The Tor felt himself about to fall. Really, somebody ought to teach Gart to treat old men with more respect. Nevertheless he was determined to do what he could.
‘Norge, announce in Orison that I have taken command during the King’s absence. You are appointed Castellan. Make it heard. It is our only defense against panic. The people must believe that we still stand, regardless of treachery.’
Norge saluted equably, but the Tor ignored him. ‘My lord Prince,’ he wheezed as if his wounds were going to kill him, ‘we must leave this hall before Master Eremis sees fit to attack again. Come with me to King Joyse’s rooms. We have much to discuss.
‘I must discuss it sitting down.’
FORTY-ONE
THE USES OF TALENT
When Geraden actually recovered consciousness, he was sitting in one of Master Barsonage’s handmade chair.
He had opened his eyes before the mediator got him out of the hall of audiences; he had forced his legs under him, despite their awkward tendency to flop in all directions, and had carried most of his own weight during the walk from the hall to Master Barsonage’s private quarters; he had received the news of Terisa’s capture as if he understood it. Nevertheless he had no effective idea of where he was or what he was doing until Barsonage shut the door on Orison’s problems, positioned him in a sturdy armchair, and handed him a flagon of ale.
This room was familiar. And almost comfortable, like a restoration of old relationships, old truths. Master Barsonage was the mediator of the Congery. Geraden was an Apt – part servant, part student. That made everything simple. He had no worries, no responsibilities, unless the mediator assigned them to him. Unless the mediator explained them to him.
Simple.
Moving slowly because of the way his head throbbed, he accepted an automatic swallow from the flagon; then he drank deeply.
And then he remembered so hard that he nearly gasped.
Terisa. Eremis had Terisa.
‘We’ve got to help her.’
Perhaps he wasn’t entirely conscious after all. He wasn’t aware that he had spoken aloud; he certainly didn’t realize that he had dropped his flagon on the floor. He only knew that he was trying to get out of the chair, trying with all his strength, and Master Barsonage held him back. Braced over him, the mediator’s bulk was implacable: he couldn’t shift it.
Terisa!
‘Let me go. We’ve got to help her.’
‘How?’ demanded the Master bluntly. ‘How will you help her?’
‘The mirror I made.’ Geraden wanted to fret like a child, slap at Barsonage’s hands, wail; somehow, he restrained himself. ‘The one like Gilbur’s – the one I used to bring her here. I can shift it. I made it take me to Domne.’
‘What will that accomplish?’ The mediator continued to block Geraden’s escape from the chair. ‘Surely she was not taken to Domne?’
‘No.’ Geraden found it almost impossible not to yell or weep. ‘He took her to Esmerel. That’s where he’s been working all this time. I’ve seen Esmerel. I can make my mirror show that Image. I can use it to look for her. If I find her, I can translate her back.’
Let me go!
‘No. Forgive me.’ Suddenly, the mediator didn’t sound firm or implacable. He sounded grieved, almost wounded. ‘That will be impossible.’
Maybe Master Barsonage had stepped back. Or maybe Geraden felt authority rise in him like fire, giving him strength no one could oppose. He was no Apt, not anymore. Eremis’ enmity had transformed him.
Don’t you understand? He’s going to rape her. She’s an arch-Imager. He’s going to find some way to rape her talent.
Almost without effort, Geraden surged to his feet, pushed the older man back, cleared his own way to the door.
Yet the change in the mediator’s tone stopped him; it had more effect on him than a shout of rage or protest. Now that he could have left, he stayed where he was, caught.
‘What do you mean? Why is it impossible?’
‘Geraden, forgive me,’ Barsonage repeated. His grief was plain on his face. ‘In this, I have failed you badly.’
Just for an instant, Geraden hung on the verge of an explosion: he was going to spit outrage, batter the mediator into talking sense, do something violent. Almost at once, however, he pulled himself back from the edge. ‘Apologize later,’ he said between his teeth. ‘Just tell me what’s wrong.’
