A Wizard in Peace

CHAPTER 10

Miles would have run, but Ciletha cried out in fear, and he leaped to place himself between her and the skeleton. Gar and Dirk only stared, though, and Dirk said softly, “Well, would you look at that!”

“At a guess,” Gar said, “I’d say this Lost City was left over from the original colonists.”

“Left over for five hundred years! Amazing that it’s still working!”

Miles stared, and Ciletha cried, “What nonsense are they talking?”

Gar turned back and gave them a reassuring smile. “Nothing to worry about, folks. It’s just a machine.”

“Machine! Machines are huge ungainly things, like mills! This is a walking skeleton, a spirit of the dead!”

“Not at all,” Gar told them. “It’s a robot, a moving statue.”

“But where did they get a power source that would keep this thing going so long?” Dirk asked. “And how do they keep it working?”

“We are recharged every day, sir,” the skeleton replied, “and automated machines manufacture spare parts according to the templates on file.”

Ciletha gave a little shriek, and Miles nearly shouted in fear. “How can you say it’s not a spirit,” Ciletha cried, “when it talks?”

The featureless skull swiveled toward her, and the skeleton said, “This unit is equipped with a vocoder and a computer, sir, and is programmed to respond to human questions.”

“Nonsense,” she whispered. “It’s a ghost that talks nonsense!”

“There must be some reason to it somewhere,” Miles said, trying to sound reassuring. “If Gar and Dirk say it makes sense, it must—somehow.”

“What do you do if those humans attack you instead of asking questions?” Dirk asked.

“We immobilize them, sir.”

“ ‘We.’ ” Gar frowned. “How many of you are there?”

“Three hundred, sir. Half recharge by day, half by night.”

“Sentry duty?” Dirk tensed. “What are you guarding against?”

“Large animals, sir, and bandits—and others who might wish to enter the city to prey upon its people, or to find a living without working. That is our original programming.”

Gar frowned. “You obviously don’t take us for bandits.”

“No, sir. You have made no threatening movements, and though you carry weapons, you are clearly not coming in attack mode, nor with enough companions to constitute a threat.”

“It isn’t really a skeleton,” Miles whispered to Ciletha. “Its head doesn’t have eye or nose sockets.”

“No,” she said, eyes wide in wonder, “and it doesn’t have ribs, just a sort of flattened egg. But Miles, it gleams like polished steel!”

“Yes, it does,” he answered, “and I think it must be. I thought the old tales were just children’s stories!”

“You’ve guessed rightly,” Gar told the robot, “we’re not bandits. In fact, we’re fugitives looking for shelter. Can you take us into the city for the night?”

“I’m sure hospitality can be arranged, sir. Please follow me.”

The robot turned and walked away. Gar and Dirk clucked to their horses and followed, beckoning Miles and Ciletha along. They stared, then ran to catch up. As they slowed again, Ciletha asked, “What kind of men are they, these friends of yours, not to be frightened by that … thing?”

“Very strange men,” Miles replied, “though they’ve saved me from the bailiff’s men twice, and seem to be thoroughly good in every way. But I have to help them, too, because they don’t know very much about everyday life.”

“They seem to know enough about magic,” Ciletha said, with a wary glance at the skeleton.

“They’d be the first to tell me that it’s not.”

“Would you believe them?” she asked, with a skeptical glance.

“No,” Miles confessed. “Not really.”

They followed the robot for hours, or so it seemed, until the canopy of leaves suddenly fell away, leaving only isolated trees, and letting the moonlight bathe the stone towers that loomed high in the night.

The companions stopped involuntarily, catching their breath. The stone glimmered in the moonlight, giving the impression of a fairy city, a magical realm. Even though the towers were festooned with flowering vines, and every flat surface held its crop of brush and at least one small tree, the illusion of enchantment held.

The robot paused, turning its “head.”

“Why do you stop?”

“To appreciate beauty,” Dirk told it.

The silvery skull nodded. “Yes, a human concept. I confess that the word is meaningless noise to me, but the referent seems to take hold of your species at the oddest times.”

“And this is a very odd time,” Gar agreed. “We would like to see this treasure from a closer vantage point, sentry.”

