But the soldier on the rampart might not know that, and there might be spells Sterren had never heard of. At any rate, the guard did nothing to stop Vond and Sterren from flying into the city, nor to warn anyone of their arrival.
Once the two of them were past the wall they were above a maze of streets, rooftops, and courtyards, and Sterren could make little sense of it. From the location of the lighthouse and the watchtowers he knew they were over Seacorner, but beyond that he was lost. He had grown up in the Old Merchants’ Quarter, on the far side of the city, but more importantly, he had never looked at the streets from above before, and he hadn’t seen Ethshar at all for more than fifteen years. He could see a clear area ahead that was too big, and too open to the streets, to be a courtyard, and knew it must therefore be a market square, but was it Newmarket or Hempfield? Or possibly even the Old Market on the edge of Fishertown? It was too far from the waterfront to be Fishertown Market itself.
There were people in the streets and courts, but that didn’t tell him anything; the people of Hempfield and the people of Newmarket could not be distinguished by their appearance. The market did not look busy, but after all, it was still early; the merchants were still folding out awnings and setting up tables.
Whatever square that was, Sterren was sure it was north of High Street. Apparently Vond was certain enough of his navigation that he didn’t need to follow High Street. The corner of High Street and Coronet — that would be in the New City, wouldn’t it? Yes, thinking back, Sterren was sure Vond had said Warlock House was in the New City, back when he first mentioned it in the sky above Semma.
They passed the market and Sterren still couldn’t identify it, but presumably Vond knew where he was going; after all, from his point of view he had only left the city a year or so ago, and he had probably done some flying here before.
Sunlight glinted from water, and Sterren realized that was a canal, ahead and to the right. There was a tangle of narrow streets and strange buildings that he realized must be the Old City almost directly ahead of them, and beyond that the first structure he actually recognized — the overlord’s palace, its rich yellow marble walls gleaming in the morning sun.
That meant that the slope ahead and to the left, with its big stone and brick homes, and its gardens fading with the season from green to brown, was the New City. Warlock House was somewhere in there.
They soared over a corner of the Old City, with its misshapen spires and turrets, then crossed a broad avenue that Sterren guessed must be Arena Street. He looked down at the houses and gardens below, and noticed a pair of gargoyles on one gray stone mansion were watching them, their carved heads turning to follow the two warlocks as they flew past.
Someone had probably paid a lot of money to get those things animated, Sterren thought.
“It should be right…” Vond muttered. “Right about… Yes! Right about there.” He pointed.
Sterren didn’t bother to look; after all, they would be there in a moment. Sure enough, he hardly even had time to get his feet under him and brace himself before he hit the ground — or rather, the pavement — on what he assumed was High Street.
It hadn’t been paved when he last saw it, Sterren was fairly sure, but now it was paved in good red brick, with a broad carriageway in the center, and raised walks on either side, with deep gutters separating the walks from the carriageway. Sterren stumbled as his feet hit the bricks, and he went down on one knee, scraping a hole in his black woolen breeches. His luggage thumped loudly to the street behind him.
The one consolation was that the street was virtually empty, so almost no one had seen his awkward landing. Vond had paid no attention, and the only other potential witnesses were people going about their business on Merchant Street at the end of the block, and a couple strolling High Street two blocks to the east. None of them seemed to take any particular notice of the two warlocks, any more than the guard on the wall had.
When he had gotten himself upright again Sterren turned to find Vond staring at a huge house on the south side of the street. A spiked iron fence and a small dooryard separated it from the street, but it was plainly visible — in fact, it dominated their view. It was immense, four stories high and very wide, with several broad, many-paned windows and a big white door set into an ornate facade of red brick and black stone.
“That’s it,” Vond said. “Warlock House.”
“It’s big,” Sterren remarked.
“I think that’s fitting. After all, I gave up my palace back in Semma to come here; did you think I’d settle for some ordinary little hovel?”
