A Wizard In Absentia

CHAPTER 1

By the time the sun had risen, Ian had made perhaps three miles. Then, as the first rays touched him, he looked about for a hiding place. A thicket of young fir trees caught his eye, their branches sweeping down to the ground. He went to them and thrust his way between the branches into the brown circle about the trunk.

A man dressed in a green tunic and brown leggings leaned upon his spear, scowling thoughtfully.

Ian froze and caught his breath. A gamekeeper, and one who had no doubt been told to look for a runaway boy!

The keeper sighed, looked up—and saw Ian.

For a moment, they both stood stock-still, staring at one another. Then the keeper’s face hardened and he came toward Ian, his hand outstretched.

Ian turned and bolted.

Behind him, he heard the keeper shout, heard his heavy feet pounding, and ran for his life.

A thicket loomed up before him. Without slackening his stride, he set the heel of his staff against the ground in front of the bushes and leaped. He swung up on the staff and over, like a clock’s pendulum inverted. He shoved hard, and landed on the far side of the bushes. He stumbled and ran on, as fast as he could. Behind him, he heard the keeper cursing as he floundered through the bushes. He had bought a little time. Ian ran, zigzagging between the trees, around trunks. Taking a lesson from the dwarves, he chose trees with low branches that he could duck under, too low for the keeper to follow. Then two trunks appeared, so closely together that there was scarcely room for him to pass. He scrambled between them, but the keeper could not; that would slow him a little, too. His heart began to hammer; he could not seem to get enough breath. Gasping, he forced himself to run on, until suddenly the forest fell away and he was in a meadow, a clearing in the forest, with no place to hide. But a great round rock with a glint of metal to it stood up in the center of the meadow. The Stone Egg!

Ian turned to run back, but heard the keeper crashing through the underbrush behind him. He whirled again and ran towards the great stone egg, swerved around to its far side and crouched down, heart hammering, drawing in quick, deep breaths through his open mouth. Perhaps the keeper wouldn’t see him, would think he had run back into the forest, or had run across the clearing and into the trees on the other side. Perhaps the keeper himself would plunge on across the grass, and not look back…

But the keeper called out, and was answered by another shout from the far side of the clearing behind Ian. Another keeper!

Ian shrank back, gathering himself into a ball, pressing against the lower curve of the boulder, trying to press himself into the stone…

Something clicked.

The surface behind him gave way, and Ian felt himself tumbling, saw a flash of light, then sudden darkness.

Two months earlier in time, and twenty lightyears away in apace, a very unusual asteroid drifted through the asteroid belt around Sol. It didn’t look unusual—it seemed to be just an ordinary, everyday piece of space junk: lumpy, irregular, a few craters, a lot of raw rock, a lot bigger than most, a lot smaller than some—but all in all, nothing special, comparatively speaking. And comparisons were very easy to make at the moment, because it was in with a lot of others of its kind. In fact, you wouldn’t have noticed it at all, if its trajectory hadn’t been so different from those around it. They were moving placidly in orbit, just drifting along in their timeless round; but it was barreling straight toward one of the larger asteroids in the Belt—dodging and weaving around all the other asteroids, and no doubt taking a lot of hits from the pebble-sized junk, but still coming remorselessly toward Maxima. You just couldn’t help noticing. Especially if you were the Space Traffic Control Center on that huge asteroid. “Unknown spacecraft! Identify yourself and sheer off! Maxima Control to unknown spacecraft! Identify yourself!”

“There is no reason not to, Magnus,” the calm voice of the asteroid’s computer said to its pilot—well, passenger, really; the computer was the pilot.

“I agree,” said the tall, lantern-jawed young man. His eyes never flickered from the viewscreen as he watched the worldlet of his forefathers expand into a discernible disk, larger than all other space-sparks around it. “Identify us, Fess, and tell them we wish to land.”

The robot tactfully refrained from telling his aristocratic young master that one did not merely inform Space Control that one was landing, and noted that he would have to explain a few customs to his young charge at the first opportunity. After all, a nobleman could not expect to give orders or pull rank when he was landing on a worldlet on which everybody was an aristocrat. “Spacecraft FCC 651919, under the auspices of the Society for the Conversion of Extraterrestrial Nascent Totalitarianisms, calling Maxima Control.”

There was a moment of shocked silence at the other end of the link. Then the loudspeaker said, “Maxima Control here. How can we assist you, FCC 651919?”

