by Garon Whited
Of course. It’s not a normal light source. It’s invisible to normal eyes. I presume wizards can see the things, or at least detect them. I simply didn’t notice it wasn’t visible in the normal mode of seeing. There used to be a day when I had to switch back and forth. Things change.
And my guest was brighter because, without the sigil connected to the divinity dynamos, they were putting out generalized energy, not tuned to my altar ego. All that power was simply shining out into the world. The little blue guy must have been sucking up all it could get ever since they swiped the sigil. It was looking pretty solid, in fact, and, in comparison, about as bright as a sixty-watt bulb.
“I don’t suppose you saw the whole thing?” I asked. It didn’t answer. I didn’t expect it to. I tried thinking at it on the theory it might be powerful enough now to communicate, or at least perceive, psychically. There was no response I could sense.
Right. So. First order of business: Find the thief or thieves and do something horrible to them. No, wait. First, prepare to do something horrible to them. Then go find them.
If we hurried, I could run an errand in the city and be back again before sunset. And Bronze knows how to hurry.
I retired to my bathroom, waited until the itching, tingling, stinging sensations stopped, and finished my cleanup routine.
First order of business, spells. My new mirror isn’t as good as the old one, but it’s large enough to feel useful. I put a spell on it to start smoothing it out, making the blurry and distorted areas clearer. Next up, a couple of small crystals prepared as power crystals. They’re charging.
So, with those in progress, what’s the first thing to look for with my Ring of Spying? My sigil. I want my altar ego back. The gate in my ring sought for the sigil and failed to find it. Was it shielded, somehow? Perhaps it was hidden behind magical barriers, but I’m not sure how that would work. A gate is an extradimensional probe, not subject to the usual perimeter problems. It reaches around barriers instead of trying to go through them.
All right, how about something else? Whoever it was stole several power crystals. Let’s see if we can find one of those. Nope. No such luck. Well, how about my mirror? No joy on that, either. I started to feel more than a little frustrated.
Finally, in desperation, I took a shot in the dark at finding a missing slab of bacon. Well, half-slab. I worked partway through it during one meal. And, lo and behold, I got a lock. I threw my scrying spell to the other end of the gate and looked around.
It was inside a bag, along with half a loaf of bread and a head of cheese.
I can move the scrying sensor a little way from the gate without losing much focus. What’s outside the bag? It sits on a rickety collection of lumber I have to call a table. Around it is a dark little room with a single candle, one wakeful man, and two sleeping figures. Let’s memorize the face of the man. I may need to recognize him. What else is there to see? All three are dressed in good cloth, well-made and sturdy. Workmanlike clothes, suitable for most middle-class occupations—craftsmen, possibly. Their lodgings do not fit with their clothes, however. The room has one window and it’s boarded up. The ceiling is the underside of the roof. I can see the poles and thatch. The furniture is almost nonexistent, reminding me of my own little lair, here in a disused mine. The sleepers lie on pallets on a dirt floor. The other sits on a large piece of firewood. There is no fire in the clay-and-fieldstone hearth. They have no cooking gear in sight, aside from what they’ve stolen from me. I presume this is their lair.
The wakeful man is thumbing through coins—Sarashdan coins—counting them. Most of it is gold and gleams prettily in the candlelight. I suspect he has already sold the sigil, the crystals, and the mirror to someone who values privacy.
I uncoil a tendril of invisible darkness, reaching through the tiny gate in my ring. It slithers through and across to touch one of the sleepers. I taste his spirit, just enough to know it, just enough to recognize it sufficiently for my spells. The second sleeper is equally unaware of my touch. Finally, the wakeful man. He pauses in his counting as a chill touches him. He shivers. He yawns, more tired than he realized. I withdraw my tendril and close my gate.
For the next hour, I am busy. The trifle of energies stolen are now placed in large nails and told to find their way home. I hang them from strings and each one points the same direction, back toward Sarashda.
