The Unwelcome Warlock

by Lawrence Watt-Evans

  But Hanner had his purse, he realized. He had given it no thought at all since he first awoke atop the Source, but the pouch still hung on his belt, just as it had when he had entered Arvagan’s shop to inspect his new tapestry. He reached down, tucked his gift from Piskor back into its wrapper, and dug into his purse. He groped to make sure he wasn’t missing anything, then pulled out every coin in it. There weren’t many; he had two bits in silver, and a handful of coppers.

  More tradesmen were still appearing, carrying wine, blankets, vegetables, cheese, and candles, and some of the weary warlocks were gathering around them, coins in hand.

  “Hai!” Hanner shouted. “Don’t forget, not everyone has money! Share what you can!”

  A few people glanced at him, but he saw no sign his words were having any real effect. He laid a reassuring hand on Rudhira’s shoulder, then strode forward — or tried to; it was really more of a limp, thanks to his blistered feet. He pushed through to the man with the sack of bread. “Is there a quantity discount?” he demanded, holding out a silver bit.

  The man paused, eyed the coin, then looked Hanner in the eye and smiled. “Six for five?” he suggested.

  “Seven. You know these prices are ridiculous.”

  “It’s what the market will bear, friend, but fair enough, seven loaves for the silver.” He started counting them out with one hand while the other accepted Hanner’s coin. He handed the bread to Hanner, then turned to the next customer.

  Clutching his armful of bread, Hanner pushed his way back through the growing crowd around the vendors to where several tired-looking people were sitting disconsolately on the ground. “You aren’t buying,” he said.

  “No money,” one of the women answered.

  Hanner nodded. “Here,” he said, handing her a loaf. “Share it out.” Then he marched on to the next group.

  Five more loaves went to strangers; he gave the last to Rudhira, who hesitated, then passed it on.

  When he had distributed all his purchases he turned back to the sellers, and was pleased to see that his actions had apparently shamed some of his comrades into following his example — bread was being shared, wineskins and beer bottles passed from hand to hand. He fished out his other silver bit and started pushing his way back.

  There was a wizard among the salesmen now, in a honey-brown robe and old-fashioned pointed hat, and Hanner realized he looked familiar, but it took a moment to place him. It wasn’t Molvarn or Arvagan…

  Rothiel, that was it. The one who had come to him in his dreams. He hadn’t been wearing a hat in the dream.

  Just as Hanner recognized him, Rothiel spotted Hanner. “Chairman Hanner!” he called. “I’ve been looking for you!” He raised a hand and beckoned.

  Hanner blinked in surprise. “You have?”

  “Yes, yes! Come here!”

  Hanner hesitated, glancing back over his shoulder at Rudhira. He beckoned to her, as Rothiel had to him; he felt responsible for her, and she seemed so small and helpless — though he knew, from her brief time as a warlock, that given half a chance she was anything but helpless.

  She rose, and slipped quickly through the crowd to his side; then the two of them made their way past the merchants to the wizard’s side.

  From here, for the first time, Hanner could see that the brewers and bakers and vintners and greengrocers were coming up a stone stairway that had appeared from nowhere, and which seemed to lead endlessly downward into the earth. A steady stream of merchants was making their way up this stair, while those who had sold everything they had brought were gathering alongside it, waiting idly, chatting quietly amongst themselves.

  Rothiel was standing a little to one side of the topmost step, and as each tradesmen completed his business, Rothiel would direct him to join the waiting group. The wizard glanced down at the crowded steps, then at Hanner and Rudhira.

  “I hope this pleases you,” Rothiel said. “We debated inviting butchers and fishmongers, but we weren’t sure you would have any way to cook anything.”

  “It’s fine,” Hanner said, “except that most of these people have no money; they were Called out of their beds.”

  Rothiel turned up an empty palm. “Alas, there are limits to our generosity.”

  “The best thing you could do is get them all back to civilization, where they can find their families, or work for their keep.”

