Drunk and Disorderly

“Grand Master! Grand Master! Calyan is drunk again!”

I had been reading a rather interesting book one of my protégés found in the depths of the library. It certainly ought to have been burned centuries ago to avoid exciting the novices, soI didn't appreciate the interruption.

“Grand Master?”

The voice was babbling on about something I couldn't muster an interest in, but as it did certain elements of the original sentence wormed their way into the higher centers of my brain. In particular the words 'Calyan' and 'Drunk'.

I stood with a sigh and opened the door. On the other side of it were the pinched features of Desprot, Lower Mage of the Inner Chamber, and apparently today's nocturnal duty officer. “Master Geragar?” he asked, looking at me in a way that left me wondering if I might not have been sprouting lightning from my head as I read the juicer bits, always a regrettable incident. A quick pat on the coif revealed it to be free of atmospheric phenomenon.

“Where is he?” I asked.

“In the Lesser Hall of the Black Obelisk.”

“Very well,” I said. "I'm on my way."

For those of you who haven't read the Who's Who of the wizarding world recently, Calyan the Immortal is the Grand Master of the Hidden Temple of Thorns, my equal in rank if not in responsibility. There are just a handful of important things to know about Calyan:

He is the most powerful wizard ever to grace the Arbitrarium.

Though he is so indecently old he can't remember most of his own life, he has the constitution of an ox.

Although from time to time he is frighteningly lucid, at most times and on most days his maturity level was about that of a somewhat backward ten-year-old.

Most important, he can be a wicked drunk.

I grabbed the heavy club that lay next to my bed as I headed for the door. The idea of using physical violence against a fellow grand master was, of course, abhorrent to me, but I am a practical man. As my father oft told me in childhood, a gentle tap on the temple with a blunt instrument can be more civilized than a prolonged and unpleasant disagreement.

“Korgan?”

“On his way, Grand Master.”

I straightened my robe carefully before striding forth, so as not to present a rushed appearance. I am, after all, one of eleven grand masters of the Arbitrarium, the combined school, gentleman's club, and work camp of the Order Most Majestic of the Wizards of Cerimor. Membership in the Arbitrarium is a privilege granted, sometimes forcefully, to all who have a natural talent for magic. This is because there is general agreement among the wise that the world works best when those with the talent don't spend too much time with those who lack it.

I have a number of duties at the Arbitrarium, but my two main tasks are guarding the structural integrity of our buildings and the mental health of its inhabitants. Both of these have a tendency to be imperiled when Calyan gets drunk.

As I headed toward the Hall of the Obelisk my personal assistant, Korgan the Greater Wizard of the Twisted Wyrm, fell in step with me. He is a long, lugubrious man with short, tight curls on his head and somewhere between little and no expression on his face. Korgan is a most excellent assistant: unimaginative but dutiful, aggressively competent, hard working, and entirely unflappable. Not the sort of person one might choose to share an ale with, but exactly the sort to have around in an emergency. On this occasion he spoke no unnecessary words, only looked at me with alert expectation.

I gave some thought to my orders. Nine times out of ten Calyan is a bizarre but harmless drunk, only becoming dangerous when annoyed. There are, unfortunately, a bewildering number of things which annoy him. I had in the past attempted to keep people away to minimize the risk of said annoyance, but his tendency to experiment with magic when not distracted had had distressing results. These days I felt a policy of cautious observation and occasional violence better served the interests of the Arbitrarium.

I turned sharply into the Hall of the Gilded Pillars, its columns gleaming dully in the night as small, multicolored balls of light drifted among them. A pretty sight when one has time for it. At the moment I did not. I turned to Korgan.

“I need someone to awaken all the novices and send them to the storeroom for buckets. Have them count off, send the odds to the well for water, the evens to the pits for sand. They should then proceed directly to the Lesser Hall of the Black Obelisk, where they are to be prepared to extinguish fires, small demons, or any other unexpected phenomena. How is Estward progressing in his studies of Inferior Demotic?”

