Sarai had paid a large fee to have a search begun throughout all the World, from the wastes of Kerroa to the Empire of Vond, but so far nothing had come of it, and she doubted anything ever would.
The warlocks were apologetic, but couldn’t work on anything that small. Patching up an opened vein, repairing a ruptured heart, welding a broken bone—those warlockry could at least attempt, though success was not always certain. But whatever was wrong with her father, they said, attacked the individual nerves, operating on a scale they could not perceive, and therefore could not affect.
Witchcraft held out some promise at first; the half-dozen witches Sarai had summoned to the Palace had tried, at least. They had fed father and son strength, drawing it from their own bodies—but to no avail. When the spell was broken, the weakness returned within hours. Witchcraft could, at great cost to the witch, put the elder Kalthon back on his feet for a day or two, but could do nothing permanent.
“His own body has given up,” explained the eldest, Shirith of Ethshar. “We can’t heal it without its help.”
But all of those Sarai had tried only when she became desperate. She had begun with the theurgists—after all, didn’t everyone pray to the gods for good health?
She reached the second floor and started up the next flight.
Okko had refused to handle the job—although he acknowledged that he was a top-ranked theurgist, a High Priest in fact, his specialties were truth and information. Healing was not his province. He had instead recommended her to Anna the Elder.
Anna had summoned gods, had spoken with them, and had reported back to Kalthon and Sarai.
“We know of three gods of health and healing,” Anna had explained. “There are the siblings Blusheld and Blukros, and their father Mekdor. Blusheld involves herself only with the maintenance of health, and thus will not concern herself with this case—it’s too late to ask her aid. Mekdor concerns himself with great wounds and catastrophes, with plagues and epidemics—anything as slow as this wasting disease, attacking only one or two people, is beneath his notice. Thus, this is clearly the province of Blukros.”
At that point Anna had hesitated, and Lord Kalthon had tried to save him the embarrassment of explaining, saying that he understood.
Sarai would have none of it; she had demanded that Anna summon Blukros and beseech him to heal her father.
“No,” Kalthon had said, “he can’t. Not on my behalf.”
“Why not?” Sarai had demanded.
“Because seven years ago, after having summoned him to help your mother, I offended the god Blukros,” Kalthon had explained. “I refused him a silver coin I had promised, and he forever withdrew his protection from me, and from my family.”
Sarai had stared at her father, and demanded, “But why?”
“Because I was angry—your mother had died.”
And so, because of her father’s long-ago pique, there was no help to be had from the gods. Anna had tried, and he had promised to attempt to call upon Luzro, god of the dead, to see if, once dead, Kalthon could be restored to life—but nothing had come of it.
So theurgy was no help.
And that left wizardry.
And the wizards had healing spells, and youth spells, and strength spells; they had transformation spells, and if all else failed they could transform Kalthon to some other, healthier form.
But they wouldn’t.
She reached the top of the stair and stamped down the corridor. They wouldn’t, because the Wizards’ Guild forbade it, and to oppose the will of the Guild was to die.
And the Guild forbade it because they refused to meddle in politics. It was strictly forbidden for any wizard to be a member of the nobility in his or her own right—a century ago, they had even been forbidden to marry into the nobility, but that rule had been relaxed. They could hold office only if the office was one that required a magician—a post such as Okko’s, for example, could have gone to a wizard.
No wizard could kill a king in the Small Kingdoms, or a baron in Sardiron, or an overlord or a minister or any other high official of the Hegemony, save in self-defense or to enforce Guild rules; the direct heirs of the nobility were similarly off-limits. Wizards were forbidden to use any magical compulsion on any official above the rank of lieutenant in the city guard without written consent from three Guildmasters. And anyone they could not kill, they were forbidden to heal, as well.
“That’s stupid,” Sarai had said.
Algarin of Longwall, her father’s chief wizardly consultant, had turned up an empty palm. “It’s the Guild law,” he said.
“Why?”
Algarin had had no answer, and Sarai had demanded to see a more highly-placed wizard, so it was the city’s senior Guildmaster, Serem the Wise, who finally explained it.
“Magic, Lady Sarai,” the old man had said, “is power, but of a different sort than the power you and your father wield.”
“I can see that for myself,” Sarai had snapped in reply.
“And power,” Serem had continued, untroubled by her interruption, “must be kept in balance. If it is not, the World will be plunged into chaos.”
“Says who?”
“It’s self-evident,” Serem had replied, with mild surprise. “Imagine, if you will, that a wizard were to become overlord of Ethshar of the Sands.”
Sarai had glowered at him, and Serem had revised his suggestion. “Suppose,” he said, “that Lord Ederd the Heir had apprenticed to a wizard in his youth. Suppose that he decided he was tired of waiting for his father to die, and cast a spell that slew the overlord.”
“Then he’d be guilty of treason, and he would be executed,” Sarai had replied. “That’s easy enough. My father would see to it.”
“But how?” Serem had asked. “Suppose this evil wizard were to use his spells to guard himself, and you could not appeal to the Wizards’ Guild, because there are, in our hypothetical case, no Guild rules forbidding his actions, no matter what other laws he may have broken.”
