THE WIZARD HUNTERS

by Martha Wells

  Ilias climbed out of the bed, shivering as his feet touched the cold wood, and stepped cautiously toward the painted wall. Fascinated, he leaned close, but the waves weren’t really rolling up the beach, they just looked like it. That’s just incredible. How do they do that? He lifted a hand, tempted to touch, but decided against it.

  He spotted his clothes draped over a straight-backed chair and his knife on the little table next to it. If that wasn’t a gesture of good faith, he didn’t know what was. The clothes were still damp and a puddle had formed on the floorboards beneath, so he grabbed a blanket off the bed and wrapped it around his shoulders. He hesitated over his knife, but if they had made the gesture of leaving it out for him, he could make the gesture of not carrying it.

  Ilias shifted a screen aside and stepped out. The sphere, sitting on a table nearby, clicked at him. The wizard looked up, making a comment to Tremaine, and she glanced around with a worried look. “Are you all right?” she asked him in Syrnaic. “Do you want us to try to get the sphere to let you speak Rienish? Niles might be able to—”

  “No,” he interrupted, eyeing the wizard cautiously. “No more curses.” He was willing to admit the healing had worked, but he really didn’t want to take any more chances.

  Niles stood up, gesturing for Ilias to take his chair. With another comment to Tremaine he took the sphere off the table and went out through the archway into the bigger room. Relieved, Ilias sat down, tugging the blanket around him. “Where are the others?”

  “They’re back there.” Tremaine nodded to the screened-off part of the chamber. “With the healers. Florian is all right, she’s just asleep.” She frowned. “Ander is still unconscious.”

  “He’ll be all right,” Ilias told her, more hopeful than realistic. He knew how terrible head wounds could be. He reached across the table and took her hand.

  She blinked suddenly, her eyes bleak, and for a heartbeat he could see she trembled on the edge of control. She took a sharp breath and squeezed his hand, her skin icy cold. Then she pulled away, her face shuttered again, all the walls back in place. Ilias watched her worriedly. She and Giliead were a lot alike.

  He just hoped Giliead was still alive. Ilias looked away, rubbing his forehead. And Halian, Dyani, Gyan, Arites, all the others. Karima will be alone. He had said the Swift didn’t have to live with herself afterward and maybe that had been tempting fate. The Swift was gone now, with no chance to save the part of the prow where her soul lived so they could build her again.

  Tremaine glanced up and must have noticed his expression. She blinked and reached for the metal pot on the table and poured another cup of whatever was in it, pushing it across to him. “Try some of that.”

  He sniffed it cautiously, tasted it and winced. The smell was good but the liquid itself was incredibly bitter. At least it was warm, though. He looked around, noticing more of the wall paintings that seemed so real, trying to distract himself. There was a big one of a deep green forest that reminded him of home. The trees cascaded down rolling hills to a stretch of beach with a little village sprawled across it. He glanced at Tremaine. “What are those?”

  It took her a moment to understand what he meant. “You mean, the paintings? Landscapes, mostly. You don’t have paintings like that, do you?”

  “No. It’s curses?”

  She shook her head. “Sorcerers can put magic into paintings, but those are just oil paint and canvas. Oh, here.” She took a little white pitcher and added milk to both their cups. “This should help.”

  The trees in the painting looked real enough to touch. It was hard to believe it was just paint and skill. He felt better about this place now. This building was obviously old, but just as obviously it had been made by people who liked beautiful things. “This is better,” Ilias said.

  “The coffee?” Tremaine looked vague. “The milk did help.”

  “No, this.” He made an uncertain gesture, indicating the room. “It looks like people live here.”

  “It does?” Tremaine looked around frowning, as if she hadn’t noticed it before.

  “It doesn’t look like the Gardier,” he clarified. He told himself the Gardier wouldn’t understand what Giliead was, it wouldn’t be the same as if he had been captured by a wizard like Ixion. Unless you didn‘t just imagine you saw him. ... He shook his head determinedly. If he let his thoughts go that way, he wouldn’t be able to think. “When can we go back?”

  Tremaine stirred a little. “When we didn’t return on the first day, they sent most of the men and the sorcerers who were here away to fight the Gardier.”

