III

It was more than a little traumatic at the beginning: the sights and sounds--all of the new things we encountered beyond Rondoval. I hovered close to Pol for the first several days, drifting along, sensing everything within range, familiarizing myself with the laws governing new groups of phenomena. Travel, I discovered, is broadening, for I found myself spreading over a larger area as time went on. My little joke. I realized that my expansion was at least partly attributable to the increased number of things whose essences I absorbed as we traveled along--plants as well as animals, though the latter were more to my liking--and partly in accord with Boyle's and Charles' laws, which I'd picked out of Pol's mind one evening when he returned in memory to his university days. I cannot, in all honesty, consider myself a gas. Though I am anchored to the physical plane, I am not entirely manifested here and can withdraw partly with ease, entirely with more difficulty. I confine myself to a given area and move about by means of my will. I am not certain how that works either. I was aware, however, that my total volume was increasing and that my ability to do physical things was improving--like the rabbits. I had decided to look upon the entire journey as an educational experience. Any new thing that I learned might ultimately have some bearing upon my quest for identity and purpose.

And I was learning new things, some of them most peculiar. For instance, when that cloaked and muffled man entered the compound, I had felt a rippling as of a gentle breeze, only it was not physical; I had heard something like a low note and seen a mass of swimming colors.

Then everyone, including the camp watchman, was asleep. There followed more movements and colors and sounds. Having recently learned the meaning of "subjective," I can safely say that that is what they were, rather than tangible. Then I observed with interest as he altered the sleepers', memories concerning Pol, realizing from the sensations I had experienced and from my memory of those back at Rondoval during Pol's duel with the sorcerer in brown that I was extremely sensitive to magical emanations. I felt as if I could easily have altered these workings. I saw no reason to do so, however, so I merely observed. From my small knowledge of such affairs, it seemed that this one had an unusual style in the way he shifted forces among the planes. Yes. Sudden memories of a violent occasion reinforced this impression. He was peculiar, but I could see how he did everything that he did.

Then he stood beside Pol for a long while and I could not tell what he was about. He was employing some power different from that which he had used minutes before, and I did not understand it. Something within me jerked spasmodically when he reached out and laid a hand upon Pol's shoulder. Why, I did not know, but I moved nearer. I witnessed the entire conversation and the transformation of Pol's appearance. When the man covered the dragon-mark I found myself wanting to cry out, "No!" But, of course, I had no voice. It irritated me considerably to see it done, though I knew that it remained intact beneath the spell--and I was aware that Pol could undo the spell whenever he chose. What this reaction told me about myself, I could not say.

But then, when Pol rose and there was a brief and rapid exchange of forces between the men, I rushed to settle upon Pol and permeate his form, inspecting it for damage. I could discover nothing which seemed permanently debilitating to his kind, and since they generally render themselves unconscious during the night I made no effort to interfere with this state.

Withdrawing, I then set out to locate the other man. I was not certain why, nor what I would do should I succeed in finding him. But he had departed quickly and there was no trace of him about, so the questions remained academic.

That was when I came across the rabbits and terminated them, as well as the bush where they crouched. I felt immediately stronger. I puzzled over all my reactions and the more basic questions which lay behind them--wondering, too, whether I was really made for such a fruitless function as introspection.

No one in the company, Ibal included, seemed to take note of Pol's altered appearance. And none addressed him by name. It was as if each of them had forgotten it and was embarrassed to reveal the feet to the others. Eventually, those who spoke with him settled upon "Madwand" as a term of address, and Pol did not even get to use the other name he had ready. Conceding the possibility of its protective benefit, he was nevertheless irritated that his new identity had caused Ibal to forget whatever it was that he had intended telling him about Rondoval. Not knowing how strong the stranger's memory-clouding spell might be, he was loath to associate himself with Rondoval in his companions' minds by broaching the subject himself.

It was two nights later, as they sat to dinner, that Ibal raised a matter almost as interesting.

"So, Madwand, tell me of your plans," he said, spooning something soft and mushy between what remained of his teeth. "What do you propose doing at the fest?"

"Learning," Pol replied. "I would like to meet some fellow practitioners, and I would like to become more proficient in the Art."

