He was surprised because he hadn’t expected Barsonage to know so much. And a man who knew more than he was expected to might also do more than he was expected to.
And if he really didn’t trust Eremis, as his manner made clear, why was he revealing what he knew?
“No” – the mediator corrected his visitor amicably – “it is not the story Castellan Lebbick has told in public. I gather from what I have heard that at first he was too full of fury and desperation to grasp the significance of what he had seen. And since then he has chosen to keep his thoughts to himself. But he did speak to Artagel. And Artagel brought the story to me. He believed – quite rightly – that his information was vital to the Congery.”
In a tone that made him sound like a simpleton, Master Barsonage said, “It has enabled me to unite the Masters for the first time since the Congery was created.”
Master Eremis drank more wine to conceal the fact that all these surprises were beginning to affect him. Lebbick told Artagel. Artagel told Barsonage. But Gilbur had sworn that Lebbick was still out cold when he left. Was he just trying to cover up a mistake? Or was Barsonage lying – Barsonage, of all people? Was he playing some kind of game?
Eremis grinned around the rim of his goblet. This was better than he had anticipated, more fun. He liked opponents who, were capable of surprises. He had grown almost fond of King Joyse. Even Lebbick had his good side. Geraden was virtually likable. And as for Terisa—
That made their destruction especially exciting.
Unite the Masters, was that it? Then they would have to be un-united.
He twirled his goblet in his long fingers. “Thank you, Master Barsonage,” he said happily. “I understand you now.
“What work is the Congery doing with its rediscovered purpose?”
Again the mediator shrugged. A trickle of water ran out of his chest hair across his belly. “It will not surprise you. We labor to learn how it is that men such as the High King’s Monomach, who is no Imager, and Master Gilbur, whose talents are known to us, can be translated in and out of Orison at no cost to their sanity. Translation through flat glass drives men mad. That has been true since the dawn of Imagery. Why, then, are our enemies not destroyed by the very weapons they use against us?”
Ah. That was a subject which Master Eremis had come prepared to discuss. With a small, inward sigh – relief, perhaps, or disappointment – he said, “There I may be able to help you. I have an idea that may shed some light.”
For the first time since the conversation began, Master Barsonage looked interested. “Please explain it,” he said at once. “You know that the matter is urgent.”
“Certainly.” Matching the blandness of Master Barsonage’s tone, Eremis explained. “To the best of our understanding, as you know, the peril of flat glass arises from the translation itself, not from the simple movement from place to place within our world. Put crudely, translation is too strong for simple movement. The power which makes passage possible between entirely separate Images turns against the man translated because it is not needed.”
Barsonage nodded.
“On the assumption that our understanding is accurate,” Master Eremis went on, “my idea is this. Suppose that two mirrors were made – one flat, showing, say, an unused chamber in Orison, the other normal, showing a barren, deserted plain. Suppose then that the flat glass is now translated into the other, so that it stands upon the plain in the Image, and the focus of the Image is adjusted so that the flat mirror fills the glass. Is it not conceivable that the Imager who shaped those mirrors could now step straight through them, performing in effect two safe translations rather than one which would make him mad?”
The mediator was listening intently; he seemed to soak up Eremis’ words through his pores. Softly, as if he were astonished, he breathed, “It is conceivable.”
“Of course,” Master Eremis continued, simply marking time while he watched the mediator’s reaction, “the difficulty is that if the Imager stepped through himself he would not be able to step back. And to send and then retrieve someone else by such a method, he would need to be able to perform both translations simultaneously. We have no way of knowing whether such a thing is possible.” Like most of his lies, this one bore an insidious resemblance to the truth. “There Vagel is ahead of us. He may have spent fifteen years perfecting simultaneous translations.
“But surely we can attempt it? We can learn for ourselves whether this idea is indeed possible as well as conceivable?”
“Yes.” Master Barsonage had lost his air of studied mildness, of deliberate simplicity. His eyes shone. “We can.”
Abruptly, he surged to his feet like a breaker off the sea. “We can and we will. Today. Give me an hour to gather the Masters. Come to the laborium. We will begin experimenting.” Almost in the same breath, he added, “It is a brilliant idea. Two mirrors – simultaneous translations. Even if it fails, it remains brilliant. Brilliant.”
Having hooked his fish, Master Eremis proceeded to act as if he were letting the mediator go. He agreed to everything, stood up, started to leave, then paused at the door. As if he were innocent of all malice, he said, “Oh, Master Barsonage, one other matter – in case I forget it later. There is a rumor that some of our mirrors have been broken. Can that be true?”
Master Barsonage turned immediately grim: apparently, he was shocked by what had happened. “During the riot against Castellan Lebbick,” he admitted. “Five mirrors.” He shook his head. “It is plain that someone hates us. But why only five? Why those five? If you were insane enough to. deprive us of the means to defend Orison and ourselves, would you not break every glass you found?”
“Certainly.” Master Eremis made a sincere effort to look shocked himself. “Unfortunately, insane actions are by their very nature insane. Which mirrors were broken?”
The mediator replied promptly: once again, he was prepared. “The glass with which you refilled the reservoir. That was an attack on Orison. And Geraden’s mirror, the one that brought the lady Terisa here. Either he or she is stranded now, wherever they are – as is our lost champion. That was an attack on one of the three of them. But the third was a flat mirror of Quillon’s, showing a field of Termigan grapes. The fourth was the one with the Image of the starless sky. The fifth, the one where that gigantic slug-beast can be seen – one of the mirrors King Joyse captured in his wars. An attack on wine? On the heavens? An attack on monsters? It makes no sense.
“Geraden and the lady Terisa and our champion – if he still lives – may have been stranded entirely at random, by someone who had no idea what he did.”
Trying to sound disturbed, perhaps even grim, Eremis said, “My glass. Then we must depend on the weather for water. I cannot save us again.”
“That is true,” replied Barsonage. “Prince Kragen’s position is now much stronger. We must hope he does not know it.”
Master Eremis swallowed a final smile and made his way out of the mediator’s quarters. He wanted to reach his own rooms quickly, where he could afford to laugh out loud.
He realized, of course, that he was in a tricky situation. But it was a situation of his own devising. Thanks to the seeds he had just planted, Barsonage and the other Masters might spend the rest of their time until they died trying to work a simultaneous translation because they didn’t know it was impossible. Or, rather, it was trivial. The trick was not in the translation, but in the glass.
For all practical purposes, he had neutralized the Congery – the only force in Orison still capable of fighting him.
On the other hand, he would have to be very careful. Lebbick had said something to Artagel, who had told it to Barsonage. Not something about Terisa: something about Eremis himself. The mediator had lied to him.