“We request permission to land, Maxima Control.”

“Permission … very good, FCC 651919. Searching for a landing slot for you. What is your cargo?”

“Supercargo only,” said Fess, “Sir Magnus d’Armand, Lord Gallowglass.”

Magnus stirred uncomfortably. “I am not yet a lord, Fess.”

“You are the heir to the Lord High Warlock of Gramarye, Magnus,” Fess reminded him sternly. “Yet I have not been awarded any title of mine own.”

“No doubt an oversight,” Fess replied with airy disregard. “I am certain King Tuan would have given you an official title, for the asking.”

Magnus smiled. “A lord without lands?”

“Certainly analogous to a minister without portfolio,” Fess assured him. “Since your father is the equivalent of a duke, it follows that you must be the equivalent of a marquis—and in any event, you must have a title of some sort, if you wish to be treated with even a modicum of respect by the inhabitants of your ancestral home.”

Maxima Control recovered from shock long enough to say, “Landing at 1030 hours Terran Standard, pad 29, berth 7-A. Approach from Galactic Northwest, declination 38 degrees 22 minutes, right ascension 21 degrees 17 minutes.” Then a different voice spoke, feminine and mature. “Requesting permission to speak with your principal.”

The lady was uncertain as to Magnus’s status relative to Fess, the young man noted—was he owner, passenger, or captive? He leaned toward the audio pickup. Fess said quickly, “Remember, Magnus, to speak in modern English, and to avoid the second person singular.”

“Yes, yes, I know,” Magnus said testily, though it would be difficult to catch the knack of speaking without the thees and thous with which he had grown up. He smoothed his voice, keyed the pickup, and said, “Magnus d’Armand speaking.” The name felt strange on his tongue—all his life he had been “Magnus Gallowglass,” the patronymic his father had adopted as an alias when he landed on the psi-filled planet of Gramarye. But Magnus remembered his manners. “Good day to you, Maxima Control.”

“And to yourself, my lord.” The voice kept its punctilious politeness; Magnus may have only imagined the aura of amazement about it. “May I know your relationship to the family d’Armand?”

Magnus frowned.

“Relationships are extremely important to the Maximans, Magnus,” Fess informed him, muting the audio pickup for the moment. “They must know your rank and place, if they are to know how to treat you.”

The very notion rankled in a lad who had been reared to treat everyone with courtesy, but he was the scion of a medieval society, after all, so he could understand the need. “I am the son of Rodney d’Armand, who was a grandson of Count Rory d’Armand, and is a nephew of the current Count.” At least, he hoped his great-uncle was still alive.

He was. “We shall inform his lordship that his great-nephew is landing,” Maxima Control said, with a hint of reproach in her tone.

Magnus took it in stride. “I would appreciate the courtesy. I sent a message a week ago by hyper-radio, but I could not at that time give them an exact date of arrival.”

“We understand.” The voice seemed to thaw a bit. “How has Rodney Gallowglass come into possession of a title?”

Magnus stiffened. “In recognition of his services to the Crown of an interdicted colony, which he entered in his role as an agent of SCENT. You understand that any information more specific than that is also interdicted for protection of that colony, and may not be spoken publicly.”

“I understand.” But by its tone, the owner didn’t. “Surely you can notify the head of the family of Rodney’s … excuse me, Lord Rodney … of his location.”

She wasn’t sure the title was legitimate, Magnus noted. “Certainly,” he said. “As head of a major corporation, he is cleared for secure knowledge, is he not?”

“He is. May I request visual contact?”

“At once! My apologies. Fess…” But before he could say, “if you please,” a smaller screen suddenly came to life, filled with the picture of an imposing woman, imperially slim, with coiffeured iron-gray hair and a face that was a tribute to the cosmetician’s art. “I am your great-aunt Matilda, nephew Magnus. Welcome to Maxima.”

Fess explained it on the way down—the robots took care of all the routine chores, such as traffic control, but when an unusual situation arose, requiring human judgement, the traffic computer would refer the matter to whichever human being happened to be on duty that day—and since everyone on Maxima claimed to be an aristocrat, it followed that even a countess had to take her shift at supervision. Besides, it lightened the boredom.

