by Allan Cole
Safar’s intense curiosity had led him to investigate the library. The library did contain material on black magic. But it was mainly a massive and confused collection of knowledge gathered by Umurhan’s predecessors - rare scrolls, books by forgotten masters, volumes in strange languages and hand-written dictionaries of those languages, with magical symbols added by later men as marginalia. Using the books at Foolsmire, Safar had gradually deciphered the languages. His late night studies and secret visits put him on the trail of Asper, the ancient master of all master wizards, who also happened - Safar suspected - to have been a demon. One of the bits of marginalia even gave him strong reason to believe Asper’s work was hidden somewhere in the chaos that was Umurhan’s private library.
He’d been searching for it when he was discovered.
* * *
Safar crouched in the darkest of the library, a candle stub his only aid, as he hurriedly combed through cob-webbed scrolls and books with cracked binding - searching for the strange, four-headed snake symbol he knew to be Asper’s seal.
Then an oil lamp had flared into life behind him and he whirled to find Umurhan hovering over him - eyes blazing like spear points fresh from the forge.
"What are you doing here, acolyte?" he thundered.
Safar fumbled excuses - "Forgive me, Master. I was worried about the exam and, I, uh... uh... I thought I, uh..."
"Are you claiming to be a cheat, Safar Timura?" Umurhan roared. "Is that your puny reason for violating my privacy."
"Ye-es, Mas-ttter, ye-ye-yes," Safar stuttered.
"Then why are you among the forbidden books, acolyte?" Umurhan shouted. He pointed down the narrow aisle to the front of the library. "Why didn’t I find your filthy, cheating personage up there? Why weren’t you stealing your answers from writings that have not been condemned?"
Safar wanted to shout that no knowledge should be forbidden. And that, as a matter of fact, even the supposed innocent works in this library were denied to all but Umurhan. Instead, Safar pretended to panic - with Umurhan looming over him it wasn’t hard - babbling that he was only trying to hide from the light and had come here by accident. He streamed forth such a mad babble of half-confessions and false apologies and pleas for mercy that Umurhan’s suspicions were quieted.
"Silence," Umurhan shouted, cutting Safar off in mid babble. "You do understand I could have you seized this moment and charged with heresy?"
"Yes, Master," Safar answered, humble as he could.
"The only reason I’m not going to do so is that I believe you are nothing more than a low cheat."
"Yes, Master. Thank you, Master. I’m sorry, Master. It won’t happen again, Master."
"Oh, I know you won’t do it again, Acolyte Timura. I will see to that. I will withhold my punishment just now. I want you to contemplate your sins while I consider your fate."
"Yes, Master. Thank you, Master."
"The only reason I’m not immediately expelling you... or worse, by the gods, because I could do much worse! You understand that, don’t you acolyte."
"Yes, Master. I understand."
"The sole reason I don’t condemn you on the spot is because of the respect I have for your mentor, Lord Muzine. For some reason I shall never fathom he has a certain regard for your future and well being."
"Yes, Master," Safar mumbled, knocking his head on the ground. But he knew that what Umurhan was really remembering was the lioness and her ghost.
Although Safar had never been called into Muzine’s company, his allowance had been increased after the incident. It had been coldly announced by Muzine’s major domo, who harshly cautioned him about ever mentioning the ceremony or the event. It was plain to him now Umurhan feared the incident would get out if Safar’s crime became a public matter. Questions would be raised about the sin Muzine wanted expunged. And even greater questions would be asked about the quality of Umurhan’s magic. How could such a great wizard allow something like that to happen? And worst of all - perhaps Umurhan wasn’t as powerful as he claimed.
Safar had been granted a reprieve, but he knew now it was a short reprieve - and getting shorter every moment.
* * *
"Hsst!" came Gundara’s warning. "Danger ahead!"
