The Unwelcome Warlock loe-11

by Lawrence Watt-Evans

  Sterren felt his gut tighten at that. “Why do you say that?” he asked.

  “Because if they were really as powerful as they pretend, wouldn’t they rule the World? Why would they allow the overlords to rule the Hegemony, rather than doing it themselves? And all those silly little kings and councils in the Small Kingdoms — why put up with that nonsense? I didn’t; why would the wizards, if they really had the power they claim?”

  “I don’t know,” Sterren admitted, hoping he didn’t sound desperate and wishing he could think of a better answer.

  He suspected that the truth was that wizards didn’t want to rule the World, any more than Sterren had wanted to rule Vond’s empire after the warlock was Called. He was certain, though, that Vond wouldn’t believe that for a minute; his mind didn’t work that way.

  “So, you see?” Vond said, spreading his arms. “I’m not worried about the wizards. But I don’t want to stay here. It’s pleasant enough now, but I remember what this place is like in the summer. I can keep cool if I want to, no matter how hot and dry it gets, but why should I? And people would be asking me to do things for them, saving crops and the like, and that’s dull. You know, it’s a curious thing — without the Aldagmor Source, using my magic isn’t as much fun as before. There was something about that whisper that made it exciting, and the Lumeth source doesn’t do that. I don’t mind using magic, obviously, but I don’t have any great urge to do so.”

  “I hadn’t known there was a difference.”

  “Oh, yes. Besides, I did most of what I wanted to do before I was Called. I built the palace, I built the roads — you see them?” He pointed; Sterren looked down at the network of stone-paved highways radiating out from Semma and nodded. Those roads had been essential in keeping the empire intact and making its economy work. “That’s all done, and from now on it would be dealing with people, and they’re all either boring peasants or unpleasant aristocrats obsessed with genealogy. There’s no Arena here, no Games Street, no street performers or streetwalkers.”

  Sterren knew perfectly well that there were gamblers and whores and various performers if one knew where to look, especially now that Semma was the capital of a thriving empire rather than a tiny, poverty-stricken kingdom, but he didn’t see any point in telling Vond that.

  Vond waved a hand. “And all those different languages! I want to hear good Ethsharitic around me.”

  “What do you propose, your Majesty?”

  “What I propose, Sterren, is that I’m going to go home. But I’m going to make a tour of it; I’ll stop in Lumeth and investigate at the towers, then get a good look at the Tower of Flame by night — I rushed past it before. There was something strange on the eastern slope of the mountains north of that, too. Then I’ll go on back to Ethshar and find myself a home — maybe a mansion in the New City. Maybe I’ll live in Warlock House, on High Street! After all, I’m the only warlock left.”

  “What about the empire?”

  “You and the Council seem to have done a fine job of running it. I’ll let you go on doing it.”

  “I’m honored that you think so, your Majesty.”

  “Oh, stop it. You aren’t one of these idiot Semmans. Don’t pretend you’re my humble obedient lapdog. You aren’t honored.”

  Sterren turned up a palm. “Pleased, then. Yes, I thought we did a pretty good job, but that doesn’t mean you thought so.”

  “The empire was still here when I got back, and it looks peaceful and prosperous. That’s more than I expected. I thought it would all fall apart in a month without me here to keep everyone in line.”

  “Oh. Well, we did the best we could.”

  “And you did well. So I don’t need to stay here.”

  Sterren hesitated, then asked, “So do you intend to abdicate?”

  “What?” Vond had been looking off to the north again; now he turned and stared at Sterren. “No, of course not,” he said. “Why would I do that?”

  “Well, if you don’t intend to stay here and rule the empire...”

  “It’s still my empire, though! It’s gotten along fine without me for fifteen years; it can do so for a few more. I’ll probably come back eventually, when I get bored. Maybe I’ll conquer all the Small Kingdoms, and reunite Old Ethshar. Or conquer the entire World.”

  “So you won’t be naming an heir to rule after you’re gone?”

