Roger Zelazny - Wizard World 1 - Changeling

Pol leaped backward, struck the wall with his shoulder, spun aside. The man struck the floor nearby, fulfilling the order, then began to run.

Recovering, Pol manipulated the strand so that it slipped and caught like a lariat about the other's ankles. The man sprawled.

He moved to the other's side, maintaining the tension upon the filament. The man rolled, a knife appearing in his hand, thrusting toward his thigh. Pol, already alert, danced away, a loop appearing in the strand and twisting itself about the other's wrists, tightening.

The blade fell to the floor and skidded a great distance along it, vanishing from sight in the far shadows. The man's wrists were drawn together as tightly as his ankles. His pale eyes now found Pol's and regarded him without expression.

"I must say you are extremely imaginative in executing an order," Pol remarked. "You take me literally when you choose to and take advantage of every loophole when you do not. You must have some legal background."

The other smiled.

"I have at times been very close to the profession," he said in a soft, almost sweet voice, and then he sighed. "What now?"

Pol shook his head.

"I don't know. I've no idea who you are or what you want. My security as well as my curiosity require that I find out."

"My name is Mouseglove, and I mean you no harm."

"Then why have you been sneaking about here, stealing food?"

"A man must eat--and my own desire for security demanded that I sneak about. All that I know of you is that you are a sorcerer and dragon-rider. I was somewhat reluctant to come up and introduce myself."

"Reasonable enough," Pol observed. "Now, if I knew why you are here at all, I might be in a better position to sympathize with your plight."

"Well, yes," said Mouseglove. "I am, as they say, a thief. I came here for the purpose of stealing a collection of jewelled figurines belonging to the Lord Det. It was a commissioned thing. I simply had to deliver them to a Westerland buyer, collect my fee and go my way. Unfortunately, Det caught me at it--much as you've trammeled me here--and had me confined to one of the cells below. By the time I managed to escape, a war was in progress. The castle was under attack and the besiegers were about to break in. I saw Det destroyed in a magical contest with an old sorcerer, and I decided that the safest place for me was back in my cell. I lost my way below, however, and wound up in a cavern, where I slept. I was awakened to the sight of you flying off on a great dragon. I left there, came up here, was hungry. I couldn't get at the food in the pantry."

"I don't understand why you remained around at all."

Mouseglove licked his lips.

"I had to check," he said finally, "to see whether the figurines were still about."

"Are they?"

"I couldn't locate them. But from the growth of the trees hereabout, I began to realize that more time than I'd thought had passed while I slept ..."

"About twenty years, I'd guess," Pol said, freeing Mouseglove's legs. "Are you hungry?"

"Yes."

"So am I. Let's go and eat. If I release your hands, will you use them to help me carry food, rather than try to knife me?"

"I'd much rather knife you on a full stomach."

"That'll do."

Pol untwisted the final loop.

"I'd give a lot to know that trick," Mouseglove said, watching him.

"Let's go to the pantry," Pol said, "and on the way, I want you to tell me how my father died."

Mouseglove rose to his feet.

"Your father?"

"The Lord Det."

"There was a baby," Mouseglove said.

"Twenty years," Pol replied.

Mouseglove rubbed his brow.

"Twenty . , . That is hard to believe. I don't see how it could happen."

"You were trapped in a grand sleep spell, along with the dragons. I must have released you when I awakened Moonbird. You had to have been asleep nearby."

They began to walk.

"There were dreams of dragons, now you mention it."

He turned and regarded Pol.

"I first saw you in your mother's arms. She burned me when I tried to touch you."

"You knew her?"

"The Lady Lydia... Yes. Lovely woman. I suppose I'd best start at the beginning ..."

"Please do."

They obtained food and drink from the pantry and returned to the library, to spend most of the night talking. When they had finished eating, Pol strummed his guitar absently and listened to the other speak, occasionally pausing to sip from his wineglass. At one point, he struck a chord which made Mouseglove's hair rise and set his teeth on edge.

"They killed my parents?" he said softly. "The villagers?"

"I guess there were other people in the army besides villagers," Mouseglove replied. "I even saw centaurs among them. But it was another sorcerer who actually fought Det--Mor, I think he was called--"

"Mor?"

"I believe so."

"Go on."

"I think your mother was in the southwest tower when it fell. At least, that was where she was headed when I saw her with you. You were discovered alone outside the entrance to it. You were taken to the main hall. The troops wanted to kill you. Mor saved you, though, by exchanging you for another child from another place--or rather, he claimed that he could. Did he?"

"Yes. They killed my parents...."

"Twenty years. They'll be older now--perhaps even dead. You could never locate all of them."

"Those who stoned me had the proper mentality--and their recognition of my dragonmark says something."

"Pol--Lord Pol--I don't know your story--where you've been, what it was like, what you've been through, how you came back--but I'm older than you. There are many things of which I am not sure, but one that I've had more opportunity than most to learn. Hate will eat you up, will twist you--more so, perhaps, if there is no longer, really, a proper object upon which to vent it--"

Pol began to speak, but Mouseglove raised his hand.

"Please. Let me finish. It's not just a sermon on good behavior. You're young and I got the impression on the way up here that you had just come into your powers. I've a feeling that this may be a pivotal point in your life. Looking back on my own, I see that there were a number of such occasions. Everyone seems to have a few. It looks to me as if you have not yet given thought to the path you intend to follow. Old Mor seemed, basically, a white magician. Your father had a reputation as one of the other sort. I know that things are never really black or white, pure and simple, but after a time one can usually judge from a preponderance of evidence in which direction a great power has led a person, if you see what I mean. If you start looking for revenge after all these years, at this time in your life--using your newfound powers to do it--I've a feeling you may in some ways be twisted by the enterprise, so that everything you touch later on will somehow bear its mark. I tell you this not only because I fear turning another Det loose upon the land, but because you are young and because it will probably hurt you, too."

Pol was silent for a time. Then he struck a chord.

"My father had a staff, a wand, a rod," he said. "You mentioned earlier that Mor broke it into three parts. Tell me again what he said he was going to do with it."

Mouseglove sighed.

"He spoke of something called--I believe--the Magical Triangle of Int. He was going to banish each segment to one point of it."

"That's all?"

"That's all."

"Do you know what it means?"

"No. Do you?"

Pol shook his head.

"Never heard of it."

"What do you think of my assessment of your position?"

Pol took a sip of wine.

"I hate them," he said, as he replaced the glass. "Perhaps my father was an evil man--a black magician. I do not know. But I cannot learn of his death by violence and be unmoved. No. I still hate them. They responded like animals in their ignorance. They treated me badly when I meant them no harm. And I recently heard the story of another man, who meant them well and perhaps went about things incorrectly, but who suffered greatly at their hands. It is not so easy to forgive."