A Wizard In The Way Read online

  The guards cheered and charged toward the lone magician. Pilochin stood rigid with defiance, then wavered, then finally turned to run.

  With a hoot of delight, Arnogle ran to take possession of the firetank, shouting, "Come on, boy! Spoils to the victor!" But Blaize stood a moment irresolute; it had all been too easy, far too easy. Both wizards brought only bodyguards, because more men could not be trusted. What use were armies when this issue would be decided by magic? Pilochin's levies would have run in fright from the ghosts, and his sheets of flame would have stampeded Amogle's plowboys. Better by far to bring only the veterans of his bodyguard, who could be relied on to hold their places no matter how frightful the assault.

  But Pilochin's bodyguards had fled like the greenest recruits when any seasoned soldier would have stood his ground, knowing the ghosts could do little but frighten. Oh, they could tell tales so gruesome as to make the most hardened murderer quake inside-but nothing more. They could send tendrils of madness into a man's mind, make him turn his weapons on those beside him, but they themselves could do little with their own hands, and any troops used to their assaults could withstand them.

  Then why had Pilochin's men fled?

  Arnogle seized the firetank with a cry of victory-a tank to which the hose was not even connected, and suddenly Blaize realized the trap. He cried out, "No, Teacher! They would not let their mystery fall into our hands, they would not-"

  But Arnogle's bodyguards clustered around to help him with the waist high tank. All together, they laid hold of the ring at its top, then lifted, and some premonition of disaster made Blaize throw himself on the ground a split second before the tank burst into a huge yellow ball of flame, devouring Arnogle and his bodyguards with a ravening roar. A wave of heat washed over Blaize; he hugged the ground, eyes shut tight, until cool air followed hot. Then he dared look up to see Pilochin pointing at him and crying, "There! Seize his apprentice! Then on to make sure of his lands and serfs!"

  The guards came running back, and Blaize scrambled to his feet, turning to run, tearing off the robe that tangled his legs as he ran stumbling and staggering over the rough ground, blinking away hot tears that threatened to press out from his eyes, tears for Arnogle and for his valiant guards.

  As he ran, Blaize called out, "Aid me, those who have answered my call! Protect me from those who chase me, I beg of you!"

  His mind went where his voice did. Most of the ghosts ignored it, but a few understood his predicament and swooped at Pilochin and his apprentices, moaning and howling with distress and warning-but not enough; Pilochin's guards dodged and ran around the spirits, who swerved to follow, misty arms reaching out to seize, brows lowering over hollow eyes in anger. The guards ducked beneath them, though; one or two even ran right through a ghost. They came out shuddering with cold but ran all the faster for it.

  Nonetheless, the swerving and dodging slowed them badlyslowed them enough so that Blaize was able to plunge into the cover of the woods. His ghostly friends had bought him just enough time.

  There was no light as he fled, and soon a low limb knocked off the tall cone of his apprentice-magician's hat. A small ghost sailed before him, though, its glow just enough to let him see roots and fallen branches in his path. Even so, he stumbled now and again, but he plowed ahead with determination, certainly running faster than Pilochin's men, who had no guide and had to thrash about in strange territory. Blaize could hear their cursing, but it grew fainter with every passing minute. He risked a glance backward and saw a dozen dots of light bobbing and weaving. They had brought lanterns, then, but the flames couldn't possibly cast enough light for them to see the trail very far ahead. Even as he watched, one lantern dipped suddenly, shooting to the ground, and Blaize heard the cursing of a man who had tripped.

  The ghost moaned in warning and Blaize turned back to his own trail just in time to see and leap a huge bulging root. He leaped it and followed his spectral guide, who zigged and zagged so often that in a matter of minutes Blaize was sure he had lost his pursuers. Still the ghost sailed onward until at last it stopped, turning back to Blaize with a groan that soared into a laugh of delight, and Blaize could make out the very faint thought, in the back of his mind, that he was safe now. He sent a rush of thanks outward to the ghost, who winked before disappearing.

