The Only Wizard in Town

by Heide Goody

  Cope looked at her blankly.

  “How does the Quill of Truth work?” said Handzame. “Wizard?”

  “Yes?” said Pagnell.

  “How do you make the Quill work?”

  “You write with it, ma’am,” he said with obsequious slowness. “Dip the point in ink and write.”

  “Is that it? Aren’t there any magic words? No, Magic quill, magic quill, reveal the truth and … and… whatever?”

  “‘Do my will,’” said Lorrika. Everyone stared at her. “You know, it rhymes. Reveal the truth and do my will. And I meant like Do my bidding, not write out my will and testament. Although you could. If you wanted.”

  “Yes,” said Handzame uncertainly. She glanced at Pagnell. “Do you have to recite words, like that?”

  “Only if you want to,” he said. “I could give a demonstration.”

  He took a step forward. Handzame came to her feet, clutching the feather protectively.

  “I’m not going to steal it,” he said. “Or break it. I could have done either of those back in the tomb. Until I have Spirry, safe and sound, I am your obedient servant.”

  Handzame considered this. The childish reluctance to give up the feather played out on her face. And then she snapped into a pose of imperious authority which fooled no one.

  “Indeed, you are,” She held the feather out to Pagnell. At a third soldier she barked, “And you! Fetch parchment and ink.”

  12

  Within a quarter hour, there was food, parchment and ink on the great stone table, and Spirry had been brought into the room. Pagnell went to her immediately; an Amanni warrior put out an arm to block him. The wizard tried to push past, receiving a punch in the mouth for his efforts.

  “Fon of a bitff,” he mumbled, clutching his lips.

  “Show me how the Quill works,” said Handzame.

  Pagnell looked at Spirry: she appeared unhurt. Pagnell found himself almost physically overcome with relief. She was small, thin as an urchin and had a babyish cuteness about her. While there were plenty of people who would take one look and instinctively want to hug her, or tousle her hair, Pagnell knew there were also plenty who would see how small and cute she was, and immediately want to strike her; make her suffer. People were strange like that. People were idiots and monsters.

  “They hurt you?” he asked, just loud enough for her to hear.

  “No,” she said.

  “You hurt them?”

  She looked at Lorrika.

  “I meant anyone else,” said Pagnell. Spirry made a see-saw motion with her hand and grinned.

  Pagnell shook his head. “She’ll be the death of me,” he murmured, stepping up to the table where Cope and Lorrika waited beside Handzame. Cope watched intently as Pagnell took up the Quill of Truth. Lorrika pretended to watch intently, but her hands, mouth and brain were clearly intent on stuffing her face with food.

  “Show me,” said Handzame.

  Pagnell dipped the Quill in the pot of ink. The round-faced priest gave a cry of “Blasphemy!” and was brutally silenced.

  “As I understand it,” said Pagnell, “the Quill is only capable of writing truths.”

  He put Quill to parchment and, with confident if scratchy strokes, wrote The sky is blue and One plus one equals two.

  “All quills can write the truth,” said Handzame. “You could have brought me another feather and shown me the same.”

  “So suspicious, general,” said Pagnell, shaking his head.

  “How does the Quill distinguish lies from truth?”

  “Oh, like this,” said Pagnell. Having no real idea of what would happen next, wrote All sheep have wings.

  The moment Pagnell placed his full stop on the page, the writing crackled and smouldered. A flash of ember-red and the words burned from the page, leaving only a black mark which was cold to the touch.

  “Tha’s cool,” said Lorrika around a mouthful of sugary pastry.

  Handzame’s eyes glittered at the possibilities. Pagnell suspected she’d not considered what all those possibilities were yet.

  “So…” said Pagnell and bent to write a list:

  The Yarwish king is asleep right now

  There are apples on the table

  Pagnell is the best wizard in town

  Objects fall to the ground because the earth is breathing in

  Bez is still alive

  Yes, bears do shit in the wood

  The Quill of Truth can identify ALL true statements

  The number of hours until the Hierophant and his army reach Ludens is:

  Pagnell scratched a tally of thirty-odd marks underneath this last statement.

