Way of the Wizard

by George R. R. Martin

  It would be a blessing if they killed each other off.

  The trader’s head came up as Linda entered the room, although her feet made no sound on the stone floor.

  She drifted to a stop in front of the trader, keeping her eyes on the floor, her arms relaxed at her sides. The dress she wore was silk—loose and slip-like, and she’d wrapped a gauzy scarf around her neck to hide the silver collar beneath.

  In truth, it didn’t matter what she wore—her real power sizzled under her skin, and her eyes were windows to that gift. A strong, wary wizard could resist, but most chose not to. Most were willing to risk ensnarement for the pleasure of connection.

  She looked up, then, into the trader’s eyes. They were green, and sheltered under thick black brows. His nose was on the large side, and the skin of his face tightly drawn over high cheekbones. An oddly handsome face, given the unlikely parts of it.

  When their eyes met, the trader took an involuntary step back, putting more distance between them, and shifted his gaze to Garlock. His voice was as cold and complex as a November day. “An enchanter? I thought I had made myself clear. I represent a syndicate that wishes to field a player in the Game. We are looking for Weirlind—for a warrior.”

  “Of course, Mr. Renfrew,” Garlock said, dry-washing his hands. “And you shall have one, if we can come to terms. But we are brokers for a spectrum of talent in the underguilds—sorcerers, warriors, seers, and enchanters. I thought it would do no harm to display her. If not your group, perhaps you know of someone else who would be interested.”

  After a moment, Renfrew reached out and put his fingers under Linda’s chin, lifting her head so she looked into his eyes again. He studied her, either assessing her value or perhaps assessing his own ability to resist. She put her shoulders back and met his gaze boldly, spinning out the spider silk of attraction. She was what she was, and it was not her fault that wizards made the rules.

  “She’s young,” Renfrew said, releasing her chin and running a hand through his dark curls, looking a bit clouded. “How old is she, anyway?”

  Garlock rested a proprietary hand on Linda’s shoulder. “Youth is an advantage, some would say, given that enchanters do not live so long as wizards.”

  “What’s her name?” Renfrew asked, still directing his questions to Garlock, as if she were a pony or a pet bird.

  Or as if he didn’t dare engage her in conversation.

  “Linda Downey,” Garlock replied. The broker was confident now, convinced the client had been redirected. Linda wasn’t so sure. If she’d entangled him, she couldn’t tell it. She couldn’t read this wizard at all.

  “What about the boy? The warrior I came to see?” Renfrew raked back his sleeve and looked at his watch. “Given the weather, I’ll be late getting back to York as it is.”

  For an instant, Garlock looked slapped, but he quickly rearranged his face.

  “Ah, yes,” he said, clearing his throat. “Tomorrow. You can see the warrior tomorrow.”

  Renfrew took a step toward Garlock, and the broker raised both hands, palms outward, as if to ward off a blow.

  Garlock’s words spilled out like marbles from a bag. “It isn’t often a warrior comes available, and I had to be sure you were a serious bidder. You must understand that, given the current shortage of Weirlind, it isn’t wise to keep such a valuable asset on site.”

  Though Garlock sounded conciliatory, Linda had trained herself to read his moods. She could tell he was furious, and she would pay the price. She shuddered, biting her lip, trying to control her thrashing heart. Then looked up to find Renfrew staring at her, eyes narrowed.

  He turned back to Garlock. “Well, no, I don’t understand,” Renfrew said, each word a spike of glacier ice. “I did not travel all this distance out of York only to be told ‘tomorrow.’ I need to know whether you can deliver.” He paused, then added softly, “Or not.”

  Linda slid out from under Garlock’s hand. If flames began to fly, she had no intention of being caught in the crossfire of wizard politics.

  Garlock noticed, of course. He glowered at Linda before turning back to Renfew.

  “Did you bring the piece we spoke of?” Garlock blustered. “The heartstone you offered in trade?”

  Renfrew nodded brusquely. “Unlike you, I came prepared to deal.” He opened his fist to reveal the heartstone, centered on his palm. It was about the size of a deck of cards, carved of stone, polished by centuries of wizard hands. It gleamed softly as if it made its own light.

