«Now you see how these are,» he said graciously. He chose the ring and the tube, putting his favorite, the wand, back in its belt holster. «This way.»
On the way out of the narrow room, Chaumel resumed his monologue. This time it seemed to involve the provenance and ownership of the items.
«We are proud of our toys,» Carialle said deprecatingly. «Nothing up my sleeve, alakazam!»
«Whoops!» Keff said, as Chaumel held out his hand and a huge crockery vase appeared on the palm. «Alakazam, indeed!»
With a small smile, Chaumel blew on the crock, sending it flying down the hall as if sliding on ice. He raised the tube, aimed it, and squeezed lightly. The crock froze in place, then, in delayed reaction, it burst apart into a shower of jet-propelled sand, peppering the walls and the two men.
«Marvelous!» Keff said, applauding. He spat out sand. «Bravo! Do it again!»
Obligingly, Chaumel created a wide ceramic platter. «My mother this belonged to. I do not ever like this,» he said. With a twist of his wrist, it followed the crock. Instead of the tube, the silver magiman operated the ring. With a crack, the platter exploded into fragments. A glass goblet, then a pitcher appeared out of the air. Chaumel set them dancing around one another, then fused them into one piece with a dash of scarlet lightning from his wand. They dropped to the ground, spraying fragments of glass everywhere.
«And what do you do for an encore?» Keff asked, surveying the hall, now littered with debris.
«Hmmph!» Chaumel said. He waved the wand, and three apron-clad domestics appeared, followed by brooms and pails. Leaving the magical items floating on the air, he clapped his hands together. The servers set hastily to work cleaning up. Chaumel folded his arms together with satisfaction and turned a smug face to Keff.
«I see. You get all the fun, and they do all the nasty bits,» Keff said, nodding. «Bravo anyway.»
«I was following the energy buildup during that little Wild West show,» Carialle said in Keff's ear. «There is no connection between what Chaumel does with his toys, that hum in the floors, and any energy source except a slight response from that random mess in the sky. Geothermal is silent. And before you ask, he hasn't got a generator. Ask him where they get their power from.»
«Where do your magical talents come from?» Keff asked the silver magiman. He imitated Potria's spell- casting technique, gathering in armfuls of air and thrusting his hands forward. Chaumel ducked to one side. His face paled, and he stared balefully at Keff.
«I guess it isn't just sign language,» Keff said sheepishly. «Genuine functionalism of symbols. Sorry for the breach in etiquette, old fellow. But could the New Ones do that,» he started to make the gesture but pointedly held back from finishing it, «when they came to Ozran?»
«Some. Most learned from Old Ones,» Chaumel said, not really caring. He flipped the wand into the air. It twirled end over end, then vanished and reappeared in his side-slung holster.
«Flying?» Keff said, imitating the way the silver magiman's chair swooped and turned. «Learned from Old Ones?»
«Yes. Gave learning to us for giving to them.»
«Incredible,» Keff said, with a whistle. «What I wouldn't give for magic lessons. But where does the power come from?»
Chaumel looked beatific. «From the Core of Ozran,» he said, hands raised in a mystical gesture.
«What is that? Is it a physical thing, or a philosophical center?»
«It is the Core,» Chaumel said, impatiently, shaking his head at Keff's denseness. The brawn shrugged.
«The Core is the Core,» he said. «Of course. Non-sequitur. Chaumel, my ship can't move from where it landed. Does the Core of Ozran have something to do with that?»
«Perhaps, perhaps.»
Keff pressed him. «I'd really like an answer to that, Chaumel. It's sort of important to me, in a strange sort of way,» he said, shrugging diffidently.
Chaumel irritably shook his head and waved his hands.
«I'll tackle him again later, Cari,» Keff said under his breath.
«Now is better . . . What's that sound?» Carialle said, interrupting herself.
Keff looked around. «I didn't hear anything.»
But Chaumel had. Like a hunting dog hearing a horn, he turned his head. Keff felt a rise of static, raising the hair on the back of his neck.
«There it is again,» Carialle said. «Approximately fifty thousand cycles. Now I'm showing serious power fluctuations where you are. What Chaumel was doing in the hallway was a spit in the ocean compared with this.»
Chaumel grabbed Keffs arm and made a spiraling gesture upward with one finger.
«This way, in haste!» Chaumel said, pushing him through the hallway toward the great room and the landing pad beyond. His hand flew above his head, repeating the spiral over and over. «Haste, haste!»
Chapter Eight
Night had fallen over the mountains. The new arrivals seemed to glow with their own ghostlight as they flew through the purple-dark sky toward Chaumel's balcony. Keff, concealed with Chaumel behind a curtain in the tall glass door, recognized Ferngal, Nokias, Potria, and some of the lesser magimen and magiwomen from that afternoon. There were plenty of new faces, including some in chairs as fancy as Chaumel's own.
«The big chaps and their circle of intimates, no doubt. Wish I had a chance to put on my best bib and tucker,» Keff murmured to Carialle. To his host, he said, «Shouldn't we go out and greet them, Chaumel?»
«Hutt!» Chaumel said, hurriedly putting a hand to his lips, and raising the wand at his belt in threat to back up his command. Silently, he pantomimed putting one object after another in a row. «. . . (untranslatable) . . .»
«I think I understand you,» Keff said, interrupting IT's attempt to locate roots for the phrase. «Order of precedence. Protocol. You're waiting for everyone to land.»
Pursing his lips, Chaumel nodded curtly and returned to studying the scene. One at a time, like a flock of enormous migratory birds, the chariots queued up beyond the lip of the landing zone. Some jockeyed for better position, then resumed their places as a sharp word came from one of the occupants of the more elaborate chairs. Keff sensed that adherence to protocol was strictly enforced among the magifolk. Behave or get blasted, he thought.
As soon as the last one was in place, Chaumel threw open the great doors and stood to one side, bowing. Hastily, Keff followed suit. Five of the chairs flew forward and set down all at once in the nearest squares. Their occupants rose and stepped majestically toward them.
«Zolaika, High Magess of the North,» Chaumel said, bowing deeply. «I greet you.»
«Chaumel,» the tiny, old woman of the leaf-green chariot said, with a slight inclination of her head. She sailed regally into the center of the grand hall and stood there, five feet above the ground as if fixed in glass.
«Ilnir, High Mage of the Isles.» Chaumel bowed to a lean man in purple with a hooked nose and a domed, bald head. Nokias started forward, but Chaumel held up an apologetic finger. «Ferngal, High Mage of the East, I greet you.»
Nokias's face crimsoned in the reflected light from the ballroom. He stepped forward after Ferngal strode past with a smug half-grin on his face. «I had forgotten, brother Chaumel. Forgive my discourtesy.»
«Forgive mine, high one,» Chaumel said, suavely, holding his hands high and apart. «Ureth help me, but you could never be less than courteous. Be greeted, Nokias, High Mage of the South.»
Gravely, the golden magiman entered and took his place at the south point of the center ring. He was followed by Omri of the West, a flamboyantly handsome man dressed fittingly in peacock blue. Chaumel gave him an elaborate salute.
With less ceremony and markedly less deference, Chaumel greeted the rest of the visiting magi.
«He outranks these people,» Carialle said in Keff's implant. «He's making it clear they're lucky to get the time