  “Indeed, we have every intention of doing that. We finally realized the absurdity of flying carpets back empty after bringing staff and supplies out here, and from now on, every carpet will take passengers back. You’ve seen how we are sending people home to Ethshar of the Rocks and Ethshar of the Sands, and we have a tapestry ready for Sardiron of the Waters if the Council of Barons can ever make up its collective mind.”

  “But nothing for Ethshar of the Spices?”

  “I realize how unlikely it sounds, but in fact, we do not have a single suitable tapestry available.”

  “It seems you could use this magical stairway to take people to Ethshar, rather than bringing supplies here — or does it only work in one direction?”

  “Oh, it works both ways, once it’s open, but it can’t be kept open indefinitely, and we thought bringing food and blankets was the better use, for now.”

  Hanner did not think he agreed, but rather than argue he said, “Our theurgists tell me that Asham the Gate-Keeper could get everyone safely home; none of our people can invoke him.”

  “Asham the Gate-Keeper? Oh, now, that’s interesting! We didn’t know about that one. We’ve been speaking to some theurgists, but either we chose the wrong ones or asked the wrong questions. I’ll see about that as soon as we get back.” He glanced down. “Oh, good, that’s the last of them.”

  Hanner glanced down as well, and saw the line of people climbing the stairs was coming to an end; a woman with an absurdly large sack on her shoulders was the last of them. “Then what?” he asked.

  “Then we will send these people back,” Rothiel said, gesturing at the waiting merchants. “And the others when they’ve sold their goods. Then you and I will go back to the city, and Hallin’s Transporting Fissure will be permitted to close.”

  “But what about all these others…” Hanner started to wave at the waiting crowds, then stopped. “Wait. You and I?”

  “Yes, you and I. Guildmaster Ithinia wants to talk to you. Directly, not in a dream.”

  “But what about these others?”

  “I promise you, Chairman, we will get them to safety as soon as we can. As soon as they’ve finished sending people to the western cities, those apprentices who are guarding the tapestries will start sorting the others, and loading them onto flying carpets, or preparing them to use another of these fissures. And if this god Asham can truly help, we’ll see about summoning him. For now, though, we want you.”

  “Why?”

  “Ithinia trusts you.”

  That dumbfounded Hanner. He knew Ithinia, of course; they had dealt with one another several times over the seventeen years he chaired the Council of Warlocks. He had never been sure she really trusted anyone, and while they had been reasonably comfortable with one another, he had never considered her a friend. While he remembered speaking to her about a month ago, he knew that for her it had been seventeen years; that she would want to see him again after so long, out of all the Called warlocks, baffled him.

  But then, he didn’t suppose she would have much contact with warlocks in the normal course of events.

  “I’m not sure I should leave,” Hanner said at last. “I feel responsible for these people.”

  Rothiel, who had been watching the last merchants climb the steps, said, “Excuse me, Chairman.” He stepped up and put a hand on the last woman’s back, urging her forward, then turned to the group waiting to the side. “Go on, please,” he called. “One at a time! Walk briskly, but don’t run, and don’t slip, just the way you did in the other direction. You, you go first.”

  The merchants obeyed, and began marching back dow
n into the ground, while the later arrivals hawked their merchandise.

  The crowd of buyers had thinned; there were still plenty of Called warlocks in need of food and the other commodities on offer, but apparently either no one else had money, or they preferred to wait until they could get to civilization. Still, the later peddlers were doing a brisk trade, while their earlier brethren made their way one by one back into the magical fissure.

  Once he had the proceedings moving smoothly, Rothiel turned his attention back to Hanner. “You shouldn’t feel responsible,” he said. “Unless you had an apprentice or two, you didn’t turn anyone into a warlock, and you certainly didn’t lure them all out to the middle of nowhere and strand them there with winter coming on. You aren’t any more responsible than anyone else here. It seems to me you’ve already done more than your share.”