  The heartstone disappeared as quickly as it appeared. “You can examine it more closely once I know you are serious,” Renfrew said.

  Linda stared at the floor. Damn! Renfrew had it on his person. That sealed it. The trader would die tonight, and Garlock would get what he wanted.

  Garlock still focused on where he had last seen the stone. “Very well. I will send for the boy. He will be here tomorrow morning and we will make the trade.”

  “I’ll return midmorning tomorrow, then,” Renfrew said. “I will call before I come, so as to avoid another wasted trip.” He took a step back, toward the door, but didn’t turn his back on Garlock.

  Renfrew was smart, then. Smarter than most. He must be very interested in this deal.

  “Please—stay with us tonight,” Garlock said, as if seized by a spasm of affability. “As you said, it’s a long way back to York. Hours there, and hours back again, and the weather is abysmal. Perhaps our hospitality can make up for this inconvenience.”

  Renfrew took another step back. “Thank you, no. Driving clears my head.” He had that distracted look again, his breathing quick and ragged.

  Perhaps Linda was getting to him after all. She was putting considerable effort into it, bringing all of her power to bear.

  Smelling blood in the water, Garlock gave Linda a rough push toward the trader. “Stay with us, and Linda will serve you supper. Perhaps we can yet convince you to do a second deal.” He smiled, and everyone knew he was promising more than supper. A promise Linda hoped she wouldn’t have to keep.

  Linda knew her role by heart. She wrapped her fingers around Renfrew’s arm, smiled at him, feeling the ripple of power through layers of fabric—hers and his. “Please,” she whispered, her voice yet another web of magic. “I would like to hear more about how you play the Game.”

  He froze, as if pinned by her touch, and stood looking down at her. “Do you take me for a fool?” he said, raising an eyebrow.

  Young as she was, Linda was a master at making smart men foolish. Pushing up on her toes, she reached up and pressed her free palm against his cheek.

  His eyes widened and he flinched back, knocking her hand away. But then he stopped, his eyes fixed on her face.

  Taking a deep breath, he released it. “All right,” he said. “Against my better judgment, I will stay.”

  “Good, good,” Garlock said. “I’ll show you to your room while Linda puts your supper together.” The broker scowled at Linda before he turned away. He’d have words for her later. More than words. Sliding her fingers under the scarf, she pried at the metal against her skin, swearing under her breath.

  The two wizards headed toward the bedroom wing, and Linda the other direction, to the kitchen. Unlocking the sideboard with a key at her belt, she set the silver tray on the counter, brought down the crystal carafe used for such occasions, and two glasses. She chose a bottle from the rack on the sideboard. A merlot or cabernet was best for this purpose; the tannins hid a multitude of sins. Drawing a small pouch from the drawer, she ripped it open with her teeth, and emptied it into the carafe, tapping it to free the last grains. Then she deftly uncorked the bottle, filled the carafe, stoppered it, and swirled the contents, like blood washing against the glass.

  Now for dinner. Wizards were used to eating well.

  She had just covered the tray when a slight sound behind her told her she was no longer alone. As she turned, the collar around her neck sent red-hot pain into her spine. She went down on her knees, t
earing at the collar with her fingertips, her kneecaps and the heels of her hands stinging where they struck the floor. Garlock crouched in front of her. He grabbed a fistful of her hair and yanked her head back, arching her body so he could see her face.

  “Don’t you think you could try a little harder with our guests, girl? I thought enchanters were supposed to be enticing.” As if to emphasize the last word, the collar constricted again, searing her skin. It never got any easier to bear.

  She gasped, sucking in air, but then closed her mouth firmly on the scream. She needed to calm him, not remind him of his power to hurt.

  She put her hands on his shoulders, looking into his muddy eyes, soothing him, taking the edge off his anger. Keeping it subtle, so he wouldn’t notice. Garlock hated being manipulated.

  “He wouldn’t respond . . . as well . . . to an aggressive approach. Did you want to scare him off?” She took a deep breath. “This is what I do. Let me handle it. He stayed, didn’t he?”