There was a great deal of boredom on Maxima, as Magnus quickly found out. Everyone thought of himself or herself as an aristocrat, and consequently did very little work. Of course, their ancestors had been commoners, though outstanding ones—scientists, manufacturers, and businessmen, and many had been combinations of all three. They had come to Maxima for the freedom to do basic research into artificial intelligence and cybernetics without the interference of the Terran government (which became more and more restrictive as the Proletarian Eclectic State of Terra took hold more and more firmly, or to apply that research to making bigger and better robots. To support themselves, they went into manufacturing, and quickly gained a reputation for making the best robots in the Terran Sphere. Some of the sons who matured about that time had a bent for business, and by the second generation, every family on Maxima was wealthy. Since they lived like lords, they decided they should be lords, and in their legislative assembly, started ennobling each other at a startling rate. Since they were a sovereign government, even the Terran College of Heralds couldn’t deny the technical legality of it, though they could certainly cast a skeptical glance.

On the other hand, many of the noble houses of Terra had had similarly disreputable founders.

After five hundred years of learning aristocratic ways, though, the Maximans had become nobility so thoroughly as to be indistinguishable from the old Terran families, in behavior if not in lineage. The more energetic of the sons ran the family businesses, thereby giving the lie to their pretended nobility, though they maintained the façade of leaving the business to their robots; they merely amused themselves by setting policy. Those activities couldn’t absorb more than a handful, though, so some of the best and brightest began to emigrate to other planets—and as the centuries rolled by and the businesses came inevitably into the hands of the eldest sons, the brain drain increased. Additionally, Maximans tended to marry Maximans, even after they had all become cousins of one another, and the inbreeding took its toll.

Magnus’s father, Rod, had been one of the energetic ones, as well as one of the brighter souls thrown up by inbreeding—and if he wasn’t completely stable, well, who was? In any event, he had also become part of the brain drain, leaving Maxima for a career of high adventure and low income. Being the second son of a second son had had something to do with it, but so had boredom.

Which may also have had something to do with Magnus’s feeling like a canary invited to a cats’ party, as he stepped out of the airlock of his ancestral mansion to find himself confronted with a milling mob of richly dressed people, loud with excited conversation—which stopped abruptly as they realized he was there, and all eyes turned to him. Magnus felt like bolting right back into the boarding tunnel, but he remembered that he came of a warrior sire, and stiffened his spine, drawing himself up to his full height. He was much taller than the norm. He was, he knew, an impressive figure, and he smiled slightly at the reaction of the crowd.

Aunt Matilda stepped forward—or the Countess d’Armand, Magnus reminded himself—and said, “Welcome to Castle d’Armand, nephew Magnus.”

Magnus suppressed the jolt of surprise he felt at the term “castle”—this glittering assemblage of baroque and rococo towers and arches might have been a palace, but certainly not a castle—and inclined his head politely. “Thank you, Countess.”

It was the right choice; she smiled, pleased, but assured him, “ ‘Aunt Matilda,’ nephew—we are all family here.”

That was true enough, Magnus reflected—for the whole asteroid, not just Castle d’Armand.

“Your relatives.” Matilda gestured toward the mob behind her, and one buxom, blonde vision pushed forward, eyes alight with curiosity and eagerness, reminding Magnus that he was probably the biggest event to happen all year—anything to break the monotony. The Countess tried to give the girl a frown of displeasure, but she couldn’t sustain it. “My youngest granddaughter, Pelisse.”

The lady stepped forward, extending her hand. Magnus bowed his head and pressed Pelisse’s fingers briefly to his lips, trying to adjust to the notion of his uncle’s youngest being nearly of an age with him, the eldest of Rod’s children—but Uncle Richard was older than Rod by a few years, and had no doubt begun his family at a younger age.

Then Magnus looked up into the largest pair of sky-blue eyes he had ever seen, framed by a wealth of blonde hair so light as to be almost white, and froze, feeling as though he’d been filled with a humming energy, and as though his brain were not quite within his skull any longer. Desperately, he reminded himself that she was his first cousin, and that helped—but his hackles were still raised.

“I shall look forward to your closer acquaintance, cousin,” she said, with amusement in her heavy-lidded glance, and the Countess cleared her throat. Pelisse made a moue and stepped back. Aunt Matilda said, “Your cousin Rath,” and a long, lean individual stepped forward to give Magnus a perfunctory bow, and a look of morose hostility.

It helped bring Magnus back to the reality of the situation. He returned the bow stiffly, and Aunt Matilda said, “Your cousin Robert…”

Inwardly, Magnus sighed, and braced himself for a long session of bowing and kissing hands.

