Hanner had expected to stay on East Street, but Rothiel led them up the left-hand fork, onto Old High Street and into Allston.
Old High Street merged into High Street at roughly the halfway point of their journey, and it occurred to Hanner that if he simply stayed on this road he would soon be home, at Warlock House, once Uncle Faran’s mansion.
But Mavi and the children probably wouldn’t be there to welcome him. It was hard to believe it had really been seventeen years; to Hanner it had only been a couple of days since he left Mavi and the children at Warlock House while he went to see his new magical tapestry. He hoped she was all right; none of the wizards had yet told him anything about her circumstances.
He knew that time had really passed, and the city had changed. He had seen Eastgate Market, and as he followed Rothiel through Allston he could see differences here, as well. The late afternoon shadows were lengthening, obscuring some of the details, but Hanner was fairly certain there were new tiles on some roofs, different paint here and there, shrines added or removed, and so on.
Even so, this was familiar ground. To reach Warlock House he needed merely stay on High Street — but that wasn’t what he did; instead he followed Rothiel as the wizard turned right on Arena Street and followed it two blocks down the hill, toward the overlord’s palace, before turning left onto Lower Street.
This neighborhood was not Allston, of course; they had left that district behind. This side of Arena Street was the New City — or at least, it had still been called that seventeen years ago. Perhaps the name had finally been changed by now, since the area had not actually been new for more than two hundred years.
The houses here appeared exactly as Hanner remembered them; whatever changes might have overtaken other parts of the city, Lower Street seemed untouched. So far as he could tell in the orange glow of the setting sun, Ithinia’s gray stone house, second from the corner on the north side of the street, was just as it had always been.
One of the gargoyles on the cornice slowly turned its head to watch their approach, and Hanner tried to remember — was that one Glitter? No, Glitter’s niche was in back, overlooking the garden; Hanner thought this one was called Fang. He waved cheerfully to the stony monster.
A spriggan he had not previously noticed jumped up on the gargoyle’s shoulder and waved back, reminding Hanner that he was indeed in this strange new future.
The gargoyle flapped a gray wing and sent the spriggan flying, but the little creature caught itself on the cornice, hanging on by just a few fingers, then squealed and swung itself back up behind the gargoyle’s leg, whereupon Hanner lost sight of it.
Then Rothiel was knocking on Ithinia’s door, so Hanner lowered his gaze, squared his shoulders, and prepared to greet the Guildmaster. Rudhira was standing at his side, and he considered saying something to help her ready herself, but then the door opened and there was Ithinia, in a white robe trimmed with golden-brown fur.
“Hanner!” she said. “Come in, come in; I’m pleased to see you after so long!”
Hanner bowed. “I’m honored, Guildmaster,” he said. “May I present my friend, Rudhira of Camptown?”
Ithinia cocked her head. “I believe I remember you,” she said. “Long ago — in 5202, I suppose. In the harbor.”
Rudhira met Ithinia’s gaze. She clearly knew what the wizard was referring to, and Hanner remembered the incident, as well. Rudhira had picked up what had seemed like half the water in the harbor, to test the strength of her magic. “Yes,” she said. “That was me.”
“You were Called soon after?” Ithinia asked, her tone conversational.
“A few days, yes.”
“It was an impressive demonstration of what warlockry could do.”
“Yes, it was.” Her gaze did not waver; Hanner hoped that her boldness would not annoy the Guildmaster. They no longer had their own magic to protect them, should the wizard decide they were not showing the proper respect.
Ithinia considered the little redhead for a moment longer, then smiled and said, “Come in, both of you; you must be exhausted.” She stepped aside to let them enter.
“Thank you,” Hanner said, hurrying past her and into the parlor.
It had been refurbished since he last saw it — he was surprised at first, then remembered that it had been seventeen years. A small marble-topped table was familiar, but everything else was new. The predominant colors were red and gold, where the furnishings had been mostly white the last time Hanner visited. There was a faint odor of cinnamon, though Hanner could see no source for it.
Rudhira settled into a red velvet armchair without waiting to be invited; Hanner hesitated, and was still standing when Ithinia swept into the room and said, “Please, sit down. Make yourselves comfortable.”
Rudhira smiled at Hanner as he took a seat on a matching armchair.
“Guildmaster,” Rothiel said from the door.
Ithinia turned. “Yes?”
“Hanner suggests that the god Asham the Gate-Keeper might be able to send the other warlocks home. If I may, I’d like to see if I can find a theurgist who’s familiar with this deity.”
Ithinia said, “Asham?” Then she let out a wordless noise of dismay. “Of course, Asham! I must be getting old, to have not remembered sooner. The Sanctuary of the Priests of Asham is on Priest Street, north side, midway between Arena and Magician Street. It’s a very difficult summoning, so you may need to bargain.”
“Priest, between Arena and Magician? Thank you, Guildmaster!” The brown-clad wizard bowed, and hurried out.
That left Hanner and Rudhira alone with the woman generally believed to be the most powerful wizard in Ethshar of the Spices, and Hanner had no idea why they were there. He waited until Ithinia had closed the door and returned to the parlor, but then got straight to the point.
“Why did you want to see me, Guildmaster?”
Ithinia produced an expression that was not quite a smile, though it came close. “Would you like something to eat, before we get to business?” she asked. “A drink, perhaps? I had Obdur brew a pot of tea — it’s Luvannion leaf, the early harvest.”
“Tea would be lovely,” Hanner admitted; he had had nothing but water to drink, and not much of that, since being Called.
“And honey cakes? Sadra baked them this afternoon.”
Rudhira perked up. “Honey cakes?”
Ithinia smiled. She turned and called over her shoulder, “Obdur! Tea and cakes for our guests!”
“At once, Mistress!” a voice replied, though Hanner and Rudhira could not see the speaker.
