The Locksmith

by Howe, Barbara;

  I licked dry lips. “Why is he so interested in me?”

  He stared at the fire for a moment, then sighed. “I would rather not show you this, but you will not be any better off not knowing. Some day there will be rumours about this, and you should be fore-warned. Watch the fire again.”

  Deep in the fire, the wizard reappeared, seated with our king in a private chamber.

  “Your Majesty,” he said, “your dynasty’s long search for a solution to the problem of the Fire Warlock’s usurpation of your powers is nearly at an end.” Usurpation, my foot—I wanted to flame him. The king leaned forward eagerly. The wizard’s portentous manner seemed to impress the king, but it made my hackles rise. And what was King Stephen doing conspiring with a foreign wizard against our own Fire Warlock?

  The wizard went on, “I have read the signs and studied the omens, and I have seen a girl, a young woman of low birth, claim a place in the Warlock’s lustful heart. Her destiny is written in the stars; she will wrest from him the hidden secrets at the heart of his Office, and bring about the accursed Warlock’s downfall!”

  I lurched backwards, my gut hurting as if the foreign wizard had punched me. I stared, speechless, at the Warlock, who unhurriedly flicked his wand. Another log dropped on the fire.

  “Relax. If you were a serious threat to the Office do you think you would be sitting here?”

  “No, sir.”

  I pulled my feet up onto the couch and hugged my knees to my chest, trying to still the hammering of my heart. It would have been impossible to keep the quaver out of my voice—I didn’t try. “Was that a false prophecy, then, Your Wisdom?”

  “Not…necessarily. Please remember that prophecies and oracles, even the ones that seem the most straightforward, are always ambiguous. Always. You have been over the theory with Master Sven. How does one cope with a prophecy one does not like?”

  I gave the stock answer. “You invoke the fourth magic, the magic of the self-fulfilling prophecy, by finding an interpretation you can live with and working towards that.”

  “Exactly. There are other prophecies in play besides this one, some in apparent contradiction to it. There is a long-standing one that says a second warlock locksmith will refine the work the first one started. There are the visions Beorn has had that show first him and then René as the Warlock. The Chessmaster’s prophecy does not indicate you will destroy the Office. Not at all. That is what he would like to believe, but it is wishful thinking on his part.”

  He reached over and squeezed my shoulder. “The interpretation that I have come up with—that I want to make happen—is that there is no threat to the Office. That you will unlock the secret at its heart—you cannot wrest it from me since I do not know it—and in doing so learn how to fix it. That Beorn and René, with your help, will recast the spells and locks that need fixing so the Office is stronger and Frankland healthier than ever.

  “Now is that a bad outcome?”

  I sat with my face on my knees, not looking at him, considering what he’d said. The interpretation he’d given was possible, and in the grand scheme of things, no, not a bad outcome. That’s what my head said. The icy claw around my heart said something else entirely.

  Still with my face turned away, I whispered, “How can it be a good outcome without you?”

  Silence. Cassandra appeared and jumped up on the couch between us. I turned my head and looked at the Warlock; he was leaning forward, elbows on knees, staring into the fire. Was he seeing things there, or was he lost in his own thoughts? He glanced at me, and schooled his face into a neutral expression, but I had glimpsed bleak despair.

  The cat butted him with her head; he ignored her. Still staring into the fire, he said, “People die. Those left grieve but continue with their lives. I am not so arrogant I think the world will fall to pieces without me, or that you will be wearing sackcloth and ashes ten years after I am gone. You will recover. You will marry and be happy. That is the way it should be.”

  “How can I be happy if I’m responsible for…for…”

  I stalked over to a window, and stood with my arms folded tightly across my chest, looking out at but not seeing the barren lava fields stretching out to the southwest. How dare the Chessmaster use me like this! “What in God’s name does he think I am going to do anyway?”