“Of course, sir. This way.”

The robot found a trail where they could have sworn there was none. They followed slowly, scarcely able to take their eyes from the soaring towers.

“You’ve seen this before,” Miles said.

“Yes, but its spell still catches me.” Ciletha smiled up at the glowing spires. Light glittered in her eyes—or were those tears? “Maybe I won’t be afraid to go in, with friends about me.”

“Oh, we’re certainly your friends.” Miles stopped himself from saying that he wanted to be much more, then was amazed to realize how he felt about a woman he had only just met. “What was there to fear, though?”

Ciletha shuddered and would have answered, but the underbrush about them suddenly ceased, showing them a very wide gap in a high and gleaming wall.

“This is the gate,” the robot said. “Welcome to the city of Voyagend.”

“Voyage’s End—for a ship full of colonists.” Gar traced the line of the hill within the walls. “See how the buildings rise tier upon tier to the highest towers?”

Dirk nodded. “The ship’s still there, just buried. Think they planned it that way?”

“Almost certainly,” Gar replied. “After all, they didn’t have enough fuel to lift off again. Why not make their years-long home part of the landscape? That way, they’d always have it with them.”

Miles and Ciletha listened with wide, wondering eyes. “That right, sentry?” Dirk asked.

“You have guessed correctly, sir,” the robot said. “Will it please you to enter?”

“Hard to say,” Dirk said slowly.

Faint on the night breeze came the belting of hounds.

“On second thought, it would please me very much. Take us in, sentry.”

The robot led the way through the gate.

“Sentry,” Gar said, “there may be some men following us with dogs. Discourage them, will you?”

“Certainly, sir. I will cover your trail with a mild solution of petroleum derivatives—but I don’t think you need fear. These people may have discarded religion, but they are still superstitious.”

“Needs will out,” Dirk muttered.

“Certain primal drives always find expression,” Gar muttered back.

“What on earth are they talking about?” Ciletha wanted to know.

Miles shook his head, bewildered. “I don’t have the faintest idea.”

Gar suddenly reined in his horse. A pace behind him, Dirk asked, “Ghosts?”

“Not many, at least,” Gar answered, “and not malevolent.” If he had been alone, Miles would have run right then. With Ciletha beside him, though, he didn’t dare.

She looked about her, wide-eyed. “What’s he talking about? I don’t see anything, not even those odd dumpy people!” Miles looked down the long, broad, silent boulevard, glancing at each of the buildings. “If there were ghosts, I could believe they’d flock here,” he said slowly, “but I don’t see anything.”

“Would it matter if we did?” Ciletha’s voice trembled. “Where else could we hide that the hounds wouldn’t follow?” Her grip tightened on his arm, and truth to tell, it gave Miles as much reassurance as it seemed to give her.

Dirk pointed to the ruins of what looked like an ancient Greek temple, high above them on the hilltop. “That’s high ground, and it should have back exits.”

“A good choice,” Gar agreed. “Sentry, can you lead us there?”

“Of course, sir,” the robot said, and struck off along the boulevard. Gar and Dirk followed, so Miles and Ciletha had no choice but to go along, though Miles’s stomach hollowed farther with every step.

The boulevard led straight to a wide circular plaza that radiated a dozen streets. Without the slightest hesitation the robot went to the one that sloped up toward the “temple.”

“Odd to rise so,” Dirk commented.

“Yes, sir, but that straight climb was useful. Children used to delight in it when snow fell.”

Ciletha laughed, almost breathless. “How can I fear a place where children used to go sledding?”

“I can’t, either.” Miles grinned. “Especially if their ghosts are happy.”

“They are,” Gar called out ahead.

Miles frowned, and Ciletha asked, “How can he know if a ghost is happy?”

“He’s teasing us,” Miles told her. “There aren’t any ghosts.” He hoped he was right.

The street ran straight up the hill. “They banked this into a long, gentle slope when they buried the ship,” Dirk offered. Gar nodded. “They were building a toboggan run, not a roller coaster.”

“Their secret language again,” Ciletha sighed.

Miles looked at her and grinned. She was amazingly resilient—or very brave. Or both.