  Alone at last, Blaize sank to his knees, gasping for breath. Still, alarm pushed him, and he stood up again as soon as he could, no longer panting, but sorely weakened. He decided to turn toward the southwest and his home village-after all, Pilochin probably had no idea where Blaize had grown up.

  Then he stopped, wide-eyed and apprehensive, looking at the trees about him, and realizing that it wasn't only Pilochin's men he had lost, but himself, too.

  2

  "What does he mean, no recorded planet?" Alea asked.

  "Just what you're thinking." Magnus grinned. "And so am I. Which of us thought it first?"

  "Both at the same time." Alea spoke sharply to hide the hope that she might be a more talented telepath than she knew. "There is such a thing as coincidence, you know."

  "Yes, and similar answers to the same question," Magnus said. "But we both think it's a lost colony, so let's see if we're right. Vision, Herkimer, please."

  The image that appeared was flat, an elongated rectangle in bright colors. "Rather primitive," Herkimer explained. "The picture was originally displayed on a screen."

  "Yes, we understand that it was television, not holovisionbut this was a colony, after all, and bound to lack a few of the refinements." Magnus's gaze was glued to the picture before them.

  They saw a man with long black hair and beard, wearing a burgundy robe, standing in front of a scene showing people in leather jerkins and hose with hawks on their forearms and shoulders. He was saying, ". . . steady progress in terraforming and developing the land. The Dragon Clan has perfected the taming and training of the local wyverns. Watch, now, as the dragoneer sends the beast hunting."

  One of the leather-clad men swelled in the picture, and Alea saw that the reddish-brown creature on his wrist was no bird, but a sort of pterodactyl, though its head did look rather like that of a horse and its neck and backbone sprouted a row of triangular plates that stretched down its tail to an arrowpoint on the end. Now she realized why its handler wore leather-the claws were long, hooked, and sharp.

  The man tossed his wrist and the wyvem leaped into the air, wings beating until it found an updraft. The picture stayed with it, following, making it larger and larger in the screen as it spiraled upward, riding the wind, then suddenly plummeted to earth. It rose again in an instant with a small animal in its claws-but grew smaller and smaller in the picture; its handler and his friends appeared at the edge and zoomed toward the middle, and the narrator swam back in front of them. He watched them, nodding, as the wyvern settled back onto its handler's wrist. "The dragoneer tells us the secret to controlling the reptile is thinking with it, every step of the way. Whether by mind reading or by training, the little dragons are bringing home dinner for their handlers as well as themselves."

  He turned to smile at his viewers as the picture behind him dissolved into a scene of a broad wheat field. "Halfway across the continent, the Clan of the Mantis has succeeded in breeding insect predators that banished the crop feeders destroying their wheat"

  The wheat behind him expanded until a few huge heads of grain filled the screen. Alea found herself looking at a dozen beetles stripping the grain from the stalk astonishingly quickly, but a bigger beetle came crawling behind them to gobble them up like so many pieces of candy.

  "Neatly and efficiently done," the narrator said cheerfully. "In this case, big bugs have little bugs for biting."

  He went on, the picture changing behind him as he told all the latest tidbits with delight. The Khayyam Clan had perfected its geodesic tent; a few people stood near the structure to show that it was three times their height. The Polite Barbarian Clan had plotted the grasslands available to each of the cattle-herdin
g clans during each season. The Appleseed Clan was sending couriers to all the other clans with seeds for their new insect resistant varieties of fruit.

  Magnus sat, dazed by the variety of clans and the way in which they had split up the task of developing the planet. "Truly amazing," he murmured.

  "But how long has it been? Several hundred years at least." Alea frowned. "And they're still adapting themselves to their world?" Then she answered her own question. "No, of course not These pictures are coming to us at the speed of light, radiating outward from the planet, and the oldest ones reach us first."

  Magnus gazed at her, feeling himself swell with pride, even though it was Herkimer who was her teacher, not himself. But she learned so quickly and reasoned out so much from it! Really, it was an honor to be her companion.