Ibal chuckled moistly.

"Why don't you just come out and say that you're looking for a sponsor for initiation?" he asked.

"Would I be eligible?" Pol inquired.

"If a master would back you."

"What would the benefits be?"

Ibal shook his head.

"I find it hard to believe you are that naive. Where did you grow up?"

"In a place where the question never arose."

"I suppose I can believe that if I try, since you are a Madwand. All right. I occasionally find ignorance very refreshing. Proper experience of the rituals involved in initiation will result in an ordering of your lights. This will allow you to handle greater quantities of the energy that moves through all things. It will permit you to grow in power, a thing which might not happen otherwise."

"Will initiations actually be conducted at Belken this time, during the course of the gathering?"

"Yes. I plan on having Nupf initiated there--though Sahay, I feel, is not ready."

He gestured toward the larger of his apprentices, the youth with dark eyes and pale hair. Sahay frowned and looked away.

"Once an apprentice has been initiated he is on his own, so to speak?" Pol asked.

"Yes, though a man will occasionally remain with his master for a period of time afterwards to learn certain fine points of the Art which might have been neglected while he was studying the basics."

"Well, if I can't locate a sponsor I guess that I'll just have to muddle through life on my own."

"If you are aware of the dangers of initiation ..."

"I'm not."

"Death and madness are the main ones. Every now and then they claim a few who were not quite ready."

"Could I get some coaching so as not to be unready?"

"That could be arranged."

"Then I'd be willing."

"In that case, I will sponsor you in return for future goodwill. It's always nice to have a few friends in the trade."

The dreams of the Gate and the peculiar land beyond them did not return that night, nor on any succeeding night until their arrival at the festival. The days passed uneventfully, routinely, as they hiked along, until only the feet of his changed appearance assured Pol that something unusual had actually occurred. The terrain had altered as they headed upward, though the ascent here was more gradual than the descent from the mountains about Rondoval. Belken itself was a great, black, fang-like peak, dotted with numerous depressions, bare of trees. The evening they first caught sight of it, it seemed outlined by a faint white light. Mouseglove drew Pol aside and they halted to regard it.

"Are you sure you know what you're getting into?" he asked him.

"Ibal has outlined the initiation procedures for me," Pol replied, "and he's given me an idea of what to expect at the various stations."

"That is not exactly what I had in mind," Mouseglove said.

"What, then?"

"A sorcerer tried to kill you back at Rondoval. Another came by, apparently to help you, last week. I get the impression that you are in the middle of something nasty and magical--and here you go, walking right into a den of magicians and about to attempt something dangerous without the normal preparations."

"On the other hand," Pol replied, "it is probably the best place for me to discover what is going on. And I'm sure I will find uses for any additional insight and strength the initiation provides."

"Do you really trust Ibal?"

Pol shrugged.

"It seems that I have to, up to a point."

"Unless you decide to quit the whole game right now."

"That would put me right back where I started. No thanks."

"It would give you time to think things over more, perhaps find a different line of investigation to follow."

"Yes," Pol answered, "I wish that I could. But time, I feel, is something I cannot afford to spend so freely."

Mouseglove sighed and turned away.

"That mountain looks sinister," he said.

"I have to agree with you."

The following morning, proceeding among the foothills, they reached the top of a low ridge and the group halted. Spread out before the eastern base of the mountain was something out of dreamland or fairy tale: a sparkling collection of creamy towers and golden spires amid buildings which looked as if they had been carved out of massive gemstones; there were bright arches over glistening roadways, columns of jet, rainbow-hung fountains...

"Gods!" Pol said. "I'd no idea it was anything like that!"

He heard Ibal chuckle.

"What's funny?" Pol asked.

"One is only young once. Let it be a surprise," the old sorcerer replied.

Puzzled, Pol continued on. As the day advanced, the dream-city lost some of its glamour. First went the sparkling and the rainbows; then the colors began to fade. A haziness came over the buildings, and within it a uniform grayness settled upon the entire prospect. The structures seemed to diminish in size, and some of the spires and higher columns vanished altogether. Glassy walls grew opaque and took on motion, a gentle, flapping movement. Then the fountains and the archways were gone. It was as if he now looked upon the place through a dimming and distorting glass.

