The Grand Ellipse Page 2

  Mad Miltzin was sitting bolt upright in his chair. His forbearing expression had given way to a look of undisguised amazement.

  Excellent. Again Nevenskoi addressed himself to the flames. “Nourish yourself and stand tall.”

  A blazing column thrust for the vaulted ceiling, high overhead.

  A startled squeak escaped Miltzin IX.

  “Now subside,” commanded Nevenskoi. “Abandon your fuel—”

  No! No! Hungry! No!

  “—detach yourself momentarily and reduce yourself to the smallest spark—”

  Nononopleasenopleasenononopleasenono—

  Come, my darling beauty, he cajoled silently, I will reward you.

  Promise?

  Upon my hope of glory. Such concessions were unnecessary, for he was surely master, but Nevenskoi found he could not resist.

  At once the great green pillar contracted, dwindling swiftly to a tiny spark, all but invisible.

  “Oh,” breathed Miltzin IX.

  Thanks, my lovely, you will not be sorry, silently spoke Nevenskoi. Aloud, he commanded, “Resume your original stature, split yourself in equal parts, and dance a Linniana.”

  The green flames complied. The mutable radiant partners twirled, and the king gaped.

  “And now,” Nevenskoi whispered, “come to me. Come to me, my sweet one. Consume nothing, but let us be near—let us join.”

  The flames embraced and engulfed him. He stood at the heart of a roaring conflagration. The fire was around and within him, filling his nose and mouth, plunging down into his lungs, but it did not hurt him, never would, for its mind vibrated in tune with his own, and he could feel the furious affection, the hunger and need, that made him one with his creation. His heart throbbed and a wild joy surged through him, a lust to consume and devour—

  Through the leaping curtain of green he could see Mad Miltzin rising from his chair, waving his arms and flapping his jaw, apparently shouting, but the words were unimportant. The king’s pomaded curls and greying walrus moustache would ignite gorgeously. The metallic braid glinting upon His Majesty’s quasi-military tunic would melt and run, a veritable river of gold.… And when he’d eaten the king, there remained the shelves of sorcerous supplies, the furnishings, and the hangings. Delicious.

  Nevenskoi’s arms, wreathed in flame, rose of their own accord. He took a single step toward Miltzin IX, and halted himself with an effort.

  No. He strained his will, and his humanity reasserted itself.

  “Enough,” he whispered reluctantly, and the fire tingled across his moving lips. “Back to your fuel, and refresh yourself as you will.”

  A final painlessly fierce embrace, then the green flames roared off for the pit-of-elements. Physical separation greatly reduced the intensity of the mental connection, leaving Nevenskoi at once relieved and achingly bereft.

  Beautiful, he remarked in silence. Perfect.

  From the pit came the crackling contented reply.

  EatEatEatEatEatEatEatEatEatEatEatEatEatEat.

  All was well now. He could afford to relax, let the triumph flow, but not to show it. A great adept maintained his inscrutability at all times. Turning a bland professional countenance upon his monarch, Nevenskoi bowed deeply.

  “Nevenskoi! Are you still alive?” demanded the king.

  “So please Your Majesty.”

  “I’ll summon that physician of my wife’s to you. She swears by the fellow—”

  “Sire, your servant is uninjured.”

  “How? I could feel the heat halfway across the room! Or was it all a trick? A multisensory illusion, in the old Vonahrish style, was it? Ha, very good, very clever!”

  “No illusion, but a reality easily confirmed. As I recall, Your Majesty has often expressed a pronounced dislike of Her Majesty the queen’s favorite long-haired cat. Your Majesty need but order the cat consigned to the sentient flames, with results conclusively verifying the legitimacy of my demonstration.”

  “Tempting, but impossible. Her Majesty dotes on that purring vermin, whose incineration invites hideous consequences. Anyway, my dear fellow, I believe you. I am to understand, then, that the Sentient Fire is awake, aware, and subject to your will? You command, and the flames simply—obey?”

  So obtuse an oversimplification warranted no reply. Nevenskoi permitted himself an austere smile.

  “You are a talented fellow, and no mistake,” Miltzin acknowledged. “I congratulate you, my friend! I confess I was quite astonished, quite stirred; and, as you know, I am not easily moved to enthusiasm! Yet despite the sprightliness of your demonstration I note that my original question remains unanswered. What is the practical use of your discovery?”

