Consequences

Havelock’s Inception in to the Illustrative and Insinuative Order of the Inconscient Brush pt.6

There’s a moment of disconcertion, similar to waking from a dream. Everyone is back in the dreaming chamber but standing, kneeling or crouching as they were a moment ago, save for Poliziano, who lies on the Architect’s couch.

As Mirandola rises Havelock sees what has happened to Poliziano’s head. The hair has all been scorched off and the right side of his head has been branded. Havelock recognises that brand; it is part of the image of the Pattern.

“That has never happened before, Lord Despil;” Sigrid’s eyes flick to Havelock and back to Despil, “have you an explanation for why your working ended so?”

Havelock glances at Despil, searching his features. He interjects, “Mistress Sigrid, if I may,” he turns to fully face the floating teeth, “the undoing was not Lord Despil’s.”

The Grand Mistress’ eyes, and teeth, turn their attention fully to Havelock, along with everyone else – except for Poliziano, of course, whose eyes are shut, and Mirandola, who gazes mournfully down at his fellow Cyrillian. Evidently they all await his explanation, including Despil.

Havelock looks around the room at the Chaots. “I have lived all my life beyond Ygg and honed some defensive reflexes that here are ultimately destructive.” Raising his hand he puts two fingers on his right temple “When our subject arrived, my mind felt itself attacked and instinctively defended me with the Pattern. As soon as I could I knocked it down, but the damage was done.”

His arm sweeps down and away from his head. “This is an instinct my mind has built over many years and it reacts so to mind probes and sorcery, if surprised. If I had known the Subject was being summoned whilst we were absent and that she might attack me so, then I could have held it back, but I expected the summoning only when we were all gathered again.”

Despil stirs, a little hurriedly, “If you will permit an intrusion, that entity was not our Subject, but something else…” he waggles his fingers in a peculiar fashion and Havelock catches Sigrid nodding, infinitesimally; she understands his meaning. “It conveyed in to our presence a person, whom I think I recognised, before removing her again precipitately. Unless I miss my guess, that other is herself undergoing an initiation and I suspect she was attracted to our efforts here by some process of… resonance?”

Remembering something from the recent past Havelock enquires. “The Grafine von Laus or Zae of Zigo? I was invited by the latter to her assaying her heritage.” Despil nods.

Sigrid’s gaze switches from Havelock to Despil and back again. “I believe House Zigo are initiating a new Lord of Chaos, and I see how the… travails of her initiation might… become ‘entangled’ with our analogous rite. But how did you allow Lord Havelock to do so much damage to your working, Lord Despil?”

Despil shrugs helplessly. “I had been thrown to the ground by the… entity, Mistress, and the damage was done in but a moment. Had I not built in the usual twenty-fold temporal factor in to the working, I do not believe any of us would have escaped.”

Thinking it over, Havelock reckons from the moment he wielded the Pattern to Despil ending his spell, was probably a minute, no more.

“Three eyeblinks…?” Zubenelgenubi seems amazed by the result of his numerological analysis.

“This ‘Pattern’ is the infamous Eidolon of Amber, yes?”

Havelock nods.

“Then it is true! I had heard the legend of the demise of House Diptera but had not believed it.” Sigrid’s expression (limited though it is) and the tone of her voice, convey wonderment and horror. “The veriest touch of the Eidolon of Amber is instantly inimical to us here.” ‘Three eyeblinks’ is not exactly ‘instant’ but perhaps Havelock can bring himself to forgive the Grand Mistress’ hyperbole.

“And I am but an initiate,” Havelock adds. “Some of my elders have explored deeper mysteries I am not aware of. Some, when in their dreams, may use it to explore the world. An extra sense, as you or I would see or hear.”

“Lord Havelock,” Havelock has been upgraded from ‘knight’ to ‘lord’ and Sigrid’s tone conveys increased respect, as do the expressions of everyone else, save for Despil, whose frown betrays uncertainty, and Justinian, who remains unreadable, “it seems we may have underestimated your capabilities.”

