The Sword of Ponsonby: Book V of the Cruickshank Chronicles

By David Mosey

As head of the Guild of the Black Mages, Guildmaster Ponsoby knows that you have to move with the times, and thats what hes trying to do. Hes opened negotiations with Titus Handcarte, the First Speaker of East Castellian and not only has he won two enormously profitable research contracts, but also has got Handcarte to repeal the age-old prohibition that barred occult professionals from practising in East Castellian. So everything in the garden should be lovely. And it would be except for Montmorency. Mage Montmorency, the most expert and powerful of the Black Mages, is dead set against Ponsonbys plan. But to the creative manager, such opposition is an opportunity, not a problem. With the enthusiastic support of his other colleagues, Ponsonby binds Montorency imprisons him behind countless tons of solid rock.

So now everything in the garden is lovely. Well, not exactly, no. Just as the rock closed about him, Montmorency managed to get a message off to Mission Implausible, the scruffiest bunch of anarchical heroes ever to disgrace the pages of a fantasy novel. Never mind their addiction to beer and gratuitous violence. Never mind their cavalier attitude to property that isnt bolted down. And never mind the fact that Andrew Cruickshank, their mercurial magic user, combines the reliability of the weather forecast with the destructive potential of Chernobyl. The big question is whether Mission Implausible can get their production of Blood on the Rooftops, Blood on the Tiles into workable shape by opening night. And get the Guild of the Black Mages sorted out too, of course.

Ponsonby doesnt know anything about their play, but he does know Cruickshank and his band of hooligans are on the way, and so does Titus Handcarte. Ponsonby can call upon the awesome occult forces of the Guild, and Handcarte has at his beck and call the economic and military might of East Castellian, so theyre confident. Playing at home, they should be able to send Mission Implausible down to a four-nil defeat, at the very least.

But there are a number of things theyve left out of their calculations. They havent reckoned on the power of an aroused student body. They havent understood the influence of thousands of years of theatrical tradition. They havent the faintest idea of just how implacably devious, disruptive, and destructive Mission Implausible can be. And theyve totally neglected air defence.

Mission Implausible doesnt bother with calculation. When theyre not in rehearsals or instigating disgraceful scenes at disreputable taverns, they get to work fomenting student unrest and bombarding the Guild precincts with surplus theatrical equipment while Andrew Cruickshank infiltrates the Guild itself in search of Montmorency. All the ingredients are there for one of the most shambolic episodes ever to be expunged from Guild records.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Oct 14, 2005
• ISBN: 9781469109534

David Mosey

A transplanted Englishman, David Mosey hovers on the edge of unreality, an effect in search of a cause. He writes comic fantasy as a rearguard action against the sub-literate, venal sleazily expedient corporate culture that pervades the twenty-first century. Aside from that, he's a perfectly reasonable sort of chap who enjoys a few pints down at the local pub where he plays darts with more enthusiasm than accuracy.

Book preview

The Sword of

Ponsonby

Book V Of The Cruickshank Chronicles

5339.jpg

David Mosey

Copyright © 2005 by David Mosey.

ISBN:   Hardcover   1-4134-9765-9

 Softcover   1-4134-9764-0

ISBN:   ebook   978-1-4691-0953-4

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

To order additional copies of this book, contact:

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Contents

Chapter 1  A Mage To Be Bound

Chapter 2  Message Received

Chapter 3  Advance Booking

Chapter 4  THE PLAYERS ARE COMING!

Chapter 5  ACT I, SCENE i: BEGINNERS

Chapter 6  IN REHEARSAL

Chapter 7  THINGS THAT GO BUMP IN THE NIGHT

Chapter 8  A DRESS REHEARSAL

Chapter 9  A LABORATORY EXERCISE

Chapter 10  UNSEEMLY BRAWLS

Chapter 11  JUST ROUTINE

Chapter 12  STRATAGEMS AND TOILS

Chapter 13  A SHOPPING TRIP

Chapter 14  FINAL BRIEFINGS

Chapter 15  ENTER A MAGE (DISGUISED)

Chapter 16  ADVANCE BOOKINGS

Chapter 17  THE BIG ENTRANCE

Chapter 18  CROSSING SWORDS

Chapter 19  UNSCHEDULED FLIGHT

Chapter 20  A WIZARD PRANG

Chapter 21  LAST ACT

Dedication

This book is dedicated to:

Joe, who formulated the Boyadjian correlation;

Frannie, who got rid of all the errors

Nina, who designed and photographed the cover picture

Chapter 1

A Mage To Be Bound

It was the Hour of the Banshee in the Active Area of the Guild of the Black Mages, and an electric thrill ran along the Western Gallery of Spadgett House. Guildmaster Ponsonby was coming! Junior apprentices scurried for cover. Senior undergraduates, more sophisticated and experienced in the ways of the Guild, worked temporary transformation routines and assumed the forms of columns, gargoyles, or fire buckets. Graduate students, who really did know the ways of the Guild, simply made themselves scarce. The rustling and twittering of nervous expectation died into an awed silence as the Western Gallery waited. And waited.

