The lawsuits could go on for years.
The sense of alienation was back again. It felt inexorable. And this time he wasn’t sure it wouldn’t be a help. He had to appear confident this evening, or risk losing whatever chance remained of ever getting home again.
In a contemplative daze he passed through elegant French doors onto the balcony. He looked upon the starry night, with two small moons casting their light on the drifting cumulus clouds, and brought the goblet to his lips.
The pensive spell was broken instantly as he gagged. He coughed and spat the stuff out onto the brilliant parquet floor. He wiped his lips on his lacy sleeve and stared in disbelief at the cup in his hand.
Once again he had been trapped by his own assumptions, In this kind of lavish environment he had expected fine vintages, not elephant piss!
From the shadows to his right there came musical, feminine laughter. He turned quickly and saw that someone else stood on the balcony with him; her hand briefly tried to cover a grin of amusement.
Dennis felt blood rush to his cheeks.
“I know how you feel,” the young woman hurried to say in sympathy. “Isn’t it awful? You can’t practice wine, and you can’t cook it. So these cretins put what they have in fancy bottles and are happy, unable to tell the difference.”
From his brief glimpses and the stories he had heard about the L’Toff, Dennis had built in his mind an almost elfin image of Princess Linnora—as someone fragile and almost ethereal. Up close she was, indeed, beautiful, but much more human than his imagination had drawn her. She had dimples when she smiled, and her teeth, while white and brilliant, were slightly uneven. Though she was clearly a young woman, sorrow had already planted faint lines at the corners of her eyes.
Dennis felt his voice catch in his throat. He essayed a clumsy bow as he tried to think of something to say.
“In my country, Lady, we would save such vintages as this one for periods of penance.”
“Such penance.” She seemed impressed with the implied asceticism.
“Right now,” Dennis went on, “I’d trade this rare goblet and all the Baron’s wealth for a good Cabernet from my homeland—so I could raise it to your beauty, and the help you gave me once.”
She acknowledged with a curtsy and a smile. “A convoluted compliment, but I think I like it. I admit, Sir Wizard, that I expected never to see you again. Was my help so poor?”
Dennis joined her at the rail. “No, Lady. Your help made our escape from the jailyard below possible. Didn’t you hear the commotion you indirectly caused that night?”
Linnora’s lips pursed and she turned away slightly, obviously trying not to laugh undemurely out loud at the memory.
“The look on my lord host’s face that night repaid any debt you owed. I only wish his net had remained empty this time.”
Dennis had it in his mind to say something stylishly gallant such as, “I could not stay away but had to return to you, my Lady.” But the openness in her gray eyes made it seem verbose and inappropriate. He looked down.
“Well, uh,” he said instead. “I guess even a wizard can get a little clumsy once in a while.”
Her warm smile told him he had given the right answer. “Then we shall have to hope for another opportunity, shall we not?” she asked.
Dennis felt unaccountably warm. “We can hope,” he agreed.
They stood quietly for a while, looking at the reflections of the moonlight from the River Fingal.
“When Baron Kremer showed me your possessions for the first time,” she said at last, “I was convinced that someone strange had come into the world. They were obviously tools of great power, though I could feel almost no Pr’fett in them.”
Dennis shrugged. “In my land they were common implements, your Highness.”
She looked at him closely. Dennis was surprised to notice that she seemed nervous. Her voice was subdued, almost hushed. “Are you then from the place of miracles? The land of our ancestors?”
Dennis blinked. Land of our ancestors?
“Your tools had so little Pr’fett,” Linnora went on. “Yet their essences were strong, like nothing else in the world. Only once before have I encountered the like—in the wilderness shortly before I was captured.”
Dennis stared at her. Could so many threads come together all at once? He took a step closer to Linnora. But before he could speak, another voice cut in.
“I, too, would be interested in learning about the wizard’s homeland. That, and many other things, as well.”
They both turned. A large shadow blocked part of the light from the banquet hall. For a brief instant Dennis had a sudden joyful impression he was seeing Stivyung Sigel.
But the man stepped forward.
“I am Baron Kremer,” he said.
The warlord had a powerful cleft jaw to complement his broad shoulders. His silvery-blond hair was cut just below the ears. His eyes remained in shadows as he motioned toward the glittering table within.
“Shall we dine? Then perhaps we’ll have a chance to discuss such matters as different types of essence…and other worlds.”
3
Deacon Hoss’k spread his arms in an expansive gesture, barely missing a glittering candelabrum in the process.
“So you see, Wizard, nonliving things were compensated for the advantages the gods gave to the living. A tree may grow and prosper and spread its seeds, but it is also doomed to die, while a river is not. A man may think and act and move about, but he is fated to grow old and decrepit with time. The tools he uses, on the other hand—the nonliving slaves that serve him all his life—only get better with use.”
The deacon’s exposition was a strange mixture of theology, teleology, and fairy tale. Dennis tried not to look too amused.
The roast fowl on his plate was a definite improvement on his dungeon diet, and he wasn’t about to risk going back to prison fare by grinning at the ramblings of his host’s resident sage.
At the head of the table, Baron Kremer listened quietly to Hoss’k’s pedantic presentation, occasionally serving Dennis with a long, appraising gaze.
“Thusly, within all inanimate objects—including even that which once lived, such as hide or wood—the gods imbued the potential to become something greater than itself…something useful. This is the way the gods chose to make plenty inevitable for their people…”
The portly, scholar was dressed in an elegant white evening coat. As he gestured, the sleeves fluttered, displaying a glimpse of a bright red garment underneath.
“When a maker later converts the potential of an object into essence” Hoss’k continued, “the thing may then be practiced. In this way the gods preordained not only our life-style but our blessed social order as well.”
Across from Dennis Princess Linnora picked at her meal. She looked bored, and perhaps a bit angry over what Hoss’k had to say.
“There are those,” she said, “who believe that living things have potential, too. They, also, may rise above what they are and become greater than they have been.”
Hoss’k favored Linnora with a patronizing smile. “A quaint notion left over from ancient superstitions taken seriously only by a few obscure tribes such as your own, my Lady, and by some of the rabble in the east. It manifests a primitive wish that people, families, and even species can be improved. But look around you! Do the rabbits, or rickels, or horses get better with each passing year? Does mankind?