went up from the battlements. "You hit
them, you must have hit them!" The lieutenant
slapped Magnus's shoulder, grinning. "Why else
would a new gun answer us?"

The other was, indeed, silent.

The boom of the new gun sounded, and its ball
splashed into the lake far from the castle.

"Loaded and ready, sir," the serf sergeant said.

Magnus nodded and cranked the gun around.
"Fire!"

Another explosion rocked them, another cloud of
smoke hid the climbing ball -- but Magnus already
had contact with it, was guiding its flight with tele-
kinesis.

A puff of smoke appeared from the new gun, none
from the old.

Magnus guided the ball right down on top of the
smoke. At the last minute, he felt someone's relief
that the ball would pass over the gun, and dropped it
sharply. Again he felt a stab of pain and alarm, and
closed off his mind.

"Again!" The lieutenant slapped his shoulder.
"Two bombards out, with two shots! What a gunner
you are!"

"Aye." Lord Aran fairly beamed at Magnus. "How
do you manage such wonders. Captain Pike?"

"I learned calculus," Magnus explained -- which
was true, but really had very little to do with the is-
sue.

The guns were silent for the rest of the day, and
Magnus began to worry. What were they cooking up?

Christopher Stasheff

So he did a little mental eavesdropping -- not unethi-
cal, since they were the enemy -- and discovered that
they were moving their energy projectors up. Yes,
the projectors had greater range than the cannon -- 
but they needed a clear line of sight, which the can-
non did not, so they, too, had to be brought up to the
ridge line. Magnus relaxed -- he was fairly confident
when it came to dealing with energy in any form.

The infantry pressed onward across the plain.
Plumes of smoke began to appear, and the sentries
reported it, grim-faced. The word spread to the peas-
ants below, and women wailed and men cursed, for
the smoke was that of their villages burning.

As dusk came, the army was only a mile away, and
the plumes of smoke turned to the glow of flames.
Lord Aran looked out across his ravaged estates and
nodded grimly. "Fire the causeway."

Runners with torches sped out across the cause-
way to the bank, then came back, lighting the piles
of tinder laid ready at the sides of the bridge. Flame-
flowers blossomed behind them; then the pitch
caught with a roar, and the landward drawbridge
went up in a blaze. The flames raced toward the cas-
tle, a line of fire arrowing out toward the stronghold
but stopping short where the drawbridge had been
drawn up. Great clouds of greasy smoke filled the air,
making the sentries cough and wheeze atop the bat-
tlements. Between fits, they stared, their isolation
coming home to them at last -- and serfs jammed the
stairs, striving for a look, then passing word to their
fellows below. " Tis a bridge of flames!" " Tis a
curtain of fire!" " 'Tis as the Judgement Day itself!"

A WIZABD IN ABSENTIA

Then they fell silent, awed and shivering as they
realized they were committed more fully than they
had ever been.

Magnus knew that other lords might have left half
their serfs or more to the mercy of the enemy -- 
certainly the women, children, and old men, so that
they would not be a drain on the castle's supplies -- 
but Lord Aran cared for his people's welfare, and they
cared for him in return.

"Let them make of that what they will, the nobles
who beset our lord!" one captain said stoutly.

"What do they think, I wonder?" a lieutenant an-
swered.

But Magnus knew. The lords had been sure Aran
would burn his bridges, and the gentlemen had sus-
pected it -- but the serfs in the ranks were awed and
fearful at the sight, so reminiscent of the Hell of
which their preachers had told them.

Then lightning struck, horizontal lightning, stab-
bing out across the plain to score the curtain wall
with a huge thunder-crack, echoing for seconds,
away to the ridge line.

Women screamed, serfs howled, all dove for cover.
"Tis the anger of God!"

"Or the spite of the lords!" Magnus bellowed in
answer, ducking down behind a wall. "Only of the
noblemen who would bring down our Lord Aran for
his charity!"

He knew he had at least thirty seconds, probably a
few minutes -- the energy projectors might be an-
tiques, were certainly anything but state-of-the-art/-
their capacitors would need time to recharge -- that

Christopher Stasheff

is, if there were only one, yet; it would be quite like
these spiteful aristocrats to start hurling lightning
bolts the second they could, rather than waiting till
all their forces were in place. Peering over the wall,
he probed with his mind toward the ridge, listening

for the gunners' thoughts.

There! The officer in charge of the energy projec-
tor, thinking about his task, preening himself on
having hit the castle wall with his first shot. But he
was thinking about his other artillery pieces, too.
Sure enough, there was only the one gun in place,
though there were seven more coming.

Seven! Magnus could see he was going to have a
busy night. He probed the projector to see if it was
constructed as he had thought. But he found no ca-
pacitor; this projector wasn't working on electricity!
There was a battery, true, but it only fed current to
the coils that lined the barrel, to direct the beam -- 
and at the base of that tube was the open mouth of a
plasma bottle, a set of extremely powerful magnetic
fields that held in a plasma of ionized hydrogen and
heated it to the point of fusion! The idiots had
brought an H-bomb to discipline their renegade
member; they had brought a sun to earth! Plasma
cannon were for space heaters, not for surface war-
fare!

One way or another, he had to disable that mon-
ster. He followed the circuits, found and traced the
huge cable that led to the power source -- a fission re-
actor, heavily shielded. The idiots! If that shielding
cracked, they could die of radiation poisoning.

A WIZARD IN ABSENTIA

No. Serfs would die, gentlemen would die -- but
lords wouldn't go anywhere near that thing.

Grimly, Magnus speeded up molecules inside a
current-bearing wire. They grew hotter and hotter,
melting insulation, flowing, touching the ground
wire. . .

He felt the shock, both from the electrical explo-
sion he had triggered and from the minds of the men
near it. There was a raw, mental scream of pain -- one
serf had been burned -- but the gentleman was only
surprised at the short circuit, then suddenly afraid of
what would happen when the lord found out. He be-
gan to snap out quick orders to disconnect the cable
and begin repairs.

Magnus relaxed; they weren't exactly long on
skilled labor, these people. It would be an hour or
more before that gun could work again -- and it
wouldn't last that long. He rose from his crouch and
nodded to his gun crew. "Ready?"

"Loaded and waiting, sir." But the serfs stayed
down below the wall, staring at him with huge,
frightened eyes.

"Good." Magnus turned cranks, shifting the gun's
aim slightly, then stopped back and nodded to the
lieutenant. "Fire."

The man jumped up, touched his match to the hole,
and dropped back down below a crenel as the gun
blasted. Magnus stayed on his feet, knowing he had
nothing to fear, narrowing his eyes as he watched the
ball arc away toward the ridge, adjusting its flight,
guiding it with faint nudges. ...

There was a flare of light on the horizon, and men-

Christopher Stasheff

tal shrieks of alarm and fright, then a black anger
from the gunnery officer -- and relief; he wouldn't
have to try to explain that short circuit, after all.

Magnus smiled, finding satisfaction in the irony of
an antique bombard taking out a high-technology

energy projector.

"What. . . what was that flare. Captain?" the lieu-
tenant asked.

"You know full well, Lieutenant," Magnus an-
swered with asperity. "It was the energy projector
being crushed." He turned to the Officer of the Watch.
"We won't have to worry about that gun again -- but
they'll bring in others. It's going to be a long night."

"Not if you can shoot that well with all the others,
Captain," the man said with a grin.

"Only when I've light -- it will be much more diffi-
cult at night."

The officer's smile vanished. "So, of course, they
will wait till night to give us any more bolts."