The sun struck through the lancet windows, laying golden cross-hatching on the flagstones and winking off the highly polished fire buckets, one or two of which fidgeted impatiently; it was now well past the Hour of the Banshee and getting on for the Hour of the Merchant Banker. A gargoyle scratched its moustache.

With a crash the doors at the north end of the gallery flew open. The sunlight disappeared, and the Western Gallery became a dark tunnel with the lancet windows standing out as etched blades of unearthly light. A tremble of anticipation shook the ancient stones of Spadgett House and set the air of the gallery vibrating. A cold, dry wind funnelled the dust into corkscrews, and rustled through discarded toffee papers and empty crisp packets. And the twanging notes of a zither sounded an eerie chord.

It was his standard entrance, and Guildmaster Ponsonby thought it effective enough. Except the zither music, of course, but you couldn’t have everything, and Sproggit and Axel had promised to get it sorted out. Ponsonby twitched his cloak to his shoulders, and began his measured tread down the Western Gallery. A nimbus of violet light flickered about the black-cloaked figure, and the air crackled resentfully at his passage. Beneath his feet, the granite flagstones hissed and bubbled, and abandoned pieces of chewing gum flamed violently.

But it was the Sword that really stood out. Point down, it floated through the air before the Guildmaster, the slender blade glowing blue and the jewels in its hilt winking like the navigation lights on a Boeing 747. The Sword of Ponsonby was almost certainly the most sophisticated and potent enchanted weapon ever constructed. Jane’s Magic Weapons had devoted a whole chapter to it, and the Journal of Enchanted Weaponry and Transcendental Strategic Studies had published no fewer than thirty-nine articles on the subject. The Sword was Ponsonby’s master-work, and its development from the standard Sproggit and Axel Magic Sword Mk IVb (no mean device in its own right, according to Jane’s) was regarded as a triumph of applied occultism. It had confirmed Ponsonby’s position as Master of the Guild of the Black Mages, Albion’s oldest, most prestigious, and most powerful occult institution.

It had become traditional that Ponsonby be preceded by the Sword on all formal Guild occasions, and the monthly Foundation Members’ Meeting certainly fell into that category. Besides, though he affected to disdain such pomp and ceremony, Ponsonby knew that the more junior members of the Guild found it impressive, and he was a firm believer in maintaining the mystique of authority. It was a pity about the zither music, though. The Guildmaster halted at a black iron door about halfway along the gallery, to the right of which twelve staves floated quietly in a shallow alcove. He nodded with satisfaction; everybody had arrived. With a flick of his hand he cancelled his progression routine.

The cold, vibrating dark tunnel vanished, the zither music stopped, and with an almost audible click the golden cross-hatching of sunlight returned. And the Sword clattered on the flagstones. It uttered a yelp of indignation, and its blade gave an angry blue flash. Clicking his tongue in irritation, Ponsonby held out his hand, and the Sword flew to it. He looked about for the anvil, the designated receptacle for the weapon, but once again the Building and Facilities Department had fallen down on the job; there was no sign of it. There wasn’t even a block of granite! With another cluck of irritation, which darted three small flashes of lightning along the gallery, Ponsonby placed the Sword in an umbrella stand. The weapon moaned indignantly. Ponsonby flicked his staff to the individual niche labelled Guildmaster, then nodded at the iron door to open it. The door gave onto a short catwalk, ending in a second door which bore the notice Meeting Chamber. With the air of an aristocrat constrained to perform some degrading menial task, Ponsonby actually turned the door-knob with his own hand, and pushed the door open.

Very early on in the history of the Guild it had become painfully obvious that any meeting which drew together thirteen of the world’s most expert magic users could be fraught with complications. What with letters of fire spelling out minatory messages on the wall, and unspeakable piles of entrails materializing on the table, even keeping to an agreed agenda was impossible, never mind recording the minutes. The answer was the Meeting Chamber. Inside the hollowed-out centre of Spadgett House, supported on iron beams, the Meeting Chamber was surrounded by a permanent nullification field and formed a sort of occult Faraday cage within which no spell would operate.

Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen. The Guildmaster’s voice sounded curiously flat in the still atmosphere of the Meeting Chamber, a side-effect of the nullification field. He sat down at the head of the table. Perhaps we can begin with the Minutes of the last meeting…

. . .

