Stasheff,Christopher - Magnus 2 - Wizard in Absentia

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By the time the sun had risen, lan had made perhaps

three miles. Then, as the first rays touched him, he

looked about for a hiding place. A thicket of young fir

trees caught his eye, their branches sweeping down

to the ground. He went to them and thrust his way

between the branches into the brown circle about

the trunk.

A man dressed in a green tunic and brown leggings

leaned upon his spear, scowling thoughtfully.

lan froze and caught his breath. A gamekeeper, and

one who had no doubt been told to look for a run-

away boy!

The keeper sighed, looked up—and saw lan.

For a moment, they both stood stock-still, staring

at one another. Then the keeper's face hardened and

he came toward lan, his hand outstretched.

, lan turned and bolted.

Christopher Stasheff

Behind him, he heard the keeper shout, heard his

heavy feet pounding, and ran for his life.

A thicket loomed up before him. Without slacken-

ing his stride, he set the heel of his staff against the

ground in front of the bushes and leaped. He swung

up on the staff and over, like a clock's pendulum in-

verted. He shoved hard, and landed on the far side of

the bushes. He stumbled and ran on, as fast as he

could. Behind him, he heard the keeper cursing as he

floundered through the bushes. He had bought a lit-

tle time. lan ran, zigzagging between the trees,

around trunks. Taking a lesson from the dwarves, he

chose trees with low branches that he could duck

under, too low for the keeper to follow. Then two

trunks appeared, so closely together that there was

scarcely room for him to pass. He scrambled be-

tween them, but the keeper could not; that would

slow him a little, too. His heart began to hammer; he

could not seem to get enough breath. Gasping, he

forced himself to run on, until suddenly the forest

fell away and he was in a meadow, a clearing in the

forest, with no place to hide. But a great round rock

with a glint of metal to it stood up in the center of

the meadow. The Stone Egg!

lan turned to run back, but heard the keeper crash-

ing through the underbrush behind him. He whirled

again and ran towards the great stone egg, swerved

around to its far side and crouched down, heart ham-

mering, drawing in quick, deep breaths through his

open mouth. Perhaps the keeper wouldn't see him,

would think he had run back into the forest, or had

run across the clearing and into the trees on the

A WIZARD IN ABSENTIA

other side. Perhaps the keeper himself would plunge

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on across the grass, and not look back....

But the keeper called out, and was answered by an-

other shout from the far side of the clearing behind

lan. Another keeper!

lan shrank back, gathering himself into a ball,

pressing against the lower curve of the boulder, try-

ing to press himself into the stone. . . .

Something clicked.

The surface behind him gave way, and lan felt

himself tumbling, saw a flash of light, then sudden

darkness.

Two months earlier in time, and twenty light-

years away in apace, a very unusual asteroid drifted

through the asteroid belt around Sol. It didn't look

unusual—it seemed to be just an ordinary, everyday

piece of space junk: lumpy, irregular, a few craters, a

lot of raw rock, a lot bigger than most, a lot smaller

than some—but all in all, nothing special, compara-

tively speaking. And comparisons were very easy to

make at the moment, because it was in with a lot of

others of its kind. In fact, you wouldn't have noticed

it at all, if its trajectory hadn't been so different from

those around it. They were moving placidly in orbit,

just drifting along in their timeless round; but it was

barreling straight toward one of the larger asteroids

in the Belt—dodging and weaving around all the

other asteroids, and no doubt taking a lot of hits from

the pebble-sized junk, but still coming remorselessly

toward Maxima. You just couldn't help noticing.

Especially if you were the Space Traffic Control

Christopher Stasheff

Center on that huge asteroid. "Unknown spacecraft!

Identify yourself and sheer off! Maxima Control to

unknown spaecraft! Identify yourself!"

"There is no reason not to, Magnus," the calm

voice of the asteroid's computer said to its pilot—

well, passenger, really; the computer was the pilot.

"I agree," said the tall, lantern-jawed young man.

His eyes never flickered from the viewscreen as he

watched the worldlet of his forefathers expand into a

discernible disk, larger than all other space-sparks

around it. "Identify us, Fess, and tell them we wish

to land."

