REPOST: "TASTING MOZART"

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Subj: REPOST: "Tasting Mozart" 1/4

AUTHOR'S NOTE:
This is the sequel to my Eleventh Doctor story "Touching Indigo".
However, reading "Indigo" first is not essential -- just a good idea.

"Tasting Mozart" is also a sequel, or a prequel (depending on your
perspective) to Ben Aaronovich's 1989 Who script, "Battlefield".
Again, it helps to have seen the episode or read Marc Platt's
excellent novelization, but it is not absolutely necessary.

Comments, criticisms, and questions are welcome, and may be addressed
to the author at rebe...@mercury.execulink.com.

And finally, thanks to Patrick Doyle, Patrick Goodman, and Kate
Orman, for encouragement above and beyond the call of duty.

Here goes...

TASTING MOZART
An Eleventh Doctor Story
by R. J. Anderson 1995

He stood with his back to me, leaning over the console. The
tail of his shirt was sticking out below his sweater; he'd forgotten
to tuck it in again. I thought of several possible ways of bringing
it to his attention before deciding to leave well enough alone. I'd
travelled with him only a few months, but I knew my limitations.
Folding my arms lest they suddenly prove treacherous to my
better judgment, I stood back and sized him up, trying to judge his
mood. Shirt-tail out: evidence of distraction. Something must have
gone wrong with the TARDIS again. However, he didn't appear unduly
agitated, and the tool-kit was nowhere in sight, so the matter
couldn't be of any great importance.
"Good morning, Doctor," I said.
He looked up, and frowned. "Is it?"
"If I decide it's morning, it's morning. What's wrong?"
"Can't you tell? Listen."
I paused, calling silently on my just-wakened senses, and it
occurred to me that the hum of the TARDIS's power systems was not
quite as soft and furry as usual. "Oh. Is it serious?"
"No, just ordinary wear and tear. But she could do with a bit
of tuning." He turned, leaned back against the console, and pushed
the hair out of his eyes. "There's no hurry. I'll get to it when
we've landed. Have you had tea?"
It was unfair of him to be so irresistably charming first thing
in the morning, when all my defenses were down. Abandoning resolve I
stepped up to him, gripped him by the collar, and kissed him.
When I let him go, he said resignedly, "What is it today?"
"Bach. You're preoccupied."
It was not, as you might gather, the first time I had done this.
It was absurd, I knew, and every time I did it I swore to myself I'd
never do it again. But I simply couldn't wrap my mind around the
fact that he never, ever reacted. He could easily have pushed me
away, or snapped at me, or thrown me out the TARDIS door for my
impertinence, but he didn't. Nor did he, on the other hand,
reciprocate. He seemed to be wholly indifferent to the experience.
I'd mustered up the courage once to ask him why he let me do it at
all, and he only shrugged and said, "It seems to please you, and it
doesn't do me any harm."
I knew he was telling the truth, and if I'd had so much as an
ounce of sense I'd just have given up and left him alone. But
knowing that it didn't actually repulse him, or make him angry, had
awakened in me an irrational sort of hope.
Besides, his lips always tasted like music.
I surely wasn't the first of the Doctor's companions to have
fallen in love with him, but I was definitely the first to make no
secret of it. In fact, the first thing I'd ever said to him was "I
love you."
Idiotic, I know, but quite honestly true. With the help of a
peculiar and often unsettling talent of mine, I'd come to know him
intimately before we ever met.
* * *
Hello. My name is Thea, and I'm a synaesthetic.
I've always wanted to say that.
Before I met the Doctor, I didn't know there was a name for the
gift, or curse, I'd lived with since I was twelve. He found me
locked up in an asylum, half-crazed with the drugs they'd given me in
an effort to keep me from hearing colours and seeing sounds.
Encountering the TARDIS (and through it, the Doctor) showed me that
my scrambled senses could detect other things, too, like the essence
of a personality. But the impressions were uncontrollable,
unpredictable, and rarely if ever useful to anyone, myself included.
It just made for an -- interesting way of experiencing the world.
Like tasting Bach.
I strongly doubt that any of the Doctor's previous incarnations
would have been patient enough to allow me this little amusement even
once, much less on a semi-regular basis. But just as his
predecessors had been (to name but a few) tetchy, puckish, intrepid,
eccentric, ingenuous, bombastic, and whimsical in turn, this Doctor,
it seemed, was by nature mellow.
He looked, for all the world, as though he had bought all his
clothes from the L.L. Bean catalogue and then worn them constantly
until they lost any vestige of color or shape. At any moment, I was
convinced, he would slap on a pair of hip waders and go fly-fishing.
He was tall and thin and negligent, with a thatch of charcoal-grey
hair, and a face too full of creases and angles -- in short,
character -- to be handsome. With his shadowy, half-lidded eyes he
always appeared to be on the verge of wandering off in search of a
hammock (though in reality I had never seen him sleep). And he had a
deep, mellifluous speaking voice, guaranteed to overthrow my better
judgment -- as indeed it just had.
I drew back, my hands sliding from his shoulders, and turned
away with the little sigh that served me for an apology. He replied
with a mild snort, which reassured me that no damage had been done,
and we resumed our regular routine.
"No, I haven't had tea. Is there any left?" I padded across
the room, lifted the lid, and peered into the china pot. Steam
caressed my face, and I smiled. "Never mind." I poured myself a
brimming cup and, cradling it in my hands, shuffled back into the
corridor, leaving the Doctor to his tinkering.
The living quarters I'd chosen for myself were cramped and
almost dismally plain, but I preferred it that way. The less space
for sound to reverberate, the less variety of colour and form and
texture, the less likelihood there was that I'd perceive my
environment synaesthetically. It was an assurance I needed in order
to relax.
Putting the teacup down on the bedside table, I abandoned my
robe for a tunic and leggings the colour of warm sand and pushed my
feet into a pair of well-worn boots. Once dressed I picked up my
brush from the bed, crossed to the mirror and began to attack my
sleep-tangled hair, regarding my reflection with a cynical eye.
As well I might. My height is above average, but being built
like a week-old colt, I tend to look fragile. That, coupled with the
pallid skin and large, watery-blue eyes, would have made me the toast
of the Pre-Raphaelites; however, I was born on the wrong side of the
ocean and a hundred years too late, and nobody else, I assure you,
would look at me twice. My hair is baby-fine, hopelessly straight,
and the colour of cream-of-tomato soup made with too much milk.
However, I have learned not to dwell on these issues, however
tragic they may seem. I wove my hair into a braid, tying off the end
with a bit of copper wire I'd found in the corridor. Thus prepared
to face the day, I left my quarters and headed back to the Console
Room, where the Doctor was performing his usual incomprehensible
ritual of setting the time-space coordinates.
"Where now?" I asked.
"Oh, just a quiet little planet called Maura."
"Ah," I said, trying to sound confident, but the word emerged in
a dubious twist, and bounced several times across the floor before I
could catch it and kick it under the sofa.
The Doctor didn't see, of course, but he heard, and summoned an
appropriately wounded look. "You can't possibly blame me for
Tanehal. How was I to know the Hallorae were going to declare war on
the Neril two days before we arrived?"
"I'm not blaming you for Tanehal." I sat down on the sofa and
helped myself to a biscuit, praying that it wouldn't start humming,
or tasting beige, or conjuring up vivid images of the place it was
made, when I bit into it. It didn't, so I relaxed and put my feet
up. "Or Kyltos Prime, or Esh'vaerh, or anywhere else we've been, for
that matter. It's just that trouble seems to follow you around."
"Well, it's been that way for eight hundred years," agreed the
Doctor mildly. "Why should it stop now?"
"The loyalty," I said, "is truly touching. Biscuit?"
"No."
I shrugged and ate a second one. When I was licking the crumbs
from my fingers the Doctor said, "Do you mind?"
"Well, I rather prefer the chocolate ones with the orange
centres, but--" I glanced up innocently, saw the faint reproach
mingled with the amusement in his eyes, and relented. "Doctor, I
spent ten years of my life being coddled by professionals in an
idyllic environment. Do you really think that for one second I'd
want to go back to that -- or anything like it? I'm not
complaining."
"You don't want to go to Maura, do you?"
"Frankly, it sounds boring. Why don't we go save the universe,
or something?"
His eyes crinkled in a smile. "Or something," he agreed. His
nimble fingers flew over the console, tapping in new coordinates. I
was idly estimating his typing speed at something like 150 words per
minute when he stopped, frowned at the monitor, and said, "Hello,
what's this?"
At which point the console very helpfully blew up, throwing him
back onto the sofa where I was sitting. I barely had time to
appreciate the absurdity of a dazed and blinking Doctor, his face a
mask of silvery dust, sprawled across my lap before the sofa tipped
over backward and deposited both of us in a heap on the floor.
I was momentarily stunned, but the Doctor lost no time in
righting himself and scrambling to his feet, shouting over the
whining of the engines: "Something's gone wrong with the dimensional
stabilizer!" He darted forward, snatching his hat from his head and
waving it ineffectually at the smoke billowing out of the console.
The transparent column in its centre was pumping up and down rapidly,
the lights within it flashing alarm. "Thea, get the tool-kit! If I
can just--" but the rest of his sentence was lost as the panel
nearest to him erupted in a hissing explosion of sparks.
I wanted to get up, to help him, but the whole room seemed to be
stretching and spinning at the same time, and it was all I could do
not to throw up on the cream-coloured upholstery. The smell of chaos
invaded my nostrils, gooseflesh leaped out on my skin, and through
the walls of the TARDIS I could hear the stars shrieking as we spun
wildly, out of control...