“There aren’t any Guild rules requiring that you wizards obey the laws?”
Serem had hesitated before answering, his first hesitation, but then admitted that there were no such rules.
Sarai had insisted that a rule requiring wizards to obey the same laws as ordinary people would serve just as well as this stupid rule about keeping out of politics, and Serem had then tried to convince her that allowing kings and ministers to live for centuries, as would inevitably happen if the rules were changed, would be a bad thing.
Sarai had not accepted that.
The argument had dragged on for days—sixnights, in fact. In the end, when Sarai refused to be convinced, Serem had simply turned up a palm and said, “My lady, those are the Guild rules, and I have no power to change them.”
They were stupid rules, Sarai thought as she opened the door of her father’s bedchamber, and she wanted them changed.
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Chapter Eight
The Drunken Dragon was probably not the most dangerous tavern in the city, Tabaea thought as she gulped down the watery stuff that passed for ale in that establishment, but it was the most dangerous she ever cared to see. Coming here had been a serious mistake.
She had been making a lot of serious mistakes lately.
Oh, not as bad as some, certainly. She hadn’t wound up in front of a magistrate, or tied to a post somewhere for a flogging, or in the hands of the Minister of Justice or his crazy daughter, like poor Sansha. Tabaea had watched the auction that morning, had seen Sansha sold to the proprietor of one of the “specialty” brothels—not the ones in Soldiertown, which generally employed free women and treated them reasonably well, but one of the secretive establishments in Nightside that catered to the more debauched members of the nobility.
Tabaea shuddered. She had heard stories about what went on in places like that. They had to use slaves—free women wouldn’t work there. Tabaea wouldn’t have changed places with Sansha for all the gold in Et
hshar.
And it was all because Sansha had stolen the wrong jewel, a diamond pendant that the owner thought was worth enough to justify hiring magicians to recover it.
Tabaea had stolen plenty of wrong jewels in the past few years—but all hers had been wrong in the other direction, had turned out to be worthless chunks of glass or paste, or at best some semi-precious bauble. And even with the best of them, she’d been cheated by the fences and pawnbrokers.
Mistakes, nothing but mistakes.
She had been making mistakes all her life, it seemed. She hadn’t run away as a child, like her brother Tand—and she had heard a rumor that Tand was a pilot on a Small Kingdoms trader now, with a wife and a daughter, successful and respected.
Of course, the rumor might not be true; Tand might be starving somewhere in the Wall Street Field, or he might be a slave in the dredging crews, or he might be long dead in an alley brawl, or he might be almost anywhere.
But if she had run away...
Well, she hadn’t. She stared into the remaining ale, which was flat and lifeless.
She hadn’t found an apprenticeship, either. She hadn’t even tried. That seemed so stupid, in retrospect.
She had never taken opportunities when they presented themselves. She hadn’t married Wulran of the Gray Eyes when he offered, two years ago, and now he was happily settled down with that silly Lara of Northside and her insipid giggle.
She hadn’t signed up for the city guard when she was sixteen—though they might not have taken her anyway; they took very few women, and she wasn’t really anywhere near big enough.
She hadn’t stolen much of anything from her family, and now her drunken stepfather had spent everything.
She hadn’t stolen anything from Serem the Wise, when she broke into his house all those nights four years ago without getting caught—she had just kept spying on him until he spotted her.
All she had come away with there was the secret of athamezation, and she hadn’t even done that right! Here she had this wonderful secret that the Wizards’ Guild had guarded for centuries, and all she had to show for it was a stupid black dagger that didn’t do anything an ordinary knife wouldn’t do just as well.
She pulled the dagger from her belt and looked at it. It was black, from pommel to point, and it seemed to stay sharp without sharpening, but otherwise, as far as she could tell, completely ordinary.
She knew, had known for years, that she must have made a mistake in the athamezation ritual—another mistake in the long list. She had no idea what the mistake might have been, but something had gone wrong. And when she had tried again, nothing had happened at all. The magic she had felt the first time wasn’t there; she was just going through a bunch of meaningless motions.
Well, Serem had said that a wizard could only perform the spell once. Apparently that applied even when the spell was botched.
She put the knife back in its sheath and gulped down the last of her ale. Then she put the mug down and looked around the taproom again.
The place was definitely unsavory. She had come here because it was cheap, and she was, as usual, down on her luck. She had hoped to find a purse to pick, or a man she wouldn’t mind going home with, but neither one had turned up. The men here were mostly drunkards, or disgusting, or both, and none of them seemed to have fat purses—after all, why would anyone with significant amounts of money be in the Drunken Dragon? And what little cash its patrons did have they watched carefully.
She wasn’t going to find anything useful here.
And that meant that after years of avoiding it, she was going to yield to the inevitable. She would spend the night in Wall Street Field.
There wasn’t anywhere else left. The little stash of stolen money she had accumulated in better days was gone, down to the last iron bit. She couldn’t go back to her mother’s apartment, not after that last fight, and she had exhausted her credit at every inn in Ethshar. Sleeping in the streets or courtyards would make her fair game for slavers—and she had just seen what had happened to Sansha, so any notion she might have had that slavery could be an acceptable life was gone.