  The first and fourth lines burned out of existence instantly. The tally marks burned out, one by one, until there were twelve of them remaining. The other statements remained as they were.

  Cope blinked.

  “See?” Pagnell said. “They do.”

  “But, what does it mean?” said Cope.

  Pagnell sniffed. “I think it means you need to go see High Shepherdess Gwell again. I’d go now if I were you. The Ludensian army is on its way here.”

  He reached forward and pushed a small bowl of apples off the table. It smashed. The second sentence burned to black.

  “Oh,” said Handzame, smiling uncontrollably. “This is good. This is so very good.”

  Another tally mark flared and vanished. Twelve hours until the city’s army returned. Pagnell dipped the nib in ink and wrote three further statements:

  No birds live at the bottom of the sea.

  Beetroot is the first word in this statement

  One possible anagram of fleas is false

  They were peculiar but nonetheless true statements. At least, the first was true until Pagnell ripped away the corner of the paper and the first word. Birds live at the bottom of the sea smouldered and erased itself.

  He quickly scribed something onto another sheet and stuffed it inside his shirt.

  “My enemies’ plans and deepest thoughts will be known to me!” cried Handzame. “The lost treasures and weapons of my ancestors will be mine again! I could bring the cities of the plains under my sway!”

  “You could command dragons to do you bidding,” suggested Pagnell.

  “I could!”

  “The greatest magic spells would be yours to cast.”

  “Would they? Yes, they would!”

  “The fairy kingdoms of the deep forest would be yours to command!”

  Handzame laughed. “Yes! Why not!”

  “We should celebrate,” said Pagnell, grabbing a goblet from the tablet. He was about to raise it in toast; instead he paused and examined the contents critically. “Water?” He whirled, Quill of Truth in hand. “Wine! We need wine! We need fine food! We need pigeon and pineapple and pomegranate!”

  “You should just magic them up,” said Spirry.

  Pagnell gave a gasp of excitement – perhaps a bit too hammy a touch, but Handzame was too preoccupied by the possibilities of power. “Yes!” he said, pushing up his sleeves theatrically and trying to pretend his shoulder didn’t hurt like hell. “One bona fide celebration feast coming up. Stand back, stand back—”

  “Stop!” commanded Handzame. “Cope: restrain him.”

  Pagnell tried to step away, but there was already a long sword held beneath his chin.

  “Miss Threemen,” he sighed, “after all we’ve been through.”

  Handzame approached him cautiously. He supposed he should take some pleasure from seeing a fully armoured Amanni general look upon his ragged, filthy and thoroughly tenderised self with, if not fear, at least one of its weedier cousins.

  “The Quill of Truth,” said Handzame, holding out her hand.

  “Of course, ma’am.” He passed it to her, tickly end first.

  “No spells please, wizard.”

  “I was only going to conjure up a celebratory feast. No less than you deserve.”

  Handzame’s gaze was withering. It was mostly tired, but it w
as also withering. “My limited experience of wizards tells me they are not to be trusted.”

  “Generally so,” agreed Pagnell, “and quite specifically in some cases. I’ll never forgive old Tibshelf for telling me that damned pet bird of his was harmless. But, no, I’m one of the more harmless sort. I’m a pacifist myself; mostly anyway.”

  “Forgive me if I don’t believe you,” said Handzame.

  “Oh, but you don’t have to believe me,” said Pagnell, gesticulating and almost slitting his own throat in the process. “You have the Quill of Truth, general. Write it down. Write Newport Pagnell will not cause anyone physical harm with his spells. Put today or this week. Can’t guarantee I won’t do a messy tooth extraction at some point. Throw in Pagnell will tell no lies today if you like.”

  Handzame wavered before going to the table and scrawling on the paper. Pagnell didn’t see what it was but it was close enough. There were any number of variants – I can trust Newport Pagnell or Newport Pagnell wishes me no harm – which would have obliterated themselves instantly. Handzame seemed happy enough, though.

