The Reign of the Brown Magician

Chapter Twenty-Eight

“He didn’t say what he wanted from us?” the Emperor asked, baffled.

The telepath replied, “Mr. Curran says it was his impression that Mr. Brown didn’t really want anything. It was his impression that Mr. Brown was depressed about something, and simply didn’t want to deal with us.”

“We don’t understand,” the Emperor said. “Ask Mr. Curran if he thinks further approaches might be more productive.”

The telepath did not reply for several seconds, as the question and answer were relayed. Then he said, “It’s Mr. Curran’s belief that further approaches by representatives of the Empire might be productive, but might equally well be disastrous-Mr. Brown is, Mr. Curran judges, in a state of extreme whimsicality, liable to do anything at all, for no reason whatsoever.”

“And he might launch another raid at any time?”

“So he said, your Majesty.”

“And he’s not returning the hostages?”

“He is not, your Majesty.”

“That’s intolerable. Really.”

“Yes, your Majesty.”

His Imperial Majesty George VIII marched back and forth along the antique carpet, thinking hard. “We don’t understand this man,” he muttered. “And we can’t send one of you to read his mind, because you can’t. And those spies of his that we spoke to knew nothing about him. He’s an enigma, an alien…”

He stopped pacing and looked up.

“What about his family?” he asked.

“His wife and daughter…” the telepath began.

“No, no, we know about them,” the Emperor said, dismissing Nancy and Rachel with a wave of his hand. “Does he have no brothers or sisters, no close friends we might interview?”

“I don’t know, your Majesty. There were the other Earthpeople who traveled with him…”

“Yes, there were!” the Emperor said, raising a finger triumphantly. “Yes, exactly! There were those women, what were the names…”

“Amy Jewell, your Majesty, and Susan Nguyen, and there was the madman, Ted Deranian.”

“Yes, well, a madman won’t do us any good, but what about the others?”

“Susan Nguyen appears to be living in the fortress in Faerie, your Majesty, and Amy Jewell has returned to her home on Earth.”

“Has she?”

“Yes, your Majesty.”

“And is she, by any chance, the one whose home lies almost directly below our arrival point on Earth?”

“Yes, your Majesty, she is.”

“Oh, that’s excellent, then! Fetch her immediately!”

The telepath blinked. “Your Majesty?”

“Oh, read our bloody mind, will you? It’s so much quicker.”

“Yes, your Majesty,” the telepath agreed.

* * * *

“They want the Jewell woman to talk to Brown,” Miletti said, between gulps of bourbon.

“What for?” the lieutenant asked, startled.

“How the bloody hell should I know?” Miletti shouted at him. He threw the glass of bourbon on the rocks at the lieutenant’s head, but missed. He glared angrily, then realized his drink was gone and snatched up the half-empty bottle, cuddling it close.

“How should I know?” he repeated. “How do I know any of this?”

He swigged bourbon.

The lieutenant watched him warily for a moment, then went to call the major.

* * * *

Amy marveled at her kitchen.

When the Air Force men had pulled out they had cleaned up, and had done, she had to admit, a better job on the kitchen than Amy had ever done herself. The place was spotless.

The rest of the house wasn’t quite so good-there was a cigarette burn on her couch, and some sort of brown stain on the carpet in the upstairs hall, though mostly it was all right.

The kitchen was wonderful, though; it shone, from the chrome faucets to the brass-plated doorknobs. They had even scrubbed the windows.

She looked out through the sparkling-clean glass at the remains of I.S.S. Ruthless, still lying out there in her yard.

She remembered someone saying that some of the machinery aboard was partly made of platinum; maybe she could salvage that and sell it to a jeweler?

Or maybe she could sell the whole thing to an amusement park somewhere-she ought to be able to get at least the cost of hauling it away.

“It’s still there,” Prossie said, as she leaned over Amy’s shoulder.

“A little bit of home, huh?” Amy asked.

Prossie shook her head. “Maybe,” she said, “but it’s not anything I’m nostalgic about.”

“No?”

“No. I miss my family, and I miss my talent, but I don’t miss being in the military. And actually, even though I miss being able to read minds, it’s nice to be alone sometimes, too, to know that my thoughts are my own.” She stepped back, away from Amy. “I don’t suppose that’s anything you’d understand-your thoughts have always been your own.”

“Well, the way you mean, yes,” Amy agreed, “but there were certainly times when I paid too much attention to what other people thought.” She hesitated, and asked, “Have you settled on what you want to do yet?”

“I want to study psychology,” Prossie said, “and probably become a therapist-that’s the right word?”