PRESUMPTUOUS INTRUDER, YOU SHALL NOT PASS.
I didn't hear the words, or see them; I tasted them one by one,
burning poisonous on my tongue.
YOU HAVE DARED THE GATE PERILOUS AND BEEN FOUND UNWORTHY.
The Doctor was shouting something, but his words, like soap
bubbles, burst before they could reach me. All I could think of was
getting that hideous taste out of my mouth.
NOW YOU SHALL BE DESTROYED.
The TARDIS seemed to be dissolving, the wall at my back and the
floor beneath me melting into flame. And stupidly, in that last
desperate moment, I thought about chocolate.
I called up the memory of my first Aero bar, light and creamy,
dissolving over my tongue; I remembered the tiny, exquisite box of
truffles my brother David had given me the Christmas before he died.
Vividly I recalled the wedge of five-chocolate pie I'd ordered at the
Olive Garden, the one I'd wound up taking home in a box and
stretching out over the next week because it was simply too rich to
eat all at once.
And suddenly I could taste it, smooth and bittersweet, and the
hateful voice was gone.
That helped a good deal, but the stars were still screaming.
They couldn't be happy, I thought; it seemed only civil to suggest an
alternative. I found a thread of music somewhere in my mind and
played it out into the abyss, offering them melody. They resisted at
first, but I teased them with counterpoint, until all of a sudden
they gave in and I found myself conducting an orchestra that made the
London Philharmonic sound like a jug band. Toscanini would have
kissed me on both cheeks.
Even so, I sensed something was still not quite right; one
instrument remained slightly out of tune. I felt about for it and
realized it was the damaged TARDIS, buzzing in the background like an
oboe with a broken reed. There was nothing I could do for her, so I
found the right note and held it myself, increasing the volume until
I could no longer hear the time-ship's dissonance, and the stars and
I sang in sublime harmony.
Suddenly a new voice was in my mouth, warm and honeyed. HAIL
AND WELL MET, FRIEND OF THE FAYE. PASS WITH THE QUEEN'S BLESSING.
The TARDIS stopped cartwheeling. The wounded console heaved a
last metallic sigh and subsided. And I was still lying there,
wondering dreamily what it all meant, when somebody drove a two-edged
sword point-first into my brain.
* * *
"Thea! It's all right, we've landed-- Thea, it's over! Stop
it!" His hands gripped my wrists, forcing my hands apart, away from
my face. As I blinked up at him, I heard someone babbling and
sobbing hysterically in the background.
I was about to ask the Doctor how he could possibly put up with
that irritating noise before I realized that my mouth was open. I
shut it, and the gibbering stopped.
A blush crawled up my cheeks and into my hair, burning as it
went. I forced myself to relax, uncoiling my bruised and aching body
from the corner of the fallen sofa and sitting up with a wan,
tentative smile.
The Doctor dropped his hands and regarded me seriously. He was
kneeling on the floor beside me, his woolly clothing reeking of smoke
and ozone. There was a black smudge across his cheek and a few burn-
marks on his hands, but otherwise he appeared to have survived the
crisis unscathed.
"My head aches," I said, and my voice scratched my eardrums like
sandpaper. I winced and touched the top of my head, where the sword
had driven through. For a moment I could almost feel the hilt, but
the Doctor reached out and gently pulled my hand away.
"You gave it a good knock falling over," he said. "I shouldn't
be surprised."
I took a breath to protest -- and froze, my eyes wide, staring
past him at the blackened tangle of wires hanging out of the console.
The Doctor followed my glance, and misunderstood completely. "Oh,
don't worry. It isn't half as bad as it looks."
"No. No." I shook my head, my fingers snatching at his sleeve.
"It's all wrong. All of it. The colours, the smells, everything."
"Oh, that." He looked around mildly. "We seem to have passed
through some sort of dimensional gateway. I didn't expect to find it
in this particular corner of the universe, or I'd certainly have
avoided it. Still, now that we're here--" He rose, absently dusting
off the knees of his trousers. "Shall we have a look about?"
I took the hand he offered me and let him pull me to my feet.
My body felt stiff, as though someone had stuck a length of steel
down my spine. "Where are we?"
"Well, if the TARDIS knows it isn't telling, poor old thing."
He patted the battered console soothingly, as though it were a
frightened horse. "We'll just have to see for ourselves. Coming?"
Without waiting for an answer he threw the lever to open the TARDIS
doors, and sunshine flooded in. Retrieving his canvas hat and
knobbed walking-stick from the stand by the door, he strolled
outside; reluctantly, I followed.
The TARDIS had landed in a small clearing at the heart of what
appeared to be an ancient and uncultivated forest. Yet as I looked
around, my senses sampling the environment, I found it less than
convincing. The air was like wine, the leaves deliriously green; the
sound of the wind in the treetops, some fifty metres above, too
musical to be real.
"I think that I shall never see," declared the Doctor with
evident scorn, "a poem as lovely as a few thousand bio-engineered
embryoaks. Whatever happened to the good old acorn?" He made a
clucking sound in his throat and strode on.
"It's beautiful," I said, dubiously.
"Oh, of course it is. Everything new and improved, no expense
spared. Feel." He caught my hand, pressed it against the nearest
tree and stroked it downwards. Instead of rough bark scoring my
palm, I felt something warm and velvety, like a buck's antlers in
springtime. I realized then that if I scratched the trunk it would
bleed. The idea struck me as obscene; I jerked my hand away.
"If you look closely," the Doctor continued, "all the trees of a
given type are identical. All the oaks grown from one parent oak;
beeches, larches, what-have-you, just the same. Underneath this--"
he stamped on the ground-- "a nutrient reservoir. Lovingly tended,
no doubt, but if you ask me, it's a high price to pay for
impatience."
"Remind me not to pick any apples," I said faintly.
"Oh, I'm sure they're perfectly edible," said the Doctor.
"They're just apt to taste a great deal more like raw eggs. You
might want to cook them first -- and I wouldn't eat the seeds if I
were you."
"What sort of people--" I began, but the rest of the sentence
choked in my throat as the Doctor seized my arm and thrust out his
walking stick in front of us, pointing to a rustling patch of bushes
some ten metres away. Without a word he began to advance, and
mystified, I moved with him.
The waving of the underbrush became more agitated as we drew
closer, and at the last second a small, spindly figure exploded out
of the shrubbery, crowing "Ha!"
I jumped back, startled, but the Doctor merely shook his head
and lowered his stick to the ground. "Never mind," he said, "it's
only one of the natives, and unless I'm much mistaken, quite
harmless. Though it does seem to find us rather a disappointment."
The boy's face did indeed bear a crestfallen expression. He
said, dismally, "You're not Kay."
"No," admitted the Doctor, "but I do quite a good impersonation
of L, and my M is all the rage at tea-parties. How do you do,
Arthur?"
"Do what?" asked the boy, scrubbing at his dirty face with the
back of an equally dirty hand. He was thin, gangly, his only beauty
a thatch of blazing gold hair. He looked about twelve.
"Anything you like," said the Doctor pleasantly.
The boy blinked at him. "Are you a magician?"
"Why do you ask?"
"Because you know things, and you talk in riddles. Who's that?"
"Who?" The Doctor turned around, looking, to my annoyance,
straight past me.
"The lady."
I opened my mouth to speak, but all at once the Doctor's eyes
met mine in an unspoken command, and I shut it again. "What do you
think?" he said.
"She looks like one of the Faye. Is she your apprentice?"
"In a manner of speaking," the Doctor agreed.
I decided that this whole encounter had an aura of deja vu, and
was trying to figure out why, when suddenly it hit me. My stomach
dropped like a flooded submarine, and I felt my throat go taut. I
looked at the boy, who stood admiring this eccentric magician who had
guessed his name; I looked at the Doctor, a rumpled grey-haired
figure leaning on his staff; I felt the spark of friendship between
them, and I knew. None of us had moved, yet it was as though I were
receding, losing substance and reality, soon to be forgotten
altogether.
I couldn't bear it.
"Doctor, no!" I put a hand on his shoulder and he turned, but
his eyes were distant, and I might have been a ghost or a dream for
all the acknowledgement I saw in them. Desperately, I gripped his
arm until I knew it had to hurt -- though he didn't even flinch --
and hissed, "You can't do this."
He blinked, his gaze focusing. I let my breath out and
continued: "I'm not a fool, Doctor. This is going to take years."
Arthur watched us with head cocked to one side, making no sound.
His eyes were a clear blue, intense yet weirdly vacant, like twin
mirrors reflecting the sky.
"You're right. I should have dropped you off on Maura," the
Doctor said, as though I had suggested it. "I suppose I could--"
"I'm not going anywhere," I retorted, "without you."
"You can't go with me."
"Why not?"
"It won't work." He put his hand over mine, effortlessly prised
my fingers off of his arm. I was startled, even a little frightened,
by his strength: but the placid expression on his face remained
unchanged. "I knew I'd have to do this eventually, it was just a
matter of when. And since 'when' seems to be 'now'--"
"I can go rot, apparently."
"I'll take you anywhere you want to go."
"If I go anywhere without you, I may never see you again."
"You don't know--"
"Forget it. I'm coming with you."
The Doctor glanced over at Arthur, then back at me, resigned.
"I really wish you wouldn't."
That hurt, but I wasn't about to admit it. "Too bad." I folded
my arms and took a step back, daring him to oppose me. Arthur
regarded both of us with interest.
"Are you Merlin?" he asked.
The Doctor's mouth twitched a little, as though he wanted to
smile at the boy but thought that might be premature -- or dangerous.
"It's as good a name as any," he said. "Why not?"
And all at once he turned on me, and took my face in his hands
and kissed me, and I was so surprised I didn't feel the patch he'd
slapped onto my cheek until half a second before I blacked out.
Which was, of course, the only reason he'd done it.
I _hate_ elevator music.