  The narrator before them went on as the scene displayed a picture of a dozen saffron-robed people, the men bearded, the women without cosmetics and with simple hairstyles. Most had gray hair; all looked compassionate and concerned. The narrator told his viewers, "The gurus of all the clans tell us that their people are paying entirely too much attention to worldly things." Behind him, the picture changed to a grid with the faces of men and women in small squares. Most of them were gray haired, too, but they fairly glowed with enthusiasm.

  "The clan leaders held a teleconference to consider that issue," the narrator told his viewers, "and replied that all the clans together were performing a massive study in ecology, though that may not have been what they intended. By developing their animals and crops, they're gaining a greater sense of how all life-forms fit together and interact. The clan leaders claim this is another route toward achieving harmony with the Infiniteand the gurus agreed! I do have to say, though, that the Wise Ones didn't seem too enthusiastic about it."

  Alea objected, "The people in each of those 'clans' don't look anything like one another! How could they be related?"

  "They probably aren't," Gar replied, "or at least they weren't, until their mothers and fathers married. I suspect they share interests, not genes. People concerned with herding cattle band together, people who want to grow oats band together, and those who want to raise maize gather together, too."

  "Well, that makes sense," Alea. admitted. "After all, oats and maize grow best in different climates-and their farmers would have to live together."

  "Besides, village life that way would give them the feeling of belonging to an extended family," Gar said thoughtfully, "and I suspect these colonists were very lonely before they formed a group."

  The narrator's voice began to crackle and the picture broke up into a swirling mass of colored dots.

  Alea frowned. "What's happening? Oh! We're going toward the planet faster than light."

  "Correct, Alea," Herkimer's voice said. "We have passed the range of the oldest television signal emitted from the planet There are younger ones, of course. How many years should I let pass by us before I record one to display again?"

  "Let pass?" Alea frowned. "How many are there?"

  "An uninterrupted stream, broadcasting over a period of a hundred years or more."

  "Only one century?" Magnus's eyes glittered. "There should be seven. Let's see what happened." He turned to Alea. "Every twenty-five years?"

  "That should give us some idea of their progress," Alea agreed-but she felt misgivings, felt out of her depth, so she asked, "Why so many?"

  "I want a quick overview of the planet," Gar explained. "But we gain it by moving closer to the planet," Alea objected. "If we decide we want more detail, it will be too late to go back and find it."

  She expected him to argue and felt her blood quicken with the thought, but Magnus only nodded judiciously and said, "A good idea. Store all the signals, Herkimer, but show us only those that come in every quarter-century. Then if we wish to retrieve others, we can."

  Alea felt both pleased and chagrined: pleased that he took her thoughts seriously, chagrined that she had missed a chance for an argument. Magnus knew how to argue properly-taking her seriously and intending to win, but not too seriously and not minding if she proved to be right.

  For the next hour, Herkimer showed them snippets of dramas, comedies, programs of singers and dancers, and shows in which ordinary people matched wits against a master of ceremonies-though they called him a guru-trying to answer obscure questions such as, "When was the I Ching written?"

  Alea stared in blank incomprehension. "Is there any point to these pantomimes?"

  "I'm sure the people who watched them thought so." Magnus's brow was creased in thought "What I find interesting is the peole's appearance, and the subjects that seem to interest them."

  "They all wear such primitive clothing!" said Alea. "Everyone does seem to wear a robe, unless they're working," Magnus agreed. "But their working gear isn't all that different from your own people's."

  Alea shrugged. "Didn't you tell me that tunics and leggins are timeless?"

  "Yes, until the leggins turn into trousers. Strange that there should be so many ghost stories, though."

  "Yes." Alea smiled. "The ghosts seem to have more amusing remarks than the live people. And they do like stories about magic, don't they?"

  "Yes, but I wish we'd seen more of that documentary about wyverns. They seem to be very interesting beasts. I'm amazed that they managed to survive the introduction of the birds the colonists brought with them."

  "Why?" Alea turned to him with a frown. "With those beaks and claws, even an eagle would flee them."