‘The truth was obvious.’ Master Barsonage wasn’t able to meet his hot gaze. ‘A child could have seen it. Of course you were able to work wonders with that glass. You brought the lady Terisa among us. You escaped into it, leaving no trace of yourself. We all knew of your talent at last—
‘But I did not think of your talent. I thought only of your guilt – or your innocence. And so I missed the obvious implication of the obvious truth. There I failed you.’
Geraden beat his fists against his thighs to keep himself from shouting, Get to the point!
‘I did not see,’ the mediator explained sadly, ‘that your mirror required special protection, either to keep it from you if you were guilty, or to preserve it for you if you were innocent.’ At last, he forced himself to look into Geraden’s face. ‘Some days ago, a riot took place. It appeared to be an outbreak against the Castellan – but by an astonishing series of coincidences its worst violence occurred in the laborium. During the tumult, several mirrors were shattered.
‘The only one of importance was yours.’
Distinctly, as if the admission were an act of valor, Master Barsonage concluded, ‘I have cost you the means to help the lady Terisa. You have no glass with which to search for her.’
Geraden found himself staring at nothing. For some reason, the mediator no longer seemed present in the room. Which was nonsense, of course, he was right there, with his chasuble hanging down his vast chest, with his face twisted in difficult honesty. Nevertheless the older man was gone in some way, erased from Geraden’s attention.
A riot had taken place. In the laborium. Against Castellan Lebbick. And mirrors had been destroyed. The only whole, perfect mirror which he, Geraden, had ever made—
He would need at least a day to make another glass. Eremis had Terisa. At least a day.
A riot against Castellan Lebbick?
‘You must understand how confused matters were to us in your absence.’ Master Barsonage was speaking earnestly, trying to explain. Maybe he thought an explanation would help. ‘First you were accused of Nyle’s murder. Then Nyle’s body was mutilated by means of Imagery, and the physician Underwell disappeared. Then Master Quillon was killed. That was clear evidence of the lady Terisa’s guilt – evidence which demonstrated your own guilt by association. The Castellan himself witnessed her power, as well as her alliance with Master Gilbur.’
No, this wasn’t working. Geraden didn’t need an explanation. Or he didn’t need this explanation. At least a day. Eremis had Terisa. If he could somehow have focused his attention on the mediator, he would have demanded, A riot against Castellan Lebbick?
‘And then,’ Barsonage was saying, ‘the Castellan himself began to insist on your innocence – on the lady Terisa’s innocence. Plainly, he had lost his reason. The King’s madness had at last driven Lebbick mad. And yet he insisted, when all Orison except the guard had turned against him. He insisted – but privately, privately, so that few could hear him – upon accusing Master Eremis, who had single-handedly saved us from an Alend victory by thirst.
‘What were we to think? Without doubt, the lady Terisa’s talent – and your own – gave us back our purpose. The meaning of the Congery had been restored. But what were we to do? Had she come to save us, or destroy us? Had you in fact murdered your brother, or were you innocent? Such questions consumed us. We were not concerned for the safety of our mirrors. Men who covet the power of Imagery do not destroy mirrors.’
Geraden had the impression that if he moved – if he so much as opened his mouth to breathe – he would at once fall into a pit of blackness. It
filled the room all around him, lurking behind the illusory images of Master Barsonage and the furniture. Everything he had ever done had gone wrong. Wasn’t that true? For all practical purposes, he had brought Terisa here simply so that Master Eremis could have her at the peak of his power, at the moment of her greatest vulnerability. What a triumph. The climax of a brilliant life. Everything had gone wrong since the day his mother had died, and he had sworn, sworn, that he was never again going to let that happen to anyone he loved.
Nevertheless he couldn’t stop trying. The bare idea of surrendering to Eremis made him sick. There had to be something he could do—
A riot against Castellan Lebbick?
Deliberately, he opened his mouth. Gritting his teeth, he forced himself to take a deep breath, focus his eyes on the mediator.
‘Why Lebbick?’ That wasn’t exactly the question he wanted to ask, but it was close enough. ‘Why did they turn against Lebbick?’