  “Its uses are manifold, Sire,” Nevenskoi maintained. “Urban demolition. The clearing of forested land. Increased domestic comfort and efficiency—”

  “Ordinary fire is adequate to these purposes, and probably cheaper.”

  “The use of Sentient Fire to heat a boiler,” Nevenskoi persisted, “encourages the development of the sentient steam engine—”

  “Farfetched.”

  “Sentient illumination—”

  “Unnecessary.”

  “There is the matter of national defense—”

  “Weapons again. Barbarism. You know my convictions. It’s just as I suspected. Your Sentient Fire, presently an engaging curiosity, is apt to wreak eventual havoc.”

  “The future cloaks itself in shadow,” Nevenskoi intoned, unwilling to allow the other’s resistance to solidify. “It may well be that the powers of many extraordinary minds conjoined must shape the destiny of Sentient Fire. It is for this reason that I urge you, Sire, to inform your fellow sovereigns throughout the world of the discovery nurtured and ripened in the sunlight of Your Majesty’s patronage. Humanity must judge—”

  “That is a wretched idea, Nevenskoi,” Mad Miltzin interrupted. “You haven’t the least idea what you’re suggesting, for you reclusive adepts simply have no knowledge of the world. Stop and think, man! Noise your accomplishment abroad, and what is the inevitable result? Chaos. Confusion. Disaster. In short order we’d find ourselves besieged with couriers, diplomats, official and unofficial envoys thronging our capital, foreign correspondence choking our post, petitioners camping upon our threshold, and alien spies infesting our very corridors. They’d be at us night and day, Nevenskoi! They’d want that trained fire of yours for their own use, and you can imagine what that would be! Those Grewzians, for example—those strength-in-purity, eat-your-meat-raw, conquer-all-the-world fanatics—you can guess how they’d behave! Their imperior, my cousin Ogron, comes from the very worst branch of the family, and, believe me, he goes the limit. He’d persecute me! And those Vonahrish fops would be in for a wheedle, and the Strellians would be around to sermonize, and those peculiar Rhazaullean countrymen of yours would be sending me casks of that lethal vouvrak they’re so unaccountably fond of, along with sea-sable coats and veiled threats. I tell you, there’d be no peace!”

  “It is inevitable,” Nevenskoi conceded carefully, “that the miracle of Sentient Fire will awaken foreign envy and desire—particularly now, at a time of such widespread conflict—”

  “Oh, it’s clear the world’s gone mad, Nevenskoi, quite mad! Though my cousin Ogron’s the one most at blame; he started it. He was always a bully, even as a child. Grabby, too. You got a new toy, and Ogron would take it right off you. No scruples, that one. Trinkets, tidbits, didn’t matter—Ogron grabbed it all. And only look at him now—all grown up, imperior of Grewzland, and as grabby as ever. Grabbing Szar. Grabbing Nidroon. Grabbing the Mid-Duchies, lock, stock, and barrel. Grabbing Dalyon. He’s the one who touched off this appalling international uproar, and presently there won’t be a peaceful acre of soil to be found from here to the antipodes!”

  “May I observe,” Nevenskoi essayed, “that possession of so valuable and useful a commodity as the Sentient Fire, at so critical a juncture, places Your Majesty in a most enviable position? Only consider the ef
fect of the intelligent blaze, loosed upon an enemy army or city! The competition to secure the new knowledge will be desperate. To speak plainly, Sire, you will be able to name your price. Your Majesty, rightly called the father of the nation, may now—”

  “The Low Hetzian economy,” the king stated, “has always flourished in an atmosphere of perfect national neutrality.”

  “Sire, I only suggest—”

  “Your suggestion that we involve ourselves, even indirectly, in foreign quarrels is inappropriate,” Mad Miltzin sleeted. “You are a foreigner among us, and here upon our sufferance. Do not forget that, or presume too greatly upon our indulgence.”

  Nevenskoi started. The Hetzian monarch’s mild and sunny countenance had frozen over in an instant. His eyes had emptied, and his voice had gone cold as a Rhazaullean tomb. The adept’s heart began to slam, while his stomach clenched new warnings.

