The Windrose Chronicles 2 - The Silicon Mage (8 page)

“But all support doesn't come from money alone. Popular feeling plays a great part in it, especially now...”

     “And so it shall,” the wizard responded kindly. “It's why I asked you to extend your invitation to both your cousin and his bride today. The            Lady Pellicida is surprisingly popular...”

     Cerdic's plucked eyebrows lifted. “Pella? That overdressed, homely gawk of a girl?”

     “They see in her one more victim of your cousin's evil.” He shrugged.

    
“As indeed she is. When you have your conference with the Regent, then I shall speak to Pella, to offer her your support and help.”

“But...” The Prince frowned, genuinely concerned. “I can't allow you to endanger yourself by remaining. Indeed, the Regent might have with him one of those disgraceful catamites he keeps about him. He often brings them with him. That poor girl! If you're seen here—if word gets to my cousin that you're one of the mageborn... Your person is too precious to go into such peril alone!”

Suraklin smiled, like a saint making light of an impending martyrdom, but there was an amused glint in his eye, as if he snickered up his sleeve ruffles at his patron. Had he done so, she wondered, suddenly angry, at her belief in him and at Caris' love? “Do you think I cannot deal with such matters?” he asked mildly. “You'll see; there will be no danger or certainly not much. And in any case, it's your cause I'm thinking about, my Prince, not mine.”

And if you were Pinocchio,
Joanna thought sourly, the Prince would have just gotten impaled on about seven feet of nose.

The two men strolled back to the French window together, talking quietly of a masked ball to be given by the merchant noble Calve Dirham the following night; against the misty brightness of the glass, Joanna saw with some surprise that Suraklin and Cerdic were the same height. She had gained the impression that Gary's very body had altered and that he was taller, thinner, older—so much older. She knew Gary was thirtyfour, ten or twelve years older than Cerdic at the most. But those brown eyes, with their disquieting yellow glint, were the eyes of fathomless age.

The hold of Suraklin over the minds of those he sought to control was almost unbreakable. She had been warned of it, over and over again; she had seen it only yesterday, in Caris's stubborn adherence to his love for the old man. She was far too familiar with it to believe that the credulous Cerdic could be convinced to help her, or indeed to do anything but turn her over to Suraklin.

The thought made the sweat trickle down her sides under the forestgreen satin of her gown. Jesus Christ, she thought suddenly, if he's here at Court, he'll be maneuvering to get Antryg's death expedited. The fact that to do so he would probably have to go through the Regent, suspicious of all mages, didn't matter. She'd had devastating experience with the Dark Mage's abilities as a manipulator. I have to get Antryg out of therel

But without support of any kind, she could see no way that she could.

There's nothing further I can do in Angelshand,
she began, falling subconsciously back into programmer mode and groping for a next step to get her beyond the panic that began to hammer in her chest. First, I have to touch Magister Magus for a monster loan. Second, I have to get to Kymil...

“My lord,” the majordomo's voice said from the inner door. “His Grace the Prince Regent is here.”

Cerdic laid a hand on Suraklin's sleeve and said softly, “Do be careful, lord wizard.” Turning, he hastened across the room and out into the main hall beyond. With an ironic smile, Suraklin slipped through the French doors onto the terrace.

Oh, swell,
Joanna thought, weak with fear. So now I have a choice of splitting and walking smack into him outside or staying where I am and getting rousted out by Pharos' sasenna, if they decide to search the room... Holy Christ, Pharos will recognize me, tool She leaned her head back against the paneling behind the drapes, caught between panic and an ironic understanding of the impulse to pound one's head against a wall.

But stronger than either of those was a violent and personal loathing for the wizard Suraklin. Seeing him at San Serano, in Gary's body, was one thing; while he was imitating Gary's mannerisms it had seemed, at times, that it was in fact only a segment of Gary. She had known that Gary was dead. But not until now, not until she had seen Suraklin as Suraklin, gesturing casually with Gary's hands and smiling his lies through Gary's mouth, did it come home to her that Suraklin had killed Gary for his body and the contents of his brain as surely and as offhandedly as he'd have killed a rabbit to make slippers out of its skin. In the last year she hadn't liked Gary much and, reading his programs and the motivations and thoughts that had watchspringed his actions, she liked him less. But her dislike of him in no way altered the callous brutality of his murder.