  He stared at her. “What does that mean?”

  “Niles said he would send you back—and he wants me and Florian to go with you—but we wouldn’t have any help to go after the others.”

  “But they will send us back?” Ilias said deliberately, wanting to be absolutely sure of it.

  Tremaine nodded, still distracted. “Yes.”

  Ilias leaned back in relief, feeling his heart unclench a little. As long as they sent him back, he could find some way to get to the island for the others. It was just being stuck here he couldn’t stand.

  He had never been anywhere that he couldn’t walk, swim or sail home from before. And if he died here where there was no one to perform the funeral rites ... He had been in distant lands or isolated places where it was unlikely anyone would find his body, but that had been with Giliead. Then at least they had known that if they ended up as lost wandering shades, they would still have each other for company. And there was always the chance that someone would find their bones and put them to rest. Death in this strange faraway place seemed much more . . . final. Don’t think about it, he reminded himself firmly.

  Tremaine tapped her fingers on the table thoughtfully, and as he watched, the expression in her eyes went from vague to razor-sharp. Ilias sat up a little straighter, suddenly hopeful. Whatever it was, he was certain she had just had a great idea. She looked at him, one brow quirking, and said, “Want to go to Vienne with me?”

  Gerard blinked as the Gardier prodded him and the other surviving members of the Swift’s crew out of the patrol ship’s hatchway. The hold had been pitch-dark and now even the watery sunlight that shone through the damp mist was too bright. As his eyes adjusted he saw the patrol ship was docked against a long stone shelf in a rocky cove. His hands were manacled; the Gardier had chained them all and dumped them into separate compartments.

  A rifle butt prodded his back, reminding him to move. He stepped off the gangway onto the stone dock but apparently not fast enough; a second shove sent him staggering. He stumbled into Halian, who braced his feet until Gerard could catch his balance. “Thank you,” Gerard murmured, careful to speak in Syrnaic.

  Halian gave him a tense nod. The Gardier shouted and made threatening gestures with their weapons and the two men moved along. Gerard saw Giliead was a few men ahead and a quick glance back showed him Dyani behind him, Gyan and Arites further back in the line.

  While still in the water, Gerard had thrown away his spectacles and the pouch containing his aether-glasses and the rest of the contents of his pockets. He hadn’t thought of removing his boots, the one article of clothing he was still wearing that would mark him as Rienish, until the Gardier had been about to fish him out of the sea. Several of the older men wore their hair cropped as short as his, but he knew he was unreasonably pale for a Syprian sailor.

  At least Tremaine and the others got away—with the sphere, he thought in relief. He had felt its power join him to dissipate the spells that had created the sea creature. The sphere had become more precocious, more .. . aware each time it was used. The idea of the Gardier getting access to that kind of power was horrifying.

  As they drew closer to the end of the dock he saw the Gardier were using a small harbor, a half circle constructed of bundles of the long log-shaped stones the island’s original inhabitants had favored. It had been built up right out of the side of a sheer cliff face, the stones simply piled
up in the sea until they rose high enough to provide breakwaters and a dock. Gerard would have liked to get a closer look at it, but the Gardier prodded them along the dock, giving them no time for observation. They passed under the high curved arch that led back into the caves, under the heavy dark vines that cascaded down the cliffs overhead, cutting out the misty daylight. Oh, God, Gerard thought wearily, not the caves again. It had been hard enough getting out of the place.

  They passed into a large chamber lit with strings of electric bulbs, where crates and tanks of various supplies were stacked to one side. The Gardier were steering them into a narrower corridor, running them through a gauntlet of guards. Gerard saw several men with recent burns; it wouldn’t incline the Gardier to be merciful toward the Syprians, but then he didn’t suppose that had been an option anyway.

  As Gerard passed the guard nearest the corridor entrance, he heard a yelp behind him. The guard had Dyani by the arm, hauling her out of the line as she kicked and struggled. Giliead turned back, slamming his shoulder into the man, sending him staggering. Another guard shoved forward to club him but Gerard used the distraction to catch Dyani’s arm with his bound hands and pull her to his side. A guard took a swing at them with a rifle butt and Gerard twisted to take the blow on his shoulder. Dyani clung to him and Halian shoved forward to shield them with his body.

