“Merlin!”
I immediately had an image of Mandor in a changed form, looking down his red-clothed arm, hand invisible, presumably regarding me through my Trump, wearing the closest thing I’d seen in a long while to an irritated expression.
“Yes?” I said.
His gaze moved past me. His expression suddenly changed, eyebrows rising, lips parting.
“That’s Jurt you’re with?” he asked.
“That’s right.”
“I’d thought you not on the best of terms,” he said slowly, “as of our last conversation.”
“We agreed to put aside our differences for the funeral.”
“While it seems very civilized, I’m not certain how wise it is,” he said.
I smiled.
“I know what I’m doing,” I told him.
“Really?” he said. “Then why are you at the cathedral rather than here at Thelbane?”
“Nobody told me I was supposed to be at Thelbane.”
“Odd,” he responded. “Your mother was supposed to have informed both you and Jurt that you were to be part of the procession.”
I shook my head and turned away.
“Jurt, did you know we were to be in the procession?” I asked.
“No,” he said. “On the one hand, it makes sense. On the other, there’s the black watch, which might recommend we maintain a low profile. Who’s telling you this?”
“Mandor. He says Dara was supposed to let us know.”
“She didn’t tell me.”
“You catch that?” I said to Mandor.
“Yes. It doesn’t matter now. Come on through, both of you.”
He extended his other hand.
“He wants us now,” I said to Jurt. “Damn!” Jurt mouthed, and came forward.
I reached out and clasped Mandor’s hand just as Jurt came up and caught hold of my shoulder. We both moved forward then into the slick and gleaming interior of Thelbane’s main hall at ground level, a study in black, gray, mossy green, deep red, chandeliers like stalactites, fire sculptures about the walls, scaly hides hung behind them, drifting globes of water in the middle air, creatures swimming within them. The place was filled with no-tiles, relatives, courtiers, stirring like a field of flame about the catafalque at the hall’s center. The gong sounded again just as Mandor said something to us.
He waited till the vibrations subsided, then spoke again: “I said Dara hasn’t arrived yet. Go pay your respects, and let Bances assign you places in the procession.”
Glancing toward the catafalque, I caught sight of both Tmer and Tubble in the vicinity. Tmer was talking to Bances, Tubble to someone who had his back turned this way. A horrible thought suddenly struck me.
“What,” I asked, “is the security situation for the procession?”
Mandor smiled.
“There are quite a few guardsmen mixed in with the group here,” he said, “and more spotted along the way. Someone will be watching you every second.”
I glanced at Jurt to see whether he’d heard, that. He nodded.
“Thanks.”
Keeping my litany of obscenities subvocal, I moved toward the casket, Jurt at my back. The only way I could think to produce a double would be to talk the Pattern into sending in a ghost of myself to take my place. But the Logrus would detect the ringer’s projected energies in no time. And if I just left, not only would my absence be noticed, but I’d probably be tracked-possibly by the Logrus itself once Dara called a conference. Then it would be learned that I’d gone off to thwart the Logrus’s attempt to rebalance order, and the headwaters of Shit Creek are a cruel and treacherous expanse. I would not make the mistake of fancying myself indispensable.
“How are we going to do this, Merlin?” Jurt said softly as we found our way to the end of the slow-moving line.
The gong sounded again, causing the chandeliers to vibrate.
“I don’t see how we can,” I answered. “I think the best I can hope for is to try getting a message through as I walk along.”
“It can’t be done by Trump from here,” he answered. “Well, maybe under perfect conditions,” he amended, “but not with all these distractions.”
I tried to think of some spell, some sending, some agent to serve me in this. Ghost would have been ideal. Of course; he’d drifted off to explore the spatial asymmetries of the Sculpture Hall. That could keep him occupied for a long while.