The Guild of the Black Mages stood on Moncrief Crag, a gigantic basalt escarpment that loomed over the town of Blytham-by-the-Water like the prow of a huge ship. This anomalous mass of rock was the final transformation of the great black mage, Moncrief who, following a minor miscalculation some two millennia ago, had become, in a very material sense, the founder of the Guild. At the highest point of the crag, and surrounded by a high wall, was the Active Area, the occult heart of the Guild, where the deepest, darkest and most dangerous forces of the supernatural were probed and manipulated. In the Active Area were Spadgett House, the Meladonian Library, and the famous MacAnthracite Explosives Laboratory. In the Active Area too, were the Towers of the Foundation Mages; thirteen black fingers pointing menacingly skyward. Clustered about the Active Area were the Halls of Residence for junior faculty and undergraduates, the administration offices, the theatre, the refectory, and the Junior and Senior Faculty Clubs. These buildings formed the Inner Area and, unlike the Active Area, were accessible to the laity, except after dark. Beyond the Inner Area lay the Outer Area, a sprawl of workshops, stables, stationery and office supplies shops, bookshops, staff accommodations, and a single ill-favoured alehouse – and beyond this was the town of Blytham-by-the-Water

The town lay on the south side of the estuary of River Blyte, some two leagues downstream from the confluence of the Greater Blyte and the Lesser Blyte. On the north shore of the estuary, and just visible on a clear day, stood the ragged battlemented walls of the Sproggit and Axel laboratory and assembly plant, islanded amid a blasted landscape. Sproggit and Axel had been Albion’s principal supplier of occult equipment and routines for the last millennium, but in all that time the people of Blytham-by-the-Water had carefully kept their distance from that grim pile, and remained unmoved by the economic inducements dangled before them by the Sproggit and Axel executives who were anxious for a reliable supply of labour. Instead, the town’s economy was based on trade and tourism. The harbour was both picturesque and practical, and was thronged by trading vessels of the more informal type. The town itself was thronged, in summer, by tourists of the prosperous type, and while its conventional tourist attractions were limited to a floral clock, a few antique shops and the Rat Street Theatre, there was the Guild of the Black Mages. There were few tourists who would not count a visit to the floral clock, even followed by an evening at the Rat Street Theatre, an acceptable price to pay for the chance to visit the Guild of the Black Mages.

On this particular afternoon in high summer, not fifteen minutes after the Great Chime of Grimble had tolled the Hour of the Hogwart, the Outer Courtyard of the Guild was, as usual, thronged with tourists. Some were busy sketching the statue of Fifty-Seventh Guildmaster Throgmorten. Others were queuing up at the souvenir shop while the rest were looking about for somewhere to sit down.

A bustle at the courtyard gates made heads turn. With a scrunching rattle of iron-shod wheels over cobblestones a small handcart appeared, propelled by a short, broad-shouldered individual who stopped his vehicle abruptly at the Porter’s Lodge, and upended it. To a gasp of consternation from the tourists, a body slid limply to the ground.

That’ll be sixpence please, sir, the pusher announced briskly, holding out a grimy paw.

"That time already?" The body on the cobblestones stirred, then with the aid of a staff, climbed unsteadily to its feet, revealing itself to be a tall, lanky, pale-faced, straw-haired young man.

Hour struck just afore we left.

Twitching with agitation, the young man thrust a coin into the outstretched hand, then half-stumbled, half-ran into the Porter’s Lodge. The group of tourists heaved a collective sigh of relief and returned to their sketching.

"Good afternoon, Mr Pointer, the porter beamed with dictatorial bonhomie, a little late today, are we not?" With a flourish he entered the young man’s name in the huge black ledger, then passed him his key and amulet.

No need to rub it in, Hobson, the young man groaned, I’ve got a tutorial with Mage Latalier at the Hour of the Hogwart. He ran a trembling hand across his forehead.

You can rest your mind easy on that score, Hobson told him kindly, she’ll still be at the Foundation Members’ Meeting; it didn’t start till the Hour of the Merchant Banker, today.

. . .

So perhaps we can move on to ‘Other Business’? Ponsonby suggested. A mutter of agreement came from the other twelve mages. Ponsonby turned over a page, scribbled a quick note, then looked up and down the long conference table. Mage Latalier? His big-boned features nodded encouragingly toward the head of Applied Witchcraft and Divination.

The plump, apple-cheeked woman with eyes like agates sat straighter in her chair. There is the matter of funding for my sessional staff, Guildmaster. She tapped her stylus impatiently. The application from my Department has been on your desk for at least two weeks. I must know soon.

