Norton, Andre - Anthology (4 page)

 
          
 
Suppose she really was. Suppose that ...
Suppose that the babies she remembered, the ones Mother died bearing, were
truly stillborn. Suppose that the babies Father sent away were not younger than
she, but older! Suppose Alfesian had discovered them. Or this one, anyway. What
happened to the other? Alfesian must know that the one who served him had no
talent for magic.

 
          
 
Was there a pact between them, or did the
Magician think of this one as bait? Was this Carolus, the heir, or Hadrius, the
younger? Where was the other one? Was he—the other—still alive? Could this one
have ... ? Or had Alfesian? Wielding weapons negated Royal Power, not
Alfesian's magic. She shuddered.

 
          
 
If this one had no magic, did the other one
have twice as much? As much as who? Or what? As she? She had no idea how much
she might have, one day. Royal Power rarely evolved in women, so little was
known of its strength.

 
          
 
Half the time she knew she was out of her mind
to think such things. The other half, she knew she was right.

 
          
 
Peri woke. She and Chithit had a task to
perform. The steady sibilance of her brother's voice had stopped. He slept, as
did her attendant and the guard. She knew better than to deepen their slumber.
Alfesian would know if she used her Power. She must use as little as possible,
and only for the necessary. She slipped out of bed and dressed. As it had once
before, Chith's tail led her into darkness.

 
          
 
The journey was much like the first one they
had made together. Here, the secret ways within walls had been made by
Alfesian's magic, meant to be available only to him. But hers was the Royal
Power, and it obeyed no laws except its own. She guessed that if it chose to
include Chith, it had the right. He was, after all, a cat.

 
          
 
The tunnel bored through Magic, and through
time/ space, through rock rather than earth, and she was glad not to have to
bend and wade. Too, she had done something like this once, and now she trusted
that the trail would end. She feared less.

 
          
 
And more. She knew they approached the place
of her nightmare. She was the one appointed to retrieve the Relics. Only
because Chith was with her did she have any hope of accomplishing her task, no
eight-year-old girl could rule, heiress or not. What she must do was to decide
which of the ones who sought the crown and sword should wear and wield them.
The possibility of choosing wrong terrified her.

 
          
 
Whom should she choose? Not the butcher in the
castle now. Not Alfesian. Her maybe-probably-brother who had, at least, tried
to help her? Who was he? Why had he tried? Could he once have talked a brother
through such an illness? Was that why Alfesian allowed it? What did either
stand to gain?

 
          
 
The faint light ahead lay in the sea-cave
where her father, by Alfesian's treachery, lay dead. The jewels in the crown
and the sword hilt glowed just enough so she knew where they were. Chithit slid
his tail from her hand and stood aside. She must do this herself.

 
          
 
Only the Relics identified this husk as that
of her father. These remains were as organic and natural as wood—and no more
frightening or disgusting. Here was proof that her first "sight"
could be dismissed as an illness dream. She lifted the crown, then the sword,
away from the brittle bones, and watched the image of a body become clean dust.

 
          
 
Light! Light so intense and glaring and filled
with such great threat that she screamed. The lightning strike and thunderclap
heralding Alfesian's arrival nearly drove her to the floor. Beside him, armed,
stood the brother who had no magic, brought here, she knew, by Alfesian. They
had made a pact! What pact? Why?

 
          
 
He opened his eyes, closed against the
brilliance. He saw her and held out his hand.

 
          
 
"Perielle! To me! I am your Champion. My
voice anchored you to reality as it did our brother, when you each gained the
Power. The Magician must not triumph!"

 
          
 
Alfesian's voice trembled the walls. His fury
might have driven Peri into the wall, but she was not the target.
"Forsworn! Forsworn, King's son."

 
          
 
What had he sworn?

 
          
 
"Not so! Fool! You chose the name by
which you called me. For myself, I swore nothing, thus I am not bound. But you
are. You can harm me in no way so long as I do not try to take the rule from
you. Triple fool! You shall never have it. I shall hold the crown and
sword!"

 
          
 
Perielle still could not be positive, and she
hesitated.