The robot tactfully refrained from telling his aris-

tocratic young master that one did not merely in-

form Space Control that one was landing, and noted

that he would have to explain a few customs to his

young charge at the first opportunity. After all, a no-

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bleman could not expect to give orders or pull rank

when he was landing on a worldlet on which every-

body was an aristocrat. "Spacecraft PCC 651919,

under the auspices of the Society for the Conversion

of Extraterrestrial Nascent Totalitarianisms, calling

Maxima Control."

There was a moment of shocked silence at the

other end of the link. Then the loudspeaker said,

"Maxima Control here. How can we assist you, FCC

651919?"

"We request permission to land, Maxima Con-

trol."

"Permission .. . very good, FCC 651919. Search-

ing for a landing slot for you. What is your cargo?"

A WIZAHD IN ABSBNTIA

"Supercargo only," said Fess, "Sir Magnus

d'Armand, Lord Gallowglass."

Magnus stirred uncomfortably. "I am not yet a

lord, Fess."

"You are the heir to the Lord High Warlock of

Gramarye, Magnus," Fess reminded him sternly.

"Yet I have not been awarded any title of mine

own."

"No doubt an oversight," Fess replied with airy

disregard. "I am certain King Tuan would have given

you an official title, for the asking."

Magnus smiled. "A lord without lands?"

"Certainly analogous to a minister without port-

folio," Fess assured him. "Since your father is the

equivalent of a duke, it follows that you must be the

equivalent of a marquis—and in any event, you must

have a title of some sort, if you wish to be treated

with even a modicum of respect by the inhabitants

of your ancestral home."

Maxima Control recovered from shock long

enough to say, "Landing at 1030 hours Terran Stan-

dard, pad 29, berth 7-A. Approach from Galactic

Northwest, declination 38 degrees 22 minutes, right

ascension 21 degrees 17 minutes." Then a different

voice spoke, feminine and mature. "Requesting per-

mission to speak with your principal."

The lady was uncertain as to Magnus's status rela-

tive to Fess, the young man noted—was he owner,

passenger, or captive? He leaned toward the audio

pickup. Fess said quickly, "Remember, Magnus, to

speak in modern English, and to avoid the second

person singular."

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Christopher Stasheff

"Yes, yes, I know," Magnus said testily, though it

would be difficult to catch the knack of speaking

without the thees and thous with which he had

grown up. He smoothed his voice, keyed the pickup,

and said, "Magnus d'Armand speaking." The name

felt strange on his tongue—all his life he had been

"Magnus Gallowglass," the patronymic his father

had adopted as an alias when he landed on the psi-

filled planet of Gramarye. But Magnus remembered

his manners. "Good day to you, Maxima Control."

"And to yourself, my lord." The voice kept its

punctilious politeness; Magnus may have only imag-

ined the aura of amazement about it. "May I know

your relationship to the family d'Armand?"

Magnus frowned.

"Relationships are extremely important to the

Maximans, Magnus," Fess informed him, muting

the audio pickup for the moment. "They must know

your rank and place, if they are to know how to treat

you."

The very notion rankled in a lad who had been

reared to treat everyone with courtesy, but he was

the scion of a medieval society, after all, so he could

understand the need. "I am the son of Rodney

d'Armand, who was a grandson of Count Rory

d'Armand, and is a nephew of the current Count."

At least, he hoped his great-uncle was still alive.

He was. "We shall inform his lordship that his

great-nephew is landing," Maxima Control said,

with a hint of reproach in her tone.

Magnus took it in stride. "I would appreciate the

courtesy. I sent a message a week ago by hyper-radio,

A WIZARD IN ABSENTIA

but I could not at that time give them an exact date

of arrival."

"We understand." The voice seemed to thaw a bit.

"How has Rodney Gallowglass come into possession

of a title?"

Magnus stiffened. "In recognition of his services

to the Crown of an interdicted colony, which he en-

tered in his role as an agent of SCENT. You under-

stand that any information more specific than that is

also interdicted for protection of that colony, and

may not be spoken publicly."