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Subj: REPOST: "Tasting Mozart" 2/4

>> continued from previous message
* * *
The white mists cleared, and I woke. I had a headache, I was
starving, and I'd been asleep for fifteen years.
Under other circumstances he could just have dumped me on the
sofa and programmed the TARDIS to cut to the chase, so to speak. But
to the Doctor, the TARDIS was more than a mere conveyance. In a
special way, which my synaesthesia had brought me closer to
understanding than any of the Doctor's companions before me, the
TARDIS _was_ the Doctor. During the long centuries of service it had
absorbed his eccentricities, learned his passions, and now it
mimicked his pulses like a third heart. If he were to try to live
fifteen years without its embrace, the strain on them both would be
disastrous.
And besides, if he were going to play Merlin, he'd need all the
"magic" he possessed.
So he had frozen me.
Nothing so crude as cryogenics, I assure you. Just a harmless
little temporal recursion that only he, when the moment was right,
could break-- He'd explained it all to my dazed and helpless self,
very kindly, before he ignored my incoherent wail of protest and did
it.
And yet, I realized as I looked about the room, a rose-coloured
chamber deep in the TARDIS's heart, he hadn't revived me. He wasn't
here, and I could tell by the barely perceptible shape of his absence
that he hadn't been here in a long time.
I slid off the platform I'd been lying on (in addition to the
headache and hunger, I felt bruised all over, but it had to be
psychological) and walked over to the nearest wall. I pressed my
hands against it, rested my cheek on its roundeled surface, and let
my senses run through the TARDIS like questing hounds.
Smell came first, the awful perfume of decay. Someone in a
moth-eaten sweater was sitting in front of an outdated computer in
bad need of repair, leafing dismally through a mildewed paperback
while ignoring a plate of stone-cold toast. Then sound: a shrill
uncertain melody, fading in and out, like a recorder poorly played by
an asthmatic.
That was more than enough to convince me. I jerked away from
the wall, rubbing my hands against my leggings, swallowing back fear
and revulsion. So. Either the Doctor was a prisoner somewhere, or
he'd somehow forgotten who he was. Whatever the reason, he hadn't
been here in months.
There was no question in my mind as to what I must do. How I
was going to pull it off was another matter entirely, but it could
wait. For the moment, all I needed was the dress of the natives, and
I had a pretty good idea of where to find it.
* * *
Half an hour later I stood before the cheval-glass in the
Wardrobe Room, putting the finishing touches to my disguise. First I
had donned a close-fitting underdress, whose high neck and long
sleeves gleamed pearl-white; over it, a sleeveless gown of tawny
velvet, like a discarded lion-skin. A jewelled girdle circled my
hips and fell clinking to the floor. With the help of one of the
TARDIS's lesser-used conveniences I'd grown my hair nearly to my
knees and worked it into a loose, elaborate braid. Amber earrings
and a slim gold circlet completed the effect. Millais, had he seen
me, would have applauded. Burne-Jones would have wept. Dante
Gabriel Rosetti would have died in ecstasy.
Unfortunately, they weren't the ones I had to impress.
Forcing myself to turn away from the mirror, I picked up my
skirts and hurried down the corridor to the Console Room. The
console had been meticulously repaired, I noticed; obviously "Merlin"
had found time to do that much in the course of instructing his royal
pupil. I considered the various panels a moment, baffled by their
complexity; then I reached out, put both hands on something that
looked like a touchpad, and said aloud, "I don't know if you've got
anything to give me, but if you do, this is the time to do it."
Since the day we first met in the library storage room at Pine
Hills Retreat Centre, the TARDIS and I have had an understanding.
It's one of the few things that make me grateful for synaesthesia.
Now I felt the words form under my fingertips:
SEEK THE FIRE.
Frowning, I looked around. I saw no smoke, heard no crackle of
flames. But when I inhaled, my nostrils tingled with an acrid smell.
It appeared to be coming from the corridor. I followed it.
The trail led me down hallways and around corners I'd never seen
before. I must have walked for half an hour at least before I found
the right door. It was unusually thick, and the first time I tried
the handle it refused to respond. The second time, however, the
TARDIS apparently decided to help, because a click shot like a bullet
past my left ear and the door opened, disclosing a narrow, shadowy
room lined on both sides with shelves.
I had only to glance at the nearest object to know that this
place was dangerous. It was a glass bottle with a twisted neck, and
the liquid it contained was a shade of green so evil that I nearly
retched before I could look away. If the Doctor had confiscated this
from somebody, I prayed I'd never meet the owner.
The scent I was following, however, came from a box on the
opposite shelf. I lifted the lid to disclose a glowing ruby the size
of a hen's egg. Tentatively I touched it. It wasn't actually hot,
just warm, but the fiery smell it gave off was enough to make my
nostril hairs curl in protest. Well, whatever it was, presumably the
Doctor would know what to do with it. I shut the box and took it
with me.
On the way back I found a leather pouch and put the box in it,
along with a couple of jam and cheese sandwiches and a flask of
water. And when I reached the Console Room again, a map was waiting
for me.
"Thank you," I said, threw the lever to open the door, and
walked out, straight into something that felt like a gigantic burlap
sack. Panicking, I fought my way free and whirled, to find myself
facing nothing more fearsome than a faded, threadbare tapestry
hanging over the alcove in which the TARDIS was hidden. I let out
the breath I'd been holding, smoothed my hair and my dress, and
looked around.
Sight, doing its own job for once, informed me that I was
standing in a round room, dusty and half-lit, furnished only with a
narrow table and two chairs. Obviously, the TARDIS had moved. So
where was I? I walked to the nearest window, shielded my eyes with
my hands, and peered out.
The first thing I saw was a glittering tower perhaps three
hundred metres away, its top nearly on a level with the room in which
I stood. Below was a forest of lesser towers and turrets, and
concentric walls enclosing a lush square of courtyard. Tiny,
brilliant figures swarmed over the green.
Well, at least the place was inhabited. The view, however,
struck me as peculiar. I squinted into the sky, thinking that the
clouds seemed oddly close. Also, I should have been able to see the
surrounding countryside over the top of the farthest wall, but I
couldn't.
Maybe the place was built on the edge of a cliff. I crossed to
the opposite window for confirmation. This time I could see ground,
but at a curious distance, like the view from a low-flying airplane.
Then I realized why: the fortress hung suspended some fifty metres
in the air.
If Magritte and Escher had designed the place in drunken
collaboration it could not have been more unsettling. I spun away
from the window and closed my eyes, forcing myself to breathe evenly.
At the same time I became aware of a pulsing thrum beneath my feet, an
electric smell in the air, and it dawned on me that this was Clarke's
Law with a vengeance. The Gate Perilous which had brought us here, the
eerie perfection of the forest in which we'd landed, this floating
fairytale castle -- all products of technology so advanced it looked,
and in some cases worked, like magic.
For some reason, I found that reassuring. With new determination
I unrolled the map I carried, walked over to the table and spread it
out. The TARDIS's printer would have made a Hewlett-Packard salesman
weep; I could have sworn the lines on the parchment had been hand-
drawn. I looked at it, frowning, for a long while. The shape of the
land was faintly familiar, but the names were not: Selladon, Garde-
Joyeuse, Breceliande, High Tagel. The latter appeared to be a city, or
at least a large castle. Might that be where I was?
Well, there was only one way to find out. I rolled up the map,
stuffed it into my pack, and walked determinedly over to the trap-
door in the centre of the room. Crouching, I hauled on the ring and
the hatch opened with a hydraulic-sounding hiss, disclosing a white
spiral of stairs.
"Look out, Camelot," I muttered as I stepped through, "here I
come."
* * *
Of course, nothing in my life is ever that easy. I wandered
around the castle for an embarrassingly long time, looking for
somebody in charge. People passed me in the long, vaulted corridors:
knights in gleaming black armour, their helmets tucked under one arm;
pale, delicate women much like myself, only beautiful; liveried
servants bearing a variety of unidentifiable burdens. All of them
moved hurriedly, as though evading pursuit, and none acknowledged my
murmured greetings.
Either I had somehow turned invisible, I decided, or I was going
to have to be more forceful in my approach. I took a deep breath,
raised my head high, and lengthened my stride, preparing myself for
the next encounter. A brisk, imperious air and a hand laid
commandingly upon a velvet sleeve ought to do it, I decided, and was
running over all the possible scenarios in my mind when I heard a
shout:
"Vivien! You treacherous witch!"
Curious, I turned, to see one of the black knights pounding down
the corridor toward me, the elaborate tracery on his breastplate
glowing fiercely. With a harsh rasp he drew his sword, brandished it
before him. I stared at the circuit-runes running up the blade,
fascinated.
"What have you done with Merlin?" he demanded.
I glanced behind me, to see who he was addressing, but there was
no one else in the hallway. I was about to make some ascerbic remark