“Indeed!” comments Mirandola, turning from his contemplation of Poliziano with a bittersweet smile, “at all levels.” He gestures to Poliziano’s injury, “It was masterfully done: manipulating my brother to the Architect’s couch and avenging the slight made at your introduction; you even placed your brand upon him that all might know. Truly elegant!”

Despil’s frown deepens as Mirandola continues…

“There is just one thing I do not comprehend, and that is how you knew Grand Mistress Sigrid would choose him in your stead?”

Zográfos pipes up, “Surely he did not, but as a vengeance of opportunity it is nonetheless most impressive.”

Several nod agreement but Zubenelgenubi disagrees in his light, silvery voice. “But of course he knew!” he points to Havelock’s trump case, hanging at his belt. “Lord Havelock is a gifted divinator, in the manner of the heretic, Dworkin Barimen. He saw it in his cards!”

Eyebrows rise, of those that have them, and there’s a general nodding of understanding. “Most impressive!” repeats Zográfos, to be echoed by Gnosos, “Indeed, accomplished even, don’t you know?”

Despil still frowns and Havelock can tell that he alone remains unconvinced, but he says nothing. Sigrid is coming to some decision and Havelock can tell she is about to make an announcement.

“Most noble Lord Havelock,” Havelock is really shooting up the social scale, “please accept the Order’s profoundest apologies for any slights you may have received or perceived at our hands. And, in light of your evident accomplishments and capabilities, would you do the Order the honour of accepting the post of Ultimo Praeceps?”

Zubenelgenubi gasps; Mirandola raises both eyebrows in surprise but inclines his head in agreement. Despil raises a single eyebrow, he’s impressed.

“Grand Mistress Sigrid,” Havelock bows low to Sigrid and on rising declares, “if such is your wish and with the consent of this company, I would be happy to accept the post.” As he says this he pans around those gathered in the dreaming chamber. He wonders, has he been positioned so, such that etiquette requires acceptance of a post he knows little of, but settles that these are individuals he must trust.

Sigrid seems pleased, as does everyone else, even Despil and Mirandola, though Poliziano is still unconscious, of course. Havelock gets no air of entrapment; this post presumably carries responsibilities only within the order. What those responsibilities exactly are, of course, remains obscure, though it is possible that it is merely a titular post with no duties beyond ceremonial.

“Lord Despil, obviously we cannot proceed with our intended demonstration at this time. Would you kindly escort the most noble Lord Havelock away safely and answer any remaining questions he may have.”

Despil nods sharply, even clicking his heels in Prussian fashion.

“Lord Havelock, you will be advised of our next meeting. If you have need to contact the Order, you may do so through either Sir Zubenelgenubi or Lord Despil. For now, fare thee well!”

Havelock acknowledges the Grand Mistress’ comments and moves towards Despil.

There’s a ripple of ‘farewell’ and ‘so long, old chap’ and ‘see you soon, don’t you know’, then Despil gestures politely toward the door. Despite the aches, Havelock stands tall and broadens his shoulders, before preceding his fellow Lord through the chamber door. Havelock finds himself re-entering the original chapter-house. Despil follows him through with an apologetic shrug of his shoulders.

“Sorry, old man; you were a little too quick for me there. Would you mind going through again?” He re-opens the door Havelock has just come through to reveal a stone stair spiralling up.

Havelock climbs the stair, listening for Despil climbing behind him. As soon as they are out of the earshot of the others he asks cheerily, “Lord Despil, you at least seemed less convinced of my perfidy than the others just then. Why was that?”

Following on behind, Despil grins the grin of someone who has just won a bet with himself. “Mmmm!” he muses, probably thinking of the best way to put this. “We denizens of this more ancient place are an unruly bunch; internecine strife, intrigue and plot are our meat and drink – Chaos indeed – so we immediately suspect it in others… Mirandola and Zebenelgenubi’s conjectures sound convincing but I saw your face when whatever happened happened and I’ll need more persuading that it was malice aforethought.”

The pair emerge on to the battlements. Interestingly the tower Havelock originally entered was square, but these battlements are round. There’s the lightest of rains falling, the sort that seems little more than mist and then half an hour later has you soaked through. The sky looks as it did before, grey with ragged dark clouds. Havelock is not sure the rain is coming from them, however.

