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    Deep Secret
    Deep Secret
    Deep Secret
    Ebook456 pages7 hours

    Deep Secret

    By Diana Wynne Jones

    4/5

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    • Family Relationships

    • Magic

    • Parallel Universes

    • Fantasy

    • Magic & Supernatural Abilities

    • Chosen One

    • Prophecy

    • Hidden World

    • Fish Out of Water

    • Coming of Age

    • Family Secrets

    • Mentor Figure

    • Time Travel

    • Secret Legacy

    • Love Triangle

    • Magic & Sorcery

    • Parallel Worlds

    • Responsibility & Duty

    • Family & Relationships

    • Loyalty & Betrayal

    About this ebook

    A fantasy adventure about saving the universe one world at a time from Diana Wynne Jones. The companion novel to the bestselling The Merlin Conspiracy.

    Magids look after all worlds, steer them towards magic, and keep history happening. But Rupert Venables’ mentor has just died, and as the junior magid on earth he has to find a replacement while also trying to find the lost heir of a collapsing empire, worlds away. Rupert interweaves the fate lines to get all the candidates together at a sci-fi fantasy convention, and havoc ensues as they all converge on a very strange hotel, where everything is always linked, the walls keep moving, people are trying to kill him, and nothing is as it seems…a magical, epic story from the Godmother of fantasy.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherHarperCollins UK
    Release dateApr 25, 2013
    ISBN9780007507559
    Author

    Diana Wynne Jones

    In a career spanning four decades, award-winning author Diana Wynne Jones (1934–2011) wrote more than forty books of fantasy for young readers. Characterized by magic, multiple universes, witches and wizards—and a charismatic nine-lived enchanter—her books are filled with unlimited imagination, dazzling plots, and an effervescent sense of humor that earned her legendary status in the world of fantasy. Her books, published to international acclaim, have earned a wide array of honors, including two Boston Globe–Horn Book Award Honors and the British Fantasy Society’s Karl Edward Wagner Award for having made a significant impact on fantasy. Acclaimed director and animator Hayao Miyazaki adapted Howl’s Moving Castle into a major motion picture, which was nominated for an Academy Award.

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    Reviews for Deep Secret

    4/5

    440 ratings25 reviews

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    • 4/5
      Jones was a master of dark whimsy - it was fun to visit one of her multi-verse stories taking the piss on science fiction conventions and mixing magic and technology in unexpected ways. A young magid has the task of replacing a deceased colleague and keeping an empire from crumbling with the help of colleague's ghost, his brothers, and some unsuspecting heirs to the empire. Watch out for ugly sweaters.
    • 3/5
      The Magids have a problem—several problems. Earth needs a new one to keep magic in order, and also the Koryfonic empire, on another world entirely, is falling apart. Rupert Venables is assigned to both worlds, and as he tries to figure out which potential Magid to recruit he’s also dealing with appalling plots against the empire. And, as it turns out, a sci-fi/fantasy convention held on a powerful node, in a hotel that has different configurations for different times. Lots of quirkiness that probably would have appealed to me more if I had better memories of her other works.
    • 3/5
      This is a young adult fantasy novel which goes on the premise that the best place to consider candidates for a magically-important position may be a British science-fiction/fantasy convention. Unfortunately our hero, Rupert Venables (despite the old-fashioned name, he's 26 years old) is being distracted from this job by the hunt for the missing heir to an empire in another dimension. Jones leaves it to the reader to fill in much of the background to this story. This may either leave you feeling glad she didn't spoon-feed you everything, or frustrated if you think she didn't tell you enough. Be patient: most of it will come together by the end.
    • 3/5
      Slow to start, but enjoyable overall.
    • 4/5
      A charming, amusing and somewhat moving fantasy novel. I hadn't read any of the DJW's adult books before, so when I came across this title (while weeding the library's science fiction/fantasy collection), I couldn't rest checking it out. Although it dragged a bit at the beginning, once it got going, I found it hard to stop reading. The characters were likable (even if it took some time) and the setting of the science fiction/fantasy convention was particularly entertaining.
    • 5/5
      Diana Wynne Jones was one of my favorite authors while I was growing up; the Chrestomanci series and Eight Days of Luke were particular favorites. The last few books of hers that I had read, though, had been pretty disappointing, and so I hadn't read anything by her for rather a while when this book was recommended to me.She definitely got the hang of it back. This book's got a richly imagined fantasy world, but one that's really only a few steps removed from our own. In fact, this is probably about as much fantasy as, say, Kelley Armstrong or the like are. It's this world, but with a few bits thrown in.The lead characters, Rupert Venables and Maree Mallory, are both well written, and come off the page in a very lively way. The secondary characters fill their roles very well, as well, and good lord, the plot is so tightly put together. Points come up early and come in handy later in a very natural way, but it's still unpredictable enough that you feel like you need to tear through it to find out what's next. And it's got lots of happening: dark magic, assassination, political machinations in the background, romance, and loads of characterization all around.This book has the author at the top of her game again, and she doesn't seem to have slipped much from the late 1990s when she wrote it. If you're up for fantasy, this is a very, very good pick.
    • 4/5
      The senior Magid responsible for Earth and the adjacent Koryfonic Empire (which is considerably more magic-infested than Earth) has died, and his successor has to recruit a new junior Magid, while dealing with the total disaster that the Koryfonic Empire has become in the aftermath of the assassination of the Emperor, who had m ade sure that his heirs were completely safe from being located and used against him while he was alive. Careful consideration of his problems yields the useful discovery that he can deal with the problem of recruiting a new Magid by meeting all of the likely candidates at a science fiction convention (Eastercon). It's not that simple, of course, and his problems not only become intertwined, but turn out to have been intertwined since before he became aware of them. Poor Rupert Venables, just trying to do his job, has more troubles than anyone should have in any two lifetimes. Great fun.
    • 3/5
      This book is an absolute must-read for anyone who makes a habit of attending sci-fi conventions. Everyone else may find it entertaining enough, but it's really for con-goers.
      Rupert Venables is a magid - a member of a secret brotherhood of magicians assigned to to different worlds throughout the various planes of existence, who are supposed to keep things running smoothly. Unfortunately, his mentor has recently passed away (although he is still with Rupert in spirit, in an advisory sort of position), and it is now Rupert's job to find someone to step into the vacant position and start magical training. His mentor has given him a list of candidates from our Earth - people who may have some natural aptitude in that direction. Unfortunately, when Rupert starts investigating them, they all seem more hopeless than he could possibly imagine. The first candidate - a young woman that he has high hopes for (and some hopeful fantasies as well), disappoints him sorely when he finds her - and not only is she dumpy, plain and nerdy, but is holding up traffic to do a "witchy dance" in the middle of the road. The next candidates he tries to locate are even worse. Apparently people with such aptitudes also tend to be wack jobs, emotional cripples, or downright evil.
      Through a series of coincidences - and a little bit of magical help, Rupert gathers all of his candidates for easier examination at a science-fiction convention - but nothing goes as simply as he hopes, and things progress from bad to worse when the complex politics - including assassinations - of the other world he's assigned to start breaking through into this world - and soon there's a centaur running around the hotel, evil magicians wreaking havoc, and nothing is running smoothly at all.
    • 4/5
      A rather scrambled story, which makes it hard to review. I like many (many) bits of it, but overall it somewhat annoys me. Too many people with different agendas - Janice, Nick, Rupert, Rupert's subconscious, the Upper Room, Knarros, Rob...bah. I like Maree, and I really wish we'd gotten to see more of her and Rupert. And I'd love to know if Nick managed his plan. I guess I'm reading the other Magid book next (as always!).
    • 4/5
      In the book which is the first volume of a series the writer crated a great world. Maybe it's not the most unique, Zelazny's Amber cycle came into my mind several times, but it's not lessening the value of the book. Entertaining read with interesting characters and storyline.
    • 5/5
      I’ve always loved this book. It’s whimsical and surprising and I wish there was more of this world.
    • 5/5
      Complicated and magic - and ultimately satisfying
      Oh and deeply weird
      First class Diana Wynn's Jones - can't recommend it enough
    • 5/5
      I've read this book at least a dozen times, but never entered it into GR before. So it totally counts towards my goal of 52. Sue me. :) I still return to DWJ at least once a year, and her books always hold up to rereading.
    • 4/5
      A very readable and after a measured start, absorbing multiple world fantasy. The characters are over all a bit high on the quirk scale, but there are reasons. Some of the scenes at PhatasmaCon are screamingly funny, although there is a mild fat phobia on display.
    • 4/5
      Slow to start, but it gets madcap and delightful somewhere in the middle.
    • 4/5
      Rupert Venables is a Magid, with particular responsibility for the corrupt and unpleasant Koryfonic Empire. When his mentor dies and, soon afterward, almost the entire Koryfonic court is killed in an act of terrorism, Rupert has his hands full with trying to find a new junior Magid whilst simultaneously trying to decipher a bunch of encrypted alien files to find the Koryfonic heir. He manages to manipulate things so that all his Magid candidates will be drawn to the same hotel at the same time – only to find that the ‘book lovers convention’ that’s occupying the hotel that weekend is a science fiction con. And then an injured centaur runs through the bar …