The door opened. The elderly majordomo ushered in the Prince Regent Pharos Destramor, Heir to the Empire and its de facto ruler, small and dainty as ever in his gold-laced black velvet and leaning on the arm of the prettiest teenaged boy Joanna had ever seen. Only a year or so younger than Caris, the boy was darkly handsome in blueberry silk; but unlike Caris, he appeared highly conscious of his own good looks and preened himself at the Prince's every admiring glance. Behind them walked a girl of about the same age, fully as tall as the Prince's companion and nearly a head taller than the Prince himself, her coarse black hair curled unbecomingly around a dark, strong-featured face, wearing far too much makeup and an overdecorated pink satin gown. A pampered-looking lapdog trotted at her heels, like a minaturized Borzoi with a diamond collar on its neck.

The Black Mare, Joanna thought, looking at that broad-shouldered, big-boned figure. It was a cruel nickname and regrettably apt. Only at second glance did Joanna see how young she was.

The Regent and his eromenos had come to stand near the fire. The perfume they wore was rank and sweet in Joanna's nostrils. The girl Pellicida lingered awkwardly in the background, and Joanna saw a private smirk of triumph at having shut her out slip between the Prince's pale-blue, paint-crusted eyes and his boyfriend's violet ones. The boy whispered something and glanced; the man giggled.

At that point the lapdog, sniffing exploringly around the room, reached the wall niche in which Joanna had taken refuge. It cocked its feathered ears toward her. Joanna had one instant's total fright; then the Prince said, loudly enough for his miserable bride to hear, “Useless bitches, all of them.” He knelt and snapped his fingers peremptorily. “Kysshenka—Kyssha...”

The little dog, her attention diverted from Joanna, trotted obediently over; the Prince's soft hand stroked the tiny head. “Mangey little ragmops—this one and those two fat pugs. I've always wanted to shave the lot of them...”

“Stop it,” Pellicida said from the other end of the room. Hearing her voice, the little dog made an effort to get away, but the Prince, with that surprising quickness of hand Joanna had noticed in him before, caught the scruff of the slender neck.

“Stop it,” Pharos mimicked in a nasal whine and added to the dog, “Bite me, would you?” as the little creature, panicking, made a hesitant nip or two at his sleeve ruffles, though it was obvious she knew full well she was forbidden to bite humans. There was a look of terror and horrible dilemma in her enormous brown eyes.

Pellicida strode down the length of the salon, her vast carnation petticoats bringing down a small table unnoticed in her wake. “Let her go.”

“Why should I, my little Princess? She's my dog, after all—as all your property is mine to do with as I choose. If I decided to set that fluffy little tail on fire...” He caught the dog Kyssha's feathery tail in his other hand and pulled her by it toward the blazing hearth.

Whether he would actually have thrust the terrified lapdog's tail into the fire or not Joanna never found out, though she had her suspicions. This was because Pellicida, reaching him, grabbed him by the shoulder of his coat and hauled him to his feet, making him release the dog in sheer surprise. With the other hand she delivered an open-hand slap across his face that staggered him back against the marble mantel.

For an instant Joanna thought he would strike at her; from where she hid in the thick folds of the niche curtains, she could see him pressed against the pink and white carvings like a snake coiling, an ugly red bruise mottling his pasty skin. Pellicida faced him, tears of anger blazing in her hazel eyes. Kyssha, flattened against her mistress' skirts, seemed to sense the violence of his rage and bared her tiny fangs in a soprano growl.

Quietly, Pharos said, “You'll regret that.” He walked unhurriedly past her and out the hall door, his boyfriend hurrying solicitously in his wake. The Princess looked after him until the door shut. Then she crumpled down onto one of the settees near the fire, gathered up the dog who had jumped immediately into her arms, and began to cry.

As in her dream of the Silent Tower, for an instant Joanna felt trapped where she was, held from comforting this big, dark, homely child by her fear of discovery should Pharos come suddenly back. To hell with that, she thought, stepping out of the dusty tangle of crimson curtains. Anybody who has to put up with that kind of public humiliation every day needs all the help she can get. She was halfway to the settee when a shadow crossed the garden windows and the dog Kyssha raised her head with a quick, high-pitched growl. Looking across at the tall, narrow bands of window light, Joanna recognized Suraklin's returning shape.

