The Locksmith

by Howe, Barbara;

  Master Sven often sat with me at dinner, growling at any scholar who captured my attention for too long, but he was far more circumspect about what he said. He treated me with respect and talked freely about theory and history, but the light chitchat dried up, and I didn’t know what to make of it.

  We worked our way through the theoretical writings on locks—the most useful, unsurprisingly, an unpublished manuscript by Jean Rehsavvy. We learned there were different locks for hiding physical objects, living creatures, energy, and ideas, and the more abstract the thing you were trying to hide the more difficult the lock was.

  At our first session on locks, we sat around the table with unlit candles in front of us, attempting to use a lock that would hide the candle. The Warlock and I were the only ones who had executed a lock before. Mine disappeared immediately, drawing “ahs” from the wizards. The Warlock’s disappeared a moment later. Master Sven scowled at his, the scowl deepening the longer the candle refused to disappear.

  I patted his hand, “You’re trying too hard, ease up.”

  He looked at me, and the candle disappeared. “I don’t think I’m ever going to get this to work.”

  “You just did.”

  “I did? I did. What did I do?”

  Arturos struggled the longest, but, after much groaning and cursing, even he hid his candle. Reversing the lock has harder. The Warlock made René stop and rest after he became so angry he began unwittingly scorching everything at hand, but René was adamant that if Master Sven could do it, so would he. After a night’s sleep, he succeeded on the first try.

  After practicing hiding objects, we moved on to hiding crickets, and the next day a cageful of white mice. After several days, we moved on to hiding candle flames. That was easy for the Warlock and me, but the others struggled.

  None of them—Beorn, René, Master Sven, or the Warlock—could duplicate my feat of hiding my magical talents. We decided that perhaps it was due to the lucky chance of my trying locks before I started doing any other magic, and that it was too late for the rest of them, except possibly René, to make the mental shifts needed to get it to work. René tried gamely, off and on for several weeks, but never succeeded.

  The Warlock brought me objects with existing locks that over the years he’d found scattered around the Fortress. I practiced on those while the others grappled with the basic mechanism.

  Each spell unfolded before me in a distinct handwriting, and I learned to identify the handiwork of the few witches and wizards who had set the existing locks. A witch from four hundred years ago wrote in a fine, spidery hand. A wizard a century before her had a fondness for red ink. The Warlock Locksmith of the Great Coven, who had set most of the locks still in existence, was most distinctive, writing in a big, bold black hand words that always seemed to have an angry undertone to them.

  The Warlock one day handed me a book with blank pages and asked me what I could make of it. I sensed the work of the Locksmith, but could not read the spell. Theory said that in creating a lock a witch or wizard could work into the spell any number of conditions restricting who could read it, and when. Most of the existing locks had no conditions; others had conditions that depended on the frame of mind, and the text of the spell would only appear when you were in the right emotional state. I tried for an angry frame of mind, but that didn’t do it. I puzzled over it for several days, until one morning I sat glaring at it, wanting to burn it.

  “Easy, easy,” the Warlock breathed in my ear. “Do not break it.”

  I turned to him, trying to shake the anger and change my frame of mind. “Why is the text hidden? What’s it about?”

  “Black magic—poisons, simulacra, and the like.”

  “Eww!” I drew back from the book, and the text of the lock unscrolled in front of me.

  Elation shot through me, and the words disappeared. I looked at the Warlock sheepishly.

  His eyes twinkled. “Poisons, simulacra, black magic,” he prompted.

  When I regained the feeling of revulsion that had swept over me, the words once again appeared, and I released the lock as quickly as I could. I flipped through several pages before handing it back to him. “I don’t want it.”

  He snapped the lock back in place, and the pages blanked out. “Nor should you. The exercise, however, was good for you. You may need to run the full gamut of emotions—jealousy, joy, disgust, contentment, who knows—before you find the right one. Do not be surprised if you encounter more of this kind of rot as you become more familiar with the Locksmith’s handiwork. He seems to have had a rather twisted mind.”

  “But the histories and stories all make the members of the Great Coven seem to be such flawless heroes.”

  “They were not perfect, not by any means. They were as human as the rest of us. Several of them did not like each other. I do not mean to belittle their work—they put aside their differences and worked together long enough to create something truly marvellous, but after it was done they went their separate ways. The Locksmith seems to have spent the rest of his life in a state of bitter anger. I am sure you have noticed.”

  “What was he angry about?”

  “That is not clear. He may have expected to be the first Officeholder, and was disgruntled when it went to Warlock Fortunatus. The records also hint at jealousy and bad blood between the two over some woman. Whatever it was, they seem never to have spoken another word to each other after the Forging was done, communicating through servants and letters even though they were both living here in the Fortress.”

  “I had no idea, sir.”

  He shrugged. “The early writers were more hagiographers than historians.” He smiled. “Let us hope they do a better job on me.”

  After we became adept at setting shields, the Warlock started a new exercise. He drew a circle of flame on the floor in the practice room, big enough to touch the walls. He told Arturos to stand in the centre, blindfolded, and flame him while he moved around the circle. He lectured us all the while he strolled about, appearing and disappearing at random spots, sending jets of fire at Arturos.

