The Locksmith

by Howe, Barbara;

  Warlock Arturos fit the bill, but he said he wouldn’t remarry.

  I rubbed my hands together. Strange that I should be cold in July. Perhaps not so strange—I got gooseflesh whenever I recalled my dreams. The ones of the glass cage and Storm King’s shadow were increasing in frequency, interspersed with other equally disturbing dreams. Of blinding flashes of lightning. Of my clothes on fire, my skin burning. I would wake in a cold sweat, gasping for breath. Sometimes at odd moments, my pulse would race for no reason, and I would tremble on the edge of panic.

  I called myself a fool for not telling the Warlock about my dreams. The next time he walked through the kitchen I stopped him.

  “Your Wisdom, sir, do you have a moment?”

  “Certainly, my dear. Tell me what is on your mind.”

  As I framed my question, the shadows thrown by the fire shifted. A looming blackness, the outline of Storm King, grew behind him.

  “Sir, I’ve met both scholars and fire wizards…” I faltered. That wasn’t what I meant to say.

  “Go on,” he said.

  I gulped. Might as well. “Few of the scholars have any fire, and most of the fire wizards aren’t scholars. I don’t want to be greedy, but…”

  “But you do not want to settle for second rate. I cannot blame you; I would not either. When you arrived here, I assumed you would easily find a scholar who suited you, but I had underestimated your affinity for the Fire Guild. I understand now that you desire a flame mage, or a scholar or wizard close to one, and such men are far too few. Master Sven is perhaps your best match, but he desires a witch, although he would prefer one with a good mind. Your mind and personality appeal to him, but your lack of talent makes him uncomfortable.”

  I nodded, my throat tight. I watched the magical rolling pin on its own levelling the piecrust to exactly the right thickness. Maybe being a fire witch—a nice, safe, non-threatening level two—wouldn’t be so bad.

  The Warlock said, “Master Sven is as constrained in his choice of a wife as you are in your choice of a husband. None of the young witches in the Fire Guild displays the interest in theory and history that you do. He may yet decide in your favour. I think he should. You would impress the men he aspires to be counted among more than Miss McNamara would, but he has not asked my advice.”

  I looked up to see him smiling at me. “Nor have you met all the country’s unmarried scholars. Several of the University’s best teachers will make visits here during the August recess. Do not give up hope yet.”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

  He strolled away, leaving me warm but not reassured. I was an ordinary woman, not a threat to anyone. The Office wouldn’t harm me. I shoved the empty pie plates in the oven, and wondered why I was afraid to tell him about my dreams.

  “The new princess is being christened this afternoon,” Master Sven said over breakfast. “The galleries in the ballroom will be open to the public. Would you care to go? It should be quite a spectacle.”

  “I’d love to,” I said. I wasn’t sure which thrilled me more, the prospect of seeing the nobility in their finery or that he had asked me rather than Jenny McNamara.

  “What about you, René?” he said. “Do you want to come?”

  “Sure!”

  I sighed. So much for that being a romantic overture.

  Master Sven gave his other students the afternoon off, and the three of us set out after dinner. With gates at the foot of the mountain opening out to all the cities and many towns, it was a few easy steps to the royal palace.

  We arrived as guards opened the palace gates and people began flooding into the palace grounds. By what combination of magic, persistence, luck, and rudeness we managed it, I do not know, but before long we were on the second-floor gallery, near the middle of the room, René and I in front at the railing, Master Sven behind us. A prime spot. I could see everything from the thrones on the dais at one end to the cavernous fireplace at the other. Below us stood row after row of chairs for the honoured guests—the nobles, dignitaries, priests, witches, and foreign visitors—who were trickling in, chatting and flaunting their fancy clothes on their way to their assigned places.

  After an interminable wait while the main floor of the room filled, the royal family and their attendants paraded in.

  Master Sven nudged me and pointed. “The Frost Maiden.”

