Her Majesty's Wizard

CHAPTER 2

They loaded him down with chains, at least one of which Matt was certain was silver, and heaved him into an oxcart for the trip uptown, literally; it was uphill all the way. They wound through curving alley streets, constantly on the upgrade, through a melange of domestic architecture ranging from about 600 to 1300 A.D. This wasn't out of the ordinary in a European town; what bothered Matt was that some of the seventh-century shops looked almost as new as the fourteenth century ones. He gave up trying to make sense out of the historical periods; apparently every universe had its own sort of sequence.

Which reminded him that he was about as far from home as a man could get. What had that parchment fragment said? "Cross the void of time and space ... ?" He had a sudden, vivid image of the chaos that would result as an infinite number of time tracks crossed and put the thought behind him with a shudder.

Enough. He was in a universe other than his own; let it stand at that. It was one where the Ice Age had stayed late, or humanity had come early, for starters-and how many snarls would that make, in history's long yarn? Starting with England still being connected to France, it could make quite a few. Sure, the Britons probably wouldn't have built a wall across that narrow neck of land that connected Calais to Dover, but the Romans would have done so; the Brito-Romans had probably built such a wall to keep the Goths out, as Rome started to decline. If there had been a Rome here.

Assume there had been; the language had some root words that resembled Latin cognates. And the captain had mentioned ancient Greece. The histories seemed to run a rough parallel; so there probably had been a Mediterranean empire corresponding to Rome.

Okay. As Rome declined, the Brito-Romans probably would have built the wall, and it probably would have been every bit as effective as Hadrian's Wall-which is to say, in the long run, that the analog-Goths simply ignored it. And the Danes had probably come sailing in as merrily as in Matt's world.

So England would have had its familiar potpourri of peoples and cultures, but with the pace possibly accelerated. Would that also apply to the English doing the conquering?

It was possible. Henry II had made a fair bid for conquering as much of France as he hadn't inherited or married. And Canute was king of Norway, Denmark, and England all at the same time, but he ruled from England. If an ambitious Englishman had started moving in this universe, he might have taken the whole ball, of wax, since he didn't have to worry about naval supply lines.

That could explain the English-language influence in southern France. Maybe Canute had done it. He was the one who'd commanded the sea not to roll in ... For a giddy moment, Matt found himself wondering if that might not be a better explanation of the lower waterline than glaciation; after all, magic seemed to work, in this universe ...

He jerked himself out of the morass of mysticism; that way lay dragons. Magic was just superstition and an interesting academic study; it didn't really work anywhere. There was a perfectly logical explanation for the sudden appearance of so many beggars! If he could just find it...

He gave his head a shake, forcing the flood of speculation. into the back of his mind, and found himself looking upward, along a twisting hill road, at a square, forbidding granite castle. In spite of the medievalisms he'd been seeing all morning, a cold-air movement coiled itself around his backbone. That castle looked so damned military, so real...

The iron teeth of the portcullis seemed to bite down at him as the guards rolled him over the drawbridge. With a sudden ache, Matt wished with every ounce of his being that he were no place else than his own sloppy kitchen back in his off-campus, hole-in-the-wall apartment. Home ...

They took him through a series of drafty corridors that seemed to grudge giving up an ounce of the winter's cold. Some had narrow, arrow slit windows; some had an occasional torch; some had nothing. The stairways they marched him up were broad enough for an army, which was probably what they were designed for, but just as dark, and possibly colder.

The guards turned left suddenly and trundled him though a huge oaken door into a fifteen-by-twenty study with two large windows to let sunlight in through actual glass. How come no arrow slits? Matt took a peek and saw a courtyard-with soldiers drilling.

But the rest of the room was reassuring, though only by comparison. The two side walls were hung with huge tapestries, one showing the seige of a castle and the other showing a stag brought to bay; and most of the floor space was occupied by a brilliant purple-and-red Moorish carpet. So Spain had fallen to North Africa, which meant this universe had had its Mohammed, and probably also its Charles Martel and its Roland. In fact, that last hero might be more probable here than at home.