“Quite satisfactorily, Grand Master,” said Korgan.

I took a quick left into the Hallowed Passage of the Prismatic Fountains. Their musical waters tinkled and splashed in the back of my mind as I considered further action. “Have him collect a tablet and stylus and be prepared to take notes. The same goes for Ledrik and Samasta, who should take notes of anything said in the colloquial tongue and high speech, respectively.”

When drunk, Calyan spent a good deal of his time swearing and spouting nonsense, but from time to time he also revealed striking insights into the hidden nature of the cosmos. Some of these pronouncements were things he had learned during the course of his long life, but chose not to discuss with his peers, due to his assertion he didn't actually have any.

Others seemed to come from some unknown source outside his own mind. They were things humanity was not meant to know, and should never have any opportunity to discover. None of the rest of us had any theory as to how these things came to him, or why they did only when he was drunk, but we all agreed there was nothing so titillating as forbidden knowledge, and we didn't mean to miss any of it.

“Let's see,” I said. “Send Mrs. Pleg to town until tomorrow afternoon.” Calyan was rather a gentleman in his lucid moments and uninterested in others the rest of the time, but when drunk he had a tendency to press his attentions. He was nothing like discriminating, but he did restrict his advances to females, and Mrs. Pleg the laundress was the only woman who slept in.

There were no women among the alumni, of course. Women with the talent had their own domicile in another of the Seven Kingdoms. The rulers of said kingdoms had always feared that keeping male and female wizards too close together might lead to unfortunate outbreaks of wizardlings.

After a bit more thought I added to the order. “Have Elswat accompany Mrs. Pleg and make sure she stays in the town.” Elswat had been growing his hair unusually long of late, and had always been fastidious about his grooming. It was best to err on the side of safety.

Had I been talking to anyone else I would have asked them to repeat my instructions, but with Korgan that would have been pointless. “Nothing further. I never asked if you enjoyed the conference on the use of prime numbers in generating demonic names?”

“It was most informative, Grand Master.”

“I'm so glad. On your way now.” I do like to keep up the morale of the troops by showing an interest. Korgan never seemed to need it, but it wouldn't do to leave him out.

“Yes, Grand Master.” He peeled off smoothly, expressionless as always, radiating annoyingly wholesome efficiency.

I proceeded with swift steps down the polished marble corridors of the Arbitrarium, my sandal slaps echoing along the inky walls of the Passage of Precipitous Mirrors. It pleased me to note there were as yet no cracks either in them, or in the fabric of reality.

I took a quick dodge into the Dome of the Hideous Gargoyles. The slightest whiff of brimstone caught my attention. A quick glance up at the shadowy roof where the Gargoyles lurked indicated none seemed to be moving. I made a mental note to find out who'd been using the dome today. Being a liberal-minded man, I am willing to wink at a certain amount of interaction with the minions of Hell, but such things can go too far. Demons can be messy creatures and it was already hard enough keeping decent cleaning staff.

As I approached the Lesser Hall of the Black Obelisk, I was more and more convinced it was not going to be one of Calyan's worst nights. Indications of mayhem were minimal. The walls showed no sign of being about to melt, nor did they start speaking. No hideous deformed corpses clawed their way free of the soil beneath shattered flagstones. There weren't even any haunting strains of sinister music hovering on the edge of my hearing.

There was, however, a large toad before the artfully arched main door of the Lesser Hall of the Black Obelisk.

I knew I'd come to the right place.

The apparition was quite large for a toad, about the size of a terrier, though far more squat and ugly. Also, unusually for a toad, it bore two-inch, needle-sharp fangs, the top and bottom row interlacing with each other and both projecting from the lipless mouth.

I considered the implications of the toad's presence. I had no doubt who had put it there, and it suggested to me that Calyan did not wish to be disturbed. Or at least at some point in his progressive drunkenness he hadn't. Or perhaps he had been idly remembering chasing frogs in the creeks of his far distant youth. One never knew.