  "Pterodactyls didn't fare so well against birds on old Earth," Magnus explained, "though that may have been due to the cold snap that killed off most of the dinosaurs."

  "Yes, dragons by any other name. I haven't seen any sign them on these programs."

  "Something must have killed them off, then-the wyverns didn't evolve in a vacuum."

  "Wait what's this?" Alea leaned forward, frowning.

  The picture was rough, grainy, and flashed lines of static now and then-a gaunt woman in a rough tunic pointing to pictures on an easel, which abruptly filled the screen as she explained them. "Native plants have begun to grow again, now tha the Maize Clan has run out of weed-killers from Terra ... th Grape Clan sends word that their new vines are only root stoc so that the hybrid vines brought from Terra are the last of the stronger grapes that we'll see. Without new seeds and shoots from the home planet, they're having to make do with the weaker strains that are offspring of the old vines, and the native weeds are choking many of them. People are stockpiling the old vintages. The Equestrian Clan reports that without imported sperm and ova, many foals are dying from local diseases, but the survivors are developing hybrid colts and fillies that are more hardy, though not as tall or graceful. The Aurochs Clan is sending in a similar report-their new cattle are smaller and stronger, though with much less meat but all the livestock clans are producing plenty of fertilizer. Unfortunately, it doesn't seem to be bonding with the soil as well as the Ten-an fertilizers did, and the yield per acre is down considerably."

  She looked up at the camera, drawn and haggard. "Fortunately we have enough food stocks for the next five years, and the Alchemist Clan reports great success in developing philters that remove the toxins from native plants." She turned to pull a picture of strange, broad-leaned plants off the easel, revealing a picture of a misty humanoid form floating between two thatched roofs. "The Ghost Clan has confirmed yesterday's report of a new haunting in the Amity Valley. They haven't, however, confirmed Goren Hafvie's claim that the spirit is the ghost of his ancestor, Guru Plenvie."

  "They can't believe ghosts are real!" Alea exclaimed.

  "It's a belief that never seems to die out, even in technologically advanced societies." Magnus carefully didn't remind her that she herself had believed in ghosts only two years before.

  "In the northeast, the druids of the Quarry Clan have expelled a group of thirteen men and women for trying to intimidate the rest of their village by threats of spreading a disease called murrain
among their cattle," the narrator went on. The picture on the easel slid away to expose a scene of four cows and a bull lying on their sides, swollen as though inflated. "Unfortunately, an epidemic did spread through the village's livestock. The druids examined the bodies and concluded that the cause really was magic. They expelled the sorcerers with a warning to establish their own village and stay away from any others." The narrator filled the screen again, the picture suddenly small behind her. "Since Terra has cut us off and is no longer sending cattle embryos, spreading such a disease has become a serious crime."

  The picture broke into colored dots, the voice was drowned in a rush of static, and Alea stared, feeling numbed. "So that's what happened to the colony planets when Terra cut them off?"

  "To all of them, yes." Magnus nodded. "Some were more self-sufficient than others, but in most, the PEST regime's retrenchment meant famine and plague-and war, as the people fought over what food stocks remained." His face was gaunt, haunted. "I hope we won't have to watch such a bloodbath here."

  "It seems we will." Alea braced herself as the picture reformed in front of them, showing two men in half-armor and high boots, halberds in hand, pushing two raggedly dressed men into a small mud but lit only by a tiny fire in the center.

  "You can't leave us here, Corporal!" one of the ragged men whined. "We'll starve, that's what!"

  "Do what you please," one of the soldiers grunted. "Anybody who steals from the soldiers' mess deserves what he gets!"

  "You can say that again." The other man sniffed with disdain. "Lumpy porridge and stale hardtack-no wonder they call it a mess!"

  The other soldier swung a punch at him; the man adroitly ducked. "You liked it well enough to try to steal a bowlful when you were supposed to be peeling potatoes," the guard growled.

  "You can just wait here until the company magus has time for you!"

  "The company magus!" The first man shuddered. "You hear that, Charlie? He'll give us lockjaw so bad we can't even sip!"