The furnishing was surprisingly sparse-a tall writing-desk and stool at the side, and a large, heavy table with an hourglass-shaped chair centered in front of the window.

The soldiers chained him to a wrought-iron torch sconce and left him there, with a certain fugitive haste that indicated the sergeant's casual attitude towards sorcerers was either rare or faked. Matt was alone for a few moments' thought. He looked around the study and decided he didn't like it. After the gloom of the castle halls, it was definitely too cheery. It was a setup.

A man slammed through the door. He was six feet tall and more, swaggering and swag-bellied, with small, close-set eyes in a pouchy face, a mouth two sizes too small, and a pig snout of a nose. He wore red, pointed shoes, bright yellow hose, a knee-length purple robe, and a crown.

Matt looked for some woodwork to fade into.

A slab of hand cracked across his chops. "Show respect, trickster! Look at your king when you're in his presence!"

Matt looked, though the view was a trifle blurry. Through the haze, he saw the door behind the king swing open and a half dozen guards file in. Through pain and fear percolated the random thought that their presence might explain some of the king's blustering.

The king paced back and forth in front of Matt, strutting a little, sure he had Matt's full attention. "So this is the mighty sorcerer from the fabled Western world over the sea? Men must grow small and weak there. What magics could this work? Certainly nothing to fear."

The slab hand cracked out again, rocking Matt's head back against the stonework. "Answer, sorcerer!"

Matt blinked, trying to bring the room into focus. "Uhhhh ... I ... wasn't aware I'd been asked."

"You mock me," the king snarled, balling up a fist.

"No, no!" Matt cried in panic. "Nothing but respect intended, I assure ..."

The fist slammed into his belly, and Matt folded, eyes bulging in agony. All he could manage was a gurgle.

"Why will you not answer?" The open hand slapped under his jaw. Matt rocked back again. "Damned impertinence!" the king grunted, and the slap exploded against Matt's temple. The room went dark, shot with pinpoints of light. Behind them, Matt heard the king's gargling laugh. "Is this the fearful sorcerer who conjured an army into the midst of the town? Where is his power now? Let him only come up against a real man with some meat on him! Then his spirit quails, and the cowardice that first made him seek sorcery comes to the fore once again. Bewitch me, churl! Do you dare, when you must face a strong man?" The king sneered, and the back of his hand smashed into Matt's face.

Through the darkness and the ringing, Matt felt blood seep from his nose, and fury broke. He called out:

The king's head jerked back, yanking his body with it. He sailed backward five feet and slammed into the ranks of the guards. They bent to pick the king up off the floor, slapping his face lightly and calling for brandywine.

Matt stared. Vaguely, at the back of his mind, somebody was saying, "Oh, my. Did I do that?"

Somebody shoved a portable wineskin into the king's mouth. He gagged; his body jackknifed, and brandywine sprayed over the room. He spent a minute or so in diligent coughing; then he looked up, and his tiny, red-rimmed eyes fixed on Matt with a look that read like a death warrant.

Matt shrank back as the slob-king climbed to his feet with a slow, building potential for murder. He'd blown it, Matt realized; he should have pulled a follow-up spell while the king was out.

What was he thinking? He wasn't a sorcerer!

But that might be just the stall he needed-the unexpected. He summoned every iota of what little cold contempt he could manage. "Learn the lesson, royal Lord, and address me correctly as wizard! I'm not a sorcerer!"

"But I am," purred a velvet voice from the doorway.

It was highly instructive to watch the king backpedaling hastily. He looked up at the new arrival, startled, wary, and fearful. The arrogant bully suddenly turned into an intimidated pussycat who was trying to remember he was a warrior.

