The Reign of the Brown Magician

Chapter Twenty-Seven

“Why don’t you run and play?” Pel asked.

“Don’t want to,” Rachel said.

“Do you want to go home? Back to Earth?”

“Don’t care.”

“Don’t you miss Harvey, and all your friends?”

Rachel shrugged.

He turned to Susan. “Damn it, what’s wrong with her?”

“She was dead,” Susan said.

“She was dead too long, that’s what it is,” Pel said, turning back to stare at Rachel.

She was sitting cross-legged on the floor of the throne room, watching the changing colors of the matrix, and seemed quite content to do so indefinitely.

“They were both dead too long,” Pel said angrily. “It’s all because the goddamned Empire had to play their stupid games, and wouldn’t just hand them over! I mean, what the hell is wrong with them? You aren’t any different!”

“You didn’t know me back on Earth,” Susan said, but Pel didn’t notice; he was working himself into a rage. Rachel watched quietly as the matrix became saturated with angry reds and began to seethe in tight little claw-shaped curls.

“The Empire had to play their fucking little power games,” Pel said through gritted teeth. He turned to Susan. “I want fetches,” he said. “With blasters.”

* * * *

“Fifteen dead,” the telepath said. “That’s not counting the attackers.”

The Emperor drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair. “Three of them, we believe?”

“Yes, your Majesty,” the telepath replied.

The Emperor shot a quick glance at Sheffield, who said nothing; the telepath said, “Yes, your Majesty, he is thinking that he told you so, that he warned you this would happen. He is also remembering that we haven’t gotten back the hostages the Brown Magician claimed to have-roughly a hundred and fifty in all, he believes there were-but at least we’ve presumably recovered three blasters, and the others must be running low on charge, which will make it impossible for these raids to continue indefinitely.”

Sheffield’s expression was resigned, with no trace of self-righteousness that the Emperor could see. “He can always get more blasters,” the Emperor said. “He started out with just three or four, didn’t he, Bucky?”

“Yes, your Majesty,” Sheffield admitted.

“We wish we knew what he wants,” the Emperor said, drumming his fingers again. “We gave him the bodies, and he hasn’t made any other demands.” He gazed thoughtfully at Sheffield, then at the telepath, and at last he shrugged.

“The simplest way is probably the best,” he said. “Send that envoy, Curran, through the warp, and have him ask Brown what he wants.”

“Yes, your Majesty,” the telepath said, bowing.

* * * *

The matrix kinked suddenly, startling Pel so that he almost dropped Rachel.

He was lifting her over his head, bouncing her up and down, trying to make her laugh-and failing. He was trying to keep a smile and a good attitude, to have fun, but Rachel’s solemn little face wasn’t helping at all.

And now the Empire had opened another warp.

“Screw ’em,” Pel said to Rachel. “Let ’em burn villages if they want to. I don’t care any shy;more.”

He didn’t mean to pay any attention, but as he lowered Rachel to the floor he couldn’t help noticing that the warp was in the Low Forest, in Sunderland.

They probably wanted to talk, then.

Screw ’em.

* * * *

Curran explored the treehouse thoroughly, evicting a squirrel and several birds in the process; the strange little servants, creatures like furry, misshapen dwarves, stood aside and let him search. None of them could speak-or at least, none of them did speak, so they could not tell him anything.

It was quite clear, even without confirmation from the servants, that the Brown Magician was not here, and had not been here in some time. He did not appear to have been near the shipwreck, either.

That left Curran in something of a quandary. How could he negotiate with someone who wasn’t there?

The only solution seemed to be to go where Brown was, and while he didn’t know for certain, the best guess was that fortress, in the place called Shadowmarsh-two hundred miles to the west.

And the only way to get there was by walking.

Curran sighed. He really didn’t have any choice; his orders had come directly from the Emperor himself.

He started walking.

* * * *

“Where do you want to live?” Pel bellowed.

“I don’t care,” Nancy repeated.

“You have to care!” Pel shouted at her. “Think about it, for God’s sake! You can live here, where I have all the magic in the world and we can probably use it to live forever, or you can go back to Earth, where we can go back to a normal life, see your folks, all your friends, where I can talk to my mother and my sisters on the phone-where you’d have phones, and indoor plumbing, and books and TV and radio and we have a goddamn VCR, instead of magic! How can you not care?”

She shrugged. “It just doesn’t matter to me.”

Pel stared at her, frustrated beyond all control.

She had been alive again for a week, and all the initial euphoria was gone.