"Quite likely," Magnus agreed, "so I'm going to
the barracks to catch some sleep, while I can -- it's
going to be a long watch from dusk till dawn. Wake
me if there's any sign of trouble, will you?"

"Oh, you may be sure of that!"

"Thank you." Magnus smiled and turned away.

Serf eyes tracked him as he came down the stairs -- 
then, all about him, the simple folk began to relax,
and turned to salvaging what they could of their
tents and lean-tos. Women lighted their fires and
went back to preparing the evening meal. Magnus
looked about him as he walked to the barracks,
amazed at the resiliency of these people, who so

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A WIZARD IN ABSENTIA

quickly began to re-establish some semblance of nor-
mality. Of course, they were descended through gen-
erations of folk who had done the same down
through the centuries, through wars and natural di-
sasters; they had learned to take advantage of the
peaceful moment, when it came. For folk still had to
eat, and still needed shelter and warmth, and took as
much of it as they could when they could, for who
knew when it would come again?

In the dark of the night, lightning bolts stabbed all
at once and from every direction -- north, south, east,
west, points in between, and two from straight over-
head.

"Down!" Magnus shouted, taking cover behind
the curtain wall, but his yell was drowned by the
thunder of the energy projectors, then by the chorus
of screams as peasant tents and lean-tos blazed. The
smell of burning flesh rose in the air, smoke boiled
forth, and the lightnings stabbed again with the
thunder about them. By their light, Magnus saw
boats shooting out from the shore, crammed with
quaking serf soldiers whose sergeants drove them
with whips while officers stood behind with mus-
kets, ready to kill any sergeant who hesitated.

Then he had to duck down again -- and this time,
he sought with his mind. Moral qualms had drowned
in screaming, and the time for deftness and delicacy
was past. He probed into the engine of the flier over-
head and wrenched. Above him, he heard an explo-
sion; then a meteor plunged toward the lake, spitting
fire. He let it go, searched, found the other, and gave

221

Christopher Stasheff

it the same treatment. As soon as he heard the explo-
sion, his mind was out and questing toward the hori-
zon, orienting on the mind of a gunner, then sliding
into the machine he tended, altering the angle of a
coil so that the magnetic bottle inside tilted, its
mouth swerving against the side of the breech, in-
stead of being open to the muzzle. . . .

A miniature sun rose on the ridge line, and the
gunners' thoughts ceased. Then a huge explosion
echoed about them all, and Magnus's mind was out
and searching for the next gun. Once again a bottle
tilted, plasma fused into helium, and a new sun lit
the night.

Men ran to and fro across the battlements, but Mag-
nus ignored them, searching for the next projector
and the next. He was sure the courtyard was filled
with screaming, but he couldn't hear it through the
thunder that filled the night around him. Gun after
gun exploded, the echoes of one blast only slightly
beginning to diminish before the next crashed out,
and the night was bright with hellfire and slashed
with shadow.

Then the last energy projector was gone, but the
blazing light still lit the night, from glowing mush-
room clouds that merged above. The thunder rum-
bled away and died, and finally Magnus could hear
the screaming -- but also the shouting and cursing
from the lake, as terrified sergeants drove their crews
onward toward the castle. Magnus knew that a huge
trough now ringed the plain, and hoped the idiot
lords had had sense enough to use clean fusion can-

Christopher Stasheff

non. He hoped some of them had been near enough
to be caught in the fireballs.

"What has happened! What have they done!" It
was Lord Aran, disheveled and in deshabille, obvi-
ously having yanked on whatever clothes had come
to hand. He came striding out onto the ramparts,
calling for information.

Magnus ran up to him. "They surrounded us with
energy projectors, my lord, including two fliers over-
head, and all blasted at us at the same moment."

"We must shoot back! To the cannon!"

"We have, my lord," Magnus said, lying only a lit-
tle, "and their guns are silenced -- but their soldiers
come."

"To the guns again! Sink their boats!"

"They are too close, my lord, and too many!" Mag-
nus shouted to be heard over the din. "See!"

He pointed at the lake. The old lord looked, and
the blood drained from his face. He saw his castle en-
circled by boats, three concentric rings of them, the
nearest only a hundred yards away -- and huge gaping
breaches in his wall. His face calmed with the resig-
nation of the doomed, and he laid his hand on his
sword. "Then we must fight till we die."

"No, my lord!" Magnus shouted. "We must flee!
They will not harm your serfs or gentlemen, for
they've done nothing wrong -- only obeyed their lord,
as they must. But you they will execute. Away! It is
far more important to your people, to all the people
of this benighted world, that you live, so they may
know there is still a champion of their rights some-
where!"

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"Rights?" Lord Aran turned to stare at him. "What
word is that?"

"It means charity for serfs! Protection from wan-
ton cruelty! The chance to become happy! It means
life! So long as you live, so does that dream! My lord,
come away!"

"But... how?" Lord Aran looked about him, a lion
at bay, for the first time uncertain.

"Never mind how!" Magnus swung hard. His fist
cracked into the lord's jaw, and the old man folded.

Magnus dropped down and caught him over his
shoulder. Grabbing hand and foot in a fireman's
carry, he hurried down the stairs and through the
nightmare.

"Grandfather!"

Magnus heard it with his mind, not his ears -- they
were too filled with the roaring of the flames and the
screaming of the serfs. He looked back and up, and
saw the small white gauzy form at the door to the
keep. Beside her, there was a fainter glow -- a boy's
face. "lan!" he called, knowing his voice would not
reach and projecting it mind to mind. "Bring the
Lady Heloise! Follow!" For of course, he could not
leave the heir -- the other lords would need to wipe
out Aran's heresy, root and branch.

The blur that was lan's face jerked as though it had
ben slapped; then the girl was stumbling toward the
steps as though someone were pulling her, and the
boy's face floated before her as he struggled to follow.

Magnus turned away, thanking his stars for the
one that had led him to lan, and wormed and jostled
his way through the throng toward the postern gate.

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Christopher Stasheff

None sought to block his way; there was too much
confusion. No one could take the time to see who he

carried.
Then, suddenly, a tatterdemalion figure rose up in

his path. "Gar! Stop!"
Magnus jarred to a halt, staring in disbelief at the

motley tunic with the patchwork robe. "Siflot! What

the hell are you doing here!"

"Message from Allouene!" the juggler yelled. "She
says to get out fast! And whatever you do, don't try
to save Lord Aran! He has to be a martyr!"

Magnus just stared at him, appalled. Then he
called, "Siflot! Can you honestly believe that this

fine old man deserves to die?"
The vagabond stared back at him -- until his gaze

faltered. "I cannot."

"Then stand aside! Or help me -- but get out of my
way!" Magnus bulled his way through, and some-
how, Siflot wasn't there anymore. But the postern
gate opened just before Magnus reached it, and Siflot
was in the boat to catch the unconscious lord as
Magnus lowered him in, then gone again as Magnus
stepped down -- but lan shouted behind him, and
Lady Heloise squealed, "Who did that?"

Turning, Magnus saw them in the boat and
grinned. "Did what, chil.. . milady?"

"Dropped me into the boat!"

"Oh, that." Magnus turned to cast off the ropes.

"Your guardian angel, milady."
"My angel?" She looked around, wide-eyed.

"Where is she?"

"Well, perhaps not an angel," Magnus allowed as

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A WIZABD IN ABSENTIA

he took up the oars, "but surely your guardian. If you
ever meet a patchwork man who plays the flute and
trips over his own feet while he juggles, trust him
with your life."