Safar stopped. Below him was the final bend in the stairwell. It spilled out into the deepest and least glamorous level of the university. It was a place of boiling kitchen pots, foul garbage bins and huge clay pipes running overhead that carried water in and sewage out. Safar listened closely and after a moment made out the sound of a cleaning brush being rubbed against stone.
He resumed his journey, but at a slower pace. When he rounded the bend he saw a young acolyte kneeling on the steps. There was a bucket of water beside him and a brush in his hands. He was making lazy, half-hearted swipes at the steps with the brush - doing little more than dribbling water on the begrimed stone. But soon as he sensed Safar’s presence the lazy swipes were replaced with vigorous scrubbing. The young man looked up, brow furrowed deeply as if the job required great concentration. But when he saw Safar he relaxed. He sat back on his heels, a wide, insolent grin splitting his face.
"Oh, it’s only you, Timura. Gave me a start there for a minute. Thought you might be that whoreson, Hunker. Sneaking down here to catch me taking a little break."
Hunker was the priest in charge of punishment details. Any student in trouble learned to hate him on sight. He assigned the filthiest jobs and drove the workers like the spavined ox of the meanest miller.
Safar snorted. "That’s me, Hunker, in the flesh. And I’m down here to set all you sinful bastards a good example. That’s why I’m going to spend my entire day crouched over a shithole and setting it on fire. Love the smell of that stuff burning. Love to show all you lazy swine how a real wizard works."
The acolyte, whose name was Ersen, had the reputation of being the most indolent troublemaker in the university. Ersen was a constant, unruly presence on the punishment details. It was well know that the only reason he hadn’t been expelled was because his father was an elder on King Didima’s court. Despite his noble background, Ersen was popular with everyone. He took his punishment in good humor and always presented a sympathetic ear to his fellow miscreants. A sympathy many hoped would translate into protection for that miscreant through his influential father.
Ersen burst into laughter - a loud donkey braying Haw-Haw-Haw that endeared him to every student, but was hated by the priests - since they were usually the object of his uncontrollable laughter.
"I would love to see that, Timura," he said after he’d recovered. "Why, I’d trade my father’s fortune - and throw in his flabby old balls as a bonus - to see old Hunker down here burning the shitters."
Safar chortled. "What about your own equipment?" he said. "Would you throw them in, as well?"
Ersen acted shocked. "What, and disappoint all the whores in Walaria? Why, the whole city would be filled with females weeping if their little Ersen was denied them. Besides, my father doesn’t have much use for his anymore. He already made me. And there’s no way he can improve on that historic feat."
Safar rewarded the reply with more laughter. But the whole time he kept thinking of Gundara’s warning. Was Ersen the source of the danger? On the surface it seemed ridiculous. He was the class jester, the instigator of the best practical jokes aimed at authority. It there was mischief, everyone knew instantly that Ersen would be at the bottom of it. How could he be an informer? Then he recalled the comet streaking across the House of the Jester and it dawned on Safar just how good a cover Ersen’s behavior would be if he were a spy. Everyone spoke freely in his company because what was there to fear from someone who was always in trouble himself for mocking authority?
Cold realization knotted in Safar’s gut. This was exactly the sort of subtle game Kalasariz would play. He looked at Ersen with new eyes and saw the twitch in his cheek, the nervous, preoccupied drumming of his fingers on the steps - small leaks through his genial facade.
&nbs
p; Safar sighed and stretched his arms. "Well, it’s nice to dream about Hunker taking my place on the punishment detail," he said. "But that’s not getting the shitters burned."
"What did you do to deserve that, Timura?" Ersen asked. "Set fire to Umurhan’s beard, I hope."
Safar scratched his head. "I don’t think so," he said. "The last thing I remember was getting drunk at the Foolsmire. Hunker jumped me when I showed up this morning. He screamed a lot, called me the usual names, and ordered me to report for shitter burning. But now that I think of it, he never did say what for."
"It must have been something pretty bad, Timura," Ersen said. "It’ll probably be all over the University before the day is over."
