The Reign of the Brown Magician. Lawrence Watt-Evans
pack of monsters paused in the doorway of the throne room; two of the homunculi turned back to face him, but the fetches and most of the rest simply stopped where they were.
Spaceman Sawyer was still out there somewhere, either alive or dead, and Pel had completely forgotten about him until just now.
How could he have been so thoughtless?
He had been busy, he had had other problems to worry about, but it was still unforgivable. He had left an Imperial soldier wandering around in Faerie, trapped out there, when he, Pel, could have sent him home to the Galactic Empire in a matter of minutes.
And not just Sawyer, who had turned back at the fortress gate; there was Ron Wilkins, as well, who had deserted the party days before, somewhere in the villages this side of Starlinshire. And there might be other survivors of the Imperial landing party, as well—most had stayed at the ship with Lieutenant Dibbs, and while most of that group had later turned up dead, Pel knew at least a couple were still unaccounted-for.
He could send any of them who were still alive back to their home universe.
And if they hadn’t disguised themselves, they’d be easy to spot. They had all been wearing those silly Buck Rogers uniforms the Galactic Empire used.
“Purple,” he told his waiting servants. “You find any men wearing purple, you bring them to me. Whatever men you can find, bring them here, but especially if they’re wearing purple!”
* * * *
They had even given her her car back; Amy knew she shouldn’t complain. They’d provided some sandwiches—soggy and stale, but genuine Earth food, without any of the strange off tastes of the Empire or Faerie. They’d just been doing their jobs, and that Major Johnston had really been very reasonable, given how incredible the whole thing sounded.
But still, she was furious.
They were going to be watching her house every minute, they admitted it. They were tapping her phone. She wasn’t to leave the state overnight.
She ought to have a lawyer; this couldn’t be constitutional, watching her like this. But Susan was dead.
Should she call Bob Hough?
She looked right as she came to an intersection, and had to lean forward to see past Prossie; that reminded her of the telepath’s presence.
Poor Prossie would need help settling in, and having Bob Hough around wouldn’t help any with that. Amy needed to see the doctor, and Bob Hough wouldn’t help with that, either—in fact, from some remarks he had made during the divorce hearings, Amy didn’t think Bob would approve of her getting an abortion, even if he believed her about the father being a rapist and murderer, which he probably wouldn’t.
The damn government people would see her going to the doctor, would probably find out all about it—she hadn’t mentioned her pregnancy to Major Johnston, since it wasn’t anyone’s business but her own.
She didn’t want the government to know about it. What if they decided that the baby was some sort of valuable specimen, living proof that Earthpeople and Imperials could interbreed? Maryland might have legal guarantees of a woman’s right to an abortion, but she was pretty sure the feds could find a way around that if they wanted to.
She frowned as she drove on through the intersection. She was making it sound like some trashy late-night movie, thinking about “aliens” breeding with human women—with her. This wasn’t science fiction, and she wasn’t some silly heroine in a tight skirt and heels who was no use for anything but screaming, and Walter wasn’t an alien, he was just a bastard—a dead bastard. She didn’t want his kid, and she wasn’t going to carry it.
If anyone tried to interfere with that, then she’d call a lawyer.
* * * *
It was raining again, and Pel was back on the battlement, looking out over the marsh. Wind whistled around the stone of the tower and sprayed water across the wall, and water pattered unevenly from the broken gargoyle.
He didn’t let the sound bother him this time, at least not consciously; after all, he was doing everything he could to bring Rachel back. His messengers had gone out into the world of Faerie, and until they returned, what else should he be doing? The dragon was reduced to ash, Lieutenant Dibbs and the other dead Imperials were buried, and Susan’s corpse was as well-preserved as he could manage.
All he could do was wait.
He could feel the matrix surging and flowing around him, all that power at his disposal—but he didn’t know what to do with it.
Waiting was always hard, especially waiting alone. If he had someone to talk to, he thought, it might not be so bad.
For a moment he considered opening a portal to Earth and sending a messenger to find Amy Jewell and bring her here. She knew his situation, she had been through it all with him; he could talk to her.
So had Ted Deranian, of course, but he had cracked under the strain. And Prossie Thorpe, but she wasn’t from Earth, they didn’t have a common background. It would have to be Amy or no one, he thought.
It was foolish, though; Amy was probably getting on with her own life, trying to get her decorating business back on track, catching up on everything she had missed while they were all trapped in the Empire and in Faerie. She wouldn’t appreciate being dragged away.
Besides, it would take time to find another fetch or homunculus and break it to obedience, time for it to find its way to Amy once it was on Earth, time to bring her back—by then his messengers would probably be returning.
There were still plenty of non-human creatures around the fortress—hellbeasts, Raven had called most of them—but those wouldn’t do; they couldn’t live in non-magical universes. The ones Shadow had sent into the Galactic Empire had all died within hours, according to everything Pel had seen and heard. Earth’s space was different from Imperial space, but Pel didn’t think it was anymore magical.
Fetches and homunculi were sufficiently human to function in the Empire, and presumably on Earth, but he had used up every cooperative surviving fetch and homunculus he could readily find, sending them all out as messengers.
About a hundred fetches had died—or rather, been destroyed; fetches were already dead—in the fight with Shadow. That had left the place somewhat understaffed.
He sensed through the matrix that there were still creatures he had not seen deep in the subterranean depths of the fortress, and some of them were probably homunculi—but it just wasn’t worth the trouble of going down there and finding them and enchanting them into obedience, and then sending them to Earth, where they wouldn’t know how to drive or use the phone and they’d probably just get run over trying to cross a street.
Besides, what good would it really do to talk to Amy? What did she know about Nancy or Rachel, about losing loved ones? It wasn’t as if the two of them had been friends before all this started; they hadn’t even known each other.
And really, Pel and Amy hadn’t hit it off all that well while they were traveling together, either. Pel remembered Amy weeping with exhaustion, Amy vomiting by the side of the road, Amy shouting hysterically…
He didn’t need company that badly.
He would wait.
* * * *
Under-Secretary Bascombe looked down at the black-garbed corpse, then over at the sword next to it, and finally up at the soldier accompanying it.
“You were there when they found them?” Bascombe asked.
“Yessir.”
“It looked just like this?”
“Ah, well…not exactly.” The soldier hesitated; Bascombe favored him with an inquisitive glare.
“Well, what I mean is, it was fresher; we didn’t have anywhere good to put it on ice on the ship here, sir.”
“Oh,