about the effects of too much ale on an empty stomach when a black-
gauntleted hand seized my chin, wrenched my head around, and I
stared, astonished, into the knight's contorted face.
"I said," he grated, "what have you done with--"
"If I knew where Merlin was, I wouldn't be here! Let me go!" I
tried to pull away, but the sword flashed upward, tracing a cold line
across my throat. I sucked in my breath and went still.
"So you've lost him, have you, witch?" The knight gave a short,
mirthless laugh. "You seduced him with your sorcerous lies, lured
him from the King -- and now you expect us to help you get him back?
You must be mad."
"I don't know who took him from you," I said levelly, "but it
wasn't me. I swear it. I've never set foot in this place before."
"Oh, come, wench. Do you take me for a fool? I saw you with my
own eyes. You came before the court, dressed like a peasant boy, and
appealed to Merlin. He seemed much alarmed, and commanded you to
return whence you had come. You told him that you did not know the
way, and that he must show you--"
"Who said that my name was Vivien?"
The knight looked surprised. "Why, Merlin did address you so."
"He would," I muttered, rolling my eyes. The joke told me one
thing at least; the Doctor had suspected that the woman was not what
she seemed. Still, he had gone with her. Why?
My captor frowned at me. The hot-pepper smell of his anger was
fading, yielding to confusion. Seeing my chance, I addressed him
delicately, shaping each word like gold filigree: "Sir knight, you
mistake me. Vivien may wear my appearance, but she is a sorcerous
impostor. Merlin is my liege lord, my dear companion, and I value
his goodwill above any treasure."
"Your manner is not that of Vivien, I'll grant," he said
dubiously. "But a witch has many tricks."
"If I were a witch," I said, "would I be here now? Would you
not be dead, or imprisoned, or transported to some distant realm
while I made good my escape?"
The knight sighed. "We have sought Merlin long and missed him
sorely, lady. I dare not risk letting you go."
"Why should you let me go? Where can I go but to the King, and
who better than a loyal knight to take me there?" I laced my voice
with cream and honey, praying that if he couldn't believe me, he'd at
least stop squeezing my neck.
The effect of my words, however, was nothing short of
spectacular. His eyes became dreamy: he smiled, stepped back, and
sheathed his sword. He put his hand over his heart and made me a
creaking bow.
"Lady," he said, "I am at your service."
Until that moment, I'd merely been startled and annoyed; now a
grey veil of fear dropped over my eyes, and I had to force myself not
to hyperventilate. Dear heavens, what kind of power did I have? I'd
hardly even been trying.
"_And besides,_" said the Doctor's voice in my memory, "_you
never know when a synaesthetic's going to come in handy..._"
I decided that when I did find "Merlin", the first thing I'd do
was wring his neck.
* * *
"Tristan, what brings you-- Vivien!"
Instantly Arthur was on his feet, one hand on his sword (which
was not, I noted with interest, Excalibur). He had grown tall since
we last met, his shoulders broad beneath the purple mantle, and he
moved like a young lion. He was also gorgeous. On a smaller throne
beside him sat a slim, achingly beautiful girl with a mass of dark,
bejewelled hair. She couldn't be more than sixteen. Guinevere?
"Not so, my lord," I said quickly, my voice ringing like tapped
steel in the hush that had dropped over the room. "I have no doubt
that a woman with my appearance bewitched Merlin, but I am not
Vivien."
Arthur's eyes narrowed. Tasting the acid bite of his
skepticism, it was all I could do not to make a face. "Then who are
you?"
"We met once before, my lord. In the forest--"
"The forest of Selladon, you mean?" he asked cynically. "More
than one ill meeting has happened there."
"I was with Merlin that day. You were but a boy, playing games
with your foster-brother. Do you remember?"
His face lightened. "Vivien knew nothing of this when Merlin
questioned her: she said she had lost her memory. Tell me more."
"I quarrelled with Merlin, because I wished to go with him and
he would not allow it."
"And by what name did you call him?"
"I called him the Doctor."
"Yes!" Arthur's fist came down hard on the arm of the throne.
"I thought it curious that you -- Vivien -- never spoke thus to
Merlin. As indeed did he. Now, tell me how it ended."
I felt my face go hot. "Er... he put upon me an enchanted
sleep."
The young King grinned. "Your blush is answer enough, lady, and
your modesty commends you well. Vivien, for all her pretty ways, was
a brazen wench. By what name are you called, then?"
It was on the tip of my tongue to say my real name, but my
morbid sense of humour got the better of me. "You may call me Nimue,
my lord king," I said, and curtseyed as gracefully as I could manage.
"Lady Nimue," said Arthur, "what brings you to High Tagel?"
"I seek Merlin, as you do. This Vivien, whoever she is, holds
him prisoner, and now that I know she has stolen my appearance and
dishonored my name--" I felt my hands curl into fists-- "I have much
to say to her."
"A valiant lady!" The King threw back his head and laughed, but
there was no malice in it, no condescension, only joy. I began to
understand why the Doctor, despite his Gallifreyan reserve, had found
this young man easy to love.
And with that thought, my gaze shifted automatically to the
dark-haired Queen. She gave me a thin smile and averted her eyes.
Surely, I thought in exasperation, she's not infatuated with Lancelot
already?
The King was speaking again. I jerked my attention from
Guinevere and summoned a look of acute interest as he continued:
"Long have we sought Merlin since he departed with the witch Vivien,
but he remains hidden to us. We searched his rooms in High Tagel,
his cottage in Selladon, hoping to find some clue to his
disappearance -- all in vain. Can you help us?"
I thought long and furiously. It seemed as though the legend of
Arthur and his court really did have some basis in reality -- this
reality, at least. Struck by inspiration, I looked up.
"My lord, what about Morgan le Fay?"
"Morgaine of the Faye!" Arthur's jaw tightened, and he sank
back onto his throne as though exhausted. "What do you know of her?"
"Very little, my lord. Perhaps I would be better to ask what
you know."
Guinevere had gone very white. She reached out for Arthur's
hand, gripping it tightly, but did not speak. The King answered me
with obvious reluctance:
"The Faye are the leading House of the S'rax. Morgaine, their
Queen, is immortal, and adept in the sorcerous arts. We lived in
friendly alliance, until..." he kept his face calm, but I saw him
swallow hard, reminding me of the boy he had been. "Until I learned
how great was her ambition, and her treachery. Now she scorns me as
High King, and would claim the Thirteen Worlds for her own. Every
day brings us closer to war, and with Merlin gone, we cannot hope to
stand against her power."
"What happened to Excalibur?" I asked.
"Merlin promised me a sword by that name, capable of defeating
Morgaine's blackest sorceries. But he vanished with Vivien before he
could give it to me, and no one knows where it might be found.
Still, what of that? I value Merlin more than any sword."
"As do I, my lord. But I doubt Morgaine regards him so
highly."
"Do you then believe that Vivien was a servant of Morgaine?"
"Or even Morgaine herself, disguised. If she is a sorceress,
as you say, I should think it a simple matter for her to assume my
appearance to deceive the Doc-- uh, Merlin."
Arthur smiled grimly. "It would be like her. She would take
pleasure in taunting me to my very face."
This Vivien, I thought, must have been quite a character. "My
lord, I ask your leave to seek Morgaine."
"What?" He looked startled, then angry. "What madness is
this?"
"I believe I may be able to persuade her to show me where Merlin
is hidden."
"Lady, you do not know the danger. I have told you Morgaine is
a sorceress, skilled in the black arts. She could destroy you with a
thought."
_Thanks for the reminder,_ I thought sarcastically, but took
care to keep the deference in my tone as I replied: "My lord, that
may be so. But without Merlin, we are all lost. And without him--"
my voice shook-- "I do not care to live."
Arthur was silent, gazing at me. Even Guinevere had stopped
fidgeting and gave me her full attention, her dark eyes alight with
sympathy.
"Lancelot," said the King abruptly.
"Sire," came a voice from the shadows, and a tall young man
stepped out. He was handsome, in a Teutonic, square-jawed way, his
blond hair hanging loose to his shoulders.
"Where is Morgaine?"
"She has been seen in many places, my lord, but of late she has
taken up residence near the forest of Breceliande."
"Then take--"
"No, my lord." I knew I had no business ordering the High King
of the Thirteen Worlds around, but I couldn't let this go on. "I
thank you for your kindness, but I must go alone. If I am to
succeed, Morgaine must not know that I come with your blessing. I
have no doubt of Sir Lancelot's valour, but I fear he is far too--"
I looked ruefully at the stolidly waiting knight-- "conspicuous."
"So be it," said Arthur. His voice was flat, and a gleam of
suspicion had returned to his eye. Well, one could hardly blame the
poor man; he'd known betrayal enough.
"My lord," I said gently, "I can scarcely do more harm to
Merlin, or to you, than Morgaine has already done."
Arthur nodded. "I wish you well, Lady Nimue."
I curtseyed, and made to leave.
"Wait!" The King rose from his throne, walked down the steps to
meet me, ignoring the murmur of surprise that ran about the hall. He
took my arm, bent his head close to mine, and spoke in a voice so low
that even I could barely hear it.
"I know it may not be possible," he said. "But if you can,
would you deliver a message for me?"
I opened my mouth to ask what it was, but instead I tasted his
sorrow, his longing, like a mouthful of sand and sea-water -- and
suddenly I knew.
"Yes, my lord King," I answered softly. "I will tell Mordred
that you love him."