When they sat to lunch, Pol addressed Ibal:

"All right, I'm surprised and I'm several hours older now. What's become of the city?"

Ibal nearly choked on his mush.

"No, no," he finally said. "Wait until dinnertime. Watch the show."

And so he did. As the sun moved westward and the shadow of the peak fell over the hazy outlines of the structures at its base, the flapping movement ceased and the walls began to acquire something of their former sheen. Pol and Mouseglove continued to stare as they approached. As the shadows lengthened, the place seemed to grow, slowly at first, more rapidly as the afternoon faded toward evening. The haze itself seemed to be dimming and the outline of higher structures again became visible within it. Drawing nearer to it, they became aware of the spurting of fountains. The colors gradually reappeared within the still-firming outlines of the buildings. The towers, columns and arches took on a greater solidity.

By dinnertime they were very near, and the city was much closer to its early morning appearance. The haze continued to dissipate as they sat watching it, taking their meal.

"Well, have you guessed?" Ibal asked, spooning in a dark broth.

"It appears to be different things at different times," Pol said. "So obviously it is not what it seems and must represent some sort of enchantment. I've no idea what's really there, or why it changes."

"What is really there is a group of caves, shacks and tents," Ibal explained. "Each time, by lot, various practi-cioners acquire the responsibility for putting the place into order for the gathering. What they normally do is send their apprentices and some servants on ahead. These clean and repair the structures, raise the tents and set up the various facilities. Then the apprentices usually vie in working out spells to give it a pleasing appearance. However, apprentices vary in ability, and since the thing is only to be temporary first class spells are seldom employed. Consequently, it is beautiful from evening through dawn. As the day progresses, however, it begins to waver. Things are weakest at noon, and then you catch glimpses of what is really behind it all."

"Do the spells hold on the inside as well as the outside?"

"Indeed, Madwand, they do. You shall see for yourself soon."

As they watched, the sparkling began again, faint at first, growing.

They reached the foot of Belken by evening and entered the bright city which had grown up there. The first archway through which they passed might have been made of branches strapped together, but it gave every appearance of gold-veined marble possessed of intricate carvings. Countless lights drifted through the air at several times the height of a man. Pol kept turning his head, assessing the wonders. Unlike any city with which he was familiar, this one seemed clean. The way beneath their feet was unnaturally bright. The buildings appeared almost fragile, with an eggshell translucence to them. Filigreed screens covered fancifully shaped windows in walls sporting designs of glowing gemstones. There were balconies and overhead walkways, arcades through which richly garbed men and women passed. Open-fronted shops displayed magical paraphernalia and exotic beasts were penned and tethered throughout the city--though a few wandered harmlessly, as if taking in the sights themselves. Thick clouds of red smoke rose from a brazier on a corner where a turbanned mage chanted, a demonic face and form taking shape within it high above the street. The sounds of flutes, stringed instruments and drums came from several directions. On an impulse, Pol jerked his guitar into existence, tuned it, slung it and began playing as they walked along. He felt his dragonmark throbbing invisibly, as if in response to the magical ambiance they were entering. Bright birds in cages of silver and gold trilled responses to his song. A few of the passing faces turned his way. High above, the face of the mountain was glowing softly, as if traversed by swarms of fireflies. And even higher, the stars had appeared in a clear sky. Cool breezes moved about him, bringing the odors of exotic incenses, perfumes, of sweet logs burning.

Mouseglove sniffed and listened, fingers twitching, eyes darting.

"It would be difficult to know what to steal, in a place where nothing is what it seems," he remarked.

"Then you might look upon it as a vacation."

"Hardly," Mouseglove replied, eyeing a demon-face which seemed to regard him from behind a grating high in the wall to his left. "Perhaps as an experience in compulsory education. ..."

Ibal, croaking orders to his servants at every turn, seemed to know the way to his quarters. They were, Pol later learned, the same apartments he had always occupied. Their appearance would be radically altered upon each occasion, one of the older servants informed him. Orientation here was a matter of familiarity with position rather than appearance.