I gather them in one hand, lock the door behind us, activate the door’s new electrifrying spell, and we are gone.
My journey took me to, through, and well beyond the city. It was merely in my path. Out in the countryside again, I did a little triangulation, got a rough idea of how far we had to go, and took new sightings once we did.
The house was probably a farmer’s house, once. It was farther than I thought, beyond even the nominal borders of the farmland around the city, well north of the coast. The land around it was brush and scattered, new-growth timber. I’d say it was more hovel than home. I’ve lived in worse, but seldom for long. To put it in perspective, the place wasn’t ornamented beyond the designs carved into its structure.
Inside, two men slept. The third, still wakeful, was probably going to stay that way. Someone on watch. Why? What were they worried about?
You.
Me?
Well, sort of you. They’ve been told they’ve stolen magical stuff. They expect “your wizard” to be plenty upset, so they’re making as much distance as they can with their money.
They haven’t gone far enough.
They don’t know about you. They think you have a wizard working for you. It’s why they’re out here in the sticks, hiding out for the night before they hit the road again in the morning.
What about my stuff?
He’s not thinking about that, Firebrand pointed out. He’s concerned more about whether or not they’re going to be found.
Got it. I’ll have to question them.
So I kicked in the door, punched the sentry, and backhanded the sleepers as they woke and sat up. A bit later, with the biggest of them hanging against a wall by his ankles, legs spread wide, I scooted a piece of firewood over. I laid Firebrand on the so-called table and drew my saber. The other two—one with a splinted finger from a previous injury—were seated beside me, facing the big guy. I tied their hands and feet around upright pieces of firewood, as though they were each clinging to a short pole. One squirmed too much, trying to say something through his gag. I hit his splinted finger, causing a high-pitched keening noise. He stopped struggling. I gave them both a harsh look before turning my attention to the big guy. I poked him lightly under the chin.
“Okay, look. You stole my stuff. I want it back. I’ve been down this road before and I have no patience for it. Tell me where it is, right now, no arguments, no screwing around, and you will all walk out of here. Be a good example. Trouble me in any way and you’ll be a horrible warning. I’m a believer in free will, so make your choice.”
The big guy replied in a fashion not fit for the ears of ladies or children. Additionally, he informed me my mother was a serpent with peculiar mating habits. It didn’t seem likely, so I disregarded it.
“Horrible warning it is,” I agreed, cheerfully, and split him from crotch to crown. The two ropes holding his ankles, no longer held in place by a single body, allowed the halves to schlork! apart and innards to splat! on the floor.
I turned to the other two. They didn’t look at me. They were busy looking at the still-swinging halves behind me. I waited while the blood slithered out of the offal and disappeared up my boots. They noticed this and it did not one damn thing to comfort them.
Maybe I was overreacting, but it felt good.
“Now, I’m going to ask questions and you’re going to answer them.”
They were remarkably cooperative. Yes, they stole my stuff. Yes, they sold my stuff. There’s a shop in Sarashda. It’s run by a half-dozen wizards. They buy all the magic you can bring in and they sell it again. No, they don’t make many items, bu
t they buy and sell a lot. Yes, it’s sort of a pawnshop for magical goods. We can certainly show you where it is! —or we can tell you how to find it, yessir, you bet!
“Can either of you write?”
“I can.”
“Good. I’m going to untie your hands. Write what I tell you to.”
“Yessir.”
“First. Second. Third. Next. Now the word, ‘thief’… Good, good. Thank you.”
“Does this mean we get to live?”
“No.”
In retrospect, I definitely overreacted. I can’t say I’m sorry, though.
Tauta, 15th Day of Varinskir
I started some rock-shaping spells last night. They aren’t the vitality-inducing things, just a variation on a repair spell. I define an area, imprint the spell with the shape I want, and it slowly adjusts the material in question to match the shape. It’s slower, but it’s also much more precise.
