—Let us go then, you and I, on a modest journey of a few paltry miles and a mere thousand years. Relax and allow those who watch over us to instigate and regulate your experience. We begin . . . now.
Are you still with me? Good! This winding footpath before us is named Old God Trail. Immerse yourself in every offered sensation to make this reality your own. Observe if you will, how those richly blossomed apple trees to the west stipple the path with shadows steady as granite. Concentrate! Do you notice how well the murmuring of rainbow parrots harmonizes with the droning bees and also that faint melody?
Listen as the melody swells. Can you hear footsteps crunching on the oyster-shell paving? Ah! Here he is: Vincas Magus, a man wrinkled enough to be an old god’s grandfather, tottering along, aided by that staff of walnut. Despite his twisted left leg and the bulging traveling bag hanging from his shoulder, you must admit he makes steady progress, constantly humming within his silver beard. We have only to join him and the lesson will soon unfold. . . .
When Vincas reached Emerald River, he stopped and his humming died. The low-lying fog wasn’t thick enough to hide a surprise. The dilapidated old bridge was gone, replaced by a Kyoto-style teak span with a far higher arch. Extending his staff, he poked the first lacquered plank, carved like the others for traction on the sharp incline. Between planks, thin slats protruded to act as a ladder higher up.
“Even last year,” he muttered, “I could’ve danced across. Now I wouldn’t dare crawl.” He shrugged, backed up several yards to where the ground was less rocky, dropped to a modified lotus posture, and closed his eyes. For a long moment he sat still, breathing slowly and evenly, perceptions turned inward.
Yes? whispered a thin, dry-ice-cold voice seemingly from inside his chest. Why do you disturb me?
“I’ve come to a river and cannot cross.”
Then find you a bridge.
“A bridge lies before us, Panx, but the way is too steep.”
You are aged and weak, magician. What do you offer?
It’s come to this? Vincas thought, struggling to remain calm; these days he needed a firm grip on tranquility simply to maintain contact with the micro-imp. “I’ll grant you freedom from any requests of mine for two days if you do my bidding without complaint.”
You consider that freedom? What else do you offer?
“A chance for reconciliation. Have you forgotten those decades when we worked together? As a team? Wasn’t that better than this . . . estrangement?”
Ah. You desire to reduce me to my former servitude. Your heart shouts between your words; even an earless imp can hear it. You have no superior inducements?
“This is no good,” the magician sighed. “We are reduced to hagglers. I regret your misery, Panx, and would free you if I could. But are we not part of each other?”
You surprise me! Your intent tastes sincere. Very well, your request is granted. Trouble me not for a brace of days.
Disturbing as the conversation had been, now that the worst was over, Vincas’s curiosity stirred. How would the imp handle the problem? Would Vincas find himself suddenly leaping to the far bank? Or swimming easily against the current? Or would his bad leg simply regain enough vitality to master the bridge? That last, he doubted. Expediency for micro-imps, given their inhuman perspective and miserly attitude toward expending muscular energy, usually assumed some baroque form. He opened his eyes and waited.
Nothing happened save two rainbow parrots flew by and a large tortoise with remarkably long legs for a chelonian came plodding up the riverbank to settle down in a shallow depression near the Trail. A minute later, a matching tortoise joined the first. When Vincas saw the way they lined up, he smiled and pushed himself upright with his cane. With some effort he was soon standing on the reptiles, a foot on each shell, holding his stick horizontally as a balancing aid.
Bears and coyotes and raccoons, he thought, are best kept under control. Cats, dogs, and birds make better pets under similar control. And, of course, lizards and flies have any number of uses. But why would the Ancients have grown command circuits in turtles?
Slowly, the animals extended their legs and Vincas began wishing he’d figured a way to ride while seated; the ground seemed improbably distant. But his porters climbed from the depression in perfect unison and with reassuring smoothness. Bearing the wizard with ease and adjusting leg-length to keep their shells reasonably level, they crossed the bridge with the unhurried determination of their kind.
On the far side, a relieved magician dismounted carefully, patted the animals on their heads and proceeded onward briskly compared with the pace of his former steeds. Emerald River paralleled his path at the moment, but he knew it would soon loop west for many miles only to rejoin him as he neared his destination.
The trail, here, was a long straight stretch. After ten minutes of his best hobbling, he noticed a figure far ahead bounding toward him at great speed, clearly a magician whose micro-imp was particularly cooperative. Even from this distance, he or she seemed to radiate vitality and humor. From this and occasional scarlet flashes from the wizard’s garb, Vincas guessed it was the baja-mage Kirstunu long before they were close enough to shout a greeting.
“Why do you travel south?” Vincas asked when the two were finally face to face. “The Zun-Loo festival beckons to our north and the Contest this year should be a treat. After my hiatus last fall, I intend to reenter the fray.”
The tall red-haired fellow, whose narrow face had something of the curve and sharpness of an axe blade, released his leaping lizards and put out his arms to embrace the old man. Kirstunu’s traveling cape fell back to reveal the brilliant red tunic of a lesser mage. Meanwhile, the lizards kept themselves upright with small oscillations, yellow eyes fixed on their master.
“Then sorry I shall be to miss the Contest,” said the younger man. “You and Glin Tan, at least, never disappoint. As it happens, I come from Zun-Loo. Lama Go,” he admitted with a wink, “took exception to a small prank of mine and has banned me from this year’s event.”
“Oh so. Your little jokes are so seldom appreciated, I wonder that you continue them. Was your amusement worth the penalty?”