  As if that wasn’t obvious. The woman was young, blonde, and beautiful, with the Water Guild’s emblem of rippling waves on her shoulder. Flashes of blue from a ring caught the eye and held it.

  I rubbed my eyes, and looked for emerald green. “Where’s the Earth Mother? Shouldn’t she be in the procession, too?”

  Master Sven frowned, and craned his neck to get a good look.

  The attendants put the royal baby in a cradle on the dais. King Stephen, Queen Marguerite, and the crown prince sat, and the ceremony began. It was splendid to watch, but mind-numbing to listen to, with one sermon or speech after another by assorted priests and scholars, interspersed with arcane rituals and solemn music. The nine-year-old prince looked bored silly. The summer day had started out warm, and with hundreds, no, thousands, of people in the hall, it was soon quite hot. The Queen looked like she was melting.

  I was in a linen dress, and I would rather have been in my shift. I would have felt sorry for those over-dressed people down there if they hadn’t been nobles. They didn’t have to wear all that satin and lace.

  The baby princess woke up and cried. Several ladies-in-waiting fussed over her, then whisked her away. While she was attended to out of sight, jesters, jugglers, and livelier music entertained us. When the attendants brought the baby back, the ceremony picked up where it had left off.

  While the ceremony was going on, we, and the rest of the public up in the galleries, were busy studying the privileged guests below us, whispering, fanning, and making so much noise it was difficult to hear the speeches even when they were interesting. Bits of conversation I overheard suggested I wasn’t the only one who found Mother Celeste’s absence troubling. Below us, the gathered witches were looking around, craning their necks, and whispering to one another. There were about three-dozen of them—the level four and five witches from all over the country.

  One of the foreign dignitaries on the dais kept looking towards the outside door, as if he were expecting—and dreading—its opening.

  “Is he a wizard?” I whispered to Master Sven, who nodded.

  Where or when I had seen him before? Never. I told myself not to be silly, but the longer I watched the foreign wizard the more puzzled I became. “Who is he? What’s he doing here?”

  Master Sven shrugged and shook his head.

  After an eternity, the speeches and sermons ended, and we got to the real heart of the ceremony, the actual christening. The baby made cooing noises and waved her little arms and legs, and was paraded around the room, looking adorable. And then we got on to the next most important part of the ceremony, the bestowing of blessings by the gathered witches. The buzz in the galleries had gotten much louder. The witches, too, were agitated, talking among themselves and turning searching faces in every direction.

  The Frost Maiden rose to be the first offering a blessing. There was an audible intake of breath from the watching crowd, and the buzzing became a muted roar. We didn’t like this, not at all.

  René, trying to see everybody in the room, leaned so far out over the railing that I grabbed his shirt and hauled him back in. Master Sven shoved René aside and leaned over the railing himself.

  The gathering of witches stood, and formed a line to take their turns offering their blessings. Master Sven straightened up and said, “I’ve got to tell His Wisdom that the Earth Mother is absent. Can’t do it here, too noisy. I’ll find you later.” He disappeared into the crowd.

  I strained my ears, but the muttering of the crowd was so loud I couldn’t catch
any of the blessings. A few minutes earlier I had wanted the ceremony to be over, and to get away from the heat and the press of people. Now I started praying, take your time; give the Earth Mother a chance to get here. When we were down to the next to last witch, the king and the foreign wizard were smiling broadly, looking relaxed. Queen Marguerite rocked in her seat and wrung her hands. Master Sven moved back into place behind me.

  The next to last witch finished, and before the last one, a frightened-looking air witch, could step up, the Fire Warlock stepped out of the cold fireplace.

  Power Struggle

  When I first met the Warlock, he looked so ordinary that I could not have picked him out of a crowd, and on several occasions I had not been aware he had come into the kitchen until he spoke to me. But now, in a crowded ballroom filled with thousands of people, no one missed his arrival. In less than five seconds there was dead silence, except for his footsteps as he strolled up the aisle towards the dais. I held my breath. So did everyone else, except for the baby, and René, who opened his mouth and drew in breath. I elbowed him in the ribs. He closed his mouth and glowered.

