The Unwilling Warlord (13 page)

A lesser warlock would not be worth bothering with, but a really powerful one might be. He would surely be greatly weakened, but he would also be something that nobody in Ophkar or Ksinallion would ever have seen before.

“Nightmares?” Sterren asked quietly.

For the first time since Sterren had first seen him in the market, the warlock’s calm expression changed; he let a flicker of surprise at Sterren’s knowledge show. Then, slowly, he nodded.

Sterren smiled slightly. He knew that the Calling gave the warlock reasons for coming south far more important than a pound of gold.

That meant he would probably work cheap, far cheaper than his level of power might otherwise justify.

“You’ll be coming, then?” Sterren asked.

The warlock nodded again.

Sterren turned to the wizard. “And you?”

“What’s the pay, exactly? Are meals included?” Her voice shook a little. She looked at Sterren as she wiped her nose on her sleeve again.

The serving maid chose that moment to return with a tray holding six plates of stewed vegetables, tainted with only the smallest trace of mutton. A bottle of red wine and half a dozen stacked mugs were included, as well.

Sterren and the two Semman soldiers distributed the plates, while the warlock sent the cups floating through the air to the appropriate places. At a gesture, the cork sprang from the bottle’s neck, and the bottle then settled itself in front of Lady Kalira.

Startled, she picked it up, and only after a moment’s hesitation did she begin pouring.

Sterren threw the warlock a puzzled glance. If he had reached the threshold of nightmare, didn’t he realize that every additional use of warlockry would increase his danger? At least, that was what Sterren’s master, Bergan the Warlock, had said.

The warlock saw the look, and smiled slightly. “In honor of our imminent departure for more southerly climes,” he said, raising his cup as if in a toast.

The others probably thought it was just a toast, but Sterren knew what the warlock meant. After keeping his magic in check — for hours, days, sixnights, even months? — he was allowing himself a little freedom, secure in the knowledge that he would soon be sailing away from whatever waited in the mountains and valleys of Aldagmor.

Sterren put that out of his mind and turned to the wizard. “The pay,” he explained, “will include meals, and a hammock aboard ship, and a room in Semma Castle — possibly shared with others, but a bed of your own, at any rate. You’ll need to learn some Semmat, I’m afraid; virtually nobody there speaks a word of Ethsharitic. If we win our war, then the magicians involved, as a group, will be paid ten rounds of gold, and a dozen choice gems — I can show them to you later, if you like, but not in a tavern like this. How this payment is to be divided up is yet to be determined; either the magicians can decide amongst themselves, or King Phenvel can divide it up as he deems appropriate. Would that suit you?”

She nodded, sniffling.

“If you don’t mind my asking, just what magic do you know?” Sterren inquired. Obviously, she knew no spells to keep a cold away.

“Wizardry, of course,” she said.

That was no surprise, but Sterren knew well that wizards came in a wide range of skills and power. “Much wizardry?” he asked.

“Well . . .” She hesitated, then admitted what her soiled clothes and empty belly had already made obvious. “No, not really. A few spells.”

“Not just tricks, though, I hope,” Sterren said, knowing he was prodding her on what was surely a sensitive subject.

“No, real spells!” she snapped. “I am Annara of Crook­wall, and I am a full journeyman in the Wizards’ Guild; I served my six years as apprentice, and I learned what my master could teach me!”

Her flash of pride vanished as suddenly as it had ap­peared. “That wasn’t much, though,” she admitted, nervously tugging her hair back from her face.

That was no surprise. Sterren nodded and poured himself wine.

As they ate, the warlock and the three Semmans said nothing, while Sterren and Annara made polite small talk. Sterren inquired about her upbringing in Crookwall, while she, in turn, asked about Semma, and was surprised to learn that he was a native of Westgate, rather than someplace more exotic.

After the meal had been consumed, Sterren leaned back in his chair and looked across at Lady Kalira as he tried to decide what to do next.

“Well, my lord,” Lady Kalira said, seeing his attention focused on her, “you have two magicians here, do you not?”

Sterren nodded.

“Is that sufficient, then?”

Sterren guessed at what the Semmat word for “sufficient” meant. He glanced at Annara, who would give no details of her abilities beyond admitting to “a few spells,” and then at the warlock, who had as yet given no name, who might well be totally powerless in Semma.

“No,” he replied immediately, before even considering his own hopes for escape. “These two may help, but neither of them can provide any assurance of winning.”

“Then you plan to try to recruit more?”

Sterren nodded.

“My lord, are you sure you have no other intentions?”

He picked up her phrase to ask, “What other intentions might I have?” He eyed her cautiously.