Ponsonby sighed. As I am sure you realize, Mage Latalier, these things take time…

"And what about my budget? Mage Puckridge (Social and Consumer Studies) had a truculent look on his face, we’re hosting the Conference on Occult-Modification of Bonding Patterns this year, and…"

Really, Puckridge! That is a rather pretentious title for what is essentially a sales meeting for love philtre manufacturers! The quiet, cold voice came from the mage at the opposite end of the table, a man with pale, thin, almost emaciated features, dark hair cropped short, and whose deep-set dark eyes flashed with violet glints. Ponsonby swallowed. Mage Montmorency (Advanced Projects and Ultimate Darkness) was the only Senior Level Mage in the Guild and a force to be reckoned with.

I am sure Mage Montmorency realizes that the applied side of our work is assuming increasing importance, he said swiftly, particularly in view of the current unpromising economic climate. We are in the market-place, ladies and gentlemen, he continued, allowing the briskness of economic enthusiasm to colour his voice, we must be able to demonstrate a palpable value added to our customers, and the conference to which Mage Puckridge refers is one of our more convincing demonstrations.

If we are in the market-place, then we should have worthwhile goods to offer. Montmorency’s lip curled slightly.

I’m inclined to agree with Montmorency. Mage Antrobus (Theoretical Arcanae) cast a contemptuous look in the direction of Social and Consumer Studies. The Guild of the Black Mages is not a shopping centre.

Ponsonby stiffened. He had anticipated Montmorency’s inflexible attitude, but he didn’t want anybody else supporting him. Nobody is suggesting such a thing, my dear Mage Antrobus, he chuckled confidingly, "but if the Guild is to purchase that latest integrator you requested, and the transcription unit, then…"

The machine is essential to our work, Guildmaster! Antrobus protested.

And it is essential that such work be done, Ponsonby agreed, which means that we have to rely upon our colleagues in the applied areas to generate revenue.

Of course, Guildmaster. Antrobus subsided abruptly as the purport of the Guildmaster’s message sank in.

As we agreed, Ponsonby continued, with an approving nod to Antrobus, if the Guild is to continue to set standards of excellence, and remain the cutting edge of occult scholarship and research, then we must seek more customers for our products and services. And our products and services, ladies and gentlemen, are our teaching, and our research. He sat back with the air of one who has just delivered himself of a profound and original observation.

We must explore new markets, Guildmaster! Puckridge observed, with the promptitude of the expert and alert toady.

Precisely, Mage Puckridge, and it is touching just that matter that I wish to place a proposal before this meeting. He paused for effect, and opened a manilla folder. As you all know, East Castellian and its environs have always been closed to us.

And to all the other Guilds, Antrobus pointed out, and a good thing too! East Castellian is a seething pit of vice and corruption.

It is a seething pit of potential customers, Mage Puckridge corrected him.

But – it is the home of the Revenue! Antrobus spluttered, and practitioners of unnatural vices. He blushed. Accountants, and even lawyers…

Such matters are hardly suitable for discussion at a meeting of this nature! Mage Latalier flared.

"East Castellian is no fit topic for discussion in any civilised assembly," Antrobus retorted.

The argument thudded back and forth across the anechoic room, and Ponsonby sat back and waited for the diversion to exhaust itself. East Castellian styled itself Albion’s capital city, the administrative centre of the country, but in practice its writ was limited to the south, and perhaps a league or so north and west of the old city walls, and of course to the outpost city of Basingstoke. East Castellian might be home to the despised Revenue, and all the other contemptible apparatuses of government and administration, but it was also a large and wealthy city and, Ponsonby had discovered, it was a city whose administration might be interested in what the Guild of Black Mages could offer.

The blare of dissension slowly died away, leaving everybody flushed and revivified. There was nothing, Ponsonby reflected, like a healthy session of abuse, to get a meeting into the right mood. He tapped the table lightly with his stylus. I think then, we are all agreed that while there is much about East Castellian that is alien to our philosophy, Mage Puckridge made a most cogent point: the city is, as he put it so vividly, a seething pit of potential customers. As you may know, we have maintained er… informal… contact with the East Castellian authorities…

Tinker. Antrobus nodded and gave a short laugh. He has a direct line to the East Castellian Secret Service.

I thought it was Tailor.

That was his first codename, Antrobus explained, before he was turned.

The man appears to be in a state of constant rotation, Montmorency observed drily.

Thank you, Mage Montmorency, Ponsonby cut in quickly, anxious to preclude yet another diversion, as I was saying, through this contact I have been given to understand that East Castellian is interested in a number of areas of research which the Guild is uniquely equipped to conduct. For this reason I propose to meet the First Speaker of East Castellian for preliminary discussions tomorrow, subject of course to your agreement.

Of course you have our agreement, Guildmaster! Puckridge was almost quivering with anticipation. A Guild presence in East Castellian would be a historic event.

