The Reign of the Brown Magician

Chapter Ten

It was Nancy.

At least, Pel thought the woman he had created from hairs and nail clippings was truly Nancy.

She lay there, nude and lifeless, and Pel stared at her, looked over every inch of her, looking for any flaw, any sign that he had failed to perfectly recreate his wife’s body in every detail.

Of course, he had only his memory to go on, and he was dismayed by how untrustworthy that was. The curl of the hair was right, the curve of the hip, but was that mole on her thigh in exactly the right spot? Had it maybe been a quarter-inch lower before?

He couldn’t be sure.

There were photos back in the house, and he could send a fetch for them, but those wouldn’t help-those were portraits and ordinary snapshots, no full-length nudes, nothing that could show him every single feature.

He couldn’t be absolutely sure-but as far as he could see, this was Nancy, recreated and intact, just as she had been. Even the smell was right.

But she wasn’t alive. Not yet.

He touched her, carefully.

Her skin was cold and dry, her eyes blank; he drew back, shuddering.

This was really creepy, he realized. He had been so intent on it that he hadn’t really thought about what he was doing. This was like something out of a Stephen King novel, trying to bring back the dead-or really, maybe it was more like something from “Invasion of the Body-Snatchers,” since this wasn’t really Nancy’s body at all. This was a copy, grown from tiny discarded bits, and the real Nancy was still lying dead and mutilated somewhere in the Galactic Empire.

He was back in Storyland, only this time it wasn’t some great heroic adventure, it was a horror story. Something terrible was going to happen, he was meddling in things Man was not meant to know…

But he had magic, damn it. Nothing would go wrong. He could bring her back, safe and sound, in this recreated body. He could do anything-he held Shadow’s matrix, controlled all the magic, all the creative energy, of this entire universe.

He knew he could.

He took a deep breath, clenched his fists, then unclenched them and let out his breath. He gathered in the magic, sucked in energy through the matrix-he didn’t want to fail by not putting enough effort into it. He wanted to get it right the first time, he didn’t want to go through this again. He had saved out part of the hair and a toenail clipping and some powdery residue he was fairly sure came from hair or skin, but he didn’t want to have to use it.

Most especially, he didn’t want to have to destroy a botched attempt.

For a moment he thought about calling Boudicca or Athelstan back into the room to advise him, or even just Susan, for moral support, but then he clenched his fists again and quashed the idea. He would do this himself. He didn’t want anyone else seeing Nancy like this. He didn’t want anyone else watching if something went wrong. He didn’t want anyone else around, inhibiting him, if everything went right. He didn’t want to worry about distractions or explanations or anything else.

He would do it alone.

He drew in the energy, filled the chamber with a thick roiling fog of magic, so dense that the colors seemed like liquid currents in the air, deep orange and blood red and seething molten gold.

He waded through them, feeling the viscous electric force prickling and oozing across his skin, and approached his recreated Nancy. He moved around to the foot of the table and stood there, looking down at her, at toes and legs and the tight curls of hair, and he wrapped the magic around her, felt it soak into her, permeate every part of her.

This wasn’t just raising a fetch this time; he wound the pattern of energy in her spine and brain, but at the same time he drew the pattern from the flesh itself, and did something he couldn’t describe in words, reaching out in one of those directions that wasn’t really there, but which magic gave him access to. He somehow knew that he was reaching through the portals of death itself, to find Nancy’s soul and draw it back.

He pulled and wove and pushed and embraced, all at once, all through the matrix-his own hands never touched her-until he felt the power flowing of its own accord, the heart beating strong and steady, the brain waking, the eyes seeing. The flesh warmed, blood surged, muscles tightened and relaxed.

She blinked, and turned her head, first to one side, then the other.

For a moment he held his breath; he let the magic pull away, let her life free itself from the matrix.

“Nancy?” he breathed at last.

She blinked, raised herself up on her elbows, and looked at him.

“Is that my name?” she asked.

* * * *

“Shadow is dead?” Best asked, startled. “You’re sure?”