"I understand." But by its tone, the owner didn't.

"Surely you can notify the head of the family of Rod-

ney's . . . excuse me. Lord Rodney ... of his loca-

tion."

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She wasn't sure the title was legitimate, Magnus

noted. "Certainly," he said. "As head of a major cor-

poration, he is cleared for secure knowledge, is he

not?"

"He is. May I request visual contact?"

"At once! My apologies. Fess . . ." But before he

could say, "if you please," a smaller screen suddenly

came to life, filled with the picture of an imposing

woman, imperially slim, with coiffured iron-gray

hair and a face that was a tribute to the cosmetician's

art. "I am your great-aunt Matilda, nephew Magnus.

Welcome to Maxima."

Fess explained it on the way down—the robots

took care of all the routine chores, such as traffic

control, but when an unusual situation arose, requir-

ing human judgement, the traffic computer would

Christopher Stasheff

refer the matter to whichever human being hap-

pened to be on duty that day—and since everyone on

Maxima claimed to be an aristocrat, it followed that

even a countess had to take her shift at supervision.

Besides, it lightened the boredom.

There was a great deal of boredom on Maxima, as

Magnus quickly found out. Everyone thought of

himself or herself as an aristocrat, and consequently

did very little work. Of course, their ancestors had

been commoners, though outstanding ones—

scientists, manufacturers, and businessmen, and

many had been combinations of all three. They had

come to Maxima for the freedom to do basic research

into artificial intelligence and cybernetics without

the interference of the Terran government (which be-

came more and more restrictive as the Proletarian Ec-

lectic State of Terra took hold more and more firmly),

or to apply that research to making bigger and better

robots. To support themselves, they went into manu-

facturing, and quickly gained a reputation for making

the best robots in the Terran Sphere. Some of the sons

who matured about that time had a bent for business,

and by the second generation, every family on Max-

ima was wealthy. Since they lived like lords, they de-

cided they should be lords, and in their legislative

assembly, started ennobling each other at a startling

rate. Since they were a sovereign government, even

the Terran College of Heralds couldn't deny the tech-

nical legality of it, though they could certainly cast a

skeptical glance.

On the other hand, many of the noble houses of

Terra had had similarly disreputable founders.

A WIZABD IN ABSENTIA

After five hundred years of learning aristocratic

ways, though, the Maximans had become nobility so

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thoroughly as to be indistinguishable from the old

Terran families, in behavior if not in lineage. The

more energetic of the sons ran the family businesses,

thereby giving the lie to their pretended nobility,

though they maintained the facade of leaving the

business to their robots; they merely amused them-

selves by setting policy. Those activities couldn't ab-

sorb more than a handful, though, so some of the

best and brightest began to emigrate to other

planets—and as the centuries rolled by and the busi-

nesses came inevitably into the hands of the eldest

sons, the brain drain increased. Additionally,

Maximans tended to marry Maximans, even after

they had all become cousins of one another, and the

inbreeding took its toll.

Magnus's father. Rod, had been one of the ener-

getic ones, as well as one of the brighter souls thrown

up by inbreeding—and if he wasn't completely sta-

ble, well, who was? In any event, he had also become

part of the brain drain, leaving Maxima for a career of

high adventure and low income. Being the second

son of a second son had had something to do with it,

but so had boredom.

Which may also have had something to do with

Magnus's feeling like a canary invited to a cats'

party, as he stepped out of the airlock of his ancestral

mansion to find himself confronted with a milling

mob of richly dressed people, loud with excited

conversation—which stopped abruptly as they real-

ized he was there, and all eyes turned to him. Mag-

Christopher Stasheff

nus felt like bolting right back into the boarding

tunnel, but he remembered that he came of a warrior

sire, and stiffened his spine, drawing himself up to

his full height. He was much taller than the norm.

He was, he knew, an impressive figure, and he

smiled slightly at the reaction of the crowd.

Aunt Matilda stepped forward—or the Countess

d'Armand, Magnus reminded himself—and said,

"Welcome to Castle d'Armand, nephew Magnus."

