A Wizard in Peace

CHAPTER 11

Miles chased the sound of Ciletha’s footsteps through half-lit halls and around two corners before he found her leaning against a wall, crying her heart out. Then what could he do but hover anxiously? She looked up and saw him, though, stared almost in fright a moment, then threw herself into his arms, sobbing as though her heart would break—which it very well might.

Finally the sobs slackened, and she moaned, “Let me go triad, too! Wouldn’t Orgoru fall in love with me then?”

Miles stood frozen, staring over her head at the wall. Of course! She was right, very right! Living their lives as though in a fairy tale, learning to bow and mince and dance in elaborate rounds—of course they were insane! Who else could live so? How else could people who were clearly peasants think themselves to be kings and duchesses?

But if insanity let them live in luxury, without working, who wouldn’t want to go mad?

Fear stabbed, fear at the thought of Ciletha becoming one of those painted, posturing, artificial creatures. “Cupid shoots his arrows where he will, Ciletha,” he said softly. “People who are clearly right for one another, usually fall in love with somebody else.”

Ciletha stilled a little, but still quivered. “You don’t think she’s right for him, then?”

Miles had to be careful here. “How much do they have in common, besides their madness? Oh, I’ve seen boys in my village fall in love, all right—but rarely with the good women who would be so good for them! It’s always the minx who turns their heads.” He frowned, not liking the next thought “Maybe it’s better to let the reeves choose for us, after all.”

“No!” Ciletha pushed herself away enough to glare up into his face. “To have to try to be a wife to a man I loathe? Never! If anyone has to plan my life, it’ll be me!”

“Planning seems to have very little to do with it,” Miles said, with irony.

“Beauty does, though,” Ciletha said.

They were both silent a moment, thinking of Orgoru and Gilda. Then Ciletha said, “Perhaps not, though.”

“I’m sure he sees her as beautiful,” Miles said, “even as she seems to see him as handsome.”

“He is, in his way,” Ciletha said, her voice small.

“Maybe,” Miles said, “but I don’t think that’s the handsomeness that Gilda sees.”

Ciletha frowned up at him. “You mean that they actually see different faces, different bodies, from the ones we see? Surely that can’t be.”

“Maybe,” Miles said slowly, “but I saw a picture in my childhood, when my parents took me to stand before the reeve, and I remembered it very well—a bright, colorful image of a knight and a dragon, hanging in front of a house. I remembered it for years, and when I’d had a terrible day and was trying to sleep, I’d think of that picture, and it gave me an odd sort of comfort. But when I was fourteen, they took me to the reeve’s town again, and I saw the picture once more. It was all wrong—the knight was standing, though I remembered him as kneeling, and held a spear, not a sword. The dragon was much smaller, not really surrounding the knight with its coils—in fact, it didn’t have coils, and it did have wings, though I hadn’t remembered them. To cap it, at fourteen, I knew the house for what it was—a tavern, and the picture was the sign that hung over its door.”

Ciletha stared; then she burst into laughter and pressed a hand up to his cheek. “Poor Miles! How dreadful that must have been!”

“Meeting reality always is,” Miles confessed. “But I still have the picture my memory made up, there in my mind, where I can always look at it.”

Ciletha frowned. “I see what you mean,” she said slowly, “that the woman Orgoru sees may have a lot in common with the Countess Gilda we see, but is far more beautiful, and far more graceful.”

“Oh, she’s graceful enough,” Miles said. “None of them are clumsy. They all have the magistrate’s walk, the tilt of the chin—but it looks wrong on them, somehow. Not ‘graceful,’ perhaps, but ‘stately.’ ”

“Certainly not alluring.” Ciletha’s voice hardened. “Though I’m sure that’s how Orgoru sees her.”

“Yes, and she probably sees him as tall and lean, with a noble brow and Roman nose.”

Ciletha smiled, then gave in and let a giggle out. “Yes, she probably does. I can see how you might be right, Miles.” Miles thought the delight he felt at hearing her laugh must have been far more than he had any reason to feel. He couldn’t keep the smile in, though, and said, “Right or wrong, I’d rather not go back there right now. Do you think we can find a door that leads out? I’d like some fresh air—and the ruins shouldn’t be too frightening by night.”

“Not as long as we don’t see another of those skeletons.” Ciletha didn’t really seem to find the prospect very frightening. “Let’s stay close to the palace, though.”

They found the door, and the plaza outside was so wide that they could wander as much as they wanted and still be fairly near the building. They didn’t see any robots, but they did see plenty of stars. They began to talk about how vastly far away the sky must be, and Miles told her the silliness he’d heard from Gar and Dirk, that each of those points of light was a sun, that some even had worlds circling them, and that it would take the Protector’s fastest courier thousands of years to ride from one to another. She laughed with him, first at the notion of a horse galloping between the stars, then at the absurdity of each star being a whole sun. Then she quieted, though, and told Miles she had heard a story like that in her childhood, that stars held other worlds around them, and that their ancestors had come from such a world, so very far away.

