Dominion

TWO

The applause swept up enthusiastically, quite loud for the few dozen people in the audience. As plainly as if he could see her, Simon Hill knew what the woman in the tenth pew back, the most recent volunteer, looked like now: half pleased, half nervous, entirely mystified. It was all in the sound of her voice as she had to agree that it was indeed a diamond wedding ring that she had been holding in her fingers. Like most subjects she was glad that the trick had worked successfully, and at the same time she felt a core of resentment, perhaps unconscious, at not being able to figure out how it had been done. If Simon had explained the banal truth to her, about the elaborate voice-code established between magician and assistant, she would have felt quite disappointed.

It was the end of the performance. They’d done enough, though not quite everything planned, and he had to end it on a burst of applause like that, even though there was some chance of a certain kind of trouble whenever a mentalist failed to finish on an illusion-breaking note of farce. Signalling Margie by his gesture that they were cutting it off right here, Simon turned back to face the audience, meanwhile pulling off his white, thick blindfold, blending the two actions expertly into a sweeping bow. Margie, tripping lightly back from her place at the side of the last volunteer, took Simon’s outstretched left hand and joined him just in time for the second bow. The organ, in its loft far in the rear, sounded a long chord of finale.

Simon Hill was standing in the chancel of the great chapel of St. Thomas More University, on the lakefront on the north side of Chicago. A few spotlights, mounted under an immensity of gray pseudo-Gothic vaulting almost a hundred feet above his head, picked accurately down at him and Margie where they stood, rather like Our Lady’s juggler in the old fable, before the flat, plain, modern altar table. Some of the more liberal faculty members had been arguing for some time that if it was all right to perform The Play of Daniel here in the chapel, then why not also some other entertainment of the medieval tradition? Simon had heard the president quoted as objecting that if a conjuror were to be allowed this year, then next year someone would be milking a goat in the nave as well, in authentic medieval style; but eventually the liberals had prevailed, and here was Simon the Great working and getting paid. All the performances here were after all supposed to have something to do with the Summer Medieval Festival, and, short of goats, what more fitting than a jongleur of some kind in the cathedral? A mind-reader in the chapel came close, anyway.

Still hand-in-hand with Margie, Simon was taking the fourth or fifth bow, to gradually diminishing applause, when a pale, masculine face toward the rear of the occupied section of pews caught at his eye and then tried to catch at his memory. The face and the short figure that went with it were undoubtedly familiar. But they were so out of context here that it was hard to assign them a name or a relationship.

The applause, following the one law that inexorably governed it, died out, and with that the bowing had to cease also. Five or six people, mostly from the front pews, hesitantly moved forward to offer what promised to be more personal praise and congratulations. The pale-faced man in the rear edged forward too, but tentatively, as if he were modestly willing to wait until the others should be done, and only at this point did recognition of that face come. It brought something of an inward chill. Almost fifteen years, Simon counted up mentally, since he had seen that face. It hadn’t changed noticeably in fifteen years.

From the corner of his eye he noticed Margie’s face turn toward him, and he realized that his grip must have just tightened on her hand. Simon squeezed her fingers once more, this time lightly and reassuringly, and then he let her fingers drop. Together he and Margie nodded and smiled and murmured thanks to the people who had come forward to speak to them individually. Just as the last member of this group was moving up with timid determination to confront Simon, Father Gibson, the evening’s MC, approached also. With his microphone on its long cord looped round his sport-shirted neck, he was obviously eager to get in a few remarks before introducing the evening’s main event.

The last member of the group who had come up from the audience was a middle-aged woman, well dressed. Simon at once recognized not her but the look in her eye, and his heart sank a trifle.

“I’m sure you have some remarkable powers,” the woman began, with a quiet earnestness that he found frightening.

Simon shook his head, and smiled deprecatingly. “It’s all trickery, ma’m, I assure you.” And he broke eye contact with the woman at once and started down the center aisle toward the rear of the chapel, away from her and the altar and Father Gibson.

The woman kept pace. “My own wedding ring is lost, you see. And my husband has just recently passed away, and…”

It was too late now for anything farcical to be an effective mood-breaker. An attempt at lightness, humor, now would be a personal insult. Simon said as gently as he could: “What I do are only tricks. You could do them yourself with just a little practice.”

Margie came to his rescue, taking the woman by the hand and sympathetically leading her aside. For which act, Simon told himself, he certainly owed her one. In deference to the setting, Margie’s costume this evening was much more demure than usual: long, bloomer-like pantaloons and closed midriff, while Simon himself was in the evening dress that he usually wore on stage. He kept going now, pacing toward the rear of the chapel. The nave was almost long enough for a cathedral, and with tonight’s lighting concentrated toward the front, the rear was quite dim. There was to be an intermission now, probably just long enough for Father Gibson to get in a few announcements, and followed by the main event, the Play of Daniel itself. Simon and Margie had been planning to hang around in a rear pew and watch Nebuchadnezzar’s downfall.

