Darwath 1 - The Time Of The Dark (6 page)

This old croaker didn't seem to be thinking about Rudy at all, except as a man to be dealt with in the course of something else.

Rudy found himself thinking, He's either what he says he is, or so far out in left field he's never coming back.

And his indignant outrage at being beguiled into admitting two possibilities at all was almost immediately superimposed on the uneasy memory of that gap of light and the colors he'd thought he'd seen beyond.

Watch it, kiddo, he told himself. The old guy's not hitting on all his cylinders. If you're not careful, he'll have you doing it next. So he asked, “But you are a wizard in your own world?” Because the outfit couldn't be for anything else.

Ingold hesitated, his attention returning to Rudy; then he nodded. “Yes,” he said slowly.

Rudy leaned back against the counter and took a pull at his beer. “You pretty good?”

Ingold shrugged and seemed to relax, as if reassured by the disbelief in Rudy's tone. “I'm said to be.”

“But you can't do any magic here.” A foregone conclusion—the ersatz Merlins of the world did not often operate outside a friendly environment.

But the ersatz Merlins of the world didn't usually smile, then hide the smile, at the suggestion of fraud. “No. That isn't possible.”

Rudy simply couldn't figure the guy. But something in that serene self-assurance prompted him to ask, “Yeah, but how can you be a wizard without magic?” He finished his beer, crumpled the aluminum with one hand, and tossed it into the corner of the bare room.

“Oh, wizardry has really very little to do with magic.”

Taken off-balance, Rudy paused, the old man's voice and words touching some feeling in his soul that echoed, like the distant note of a long-forgotten guitar. “Yeah, but—” he began, and stopped again. “What is wizardry?” he asked quietly. “What is magic?”

“What isn't?”

There was silence for the space of about two long-drawn breaths, Rudy fighting the sudden, illogical, and overwhelming notion that that was the reply of a man who understood magic. Then he shook his head, as if to clear it of the webs of the old man's crazy fantasies. “I don't understand you.”

Ingold's voice was soft. “I think you do.”

He really did step out of that light.

In another minute you'll be as crazy as he is.

Confusion made Rudy's voice rough. “All I understand is that you're crazier than a loon… ”

“Am I really?” The white eyebrows lifted in mock offense. “And just how do you define crazy?”

“Crazy is somebody who doesn't know the difference between what's real and what's just in his imagination.”

“Ah,” Ingold said, all things made clear. “You mean if I disbelieved something that I saw with my own eyes, just because I imagined it to be impossible, I would be crazy?”

“I did not either see it!” Rudy yelled.

“You know you did,” the wizard said reasonably. “Come now, Rudy, you believe in thousands of things you've never seen with your own eyes.”

“I do not!”

“You believe in the ruler of your country.”

“Well, I've seen him! I've seen him on television.”

“And have you not also seen people materializing out of showers of silver light on this television?” Ingold asked.

“Dammit, don't argue that way! You know as well as I do… ”

“But I don't, Rudy. If you choose deliberately to disregard the evidence of your own senses, it's your problem, not mine. I am what I am… ”

“You are not!”

Slowly, in an absent-minded imitation of Rudy's can-squashing ritual, Ingold crushed his empty beer can into a wad slightly smaller than his own fist. “Really, you're one of the most prejudiced young men I've ever met,” he declared. “For an artist you have singularly little scope.”

Rudy drew in his breath to reply to that one, then let it out again. “How did you know I'm an artist?”

Amused blue eyes challenged him. “A wild guess.” In his heart Rudy knew it had been nothing of the kind. “You are, aren't you?”

“Uh—wen, I paint airbrush pictures on the sides of custom vans, and pinstripe motorcycle fuel tanks, that kind of stuff.” Seeing Ingold's puzzled frown, he conceded, “Yeah, I guess you could call it art.”

There was another silence, the old man looking down at his scarred hands in the sunlight on the table top, the isolated cabin utterly silent but for the fault creaking insect noises in the long grasses outside. Then he looked up and smiled. “And is it beneath your dignity to have friends with, I think you call it, nonstandard reality?”

Rudy thought about some of the people who hung around Wild David's bike shop. Nonstandard was one way of putting it. He laughed. “Hell, if I felt that way I'd have maybe about two friends. Okay, you win.”

The old man looked startled and just a little worried, “You mean you believe me?”