The self-proclaimed sorcerer glided into the room with a soft whispering of velvet, a tall, lean customer in a floor-length black robe and black conical hat, both embroidered with blood-red arcane symbols, pentagrams, runes, and others Matt didn't recognize. He was swarthy and handsome, with black eyebrows, moustache, jawline beard, and wavy black hair. With his mouth, he was Smiling-polite, urbane, and as treacherous as California bedrock.

He looked the king up and down sadly, clucking his tongue. "A shame, Astaulf -- it bit back! Will you never learn to leave things magical to those who can govern them?" He glanced at Matt. "'You seem harmless enough - but 'tis well to be sure." His forefinger darted out, stabbing at Matt while he intoned a short, rhyming chant in an arcane tongue.

Matt doubled up shrieking as hot irons stabbed into his belly. He would have kept yelling, but his diaphragm tied a knot in itself, and he ran out of breath.

King Astaulf was pulling himself up by the nearest guard. "I can govern small sorcerers well enough, Malingo -- they fear a strong man, even if he has not their Power. How was I to know that this stranger was not such a weakling?"

"You should always fear a sorcerer," Malingo chided, "till his powers are known. You ought to have left him to me, Astaulf."

Astaulf flushed, and Matt had a notion that he was missing something in the conversation; but he was missing his breath more. His belly was locked solid, refusing to inhale, and his vision was getting a trifle murky. Panic flowed, and he fought it back - this would be an asinine way to die, stranded in an alternate universe.

There had to be a simple, logical explanation for his sudden belly cramps. And there was: The sorcerer had hexed him.

"And what of the actions you should have taken?" the king blurted. "If a powerful new sorcerer has come amongst us, should you not have known of it?"

Malingo's face darkened.

Astaulf grinned and pressed his advantage. "You sent no warning, doubtless because the man was too weak for concern. Yet it appears he is not. How is this, Malingo? Has your magic failed you?"

An interesting point, Matt was sure-but just now, he was far more interested in getting the thumbscrews off his belly. Logic, man, he told himself. You've been hexed; unhex yourself.

He managed a bare whisper, reversing the first magic spell he could think of:

His breath hissed in as his belly muscles fell loose. Then his stomach bounced back, and the room seemed to swing about him as nausea percolated through him.

Malingo tossed his head impatiently. "Am I to notice every least and littlest happening in your kingdom? Why have you guards and spies?"

"Why have I a sorcerer?" Astaulf showed his teeth, enjoying himself. "I think you let too many things escape your notice."

Nausea was one thing, but when the floor seemed to want to join the ocean and started taking wave lessons, Matt had to do something fast.

"Explain yourself." Malingo was definitely a little white around the lips. "What things escape my notice?"

Astaulf's face darkened with wrath. "Rebellious nobles in the West, for one thing, plotting to topple me from my new-won throne! And that idiot girl in the dungeons, who has still the gall to refuse my attentions!"

The floor was doing a really good wave action now, and Matt found himself beginning to wish it could rise and drown him. Anything to end this misery! He called on the old masters:

It was a lie, but it worked; the floor flattened out with remarkable alacrity, and the nausea vanished.

"That is what escapes your notice!" Astaulf cried. "Not to mention a foreign sorcerer of unknown powers!"

"I agree; do not mention him," Malingo said between his teeth. "As for the wench, it may simply be that the crown does not dazzle her eyes when it rests on the head of one who's not a rightful king."

Astaulf froze, staring at the sorcerer, scandalized. Malingo smiled back urbanely.

Matt realized, dimly, that his appearance had triggered a hidden, building conflict into an open explosion.

Astaulf bellowed fury and yanked out a sword built on the scale of a snowplow. He swung it up above his head as Malingo's finger stabbed out, and the sorcerer rattled off a rhyme in the arcane tongue. The sword squirmed and writhed as Astaulf swung it down; then it looped its head back, jaws gaping wide for Astaulf's face. The king froze in horror, staring at the python; then he threw it at Malingo, swearing, "Take your snake, toad! To me, men!" He leaped at Malingo, cable-fingers clawing for his throat. "Aid me, foreigner! Bring down this foul sorcerer, and all his wealth and power shall be yours!" His fingers closed around Malingo's neck like the jaws of a pipe-cutter; he yanked the sorcerer off his feet and held him high, shaking him and tightening his grip. "Aid me now, I say! Black sorcerer though he is, he can't withstand the two of us! Counter his spells, and I will kill him!"

