The High Head thought, You think your birth makes it impossible for me to touch you, don’t you? “In short, you admit to being taken in oathbreaking.”
The angry grind in his voice caused Tod to jump slightly and find he was not as composed as he thought. “Only after a fashion, sir. With respect, I’d like to point out that as a serviceman, I haven’t taken any Oath to break.”
“But you were made aware that you are legally required to follow the laws of Arth during your year of service, and that the Oath is an important part of those laws,” the High Head stated. “You must also be aware that your sensual dallying has seriously disturbed the rhythms by which Arth survives.”
Damn it to hellspoke, I only kissed her! Tod thought. For a base moment he thought he would tell the High Head some of the rumors that were going around about the woman in boots — and she could be disturbing the vibes, even if only half of it was true — but the next moment he rightly concluded that the angry High Head would only see that as a whining attempt to incriminate others. “No,” he said. “At least, I suppose the rhythms must be wrong if you say so.”
“I have,” said the High Head, still in the flat, grinding voice of anger, “heard enough. And since you come before me without the slightest sign of contrition, your punishment will be the utmost reserved for those who trouble Arth’s fabric in this way. You will be banished to otherworld—”
Tod looked up, astounded. “But—”
“Silence,” said the High Head. “I’m well aware that you are heir to a Fiveir and consider yourself immune to punishment, but I have acquainted myself with your family tree, and I know you are not the only heir. You have a cousin and four nephews who can easily take your place. Am I not right?”
“Yes, but,” Tod said feebly, “I was only going to say this will kill my old father, sir.”
“You should have thought of that before,” the High Head told him, with considerable triumph. “It is now too late. Your banishment begins as soon as the necessary ritual transposes you. And, since you are so amorously inclined, I am going to place you in otherworld as the lover of a certain female. You will use your relationship with her to obtain information which you will then pass on to me. The weave of the ritual will leave your mind linked to mine so that you may do this. Have you understood?”
Tod nodded, although in fact his mind seemed barely able to grasp more than the sounds the High Head was uttering. He could scarcely think. Feeble little phrases rotated in his head: It’s not fair — I only kissed her — He can’t do this — It’s not fair — Around and around. His mind seemed to have given up. Dimly he wondered if the swine in front of him had put some kind of clamp on his intellect.
“Right,” said the High Head. “High Brother Nathan will instruct you further in your mission, and if you have any questions when you get to otherworld, the present agent can answer them.” He turned aside and summoned High Brother Nathan by sigil. When the Horn Head of Ritual duly appeared, somewhat flushed and disheveled, the High Head said, “Take this man away and prepare him for immediate transposition to replace agent Antorin. I’ll be along in ten minutes precisely to officiate.”
He turned back to Tod and gestured. It gave him strong satisfaction to watch Tod’s trim figure be snatched away backward out of his presence, with the most uncharacteristic expression of stunned dismay on his face. So satisfied was he that he did not realize until Tod was gone that he had not, as he always did with his agents, privately told him the lie that he could come back if he behaved himself flawlessly. He found he did not care. He could dangle that bait when Gordano reached otherworld. “And he can’t come back!” he said aloud. “That broke through his self-possession a bit, I’m glad to see!”
He turned again and summoned Zillah.
She was ushered in, looking distressed and puzzled. “Look,” she said. “I don’t quite understand—”
“Silence!” he snapped at her, and it pleased him that she stopped speaking and quivered as if he had hit her. “While you are here in Arth, you are subject to Arth’s laws, and you have just seriously transgressed these laws.”
Zillah was as incredulous as Tod. She could not bring herself to take this seriously. “Oh, come!” she said, tremulously half smiling, “Tod was only—”
“I told you to be quiet!” the High Head more or less roared at her.
Zillah quivered again and pressed her lips together. She could see he was in a rage, and she hated people to rage at her. She drew into herself, shrinking into a corner of her mind and pulling strong walls around the corner, as she used to do when Mother screamed at her, while she tried to understand why he was so angry. When she thought of the boasts Roz and the others had made, she could not believe it was simply because Tod had kissed her. She was hurt, because she had thought until now that High Horns, though frightening, was a fair man.
The High Head glared at her, breathing heavily, and promised himself he would break down the wards he saw her building, just as he had broken Tod’s composure. “You—”
The room filled with call-chimes, and the master mirror lit with the sigil of the double rose, the call sigil of Leathe. Leathe had yet more to say. It caught the High Head off balance. He was still trying to turn his mind from Zillah, and sign the call to the outer office on Hold, when the double rose vanished and the face of Lady Marceny’s nasty son filled the glass instead. “Good morning, High Head of Arth.”
The High Head whirled on the mirror. “Oh, what is it now?”
The young man was not in the least perturbed. He smiled malicously. “Caught you at a bad moment, have I? Well, this won’t take long. It’s only an ultimatum.”
“Ultimatum?” repeated the High Head. “What are you talking about?”
Behind his back, Zillah leaned forward, staring, frozen into a stiff bend, with the word “Mark!” on her lips, frozen too. She knew it was not Mark. It had to be another analogue like Tod’s image of Amanda. But God! He was like him, whoever he was! This man seemed younger than Mark, in spite of bagging under his eyes and seams on his cheeks, and where Mark was cleanshaven, this one sported a little curl of mustache and a small, pointed beard. Rather like a goat, Zillah thought dispassionately. Unlike Mark again, this one’s face was full of malicious glee, with a suggestion of much greater viciousness hidden behind the satyr’s smile. But the voice was identical — and somehow the very differences in him served only to show how like Mark he was. Zillah’s frozen heart banged until her chest ached with it. And the misery of her loss poured through her again like a flood through a lock-gate. It had only been in abeyance after all.
“Ultimatum is the word,” the face in the mirror agreed. His hand, long and elegant and white, and very like Mark’s, appeared and gave the little beard a mischievous tug. “There’s been a great deal going on here in the three days since I last spoke to you, Magus. The upshot is that we in the Pentarchy are going to give you six weeks — six of our weeks, Magus — to get some results. If you don’t have something to stop this flooding by then, Arth is going to be discredited and disbanded.”
“Nonsense,” said the High Head, pulling his mind around to the point. “Leathe has no right in law to threaten Arth. Go and tell your mother that she’s making a fool of herself.”
“Ah, but it isn’t just Leathe.” The young man chuckled — no, giggled, Zillah thought, like a particularly vicious schoolboy. “This is the whole Pentarchy, High Head. The Ladies have consulted with all the other Fiveirs. Frinjen and Corriarden joined us at once — they’re both getting swamped, Magus, while you sit in your fortress doing nothing — and Trenjen came in when the Orthe did. The king agrees with us, Magus. If you don’t make a move, he’ll use his powers.”