  “You must learn to sense an attack coming from any direction, and to direct your return strike to follow the attacker rather than aiming. Your shields can absorb the attack, but it is less tiring to deflect it. It is more effective, also, to mirror it straight back to the attacker. We will each take a turn in the centre. When you are not there, walk about the room attacking from random spots.”

  His movements were as fluid as the Frost Maiden’s, every action elegant and efficient. I was spellbound, watching him. Did he walk with such feline grace in his youth, or was it hard-won from a century and a half of life?

  “Aren’t you getting dizzy?” I asked.

  He shook his head. “No. As far as I am concerned, I am walking in a straight line, and I am not looking at the people and walls shifting around me. I do not need to know your physical location to respond to you.”

  We spent many days going through this exercise for an hour or so, with each of us getting our turn as the target in the circle. With five people throwing flame, the room would fill with smoke, and become quite hot.

  When it was my turn and René’s, we began by throwing flame at the others moving around, and then practiced deflection while they attacked us. The deflection was easy, but my attacks were feeble, and I could not do them together. René picked both up quickly. When he scored a direct hit on Master Sven after only a week of practice, the Warlock was delighted.

  When was I going to earn his congratulations? He was polite, of course, but he was frustrated at my inability to handle this exercise. Arturos pointed out that I was reluctant to attack my friends, and René suggested I pretend they were people I didn’t like, such as the king or the Frost Maiden.

  The Warlock’s stern response shocked me. “Absolutely not. The Office does not have a sense of humour, and it will not abide even the pre
tence of an attack by a warlock on the king or any of the other Officeholders.”

  My mouth went dry and my heartbeat thudded in my ears. Thank God I never mentioned to anyone the piece of kindling I’d pretended was the Frost Maiden.

  “Even if the Office did not care,” he continued, “I will not countenance anything that increases the friction between the two guilds. We have more than enough problems working together, as it is.” In a milder voice, he said, “Pretend one of us is the Empire’s Chessmaster, if that will help. But not the Frost Maiden, please.”

  October arrived, and with it my twentieth birthday. I reflected on everything that had happened in the past year as I brushed my hair before bed. I had gotten so many things I wanted, and other things I didn’t even know I needed. Gladys, the old fire witch from Lesser Campton, had been right—I was better off as a witch. Once the Fire Guild accepted me as a warlock, I would be able to support myself, and no one could deny me access to the Fortress’s library. I would have power and prestige, especially if I could unlock and help fix the Office.

  I had even had adventure. More than I could stomach, really, and it was not over yet. Be careful what you wish for, for you will surely get it, Mother had often said. I should have listened.

  What I did not have was a husband, but the economic necessity to marry well was no longer an issue. I felt nothing but relief on that score. I could afford that great luxury—marrying for love. But who could I marry? Master Sven?

  I stared at my reflection, open-mouthed, hairbrush in mid-air. Master Sven should have listened to my mother. He had wished for a witch with a good mind, and had found one. But he had not been careful. He had gotten a witch more powerful than himself, and he was too cautious to forget the old adage: never, ever, lie to a warlock.

  I put the hairbrush down and studied myself in the mirror. “Face the facts. Master Sven is scared of you, and he’s the only fire mage available. All your scholar beaux are going to run away in terror when they find out you’re a warlock. Beorn isn’t afraid of you, but he’s going to be married to the Office. You’re an old maid, and you’re going to stay that way.”

  I glared at my hair. My best feature, is it? When had it ever done me any good?

  “I wish,” I said to the mirror, “I wish a wizard who knows and appreciates what I am would show me he loves me. I’d even cut off my hair for that.”

  After three months of practice, René and I were both handling fire better than many witches and wizards who had practiced for years. We could light candles in the kitchen from the practice room, light a dozen torches spaced around the room in a single motion, send great spouts of flame shooting all the way across the cavernous room, and hold little dancing balls of flame in the palm of our hands. We could also quench any of those fires in a snap of the fingers, and stand in the flames unscathed.

  Beorn said, “You two have been doing well. Very well. It’s time for a break. We’re going to have fun tomorrow.”

  I slumped in one of the hard metal chairs, exhausted after lighting and relighting a bonfire with water-soaked wood. I could use some fun. I couldn’t even lift my head to look at him.

  He said, “Be sure to eat a good breakfast. After breakfast, go to the Warlock’s study. Wear layers of clothes so that you’re ready for either very hot or very cold weather.”

  René asked, “What are we going to do?”

  “Launch an invasion.”

  Hooknose Ridge

  Launch an invasion? I jerked upright and stared at the big wizard. He grinned at me. This was his idea of fun?

  Neither René nor I could get him to say anything else. I stomped off to confront the Warlock. René hurried to keep up with me. He wanted to know what was going on, too, but he was excited. I was furious.

  The Warlock said, “The issue is control.”

  René said, “I know you’ve been making us work on control in all our exercises, but what does control have to do with launching an invasion?”