Matt's eyes flicked from one to the other, and he decided on the old Army rule: Never volunteer.

Malingo might have been getting red in the face, but his hands were weaving around Astaulf's arm in an intricate pattern, and he was mouthing silent syllables. Only Matt noticed that the python at the sorcerer's feet was stretching out and thickening, while three of the guards clustered around, trying to grasp the sorcerer's arms, to hold him still. Then a boa constrictor reared itself up, knocking Astaulf's guards aside as it flexed itself and threw a loop around the king's neck.

Astaulf's eyes bulged in horror; a choking groan leaped from his mouth. Malingo twisted in his hands and jumped free as the king clutched at the living hawser around his neck. Malingo's fingers darted out at the guards, his tongue rattling in the strange language-and their skin began to crack and peel, opening into running sores. They saw the flesh turn dark and gangrenous on their hands and screamed.

But Malingo didn't stay to look; he whirled back to the strangling king and stalked toward him with his fingers weaving, voice rising high and shrill. Then his hands yanked out stiffly as if snapping a thread taut - and the king was gone!

Malingo looked slowly down at the floor. So did Matt - and there, at the sorcerer's feet, sat a flabby and leprous toad, its mottled skin peeling.

It blinked, looking dazedly around - and saw the snake.

The boa's head swung slowly toward it - and froze, gaze riveted on the toad. Then, slowly, the head lifted, and the jaws gaped wide.

The toad gave a sort of groaning belch and turned, trying to hop away; but its hops were short and feeble. It was definitely not well.

The sorcerer's foot came down.

Not all the way-just enough to hold the toad in place. It squirmed under his foot, still trying to get away from the snake; but Malingo flung up a hand, and the snake's eyes flicked to him, wary and watchful. The sorcerer chanted a phrase and snapped his hand down, pointing at the snake. It never moved; its eyes and skin slowly dulled while its body seemed to flatten; and a giant's broadsword lay across the chamber floor, its blade curved, its pommel hooked.

A despairing, rattling groan sounded from the side of the chamber. Matt looked over against the wall, then yanked his eyes away again, the nausea rising in his throat. He'd seen a heap of rotting garbage among rags that once had been soldiers' liveries. Stench filled the chamber from what was left of the three guards who had been loyal to Astaulf. Matt swallowed heavily and mumbled his anti-nausea spell again.

The other guards were staring at the pile of carrion. It was very quiet, suddenly.

"Yes," Malingo said into the silence, "that is the fate of fools. And any man's a fool who gives his loyalty to princes when a sorcerer stands near. Remember, worthy guardsmen, and tell your mates; for your prudence saved your lives today - and may again."

He fell silent, his gaze holding level on them as, one by one, they wrenched their eyes away from the heap and up to meet the sorcerer's gaze-then quickly away again.

The sorcerer nodded slowly. "Enough. You've seen and will remember. Begone. "

They turned to the door, managing to keep from running; but the last one out hesitated and looked back. "Lord Sorcerer - the King ... "

"What said I of him who gives his loyalty to princes?" the sorcerer demanded; and the soldier shuddered. The latch clicked shut behind him.

Malingo stood, still and quiet, in the rays of afternoon sun that streamed in through the window, one hand half-raised, one foot still upon the toad.

Then slowly he lifted the foot away and stared down at the toad. "So, your Majesty." He made the title an insult. "Your pride had grown too large. Will this remind you of the true size of your soul?"

The toad blinked and stared up at him, terrified.

Malingo nodded slowly. "I think it will. But never, Astaulf, should you have dared to call me toad."

He straightened slowly and walked around the amphibian, gazing down his nose at it. It sat frozen, but its eyes followed his movements.