Kirstunu’s lips tightened as if trying to repress a grin. “Perhaps not. Three days hence, I will lack the pleasure of watching you win both Glin Tan’s glower and the Torus. But if only you had seen our noble lama shooing away all those parrots so eager to feed him worms! In the end, he was forced to annul every personal spell to rid himself of mine. What adds that touch of rue to your smile?”
Vincas chuckled. “The mention of worms, my friend. At my age, I may presently suffer excess acquaintance with them.”
“You raise a matter of some interest. Forgive me, I could not help but notice the deepening of your wrinkles and how you limp as if crippled. May I ask why without causing offense?”
“Of course. But you, if I may say so, appear as vibrant and young as ever! In truth, my imp has become obstinate over the last few seasons and will no longer assist me to overcome the defects of my body. Thus I amble when once I ran, and my magic is feeble here in the wilds.”
Kirstunu scratched his goatee and lines appeared between his fox-red brows. “But your jin remains intact?”
Vincas pulled back one sleeve to display the webbing faintly visible beneath the wrinkled skin of his forearm. “It appears healthy from what can be seen. I will judge its condition by how much strength returns when I approach Zun-Loo’s empower station.”
The baja-mage spread his hands. “If then your capacities soar, why not reside permanently within range of some empower plant, say that of Westmorland or Plest or Zun-Loo itself? With mighty Pagman enriching the Zun-Loo ether, you would only need your imp’s goodwill for high-level competitions.”
Mixed joy and wistfulness complicated Vincas’s expression. “I can explain in three compound words, Kirstunu: grandchildren, great-grandchildren, and great-great-grandchildren, none of whom follow in my footsteps. I love them all beyond measure yet my offspring do not domicile themselves for the convenience of senile magicians.”
“So you are stuck with an unwilling ally unless you attain a new commitment—or discover some novel lore.”
“You have always seemed,” the old man said carefully, “on the warmest of terms with your imp.”
“Perhaps because I ask little of it.”
“Even so, it surprises me you’ve not been granted your Magnus Cum Laude and full status by now. You certainly have the talent.”
“Talent, perhaps, but I lack raw power and, worse, an artist’s imagination.” He raised a hand as if to block argument, but Vincas was savoring the implied compliment too much to remonstrate.
“I have, however,” Kirstunu continued in a slightly chagrined tone, “certain compensatory skills. Speaking of which, our chance meeting is lucky for my conscience and your purse!”
The mage’s white eyebrows lifted. “How so?”
“I owe you money.”
“I don’t—”
“Three years ago, we shared a savory meal in Plest and you were kind enough to loan me a modest sum.”
“If you say so. I’ve quite forgotten.”
“Recent fortune has beamed upon me at the gaming tables of Zun-Loo and here is your investment plus a trivial return for your patience.” He withdrew an impressive handful of coins from a pocket, at least fifteen coppers and three silvers, and quickly slipped them all into Vincas’s traveling bag. Then, while the magician’s mouth gaped, he threw in even more coins.
“Surely,” Vincas complained, staring down into his bag, “you’ve given me far too much!”
“Not at all. Consider it what the bankers of Haven call ‘interest,’ an amusing but accurate term. Besides, I’ve only bestowed the surface skim of my last day’s income. And it will make my traveling lighter. Please do me the honor of accepting.”
Vincas shook his head. “If you insist. And thank you.”
The two men bowed to each other and each continued on his journey without another word. Behind him, Vincas could hear the baja-wizard rushing south in a series of rapidly fading boings.
When the first stars appeared, the magician entered a pasture abutting the road and removed what appeared to be a snail shell from his bag. He threw the shell down, not too close to where he was standing, and watched it gather molecules, rolling on its back as if tormented by fleas.
Vincas knew no magic was involved in this; his jin was too sensitive to enchantment for him to believe otherwise. The Ancients, he thought for the thousandth time, must have been scientific wizards beyond compare.
Zun-Loo’s empower station still wasn’t near enough for the smart yurt to attain its full size, but it gradually expanded until it could fit a wizened wizard. At Vincas’s command, a door irised open then sealed behind him after he entered. As always, the interior smelled pleasantly of ocean breezes and, after the magician had finished his dinner, the fleshy bed was a comfort to elderly hips. He fell asleep to the soft murmuring of rainbow parrots, birds supposedly reshaped by the Ancients for both beauty and pest control.
His next day’s journey eased as the trail, now widened to a proper road, gracefully descended into Zun Valley. By midday, the bioelectric netting beneath the old man’s skin began tingling and vigor trickled into his limbs, a sort of heatless warmth generating an illusion of restored youth. Soon, the inverse-square rule proved its relevance and he found himself carrying the cane rather than the reverse. His pace increased every minute and his wrinkles and bad leg began to smooth out. He felt Panx stir, but the imp remained silent.
Before the sun even considered settling down for the night, Zun-Loo’s minarets, spires, and trellised pergolas were close enough to please Vincas’s eyes and tease his nostrils with the perfume of lotus-roses. Minutes later, he was beyond the city gates admiring Takata Hai’s party decorations, which for reasons of efficiency only manifested for those within Zun-Loo’s tiled walls.
Takata’s specialty was long-lasting mirage; for the last decade, he’d accepted the challenge of trimming the city at festival time. He never worked the same motif twice and every year attempted a more exquisite effect.