  Soothe him. Apologize, urged the mind of the former Nitz Neeper. Prevail. Rule, insisted the intelligence of the sorcerer Nevenskoi.

  Easier said than done. There was at least one point, it seemed, upon which the royal will caught and stuck.

  “We are a neutral nation,” proclaimed the king of the Low Hetz. “So we have always been, and so we shall always be. That is the decision in which we have trusted for generations. Do you, an outsider, presume to question the judgment of our fathers?”

  “I place my faith in the wisdom of my sovereign,” dutifully returned Nevenskoi. “I would only counsel him to consider—”

  “There is nothing to consider. The neutrality of the Low Hetz remains sacrosanct. Let the ignorant nations of the world tear one another like tigers, if they choose. Their folly does not touch or concern us. We favor neither one warrior nor another, and none of them shall receive the benefit of Sentient Fire. They will not be informed of its existence. That is my irrevocable judgment, and I will brook no contradiction. Do you understand me, Nevenskoi?”

  “Perfectly, Sire.”

  “Very well.” Mollified, the king thawed. “Don’t look so glum, my dear fellow. Rest assured, you’ll have the credit your very commendable work merits. Perhaps you might stage a display for all the court to witness. How entertaining that will be! That trick you do at the end, where you stand there wrapped from head to toe in green fire, is absolutely smashing! And now that I think of it, your pyrotechnics will furnish the perfect accompaniment to my public announcement of the impending race that I have christened the ‘Grand Ellipse.’ D’you suppose the peerless Madam liGrozorf will approve that title? I confess, my friend, the prospect enthralls me!”

  Nevenskoi manufactured a faint smile. The smile remained locked in place despite the anger and disappointment simmering within, and despite the increasingly severe dyspeptic miseries racking his belly. The king noticed nothing, but another was more observant.

  Pain. Trouble. Worry, crackled the radiant voice from the pit-of-elements. Whatwhatwhatwhatwhat?

  No cause for concern, sweet one, Nevenskoi silently reassured his creation.

  Pain. Sad. Mad. Pain. Whatwhatwhatwhatwhat?

  This man who visits us wishes to conceal your glory from the eyes of humanity. He is beset with fears, and would therefore smother your light. His pettiness and ingratitude affront me.

  Eat him? EatEatEat?

  The flaming insistence pressed, and almost Nevenskoi felt himself starting to yield. Devour Mad Miltzin. Good idea. Swallow the fellow in one hugely satisfying gulp, and then move on to those luscious paper notebooks and portfolios.…

  EATEATEATEATEAT!

  Alarm bells clanged in Nevenskoi’s mind. Something was wrong. He was losing control. The physical discomfort of acute indigestion had badly shaken his concentration, blasting his focus and undermining his authority. He took a few moments to compose himself, and when he was once again confident of his dominance, he spoke inwardly:

  No, loveliness, for the king is not wicked, but only small in mind. He is our benefactor, and not to be eaten lightly. However, his will shall not prevail. Already I have thwarted him.

  How? How?

  I have communicated with my sorcerous colleagues in every land. I have sent word to them by arcane means surpassing King Miltzin’s limited understanding.

  What? What?

  No matter. Enough for you to know, my beauty, that we do not need the king’s assistance. Let him neglect us, it doesn’t matter, for now the savants and adepts throughout the world—the men of true power—are learning of your birth. These wise ones will recognize your virtue, strength, brilliance, and splendor. The word is spreading swiftly. No one can stop it now.

  Now we are happy again. The green flames danced.

  “What are you smiling about, Nevenskoi?” inquired Mad Miltzin.

  “I rejoice in my sovereign’s satisfaction.”

  “Good fellow; that’s what I like to hear! Have another glass of champagne.”

  “As Your Majesty wills, now and always.”

  1

  “AND THUS THE BHOMIRI ISLANDERS, submitting perforce to western rule, have ostensibly accepted western moral standards. They’ve abandoned their traditional cannibalistic practices, outlawed polygamy, and banned human sacrifice, or so they’d have us believe. Investigation, however, has revealed the falsity of this apparent transformation. Beneath the thinnest veneer of what we Vonahrish call civilization, the old culture persists. It is a culture that we can hardly afford to dismiss or despise, despite its disturbing aspects, for it is just such sources that teach us of humanity’s past, of our origins, and ultimately, of ourselves.” Luzelle Devaire concluded her lecture.

