would not smile joyously at meeting a bishop. That is, unless the bishop himself was sunk in sin-a possibility I thought I could safely disregard.
“I spoke with him for close to an hour,” Joachim went on. “He has something of an accent; at first I thought he might be a Romney but he’s not. He told me he was highly honored that I had come in person to see him, denied any particular merit of his own, and tried to dismiss the whole story of the little dog by saying that he expected the saints had heard the boy’s prayers.”
This sounded like what a genuine saint would do. I tried to be reassured.
“So I was reassured,” said Joachim. “He wouldn’t tell me his name, saying it was of no importance, and I did not press him. Instead we spoke of the love of God for all His sons and daughters, even fallen and sunken in sin as we are. He seemed to have thought very little before about religious precepts, considering he told me he had been brought up as a Christian, but he told me he would start attending services at the artisans’ church. In the days since I have heard he has become something a favorite of the children of the quarter.”
Including Antonia? I wondered in panic. “But something else happened or you wouldn’t have telephoned me.”
The bishop nodded and his enormous eyes found mine. “The children started bringing him, so the story goes, their broken toys, and he fixed them by passing his hand over them. One girl’s doll had fallen in the fire, and he restored the charred remains to new, and better than new.”
Could this possibly have been Antonia and
“This was not, of course, in the same category as restoring life, even the life of a dog. So I next began to wonder if perhaps he had told me truly, that the dog’s recovery was due to the boy’s prayers and not to this man’s own merits. He could be working magical illusions out of good if mistaken intentions, I thought, restoring the appearance alone of wholeness, knowing the children would be too confused or frightened to accuse him of fraud when their toys became broken again in their hands as the illusion faded. I even thought it might be some kind of magic different from your school magic-the Romneys’ spells, perhaps, or even witchcraft.”
“The Romneys don’t know any magic,” I objected. “And witchcraft- Have you been talking to Theodora?”
I must have sounded irritated, because the bishop gave a small smile. “I speak with her often, of course-she is, after all, one of the best seamstresses working for the cathedral-but I would not say anything to her about magic that would sound accusatory without speaking to you first.”
“So that’s why you called me? To ask me about witchcraft?”
“No. I called you, Daimbert, to keep me from possibly making a very serious mistake.”
Dustmotes danced in the horizontal light from the window. The sounds of the city were very far away as I waited for him to continue.
“Priests-and bishops-deal with good and evil every day,” he said after a long pause. “But rarely do we see absolute good or absolute evil. Instead we see gradations of gray, virtuous paths followed only because they are not very demanding at the moment, sins fallen into because of laziness or a desire for some temporary advantage rather than because of a soul turned to darkness. Young Celia imagines herself a priest moving in a halo of white light. In fact, priests move daily through petty and rather sordid sins: lust, selfishness, lies half-believed by the person who tells them, much of it caused by greed and boredom among the wealthy and by ignorance and misery among the poor. It has come to this, Daimbert,” leaning toward me, “that when I find myself meeting a man who is either very holy or else working with a demon, who represents true good or real evil rather than a gray somewhere between, I no longer trust myself to tell the difference. That is why I called you-you are one of the very few whose judgment I trust.”
So far I had a king and a bishop trusting my judgment-now all I needed was to do so myself.
“I had almost persuaded myself,” Joachim went on, “that we were just very blessed in having a holy man here in Caelrhon, when the incident with the frog occurred.”
It had been over twenty-five years since that transformations practical exam. Most of the time now I was able to discuss frogs without any self-consciousness. But the bishop’s use of the term “incident with the frog” brought back all the embarrassment of that long-ago disaster. Even after all this time, I had never worked myself up to telling him about it.
“It may not be true,” he continued. “There seem to have been only a few witnesses, and the stories that filtered up to the cathedral do not agree on all points. But in essence- A boy brought a frog, a live frog, to the miracle-worker and asked if he could kill it and then bring it back to life. And the man did so.”
Faint in the distance I could hear the cathedral organ playing, bass notes vibrating on the lower edge of audibility. “That,” I said slowly, “does not sound like a holy man to me.”
“Or to me,” said the bishop.
V
And that was why, when I would rather have been visiting Theodora, I was trying to find a miracle-worker. Sunlight still lingered in the long June evening as I walked down by the river. Theodora’s house was only a few blocks away, but I did not want to worry her before I knew if there was something to be worried about.
The dockworkers had gone home, but children playing along the river’s edge were happy to talk to me. “I haven’t seen the Dog-Man today,” one boy told me, “but I saw him yesterday. He’s my friend. Are you his friend?”
“I’ve never met him,” I said vaguely.
“But everybody knows the Dog-Man!” the boy protested.
Other children also happily talked to me because, I suspected, that way they could plausibly ignore the faint but clear calls of mothers wanting them to come home to bed. They said the man could sometimes be found in a little shack on the docks. But no one seemed to have seen him recently, and the shack-which didn’t even have four walls, much less an intact roof-was empty of all except a faint but definite trace of
I shook my shoulders hard to try to dispel a feeling of unease. Magic and the supernatural were very rarely found together. Attempts to locate magically whoever lived in the shack told me there was no other wizard in the city-or, if there was, he was shielding his mind by very powerful spells. Scared off by my arrival now? I wondered. Or perhaps by my brief appearance in the city the day before? There was so much in the stories Joachim had told me that seemed contradictory that I felt I had to meet him before I could draw any conclusions.
And suppose the bishop was right, and the magic he was working was not the result of an abortive training at the school but rather of something closer to Theodora’s witchcraft? But in that case, was the supernatural influence from the forces of good-or a demon?
I wouldn’t know unless I found this man. When half an hour’s walking and further probing failed to produce him, I decided to check with the Romneys. This magic-worker without a home or a name must have some place to spend the night, and the Romneys had always been generous toward others living on the fringes of society.
Their vividly-painted caravans were drawn into a circle, in the center of which were horses, goats, and several mothers nursing their babies. It was growing dark at last, and their campfires flared bright. Most of the children, laughing with a flash of white teeth in dark faces, were playing an elaborate game that seemed to involve a great deal of running, screaming, and ducking in and out between the caravans. One woman shouted at them futilely in the Romney language.
I spun an illusory golden cord around the waist of a boy as he raced by. When he did not slow down the cord became a snake, ruby-eyed, winding its way up his arm and vibrating its tongue at him. He stopped at once, staring amazed and putting his other hand right through it as he tried to seize it. “Very good, Wizard!” he called then, spotting me.
The children now ran to circle around me. I spoke quickly before the adults could tell me them to give me no information. “I’m looking for someone they call Dog-Man in the city,” I said as casually as I could. “He’s another magic worker, they say, and I wonder if he’s here in your encampment. I’d like to meet him.”
“I heard about Dog-Man,” said one girl. “Someone said he smashed a pot and put it back together again.”