Then they began to really think how far it must be between stars, if that tale were true, and that led them to thinking of eternity, of how long the world might last beyond their deaths, and of course that led them to talking about whether or not their ghosts really would live on after their bodies died.

So they spent an hour or two in one another’s company, passing the nighttime hours discussing the great questions that confront the young, and when at last they went back into the palace, each was smiling, but each felt a little sadness that these few hours together, alone, were over.

Countess Gilda decided on a bit of variety, and accepted another lord’s invitation to dance, though she kept glancing at Orgoru as she did, no doubt hoping to see him jealous—but before the green-eyed monster could come upon him, Gar and Dirk had buttonholed him near the refreshment table.

“You seem to be one of the younger lords,” Gar commented “How did you come to be here?”

“Like all the others, I was raised in hiding for fear of my father’s enemies,” Orgoru began. He didn’t mean to go on for very long, but Gar and Dirk asked him question after question, and seemed to be so genuinely interested that he found himself telling them the story of his life, in detail. He was just finishing when Countess Gilda came back in a swirl of skirts, pouting. “So you have missed me not at all, sir!”

“I have missed you most fantastically,” Orgoru said quickly, “and only my talk with these gentlemen has soothed my spirits.”

“I do not believe you! You would as soon talk to them as dance with me!” Gilda turned on her heel to flounce away.

Orgoru caught her hand and pressed a quick kiss upon it, as he had watched the other lords do. “Oh no, sweet sunrise, don’t leave me in the darkness of longing!”

“Well, I’ll abate my severity,” Gilda said, turning back with a sunny smile. “You may dance with me, then.”

“You are so kind and generous!” Orgoru cried, and led her out onto the floor.

“As I thought,” Gar said, watching them go, “delusions of grandeur.”

“Yes,” Dirk agreed, “but it’s charitable not to disillusion him. After all, he’s not hurting anyone here—and do you really think he’d be able to lead a successful life outside?”

“True—and it’s a kindness to shelter him here. A great kindness, especially considering that all the rest of them seem to be suffering from the same syndrome.”

Dirk nodded. “Just a matter of time before they’d start going around giving orders and expecting to be treated like royalty.”

“And being beaten for their pains. Who knows how they might end?” Gar asked.

“Rhetorical question, I hope,” Dirk replied. “They’d be ostracized or exiled, and die young.”

“Yes,” Gar said heavily. “So why not let them all gather here, where a central computer can keep them alive? They can be happy, of course—but they can’t have children.”

“A gold-plated insane asylum.” Dirk nodded. “How about those few children who are born, but are stolen by elves?”

“The human sentries are sedated, and robots take the babies,” Gar said immediately. “I hope they leave them on the doorsteps of cottagers who want children.”

“Probably—always a few woodcutters living alone in forests. But children who were raised here, would never be able to leave.”

“Yes—they’d certainly never have a normal upbringing, or learn how to fend for themselves,” Gar said. “It’s a great kindness, if you think of it that way.”

“It also supplies a purpose for a computer that’s been abandoned by its civilization,” Dirk pointed out.

“Yes.” Gar nodded. “I gather we’re going to be meeting that computer soon.” He looked up as Miles came drifting back with Ciletha, both with heady smiles, carefully not looking at one another—but their hands touched.

“The hour grows late, milords,” a young nobleman said, coming up to them. “You must be wearied after your travels. May I show you to your rooms?”

Dirk bit back surprise that an aristocrat would do a porter’s job—after all, there weren’t any servants here, just “aristocrats.” While he was still biting, Gar said gravely, “Why, yes, thank you. That would be most kind.”

Each had a suite to himself or herself, of course. When they had bathed, cleaned their clothes in the “shower,” and dressed again, Dirk and Gar met in Gar’s sitting room. Miles tapped on the door a few minutes later. Gar let him in, smiling. “You seem to have had a good evening.”

“Yes.” Miles smiled, letting the glow show. “Ciletha’s a most wonderful woman, sirs.” His brow creased. “How sad that she’s in love with that lout Orgoru!”

“Sad indeed,” Dirk said with a knowing smile. “You’ll have to do something about that.”

Miles looked up in surprise, then began to smile again, slowly.

“ ‘Lout’?” Gar asked. “Strange way to talk about a lord!”

“There are no lords or ladies in the whole world,” Miles said flatly, “only in tales for children. This Orgoru’s no more noble than I am, and I’ve seen his kind in my own village. There’re the ones who can’t do anything, so they try to pretend they’re better than anyone else—either that, or they just give up, eke out a living hauling and digging, and die young.” He saddened. “Maddening though they are, I suppose I’d rather they tried to lord it over the rest of us, and keep getting knocked down for their pains—I wouldn’t wish the other kind of life on a dog.”