A stunning achievement! Mage Latalier was not to be outdone, I move that we record unanimous endorsement for the Guildmaster’s courageous initiative. Around the table all the heads but one nodded vigorously.

I move we do no such thing. Montmorency eyed his colleagues coldly. It is contrary to centuries of Guild tradition to enter into any form of contractual relationship with any kind of institution, and I must record my serious reservations about this proposal.

I have taken note of them, Mage Montmorency, the Guildmaster sighed. I had hoped that we might for once come to a unanimous decision; could not you reconsider? You cite centuries of Guild tradition, but I would put it to you that while traditions may be excellent servants, they are tyrannical masters.

Not quite so tyrannical as the First Speaker, Guildmaster. Montmorency shook his head.

Ponsonby sighed again. To the vote, then. All those in favour? Eleven hands rose.

And those opposed?

Montmorency raised two fingers.

Very well! Ponsonby snapped, ignoring the gesture, let the minutes record endorsement of the proposal to meet the First Speaker of East Castellian for exploratory discussions, with Mage Montmorency dissenting. He rose to his feet, signalling the end of the meeting. As if it had been awaiting this moment, the Great Chime of Grimble boomed out the Hour of the Anteater.

. . .

At the old West Gate of East Castellian the midday sun beat down upon the rigid ranks of the Seventh Heavy Dragoons, flashing off breastplates and dancing bright glints from the drawn sabres. A dog barked madly in the distance and the hollow boom of a gong echoed from the saloon bar of the Crime and Punishment, announcing opening time. Titus Handcarte, First Speaker of East Castellian, stood at one end of a long, green carpet, awaiting the arrival of his distinguished guest. He shifted uncomfortably in his uniform of Honorary Colonel-In-Chief of the Seventh Heavy Cavalry, and turned to his secretary. Were you quite sure about the time, Leeper?

From beneath his rust-coloured cloak, the secretary produced a single sheet of paper which he scrutinized carefully. The Hour of the Insurance Consultant, First Speaker, he confirmed, and that is noon local time.

Even as he spoke the air chilled slightly, and there was a high-pitched whine. Some of the horses stirred nervously. Just above the roof of the Crime and Punishment the air quivered, and a nimbus of violet light flared. A voice said, clearly and distinctly, balls! Hastily muffled laughter came from the ranks of the horsemen, and an NCO glared fiercely. The strange disturbance above the inn roof disappeared. The air at the other end of the green carpet quivered, another violet nimbus flared into life, and Guildmaster Ponsonby materialized.

The bandmaster raised his baton, and the trumpets blared out a fanfare. He raised it a second time, and the anthem Handcarte For Libertie shook tiles from roofs and sent clouds of pigeons clattering into the air. It almost drowned the plaintive twang of a zither.

As the last notes of the martial air echoed back from the crumbling towers of the old gatehouse, and the sabres of the guard of honour flashed in the graceful curve of the salute, Ponsonby moved forward. In deference to the sensibilities of his hosts, he had eschewed any kind of special effect (except for the zither, but there seemed nothing he could do about that). He had not even brought the Sword. His tall, broad-shouldered form, his big-boned, slightly florid features, and his plain black cloak with its faintly clerical appearance combined to suggest the kind of muscular missionary who expounds the laws of Christianity and the laws of cricket with glorious impartiality to politely bewildered natives.

Not to be outdone, the First Speaker started forward to meet his guest. He was a short, dumpy man with a head like an egg upon which some strands of gingery wool had been glued. His eyes, beneath sparse ginger eyebrows, were a watery blue, but they were very steady, and very cold. Guildmaster Ponsonby! Welcome to East Castellian. Handcarte’s voice had the warmth of an electric imitation coal fire.

First Speaker! Ponsonby extended a hand. This is a great honour.

With some reluctance, Handcarte took the proffered hand, then relaxed visibly when no magical manifestation became apparent. The two men eyed each other in silence for a moment. There is an old East Castellian proverb, the First Speaker said at last, that a welcome lasts as long as a cobbler’s shoes.

Indeed! Ponsonby racked his brains for a response. Thank you very much, he observed sagely, it is a nice day.

. . .

By the time the open carriage clattered across Memorandum of Understanding Square and drew up before Castle Downing, the First Speaker had confided a further six old East Castellian proverbs to Guildmaster Ponsonby, who had responded with apposite quotations from his recent book Generalised Paradigms in Occult Management Structures and one scholarly, if rather risque, story about a shepherdess, an insurance salesman and two coconuts. Each recognised that the other was a man with whom he could do business.

I will come straight to the point, Guildmaster, Handcarte said as he waved his guest to a chair in the Brown Study, from our er… informal contact you will have heard that East Castellian is anxious to make use of the learning of the Guild of the Black Mages – if it can be made available to us.