This season, he’d chosen an interplay of contrasts rather than patent flamboyance. Every home, shop, temple, mosque, church, maxi-manor, and mini-palace seemed coated in a thin layer of ice. The ices were of varied hues—gray, blue, bronze, gold, aqua—one hue per building, but all were muted enough to seem almost brown in dim light. The contrasting elements were set into the ice at artistic intervals. These appeared as immense diamonds, marvelously faceted to catch every stray ray, whose colors were a vastly brighter version of the encapsulating material. Vincas stared at one golden gem until his eyes watered. When he turned away, the violet afterimage was slow to fade.
Even the familiar lotus-rose city aroma had been enhanced for the occasion, wafting overtones of vanilla, nutmeg, and musk.
Vincas approved of Takata’s deft restraint and vowed to praise the sorcerer appropriately. First on the agenda, however, was securing a hotel room and a hot bath. Thanks to Kirstunu’s munificence, he could treat himself to both of the first water.
As usual he selected Rishi’s Haven, which was coated with maroon rime lacking any corresponding jewels. Instead, the mirage-master had emplaced fire-agate-like rainbow flashes within the ice. Vincas wondered about this distinctive decoration and speculated that Takata himself might be staying here and was silently advertising the fact for anyone wishing to hire him for lesser occasions.
Murigum, the umber-skinned and suitably rotund innkeeper behind the reservation counter, grew a smile brighter than a Burb-ankh ten-platinum piece when Vincas entered the lobby.
The magician knew why: each top contender entering the Contest increased the betting’s prodigality. And, almost magically, the freer the betting, the looser everyone’s purse strings. Murigum’s wine cellar would be thoroughly tested in the next few days! Besides, Vincas had always been a courteous and undemanding guest, far less eccentric than most of his peers.
“Your usual, Master?” Murigum inquired as a formality, reaching for his assignment book.
“Not this year, Sri Murigum! I have newly suffered a touch of affluence and find the condition uncomfortable. Therefore, I humbly request your premier accommodations, which should ease my burden somewhat.”
The innkeeper looked up in surprise. “A suite remains available for a mere five coppers extra per night. Will that be satisfactory?”
“Oh, yes.”
“I assume you wish me to effectuate your Contest registration as always?”
“If you would be so kind.”
“And your meals?”
“Spare not your finest herbs! That is, so long as the extra savor doesn’t exceed four additional coppers a day.”
“You consummate a shrewd bargain, Master. For you, nothing but the most excellent! Would you, er, care to make a deposit in advance?”
Vincas pulled three silvers and ten coppers from his bag and handed the coins over. Murigum made a note on a sheet of lizardskin, opened his cashbox, deftly poured the coins into their proper slots, but let one silver fall as if by chance into an oxidizer jar kept discreetly below the counter. Seeing the coin had attained the proper degree of bruise, he fished it out, swabbed it with tarnish-removing fluid, and added it to his collection. Vincas only smiled at all this. He was not one to misapply his trade.
While the cashbox still gaped open, two tourists approached the innkeeper and asked if Murigum would make change for several gold pieces. A friendly game of Tohoku Hold’em had begun in the common room and these two were already devoid of coppers.
The innkeeper glanced down at his supply and agreed, but not happily. After more writing and semi-surreptitious quality testing, he handed over a pile of coins including many of those he’d just received from Vincas. As the tourists hastened back to lose more coppers, he chewed his lower lip. “Will you await your change, Master, until the final accounting? This is the third request for coppers I’ve had within an hour and my stock is dwindling.”
“Certainly. How well you understand me, my dear host! By considering the money already spent, I needn’t suffer any pangs of economic restraint. Perhaps an extra dessert or two will keep your superb meals company this year. I expect to waddle away from your establishment with a silhouette akin to Putai’s!”
“I am not acquainted with any Putai, Master.”
“Oh so. I was speaking of a legend or perhaps a memory from Old China. In Ancient Nippon they named him ‘Hotei.’ The Laughing Buddha: a man of great humor and corpulence. Those innumerable statuettes of him still produced in Nyu-Japan and Baja Aumauraka have caused occidentals worldwide to believe the Buddha was Chinese and obese!”
Murigum laughed. “I’ve seen such statuettes myself, and also assumed they were depicting the Compassionate One despite my Hindu heritage. But I doubt we have enough calories in all Zun-Loo to make you fat, Master. Still, I shall do my utmost.”
“In that case, perhaps I can ease your copper shortage by offering more of mine and some silvers in exchange for a gold. That will still leave me sufficient coppers for any small purchases I’d be likely to make in the next few days.”
“Most exceedingly excellent!”
After completing the transaction, Murigum asked, “Would you care to view your room now? Your Magus Suite has its own private bath.”
“Bless you. Right now, the bath draws me more than the room itself. Thus, I intend to draw it straightaway. Lead on, good host!”
One advantage of Rishi’s Inn was that directly across the wide cobbled street stood Bodhi, unquestionably the city’s finest tavern, owned and operated by Aditi Chandrasekar, a quiet, self-contained little woman.
After ablutions, stuffing a few coppers in his pockets, a quick meal, and unnecessarily reminding Murigum that a magician’s room, in the absence of said magician, was an unwise place for a cleaning person to attend, Vincas hurried across the way, hoping his peers would have reserved his favorite chair.
Bodhi’s house mage, Trun, whose mirage-ware rivaled that of Takata Hai, had outdone herself. Silver mist hung in the air, just enough to soften faces and provide a sense of privacy at each table. A dozen glowing rings, expanded models of the Golden Torus, floated an inch below the ceiling. Also, three massive chandeliers, inverted candelabras, provided further illumination—candles and flames pointed straight down while all drips ran upwards. Vincas supposed the rings were actually common houseflies hovering in circular formations and the candles either fireflies or those glowlizards locally called “drakes.”