"No," the sorcerer said with infinite regret, "I must let you live."

The toad seemed to sink in upon itself with trembling relief.

Malingo nodded. "Aye; it was indeed a close escape, Astaulf. For a moment, hot blood nearly overcame cold sense; for a moment, I almost let myself tread down. But it would be so tedious, seeking out another nobleman as foolish and covetous as yourself! And I, of course, must have a nobleman. Ah, the cursed set of these foolish aristocrats' minds that must needs see some trace of royal' blood in him who sits upon the throne! As if none without relation to the reigning king could govern. Still and all, these noblemen must see such blood in him who'd claim the crown; for without it, they all would rise as rebels. Be thankful for your birth into a minor noble house - for it's all that saves you now."

Matt noticed that the sorcerer didn't say anything about his own birth. Obviously, he'd been born a commoner.

Malingo's teeth flashed in a grin. "Nor need I have concern that you'd seek my death again. Need I, Astaulf ?" He waited, head cocked to the side. The toad shivered. Malingo laughed. "Nay, I thought not. For you know you could not hold your new-won throne against the Western barons without my power to aid you. Sorcery gained your throne, so only sorcery can hold it. Indeed, you only dared challenge me today because there's a new sorcerer here, and you thought he'd league against me. Foolish baron! You should have known no power in the land could equal mine!"

That rankled; Matt hadn't exactly thought of it as a matter of daring. Just common sense - don't choose sides until you have to.

Then he caught the baleful glare from the toad's eye and realized he'd had to.

So did Malingo. "No, you may not touch him, Astaulf! Not, at least, till I have done with him." He nodded judiciously. "Yes, I think you're schooled. I may restore you to your place; you'll not soon challenge me again." He stepped back, hands waving an unseen symbol in the air, chanting in the arcane tongue - a slow, rising chant that built to a peak as his hands flourished and snapped still.

The toad's form began to blur and waver, a cloud of vapor gathered around it, hiding it completely. The cloud grew and grew, like a gathering storm; then it began to sink in on itself, condensing, shrinking, and Astaulf stood rigid before the sorcerer. Then he sagged and staggered over to lean against the wall, eyes closed, face ashen and glistening with sweat, breathing in long, shuddering gasps.

Malingo stood back and nodded in approval. "Yes, you've learned. Do not forget this, Astaulf. Next time I'll change you to the swine you are and dine upon your hams."

The king's eyes flickered open, then squeezed shut again.

The sorcerer's lips twitched into a sneer. "Ah, what a man he is! What commanding and kingly presence! But now, begone -- I wish to have some words of my own with this new sorcerer. Begone, I say!" He stepped around behind the king, setting his palm between Astaulf's shoulder blades, and shoved. The king lurched toward the door, fumbling for the latch. He managed to get it open and stumbled out.

Malingo stood looking after him, shaking his head slowly, lip curling. Then he stilled and slowly turned toward Matt.

Matt fought the impulse to shrink back against the wall. He lifted his chin, but decided not to try to get to his feet.

The sorcerer nodded approvingly. "You showed wisdom, trickster. Or did you know you could not match me?"

"Uh-yeah."

Malingo raised an eyebrow. "I sense some hesitation. Could you believe you do have power to match my own?"

"Uh ... well..."

The sorcerer snapped a forefinger out at him, chanting a quick, rhymed phrase.

Matt felt a sudden overpowering compulsion to lick the sorcerer's boots. His body started to bend forward of its own accord, even while every cell in his brain screamed outrage. His stomach knotted with sudden, hot anger, and he rapped out:

It was blank verse, not rhymed, which may have been why it didn't work completely; but the compulsion dwindled. Matt shoved it to the back of his mind and straightened, even managing to give the sorcerer a defiant glare.