  Garlock stared at her a moment, then nodded slowly, chewing on his lip. He sat back on his heels, and she knew she had him. Finally he stood, extended his hand and helped her to her feet.

  “Just see you get that wine into him and let’s have this business behind us.” He jerked her towards him and kissed her roughly, the stubble on his chin and cheeks abrading her skin. He smiled in his sloppy way. “You drive me crazy sometimes,” he whispered, licking his lips as if to recapture the kiss. That was his idea of an apology.

  You were crazy before I ever got here, she thought, running her fingers through her hair, adjusting her scarf, and twitching her dress back into place. She picked up the tray and put back her shoulders. This was always the way. Garlock was a coward, with limited magical talent. Linda was the one who would suffer if the plan went wrong.

  It would be up to her to defang the dragon.

  Renfrew was in the guest room, a roughly square stone chamber beneath Garlock’s second floor study. The stage was set with a huge, ornately carved bed, wardrobe, desk and chair and a small round table and chairs.

  The trader had pulled the shutters open, and was standing, looking out the window at the driving rain. The wind stirred his hair, and rain splattered on the stones at his feet, but he didn’t seem to notice. Somewhere, far below, the North Sea flung itself against the rocks. The fire was laid, but he hadn’t lit it despite the chill.

  “Here’s your supper,” she said, setting the tray on the small table. He continued to look out the window. Indifferent.

  “You’re going to freeze with the window open.” She stepped in front of him to pull the shutters to, and his hand closed on her wrist. It seemed fragile in his grasp.

  “Leave it open,” he said hoarsely. “I need the air.”

  “If you say so,” she said softly, making no move to free herself. He released her then, and turned back to the rain.

  “Why don’t you pour us some wine, while I light the fire?” she suggested, crossing the room to the fireplace and kneeling next to the hearth. Though it would make more sense for a wizard to light the fire, they were always less suspicious when they poured the wine themselves, if they both drank from the carafe.

  She’d grown skilled at lighting fires.

  When she turned away from the fireplace, she saw that Renfrew had moved to the table with the dinner tray and was pouring wine from the carafe. Only one glass. He crossed the room and extended it to her. She took it, after a moment. “Won’t you join me?”

  “I don’t care for any, thank you.” And he stood, one hand grasping the other forearm, as he had before. A smile ghosted across his face, as if he’d made his move and was waiting for her counter.

  There was no point in drinking alone. It wouldn’t do to still her magic while his was unimpaired. This match was unequal enough as it was.

  Linda set her glass down next to the plate. “Please—go ahead and eat. It’s a cold supper, I’m afraid, but it won’t improve on standing. I’ll keep you company.”

  Perhaps he would wash his dinner down with the wine.

  Perhaps she should have chosen something spicier.

  She might convince him to do her bidding if she could just get her hands on him, but knew that might dispel any thoughts of supper. So Linda sat in one of the chairs at the table. She rested her feet on the crossbrace, elevating her knees so her skirt slipped back along her thighs.

  The wizard made no move to sit. “I think you’d better take your wine and go.” He tilted his head toward the door.

  He knows it’s a trap, Linda thought. He’s known all along.

  But if so, then why did he stay?

  Linda shivered, panic closing her throat. If she failed, Garlock would skin her alive. She smothered a twinge of guilt. Renfrew was just another wizard, and a trader at that. She would do whatever it took to survive until she could find a way out.

  She stood, moved towards him, close enough that she had to tilt her head back to look up at him. “You are not hungry at all?” And she stood on tiptoe, leaned into him and twined her arms around his neck. She used her small weight to pull his head down toward her and kissed him.

  Just for a moment, he returned the kiss. She could feel his desire for her, an explosion of power so potent it nearly slammed her to the floor. Then he pushed her away, both hands against her chest until he realized what they were pushing against. He yanked his hands back like they were burnt.

  “You are hardly more than a child,” he said, breathing hard, eyes glittering. “You should not be involved in this.”

  “I am not a child, I am eighteen,” she said hotly, automatically adding a year to her age. She moved towards him again, pressing her advantage.