The toad cocked its head sideways to fix me with a singularly malevolent puce-colored eye. I pulled back my club thoughtfully. The toad was most likely an illusion, but Calyan's illusions were so strong that they became real from time to time. It was also always possible he'd summoned some form of demonic creature I was unfamiliar with.

I've always felt it's best to take as few chances as possible when dealing with magical manifestations. As soon as the toad opened its mouth I swung the club full force.

It made contact with a satisfying wet smack. The toad, although sufficiently flattened by the blow to interfere with its aerodynamic properties, flew in a very nice arc directly through the small peaked window on the side of the hall, leaving behind it a spray of green ichor.

I can recommend nothing better for reducing stress and augmenting self assurance than toad smacking, especially when the toad in question is of a nice, solid weight. I strode through the door to the Lesser Hall with renewed confidence and in relatively good cheer.

Calyan stood in the exact center of the hall. Well, I say stood, but he was floating with his feet approximately half a yard above the ground. His pure white hair stood out to its full length, each hair an individual taut wire, forming a sort of halo around his head. His eyes were red instead of their usual dull brown, and multi-colored butterflies issued from his ears at an astonishing rate. That was one of the few pleasant things about Calyan when he was drunk: he tended to produce rather pretty involuntary phenomena.

Although the brilliant red color of his eyes made it difficult to be certain, I had a sense they were looking in different directions. His mouth was about half open and dribbling, while from it a near constant 'aaaaa' issued. His right hand clutched at his beard, one might even go so far as to say tore at it. The other appeared to be describing a series of rapid games of noughts and crosses in the air, playing both sides. I noted idly that the noughts seemed to be severely outclassed. He had on his formal robe, but no shoes—though this last, in him, was nothing out of the ordinary.

The cellarer had strict instructions not to provide Calyan with anything even mildly intoxicating. Alas, such strictures are of limited use against a man capable of magically converting his own saliva into pure grain alcohol. Indeed, in one of his saner moments he'd once confided to me that he could convert it into any type of alcoholic beverage, including some that had not been manufactured in centuries and only he remembered.

I watched him thoughtfully. I was pleased to see he did not seem to be doing any intentional violence to the room and limited violence only to himself. In fact he seemed not to be doing anything particular at all. Thinking this state of affairs unlikely to be improved by my intervention, I stood and watched him. With any luck, he might lose consciousness before anything untoward happened.

Calyan noted my presence after a surprisingly short five minutes. The finger that had been in his beard lanced out at me, or at least as nearly at me as could be expected under the circumstances. “Geragar!” he barked, a cloud of sparkling silver stars spewing out of his mouth to land smoldering on the floor.

I was both nonplussed and rather gratified he'd managed to identify me. Calyan only rarely considered even other grand masters worth conversing with. Perhaps he wasn't quite so drunk as I'd thought. “It is I, indeed, old friend. How are you feeling?”

“Yes, I know you.” He peered at me from under bushy brows that were beginning to glow pink. “The End of the World cometh!” he bellowed, this time spitting golden sparks.

“I don't doubt it, old boy, but can you be more specific about when and how?” Calyan had occasionally been known to prophesy while drunk, and as far as we could determine his prophesies were invariably accurate. The timing of them was a bit tricky, though. He could equally well be referring to something that would happen tomorrow, or in several millennia.

“NOW!” he boomed, highlighting the sentiment with a peal of thunder that shook the floor.

I involuntarily looked around, but there was no sign of the walls cracking or demons clawing forth cackling from a disintegrating roof. It appeared that 'now' was not to be taken literally. Which meant it could refer to any time, really.

“The Worm Rises!” he intoned. “It is hidden amongst us!”

“Ah!” I said. “Is that 'wyrm' with a 'y', or 'worm' with an 'o', old boy?”

He made a sort of kissing motion and a small golden circle popped out of his mouth. I took that to indicate the latter spelling.

