Madwand (Illustrated) by Roger Zelazny Read Free Book Online Page B

freshness of her person, felt a sudden and acute loneliness.
    He forgot his reply as soon as he uttered it, and he spent the next several minutes admiring her.
    As they rose to leave, Ibal leaned forward and whispered, “The hair—I’m serious. You’d best correct it soon, or the initiation officials may think you flippant. At any other time, of course, it would not matter. But in one seeking initiation—well, it is not a time for joking, if you catch my meaning.”
    Pol nodded, wondering at the simplest way to deal with it.
    “I’ll take care of it this evening.”
    “Very good. I will see you some time tomorrow—not too early.”
    “Enjoy yourselves.”
    Ibal smiled.
    “I’m sure.”
    Pol watched them go, then returned his attention to his drink.
    “Don’t look suddenly,” Mouseglove whispered through unmoving lips, “but there is a fat man who has been loitering across the way for some time now.”
    “I’d sort of noticed.” Pol replied, sweeping his gaze over the bulky man’s person as he raised his glass. “What about him?”
    “I know him,” Mouseglove said, “or knew him—professionally. His name is Ryle Merson.”
    Pol shook his head.
    “The name means nothing to me.”
    “He is the sorcerer I once mentioned. It was over twenty years ago that he hired me to steal those seven statuettes from your father.”
    Pol felt a strong urge to turn and stare at the large man in gold and gray. He restrained himself.
    “ . . . And there was no hint from him as to what he wanted them for?” he asked.
    “No.”
    “I feel they’re very safe—in with my guitar,” Pol said.
    When he did look again, Ryle Merson was talking with a tall man who wore a long-sleeved black tunic, red trousers and high black boots, a red bandana about his head. The man had his back to them, but a little later he turned and his eyes met Pol’s in passing, before the two of them moved on slowly up the street.
    “What about that one?”
    Mouseglove shook his head.
    “For a moment I thought there was something familiar about him, but no—I don’t know his name and I can’t say where I might have seen him before, if indeed I did.”
    “Is this a coincidence, I wonder?”
    “Ryle is a sorcerer, and this is a sorcerers’ convention.”
    “Why do you think he chose to stand there for so long?”
    “It could be that he was simply waiting for his friend,” Mouseglove said, “though I found myself wondering whether he had recognized me.”
    “It’s been a long time,” Pol said.
    “Yes.”
    “He could simply have come over and spoken with you if he wanted to be certain who you were.”
    “True.”
    Mouseglove raised his drink.
    “Let’s finish up and get out of here,” he said.
    “Okay.”
    Later, the edge gone from the evening, they returned to their apartments. Not entirely because Mouseglove had suggested it, Pol wove an elaborate series of warning spells about the place and slept with a blade beside the bed.

IV.
     
    Enough of philosophical rumination! I decided. It is all fruitless, for I am still uncertain as to everything concerning my existence. A philosopher is a dead poet and a dying theologian—I got that from Pol’s mind one night. I am not certain where Pol got it, but it bore the proper cast of contempt to match my feelings. I had grown tired of thinking about my situation. It was time that I did something.
    I found the city at Belken’s foot to be unnerving, but stimulating as well. Rondoval was not without its share of magic—from utilitarian workings and misunderstood enchantments to forgotten spells waiting to go off and a lot of new stuff Pol had left lying about. But this place was a veritable warehouse of magic—spell overlying spell, many of them linked, a few in conflict, new ones being laid at every moment and old ones dismantled. The spells at Rondoval were old, familiar things which I knew well how to humor. Here the power hummed or shone all about me constantly—some of it most