But of course, First Speaker! Ponsonby made an expansive gesture. Too many think that the Guild spends all its time in ebony towers pondering inscrutable mysteries. Nothing could be further from the truth! The Guildmaster leaned forward and tapped the desk for emphasis. An inkwell and a perpetual calender materialized, and he waved them away irritably. The Guild is a business organization, and like any other business organization exists to meet customer expectations. And I need hardly tell you, First Speaker, that in these economic times, a business that is to survive and thrive must become lean and competitive, and…

Efficient and effective? the First Speaker suggested.

Precisely. While it is true that our Guild has a reputation for research and scholarship that is second to none, it is also true that we lead the world in the more… ah… applied areas.

Just so, Guildmaster. And it is in those applied areas that East Castellian has some interest. The details are somewhat technical, but broadly speaking, we are looking for ways in which transactions for goods or services may be more readily and comprehensively recorded.

Our Social and Consumer Studies Department, perhaps in cooperation with Applied Witchcraft, would best be able to examine that project. Mage Puckridge and Mage Latalier; two very eminent scholars in the area.

And then there is the security side of matters… Handcarte let his voice trail off.

Applied Witchcraft and Divination, with perhaps some extra assistance from Theoretical Arcanae, Ponsonby said promptly, that would be Mage Antrobus, one of the most brilliant men in his field. He has published four major treatises, and I believe there are only two other mages in the world who claim to understand anything of his work.

So then, Guildmaster, you feel the Guild of Black Mages would be willing to undertake this work?

Ponsonby almost pinched himself to make sure he was still awake. If he understood the First Speaker correctly, the Guild had just been offered two massive research contracts. But he measured his response carefully. I can see no reason why there should be any difficulty, First Speaker. There simply remains the question of arranging details…

I was just coming to that. The First Speaker glanced at his guest, and sighed inwardly with satisfaction at what he saw. Every man has his price, and he had gauged Ponsonby’s to a nicety. Following the preliminary negotiations, I feel it would be most convenient if representatives from your organization established a presence in East Castellian.

Once again, Ponsonby wondered if he was dreaming. A mage presence, First Speaker? In East Castellian?

Certainly, Guildmaster, I would judge that essential.

But –  Ponsonby’s calm was bending visibly at the edges. With difficulty he kept his voice steady. It has always been my understanding, First Speaker, that there existed a prohibition – 

Pah! An outdated provision. Handcarte dismissed it with a gesture, the necessary rescinding instrument will be signed this evening. Indeed, my government hopes to see a large number of graduates from your Guild setting up business in East Castellian.

Ponsonby almost fell out of his chair. For the first time in history occult professionals were to be allowed into East Castellian. And they would be from the Black Guild!

The First Speaker noted the slightly heightened colour in the Guildmaster’s cheeks. Once again, that cold man felt a stab of satisfaction. The pale marbles of his eyes remained unmoving as he raised the crucial hurdle for his guest to jump. Of course, for administrative convenience we would ask that all mages in East Castellian be registered with this office.

Ponsonby sailed over the hurdle without missing a step. Naturally, First Speaker.

For a moment even Titus Handcarte’s granite composure threatened to crack. The man had acceded without a murmur! A gingery eyebrow flickered for a moment, a truly tumultuous emotional display for the First Speaker. He drew a deep breath. Excellent! Now, Guildmaster, tell me some more about your Guild. He inclined his head a fraction to signal Ponsonby to begin.

Nothing loath, Ponsonby embarked upon an exhaustive, yet quite selective account of the organization and achievements of the Guild of the Black Mages. He dwelt lovingly on the glory and grandeur of the Meladonian library, he described glowingly the internationally acclaimed breakthrough by Mage Sudgen (Solid State Necromancy) the previous year, he enumerated the lofty achievements of the most recent graduates, and he expatiated on the long-standing and mutually beneficial relationship of the Guild with Sproggit and Axel.

He did not bother to mention the unpleasantness at the MacAnthracite Laboratory, or the inadvertant petrification of a dozen graduate students caused by a malfunction in a Sproggit and Axel generic routine. These were minor details and would not be of interest to a man like the First Speaker.

Perhaps as a Guild, he concluded "we may lack the… ah… elan of the Silver, or the admirable if rigorous austerity of the White, but for solid, consistent achievement and for standards of scholarship, there is no Guild to match the Black."

Just so. The First Speaker nodded. Is not Montmorency among your number? he asked casually.

Indeed he is, First Speaker, a Foundation Member, and our only Senior Level Mage. You have heard of him?

I have done more than that, the First Speaker murmured.