Magnus suppressed the jolt of surprise he felt at

the term "castle"—this glittering assemblage of ba-

roque and rococo towers and arches might have been

a palace, but certainly not a castle—and inclined his

head politely. "Thank you, Countess."

It was the right choice; she smiled, pleased, but as-

sured him, " 'Aunt Matilda,' nephew—we are all

family here."

That was true enough, Magnus reflected—for the

whole asteroid, not just Castle d'Armand.

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"Your relatives." Matilda gestured toward the

mob behind her, and one buxom, blonde vision

pushed forward, eyes alight with curiosity and eager-

ness, reminding Magnus that he was probably the

biggest event to happen all year—anything to break

the monotony. The Countess tried to give the girl a

frown of displeasure, but she couldn't sustain it.

"My youngest granddaughter, Pelisse."

The lady stepped forward, extending her hand.

Magnus bowed his head and pressed Pelisse's fingers

briefly to his lips, trying to adjust to the notion of his

uncle's youngest being nearly of an age with him, the

eldest of Rod's children—but Uncle Richard was

10

A WIZARD IN ABSENTIA

older than Rod by a few years, and had no doubt be-

gun his family at a younger age.

Then Magnus looked up into the largest pair of

sky-blue eyes he had ever seen, framed by a wealth of

blonde hair so light as to be almost white, and froze,

feeling as though he'd been filled with a humming

energy, and as though his brain were not quite

within his skull any longer. Desperately, he re-

minded himself that she was his first cousin, and

that helped—but his hackles were still raised.

"I shall look forward to your closer acquaintance,

cousin," she said, with amusement in her heavy -

lidded glance, and the Countess cleared her throat.

Pelisse made a moue and stepped back. Aunt Matilda

said, "Your cousin Rath," and a long, lean individual

stepped forward to give Magnus a perfunctory bow,

and a look of morose hostility.

It helped bring Magnus back to the reality of the

situation. He returned the bow stiffly, and Aunt Ma-

tilda said, "Your cousin Robert..."

Inwardly, Magnus sighed, and braced himself for a

long session of bowing and kissing hands.

A long half-hour later, he straightened up from

greeting the last relative, and turned to Aunt Matilda

with a frown—which he quickly removed. Fess, I've

not met the Count!

It would be impolitic to ask why, Fess replied,

broadcasting on the frequency of human thought,

but in the encoded mode of the Gallowglass fam-

ily. You may, however, request permission -to greet

him.

"This has been a most excellent pleasure, milady,"

11

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Christopher Stasheff

Magnus said. "However, I would also be pleased to

greet my great-uncle, if I may."

"Of course, dear boy—yet surely you must have

some refreshment first." Matilda glided over to him,

hooking a hand through his elbow and using it to

steer him through the mob of cousins. "You must be

quite wearied from your travels, if not from your ar-

rival. A glass of wine and a little nourishment will

restore your strength."

Magnus followed, wondering why she was

stalling—or did he really need to be fortified to greet

the Count?

He did.

Count Rupert sat in bed, propped up by a half-

dozen pillows. His hair was white, his face drawn

and lined. Magnus stared, then covered the gaffe

with a bow—surely they were mistaken! Surely this

ancient was his great-grandfather, not his great-

uncle! Fess, he is aged immensely, and so fragile

that a breath might blow him away!

"Courteous," the invalid croaked, in a voice that

still had some echo of authority, "but impetuous. I

am not a king, boy—you need not bow at the door.

Come closer to me."

Magnus obeyed without speech, for he was listen-

ing to Fess advising him. Do not inquire as to the na-

ture of the disease, Magnus. We will no doubt learn

of it later.

Magnus stepped up to the bedside, and the Count

looked him up and down with a rheumy eye. "Your

garb is quaint. They tell me you have come from a

distant planet."

A WIZABD IN ABSENTIA

"Aye, sir—one where your nephew, my father, has

made a place for himself."

"And you have left him?" the old man said with a

touch of sarcasm. "Well, I am accustomed to that."