At about this moment Estward, Lesser Sorcerer of the Riven Veils, made his appearance. He sidled in through the arch, keeping his back to the wall and looking decidedly uncomfortable. The other two I'd detailed as scribes were only a bit behind him. There was as yet no sign of the novices, but fortunately Calyan was being more oracular than destructive today.

“About this worm,” I asked. “Around what size would you say it was?”

Calyan made no immediate response to this. Instead he went into a slow, flat spin, his feet headed up and his head down. Slightly past the halfway point his ceremonial robes flopped downward, covering his head and exposing the fact he'd chosen not to wear undergarments that day.

“Mph urraphumph!” he bellowed.

“Indeed,” I agreed. “Would you mind closing your legs, old boy?”

With a sudden jerk he spun back about, feet down, and fell with a dry slap of soles on flagstones. His robe billowed downward like a cloud of falling petals and there was a sudden bloom of cherry blossoms about his chin. He glared at me.

“You!” he said. “A plague on my memory!”

“Back out lads!” I said, with some urgency, but no louder than necessary. Estward and Samasta dove for the door with commendable alacrity, but Ledrik only stared at me with his mouth open. “Don't let the novices in!” I hissed to the other two.

Calyan thrust his palm toward me, but I had a barrier up before the force of his bolt hit me. The energy exploded in all directions. Ledrik cartwheeled out the window but was only smoking slightly, giving me high hopes for his survival.

It would be difficult to describe the next few moments in detail, as I was reacting more than thinking. Calyan threw a great deal at me, numerous spells of considerable variety and force. I was able to deflect them all. I would have been no match for Calyan sober, but when drunk his aim was on the random side. Happily, he also had a strong tendency to use the same tactics I favored myself, allowing me to anticipate his actions with a high degree of confidence.

He fired Gardur's Sizzling Ray of Putrefaction, its twisting green streamers breaking apart as I countered with the Impenetrable Wall of Adamant. He threw out the Cloud of Buzzing Death, which I absorbed with Lendar's Merciless Sponges. He shot a Flaming Arrow of Oblivion, which I defeated by lunging to the right.

In spite of his inaccuracy, I was beginning to sweat when there was a sudden lull in the assault. I peered through the smoke, hoping he'd passed out. Instead, he was muttering words I couldn't quite make out. They were in the High Speech, but I didn't recognize the spell.

That did not bode well.

He flung up his hands, shouting the final word. I dived to the side, not wasting time with a counter-spell. An unpleasant cloud of a very dark green shaped like rather like a daisy flashed into being just where I'd stood a moment before. The area of effect was not large, but I could feel the sense of pressure that marked the massive power of the spell even from where I was—sliding sideways down the wall.

The redness of Calyan's eyes winked out abruptly. He snapped his fingers once, then stood so still one might have taken him for one of the effigies of bygone Grand Masters had it not been for the state of his hair. I looked at him for a moment, then back to where the flash had gone off. About three feet off the floor was a small spot of what would have been absolute blackness, save that extremely tiny but unimaginably bright sparks were coruscating around it. It made a fizzing noise.

I stood up and approached it cautiously. Calyan leaned forward toward it. For a long moment we both stared at the tiny ball of bright darkness in almost companionable silence. I had the feeling it was growing, though at an almost imperceptible rate.

“Is that...?”

“It is,” he said, all signs of drunkenness gone as surely as if he'd never heard of alcohol.

We both stared at it a bit longer. I heard Ledrik groaning from the garden, which would have been reassuring in other circumstances. Somehow, by focusing a truly amazing amount of force in a very small spot in some misguided attempt to squash me, Calyan had destroyed a bit of reality. The unreality left behind was growing, feeding on the realness around it.

“Can we stop it?” I asked.

“I don't know how to. Do you?”

“Why in the world did you do that?”

“Don't remember. It was me, was it?”

“You know perfectly well no one else here has that kind of power. What are we supposed to do?”

He grabbed at his beard with both hands and gritted his teeth. “Let me think.”

“How much time do we have?”

“Let me think, I said!”

I let him think. One of the novices popped his head around the arch. I started to shoo him away, then thought better of it. “Essik, is it?”