Five of the world’s greatest sorcerers plus a man in scholarly robes occupied an octagonal table beneath the largest chandelier. Vincas hurried over and was pleased to find his usual chair was indeed available. Mage Mokshananda, a heavily bearded man so rich in power he reputedly glowed in the dark, was the first to notice the old man approaching. He smiled at Vincas, stood, and courteously pulled the empty chair out far enough.
Vincas thanked the mage as he sat, but trained his eyes on the scholar: a short, thick-bodied fellow whose skull was more tufted than thatched with curly brown hair. A Star of David dangled beneath each long earlobe.
Marie Ginnetti, First Witch of Westmorland, handled the only necessary introduction. “Lovely to see you again, Vin. May I present Shlomo Levi, who has journeyed from far Zo-har in New Israel to join us? Shlomo, this splendid old wreck is none other than the renowned Vincas Apollo Magus.”
Levi’s eyes sparkled. “Even in my distant country, we revere you, Master. Your brilliant treatise, ‘How Many Imps Can Sulk On A Pin’s End and Other Questions of Magical Topology’ is required reading in my Order. A vast honor to meet you!”
Vincas regarded the Israeli with respect and some concern. Rumors had been flying for years that the legendary Jewish sage, Moshe Abram, had unearthed some new and particularly potent magical lore. Vincas might be facing an unexpected challenge in the Contest. . . .
Despite these misgivings, the old man reached across the table to follow the New Israeli custom of shaking hands. “I am likewise honored, Adon Levi!” he said as Levi’s palm met his. “Or is ‘mister’ the proper honorific?”
Levi’s eyes widened. “You have a discerning intuition, Master! I am indeed a transplanted Aumaurakan, born and raised out west in Twosuns.”
Vincas sat back. “You overly flatter my intuition. I merely detected a slight Arid-zone accent. You’re here as a Contest participant?”
“Yes, but not as a contender.”
“No? From what I’ve heard, victory might sprout from the Tree of Life.”
The Israeli smiled but shrugged with one shoulder. “I, too, have heard claims that Qabalistic techniques can be used to leverage extra power from macro-imps. But truly, Master, I wouldn’t know one qlippah from another. I’m actually here to reveal some new and astonishing discoveries by my Order, the Scientific Essenes.”
“In that case,” Vincas said, “I look forward to your presentation and to our continued conversation. Now, if you will permit me, I should greet my old friends.”
The old man’s smile flashed around the table. Marie Ginnetti and Mokshananda smiled back, but Mullah Nur, Han Pengyew, and Glin Tan only bowed their heads. Glin Tan’s peculiar eyes, green as waxed limes, seemed to glisten with private amusement.
The owner herself, Aditi Chandrasekar, came over and took Vincas’s request for tea and then rushed away without displaying haste.
Ginnetti brushed back her thick locks, still more auburn than gray. “You appear hale, dear.”
Vincas waggled an eyebrow. “Only in a nurturing ether such as this and in company such as yours.”
The sorceress blushed, her dimples deepened. “Why then should you ever leave supportive environments and company you might find . . . inspiring?”
“Ha! Our mutual friend Kirstunu recently asked me that exact question. In truth, my heirs exert a charm that surpasses any of mine.”
The American-Israeli leaned forward. “Kirstunu, you say? A lesser wizard of that name has studied with my Order for three winters now. Perhaps the same man?”
“Tall fellow? Face shaped like a ship’s prow?” Vincas asked.
“Just so, Master.”
“Remarkable! What does he study?”
“Computers and Ancient computer networks.”
“Oh? What then is a computer?”
Levi grinned slyly. “You will all find out tomorrow.”
“Last year,” Mullah Nur interjected in his soft voice, “our friend Kirstunu replaced my personal supply of coffee beans with small wasps. They made,” he added after a moment, “an inferior brew.”
A far deeper voice, startling the entire group, suddenly boomed from directly behind Vincas’s chair. “I trust you will not be suffering such mischief this year, Mullah.”
Lama Go was enveloped in saffron robes; the orange cape of his office hung from his massive shoulders. His vast round face evoked that of a shaved panda and his thick hands appeared capable of crushing iron pipes.
“I also trust,” he continued darkly, “you did not encounter that fool Kirstunu within this city, Vincas Magus.”
The old man shaded his eyes as though trying to see something distant. “When last I encountered him, he was traveling toward Wholly Oak on pogo skinks.”
“Good! And good, um, evening to you all,” said the lama, cape rustling faintly as he departed.
Vincas pondered Kirstunu’s oddities until Glin Tan raised one pale hand and the illusion of a blue flower bloomed from one fingertip. “Do not,” advised the subtle wizard when he had everyone’s attention, “provoke the Contest-master in any fashion, fellow mages. He chafes under the wool tunic of responsibility.”
“Your advice is as sound as ever,” emaciated Han Pengyew remarked with his usual ambiguity. “But the hour is late and since I require much rest before tomorrow’s efforts, I bid you all a refreshing night.”
Shortly, everyone save Vincas and Marie Ginnetti made excuses and departed. Out of courtesy to the establishment, the two party survivors shifted locale to a small corner table, ordered fine white tea, and talked quietly for hours. Vincas asked Marie if Glin Tan had given his traditional private preview of his latest Contest entry. She had heard he’d done so, but the only person she knew who’d been invited had been, oddly, none other than Kirstunu and he, with uncharacteristic restraint, had refused to even hint at Tan’s secrets.