“Delay, perhaps.”

“Baguir?” He did not recognize the word. He guessed it to be something like “escape,” but could not be certain. “What’s baguir?”

“To put off, to stall, to hold back, to go slowly; I don’t know the Ethsharitic.”

That was not the reply Sterren had feared and expected. “Delay?” he asked. “Why should I want to delay?”

“I would not know, my lord, but your refusal to purchase any magical assistance in sailing hither, and your insistence that two magicians are not enough, would seem to imply that you are certainly in no hurry about this foolish, disreputable business.”

He picked up her phrase again, without any very clear idea what it meant, save that it had a strong negative connotation. “This disreputable business may save Semma, my lady.”

“Not if you continue to delay.”

“I’m not delaying! Why should I?”

“Well, my lord, it has occurred to me, in my more cynical moments, that if you can stretch your visit to this, your homeland, long enough, perhaps the war in Semma will be fought and lost before our return, and you can retire to a comfortable exile here.”

Sterren stared at her. That possibility had never oc­curred to him.

A very tempting possibility it was, too.

He glanced quickly to either side, at the two other Semmans, the only ones in the tavern who could understand this Semmat conversation.

Alder looked seriously upset; Dogal was calmer, but eyeing Sterren suspiciously.

“I am not delaying,” Sterren insisted.

“Then tell me, my lord, just how much longer we must remain here, and how many magicians you think to find.”

“My lady Kalira, I’ve only just started! One hour in a . . . in one market is nothing! If we could find one magician I could be sure was powerful enough, that would be all we need; without that one, I think half a dozen might serve. To find the right ones, though — I have no way of knowing how long it will be!”

Lady Kalira sighed. “My lord Sterren, let us speak frankly,” she said. “You know that despite your rank, I was sent here as your gaoler, to make sure that you did, in fact, return to Semma before the spring, when invasion is all but certain.”

Sterren noticed Alder turn to stare at Lady Kalira as she said this; he had obviously not realized either that Sterren was still under suspicion by anyone but Dogal and himself, nor that an invasion was imminent.

“You have managed to lose four of the six men set to guard you, though I am not sure how . . .”

“They may come back,” Sterren interrupted.

Lady Kalira held up a hand. “Yes, they may, but at present they are not here. Let me continue.” She glared at him.

“Go on,” Sterren said.

“As I was saying, you have very cleverly disposed of two-thirds of your escort already, and acquired two of the magicians you sought, to confuse matters and perhaps, for all we know, to deceive the two guards remaining. We have no very clear idea what you have been discussing with them throughout this meal, since we don’t know Ethsharitic; you could have been planning your escape, with their connivance, under our very noses.”

Sterren wished he had been bold enough to try it.

“Now, you are demanding an effectively unlimited op­portunity to stroll about the city, looking for a chance to slip away and hide from us in a city you know far better than we could ever hope to. I am sorry, but as your un­willing gaoler, I can’t allow it. We must set a term, at the end of which we will depart this place and sail homeward with all due speed. I would suggest that by noon tomorrow we be under way.”

Sterren sat back and used a fingernail to pick the last remnants of his supper from between his teeth as he considered this.

“I see what you mean, my lady,” he said at last, “and I truly do understand. I do not suppose that you would accept my word that I will not escape, or delay until it’s too late.” To his own surprise, he realized that he really would be willing to give his word, and that he would keep it, as he always had. Semma was not really as bad as all that, and the idea of his soldiers being slaughtered was not an ap­pealing one. If he could just find the right magic, he was sure he could win the war. It was a challenge, a gamble, and he wanted to meet it head-on. He wanted to see if a little magic really could change a sure defeat into victory.

And after it was over, maybe then he could desert.

“No, my lord,” she said, “I’m afraid I couldn’t accept your word. After all, despite your noble ancestry, and your apparent good intentions, what are you really but a merchant’s brat, brought up in the streets, accustomed to cheating at dice to earn your bread? How much honor can I expect from such as you?”

Sterren smiled wryly, to hide how much Lady Kalira’s clinically-exact description hurt him. “More than you might think,” he said. “But if you will not take my word, there is little I can do to make you believe me.” He sighed. “Until noon, though, is not enough. If you could give me three days . . .”

He let his voice trail off.

“Three days?” It was her turn to sit back and consider.

“Today is the twenty-first of Snowfall,” she said. “You will agree, then, that we must all be aboard ship by nightfall on the twenty-fourth, ready to set sail with the next tide?”

Sterren nodded. “Agreed,” he said.

“You’ll promise not to attempt escape?”

“You said that you can’t accept my word, but all the same, I’ll give it. I won’t try to escape before nightfall on the twenty-fourth of Snowfall.”

