his contributions to magic. Even he could encompass no more than four spells at a time. So he made these creatures. He could read a spell if he so chose, or he could arm them so the insects could deliver disaster by fortuitous impact. This would be an instance of the latter.”
Rhialto prized a small purple stone from its mount on the tiller bar of his whirlaway, whispered to it, pegged it at an especially hefty moth. The moth turned onto its back and wobbled downward.
Ildefonse observed, “That one carried the Dismal Itch.”
“They’re all nuisance spells.” Rhialto’s right hand danced. His purple stone zipped from butterfly to moth, trailing ichors and broken wings.
They fell where others had fallen already. Then there was Mune the Mage, clumping onward with inspired determination, his iridescent cape an aurora against the gray. Ghostly, shimmering footprints shone where he trod but faded quickly. Ildefonse observed, “I believe his temper is up. Forward, Mune! Forward, with alacrity!”
Mune the Mage made a rude gesture. Even so, Rhialto swooped down for a few words. He returned to report, “Only his dignity is injured. As you might expect, though, he’s already grumbling about restitution.”
Alfaro said, “I see something.”
All three slowed.
There was a hint of color at the heart of Amuldar, about as lively as that of a plant found lying beneath a rock. It filled the spectrum but every shade was washed out, a ghost of what it might have been.
Thither, too, stood a scatter of structures resembling those seen against the sun. None were the size the silhouette had suggested.
An expansive plaza lay surrounded by those. A squadron of unmanned whirlways sat there. The Preceptor said, “They’re all here but Barbanikos and Mune the Mage.”
The three settled to the gray stone surface, which trembled with ribbons of color for an instant after each dismounted.
Alfaro understood. The color here, weak as it might be, existed only because outsiders had tracked it in.
10
Fallen Lepidoptera marked the path into the squarest and grayest square gray structure, where no light lived. Alfaro drew his short sword from beneath his coat. A moonstone in the pommel, properly seduced, shed a brisk light, which illuminated a circle twenty feet in radius. Rhialto and Ildefonse were impressed. “An heirloom,” Alafaro explained. The acquisition of which had precipitated the cascade of events that had brought the Morag brothers to Ascolais.
“Amazing,” Ildefonse said. “But we need something more.”
The hall seemed to have no boundary but the wall through which they had entered. The other magicians were around somewhere, though, as evidenced by remote echoes and flashes.
“What is this place?” Alfaro asked.
The Preceptor said, “Your guess will be as good as any.”
There was a deep mechanical clunk. The floor shuddered. Light began to develop, accompanied by a rising hum. The distant voices sounded distraught.
Alfaro damped his moonstone, turned slowly.
The wall behind boasted countless shelves of books, up into darkness and off into the distance to either hand. “Preceptor…”
“I did tell you there were libraries superior to my own. Forward!”
Ildefonse stepped out. Alfaro followed. He did not want to be alone, now. There was danger in the air. Rhialto felt it, too. He appeared uncharacteristically nervous. Ildefonse followed tracks in dust disturbed by those who had run the gantlet in the dark.
“Ghosts,” Alfaro said as they moved through acres of tables and chairs, all dusty.
Creatures high in the air floated their way. Both were near-naked girls who appeared to have substance. Rhialto murmured approval. He had a reputation concerning which no one had yet produced hard evidence.
“Take care,” Ildefonse warned. “They’ll be more than they seem.”
Rhialto added, “I suspect a sophisticated twist on the theme of the moths. The one to the left seems vaguely familiar.”
The Preceptor said, “She is showing you what the secret Rhialto wants to see. This trap consists of choice. You have to chose to touch. But if you do, you’ll have no time for regrets.”
“Te Ratje’s way. Destroy you by pandering to your weaknesses.”
Similar ghosts floated ahead. They formed an aerial guide to other magicians. Not all those ghosts were female or young.
A scream, yonder. A brilliant flash. Then a half minute of utter silence during which the ghosts hung motionless. Then a grinding began, as of hundred ton granite blocks sliding across one another.
Ildefonse stepped out vigorously. Alfaro, perforce, kept up. Rhialto remained close behind, muttering as he wrestled temptation.
11
Perdustin had screamed. Gilgad reported, “He touched a girl. Haze saw it coming. He interceded.”
Perdustin was down and singed but alive at the center of an acre of clear floor under the appearance of an open sky.
“And the girl?” Ildefonse asked.
“Shattered.” A red-gloved hand indicated a scatter that appeared to be bits of torn paper. “Sadly, none of the young ladies are any more real.”
“It’s all illusion,” Haze said, before retailing his version of events.
Ranks of gargantuan, dusty machines surrounded the acre. “Where did that come from?” Alfaro asked. “We saw none of it till we got here.”
Gilgad shrugged. “Things work differently inside Amuldar.” He was frightened. And, in that, he was not unique.
“What is that?” Morag indicated the sky, where alien constellations roamed. Where fine lines, plainly visible despite being black, waved like the tentacles of a kraken eager to feast on stars.
Someone said, “Ask Te Ratje when he turns up.”
A dozen pairs of eyes contemplated the wispy curve of pale green trailed by a sun that had set.
Ildefonse knelt beside Perdustin. Rhialto hovered. The other magicians grumbled because not one worthy souvenir had surfaced.
Alfaro glanced back. What about those books? Then he resumed studying the sky.
Saffron words, written on air, floated over his shoulder. YOU WITNESS THE EVOLUTION OF THE STARS. A MILLION GALACTIC YEARS PASS FOR EACH THREE MINUTES YOU WATCH.
Stricken, Alfaro watched black tentacles for a moment before he turned to face the oldest little old man he had ever seen. Liver spotted, nearly hairless, with a left eyelid that drooped precipitously. The left end of his mouth sagged, too. His wrinkles had wrinkles. He had an arresting nymphet under either arm. His toes dragged when they moved. They were no ghosts. Alfaro felt the heat coming off them. They would bleed, not scatter like bits of torn paper.
Alfaro watched the improbable: self-proclaimed fearless magicians of Almery and Ascolais began to mewl, to wet themselves, and, in the case of Nahourezzin, to faint. Though, to be exactly reasonable, his faint had exhaustion and prolonged stress behind it. Morag noted, too, some who were not obviously intimidated, the Preceptor and Rhialto the Marvellous among them.