Vincas then revealed his fear that if Panx became any more obstinate, he’d be out of the magic business entirely. Marie observed that many senior mages she knew had been complaining similarly.
When she decided to retire for the night, Vincas insisted on paying for the tea. Hardly a curse, an overfilled purse, he thought. But he wondered why one copper felt so much warmer than the others. And as he passed by the central octagonal table, he noticed that some of the candles overhead now had visible lizard legs. Strange, he thought, that Trun’s illusions were wearing thin already. . . .
It was a night for such oddness. The embedded rainbow flashes in the walls and roof of Rishi’s Inn appeared subdued on his return, which he dismissed as a byproduct of night, moonlight, and staying up past his proper bedtime. But upon entering the lobby, he found Takata Hai, the mirage-master himself, in tensely whispered discourse with Murigum, who’d exchanged his innkeeper’s caftan for a once-white bathrobe. Murigum bowed gravely to both sorcerers, seated himself behind his desk, and occupied himself with bookkeeping.
“Vincas!” Takata called softly. “Glad I am to see you. I need your acumen.”
“My meager reservoir of intellect is yours to command. Allow me to express my admiration for the veneers you have applied for this year’s Contest.”
“Then I hope you will enjoy them while you can. Your praise warms me, Magus, but my spells are eroding prematurely. This is my problem.”
“How unusual! All your fine work; you must be dreadfully upset. Have you determined a cause?”
The younger man shook his head. “I remain baffled. While my small talents provide me adequate income, they are inept as analytical tools.”
“I see.” The mention of income reminded Vincas of the hot copper and he suffered a terrible thought. “Is the erosion you detect citywide, Takata-san, or limited to any specific locale?”
“To my best knowledge, the epicenter is right here, but the effect appears to be spreading.”
The old man frowned and turned toward the innkeeper. “Good Murigum,” he said, “I dislike troubling you when you are busy, but could you answer a question?”
“Anything, Master!”
“Do you retain any of the coins I gave you earlier?”
The innkeeper froze for a moment, then consulted one tally sheet from the pile of lizardskins before him. “Most unlikely, Master. This evening, I supplied change for ten suns, twelve moons, forty silvers, and seven gold pieces. Also, I paid my staff their wages early so they could better enjoy tomorrow’s festivities.”
“Most considerate of you.”
“Do you require change from your deposit after all?”
“Certainly not.” Murigum’s face expressed such relief that Vincas had to cough to hide his chuckle. “I merely had in mind a modest experiment.”
Takata touched Vincas’s sleeve. “You have a theory, Magus?”
“Nothing so definite, old friend, but I’d prefer to rule out one possible explanation.”
Takata was too polite to prod, but his eyes asked the question for him.
“A small chance exists,” Vincas admitted, “that we may all be victims of a most elaborate prank. You both know Kirstunu and his reputation; who else would’ve named their imp as a homonym for ‘jokes’? I am awash in coinage because the man recently repaid an old debt. That is, he claimed an old debt required repayment—I do not recall the original loan.”
Takata paled. “You suspect Kirstunu’s coins embody . . . spells to target my mirages? How could inert objects carry such potent commands?”
“I’ve no idea. For that matter, how is it possible to emplace mirage on inanimate objects such as buildings or living animals and insects? All other illusions I know of proceed directly from jin to jin.”
“This question has often puzzled me; but in execution, my art is simple enough.”
“In any case, I cherish no suspicions one way or the next. But testing the money in my purse seems prudent. To be thorough, I also wished to test such a coin that has passed beyond my ownership.”
“If Kirstunu’s currency is to blame, how can we abate the menace? Coins are in free circulation and who is to say Kirstunu’s . . . infection might not spread from one copper to another?”
Vincas tugged on his beard. “Takata-san, I’ve promised myself to make every effort for this season’s Torus. The task is daunting. Glin Tan exudes sly confidence, Marie Ginnetti crackles with energy, we have a Hebrew visitor of unknown attributes, and Mokshananda’s humility this year seems almost excessive. . . .”
“What are you saying?”
“I am uncertain to what degree I dare expend my limited resources on your problem. My deepest apologies, dear friend, but if the coins do no more than dim your lovely decorations, that will not spoil the Contest. But you needn’t look so forlorn! I would truly prefer nothing whatsoever taint the festivities. Leave me to my testing and if the results are meaningful, I will let my conscience dictate the next step. Perhaps the carrier of a blight, however unknowing, should shoulder some responsibility for curing it.”
“I beg you, Magus! Do what you can and I will seek endlessly to uncover a way to repay your kindness.”
Vincas raised a finger and shook it humorously. “Repayment would be redundant as we would all share any benefits accrued. Consider any efforts of mine a gift to our joint celebration. With your permission, I will now hasten to my room. I have an ethical conflict to resolve before I can even begin.”
Sitting on the carpet in his suite—a silk mandala in blue, teal, brown, and ivory—the contents of his traveling bag spread out before him, Vincas took three slow breaths and set out to circumvent his dilemma. He’d promised to leave Panx alone until tomorrow and intended to honor that promise, particularly since he wouldn’t shine in the Contest without Panx’s aid. On another hand, he needed micro-imp senses to evaluate the coins. And on a third hand, a hand only existing due to the proximity of a macro-imp, he might be able to access certain micro-imp senses without invoking the imp. After all, Panx was essentially part of his jin, albeit its controlling node. And the jin, an integration of extended nervous system and extended musculature, was part of Vincas’s body. All he needed was some external intercession. . . .