  “No, of course not. I don’t need one. You do know warlocks don’t die of old age, don’t you? At least, not if we’re any good. We can heal ourselves.”

  In fact, Sterren had not known anything of the sort; as long as the Calling had existed, old age hadn’t been an issue. “Oh,” he said.

  “No, I’m keeping the empire,” Vond said. “And I’m not naming an heir. But I think I should name a regent, to take care of things while I’m gone. I don’t want to let your fifteen years of work go for nothing.”

  “Oh,” Sterren said again.

  “It should be easier this time,” Vond continued. “After all, if anyone starts a rebellion or a war, the regent can just send me a message, and I’ll come take care of it.”

  “I see,” Sterren said. He noticed that Vond referred to “the regent,” rather than saying “you,” and braced himself — was he going to be dismissed, told that he’d done his job and was free to go?

  Or was he going to be killed for what he had done to hurry Vond’s Calling, fifteen years ago?

  “That’s why I brought you up here to talk,” Vond said. Sterren had a vision of being allowed to plunge sixty yards to the pavement below, and took a deep breath. “I wanted to make sure we weren’t interrupted.”

  “Your Majesty?”

  “Would you like to come with me to Ethshar? You’re from the city, too — aren’t you sick of being stuck out here in the corner of the World, surrounded by shepherds and farmers and inbred princelings?”

  “I — I’m not sure I understand.”

  “I’d want you to handle things for me, all those annoying everyday things that I’d rather not bother with. You wouldn’t be chancellor anymore, you’d be, oh, chief of staff, I suppose.”

  Sterren tried to think quickly; he didn’t want to make a mistake. The wrong choice could get him killed, and probably a good many other people, as well. If he stayed in Semma there would be no one to keep Vond from running amok should he lose his temper, no one who could try to talk him into behaving in a civilized fashion — but there was no certainty that he could keep Vond’s temper in check, and that he wouldn’t wind up like Ildirin, his brains splattered on a stone wall somewhere.

  His family and friends were all in Semma now; he had lived here almost his entire adult life. If Vond did go off to Ethshar without him and went berserk, the Wizards’ Guild or some other magician would probably be able to dispose of the renegade warlock, while Sterren lived in quiet retirement with his wife and children.

  It occurred to him that Vond did not know that Sterren had a wife and children; the emperor hadn’t bothered to ask, and Sterren was not about to volunteer the information. He certainly wasn’t going to volunteer the fact that he had sent his family into exile the moment he realized Vond was returning. He had no desire to anger the warlock.

  “I’m flattered, your Majesty, but...” he began.

  “If you stay here, of course, I’d expect you to continue as regent,” Vond said. “If you come with me, perhaps you can suggest your replacement.”

  That eliminated the possibility of a quiet retirement. Sterren had been thinking he and Shirrin and the kids might find themselves a comfortable place in Inshar or Wunth, or maybe go all the way to Ethshar of the Sands, away from both Vond and his empire, but it seemed his choice was between being regent or being chief of staff, with no option to leave the whole mess behind.

  He had been trying to leave all of his obligations here behind ever since Lady Kalira had found him playing dice in a tavern, and informed him that he was the hereditary warlord of Semma. No matter what he did, he had always wound up ba
ck here, saddled with responsibilities he didn’t want.

  Of course, once Vond was gone, and Sterren was married to a Semman princess, and the treaty with the Wizards’ Guild had prevented any more border wars, it hadn’t been so bad.

  But Vond was back, the treaty had been violated, and he had sent Shirrin away. He was back where he started.

  And a possibility occurred to him.

  When he went back to Ethshar to recruit magicians, all those years ago, he had intended to slip away and lose himself in the city. Lady Kalira had anticipated that and prevented it.

  Lady Kalira, whatever her other failings, was smarter than Vond.

  Merely slipping away probably wouldn’t work; there were ways to find people, and if those weren’t available Vond might simply tear the city apart looking for him. But if he could convince Vond there was a reason not to pursue him, he might manage to escape once and for all. Perhaps he could fake his own death.