He frowned up at Magnus, who was still trying to di-

gest the shock of his words. "You have turned out

well, young man—tall, and broad. And there is

something of your father in your looks—strong fea-

tures, let us say—but so much broader, so much

heavier!"

The first part surprised Magnus; he had never

heard anyone comment on his resemblance to his

father—nor to his mother—since he had changed

from child to young man. As to the second ... "The

bulk is the gift of my mother's father, milord."

Which was true, proportionally; there was no need to

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mention that his maternal grandfather, Brom

O'Berin, was scarcely three feet tall, though stocky

as a bull.

"Yes, your mother." The old man frowned—

almost painfully, as though even moving his face

cost him great energy. "What is she? How did my

nephew marry?" Before Magnus could answer, he

waved away the reply. "Oh yes, I know that every

mother appears as an angel to her son—and she must

be a wonder, to hold Rodney together long enough

for him to stay till you grew. But what is she like?

Tell me the externals!"

"Well..." Magnus collected his wits; it had been

a startling view of his father, though one he could be-

lieve. "She is the daughter of a king, milord." He

didn't think he needed to mention that Brom

Christopher Stasheff

O'Berin was the King of the Elves—or that Gwen

didn't know he was her father.

"A princess!" The Count stared, round-eyed.

"Then he is a king—or will be?"

"No, my lord.. ." How could he phrase this?

Her line does not reign, Magnus.

"No," Magnus went on, with relief, "for her line

will not reign."

"A cadet branch." The count nodded. "Then he

will be a duke."

"Its equivalent, my lord, for he has won his own ti-

tle by service to the reigning monarch."

"What title is that?" the Countess asked.

Magnus swallowed and took the plunge. "Lord

High Warlock."

"Odd." The Count took it without batting an eye.

"But autre temps, autre moeuis. Each culture has its

own Weltanschauung, its own world-view, and its

own titles. If he is the High Warlock, then you, no

doubt, are only Lord Warlock?"

Magnus stood a moment, staring.

Say yes, Magnus.

"Why . . . quite so! How perceptive of you, mi-

lord."

"It is only reason." The old man was obviously

pleased by the flattery. "And how does my nephew?"

"He is in good health, milord." A shadow crossed

the Count's face, and Magnus hastened to add, "At

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least, at the moment."

"Ah." The Count nodded. "His old malaise, eh?"

"I ... cannot say," Magnus floundered. "He has

not spoken of it."

14

A WIZABD IN ABSENTIA

"His mind, boy, his mind!" the old man said impa-

tiently. "The family's mental instability! Though he

showed it less than most—only in a bit of paranoia,

and a frantic need to leave the planetoid."

The second, Magnus was already beginning to un-

derstand, and he didn't think it had anything to do

with mental illness. As to the first, however ... "I

regret to say that his paranoia has increased, my

lord."

"Ah." The Count nodded, satisfied. "He has his

good days, though, eh?"

"Yes, milord—and on one of them, he sent his best

wishes to you, his uncle, and asked that I bring word

of you."

"He shall have it, have a letter! Which shall tell

him of my delight at his good fortune, and his ac-

complishments! I was sure he had been a credit to

the family! But this planet he has made his home,

young man—what of it, eh?" When Magnus hesi-

tated, he said, "You may tell me—I am cleared for

the highest level of security." He gestured impa-

tiently at a waiting butler. "Show him the docu-

ments, Hiram."

"No, milord—'tis not necessary!" Magnus said

quickly. "He hath come—uh, has come—to a Lost

Colony, one named Gramarye. You ... knew of his,

ah, affiliation?"

"That he had become an agent of SCENT? Yes,

yes," the old man said impatiently. "And this planet

is their concern, eh?"

"Yes, my lord. It has regressed to a medieval

culture"—actually, Magnus wasn't sure "regressed"

15

Christopher Stasheff

was the right word for something that had been done

intentionally—"and is ruled by a monarchy. It is my

father's intention to bring about the changes in their

social and economic structure that will result in

their evolving a form of democratic government."

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Stasheff, Christopher - Magnus 2 - Wizard in Absentia

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