“I had no idea what to expect, your Majesty.” He looked at the house — the mansion, really — and allowed himself a frown. This did not look like a place where the present owners would be happy to hand it over to Vond.
But if it belonged to the Council of Warlocks, and there were no other warlocks left…
The gate swung out of Vond’s way, but he stopped on the doorstep and knocked, rather than simply walking in. Sterren hurried to catch up to him, leaving his baggage on the street.
They both stood and waited for a long moment, but no one answered. Sterren was uncomfortably aware that they were clearly visible to anyone on High Street or Merchant Street who cared to look. As the wait grew, Sterren remarked, “I’d expect a place like this to have a staff ready for guests at all times.”
Vond shook his head. “They don’t have any servants,” he said. “I’m told they did once, but whenever I was here, everything was done by magic.” He glanced up and down the street, then said, “I think we’ve waited long enough.” He gestured, and the door unlocked itself and swung open.
Sterren hesitated, but Vond walked calmly in, and after a glance around at the nearly-deserted street, Sterren followed him.
The entrance hall was quite impressive, with twelve-foot ceilings, white pilasters, and polished wainscoting, but the lamps in the brass sconces were unlit, and there was an indefinable air of neglect. To the left was a grand parlor, to the right a few closed doors, and ahead a majestic staircase led to the upper floors.
And they could hear voices from somewhere upstairs. “We should have knocked louder,” Sterren said.
Vond did not bother to reply, but began drifting up the stairs, his feet a few inches above the treads. Sterren hurried to follow, and by the time they were halfway up he started to make out what the voices were saying. They were arguing.
“…isn’t any Council, Zallin! There aren’t any more warlocks, so how can there be a council?”
“We need to stay organized,” the other voice insisted. “If we ever hope to get our magic back, we’ll need to work together.”
“We aren’t going to get our magic back,” the first voice said, and Sterren could hear disdain in the speaker’s every word. “Ithinia said…”
“Ithinia doesn’t know everything!” the second voice interrupted. “She has no authority over us. We aren’t wizards, we’re warlocks!”
“We aren’t anything, Zallin. We used to be warlocks. We aren’t now.”
“I won’t accept that!”
“Hai!” Vond called.
The debaters suddenly fell silent, and a moment later a head appeared, leaning over a railing. “May I help you?” The voice was the one that had refused to accept his loss of magic, and Sterren noticed that the man’s eyes were different colors. He had never seen that before, and wondered whether one of them might be glass, or whether a spell of some sort had gone wrong.
“I’m looking for the former chairman,” Vond replied.
A second head appeared. “Which one?”
Vond smiled. “Whoever the current claimant is.”
The two exchanged glances. “Why?” the second man asked.
“Because I believe that I am now Chairman of the Council of Warlocks, by default.”
“By what right?” the first man demanded. “I was chosen to succeed Abdaran.”
Vond lifted himself straight up from the stair until
he was standing in mid-air, level with the other two, leaving Sterren behind.
“But I,” he said, “am still a warlock. I do not believe either of you can make that claim.”
“Emperor Vond?” the second man asked.
The first man was standing with his jaw hanging open in astonishment; at the other’s words he snapped his mouth shut. “Vond?” he said.
“Yes,” Vond said. “I am Vond, emperor of Semma, Ksinallion, and Ophkar, lord of the southern lands, and the last warlock in the World. That fellow below me is my chancellor, Sterren of Semma. Who are you?”
“My name is Hanner,” the second man replied. “I saw you in Aldagmor, though I don’t suppose you noticed me in that crowd.”
“I’m Zallin, Chairman of the Council of Warlocks,” the other said defiantly.
“I think not,” Vond said, and Zallin was flung backward, to slam against a wall. Sterren winced at the sound of the impact, and hurried up the stairs.
“That wasn’t necessary,” Hanner said.
“I was making a point,” Vond replied calmly. “A warlock could have resisted.”
“You know perfectly well that there are no more warlocks except yourself,” Hanner said.