  The royal couple recovered enough to stand and pay their respects. The seated guests rose as a body. The noise they made lasted mere seconds, as no one wanted to miss the fireworks that were surely coming.

  The Warlock was, as usual, clad all in black and silver. He wore a black tunic thickly embroidered with silver thread, black leggings and boots, the heavy silver and opal belt, and a matching band and bouquet of dancing flames on a black hat. The ruby in the Token of Office glowed and sparkled, sending red light flashing along the walls and floor. Despite the heat, he looked cool and comfortable, and amid all the pastels and bright summer colours, he stood out like a raven in a flock of canaries.

  He looked quite debonair. His Satanic Majesty—he could have been Mephistopheles himself.

  He reached the dais and said, “Your Highness,” making a deep bow to the king. “Your Highness,” bowing now to the Queen. He greeted the other guests, ending with a shallow bow and a wave of the hat to the galleries.

  Good for him. That was more than we got from the king.

  The Warlock said, “Please be seated.” The nobles sat, and he waited for the noise to die away.

  “Please forgive my late arrival, but my invitation must have gone astray. Perhaps it was in the same packet as the one for Her Wisdom, the Earth Mother. She sends her regrets, but says she cannot attend on such short notice.”

  He paused. The king and the foreign wizard seemed to relax. The crowd gave the faintest hint of a sigh. “Therefore I beg you to let me offer a blessing in her stead.”

  The king and the wizard both stiffened; the crowd breathed. After a slight hesitation, the king said, in a strained voice, “We would be honoured.”

  The Warlock turned towards the baby, and seemed to notice the waiting witch for the first time. He bowed his head towards her, and said, “After you.” The relieved-looking little witch curtsied to him, then stepped up and gave her blessing—the gift of a pleasant singing voice—with a shaking wand.

  The Warlock glanced around as if looking for anyone else waiting their turn, and motioned to someone I couldn’t see behind one of the supporting pillars. The crowd strained to see. The witch behind the pillar seemed reluctant to come forward, and the Warlock made her a deeper bow, saying, “Please, I insist. After you.”

  Master Sven breathed in my ear, “That’s why he came instead of her. Nobody will get a chance to go after him and defuse the blessing. They can’t make that obvious a breach of protocol.”

  I breathed back, “A fat lot of good it would do anyway.”

  A woman came out from behind the column, and looked for help, not from the king, but from the foreign wizard. The flock of witches craned their necks as if they had never seen her before, and whispered to one another. The wizard shrugged his shoulders, and the witch stepped up and said something, so low that I couldn’t hear it.

  Then the Warlock stepped up onto the dais and next to the baby’s cradle. He waved his wand over the princess, and speaking slowly and distinctly, so that everyone in the hall could hear, gave the Earth Mother’s traditional blessing: “May you have a long and happy marriage to a man of your choosing.”

  I, and everyone else in the galleries, let out a sigh of relief. King Stephen glared. Queen Marguerite slumped in her throne and beamed at him.

  We sucked in our breath again as the foreign wizard stood out of turn, and stepped to the front of the dais. The king glared at him, too, but didn’t say anything. The wizard was a tall man, almost as tall as Warlock Arturos, though Arturos’s shoulders were twice as broad. The wizard looked down his nose at the Warlock, but the Warlock was on his home ground.

  The wizard said, “Your Wisdom—” Somehow the honorific sounded like You Dunce, and I snarled without sound.

  “I am sure you intend to prevent an alliance between this princess and the emperor’s son, but I am afraid you are too late. Your king has already signed and sealed an agreement, written on unburnable paper, that the princess will be given in marriage to Prince Sigismund when she reaches the age of twelve.”

  The crowd hissed. The Warlock didn’t look surprised. “May I see that contract, Ambassador?”

  The wizard looked smug. “No, I am afraid you may not. I have put it in safekeeping until I can deliver it to the emperor for him to sign.”