  The Warlock laid a hand on René’s shoulder. “Control of magical power is only one form, my young friend. The Fire Warlock must deal with control in all its forms: political control, control of the battlefield, and control of one’s own temper and desires, among others.

  “This war will be waged on my terms, not the Empire’s. They do not want to launch a full-scale invasion until the spring. It is advantageous to us to fight during the winter, and if we can persuade them to invade before they are ready, so much the better.

  “That is the point of tomorrow’s exercise; to provoke them to attack on my timetable, not theirs.”

  Sensible, my head said. My heart said, No, no, hold the war off. Every day matters.

  I croaked, “What are we going to do tomorrow?”

  His eyes sparkled. “You will see soon enough, and I want to enjoy my surprise. It will be fun.”

  I shook my head. His hand moved to my shoulder, and he leaned his head towards me. The tenderness in his expression made my heart bound.

  “My dear,” he said, “you have lived in fear far too much of late. Life is too short. We must make the most of what little time we have, and live with a light heart even in the face of catastrophe.

  “Relax. Enjoy yourself tomorrow. For my sake if not your own.”

  Perhaps he worked some magic with his hand on my shoulder. I slept without dreams that night, and woke feeling rested and excited about the day’s adventure. René and I would have raced through breakfast if Beorn hadn’t warned us not to. We were ready and waiting at the Warlock’s door ten minutes before he and Beorn made their leisurely way up the stairs.

  René said, “Are they being sluggards just to torture us?”

  I glared down the stairs and tapped my foot on the floor. “Patience is a virtue. Develop some.”

  When the two wizards arrived, the Warlock inspected the clothes we were carrying, then sent us both back downstairs; René to get a warmer hat and gloves from Mrs Cole, me to put on my lightest summer dress under the heavier dress I was wearing. When we were dressed to the Warlock’s satisfaction—he and Beorn dressed in or carrying as many layers as René and I—he led us through the tunnel to the Earth Mother’s great hall in the eastern mountains.

  Mother Celeste and the Air Enchanter were waiting for us. She greeted us with a cheery, “Welcome, friends. May I come with you and watch the show?”

  René and I exchanged glances. What show?

  Enchanter Paul said, “I’d like to see it, too, provided you don’t mind if I tag along.”

  The Warlock said, “Not at all. The more the merrier.”

  Mother Celeste led us to a tunnel, and soon we stood at the mouth of a cave leading out into a clearing high on the side of a mountain. It was late autumn, but the air was bitter cold, and several feet of snow covered the ground. I pulled my cloak tighter. Why did I need the summer dress?

  Mother Celeste cleared the snow from a group of boulders in the clearing, and the Warlock told us to find seats on the rocks and make ourselves comfortable. “As comfortable as one can on a rock, and a cold one at that.”

  Mother Celeste laughed. “I, for one, am always quite comfortable on rocks.” She seated herself on one of the larger boulders with as much aplomb as if it were a royal throne. Enchanter Paul looked askance at the rocks, and remained standing. I sat. Sitting got me out of the wind, but the rock sucked heat out of me. I shivered.

  Beorn sprawled beside me and winked. “You’ll get warm, soon enough.”

  I sniffed, and pulled my hat farther down on my ears.

  The Warlock gestured towards the forested slopes on the other side of the narrow valley. “Today we will be starting, and stopping, forest fires.”

  That did sound like fun. René whooped.

  The Warlock said, “I appealed to the Earth Guild Council’s generosity and sense of patriotism. They agreed to let us burn the s
ide of Hooknose Ridge, and cleared all the wildlife from this section of forest.

  “You have been practicing so far using the energy you each have from your own physical reserves, but as potential officeholders you each need to experience a greater flow and to practice estimating the power needed for bigger tasks. Today you are going to use me as a conduit to draw on Storm King, to work with more power than you have had available before. I will channel the energy, and step it down so that you will not risk burning yourselves out by over-estimating and getting a surge you cannot handle.

  “With enough power, and the right mental models, either of you can set this entire mountain ablaze, and then put it out. With practice, you may someday exercise enough control to burn a horizontal slice five feet high, twenty feet off the ground.” Behind him, fire roared across the mountainside, a small section of trunk on each tree ablaze. An instant later the fires were extinguished.

  “Or burn every fifth tree.” Again the fire roared, individual trees burning, their neighbours untouched. He didn’t even turn his head to confirm his description.

  I gaped, stunned by such a casual display of immense power and control. The magical noise this created would be tremendous.

  Mother Celeste and Enchanter Paul applauded. Beside me, Beorn mumbled, “Show off.”

  The Warlock’s eyes widened in mock innocence. “I demonstrated what is possible, that is all. I have been through this exercise once, more than a decade ago, with Beorn. He needs a refresher, so he will be doing this also. Who would like to begin?”

  René leapt to his feet. The Warlock held out his hand. “Set as much of the forest as you can control on fire, then put it out. Draw less power than you need, and feel your way up to the right amount. Do not overdo it. Ready?”

  René nodded, and took the Warlock’s hand.

  Even the weakest witches and wizards for miles around would notice this. I scrambled to my feet. “Wait, wait.”