The novice blushed. “Yes, master. I'm honored you remember me.”

“Don't be modest, Essik, I'm sure you're quite memorable. Can you summon the other grand masters for me? I'm afraid Calyan has doomed the space-time continuum to a slow but inevitable destruction. I believe a quick staff meeting is called for.”

The novice gaped, stared for a time, then abruptly disappeared through the arch.

“I've got it!” said Calyan.

“Excellent,” I said. “What is it?”

“Someone will have to go back in time and kill me before this happens. I'd do it myself, but I'd only muff it. I can't even pick my own scabs without fainting.”

I gave his suggestion some thought. “Won't work,” I said at last. “First of all, I very much doubt anyone alive can kill you. And second, you can't cheat time. Everyone knows that.”

“Hah! They know no such thing! They theorize it. Not the same thing at all.”

“There have been quite a number of experiments. You've done some yourself, if I recall. Nobody's ever been able to change anything.”

“Sloppy logic,” Calyan spat. “The absence of proof is not proof of absence.”

“Say that again?”

“As for people not being able to kill me, it's just a question of distance. If we send someone back far enough, I won't be so powerful, now will I?”

“Nobody's strong enough to send anyone back that far,” I pointed out.

“I am.”

“But... look here, Calyan. Do you really think that would work? Do you think the theories are wrong?”

“Of course I don't think they're wrong!” he thundered. “I'm not an idiot! But the world's going to end if we don't do something. Do you have a better plan?”

“Well...”

“Thank you for your support!” he said. He was starting to look a bit unfocused again. He grabbed my hand and started pumping it up and down.

“Calyan...” I said, but trailed off when I noticed he was mouthing words. “Wait!” I shouted. I tried to pull away, but he was as strong as a man of half his centuries.

He raised a hand, his words rising to a crescendo. At that moment I remembered the advice of my long-gone father, and the fact that I'd come prepared to follow it, as a good son should.

I hauled off and gave Calyan a swift, solid smack on the side of the head with my club.

There was a rather sickening crack and a shower of multi-colored beetles burst from the back of his head. He pitched forward like an animated corpse that's just remembered it's dead. The words cut off at once. He fell face down and slammed to a stop, floating a few inches from the floor. He remained unmoving as the beetles gently pattered down around him.

I let out a long breath, counted to three, then bent down to check the back of his head. There was a lump already rising, but no sign of damage to the skull; it felt like an iron cauldron. A quick listen showed he was breathing steadily and rather loudly.

I regarded him for a long moment, then reached down and patted him on the back. “Sorry about that, old boy. But do you know, I believe you've made me think of something. If only I knew what it was.”

* * *

Half an hour later seven Grand Masters, including Caylan, were gathered in Solemn Council, in the Lesser Hall of the Black Obelisk. That was about the norm; there were always a few Grand Masters traveling the other planes, or out doing business in the mundane world, or not interested in answering knocks on the door. Caylan had an ice pack on his head, which was slipping off but he didn't seem to notice. He appeared no worse for the blow and hadn't mentioned it when I'd revived him.

The seven of us were gathered around the fizzing black sphere, which was now noticeably if only slightly larger, watching it with interest.

Grand Master Estler, Revered Bearer of the Sceptre of Glamours, was in full flood, though for him that was barely more than a hearty mumble. He was our titular head and therefore ran the meetings. By long tradition the oldest of the grand masters performed this service. Strictly speaking, that was Calyan, but he rarely remembered his prerogative and the rest of us agreed it was best not to remind him.

So Estler was acting head of the council, and I must say he was one of the better heads we'd had. His leadership style was to smile vaguely at anyone who talked to him, mumble with considerable spirit, and generally let everyone else go on with whatever they were about. On those occasions when someone asked him for a decision of some kind, he would ask questions until they gave up and went away.

“...a rift in the space-time continuum,” he mumbled energetically. “Do I understand the situation correctly?”