Something about the tone of the First Speaker’s voice, and the set of his bloodless lips gave Ponsonby an uneasy feeling. Of course, like all brilliant men, Mage Montmorency can sometimes be a little… eccentric.

Independent minded? Handcarte prompted gently.

Quite so.

Perhaps not enough of a team player for our projected enterprises? Not that I would dream of attempting to interfere in Guild affairs, of course.

Of course not! Ponsonby agreed, I am sure that we can arrange things… satisfactorily.

I trust we can. The First Speaker tugged at a bell pull and his secretary insinuated himself into the study. "Please bring me the Implausible file, Leeper," he instructed. The two men waited, Ponsonby rather puzzled, until Leeper returned with a bulging file, bound with tape and sealed with three large blobs of green wax.

I am passing this information to you, Guildmaster, in the strictest confidence and under the understanding that you never reveal its source. Handcarte pushed the bulky article across the desk.

But First Speaker, I do not understand…

You should be warned, Guildmaster that there exists evidence, and in my view convincing evidence, that Mage Montmorency has been associated with a particularly vicious group of hooligans, including some kind of renegade mage. I pass this to you for your information.

Ponsonby eyed the file distrustfully. He coughed. Brilliant though Montmorency is, I realize he can be considered… erratic.

The First Speaker made a very quiet snorting noise which his intimates would have at once translated as round the twist, you mean.

You need have no fear, First Speaker. There will be no question of Montmorency being involved in these… programmes. In fact I have some major reorganizations planned for the Guild.

You believe he may be about to suffer ill health? the First Speaker asked hopefully.

Nothing like that, First Speaker, Ponsonby replied quickly, though it is true that he has been working very hard recently… he needs, and deserves, a rest. And I intend to see that he gets it.

The two men smiled at one another in perfect mutual understanding.

. . .

I want to make it quite clear that there is no suggestion of any interference in Guild affairs. Ponsonby looked up and down the length of the conference table at the eleven mages. As we all know, the Guild has a proud tradition of academic independence, which I will not compromise.

"Where is Mage Montmorency, anyway? Mage Latalier asked nervously, he has no way of knowing of this meeting?"

Certainly not, Mage Latalier, Ponsonby reassured her, Meeting Chamber deliberations are totally opaque to any external observer. And Mage Montmorency is reviewing his graduate student’s field report this evening, at my special request.

Bellingham, isn’t it? Antrobus looked up. Should it become necessary for him to change his supervisor, I should be glad to take him on. The lad shows promise.

It is possible that might become necessary. Ponsonby weighed his words carefully. I feel that during the forthcoming negotiations with East Castellian, Mage Montmorency should be… kept in the background.

How far in the background? Antrobus asked with brutal directness.

As far as possible! Ponsonby snapped, that is, he hastily recovered himself, I had in mind that Mage Montmorency has been working extremely hard of late.

Very hard, Puckridge nodded emphatically, one might almost call the man obsessed.

Quite, agreed Ponsonby, and what I had in mind was a directed sabbatical… in shielded storage.

There was a sharp intake of breath from all at the table. "You mean bind him? Sudgen went white. Could we?"

Ponsonby looked at Antrobus and raised an enquiring eyebrow. The mage produced a spellcaster, and worked the approximator on its rear face. Mage Montmorency is a 4.2 on the MI scale, is he not?

Better make it 4.5 to be on the safe side, Mage Sudgen advised gloomily. Everybody looked worried, as well they might, since with the exception of Antrobus who scored 2.1, no-one in the Guild stood higher than 1.8 on the logarithmic Mage Index, and few were above 1.5. Antrobus completed a couple of additional manipulations.

"It can be done, and with a comfortable margin with the new release of Much Binding, but, and Antrobus grimaced, it will demand close co-operation and precise co-ordination."

We shall have to do the best we can. Ponsonby tried to sound confident; co-operation and co-ordination were not strong points at the Guild. Mage Antrobus will be in charge, he added, feeling somewhat better. If it there was going to be a balls-up then it might as well be that coldly contemptuous theoretician who made it.

If you insist, Guildmaster. Antrobus gave a thin smile. Perhaps Mage Sudgen and Mage Wraybourne will meet me immediately after this meeting.

The roly-poly figure of Wraybourne (Numerical Transformation and Analysis) sat up with a jerk. I say, do we really have to go through with this? Montmorency is a pretty decent sort of fellow by and large. And I happen to know he hasn’t paid his faculty club account yet this month.

Sometimes a sacrifice is necessary for the greater good, Mage Puckridge intoned.

But who pays his bill? Wraybourne persisted.

If necessary it can be met from the Guildmaster’s Entertainment Fund. Ponsonby tapped the table sharply to make sure he had everyone’s attention. Mage Wraybourne has raised an important point: do we really have to go through with this? As I said earlier, there is no doubt in my mind that Montmorency could fatally impair – 

Scupper completely, somebody muttered.