Amy nodded.

Prossie smiled wryly. “After all, I’m the only person on this planet who’s ever really known what other people are thinking.” She sighed. “But it’s going to be expensive, isn’t it? I’m still not used to worrying about money like this; back home…I mean, back in the Empire, I was government property, and everything I wanted was either provided for me or forbidden.”

“Maybe we can find you a scholarship somewhere.”

“I wouldn’t know how to begin,” Prossie said. “And after all, I don’t even have a…a diploma?”

“That’s the word,” Amy agreed. “But we can get you a GED easily enough, I’m sure.”

“I hope…”

Prossie stopped in mid-sentence, her mouth falling open.

Amy whirled, guessing even before she looked out the window what had so surprised Prossie.

The ladder that had unrolled out of thin air was still dancing and swinging, not yet settled into place.

* * * *

Pel stared moodily at the two Nancys as they sat talking over their dinner.

He hadn’t bothered to eat lately; somehow, it didn’t seem to matter. All the others had to eat, though.

Usually he didn’t watch, but he had happened along the corridor as the Nancys and Rachel and Susan were dining, and had looked in, and there they were.

He wondered what they talked about. Neither of them showed any interest in talking to him. The simulacrum was always ready and eager to do what he told her, but she wasn’t much of a conversationalist, in his experience.

And the revenant-he no longer thought of her as “the real Nancy”-was always polite, but disinterested.

Rachel was listening solemnly to both women. Pel had noticed that she seemed unable to tell them apart, and called them both “Mommy.”

Pel had no trouble distinguishing between them, so long as they were awake-their manner was sufficiently different that he could tell which was which the moment a word was said or an expression displayed.

But he wasn’t sure he cared any shy;more.

He wasn’t sure he cared about anything.

He had planned to go down to the dungeons and find the hostages, something he’d been meaning to do for a couple of days now, but now he reconsidered.

What did he care where they were, or what shape they were in?

What did it matter?

He was the Brown Magician; he could do anything he wanted, could have anything he wanted.

But he didn’t know what he wanted.

* * * *

No one answered at the number Major Johnston had given her; Amy slammed the phone down angrily, then picked it up and dialled again.

It rang and rang, without response.

So much for all his fine assurances!

She turned back to the window, bent down, and looked up.

A space-suited figure was climbing slowly down the ladder, with a white flag clutched in one gauntlet and an immense pack on his back.

That flag was promising; they weren’t coming in with drawn weapons. Amy still wasn’t inclined to trust them.

Major Johnston had told her to flee if any Imperials showed up, but he had also told her to call first, and she hadn’t gotten through. Didn’t the man have phone mail, or an answering machine, or something? It was incredibly inconsiderate of him to have stranded her like this.

She heard a car on the road out front, which was nothing unusual, and she would not ordinarily have even noticed it consciously-except this one stopped. She heard tires on gravel, and then the engine died.

She looked, but couldn’t see anything from her post in the kitchen.

“Here, you watch out back,” she told Prossie, handing her the phone. “If anyone answers the damn phone, tell them what’s happening.”

Prossie silently accepted the phone as if she expected it to explode at any second, and Amy marched through the archway to the living room, where she looked out the front window.

The car out front was dark blue, with “U.S. Air Force” stencilled on the door, and a familiar figure was climbing out.

No wonder she hadn’t been able to reach him at his office! He must have been on his way even before the ladder appeared. Miletti must have delivered a warning.

Why the hell hadn’t Johnston called ahead, to tell her he was coming?

She strode to the front door and flung it open, but before she could say a word, Johnston called, “Ms. Jewell! Are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” she called back.

She started to gesture and say more, but Johnston called, “We saw the ladder as we drove up-is someone coming down?”

“Yes,” she called.

Johnston turned and nodded to the uniformed man who had just climbed out the other side of the car. “Come on,” he said.

Side by side, the two men trotted around the house.

Annoyed, Amy stepped in and closed the door, then marched back through to the kitchen.

“He’s just reaching the ground,” Prossie announced.

She was still holding the phone; Amy took it from her and hung it up. Then she looked out the window over the sink.

Sure enough, the Imperial was on the ground and undogging his helmet, the white flag still in his hand. Johnston and the other man-a lieutenant, was he?-were coming into sight around the corner of the house.

The man lifted his helmet off and said something, but Amy couldn’t hear it.

Johnston answered, and she couldn’t make that out, either.

Damn it, she thought, this was her yard, and if people were going to talk here she wanted to hear what was said. The man looked harmless, and there weren’t any more coming down the ladder, she could see that for herself.