  There was silence, and she tensed. She should never have described those Bhomiri cannibalistic feasts in such detail. She’d shocked her listeners, and it had been a mistake.

  Then the audience erupted into applause, and Luzelle relaxed. Her instincts had been sound; she was good at her work. Sometimes she wondered, but the present response allayed all doubts.

  Almost all.

  Her eyes swept the ranks of enthusiasts to light upon a couple of faces in the back neither pleased nor approving.

  Her father was sitting there, irate, disgruntled, affronted; her mother beside him, dutifully reflecting similar sentiments.

  Why had they come today, of all days?

  You invited them. You encouraged them to come.

  But not today.

  Questions popped at her from the audience. She answered almost automatically, while her real attention remained fixed on her parents. They were both visibly impatient. Maybe they’d get tired of waiting and go away.

  No such luck.

  The questions sputtered to a gradual halt. The spectators trickled from the lecture hall. Even the young would-be gallant in the front row, he of the glinting teeth and hopefully gleaming pince-nez, finally gave up and withdrew. But Master Udonse Devaire and his wife Gilinne remained.

  There was no need to ask them what they had thought of her speech. Their identically pursed mouths spoke wordless volumes.

  The last of the audience departed and Luzelle found herself alone in the auditorium with her parents. They were still sitting motionless in the otherwise empty back row. No way to pretend she didn’t see. Drawing a deep breath, she descended from the stage and made her reluctant way up the carpeted aisle toward them.

  “Father. Mother. How good of you to come. I’m so glad,” Luzelle lied. She produced a suitably gracious smile.

  Neither the words nor the facial contortion produced the desired effect.

  “We came,” Udonse Devaire informed his daughter, “because we wished to be just. I desired impartiality, and therefore chose to give you the benefit of the doubt.”

  “The Judge took pains, as always, to weigh all circumstances,” declared Gilinne.

  The Judge, she always called him. Grim, but understandable enough, for Udonse Devaire, justice of the Sherreenian Higher Court, seemed formed by nature to project grandeur. With his tall brow, aquiline nose, cold eyes, square-cut greyi
ng beard, and deliberately majestic mien, Udonse inspired awe in malefactors and family members alike—especially women. No wonder his wife, his sisters, his mother, and his various mistresses all deferred religiously to His Honor. Luzelle herself had done so, in past years.

  “I have listened, I have pondered, and I have reached a verdict,” announced the Judge.

  Guilty. She’d thought he might reconsider, once he heard what she actually had to say, but she should have known better. Of course she couldn’t have guessed that he would choose to listen today. Polygamous Bhomiri cannibals. Hardly a topic recommending itself to the Judge.

  “It was repugnant, far exceeding my worst expectations,” declared Udonse. “I must confess, I was appalled.”

  “Really, daughter, I don’t wish to seem unkind, but it was disgusting,” complained Gilinne. “How could you?”

  “Your lecture—if so repulsive an outpouring of filth and horror may be dignified by such a term—revealed a shocking lack of taste, propriety, and above all of the general fineness of sensibility that may be termed womanly,” decreed Udonse. “Your description of savage abominations plumbed the depths of lurid sensationalism, revealing a coarseness of mental fiber I should never have thought to encounter in a female bearing the family name of Devaire. Your blood is good, and you have been properly reared. Thus I can scarcely account for your mental and moral deficiencies.”

  “How can it be morally deficient to recount the literal truth, sir?” Luzelle inquired, and felt her lips curving in the old smile she knew would infuriate him. She had told herself she would resist the temptation, that she had grown beyond adolescent challenges and provocations, but her face automatically resumed the accustomed expressions.

  “There is such a thing,” Gilinne Devaire reminded her daughter, “as a lapse in taste so extreme as to rouse genuine distress in the listener. That is what the Judge means to explain to you. Do you understand, dear?”

  “She should understand,” remarked His Honor, “at her age.”

  She understood all too well. Luzelle felt her blood and breath quicken. Ridiculous. She had promised herself that she would never again allow her father’s words to set her internally boiling. But now her heart was pounding and her pulses racing as if she were still sixteen years old and miserably subject to paternal autocracy.