      This is another of DWJ’s adult titles; it doesn’t make much difference to the plot, but there’s a bit of swearing. And there are goings-on at the con that I certainly never encountered at any I went to.

      A complex plot, but some less-than-engaging characters; this isn’t an especial favourite of mine, and I don’t find the convention scenes as hilarious as some people seem to. What is hilarious, though it probably shouldn’t be, is the late-90’s technology from the perspective of fifteen years on: faxes and floppy discs abound, and there’s not a mobile phone in sight
    • 3/5
      I wish I could figure out how to give half stars again, because while I'd rate this above a three, I'm not sure it gets a 4 from me.

      At any rate, Deep Secret is a fantasy book set, not unfittingly, partially at a fantasy convention. There's a great sense of humor to it, though it does tend to be a bit darker than her books aimed more directly at young adults. The story is convoluted and can bog down, but overall interesting and ultimately resolved to the satisfaction of at least most of the parties involved. The characters themselves are lively and can carry you through some of the more obscure parts of the story. In the end, there's not much in the way of deep thought here, but I'd definitely recommend it to a teen or adult looking for a nice bit of escapism.
    • 5/5
      I loved this book! One would think a fantasy novel set at a fantasy convention would be trite and overdone, but it isn't. Diana Wynne Jones book's always have great character, plot and incidental details. This is no exception. Particularly interesting is her use of an old nursery rhyme, How many miles to Babylon?
      Three score miles and ten.

      Can I get there by candle-light?
      Yes, and back again.

      If your heels are nimble and light,
      You may get there by candle-light.

      Such a strange old rhyme, it seems perfectly reasonable in the context that it is a "Deep Secret!"
    • 3/5
      An entertaining novel, not a young adult book per se, but not unsuitable for that audience. I was reminded more of Friesner than Pratchett in this tale of Magids, wizard-types charged with keeping various parallel worlds moving along some sort of "Intended" path. Some humor, some dark bits, but mostly just straight-ahead fantasy adventure, set in modern day England, largely at a fantasy convention, and several more magical realms. There's an interesting narrative choice to tell one key part of the story in a final "report" after the main narration has finished.

      Recommended.
    • 3/5
      Deep Secret doesn't really classify as vintage Jones. There's nothing wrong with the book per se, but by the same token it ends up being hampered by some of her more pronounced stylistic tics. Fine enough for a weekend or a fan, but certainly not one to recommend for Jones neophytes.

      Rupert Venables is a Magid - a kind of wizardly world steward, responsible for several of the multiple worlds that cluster around Earth. When he's charged with finding a new apprentice and dealing with the collapse of an empire in a neighboring world, things quickly start spinning out of his control.

      Readers familiar to Jones will notice the similarities here to a lot of her other books: the parallel worlds, the issues of succession, and the young protagonists struggling with troubles before they are really due for them.

      The problem with these themes this time, is that they feel a little rote. Jones' jocular, somewhat teasing authorial voice dominates too much of the narrative; challenges are resolved quickly - almost perfunctorily - and nothing ever really feels at stake. The existential questions underpinning the best of her books like A Tale of Time City and Archer's Goon are underplayed here, and it makes it difficult to really *care* about the characters. Additionally, outside of the too-few chapters narrated by potential protege Maree, the characters are underdone, relying more on congenial cliche than real character.