Lady Heloise glanced about. "I see no such man
here."

Magnus looked up, startled, but sure enough, there
was no sign of Siflot. Another boat was moving away
from the postern's water stairs, though, and Magnus
realized his friend was taking out water-accident in-
surance. "No, but he'll be there when you need
him," he cried. "Down, now, children! Our enemies
must not see you!"

He ducked down himself, and stayed that way, os-
tensibly rowing by feel, actually moving the boat by
telekinesis and probing the night with telepathy. It
seemed to take a century, but he wound them un-
seen through the cordon, then out across the dark
lake, shushing the children periodically in a light-
less, interminable journey. Halfway through it, there
was stirring and clunking in the boat, and Lord
Aran's voice said thickly, "What. . . where . . .?"

"Grandfather!" Lady Heloise cried, but Magnus
called out in a whisper, "Quietly, milady, quietly!
My lord, be silent, I beg of you! We are on the lake, in
the midst of your enemies!"

Aran was silent a moment. Then, "My serfs," he
groaned.

"They are as well as they would be if we had died
for them, my lord," Magnus pointed out. "In any
case, we can do no more for them -- save to keep their
hopes alive, by keeping you alive! Softly, now, I beg!"

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Christopher Stasheff

Then the old lord was quiet, but Magnus was sure
he was awake -- with an aching head and jaw. Mag-
nus hoped the old man could overlook the blow of

mercy.

Finally, the bottom of the boat ploughed into mud
with a sucking noise, and the bow thudded against a
bank. Magnus rolled out, stepped down through two
feet of water into muck that swallowed his foot -- 
and ankle, and calf, but not fast enough to keep him
from throwing his upper body onto the bank. He
clawed at grass, pulled his foot free, and rolled onto
the turf with a gasp of relief. Then he reached out for
the gunwale, but it wasn't there. "lan!" he cried in
desperation. "Take my hand!" He groped blindly in
the dark -- but a small hand caught his, and pulled
with amazing strength for its size. "Here, Master

Gar! What shall I do?"

"Why, just as you are doing," Magnus assured
him. "Keep pulling, lad -- there! I've caught the gun-
wale!" He turned about, holding the boat with both
hands against the bank. "Out, now, but help the lady

first!"

Heloise stepped out onto the bank, steadying her-
self on lan's shoulder. Then the boy climbed out and
turned back to hold out his hand. "My lord?"

"Thank you, boy." Aran steadied himself with lan's
hand as he climbed out. "Strong as a serf, you are!
Your mother should be proud!" He turned toward
Magnus. "All right, mercenary -- you have saved me,
whether I would or no. But I am grateful, for I would
not leave my granddaughter alone in this world. Now
where shall we go?"

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"To shelter, my lord." Magnus climbed to his feet
and looked down at Lord Aran. "There we shall rest,
and consider what we may do. lan!"

"Yes, sir!"

"We're going to try to travel by night, boy, and
there's an outside chance that we might become sep-
arated. If we do, stay with the Lady Heloise at all
costs! Do you understand? Guard her at whatever
price you must -- from this time until we reach
safety, your life is hers. If we're attacked, your first
task is to get her to safety; your second task is to
fight any who attack her. Is that clear?"

"Yes, sir." lan's eyes were huge in the night. "I
shall guard her with my head."

"Good." Magnus nodded, satisfied with both
meanings of the phrase. He clapped lan on the shoul-
der. "Stout fellow! For now, follow." He turned
away, offering the old lord his arm.

Privately, he wondered where Siflot was. He
couldn't really ask the vagabond to actively help
Lord Aran escape, since that was flatly against
Allouene's orders, and would jeopardize Siflot's
whole career. But he was grateful to his friend, al-
ready.

They moved out across the plain; campfire coals
glowed sullenly ahead. They had a camp to traverse.
As silently as possible, Magnus threaded his Way be-
tween tents, hoping against hope that all of the sol-
diers were in the boats.

They weren't.

A trooper rose up in front of them, staring,
amazed. He was just beginning to open his mouth in

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Christopher Stasheff

alarm when Magnus's hand closed around his throat.
His fist slammed into the man's jaw, and the sol-
dier's eyes rolled up as he dropped.

But another soldier saw and howled, "Enemy!
Captain of the Guard! They're upon us!"

Magnus leaped to the side and felled the man with
a chop -- but an avalanche of bodies hit, and bore him
to the ground, kicking and punching. He surged back
up, throwing men off him like a bear rising from
its winter's sleep, and saw Lord Aran fencing with
expert skill against two young officers. Magnus
slammed heads, kicked bellies, and troopers fell
around him. A club swung at his sinuses, but he
leaned aside. It exploded like fire against his ribs, but
he held his breath as he caught it and yanked; its
owner stumbled after it, and Magnus felled him with
a chop. A sword stabbed toward him, but he knocked

it aside with the club.

Then the second wave hit.

It hit, but it fell back remarkably quickly. Magnus
chopped and punched, rolling with the blows and
striking back -- and suddenly, he was standing, his
head swimming, chest heaving, looking about at a

score of fallen men . . .
And a tattered jester with a quarterstaff in his

hands.
Magnus grinned and stepped forward to clap his

friend on his shoulder. "Prince of jesters! You stood

by me after all!"

"You and the lord," Siflot returned, grinning.

"Your cause is just, for the lord is, too."
"Is just?" Magnus smiled, amused. "But your ca-

A WIZARD IN ABSENTIA

reer, Siflot! If you help me keep him alive, Oswald
will have your hide!"

"No, he won't," the jester said, with remarkable
assurance, "though I don't doubt he'll try. The career
can go hang, Gar -- I never wanted it."

"Then what did you want with SCENT?"

"Why, to help people who needed it most." Siflot
turned to Lord Aran with a bow. "And at the mo-
ment, Your Lordship, that is yourself."

"I thank you. Fool," Lord Aran panted. Then sud-
denly, his eyes went wide, and he looked about him
in a panic. "My grandaughter! The Lady Heloise!
Where is she?"

Magnus looked about too, suddenly realizing that
the old lord had an Achilles' heel.

"I saw two small things go flitting away over the
plain as I came to join you," Siflot said, "though
truth to tell, the lady did not seem to be all that will-
ing."

Lord Aran sagged with relief. "Yes, Captain Pike -- 
you did bid the boy take her to safety." He looked up,
still alarmed. "But how shall we find them now?"

"He will find us as easily as we him," Magnus an-
swered. "She could have no better guide when it
comes to running and hiding. Still..." He turned to
Siflot with a surge of relief; he had found one solu-
tion to two problems -- how to find the children, and
how to keep Siflot from active involvement in his
own crime. "Siflot, would you go search out the
nooks and crannies, and bring them back to us?"

"Why, I will try," Siflot said slowly, "but even if I
find them, they may not come to me."

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Magnus remembered something that he had said
half seriously, and grinned. "I told them that if they
found a ragtag jester who played the flute and tripped
over his own feet while he juggled, they were to trust

him with their lives."

Siflot answered his grin. "Why, I think I can do
all that, though perhaps not at once. May you fare
well, my lord! We shall meet you anon!" He started
away, then swung around on one foot and turned
back. "Where are you bound, by the way?"

Magnus glanced at Lord Aran, and the answer
sprang full-blown into his head. "Castlerock, Siflot!
The island in the inland sea, where all the serfs have
fled!" He turned back to Lord Aran. "You will be
safer there, my lord, than any place else in this

world! Will you go?"