Up they climbed, up and up between buildings tinted rose and blue and gray in the moonlight. Empty windows stared down at them, but the buildings seemed to smile. More happy people than miserable ones had lived here. Behind them, the belling of the hounds became louder and louder. Miles couldn’t help but feel safe here, though.

Finally the ground leveled off, and they stood in a great circular plaza with the great temple-like structure towering before them. A long, long stairway led up to a doorway decorated with bas-relief carvings, but its grade was so shallow that Miles didn’t think it would be terribly tiring to climb.

“You must leave your horses here,” the robot told them. “Makes sense.” Dirk dismounted and tied his horse’s reins to a nearby marble post. “Let’s go.”

Gar dismounted too, and the companions climbed up toward the temple. The going was easy, but it was a long, long way at a constant climb, and Miles’s legs began to ache. He kept glancing at Ciletha with concern, but she seemed to have less trouble than he, only breathing heavily as she went, and he could appreciate that.

Finally the stairs ended, and the pillars of the temple loomed above them, far higher than they had seemed from the ground below. Miles stared up at them, awed.

Then the voices of the hounds broke into a frenzy.

“The animals have come out of the forest and struck your trail,” the robot informed them.

Miles turned, his stomach sinking—and saw bolts of lightning strike down from the towers, sheeting between the city and the hunters. He cried out in dismay, “I didn’t mean that people should die so I could escape!”

“None have died,” the robot informed him, with such total assurance that it raised the hairs on the back of his neck. “The energy struck far before them, but it has been enough to give them pause. You may hear what they say.” It made no move, but voices suddenly spoke, floating above the steps before them. The hounds barked and whined in fear, and a man’s voice called, “The hounds won’t go ahead now, bailiff.”

“I don’t blame them,” said a heavy voice that Miles knew. “Let them go, forester! If they’ve fled to that place, they’re as good as imprisoned.”

“Aye.” The voice became muffled, as though the man had turned his back. “Anyone who would flee here of his own free will, must be like all the rest of them.”

“Yes,” said another. “If they chose this place, what difference? Here or in the madhouse, it’s all the same.”

The noises of the dogs, and the men’s calls to them, faded, then stopped abruptly.

“Directional sound,” Dirk offered, “automatically adjusting the focal point.”

Gar nodded. “Parabolic audio pickups buried in the wall, at a guess. And that lightning would give them a good reason to stay away.”

“It would scare me.” Dirk turned to the robot. “How did the city know to keep them out, sentry?”

“Why, sir, because you had told this unit you were being chased.”

“So.” Dirk looked up at Gar, interested. “If we tell one part of the city, we tell it all. Central computer somewhere?”

“That sounds likely,” Gar agreed. He turned to Miles. “Why would our coming in here be the same as being imprisoned in a madhouse?”

Miles could only spread his hands, baffled. Ciletha shook her head, equally at a loss.

“Why not ask the people who live here?” Dirk asked softly. They turned and looked into the “temple.” Soft lights had come to life, showing them the line of dumpy-looking people in gorgeous clothing, stepping out to gather in the doorway of the temple.

Orgoru was suspicious of the strangers, as were all his fellow aristocrats, but when the Guardian told them the newcomers were being chased by a bailiff and his foresters, Orgoru felt pangs of sympathy. Then, when the moving picture on the wall of the great hall had shown them the foresters turning away, and they had heard the foresters say the fugitives belonged in the city, King Longar cried, “That is reason enough to trust them, at least enough for a night’s hospitality!”

“After all,” said an older duke, “the Guardian will tell us whether they really are our kind, or not.”

“Then let them stay one night,” King Longar pronounced, with regal largesse. “Orgoru, Prince of Paradime, the greeting is yours to give, since you are the newest come.”

Orgoru felt a surge of elation that overcame his shyness of strangers. “I thank Your Majesty.” He turned with the rest of them, following the king to the portal of the palace.

There he stopped, as they all did, waiting till the strangers turned to see them, and beginning to feel indignant because they seemed to be rapt in gazing out at the moonlit buildings, preferring them to the aristocrats. Finally they did turn, and froze. Orgoru smiled, feeling confidence return as the strangers stood staring.