      The book is aimed at an older audience than Jones' typical novels; as evinced by the more graphic violence and romantic subplots, but her somewhat didactic tone doesn't scale up with the violence. There is no doubt as to any character's emotional states and an awful lot of telling and not showing.

      The other thing that bothered me was Jones' willingness to take on some very serious subject matter like the break-up of Yugoslavia and cancer to use quite flippantly in the story. I can't lie, it bothered me when one of the characters sagely notes that cancer "is mostly in your head, you know".

      This hardly sounds like a recommendation, but it's important to put the book in its historical context - YA literature is prepared/permitted to go into much darker territory in 2011 than it was when this was written nearly 15 years ago, and even darker than the era most of her work was created and shaped in.

      Deep Secret isn't a bad book, but it's just so very very average - as writing, as YA fiction, as worldbuilding - and from a writer like Jones, average is usually the last thing you expect.
    • 5/5
      I picked this up at the Tompkins County booksale merely because I was enjoying the Chrestomanci books and it was another one by Diana Wynne Jones, and I read it expecting light fun; I ended up liking it marginally better than the Chrestomanci books, for reasons I'm still working out. I was amused to note my initial suspicion about it was on the nose: it's a book for adults, that has been repackaged with a cartoonish cover with "12 and up" put on the back, but it's still very much a book for adults. Not that I think it wouldn't work okay as YA, but there's a lot of really graphic violence in it, more than than Jones' kids' books, and as for YA, books, I think they tend to have young adult protagonists.

      Well, this one doesn't. The two protagonists, who alternate as first-person narrator, are an angry, melodramatically heartbroken undergraduate called Maree, and a stuffy twentysomething software designer called Rupert. Rupert is a Magid, which seems to be a job very like Chrestomanci's, except he isn't doing it by himself; he, along with a few dozen others, keep magic ticking over in the multiverse. Rupert is a bit uptight, a little unsure of himself, occasionally makes silly mistakes; he's also thoughtful and compassionate, in that fabulous three-dimensional Jones way. Rupert's mentor has just died, and he's looking for a replacement Magid. On his shortlist is Maree, who is, as she puts it, "crossed in love", broke, and tormented by her awful family. She's crass, a bit self-centered, and passionate about books, and cares a lot for her younger cousin, Nick, the third main character in the book. She calls Rupert the Prat. They don't get on.

      And so the plot wanders chaotically on, through an SF con that sounds like many cons I have gone to (and it's lovingly depicted - just the right balance of affection and irony), and through the canon's multiverse. It's a love story, of a sort, and a good one; an adventure story of another sort, and a good one. There is a really delightful supporting cast: Rupert's dead mentor, Stan, who haunts him by playing his Scarlatti CDs incessantly at top volume; his ex-girlfriend, Zinka, who is amazing and makes sure the novel passes the Bechdel test on lots of occasions despite having a male first-person narrator for most of it; some extremely vain centaurs (who are Asian - because, of course, their skin is the same colour all over and how many pure white horses do you see, really?), and some fabulous villains.

      The thing I don't like, plot-wise, is one thing that also annoys me rather about The Lives of Christopher Chant. Christopher, the narrative tells us and to some extent shows us, is not a nice child at all; he tends to be self-centred, he lacks empathy, etc. Well, maybe, but Christopher is about thirteen, and everyone in his life, including his parents and his uncle and with probably the only exception of Tacroy, has either neglected him or used him mercilessly. I dunno, I'd be self-centred too. Well, the same plot works out to some extent in Deep Secret, and it annoys me.

      But that said, I really enjoyed this, and I'm going to try and dig up the sequel.
    • 2/5
      Now that I have more free time for recreational book-reading - as well as the renewed desire to expand that reading - I've been trying to acquaint myself with Diana Wynne Jones, famed fantasy writer and favorite of one of my mentors. For some reason, as a child, I only ever came into contact with one Jones novel: Dogsbody, which I recall being quite pleasant, actually. Here recently, I've been breaking myself into her more well-known works: the excellent Archer's Goon, the Howl's Moving Castle series (if you can really call it a series), and coming up soon, the Crestomanci sequence.

      Deep Secret, though. Deep Secret. Hmm.

      I think my expectations were a little bit off from the start, because I'd read or been told (I don't remember which) that this was DWJ's "adult" novel. And yes, there are definitely a couple of elements - passing references, really - that firmly place it out of the realm of a children's story. It comes off, though, as adolescent. Almost *weirdly* adolescent, like someone who's been writing for children too long decided to try a story for grown-ups. The plot is complicated, the magical mechanics of the universe are largely presumed or half-explained, and the whole thing just feels...fractured. There were parts of the story where I really felt like I was reading a mid-series book, and that somewhere, other readers had been introduced to these characters and worlds in a more traditional manner. But no. DWJ just drops you off the cliff and lets you fend for yourself.

      I'm left with the impression that Deep Secret is, in many ways, supposed to be a comedy. There are certainly funny moments; for me, many of the came from DWJ's keen observation of the types of people who frequent sci-fi/fantasy conventions, and how those events are laid out. It certainly wasn't a laugh-a-minute book, though, and I often found what might have been an attempt at lightness or a P.G. Wodehouse-style comedy of errors actually rather distancing. That's not to say I'm giving up on DWJ; far from it. I would, however, probably avoid another of her books written in this particular voice.
    • 4/5
      When Rupert's mentor, Stan, dies, it is up to him, the junior Magid, to find a replacement. Lucky for him, Stan left a list. Not so lucky for him, interviewing each one separately could take forever. To make things easier, Rupert decides to join all their fatelines at a science fiction convention rather than hunting them down individually.

      Rupert's got other problems, however. The Koryfonic empire is crumbling with the death of its emperor. It is also Rupert's job to hunt down the next ruler. This is proving problematic though. Timon IX was paranoid and has hidden his heirs away.

      How is Rupert going to find the time to manage all this?

      This book was great. At times it was serious, at time it was just absolutely silly, but always it was a pleasure to read. I found the whole concept of a fantasy novel taking place at a science fiction convention absolutely hilarious and very clever. I loved the characters, though at times they were a bit over the top. Both Rupert and Maree had their sarcastic sides, which is always a plus for me. I love witty characters and these ones had wit in spades.