“All right,” she said. “Three days, and then we drag you back to the ship.”

Chapter Sixteen

By morning the month of Snowfall was living up to its name. It was snowing, and Sterren decided that Shiphaven Market was not going to be worth another visit. Instead, he left Annara and the warlock aboard ship while he, Lady Kalira, Alder, and Dogal all set out in the early gloom for the Arena and the Wizards’ Quarter.

None of the other four soldiers had turned up yet, and that meant Lady Kalira was in a very bad temper. Sterren made no attempt at conversation as he led the way up Warehouse Street, through Shortcut Alley to North Street, and on out of Spicetown.

As they neared the Grand Canal, however, the overlord’s palace gradually became visible ahead, and Sterren noticed all three Semmans staring at it.

They weren’t being quite attentive enough to encourage escape, and besides, he had promised not to, but he did venture to remark, “Pretty, isn’t it?”

“Is that where the wizards live?” Lady Kalira de­manded.

Startled, Sterren said, “No, of course not! That’s Lord Azrad’s . . . ah . . . castle.”

“How far to the magicians, then?”

“Well, North Street forks ahead and we go left on . . .” He hesitated, and then switched to using Ethsharitic for place names. “. . . on the Promenade, and then on the other side of the Palace Plaza we take Arena Street, and then it’s about a mile to the Arena, I guess.”

“You’re joking!”

“No, I’m not.”

“A mile?”

“About that.”

“I will never get over the size of this city,” Lady Kalira said, more to herself than to Sterren. “What a mess!”

Sterren did not consider his home city a mess, but he knew better than to say anything. They made the rest of the journey in silence.

The streets were almost empty because of the snow, and the city’s normal odor was largely suppressed by the pale- gray blanket that covered the rooftops and most of the streets, but the scent of spices, wood-smoke, and charcoal was still strong. The mansions of the New City were silent and elegant, the snow hiding much of the damage time had done them; even the slums of the outer Arena district were quieter and less offensive in such weather.

They passed Camp Street, and then the Arena itself, and came to the plaza just south of the main entrance.

There, to the right of the rampway into the Arena, was the message-board that Sterren had remembered, a six-foot-high wall of rough pine planks weathered grey, fifteen feet long, plastered over its entire surface with faded and torn bits of paper, parchment, and fabric.

Sterren had written up his notice the night before, aboard ship, but he realized as he looked for a place to put it that he had not thought to bring any tacks or nails. With a shrug, he found a notice that had been attached with unusually long cut nails, announcing an estate auction that had taken place a sixnight before, and he rammed the corners of his own message over the blunt ends of the nails.

Satisfied, he read it over again.

“Magicians,” it said in large letters at the top, and then continued in smaller writing below, “Employment opportunity for magicians of every school. The Kingdom of Semma is recruiting magicians for government service for a term of several months, but not to exceed one year. Room and board furnished, and transportation both ways, as well as payment in gold and gems. To apply, or for further information, contact Sterren, Ninth Warlord of Semma, aboard the Southern Wind, now docked at the Tea Wharves in Spicetown. Final application must be made by nightfall, 24 Snowfall, 5221.”

He stepped back, and realized that his fine, big page was almost lost amid the jumble of paper and cloth.

There was, however, nothing he could do about it.

He looked at some of the other messages on the board, wondering what they were all about. One caught his eye immediately.

“Acclaimed prestidigitator seeks part-time employment. Leave message with Thorum the Mage, Wizard Street.”

Sterren was unsure exactly what a prestidigitator was; some sort of magician, surely! “Part-time employment” — that wasn’t exactly what he was offering, but still . . .

Thorum the Mage, he told himself, on Wizard Street. That wouldn’t be too hard to find.

He was about to start looking for more notices when he was reminded of his companions by the sound of feet shuffling in the slush.

“Hai, you three,” he said. “Come here and help me read these! Some of them are from magicians looking for work! I should have come here in the first place, instead of bothering with Shiphaven!”

Dogal shook his head. “I can’t read,” he said.

Lady Kalira and Alder started forward, but then Alder stopped. A moment later, as she got close enough to make out the messages, so did Lady Kalira.

“We can’t read them, either,” she said. “They’re all in Ethsharitic.”

“Well, of course they . . .” Sterren let his voice trail off as he realized that he was the only one present who could read Ethsharitic. He turned back to the board and drew a deep breath, then let it out in a sigh.

“I’ll read them, then,” he said.

Two hours later he felt he had covered the board adequately. Snow, meanwhile, had attempted to cover Alder and Dogal; Lady Kalira had taken shelter in the arched entrance of the Arena.

