The Visitor

  “So soon after his father vanished, too? Remarkable how it runs in the family. You, of course, have nothing to do with it.”

  “I do not know that my husband has the Disease. No one has suggested it,” she murmured. “But it takes those whom it will.”

  “I am sure he has it. I am certain someone will soon suggest it…”

  She flushed.

  “And how is our little golden bird?” the Hetman asked.

  “Less full of song than formerly.”

  “I’m sure you thank the Fell for that.”

  She swallowed deeply but could not keep from sounding strangled. “Of course, yes, I thank the Fell.”

  He made the sound, one peculiar to him. More like a gulp, she thought, than anything else, but not exactly that. More like a stone falling far down into a well, with echoes.

  “I can remember a time when you didn’t appreciate the Fell,” he said, making another of his sounds, this one a counterfeit chuckle: metallic, mechanical, the rattling of a metal door or the sound of a cage shut up, guh-khrang, guh-khrang, guh-khrang. “Well, most of his brides don’t appreciate him immediately. His ardor can be…agonizing. And then too, you were upset with your mother for bringing you to the Fell, and to me.”

  Rashel fumbled for words. She couldn’t lie. The dedication to the Fell had been a ritualized violation, repeated so often by its practitioners that they had acquired a dreadful proficiency at it. The wounds still hurt, some would never heal, and the Hetman knew it.

  Still, she did not dare tell the whole truth, the depth of her revulsion, her formless, furious intention to escape the Fell at some time, in some place. She temporized. “It was just that I felt annoyed she had not asked me first.”

  “Well, I’m sure you worked it out in time. And what of Ayward?”

  She allowed herself a lifted lip. “He teaches. He writes. He collects.”

  “Boring for you, no doubt. And our little bird still hops and chirps? Wouldn’t she be better in a smaller cage?”

  “She hops. She doesn’t chirp. As you once told me, Faience is a cage, and she is in it. The place is so isolated she’s no trouble, now that she’s given up talking all the time.”

  Hetman Gone showed his teeth. This was not an expression of pleasure but a voracious gape, accompanied by the lollop of a large, gray tongue. “I can understand why you would think so.”

  “Because it is so,” she said, unwisely.

  “No,” he whispered, like a hot wind, like a furnace, the word drying her skin, her mouth, her eyes. “Not because it is so but because you enjoy your career, you enjoy the power it gives you over people, those who have magic in their hearts for you to destroy. You like that destruction. You enjoy pushing your authority down the girl’s throat, like corn down a goose, every chance you get. It’s fun, torturing her. It amuses you, seeing her and Ayward together, both of them impotent to love or be loved. You think it a diversion, heh? Entertaining and tasty to see her grieve over the old man, and the younger one. That’s why you let her have her small freedoms, as an angler does a fish. The fisherman calls it play, as you do, but we know how the fish is tortured as it tries to escape the line.”

  As usual, she had overstepped. As usual, he had brought her back to her boundaries. “Having her there instead of locked up somewhere just makes it simpler, that’s all,” she murmured.

  The Hetman smiled more widely, a terrible sight, from which Rashel averted her eyes. “Where did Arnole Gazane go?” he asked, almost offhandedly.

  “I don’t know,” she answered, genuinely surprised.

  “You’re sure you had nothing to do with his disappearance?”

  “Nothing.” She raised her head and dared give him stare for stare. “I would hardly have compromised myself in that way. It did not further my reputation. In fact, it made some trouble with the Regime that I’m just now overcoming.”

  “Through your dear, dear friends.”

  She flushed, the heat of it lost in the greater heat of the fire. “Yes. Through my friends.”

  “Thank the Fell for the…skills you have learned that make you so alluring,” he said. “And your new project? The artifact under the Fortress?”

  She looked up, surprised. How had he found out about that? “The artifact, if it is one, is interesting, Hetman, but as yet no one knows what it is, or even if it is anything useful.”

  “One hopes you will be able to find out, since one put you in a position to do so.”