Safar grimaced. "Let me know when you find out," he said. "And I pray to the gods that whatever I did was worth it."
With that he strolled away, Ersen’s bray echoing after him - "Haw Haw Haw."
When it was safe Safar whispered to Gundara, "Was he the one?"
"How could anyone miss it?" the Favorite replied. "I swear, when the gods made humans they must have run short of intellect to stuff into your skulls."
Safar had no grounds to disagree at the moment, so he continued on in silence, taking a corridor that led away from the kitchens and stank of sewers. The tunnel finally spilled into an immense room pocked with great pits. The sewer pipes emptied into those pits and Safar thought the odor was rich enough to give a starving pig convulsions.
As he entered the room he saw a group of acolytes tending to a pit on the far side. They dumped big jars of oil into it, someone threw in a flaming brand and then they all jumped back as red and yellow flames towered up with a whoosh. Clouds of sewer smoke followed the flames, billowing out over the acolytes who cursed and choked on the filthy air.
The smoke was thinning as Safar came close and one of the acolytes saw him. He shouted something at the others, then ambled forward to meet Safar.
"That’s Olari," Safar whispered to Gundara. "The one I have business with."
"I can’t say if he’s entirely safe," Gundara answered. "Only you can judge that. But I can say this - he isn’t a spy."
Safar whispered thanks to a few gods for this answer, hedged though it was, and made a hurried prayer to a few others to help him with his plan.
Olari was the second son of the richest man in Walaria. As such he would not inherit command of the family fortunes and so some other worthy occupation had to be found for him. His magical talent was as small as Ersen’s - so small that if he had been an ordinary youth he would never have been permitted into the school of wizardry. Everyone knew this, including Olari’s father. It was assumed Olari would enter the administrative side of the business of magic, where canniness and family contacts were much more important than sorcerous ability. Safar did not underestimate him because of this. He knew that was the same road Umurhan had taken to power. Olari’s reputation was as controversial as Ersen’s. Except where Ersen presented himself as a jester and the laziest of all the lazy students, Olari was a rebel.
He was one of the student ringleaders who constantly and loudly challenged the status quo in Walaria. Safar had spent many an evening at the Foolsmire listening to Olari and his band of committed brothers debate the great issues of the day, fueled by copious quantities of strong spirits. They deplored the oppression of the common man, which Safar thought humorous since the only common men Olari and his rich friends knew were the slaves who waited on them and the tradesmen who catered to their exclusive tastes. Olari and the others roundly denounced the heavy taxes Didima demanded and the corruption of a system where bribery was the rule, not the exception. They condemned the city’s leaders as old men, cowardly men, greedy men, who lacked all capacity to understand the new ideas and grand reforms offered by their far-seeing children.
Olari and his companions had tried to recruit Safar into their company. He was popular with all the other acolytes and if he joined them it would do much to strengthen their appeal with the university’s intellectuals. Safar had always diplomatically refused, saying he wasn’t a citizen of Walaria, nor did he intend to remain here when his studies were completed. He had no stake in Walaria, he said, and it would be wrong of him to take sides. Actually Safar considered the young rebels’ ideals empty. Except for Olari, he thought their protests and petty conspiracies nothing more than spoiled children defying their parents. He excepted Olari because he thought it entirely possible the young nobleman was mapping out a shortcut to power. But the main reason he refused was that Olari and the other ringleaders were protected by their noble births. They were coddled by their families, who correctly said they’d soon grow out of this hot-headed stage. So it took no courage at all for them to express their views at the top of their lungs. Someone like Safar, however, would quickly find himself being hauled before Kalasariz as a traitor. In the past that fate had been only a strong probability. But now that Safar had actually met Kalasariz he knew it as a fact.
Another blast of fire and smoke thundered from a sewer pit, adding an odd drum beat of drama to the moment when Safar and Olari took the last few steps that closed the gap between them.