 
          
 
Another futile pass of Alfesian's magic washed
over her. The false king from the castle appeared, brought here with his men to
give her more enemies, more directions to have to guard. War ax raised, the
bloody conqueror rushed at her. The twin drew his own sword and leaped to her
defense.

 
          
 
Time stopped, for her Power set her outside
it. Perielle could only hold the Relics and shake. She must present them to one
who could reign, and each of these men thought he was the one.

 
          
 
She didn't. She must make her choice on faith,
not on the answer to the last question. Only one individual here deserved her
faith.

 
          
 
Perielle lifted her head. She looked directly
into Chithit's open, alert eyes. He, too, held his head high. He waited with
infinite patience.

 
          
 
She placed the crown on his head. Time began
with her motion. As he transformed, no longer cloaked by untruth, he took again
his proper shape and form. She placed the sword in his hand. He set it, still
in its jeweled scabbard, point downward before them and held her close against
him, half-hidden beneath his cloak of silky gray fur. "Forgive us,
Perielle," he said. "We could find no other way."

 
          
 
King's Champion took his Place, standing to
the right and a step ahead of a king whose sword would never be drawn. Not a
hair's difference distinguished one from the other, but Perielle's last
question was answered.

 
          
 
Peri turned in the grasp of the Royal arm,
hugged as hard as she could, and whispered, "Oh, Carolus."

 
          
 
And all but the Champion knelt to the King.

            
Anne Braude grew up
as an Army brat, and attended twelve schools in twelve years before finally
settling down to get a degree in English and history at DePauw University in
Indiana. She was a part of the undefeated DePauw team on the GE College Bowl,
and continued her English studies with graduate work at
Berkeley
. She is the associate editor of Niekas, a
Hugo award-winning fanzine, and lives in
Scottsdale
,

Arizona
, "slightly to the left of practically everybody.”

            
The Baron was roaring
with rage; Master Ambrosius was stammering excuses; and Margaret was wringing
her hands—but underneath her apron, where it wouldn't

show. (Margaret is my person; she is small and slight, but very brave.)
I was prowling up and down the manteltop, weaving in and out among the retorts,
alembics, and illwrapped

packets of-worse smelling alchemical supplies, wondering if it were
worth my while to jump the Baron. If I went for his head, he just might be
quick enough to seize me and wring my neck; and the rest of him was clad for
hunting in leather jerkin, moleskin breeches, and enormous heavy boots.
Deciding that it might be a better move to distract him, I tapped a retort with
my tail, making it sway. It did not fall over, of course; cats never knock over
anything by accident. But the movement caught his eye.

 
          
 
"Wizard! Alchemist! Hah!" snarled
the Baron. "You're bloody witches! And that bloody-be-damned cat is your
familiar!" He swiped a meaty arm at me. I leaped lightly to the floor amid
a shower of breaking glassware. Margaret swooped and clutched me protectively
to her bosom.

 
          
 
Outraged, Master Ambrosius drew himself up to
his full unimpressive height. "Witchcraft, my lord, is mere superstition,
and wizardry is a wrong turning leading to a dead end. I am an alchemist, sir,
a man of science. I am learned in—"

 
          
 
"In chousing me out of money, you old
fraud. You've had damned near a thousand marks of silver off me since I invited
you here. And what do I have to show for it? Broken crockery, foul stenches,
and lame excuses!" He drew a plump purse from his pocket and flung it onto
the table. "There's two hundred marks there, and it's the last you'll get
from me. If I don't have something from you in a fortnight, I'll have the hide
off you— and everything you possess." He looked at Margaret and licked his
lips. I hissed at him, and she clutched me more tightly, whispering "Hush,
Quincunx dear. Don't annoy him."

 
          
 
"A fortnight, and that's it, old
fool." The Baron stomped out, banging the door behind him, and we each
drew a deep breath of relief. Margaret set me down, took a broom, and began to
sweep up the broken glassware. I whisked to safety under the table and
commenced washing away the reek of alchemical supplies. Master Ambrosius,
ignoring both his daughter and his cat, hauled out one of his moldy old books
and paged through it, muttering to himself.

 
          
 
I don't believe I have introduced myself
properly. I am Quincunx. I am a black cat without a single white hair, and I
was born to have adventures.