“More or less,” growled Calyan, “Though it's more of a blot of unreality, feeding on and replacing the reality around it at a steadily increasing rate, unstoppable and inevitable, doomed to grow until it consumes the whole of the universe.”

“Ah!” said Estler, beaming at him. “We understand each other, then. Suggestions?”

“Get as far away from here as possible,” said Grand Master Heldegar, Effervescent Guardian of the Golden Seals, his chubby face quivering slightly. Not with fear, his face just had a natural tendency to quiver.

“Too temporary,” snapped out Soreselian, Paragon Sorcerer of the Black Portals of Ung. He shook his head, his pale blue eyes blazing with—well, habit, mostly.

I steepled my fingers thoughtfully. "I have something lurking in the back of my mind, but I can't quite catch hold of it. Something to do with traveling in time."

"Don't see how that would work," said Soreselian.

"Nor I," I admitted. "Yet there was something, something lodging in there by Calyan's attempt to send me back in time, which effort I'm afraid I had to decline to cooperate with.”

“You needn't sound ungrateful,” said Calyan. “It wouldn't have hurt you any. A few centuries back in time would have meant a few centuries of extra life before the world ended.”

“Hold on!” said Heldegar. “Now, that is an idea! We can all go back in time. That's better than distance, eh Sores?”

“Hmm,” grunted Soreselian, but there was a thoughtful look on his face.

“How fast did we say the blot is growing?” asked Heldegar.

“About a tenth of its diameter per hour, at a guess,” said Jadurel, Ponderous Wielder of the Gilded Scrolls of Wisdom.

“Plenty of time,” nodded Heldegar, warming to his work. “Why, with that much time Calyan ought to be able to send back all the Masters, possibly even the journeymen. He might even be able to send back some of the novices.”

“Send a novice back three or four hundred years in time?” rumbled Shadak, Aweful Overlord of the Shrieking Chasm. “Why bother. I mean, I'm sure they have plenty of them back there already.”

“Won't work,” said Calyan, flatly.

“What?” Heldegar asked, turning to him with a frown.

“It won't work.”

“Why in the world did you suggest it, then?” asked Soreselian, with more than a trace of acid.

“Why won't it work?” demanded Heldegar, sticking out his lower jaw. “It sounds like a fine plan to me.”

“Because if it had worked, someone would have noticed it.” said Calyan. “I mean, if the whole body of our Arbitrarium suddenly showed up in a past Arbitrarium, doubling its population at a stroke, someone would have at least scribbled a short note in the annals, don't you think?”

“Perhaps, in the act of going back, we'll change the timeline,” pointed out Heldegar.

“Don't be daft,” said Calyan. “Everybody knows you can't cheat time.”

“If I recall,” I pointed out, “you yourself said that theory was unproven not much more than half an hour ago. I believe your words were 'absence of proof is not proof of absence'.”

“Say that again!” said Estler. “I'm not sure what it means, but I rather like the sound of it.”

“Who cares what I said!” Calyan roared. “I'm surprised at you, Geragar, listening to a senile drunkard. You should know better.”

“Calyan's right, you know,” said Jadurel, who was reckoned something of an expert on time. “You really can't change things that way.”

“But, then—” Heldegar began.

"What about stopping the unreality, then?" mumbled Estler. "Shadak? If I recall you delved into unreality at one time."

Shadak shook his head. "The problem with researching unreality is you can't experiment. I mean, it won't be safe to create any to study until you know how to get rid of it, and there's no way to figure out how to get rid of it without experiment."

"Surely the library..."

Shadak shook his head. "No one's ever been able to experiment. Nobody has dared to try. The books are all pure theory, and the ancient sages pulled the theories out of their--"

"All right," mumbled Estler with something approaching hoarseness. "Why don't we each go back and, ah, think about options. I'd like some proposals, brothers. Let us say, four hours, in the Hall of Solemn Purpose?"

* * *

Calyan and I watched the others file out, then turned to stare back at the sphere. It sat there fizzing, looking—well, not insignificant. Not innocent. But not exactly menacing either.