“Doesn’t this stuff ever stop falling?” Dogal asked.

“Of course it does!” Sterren retorted, instinctively leap­ing to the defense of his native city.

“And then what happens to it?” Alder asked. “What do you people do with it all?”

“Nothing; it melts, of course,” Sterren said. “This isn’t Sardiron, where it piles up all winter.”

“Well, how would we know that?” Alder replied angrily, his temper obviously shortened by the long, cold wait.

“From experience, of course. Haven’t you ever seen . . . seen it before?” He could not think of a Semmat word for “snow.”

Alder and Dogal both stared at him, startled. “No, of course not!” Alder replied.

“How could we have seen it before?” Dogal asked.

It was Sterren’s turn to be startled. “Oh,” he said. “Doesn’t it . . . I mean, don’t you have this stuff in Semma?”

“No,” Alder answered.

“It doesn’t fall in the winter, like this?”

“No, it rains in the winter in Semma. We don’t have snow.”

Sterren noted the word for later use, and then dropped the subject. “Oh. Well, I have a dozen messages here from magicians looking for work, and I want to follow up on them, before I forget any names. Come on.”

The “dozen” was actually fifteen, though there was some overlap in the message drops they used.

With much grumbling, the soldiers came. Lady Kalira emerged from the entryway and joined the party as Sterren led them back out to Arena Street and on to the southeast, toward the Wizards’ Quarter.

Five blocks took them to Games Street, a thoroughfare that Sterren remembered well, even though he had rarely played there. The times when he tried it had all been remarkable enough to stay very clear in his memory.

And Games Street, of course, marked the line between the indeterminate streets between the Arena and the ­Wizards’ Quarter, where various performing magicians made their homes, and the heart of the Wizards’ Quarter proper, where virtually all the city’s magic shops were clustered.

In fact, just one more block south on Arena brought them to Wizard Street. There was no marker, but it was unmistakable. “TANNA the Great,” advertised a ­signboard at the corner, “Wizardry for Every Need, Love Charms a Specialty.” Peculiar odors mixed with the inevitable smell of woodsmoke — the city’s famous spices had been left behind a mile to the north, but here there were strange new scents that might have been spices, or herbs, or something else entirely.

Two doors down on the right was a signboard an­nouncing the presence of Thorum the Mage, which was one of the names Sterren had memorized. He headed directly for it.

Two hours later they took a break for a midday meal, and bought bits of beef fried in dough from an open-front shop between two gambling halls on Games Street. They ate in silence, leaning against a wall, as snow drifted by and Sterren, between bites, considered what he had learned.

For one thing, he now knew what a prestidigitator was — little more than a charlatan, really. A great deal of magic appeared to be fraudulent. Never having had money to spend on spells and amulets, he had never had occasion to find this out.

Other magic, of course, was completely real and authen­tic and could be enormously powerful.

Unfortunately, while the frauds would often work cheap, for the more serious magicians a pound of gold would not pay for a sixnight’s work, let alone the month or more that might be necessary for a trip to Semma and back with a war in the middle.

He had been turned down by two witches, two theurgists, a wizard, a warlock, and someone who called himself a thaumaturge, a term Sterren was not familiar with.

On the other hand, he had turned down a prestidigitator, an illusionist, a sorcerer whose talents seemed genuine but hopelessly inappropriate for the job at hand, and an herbalist.

Not all of these were from the advertisements at the Arena; the theurgists and the sorcerer had turned up on their own while Sterren and his party were discussing matters with Thorum the Mage, a pleasant old fellow who, thanks to his central location, made a significant income as a message center and referral service, in addition to what his wizardry brought him.

The morning, Sterren had to admit, had been a wash­out. He chewed his last bite of dough, pulled his coat collar tighter, and stared longingly through the snow at a dice-game visible through a tavern window on the opposite side of the street.

He wished that he could just go back to playing dice, and thinking entirely in his native tongue, without having to switch languages every few minutes, without worrying about wars or wizards or warlords or warlocks, hereditary duties and summary executions. He wanted to forget that Semma had ever existed, forget that he had ever met any of the inhabitants of that silly little kingdom.

He couldn’t, of course. Semma was real, and somehow or other he had the misfortune to be its warlord now, rather than just a tavern gambler.

Joining that game across the street was a tremendous temptation, but a glance at Lady Kalira’s sour expression convinced him that it wasn’t even worth asking if he could take a few minutes to replenish their finances.

He sighed, swallowed the last traces of his meal, and said, “Come on.”

The three Semmans looked at him, uncomprehending.

“Oh, come on,” he said, in Semmat this time.

They came.