That left the Field.
She sighed, and looked out the narrow front window.
The Drunken Dragon stood on Wall Street, facing the Field; a good many of the customers there looked like permanent inhabitants of the Field, in fact. Tabaea guessed that when they could scrape together enough for a drink or a meal, the beggars and runaways and thieves who lived in the Field would come here just because it was close and cheap. They wouldn’t care that the drinks were watered and the food foul, that the floors and walls were filthy, that the whole place stank; they were used to that.
No one else looked out the window; Tabaea had the view all to herself.
Wall Street itself was about thirty feet wide; the dismal drizzle that had fallen all day had left the hard dirt slick with a thin layer of mud, and a thousand feet had left their marks in that mire, but still, it was mostly clear and unquestionably a street.
On the far side, though, the Field was a maze of ramshackle shelters—huts and lean-tos and tents, most of them brown with mud. Cooking fires and the lights from Wall Street provided patchy illumination, but most of the details were lost in the gloom of night and rain.
The Wall itself provided a black backdrop, about a hundred and fifty feet away at this particular spot. Tabaea knew that when the stone was dry and the sun was high the Wall was a rather pleasant shade of grey, but just now it looked utterly black and featureless and depressing, considerably darker than the night sky above. The sky, after all, was covered in cloud, and the clouds caught some of the city’s glow. The Wall did not.
Sleeping in the Wall’s shadow was not an appealing prospect, but Tabaea knew she had to sleep somewhere. And she didn’t have so much as a tattered blanket; those inhabitants of the Field with huts and tents were the lucky ones.
But she had nowhere else to go.
She pulled her last copper bit from her pocket and put it on the table to pay her bill; the serving wench spotted it from two tables away and hurried over to collect it. Tabaea rose, nodded in acknowledgment as the coin was claimed, and started toward the door.
Something caught her attention, she wasn’t sure what; had the server gestured, perhaps? She glanced around.
A man was staring at her, a big man in a grubby brown tunic and a kilt that had been red once. The look he was giving her was not one she cared to encourage. As she looked back, he got ponderously to his feet; he was obviously drunk.
Quickly, she turned away and left the tavern.
She didn’t pause in the doorway. The rain was little more than mist now, and she had sold her cloak a sixnight ago, in any case; she had no hood or collar to raise. Besides, any hesitation might have been taken as an invitation by the man in the kilt. She walked directly out the door and down the single step.
The mud was more slippery than she had realized; she had to reach out and catch herself against the wall of the inn, turning half around. Above her the signboard creaked; she glanced up at it, at the faded depiction of a green dragon dancing clumsily on its hind feet, long pointed tongue lolling to one side, a goblet that had once been gold but was now almost black clutched in one foreclaw. The torches that lit it from either side flickered and hissed in the drifting mist.
At least it wasn’t cold, she thought. Setting each foot carefully, she set out across the street.
“Hai,” someone called when she was nearing the far side.
Tabaea turned, not sure whether the voice was addressed to her or to someone else.
“Hai, young lady,” the voice continued, slurring the words. “Are you headed for the Field?”
“You mean me?” Tabaea asked, still not sure who was speaking.
“Yes, I mean you,” the voice said, and now she located the speaker. It was the drunken man in the kilt, speaking from the mouth of the alley beside the inn.
“What business is it of yours?” Tabaea answered.
“Now, come on, don’t be ... don’t be like that.” His consonants were blurred by liquor, but Tabaea had had long practice in understanding the speech of drunkards. “A pretty thing like you can do better than the Wall Street Field!”
“Oh, really?” she demanded. “How?”
“Come with me and I’ll show you,” he said.
She turned away, her muscles tensing, her hand sliding down to the hilt of the black dagger. She took another step toward the Field.
Then she looked where she was going and stopped.
Before her was a hut built out of an old table propped up on piles of bricks, the sides partially boarded over with broken doors and other scrap, leaving an opening where the tattered remains of a sheet hung. Leaning out of this aperture was an old woman, who was listening with interest to the conversation between Tabaea and the kilted man. The woman’s hair was a rat’s nest of grey; her open mouth displayed no more than half a dozen teeth, and those were black. Her face was as withered and wrinkled as an apple in spring.
Beside the hut was a tent, made of the remnants of a merchant’s awning; stripes that had once been red were now a pale pink where they weren’t hidden by greenish-black mildew. A one-eyed boy of ten or so was watching Tabaea from the open end of the tent. His black hair was so greasy it stood up in spikes, and Tabaea imagined she could see things crawling in it.
In the muddy waste beyond, in the flickering and scattered light, Tabaea could see a dozen other faces, young and old, male and female—and all of them hungry and tired, none of them smiling.
She turned back toward the alley. “What did you have in mind?” she asked.
The man in the kilt smiled. “I have ... have a room,” he said, “but it’s a bit lonely, for just me. Care to come take a look?”
Tabaea still hesitated.
There could be little doubt what the man had in mind. If she accepted, she would be whoring, really—and at a terribly low price, at that; she would be exchanging her favors for a room for the night, without even a meal, let alone cash, to accompany it.
The Spell of the Black Dagger Page 7