The road to my mine ended at what was once a mining village. The remains of a smelter and other stone structures still littered the area. A secondary road, the mine road, went up along the side of the mountain to a large, level area in front of the mine entrance. The whole of the mine road was carved out, while the area in front was partly natural, partly cut away. It served as a good front porch. Originally, this overlook area had some sort of wooden structure—a ramp or chute, probably—for dumping loads of ore down to the village. Mounting points and the remains of posts still marked the route down to the smelter yard.
Along the mine road, however, I now have three bloodless corpses in various stages of dismemberment nailed up in niches in the rock wall. As one comes up the road, the legend above each reads, in order, “First Thief,” “Second Thief,” and “Third Thief.”
There’s an empty spot for another body. Above, it says, “Next Thief,” and there are a dozen large nails sitting in a hole in the wall. The back of the empty niche is highly polished and glossy—a rudimentary mirror.
If everyone was allowed to display the corpses of would-be thieves outside their homes, would it cut down on crime? I wonder. I guess I’ll find out if it works here, at any rate.
Of course, I’m also a thief, so I’m aware of my own hypocrisy. I routinely steal money, valuables, even blood and souls. Nobody’s giving them to me voluntarily. Is there a difference? Is it materially different from smashing in a door and swiping everything in reach? It’s still stealing. I’m still a thief.
It’s kind of like being a murderer. True, I try to murder only those people who try to kill me, but I also go out looking for people willing to try and kill me. It’s not exactly fair.
I don’t have moral answers. I’m fuzzy even on the ethical ones. Either I’m complicated or a hypocrite or both. I guess I’ll go on being a monster.
Bronze carried me into Sarashda. We found the shop last night—closed and heavily warded—so we didn’t have any trouble finding it in the morning. I walked in the front door and a series of bells rang softly, one by one, all around the shop. It was dissonant, but it was much more stylish than hanging a bell on the doorframe.
The man behind the counter looked up in alarm, his eyes going wide, a monocle dropping from one to swing on its ribbon.
“Good morning,” I began. He turned and fled through the curtain into the back.
Well, that’s unusual.
No kidding, Firebrand agreed. They usually don’t try to flee until it’s too late.
Oh, ha, ha, ha.
I looked around the front of the shop for a few moments. Nothing was on display, not really. A number of objects were presumably for sale, but they were all locked inside their individual boxes. My literacy is still not up to par, but I could puzzle out the descriptor cards. There were a surprising number of potions. Judging from the enchantments on the boxes, they were designed to be hostile to anyone who broke or otherwise opened one without the proper magical key. They also did a fine job of blocking magical probes, presumably to prevent more direct magical thievery—say, from someone who could teleport the goods directly. The shielding effect looked odd to me, but I didn’t have time to examine one in any detail.
I wondered why there wasn’t a general anti-scrying spell on the whole shop. It turns out they have quite a few detection spells in place. Presumably, an anti-detection spell would interfere with their alarm system.
The wizard came back with four friends, all wizards. The local wizards tend to wear belts and crossed bandoliers of pouches, presumably for what I call “messy bits.” It tells me a lot about their spell creation.
“What do you want?” demanded one. He wore a beard, cut and groomed into a point. His hair was black and shot with silver. His expression was suspicious. I noticed they each had a wand in hand and I didn’t like the look of the energies involved. The wands in question were single-purpose things, enchanted with individual, destructive spells. I’m not sure what they did, exactly, but a sizable quantity of energy was involved in each.
“I want to buy something,” I said, cautiously, and making no sudden movements.
“You—Did you say you want to buy something?”
“Yes. I’m reaching for the sack of gold at my belt. All right?”
“Go ahead,” the leader told me, while everyone pointed wands at me even harder. Mixed signals.
I unfastened the pouch and opened it, pulling out a fistful of coins. It was the same money paid to the thieves when they sold all my stuff, but I only needed one irreplaceable item. I let the coins clink back into the sack and moved forward, slowly, to place the sack on the counter. Nobody relaxed, as such, but the tension in the room eased up a notch.
