Lawrence Watt-Evans - The Reign of the Brown Magician

“You were dead,” he said. “You were killed by raiders on Emerald Princess, and I came here and killed Shadow so I could get you back, you and Rachel.”

“I don’t remember that,” she said again-not smiling, this time.

“It’s probably shock,” Pel said. “Traumatic amnesia, or something, like on TV. It’ll come back to you eventually, I think.”

It struck him how bizarre this scene was-Nancy sitting calmly there on the table, stark naked, while the eerie, shifting patterns of the matrix flickered about her, filling the stone-walled, stone-floored chamber with vivid color.

She wasn’t a screaming fury like the revenants in Pet Sematary, she wasn’t possessed by demons-not visibly, anyway-but she wasn’t frightened or upset, either, nor as confused as Pel thought she ought to be. She was just accepting it all-she hadn’t asked about the matrix effects, or why he was wearing his present makeshift attire of loose black blouse and homespun trousers, or why she was nude, or most importantly, where she was.

She hadn’t asked anything except in response to his own words.

It had to be the shock, and the amnesia.

“What should I do now?” she asked, and he was unreasonably relieved to hear her ask it.

“Whatever you want,” he said. “I’m so…it’s just…I’m so glad to have you back!”

She turned and dangled her feet off the side of the table. “You missed me?” she asked.

“Of course!”

“How long was I dead?”

“I don’t know, exactly-I’ve lost track of time. Weeks. Months.” He watched as she slid off the table to stand on her own two feet.

“Ooh, the floor’s cold!” she said. She looked down and danced from one foot to the other.

That was more than Pel could stand. He stepped around the table and swept her up in his arms.

At the feel of her warm, bare flesh, the weight of her in his arms after so long alone, his body responded instantly. He bent his neck and kissed her.

When their mouths parted he remembered himself enough to say, “There’s a bedroom down the hall.”

He hoped she would say no, or take the initiative wordlessly, or otherwise encourage him to take her here and now, on the rough wood of the table; he feared she would refuse, would draw back, either because she didn’t remember him or because, after all, she had just awoken from the dead, she might need time to recover.

For a moment, he wasn’t even certain she knew what he meant.

But she smiled and said, “All right.”

* * * *

“Ms. Jewell,” Johnston said, “I had the impression there was something you wanted to tell me.”

Amy Jewell shifted uneasily. “Well,” she said, “it’s just…you said there wasn’t any way we could get at the Empire.”

“I guess I did, yes,” Johnston agreed.

Jewell gestured helplessly.

“I take it you think there is a way, then?” Johnston asked. “I assure you, Ms. Jewell, we don’t have any secret project that will open a path for us…”

“No, not that,” she said, dismayed.

“What, then?”

“Well, you can send things through Pel, of course,” Jewell explained. “He can open a portal to the Empire any shy;time you want, and one to Earth, and you can send through whatever you want.”

Johnston leaned back in his chair and stared at her.

“That’s obvious,” he said slowly, “now that you’ve pointed it out. I’d thought of going through Faerie, of course, but it hadn’t occurred to me that Mr. Brown would help us.

“But you know, he might. In fact, why shouldn’t he?”

“I don’t know,” Amy replied.

She still looked uneasy, though-and she knew Brown better than Johnston did. “I think,” he said, “that that’s something we’ll keep in mind, Ms. Jewell.”

But he didn’t think they’d be in any hurry to ask favors of Pel Brown.

* * * *

The matrix flickered and dimmed as Pel lay back on the cool bedding. He felt a pool of sweat drying beneath him.

The recreated Nancy lay beside him, saying nothing, smiling blandly.

She had cooperated, had agreed to whatever he suggested-and had suggested nothing herself. She hadn’t mentioned the weird pyrotechnics of the matrix, even though she had never seen any of it while she lived. She hadn’t said anything unless he spoke first. She hadn’t resisted when he had proposed things Nancy had always found disgusting; she’d cooperated. She hadn’t commented on his endless, matrix-supplied energy.

This wasn’t Nancy.

Admitting that to himself caused a hard, sharp, physical pain in his belly, but he had to admit it. This wasn’t Nancy.

He sat up again and looked down at the woman beside him in the bed, looked at her as only a matrix wizard could, using the magical network’s power to see into her in a way that was more than physical.

This wasn’t Nancy. It wasn’t really human at all; the soul, if that was what it was, lacked the complexity of a living woman’s.

This was an artificial being of his own creation.

He knew that she would do anything he told her to, without argument. She had no visible will or personality of her own. This wasn’t Nancy. This wasn’t a real woman at all. This was a homunculus, a thing, not a real person.

He hadn’t raised the dead; instead, he had found the way Shadow had created those duplicates Raven and others had mentioned, her spies, her doppelgangers.

He supposed some men might even think that was enough-but he wanted Nancy.

He wept silently, and she smiled up at him uncomprehendingly.

* * * *

“They’ve been collected, all of them, and brought to their capital city,” Carrie Hall said. “All but Gwenyth, anyway.”

“Why?” Secretary Markham demanded.

“To try to talk to us, I think,” she answered uncertainly.

Markham’s eyes narrowed. Telepaths weren’t supposed to be uncertain. He had an idea, a pretty good one, that a telepath only showed uncertainty when lying-they were never uncertain about what they had read, nor afraid to admit when they didn’t know something, but they could be uncertain, briefly, about how their lies were being received.

“It’s a very difficult contact,” Carrie said, as if answering his thoughts. She was probably doing exactly that-snooping inadvertently, maybe without even realizing she was doing it. Markham knew a lot about telepaths, had worked with them for twenty years, and while everyone knew that snooping without orders was a crime, he knew that sometimes they couldn’t help it.

“And the four of them haven’t been told why they were gathered,” Carrie added. “They’re guessing, and I’m working from their guesses.”

Markham nodded. He turned to Carrie’s brother.

“I’ve located a few possible contacts,” Brian said, anticipating Markham’s question-as Markham had expected him to. “I’ve found two of our own people. One is Samuel Best, the head of the intelligence squad Under-Secretary Bascombe sent, and the other is a trooper named Ronald Wilkins, who accompanied Lord Raven for a time and then deserted. He suspects himself to be the only survivor of Colonel Carson’s command.”

“And what do they know about Shadow?”

“It’s hard to read very much, sir-there are currents of energy that interfere. However, both our men have heard that Shadow is dead; Best has sent one of his men back for pick-up, to tell us as much. Apparently Shadow has been replaced by someone or something called the Brown Magician.”

“Brown?” Markham glanced at Carrie, and at Bascombe. “Pel Brown, perhaps?”

* * * *

Pel debated whether or not he should destroy the false Nancy, and could reach no decision. He sat in Shadow’s throne, considering, arguing with himself.