“It might have been malice in blunderland,” continues Despil, surveying the checkerboard landscape, “though I’m not even sure it was malice at all.” He shrugs, “But it will do your reputation no harm and I doubt my caveats would be believed, were I of a mind to voice them, which I’m not, except perhaps to Mandor…”

“No, not malice,” declares Havelock, shaking his head. He settles into a crenellation, knee bent and foot on the parapet. Slowly he relaxes his back against the cold, damp stone of the merlon. “Whatever came before us with Grafine von Laus is inimical to the Pattern, the Eidolon of Amber. As, in turn, the Pattern is destructive to both it and to the fabric of sorcerous workings. I was simply forced to defend myself from its manifest presence.

“It was pure instinct. I had no measure of the, thankfully well organised, nature of your working nor the feel for being in the fragile environment of another’s dream.” He places two fingers against his own temple, with the thumb raised, as if a cocked pistol. “Vengeance has a time and place. Poliziano’s minor slight was not worth the destructive consequences of a spark of the Eidolon in his mind.” He drops the thumb and recoils his hand away from his head.

A low rumble from behind and above confirms that the weather hasn’t really changed at all while Havelock has been inside the tower. It still has that disturbing rise and fall in pitch that suggests it might yet again break in to deific conversation. But Despil seems blithely unconcerned by thunder or rain. He nods as Havelock confirms what he had already guessed.

“Poliziano deserved a lesson. He had no call voicing discontent when he did, the matter had already been discussed, which is why Sigrid was so curt with him. He should have known better, hence Mirandola’s supine acceptance of your apparent vengeance. When we’re done here I’ll go down and pull the last few fragments of my spell out of his head and we’ll see then if there is any permanent injury.”

There's a long pause while Despil lets a longer than usual rumble of thunder growl its way around the tower.

“It was shocking when it happened. By my sorcery, I saw you raise some sort of blazing griddle. It was there for just an instant but it torched my poor spell like a cobweb in a candleflame.” Despil shudders. “Which is why I kept my mouth shut; someone who wields power like that commands respect and we need that power at the service of the Order.”

The thunder grumbles again, getting closer and even more voice-like. “In case you’re wondering, the post of Ultimo Praeceps carries responsibilities only within the Order, though feel free to bandy the title around as much as you wish, a little self-aggrandisement never hurts. The title means ‘ultimate danger’ or perhaps ‘peril’, originally from out of the Abyss. I think the idea is that you are the ultimate danger and therefore also the ultimate defence to anything threatening the Order. We’ve never had one before but effectively it makes you third in command within the Order and first in line when it comes to violence, physical or metaphysical.”

“Then I think I had become better skilled in some other line of metaphysical violence than the pocket atomic which is my limited arsenal. Physical violence I have practice with, but otherwise I am adept at burning down the theatre everyone is stood in. Whilst this is a remarkable threat, it is no great defence.” Havelock turns his head to look at the two-tone landscape through the embrasure at his shoulder. “I am not a sorcerer; I skipped the hard study with my aunt for the art of my uncle. You have a talent for Trump, he told me. He was right; I have skills unique in my generation. I just have to find a way to turn such art to our defence.”

Despil shrugs, Trump is something he knows little about. “You represent a threat no one can ignore. There’s very few who won’t think twice before crossing you, sorcerer or no.”

Havelock closes his eyes as if concentrating and waits for the wind or Lord Despil’s words to stir him first. Right on cue, the thunder resolves in to a gravely voice… two voices… No faces this time but Havelock recognises Dworkin right off…

“So…how did it go?”

“Not quite as I envisaged but we have a beginning, and as a bonus there’s a bit of salacious gossip – when that gets around everyone on both sides should be all the more focused on the desired result.”

“Except for the extremists, fanatics and madmen, of course.”

“Of course, but they are the minority!”

“…and the terminally stupid…?”

“Mmmm! <sounding unsettled> How fares the Lady Zae?”

