THE WIZARD HUNTERS

by Martha Wells

  There was a whoop of joy from somewhere above and Breidan Niles vaulted the railing, slipped in the mud caused by the deluge of seawater and landed beside them with a splat. “What happened?” he demanded. “Where—”

  Gerard dropped the sphere, grabbing the other man’s shoulders to shake him. “It’s a translocation spell!”

  “I gathered that, but where—”

  From the railing, Tiamarc burst out, “That’s impossible!” Both Gerard and Tremaine stared up at him blankly. Tiamarc added, “But isn’t it?”

  “Where did you go?” Niles demanded.

  Tremaine saw the salt water had soaked the notes tamped down around the outside of the circle and that the ink was running. She gasped and grabbed Gerard’s shoulder. “Oh, no! The spell— The water—”

  Shaking his head, Gerard told her, “Those are only the working notes. We have several typescript copies of everything.”

  “Oh.” Tremaine sat back, shoving her dripping hair out of her eyes. “Never mind.”

  “Where did you go?” Niles demanded again.

  Tremaine’s dazed brain was still trying to catch up. She shook Gerard’s sleeve again. “Arisilde did a translocation spell before. He told me about it—”

  Gerard nodded, his face intent. “I remember his description of that. I thought he used an old fayre ring—”

  “And a sphere. The spell destroyed the sphere but—”

  “They could still be alive.” Gerard met her eyes. “Nicholas and Arisilde.”

  Tremaine opened her mouth but no words came.

  “WHERE DID YOU GO?” Niles shouted, shaking Gerard.

  “I don’t know.” Gerard let go of him, sitting back and shaking his head in amazement. “Niles, it was broad daylight.”

  Niles rubbed his brow, trying to comprehend it. “My God.”

  “We saw two Gardier airships, one coming from an island, one going toward it,” Gerard told him. “It could have been returning from Chaire. One of their bases, Niles.” He shook his head, smiling in wonder. “It wasn’t a weapon. Arisilde Damal was creating a translocation spell to take us to a Gardier base.”

  Arisilde never wanted to make weapons, Tremaine thought, remembering her own words.

  Chapter 4

  Isle of Storms

  “I still think it’s alive,” Ilias said thoughtfully. He was stretched out on a shelf of rock, head propped on his arms, watching the scene below. This was another branch of the great cavern that wound through the mountain and their vantage point was a small tunnel opening about fifty paces up the wall. Below was a ledge, part natural and part augmented by wooden platforms, lit by wizard lights. One of the flying whales was anchored to the edge, enormous and silent, floating like a tethered thunderhead in the damp air. About thirty paces or so below the makeshift dock and mostly lost in shadow, a dark river cut through the cavern floor. “I think it’s breathing.”

  Lying next to him, Giliead lifted his brows skeptically. “I think that’s your imagination.” From this angle they could see the flying whale didn’t have any legs, that the edged tail fins seemed to be how it moved itself through the air. The purpose of it was easier to discern now too: There were places in its body that the wizards rode in. They got aboard it with a gangplank that stretched from the cliff to an opening in the squarish belly that hung along the lower part of it.

  For some time several wizards had been going in and out and now the slaves were carrying aboard wooden boxes and metal containers from stacks on the platforms. Giliead shook his head, studying the creature with a frown. “They put this thing together somehow.”

  “They fed it,” Ilias argued, scratching his head vigorously. They had rolled in mud to kill any scent that might attract the attention of the captive howlers and it itched like mad, especially in hair. “From those vats.” The large metal vats, each as big around as a decent-sized hut, stood against the cavern wall not far below their ledge.

  After two days of carefully creeping through the tunnels and passages to spy on the wizards’ mostly incomprehensible activities, they still didn’t know much about them. They had found the place where the wizards had cut through into the tunnels of the lower city, perhaps to reach the old harbor cave, but they hadn’t been able to get a look at the smaller passages on the west side of the main cavern. It was the place where the wizards seemed to have their living quarters and it had to yield more clues than these large work areas. It was also where the slave quarters must be, so there had been no hope yet of releasing any of them.

