I almost burst into tears. But I didn’t, because I suspected that Mam would have done and Grandfather Gwyn would have hated it. “If you must know,” I blurted out, “there’s a plot—in England—and most of the Court have been given bespelled water, even the King. The Merlin’s in it!”
“I know,” he said. “This is why I asked for you to come here, before the balance of magic is disturbed even further.”
For a second I was thoroughly astonished. Then I thought, Oh! He’s a wizard! And that made me feel much better. I could tell by the way Grundo’s face snapped round to look at Grandfather Gwyn, and then went much pinker, that Grundo had had the same thought.
“Tell me in detail,” my grandfather said to us, “every word and sign and act that you remember.”
So we told him. It took awhile, and Grundo absentmindedly ate two more pieces of cake while we talked. He probably needed to. It couldn’t have been pleasant for Grundo, having to describe what his mother did. Otherwise I’d have called him a pig. Grandfather Gwyn leaned forward with one forearm stiffly among the tea things and seemed to drink in everything we said.
“Can you help at all?” Grundo said at last.
To our dismay, my grandfather slowly shook his head. “Unfortunately not,” he said. “I am about to become vulnerable, in a way I very much resent, and will be able to do nothing directly for a while. You have just shown me the way of it. But there is something you can do, Arianrhod, if you think you have the courage. You will have to work out most of it for yourself, I am afraid. It is magic that is not mine to deal in, and it is something your mother never could have brought herself to do. But if you think you are able, I can put you in the way of it tomorrow.”
I sat in silence in that tall, cold room, staring at his intent white face across the plates and crumbs. Grundo looked to be holding his breath. “I—I suppose I’d better,” I said when the chills had almost stopped scurrying up and down my back. “Someone has to do something.”
My grandfather Gwyn could smile, after all. It was an unexpectedly warm, kind smile. It helped. A little. Actually, I was terrified.
4
NICK
ONE
I sat down again after Romanov had gone. For some reason, I fitted myself carefully into the exact place I had been in before, with my back against the wall and my heels in the scuff marks. I suppose I wanted Arnold and Co. to think I’d been sitting there all the time. But I wasn’t really attending. I was shaking all over, and I pretty well wanted to cry.
I was full of hurt and paranoia and plain terror that someone had wanted me killed. I kept thinking, But I told them in the Empire I wasn’t going to be Emperor! They’d taken me there into those worlds, and I’d signed things—sort of abdicated—so that my half brother Rob could be Emperor instead. It didn’t make sense.
I was full of hurt and paranoia, too, at the way Romanov had despised me. A lot of people had called me selfish. I’d been working on it, I thought. I’d looked after Dad and been really considerate, I thought. But I could tell Romanov saw through all that, to the way I really felt. And of course I still felt selfish, in spite of the way I behaved. All the same, I was trying, and it wasn’t fair, and it wasn’t fair either that Romanov had despised me for being ignorant, too! I’d been working on that as well. I’d been reading everything I could lay hands on about magic and trying to get to other worlds and trying every way I could to persuade the bunch of people who govern the Magids—they call them the Upper Room for some reason—to let me train as a Magid, too. It wasn’t my fault they wouldn’t.
Then I thought about Romanov himself. I would never, if I lived to be a thousand, meet anyone else as powerfully magic as Romanov. It was shattering. I’d met quite a few Magids, and they seemed quite humdrum now, compared with the stuff I’d felt coming from Romanov. It was awesome, it was just not fair, for someone to be as strong as that. Razor-edge, lightning-strike strong. It shook me to my bones.
And those big cats shook me to my bones, too. When I found they were real …
Hang on, I thought. This is a dream. You always put yourself through seriously nasty experiences in bad dreams. This is just a nightmare.
Then I felt a whole heap better. I looked up and saw that the overhead lights were getting stronger orange, while the gridded holes in the walls were growing pink. It looked as if the whole day had passed. Well, I thought, dreams do like to fast-forward things. I wasn’t really surprised when, about five minutes later, Arnold came pounding up to me carrying his bag of tricks. His thick, fair face looked white and exhausted.
“Up you get. Time to go,” he said. “The Prince’s own mages handle security overnight.”
I got up, thinking in a dreamlike way that it was rather a waste that we were all taking so much trouble to guard a Prince who was going to lose his Empire and be dead before long. How had Romanov known that anyway? But dreams are like that.
I was still thinking about this when we passed the first soldier. He looked at us enviously. “Poor beggars stay here all night in case anyone plants a bomb,” Arnold remarked. Then we came up to Chick and Arnold said, “Time up. Hotel first or eat and drink?”
“Food!” Chick said, collapsing his sword to a knife and then stretching his arms out. “I’m so hungry I could eat that novice.”
“I’d prefer a horse, personally,” Arnold said, and we went on round to underneath the pavilion. Dave and Pierre were already there, waiting. Arnold asked them, too, “Hotel first, or food?”
“Food!” they both said, and Dave added, “And wine. Then some hot spots. Anyone know this town—know where’s good to go?”
I watched them as they stood around discussing this. After Romanov, they struck me as simply normal people, jumped up a bit. I was a bit bored by them.
None of them did know where to go in Marseilles, as it turned out. Nor did I, when they asked me as a last resort. So we all went out through the guarded doors underneath the pavilion into the street, and Arnold hailed a taxi. “Condweerie noo a yune bong plass a monjay,” he told the driver as we all piled in. I think he meant, Take us to a good place to eat, but it sounded like Zulu with a German accent.
The driver seemed to understand, though. He drove off downhill toward the sea with a tremendous rattle. Even allowing for the way the streets were cobbled and how old that taxi was, I think the way its engine worked was quite different from the cars I was used to. It was ten times louder.
But it got us there. Before long it stopped with a wild shriek and the driver said, “Voilà, messieurs. A whole street of eateries for your honors.” Clearly, he had us spotted as English—or, considering Arnold and perhaps Chick, too, not French anyway. The place he’d brought us to was a row of little cafés, and they all had big hand-done notices in their windows. SCARMBLED EGG, one said, and SNALES was another. LEG OF FROG WITH CHEEPS and STAKE OR OLDAY BREKFA, said others.
We all cracked up. It had been a long day, and it felt good to be able to scream with laughter. “I am not,” howled Dave, staggering about on the cobbles and wiping tears off his face, “repeat not, going to eat cheeping frog legs!”