      Honestly, the only part I didn't like was the sudden change in romantic interest for Rupert. He hated Maree and then, the first time he sees her admiring another man, he realizes his hate is really just jealousy and he actually really likes her. It was just too quick and unbelievable for me.

      I'm excited to read the next book and discover more about Magids. I found them fascinating and I hope to learn more about the workings of the Magids as there wasn't nearly as much detail as I would have liked in this book.
    • 4/5
      After reading my way through my local library's entire collection of Diana Wynne Jones books as a young teen, I was delighted to find out from a pen-pal that there were more books out there I had missed.

      Deep Secret, set in a just-slightly-unbelievable alternate England, is funny, geeky, and engaging. The book is written mostly in first-person by a fairly ordinary-sounding programmer named Rupert, who also happens to be the Magid in charge of handling the diplomatic breakdown of the Korfyonic Empire, located over several alternate universes... The plot dips and spirals, sometimes clever and sometimes just a little bewildering, until the climax and satisfyingly tidy denouement in the last 60-odd pages of the book.

      It was great comfort reading and probably one of my favourite Diana Wynne Jones novels yet: tailored toward a less 'goofy' audience than Howl's Moving Castle or the Chrestomanci Chronicles.
    • 5/5
      I picked this book up some years ago, because I've adored Diana Wynne Jones for some time. However, when I tried reading it, I just couldn't get into it, and after trying for a bit, I laid it aside and figured that even great authors were entitled to one bad book.

      Several years later, I picked Deep Secret up again because I had run out of reading material. And this time, I loved it; on the reread, it's become one of my favorite of Jones' books. But I would say that it's geared toward an older reader than many of her other works.

      Deep Secret begins rather slowly after the initial scene; it takes a while to build the usual oddball cast of characters for Jones. It's interesting, to be sure, but it's not very action-oriented until much later in the book, when the threads of the greater plot begin to come together. But once that plot does piece itself together, the book is a lot of action, all at once, as all the characters converge for the final scenes. Everything manages to tie neatly and brilliantly up, in ways that mean you can hardly turn the pages fast enough.

    Book preview

    Deep Secret - Diana Wynne Jones

    In the year E.K. 3413, the following files were secretly obtained from the Magid Rupert Venables and, at the Emperor’s personal request, deposited in the new archive at Iforion.

    I may as well start with some of our deep secrets because this account will not be easy to understand without them.

    All over the multiverse, the sign for Infinity or Eternity is a figure eight laid on its side. This is no accident, since it exactly represents the twofold nature of the many worlds, spread as they are in the manner of a spiral nebula twisted like a Mobius strip to become endless. It is said that the number of these worlds is infinite and that more are added daily. But it is also said that the Emperor Koryfos the Great caused this multiplicity of worlds somehow by conquering from Ayewards to Naywards.

    You may take your pick, depending on whether you are comfortable with worlds infinitely multiplying, or prefer to think the number stable. I have never decided.

    Two facts, however, are certain: one half of this figure eight of worlds is negative magically, or Naywards, and the other half positive, or Ayewards; and the Empire of Koryfos, situated across the twist at the centre, has to this day the figure-eight sign of Infinity as its imperial insignia.

    This sign appears everywhere in the Empire, even more frequently than statues of Koryfos the Great. I have reason to know this rather well. About a year ago, I was summoned to the Empire capital, Iforion, to attend a judicial enquiry. Some very old laws required that a Magid should be present – otherwise I am sure they would have done without me, and I could certainly have done without them. The Koryfonic Empire is one of my least favourite charges. It is traditionally in the care of the most junior Magid from Earth and I was at that time just that. I was tired too. I had only the day before returned from America, where I had, almost single-handed, managed to push the right people into sorting out some kind of peace in the former Yugoslavia and Northern Ireland. But all my pride and pleasure in this vanished when I saw the summons. Groaning to myself, I put on the required purple bands and cream silk brocade garments and went to take my seat in the closed court.

    My first peevish, jet-lagged thought was, Why can’t they use one of the nice rooms? The Great Imperial Palace has parts that go back over a thousand years and some of those old courts and halls are wonderful. But this enquiry was in a new place, lined with rather smelly varnished wood, bleak and box-like and charmless. And the wooden benches were vilely uncomfortable. The figure-eight insignia – carved in relief and painted too bright a gold – dug into my shoulders and dazzled off the walls and off the big wooden chair provided for the Emperor. I remember irritably transferring my gaze to the inevitable statue of Koryfos the Great, looming in the corner. That was new too, and picked out in over-bright gilt, but there is this to be said for Koryfos: he had a personality. Though the statues are always the same and always idealised, you could never mistake them for anything but the likeness of a real person. He carried his head on one side, a bit like Alexander the Great of Earth, and wore a vague, cautious smile that said, I hear what you say, but I’m going to do things my way anyway. You could see he was as obstinate as sin.

    I remember I was wondering why the Empire so loved Koryfos – he reigned for a bare twenty years over two millennia ago, and most of the time he was away conquering places, but they persist in regarding his time as the Golden Age – when we had to stand up for the entrance of the present Emperor. A very different person, small, plain and dour. You do wonder how it is that Emperors always marry the most beautiful women in several worlds and yet produce someone like Timos IX whom you would hardly notice in the street. You would glance at him and think that this was a short man with weak eyes and a chip on his shoulder. Timos IX was one of very few in the Empire who needed to wear glasses. This embarrassed me as I stood up. I was the only other person in the court in spectacles – as if I were setting up to be the Emperor’s equal. In many ways, of course, a Magid is the equal of any ruler, but in this particular court of enquiry I was a mere onlooker, there by law to certify simply whether or not the accused had broken the law as stated. I was not even supposed to speak until after a verdict had been reached.

    This, among other legal facts, was tediously made known to me in the preliminaries after we all sat down and the prisoner was marched in and made to stand in the centre. He was a pleasant-looking youngster of twenty-one or so, called Timotheo. He did not look like a law-breaker. I am afraid that, apart from registering, with some perplexity, that Timotheo was an alias and that, for obscure legal reasons, his real name could not be given, I could not force my jet-lagged mind to attend very well. I remember going back to my thoughts of Koryfos the Great. He stood to the Empire in the place of a religion, it seemed to me. The wretched place had religions in plenty, over a thousand godlets and goddities, but the worship of these was a purely personal thing. As an example of how personal, I recalled that Timos IX had, about fifteen years ago, adopted the worship of a peculiarly unlovable goddess who inhabited a bush planted on the grave of a dead worshipper and who imposed on her followers a singularly joyless code of morals. This probably explained the Emperor’s pinched and gloomy look. But no one else at court had felt the need to adopt the Emperor’s faith. It was Koryfos who united everyone.