“Not exactly a nice life either way,” Dirk said darkly. “Better for him to be here, where he won’t bother anybody.”

“No, not a bit!” Miles took fire. “What right does he have to live in luxury when he can’t even do as much work as I can? And what right does he have to the love of such a woman as Ciletha?”

“Both outcasts in their home village, I suppose,” Gar said, “who grew up together, and were each other’s only friend.”

“Ciletha, an outcast?” Miles stared.

“Men don’t always see a woman’s real worth, Miles,” Gar said, with a sardonic grimace. “In fact, I suspect these poor delusionaries don’t see the world as it really is at all.”

“Still,” Dirk said, “she’s bound to become disenchanted with Orgoru, watching him posturing here—and paying court to that poor horse-faced Gilda. Just be there for her, and be patient, and she’ll turn to you sooner or later.”

“I don’t know if I can accept being second choice,” Miles said, frowning. “How could I wed her if, all my life, I’d have to remember that she would have chosen Orgoru if she could have?”

“Wait until she knows enough about him to not choose him,” Dirk said.

There was a knock at the door. Gar went to open it. “Orgoru! Come in. We were just talking about you.”

“Why, how complimentary!” Orgoru came in a step. “But I have come to ask you if you are refreshed enough to meet the Guardian before you sleep.”

“We would be pleased.” But Gar’s gaze lingered on Orgoru, who forced a smile to hide his discomfort.

“He’s happier the way he is,” Dirk snapped. “True,” Gar agreed, “but we need him.”

Dirk frowned. “You sure you know what you’re doing? The human mind is a pretty delicate thing.”

“I know.” Gar stared at the madman. “Let me see if there would be any danger here.”

Orgoru felt as though the giant’s eyes were boring into his mind. Then, horrified, he felt something tickle, moving inside his head, and screamed, a raw hoarse cry, sinking to his knees; he barely heard Gar say, “This would be simple, though, and quite safe. He’s very uncomplicated, really—a classic case, needing only…”

Suddenly other “lords” burst in, crying, “Who is hurting you?”

“They are!” Orgoru screamed, pointing at Dirk and Gar. “Seize them!”

The false aristocrats jumped on Gar and Dirk. Dirk knocked the first two over with quick jabs, and Gar picked up a couple and tossed them away—but the hall was suddenly full of others, pouring into the room and burying the three men under sheer numbers. Miles struck about him wildly, but the city men leaned aside from his blows or blocked them, then caught his arms and pinned him against the wall. He could only stand and watch his companions being buried, and could only think how senseless this was, for he’d seen them defeat armed foresters. Neither seemed to be fighting terribly hard, and Miles guessed that they must be afraid of hurting the poor madmen. Gar roared and Dirk howled, but the “lords” overpowered them, burying them under sheer numbers.

“Well done.” King Longar came waddling through the door, his moon-face grim. “Now take them before the Guardian.” The madmen hustled the three men to their feet and bundled them out the door. As they passed Ciletha’s suite, she burst through the doorway, crying, “What’s happening?”

“He hurt me,” Orgoru panted, coming up to her, “the big one. I felt him poking about in my mind. We’re taking them to the Guardian for judgment.”

Ciletha stared at him, and Miles, watching, saw realization come into her eyes, realization that Orgoru was even more insane than she had thought. His posturing and pretenses hadn’t ripped her veil of belief in him, but his claim that the giant had invaded his mind did.

Then the madmen were hustling Miles on down the hallway, and Ciletha followed, crying, “He can’t have done it! He can’t have meant any harm! He’s a good man, he saved Miles twice and more, he would have saved you!”

“I don’t need to be saved,” Orgoru snapped at her. “I don’t want to be.”

Ciletha halted, frozen, her eyes huge, as the implications of Orgoru’s words sank in. Then she ran after them, choking down sobs. They mustn’t hurt Miles!

Back into the great hall they went, around and into a sort of alcove, where they stopped. Ciletha halted too, staring in amazement at the jeweled curves and angles inlaid in the wall’s surface.

“Great Guardian!” King Longar boomed. “Here are three who would join our court, but have hurt one of our number! Judge, we pray you! Judge whether or not they are true aristocrats! Judge whether or not they are of our kind!”

A voice resonated all about them, making Ciletha jump with fright—but the spirit showed no threat to anyone. “Which of you has it hurt?”

“I.” Orgoru stepped forward, still holding his head, and Ciletha felt a stab of pity for him.

“How did he hurt you?”

“He poked about in my mind!”