Master Barsonage shrugged his massive shoulders. ‘The maid Saddith.’ This subject was considerably less personal for him. ‘He beat her – beat her nearly to death. She was maimed by it.
‘She incited the riot to gain revenge.’
Suddenly, as if Barsonage had murmured the words and made the gestures to perform a translation, Geraden’s weakness was gone, banished. There wasn’t any pit of blackness around him: there was only a room he knew fairly well; a room which on this occasion didn’t have enough lamps lit, with the result that the corners were obscure, like hiding places.
‘Master Barsonage’ – Geraden was mildly astonished by his own calm – ‘why did he beat her? That’s where it started – the “series of coincidences.” What did she do?’
Geraden’s interest obviously took the mediator aback. He hesitated for a moment, as if he thought he ought to steer the discussion in a more useful direction. Whatever he saw in Geraden’s face, however, persuaded him to answer.
‘The story is that she went to his bed, the night after the lady Terisa’s disappearance. She said that she grieved for him in his distress and wished to comfort him. Those who were willing to doubt her – and they were few after the extent of her injuries became known – said that she offered herself to him so that he would elevate her above the position of a chambermaid.’
Again, Geraden wanted to explode. ‘And that didn’t warn you?’ he snapped. ‘It didn’t make you suspicious at all? Didn’t you remember she was Eremis’ lover? I told you that. I told you he’s been using her. Didn’t it ever occur to you that he might have sent her to Lebbick? What have you done with your mind?’
‘Geraden.’ Master Barsonage’s face turned hard; his eyes glittered. ‘You are no longer an Apt. No one could deny that you have become an Imager. Yet I remain the mediator of the Congery. I expect your respect.
‘I have admitted my fault. I did not foresee the danger to your glass. In other matters, however, I have not earned your anger.’
With difficulty, Geraden restrained himself. ‘I’m sorry,’ he gritted, unable to unclench his jaws. ‘I didn’t mean to offend you. I’m just terrified for Terisa.’ At once, he went on, ‘Do you mean you were suspicious of Eremis? What did you do?’
The mediator studied Geraden for a moment, then apparently decided to let himself be mollified. Shrugging again, he replied, ‘The relationship between Master Eremis and the maid was of interest to me, naturally. But it was a matter of inference only – hardly a demonstration of treachery. And his public display of loyalty was impressive. I might,’ he admitted wryly, ‘have dismissed my suspicions, inevitable though they were.
‘However, your brother Artagel came to speak with me—’
Geraden held himself still, waiting.
‘After the lady Terisa’s show of talent,’ Master Barsonage explained, ‘the Congery at last went to work with a will, showing the kind of dedication King Joyse has always wanted. Respecting the strictures he had placed upon us from the first, we began to search for tools of defense, ways in which we might preserve Orison, or even Mordant – methods to oppose or assist you and the lady Terisa when we learned the truth about you.’
Half-smiling, the mediator digressed to say, ‘Prince Kragen seemed on the verge of breaking Orison’s gates when you distracted him. I can assure you, however, that he would not have been able to enter this castle without my consent.’
Then he resumed, ‘In this work, Master Eremis at first took no part. He was assumed to be resting after the exertion of refilling the reservoir.’
Geraden held his breath.
‘The day after the riot, however, he came to me to announce that he was ready to take up his duties among the Congery.
‘He could not know that I had had a long conversation with Artagel several days previously.
‘Artagel informed me that – despite his own evidence – Castellan Lebbick was now convinced of your innocence. He was convinced of Master Eremis’ guilt. And his reasoning was persuasive. From Artagel, it was very persuasive.’
Master Barsonage signed. ‘Unfortunately, Geraden, there was no proof. There was no basis on which Master Eremis could be accused, no way it could be shown that the man who had saved us from Alend had done so for Cadwal’s benefit rather than our own.
‘Therefore I could not turn against him. I could not so much as deny him his place in the Congery, for fear that he would be alerted to my distrust. And yet I also could not further expose the Congery to his betrayal.
‘Geraden, I have not served you well – but I have served the King better. I concealed the Congery’s true work from Master Eremis. I lied to him about it. I allowed him to see no sign of it, play no part in it. He does not know how well prepared we are to assist in the defense of Orison.’