    Here I was jerked to alertness. The Emperor himself read out the charges against the young man in elaborate legal language. Stripped of the law-talk it was appalling, even for the Empire. The so-called Timotheo was the Emperor’s eldest son. The decree he was said to have broken stated that no child of the Emperor, by any of his True Wives, High Ladies or Lesser Consorts, was to know who his or her parents were. The penalty for discovering who they were was death. And death for anyone who helped an Imperial child find out.

    The Emperor then asked Timotheo if he had broken this decree.

    Timotheo had evidently known no more of this decree than I had. He was looking as shocked and angry as I felt. I could have applauded when he answered drily, Sire, if I hadn’t broken it before, I would have broken it when you read out my parentage just now.

    But have you broken the decree? the Emperor reiterated.

    Yes, said Timotheo.

    Catch-22, I thought. I was furious. What a charade!

    The worst of it was that Timotheo was intelligent as well as pleasant. He would have made a much better Emperor than his father. It had obviously taken some ingenuity to find out who he was. He had been one of the four fosterlings in the house of a provincial noble and, as the enquiry proceeded, it became clear that the other three fosterlings and the noble must have given him some help. But Timotheo stuck to it that he had done the detective work and made the discovery by himself. Then he had made the bad mistake of writing to his mother, the Emperor’s First Consort, for confirmation.

    Did it not occur to you that, once you were known, my enemies might kidnap you in order to threaten me? the Emperor asked him.

    I wasn’t going to tell anyone, Timotheo said. Besides, I can look after myself.

    Then you were intending to claim the Imperial throne for yourself, the Emperor suggested.

    No, I wasn’t, Timotheo protested. I just didn’t like not knowing who I am. I think I have the right to know that.

    You have no right. You are convicted of treason to the throne out of your own mouth, the Emperor said, satisfied. He looked at me on my high, uncomfortable bench. The law is the law, he said. Bear witness, Magid, that this man broke our Imperial decree.

    I bowed. I couldn’t bear to speak to him.

    After that there was a great deal of palaver, with other dignitaries getting up in their grand silks and bearing witness too. It got like a pompous dance. I sat there considering when would be the best time to spirit young Timotheo away – and I blame my jet-lagged state that I didn’t do it there and then. He was looking stunned by this time. Six men had just paraded past him, passing sentence of death on him, each swinging the white lining of their bright pink cloaks towards him. It was like being sentenced by a bed of petunias. I couldn’t take it seriously. I reckoned the best time to act was when they marched Timotheo back to his condemned cell. He had been brought in by a squad of elite guards with a mage following for added assurance, and I assumed they would think no one could touch him through all that. I bided my time.

    And missed out completely. The petunias retired. The Emperor said, quite casually, The sentence can be carried out now. He raised a hand glittering with rings. One of them must have been one of their beam weapons, miniaturised. Timotheo gasped quietly and fell over sideways on the floor with blood running out of his mouth.

    It happened so quickly that I hoped it was a trick. I could not believe that, even in the Koryfonic Empire, an Emperor would not want his eldest son alive. While I was climbing down the varnished wooden steps to the centre of the court, I was still sure it was just a deception, to make the Emperor’s enemies believe Timotheo was dead. But it was no trick. I touched Timotheo. He was still warm like a living person, but my fingers told me there was no soul there.

    I left at once, from beside the corpse, to make my feelings plain.

    I was thoroughly disgusted, with myself as well as the Emperor. As I made my way home, I told myself I had been stupid to expect compassion or even value for life in that place. And I had sufficient time to curse myself. Earth lies Naywards of the Empire, which makes the journey rather like going slowly uphill. I had to haul myself from lattice to lattice in the spaces between the worlds, and by the time I reached my house I not only hated the Empire, but also the stupid hampering robes it caused me to wear. I was just tearing the darn things off in my living room when the phone rang.

    I wanted nothing more than to sit down with a fresh-brewed cup of coffee, before calling up the Senior Magid and lodging a formal complaint against the Emperor. I swore. I snatched up the phone.

    "Now what?"

    It was my elder brother Will. Bad day? he said.

    Very, I said. The Koryfonic Empire.

    Then I believe you, he said. Glad I don’t have to look after that lot any longer. Will is a Magid too. And what I’ve got to tell you won’t make your day any better, I’m afraid. I’m ringing from Stan Churning’s house. He’s ill. He wants you here.

    Oh God! I said. Why does everything unpleasant always happen at once?

    Don’t know. It just does, Will agreed. It’s not a deep secret, but it ought to be. I think Stan’s dying, Rupert. He thinks so anyway. We tried to get hold of Si too, but he’s out of touch. How soon can you get here?

    Half an hour, I said. Stan lives outside Newmarket. Weavers End, where I live, is just beyond Cambridge.

    Good, said Will. Then I can stay with him until you get here. And keep him alive if necessary, Will meant. If Stan really was dying, there would be Magid business he had to hand on to me. See you soon, Will said and rang off.

    I stayed in the house just long enough to make coffee and fax Senior Magid that I intended to complain about the Empire, to the Upper Room if necessary. Senior Magid lives several worlds Naywards and I normally make heavy weather of getting a fax through there. That day I did it in seconds. Five angry, trenchant sentences in no time at all. I was too busy thinking of Stan. I got in my car still thinking of him. Normally, getting into my car is a thing I pause and take pleasure in – particularly if I have just been away for a while. It is a wholly beautiful car, the car I used to dream of owning as a boy. I usually pause to think how good it is that I can make the kind of money you need to own such a car. Not that day. I just got in and drove, swigging coffee from the Thermos, with my mind on Stan.

    Stan had sponsored first Will, then our brother Simon, then me, into the Company of Magids. He had taught me most of what I know today. I wasn’t sure that I knew what I’d do without him. I kept praying that he, or Will, had made a mistake and that he was not dying after all. But one of the things about being a Magid is that you don’t make that kind of mistake.

