“I bought them last night at the sorcerers’ market in Bombifale. They are amulets, my lord, to guard one against the madness.”
“The sorcerers’ market, as I recall, is open only on Sea-days, and not even all of those. Yesterday was Twoday.”
“The sorcerers’ market at Bombifale is open every night of the week now, lordship,” said the Su-Suheris quietly. “These things are sold at many of the booths. Five crowns apiece, they are: stamped from molds in great quantity. But exceedingly well done.”
“So I see.” Prestimion poked at them with the tip of one finger. They were grisly things, all too convincingly real despite their miniature size. He saw the faces of men and women both, a few Ghayrogs, a couple of Hjorts, even a single Su-Suheris head that sent a particularly severe tremor of repulsion through him. Small metal fasteners were attached to them in back. “Magic against magic, is that it? One wears them, does one, for the sake of counteracting whatever witchcraft is causing the insanity plague?”
“Exactly. It is what we call in the trade a cloaking-magic. The little image sends a message indicating that the person who wears it is already afflicted with the madness—screaming, wild-eyed, mutilated of soul, altogether deranged—and so there is no need for the agent that brings the malady to act on them.”
“And do they work?”
“I doubt it, my lord. But people have faith in them. Nearly everyone I saw in the market was wearing one. There are other devices available, too, for the same purpose, at least seven or eight sorts, all of them guaranteed by their vendors to provide complete security. Most of them are crude, primitive things that make me embarrassed for my profession. They are what you might expect savages to use. But the fear is very widespread.—Do you remember, my lord, in the days when Prankipin was dying and dire omens were being read into every cloud and every bird that passed overhead, how all manner of strange new cults sprang up in the world?”
“I do remember, yes. I saw the Beholders dancing the Procession of their Mysteries in Sisivondal once.”
“Well, they dance it again. All the masks and idols and holy implements of an unholy kind are being brought forth. These little amulets here are but a sample of the whole. My lord, sorcery is my profession, and I do not doubt the existence of the powers of the invisible world, as I know that you often do. But to me these things are abominations. They bespeak an insanity of a sort themselves, as troublesome as the one they pretend to cure.”
Prestimion nodded somberly. He prodded the little heads again, turning over two or three of them that had landed upside-down, and was stunned to find himself looking at his own face.
“I wondered when you would notice that one, my lord,” said Maundigand-Klimd.
“Astonishing. Absolutely astonishing!” Prestimion picked it up and examined it closely. It gave him the shudders. A likeness of great fidelity, it was: a miniature screaming Lord Prestimion, hardly bigger than the ball of his thumb. “I suppose there’s a Septach Melayn somewhere in the batch, too, and a Gialaurys, and maybe a Lady Varaile, eh? And is this Su-Suheris here supposed to represent you, Maundigand-Klimd? What do they think: that our faces will be more powerful in warding off the madness than those of ordinary folk?”
“It is a reasonable expectation, lordship.”
“Ah. Maybe so.” Septach Melayn was here, yes. They had rendered him very well, down to the insouciant grin—even in the midst of a madman’s scream—and bold, flashing blue eyes. He saw no Varailes, though, and was very glad of that. He pushed the pile of amulets away from him. “How I hated all this credulous foolishess, Maundigand-Klimd! This pathetic faith in the worth of magic, in talismans and images, in spells and powders, exorcisms, abracadabras, the conjuring up of fiends and demons, the using of rohillas and ammatepilas and veralistias and all of that. What a waste of time, and money, and hope! I saw Lord Confalume utterly devoured by these follies, so befuddled by the whisperings of this magus and that that when a real crisis came upon him, he was completely unable to deal with—” He halted, unwilling even with Maundigand-Klimd to speak of the Korsibar revolt. “Well, I know as well as you do that some of it works, Maundigand-Klimd. But most of what passes for magic among us is nothing more than simple idiocy. I had hoped that the tide of superstition would begin to recede a little during my reign. And instead—instead—a new wave of this nonsense sweeping up over us, just when—” He paused again. “I’m sorry, Maundigand-Klimd. I know that you’re a believer. I’ve given you offense.”
“You’ve given none, my lord. I am no more of a ‘believer,’ as you put it, than you are yourself. I live not by faith but by empirical test. There are things that are self-evidently true, and other things that are false. What I practice is the true magic, which is a form of science. I have as much contempt for the other sort as you do, which is why I brought you these things today.”
“Thinking that I’ll issue an ordinance prohibiting them? I can’t do that, Maundigand-Klimd. It’s never wise to try to legislate against people’s irrational beliefs.”
“I understand that, lordship. I only wanted to call to your attention the fact that the madness is bringing forth a secondary level of insanity, which in itself will have harmful consequences for your reign.”
“If I knew what needed to be done, I’d be doing it.”
“Beyond doubt that is so.”
“But what—what? Is there anything you can suggest?”
“Not at this moment, my lord.”
Prestimion detected a curious inflection in Maundigand-Klimd’s voice, as though he might be leaving something of significance unspoken. Prestimion stared up at the two heads, at the four opaque green eyes. The Su-Suheris was an invaluable counsellor, and even, to a degree, a cherished friend. There were times, though, when Prestimion found Maundigand-Klimd unreadable, incomprehensible, and this was one of them. If there was some hidden subtext here, he was uncertain of what it was.
But then one possibility presented itself to him. It was a disagreeable one, but it needed to be pursued.
He said, “You and I have already discussed Septach Melayn’s notion that the madness has been caused by the world-wide obliteration of memory that I imposed, the day of the victory over Korsibar at Thegomar Edge. I think you know that I’m reluctant to accept that theory.”
“Yes, my lord. I do.”
“I can tell from the way you say it that you don’t agree with me. What are you holding back, Maundigand-Klimd? Do you have certain knowledge that I did bring the madness on that way?”
“Not certain knowledge, my lord.”
“But you think it’s very probable, do you?”
All this while it had been Maundigand-Klimd’s left head, usually the more loquacious of the pair, that had been speaking. But it was the other one that replied now:
“Yes, my lord. Very probable indeed.”
Prestimion closed his eyes a moment, drew in his breath sharply. The blunt statement came as no surprise. In recent weeks he had been veering more and more, in his own thoughts, toward the likelihood that he and he alone was responsible for the new darkness that had begun to descend upon the world. But it stung him deeply, all the same, to have the shrewd and capable Maundigand-Klimd lend his support to that idea.
“If the madness was caused by magic,” he said slowly, “then it can only be healed by magic, would you not say?”
“That could be so, my lord.”
“Is what you’re telling me, then, that one possible way to fix things is to call Heszmon Gorse and his father down out of Triggoin, and all the rest of the mages who took part in casting the spell that day, and have them cast a reverse spell that would restore everyone’s knowledge of the civil war?”