“Man, where have you been these three days past, since the news first came?” The innkeeper set down the wooden mug of thick, foul-smelling beer. “Aye, Shadow is dead, destroyed at the hand of one Pelbrun, styled the Brown Magician-we’ve the word of half a dozen travelers on it, one of whom spoke to a man who had been in the very throne room of Shadow’s fortress, and had spoken there with Lord Pelbrun.”

Best picked up the mug warily, then glanced first at Begley, then at Poole, finally at Morcambe.

Morcambe shrugged.

“It’s…I mean, ’tis a hard thing to believe,” Best said to the innkeeper.

“I’truth, it is!” the innkeeper agreed. “Yet all who come hither from the west attest it true, and it pleases me well to hear it. ’Tis to be a kinder reign, methinks, for Pelbrun’s orders have come down to us, that there shall be no more hangings for aught but murther, and that we may serve the Goddess an we choose.” He gestured toward the window; Best looked, and saw the gallows in the town square.

He had seen it before, when he and his men had arrived in the village-it seemed a perfectly ordinary gallows. Judging by the stains and general wear it had seen considerable use.

It was empty now, though, and perhaps that was what the innkeeper meant to point out. Presumably, when Shadow was running things, there was usually a criminal or two suspended there.

“What if it’s trickery?” Best asked, doing his best to imitate the barbaric local accent, with its flat, harsh vowels and archaic phrasing. “What if Shadow still lives, and is only testing your loyalty?”

The innkeeper shrugged. “What would you have of us? What could Shadow have of us, an it yet lives and rules? We’re but plain folk; if ’twould destroy us, it may, and what’s to be done? Why strive to deceive, when ’twas long said that Shadow had the power to see within every heart, should it trouble itself to do so?”

“What if…” Best paused, struggling to phrase his questions. This seemed too good to be true, that the superhuman enemy of the Empire had conveniently died, but he couldn’t very well explain that to this brew-soaked barbarian. It seemed more likely that it was all part of some elaborate scheme, perhaps directed at the Empire.

And who was this Brown Magician?

“Enow, good sirs, I’ve others to tend to,” the innkeeper said, after Best had groped unsuccessfully for words for a few seconds. “’Tis a wonder indeed, that we should live to see this day, and I’ll give you time to think upon it, and to resolve what you’d say. Drink heartily, and give voice an you’d have more.” He turned away and stumped off.

Best looked at Begley. “What d’you think, Bill?” he asked.

“Sounds genuine to me,” Begley answered.

“I don’t know.” He hesitated, then motioned to Morcambe. “Sid,” he said, “you finish up, and then head back to the landing site-they’re supposed to drop a ladder every four hours, but I wouldn’t be surprised if they’re off schedule. When they drop it, you climb back and tell them what we just heard.”

“What about you?” Morcambe asked.

“I’m going on to Shadow’s fortress,” Best said. “I intend to see for myself, get a look at this Brown Magician if I can.”

Begley shifted uneasily.

“If you and Poole want to back out, we’ll talk about it,” Best said. “Chances are I’ll send you back with reports before I get that far anyway.”

“Yes, sir,” Begley said, trying unsuccessfully not to look relieved.

* * * *

Shock, Pel told himself. The shock of her death and resurrection had damaged her memory, but it would come back with time, he was sure.

“Yes,” he said. “Your name is Nancy Brown. You’re my wife.”

She sat up, legs still straight out in front of her, and stared at him.

“All right,” she said.

“Don’t you remember?” he asked.

She frowned slightly. “I’m not sure,” she said. “I know things, I remember things, but it’s all sort of vague.”

“Do you know who I am?” he asked hopefully.

She squinted at him. “No,” she said. “Except…you created me, didn’t you? You’re the magician who created me?”

Why would she think of magicians? That didn’t sound right. Pel was suddenly afraid that something had gone very wrong. “I’m your husband, Pellinore Brown,” he said, “and I didn’t create you-I’ve brought you back from the dead.”

“Was I dead?”

Pel nodded; his throat suddenly felt thick and clogged with emotion, and he couldn’t speak.