“No—but it doesn't bother me if it doesn't bother you.”

If he's schizo, Rudy found himself thinking later in the morning, he's got it all down. Wizardry, the mythical Realm of Darwath, the Hidden City of Quo on the Western Ocean where the garnered learning of a hundred generations of mages was stored in the dark labyrinths of Forn's Tower—Ingold had it all, seemed to know it as intimately as Rudy knew his own world of bars and bikes and body shops, of smog and steel. Through the long, warm morning, Rudy messed with the Chevy's engine, Ingold lending a hand occasionally when one was needed and staying out of the way when it wasn't, and their talk drifted over magic, the Void, engines, and painting. Ingold never slipped up.

Not only was he totally familiar with his own fantasy world, but Rudy noticed he had the lapses of knowledge that a man imperfectly acquainted with this world would have. He seemed totally fascinated with Rudy's world, with the wonders of radio and television, the complexities of the welfare system, and the mysteries of the internal combustion engine. He had the insatiable curiosity that, he had said, was the hallmark of wizards: the lust for knowledge, almost any kind of knowledge, that superseded even the most elementary considerations of physical comfort or safety.

If it wasn't for the kid, Rudy thought, glancing from the tangled shadows of the car toward the wizard, who was seated in the long grass, thoughtfully dissecting and examining a seed pod, I wouldn't care. Hell, the guy could claim to be Napoleon and it'd be no business of mine. But he's got no business with a kid that young, wandering around a million miles from noplace.

And his hangover hallucination of their stepping out of the burning air returned to him, the absolute reality of the vision, far clearer than anything muscatel or anything else had ever done for him. Something about it troubled him, something he could not yet define.

Then the rusted nut he was working on gave way, and other matters claimed his attention. Ten minutes later he crawled out from under the car, grease-smudged, hot, and disgusted. Ingold set aside the seed pod and raised his eyebrows inquiringly.

Rudy flung the wrench he was holding violently into the dirt. “Goddam fuel pump,” he sighed, and dropped crosslegged to the ground at the wizard's side.

“It is the pump, then, and not the line?” Rudy had briefed him on the problem.

“Yeah.” He cursed, and elaborated on the car, its owner, and things in general. He finished with, “So I guess the only thing to do is walk to the highway and hitch.”

“Well,” Ingold said comfortably, “my contact in this world should be here very shortly. You could always get a ride back to civilization with her.”

Rudy paused in wiping his oily hands on a rag he'd fished out of the back seat. “Your what?”

“My contact in this world.” Seeing Rudy's surprise, Ingold explained. “I shall be stranded the night in your world and, though on occasion I've starved, I see no reason to do it if it can be avoided.”

“So you're just passing through, is that it?” Rudy wondered if there was, in fact, such a contact, or if this was yet one more strange figment of the old man's peculiar imagination.

“In a manner of speaking,” Ingold said slowly.

“But if you're a wizard in your own world, how come you'd starve?” Rudy asked, more out of lazy curiosity than anything else. “How come you can't just make food appear if you're hungry?”

“Because it doesn't work that way,” Ingold said simply. “Creating the illusion of food is relatively simple. To make a piece of grass like this one convincingly resemble bread requires only that in taste, texture, and appearance, I convince you that you are eating bread. But if you ate it, it would provide you no more nourishment than the grass, and on a steady diet of such things you would quickly starve. But literally to transform the inner nature of the grass would be to alter reality itself, to tamper with the fabric of the entire universe.”

“Lot of trouble to go through for a crummy piece of bread.”

“Well, more than that, it's potentially dangerous. Any tampering, no matter how small, with the fabric of the universe is perilous. That is why shape-changing is seldom done. Most high-ranking wizards understand the principle behind turning oneself into a beast—with the mind and heart of a beast—but very, very few would dare to put it into practice. An archmage might do it, in peril of his life. But… ” He raised his head suddenly, and Rudy caught the far-off chugging of an engine in the still, pale air of afternoon.

“My friend,” Ingold explained. He got up, brushing dry grass and twigs off his robe. Rudy scrambled likewise to his feet as a dusty red Volkswagen beetle crept into view around the shoulder of the hill.

“This I gotta see.”

The bug's tires surrounded it in a light cloud of dust as it made its slow approach, bumping cautiously over every rut and pothole of the treacherous road. It came to a stop a few yards away, the door opened, and a girl got out.