"Aye, willingly," the old lord said slowly. "The es-
caped serfs might welcome me, might they not?
Now that I, too, am a fugitive."

"They might," Magnus agreed. "Then, ho! Off to

Castlerock!"
He turned away, and Lord Aran gasped beside him.

"The jester -- where did he go?"

"Oh, Siflot?" Magnus shrugged. "It doesn't matter.
He'll find your granddaughter, my lord, and my
apprentice -- and they couldn't be in safer hands. He
will assure the Lady Heloise that her grandfather is
well, and will meet her at Castlerock. You would not
want him to tell an untruth, would you?"

"No, surely not," said Lord Aran, with the ghost of
a smile. "I suppose that, after all, I shall have to live,
shan't I? To Castlerock!"

A WIZARD IN ABSENTIA

But they underestimated their enemies. Perhaps
Magnus should not have stolen the two horses -- or
perhaps the soldiers they had vanquished gave the
alarm when they came to. At any rate, Magnus and
Lord Aran had only an hour's grace before the sounds
of dogs echoed in the distance, and a new moon
glided across the heavens, coming from the camp.

"A flier with a searchlight!" Magnus cried, glanc-
ing over his shoulder. "Ride, my lord! We're nearly to
the trees!" And he slapped the rump of Lord Aran's
horse.

"What good will the forest do?" Lord Aran called
over the pounding of hooves. "The hounds will still
follow our scent!"

"Perhaps, but their flier won't do them much
good. Quickly, my lord! At least give them a race!"

Then the trees were closing about them, and Mag-
nus reined in. "Dismount, my lord!" He swung
down off his horse.

"Why?" Lord Aran dismounted even as he asked.
"What good will it do? Will we not still need the
horses?"

"No, my lord, for they can't go any faster than we,
in underbrush -- and if we use the forest trails, they'll
find us in an instant!" He turned his horse about,
shouted and spanked it, and the horse broke out of
the forest with a startled whinny. Lord Aran imitated
him, and the two horses together fled out over the
plain.

The flier veered to follow them.

"That will not buy us much time," Lord Aran said,

Christopher Stasheff

but he was turning his back on the plain even as he

said it.

"True," Magnus agreed. "They'll catch up to the
beasts in a few minutes, and see the saddles are
empty. Then they'll start combing the wood for us -- 
but in that few minutes, we can become very thor-
oughly lost."

"I am already," Lord Aran grunted. "Have you any
idea where you're going?"

"Toward the center of the wood, my lord. The
thicker the trees, the better our chances. Have you
ever hunted the fox?"

"Why of course!" Lord Aran looked up, startled.
"Many, many times!"

"Then think like a fox, my lord, for you are in his
place right now, with the hounds baying after you,
leading the lords on their horses. Where would a fox
hide?"

"In a dozen places, but ever on the move." Lord
Aran grunted. "I take your meaning, Captain -- and
you may take the lead."

They plowed on through the night, breathing in
hoarse gasps, thorns and briars tearing their clothing.
After half an hour's movement, they began to hear
the hounds again; ten minutes more, and the baying
was closer.

"Into the stream!" Magnus jumped into the water.
"Break our scent-trail!"

The old lord jumped in after him -- and stumbled
and fell. Magnus was by his side in an instant, haul-
ing him back to his feet -- but the old lord still
sagged. Magnus hauled an arm about his neck,

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pushed a shoulder under Aran's, and half-dragged
him along the stream bed, looking frantically for a
hiding place. Aran was spent, and Magnus, to tell the
truth, wasn't feeling terribly energetic himself.

The hounds' voices became louder, closer, then
suddenly broke into a quandary of baying. Magnus
knew they had found the end of the trail, and that
their masters would realize the fugitive lord had fled
into the stream. They would be fanning out to either
side, searching both upstream and downstream.. . .

He began to hear voices calling, excited, hoarse.
The excitement of the hunt was catching up even
the serfs who had revered Lord Aran from the tales of
his kindness and justice. Where, where could they
hide?

A huge branch overhung the river. Magnus was
tempted, and would have tried it if he'd been alone,
but he knew he couldn't haul the old lord up there.
He kept wading, his legs growing more and more
weary, and voices began to echo from the other bank
of the stream, coming closer. They would be on him
in a minute! Good or bad, they must find a hiding
place, now!

"Go to ... ground," the old lord wheezed.

Magnus nodded; like a fox, they had to hide, and
soon. "I'm looking for ... a bolt-hole . . . my lord."
For the first time, he began to think seriously of call-
ing for his spaceship, and to hell with what it did to
the mission by letting the lords know that someone
else who knew about modern technology was active
on the planet.

Then, suddenly, the trees on the left bank fell

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Christopher Stasheff

away into a small meadow. Magnus looked up in a
panic -- the first forester who came into that clearing
would see them! He definitely had to call for

Herkimer, now. . ..

Then he saw the ovoid shape in the middle of the

meadow.

A stone egg! He remembered the one lan had come

out of, remembered what Allouene had told him
about the Safety Bases. He waded out of the river,
hauling Lord Aran. "We have found it, my lord!"
The old man looked up, blinking. "What... ?"
"A Safety Base!" Magnus knelt slowly, lowering

Lord Aran with him.

"But how . . . why . . . ?" Panic tinged the old lord's

voice. Could it be, Magnus wondered, that he didn't

know about these stations?

He remembered what lan had told him of his fall
into the egg, and pressed along the edge, trying to

find the hidden hatch.

"We are lost," Lord Aran moaned, and slumped

against the side of the rock. Then his moan turned
into a cry of alarm as the surface gave way beneath

him, and he fell into the hole.

Magnus leaped in after him, not giving the hatch
time to close. Maybe it was keyed only for people of
the right genetic makeup, maybe Lord Aran had just
been lucky -- but Magnus wasn't questioning good

fortune.
The hatch closed above him, lights sprang to life,

and Magnus, in a panic, called out, "No beacon! We
need only rest, not rescue! Don't send for help!"
"As you wish, sir," a cultured voice replied. "Wel-

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come to Safety Base 07734. What services will you
require?"

"Only rest, food, and drink!" Magnus panted.
"Thank you. Safety Base."

"We exist to serve," the computer's voice an-
swered, then was silent.

Lord Aran looked about him, wide-eyed. "A Safety
Base! Praise heaven!"

Then he collapsed into unconsciousness. Magnus
was very glad -- he was quite willing to wait, before
Lord Aran started thinking of the inconvenient ques-
tions. He stooped to catch the old nobleman in a fire-
man's carry again, bore him down the spiral stairs to
the nearest couch, then pulled off his boots, stripped
off his wet clothes, wrapped him in a blanket, and
propped his head on a pillow. That done, he straight-
ened up with a sigh of relief, gazed a moment at his
charge, then began to strip his own clothes off as he
went into the bedroom, and just managed to aim
himself toward a bed before fatigue took him and he
fell.

Magnus awoke, bleary-eyed and aching. Looked
around him and saw carpet, plasticrete walls, and
viewscreens; he felt the smoothness of synthetics
beneath his cheek -- then suddenly remembered that
he was on a medieval planet. Alarm sent him bolt-
upright -- had they been captured, or . . . ?

Then he remembered the end of the chase, the
stone egg, the Safety Base, and went limp with relief.
He hauled himself to his feet, stepped out of the bed-
room, and saw the old lord still asleep on the couch.

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Christopher Stasheff

Magnus nodded and went softly past him, knelt to
pick up his clothes, and found them almost dry. How

long had he slept?