Eyes closed, he could see Pagman’s presence as a warm glow to the southwest. He reached towards it with his imagination—and a cold, familiar voice interrupted.
Good morning or later, Magician. Bathed as we are in manna, I assume we visit Plest, Haven, Westmorland, or Zun-Loo?
“My apologies, Panx. I did not mean to intrude.”
You do not intrude. I extrude. Is it Plest?
Vincas was disoriented. The micro-imp had displayed neither affability nor humor for the last five years. “We are,” he admitted, “presently housed in Zun-Loo.”
So! Then you are re-entering the Contest this year?
“Tomorrow, assuming you and I can reach an understanding. Meanwhile, it is evening and the city appears to be under magical attack.”
A brief pause. I taste no attack.
“Its consequences are subtle. Mage Hai’s adornments for the occasion are denaturing unexpectedly. My suspicions focus on some coins supplied to me by Kirstunu, whom you may remember.”
Well do I recall his imp-plant, Juax. The man himself has left little impression on me.
Vincas frowned. “In any case, I was about to enlist Pagman’s aid in evaluating my remaining coins.”
Unnecessary! The ambient energies have rendered me buoyant and I yearn to express my powers. Fetch these coins and share with me your eyesight for but a moment. Then I shall tell you all you should know.
The mage complied despite his doubts. Gripping enough coppers to virtually guarantee Kirstunu had supplied at least one, he performed the relaxation allowing Panx temporary use of his vision. As usual under these circumstances, his blink reflex ceased and his eyes soon felt dry and stiff.
Panx took what seemed an undue amount of time before announcing the verdict: Behold. Flowing money is the lifeblood of human cities. Pretty things, these disks, but they carry nothing but buying power, dirt, biological residues, and germs.
“You are certain?”
Always. And fear not; I shall be pleased to assist you tomorrow. We shall put forward our finest efforts as of old!
Vincas slowly refilled his traveling bag with everything save nightclothes and toiletries, making sure Kirstunu hadn’t slipped anything but money in with his belongings. He found nothing unexpected, which didn’t ease his mind. In fact, despite the imp’s certification, his suspicion of the coins had grown. Still, since Panx had volunteered unstinting aid, Vincas didn’t dare voice any doubts.
I hate to disappoint Takata, he thought, but my desire to please little Alinda exceeds my passion to cure Zun-Loo’s ills. And the Contest far outstrips its trappings. Afterwards, perhaps I shall organize a joint effort to set matters right.
Having made his decision, he readied himself for sleep, which came slowly and brought a disturbing experience. In a dream, he was admiring an aquarium occupied by small crabs, delicate fronds of seaweed, and miniature mermaids. Then the tank suddenly expanded and he found himself inside, standing on its sandy floor. With his ears submerged, he could hear mermaids singing sweetly to each other; but the crabs, who now had human faces, were also vocalizing, polluting the water with endless demands and complaints. Eager to add his small voice to the mermaids’ glorious melody and help drown out the selfish cacophony, he tried to inhale but his mouth filled with brine. Panicking, he struck out for the surface. And crab claws kept pulling him down. . . .
What, he wondered as he woke panting, was that all about? Does some hidden part of me feel suffocated and trapped? Having couched the question in those terms, he was forced to admit the obvious: it hadn’t been his dream.
He greeted the dawn with tight muscles and a troubled conscience.
After ablutions, Bagua Xun Dao breathing and stretching exercises, and some concentration warm-ups, he donned his best robes and descended to the lobby, crowded with early risers. The many discussions were muted but the room vibrated with excitement and confusion. Murigum’s staff, mostly women, kept coming and going through the kitchen doors, distributing wicker picnic baskets to customers anxious to procure a good seat at the Contest. Savory aromas made the magician’s mouth water, but he urged himself to focus on the challenge ahead.
Murigum had laid out a courtesy breakfast buffet of sweet rolls, fruit, fruit juices, Chinese pastries, soy sausages, steamed maitake and morel mushrooms, goat cheese, coffee and elegant teas, but Vincas only allowed himself a cup of sencha. Hunger would add urgency to his spells. But he slipped a peach into his bag against any blood-sugar emergency and slipped himself through the rear door to escape the hubbub.
Sipping his tea at a bench set outside in the morning light, gazing down the long hillside at a fruit-of-plenty orchard behind the inn, he was a bit surprised when Murigum’s youngest son, Arjun, appeared before him and bowed. By tradition, no one troubled a performing mage before the Contest.
“Would you enjoy a richer beverage, Master? Or a pastry?” the boy asked. He was dark-skinned and thin, with features similar to Murigum’s but more delicate.
“I am satisfied with the brew I hold, but thank you for the offer.”
The boy lowered his head but didn’t move away. Vincas studied him for a moment. “Was there something else, Arjun?”
“Nothing worthy of annoying you, Master.” He glanced around guiltily before continuing. “It’s just that—I wanted to ask if you would consider accepting me as your—your apprentice when my magic finally bursts forth.”
The mage took a sip to steal some thinking time. “While I truly hope your assumption proves valid, I wonder why you feel so confident at attaining magical prowess. Few do, you know.”
“It’s because I see and feel magic so clearly, Master. When someone such as you or Master Tan manifests a—perhaps a tulip in five colors, I see all five whereas people such as my father may only notice three or four. And if a great mage such as you hands me such a flower, I will feel its intended weight and texture. Yet my father and brothers cannot.”