  “Release him.”

  Cope lowered her sword. Pagnell ran his fingers across his throat and checked for blood. “Ever considered barbering for a living?” he said.

  “No,” said Cope.

  Pagnell pushed up his sleeves once more. “Right, now, a celebration feast as promised. I will need some assistance.” He made a show of gazing around at his audience. “General, please, if you would. And, because I have questionable taste in women, Miss Spiriva Handihaler.” He held out his hands to them.

  “You want me to take your hand?” said Handzame.

  “Only to help cast the spell.”

  Spirry stepped forward – no one stopped her – and, giving Pagnell a condescending eye-roll, put her tiny hand in his.

  “General?” said Pagnell. “Please, if Spirry can do this, I’m sure you can.”

  Handzame was reluctant. She looked to her men and Pagnell knew he had her. “Of course,” she said. “It’s not … dangerous, is it?”

  “I assure you, it won’t hurt at all, but—!” he yelled abruptly to the room, “—I advise no one to intervene whatsoever while the ritual spellcasting takes place.” He attempted to make eye contact which each and every person. “I don’t want to describe what might happen to you if you interrupt the spell at a critical point.” He lowered his voice. “See you in Trezdigar, Lorrika. Trouble. That’s what you should call yourself. And it was good to have known you, Cope.”

  He took hold of Handzame’s hand.

  There was an unmistakeable nervousness written on the general’s face. Let her men see that, Pagnell thought as he cast the spell, and uttered the opening incantation for Quincy’s Enchanting Gourmet.

  Pagnell recalled casting the spell only once before, as a training exercise when he was under the tutelage of Tibshelf. As with so many spells, the wonder wasn’t in how to cast it but why bother casting it. The personal effort to conjure up a feast for one or more people was, at best, the same amount of time and effort one would normally need to find the food, cook it and lay the table. It was magic for magic’s sake. Pagnell had Spirry and Handzame as willing (if, in one case, ignorant) assistants. The casting time would therefore be cut to a third. But a feast of sufficient size could take more than a day to prepare. Pagnell felt for the shape of things and poured his will into the spell…

  13

  He released his grip on Spirry and Handzame, and spread his arms wide. “Ta-dah!”

  Along the wide table in the Hierophant’s audience chamber, plates were stacked with juicy delights and delicate sweetmeats, pitchers of wine and foaming beer. Pagnell took a moment to catch his breath; his magical energies were spent and he was quite exhausted.

  He waved a hand at the fabulous fare before them. “Now, these are drinks we can toast with.”

  Handzame laughed and picked up a goblet. “Come, let us fill our cups and drink to…”

  The words trailed off as she turned to her men, or more precisely, to where her men had been. The room was empty, apart from the three of them.

  “Where is everyone?” said Handzame.

  “Um, gone, I should think,” said Pagnell. He plucked a gobbet of roast meat from a plate and popped it in his mouth.

  “Gone where?”

  “She hasn’t noticed, has she?” whispered Spirry.

  “No, she has not,” agreed Pagnell.

  Spirry leapt up onto the table with the grace and ease natural to her race and pointed out beyond the balcony, towards the sun. “Look at it!”

  “What about it?” snapped Handzame.

  “It’s not rising. It’s setting.”

  Handzame frowned furiously as though she could move the sun back to where it had been through the power of concentrated annoyance. She whirled on Pagnell. “What did you do?”

  “Cast a spell,” said Pagnell cheerily. “And spells take time.”

  “My men…?”

  “Run away. No idea when. To them, we would have appeared frozen in a single elongated moment of utter concentration. As the hours trickled past, they probably realised time was growing short, and considered what might happen if they were still here when the Hierophant and his army returned.”

  “My men? Flee?”

  “What else could they do? What else would they want to do? I warned them against interrupting the spell while it was being cast. I told them I’d not like describing what would happen if they interfered.”

  “Which is what?”

  “Nothing?” suggested Spirry.

  Pagnell nodded. “The spell would have just been cancelled.”