He carried the clothes into the plush parlor and
pulled on doublet and hose. Then he went up the
winding stairs, stepped over to the control console,
and asked, "How much time has elapsed since our

entrance?"

"Ten hours, sir," the dulcet tones answered him.
Ten hours! Magnus wondered what Siflot and the
children had been doing in that time. Were they still
free? "You did not activate the beacon."
"No, sir. You had commanded otherwise."
Well, that was a mercy. "News scan, please. Have

there been any broadcasts?"

"A constant exchange of information, sir. Lord
Aran's castle has fallen, his estates and serfs are be-
ing divided up between his neighbors, and the search
for him continues."

"To no avail?"

"No, sir. His trail ended not far from this station."

Magnus stiffened. "Where are they searching

now?"

"In a spiral, sir, its center the point at which the
trail ceased. The spiral has expanded to a diameter of

five miles."

That was quick progress; they couldn't have been
searching too thoroughly. Still, it gave Magnus a
pang of anxiety for Siflot and the two children, if
they had come as far as the forest. "Have they dis-
covered any fugitives?"

"No, sir."

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A WIZARD IN ABSENTIA

That was a relief, but it wasn't conclusive -- if
they'd caught the vagabond and the children, they
might or might not have reported in by radio. On the
other hand, who would think anything of a vagabond
with two peasant children? Surely Siflot would
think to disguise Heloise. Magnus relaxed, enough
to realize how hungry he was. "Menu, please. Break-
fast."

"Yes, sir. Our resources are limited; we can only
provide steak and eggs, ham and eggs, several cereals,
and rolls."

"Steak and eggs, please. And coffee." Magnus had
learned to drink that beverage on Maxima, though
he still wasn't certain he was happy about it.

A chime sounded below him. Going back down
the stairs, he saw a steaming platter of eggs and
brown meat on a small table, flanked by silverware.
He crossed to it in two strides and sat down in one
movement. The aroma was heavenly. He picked up a
fork and started work.

Twenty minutes later, he decided it was time for a
reconnaissance. With a sigh, he went up the stairs,
pulled on his boots -- and winced; they were still
damp -- then asked softly, so as not to wake Lord
Aran, "Are there any enemies in the vicinity?"

"Define 'enemies.' "

Magnus bit his tongue; he didn't doubt that the
computer knew what the word meant. It just wanted
to know which side was which. Under the circum-
stances, since the lords were always the home team,
he decided to drop the issue. "Are there any other
human beings nearby?"

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Christopher Stasheff

"Yes, sir. There is a woman twenty meters from

this station."

Magnus froze. A woman? Who . . . ?
Somehow, he thought he knew.

Magnus stepped out of the hatch; it remained
slightly ajar behind him, as he had told it to -- not
that he really thought he would need a quick escape
route, but he was growing very cautious. He stepped
forward, hands on hips, feet wide apart, and looked
about him, upward, breathing deeply of the fra-
grances of the forest, like a man enjoying a beautiful
morning -- and it wasn't terribly hard to pretend just
that, though it was mid-afternoon.

She stepped forward from a screen of brush, lis-
some and lithe, as beautiful in a medieval gown and
bodice as she had been in tights and jacket. But her
face wasn't anywhere nearly as attractive when it
was set in such stony anger.

Magnus glanced her way, then bowed his head
gravely. "Good afternoon, Lieutenant."

"Don't give me 'good afternoon,' recruit!" Allou-
ene advanced on him, eyes blazing. "Do you realize
just what a churned-up mess you've made of

things?"

"Not really," Magnus answered, slowly and delib-
erately. "The castle fell, as you intended it to."

"Yes, but we had to get an agent in to suggest strat-
egy, after you shot out those first three cannon! You
know you weren't supposed to use modern sighting

equipment!"
Magnus just stared. "You told the lords to sur-

240

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round the castle with energy projectors and fire all at
once?"

"Not me -- Oswald," she said impatiently. "And
he had the devil of a time getting into the camp and
dreaming up a pretext to mention the notion, I can
tell you!"

"So SCENT is responsible for the deaths of all
those serfs."

Allouene shrugged impatiently. "It would have
happened eventually anyway -- and as soon as we
saw you were bound and determined not to let
events take their course, we had to stop you, fast!
How the hell did you blow up all those energy pro-
jectors, anyway?"

"A man who tries to use nuclear power as a
weapon is a fool," Magnus said evenly. "So you
couldn't take the chance that Aran might have been
able to hold out."

"He couldn't possibly have lasted! It was just a
matter of time before the other lords would squash
him! The most he could hope for was martyrdom, so
his example might inspire other men!"

"Or scare them off," Magnus said evenly. "Be-
sides, there was his granddaughter. Would you have
left her an orphan? Or were you planning on her be-
ing martyred, too?"

"Don't get smart with me, recruit! No matter how
much you think of yourself, you're just a bare begin-
neri You can't possibly know anything about social
change, beyond what I've taught you!"

"Don't be so sure of that," Magnus retorted, "but

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Christopher Stasheff

true or not, I still know something of loyalty, and

morality."
"The ends justify the means, Gar! You know

that!"
"The ends do not always justify the means," he

contradicted. "You must have a sense of proportion,
a sense of balance."

"It's doctrine!"

"Doctrine by its nature is fallible. When it be-
comes inflexible, it opens itself to mistakes. You
can't live your life by principles alone; you have to
have compassion, too. If you don't, the best princi-
ples in the world can be corrupted into inhumanity.

It's people who matter, not causes."

"If you honestly believe that, you can go some-
place else to try to put it into practice!" Allouene
snapped. "This is our planet, and we'll push it
toward democracy as we see fit! And so will you!
You took an oath, and you're under military disci-
pline!"

"The oath I took was for the good of the people of

the planets that SCENT would work on," Magnus
said evenly, "and the miliitary can only apply disci-
pline through a court-martial."
"We'll convene one."
"You'll have to start without me, then."
Allouene reddened, about to make another retort,
but caught herself at the last instant. She took a deep
breath, and forced a smile. "Look, Gar. The situation
isn't totally fouled up yet. We can still salvage some-
thing. Leave the old lord to his own devices. His
peers will catch him and try him, and he'll still be a

A WIZARD IN ABSENTIA

martyr. Not as effective as dying in battle, but still

good enough."

"And the child Heloise will still be alone in the
world. And I will be have lost my honor, and have to
live with the knowledge that I abandoned a man to
whom I had sworn loyalty. No."

"Loyalty! Honor! You talk like somebody out of
the Middle Ages!" Allouene snapped. "What have
you done, gone native?"

"Let us say that I can understand the frame of ref-
erence," Magnus said, poker-faced.

"Then remember this -- you swore loyalty to us
first!" Allouene blazed. "You have no right to louse
up our plans this way!"

"And you have no right to interfere with these
people and their society. If you're going to do it at all,
you should do it ethically."

"There are rio ethics when it comes to trying to
change a society!"

"There are," Magnus said. "You might start with
trying to shorten the sufferings of the oppressed."

"We can't free them right away without starting a
civil war! Even if they won and the lords were muz-
zled, the gentlemen and serfs don't know enough to
establish a viable democracy! They don't even have
the concept of human rights yet! Anything they
build will fall apart! You'll have anarchy! Warlords
fighting it out! Everybody will suffer!"

"But you can save the ones who are in the worst
trouble in the meantime," Magnus retorted. "I won't
try to upset your plans, Lieutenant Allouene -- but I
won't abandon this old lord, either."

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Christopher Stasheff

"You already have upset our plans. And how do
you think you can save that old lord, anyway?"