    Damn! I said. I kept needing to blink. I didn’t consciously see any of the roads I drove along until I was bumping up the weedy drive of Stan’s bungalow.

    A nasty bungalow. A blot on the landscape. It looked like a large cube of Stilton cheese dumped down in the flat heathland. We used to kid Stan about how ugly it was, but he always said he was quite happy in it. People who knew me, and particularly people who knew all three of us Venables brothers when we lived in Cambridge, used to wonder what we saw in a seedy little ex-jockey like Stan. They asked how we could bring ourselves to haunt his hideous house the way we did.

    The answer is that all Magids lead double lives. We have to earn a living. Stan earned his advising sheiks and other rich men about racehorses. I design computer software myself, games mostly.

    I parked my car beside Will’s vehicle. At dusk, with the light behind it, it passes for a Land Rover. In broad daylight, as it was then, you look away and think you may have imagined things. I edged past it and Will opened the bottle-green front door of the bungalow to me.

    Good timing, he said. I have to go now and milk the goats. He’s in the front room on the left.

    Is he—? I said.

    Yes, said Will. I’ve said goodbye. Shame Si can’t be found. He’s somewhere yonks Ayewards and not in touch with anyone I can contact. Stan’s written him a letter. Let me know how things go, won’t you? He went soberly past me and climbed into his queer vehicle.

    I went on into the bungalow. Stan was lying, all five foot of him, stretched on top of a narrow bed by the window. His slightly bandy legs were in child-sized jeans and one of his socks had a thin place at the toe. At first sight, you would not have thought there was too much wrong with him, except that it was unlike him not to be wandering about doing something. But if you looked at his face, as I did almost straight away, you saw that it was strangely stretched over its bones, and that his eyes, under the high forehead left by his curly grey receding hair, were standing out like a cat’s, luminous and feverish.

    What kept you, Rupert? he joked, a bit gaspily. Will phoned you a good five minutes ago.

    The Koryfonic Empire, I said. I had to send a complaint to Senior Magid.

    That lot! Stan gasped. She gets complaints about them from every Magid who goes near the place. Abuse of power. Contravention of human rights. Manipulation of Magids. General rottenness. I always think she just puts them in a file labelled K.E. and then loses the file.

    Can I get you anything? I said.

    Not much point, he said. I’ve only got an hour or so – no time to digest anything – but I would appreciate a drink of water.

    I got him a glass of water from the kitchen and helped him sit up enough to drink it. He was very weak and he had that smell. The smell is indescribable, but it belongs only to the terminally ill and once you know it you can’t mistake it. I remember it from my grandfather. Shouldn’t I ring the doctor? I asked him.

    Not yet, he said, lying back and panting a bit. Too much to say first.

    Take your time, I said.

    Don’t make bad jokes, he retorted. So. Well. Here goes. Rupert, you’re junior Magid on Earth, so it’s going to fall to you to find and sponsor my replacement – but you knew that, I hope.

    I nodded. The number of Magids is always constant. We try to fill the gaps left by deaths as promptly as possible, because there is a lot for us to do. That was how Stan came to sponsor me as well as my brothers. Three Magids died within six months of one another, long before Will was competent to try. Before that, Stan had been this world’s junior Magid for nearly ten years. As I said to Will, bad things always happen at once.

    Now there are several things I want to tell you about that, Stan went on. First, I’ve got you a list of possibles. You’ll find it in the top left-hand drawer of my desk over there, on top of my will. Get it out of sight before anyone else sees it, there’s a good lad.

    What? Now? I said.

    What’s wrong with now? he demanded.

    Superstition, I thought, as I went over to the desk. I didn’t want to behave as if Stan was dead while he was still alive. But I opened the drawer and took out the folded list I found there. It’s quite short, I said, glancing at it.

    You can add to it if you want, he said. But look at those lot first. I spent all last month making sure you had some good strong candidates. Two of them have even been Magids before, in former lifetimes.

    Is that a good thing? I asked. Stan was fascinated with past lifetimes. To my mind, it was his great weakness. He was ready to believe anything people said about reincarnation. It never seemed to occur to him that nobody who said they remembered a former lifetime ever remembered an ordinary one. It was all kings, queens and high priestesses.

    He grinned, stretching his already oddly stretched face. He knew my opinions. "Well, if they bothered to get reborn, it has to mean they’re keen. But you’ll find the great advantage is that they’re born subconsciously knowing half the stuff – and usually with plenty of talent too. All my list are good strong talents though. The best untrained in the world. He paused a moment. He kept getting breathless. And take your time looking at them, he said. I know we’re supposed to be quick, but it’s not that urgent. Do what I did: I left you for nearly a year. I couldn’t mostly believe it, that three brothers in the same family should all be Magid material. Then I thought, Why not? There has to be something in heredity. But I never told you what really made up my mind about you, did I?"

    My obvious superiority? I suggested.

    He chuckled. Nah. It was the fact that you’d been a Magid before in at least two lifetimes.

    In the ordinary way, I would have been extremely annoyed. I have never, I said stiffly, "ever either remembered a former life or told you anything to suggest that I had."

    There are other ways of finding out, Stan said smugly.

    I let it pass. This was not the time to argue. All right, I said. I’ll weigh up everyone on the list very carefully.

    And don’t necessarily choose the most willing. Run tests, he said. And when you do choose, make sure you let them follow you around during a fairly big assignment before you begin instructing them. See how they take it – the way I did with you over the Ayeworld pornography and with Will over the oil crisis.

    What did Simon have? I asked. No one had ever told me.

    A mistake on my part, Stan admitted. Someone was doing a white slave and marriage trade, pushing girls through Earth down from Naywards and then on through the Koryfonic Empire. I let Simon see the police team the Empire sent here to see me about it. Half of them were centaurs. There was no way I could pass them off as Earth people. After that I had to get him ratified as a Magid – he’d seen too much. Lucky for me he’s made a good one. But don’t you worry that you’ll make a mistake like that.

    I should hope not! I said.

    You won’t, said Stan. Because if you start, I’ll stop you.

    Er… I began, wondering how to point the hard truth out.

    I’ll be around, he said. I’ve arranged to be here. A Magid can work quite well disincarnate, and I plan to do that until you’ve got things settled.

    I said, half joking and wholly disbelieving, Don’t you trust me not to balls it up then?