  “But you promised not to harm me!” said Handzame, lips tight with anger.

  “And I haven’t,” said Pagnell. “Although, that doesn’t mean you’re free from harm…”

  He picked up several pieces of parchment from the table and held one out to her.

  The number of hours until the Hierophant and his army reach Ludens is:

  The final tally turned into an ash-black smudge. Pagnell smiled; sometimes the world matched one’s dramatic expectations precisely.

  “Your time is up, General Handzame. If we go to the balcony, we might be able to see the army approaching the gate. We might even hear them.”

  Handzame clutched the Quill of Truth with such furious intensity, Pagnell thought she might snap it. “You tricked me!”

  “That’s right. Accuse the wizard of being a conjurer with cheap tricks.”

  “You are, though,” said Spirry.

  Pagnell tutted. “General, I suggest your best course of action would be to ditch your armour, and the Quill, and run. Just run. One woman in a city this size … you could make it.”

  Handzame gave him a bitterly incredulous look. “Leave the Quill of Truth? Abandon my destiny? Sacrifice the power I hold right now?”

  “Ah,” said Pagnell. “I feared you’d say that. So I do have one last trick.” He glanced at the two pieces of paper he held, stuffed one away and held up the other.

  General Handzame, already reaching for her sword, peered at Pagnell’s writing. “Beetroot is the first word in this statement?”

  “And, One possible anagram of fleas is false. Yes,” said Pagnell.

  “Nonsense,” said Handzame and drew her weapon.

  “Arguably. But then, if I do this—”

  He tore the paper in half, shearing away the first half of each sentence and screwing up one half. Now the remaining sheet read:

  this statement

  is false.

  “Cope reminded me, in the tomb,” Pagnell told Spirry conversationally. “She’s quite a thinker, but not in the conventional sense. We were talking about this philosopher who thinks for everyone who does not think for themselves and … oh—”

  The paper in Pagnell’s hand began to smoulder. A red glow appeared among the letters.

  “But then it’s not false,” Pagnell whispered, knowing full well he was talking
to the paper and, by extension, the Quill of Truth.

  On the table, another piece of paper smoked sullenly. The sentence, The Quill of Truth can identify ALL true statements, was struggling with its own existence.

  “But the Quill of Truth was made in order to distinguish truth from lie,” he whispered.

  The statement in his hand tried to erase itself again and wavered with the logical impossibility of it all.

  “What’s happening?” demanded Handzame.

  “Pagnell’s confused it,” said Spirry. “He’s good at confusing people.”

  Pinpoints of red holy fire flickered on parchment. On, off, on, off.

  “I’ve really no idea what happens now,” said Pagnell. “Although it might be worth taking cover.”

  The Quill of Truth burst into flames. Handzame yelled and dropped it. It drifted, burning, folding in on itself. Before it reached the ground it was a flake of ash, then a wisp of smoke, then…

  “It’s gone,” said Handzame, dismayed.

  “And probably for the best,” said Pagnell.

  “All my efforts … all my gold…! For nothing!”

  “Well, yes. Maybe that’s why they say people who spend their money on experiences are happier than people who spend their money on thiiiings—!”

  Pagnell threw his hips back, bending almost double to avoid being gutted by the general’s sideswiping blade. He flung his head back to avoid being decapitated on the backswing. Even Pagnell, whose experience of fighting was limited to observer or as an occasional recipient, could see she wasn’t much of a swordswoman. Yet Handzame was, nonetheless, a soldier with a sword.

  He staggered back, up the short step to the balcony.

  Spirry followed. “Send her to sleep!” she shouted.

  “I’m out of oomph!” replied Pagnell, twisting away from a thrust. “That feast took it out of me.”

  Handzame gave an enraged cry, half yell and half snarl, which came out as a furious gargling sound. A blind swipe nicked Pagnell’s knee and he fell back.

  “A curse on all wizards!” screamed the Amanni.

  “Yes! Yes! Definitely!” he said, hands raised in surrender. “Consider my lesson learned, ma’am.”