  I didn’t hear the Warlock move, but he spoke from right behind me. “I have not the faintest idea. It seems more probable I should be your downfall than you mine. For a few hours last week on Storm King, I believed both of us faced immediate death, but that did not fit with the prophecies either.”

  He paced down the row of windows, and then back. He stopped beside me, gazing out the window. “It seems far more likely I will die in battle the same way so many of my predecessors have, by becoming so drained I can no longer maintain control. And war is upon us. The Empire is already making the first moves—they are harassing our merchants, trying to strangle us. I can do little about that, but the Air and Water Officeholders will make the harassment expensive for the Empire, and they will soon have to bring the fight here or back down. But I do not see what part you could play in that confrontation.

  “I have faced battle and the prospect of dying before. The risk of disaster is always there whenever I draw on Storm King, no matter how ordinary the task. I am not afraid of death, but I am not resigned to it either. A year ago I would have welcomed it. I had failed at the task I had set out to do, and I was heartily sick of the Office.” He resumed pacing. “But now—now I have both a renewed interest in living, and the knowledge that my time is running out.”

  For a brief moment, hope flared. I said, “Isn’t there any way you can leave the Office? Retire, I mean. Wasn’t there one whose wife got fed up, and one day said to him, ‘Oh for God’s sake, Harry, I wish you weren’t the damned Warlock anymore,’ and with that he wasn’t?”

  He turned to look at me with raised eyebrows. “Where did you—oh, yes, from Gibson’s History. That story was about the seventeenth Warlock, one of many who were married when the Office came to them. As far as I can tell, the story is apocryphal. Gibson wrote his tome hundreds of years later, and I can find no earlier written record confirming it. I have wondered about that story many times—in everything else Gibson appears meticulously factual.

  “If wishing were enough to get one out of it, it would have left me a long time ago, nor would I have been the only one. The fifty-seventh in particular loathed being the Warlock, and tried everything possible to get out of it.”

  There was a gleam of humour in his eye. “Just as well perhaps; he was quite a lecherous old goat, whose appetites caused a good deal of harm before the Office descended upon him. Being unable to touch a woman for twenty-odd years was a fine comeuppance.” The humour faded. “No, I cannot see a way out, and I cannot afford to waste any more time looking for one.”

  He leaned on the window frame, looking more like a mere forlorn mortal than the powerful Warlock. I had to leave before I did something foolish. I laid a hand on his shoulder, said, “Jean, I’m sorry,” and walked out.

  Master Sven was waiting for me at the foot of the stairs on the kitchen level. His worried expression deepened as I got closer. I did not try to hide the tears on my cheeks. Without a word, he held out his arms to me, and I think I astonished him by accepting his embrace, and sobbing into his shoulder.

  Fire and Frost

  “It’s beautiful, Mrs Cole, but I can’t wear that.” The gown she held out was a superb creation in burgundy velvet and satin. I made no move to take it. “That’s much too grand. It must be worth more than all the clothes I’ve ever had, put together. If I wear it, I’ll ruin it. Spill something on it, or tear it, or—”

  She clucked at me. “Rubbish. You’ll be fine. The dress you’re wearing won’t do for meeting the other three Officeholders.”

  I plucked at my linen work dress. “But I’m a s
upplicant. You said I should dress like one.”

  “You’re representing the Fire Guild today, honey, and that’s more important. You don’t want to let Himself down, do you?”

  My ears burned. “No, ma’am. Since you put it like that—”

  “Good. Come along.” She scurried down the corridor. I had to trot to keep up with her.

  “Where are we going?”

  “To the ballroom. There are full-length mirrors there, you can see for yourself how it looks.”

  Sitting in front of the mirrors while she fussed with my hair, I gaped at the stranger gawking back at me. I raised my chin and looked down my nose. There was no doubt about it—that woman was a fire witch.

  “Mrs Cole, are you sure you’re not a fairy godmother?”