  “Then what is this?” A sheet of parchment appeared in the Fire Warlock’s hand. The wizard looked shocked. The Warlock handed the parchment to the king. “Would you please confirm that this is the contract in question?” King Stephen looked sour, but nodded. The Warlock handed the paper to the wizard, and asked him the same question. The foreign wizard puffed his cheeks in and out a couple of times, then nodded.

  The Warlock said, “Then shall we see if it is unburnable, as you say?”

  The page became a sheet of flame, and the wizard jerked his hand away. It rose gently in the air, then broke apart into small scraps of ash that settled back towards the floor.

  The Warlock said, “If the princess decides for herself, when she is old enough, that she wants to marry your prince, the Fire Office will not object to her doing so. But she would go as a mere wife, not as a princess with lands and honours to add to the Empire’s.”

  His voice was like flames climbing up the columns and over the railings. He was not loud, but his voice resonated in my head. Many of the nobles clapped their hands over their ears.

  “The Office of The Fire Warlock will not allow alliance marriages, most certainly not to our traditional enemies. Such marriages are a threat to the integrity and safety of this kingdom. The Great Coven made that decision a millennium ago.

  “The king’s domain is the governance of the people and trade with other states. The security of the kingdom is mine. The king may not, can not, make contracts that impinge on one of the four Officeholders without that power’s consent.”

  The king and many of the nobles cringed. René, like many others in the gallery, cheered.

  The Warlock stepped down from the dais. The foreign wizard, with a show of bravado, said, “You may not allow them, but your days as Fire Warlock are numbered. Your long reign is at an end. I have seen it.”

  The Warlock answered him with a mocking, “Thank you for your concern,” and bowed. He bowed as before, to king, queen, and other guests. He ended with a wave of his hat to the gallery.

  We applauded, despite looks like daggers thrown from nobles on the floor, as the Warlock sauntered down the aisle. When he reached the fireplace, tongues of flame shot out of it, sending nearby nobles scattering. He stepped into the fire, then he and the flames vanished.

  Whatever was left of the ceremony was forgotten. The crowd roared and surged for the doors. The nobles shot to their feet. King Stephen shouted at the wizard and his court, then swept out in a fury. Q
ueen Marguerite and her ladies gathered up the baby and beat a hasty retreat out the rear. I put my hands over my ears to protect them from the noise.

  The three of us fought our way through the crowd, the mass of people taking eons to push through the doors and out into the fresh air. By the time we made it out my head hurt and we were all soaked through, our hair plastered to our heads, lines of sweat trickling down our backs and legs.

  We met Warlock Arturos at the outer gates of the palace grounds. He was dressed in full fire wizard regalia and leaning nonchalantly against one of the columns supporting the gates, to the obvious discomfort of the guards. I wouldn’t have dared tell him to move, either. Most of the people flooding through bowed or curtsied to him, with some of them saying things like, “Tell the Warlock we thank him” or “Our blessings on the Fire Guild, sir.”

  As we came up to him he said, “We can walk back together. I figured you three would want to talk.”

  René and I started in with questions, but he waved us off, saying, “Later, after we reach our gate.” The hordes of people surrounding us moved aside to let us through, but watched us avidly, not bothering to hide their curiosity. When we reached the Warlock’s gate the guards saluted Arturos and let us through. I was relieved to be away from the staring eyes, and back in the blessed coolness of the plateau on which Blazes stood.

  We talked about the pros and cons of alliance marriages, and why the Great Coven had forbidden them, until we reached the foot of the moving staircases. I stepped on first and turned to look at the big wizard. He was the last on, and we were now eye-to-eye. “Wasn’t there any way the Warlock could have voided the contract without insulting the empire?”

  Arturos shrugged. “Maybe. But war is coming sooner or later. He’d rather have it sooner. Problems don’t get any better by pushing them off.”

  I shivered from dismay and because my wet dress felt clammy in the cool, dry air of the plateau. It stuck to me as if it were another layer of skin. Arturos stared, his eyes narrowed.