  She flushed. He? He had done it? She had thought her own merits had been quite enough to…

  He broke into the thought with a whisper. “In the vicinity of the artifact, it is possible a book will be found. I do not say it is certainly there, but it may be. If it is there, I want it, Rashel. I want it immediately. Ordinarily, I do not tell you what you must do, Rashel Deshôll. That is not my way. I have servants to do the things I do not wish to be bothered with, and neither do I wish to be bothered telling them how their duties should be done. If they are not intelligent enough to know, then they may feed the Fell while I find others. So, I tell you only the end I desire and leave its accomplishment to you. I tell you I want a book that may be found with the artifact. I tell you the day will come when I will need the little bird alive in my hand.”

  “She is caged, Hetman.”

  “Say ‘Master.’ I like it when you call me Master.”

  Rashel moistened dry lips. “She is caged, Master.”

  “Ah, good. See that no one leaves the door open, so that she flies away. See that nothing is found out about the thing beneath the Fortress that you don’t tell me, at once.”

  Rashel was in such inner tumult she did not trust herself to reply. Instead she bowed, lower than usual, to hide her flaming face. She made these occasional voluntary visits in order to avoid being summoned. Being summoned, sometimes days beforehand, meant she would have days of impotence and rage between the summons and the actual visit. Some of the times, including this one, the voluntary visits were almost as bad as the involuntary ones, and she raged nonetheless. With all the self-control she possessed she lifted her head and nodded calmly. “Of course, Master.”

  She could not hide her flush or her panting breath, and the Hetman smiled, mouth slightly open to show the huge teeth at the sides of his mouth. Rashel calmed herself with the thought that he resembled most some ponderous beast that habitually dined on carrion. Fell knew he smelled like it!

  “Run along,” he said, waving her away.

  Without daring an answer, she ran along, to vent her impotent rage upon Dismé and Michael and the shopping bags.

  Picture this:

  Rashel fleeing, almost running away from the grilled gate, skirts fluttering around her calves, shoes making a rapid tattoo upon the paving, face set and hard as she hurries to put space between her and her tormenter, while from the opposite direction another person sedately approaches that same gate. He is a neat, smallish man, though strong and agile, and not unattractive though a bit odd-looking, with a heavily corrugated forehead above a perfectly smooth face, as though the worries of an old man have been grafted upon the wondering tranquility of a cherub. His eyebrows are smoothly curved over thickly lashed and liquid eyes, his hair is smoothly brown, like polished wood, and his lips are as sensually curved as any courtesan’s. His name is Bice Dufor, and he is both the Warden of the College of Sorcery in Apocanew and one of Rashel’s dear, dear friends.

  Once admitted at the gate, he finds the corridors much shorter than Rashel always finds them. Once inside the lair, he meets with more hospitable arrangements than Rashel is ever afforded. He is provided with a glass of wine, a few biscuits, a seat farther from the fire.

  “I received your note asking me to drop by,” says the visitor, once he has been seated and provided with refreshments.

  “Yes,” murmurs the Hetman, softly. “It is kind of you to come to me, Warden. Alas, my poor bones still require this excessive heat for their functioning, and it is hard for me to move ab
out.”

  “Not at all,” murmurs the visitor, after a careful sip of the wine. When he first met the Hetman, the wine was marvelous, but evidently the Hetman has lost either his palate or his wine merchant, for the drink has become more execrable with every visit. Contorting his cherub lips into an almost believable smile of appreciation, he nods slightly. “I am happy to be of service.”

  “I wanted to inquire whether you have any knowledge of the device recently discovered under the Fortress in Hold? I have heard that something strange has been discovered there, and it struck a chord with some of my own research.”

  The Warden ponders, masking his need for thought by pretending another sip of the abominable wine. He has been told of the thing, whatever it is, but it has been only partially excavated and he knows little or nothing about it. He dislikes admitting ignorance, however, so he hums monotonously for a moment, as he decides what to say.