 
          
 
My son, you are a black cat without a
single white hair, like your father, which means that you were born for an
adventurous life
. I can remember my mother telling me that when I and my
sisters (both tabby gray) lay snuggled against her in our cozy nest in Tanners
Alley. At the time it sounded wonderful. A few months later I recalled it with
bitterness, as I lay mewling with pain and cold in a strange gutter, half dead
with exhaustion, hunger, and fear. When Mother didn't come home one morning,
and we were forced to split up and each seek a separate livelihood, I set out with
high hopes, for I believed myself invincible. I was swift, strong, and clever,
and I had mastered Mother's mousing skills. I did well enough through the
summer and early autumn, what with mice in the harbor granaries and garbage
from the shore taverns, but as cold weather drew in, the pickings became
leaner. A huge, battered old torn off a timber barge drove me out of my
territory; and a bad mistake in judgment led me to tackle a rat nearly my own
size, leaving me with a nasty slash that festered. Now I had been chased into a
strange part of town by a pack of stray dogs. I had eluded them, but I was
starving. Between weakness and pain, I couldn't summon the strength to move.
When the footsteps stopped beside me and a man bent to lift me by the scruff of
my neck, I commended my soul to Bast and resigned myself to the worst. Mother
never said it would be a long adventurous life.

 
          
 
The man (you will no doubt have guessed, my
good Reader, that it was Master Ambrosius) turned me to and fro, closely
examining my draggled fur. "All black ... not one white hair. Perfect—but
rather small." He popped me into his greatcoat pocket and buttoned me into
the warm darkness. Having nothing better to do, I curled up and went-to sleep.

 
          
 
I awoke as I was being lifted out again. The
man set me on the floor and stepped away. "Margaret! Look after this thing
for me, will you? It needs food and tending."

 
          
 
Then I was swept up again and cuddled (for the
first time since losing Mother) against a soft, sweet-smelling bosom. Gentle
fingers stroked me, stopping when they found my infected rat-slash. Dazed by
the sudden warmth and kindness, I lay passive as Margaret carefully cleaned the
wound and dressed it with a poultice of sharp-smelling herbs. For the next
three days I dozed on a scrap of blanket in front of the kitchen fire, rousing
only when Margaret coaxed me to lap broth with an egg beaten into it or to
swallow snippets of chicken or boiled beef.

 
          
 
On the morning of the fourth day I awoke to
full alertness (though weak as the proverbial kitten) and began to explore my
surroundings. If I were to rise in the world and become, by Gracious Bast's
goodwill, a real, indoor house cat with property of my own to maintain, it
behooved me to put my best paw forward and convince these humans they had not
made a mistake in adopting me.

 
          
 
As I had never been in a private home before,
I was confused by my discoveries. I had better summarize from the advantage of
three years' experience.

 
          
 
Master Ambrosius had made his name as an
apothecary, the most successful in our town. He lived in commodious rooms
behind his shop in the High Street, looked after by his daughter Margaret, a
skilled herbalist in her own right. It was she who fed me, healed me, loved me,
and gave me my magical name. (A Quincunx, according to one of Master Ambrosius'
learned books, is "an arrangement or disposition of five objects [in my
case, four paws and a tail] so placed that four occupy the corners, and the
fifth the center, of a square or other rectangle [i.e.,me].") She had
looked after the house and kept the shop for him while he paid home visits to
sick patients (or especially wealthy ones) or compounded his pills and potions
in the upstairs workroom. The shop, the kitchen, and the storeroom took up the
ground floor; upstairs were the workroom and the bedrooms. I made the ground
floor my own domain, dealing with the mice who came to nibble the stores and
even the medicinal herbs in the shop. The workroom herbs were safe enough, as I
never let a mouse get above stairs. Once I had the house cleared, I slept on
Margaret's bed at night, leaving it occasionally for silent patrols.