  As far as they could tell, there were at least fifty wizards and more than sixty slaves here, scattered all through this section of the caverns. It was hard to estimate their numbers when it was so difficult to tell the wizards apart, but right now there were five working on the platforms below, two supervising the slaves and the other three going in and out of the flying whale. There was at least one other whale, the one they had seen swimming in the air through the big cavern, and they had found two other large caves with platforms like this.

  All those wizards working together, Ilias thought again, still overwhelmed. He and Giliead had been killing them for fifteen years now and they had never come across wizards cooperating before, not real ones. They always hated each other even more than they hated normal people. He would have been sick with the thought of it if there hadn’t been so many other things to be horrified about.

  He told Giliead, “And Ixion put things together too. Never that big, but still.” It was the vats that made Ilias doubt. They were too much like the ones that Ixion had used to make his curselings, though they hadn’t been able to see what was in these yet.

  “I know, but this is ... different.” Giliead let out his breath in frustration. “We’re not going to have much to tell Halian and Nicanor.”

  “There’s an army of wizards ready to overrun the coast with giant flying whale monsters. I think that’s all the telling they can handle.”

  Giliead lifted a brow at him. “You know what I mean. We should know where they come from, why they’re here.” He shook his head a little, frowning. “Or at least where they’re going to attack first.”

  Ilias scratched the stubble on his chin, dislodging a few flakes of dried mud. They had overheard plenty of conversations, not that any of it had been intelligible. If the wizards were calling Cineth or Pirae or any of the other coastal cities by their names, they hadn’t heard it. “If we could just get closer—” He started at a sudden crash from below, wincing as he saw what it was. “Oh, not again.” A few years ago he and Giliead had killed a wizard near Ancyra who had cursed people to dance themselves to death, a fairly horrible way to go; at least these wizards took their victims quickly, though that didn’t make it any easier to watch.

  The crash had been one of the slaves dropping a crate. Now he backed away from the furious wizard advancing on him.

  Then the slave stumbled back into the metal stand supporting a curse light. It swayed over and both wizard overseers shouted in alarm. The slave made a wild grab for it but the heavy light tipped. As the white part smashed against the stone, the curse escaped in an abrupt burst of sparks. A little fire leapt to life on a bundle of tarps piled near the crates.

  The platform suddenly boiled with confusion. The slaves retreated in terror while the two wizards pressed forward, ripping off their jackets to beat at the small fire. The other three wizards ran out of the flying whale, shouting at each other, frantic, panicked. The howlers screamed, probably because everyone else was.

  Completely baffled, Ilias stared at Giliead. “They’re afraid of fire?”

  “I’ll say.” Giliead watched in amazement. “I almost took a burning arrow in the chest once and it didn’t scare me that much.”

  Ilias shook his head. It was such a small fire. “How do they cook?”

  “Very carefully?”

  The little fire died under the wizards’ frantic efforts. Abruptly all the lights on the platform went out, the buzzing hum they emitted dying
away. In the dimness figures still milled in confusion but at least the yelling stopped. Tiny lights sprang to life, held in the hands of the wizards.

  Without the buzzing, their speaking voices were audible. As others herded the slaves and howlers away, three of them held a brief agitated conversation, playing the lights over the heavy metal cylinders stacked waiting on the far side of the platform. Then they followed the others, leaving the cave in darkness.

  Except for the glow of light from the open door in the flying whale’s belly.

  Giliead sat up, nudging Ilias excitedly. “This is our chance.”

  Ilias let his breath out in resignation as he pushed himself up off the rock. “I was afraid you’d say that.”