She opened the back door and stepped out before Prossie could say a single word in protest.

The man in the space suit turned to her the moment she emerged and said, “Miss Jewell?”

“Ms. Jewell,” she corrected him.

“You don’t have to talk to him, Ms. Jewell,” Johnston called.

“But I must talk to Mrs. Jewell,” the Imperial said. “That’s my assignment.”

Amy blinked in surprise. “What?” she said.

“You don’t have to be involved, Amy,” Johnston said.

“That’s all right, Major,” she said. “I want to hear this.”

The Imperial smiled, glanced at Major Johnston, then took a step toward Amy and began his explanation.

* * * *

“We could just leave him alone and hope for the best,” Sheffield suggested.

The Emperor nodded. “We could, Bucky,” he said, “but hoping for the best generally isn’t the best way to get it.”

* * * *

“You think I can talk sense into him?” Amy said, a hand to her chest.

“We think you have a better chance than anyone else,” the Imperial envoy said. “If you’re willing, I have a space suit in my pack that we think will fit you.”

“What about his…”

Amy stopped.

She had never met Pel’s mother or sisters, but she had heard him talk about them. His mother was not a well woman, and Amy couldn’t imagine how she would cope with finding out that not only were other universes real, but her son was now the absolute ruler of one.

And besides, that would take so long-locating them, and explaining everything, and talking them into it.

And she was curious-what had happened, all these weeks since she had returned to Earth? Miletti’s reports had given her a vague idea, but she didn’t really know, and she was curious. Why was Pel behaving so unpleasantly? What horrible things had the Empire done to him? What had really happened to Nancy and Rachel-had Pel been able to resurrect them?

And there was another point.

“Will you pay me?” she asked. “In gold?”

Johnston shifted his weight uneasily. The Imperial blinked in surprise.

“I’m sure that could be arranged,” he said.

“Good,” Amy replied. She started to say, “Let’s go,” and then remembered something.

Prossie was watching from the house.

“Can you get an Imperial pardon for Proserpine Thorpe?” Amy asked.

The Imperial frowned. “That’s the rogue telepath?”

Amy nodded, waiting.

“I don’t know,” the Imperial said. “I wasn’t authorized to say anything about that.” He looked unhappy. “Will you wait while I report in and ask?”

Amy looked at him, then at Prossie’s face in the kitchen window, then at Johnston and the lieutenant.

“No,” she said. “Let’s go. Major, would you please see that Prossie’s all right till I get back?”

Then she stepped forward, reaching for the Imperial’s pack.

* * * *

Pel was sprawled across his throne, staring up at the still-unrepaired hole in the ceiling, when he felt the space-warp in the Low Forest reopen.

Another spy, he supposed. He wondered idly what the spies were finding out that was worth reporting back.

Maybe he should go see for himself. Back before he had resurrected Rachel and the second Nancy, he had been thinking about touring Faerie; maybe he should do that. Nancy and Rachel weren’t interested, but who cared what they thought?

Maybe he should just kill everybody. Reduce the Nancys and Susan and Rachel to ash, and then go flying about frying anyone he came across.

There was the spy, coming through the warp. He could feel it.

He thought about going back to Earth, but if he didn’t bring Nancy and Rachel he would have to explain what had happened to them, and he might well wind up either in the loony bin or on trial for murder.

And if he did bring them, he would have to explain why they were so…so…so dead.

And he would have to live with them, and that house in Germantown was a lot smaller than Shadow’s fortress.

And his business must have collapsed into utter ruin long ago. If any of his clients still remembered him, it was probably as someone who had skipped out on a breach-of-contract suit.

Poor Silly Cat must surely be dead.

What was there to go back to? Here he was immortal and all-powerful…

A second person had come through the warp; that was a trifle out of the ordinary. The Empire had mostly sent singles, not pairs.

If he went back, and took Nancy and Rachel, and no one noticed how their personalities had changed, there were other differences that someone would notice eventually. It had taken Pel some time to realize, himself.

As far as he could see, their hair and fingernails no longer grew. Nancy hadn’t had her period since she died-Pel suspected that neither had Susan, but he hadn’t yet asked her outright.

He suspected that Rachel wasn’t growing, that she would remain six, physiologically, for the rest of her life.

Or maybe all of that had something to do with the magic here in Faerie, and would reverse itself back on Earth-but if it didn’t, how could he explain it?

A third person through the warp-how odd!

And if it did reverse…did that mean that they were immortal here in Faerie, but mortal on Earth? Could he ask them to give up eternal life?