  “Hmmm, well, Hetman, it’s a bit early to say we know anything. It is said to be a monolith of glassy stone, or stony glass, as some say. No doubt volcanic. Hmmm. Black, with golden lights in it, which would lead me to suppose obsidian, if asked, though according to persons who have seen it, it is much harder than obsidian. Hmmm. They have only partly uncovered the thing, and they have been unable to detach a sample.”

  “Really,” murmurs the Hetman.

  The warden sees a strange gleam in the Hetman’s eyes, no doubt from the reflection of the fire. He continues.

  “Hmmm. Their failure is quite astonishing. However. The stone is not cut or shaped, apparently.”

  “And what do people say it is?” asks the Hetman.

  “It would be sheer guesswork at this stage, Hetman. Hmmm. They speak of this and that. An igneous extrusion. Perhaps an example of pre-Happening art. Some who have seen it believe sorcery is somehow involved, which surprises me.”

  “Surprises you? Why?”

  The warden sets down his glass and assumes an expression of thoughtfulness. “Well, I’ve spoken with Rashel Deshôll, the Conservator at Faience, about it. She’s a true Selectivist, much more inclined to exclude sorcery than to find evidence of it. Hmmm. She hardly ever finds any among the cases that are reported to her. She goes and examines and questions, and by the time she leaves, it’s evident there is no magic there, or none left, at least. Hmmm. If there ever was.”

  “Ah,” murmurs the Hetman. “If this is so, she is a strange person to be in charge of Faience, wouldn’t you say?”

  Bice Dufor, who believes he has had much to do with putting Rashel in that position, flushes very slightly. “Well, she may have swung the pendulum a bit far toward Selectivism, but then, previously, it had gone too far in the opposite direction. I know Ayford Gazane well. It was he who buried us in Inclusionism through his belief that almost everything pre-Happening is, hmmm, magical, his belief that we can utilize simple magic in simple ways, without resorting to the…ah…more arcane and difficult usages. He was plausible. He built a wind-sack once, out of tough paper and cloth, with a fire pan suspended under it, and it flew! I have heard him say that even the simplest things from pre-Happening times have to be magical because of the magical age from which they came. He has a little saying, ‘Sorcel-sticks require no spell…’” Bice heard himself chattering and ceased.

  “Madam Deshôll is perhaps a little too restrictive the other way, a little too driven toward the esoteric, but hmmm…we feel things will even out…”

  The Hetman nods. “Well, it’s all very interesting. I do hope you’ll keep me informed about the device, if it is a device. In the meantime, in my research, I came across some enchantments that are new to me, and I thought I ought to pass them along to you.” The Hetman draws a folded sheet of parchment from a carved box on the table beside him and holds it out to the warden, who rises to take it from him with a peculiar combination of reluctance and avidity. He seats himself and unfolds the stained and tattered sheet.

  “Where you find such marvels!” He does not intend it as a question, but the Hetman answers, nonetheless.

  “I have agents, out in the world. They find things for me. Have you tried those other spells I gave you? Did they work out well?”

  The warden murmurs distractedly, “Oh, yes, yes. The will-bending spell, particularly. I’ve used it on one of the janitors at the college. Hmmm. Man was both rebellious and insolent! Now, he does better work than any of the others, doesn’t raise his eyes above his shoes, works overtime without pay, doesn’t even stop to eat unless I tell him to. I’m looking for an opportunity to use it again, in a way that may be more significant.”

  “You had no trouble with the ingredients?”

  “The heart’s blood of virgins…hmmm…was a trifle difficult to obtain, but nothing we couldn’t manage. There are always some dying children ready for bottling, and I took it from them just before the demons arrived.” He looked up, abruptly angry. “The demon had the unmitigated arrogance to be short with me about it. Said I had no business killing them before he got to them.”

  The Hetman waves his fingers. “I knew you’d manage somehow. Now, this new material is fascinating stuff. I’ve included the list of ingredients for you. Every one of these spells works. Every single one. And they work every time.”