“What do you want?” asked the leader, again, this time like a businessman.
“My wizard was robbed yesterday,” I began, “and the thieves sold his goods. I’ve dealt with the thieves, but now I’m dealing with honest businessmen. You bought the items in good faith and paid honest money for them. I only want one item, but I have all—or most—of the money you paid for the lot. Now that you know they were stolen goods, I’m hoping this is enough.”
“And the one thing is…?”
“It’s a round thing, made mostly of wire, quite intricate, and containing a major crystal and a couple of smaller ones. The rest of the stuff is replaceable, but the thing—my wizard calls it a sigil—is an heirloom of my house. May I please buy it back?”
“Do you know what it does?”
“Not a clue.”
He licked his lips and his eyes flicked across his partners. They didn’t look happy, either. I gently tipped the sack to one side and spilled some rectangular coins on the countertop, drawing their attention again.
“Is this enough to buy back my stolen property? I don’t want to have to…” I trailed off for a moment, paused, and added, “…go to the Hall of Ruling.”
“Nobody wants that,” he agreed, hesitantly. Whatever he expected me to say, that wasn’t it. “If it’s so important to you, yes, you can have it. But understand we got it in less than perfect condition. They—the thieves, I mean—saw a gem inside and tried to get it out.”
He’s lying, Boss. I don’t know what actually happened, but I can tell he’s lying.
I caught that. If it’s damaged, it’s damaged, and who did it is immaterial. It’s a question of how damaged—and can I fix it!
“I understand completely. Professional wizards such as yourselves would never risk the enchantment’s integrity. I know that. But if some idiot sees a bit of sparkle and takes a hammer to it, well, what can you do?”
“Yes. Exactly. Exactly.”
“So, is this sack of money, paid to thieves for stolen goods, enough to buy back my now damaged heirloom?”
“I’ll just go fetch it.”
“We will go fetch it,” corrected one of his partners, a tall, thin woman with a heavy leather pad on one shoulder. It looked like a perch for some pet, but it wasn’t in evidence. All six of them backed out through the curtain. Nice sound-blocking spell on the curtain,
I noticed. I couldn’t hear anything in the next room.
Any idea what they’re so nervous about?
Not really. Wizards are tough to read to begin with. It’s impossible when they’re doing the things they do. Besides, these jokers each have something acting as a block. It’s not perfect, though. I get impressions, but not thoughts. It’s like looking through a frosted window. Shadows, movement, some colors and shapes.
Okay, so, what are your impressions?
They’re consulting with someone in authority. Authority over them, I think, rather than some joker at the Hall of Ruling. I’d say you scare them. I don’t know why.
Would any warrior in a wizard shop cause it?
How would I know? Firebrand replied. I wouldn’t think so. Warriors want to buy stuff as much as the next guy, don’t they? How else do they get their tin suits enchanted?
Hmm. Maybe it’s the black armor. I still haven’t got a tabard to go over it.
Could be, Boss.
Or it could be you. Even for an enchanted item, you stand out.
True. I am impressive.
I walked around a little, as though inspecting more of the cases. I paid more attention to the bells, however. They were all tied into the door, of course, as befits a customer-alert system, but the spells were more complex than a simple ring-when-enter condition. A quick look told me they were part of the various detection magics in the shop. Each reacted to different things, ringing if they detected certain qualities or criteria. I didn’t have time to analyze what those criteria were, though. The five came trooping out again, carefully, still holding wands.
A sixth wizard came with them, this time. At first glance, he appeared to be a young man, maybe in his mid-twenties, but he was clearly not in the best of health. His hair was badly thinned, reminding me of radiation victims I have known. His skin was loose and sagging. He wore heavy robes and gloves, but I smelled the blood from open sores. He wore a wand at his belt, but didn’t draw it. Instead, he peered at me through narrowed eyes, studying me.