 
          
 
At the time I came into the household, Master
Ambrosius was no longer a practicing apothecary, though Margaret still
compounded remedies for those in need. He had always been fascinated by the
science of alchemy, spending every penny he could spare on books and
manuscripts dealing with the subject. About a year before he found me, he had
received a large legacy from a grateful patient and had taken the opportunity
to retire from practice and become a full-time alchemist. My new home was
filled with strange stenches, and not-infrequent explosions sent us running up
to the workroom. Margaret lost weight and I developed a permanent twitch in my
tail. Over meals we were treated to long disquisitions on the Panacea, which
would cure all ills, the Alkahest or Universal Solvent, and the Elixir Vitae
which conferred immortality and could be distilled from the Philosopher's
Stone, the ultimate goal of my master's quest, which bestowed unending riches
by transmuting base metals into gold. Margaret listened dutifully, but I paid
little heed to his talk of calcination, sublimation, and albification; of Sol,
Mars, and Mercury; of crucibles, alembics, and athanors. I opened one eye and
both ears when he began to speak of the Raven, the Green Lion, the Snowy Swan,
and the Toad of the Earth, the Red and White Dragons, and other such livestock,
wondering if they were to be introduced into my territory, and if I would have
to fight them; but eventually I realized that they were not real creatures at
all but some sort of alchemical symbols.

 
          
 
Margaret often spoke wistfully as she stroked
me of the better times before her father took up alchemy; but as I had not been
there at the time, I had nothing to miss. Despite the stinks and explosions,
life was good. On a diet of table scraps, plump mice, and affection, I thrived
exceedingly. J well remember the night I proved my true worth as a houser cat,
when I tackled the large rat that slipped through from the cellar somehow and
slew him after a tremendous battle. I laid him out on the hearth as a present
for Margaret, having discovered through sad experience that she did not care to
have such trophies on her pillow. She praised me extravagantly and gave me a
chicken liver. Well contented with my lot, I had forgotten Mother's prophecy. I
was to remember it the next day, when I discovered why I had been brought into
the household.

 
          
 
Margaret was washing fine linens that morning;
the kitchen was filled with steam from the copper boiler and the acrid scent of
bleach. I was napping on the counter in the shop when Master Ambrosius suddenly
swooped, pounced, and bore me upstairs. This was a quite unexpected
development, as he never petted or cuddled me; I concluded that a mouse must
have eluded my vigilance. He carried me into the workroom and closed the door,
setting me not on the floor as I had expected but on the table next to his
alchemical furnace, beside a large open folio. The only other objects on the
table were a large, empty crucible and a long, sharp knife. I backed away
slowly, stiff-legged, my tail bushed and the hairs along my spine beginning to
rise.

 
          
 
Master Ambrosius put on his spectacles and
bent over the book, muttering aloud. "After heating for seven days in a
sealed retort, remove the vessel and slake the Black Dragon in the blood of a
black cat without one white hair."

 
          
 
Well, I may not have understood the science of
alchemy, but I certainly understood that! The master took a small lump of
cheese (a delicacy I adore) from his pocket and held it out to me, cooing
unconvincingly, his other hand poised to seize me. I leaped from the table to a
high shelf, seeking frantically for an exit, trying to conceal myself among the
assorted objects cluttering the shelf (but not, of course, accidentally
knocking anything over). The window was closed and latched; there was a hole in
an upper panel of the door—the result of a recent—explosion—but it was too
small for me. Laying my ears back, I squalled at the top of my lungs.
"Help! Help! Someone help me! Margaret! Lady Bast! Mother!"

 
          
 
The door flew open. Margaret stood there, her
cap half off and her hands dripping. I leaped down and ran to her before
Ambrosius could move. She picked me up and began rubbing my chin to soothe me.
Her hands were wet and reeked of bleach, but I didn't care.

 
          
 
Master Ambrosius demanded me back, explaining
his intention and reading his text. A horrified Margaret attempted
unsuccessfully to argue him out of it as she wiped her wet hands on my throat.
When both were out of breath, she carried me over and lifted my head.
"Look, Father. There is a tiny white spot under his chin. Your experiment
wouldn't work anyway."

 
          
 
He looked, and was convinced. My good Reader,
do you think I have been lying to you? Or have you been paying proper
attention? As she stroked my chin during the argument, my clever Margaret had
bleached me. It was then that I knew absolutely that she was my person and that
I would never willingly be parted from her.