  He extended his hands, as if to embrace her, but instead spoke a charm that froze her to the floor in midstride. He flung his arms up, and brought them down, in quick, angry strokes, describing an image in the air, muttering charms all the while. She thought she heard something about “Eighteen! Ha!” among the rest.

  The room was split with a curtain of light too bright to look upon, on either side, behind and in front of them. When he was finished, they were secluded in a small chamber of light, perhaps six by six feet.

  “Now, then,” he said. “It’s just you and me. Your partner won’t be able to help you in here. Or hear you if you scream,” he added.

  “He is not my partner!” Linda snapped.

  Renfrew smiled, the kind of smile that raises gooseflesh. “If not, you’d better convince me of it now. I’m not a patient man.”

  Garlock, you idiot, Linda thought. You’ve snared a lion in your rabbit trap.

  “Promise to behave and I’ll unleash you,” Renfrew said.

  Reluctantly, she nodded, and the invisible bonds dissolved. She experimentally pushed her hand against the wall of light behind her. It gave slightly, but not much.

  “Well,” she said, almost to herself. “Garlock won’t be happy. He likes to watch.” She rolled her eyes up, toward the ceiling. He would be above them, in the study.

  Renfrew followed her gaze. “You can start by telling me what the real game is.”

  Linda couldn’t say what made her decide to tell the truth. Maybe it was the threat that hung in the air between them. She was the bird in this wizard’s hand.

  Yet there was something almost unsullied about him—compared to Garlock, at least. He was self-contained, direct and deadly. It was like being penned up close with a wolf.

  Perhaps it was the unrelenting nature of the dance—the boards she trod over and over again, like a long-running play, with all the players the same, save one.

  Linda was sick of herself, and sick of the game. Sick and tired.

  And reckless.

  “Garlock’s game is bait and switch,” she said, looking Renfrew in the eye. “He means to kill you and steal the heartstone you brought. He is not really a Broker. I’m the only talent he has. He’s just a dealer in magical pieces.”

  Renfrew considered this, massaging his forehead wi
th the heel of his hand. “What’s in the wine?”

  “Weirsbane, to disable your Weirstone,” she said, resting her hand on her chest, “and something to make you sleep, so you’ll be easy to kill.”

  “How do you do it?” he asked acidly. “A dagger to the heart? A carafe to the head? Perhaps you . . . ”

  “Not me,” Linda interrupted. “I always leave. Before. My job is to get the wine into them.” Tears burned her eyes. No! She was done with crying. She would not cry in front of this man.

  “How many?” he asked, relentless as the driving rain.

  The tears spilled over. Damn! She turned away, swiping at her face with the sleeve of her robe. “In the past year, perhaps ten or twelve.”

  Eighteen, actually.

  There was a brief pause in the interrogation. “Then he doesn’t even have a warrior?” he asked then, wearily.

  “He did, but Jared died six months ago. He killed himself.” Garlock’s warrior had been physically strong, but never the survivor that Linda was.

  “Dead,” Renfrew said quietly. He toyed with the ring on his finger, looking unaccountably sad, as if it were a personal loss.

  “So you and your syndicate will have to look elsewhere, I’m afraid.”

  “Yes, of course,” he said, lost in thought.

  “So. Now what? Do you plan to kill me?” She stood, hands on hips, one knee forward. “I might prefer it over what Garlock will do to me.” She was matter-of-fact.

  He refocused on her. “There is another option. You can leave with me, if you choose.” He spread his fingers. “And then go wherever you like.”

  As if a wizard could be believed. If she stayed, she might not survive her punishment. But there was no way out for her. Not yet.

  “I . . . I can’t,” she said finally, looking up at him, the words thick in her mouth.

  “So—you choose to stay?” Renfrew’s hands closed into fists, and Linda heard surprise and possibly disappointment in his voice.

  Yanking at the scarf at her neck, she pulled it free, lifting her chin so he could see. She tapped the silver collar, inscribed with runes. “It’s a dyrne sefa. A heartstone. When I try to leave . . . ” She shuddered. She had tried, twice. She would never forget it.