>> continued to next message
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þ 1st 2.00 þ

[rebe...@mercury.execulink.com]

Subj: REPOST: "Tasting Mozart" 4/4

>> continued from previous message
* * *

The water looked decidedly chilly, I thought. I wasn't looking
forward to diving into it. However, it was relatively clear, so
Excalibur shouldn't be too hard to find. I took a deep breath,
bracing myself.
"What are you waiting for, girl?" demanded Morgaine imperiously.
"Fetch me the sword."
I glanced back at her reclining, splendidly dressed figure, and
for one mad moment thought about tipping the boat over, just to see
how she would react. Only the grim expression of the guard manning
the oars forestalled me.
Dropping my jewelled belt on the floor of the skiff, I pulled my
outermost gown off and shoved it under the bow seat, so at least I'd
at least have something warm and dry to put on afterward. Then I
stepped up on the edge of the boat (the guard leaned hard to the
other side, but Morgaine never bothered to move), put my hands over
my head, and dived.
Ever since I'd emerged from the ice cave and told her where to
find Excalibur, Morgaine had tried to summon the sword with sorcery,
but for some reason it defied her call. Thus the necessity of
commandeering a boat from one of the local fishermen, and of me
getting most thoroughly and unpleasantly wet.
After this, I thought, they'd _better_ call me the Lady of the
Lake. Assuming, of course, that I didn't drown before I could claim
the title. My lungs were already beginning to ache. Still, I could
feel the sword pulling me downward, headfirst into the black depths;
the deeper I swam, the more irresistible the compulsion became.
Finally, just as I thought I would explode, I saw it, glittering
just out of reach. I gave one last, desperate kick. To my surprise,
there came a gurgling noise, a sensation of osmosis, and all at once
I found myself blissfully warm, completely dry, and breathing oxygen
at the bottom of Vortigern's Lake, with Excalibur in my hand.
The membranous dome above me showed no immediate signs of
collapsing, despite my rather sudden entrance, so I sat down on the
sand and inspected the sword. It was magnificently made, a work of
artistry as well as power, its hilt graced by a huge amethyst and
circuit-runes spiralling down its double-edged blade. I could only
hope that Morgaine found it as impressive as I did.
As I looked at it, my head began to pound. The jewel in
Excalibur's pommel flared once, questioning; I covered it with my
hand, hiding its light. "No," I told it. "Not yet."
It seemed to accept this, and subsided. I shifted my grip on
the hilt and hefted the sword, feeling its weight. How was I going
to swim to the surface with this thing? Admittedly, it wasn't as
heavy as I'd feared, but still--
Excalibur's point brushed against the top of the dome, and
suddenly I felt myself flying upward. Five seconds later we broke
the surface, arcing into the air, the sunlight flashing on
Excalibur's upraised blade. Light as a balloon, I drifted back down
to the boat; the membrane dissolved, releasing me.
Sounds, like eager children, crowded my ears: birdsong, wind,
Morgaine's cry of exultation. While I waited for them to sort
themselves out, I retrieved my velvety outer gown and shrugged it on,
making sure to keep Excalibur close at hand. Like the song says, you
don't pay the ferryman until he gets you to the other side.
Of course, there was always the possibility that Morgaine would
try to seize the sword, but I doubted she'd want to rock the boat.
And her man-at-arms, after gaping at me a moment, had already seized
the oars and begun hauling us back to shore. So I sat down, laid
Excalibur across my lap, and smiled serenely at a woman who, despite
being the Battle Queen of the S'rax, the would-be conqueror of the
Thirteen Worlds, and King Arthur's deadliest foe, was now entirely in
my debt.
"My life, then?" I asked. "For Excalibur."
"It is yours." Morgaine spoke absently, her eyes fixed on the
sword. Her fingers curled and uncurled, as though itching to touch
it.
"And Merlin?"
She gave me a queer, hard look. "What of him?"
"I told you before." I tightened my grip on the sword. "I hope
he dies slowly."
"Such a one is not easily killed," she said. "But before I
leave this world I shall seal his prison, and trap him in the ice
caves for all eternity."
"I am glad," I said, and the words slid serpentine from my lips
and fell writhing at my feet.
Morgaine's eyes narrowed, and I wondered if I had overdone it.
But she only said, "You deceived Merlin well."
The skiff, rasping, licked the shore. Hastily the guard shipped
the oars, jumped out and pulled the boat up onto the grass.
Morgaine, gathering her bright skirts about her, stepped out
daintily, then turned and held out her hand for Excalibur.
"Swear to me," I said, "that you will do me no harm, but allow
me to go freely where I will."
"I swear," she said between her teeth. "The sword, girl! I
have waited too long."
I gave it to her.
* * *
It didn't take long to find somebody capable of contacting
Arthur; there were questing knights all over the place. Within a
couple of hours I was back in High Tagel, tucking in to the first
real dinner I'd had for fifteen years, while Arthur stalked about the
room in an agony of impatience.
"But how can you be sure that the token you gave him was
enough?" he demanded. "What if he is still a prisoner?"
"All I can say, my lord King, is 'wait and see.' Merlin seemed
confident that all would be well."
I had yet to tell him what I'd done with Excalibur. Cowardice,
perhaps, but there was no point in upsetting him further. Or so I
told myself, and I very nearly believed it.
"I shall take twenty of my knights to Breceliande," said Arthur,
coming to an abrupt stop in the middle of the room. "We shall find
this icy prison and release Merlin ourselves!"
I put my fork down, discomfited. "Give him time, my lord, I beg
you. Hasty action on your part may well lead to disaster."
Eventually he calmed down and went off to bed. A few minutes
later, drowsy with food and wine, my headache fading with Excalibur's
influence, so did I.
I was awakened in the middle of the night by the taste of burnt
toast. Befogged with sleep, I wasted several seconds licking my lips
and grimacing before I realized that it was actually a smell. I sat
up, rubbing my eyes, just in time to see a bedraggled figure slip
noiselessly out of the hallway and into my chamber. He shut the door
behind him, leaned against it, and put a finger to his lips for
silence.
One advantage of synaesthesia, at least when it decides to
operate, is excellent night vision. When you can hear colours as
well as most people can see them, it doesn't really matter whether
the lights are on or not. "Doctor!" I exclaimed, throwing the covers
aside and leaping out to embrace him.
He caught me by the shoulders and held me at arm's length. His
robe hung in blackened tatters, and he smelled overpoweringly of
smoke. "Don't ruin the white samite," he whispered. "Besides,
there's no time. We've work to do."
Swallowing back the questions that had leapt to my lips, I
grabbed a cloak at random from the garderobe, threw it around my
shoulders, and followed him out into the hall. Arthur was standing
there, waiting for us. His clothes were rumpled and his hair was
sticking up on one side, but his eyes were bright with excitement.
"Do you truly have it, Merlin?" he asked. "Has the time come at
last?"
I was about to ask, rather testily, what was going on, but all
at once my head began throbbing, worse than ever, and it was all I
could do not to cry out. I clamped my lips together and screwed my
eyes shut, hearing the Doctor's reply only faintly past the pounding
in my brain:
"High time, Arthur." He tapped me lightly on the shoulder.
"Come along, Thea."
"I can't," I choked, holding my head in my hands. "It hurts.
You have no idea how much it hurts."
"I shall carry the Lady Nimue," offered Arthur. He reached down
and scooped me up with no more effort than as if I had been a child.
"Lead on, Merlin."
We passed swiftly, silently, down the winding corridors. The
castle slept; no one challenged us. At last we reached a pair of
massive, arching doors glowing with the traceries of heraldic
symbols. They looked far too heavy for one man to open, but the
Doctor had only to touch them and they swung wide to admit us.