None of the false aristocrats seemed at all skeptical about the remark. Looking from one face to another, Ciletha was amazed to see complete and total belief.

The invisible Guardian didn’t seem to have any doubts, either. “Let me sense their motives.”

There was no sound, no movement, but suddenly Ciletha felt as though she were surrounded by something warm and clinging, sinking in through the very bone of her skull. Strangely, though, she wasn’t the slightest bit frightened—the Guardian, whatever it was, meant only to help, never to hurt.

Then the sensation was gone, and the Guardian declared, “They are not of your kind, neither they nor the woman.” Instantly, Orgoru cried out, “The woman has made no move to hurt or imperil anyone!”

Ciletha felt a surge of gratitude and affection for her old friend, instantly followed by panic and fear for Miles.

“We thank you, O Guardian,” King Longar said, then turned to his courtiers. “Take them out of the palace.”

The crowd shouted and surged toward the portal, out through it and down the long, long flight of stairs. There they halted, turning the prisoners to face King Longar, whose face was grim. “You have abused our hospitality, and you are not of our kind. We can’t have the vulgar discovering our court and flocking here to overwhelm us.”

Miles looked up at more footsteps clattering down the stairs. Dirk looked up, too, and stared. “Laser rifles!”

Gar never took his eyes from King Longar. “So you have actually managed to learn how to operate some of the machinery here.”

“Machinery?” The king frowned. “We have magical weapons, and courtiers before us learned which parts of the Guardian’s design to push in order to bring them to life.”

“We knew the nuclear generators still worked, or the robots wouldn’t,” Dirk said to Gar, “and some mad genius learned how to punch the right buttons to connect them to machines.”

Every “aristocrat” stiffened, their faces turning ugly, and King Longar’s voice was heavy with menace. “Mad? Do you say we are mad?”

For answer, Gar turned to him and asked, “Does the Guardian make the lightning sheet from the top of the wall when enemies come near, or have you learned how to do that, too?”

The tension stretched so thin that Miles thought it would break him when it snapped. Then Longar exploded. “I can’t believe the gall of this man! Three magical weapons are trained on him, and all he can do is ask questions! Have you no common sense, vagabond, no fear?”

Gar gave Dirk a questioning glance. Dirk shrugged. They both turned back to Longar, shaking their heads as Dirk said, “Not really, no.”

The “noblemen” stared at them, astounded. King Longar burst out, “Why? How can you not fear?”

With a sudden surge, Gar kicked out, sending the men who held his legs sprawling. He landed in a crouch, bowed with a snap, and the two who had held his arms went tumbling over his head, slamming into half a dozen of their fellows.

At the same moment, Dirk doubled his whole body, pulling the men who held him closer together, then drove his elbows back as he shoved with both feet. The men who held those feet dropped them, clutching their stomachs and gagging; the armholders clung on long enough for Dirk’s feet to hit ground, when he elbowed them again. They let go, and he whirled to kick at the men holding Miles’s knees. They fell, howling, and Miles set down his feet with a shout of triumph. He strained forward, and the men holding his arms shouted, pulling backward. Then Miles leaped back as hard and as far as he could, swinging his arms forward with all his strength, and the two collided with each other. Free, he turned to swing at the nearest aristocrat. The man sprawled backward into two more who were running forward.

The whole court shouted and charged at them.

Lightning split the night, and everyone froze, turning to see Dirk and Gar holding two rifles with a third at Gar’s feet. “Grab it, Miles!” Dirk snapped.

Miles sprinted to them and caught up the weapon. He had no idea how to use it, nor had need to—he only needed to keep it from the madmen.

“We’re going to leave now,” Gar said gently. “Please don’t try to follow us. I assure you, we know how to use these weapons, and we know they can scar these walls, even burn through them. We’d rather not see that happen.”

He left the other threat unspoken: that the beams could burn through people, too.

“But—but we are noblemen!” King Longar cried. “How can you have defeated us so easily?”

“Because we’re trained soldiers, Your Majesty.” Dirk’s voice was gentle somehow, even sympathetic. “Ciletha? You can come with us—or you can stay here.”

The madmen turned toward the woman, their faces ugly. “No!” Orgoru cried. “She is good, she is gentle, and not to blame one whit for what these men have done!”

But the dark looks stayed ‘on’ the madmen’s faces, and Ciletha shuddered, suddenly realizing how unpredictable they might be. Quickly, she ran to Miles.

“Don’t follow us, now,” Dirk warned. “Miles, Ciletha, turn and go.”

Miles offered his arm as he turned around. Ciletha took it, heart pounding, and they walked slowly down the boulevard leading to the gate, with Dirk and Gar backing up behind them, rifles pointed a little above the heads of the silent, frozen band of madmen, standing there with the moonlight silvering their ludicrous finery.