  “Nonetheless, I wouldn’t feel right, abandoning them.”

  Rothiel glanced out at the throng. “Chairman Hanner,” he said, “let me put it this way. You are no longer a magician. Do you really want to antagonize the most senior master of the Wizards’ Guild in Ethshar of the Spices?”

  “Um,” Hanner said.

  “Do you really want her to reconsider her plans to help all these people, which were based largely on your cooperation, when I spoke to you in your dream?”

  “I don’t,” Hanner said.

  “Then when these merchants are done, and the last of them starts down these stairs, you will follow him — or her, as the case may be. I will be right behind you, and the fissure will close behind us when we emerge back in Eastgate Market, but further assistance will be sent as soon as practical, possibly including theurgists who can invoke this gate-keeper you mentioned. Agreed?”

  “Eastgate Market?”

  “It has the least normal traffic of any market in the city, so using it caused the least disruption.”

  That made sense; in fact, his surprise had been because Eastgate Market saw so little use that he had almost forgotten it was there. It was still the best place to get fresh shellfish, as well as oranges and dates in season, but other than that it could not compete with the city’s other markets. “I see,” he said.

  “Then you’ll come?”

  Hanner looked around, saw Rudhira listening at his side, and said, “Only if she comes with us.”

  Rothiel looked at the slender redhead. “And who is this?”

  Rudhira did not answer, but looked up at Hanner expectantly.

  “Rudhira of Camptown,” Hanner said. “A very old friend I haven’t seen in a long time.”

  “Called before you?”

  “Years before me. Is that a problem?”

  “You’re taking responsibility for her? I don’t want her to wind up in the Hundred-Foot Field.”

  “I can take care of myself,” Rudhira said, before Hanner could speak.

  “If she doesn’t go, neither do I,” Hanner said.

  He knew this was irrational; Rudhira really could take care of herself, and it wasn’t as if the two of them had ever been very close. They had only known each other for a few days — but they had been very important days, from the Night of Madness to Rudhira’s Calling, and then from the moment they awoke in Aldagmor to now.

  It occurred to Hanner that while he hoped Mavi was alive and well and would welcome him back, she would probably not appreciate having him show up with a streetwalker at his side. Mavi was not particularly prone to jealousy, but she was his wife.

  But he had stated his position, and he was not going to back down. Rothiel was right in saying that he wasn’t responsible for all the thousands of the Called, but he could at least take responsibility for one of them.

  “All right,” Rothiel said. “You can bring her along. If anyone objects, you can explain it.”

  “That’s fine, then,” Hanner said. That settled, he stepped aside to make more room for the peddlers.

  He was startled to feel the touch of Rudhira’s hand on his shoulder. He looked down at her.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  Uncomfortable, he murmured an inaudible reply.

  Almost half an hour later the last candle was sold, the last peddler’s pack folded, and the last merchant had started down the steps. Rothiel gestured for Hanner to follow.

  He hesitated, then gestured for Rudhira to precede him. She smiled, and obeyed.

  He followed her, and heard Rothiel call a few final instructions to nearby apprentices before the wizard, too, started down the steps.

  Hanner took a final look around as his head reached ground level, then took the next step down into the earth, in the narrow space between two stone walls, with nothing to see ahead of him but the brightly-colored top of Rudhira’s head.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Sterren grew steadily more nervous as he waited in the plaza, between the doors of the imperial palace and the fountain in the center of the square. Vond had said he would be here an hour after noon, and by Sterren’s reckoning it was now half an hour beyond that. The little crowd Sterren had gathered was growing restless.

  “Lord Sterren,” Lady Kalira said, “is there a problem?” She still spoke Ethsharitic with a slight accent, even after all these years.

  “I don’t know,” Sterren replied. “He said he would be here.”

  “I think I’ve changed my mind,” said one of the former warlocks. “I’ll find another way to Ethshar.”