  While Giliead cached their pack and waterskin in the bottom of the vertical shaft, Ilias crept out to scout the cavern floor. The shadows were deep and there was cover along the rocky bank of the narrow river, mostly old rockfalls and some boulders that might have been recently dislodged by the wizards’ construction efforts. The whale hung over the cavern, impossibly huge for something so quiet; its presence made the back of Ilias’s neck prickle. They would have to cross under its shadow to get to the platform, like coneys trying to sneak past a hawk; that would be a terrible time to find out it really was alive.

  Giliead joined him and they made their way along the bank of the river, staying low. The channel was deep and narrow and the quick-flowing water stank of grend filth. It must come from near Ixion’s chambers and probably led back into the old city.

  Ilias tried to stay as close to the ground as possible as they crept under the whale’s bulk; seeing Giliead unconsciously duck as he looked up at the thing’s belly made him feel less irrational. It was too dark to see anything up there anyway.

  The wooden supports of the dock platform were easy to climb, offering plenty of handholds. Ilias reached the top first, peeking cautiously over the edge. The chill sorcerous light from the flying whale’s door illuminated the platform, revealing the stacks of boxes, the metal cylinders, the spidery outlines of the stands supporting the quiescent lights. It gave the shadows a sharp outline, as if they were all knife-edged. The smell of burning still hung in the air, though there was an odd unfamiliar taint to it. The wood creaked as Giliead climbed out onto the platform and Ilias scrambled up after him, staying in a crouch, listening intently. They exchanged a wary look but nothing moved in the shadows.

  Giliead went toward the crates nearby and Ilias crept forward cautiously to the shadowy vats and canisters on the far side. The vats stood back against the rock wall, looming in the dark. He touched one cautiously; the metal surface was chill. Reluctantly he pressed his ear to the side, but he couldn’t hear anything stirring within. Ixion’s vats had bubbled and churned constantly, so maybe these weren’t the same after all. He felt around it, looking for a way to see what was inside. All he could find was a small wheel near the bottom, above a pipe. The wheel refused to turn, and though he examined it as best he could, he couldn’t tell how it was locked.

  They searched the rest of the space, Ilias taking one side and Giliead the other, picking cautiously through the stacked boxes, pipes and other strange objects. Then a hiss from the other side of the platform called Ilias over.

  Giliead was crouching by the broken lamp. He held up something so Ilias could see it in the light that came from the flying whale. It was the charred end of a black rope with odd-colored bits poking out. In a low whisper, Giliead explained, “These are connected to all the lights. I think when this one broke it started the fire.”

  “Huh.” Ilias took it and sniffed it cautiously. It did smell of burning. He handed it back. “What’s in the crates?”

  Giliead shook his head. “Couldn’t get any open without breaking them. I don’t want them to know we were here. Not yet.”

  That left only one thing to search. They both looked at the open door into the flying whale’s belly. Ilias swallowed in a dry throat. “Well...”

  Giliead took a sharp breath. “I know.”

  Ilias tried not to step on the black ropes as they crossed the platform, but it was hard to miss them in the dark. One of them squished unpleasantly underfoot and he winced, but it didn’t burst into flame or break.

  They reached the edge of the gangplank together. All they could see through the doorway was a dull-colored metal wall. Ilias hesitated, wiping sweaty palms on his pants, and found himself hoping fervently again that the creature wasn’t alive. Walking voluntarily into its belly seemed less suicidal that way. He looked at Giliead, whose expression said he wasn’t feeling so sure of himself either, which made Ilias feel even worse. He nudged him with an elbow and said in an almost voiceless whisper, “Are we sure this is a good idea?”

  Giliead shrugged and shook his head, which Ilias interpreted as “No, but we’re doing it anyway.” He took a tentative step onto the plank and Ilias checked the set of his sword and followed.

  Giliead stopped in the doorway, head cocked to listen. For such a large creature—or thing—the flying whale was oddly silent. He leaned back and whispered, “No guard curses.” Ilias nodded and eased through the door after him. These wizards didn’t seem to use such things to protect their territory; the only ones Giliead had found while they had been here were old, left by Ixion or his predecessors.