  There was shoving, pushing, confusion. Giliead fought his way to their side, but Gerard knew it was useless; there were too many men with too many guns for them to make a successful break. Then he heard Halian curse, sounding as if the words had been forced out of him by pure shock. He saw Giliead freeze, staring.

  The shock seemed to spread through all the Syprians like a ripple. Gerard looked past Halian and saw a man, obviously different from the Gardier despite the fact that he wore one of their uniforms. He had skin like a drowned corpse and his face was far too smooth, his features subtly malformed, as if he had been badly burned and no amount of sorcerous healing had been adequate to make the damaged flesh grow again.

  The man moved forward with a slight limp, speaking rapidly in the Gardier language. The guards hesitated, looking to an officer. The officer reluctantly nodded, as if confirming the strange man’s order.

  The guards stepped back, motioning for them to continue.

  Everyone looked uncertainly at Halian, who swallowed hard and looked at Giliead. Moving like a sleepwalker, Giliead straightened slowly and followed the guards.

  The Gardier prodded them down a series of low tunnels starkly lit by bare electric bulbs, then into a long room where corrugated metal walls covered the stone. They passed heavy doors with narrow barred grilles in the center and Gerard could hear the soft movements and voices of the prisoners within. He caught a few disjointed words in Bisran, Aderassi, Rienish, Parscian.

  They were prodded through a door at the far end into a long room with a barred cell along one side. Giliead hesitated, threw a glance back at the guns that were pointed at them, then entered the cell. Gerard followed with the others and the door slammed behind them with a note of finality.

  The guards departed and everyone breathed a little more freely, shifting to try to find comfortable positions. It was narrow and there was barely enough room for all of them to crouch on the floor. Gerard rolled his shoulder tentatively, wincing. Everyone seemed to be nursing injuries. Gyan moved around so he could sit next to Dyani. Watching Gerard gravely, he leaned past her to say, “Thank you.”

  “No trouble at all,” Gerard replied automatically. He wasn’t sure what the Gardier had wanted with her, but from Intelligence sources in Adera it was rumored that when the Gardier took prisoners they simply murdered anyone too young or too old or too sick to work. The girl was short and very young; they might have thought her a child.

  He heard someone whisper, “Who did we lose?”

  “Barias, Kevlead,” someone else reported softly.

  “Jian and Nias, too,” another voice added.

  The tally continued with other names Gerard didn’t recognize; they had lost nine men altogether. Halian swore softly, looking away.

  Giliead hadn’t moved, though Gerard saw a muscle jump in his cheek as the names of the dead men were spoken. He was staring at the door into the cell area. Waiting. There was a little space around him as if the others had unconsciously drawn back, even Halian.

  From what he had observed, Gerard could think of only one man who could make Giliead react that way. He shifted toward him to ask, “That was Ixion?”

  Giliead glanced at him, so tense that the movement was stiff. “Yes.”

  “Ah.” Gerard hesitated. To say he was on sensitive ground was a vast understatement. “I understood he was decapitated.”

  “So did we,” Gyan muttered.

  “He was,” Halian put in grimly. “I saw the severed head.”

  Giliead’s head jerked up. “Quiet.”

  A moment later Gerard heard the footfalls outside in the runnel. An uneasy rustle swept over the group and Dyani burrowed further back between Gyan and Gerard. Then the door rattled and swung open.

  An armed Gardier entered first, followed by Ixion.

  Gerard’s eyes narrowed as he studied the Syprian wizard. A sorcerer capable of the transformations Giliead and Ilias had described would be capable of advanced healing spells but. . . How do you cast without a head? The man must have prepared it all ahead of time, creating something like the architecture of a Great Spell: a magical construct so powerful, so carefully crafted that it would stand alone without a sorcerer to manipulate it. Something that would activate just at his death. . . . Gerard lifted his brows. Chancy, but apparently it worked.