She didn’t argue. She didn’t complain. She didn’t laugh. She never seemed to do anything on the spur of the moment, or show any real enthusiasm for anything.

She wasn’t as obedient and agreeable as the simulacra; this was a different thing altogether. Instead, Nancy and Rachel seemed as closed and impervious as Susan.

But it had seemed natural in Susan, because she had always been quiet and reserved and calm, all the time Pel had known her.

Nancy hadn’t. Nancy had had spirit.

But she didn’t now.

And worse, neither did Rachel.

Pel couldn’t stand it.

He raised both arms over his head and blasted a hole in the ceiling.

It didn’t matter; he could repair it later. But the boom and the shower of dust and debris were oddly satisfying.

For a moment.

* * * *

Curran staggered along the causeway, hoping that he could make it to the fortress before he collapsed.

His fancy coat was long gone, stolen in the first village he had passed through; the cummerbund had been traded for a meal, the silk sash for a night’s lodging. The hat had fallen off in a storm, and never been recovered.

The soles of his shiny black boots were worn paper-thin, but still intact, though one of the nails holding the right heel had worked its way up through the sole and was now poking into his foot, so that he limped slightly.

The ruffles on his white shirt were stained, torn, and flattened; the shirt itself was more brown than white now.

His velvet pants had shredded, and been replaced with a stolen pair of soft leather breeches.

He hadn’t shaved in almost a fortnight, his hair was shaggy and uncombed, and he had developed a nasty cough that he hoped wasn’t anything serious.

Mostly, though, he was simply exhausted. A two-hundred-mile walk through a hostile country was no joke, and this country had definitely turned out to be hostile.

In fact, it had appeared to be on the verge of anarchy. His clothing had marked him as a figure of fun, not someone to be taken seriously as a threat, which had probably saved his life, as several groups he had encountered had seemed prone to strike first and ask questions later.

The Brown Magician did not appear to be a strong ruler. There were apparently several factions claiming to act in his name, and he had done nothing to settle the disputes.

As several people mentioned, Shadow had never allowed this sort of thing.

All the same, the Brown Magician was the ruler, as everyone agreed, and he was undoubtedly the one behind the raids into Imperial space, so he, and no one else, was who Curran had to speak to.

The causeway really seemed unreasonably long; why had Shadow, or whoever it was, built that fortress so far out in the marsh?

Curran staggered again, and decided he really needed to just sit down for a moment and rest, he wouldn’t go to sleep or anything, he would just sit down, maybe close his eyes for a second…

* * * *

At first, Pel didn’t recognize the bedraggled figure the fetches held upright before him.

Then the ruffled shirt caught his attention, and something clicked.

“Ambrose Curran?” he asked. “The Imperial envoy?”

Curran, still not entirely conscious, nodded weakly.

“Good heavens,” Pel said. “What happened to you?”

Curran managed to mutter, “It’s a long walk.”

“So it is,” Pel agreed, amused. “You came through the warp in the Low Forest? That was almost two weeks ago!”

Curran nodded again.

“Here, take him somewhere and feed him and get him rested up,” Pel ordered the fetches. “Mr. Curran, you take your time, and come back when you feel up to talking. And don’t worry, I haven’t been launching any more raids lately.”

He watched as the fetches dragged the semi-conscious envoy away, and shook his head in amazement.

Were all those other warps delivering envoys and ambassadors? The Empire had been opening space-warps every day or two, in various places, and then shutting them down again after one or two people had come through; Pel had assumed that they were all spies.

But maybe not.

He hadn’t worried about it in any case; he hadn’t cared. If the Empire wanted to subvert and conquer Faerie, it wasn’t any skin off his nose-he still controlled all the magic, so they couldn’t touch him or his, and he could leave and go home to Earth any shy;time he wanted.

At least, he could if he could get Rachel and Nancy to agree.

And Susan, too, he supposed.

So far, though, the three revenants had not expressed any interest in returning to Earth.

They hadn’t voiced any objections, either; they were frankly disinterested.

It was really very depressing. Pel no longer blamed the Empire; Susan assured him that she was just as changed as the others, so the delay couldn’t have been all that important.

The change was just that extra spark Shadow had referred to. Whatever it was, it was gone, irretrievably.