"I'll find a way," Magnus answered.

Allouene suddenly calmed, watching him narrow-
eyed. "No, you won't -- you already have, haven't
you? You're too sure of yourself for anything else.
You think you've figured out a way to save him!
How?"

Magnus stood silent.

"Castlerock!" Allouene erupted. "You're planning
to take him to Castlerock!"

"An interesting idea," Magnus replied.

"You fool, don't you know you'll never make it?
It's seventy miles to that inland sea! With a hundred
lords and all their dogs and all their men in be-
tween!"

"There will be long odds, no matter what I do,"
Magnus returned.

But the implications were just hitting Allouene.
Her eyes widened in horror. "Damn! Castlerock,
with all its escaped serfs, hit with a folk-hero like
Lord Aran? You really do want to start that civil war,
don't you?"

"Revolution," Magnus corrected, "and I don't
think it will start for several generations yet."

"Castlerock can't hold out for several years, let
alone several generations! The lords will concentrate
all their firepower on it! They can't let it stand, espe-
cially not with Lord Aran there! The serfs will have
to fight!"

"You could persuade the lords to ignore them,"
Magnus said softly.

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"Ignore them? Can you ignore a live hand grenade
under your dinner table? They can't allow it! We
can't allow it!" Then Allouene caught her breath, re-
alizing what she had said.
So did Magnus. "Try to stop me," he said.
Allouene's eyes narrowed. "We will."

245

They tried. Oh, nothing overt -- they couldn't let
their intervention be obvious, after all -- but Oswald
had recruited dozens of locals as his agents before
Allouene and her team ever arrived, and had several
in the lords' camp; he saw to it that word of the fugi-
tives' whereabouts leaked to the noblemen.

Magnus, however, made sure he and Lord Aran
weren't there.

Oh, there were times when he couldn't evade their
hunters completely, times when Oswald out-
guessed him and he found a squadron of soldiers in
his path, or was ambushed, or betrayed by an inn-
keeper or a ferryman; but a society with plenty of
hounds and some modern technology was pitted
against a psionic master with a medieval heart and a
modern education. The lords didn't really under-
stand how their gadgets worked, but Magnus did. He
saw to it that they stopped working; he saw to it that

Christopher Stasheff

the soldiers were looking the other way as he and
Lord Aran crept by; he countered the ambushes with
telekinesis reinforcing karate.

Siflot, meanwhile, found the children and brought
them to Magnus and Lord Aran, and together they
fought their way through seventy miles of patrols
and sentries, of checkpoints and cordons, until fi-
nally the day came when they found the escaped
serfs, or the serfs found them.

And so they came to Castlerock, and stood atop its
highest pinnacle to look back over the way they had
come, the free-lance and his apprentice, the lord and
his little granddaughter, and the jester. How they got
there is another tale, to be told in another time and
another place; for now, all that matters is that they
did come there, despite all the efforts of the lords and
of Master Oswald and his team; and Lord Aran said
to Magnus, "What comes now?"

Magnus shrugged. "You are the lord here, not I."

"I am the lord," Lord Aran rejoined, "but there is
more to you than there seems." He peered keenly at
his bodyguard. "You are not of this world, are you?"

Magnus stood very still for a moment, gazing out
at the countryside.

Siflot looked up, more alert than alarmed.

Slowly, Magnus turned to the lord. "You have
guessed it," he said, "and I should not be surprised. I
knew you were acute, my lord."

"Thank you for the compliment," Lord Aran said,
with only a trace of sarcasm. "May I know your true
name, and station?"

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"I am a knight," Magnus said slowly, "and heir to a
lord."

Siflot stared, wide-eyed.

Lord Aran nodded, triumph in his gaze. "I knew it!
Breeding cannot be hidden long, especially in such
crises as we have weathered together, young man.
What is your house and nation?"

"I am a d'Armand, of Maxima," Magnus said
slowly, "though I grew up far from there."

Lord Aran nodded. "And how have you come to be
here?"

"That, I am not at liberty to say," Magnus an-
swered, "though I will tell Your Lordship that my
spaceship awaits in orbit."

"And will you leave us, then?"

lan looked up, alarmed.

"I fear I must," Magnus said, "for to aid you fur-
ther would be to betray my comrades."

"Have you not betrayed them already, in aiding
me?"

"They believe so," Magnus said, "but I know oth-
erwise. They will find that their plans to help the
people of this planet are advanced more than they
could have hoped for in a single year, and will find
that they merely need shift their strategy to incorpo-
rate the fact of your survival, and coming to
Castlerock."

"Indeed!" the old lord said, with some asperity.
"Then it was not loyalty alone, or friendship, that
bade you save myself and my granddaughter."

"It was," Magnus contradicted, "but I had need

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also to find a way to salvage the plans of my . . .
friends, by saving you."
"Resolving a conflict of loyalties? Magnificent, if

you achieved it! But how?"

"Yes, this is really quite interesting," Siflot said,
composing himself to listen. "How shall Lord Aran
survive, and Castlerock with him, without dis-
rupting the plans of... our friends?"

"Why, by his own action," Magnus said. "I shall
leave you a transceiver, with which His Lordship can
access a transponder that will beam his voice to
Terra. By that, he can declare Castlerock to be a sov-
ereign nation, desiring associate membership in the
Decentralized Democratic Tribunal, and asking its

aid."

"But the D.D.T. will never interfere in the internal

affairs of a planet!" Siflot protested.

Lord Aran glanced at him keenly, and Magnus,
with a sense of satisfaction, knew that the old lord
would not lack good advice. "It may, when that
planet is not a member of the Tribunal, but is one the
D.D.T. wishes to count among its members."

"But SCE -- " Siflot coughed, then said, "Our
friends would never allow it!"

"No, it would take the situation out of their con-
trol, wouldn't it?" Magnus smiled. "So they will, of
course, intercept the message, and offer to give
Castlerock support in their own right." He turned
back to Lord Aran. "They will give you weapons, my
lord, and instruction in their use, enough for you to
be able to withstand the siege of the other lords."

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"My fellow noblemen will hire off-planet aid,"
Lord Aran rumbled.

"They'll try," Magnus agreed, "but I think you
will find that none will be willing to work for them,
or sell them weapons."

"You, however, will find them quite willing, these
off-planet men," Siflot suggested.

Lord Aran looked at him in surprise, and Magnus
smiled. "Your enemies will not give up easily,
though, my lord. It may be twenty years or more be-
fore they accept your dominion here as a fact they
cannot change, and begin to ignore you. Even then,
they will mount the occasional assault."

"If I have the resources they have, I can withstand
them," Lord Aran rejoined. "But you assume these
Castlerock folk, these stalwart gentlemen and freed-
men, will accept me as their lord. You forget they
have worked out their own council for governance."

"I do not doubt it, but I think you will find them
turning to you for guidance more and more as the
months pass. Certainly they will countenance your
soliciting of off-planet help -- and when they learn
that the price of peace is for them to accept yourself,
and your granddaughter after you, as their nominal
lords, they will do so."

"The price of peace?" The old lord frowned.

"Of course, my lord," Siflot said softly. "If
Castlerock is nominally your demesne, and the peo-
ple on it not outlaws, but your serfs and gentry -- 
why, then, your rival lords have an excuse to ignore
it, a means of pretending that the status quo has been
preserved, and that you have been punished suffi-

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Christopher Stasheff

ciently by ostracism from your own kind. In brief, if
the Council accepts you as their President or some
such, the other lords will have a means of saving face

without continuing the war."