Malingo's eyebrows twitched upward. "Well, so! Ah, let's try sterner measures." He pulled a curving dagger from his sleeve and tossed it to the floor near Matt's knee, murmuring a rhyme. Total despair suddenly dragged at Matt, worse than any depression he'd ever felt - ten times worse. The room seemed to darken about him with a miasma of hopelessness. It was all a farce, this game of rhymes and gestures - this whole game of life, for that matter. Totally absurd, totally meaningless. Why bother even trying to fight back?

His eye fell on the dagger. His hand crept out toward it. To take it up, plunge it into his chest, be done with it all! Ah, the sweetness of nothingness!

Foul! shrieked the skeptic's voice at the back of his mind. He's hexed you, fool!

Matt paused, startled at the thought. Then his hand crept out toward the knife again of its own accord. He was hexed - and stubborn pride dug its heels in and balked, meaningless or not. Matt grabbed for Hamlet's lines:

The depression remained - after all, Hamlet wasn't exactly exuberant till the end of the play, when he knew he was dying, but Matt's hand stopped, then began to move back to his side. It would be pretty senseless to kill himself, when the only thing he was sure of was that he existed.

Malingo's frown deepened. He made a circular motion, palm out, as if he were wiping a slate. Depression snapped away from Matt, almost rocking him with the reaction. He was just pulling his wits together when Malingo's finger stabbed out again, and his arcane drone buzzed.

Matt suddenly felt something was missing. Inside! That sinking feeling in his stomach could only be explained by his stomach sinking. Could his intestines have gone on vacation? No, surely not! This sorcerer couldn't have gone for the cheap joke, the literal interpretation of the standard adjective for cowards.

He had.

Matt had a vision of his stomach acids and by-products raining down unfiltered onto his kidneys. Whatever he was going to do, he'd better do it fast; peritonitis might not be possible without an appendix to burst, but he was certainly going to have a close equivalent.

Malingo watched him, grinning.

Dull anger burned - or was it stomach acid? Either way, Matt set his jaw and dug back through twenty years of education for an appropriate phrase. He could think of a few verses for pulling intestines out, but it never seemed to have occurred to any poet to celebrate the reverse. In desperation, he tried his own:

It was lousy doggerel, but it worked. Matt had a sudden sense of fulfillment. He sighed with relief.

Malingo's face wiped clean of all expression.

Matt was suddenly alert. He had to move first, before the sorcerer made another try. Well, he'd just been thinking of augury. He declaimed,

Malingo suddenly looked decidedly disconcerted. He clapped a hand to his chest, swallowed heavily, muttered a quick incantation, and traced a symbol over his breastbone, then relaxed with a heavy sigh. Matt felt a surprising surge of relief, too - he'd never really fancied himself a murderer.

Malingo's lips puckered in a frown. He stroked his beard, eyeing Matt as if he were speculating on how many slices of fish bait he could cut from his liver.

Matt lifted his chin and stared back stoutly. After all, there wasn't much else he could do.

"You have some power," Malingo admitted. "Enough to be useful to me. But, alas, that also means you've enough to be troublesome. I ought to obliterate you here and now and would do so without a thought - if it weren't for the possibility of your being more help than bother."

Matt pricked up his ears. What was this? A chance to join the local power structure?

Malingo turned away, strolling across the chamber with elaborate nonchalance. "You refused Astaulf's offer, and that could indicate any one of a number of desirable traits."

Sure, such as cowardice; greed, apathy, or a certain reluctance to attack while anyone was watching. Matt eyed the sorcerer's back speculatively - but of course, that was just what Malingo was expecting.

"We must, of course, test you further to discover which one it is."

Matt frowned. "Why bother? It's simple - I'm the cautious sort. I'm not about to choose a side before I know how the ground lies."

"How?" the sorcerer frowned, perplexed.

"I mean ... Look. When the king jumped you, how was I supposed to know which one would win?"

"I see." Malingo nodded. "Well, at least you show some sense, though no great faith in sorcery. Still, there are worse values, and I can understand your uncertainty. Astaulf and I have been careful to appear on the best of terms when anyone was there to, see. How could you know which was stronger, when you had no inkling of a quarrel?"