Pel had talked to the revenants, argued with them, studied them with all the magical resources at his disposal, and still hadn’t found anything broken that he could fix, anything missing that he could replace. All of them readily acknowledged that they were changed; they could remember thinking that things were important, they could remember laughing and crying and caring, but all that was gone. When they had first come back there’d been something, all three agreed on that, but it had faded and vanished, like a pleasant dream upon waking. It might have just been a lingering habit of caring, rather than the emotions themselves, but whatever it had been, even that was gone now.

And it didn’t matter to them. That was the worst part, Pel thought-that they didn’t care that they’d lost something. That they didn’t care about anything.

Including him.

He had asked Nancy, one night, if she still loved him. He had expected her to either say, “Yes, of course,” or to say something about how he had let her be killed, how he had let her down.

But she hadn’t said anything like that.

She had shrugged.

“Not really,” she had said.

“Not really.”

What was he supposed to do now?

How could he make her love him again?

He didn’t know; it had been eating at him for days.

So Curran’s arrival was a welcome distraction. He hoped the little diplomat would recover quickly.

* * * *

“Miletti still says there’s nothing new,” Major Johnston said, and Amy guessed what was coming.

She’d been anticipating it for the last few days, really; things had been so quiet since that one final raid, and the Empire sending an envoy.

“There’s absolutely no sign that the Empire’s taking any interest in Earth any shy;more,” Johnston continued. “They’re still involved with Faerie, more or less, but the situation has lost its criticality; Mr. Brown is no longer counter-attacking, or resisting minor Imperial incursions. Miletti says they even sent another telepath into Faerie the day before yesterday, the first one since Ms. Thorpe-they’d never have risked that when Brown was taking active counter-measures. And apparently Brown isn’t really running Faerie, anyway; he’s holed up in that fortress of his, ignoring everything.”

Amy nodded.

“My point, Ms. Jewell, Ms. Thorpe, is that there’s no longer any perceptible threat to the national security here-and it’s damned hard to convince most people that there ever was one; nobody wants to believe in invaders from another dimension, even if they’ve seen the evidence. I can’t justify my requests for funding any more consultations. I’ve managed to get Miletti into the budget as an ongoing special surveillance, which means I’ve got at least six months before they review what he’s costing us and eliminate it, but you two were outside consultants, and orders are to end the project, which means paying you your expenses and per diem to date and saying good-bye.”

“I understand, Major,” Amy said.

“We’d hoped that Miletti might want to keep Ms. Thorpe on as his guest,” Johnston added, “but he says he prefers to have her leave.”

“I’d rather stay with Amy, anyway,” Prossie said.

“If it’s any comfort, the cuts also mean pulling out our observation post at your house,” Johnston said. “We’ll be paying you a lump-sum compensation for that. It won’t be very much, but maybe it’ll tide you over for awhile.”

“Thank you,” Amy said.

For a moment, she and Johnston looked at each other, not saying anything; it had really all been said, but neither was in a hurry to cut the conversation short.

At last, Amy stood up.

“I guess that’s it, then,” she said. “Thank you for your consideration, Major.”

“You’re very welcome, Ms. Jewell, and I’m very sorry for all the inconvenience. Feel free to call me if there’s anything you need to discuss-you have the number.” He hesitated, then added, “And if we’ve misjudged, and the Galactic Empire starts dropping paratroopers in your back yard, you call me right away, any time, day or night, and then you get out of there-you’ve done more than your share.”

“Thank you,” Amy said again.

* * * *

“So what brings you here?” Pel asked, looking Curran over as he stood in his ragged shirt and leather pants, squinting against the glare of the matrix.

The last time Pel had seen the Imperial diplomat had been out in the Low Forest, in his treehouse, and it occurred to Pel that Nancy and Rachel might like that treehouse. Especially Rachel.

Or at least, they would have before they died; now they probably wouldn’t care.

“I was sent in response to your raid on the guildhall on Iota Cephus IV,” Curran said. “His Imperial Majesty wishes me-or wished me, at any rate-to extend his fondest greetings, and to inquire what prompted this unwarranted attack on his people. He believes-believed-that this must be the result of a misunderstanding, and asked what could be done to rectify the situation.” He cleared his throat. “I feel constrained to use the past tense, because of the long delay in my arrival. We regret that we have no faster way of reaching your capital.”

“My capital?” Pel looked around at the white stone columns and walls. “It’s not a capital, it’s a goddamn fortress. As for that raid, if it’s the one I think it was, it wasn’t a misunderstanding, I was just royally pissed off-imperially pissed off, in fact.” He smiled bitterly at his feeble joke.

Curran hesitated. “I’m afraid I don’t recognize the idiom, but I take it to mean you were angry about something. Was it something that the Empire was responsible for?”