“Orgoru, relieve their fears,” King Longar said.

“I shall, Majesty.” Orgoru stepped forward, hand raised to greet the newcomers. “Welcome to the city of Voyagend.” The youngest of the three stepped between Orgoru and the woman, but the tallest raised his hand and his voice. “I thank you for your welcome.”

“I am Orgoru, Prince of Paradime.” Orgoru made his smile as reassuring as he could.

The woman leaned out from behind the short man, staring, and Orgoru finally saw her face clearly. “Ciletha!” Then he was running out through the portal, princely dignity forgotten, to throw his arms about her. “Ciletha, you came back after all!”

“Oh, Orgoru!” Ciletha cried. Then her voice broke; she sobbed and clung to him.

The youngest stranger’s face darkened, and he turned away, but the tallest held him by the shoulder.

Orgoru looked up over his old friend’s head, stroking her hair, but remembering his duties as welcomer. “Who are you who seek our refuge?”

“I am Magnus, cousin to the Count d’Armand and heir to the Lord High Warlock of Gramarye,” Gar said.

Orgoru stared. Behind him, he heard a rustle of excited comment. No wonder; these folk were their own kind after all! “Show-off,” the middle stranger muttered.

“My apologies.” Gar inclined his head and gestured toward Dirk and Miles. “I am slow in my courtesies. These are my companions, the Duke Dulaine and the Marquis of Miles. I thank Your Highness for your hospitality.”

Marquis? Gar must be mad! Anyone could see that Miles was no more than a peasant! Miles glanced at Dirk for support, but saw that the other companion was only nodding with slow approval, and Miles’s mouth went suddenly dry. Was Dirk mad, too?

No. Of course not. These men were experienced travelers, and knew how to meet the situation. Miles tried to relax, but he couldn’t help wondering Why Gar had introduced himself as Magnus.

They took their places at the festive board, the visitors at the head table with the king, since they were of noble rank, and Orgoru with them, since it was he who had greeted them. Miles told himself sternly that he had no right to feel downcast; Ciletha had shown no interest in him other than friendship.

Gar picked up his cocktail fork as the bowl of prawns appeared at his place. He pretended not to notice that several of the “aristocrats” hesitated over the choice of silverware, then imitated their older neighbors. Gar turned to Orgoru, who was just picking up his cocktail fork after a glance at the king. “Ciletha tells us that you are only newly come to this city, Prince.”

“Indeed,” Orgoru replied. “Like so many of my fellow aristocrats, I was reared in hiding, disguised as a peasant.” He gestured toward the table with a self-deprecating smile. “We are clumsy and have much to learn that our peasant hosts couldn’t teach us, but we learn quickly.” The smile became more firm. “I have already improved my carriage and bearing considerably.”

“Carriage?” Miles asked in an undertone, not wanting Ciletha to hear. “He walked on his own two feet! And how could a human body have bearings?”

“Same word, different meaning,” Dirk explained, equally low-voiced. “By ‘carriage and bearing,’ he means the way he stands and walks—the way he holds himself.”

“How strangely they twist words,” Miles said.

“Have you indeed!” Gar’s voice was warm with admiration. “How have you learned so quickly?”

“Oh, by watching the other lords and ladies, of course,” Orgoru said, “but also by the magic picture in my suite.”

“Magic?” Dirk’s interest pricked up. “Does it show moving images?”

“Indeed it does,” said Orgoru. “I told it to show me pictures of lords and ladies moving about, and it presented me with a story called King Richard III.” He grew sad. “A tragic and noble story it is, of a right royal king overwhelmed by a base traitor and slain in his prison.”

“And the lords and ladies in it moved most elegantly,” Gar summed up. “But as I remember the play, there are peasants in it, too.”

“Oh, most surely, my lord!” Orgoru grinned. “They’re clumsy and ungainly in their movements, very much as I was when I came here. The Guardian showed me pictures of myself as I was when the others first brought me into this palace. Already I find them most amusing.”

“Yes, quite.” Gar glanced at Dirk. “Recorded pictures of events, you say? Who is this ‘Guardian’?”

