A Wizard In Absentia Read online

  One of the disadvantages to being so tall was that he was looking down at her upturned, shining face, and could unfortunately not help seeing the decolletage beneath it—and, though the gown was low-cut and revealing, he was sure it wasn't supposed to be so very revealing.

  Was it?

  He managed to force a smile, at least a small one, feeling his face grow hot, knowing that his eyes, at least, were filled with incredulous delight. All he could seem to see were her mouth, wide and very red, with rich, ripe lips that trembled on the verge of opening, almost begging to be caressed, tasted; the small, delightful tilt of her nose; her huge, blue eyes; and the equally huge, swelling mounds beneath her neckline. He tried to minimize the view by pressing her tightly against himself, but it was perhaps not the wisest course of action, for she murmured with pleasure, moving her hips lauguidly against his thigh, and he felt his own body responding. "Fair cousin," he whispered, his tongue thick in his mouth.

  Why, then, this cool, detached part of his mind that stood back watching, and snickered? "Handsome cousin," she breathed in return, eyelids lowering. "Will you not sweep me away in your ship, to some enchanted realm where only we two shall exist?"

  Was that what she wanted, for him to steal her away from this gilded backwater prison? For somehow, his detached self didn't doubt that she wanted something.

  So did he—or at least his body did. His mind, though, was apprehensive, and his heart seemed to have jelled. Did it sense something that his mind only suspected, and his body ignored?

  He knew it was bad, unhealthy, to think of himself in parts in this manner, but he couldn't help it; though he ached with desire for pleasures he had never fully known, he was still reluctant, hesitant . . .

  And amused.

  He was shocked to realize it, and tried to banish the thought, to ignore his own cynicism, to concentrate on the desire within him, and the beautiful, provocative face turned up toward his, the sleepy eyes, the trembling lips . . .

  He brought his own lips down, to brush against hers, and felt her whole body swelling up to meet his. Then the cymbals crashed, and he pulled hack, startled. They were, after all, in public.

  She made a moue of disappointment and lowered her gaze. "Why so shy, cousin?"

  "It would be a poor return for the hospitality of your family, milady," he said, "were I to seek to seduce their daughter."

  She tossed her head, her laugh a ripple of brightness that the music tried vainly to echo. "Do you think they care? Such concern was for the dark ages, when intimacy meant conception. Liaisons between cousins are no shame here, Magnus, nor even cause for a frown! Especially when the two have grown up apart, and are strangers, as we are—for there can he no incest in the mind, when we are worlds apart in our origins!"

  It was a pretty speech, for a culture that used the language of science as social pleasantries—and an invitation so thinly veiled that he would verge on discourtesy to refuse it.

  And he was tempted, his body ached with it . . . Suddenly, the longing crashed through him, through his reserve; the furious desire to banish the injuries of his past by immersion in her, in her body, bathing away the aura of humiliation and heartache that had always accompanied sexual overtures in his past. Almost in a rage to banish those memories, to scourge those responses, he lowered his head again and pressed his lips to hers. They trembled beneath his, parted only slightly, only enough to entice, to invite, and he caressed them with the tip of his tongue, teasing them open, letting his mouth sink into hers, her lips warm and moist all about his, flesh sliding over flesh, awakening a thousand burning neurons to send their flame coursing throughout his body. Vaguely and distantly, he was aware that they had stopped dancing, that they stood still, engrossed in the kiss, that her whole body seemed to reach up to his in delight, in . . . triumph?

  Near the wall, her cousin Robert stared, outraged, the blood suffusing his face—but the Countess Matilda smiled, and exchanged a knowing, pleased look with the Baroness.

  Magnus returned to his rooms in a strange state—half euphoria, his head feeling as though it were inflated like a balloon with a vapor that held a strange and intoxicating aroma, the scent of Pelisse's perfume. But the other half was wariness, suspicion, almost a sense of foreboding. He sank down into a recliner and punched the pressure pads of the table beside it. In a second, the table delivered a tall glass of amber fluid into his hand. Magnus took a long drink, but it neither heightened the euphoria nor quenched the foreboding.