“I don’t remember that,” she said. She cocked her head and looked at him, smiling sweetly, the movement and expression heart-wrenchingly familiar-though it was something Pel hadn’t seen since a few days before Grummetty had walked out of the basement wall. His doubts vanished; that gesture was Nancy’s.

“You were dead,” he said. “You were killed by raiders on Emerald Princess, and I came here and killed Shadow so I could get you back, you and Rachel.”

“I don’t remember that,” she said again-not smiling, this time.

“It’s probably shock,” Pel said. “Traumatic amnesia, or something, like on TV. It’ll come back to you eventually, I think.”

It struck him how bizarre this scene was-Nancy sitting calmly there on the table, stark naked, while the eerie, shifting patterns of the matrix flickered about her, filling the stone-walled, stone-floored chamber with vivid color.

She wasn’t a screaming fury like the revenants in Pet Sematary, she wasn’t possessed by demons-not visibly, anyway-but she wasn’t frightened or upset, either, nor as confused as Pel thought she ought to be. She was just accepting it all-she hadn’t asked about the matrix effects, or why he was wearing his present makeshift attire of loose black blouse and homespun trousers, or why she was nude, or most importantly, where she was.

She hadn’t asked anything except in response to his own words.

It had to be the shock, and the amnesia.

“What should I do now?” she asked, and he was unreasonably relieved to hear her ask it.

“Whatever you want,” he said. “I’m so…it’s just…I’m so glad to have you back!”

She turned and dangled her feet off the side of the table. “You missed me?” she asked.

“Of course!”

“How long was I dead?”

“I don’t know, exactly-I’ve lost track of time. Weeks. Months.” He watched as she slid off the table to stand on her own two feet.

“Ooh, the floor’s cold!” she said. She looked down and danced from one foot to the other.

That was more than Pel could stand. He stepped around the table and swept her up in his arms.

At the feel of her warm, bare flesh, the weight of her in his arms after so long alone, his body responded instantly. He bent his neck and kissed her.

When their mouths parted he remembered himself enough to say, “There’s a bedroom down the hall.”

He hoped she would say no, or take the initiative wordlessly, or otherwise encourage him to take her here and now, on the rough wood of the table; he feared she would refuse, would draw back, either because she didn’t remember him or because, after all, she had just awoken from the dead, she might need time to recover.

For a moment, he wasn’t even certain she knew what he meant.

But she smiled and said, “All right.”

* * * *

“Ms. Jewell,” Johnston said, “I had the impression there was something you wanted to tell me.”

Amy Jewell shifted uneasily. “Well,” she said, “it’s just…you said there wasn’t any way we could get at the Empire.”

“I guess I did, yes,” Johnston agreed.

Jewell gestured helplessly.

“I take it you think there is a way, then?” Johnston asked. “I assure you, Ms. Jewell, we don’t have any secret project that will open a path for us…”

“No, not that,” she said, dismayed.

“What, then?”

“Well, you can send things through Pel, of course,” Jewell explained. “He can open a portal to the Empire any shy;time you want, and one to Earth, and you can send through whatever you want.”

Johnston leaned back in his chair and stared at her.

“That’s obvious,” he said slowly, “now that you’ve pointed it out. I’d thought of going through Faerie, of course, but it hadn’t occurred to me that Mr. Brown would help us.

“But you know, he might. In fact, why shouldn’t he?”

“I don’t know,” Amy replied.

She still looked uneasy, though-and she knew Brown better than Johnston did. “I think,” he said, “that that’s something we’ll keep in mind, Ms. Jewell.”

But he didn’t think they’d be in any hurry to ask favors of Pel Brown.

* * * *

The matrix flickered and dimmed as Pel lay back on the cool bedding. He felt a pool of sweat drying beneath him.

The recreated Nancy lay beside him, saying nothing, smiling blandly.

She had cooperated, had agreed to whatever he suggested-and had suggested nothing herself. She hadn’t mentioned the weird pyrotechnics of the matrix, even though she had never seen any of it while she lived. She hadn’t said anything unless he spoke first. She hadn’t resisted when he had proposed things Nancy had always found disgusting; she’d cooperated. She hadn’t commented on his endless, matrix-supplied energy.