“No, no.” Pel waved a hand in dismissal. “Nothing like that. A personal matter. At the time I thought it was the Empire’s fault, but it wasn’t.”

“Then all is well between yourself and His Imperial Majesty, and His Majesty’s servants?”

“As far as I’m concerned, sure. I’m still pissed…still annoyed that you people took so damn long to deliver what you’d promised, but that’s all.”

“Then may I convey to His Imperial Majesty your assurances that there will be no further attacks on his dominions?”

“No,” Pel said, “because I haven’t decided about that. I may just attack again, if I feel like it. But I’m not currently planning anything.”

Curran hesitated. “His Imperial Majesty may not find that entirely reassuring.”

“Fuck His Imperial Majesty, then,” Pel said. “It’s the best answer he’s going to get.”

Curran swallowed uneasily. “There are two other matters,” he said.

“What?” Pel asked. He was getting tired of this. Curran wasn’t anywhere near as funny without his fancy costume.

Of course, not much was really funny any shy;more, with Nancy and Rachel the way they were.

“The lesser is to ask, on my own behalf as much as my government’s, if it would be possible for you to transport me back to the Empire magically, to save me the journey back to the forests of Sunderland.”

“Sure,” Pel agreed. “I can’t guarantee where in the Empire you’ll come out, though; I never learned all the place names.”

“Thank you, sir.” Curran bowed.

“What’s the other?”

“Please remember, sir, that I have been out of touch for almost a fortnight, so this may no longer be relevant, but part of my original charge was to request the return of the hostages you took in the course of the prolonged misunderstanding between yourself and certain former ministers of His Imperial Majesty’s government. It was His Imperial Majesty’s understanding, perhaps faulty, that they were to be returned when the bodies of your wife and daughter had been delivered. That was done some time ago.”

“The hostages,” Pel said. His last trace of good humor vanished. Curran was no longer funny at all.

Pel had completely forgotten about the hostages. They were undoubtedly still somewhere in the dungeons beneath the fortress-Shadow had burrowed out miles of dreary passages, lined with cells and chambers, and Pel had ordered the prisoners taken there and looked after…

And then he’d forgotten all about them.

“Yes, sir,” Curran said. “I was told that there were over a hundred, including His Excellency Shelton Grigsby, Governor-General of Beckett.”

“No,” Pel said, “you can’t have them. I’m keeping them.”

“But, sir…”

“You tell His Imperial Flatulence that I’m keeping them until he gives back all my spies, and gets all his spies out of Faerie, and proves it. He expected me to prove it when my people turned themselves in, let’s see how he does it!”

“Sir, His Imperial Majesty had no part in that unfortunate…”

“It’s his fucking empire, isn’t it?” Pel demanded.

Curran struggled for words.

“Then it’s his goddamn responsibility.” He shifted in his throne. “I’ve had enough of this. Just shut up for a few minutes, Curran, and I’ll open a portal for you-but I’ll send the hostages back when I’m good and ready, and not a moment before.”

Curran hesitated, opened his mouth, closed it-then bowed, and stepped back.

Pel reached out into the matrix and began preparing a portal into the Empire.

As he did, he tried not to think about those neglected and forgotten hostages.

He wondered where they all were, and whether they were still alive.

* * * *

“I hate to pull it,” Johnston said, looking over the latest budget statement. “We don’t have anyone who can watch Faerie for us the way Miletti watches the Empire. And Brown might turn up at any time.”

“Well, sir, what if he does?” the lieutenant asked. “Won’t that mean it’s all over?”

“Except for the lawsuits,” Johnston agreed. “His sisters are trying to have him declared legally dead, and they’re fighting his mortgage company, which wants to foreclose, and he’s got some problems with unfinished business from his consulting firm.”

“None of that’s really any of our concern, though, is it, sir?”

“The mortgage might be, but no, not really,” Johnston admitted, putting down the clipboard. “All right, we pull out, and his sisters can have the house.”

* * * *

Pel sat in his throne and stared for a long, long moment at the empty air where Curran had stepped through the portal to the Empire-to somewhere in the Empire, Pel didn’t know where. He hadn’t worried about which portal he had opened.

All those hostages…He still had all those people down in the dungeons, and he’d completely forgotten about them.

But what did it really matter? What did anything matter, if his wife and daughter didn’t love him any shy;more?

He looked up at the hole in the throne room ceiling, raised a hand-then lowered it again.

What did any of it matter?