  A pleasant evening, Magnus? Fess asked.

  "Oh yes, very pleasant indeed! Five dances with my most attractive cousin, a long and intimate chat on the way to her room, an invitation to step in to continue the conversation, and when I declined, a very long and deep kiss! I should be ecstatic!"

  But you are not? Why is that?

  "That's the hell of it—I don't know!" Magnus put the glass down too hard, but somehow it didn't break. "Pelisse is probably the most beautiful woman that I have yet had the pleasure of meeting—though with modern cosmetics, it's hard to be sure. At least, she looks to be the most beautiful. And she's sympathetic, complaisant, intimate—everything that should delight me! In fact, it does—but it also makes me nervous! Why is that, Fess?"

  Could it perhaps be linked to your not accepting her invitation tonight?

  Magnus nodded, short, choppy jerks of the head. "Yes—oh, most certainly yes! The instant she asked me in, I could feel all my emotional armor clanking into place! Why is that, Fess? The fruit of painful experiences I've had in the past, with willing women—all willing to be caressed, to go to bed, then to use me in any way they could? Or is there really something about Pelisse that sets my instincts for selfpreservation to baring their teeth?"

  Something of both, certainly, the robot mused. As to Pelisse herself, I would be cautious with any Maximan lady—but the only element in her conduct that might give you grounds for trepidation is that she has been so quick to welcome you so very thoroughly, and has shown so very much attraction to you so very quickly.

  "Quickly! An understatement if I ever heard one! Only two weeks, and she's ready to invite me into her bed! Or at least into her room late at night—perhaps I'm just being conceited in thinking she might have made the deeper offer."

  I doubt it. She certainly is showing all the signs of being willing—in entirety.

  "Signs?" Something about the word focused Magnus's wariness. "What signs are you speaking of, Fess?"

  Oh, letting her eyelids droop, invading your social distance, the specific sort of smile she gives you, her seeking of proximity . . .

  "Yes, that's it! Just the signs, the motions! Anyone could learn them, learn how to do them! They don't have to have an ounce of sincerity behind them!" Magnus leaped to his feet and began to pace. "And that phrase you used earlier—something about 'as to Pelisse herself.' That implies that you're seeing something more than Pelisse, something that might arouse my wariness. What?"

  Why . . . the situation itself, Magnus.

  "The situation? What about it? New relative shows up out of nowhere unannounced, is invited to stay with the family—what should make me suspicious about that? They might have cause for wariness, but me?"

  There is an uncertainty about the succession, Magnus.

  "Who's going to be the next Count after my great-uncle dies?" Magnus stood still, looking up as though Fess were physically present next to him, frowning. "Why should that give me cause for wariness?"

  Because it is the reason why your presence has been so unsettling to them. They thought the succession was definite, but your presence has made it once again uncertain.

  "My presence? How could it? I have no interest in being Count of this bulwark against respectability!"

  But they cannot know that, and would be foolish to believe you even if you said it, no matter how sincerely.

  "But what claim could I possibly have?"

  One every bit as good as Pelisse's. Consider, Magnus—your great-uncle is in very
poor health; the family is braced for his death. His only son is determined not to return to Maxima or accept the inheritance, perhaps wisely. He has therefore abdicated in advance, since becoming Count would mean leaving Terra.

  Magnus nodded, frowning. "That still does not affect me."

  But the succession is patrilineal. Since the current Count has no other male offspring, the title passes to your father's elder brother—but he is mentally incompetent, and cannot inherit. His younger brother, your father, thereby became heir, but was unavailable—perhaps dead, for all his family knew; so the title would therefore pass to your Uncle Richard's daughter.

  "Then I came," Magnus whispered, "and inheritance is patrilineal."