“Mr. Hill?” The pale face, remembered voice to match, was waiting for him. But, Simon realized with surprise, it was as if the man speaking had never seen Simon before, had no idea that they had ever met. In a moment surprise vanished; of course it would have been more astonishing if Gregory Wedderburn had recognized him quickly. He hadn’t been Simon the Great as a boy in Frenchman’s Bend, or even Simon Hill. At five-nine he was now several inches taller than he had been then, and he was heavier by thirty or forty solid pounds. His brown hair was no longer short, but almost shoulder length, and he had grown a mustache.

And Simon certainly felt no necessity of recognizing Gregory Wedderburn as an old acquaintance. “Yes, what can I do for you?”

“My name is Gregory Wedderburn, sir. First of all, I would like to compliment you on the performance.” No, Gregory certainly didn’t look as if fifteen years had passed; he was almost exactly as Simon remembered him. Of short stature, age indeterminately somewhere between forty and sixty, a face that any casting director would immediately type as belonging to a tycoon and not a servant.

“Thank you,” Simon replied, neutrally.

“You’re very kind,” contributed Margie, just coming up. She must have managed to get away from the widow before the subject of seances could even be broached. Simon hoped so, anyway. There was a trace of a frown on Margie’s face as she regarded him; she knew him well enough now to be able to judge his sometimes sudden moods with considerable success.

Meanwhile Simon was being shown a side of Gregory that he had never seen before, the face of the obsequious servant. “Secondly, sir, I’m here tonight as an agent.” A gentle imitation of a laugh. “No, I’m not volunteering to be your booking agent, or whatever the right term is. I’m representing my own employer. He would like to hire you for a private performance.”

Simon thought he knew who that employer was, and curt refusal was on the tip of his tongue. Yet he couldn’t quite come out with it. The germ of a daring idea, very intriguing even if still very hazy, had been born. He had to find out more. It was completely obvious by now that Gregory had not the faintest idea of who Simon really was.

“You come quite highly recommended, Mr. Hill.” Gregory managed to sound smug, servile, and snobbish at the same time. “Miss Vivian Littlewood, ah, my employer’s sister, saw one of your performances not long ago.”

So, now he works for Saul. That was a minor surprise. “And who is Miss Vivian Littlewood?” Simon enjoyed the chance to make his own tone condescending.

Gregory almost flushed. He drew his short frame perceptibly more erect, and looked up at Simon frostily. “My employer is Saul Littlewood. You’ll recognize the family name if you’re at all familiar with Chicago.”

“Oh, you mean the old meatpacking family.” It was fun to be knowledgeable but not impressed.

The little man had regained his smoothness. “Mr. Littlewood is planning a rather lavish weekend in his suburban home, starting one week from tonight. I realize that this is quite short notice and that you may well have some previous engagement. But I am authorized to say that Mr. Littlewood will make it quite worth your while.” Gregory smiled rather vacantly and nodded in Margie’s direction, as if assuring her that the guarantee applied to her as well. “The theme of the party will have to do with the medieval, you see.”

“Evidently a popular theme these days.”

“And in this case, as you’ll see, very appropriate indeed for a housewarming.” Gregory displayed the faint smile of superior knowledge. “Mr. Littlewood has authorized me to offer you one thousand dollars for one evening’s performance, on Friday. Then you and your assistant will be welcome to remain as guests for the remainder of the weekend if you wish. That would of course be an all-inclusive fee for both of you, meant to cover expenses—”

“A thousand dollars?” Simon couldn’t help showing surprise. “I’m hardly one of the big names of show business. What do I have to do? I mean, I don’t have any big production numbers, or…”

“The only requirements are, first, that you provide yourself with some medieval costume, authentic in appearance. Secondly of course you are to give the best performance of which you both are capable, a point I am sure I need not emphasize. You are of course free to choose your own tricks, effects.” Gregory paused meaningfully. “You will of course cooperate in so far as you feel able, with any special requests that members of your small audience may have.”

Simon shrugged. “Insofar as we feel able.”

“Yes. And there is a fringe benefit that you may consider of some importance.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. Among the guests will be a few who are quite influential, I understand, in the world of entertainment. You say you are not now one of the big names of show business, but… I of course know nothing of magic myself. Would there be any special equipment, or prearrangements that you require?”

Margie was about to speak, probably with questions to ask, but Simon had taken her hand and now squeezed it gently, signalling for silence. He said: “We can provide all the special equipment we’ll need. Where’s this house?”

“In the far suburbs—rather far out even to be called suburbs, I’m afraid; about two hours’ drive. You’ll need rather detailed instructions on how to get there.” Again, the small superior smile. “When you see the house, you’ll understand what I mean about the medieval theme being fitting.”