    I trust you, Stan said. But you’ve only been a Magid just over two years. And it used to be customary for all new Magids to have a disincarnate adviser – I found it in the records. So I asked the Upper Room if I could stay and keep an eye on you, and they seemed to think it was reasonable. So I’ll be around. Rely on it. He sighed, and stared into the distance somewhere beyond his flaking off-white ceiling.

    I sighed too, and thought, Be honest, Stan. You just don’t want to go away for good. And I don’t want this to happen either.

    Mostly, though, Stan added, it’s that I can’t bear to leave. I’m only eighty-nine. That’s young for a Magid.

    I had not realised he was much above sixty, and said so.

    Oh yes, he said. I’ve kept my condition. Most of us do. Then one day you get told, ‘That’s it, boy. Deathday tomorrow,’ and you know it’s true. I’ve been given until sundown.

    I looked out of the window involuntarily. It was November. The shadows were long already.

    Call the doctor just before sunset, Stan said, and did not say much for a while after that. I gave him some water, got myself some more coffee and waited. Some time later, he began to talk again, this time more generally and reminiscently.

    I’ve seen this world through a lot of changes, he remarked. "I’ve helped clear away a lot of the political garbage that built up through this century. We’ve got the decks cleared for the changes due to come in the next century now. But, you know, the thing I take most pleasure in is the way we’ve managed to coax this world Ayewards. Gradually. Surreptitiously. When I was a lad, no one even considered there might be other universes, let alone talking of going to them. But now people write books about that, and they talk about working magic and having former lives, and nobody thinks you’re a nutcase for mentioning it. And I think, I did that. Me. I slid us back down the spiral. Back to where we should be. Earth is one of the early worlds, you know – well of course you know – and we should be a long way further Ayewards than we are."

    I know, I said, stressfully watching the shadow of my car spread over his bushy lawn.

    Help it along some more, he said.

    It’s one of the things we’re here for, I said.

    Later, when the room was getting dim, Stan said suddenly, It was the homesickness that brought me back here, you know.

    How do you mean? I asked him.

    I started out my work as a Magid a long way Ayewards, he murmured. His voice was getting weaker. I chose it. A bit like Simon chose it. But I chose it for the centaurs. I’d always loved centaurs, always wanted to work with them. And as soon as I learnt that more than half the places Ayewards of here have centaurs, off I went. I thought I’d never come back here, you know. Centaurs need a magical ambience to maintain them – well, you know they do – and they all died out here when we drifted off Naywards. And for three years I was blissfully happy, working with centaurs, studying them. I don’t think there’s a thing I don’t know about centaurs and their ways. Then I got homesick. Just like that. I can’t tell you what for. It was too general. It was just that the world I was on wasn’t this one. It didn’t smell right. The wind didn’t blow like it does here. Grass the wrong green. Small things, like the water tasting too pure. So back I had to come."

    To work as a jockey, I said.

    It was next best to being a centaur, he said. After a long pause, he added, I want to get reborn as a centaur. Hope I can arrange that. Then, after a longer pause still, Better phone that doctor then.

    The phone was in the kitchen. I went through there and found the number carefully written on a pad laid by the phone. I remember thinking, as I punched it in, that this seemed hard on young Timotheo. I must have been one of the few people to be sorry he was dead, and yet all my sorrow was concentrated on Stan. I forgot Timotheo again the next moment. Stan had made his arrangements with care. The doctor, to my astonishment, answered the phone himself and promised to be there in ten minutes. I rang off and went to the front bedroom.

    Stan? I said.

    There was no answer. He had fallen half off the bed as he died and he had wanted to do that in private. I put him gently back.

    Stan? I said again, into the dead, dim air.

    There was nothing. I could feel nothing.

    So much for the idea of staying around, I said loudly. But there was still nothing.

    A little before Christmas, when most of the other small and large things connected with Stan’s death were done, I had a serious look at the list he had given me. There were five names on it, two of which were female. The addresses indicated that one of these women was British and the other American. The males were from Britain, Holland and – I had to get out my atlas – Croatia. I sighed and tried to look forward to travelling to meet all of them on various invented excuses. At least three of them spoke my language. I could call that lucky, I supposed. Stan had also supplied the dates of birth for all of them except the Croatian. The British girl and the man from Holland were both young. She was twenty, he was twenty-four. That was a point in their favour. The other two were in their forties. I found that a bit daunting. I had just been twenty-six, and the idea of having someone so much older for a pupil filled me with apprehension.

    But I set to work to find them all.

    I do not wish to describe the frustrations of that search. With interruptions from my neighbour – of whom more hereafter – and my mother’s natural desire to have at least one of her sons home for Christmas, I was divining, travelling or querying my various sources non-stop for six weeks. I flew to Amsterdam to find the Dutchman, Kornelius Punt, only to discover that he had won some kind of scholarship enabling him to travel. He had taken serious advantage of it too. I went down to Avignon, where he was last heard of, and found that he had gone to Rome, Athens and then Jerusalem. After a maddening four days, dealing with the Greek and Italian telephone systems, I came home to find a fax from a Magid visiting Israel informing me that Punt had gone to Australia. I gave up and decided to wait for him to come back. My American contacts traced the older woman, Tansy-Ann Fisk, soon after that. I was just preparing to fly out to Ohio when all sources sent urgent messages not to bother. Fisk had gone into retreat in some kind of all-female clinic where men were not allowed. Looking up this clinic in Magid records, I was a little perturbed to find it carried the remark ‘Query dubious esoterica’. Still, she could have entered the place in good faith for a simple rest-cure. All I could do was wait until she came out. The British man, Mervin Thurless, was equally hard to trace. Eventually it emerged that he was on a lecture tour in Japan. As for the Croatian, Gabrelisovic, I don’t have to remind you that there had been a war there. My NATO sources rather feared he was among the many who had vanished in it without trace.

    I turned to hunting for the British girl with some relief. At least we were both in the same country. Moreover she was younger than me and possessed, according to Stan’s list, the greatest amount of untrained talent of the lot. She was the one I secretly hoped to select. I even allowed myself very agreeable visions of her as a pretty and intelligent young woman whom it would be a pleasure to instruct. I visualised myself laying down the laws of the Magids to her. I saw her hanging on my every word. I looked forward to meeting her.

    I couldn’t find her either.