The apartments to which they were conducted as Ibal's guests seemed extensive and elegant, though the eye-swindling shimmer of glamourie lay upon everything and Pol noted that solid-appearing walls seemed to yield somewhat if he leaned upon them, smooth floors were sometimes uneven to the feet and chairs were never as comfortable as they looked.

Ibal had dismissed them, saying that he intended to rest and that he would introduce them to the initiation officials on the morrow. So, after bathing and changing their garments, Pol and Mouseglove went out to see more of the town.

The balls of white light illuminated the major thoroughfares. Globes of various colors drifted above the lesser ways. They passed knots of youths whose overheard conversations were like the ruminations of philosophers and groups of old men who called upon their powers to engage in practical jokes--such as the tiny cloud hovering just beneath an archway which suddenly rattled and drenched anyone who passed below it, to the accompaniment of uproarious laughter from the gnome-like masters lurking in the shadows.

Brushing away the moisture, Pol and Mouseglove continued on to a narrow stair leading down to a winding street less well-illuminated than those above--blue and red lights, smaller and dimmer than the others, moving slowly above it.

"That looks to be a possibly interesting way," Mouse-glove indicated, leaning on a railing above it.

"Let's go down and have a look."

It seemed a place of refreshment. Establishments serving food and beverage, both indoors and out, lined the way. They strolled slowly by all of them, then turned and started back again.

"I like the looks of that one," said Mouseglove, gesturing to the right. "One of the empty tables under the canopy, perhaps, where we can watch the people pass."

"Good idea," said Pol, and they made their way over and sat down.

A small, dark, smiling man wearing a green kaftan emerged from the establishment's doorway almost immediately.

"And what will the gentlemen have?" he inquired.

"I'd like a glass of red wine," said Pol.

"Make mine white and almost sour," said Mouseglove.

The man turned away and immediately turned back. He held a tray bearing two glasses of wine, one light, one dark.

"Useful trick, that," Mouseglove observed.

"Private spell," the other replied.

The man grew almost apologetic then as he asked them to drop their payment through a small hoop into a basket.

"All the others are starting it, too," he said. "Too many enchanted pebbles going around. You might even have some without knowing it."

But their coins remained coins as they passed through the charmed circle.

"We just arrived," Pol told him.

"Well, keep an eye out for stones."

He moved off to take another order.

The wine was extremely good, though Pol suspected that a part of its taste was enchantment. Still, he reflected after a time, what difference should it make? Like the entire place about them--if it serves its purpose, appearance can be for more important than content.

"Hardly an original observation," Mouseglove replied when he voiced it. "And it meant a lot to me every time I lifted a bogus jewel I thought was real."

Pol chuckled.

"Then it served its purpose."

Mouseglove laughed.

"All right. All right. But when death gets involved it is better to know which is the real dagger and which the real hand. After what happened that last night in your library, I would be very careful in a place like this."

"By what means that I am not already employing?"

"Well, that magical shower we passed through earlier," Mouseglove began. "I just noticed--"

He was interrupted by the approach of a blond, well-built young man with finely chiseled features and a flashing smile. He was extravagantly dressed and he moved with an extraordinary grace and poise.

"Madwand! And Mouseglove! Strange meeting you here! Waiter! Another of whatever they're having for my friends! And a glass of your best for me!"

He drew up a chair and seated himself at their table.

"It looks as if they did a better than usual job this year," he said, gesturing. "How do you like your accommodations?"

"Uh--fine," Pol replied as the waiter arrived and produced their drinks.

The youth gestured and his hand was suddenly filled with coins. They leapt upward from it, arched through the hoop and into the basket with a small pyrotechnic display.

"Colorful," Pol said. "Listen, I hate to seem rude since you're buying, but I can't seem to recall ..."

The youth laughed, his handsome features creasing with merriment.

"Of course not, of course not," he said. "I am Ibal, and you are looking at the finest rejuvenation spell ever wrought." He brushed a speck of dust from his bright sleeve. "Not to mention a few cosmetic workings," he added softly.

"Really!"

"Amazing!"