And SCENT, Magnus realized, would have its nu-
cleus of democracy, and its beacon of hope for all the

other serfs of Taxhaven.
But Lord Aran was staring at Siflot. "You are rather

wise, for a fool. But of course -- for you, too, are from
off-planet, are you not? Tell me, what is your rank

and station?"
"Alas! I am no lord, but only the son of a politican

of gentle birth -- with whose policies I could not

agree."

"Which makes him the equivalent of a lord's heir,

in terms of the Terran Sphere today," Magnus told

Lord Aran.
But Siflot shook his head. "Not a lord! I was not

born to a title."

"But a gentleman, certainly," Magnus insisted,

"though I think you will find that such distinc-
tions lack their accustomed force, my lord -- on

Castlerock."

"Perhaps it is just as well." The old lord sighed.

"But you. Captain Pike -- can you not stay with us as

well?"

"I fear not, for although my friends may find ex-
cuses for Siflot's presence here, they cannot excuse
my direct disobedience, my defiance of their orders.
They must court-martial me, or forfeit all claim to
authority and discipline. If I stay, they will find that
they must besiege Castlerock to make of you the

A WIZARD IN ABSENTIA

martyr they originally thought you would be. If I go,
they will find excuses to support you." He smiled at
the old lord. "So my duty to you, is to leave."

lan gave an inarticulate cry.

"I know, lad." Magnus stepped forward to rest a
hand on the boy's shoulder. "Would that I could take
you with me -- but your place is here. You are among
your own kind, now -- escaped serfs -- and will find
that your fellows hold you in high esteem."

"Escaped serf?" Lord Aran looked up. "He is not,
then, a ... gentleman's informal son?"

"He is no bastard, no, but a serf legitimately
born," Magnus said. "lan, tell him why you fled."

lan swallowed, but faced the old lord bravely. "My
lord was Lord Murthren, sir, and he sought to take
my sister by force. My father found a way for her to
escape to the forest -- but for doing so, Lord Murthren
had him flogged within an inch of his life. He knew
that it would go hard with me for being his son, so
with his last breath, or nearly, he bade me escape."
Tears rolled down lan's cheeks, but he stood
staunchly and ignored them. "I fled to the green-
wood, and was lucky enough to evade the hunters
till my master, Captain Pike, took me under his

care."
"The hunters! Then you are the lad who went into

the Sacred Place!"

"I -- I am, sir." lan looked frightened, and Siflot
moved to clasp the lad's shoulder in reassurance.

"But how is this?" Lord Aran frowned at Magnus.
"Those shelters are keyed to admit only those who
have the genetic pattern of the original founders!"

Christopher Stasheff

"Those founders were scarcely miserly about their
genes, my lord," Magnus said grimly, "and their de-
scendants were quite profligate with them. I think
you will find that there are very few serfs who can-
not be admitted to the Safety Bases if they wish it.
Why else would Lord Murthren be so concerned
about enforcing the taboo against their use?"

"A fascinating notion." Lord Aran turned to lan.
"And if you have noble blood in you, lad, you have
some claim to gentility -- indeed, I would say you
have proved that claim, in your warding of the Lady
Heloise. Nay, you shall be of my household and reti-
nue now -- my squire, and the Lady Heloise's body-
guard. Will you accept such service?"

"A -- a squire?" lan's eyes were huge and round.
"To you, my lord? Oh, yes!"

"Oh, how wonderful, lan!" Lady Heloise clapped
her hands. "You will always be by us now!"

How easily the boy was impressed with even so
minor a title as "squire"! Magnus reflected sourly
that the people of this planet were indeed far from
being ready for democracy.

The ferryman rowed him ashore in the hour before
sunrise, his oars feathered in case of ambush. Mag-
nus thanked him and stepped ashore, wrapped in a
dark cloak. It was rough homespun, serf-made from
the wool of the sheep who grazed the interior of the
twenty-mile-long island, but it was warm, and dark
enough to hide him.

Magnus strode up to the center of the beach and

A WIZARD IN ABSENTIA

thought the command, Herkimer. Come pick me up
now.

Coming, Magnus, the voice answered inside his
mind.

It would take some time, Magnus knew, even
though Herkimer had stayed in geostationary orbit
above wherever Magnus happened to be at the mo-
ment. Twenty thousand miles does take time to tra-
verse, even if it's straight down. He composed
himself to wait, and looked around for a boulder to
sit on.

She stepped forth from among the rocks, in her
own skin-fitting garb again, a body stocking of elec-
tric blue, covered by a golden vest with stiffened
shoulders that tapered to cover her hips. Her hair
was a golden cloud, loosed to catch and hold; her
eyes were huge and so dark as to seem almost purple
in the false dawn.

Magnus felt the old, familiar thrilling throughout
his whole body, felt the wrenching within -- and felt
the automatic closing of his emotional armor as he
gazed at her.

"So," she said as she came up to him, "you have
won." She bowed her head, her face solemn, looking
up at him through long lashes.

So it was to be seduction today, Magnus reflected
wryly. When last they had met, it had been rage.
"Perhaps," he said, "but you have, too."

"Oh yes, we have. We realized that almost as soon
as your boat touched the island -- that with Lord
Aran there, we had a nucleus of democracy. By itself,
it was doomed -- and if it had survived, it could have

Christopher Stasheff

only been a dictatorship. But with a lord there, and
one who is a hero to all the serfs, there is the basis for
the restraints of tradition, and a functioning consti-
tution could emerge, complete with recognition of

human rights."

"It could," Magnus alllowed, "with careful guid-
ance."

"Yes, guidance. So we must support Castlerock,

mustn't we? Make sure that they can hold off the
lords, insinuate the notion that they can be recog-
nized as just one more ducal fief so that the peers can
overlook their existence -- and advise and guide
them, and through them, the rest of the planet."

Magnus nodded. "It should work out quite well."
"Yes, it should -- and since Siflot is already estab-
lished there, we'll have to overlook his peccadillo in
helping you and Lord Aran, give him credit for hav-
ing worked his way into the confidence of a group we
need to influence, and restore him to good standing

in the team."
Magnus nodded. "That would be the prudent

course."

"Yes, wouldn't it?" Allouene said, with some
irony. "You planned it this way all along, didn't

you?"

"No, not really," Magnus said. "I only knew that
Lord Aran was too good a human being to let die, and
that the ideals he represented had to be preserved. I
worked out the rest of it after the fact, while we were
on the run. In fact, I didn't realize how to bring it all
together, until we were safe on Castlerock."

"But once there, you took the final steps to make

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sure we'd have to support them." For a moment, bit-
terness showed; then Allouene was all demure
sweetness again. "We were honored to have you
with us, Magnus."

Magnus stood frozen, letting the surge of emotion
wash over him and recede. "So. You uncovered my
true identity."

"Yes. Something you said during our last . . . con-
versation . . . made me realize that you didn't sound
like the raw recruit you pretended to be."

Magnus shrugged. "I was. I learned a great deal in
training."

"Yes, but you already knew a lot more. We
checked the registration on your ship, found out it
was brand-new and from Maxima, made by
d'Armand Automatons, and that showed us where to
look. We asked, and your relatives were glad to tell
us what a wonderful young man you were, how help-
ful you had been, but no, you weren't part of the
household, just a relative from a frontier planet, but
that you couldn't tell them its name or location, be-
cause it was secret. That rang bells, and we checked
the files under d'Armand. You might have told me
you were the son of one of our most illustrious
agents."