  She snorted. “I’ve been called a few choice things before, but not that. No, I’m not one, and you’re not going to a ball to meet Prince Charming, either. You keep your chin up, your back straight, and look that old icicle straight in the eye. Show her what a jewel a fire witch can be.”

  My stomach turned a somersault. “You think I’m going to change her opinion of fire witches? Not likely.”

  “Maybe not, but don’t worry about making it any worse. It’s already as low as it can go.”

  How would the scholars react when they saw me in this dress? Did I have time to go the classroom and show off for Master Sven? No, I had spent too much time practicing curtseying in front of the mirrors. Just as well, I could go there after we got back, and not feel rushed.

  I stopped for one final look, smoothing down the heavy skirts with my hands. Funny no one had ever said so, but my figure was better than Claire’s. Or was it the gown?

  Claire thought I didn’t care about clothes. She should see me now.

  I left the ballroom and took the stairs with butterflies in my stomach. If the Warlock wants to keep my talents a secret, looking like a witch wasn’t going to help. Maybe I should turn around and change back into my usual dress.

  Too late. Scholar Andreas came out of the library with his nose in a book as I reached the landing.

  I said, “Good afternoon.”

  He looked up, nodded at me, and went back to his book. Two guards came down the stairs—one I knew would flirt with anything in a skirt. I waved at them. They went past without acknowledging me.

  I watched them go with my shoulders sagging. This gown was real, wasn’t it?

  Beorn was waiting at the next landing. “Hiya, gorgeous,” he boomed, and looked me over with the kind of grin Mother Janet would have insisted I slap him for.

  My cheeks got hot, but I grinned back, and pirouetted for him, enjoying the billowing skirt. “Are you coming, too?”

  “Yep. Jean thought they would want to hear my version of the story, and what I discovered in the probe.”

  “Why are we going to the Earth Mother’s if the Warlock is the one with news? Shouldn’t they come here?”

  “The Warren is neutral territory. So is the Hall of the Winds. If things get out of hand, we can leave. It wouldn’t do for Jean to throw her out.”

  “Why does she hate the Fire Guild? My stepsister has an affinity for the Water Guild, and we used to be good friends.”

  He growled, “Drowned if I know. Anybody who’s not in the Fire Guild says the Frost Maiden is a friendly and pleasant person. Couldn’t prove it by me…What I do know is that she’ll watch you like a hawk with her mind’s eye, and nothing gets past her. Lies, half-truths, evasions, omissions—she’ll catch them all. She may look like she’s not paying attention, but if you let that fool you, you can get into serious trouble.”

  We met Warlock Quicksilver at the top of the stairs. He liked how I looked. A girl can tell. A little shiver ran down my spine, and my cheeks, just cooling off, got hot again.

  “My dear,” he said, “you are enchanting, and far too conspicuous. We do not, at present, need a bevy of courtship-minded earth wizards coming to call, so I took the liberty of putting a spell—the antithesis of a glamour spell—on you. This afternoon only Beorn, I, and the other three Officeholders will be aware of you. I trust you will not mind.”

  At least I wouldn’t have to blush for anyone else, but what was the point of having a fabulous dress if no one noticed? I’d be better off with Master Sven ogling me than these two. It wasn’t fair. “Your Wisdom, how long will we need to keep my talent secret?”

  He cocked an eyebrow. “You were the one holding the lock.”

  I glared at him. “That was because I didn’t understand what I was or what I had done. Now…”

  “I apologise. I should not have teased you. You are a forthright individual who does not enjoy keeping secrets. Unfortunately, I do not know how long it will be. There are two factors in play. First of all, you must be capable of defending yourself.”

  I would like to laugh in Jenny McNamara’s face if she threatened me again. “No argument there, sir.”

  Beorn said, “You’re going to get so good at setting a shield you could do it in ten feet of water—”

  “Good grief. Of all the—”

  “—or in the instant between when Flint flames you and the flames hit.”

  The butterflies in my stomach turned into vultures. “Flint?”