Geraden cleared his lungs slowly. His head was clear, and a number of things seemed to be growing clearer around him. After all, there was really no way Master Barsonage could have predicted that Eremis would use Saddith to start a riot in order to cover up an attack on his, Geraden’s mirror. But to keep the Congery’s work secret – to do practical labor on Orison’s behalf without allowing the knowledge to fall into Eremis’ hands— That was well done.
And Artagel trusted him, trusted Terisa. Even Castellan Lebbick had trusted both of them, despite Master Eremis’ manipulations.
There was hope. He didn’t know what it was yet, but he had the strongest feeling—
‘What did you tell him?’ he asked the mediator softly. ‘What kind of lie did he believe?’
Unexpectedly, Master Barsonage smiled – a grin so sharp it seemed almost bloodthirsty. ‘I told him that we have dedicated all our resources to discovering how our enemies are able to make use of flat mirrors without going mad.’
A muscle twitched in Geraden’s cheek. Yes, that was a lie which would be believed by anyone who was convinced of the Congery’s fundamental ineffectuality. ‘Wasn’t that true?’ he asked.
The lift of the mediator’s shoulders was like his grin. ‘There was truth in it. I have asked two of the Masters to concentrate on that question. The rest of us, however, have been laboring for more immediate results.’
Geraden felt his courage coming back to him, his hope growing stronger. ‘Good,’ he pronounced.
‘How did Eremis react?’
‘He offered his help.’ As he spoke, Barsonage lost his look of fierceness; it faded into a more familiar bafflement. ‘In fact, he proposed the most plausible theory I have ever heard. He suggested that the translations are done, not with one mirror, but with two. A flat glass is placed in the Image of another mirror, and then both translations are enacted simultaneously, so that the flat mirror functions like a curved one and therefore doesn’t exact the usual penalty.’
‘He told you that?’ Geraden was startled; his still-fragile self-confidence flinched. ‘Then it must be wrong.’ His own theory must be wrong.
‘It is,’ sighed Master Barsonage. ‘Did you know that translation pulverizes glass? I did not. Yet it is true. We have attempted M
aster Eremis’ suggestion three times, and each time the flat mirror was reduced to powder as it passed into the Image of the curved mirror.’
‘Glass and splinters!’ Geraden groaned. This was too much: he was wrong again; everything he thought he understood was wrong; Eremis was too far ahead of him. Hope was nonsense. He couldn’t hold his head up, face the older Imager. There was nothing he could do to save Terisa.
‘This surprises you,’ observed the mediator thoughtfully. ‘Not Master Eremis’ suggestion, but rather its failure surprises you. Geraden, you amaze me. You had already considered this idea for yourself, when no other member of the Congery had so much as imagined it.’
Eremis was playing with him, playing with all of them, using them in an elaborate and insidious game they couldn’t win, a game from which they couldn’t even escape because they didn’t know the rules. Like Prince Kragen in his audience with King Joyse, forced to play hop-board. At the mercy of his opponent.
But Master Barsonage was still speaking. ‘You have disguised yourself for years as Geraden fumblefoot,’ he said in a tone of admiration, ‘and now at last I learn that your talent is prodigious. You are able to do translations which diverge from the Image in your mirror. Ideas which astonish us are familiar to you.
‘Is there more, Geraden? Does your talent encompass other wonders as well?’
Geraden hardly heard the mediator. He was thinking, Oh, prodigious. Absolutely. They tremble when I walk into the room.
He was thinking, A riot against Castellan Lebbick.
Eremis wanted to preserve Orison for Cadwal. And no man could defend the castle better than Lebbick. And yet Eremis had sent his own lover to get beaten nearly to death, simply to generate a grievance against Lebbick, simply to make a riot possible, simply to make it possible for a riot to enter the laborium, so that Geraden’s mirror could be destroyed. All that risk for nothing except to dispose of Geraden’s only weapon.
Were Eremis and Gilbur and Vagel really that badly afraid of him?