This wasn’t Nancy.

Admitting that to himself caused a hard, sharp, physical pain in his belly, but he had to admit it. This wasn’t Nancy.

He sat up again and looked down at the woman beside him in the bed, looked at her as only a matrix wizard could, using the magical network’s power to see into her in a way that was more than physical.

This wasn’t Nancy. It wasn’t really human at all; the soul, if that was what it was, lacked the complexity of a living woman’s.

This was an artificial being of his own creation.

He knew that she would do anything he told her to, without argument. She had no visible will or personality of her own. This wasn’t Nancy. This wasn’t a real woman at all. This was a homunculus, a thing, not a real person.

He hadn’t raised the dead; instead, he had found the way Shadow had created those duplicates Raven and others had mentioned, her spies, her doppelgangers.

He supposed some men might even think that was enough-but he wanted Nancy.

He wept silently, and she smiled up at him uncomprehendingly.

* * * *

“They’ve been collected, all of them, and brought to their capital city,” Carrie Hall said. “All but Gwenyth, anyway.”

“Why?” Secretary Markham demanded.

“To try to talk to us, I think,” she answered uncertainly.

Markham’s eyes narrowed. Telepaths weren’t supposed to be uncertain. He had an idea, a pretty good one, that a telepath only showed uncertainty when lying-they were never uncertain about what they had read, nor afraid to admit when they didn’t know something, but they could be uncertain, briefly, about how their lies were being received.

“It’s a very difficult contact,” Carrie said, as if answering his thoughts. She was probably doing exactly that-snooping inadvertently, maybe without even realizing she was doing it. Markham knew a lot about telepaths, had worked with them for twenty years, and while everyone knew that snooping without orders was a crime, he knew that sometimes they couldn’t help it.

“And the four of them haven’t been told why they were gathered,” Carrie added. “They’re guessing, and I’m working from their guesses.”

Markham nodded. He turned to Carrie’s brother.

“I’ve located a few possible contacts,” Brian said, anticipating Markham’s question-as Markham had expected him to. “I’ve found two of our own people. One is Samuel Best, the head of the intelligence squad Under-Secretary Bascombe sent, and the other is a trooper named Ronald Wilkins, who accompanied Lord Raven for a time and then deserted. He suspects himself to be the only survivor of Colonel Carson’s command.”

“And what do they know about Shadow?”

“It’s hard to read very much, sir-there are currents of energy that interfere. However, both our men have heard that Shadow is dead; Best has sent one of his men back for pick-up, to tell us as much. Apparently Shadow has been replaced by someone or something called the Brown Magician.”

“Brown?” Markham glanced at Carrie, and at Bascombe. “Pel Brown, perhaps?”

* * * *

Pel debated whether or not he should destroy the false Nancy, and could reach no decision. He sat in Shadow’s throne, considering, arguing with himself.

She was a mockery, a thing-but she was alive and she seemed so human, in her complacent and obedient way. She wasn’t Nancy-but was she a person, all the same?

He had created her, but did that give him the right to destroy her?

Or the obligation to destroy her?

At least he hadn’t recreated Rachel, he told himself. Destroying a grown woman would be bad enough, but a false child…

But maybe he should recreate Rachel. Wasn’t a simulacrum better than nothing? He had been so happy to have Nancy back at first, until he had realized it wasn’t her. He had so missed the warm companionship of a woman…

But he didn’t want an imitation, damn it! He wanted Nancy. And Rachel. Not just this Nancy puppet in his bed.

He looked up and saw Susan standing in the doorway, watching him.

At least she was real, and not just a simulacrum, a magical imitation-she remembered her childhood in southeast Asia, remembered how she had died here in Shadow’s fortress. A simulacrum wouldn’t have known any of that.

That was because he had simply repaired her dead body, forced life back into the corpse; he hadn’t had to make a new body for her. He couldn’t do that for Nancy or Rachel; he didn’t have their bodies.

Red light surged up behind him and lit Susan’s face a ghastly color. Pel blinked at her, and forgot all about the imitation of his wife.

He didn’t have Nancy’s body, or Rachel’s.

But maybe he could get them.