“All have met him, but none have met him,” Orgoru said cryptically. “He is a spirit that lives inside a wondrously decorated wall. You shall speak with him yourself before this night is over.”

Miles noticed that he didn’t mention their having any choice. He glanced at Ciletha, and his heart twisted, for he saw she was suffering, and no wonder—Orgoru had scarcely paid her any attention since he’d greeted her, and kept making eyes at the tall, rawboned woman with the long face. She responded with roguish glances that looked frankly ridiculous in a woman of her size.

Gar noticed. “But tell me, Prince, why there are no children to be seen in this city. I see from the flirtations going on around this very table that your courtiers are certainly aware of one another romantically; do they never have sons or daughters?”

Orgoru stared, frankly at, a loss. King Longar saw, and stepped in with an explanation. “Love-games are constant, Count, and affairs are frequent—they combat the ennui which is the aristocrat’s constant bane.”

“I trust there are few marriages, then, or questions of honor would be rife.”

“My lords and ladies seldom marry,” the king confirmed, “and somehow no children are born of the affairs. The few children born of the marriages are always stolen by elves, alas.”

“Elves?” Gar’s interest focused. “Are you sure?”

The king shrugged impatiently. “Who can be sure, with elves? But the babe is laid to sleep in its cradle, guarded by several lords—for they are quick to serve one another in such wise, I assure you. In the morning though, no matter how wakeful and alert they are, the child is gone. What could it be but the work of elves?”

Gar and Dirk exchanged a glance; then Gar turned back to the king, nodding.

“Thank you for enlightening me, Your Majesty.” Gar inclined his head, as though the short, fat little man had a real aura of royalty about him, rather than looking like the village brewer.

“It was a pleasure,” the king said, with a condescending air that was ludicrous in so cuddly a body. He turned back to the table, and other conversations, with his back straight and chin high, and an air of nobility that contrasted so wildly with his physical appearance that Miles was hard put not to laugh.

“Tell me, my lord,” said Orgoru, “what does your father the Lord High Warlock do, to merit such a title?”

Gar launched into a very elaborate explanation that made absolutely nothing clear, then managed to ask question after question that drew responses from everyone else at the table, their eyes brightening and excitement entering their voices as the conversation roamed over history, literature, and politics. When the meal ended, conversation went on, the “lords” and “ladies” forming little knots of discussion, even though music called them to dance.

The tall, rawboned woman with the long face hearkened to that call, though, and swept over to Orgoru. Since he’d been glancing at her every few minutes, he noticed her immediately, and turned to give her a courtly bow. “Countess Gilda! May we have your opinion on the Hussite Wars?”

“Perhaps later, Prince,” the countess said, “but at the moment, I could not stand still; the music animates my feet.”

“Does it so? Why, then, allow me the pleasure of this dance!” Orgoru swept her up in his arms and swirled away with her onto the floor.

Miles and Ciletha, stranded at the high table, stared. “Did he always know that dance?” Miles asked.

“No! He never knew any dance! He has learned it in just these last few days—as he has learned to bow, and to hold his head with that slight tilt, to stand so straightly and walk so lightly!” Tears stood in her eyes. “But who is that horse who calls herself a countess? Who is she that plays at being a creature from a children’s tale? How dare she take him!”

Miles stared at her, then felt a rush of hope—she might be in love with Orgoru, but he felt no more than friendship for her, might even be in love with this “countess”! He felt shame, too, that he should be pleased at something that caused Ciletha pain, but there was no point in hiding it from himself—Gilda gave Miles an opportunity with Ciletha, and he had to admit to himself that he had already fallen in love with her. It was a strange and thrilling feeling, for he had never been in love before. He turned back to watch the two dancers—still easy to single out, though other couples were coming out on the floor to join them—and saw the sparkle in Gilda’s eye, saw the answering gleam in Orgoru’s, heard her hearty laugh and his throaty chuckle.

Ciletha, too, saw the interplay. She gave a choking sob and rose, turning away from Miles and rushing out of the great hall. Miles stared after her, taken aback. Then his heart overflowed with pity for her, and he leaped up to follow.