  The two men exchanged a long look. Quicksilver said, “You will have a seat on the Guild Council. Unless you agree with Flint on every matter—an unlikely prospect—he will flame you. Being a woman will not save you.”

  “You’re going to learn to fight back, too.” Beorn grinned. “I hope I’m there to watch when you flame him.”

  Quicksilver said, “If you do not fight back, he will be contemptuous of you and bully you the more. You will begin fighter training as soon as we are satisfied you have mastered the basics. Now let us go to the Warren.”

  He offered me an arm. I didn’t move. “You said there were two factors.”

  “Ah, yes, I did.” He frowned, looking off into the distance beyond me. “The other is the Chessmaster’s prediction. Your actions, whatever they are, may be the turning point of the war.”

  “Mine?” I squawked.

  “Yes, yours, my dear. He still believes you are not a witch, and we must not let him learn you are. You have an advantage over him only as long as the element of surprise is on your side. Whatever you do, remember he is dangerous. Do not put yourself at risk.”

  He drew a deep breath, and focused on me. “I do not expect to survive this war—” Beorn and I both flinched, and he shook his head at us. “You are warlocks. A warlock must face facts, however unpleasant they may be. But you, my dear,” his tone lightened, but there was no smile in his eyes. “You must live long enough to unlock the Office. That is an order. Understand?”

  We walked in mute gloom through a short tunnel in the side of the mountain, coming out in the Earth Mother’s sprawling home. The Warren had grown around a series of courtyards and fountains, but all I noticed were walls of warm red sandstone rather than the grey granite prevalent in the Fortress. Everyone we met paid their respects to the two warlocks, but looked away from me after the briefest of glances.

  We skirted the Great Hall, the octagonal room rumoured to be large enough to hold the members of all four Guilds at once, with room left over. I caught glimpses of balconies, tapestries, carved woodwork, but they could not compete for my attention with the unsettled state of my stomach. Mrs Cole was wrong. I would drive the Frost Maiden’s opinion of fire witches even lower if I vomited on her.

  Quicksilver said, “On our return, if you wish, you may take time to explore the hall.”

  I looked at the carved woodwork with a spark of interest. That would be nice. Maybe by then I could appreciate what I was seeing.

  We reached the Earth Mother’s parlour, and I nearly threw myself into her arms when she greeted me as warmly as she greeted the two wizards. How would Quic
ksilver like it if people ignored him?

  She studied me for a moment with both hands on my shoulders, then gave me a warm hug. My stomach and pulse settled down, and I felt better than I had in weeks.

  “Thank you,” I said.

  Mother Celeste smiled. “Isn’t that what healers are for?”

  She directed us into an antechamber where the Air Enchanter was waiting. Although the newest in his office, having held it for fifteen years, he was physically the oldest. His predecessor had held onto the Air Office a good ten years after his Guild Council had suggested he retire, much to their consternation and his successor’s discomfort. He was clad in white, gold, and diamonds, in contrast to the Warlock’s black, silver, and opals. With his grey beard and grey eyes and stern, if somewhat humourless, face he looked every inch a king, and far more imposing than King Stephen.

  He greeted me gravely, and I made him a deep reverence; a far better one than I had managed on my first meeting with Warlock Quicksilver. From the wink he gave me behind the enchanter’s back he seemed to recall that too. After exchanging pleasantries with the Enchanter, we moved on into the inner room, which Quicksilver lit by tossing little balls of flame into the air. They scattered into the corners and along the ceiling, lighting the whole room, warm yellow light reflecting off the honey-collared walls. There were no windows, and thin sheets of amber covered the walls, ceiling, floor, and even the doors. With the doors closed, the room was an amber box.

  “You look amazed, Miss Guillierre,” the Enchanter said. “And you should be. I know of no other room like this anywhere in the world. The amber serves as magical shielding. We may talk freely here in complete confidence that no one will overhear.”