The Princess had seen him, too. Still holding Kyssha in her arms she got quickly to her feet, stumbling when she trod on the hem of one of her flowerlike layers of skirts, and headed for the curtained niche by the fireplace, blundering straight into Joanna.

For an instant the two women stared at each other, startled and disoriented; then Joanna turned back and made a dash for the niche, the tall Princess at her heels.

“I can't let him see me!” Joanna gasped, and Pellicida shook her head in agreement and felt quickly behind the deeply carved molding of the wall panels at the back of the niche. A narrow door opened.

“Through here,” whispered the Princess. “I can't let him see me, either.”

The panel slid back into place behind them, the sigh of air settling from beneath the heavy drape as Suraklin the Dark Mage was left to enter an empty hall.

“Why not?” asked Joanna quietly. “Gaire, I mean.” She used the name Cerdic had called him.

Pellicida glanced quickly down at her, then away. After a moment she let out her breath in a sigh. “It isn't important.” Her mouth trembled on the words, but she pursed it closed.

The sliding panel had admitted them into another room along the garden side of the house, this one a sort of private bookroom-cum-study filled with Cerdic's usual collection of statues of the Old Gods, tomes of cantrip and quackery, star-mandallas, and armillary spheres. From it the two girls had stepped through another French window into the gardens, crossing to the nearest copse of trees and taking one of the winding paths that would lead, eventually, to the other palaces of the grounds and to the outer gates where Magister Magus' coach awaited Joanna. In spite of the sharp-edged sunlight, the afternoon was quite cold, but by tacit consent neither suggested returning to search for their cloaks.

The Princess snifiied, and Joanna dug into the deep pocket of her dress for a clean handkerchief to offer her. Pella was not the delicate type of girl who could cry without rendering herself hideous; her nose was swollen, and her face, under a layer of half-wiped-off cosmetics, reddened in fading blotches. Kyssha, trotting at the hem of her swagged petticoats, looked up at her and whined in concern, and Pella reached down and took the little dog into the crook of her arm.

Joanna sighed. “I realize this is a stupid question under the circumstances, but can I do anything? Short of murdering Pharos, that isthough honestly I don't think Cerdic would be an improvement as a ruler.”

Pella glanced quickly at her again, as if to reassure herself of the jesting tone in her voice. In spite of the japes about it, her height wasn't excessive, though at five-nine or so she was a head taller than Joanna and the diminutive Prince. It was her air of hesitancy which made her seem clumsy and outsize, something not helped by the bouffant extravagance of her gown. “It's all right,” she said wearily. “I suppose I'd agree with Gaire about—it—if I didn't know what kind of ruler Cerdic would make.” She gave her eyes a final wipe, completing the ruin of her makeup, and stroked Kyssha's head protectively. The little dog licked at her hands and whined again, shivering in the sharpness of the wind. Pella's mouth twitched in a bitter expression far older than her years. “Do you know Gaire well?”

“I did,” said Joanna softly. “Once.”

“I didn't know he'd come back.” They emerged from the trees into a long, formal parterre which must have been like close-napped green velvet in the summer, brown now and edged with naked trees gray as pewter in the changeable brightness of the day. “Tell me about him.”

Joanna shook her head. “I don't know if I can. It's—it's hard to explain.”

“I have to know.”

The urgency in her voice and the intentness of those hazel-green eyes stopped Joanna. She stood looking up at the girl, sensing the echo of that hateful sensation of knowing but of having no proof. Suraklin must have tried to put the influence of his mind over hers; she had fled him, not knowing why.

Then, rather quickly, Pella looked away. “He comes and goes. Nobody knows anything about him. Except what signifies—that he's Cerdic's latest fad, his 'Spiritual Advisor,' which is what he calls himself so no one can point to him and say `wizard.' But he is a wizard, isn't he?”

“Yes,” Joanna said softly.

Pellicida let out her breath in another short little sigh and stood for a time, cradling her little dog in her arms, staring out across the two acres of flawlessly smooth brown lawn toward the gilded roof trees of the Imperial Palace, visible beyond the cindery lace of the trees. “He made me...” she began, and broke off. Then she said, “I didn't even like him—I didn't understand what happened. I haven't—haven't ever been in love, but I didn't think it could be like that. It was a spell, wasn't it?”