Madwand (Illustrated) by Roger Zelazny Page B

fight on your hands.”
    Pol nodded. He looked down at himself as he did, seeing the monstrous appearance once again but not feeling it.
    “I’ll mask this illusion for everyone else now, as Larick had it,” the sorcerer said, “but leave the appearance for you, as he also had it, as a reminder to act in keeping with it—with clumsiness and obedience.”
    Pol watched the man’s hands as they commenced an intricate series of gestures.
    “Do you see strands when you work?” he asked him suddenly.
    “Sometimes,” the sorcerer replied. “But right now I see beams of colored light, which I intercept. Hush. I’m concentrating.”
    Pol fixed his eyes on the man’s changing face, trying to guess at his true features. But there was no pattern to the changes.
    When the movements ceased and the man straightened, Pol said, “You told me on that night you came to me in our camp that our interests might not be entirely conjoined.”
    “Oh, there is a possibility that we might wind up at odds,” the other replied. “I hope not, but there you are. It could happen. If so, it won’t be because I didn’t try, though. And at least for the moment we want the same thing: to get you out of here intact, to deceive your enemies, to position you strategically.”
    “Have you any idea what will happen when I leave here?”
    “Oh, yes. You will be spirited away almost immediately—to Castle Avinconet.”
    “Larick did say that much. But who else is involved. And what will I meet at that end?”
    “It is for better for you to learn these things yourself, to keep your responses normal.”
    “Damn it! There’s more to it than that! You’re hiding something!”
    “In what way does that make me different from other men? Play your part, boy. Play your part.”
    “Don’t patronize me. I need more information to carry this thing off.”
    “Bullshit,” the sorcerer replied and turned away. “And strike your pose again. I believe I hear someone coming.”
    “But—”
    “The rest is silence,” the changing man said, as he vanished around the corner.

VII.
     
    Mouseglove hunkered in a rocky recess to the left of the cavemouth, his hood raised and cloak drawn about him against the morning’s chill. To his right, the fresh-risen sun constructed morning above the foothills, skimming a layer of glory from the magical city he had quitted hours before. Eight of the initiates had so for passed him, each in the company of Larick, to salute the dawn, then make their ways back toward the town, alone, or in the company of a servant or former master. When he heard footsteps once again, Mouseglove stirred slightly, turning his head toward the opening. When he saw Pol approaching with the leader, he rose, joints creaking, but did not immediately depart his station.
    Unlike those who had preceded him, Pol had already removed his white robe. His gait was slower and more awkward than usual. Larick, too, was dressed only in his day garments and head cloth. His face bore a far less solemn aspect than it had when he was bringing the others forth from Belken. He was snapping orders at Pol as they emerged. The two immediately turned to their left and began walking quickly in that direction.
    Puzzled, Mouseglove stepped out from his niche and hurried after them.
    “Good morning,” he said. “How did you fare during the night?”
    Larick almost stumbled in halting, and he placed his hand upon Pol’s arm. By the time he turned, his face was composed. Pol, moving more slowly, was without expression.
    “Good morning,” Larick replied. “Your friend is well enough physically, but some who go through initiation experience mental disorganization in varying degrees. This has occurred with him.”
    “How serious is this thing?”
    “That depends upon a great many factors—but it is generally treatable. I was hurrying him off right now with that end in mind.”
    “That is why you skipped the dawn salutation?”
    Larick’s eyes narrowed for the