paragraph.
“Bother!” said Ruth, and slammed the book back into its place. There was nothing in its vicinity that looked like what had come before or after it. “Well,” said Ruth, “let’s hope third time pays for all.” She scowled at the rug; she was running out of poetry. She cast around in her memory, and grinned. “Egypt’s might is tumbled down / Down a-down the deeps of thought; / Greece is fallen and Troy town, / Glorious Rome hath lost her crown, / Venice’ pride is naught. / But the dreams their children dreamed / Fleeting, insubstantial, vain, / Shadowy as the shadows seemed, / Airy nothing, as they deemed, / These remain.”
And thoughtlessly she took from the table before her, from under five or six tumbled volumes, a fat black book stamped with gold lettering: On the Mingling of Sorceries as They Had Been Paints on a Palette, its Benefits and Disasters.
“Well, hallelujah!” said Ruth. Having no hat, she flung her handkerchief into the air and, when it fell back down onto her head, burst out laughing.
Fence did not laugh. Fence, whom Ruth sought over all the first two levels of High Castle and finally found, resignedly, in his own room at the top of his two hundred and eight steps, was appalled. He knew the book, but he had not known that the sorcerers of the Green Caves possessed a copy. Nor had he known that the short history of the Dwarves existed, or that the origins of his own knowledge might be as those red volumes claimed. It was hard to say which discovery upset him more.
“I’d thought there was one copy only,” he said, holding the fat black book in one hand and absently pouring wine for Ruth with the other.
Ruth pushed her glass under the effervescent pale stream and said, “Thank you, that’s enough. Why are you so surprised? Didn’t you tell us that those purple water-things were the result of combining Green and Blue sorcery?”
“No,” said Fence, putting the bottle down and looking up sharply, “you told us.”
“You didn’t deny it,” said Ruth.
“It’s true,” said Fence, paging through the book. “But look you, we had thought that was the only instance of such meddling, for that the results were so ill. Claudia’s knife wherewith she made to stab me below was also of that combination, wherefore we knew her to be renegade. But that the cardinal began as the Red Magicians’ servant is ill news, and fresh. More’s amiss than Claudia.” He shut the book. “Read you aught else?”
Ruth described the fragment bound in blue ribbons. Fence’s face darkened. “That,” he said, “is the journal of Shan. If they came by it honestly, they had given it into our keeping.” He stood up. “Rest here. I think I must speak with Meredith.”
“Fence, you can’t! She’ll kill me!”
“Well,” said Fence. “What keys and knowledge are needful, to find this library?”
“No keys,” said Ruth. “It’s in the old wine cellars.”
“I might wander there, as well as anyone,” said Fence. “Fear me not, I’ll contrive some tale.” He grinned. “And this also may serve as the reason whereby I shall remove you from their influence. You need not resign, lady; we’ll forbid you their company.”
Ruth, full of profound misgivings that she could barely articulate even to herself, got up quickly. “Fence, is this wise? Do you want to start a major fight between two schools of magicians on the eve of your departure?”
“Better late than never,” said Fence, grimly for him. “I’ll see you at supper.” And he tucked the book under his arm and went out, slamming the heavy door behind him.
CHAPTER 9
A FTER the council, Ted and Patrick retired to their room, where Patrick lay on the rug and read Inherit the Stars , and Ted sat in the window seat and read the book Celia had given him.
Its framing narration was written for ten-year-olds; but it quoted copiously from Shan’s journals, from later commentators on them, and from a variety of other
“Bother!” said Ruth, and slammed the book back into its place. There was nothing in its vicinity that looked like what had come before or after it. “Well,” said Ruth, “let’s hope third time pays for all.” She scowled at the rug; she was running out of poetry. She cast around in her memory, and grinned. “Egypt’s might is tumbled down / Down a-down the deeps of thought; / Greece is fallen and Troy town, / Glorious Rome hath lost her crown, / Venice’ pride is naught. / But the dreams their children dreamed / Fleeting, insubstantial, vain, / Shadowy as the shadows seemed, / Airy nothing, as they deemed, / These remain.”
And thoughtlessly she took from the table before her, from under five or six tumbled volumes, a fat black book stamped with gold lettering: On the Mingling of Sorceries as They Had Been Paints on a Palette, its Benefits and Disasters.
“Well, hallelujah!” said Ruth. Having no hat, she flung her handkerchief into the air and, when it fell back down onto her head, burst out laughing.
Fence did not laugh. Fence, whom Ruth sought over all the first two levels of High Castle and finally found, resignedly, in his own room at the top of his two hundred and eight steps, was appalled. He knew the book, but he had not known that the sorcerers of the Green Caves possessed a copy. Nor had he known that the short history of the Dwarves existed, or that the origins of his own knowledge might be as those red volumes claimed. It was hard to say which discovery upset him more.
“I’d thought there was one copy only,” he said, holding the fat black book in one hand and absently pouring wine for Ruth with the other.
Ruth pushed her glass under the effervescent pale stream and said, “Thank you, that’s enough. Why are you so surprised? Didn’t you tell us that those purple water-things were the result of combining Green and Blue sorcery?”
“No,” said Fence, putting the bottle down and looking up sharply, “you told us.”
“You didn’t deny it,” said Ruth.
“It’s true,” said Fence, paging through the book. “But look you, we had thought that was the only instance of such meddling, for that the results were so ill. Claudia’s knife wherewith she made to stab me below was also of that combination, wherefore we knew her to be renegade. But that the cardinal began as the Red Magicians’ servant is ill news, and fresh. More’s amiss than Claudia.” He shut the book. “Read you aught else?”
Ruth described the fragment bound in blue ribbons. Fence’s face darkened. “That,” he said, “is the journal of Shan. If they came by it honestly, they had given it into our keeping.” He stood up. “Rest here. I think I must speak with Meredith.”
“Fence, you can’t! She’ll kill me!”
“Well,” said Fence. “What keys and knowledge are needful, to find this library?”
“No keys,” said Ruth. “It’s in the old wine cellars.”
“I might wander there, as well as anyone,” said Fence. “Fear me not, I’ll contrive some tale.” He grinned. “And this also may serve as the reason whereby I shall remove you from their influence. You need not resign, lady; we’ll forbid you their company.”
Ruth, full of profound misgivings that she could barely articulate even to herself, got up quickly. “Fence, is this wise? Do you want to start a major fight between two schools of magicians on the eve of your departure?”
“Better late than never,” said Fence, grimly for him. “I’ll see you at supper.” And he tucked the book under his arm and went out, slamming the heavy door behind him.
CHAPTER 9
A FTER the council, Ted and Patrick retired to their room, where Patrick lay on the rug and read Inherit the Stars , and Ted sat in the window seat and read the book Celia had given him.
Its framing narration was written for ten-year-olds; but it quoted copiously from Shan’s journals, from later commentators on them, and from a variety of other
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