She took one look at Rudy and stopped, her eyes filled with suspicion and distrust. Then Ingold stepped down the bank toward her, both hands held out in welcome. “Gil,” he said. “This is Rudy Solis. He thinks I'm crazy. Rudy—Gil Patterson. My contact in this world.”

They regarded each other in silent animosity.

Gil would almost have preferred the Highway Patrol. This character had “biker” written on him in letters a foot tall: greasy jeans, grubby white T-shirt, scarred boots. Dark hair faintly tinged with red fell loosely on either side of a long widow's peak almost to his shoulders; cocky darkblue eyes under sharply backslanted black brows gave her an arrogant once-over and dismissed her. She noted the bump of an old break on his nose. RUDY was tattooed on a banner across a flaming torch on his left wrist. A real prize.

Kind of tall and scrawny, but not bad-looking, Rudy decided, checking her out. Bitchy, though, I bet. A real spook. Beyond that he noted the worn jeans, blue checkered shirt, lack of make-up, unworked hands and bitten nails, and cool, pale, forbidding eyes. Where'd Ingold dig her up?

Ingold went on, “Rudy's been stranded here with car trouble. Could you take him back with you as far as he needs to go when you leave, Gil, as a favor to me?”

Her eyes went warily from Ingold to Rudy, then back to the wizard's face. Ingold rested a hand briefly on her shoulder and said quietly, “It's all right. He doesn't have to believe me, Gil.”

She sighed and forced herself to relax. “All right,” she agreed.

Rudy had watched all this with curiosity bordering on annoyance. “Well, don't do me any favors.”

Those pale gray eyes grew colder. But Ingold's hand tightened almost imperceptibly on Gil's bony shoulder, and she said, in a more natural voice, “No, it's all right.”

Rudy, in turn, relaxed and meant it when he said, “Thank you. Uh—can I give you a hand with that?” for Gil had turned back to the car and was fetching out assorted provisions, including canned beef stew and diapers, from the back seat. He dropped back a pace to walk beside her as they followed Ingold up to the cabin, however, and as soon as the old man was out of earshot Rudy asked softly, “Who is he?”

She regarded him with those pale schoolmarm eyes—old-maid eyes in the face of a girl his own age. “What did he tell you?”

“That he was some kind of a wizard from another universe.”

When Gil was embarrassed, she became brusque. “That's his story.”

Rudy refused to be put off. “Where'd you meet him?”

Gil sighed. “It's a long story,” she said, falling back on Ingold's usual explanation. “And it doesn't matter, not really.”

“It matters to me,” Rudy said, and glanced up ahead of them to where Ingold was just vanishing into the shadows of the little house. “You see, I like the old guy, I really do, even if he isn't playing with a full deck. I'm just worried some land of harm will come to the kid.”

They stopped at the foot of the rickety steps, and Gil looked carefully for the first time at the young man's face. It was sun-bronzed and sensual, but not a crass face, nor a stupid one. “Do you think he'd let any harm come to Tir?”

Rudy remembered the old man and the child together, Ingold's gentle competence and the protectiveness in his voice when he spoke to the baby. “No,” he said slowly. “No—but what are they doing out here? And what's gonna happen when he goes wandering back to civilization like that?”

There was genuine concern in his voice, which Gil found rather touching. Besides, she thought, if I hadn't had the dreams, I'd probably think the same,

She shifted her burden from one hand to the other. “It will be okay,” she assured him quietly.

“You know what's going on?”

She nodded.

Rudy looked down at her doubtfully, not quite satisfied and sensing something amiss. Still, in one real sense this girl was Ingold's contact with reality, which in spite of his obvious shrewdness and charm the old man sorely needed. And yet—and yet—Troubled visions of the old man stumbling out of a blazing aura of silver light returned to him as he started up the steps, Gil climbing at his heels. He swung around on her abruptly, to ask, “Do you believe him?”

But before Gil could answer, the cabin door opened again, and Ingold re-emerged onto the narrow porch, a flushed, sleepy infant in his arms. “This is Prince Altir Endorion,” he introduced.

Gil and Rudy came up the last few steps to join him, the question left unanswered. On the whole, Gil disliked children, but, like most hard-hearted women, she had a soft spot for the very young and helpless. She touched the round pink cheek with gingerly reverence, as if afraid the child would shatter on contact. “He's very beautiful,” she whispered.