Magnus felt the stab of mingled pride and resent-
ment that went with the recognition of his father's
status. "I hadn't known Rodney d'Armand ranked so
highly in the regard of his peers."

"Oh, he does, you may be sure! To turn a whole
planet toward democracy, without having to send for
a backup team? And to keep it that way, against the

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Christopher Stasheff

coordinated efforts of two extremely sophisticated
enemy organizations, with almost no assistance ex-
cept what he could raise locally? You bet he's fa-
mous!"

Magnus could have wished she had used some
term other than "raised." "Then you can understand
why I wish to be known for my own accomplish-
ments, rather than for my father's."

She softened considerably -- perhaps too much.
"Yes, I can understand that. But the long and the
short of it is, you grew up learning how to engineer
social change, didn't you?"

Magnus shrugged impatiently. "I suppose I did,
but I wasn't aware of it. It was in the air about me, in
the food I ate -- or at least, the conversations at table.
But yes, you're right -- once you had taught me the
basics that Father never thought to state outright,
once I began to try to work out such a puzzle for my-
self, it seemed to come naturally."

"And you're an esper, aren't you? A telepath and
telekinetic, and everything else?"

"Not quite. I'm not a clairvoyant."

"Oh, yes, but you are everything else! You've
known what I was thinking all along, haven't you?"

"No." Magnus shook his head emphatically. "We
don't do that. It's the cornerstone of our ethics. We
don't eavesdrop on other people's minds -- unless
they're enemies, or there's some other damn good
reason." He thought of his cousin the professor with
a pang.

Alloune stepped closer to him, very close, arms
down at her sides, frowning a little, peering up into

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his face. Magnus stood braced, though his body
seemed to thrum with the nearness of hers.

"You can tell what I'm thinking right now, can't
you?" she said.

Magnus's face broke into a sharp smile, amused.
"Yes, but it doesn't take telepathy."

She stared at him, paling, then turned away, flush-
ing. "I thought you were attracted to me. .. Magnus.
When we first met."

"And every time I've talked to you since," Magnus
said softly. "Oh yes, I've been attracted, painfully
attracted -- and you didn't just think it, you knew it."

She turned back to him with a lazy smile of
amusement, eyes half-lidded. "Yes, and it was won-
derful. Every woman wants to feel wanted. I was
quite flattered -- really."

"Why, thank you." Magnus inclined his head
gravely.

"Oh, can't you stop that?" she cried. "Can't you
drop your guard, just for an instant? Can't you talk to
me as man to woman for a little while?"

"Why, of course." But for a fleeting instant, Mag-
nus wondered if he still could. "However, if I did,
could you talk to me without thinking of me as a po-
tential asset? Could you talk to me without being
aware of how I could help you, be useful to you?
Could you talk to me as just Gar Pike, forgetting that
I'm Magnus d'Armand?"

"Of course I couldn't!" she cried. "Could you talk
to me without being aware of my body, my face, my
hair? What you can do, who your father was, they're
as much a part of you as my beauty is a part of me!

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Christopher Stasheff

Can you talk to me without being aware of what I

can do for you?"
"Of course," Magnus said, "beyond the immediate

and personal."

"Oh, so sex isn't part of what I can do for you!"
"I would be quite content," Magnus assured her,

"if sex was the only thing you wanted of me."

"It's not the same!"
"I think it is," Magnus said, "but even if it is not, it

is certainly analogous."
"Must you be so damn formal!" she cried,

clenching her fists.

"Yes," Magnus said, "I must. You know I must."
She glared at him, outraged, then remembered her-
self and dropped her gaze, forcing her fists to un-
clench, her emotions to smooth out. Finally, she
looked up at him with a smile that held some frac-
tion of her usual allure. "All right. If I do what you
want, will you do what I want?"

"No," he said. "That would be wrong now."

"But why!"

He gazed down at her for the space of ten heart-
beats while she glared back up, and he debated
whether he should say it or not, whether it would
hurt her or not, then decided that it would hurt right
now, but help her later.

"Because," he said, "it would need love."

She stared at him, her face slowly blanching, then
finally looked down, but he could tell from the set of
her shoulders how enraged she was.

"At least do me this much," she said, her voice
low and strained, not looking at him. "If you won't

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help me, at least don't louse things up for me. All
right?"

"Certainly." Magnus inclined his head. "I will
go."

She looked up, startled by the ease of her victory.
"Go? Where?"

Magnus shrugged impatiently. "Wherever the
mood takes me."

"Of course," she whispered. "You can, can't you?
You're rich."

Magnus didn't disillusion her. After all, he was
rich, in a fashion -- he could make gold whenever he
wanted to, or diamonds.

"I'll tell them to watch out for you," she said
softly.

"Thank you." Magnus bowed again. "That tells
me where not to go."

She smiled, amused for a second, solacing herself
with a small victory. "I don't believe you."

Magnus gave her a real smile in return. "You're
wise."

They stood a moment in silence, as the sun
painted the sky in voluptuous tones behind her.
Then finally she whispered, "Will you ever come
back?"

Magnus shrugged. "I doubt it -- but I'm not promis-
ing anything."

"Of course you wouldn't," she said, with irony.
Then she pulled herself together, turned the soulful
eyes on him, and made one last try. "I could have
loved you, Magnus -- but I'm hurt, I'm so terribly
hurt, by your turning against me."

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Christopher Stasheff

He realized the name of the game, the theatrical
aspect of it, and gave her the solace she was asking
for. "Forgive me."

"I might." She looked up at him through long
lashes again. "I could love you again, even now -- if
you could join with me once more, and help me undo
the damage you've done."

Magnus tried to look anguished. "But what about
the people? What about the sufferings of the ones
who are alive today? Of their children? Their chil-
dren's children?"

She stared -- this wasn't what she had been
expecting -- but she said, mournfully, "We have to
learn who we can help and who we can't, Magnus,
and be content with doing what little we can that
will someday result in everyone being free."

"But I cannot stand by and watch others suffer. I
lack the self-discipline." Magnus smiled sadly for
her. "I could have loved you mightily, Allouene -- but
the good of the people has come between us."

She held still for a moment, staring, her eyes grow-
ing large. Then she said, her voice husky, "Promise it
to me, after all -- promise you won't come back."

He bowed his head. "As you wish. Yes. I owe you
that much."

And the great golden ship fell down from the sky.

After he was aboard, after they had hovered over
Castlerock and dropped a parachute with a trans-
ceiver into Siflot's waiting hands, after the hatch had
closed safely behind him again, he turned away to
collapse into his acceleration couch and let the de-

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spair overwhelm him for a few minutes -- 
overwhelm, and recede, and dwindle. Then he could
think once again, and reflect in bitterness that love
had once more passed him by, that Cupid had once
again led him to a woman who was far more inter-
ested in using him than in loving him. He began to
suspect that the Archer had a grudge against him,
that True Love might be the reality for some, but
would probably prove only a myth for him.

Finally, he roused himself, sitting up a little
straighter and telling Herkimer, "Prepare to leave or-
bit."

"Prepared," the robot confirmed. "Where would
you like to go, Magnus?"

Magnus waved a hand. "Oh, someplace interest-
ing. Look through your files and see what you can
find."

"What parameters shall I look for, Magnus?"

"Oppressed peasants." Magnus's voice took on
strength and conviction again. "Dissipated, tyranni-
cal lords. Leaders who recruited a bunch of ordinary
people and went off with them to try to build their
own private kingdoms. Someplace where my life
might do some good."

"Searching."

So was Magnus.

263