We entered a vast chamber, long and high-vaulted. Dazzling
tapestries hung from the ceiling, and the walls were ablaze with
jewels. But these things, though wondrous, scarcely commanded a
moment's attention compared to the massive table in the centre of the
room. Carved of smooth, cream-coloured wood polished to an
impossible sheen, it was ringed by a single bench large enough to
seat at least a hundred people, maybe two if they weren't fussy about
personal space. The round top of the table was inlaid with gold and
platinum in a radiating design, and around its edge the names of
Arthur's knights were chased out in circuit-runes.
Gently, the King put me down. I staggered to the Round Table
and leaned on it, exhausted by the pain still searing through my
temples. I thought I felt the Doctor's hand stir my hair, but when I
looked up he had moved around the far side of the table and was
occupied with pulling off the remnants of his robe. Beneath, his
sweater and trousers were streaked with black ash, but otherwise he
looked like his old self again.
"Right," he said. "Now, Arthur, I've brought you a present."
And reaching into the shadows beneath the table, he drew out
Excalibur.
I gazed at the sword with tears streaming down my cheeks, not so
much because I was moved by its beauty as because I thought my head
would explode. "Morgaine gave it back to you?" I asked.
"Well, once she figured out that it had no power, she wasn't
very happy with it. Or with me, for that matter. She tried to
persuade me to finish the program for her, and when I told her I
couldn't, it upset her terribly. There didn't seem to be much chance
of negotiation, so I cracked the egg--"
"The egg." My voice was flat.
"Oh, so you _didn't_ know. There was a M'Narran firedrake in
it. Splendid-looking creature, a real 'airish beast', but it had a
terrible temper after being cooped up so long, and it went straight
for Morgaine. Of course the whole cave began to melt while the
dragon was roaring around, so eventually I was able to break free and
make a run for it."
I tried not to think about what I had been carrying in my bodice
all afternoon, or how close I'd come to smashing it by accident.
"Doctor?" I said plaintively.
"Yes, Lady Nimue?" His eyes were twinkling.
"When we get back to the TARDIS, I'm going to give you an
indelible marker and make you label everything you own."
"Yet even in the midst of such a battle, you were able to steal
Excalibur back from Morgaine!" Arthur clapped the Doctor on the
back. "Merlin, you are as quick-witted as ever."
The Doctor cleared his throat. "Well, the programming's the
important thing, you understand. That's why--" He looked swiftly at
me-- "Nimue knew it was safe to give Morgaine the sword."
I nodded, but slowly, because of the pain.
"You've done well," he said. And while Arthur looked on in
amazement, he put Excalibur down and pushed it hilt-first across the
table to me.
I could feel the blade calling me, pulling at my mind, but the
headache only worsened. "Doctor, I can't."
"No, of course not. Arthur, come here."
He led the King over to me, placed his right hand gently on the
top of my head and his left on the sword's spiralling hilt. And with
that, at last, came the freedom I'd longed for, as the complex
pattern of memory-runes that was Excalibur's programming slid free of
my mind, taking my headache with it.
The jewel in the sword's pommel sang a note of vibrant purple,
and Excalibur flashed online, bathing the room in radiance. Arthur
snatched up the sword and lifted it high, his face transfigured.
"Now you are truly the High King," said the Doctor, with as much
seriousness as I'd ever seen in him. "And none may lawfully dispute
your claim."
"Truly, it is a marvellous weapon!" exulted Arthur, slicing
bright patterns through the air.
"Yes," said the Doctor, and I thought I heard sadness in his
voice. "But remember, Arthur--" his hands brushed my hair, came to
rest on my shoulders-- "the scabbard's worth ten of the sword." He
paused, then continued more lightly, "I left it in the old cottage,
somewhere between the ant's nest and the Encyclopedia Brittanica.
Ask Archimedes if you can't find it."
Arthur lowered the sword, and I saw comprehension, and hurt, in
his eyes. "For nine months I grieved for you, Merlin. I believed I
had lost you forever. Are you leaving me yet again?"
"You'll get on perfectly well without me," said the Doctor.
"Anyway, I'll be back. It's just a matter of time."
"Merlin, I beg you--"
"No." I rose to my feet, ignoring the King's incredulous stare.
"He's coming with me. I'm going to shut him up in the bole of an oak
tree." And with that, I took the Doctor's arm and began leading him
toward the door. He didn't resist, and I felt his pent-up laughter
fizzing beneath my fingertips.
"Lady Nimue!" the King said sharply.
"Yes, my lord?"
"I am displeased to lose my friend and counsellor to your wiles.
But nonetheless, for all you have done--" he put a hand to his breast
and made a little bow. "You have my gratitude."
"Goodbye, Arthur," said the Doctor, waving his hat. "Give my
regards to Guinevere."
"Farewell, old friend," said King Arthur, raising Excalibur in
salute.
Malory would have found it a bit anticlimactic, but I,
personally, was satisfied.
* * *
The Doctor ran out of breath climbing the stairs to the tower,
and I had to help him into the TARDIS. He'd hidden it well from
Arthur, but months of imprisonment in the ice caves had taken their
toll. As soon as we staggered into the Console Room, however, the
colour came back into his face, and he straightened up.
"Ah, that's better," he said. "I'd missed you, old thing," and
he patted the console affectionately.
"Doctor, it's all very well to be back in the TARDIS, but how
are we going to get out of this dimension?"
"Well, the Gate Perilous may be so old even Morgaine's
forgotten about it, but as far as I know, it still works." He
twirled his hat on his finger, then tossed it back onto the stand.
"And I've cracked her code-spell, so you won't have to talk us past
her security systems again."
"You knew what was going on from the moment we hit the gate," I
said accusingly.
"Well, even coming out of your mouth, Morgaine's voice _is_
rather distinctive. And this isn't the first time we've met."
"Is that why you shoved Excalibur into my mind? Did you really
think she'd be able to take it from you?"
"Well, it seemed to make sense at the time, and after what you
did with the Gate Perilous, I knew you could handle it." He spoke
casually, but I could see tension in his shoulders, knew that he was
bracing himself for my anger.
I was tempted to exceed his expectations -- after all, the pain
of carrying the Excalibur program was something I wouldn't soon
forget -- but somehow, I couldn't. If I'd been in his place, knowing
how much was at stake, I might well have done the same thing. And in
a way, it was almost flattering to know that he had that much
confidence in me -- even if he'd only meant to keep me locked up safe
in the TARDIS until the sword was needed.
So, in the end, I said nothing. I went to the sofa and sat
down, gazing at my linked fingers. The Doctor watched me cautiously
a moment, then came over and sat beside me.
"You're a surprising woman," he said.
I smiled, but did not reply.
"So," he persisted, "where does the Lady of the Lake want to go
next?"
His arm was resting along the back of the sofa. I leaned into
it and said, "What do you think? Wherever we're needed."
He looked down at me. "Not somewhere nice and quiet?"
"Not on your lives."
He didn't move, I swear it. Nor did I. But at that moment, I
tasted the music as clearly as if his lips were on mine. There was
laughter in it, and relief, and--
I jerked upright, one hand flying to my burning cheek. I
expected him to ask, "What's the matter?" but instead he only said,
"Well?"
Staring back at him, I said, "To be honest, I'm not quite sure.
But if Mozart didn't write that, he should have."
His eyes crinkled in a familiar, endearing smile. "Oh, don't
worry," he said. "He did."
I couldn't breathe. Suddenly the room seemed too small for both
of us, and all I could think was that I must get away, somehow,
before I made a complete idiot of myself. Fortunately, the Doctor
seemed to understand. He unfolded himself from the sofa and rose.
"Just wait there," he said. "I'll make us some tea."