"Yes. I am ready to meet once again with my beloved Vonnie, for two weeks of lovemaking, revelry, good food and drink. It is the only reason I still come to these things."

"How--interesting."

"Yes. We first met here nearly three hundred years ago, and our feelings have remained undiminished across the centuries."

"Impressive," Pol said. "But do you not see one another in between times?"

"Gods, no! If we had to live together on a day-to-day basis one of us would doubtless kill the other. Two weeks every four years is just right." He stared into his drink a moment before raising it to his lips. "Besides," he added, "we spend a lot of the intervening time recovering."

He looked up again.

"Madwand, what have you done to yourself?"

"What do you mean?" Pol asked.

"That white streak in your hair. Why is it there?"

Pol ran a hand through his still-moist thatch.

"Little joke," he said.

"Not in the best of taste," said Ibal, shaking his head. "You'll have people associating you with Det's Disaster. Ahh!"

They followed a sudden movement of his gaze out along the street, past a halted fat man and a pair of strollers, to where a woman approached under a swaying blue light. She was of medium height, her hair long and dark and glossy, her form superbly molded beneath a light, clinging costume, her features delicate, lovely, smiling.

Following his sharp intake of breath, Ibal rose to his feet. Pol and Mouseglove did the same.

"Gentlemen, this is Vonnie," he announced as she came up to the table. He embraced her, kept his arm about her. "My dear, you are lovelier than ever. These are my friends, Mad wand and Mouseglove. Let us have a drink with them before we go our way."

She nodded to them as he brought her a chair.

"It is good to meet you," she said. "Have you come very far?" and Pol, captivated by the charm of her voice as well as the freshness of her person, felt a sudden and acute loneliness.

He forgot his reply as soon as he uttered it, and he spent the next several minutes admiring her.

As they rose to leave, Ibal leaned forward and whispered, "The hair--I'm serious. You'd best correct it soon, or the initiation officials may think you flippant. At any other time, of course, it would not matter. But in one seeking initiation--well, it is not a time for joking, if you catch my meaning."

Pol nodded, wondering at the simplest way to deal with it.

"I'll take care of it this evening."

"Very good. I will see you some time tomorrow--not too early."

"Enjoy yourselves."

Ibal smiled.

"I'm sure."

Pol watched them go, then returned his attention to his drink.

"Don't look suddenly," Mouseglove whispered through unmoving lips, "but there is a fat man who has been loitering across the way for some time now."

"I'd sort of noticed." Pol replied, sweeping his gaze over the bulky man's person as he raised his glass. "What about him?"

"I know him," Mouseglove said, "or knew him--professionally. His name is Ryle Merson."

Pol shook his head.

"The name means nothing to me."

"He is the sorcerer I once mentioned. It was over twenty years ago that he hired me to steal those seven statuettes from your father."

Pol felt a strong urge to turn and stare at the large man in gold and gray. He restrained himself.

"...And there was no hint from him as to what he wanted them for?" he asked.

"No."

"I feel they're very safe--in with my guitar," Pol said.

When he did look again, Ryle Merson was talking with a tall man who wore a long-sleeved black tunic, red trousers and high black boots, a red bandana about his head. The man had his back to them, but a little later he turned and his eyes met Pol's in passing, before the two of them moved on slowly up the street.

"What about that one?"

Mouseglove shook his head.

"For a moment I thought there was something familiar about him, but no--I don't know his name and I can't say where I might have seen him before, if indeed I did."

"Is this a coincidence, I wonder?"

"Ryle is a sorcerer, and this is a sorcerers' convention."

"Why do you think he chose to stand there for so long?"

"It could be that he was simply waiting for his friend," Mouseglove said, "though I found myself wondering whether he had recognized me."

"It's been a long time," Pol said.

"Yes."

"He could simply have come over and spoken with you if he wanted to be certain who you were."

"True."

Mouseglove raised his drink.

"Let's finish up and get out of here," he said.

"Okay."

Later, the edge gone from the evening, they returned to their apartments. Not entirely because Mouseglove had suggested it, Pol wove an elaborate series of warning spells about the place and slept with a blade beside the bed.