And to the High Head’s suggestion that half a dozen well-shielded alien gualdians might be more than enough to disturb the vibrations of Arth, Edward simply laughed and advised his friend to center himself.
The High Head had no leisure to do that. Once in his office, he found his daily routine constantly interrupted by urgent calls from the Pentarchy. Everything poured in with the tide. Trenjen reported that the passet crop had failed and required an instant review of expected climate changes for next season’s planting. The King in Council sent majestic formalities and, embedded in them, a disturbing request to Arth to match the observation made by the Orthe surveyors which suggested that the energy flows of the Pentarchy were becoming seriously deranged. And of course, there was Leathe. Leathe Council came on the ether several times in the persons of various High Ladies wishing to know if there was any progress yet in the experiment with otherworld.
The High Head answered the ladies politely and wished he knew too. It nagged at him increasingly that he must plant another agent there, and soon; and, since otherworld seemed to have located at least two of his best, this agent would have to be both exceptional and cunningly planted. But naturally he did not betray this anxiety either to the ladies or to Lady Marceny. Lady Marceny wanted to know as badly as the rest — probably more so, because her aim was transparently to get him to tell her ahead of the rest of the Pentarchy. She gave strong hints that she might impart the secret of her private experiment with otherworld in exchange. But since she left the talking to that wretched son of hers, the High Head doubted if she had any such intention. What Lady Marceny knew, she always kept to herself. This was just as well, because the High Head knew he would have been sorely tempted by now. He looked with disfavor at the vitiated face of her son in his mirror and promised him results soon. Rumor had it that the young man was half-gualdian, but if so, his mother had put him beyond sympathy.
To meet the various demands of the Pentarchy, he was forced to draft more mages to Observer Horn, rearrange schedules, interrupt and curtail routine rituals — He worked through lunch, dourly ordering himself a plate of the parched passet he so sorely missed. It came with honey on the side, which he ignored, with contempt. His temper was already very badly frayed when the news came from Brother Wilfrid.
He stared at the simulacrum of Tod embracing Zillah. Behind them a small, lazy shoal of fishes swam, fluttering gauzy fins, opening foolish mouths, and for a moment the fish seemed to have all his attention.
He pulled himself together and gave the required orders. “Bring the serviceman here at once, and use the strongest mages for the guard. Remember the man has Pentarch birthright and could be dangerous. Keep the young woman apart. I’ll see her when I’ve dealt with the serviceman.”
That Zillah could stoop to make love to Tod really hurt. The High Head was not aware of hating Tod particularly, but he saw — with passionate relief — that here was his chance to get rid of him in a way most profitable to Arth.
The real stumbling block was the inevitable reaction from the Pentarch of Frinjen. The High Head was careful to keep abreast of affairs at home. He was well aware that Tod’s father, August Gordano, despite being a fool, had, if he chose to use it, enormous clout in the Pentarchy. Even Lady Marceny referred to August as “that bluff old sweetie” and seemed — surprisingly — to value his opinion. Furthermore, Roderick Gordano was Frinjen’s only son. Even Arth was not free to deprive a Fiveir of its sole heir. That would bring the king in, heavily, on Frinjen’s side.
With thoughtful eagerness, the High Head contacted Records Horn and had them send the Gordano family tree through to his main mirror. It was headed by August wed Amy Adonath and followed by no less than six daughters preceding young Roderick into the world.
The High Head shuddered a little at such crude persistence. The good Amy must be nothing more than a brood mare. He moved the display with a gesture, searching for males to whom the birthright could also descend. Five of the daughters had sons, any of which were likely — but Pentarchs never did favor the female line. The High Head was in sympathy with that, though he could at a pinch argue — Ah! This was better. Going back a generation, August’s father had married twice. One son survived from this second marriage (though with the symbol alongside his name that suggested dubious personal morals). The younger son of this marriage was long dead, having wed a gualdian woman. Interesting. His son, however, survived: Michael Gordano, born within a month of Roderick.
That settled it. Tod had a cousin supremely well qualified to hold the birthright. August Gordano could shout all he liked, but no one could say Arth had left Frinjen without an heir. Arth had its laws. Gordano had been caught breaking them. No one could bully Arth into false leniency.
He banished the display as Brother Wilfrid entered, breathless but very ready with his version of the matter.
“And that’s about the size of it, High One. I’ve known all along the fellow was subversive. He’s been brought up to think himself entirely above the law — and for that we should pity him, of course — but his total levity is all his own. He regards Arth as a joke, High One. As for that unclean woman—!”
The High Head looked into Brother Wilfrid’s pale face and saw it quivering with prurient hate. “Center yourself, Brother Instructor!”
Brother Wilfrid did so — or at least contrived to control himself a little — with obvious effort. “The centaur and the gualdian servicemen are down there, too, somewhere, sir. We don’t know their exact role in the affair, but they certainly connived at it. They missed parade without excuse and are now hiding. We’re looking for them now.”
“Scared, I suppose,” said the High Head. In the normal way, a centaur and a gualdian would form a powerful combination. But — he thought of the pallid horse-man, birthmarked and knock-kneed, and skinny Philo with those enormous hands and feet — not those two. “Send them to me as soon as you find them. I’ll see Gordano now.”
Before Tod was marched in, the High Head made efforts at least as strenuous as Brother Wilfrid’s to center himself. He thought he had. Therefore, it was quite a surprise to him that the mere sight of Tod’s jaunty figure and cool gaze brought him ablaze with anger — though why the anger should be accompanied by deep hurt puzzled him more than a little.
“Well, serviceman,” he asked, “what have you to say for yourself?”
“Nothing,” Tod said frankly. “I was doing what I was doing, and Brother Wilfrid came along and saw me, and that’s all there is to it really.” There seemed very little else he could say. But he did not deceive himself that his frankness pleased the High Head. He could feel anger beating off the man, like the heat when you open an oven. He saw that the result of this anger would be an even heavier penance than he had been expecting: fasting, compulsory prayer, maybe a very stiff term of solitary confinement — or perhaps worse. There were whispers, he remembered, of extremely horrible punishments of a secret nature — but here Tod found he had lost all desire to speculate and simply composed himself to receive whatever it was.