Sterren admired the man’s courage — he did not seem the least bit intimidated by Zallin’s experience — and wondered how he could be so certain that Vond was the only one of his kind. What did he know about Vond?
“You’re sure of that?” Vond asked. He jerked a thumb at Zallin. “He apparently wasn’t.”
“Unless you’ve made more in the past few days, yes, I’m sure of it,” Hanner replied. “I told you, I saw you in Aldagmor — you were the only one of the Called who still had any magic, and everyone I’ve spoken to since assures me that there are no others, that you’re one of a kind.”
Vond glanced at Sterren. “Some people,” he said, “may be stating their own beliefs as facts. To tell the truth, I don’t know whether there are still any other warlocks out there.” He gestured to take in the entire World outside the house. “Not every warlock was Called, and there may be others with my abilities. But I think it’s fairly safe to say I’m by far the most powerful, which is why I have chosen to declare myself Chairman of the Council of Warlocks.”
Hanner cocked his head. “Your Majesty, you are already an emperor. Why would you want to be a mere chairman?”
“To amuse myself,” Vond answered. “The Small Kingdoms are boring, and now that I no longer need to fear the Calling, I came back to Ethshar. My empire has fended for itself for the past fifteen years, and it can do so a little longer. But I’m not going to pretend to just be an ordinary citizen; we all know that I’m much more than that. I don’t want to be bothered with running the city, so I have no interest in declaring myself overlord — let Azrad keep the title. But chairman — I think I can claim that title, and whatever respect goes with it. Not to mention this house.”
“I’m the chairman!” Zallin protested. He was back on his feet again, but still looking slightly dazed.
“I’m afraid there’s been a misunderstanding,” Hanner said. “The Council of Warlocks does not own this house; I do. I inherited it from my uncle, Lord Faran, and allowed the council to use it.”
Sterren knew he should be following the argument, ready to jump in if tempers started to fray dangerously, but he was distracted by the sudden realization that there was a fifth person in the house. A petite woman with a spectacular head of red hair was standing quietly in a corridor beyond Hanner and Zallin.
“Were you planning to evict the council?” Vond demanded.
Hanner hesitated. “I was not in any hurry to do so,” he said.
“Good! Then as the only warlock left, I believe I constitute the entire Council of Warlocks, and I hereby nominate myself as chairman. Any objections?”
“The council is supposed to consist of the twenty most powerful warlocks in the city,” Zallin said. “Twenty, not one.”
The emperor gave him a disdainful glance. “Alas, there are no other true warlocks in the city,” Vond said. “I am the only one qualified for the council.”
“Fine, you’re the chairman,” Hanner said, turning up a palm. “For whatever that’s worth.”
“I believe it means I will be living here for the next few sixnights,” Vond replied cheerfully. “As your tenant.”
“Hanner, I am —” Zallin began.
“Oh, shut up,” Hanner said. “Do you really want to argue with the warlock who is said to have once bent the edge of the World?” He turned back to Vond. “Welcome to Warlock House, Chairman Vond. Shall I show you to your room? Zallin has been using it, but I’m sure he can have his things out by tonight.”
“But I —” Zallin said.
“You’ll take the adjoining room, I suppose, so you won’t need to carry your belongings more than a few feet,” Hanner said, cutting him off. “Rudhira was using it, but she can find another.”
“I…” Zallin looked from Hanner to Vond, who was still hanging in the air, his robe swirling gently despite the total lack of any wind in the house. Zallin’s shoulders sagged. “I’ll move my things at once, your Majesty.”
“Thank you,” Vond said, with a gracious nod of his head. “Lead the way!”
Sterren started to follow, then remembered his luggage, still sitting on the street out front. “I’ll be right up!” he said, as he turned to hurry back out and retrieve it.
Chapter Nineteen
An hour or so after Vond’s arrival, Hanner was sitting in the dining room when Vond’s chancellor peered in from the hallway. “May I join you?” he said.