  Exactly, Magnus. Your father might not be available, but you suddenly were. You are the male heir of a cadet branch, so the title and estates could legally pass to you, even though there is a female of the senior branch.

  "So my claim is as good as hers!" Magnus stared. "Perhaps better! And they're all afraid that I might try to assert it! Then who knows what would happen to their standard of living!"

  Be fair, Magnus. Would you wish to see a stranger come in and take a prize that you had thought would be yours?

  "No, I certainly wouldn't," Magnus breathed, "and I would do everything I could to make sure I kept that prize, no matter what!"

  Unfortunately true.

  "An ideal resolution, isn't it?" Magnus said bitterly. "For Pelisse to marry me, thus unifying both claims! I would have the title, she would tell me what to do with it, and the family could relax! Do you think this was her own idea, Fess? Or did her mother put her up to it?"

  It would be difficult to say, Magnus, but I think we might conjecture that neither lady was terribly opposed to the idea.

  "But Robert was. How say you, Fess—does my cousin harbor a rather unhealthy interest in Pelisse?"

  It is unhealthy only emotionally, Magnus, as they are not truly brother and sister, but were only raised as such. In fact, I have determined that they are related only in the fourth degree of consanguinity, so there would certainly be no bar to their marrying.

  "Yes, and he would become Count, and have the title, the business, and Pelisse, too! Probably had the whole process well in train, in fact, until I came in and derailed it! Big muscular stranger, from outside the immediate gene pool, with the mystery of the far traveller about him—oh yes, very unfair competition for the poor fellow! No wonder he was ready to use my anatomy for fish bait! And now that I look back on this last fortnight from this perspective, I can understand the occasional glance that passed between him and Pelisse—she was enjoying his jealousy! Fess, could it be that my fair cousin returns Robert's interest?"

  Perhaps, Magnus, though I certainly would not characterize such interest as a prime example of romantic love.

  "No, but it's as good as she's apt to do here!"

  You wrong the lady, Magnus.

  "Do I? I wouldn't really characterize her interest in me as being an impassioned true love, either! More a matter of an interesting novelty, but one that would pall rather quickly—and definitely would have to be civilized and overhauled, if she were going to keep it around for any length of time! No wonder I've been wary! No wonder she's been so interested! How could I possibly have been such a blockhead!"

  Certainly not a blockhead, Magnus, Fess murmured. I would never characterize you as such, simply because you are always willing to give the other person the benefit of the doubt.

  "Yes, but I think the time has come for moderation, don't you, Fess? Time to start restricting that impulse to situations where it doesn't really matter!"

  Magnus, I fear you are becoming a cynic.

  "Cynic? Oh, my heavens, no, Fess! Merely a student of human nature, eh? Yes, of course. I think it's time I had a little chat with all my relatives at once. Don't you?"

  Magnus, surely you would not be ungracious!

  That stilled the young giant. He stood a moment in thought, then said, "Yes, I was about to be unpardonably rude, wasn't I? Not to mention being ungrateful and risking giving hurt unjustly. I'll have to be a bit more circumspect when I confront them. After all, I only wish to be helpful, don't I?"

  Helpful, Magnus?

  "Yes, helpful. After all, they do have a problem with the succession. It would only be proper courtesy for a guest to help them resolve it. Wouldn't it? Yes, of course."

  CHAPTER 4

  Magnus hadn't intended to risk upsetting his great-uncle, but when the Count heard that he had asked for a "family conference," the old man had insisted it be held in his bedchamber. Now Magnus sat looking about at them all, choosing his words very carefully, not wishing to hurt any of them—he should really have been feeling sorry for each one. But the feeling of outrage was still there, though firmly held down, and he couldn't completely keep his emotions out of the affair.

  "Well, what is this all about then?" the old Count demanded. He stirred restlessly in his bed. "Say your piece, young man. What is it that is so important that you wish to address it to us all together?"

  "Why, Uncle," Magnus said slowly, "what should it be but my thanks for your hospitality, and a farewell?"