A long half-hour later, he straightened up from greeting the last relative, and turned to Aunt Matilda with a frown—which he quickly removed. Fess, I’ve not met the Count!

It would be impolitic to ask why, Fess replied, broadcasting on the frequency of human thought, but in the encoded mode of the Gallowglass family. You may, however, request permission to greet him.

“This has been a most excellent pleasure, milady,” Magnus said. “However, I would also be pleased to greet my great-uncle, if I may.”

“Of course, dear boy—yet surely you must have some refreshment first.” Matilda glided over to him, hooking a hand through his elbow and using it to steer him through the mob of cousins. “You must be quite wearied from your travels, if not from your arrival. A glass of wine and a little nourishment will restore your strength.”

Magnus followed, wondering why she was stalling—or did he really need to be fortified to greet the Count?

He did.

Count Rupert sat in bed, propped up by a half-dozen pillows. His hair was white, his face drawn and lined. Magnus stared, then covered the gaffe with a bow—surely they were mistaken! Surely this ancient was his great-grandfather, not his great-uncle! Fess, he is aged immensely, and so fragile that a breath might blow him away!

“Courteous,” the invalid croaked, in a voice that still had some echo of authority, “but impetuous. I am not a king, boy—you need not bow at the door. Come closer to me.”

Magnus obeyed without speech, for he was listening to Fess advising him, Do not inquire as to the nature of the disease, Magnus. We will no doubt learn of it later.

Magnus stepped up to the bedside, and the Count looked him up and down with a rheumy eye. “Your garb is quaint. They tell me you have come from a distant planet.”

“Aye, sir—one where your nephew, my father, has made a place for himself.”

“And you have left him?” the old man said with a touch of sarcasm. “Well, I am accustomed to that.” He frowned up at Magnus, who was still trying to digest the shock of his words. “You have turned out well, young man—tall, and broad. And there is something of your father in your looks—strong features, let us say—but so much broader, so much heavier!”

The first part surprised Magnus; he had never heard anyone comment on his resemblance to his father—nor to his mother—since he had changed from child to young man. As to the second… “The bulk is the gift of my mother’s father, milord.” Which was true, proportionally; there was no need to mention that his maternal grandfather, Brom O’Berin, was scarcely three feet tall, though stocky as a bull.

“Yes, your mother.” The old man frowned almost painfully, as though even moving his face cost him great energy. “What is she? How did my nephew marry?” Before Magnus could answer, he waved away the reply. “Oh yes, I know that every mother appears as an angel to her son—and she must be a wonder, to hold Rodney together long enough for him to stay till you grew. But what is she like? Tell me the externals!”

“Well…” Magnus collected his wits; it had been a startling view of his father, though one he could believe. “She is the daughter of a king, milord.” He didn’t think he needed to mention that Brom O’Berin was the King of the Elves—or that Gwen didn’t know he was her father.

“A princess!” The Count stared, round-eyed. “Then he is a king—or will be?”

“No, my lord…” How could he phrase this? Her line does not reign, Magnus.

“No,” Magnus went on, with relief, “for her line will not reign.”

“A cadet branch.” The count nodded. “Then he will be a duke.”

“Its equivalent, my lord, for he has won his own title by service to the reigning monarch.”

“What title is that?” the Countess asked. Magnus swallowed and took the plunge. “Lord High Warlock.”

“Odd.” The Count took it without batting an eye. “But autre temps, autre moeurs. Each culture has its own Weltanschauung, its own world-view, and its own titles. If he is the High Warlock, then you, no doubt, are only Lord Warlock?”

Magnus stood a moment, staring. Say yes, Magnus.

“Why … quite so! How perceptive of you, milord.”

“It is only reason.” The old man was obviously pleased by the flattery. “And how does my nephew?”

“He is in good health, milord.” A shadow crossed the Count’s face, and Magnus hastened to add, “At least, at the moment.”

“Ah.” The Count nodded. “His old malaise, eh?”

“I … cannot say,” Magnus floundered. “He has not spoken of it.”

“His mind, boy, his mind!” the old man said impatiently. “The family’s mental instability! Though he showed it less than most—only in a bit of paranoia, and a frantic need to leave the planetoid.”

The second, Magnus was already beginning to understand, and he didn’t think it had anything to do with mental illness. As to the first, however … “I regret to say that his paranoia has increased, my lord.”

“Ah.” The Count nodded, satisfied. “He has his good days, though, eh?”

