James P. Hogan by Migration Read Free Book Online

mastery over space. Now we will reenact a rendition of their command over time itself.” He raised his head a fraction to call to a servant at the rear, who was awaiting the cue. “The light, if you please.” All heads turned as a lamp was turned up above a small alcove by the doors leading to the main hall. In the alcove was a high-backed chair with carved arms, standing behind a footstool. While the audience was still taking in this new turn, Ronti walked back through the center aisle and took his place in the chair. In the comparative darkness at the back of the room, the light from the lamp above highlighted the form of his head and shoulders, enveloped in the cowl and robe. Korshak drew attention back to the front of the room.
    “Does someone here have the time of day at this moment?”
    After some fumbling in different places, a man near the center announced, “Almost a quarter past the eighteenth hour.” Korshak chalked the information onto the slate. People all around were looking mystified. Nobody had any idea where this could be leading.
    “Note that my assistant is here in this room at this moment,” Korshak instructed. “But before proceeding further with him, we must bring back Princess Vaydien.” He crossed to the cabinet and opened it to reveal a second hooded figure returned from beyond. But something about it didn’t seem right. The figure was turning its head from side to side as if trying to get its bearings, and acting in a generally agitated manner – not suggestive of royalty at all. Korshak took the figure’s hand and led it out. Looking perplexed, he lifted back the cowl. It wasn’t Vaydien – who by that time had already exited from the cabinet’s secret compartment behind the mirrors, through a divide in the black drapes, and from there along the space behind them to the side exit from the wings.
    Laughter erupted among some of the court and palace staff, who recognized the face and took it as a joke that Korshak had thrown in. “Who are you?” Korshak demanded.
    “My name is Eena, sir,” the scullery maid answered, seemingly bewildered, playing well the part that Ronti had rehearsed her in. She had been inside the cabinet when it was wheeled in from the wings.
    Korshak threw the audience a grimace that looked like a sick attempt at a smile, drawing more laughter as others caught on. “Where are you from?”
    “If you please, sir, I work in the kitchens.”
    “Here, in the palace of Shandrahl?”
    “Why, yes, sir. I was there just a moment ago.”
    “How did you get here?”
    “I… don’t know.”
    Even Shandrahl was unable to suppress a smile. Korshak turned and looked toward the rear of the room as if suddenly remembering something else. “But time moves on! Nothing can arrest it, not even the powers of the Ancients. Observe.” He pointed. Everyone in the room turned to regard the solemn, hooded shape still sitting in the light of the lamp above the alcove, its lower part lost in shadow behind the footstool. What none of them knew was that the cowl and shoulder portion of the robe that Ronti had worn contained stiffening strips of cane that would preserve its shape when lifted from the wearer. With it, during the distraction afforded by Korshak’s clowning, Ronti had shed the top part of his tunic, uncovering the jacket of an Urst cavalry officer that he had been wearing underneath, and slipped out through the rear doors into the banqueting hall. By now he would be on his way through the corridor to the kitchen area and cellars to join Vaydien.
    Every eye in the room watched in awe and trepidation as ghostly white vapors rose around the motionless form in the alcove. They thickened to obscure it completely for a moment or two, and then thinned; but the form was still there. Attention remained riveted on it, the room breathless and silent, waiting for something to happen. But nothing did. Finally, Zileg turned back impatiently, his expression demanding an explanation.