THE END

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ş 1st 2.00 ş

>> Slipstream Jet - The QWK solution for Usenets #UNREGISTERED

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Subj: REPOST: "Tasting Mozart" 3/4

>> continued from previous message
* * *

The horse had been cultured in the vat-cellars of the High
Tagel, and from the moment the ornithopter set us down on the road to
Breceliande, it had been frisking about, intoxicated with the novelty
of freedom. I eyed its black, glossy form mistrustfully. It might
behave like a horse, but it scarcely looked like one, with a mane of
sensor-tendrils and flanks glimmering with organic circuitry.
"Stop that," I said.
The horse stopped capering and looked at me with its blank,
lidless eyes. I walked over to it, put a hand on its neck, and
obligingly it sank to its knees, inviting me to mount.
"I don't like horses," I said, trying to swing my leg over its
back. It only took me a minute to realize that my skirts made this
impossible, so with a muttered imprecation I sat sideways, and the
saddle readjusted itself. "No offense."
The horse ignored this, rising smoothly beneath me. Its ears
swivelled back, waiting for my command.
"Find Morgaine," I said. "Take me to her."
I had ridden a horse before. Once. It had decided, much
against my will, to gallop, and I wound up hanging on to its neck
with both hands, terrified of falling off. I'd imagined that this
experience would be much the same, but the saddle held me so tightly,
and the horse's movements were so fluid, that after a few moments my
terror subsided, and I was able to relax and enjoy the ride.
Breceliande looked much like Selladon, except that the air here
was cooler, tingling in my nostrils like chilled champagne. The
forest was eerily quiet; even the horse's metallic hooves parted the
underbrush with scarcely a rustle. I rode the narrow, winding path
between the great trees, straining for a glimpse of Morgaine's
stronghold.
She had to be pretty confident in her power, I thought, to
challenge Arthur's authority and then take up residence only a few
hundred kilometres away. Surely she had any number of Tagels to
choose from, on this world and her own -- why was she hanging around
in a small land-bound fortress on the outskirts of Breceliande? Was
she just determined to keep a close eye on Arthur?
Or was it the Doctor she didn't want to let out of her sight?
According to the legends I had read, Vivien (or Nimue, depending
on what version you were reading) had seduced Merlin and trapped him
in a hawthorn bush (or an oak tree, or a rocky tomb, or an enchanted
castle, or a crystal cave). I slowed the horse and began to scan my
surroundings more carefully, but none of those things, or anything
like them, appeared.
All at once the horse shied, and I nearly fell off. Somehow I'd
managed to lose the reins. I grabbed its mane, but the tendrils cut
my hands, and I was forced to let go. Then the saddle melted out
from under me, and all at once I found myself on the ground, while
the horse tossed its head and bucked, light flashing wildly in the
crystalline eyes. I'd be trampled if I didn't look out.
"Status!" I shouted at it, scurrying behind a tree.
Indecipherable runes slid redly across the horse's sides,
followed by a message familiar even to a technical idiot like myself:
-- SYSTEM FAILURE --
And with a metallic, un-equine screech, it folded up and
collapsed in a steaming heap on the ground. The eyes blinked once,
twice, and faded to black.
I stared at it for a long moment before I realized that I was
shaking, and that my vision had clouded up with tears. Impatiently I
swatted them away.
"Idiot," I muttered. "It was only a glorified bicycle."
But a brand-new one, tested and certified by the King's own
bioengineers. Malfunction should not have been on the agenda. Which
meant I'd run afoul of one of Morgaine's safeguards.
I was angry now, too angry to think about what I was doing. I
walked out from the cover of the trees, stepped over the smoking body
of the horse, and turned my senses loose.
The sound was a perverse shade of orange, and it ran like a
trip-wire across the path. From the depths of memory I pulled up an
equally lurid green, turned it into a single note, and sang it so
loud my throat hurt.
Morgaine's ward sizzled and snapped. I strode through, fuming,
and headed for a grey bulk in the distance.
* * *
"You owe me a horse, Morgaine," I said.
The woman seated at the table looked up, startled. She had a
strong-boned, fierce kind of beauty, brows arching high over eyes as
blue as Arthur's, her face framed by a heavy mass of red hair.
"How did you come in here?" she demanded, rising swiftly from
her chair. "Where is Gyles?"
"If you mean the guard at the bottom of the stairs, he's lying
down, feeling quite happy -- along with all the others." I gave her
a brittle smile. "Words can be surprisingly convincing when
flavoured with a little Valium."
"I know you," she said coldly, looking down at me. "I surprised
Merlin once, when his mind was unguarded. For a moment I looked in
-- and saw your image there. Who are you?"
"Nimue," I replied, meeting her gaze steadily, refusing to
flinch. "His apprentice."
Morgaine's mouth curled. "His lover."
"Did he tell you so?" Considering the absurdity of the remark,
a scornful laugh should have come easily. It didn't.
"No, he did not say so. But I found your kisses scattered like
crumbs on the surface of his memory."
Of course. Nothing meaningful or valuable about them. Not
diamonds, not notes of music, not even strawberries. Just crumbs.
It shouldn't have surprised me. It certainly shouldn't have
disappointed me.
"I thought it would please the old fool," I said, in tones of
sulphur and ammonia. "But he's never learned gratitude. I hope he
dies slowly."
Morgaine gave me a sidelong look. "You break my wards, you
bewitch my guards, you interrupt my solitude -- all to tell me how
much you despise your master? Child, even if I shared your hatred of
Merlin, that would not prove that he is here."
"He is not here," I agreed. "But you have him, nonetheless.
Who else could take my form to deceive Merlin and lure him from
Arthur's side? Who else would dare?"
"You are bold, girl," she said, but she did not sound
displeased. "What do you want of me?"
"Merlin's power. And his humiliation." The words bit my tongue
like vinegar. "Rather than complete my training, he sealed me in an
enchanted casket and left me to sleep that he might serve Arthur."
"I see. And what do you offer me in return?"
"Excalibur."
One hand slammed down on the table. The other whipped out and
seized my wrist, grinding the bones together. But when she spoke it
was mildly: "Do you know, I could tear the soul from your body and
consume it whole. And if you lie to me, I will. Where is
Excalibur?"
"Only Merlin knows." I stared straight at her, unblinking,
thinking desperately of garlic so that she might not smell my fear.
"But if you bring me to him, I can charm the knowledge from his mind.
I know him better than anyone."
"Do you, now?" Morgaine released me, paced to the window and
gazed out across the forest. I rubbed my bruised wrist, trying not
to think about how close I had just come to losing our deadly game,
until I heard her murmur: "I would have sealed Merlin's tomb if I
dared. But I cannot risk Excalibur coming into Arthur's hands. I
must know where it is -- but he has retreated into himself and I
cannot reach him."
"He will tell me," I insisted. "Take me to him, Morgaine.
Surely, having bound the great Merlin himself, you can have no fear
of a mere apprentice--"
"Mama!"
Both of us whirled. In the doorway was a dark, wiry boy of
about seven, handsomely dressed in black and silver. The clean,
strong bones of his face were Arthur's, but his mouth was spoiled by
sulkiness and there was a wheedling look in his eye as he said, "I'm
bored with Agravayne, Mama. I want to play chess with you."
Morgaine regarded him a moment, as though unable to quite
believe what she was hearing: then she strode to him, seized him by
the ear, and steered him back out into the hall. "I have no time for
your foolishness, boy."
"But, Mama--"
"Go!" Her voice cracked like a dry bone, and the boy, cringing,
scuttled out of sight -- though not, I hoped fervently, out of
earshot.
"His devotion to you is touching," I said. "But really,
Morgaine, what must Arthur think of the way you treat his beloved
son?"
She took two swift steps forward and slapped me across the face.