“Yes, milord—and on one of them, he sent his best wishes to you, his uncle, and asked that I bring word of you.”

“He shall have it, have a letter! Which shall tell him of my delight at his good fortune, and his accomplishments! I was sure he had been a credit to the family! But this planet he has made his home, young man—what of it, eh?” When Magnus hesitated, he said, “You may tell me—I am cleared for the highest level of security.” He gestured impatiently at a waiting butler. “Show him the documents, Hiram.”

“No, milord—‘tis not necessary!” Magnus said quickly. “He hath come—uh, has come—to a Lost Colony, one named Gramarye. You … knew of his, ah, affiliation?”

“That he had become an agent of SCENT? Yes, yes,” the old man said impatiently. “And this planet is their concern, eh?”

“Yes, my lord. It has regressed to a medieval culture”—actually, Magnus wasn’t sure “regressed” was the right word for something that had been done intentionally—“and is ruled by a monarchy. It is my father’s intention to bring about the changes in their social and economic structure that will result in their evolving a form of democratic government.”

“A huge undertaking, and a long one! How frustrating it must be, to commence a project that you will not live to see come to fruition, that even your children will not see finished! But is there progress, young man?”

“Some, my lord. There have been attempts to unseat the monarch in favor of warlords and dictators, but my father has held Their Majesties secure…”

“As a nobleman should! But has he furthered a tyranny?”

“No, my lord, for he has built in systems for Their Majesties to take council from their lords.” Magnus smiled. “In tr— In fact, he has managed to wring from each attempted coup d’etat some change in government that plants yet one more seed of the democracy that will be.”

The old man nodded. “Small wonder your monarch has elevated him to the peerage! You inherit, then, not only his title, but also his work! You are a double heir.” The old man frowned. “Why are you here? Surely your place is by his side!” Again, he waved away Magnus’s answer before it was made. “Oh, yes, I realize you must have your education—but you must return to him! You must!”

Magnus bridled, but even as his emotions surged, he remembered to analyze. Why did the Count feel so strongly on the issue? “As you say, my lord, I must have a modern education—I must absorb the current state of knowledge in the Terran Sphere, but even more, I must learn to deal with its men of power.”

The old lord nodded slowly, his eyes narrowing. “Even so, even so! Rodney, of course, knows the ways of such dealings, having been reared and educated on Maxima, and tried in the crucible of government service—but you, too, must learn such ways, for you will have to represent your planet before the Sphere, will you not? Yes, of course you will!”

Magnus was glad the old man had answered his own question.

“We must see to his placement at Oxford,” the Countess contributed.

“Or Harvard, or Heidelberg, eh? Yes, of course! My wife will make you acquainted with them, young man, and you may choose! And in the long vacations, we shall have to see to gaining visiting positions for you in commerce and government! Eh?”

“Your lordship is … too kind.” Truthfully, Magnus was dazzled by their readiness to help—but he was also wary of it, perhaps because he wasn’t all that certain that he wished to spend several years at a university. Fess had assured him that he had gained the equivalent in knowledge from the robot’s tutelage. Still, it might be a good way to get the feel of this strange culture.

“Not at all, not at all!” The Count brushed aside the thanks, but seemed pleased anyway. It was hard to tell, of course—he spoke as though from an inexhaustible supply of energy, but his eyelids had begun to droop, he raised his hand as though it bore leaden weights, and his shoulders slumped. Magnus searched for some way to end the interview and let the old man rest, but could think of none.

The Countess saved him. “We may begin that search now, husband. Or, perhaps, the young man should dress for dinner.”

“Dinner?” The Count frowned. “Yes, Yes! I, too, I must…” He struggled to sit up, but the effort was too much for him. His wife stepped up to lay a gentle hand on his shoulder, and he sagged back against the pillows. “Perhaps in a little while. Yes? Only a little rest, now—then I’ll dress…”

“Quite right, husband. We will leave you, for the moment.” She went toward the door, bending a severe glance on Magnus.

He bowed. “I thank you for this conversation, my lord, and for your hospitality.”

“Not at all, not at all! Always good to have family come home, eh? But not so long, Rodney, not so long again, hm?” The Count seemed to diminish, to sink into the pillows, his eyes half-closing. “At supper, then.”

“Of course, my lord.” Magnus stepped away and moved quietly to the door. Aunt Matilda gave him a smile with a little genuine warmth in it, and beckoned him out the door. It closed behind him, as the nurse robot wheeled silently over to the Count.