    She had a slightly complex family history. The address I had for her proved to be that of an aunt, her father’s sister, in Bristol where Maree Mallory seemed to be a student. I stood on the aunt’s doorstep in Bristol, in the pouring rain, while damp children pushed in and out of the house around me. Before long, the children formed a yelling, fighting heap behind the aunt. She shouted at me above the din that poor Maree had gone back to her mother in London, didn’t I know? Parents divorced. Sad case. I bellowed to be told whereabouts in London. She screamed that she couldn’t remember, but if I didn’t mind waiting she’d ask her sister-in-law. So I stood for a further five minutes in the rain watching the aunt across the fighting heap of children while she telephoned further down the hall. Eventually she came back and screamed an inaccurate address at me. I wrote it down, with further inaccuracies caused by damp paper and blotches of rain, and went to London the next day. It rained that day too.

    The address was in South London. That part I got right. But when at last I found it, it proved not to be called Rain Kitten as I had written down, but Grain Kitchen. It was a healthfood shop. The lady standing behind a glassed-in display of more kinds of beans than I knew existed was tall and slender in her white overall. The white cloth round her head revealed youthful fair hair. She was so young-looking and comely that, for a moment, I had hopes that she was Maree Mallory herself. But when I came nearer, she looked older, possibly even over forty. She could have been Maree’s mother. My blotched notes said that in this case she would be a Mrs Buttle; but the sign over the door had read PROPRIETORS L. & M. NUTTALL. I decided not to risk names. I told her politely that I was looking for Maree Mallory.

    She stared at me with her head on one side, in a summing-up way I found slightly ominous. I’m not helping you, she announced at length.

    Can you tell me why not? I asked.

    You think too well of yourself, she said. Posh accent, shiny shoes, expensive raincoat, not a hair out of place – oh, I can see well enough why you let her down like that. You thought she wasn’t good enough for the likes of you, didn’t you? Or didn’t she iron your shirts to your liking?

    I know I was speechless for a moment. I could feel my face flooding red. I do, certainly, like to be well dressed, but I found myself wanting to protest that I always iron my own shirts. It was too ridiculous. I pulled myself together enough to say, Mrs – er Buttle – Nuttall? – I assure you I have not let your daughter down in any way.

    "Then why is she so upset and saying you have? the lady demanded. Maree’s not one to lie. And why have you come crawling to me? Realised you let a good girl slip between your nicely clipped fingernails, have you?"

    Mrs Buttle— I said.

    Nuttall, said she. I never did like men who wear cravats. What’s wrong with an honest tie? Let me tell you, if I’d seen you when she first took up with you, I’d have warned her. Never trust a cravat, I’d have told her. Nor a mac with lots of little straps and buttons. Clothes always tell.

    "Mrs Nuttall! I more or less howled. I have never met your daughter in my life!"

    She looked at me disbelievingly. Then what are you here for, dripping all over my shop floor?

    I came, I said, because I am trying to trace your daughter, Maree Mallory, in connection with – with a legacy which may come her way. The idea of a legacy was perhaps a poor one, but I was too flustered to remember all the cleverer pretexts I had invented on my way to Bristol the day before.

    It seemed to impress Mrs Nuttall. It was her turn to blush. Her fair pink skin went a strong purple and she clapped both hands over her mouth. Oh. You mean you’re not this Robbie of hers, then?

    My name is Rupert Venables, madam, I said, hoping to rub the embarrassment home.

    Oh, she said again. I assumed she was about to relent and summon her daughter from a flat upstairs or somewhere. Not a bit of it. Prove it, she said, as her flush died down. And when I had shown her a business card, she said, Anyone can have a card printed. So I produced my driving licence, a credit card and my chequebook. She looked at them long and hard.

    I didn’t bring my passport, I said, not altogether pleasantly.

    To which she said, Well, Rupert’s not much different from Robbie as a name.

    There’s all the difference in the world, I said.

    She returned to my business card and looked at it broodingly. It says here Computer Software Designer. That’s you? I nodded. And this Robbie is supposed to be training for a vet, she mused. That is different. But why aren’t you a lawyer if it’s about a legacy?

    Because, I said, I am the executor of the will. The deceased, Stanley Churning, named me executor in his will. Mrs Nuttall, much as I applaud your caution, I would be grateful if you would let me talk to Maree.

    I suppose I have to believe you, she said grudgingly. But Maree’s not here.

    My heart sank. Where is she?

    Oh, she went to her dad when they found he’d got cancer, Mrs Nuttall told me. She would go. It’s not my fault she’s not here.

    Do you mind giving me her address then?

    She did mind. She was suspicious of the whole thing. I applauded her instinct even while I tried not to grind my teeth. Eventually she said, I suppose if it’s over a legacy… and at last gave me an address north of Ealing.

    I thanked her and went there. It took hours. And when I got there I found the house locked and the lower windows boarded up. A neighbour informed me that the owner was in hospital – a long way away, she couldn’t remember where – and the daughter had closed the house up and left.

    I drove home, seething the whole way. The M25 was at a standstill. I tried to go cross-country and there were roadworks every half-mile. Talk about a run round the gasworks! I slammed my car door viciously when I finally got out in my own yard. I kicked my back door open and then slammed it shut. I tore off my damp mac. I slammed cupboards hunting for a glass. I slammed my way into my quiet, orderly living room, poured a stiff drink and threw myself into a chair. After the first swig, I had a thought. I swore, tore off my cravat and threw it at the fireplace.

    If I’d only known what you were letting me in for, Stan! I said. "If I’d known! As it is, I give up. Now."

    Why? What’s the matter, lad? Stan’s voice said.

    I stopped dead, with my whisky tipped towards my mouth. Stan?

    Here, Rupert, his voice said, husky and apologetic, from the space by my big window. Sorry about the delay. It’s – well, it’s not as easy to come back as I thought. It’s not like you think. There’s conditions to be met. I had to argue my case with the Lords of Karma as well as the Upper Room, and Lords of Karma aren’t easy. Not all of them are human. I don’t blame you for not looking happy. What’s the problem?

    I think if Stan had arrived at any other time, I would have had trouble accepting him. Something about that unembodied presence brought me out in cold shudders, even annoyed as I was. But I was so fed up that I drank the rest of my whisky in one gulp and told him what was the

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