  Once he was free, he could find Shirrin — he’d ordered Noril to try to get her and the children to Ethshar, so she might be there waiting for him. They could settle down quietly somewhere. They wouldn’t be drawing a salary from the imperial treasury anymore, but Sterren was sure he could find a way to get by. Cheating at dice, perhaps. After all, he was one of two warlocks left in the World, and the only one no one knew about.

  “I think Lady Kalira would make an excellent regent,” he said. “Or really, any of the older members of the Imperial Council.”

  “Then you’ll come with me?”

  “I think it’s a fine idea,” he said. “But I’ll need to pack, and give some final instructions.”

  “Of course,” Vond said. Without warning, the two of them began to descend slowly. “Shall I come back for you tomorrow afternoon? I’ll take the time to look around a little, see how the empire is doing. You can tell everyone what’s happening; I’d rather not do it myself.”

  “As you please, your Majesty, but are you sure you don’t want to make the announcement yourself? You don’t want anyone thinking it was my idea to lure you away from your beloved subjects.”

  “I don’t want to see anyone celebrating my departure, either,” Vond said. “I’d hate to ruin my day with the necessity of killing a bunch of people for disloyalty.”

  “Ah,” Sterren said. “Yes, I can see that. Tomorrow, then, an hour or so past noon?”

  “Or thereabouts. I expect you’ll be ready and waiting near the palace door.”

  Sterren glanced down at the approaching ground, and the crowd that had cleared a broad swath of pavement beside the fountain, ready for their master’s landing.

  “That would be fine,” he said. “I’ll be ready.”

  “Good,” Vond said. “I’d hate to have to kill you.”

  Then Sterren’s feet touched stone, and he staggered slightly. When he straightened up again, Vond was soaring upward, then curving to the east before dwindling rapidly to a mere speck, vanishing in the distance.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Hanner’s feet hurt, and he was horribly cold, chilled through and through, as he sat on the bare ground; there wasn’t enough fuel handy to keep more than a few fires going, and the young, the old, and the injured were given priority in crowding around those few — even, gruesomely, the pyre of that poor half-eaten person, whoever he was. The theurgists never had managed to contact Tarma or Konned, the witches were still busy with healing and calming, and the wizards had devoted their efforts to planning and transportation, rather than warmth.

  Hanner wished the wizards had brought out a few better theurgists, as well as tapestries and bureaucrats; the handful of theurgists who had been Called warlocks had not accomplished anything at all after their initial success with Piskor the Generous. Not only would Tarma or Konned have been useful, but Alladia said that Asham the Gate-Keeper could get everyone home quickly. Unfortunately, it would take a really top-level theurgist to invoke him. If the wizards had found a theurgist like that, it would have been lovely. They hadn’t, so most of the throng of former warlocks was still here, sitting and waiting, cold and hungry. Rudhira was huddled against Hanner, shivering; that pretty white tunic of hers was not warm enough for this weather.

  It wasn’t very white any more, either, after this stay in the wilderness.

  Still, everyone was doing what they could, and progress was being made. Hundreds of people had been sent safely off to Ethshar of the Rocks and Ethshar of the Sands; the magical tapestries were hanging from sturdy frames, and a half-dozen apprentices were checking names, dates, and addresses before allowing anyone to touch them. Sensella of Morningside, having been the very last arrival from Ethshar of the Sands, had been one of the very first to go.

  It was startling, watching the tapestries in action. A person would give his or her name to the apprentices, who would write it down. He would give his last address, so that the apprentices could check it against their maps and make sure the person actually knew the city he claimed to live in, and then the date of his Calling. One of the apprentices would then ask a question or two about the news of the day for that time, to make sure the earlier warlocks weren’t trying to sneak in ahead of their proper place.

  When the apprentices were satisfied, they would move aside, and the applicant would step forward and touch the tapestry.