Magnus’s mind raced. He couldn’t very well comment on the Count’s frailty, or his surprise at it. Matilda seemed to sense his quandary, and said, “He will not join us at dinner. He really must not leave his bed, except for short exercise walks with the nurses.”

“Of course he must conserve his energies,” Magnus agreed. “He is … a commanding presence.” He had almost said “still,” but had choked it back.

“In rare moments,” the Countess said. “We try not to trouble him with major decisions just now.” Magnus took the hint. The Count was still head of the family—but in name only. He tried for a quick change of subject. “It has been an honor to meet the Count—but I must also pay my respects to my father’s brother. May I see him?”

The Countess hesitated, her visage darkening, biting her lip. Magnus braced himself against apprehension. “He doth … does still live, does he not?”

“He does, yes,” the Countess said reluctantly. “And I may see him, may I not?”

“If it is one of his good days, yes.”

Some hours later, Magnus returned, numbed, to the opulent guest room the robot-domo had assigned to him. He collapsed into an overstuffed chair, loosing his hold on his mind and letting it turn to the oatmeal it felt to be. After a long interval of silence, a voice spoke in his mind. Magnus?

Aye, Fess, he answered. Are you well?

Magnus stirred. Well enough. It hath been summat of a shock, though, to find that my uncle Richard is insane.

I am sorry, Magnus, the robot-horse said, with something resembling a sigh—just “robot,” Magnus reminded himself; Fess was the computer-brain for a spaceship now. But he still held the mental image of the horse body that Fess had worn for as long as Magnus had known him.

Sorry? For what?

I thought I had prepared you adequately for the insanity that has plagued the Gallowglass family for generations—all of Maxima, for that matter.

Magnus made a short, chopping gesture, though Fess couldn’t see him. You did all that you could, Fess. Nothing can truly prepare a body for the sight of a relative who has taken leave of his senses.

Was he truly as bad as that?

Oh, not bad at all, in some ways he doth seem to be happy, quite happy indeed. ‘Tis simply that he doth know he is King Henry the Sixth reborn, and is quite content to wait in his monk’s cell for the reincarnated Queen Margaret to release him.

Fess was silent for a moment, then said, I grieve to hear it.

Magnus laid his head back against the chair with a sigh. At the least, he is not troubled or sunk in gloom.

Yes, praise Heaven for that.

Oh, he doth! He doth thank Heaven for life, for food, for housing, for the flow of blood and the smallest worm that burrows ‘neath the soil of Terra! He doth spend hours in prayer, and is sure of his sainthood to come!

It must be quite reassuring, Fess said slowly, to have such confidence in the Afterlife.

Magnus shuddered. If that is religion, I’ll none of it. Small wonder his son fled to Terra.

Fled? Fess said, puzzled.

Magnus shrugged. Gone to university, then, and become a scholar. Will you, nill you, he is set upon his professorship, and hath sent word that he will not return to Maxima.

And has only the one daughter?

Aye, my cousin Pelisse, who doth play the coquette with me. Magnus smiled in pleased reminiscence. I cannot be so pleasant to regard as all that, can I, Fess?

You are quite imposing, Fess said slowly, and your face has a certain rough-hewn comeliness.

More to the point, I am someone new in her life, Magnus thought, amused. Anyone from offplanet must be of greater interest than someone near, eh?

No doubt an inborn reflex that evolved to minimize inbreeding, Fess mused. Nonetheless, in the case of this stranger, the inbreeding would still exist.

Not wholly—I am only half of Maxima, Magnus thought absently, most of his mind given over to the contemplation of the lovely vision with blonde tresses and long lashes. He felt a quickening of interest—but also felt how superficial it was, how little real emotion it held. Had the witches of Gramarye made him forever heartless?

Then he remembered the image of the golden box around his heart, given him by a Victorian ragpicker who must surely have been only a hallucination, a projection of his subconscious, an illusion that only a projective telepath such as Magnus himself could engender. He had accepted the gift, had locked his heart in a box of golden, and wondered if he could ever find the key.

Flirting is a harmless game, Magnus, Fess assured him, as long as you remember it is only a game—and are sure the lady does, too.

Aye, only a game, and great fun. Magnus pushed himself out of the chair, coming to his feet with a renewal of energy. Let us resume the play, then. And he turned away to the closet and the modern formal wear it held, to dress for dinner.