Vincas made a wry mouth. “For your sake, lad, I wish matters were so straightforward. True, magic and magical sensitivities both flow from the actions of one’s jin, but manifestation and perception involve separate jin systems. Your sensitivities, though refined, are no guarantee of magehood.”
“No?” The boy’s eyes darkened.
Vincas held out one hand and a copper box appeared on his palm. “Touch this, Arjun, and describe what you experience.”
The boy obeyed. “The surface is rougher than it looks and very cold.”
“Ha! You couldn’t feel illusory temperature without some feedback from your control node. This implies your node is indeed developing! If the process continues, your jin may eventually grow a functional micro-imp.”
“And then I will become a magician?”
“With much hard work and training, your chances will be good.”
“And would you be willing to train me should my imp appear, Master?”
Vincas hesitated. “Perhaps. If you cross the first bridge, we can consider the second.”
Arjun smiled and his eyes danced. “Thank you!” He turned to finally leave the mage in peace, but then turned back. “I thought everyone had an imp.”
“Most people have a—an internal space where an imp could form. But these days, it is becoming increasingly rare for one to mature.”
“These days?”
“Oh so. Scholars tell us that in Ancient times, everyone was a magician, able to cast mighty illusions. With each subsequent generation, our powers have diminished.”
“But I wouldn’t care for everyone to have magic, Master! Becoming a mage would then be . . . ordinary. If magic cannot delight or amaze, what would be its purpose?”
Vincas stared at Arjun, thoughts of the Contest banished. “What indeed? In my long life, I’ve never considered that question! The Ancients, as I understand it, created the jin as an adjunct to normal human growth and even for them, the task must have been challenging. The strength and health-enhancing aspects of jin are undeniably valuable, but surely, they had some vital intent in mind for magic. . . .”
Vincas shook his head. “Arjun, you have proven yourself an insightful lad. By all means, if your imp begins to speak to you, we should resume this conversation.”
Arjun bowed deeply and hurried off. Vincas took a final sip of tea and followed the boy back into the inn. Nodding back at a dozen faces nodding at him, he binned the teacup and navigated the lobby.
Stepping through the front door, Vincas was dismayed at the city’s appearance. Nearby, Takata Hai stood glaring at the dregs of his decorations. Zun-Loo’s buildings were sheathed in wispy smoke with the dirty aspect of old snow. The diamonds were vague, shedding little more radiance than mud.
“My regrets, Takata-san,” Vincas said. “My Panx was unexpectedly forthcoming last night, but hardly useful.”
The mirage-master erased his frown and waved a dismissive hand. “Nevertheless, I appreciate your efforts.”
“You are a generous man! Especially since it remains possible I’ve been instrumental in actuating this unpleasantness.”
“No one could blame you, Master. Yet if Kirstunu proves responsible, I doubt he shall enjoy our next encounter. May I accompany you to the Hub?”
“Your company is always a pleasure,” Vincas claimed although he would have preferred solitude to finalize his preparations.
“At least we have a lovely day for the event, even without my embellishments. Barely a cloud. And do not fear! I shall savor your companionship without offering any distracting conversation.”
“You are the model of graciousness, Takata-san!”
As the two men strolled uphill toward the Hub, the city’s main park, Panx spoke without being summoned. Will you now share with me your plans for this year’s Contest? The imp’s voice, sent directly to the mage’s auditory nerves, was friendly, almost eager.
“I have in mind,” Vincas replied through similar internal channels, “a four-tiered illusion. We will begin with recreating Zun Valley in colors richer than nature and at a scale suitable for a large audience. Then we shall expand the image, focusing on this city and again painting the scene with extra vivacity. Next we expand the Hub and finally concentrate upon the actual crowd watching us, each face at least thrice life-size, recognizable but idealized to an extreme—particularly the judges’ features!”
Your concept becomes clear! You intend to flatter your way to victory.
Vincas felt an ironic touch of relief. The acerb comment was more the Panx he’d grown accustomed to. “I have a great-great-granddaughter to please,” he stated with dignity.
The park’s southern side lacked foliage and ended in a sharp drop-off providing an unobstructed view of a distant hill crowned by the Zun Valley Empower Plant, an immense white structure reminiscent of a Tibetan stupa but topped with a long spike rather than a dorje. Pagman’s presence was palpable but no human knew its precise nature or location within the great dome because no one, not even those unfortunates born with defective jin, could get within a hundred yards of the edifice. The mild tingling Vincas enjoyed while gazing at the Plant from several miles away would swell to agony close at hand.
The sun was only an hour risen, but on the still-damp grass people and various forms of seating already surrounded the elevated platform where today’s premium magic would be performed. Vincas counted ten waterproofed Main carpets presently occupied by minor functionaries, and seven empty mini-thrones, but couldn’t even estimate the impressive host of populated divans and chairs.
Aisles were the narrowest Vincas could recall, and delineated with chalk and ribbon rather than mirage.
Three grizzly bears burdened with planters overflowing with gaudy flowers were lumbering up a ramp set to stage left. Vincas didn’t recognize the ursine controller, a petite woman in the turquoise robes of her craft, but he appreciated the necessity for the makeshift decorations. Those grand illusions the mirage-master had reserved for the competition itself were only pallid hints of iridescence.
The surf of a thousand conversations lapped into Vincas’s ears, carrying excitement with an undercurrent of public dismay. Even so, he didn’t miss the creak of Takata grinding his teeth.
Beyond the broad circle of goat-cropped grass reserved for the audience, food venders were noisily setting up tents and firing up grills. Past these, in mute corollary, a dozen portable privies containing compost toilets waited. One entrepreneur was peeling melons by hurling them high into the air and then faceting them with a scimitar as they fell. Normally such skill would have attracted much attention and friendly kibitzing. This morning, only the privies were watching.