Calyan lobbed a gob of spit in the general direction of the sphere. It didn't hit, but passed so near that it disappeared in a puff of steam.

I sighed. "I wish I could remember what your original plan made me think of. Something about time travel, I'm sure of that. But what? Assuming we can't cheat time, how is time travel going to help us?"

Calyan peered at me. "You're an inventive lad, for a youngster. Remind me of myself in my younger days."

"You don't remember your younger days."

"Even so. You'll think of something."

I sighed again. "You mind going somewhere to talk it over? I have the feeling you may be able to help me with the idea, if I ever catch hold of it.

* * *

Torchlight glinted off the polished grimace-carvings of the Hall of Solemn Purpose, as well as off the pates of the balder Grand Masters. Heldegar's detailed proposal for an evacuation into one of the cooler parts of the infernal regions had been met with such a barrage of mumbled questions from Estler that it had crumbled away. Jadurel had just finished with a somewhat shorter suggestion for lobbing the sphere into the infernal regions instead, which had received no more than a faint half smile from Estler before being torn apart by Soreselian.

I cleared my throat. “I have a suggestion I think may have some promise. Calyan and I have discussed it. We can't promise it'll work, but it has one advantage, that we'll know almost at once if it did or not. If it doesn't we can move on to other options.”

Estler beamed at me. “That sounds promising. Well done, Geragar.”

“Let's wait on the congratulations until we've at least heard the idea,” said Soreselian, biting off each word.

I bowed to him. “It is this. I think we—or rather I—should go forward in time.”

“Have you lost your wits?” Soreselian asked. “There isn't going to be any future to go to.”

“There will be if the plan works.”

Heldegar frowned. “I'm not sure I follow...”

“Best not to think about it,” said Jadurel. “That's the trick when messing about with time, just don't think about things too much.”

“My idea is this,” I said. “We will at once set up a research project with the goal of finding a solution to the problem of unreality. Of course, we don't have time for such an extensive study as things stand, but once the blot is eliminated, we will have.”

“But—” said Heldegar.

“Don't think about it!” warned Jadurel.

“I had meant to ask Grand Master Shadak for an opinion as to how long a solution might take, supposing there is one.” I bowed in the direction of Shadak, the closest thing we had to an expert on unreality.

Shadak steepled his fingers and pursed his lips. “Well,” he said, “I don't like to make a hasty pronouncement. It's a thorny problem, and thaumaturgic progress is always irregular. Given our current unfortunate lack of knowledge and the quality of our current novices, I would think at least several generations. To be safe I'd say five hundred years.”

“I bow to your superior knowledge,” I said, bowing. “So there it is. We set up a task force to find a solution to the unreality problem as well as improved time travel spells, Calyan sends me five hundred years forward, I pick up the solution, they send me back, and there we are. I'll be here in five minutes with the solution, if there is one. If I'm not back then you can work on a backup plan.”

There was silence around the table for a long time. It was Estler who broke it, as befit his rank. “Well,” he said, “I'd like to commend Grand Master Geragar for his courage in volunteering to go forward to a possibly non-existent future. That's the sort of valor and heedlessness that has made the Arbitrarium what it is, and deserves to be inscribed in the Annals, should they continue to exist. However, I can't help wondering if there isn't a small flaw in the plan.”

“What's that?” Calyan asked, his brows gathering together formidably.

“Well, I can't help thinking that our lads—of course they're quite keen and all, but not always what you might call constant. They're not much given to long-term efforts, outside of the occasional rabid obsession, and I can't quite imagine any of them spending his life working on one thing. Especially when the problem will have, so to speak, already been solved.”

“Ah!” said Calyan. “But if Geragar comes back with a solution, it will mean the effort was made, however skeptical we may be. It will have to happen.”

“But—”

“Best not to think about it.”

“Of course,” said Estler. “And yet, I can't help thinking it might be better to stack the odds in our favor before making the attempt.”

“Hmm,” said Calyan. “That's a point.”