Apparently Malingo was forgetting that Matt was new in town. Or did he even know?

"I congratulate you on your prudence," the sorcerer said. "Such restraint and wisdom are rare in one new to the Power. You are wise to be sure which side can best advance you before you choose."

He strode back toward Matt and stopped, arms akimbo. "Well! You've seen it. The king cannot stand against me-but I can dispense with him, should I think it worth the trouble. League with me, and Astaulf cannot hurt you. My power still is rising, as yours will with it, if you swear fealty to me."

Matt just sat, staring up at the man, unbelieving. From football to ally in less than two minutes ... ? No. From football to pawn!

Malingo frowned. "You hesitate? Perhaps I should not offer. What stays your mind?"

"Uh ... well, I'm just naturally the cautious type, as I said."

Matt's mind raced. He had to make it sound good - but what would this trickster buy? "I'm really new in town, you see. I'd like a fuller idea of the lay of the land before I decide anything."

"But what more need you know? Astaulf is a fool, and I the power behind him. No other power in this land can stand against us, as we've proved within these last six months. What else?"

"Well, for starters - who's the power behind you?"

It was a dumb thing to say, and Matt knew it after three words, but it was a little late to stop. The sorcerer turned pale. Then, after a few seconds, he smiled slowly, and Matt dared breathe again. "You do not know? You truly do not know?"

"Well, I could guess."

"Do so." Malingo cocked his head to the side, interested, waiting..

Matt swallowed. "Well ... Astaulf called you a sorcerer..."

Malingo nodded.

Matt took a deep breath. He didn't dare show the slightest sign of squeamishness. "Which means your power comes from Hell."

"There! You see?" Malingo spread his hands. "You knew it all along." He quirked one' eyebrow. "You are a sorcerer, of course?"

Matt swallowed. "Well ... that's a matter of definition."

"How?"

"High definition," Matt explained, "in which case it's a hot medium, and I gather a sorcerer is supposed to be a very hot medium indeed. Of course, at the other end of the scale, there's low definition, which makes a cool medium, and I like to think I keep my cool. Then, too, I'm pretty low on being definite."

He ran out of steam, and the sorcerer just stood, staring.

Then Malingo lifted his head. "Indeed. You seem to be somewhat confused. Are you truly ignorant of the distinction between a medium and a sorcerer? For if you are, you can't begin to know yourself."

"Yeah, that's it!" Matt leaped at the idea as though it were a life preserver. "The identity search, who-what-where am I. I'm very much in the middle of it! And never more than now..."

Malingo shook his head sadly. "You'll be no use to me until that's resolved, and you know what you are. Oh, I've heard of such cases before-young men discovering they've the Power, but not knowing what they would do with it, uncertain whether to work for Darkness or Light. Yes, I know your case - some of my best junior sorcerers were poised in such precarious state not long agone. They're greatly to be valued, I assure you-as you yourself may be, once you've resolved your doubts. No, we'll keep you yet awhile." He turned to the door and yanked it open. "Guards! Step now within!"

Two armored guards came in, pikes at the ready.

"Escort him to the dungeons." Malingo motioned toward Matt. "We'll give you, then, a while. I can afford it. You seem to have a spell or two I've not encountered. I must study this native power of yours more closely - when I have the time. For now, I have a cell to hold you, so think at length, deeply and carefully, on what you are and what you seek to be. Then, when you know you do seek sorcery, you'll swear allegiance to me." He flipped a hand to the guards. "Take him away."

They hauled Matt to his feet, but he turned back to the sorcerer. "Uh ... I hate to ask foolish questions, but - what happens if I decide I'm, say, a wizard?"

The sorcerer bared his teeth in a sort of grin. "Why, then I've some particularly vile spells I've read about, but never tried. I'm quite curious as to how they'll work, actually. If you wish to side with Light, by all means, do-you'll still contribute to my power."