  Ixion stepped close to the bars near Giliead, saying, “It’s all right, they can’t speak Syrnaic.” He eased down into a sitting position with a grimace of pain. “The amulets they use to speak to their enemies don’t work with our language, either.” He glanced up at the other two Gardier who had followed him in. One was a guard, but the other was an officer, wearing one of the translator disks. His eyes met Ixion’s with barely concealed contempt and disgust.

  Ixion shook his head, smiling as he turned back to Giliead. “They’re very odd. If you were invading a foreign land, wouldn’t you learn the language first?” His voice was cultured and mild, somehow not what Gerard would have expected. “They don’t even seem to understand the concept of learning a different tongue, even their scholars. The ones who learn even a few words are looked down on. Ridiculous, isn’t it?”

  Gerard filed that information away for hopefully future use. Giliead’s stony expression didn’t alter. He said, “You looked better dead.”

  “Oh, yes.” Ixion sighed, but his eyes were like chips of agate. “I had to re-create myself. Thanks to you and Ilias.” He looked around at the others. His eyes lingered for a moment on Gerard. “I see he isn’t here.”

  “No.” Giliead smiled, his mouth a thin cold line. “You missed him.”

  Ixion turned back toward him, something deliberate and snakelike in the motion. He watched Giliead thoughtfully. “We both know he’ll come after you.”

  Giliead looked away, but his expression didn’t change. He doesn’t believe they can come back, Gerard realized. He wondered what Ixion had done that made Giliead feel Ilias was better off now. That being trapped in a strange world was a preferable fate for his friend.

  Ixion shifted forward. “And when he comes, I want you to take me with you.”

  Giliead’s eyes flicked up but he studied Ixion without surprise. “Which part of you would you like me to take this time?”

  Ixion laughed. “I was lucky I had already started growing this body. When you severed my head I had only a few instants to transfer my consciousness.” He let out a sad sigh. “I was alone for a very long time, in the dark. I missed you both.”

  Giliead jerked his chin at the Gardier. “You made new friends.”

  “I only helped them because I had to.” Ixion widened his eyes. “They’re holding me prisoner.”


  “Were they holding your leviathan prisoner too?”

  “Now, if I didn’t help them capture you, I wouldn’t have a way off the island. I had actually made the creature before you killed me; it was sleeping in the bottom of one of the sea caves, and I woke it to help them search for you.” He considered Giliead again. “They want to know where the wizard is, the one who killed my poor leviathan.”

  Giliead’s gaze didn’t waver. “He went back to his own land when the ship went down.”

  “Ah.” Ixion spoke to the Gardier officer, who received this information with a grunt.

  They saw the portal open and close, Gerard thought. Perhaps their sorcerers could sense it, somehow, at least when it was within eyeshot.

  The Gardier stared at them narrowly, then replied to Ixion. Ixion sighed, and told Giliead, “He says you’re lying. They think everybody is lying.” He frowned. “Why were you helping a foreign wizard?”

  “He found your curse.” Giliead looked at him thoughtfully. “Right under the hearthstone where you left it. I destroyed it myself, stabbed it right through the heart. It screamed like a stuck pig.”

  “Did he?” Ixion blinked. His half-formed features were hard to read. He seemed able to express exaggerated emotions, but Gerard suspected the real, spontaneous ones were too subtle to convey. His gaze returned to Gerard. “I don’t recognize your new friend.”

  Gerard went still. Giliead didn’t react, but beside him Gerard felt Halian tense.

  Gerard knew his mistake almost immediately. Halian was the only one of the others looking at Ixion. The other men were looking at the walls, the ceiling, at Halian or Giliead. Dyani had her head buried against Gyan’s arm. Gerard had been scrutinizing the sorcerer with thoughtful interest and that had set him apart, at least for Ixion. He smiled grimly, thinking, Well, I might not be able to do anything to the Gardier but I’ll be happy to have a go at you.

  His white face expressionless, Ixion said, “I can smell my own kind, you know. There were two foreign wizards on the Swift. The second is no longer here. But perhaps he’s left something behind and will soon be back for it, like Ilias.” He stood slowly, and his gaze flicked from Giliead to Gerard. He said, “I could tell them, but they wouldn’t like me the better for it.”