He didn’t know what he could ask. They owed him their lives, after all.

And he didn’t know what would happen back on Earth.

And they wouldn’t give any opinion on the subject, they both insisted they didn’t care.

A fourth?

Pel blinked and sat up.

Maybe this wasn’t just another spy mission. He waited.

A fifth. Then a sixth. Then a seventh.

Then nothing; he waited, but no more emerged.

Still, seven people-that was really a bit much.

He decided to go see what they wanted.

* * * *

The Empire had obviously learned a few tricks, Amy thought as she looked at her escort.

Five of them still wore their gaudy purple uniforms and blond crew cuts, but there wasn’t a blaster in sight; instead, they carried swords. Very practical-looking swords. And they wore daggers on their belts. Two of them had crossbows slung on their backs, with bandoliers of quarrels.

The sixth man had the appearance of a native guide; he wore a gray woolen tunic with a purple armband on each sleeve. He had a dagger, as well, but no sword; he had been introduced back at Base One as Samuel Best, and although no one had mentioned a rank, and there was no sign that he was an officer, he was clearly in charge of the expedition.

One of the uniformed troopers was Ronnie Wilkins; it was a relief to know he had somehow survived and made it back to the Empire.

The other four she didn’t recognize; she had been given their names, but hadn’t remembered them.

Amy herself was wearing a sort of modified hiking outfit that the Empire had provided-purple T-shirt, leather walking shorts, black army boots. They’d offered her weapons, but she had declined.

Best and three of the others were sorting supplies in the clearing beside the mummified remains of Shadow’s bat monster, while Wilkins and the last stood guard, blades drawn, at either side. The space suits were all safely stowed in the wreck of I.S.S. Christopher, and stocks of food and clothing were being distributed and bundled for carrying.

“Too bad we couldn’t get horses,” one of the men muttered as he hoisted an immense pack.

“They’re working on it,” Best replied. “They’ve got a carrier now, they just don’t have anywhere to stable them at Base One. You need a lot of fodder.”

“Well, if they’d just brought them straight through, they wouldn’t need to feed them,” the other argued.

“Oh, yes, they would,” Best said. “You see any grass around here? We’re in the middle of a forest.”

“You could get out to the Downs before the horses’d starve.”

“Well, they didn’t do it,” Best said. “So we’ll just have to walk-assuming that Brown doesn’t come to us.” He turned and motioned to Amy. “Come on, Mrs. Jewell,” he said. “I’ve got the lead, then Howard, then you.”

“Which pack is mine?” she asked.

“None of them,” Best replied. “Orders-you travel light, in case you have to run for it. We take care of you.”

“That doesn’t seem fair.”

Best shrugged. “It’s our job,” he said. He trudged toward the trail to the west; a trooper fell in behind him.

The others waited, and Amy reluctantly followed.

The others fell in behind her, and the party of seven marched into the woods.

* * * *

Seven of them, and then the warp had closed again; Pel was baffled. What could a group of seven be doing? It was too many for spies, too few for an invasion.

Well, he would know soon; he could sense them in the forest below. He let the wind slacken, and descended slowly toward them.

The trees were in the way; he couldn’t see anything. Annoyed, he blasted a clearing ahead of the Imperial party, and dropped down into it.

* * * *

The light ahead seemed odd, Amy thought; there was a sort of sparkliness to it, something strange about the colors that filtered through the trees.

She didn’t think it was just the unfamiliar sunlight of Faerie.

She had forgotten how uncomfortable Faerie was, with its pale light and heavy gravity and thick, moist air. Going to talk to Pel had seemed exciting and noble back on Earth, or at Base One, but now it was beginning to seem stupid. She had made this two-hundred-mile walk once, and it had been hellish; so why had she volunteered to do it again?

At least she didn’t have morning sickness this time.

She was about to remark on the colors when flame erupted ahead of her, like a bomb-burst; she flung an arm up to shield her face as heat and light blasted at her. The ground shook, and a deafening roar rolled through the forest; the compression of the air washed over her like a great ocean wave, forcing her back. Her hair whipped out behind her, dragging her head back painfully.

“Oh, hell,” Best said, barely audible over the ringing in her ears.

Amy lowered her arm, expecting to see a blazing forest fire ahead.

Instead she saw a flickering, shifting mass of color, cloud, light, and shadow, like a Hollywood special-effects light show run amok. She felt a tightening in her chest.

“Shadow,” she said.

But Shadow was dead, she remembered.

“Pel,” she said.

And a voice spoke from the matrix.

“Amy?” it said, in a sound of thunder. “Amy Jewell?”