“Oh, she’s mislaid her tongue but there’s some way to go yet; I’m sure she’ll find it again somewhere.” There’s a short, pregnant pause, then… “So, shall we…?”

“Very well… <sound of card turning over> Death…?”

“<sound of something heavy being placed down> At the Opera…?”

“Snap!” The two voices shout in unison, then one continues but Havelock can’t tell which, “You know I’m looking forward to this…”

And then it’s just a receding grumble in the sky.

Despil gives no indication that he’s heard the voices but suddenly he straightens and comes closer to Havelock. “Ready?” he asks.

Looking back at the speaker next to him, Havelock starts to rise. Then stops and briefly comments, “Despil, if you are to be my contact you should sit for me sometime, so I can better keep in touch. In fact it may be useful for several members to sit if I am to better defend them through divination.”

Despil considers a moment before answering. “I’m not my brother and I’d be happy to sit for you, perhaps after the coming Opera? – assuming we all get through it unscathed. As for the others, by all means ask; I expect Mirandola and the hierophants will ask you to sit in turn. But you must understand that none of us retain the same persona for long, so don’t expect the image you draw to function well and, ultimately, at all.”

Havelock stands erect and stretches slowly. “Avant, mon ami. I am ready.”

Despil raises his right hand and places it horizontally, palm-outward, flat across Havelock’s brow. Havelock can feel the moisture from the rain making the touch slightly sticky. Despil then brings his left hand level with his (ie Despil’s) ear, fingers splayed. Havelock sees the fingers close (to form what he might recognise as a Vulcan greeting if he’s a devotee of Star Trek) and then close again to create a flat palm.

He turns his hand side-on and, muttering under his breath, executes a steady downward chopping motion. As the hand falls, Havelock feels himself falling away, though with no sense of panic, as darkness wells up. It’s quite restful.

* * *

The next thing, Havelock is lifting his head from where it’s been resting on the table in the Refectory in the Spiral.

But something is eclipsing his vision, something stuck across his forehead. He reaches up and peels the object from his forehead.

The movement pulls at what feels like half-healed scabs on his back, but he’s had worse. The object proves to be one of Havelock’s tarot cards – the Moon, in fact.

“My lord?...”

Havelock recognises the light, silvery voice of Zubenelgenubi coming from behind his right shoulder, far enough to be outside his personal space but near enough for his sotto voce to be unheard by others.

Languidly leaning back, Havelock views the table he had moments ago been resting upon and then, as his eyes come level, he surveys the room. Finally he comes to rest with his legs locked under the table base so he can arch slightly backwards on the bench. The room is emptier than before, just four members of House Malastar scattered across half-a-dozen tables. Havelock recognises Mirfak talking to another member of his order over some sort of beverage. The other two are each eating alone. All are some distance away. Havelock’s table is littered with his cards, disturbed by his slumber. Empty bowls and cups have been cleared away but there’s a fresh, filled goblet close to hand.

“Yes Zubenelgenubi..?” he replies, pitching his voice to match his colleague’s surreptitious enquiry.

Zubenelgenubi stands as Havelock first saw him, his hood hiding most of his face, save for the lower part, lit by those unseen, revolving eyes. “Fear not, most noble lord, you shall have been a Prince,” he whispers cryptically, before turning to leave.

Havelock considers these words as he watches him go. Then reaches forward and carefully gathers his cards together, setting them to one side, the idea for another divination already forming.

Once more the sceptical hypothesis settles into his thoughts. Am I sure I have awoken? Could I yet be still asleep and dreaming? Here more than elsewhere my world and I may be but an illusion in another’s dream. He reaches for the cup and dismisses the thought. By Oberon’s blood he is Havelock, son of Bleys, Prince of Amber, more real than any shadow and certainly no simulation of other minds.

The goblet contains a beverage, light and refreshing. Returning to his rooms, Havelock finds new clothes laid out on his bed in his colours. The old ones are good for the bin. The scars on his back already look and feel a couple of days old. His blade is still broken six inches from the hilt and this has not been replaced.

He finds his golden Kirin-hair brush wrapped in a scented roll of fine paper on which is written – ‘A Brush with Fate’?