When I had regained my balance, I put a hand to my jaw and moved it
gingerly, wondering if it was about to drop off.
"That for your impudence," she said with deadly calm. "And
furthermore, if you do not find me Excalibur before tomorrow's dawn,
you will die." She pointed to the bag I wore slung over my shoulder.
"Empty that pouch."
Hastily I upended the leather sack onto the table and backed
away. Morgaine strode over and inspected the resultant heap with
great deliberation, unwrapping the sandwiches, opening the flask, and
spreading out the map. Finally she poked at each item with her
metallic, claw-like nails, and appeared satisfied.
"Very well," she said. "Collect your rubbish, impudent child,
and come with me."
* * *
Beneath the dreaming oaks of Breceliande, beneath the gurgling
circulation of the nutrient pools on which they fed, a tunnel of
crystal and ice took us deep into the earth. Morgaine strode ahead
of me, her unbound hair fluttering in the breeze that gusted up the
shaft from below. Her cheeks were flushed with the cold, but she did
not shiver. Nor did I.
At last the treacherous slope of the tunnel levelled, ending at
an ancient, iron-bound door heavily encrusted with ice. Morgaine
pointed at it, energy crackling from her fingernails, and with a
creaking protest it swung wide to admit us.
We passed into a vast and airy cavern, its rounded walls
glittering white. Snow dusted the floor, and icicles by the thousand
hung from the high-vaulted ceiling. The temperature in the place
would have made Siberia seem like a tropical resort.
"Here is your master, girl," said Morgaine. "For what good it
may do you." She seized me by the arm, pulled me forward. I slipped
on the ice and nearly fell, but with surprising strength she held me
upright.
"And do not forget," she murmured silkily in my ear, "I _will_
be watching."
She released me then, and this time I did fall down. By the
time I managed to rip my palms free of the icy floor and struggle to
my feet, she had retreated to the corridor, slamming the door behind
her. Icicles clattered around me, and I winced.
Well, I thought, at least I made it. Wiping my bleeding hands
on my skirts, I turned and began to tread cautiously around the
cavern, looking for some sign of the Doctor.
I found him in an alcove at the very back of the cave, his feet
encased in shackles of solid ice. He lay flat on his back, arms
folded on his breast, looking remarkably like a corpse. But there
was no smell of decay about him, and his skin, while fearfully pale,
still hinted at warmth.
Forgetting how cold I was, I sank to the ground at his side. He
was dressed in a grey, shapeless robe that reached to his feet, but
beneath it I could see the familiar bulk of his sweater, the rumpled
lines of his trousers. His features did not appear to have aged
measurably in the last fifteen years, and he had not, to my relief,
attempted to grow a wizardly beard.
"Doctor," I whispered. "It's me. Nimue. I mean--" I shook my
head in irritation-- "Thea."
There was no response.
"Remember, Doctor? We met at an asylum in northern Ontario.
You told me I wasn't crazy, just synaesthetic, and you let me come
with you. Can you hear me?"
Still nothing. I tried several variations on this theme, but at
last it became clear that it wasn't going to work. Obviously, it was
time for something completely different. Feeling foolish, but
telling myself that Morgaine was unlikely to hear, I began to recite:
"O My aged Uncle Arly!
Sitting on a heap of Barley
Thro' the silent hours of night, --
Close beside a leafy thicket: --
On his nose there was a Cricket, --
In his hat a Railway-Ticket; --
(But his shoes were far too tight.)"
My voice died out as I realized that was all I could remember of
the poem. I studied the still, white face closely. Had I really
seen a flicker of movement behind the left eyelid? Gaining courage,
I tried again:
"...so she went into the garden
to cut a cabbage-leaf
to make an apple-pie;
and at the same time,
a great she-bear, coming down the street,
pops its head into the shop.
What! no soap?
So he died,
and she very imprudently married the Barber;
and there were present..."
The Doctor's blue lips moved without sound, but I read the words
as they scrawled down his chin: "...the Picininnies..."
I held my breath, but no more seemed forthcoming, so I prompted:
"...and the Joblillies..."
"...and the Garyulies..."
"...and the great panjandrum himself..." I hadn't planned to
smile, but relief drew it out of me. "Go on, Doctor."
He drew a breath, and now, although his voice was rough, I could
hear it clearly: "...with the little round button at top..."
"...and they all fell to playing catch-as-catch-can..."
"...till the gunpowder ran out at the heels of their boots."
I touched his face. "Do you know who I am?"
"Thea."
"Not Vivien?"
He gave a little snort. "Morgaine may pride herself on
knowledge, but I doubt her repertoire extends to Samuel Foote."
My smile broadened. "Doctor?"
He opened his eyes, but they were dark and unfocused, as though
he had forgotten how to see. "What?"
"I think I'm going to kiss you."
The eyes rolled back, brows twitching together in a pained
expression. "Must you?"
"After what you did to me in Selladon, I think you owe me."
He sighed, but made no further protest. I leaned over and
brushed my lips against his.
"Well?" he murmured.
I pulled back with a grimace. "John Cage. Where _have_ you
been?"
"A long way from home," he said. He winced and sat up,
massaging his temples. The colour was easing back into his face, but
he still looked haggard. "Thea, I'm duly impressed that you
recognize the restorative powers of nonsense, but--" his voice
sharpened-- "you shouldn't be here."
"I can't help it if the TARDIS got tired of waiting for you to
come back."
"That doesn't surprise me, but it's beside the point. Go back
to the TARDIS and stay there. You haven't any idea of the danger
you're in."
"On the contrary," I said stiffly, affronted, "I've a better
idea than you know."
He gripped me by the shoulders, his eyes boring into mine.
"Listen, Thea. _You want to go back_." The words were heavy,
drugged with emphasis; his pupils dilated, black swallowing up the
blue.
I returned his stare without hesitation. "Forget it, Obi-Wan,"
I told him. "That trick won't work. And I know it's not me you're
protecting. But if you don't want the whole thing to blow up in your
face, you'd better tell me where to find Excalibur. Morgaine knows
you were making it for Arthur, and she wants it. Is there any reason
she shouldn't have it?"
He looked so disconcerted that I nearly laughed. Then he
cleared his throat and said, "Absolutely not."
"Good. Then tell me where it is."
"Get Arthur to give it to her. I don't want you involved."
"She won't get me, Doctor. All she wants is the sword. So, for the
third time, where--"
"Where do you think I put it? Have some common sense."
I considered this a moment. Then I said uncertainly, "Won't it
rust?"
"Give me some credit, Thea -- oh, sorry, Nimue." The
mischievous glint was back in his eye. "I must confess, ever since
my seventh self met Morgaine and I realized I was going to be Merlin
eventually, I've rather wondered about that part of the legend."
"I'll bet meeting 'Vivien' was a relief."
"She's never been good at impersonations," he admitted.
"But you went with her anyway?"
"Well, I had to know what she was up to, didn't I?"
I shook my head. Typical. "Well, Morgaine must be getting
impatient and I don't have much time left. Here." I grabbed his
hand, pressed it against my heart.
The look on his face was extraordinary. Discomfiture warred
with incredulity, to be replaced by amazement as he felt the warmth
of the ruby I carried in my bodice beating against his palm. I put
my hand over his and slowly, pushed it upward. The jewel slipped out
of my collar, tumbled into his hand. He closed his fingers over it,
then opened them with a flourish to show that it had disappeared.
"Very nice," I told him. "Remind me to hire you for my next
birthday party."
"I don't suppose," he said dryly, "that you're going to tell me
how you got that, or whether you even know what it is."
"Heavens, no. Why should you have all the secrets?" I pulled
my feet back under me and rose. Now that the ruby was gone, I could
feel the cold seeping into my bones; if I didn't get out of there
quickly, I'd freeze. "Goodbye, Doctor. See you around -- I hope."
"Oh, don't worry," he told me cheerfully as he lay back down on
the floor. "You will."

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