“One to which I have given some consideration,” I said. “I'm thinking of starting a cult.”

“A cult?” spat Soreselian, with such impressive force and accuracy that the spray nearly reached my person.

“Exactly. A cult dedicated to saving the world through the discovery of a solution to the problems of unreality and time travel. With suitable mystical trappings and promises of salvation. Our lads do have a soft spot for mystical trappings, and the promise of salvation would be no less than truth, if you think about it.”

“Don't think about it,” said Jadurel reflexively

“Well... if you believe it best.” said Estler. “But, Grand Master Geragar, do you think you have the ability to spawn a cult that will attract wizards for generations?”

“Certainly,” I said. “I have Korgan.” I snapped my fingers at the Forbidden Portal on the west of the chamber and the dread doors swung open. One of them at least. Korgan stood outside, dramatically outlined by the scintillating light coming through a stained-glass window.

“Come in, old boy,” I said. “I've a question for you.”

“Grand Master.”

“Do you think you might be able to start up a cult? The sort that would keep a few dozen wizards working fanatically toward an obviously impossible goal for several centuries?”

Korgan considered briefly. “I should think so, Grand Master. A certain amount of study may be required, of course. It has been some time since I've perused the relevant tomes on mass hysteria and self delusion.”

I waved a negligent hand through the air. “You've got all the time in the world. This group will need to find a way to eliminate unreality and to send someone backward in time half a millennia. They should be prepared to report their results to me, in person, in this chamber, exactly five hundred years from now, to the hour.”

“Very well, Grand Master. Shall I begin?”

“Off with you, Korgan, and bless your single-minded brain.”As Korgan bowed and withdrew I turned to address the other masters. “I think we've done all we can to favor our attempt. Shall we proceed?”

Glances were exchanged around the table. Then they looked back at me. Estler beamed.

* * *

“Grand Master. Wake up. Grand Master? Calyan is drunk again.”

It had been three months since I'd returned victorious, after a brief conference with a rather sinister-looking but satisfyingly obsequious group of cowled future wizards. Their personal habits had been strange in the extreme, but this unfortunate trait had been mitigated by their tendency to regard my second coming with religious awe. I expect the constant grovelling and piteous pleas for autographs would have got on my nerves in time, but for half an hour it was quite gratifying.

The theory behind the spell that vanquished the unreality had been, frankly, beyond my comprehension, but it had been easy enough to cast and had worked. What more can you ask for from magic than that? We'd burned the copy of the spell after use, so as not to tempt Korgan's group currently working away on how to solve the problem.

“Grand Master?” The voice was much calmer than the last one which had summoned me under similar circumstances, and after a distracted moment I realized it must be Korgan himself.

“I'm awake. Come in.” I ran a hand through my hair and sputtered a bit, just to get the blood flowing. “Where is he this time?”

Korgan slipped through the door, serious as always. “In the Fathomless Caves of the Infernal Presence.”

“Ah,” I said. “Camped out in the cellars, is he? I hope he isn't destroying any of the rarer vintages.”

“I have not yet ascertained, Grand Master.”

“All right. The usual instructions. Give me a moment to gather my wits. By the way, I haven't asked you lately how the cult is going?”

“It's shaping up quite well, Grand Master. Xandru's Encyclopedia of Human Psychology and his addendum on universal mental quirks has proved especially useful, along with Sheshker's 'Weird Cults and How to Squash Them'. I have noted a rise in fervor of around six point seven percent just in the last month. We've developed some features which, while in my opinion rather shallow, seem to appeal particularly to the novices. Attracting the relatively youthful will be crucial to keeping the cult going in the long term.”

“That's the stuff, Korgan. Catch 'em young and corrupt 'em thoroughly. Fine work. By the way, did you manage to modify the—ah, I see you did.” My hand had closed around my club and I noticed a new and pleasing weight to it. I caressed the top knob, which had been covered with a liberal layer of lead. I smacked this against my palm with some satisfaction.

“All right. Let's go have a chat with Calyan.”