  Inside was a long, low-ceilinged chamber, half filled with the containers they had watched the slaves load, lit by a few small white bubbles of curse light attached to the ribbed metal ceiling. The floor was covered with a thin soft stuff like cork that dampened any sound their boots might have made.

  Well, it’s a cargo hold, Ilias thought, but after watching the slaves load it he supposed they could have known that without actually coming in. He moved down a row of crates as Giliead took the other side. The crates were stacked above his head, secured with ropes and nets to hooks in the floor. Ilias tried not to brush against anything even though Giliead had said there were no guard curses to injure intruders or alert the wizards to their presence. The strangeness of the place, the odd scents, the cold light, made his shoulders tight with tension and his nerves twitchy. There wasn’t anything to see but the crates and he circled back around.

  Giliead had found a metal door in the wall to the far right. He listened at it a moment, then gave it a cautious push. It creaked loudly, making Ilias’s stomach do a nervous flip-flop, but it revealed only a dimly lit corridor, with more doors off each side.

  Giliead took a deep breath and consulted Ilias with a look. Ilias shrugged. They had come this far, they might as well go all the way.

  The corridor was narrow and low enough that Giliead had to duck under the light bubbles. The wizards, who mostly seemed to be between the two of them in height, would have barely enough clearance themselves.

  One of the doors stood partly open, revealing a darkened chamber, and Ilias leaned into it for a look. The dim light from the corridor fell on a narrow room lined with big shelves fixed to the wall with metal brackets. From the gray blankets and cushions he realized they were beds. Cold and lonely beds, thinly padded, narrow, and meant only for one person each. “This is how they sleep?” he whispered, glancing back at Giliead. “No wonder they’re all so irritable.”

  Giliead looked too, made a thoughtful noise, and continued cautiously up the corridor. Ilias followed, pausing to look in the other open doors. It was all the same. The lack of personal possessions or clothes might be explained by the thing still being uninhabited, but there were hardly any colors at all except gray and brown. No painting on the walls, no color in the rough weavings they slept on or the padding on the floor.

  It was another way these wizards were unlike Ixion. He had liked comfort and had covered his chambers with fine linens and silks, beautifully woven carpets and painted tiles. It made Ilias wonder what these wizards used their power for, what all this labor was in aid of.

  At the end of the corridor was another dim chamber lined with metal vats, with pipes leading up into the ceiling. A he
avy odor hung in the air, detectable even over the foul stink of the mud on their clothes and skin. Ilias couldn’t identify it, except that it was heavy and dark and clogged his nose and throat.

  “Let’s try up here.”

  “What?” Ilias glanced around to see Giliead had found a ladder, set back between two of the vats. He stepped closer, seeing it led up the wall through a hole in the ceiling and into an empty space that glowed with a diffuse orange light. It looked exactly as he imagined a giant beast’s belly would appear from the inside. “Try what up there?” he asked dubiously.

  “Come on.” Giliead started up the ladder and Ilias followed reluctantly.

  Giliead climbed up onto the floor above, the metal creaking faintly. Ilias poked his head through the opening warily, but the sight was disappointing. It was only a long straight narrow passage built of flat metal bars, with walls of some kind of slick brown fabric. It seemed to run the whole long length of the creature.

  Sitting on his heels, Giliead studied the corridor thoughtfully. “Still think it’s alive?”

  Ilias climbed up to sit on the narrow metal catwalk. He touched the wall tentatively but jerked his hand back with a grimace. “It feels like skin. Dead skin.”

  Giliead leaned close to the wall, running a hand over it thoughtfully, with the air of someone who did this every day. “Huh.”

  “Well?” Ilias demanded.

  “It could be skin,” he conceded, getting to his feet. “Come on, let’s see what’s up here.”

  After a short time of searching it became apparent that these narrow metal catwalks and skin walls made up most of the bulk of the creature. Ladders at intervals led up to more catwalks and more brown walls, fading into murky dimness in the stretches where the curse lamps weren’t lit.