  The warden says, “This invisibility spell calls for body parts from living women.”

  “Nothing really crippling,” comments the Hetman, dismissively. “A hand. A foot.”

  The warden muses for a time. “I suppose when someone is bottled, we could take a finger or an ear…”

  The Hetman shakes his head. “Oh, tsk, no, no. You misunderstand what the formula calls for. The woman must be still living, still walking about, still actively engaged in her life. Not someone who is to be bottled. No. That negates the spell entirely. You only achieve invisibility if the woman who donated the body part is still quite alive and active.”

  “But we say anyone in a bottle is alive…”

  The Hetman speaks very softly. “Believe me, Warden. I know what you say, but this spell doesn’t work on what you say. It works on what’s real. What’s in a bottle isn’t a living person—it’s living tissue, and that’s a different thing.”

  The warden recalls a dozen rebuttals to this, all provided by the Dicta, but he discards them as unworthy of mention. “This requires that we maim someone who’s healthy,” he muses. “It is not an unheard of thing. One can always pick someone useless to take the hand from.”

  “You have slaves, don’t you? Girl children you’ve captured? Others you’ve taken during your expeditions outside?”

  “As a matter of fact…Yes. Just recently we’ve been doing a good bit more of that.”

  “Ah,” says the Hetman, leaning back in his chair, his voice purring. “Tell me about it?”

  The warden nods. “We’re sending teams across the borders to make converts and bottle people who are dying. It won’t be long before the army will be ready, and we’ll move out across our borders in force in order to bring the blessing of Sparedness to the whole world!”

  “I wonder why now?” purrs the Hetman.

  The warden frowns. “I’ve wondered, too. Do you suppose it has something to do with the thing in the north? It’s moved.”

  “Moved?” The Hetman freezes in startlement.

  This is the first time the warden has seen him react so. He says smoothly, as though it is unimportant, “It left the northlands some time ago to move down the coast under the ocean, and now it’s come up on the shore near Henceforth.”

  The Hetman sits like stone. After a long pause, he smiles. “I wish I were as young as you. It would be interesting to be involved in this great work of yours. Take the spell along. Whether you can use it right away or not, it’s still of interest, if only as a curiosity.”

  “I cannot thank you enough…”

  “You do keep the spells in a safe place, all together, do you not?”

  “As you directed, of course. In my office. All in one place.”

&
nbsp; The Hetman voices his guh-krang guh-krang, his unamused amusement, “That’s good. Very good.”

  The warden rises, bows, and departs with the parchment tightly gripped in one fist while the Hetman lifts a nostril at the still full glass that had been served to his guest, who was not yet sufficiently dominated to have drunk it. Then he amuses himself for a few moments wondering who of the faculty of the College of Sorcery will next fall into his hands through the use of magic which is, though not so identified on the face of it, very selective and very dark indeed.

  Then he remembers what was said about the thing that had been in the north, now coming ashore near Henceforth, and the grin vanishes from his face to be replaced by an expression of obdurate, relentless fury.

  19

  nell latimer’s book

  The time is growing short. Emergency relief supplies are being produced by factories running seven days a week around the clock. The survival warehouses are being stocked with food for both humans and animals, insulated clothing and blankets and foam igloos stacked up like eggshells—even in the warmest parts of the country. One thing the planners have been told: The future, if any, is going to be damned cold.

  Television has been hammering away at the techniques of surviving blizzards, of getting clean water in case of floods or earthquakes, of disposing of waste if systems break down. Every household has received a survival manual printed by the EPA, despite harangues on government wastefulness by certain congressmen who haven’t yet caught on to the fact that their current term of office is going to be their last. The big quake that killed a quarter of all Californians is recent enough that people are very high on preparedness. Instead of screaming about government waste, they’re giving the administration credit for its foresight.

  It’s crazy. The populace knows the Bitch is coming, they know it’s going to hit, but by and large they believe it will hit somewhere else. All the “preparedness” is for things that will happen to other people.