  And then the applicant was simply gone — there was no transition, no flash, no bang, no fade or flicker or whoosh or whisper, the person just wasn’t there anymore. The eye didn’t want to accept it; it was almost easier to believe the person had never been there at all. The heavily-trampled ground in front of the tapestry was as empty as ever.

  Whereupon the apprentices would let the next one through, and the scene would repeat.

  Hanner hoped very much that the wizards were telling the truth, and that those people had indeed been transported instantaneously to the right places. He knew that Transporting Tapestries were real, obviously, since he had commissioned a pair of his own, but he had no proof that these two were really taking people to their alleged destinations; the rooms depicted on them could have been anywhere. He couldn’t think of any reason the wizards would lie about it, but you never knew, with wizards.

  If they were going to lie, though, they would probably have claimed one of the tapestries led to Ethshar of the Spices, since there were more people who wanted to go there than to either of the others. As yet, no third tapestry had arrived, any more than had Asham the Gate-Keeper.

  Someone was making another announcement in Sardironese, but Hanner had stopped listening to those. The Council of Barons kept sending out decrees, and then changing their minds an hour or two later. Rayel and Fanria had gone to join several of the other Sardironese in the group clustered around the wizard relaying the news.

  The Baron of Aldagmor was definitely willing to accept refugees, whether the rest of the Council did or not, but no one had a tapestry to anywhere in his domain — at least, no one would admit to having one available to lend; Hanner suspected there were a few stashed away somewhere that their owners preferred not to display. In the absence of a tapestry plans were being made to use flying carpets, or some other magical method, or even just a wagon train to get some of the crowd safely past the dragons to his keep.

  Hanner turned his head and craned his neck, peering off to the southwest; that was the direction most of the would-be settlers had gone. An entire carpet of bureaucrats, wooden stakes, strips of colored cloth to use as markers, and pre-prepared, half-written deeds had arrived an hour ago, to assist in claiming land, and that maroon-clad woman had led the bureaucrats and a couple of hundred former warlocks off to start choosing homesteads. Hanner would have preferred it if the wizards had sent a carpet loaded with food, blankets, or firewood, rather than property markers, but no one had asked him.

  He had to admit, though, that the Wizards’ Guild and the overlord’s bureaucrats had done an impressive job of organizing a rescue effort. There was still plenty more to be done, but they had made a ver
y effective start.

  He picked up one of his last brown sticks of divine nourishment. Piskor had said she was providing a three-day supply, but most people — those who hadn’t simply lost theirs — had eaten them all by the end of the second day. Rudhira, on the other hand, had hoarded hers, perhaps because her past life had accustomed her to going hungry. Hanner didn’t know how many she still had out of her original dozen, but he was fairly certain it was more than his own supply. He was down to three more sticks, despite being very careful, and the wizards had yet to bring in more food.

  The Called wizards and witches, Hanner remembered, hadn’t received any food in the first place; the goddess apparently hadn’t considered them worthy. A few people had shared their supply with the magicians; Hanner had given one stick to one of the witches who had been healing the injured, but only one. Thousands of other people had received Piskor’s gift, so he had seen no need to shoulder more than his share of the burden.

  He wished he had something he could drink, to wash the brown stuff down. The stream the horde had been following had been reduced to a muddy trickle by the attention of thousands of hands, cloths, and improvised receptacles, but the wizards had not yet brought water, either. Two of the witches were purifying water for the injured, but soon a lot of other people would be getting thirsty.

  Just then a low rumble sounded; Hanner looked up, expecting to see an approaching storm, but the sky was mostly clear, with only a few scattered, fluffy clouds.

  The rumble increased, and the ground began to shake; around him, Hanner heard people screaming and shouting questions.

  Then the earth humped up about forty feet away, rising up in a mound; people tumbled down the new slopes and quickly scattered, desperate to get away. Hanner sprang to his feet, startling poor Rudhira, just as the mound split open and fell away to either side, revealing a young man holding a large sack. He stepped forward, and another man seemed to rise out of the ground behind him.