And beyond all these, rainbow parrots perched on tree limbs, displaying plumage so spectacular they, too, seemed attired for a special occasion.
The bears set down the final planters and wandered off, still on their hind legs, munching fruit-of-plenty they’d received as a reward. Expectancy filled the Hub like a static charge.
When the sun finally emblazoned the Empower Plant’s apex, a deep temple bell sounded, and a slow procession entered the park from the northwest. First, the city’s economic elite appeared and supplanted the carpet-warmers on the silk Mains. Then, with great dignity, without even surreptitious jostling, the Contest judges made their way to the seven mini-thrones near the stage and sat down in unison.
Each adjudicator wore a robe tinted a different color and by tradition they’d arrayed themselves to present a spectrum. When the judges were settled, Lama Go, a saffron mountain outlined by the silver cape of Contest Day, climbed the seven steps to the stage. At the center, he turned in a slow semicircle and every person in an assembly that had swelled to over four thousand felt as if he’d gazed directly at them.
“You have all noticed,” he said in a voice that should have been too quiet to carry so well, “the magical vandalism robbing us of Master Hai’s splendid efforts this year. This need not dampen our spirits or lessen the festivities. Do not permit the perpetrator that satisfaction! Are we agreed?”
The crowd chanted its agreement in assorted languages including one Hebrew “ken,” which Vincas heard so distinctly he craned his neck until he spotted Shlomo Levi smiling at him from two rows away. The old magician bowed and returned his attention to the lama.
“I thank you all,” the Contest-master said. “Judging, as always, is based on three criteria: elegance, power, and clearest expression of a magician’s fort, or magical style. Some here may be wondering how the term ‘fort’ originated.”
A rustling swept through the spectators. Lama Go had been known to become pedantic.
“The word either evolved from the French ‘forte,’ meaning strength, or was derived from the name of an ancient historian of strange events, one Charles Fort.”
The green judge caught the lama’s attention by waving a document in the air and Go reacted with a frown, then a shrug. “Very well. Since we have so many competitors this season, I will curtail my opening remarks and call up the first entrant.” There was a general if barely audible sigh of relief. “However, I shall continue my comments after the Contest for those sensible enough to wish to hear them in full.
“As always, the order of contenders was determined by random drawings within each predetermined talent-level. Now, therefore, I present a baja-wizard, Dr. Werner Tuft from Gestalt Deutsch, who will delight us all with his, um, vegetable magic.”
Tuft bounded up the steps, a large cabbage in each hand. He gestured and his cruciform entertainers opened several leaves and used them as legs to strut back and forth across the stage. More leaves opened to aid in executing a series of handsprings, or perhaps back-flips, since orientation was debatable. All this was impressively realistic by the standards of a lesser mage. For a finale, the leaves fluttered so vehemently the cabbages lifted clumsily into the air. But as they neared Tuft’s shoulders, the illusion abruptly disintegrated as did, seemingly, the vegetables.
In moments, the platform appeared to be covered with a crude slaw. The doctor stared in horror at the mess and exited the stage, head drooping, clearly unaware he was followed by a new illusion: a thousand shreds of cabbage rolling or humping themselves along behind him.
Lama Go’s dark eyes seemed even darker as he called up the next performer in the baja-wizard category. Vincas, who’d planned to meditate and focus his energies during these initial demonstrations, couldn’t tear his eyes away as one minor wizard after another suffered magical mishaps. In his heart, sympathy and shame vied for dominance. Was Kirstunu truly the villain here? How could a baja-wizard produce such devastating effects?
Three hours passed awkwardly, sometimes painfully, as the level of competitors rose toward Master’s division. Every act failed in some significant manner and many were outright debacles. Lakshmi Siva’s dancing fires stretched to seemingly menace beards and eyebrows for six rows back. Despite any lack of physical heat, this presented real danger. Illusory flames could trigger intense pain and other indicia of being burned in those whose jin was sufficiently sensitive. One wealthy woman sitting in front was temporarily blinded and had to be carried, moaning, to the healer’s tent.
Madame Courceloux’s ethereal trumpets produced far-flying spittle along with discords that drew winces from even the musically unsophisticated. And then Chodron Rimpoche essayed one of his celebrated enchantments in which an animal or plant would apparently swell to gigantic size. In this case, his field mouse exploded into a fanged reptilian horror, which bounded off the stage and through the crowd in leaps not seen on Earth since the Triassic. Fourteen people with symptoms of crushed limbs provided more work for the healers.
The only factor preventing a major exodus was that no audience member dared to be first to flee, not with Lama Go glowering and abjuring the assembly toward courage. “We must not allow a certain malign individual hereby permanently banned from Zun-Loo—” Someone behind Vincas hissed “Kirstunu” as if cursing. “—to spoil our festival. Surely we are suffering the, um, most egregious thaumaturgic abuse since that tragic day when Mage Kazan, may his spirit find peace, went berserk. Adjudication shall be lenient this year! Let us take our cue from the wise Rishis of old and enjoy . . . whatever we can.”
In addition to pity for the injured and a mounting apprehension over what would happen during his demonstration, Vincas felt a new stab of guilt. Apparently his suspicions about Kirstunu had spread and become certainty in more than one heart. He could guess who had begun the process. Takata Hai’s discretion was impeccable, whereas Murigum was Zun-Loo’s most dependable gossip.