  There was instant consternation, and Magnus found it very satisfying.

  "No, not so soon!"

  "You mustn't, young man!"

  "Come now, after all these years? Surely you have a duty to your family!"

  Magnus rode it out, permitting himself to feel a very solid satisfaction—which was somewhat tempered by the glow of hope and delight he saw in Robert's face, and the relief in the Count and Countess.

  Pelisse, though, was completely taken aback, even appalled. "So soon? And so suddenly? But Magnus, this is really too bad of you!"

  "My apologies." Magnus inclined his head. "I would not have been so abrupt, or so dramatic, if recent events had not made my departure a matter of some urgency."

  "Recent events?" Countess Matilda frowned. "Of what sort?"

  But Pelisse had a look of foreboding for a few seconds, before she regained her composure. "Yes, Magnus. What events could you be thinking of?"

  "Not events alone," Magnus said slowly, "but new information, too. I have become aware that you may be having a difficulty with the succession."

  Instantly, the guards were up, the faces wore bland smiles, and the family had rushed to battle stations. "However," Magnus said, "it really is not politic to discuss this in the presence of the current Count."

  "No, no! Absolutely necessary, absolutely!" The Count waved the objection away—but anxiety shadowed his features. "How can I rest easily if there's a chance I'll leave the family in the lurch, eh? What sort of problem are you thinking of, young man? What difficulty with the succession?"

  "My place in it, primarily," Magnus said slowly. "I have become aware that you all believe I may attempt to inherit, when . . . the time comes."

  They should have raised a chorus of protest, they should have claimed that such a thought could not have been further from their minds—but they were silent, Pelisse wide-eyed, Robert infuriated, the Countess frightened, and the Count grave.

  "The notion is ridiculous, of course," Magnus said, "or should be—but I have slowly become aware that all of you fear I may have come to Maxima for that purpose."

  "Why ridiculous?" the Countess said, through tight lips.

  "Why, because, on my home so far away, only the most general news of Terra and its colonies has come to us—and nothing from the family, though my father mentioned from time to time that he had attempted to send word to you . . . "

  "We received the occasional missive," the Count acknowledged, "but we had no means of replying." Magnus reflected that they could not have tried terribly hard. "Exactly—we were isolated from you. I grew up in the assumption that Maxima was the family home, but of no other interest to me, for my father's uncle was the current Count, and his son would inherit in his turn. I never dreamed that the title might pass to the cadet branch—though I knew that if it di
d, my uncle would inherit, not my father . . . "

  "But you had no way of knowing that he would be non compos mentis." The Count scowled, nodding. "Indeed," Magnus acknowledged. "Of course, if matters came to such a pass, it would be my father who would inherit, not I—but as you all know, he has won a title and lands of his own, and would certainly relinquish all claims to the inheritance."

  "You, however, are available." Robert's eyes smoldered.

  "I did not quite realize that, until yesterday," Magnus said. "It explained many things—Robert's hostility, the Countess's reticence, perhaps even Pelisse's attentions."

  "You lie!" Robert leaped to his feet, face red, fists clenched.

  "Really, young man!" the Countess snapped. "Magnus!" Pelisse cried, then faltered and looked away.

  Magnus held up both palms. "My apologies; I did not mean to offend. But you must understand that I grew up on the fringes of court intrigue, so it is natural to me to question every attention, even the kindnesses that Cousin Pelisse has shown me. She is truly a gentle and open-hearted woman—but a man with a suspicious mind might note that she is the current heir and that, since she is female and the succession is patrilineal, she would only inherit if there were no male to claim the title—so that my claim might be construed as being as strong as hers."

  He waited for a response, but no one spoke. Eyes were wide and faces pale, but lips were sealed. Grimly reassured, Magnus went on, "So suspicious a person might have noted that the logical way to remove the conflict was to unite the claimants—and that Pelisse might therefore have been instructed to cultivate my affections."