So there’s no question about it, Puckridge said confidently, the man’s got to go.

But if he objects… Mage Sudgen looked concerned.

Mage Latalier shrugged. He undoubtedly will. But has not Mage Antrobus assured us that it may be readily done?

There may be others who object, Ponsonby suggested. A ripple of shock ran through the room, and hostile eyes turned on the plump figure of Mage Wraybourne.

Now look, I didn’t say… he wriggled uncomfortably under the scrutiny. I mean, of course if it’s necessary for the good of the Guild. But that doesn’t mean I have to like it, he concluded defiantly.

When I referred to others, I did not necessarily mean those in this room. Ponsonby opened the file the First Speaker had given him. It seems that Mage Montmorency has been associated with a rather curious group of people called, he opened the folder, ‘Mission Implausible’.

Ah yes! Wraybourne gave a reminiscent smile, "I remember Montmorency mentioning them to me only the other day. It doesn’t have to be plausible; it only has to work," he quoted with relish.

What precisely do you mean by that, Mage Wraybourne? Ponsonby frowned.

It is by way of being their motto, Guildmaster, the mage explained hastily.

What do you know of these people? Latalier was snapping with suspicion, and what are they to Montmorency?

Wraybourne shrugged helplessly, and looked to Ponsonby for help. The Guildmaster opened the file and leafed through the first few pages. I shall arrange to have this material distributed in due course. It documents the activities of this ‘Mission Implausible’ group, with which Montmorency’s name has been coupled. The Guildmaster glanced down at the pages, and his nostrils flared fastidiously. It appears to be a conventional enough Adventure Party. Led by an elf, it includes a Nova Castrian fighter and a Knight of Albion, one Sir Tiresome. The sense of shock in the room was palpable; a Knight of Albion plus a Nova Castrian fighter added up to violent conflict resolution capabilities of near-cosmic magnitude. We should be aware, the Guildmaster added quickly, that this report is of unknown provenance. He turned the page. The other members of this group are a dwarf, a nicker, and a marksman…

"A nicker? Antrobus turned pale, those buggers’ll steal your teeth if you sleep with your mouth open. Even if you don’t," he added after giving the matter some thought.

It seems, as you said Guildmaster, a fairly conventional Adventure Party. Mage Latalier attempted to re-introduce a sense of proportion. The nicker have ever been careful of meddling with the occult community.

A good point. Puckridge lounged back in his chair. Does this group have a full-time occult professional?

Ponsonby hesitated for a moment. Ah… it would appear from these papers that the assigned mage is a Wardmaster, of the Crimson.

A deathly hush fell upon the room, broken by a shout from Mage Puckridge. The Crimson Guild has been extinct for centuries! he protested, the records are quite clear on the matter.

The records are not in error. Mage Antrobus twisted his mouth in the semblance of a smile. I understand from Montmorency that the Wardmaster comes from Earth Three, but is now permanently resident here.

Impossible! Latalier protested, Earth Three is an evolutionary blind alley.

Some primitive cult involving subatomic particles, I believe, or perhaps the expansion of hot gases, Antrobus agreed, but that is where the man comes from. Doubtless he is some kind of mutant.

It’s… it’s unbelievable! Sudgen whispered. The other heads around the table nodded agreement. It was a matter of common knowledge that there existed a theoretically infinite number of parallel worlds, topologically similar but which had developed in laughably different ways. Earth Three was unique in that no kind of occult development had taken place there.

You know this from Montmorency directly? Ponsonby gave a suspicious frown, and once again consulted his notes. It is true the man is alleged to come from Earth-Three, but what is his connection with Montmorency?

More importantly, what of his being a Wardmaster? Mage Sudgen asked, his face the colour of dirty parchment, a Wardmaster is – 

The supreme level in the hierarchy, Antrobus completed for him.

Ponsonby closed the file with a snap, then turned a leaden eye on Antrobus. Can you further enlighten us? If Montmorency has a Wardmaster as an ally, then it is possible we may have to reconsider…

Antrobus laughed; a short, ugly sound like an accountant closing a briefcase. The man is Montmorency’s Designated Opposite, although they have worked together more than once. Montmorency has written detailed reports of their encounters, and deposited them in the Meladonian. For all I know he has kept copies in his Tower. They may prove illuminating.

And you have seen them? Ponsonby’s voice betrayed his concern.

That is difficult to call to mind, Guildmaster…

Well try! Ponsonby glared.

It would be easier if my mind were not so befuddled with other concerns, Guildmaster. The worries I have, you wouldn’t believe… He leaned back in his seat and crossed his legs.

Perhaps I can help. Ponsonby