  “That’s your choice,” Sterren told her. “I don’t even know whether the emperor would take you, but I thought it wouldn’t hurt to ask.”

  “It might hurt, though,” another of the “honor guard” said. “I’ve heard stories about his temper. He might think we’re getting above ourselves.”

  “But he said we would have positions of authority!”

  “He said we’d have them here, not in Ethshar.”

  Several of them began speaking at once, and Sterren stepped away.

  Lady Kalira followed him, and whispered, “Do you still think he’s coming?”

  “I don’t know,” Sterren said. “Honestly, he said he would.”

  “The wizards may have trapped or killed him.”

  “I thought of that,” Sterren admitted. “If they did, wouldn’t they tell us?”

  “They might not bother.” She glanced back at the arguing warlocks. “Could something else have happened to him? Maybe there is something even worse that happens to warlocks, something that the Calling had protected him from.”

  Sterren grimaced; that possibility had never occurred to him, and while he didn’t think it was likely, it was not a pleasant idea. After all, he was technically a warlock himself. “I don’t know,” he said. “Nobody knows much about how warlock magic works, and they know even less about Vond’s version.”

  “If he never comes back, you’re still regent.”

  “No, you are!” Sterren protested. “He appointed you regent last night!”

  “He didn’t tell me that; I have only your word for it.”

  “Are you doubting my word, then?”

  “As a matter of fact, Lord Sterren, I often doubt your word. In this case I think you were probably telling the truth — but I also think I will deny I ever said that. I’m not interested in this sort of responsibility; I don’t want to be regent.”

  “I never wanted to be regent. That was the council’s idea.”

  “That’s why you were good at it!”

  “I did as little as I could; that was good?”

  “That was excellent. The secret of good government is to let people go on about their own business. Oh, there are times you must act, but unless your people are asking for your help, usually it’s best to do nothing.”

  “Not everyone would agree.”

  “No, but ask your overlords back in Ethshar some time. I think they would.”

  Sterren had never paid much attention to government in his youth, back in Ethshar, but he suspected Kalira was right. “Well, then it shouldn’t be hard for you to be regent,”
he said. “You’ve just told me the secret of good government; all you need to do is apply that knowledge.”

  She glared at him.

  “Can you suggest anyone better?” Sterren asked. “There might still be time to change Vond’s mind.”

  “Lord Algarven, perhaps?”

  “How old is he? And I don’t think Vond likes him.”

  “Those are not the most important qualifications.”

  Sterren turned up an empty palm. “I suggested you. If you want to argue with the Great Vond about it, I won’t stop you.”

  “If he comes back, maybe I will.”

  “As you please.” Sterren glanced past Lady Kalira at the cluster of Called warlocks; he had gathered twenty-six of them, but there were no longer that many. Some of them had clearly decided they didn’t want to ask about being carried to Ethshar after all.

  He had only been able to find about thirty of the eighty or more who had originally accompanied Vond; the rest had presumably either believed the rumors about Vond’s power being demonic, or had been so beset by headaches they fled, or had simply gone about their own business. A few of the thirty had said they were happy staying on as guests of the empire, leaving the twenty-six who had been waiting on the plaza with Sterren.

  Some of them admitted to having headaches; others reported a nagging buzz or hum; others claimed not to perceive anything out of the ordinary. Sterren guessed that even though they were all warlocks, there were variations in their brains that affected how they reacted to the Lumeth source — if they reacted at all.

  So far, none showed any signs of being able to exploit the Lumeth source to power magic, as Vond did. That was good. Sterren had made sure that they all knew the Wizards’ Guild had forbidden warlocks to enter the empire, or several of the other southern kingdoms, which he hoped would temper any interest in regaining their magic.

  He wondered what the Wizards’ Guild would do about Vond — or what they had done about Vond, if that was why he was so late. If Vond was dead, would his subjects blame Sterren? Would they consider him a traitor?