"I won’t offer you a glad cry of welcome, Timura," he said, "because you’d curse me for it."
"And no one would blame me if I beat you about the head and shoulders as well," Safar laughed.
"Soon as I saw you," Olari said, "I thought - I’ll be poached in shit sauce, if it isn’t Safar Timura! The only time he’s put on a work detail is when the whole class is being punished."
Safar shrugged. "It’s my country upbringing that saves me," he said. "I’m good at ducking for cover and not getting caught."
"And did you?" Ersen asked. "Get caught, I mean. And what in the hells for?"
"Ersen asked the same thing," Safar said. "He seemed as surprised as you to see me here."
"And what did you tell him?" Olari asked.
"I lied," Safar answered, "and said I was here to help you burn the shitters. And that whatever it was I did to deserve it I’d forgotten because I was drunk."
Olari cocked his head, a small smile playing on his lips, considering what Safar’s statement meant. Tall and darkly handsome, with deep brooding eyes offset by a dazzling white smile that charmed all who knew him, he was every inch a patrician, even in work robes and daubed with smoke and filth.
After a moment he nodded in satisfaction, smile spreading wider. "Come into my office, and we’ll talk."
He gave Safar a follow me gesture and led him to a rubbish heap that hid a small cavelike opening in the wall. Olari dropped to his knees and crawled into it, Safar close behind. After a few feet the hole broadened into a small room. Olari lit a candle, revealing that the room was decorated with old mattresses and blankets. There were makeshift shelves bolted to the wall filled with sealed jars of food.
Olari lit a few more candles and a little smoke pot of incense to cover the sewer smell. Then he sank onto one of the mattresses and laid back, hands behind his head.
"What do you think of my office?" he asked.
"Considering the place it’s in," Safar said, "I’m impressed."
"We take turns hiding out here," Olari said. "One group keeps watch while the other sleeps, or eats and even..." he reached to a low shelf, grabbed a stoppered jar and tossed it to Safar... "drinks."
"This is starting to take on the air of a palace," Safar said as he uncorked the jar. He took a long drink of what turned out to be a fine wine, then passed the jar to Olari.
The youth sat up and raised the jar, saying, "Here’s to lies." And he drank.
As he passed the jar back to Safar he said, "I’m guessing that you’re here because you’ve reconsidered my offer."
"That I have," Safar said. "I’ve decided to take you up on it."
"And why is that, my friend?" Olari asked. "What has suddenly made you see the light and decide to join our cause?"
"To be absolutely honest," Safar said, "I have no intention of joining anyone’s cause. Al
though I’m risking the loss of your good opinion of me, I’ll tell you straight out, Olari - I have a sudden need for a large sum of money. Call it a family emergency, if you will."
"There’s no shame in that," Olari said. "Although I’d prefer it was your heart that guided you to me, not your purse."
"Oh, my heart’s always been with you," Safar said. "You know I agree with most of what you say. I just don’t feel involved because this is your home, not mine. If we were in Kyrania you’d feel the same."
"Perhaps I would," Olari said. "Perhaps I would."
"When we last spoke," Safar said, "you asked me to do a bit of creative sorcery for you."
Olari became as excited as his patrician mask would allow. Which meant his brooding eyes lit up and he crossed his legs. "Are you sure you can still do it?" he asked. "There isn’t much time, you know. The Founder’s Day festival is only two days off."
"There’s time," Safar said.
"Are you certain? We need something really big. Something that will knock them out of their boots. Something that will show everyone what kind of fools we are ruled by."
"I think everyone in Walaria already knows that, Olari," Safar said. "They just don’t talk about it much. Especially in public."
"Well, they’ll talk after Founder’s Day," Olari said. "If your magical event is big enough and public enough. The timing is crucial."
"I’ve thought of that," Safar said. "The spellcast I have in mind would work best if it came off at the Last Prayer ceremony. Right after the bells and the song when Umurhan does his annual magic trick to impress the masses."