“Of course,” Hanner said.
The other man entered the room cautiously, looking around at the furnishings and at the big windows looking out on High Street. “This is a nice place,” he said.
“My uncle always wanted the best,” Hanner replied. He looked the other over.
He was not a big man at all — he was a little below average height, with a slender build. His hair had not been combed recently, but he wore it fairly short, and his beard was neatly trimmed. Hanner guessed him to be in his late thirties. He was wearing a nicely-tailored black silk tunic — expensive, but not ostentatious.
“Your name was Sterren?” Hanner asked.
“That’s right. Sterren of Ethshar, originally, but no one’s called me that for a long time.”
“I noticed that you spoke Ethsharitic like a native.”
Sterren nodded. “Grew up in the Old Merchants’ Quarter. Then my grandmother’s family tracked me down and hauled me off to Semma, and I’ve been stuck there ever since.”
“Vond called you his chancellor?”
Sterren turned up an empty palm. “He can call me anything he wants; I’m not inclined to argue with someone who can kill me with a thought.”
Hanner smiled bitterly. “I can understand that. How did you wind up as his chancellor?”
“That’s a long story.”
“I’m not in any hurry.”
Sterren sighed. “Well, here’s the short version. My grandmother’s brother was the warlord of Semma. He never had any children, so far as anyone knows, so when he died, I was next in line, and they didn’t care that I was just a kid earning my living playing dice in taverns. The king of Semma sent a party to drag me back to Semma because he needed his warlord right away; he’d managed to anger the two neighboring kingdoms, Ophkar and Ksinallion, to the point of war.” He grimaced. “I didn’t know anything about fighting wars, so I did what any Ethsharite would do: I hired magicians to fight it for me. One of them was a warlock who somehow latched onto a source of power besides the one in Aldagmor, then declared himself emperor and started conquering everything in sight. He kept me around more as a translator than anything else, and to have a fellow Ethsharite handy when he got homesick. He gave me a fancy title and left me in charge of all the stuff he didn’t want to deal with, and then when he got Called —”
“He did get Called?” Hanner int
errupted.
“Oh, of course. Yes, he had another source for his magic, but he was drawing on both of them without realizing it, so yes, he got Called. By then the empire was established well enough that nobody really wanted to break it back up into separate kingdoms, so the Imperial Council I’d organized kept running it, but they needed a figurehead, so they named me as regent. I’ve been stuck there ever since — until Vond came back, demoted me back to chancellor, named someone else as regent, and dragged me along to Ethshar.”
“It wasn’t your idea?”
“Well…” Sterren hesitated. “It wasn’t my idea, but I certainly won’t say I objected. I didn’t mind coming back to Ethshar and getting a look at it.”
Hanner nodded. “Where’s the emperor now?” he asked.
“He’s gone out to reacquaint himself with the city. After all, it’s been fifteen years since he saw it. I imagine there have been some changes.”
Hanner remembered the walk from Eastgate Market. “I’d say so, yes. But it’s still Ethshar.”
“I’m sure it is; I never flew off to Aldagmor to spend a decade and a half stuck in a protective spell, so if anything really drastic had happened I think I’d have heard about it. I did hear about Tabaea, for example.”
“Who?”
“Tabaea the Thief? The woman who got hold of a magic dagger and declared herself Empress of Ethshar?”
“I never heard of her,” Hanner said. “When was that?”
“Oh, almost ten years ago now. Harvest of 5227, I think.”
“I was Called in 5219.”
“Oh. Well, she did, and the Wizards’ Guild had a hard time getting rid of her; they wound up destroying part of the overlord’s palace in Ethshar of the Sands in the process.”
Hanner shifted in his chair. “I hope they won’t need to do anything like that with Vond.”
“So do I. He won’t say so, but I think one reason he came to Ethshar was because the Guild proclaimed that no warlocks would be permitted in the Vondish Empire, or several neighboring kingdoms.”
The Unwelcome Warlock Page 19
