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"That might be remedied, if you're willing to play the game out."
"I don't even know the stakes, or the rules."
"That will be a part of your reward if all goes well: answers to your questions--and answers to some you haven't even thought of yet."
"Such as who you are, and what you're after?"
"That will almost assuredly come out."
"Will I like what I discover?"
"In matters of taste, each person is of course the only judge."
"What choice have I?"
"You may act, or be acted upon."
"What do you want me to do?"
"Go along with things, find out what it is that your captor desires and decide whether that is what you also want. Then you act accordingly. Larick feels that he has you under complete control, but in a moment I will break his infantile spells. I will also reverse the moderately clever body exchange he has worked upon you, restoring to you your own vigorous, youthful--if fetigued--carcass. Then will follow the work of a true master. Freed and restored, I will disguise your body as I disguised your features, giving to it in every respect the semblance of the monster you now are. For an encore, I will then cloak you in a masking spell in all ways identical to the one which now hides your hideous appearance from most mortal eyes--"
"A disguise within a disguise?"
"Precisely."
"To what end?"
"At some point, those who desire you in the reduced state will be sure to strip away the outer layer to behold the captive monster within."
The large sorcerer strode forward and clasped him by the shoulders. Instantly, Pol felt something like an electric shock pass through him. His arm dropped. He sagged forward. His boots fell to the floor from where he had clutched them beneath his left arm all this long while. The sorcerer seized that arm and an agonizing pain ran through it. Before Pol could examine it, he had hold of the other. He was humming as he worked. Whether or not this was a part of his procedure, Pol could not tell.
As he raised his hands and realized that they were indeed his hands again, the man struck him a mighty blow across the back with his left hand and upon the chest just above the heart with his right. Even within the well-muscled and heavily armored form that he wore, Pol could tell that the man was no weakling.
He felt the air rush out of his lungs as his chest cavity was returned to normal. He began to straighten and the sorcerer struck him a terrific blow in the abdomen, well below the belt. The change continued in that region, and he straightened fully, massaging, slapping himself, as much for the joy of feeling his own form again as to ease the omnipresent aches.
The big sorcerer kicked him in the shins and he felt the aches, straightening and shrinkage begin in his legs.
"I must say you have a violent approach to these matters," he remarked.
"Perhaps you'd prefer a six-hour incantation with incense?"
"I never argue with success."
"Prudent. I now begin the first masking spell, causing you to look as you just were."
The illusion began, growing like a gray mist about him, shaped by the flowing gestures of the face-changer's hands.
Pol felt his hidden dragonmark throb in the presence of this magic. Soon it cloaked him completely, coalescing, sinking through his garments.
The sorcerer sighed and straightened.
"...And that will be all they see, if they pierce your outer guise, soon to be supplied by me. I must caution you concerning the obvious, however."
"That being?"
"You must act as if you are still under control. Be standing paralyzed in the same position in which he left you when Larick returns. Follow all of his orders as if you had no choice. The moment you deviate, you lose your chance to learn anything further. You will probably also have a fight on your hands."
Pol nodded. He looked down at himself as he did, seeing the monstrous appearance once again but not feeling it.
"I'll mask this illusion for everyone else now, as Larick had it," the sorcerer said, "but leave the appearance for you, as he also had it, as a reminder to act in keeping with it--with clumsiness and obedience."
Pol watched the man's hands as they commenced an intricate series of gestures.
"Do you see strands when you work?" he asked him suddenly.
"Sometimes," the sorcerer replied. "But right now I see beams of colored light, which I intercept. Hush. I'm concentrating."
Pol fixed his eyes on the man's changing face, trying to guess at his true features. But there was no pattern to the changes.
When the movements ceased and the man straightened, Pol said, "You told me on that night you came to me in our camp that our interests might not be entirely conjoined."
"Oh, there is a possibility that we might wind up at odds," the other replied. "I hope not, but there you are. It could happen. If so, it won't be because I didn't try, though. And at least for the moment we want the same thing: to get you out of here intact, to deceive your enemies, to position you strategically."
"Have you any idea what will happen when I leave here?"
"Oh, yes. You will be spirited away almost immediately--to Castle Avinconet."
"Larick did say that much. But who else is involved. And what will I meet at that end?"
"It is for better for you to learn these things yourself, to keep your responses normal."
"Damn it! There's more to it than that! You're hiding something!"
"In what way does that make me different from other men? Play your part, boy. Play your part."
"Don't patronize me. I need more information to carry this thing off."
"Bullshit," the sorcerer replied and turned away. "And strike your pose again. I believe I hear someone coming."
"But--"
"The rest is silence," the changing man said, as he vanished around the corner.
VII
Mouseglove hunkered in a rocky recess to the left of the cavemouth, his hood raised and cloak drawn about him against the morning's chill. To his right, the fresh-risen sun constructed morning above the foothills, skimming a layer of glory from the magical city he had quitted hours before. Eight of the initiates had so for passed him, each in the company of Larick, to salute the dawn, then make their ways back toward the town, alone, or in the company of a servant or former master. When he heard footsteps once again, Mouseglove stirred slightly, turning his head toward the opening. When he saw Pol approaching with the leader, he rose, joints creaking, but did not immediately depart his station.
Unlike those who had preceded him, Pol had already removed his white robe. His gait was slower and more awkward than usual. Larick, too, was dressed only in his day garments and head cloth. His face bore a far less solemn aspect than it had when he was bringing the others forth from Belken. He was snapping orders at Pol as they emerged. The two immediately turned to their left and began walking quickly in that direction.
Puzzled, Mouseglove stepped out from his niche and hurried after them.
"Good morning," he said. "How did you fere during the night?"
Larick almost stumbled in halting, and he placed his hand upon Pol's arm. By the time he turned, his face was composed. Pol, moving more slowly, was without expression.
"Good morning," Larick replied. "Your friend is well enough physically, but some who go through initiation experience mental disorganization in varying degrees. This has occurred with him."
"How serious is this thing?"
"That depends upon a great many factors--but it is generally treatable. I was hurrying him off right now with that end in mind."
"That is why you skipped the dawn salutation?"
Larick's eyes narrowed for the briefest moment, as if assessing the other's knowledge of the matters involved.