Ithinia then sank into the last of the three velvet armchairs, straightened her robe, and said, “I want to reinstate you as Chairman of the Council of Warlocks.”
Hanner considered that for a moment. It made no sense that he could see. He asked, “What Council? What warlocks?”
“Vond,” Rudhira said, before Ithinia could reply.
The wizard nodded. “There’s Vond, yes,” she said, “but we don’t expect Hanner to deal with the emperor all by himself; that would be too much to ask of a man with no magic. No, we want him to deal with Zallin, and to help all the Called readjust to their altered circumstances.”
“Zallin?” Hanner asked. “Zallin of the Mismatched Eyes?”
“Yes, that Zallin. He was the last Chairman of the Council.”
“So I had heard,” Hanner said. “But again — what Council? What warlocks?”
“I’m afraid that Zallin has decided not to accept his fate,” Ithinia said. “He is determined to find a way to restore his magic, and thereby retain his position as chairman. I don’t think he’s the only warlock who is unhappy with the sudden change in his situation.”
“I’m sure he isn’t,” Hanner said, “but I don’t see why that’s any concern of mine, or of the Wizards’ Guild.”
“Vond,” Rudhira said again. “If he still has his magic, so can others.”
“You’re a very astute young woman,” Ithinia said. “That’
s exactly right. And there’s no Calling to restrain him, or anyone like him, now.”
“You think Zallin is going to find out how Vond kept his magic, and get his own magic back?” Hanner asked.
“We’re afraid he might try, yes,” Ithinia said. “We want you to do everything you can to discourage him, and anyone else who has the same idea.”
“Why me?”
“Because you are Chairman Hanner,” the wizard said. “Every warlock in the city who remembers you respects you. You created the Council and prevented Azrad the Sedentary from declaring war on all warlocks. You guaranteed that the Council would keep order among warlocks, and see that they obeyed the law, and you ran the Council effectively and fairly for seventeen years. From what I’ve heard, you also became the leader of all the Called, and took charge of getting them safely out of Aldagmor.”
“I didn’t...I was just one of several people!” Hanner protested. “Sensella of Morningside, and Rayel Roggit’s son, and Alladia of Shiphaven...”
“Morningside? She’s from Ethshar of the Sands? Is that where she is now?”
“Well...yes,” Hanner admitted.
“Then she’ll be no help here. And the others?”
“Rayel’s from Aldagmor,” Hanner conceded. “But Alladia...”
“She’s a theurgist,” Rudhira interrupted. Hanner turned to glare at her.
“You were the first chairman,” Ithinia said, before Hanner could argue further. “And you were a lord, and a student of magic, before that. You’re perfect for what we want.”
“I still don’t understand what that is,” Hanner protested.
“We want you to do everything you can to prevent anyone from seeking out Emperor Vond in hopes of getting back their magic. We want you to be a calming voice, a voice of authority, a fatherly friend helping former warlocks find places for themselves now that their magic is gone. We want you to serve as a go-between between the Called and the Wizards’ Guild.”
“I suppose I could try,” Hanner said, doubtfully.
“We’ll pay you for your services,” Ithinia said.
“How much?” Rudhira asked.
“Enough,” the wizard snapped.
Rudhira frowned, and slumped back in her chair.
Ithinia looked at her, then back at Hanner. “There’s something else,” she said. “I would have preferred to keep this between the two of us, but I won’t insist; would you rather have Rudhira hear it, or not?”
Hanner glanced at Rudhira. He did not want sole responsibility for anything.
“I’d rather have her here,” he said.
“As you please,” Ithinia said. “The other detail is this — if any other warlock does succeed in regaining his magic, we’ll kill him.” She glanced at Rudhira. “Or her.”
Hanner snorted. “Then what do you need me for? Just tell them that!”
Ithinia shook her head. “People can be stubborn,” she said. “If we say we’ll kill anyone who tries it, some will take that as a challenge, and we do not want to kill anyone. We would prefer you talk them out of it without bringing the Guild into the discussion. We don’t want to appear as if the Guild is exceeding its authority. We don’t want the overlord to think we are usurping his authority.”
“But you are.”
“Yes, but we don’t want to be blatant about it.” The not-quite-a-smile hardened.
Hanner grimaced. “So you want me to be the pretty frosting on a poisoned cake.”
“More or less, yes.”
It was at that point that Obdur appeared in the doorway with a large tray holding a teapot, three cups, and a huge platter stacked high with honey cakes. Business was put aside as the tea was poured and a few of the cakes distributed.
When Obdur had retreated, and Hanner had downed three cups of tea and four of the little cakes, Ithinia said, “There’s something else I wanted to tell you.”
Hanner looked up from licking crumbs off his fingers. “Oh?”
“Yes,” Ithinia said. “We found your wife.”
Hanner jumped up, scattering crumbs and crockery in all directions. “Where is she? Is she all right?”
“She’s fine,” Ithinia said. “She’s fine, and all three of your children are fine.”
“Where are they?”
“I can give you her address. She’s living on Mustard Street, in Spicetown.” Ithinia looked at Hanner sadly and finished, “With her husband.”
Chapter Sixteen
Except for their size, the towers did not look like much. Vond and Sterren flew three circles around them, and Sterren really did not see anything very interesting. They were just towers, tall, unadorned cylinders, made of some unfamiliar gray substance that appeared to be midway between stone and metal. One of them was broken off on a rough diagonal about two-thirds of the way up, and the exposed surface revealed an incomprehensible jumble of mysterious stuff — crystal shards that glittered gold in the light of the setting sun, curving yellowish-white things that might have been bones, pipes made of a dozen different substances, colored cables, and so on, some of it partially melted. Other than that, the towers were featureless.
Going by what the break exposed, they were almost solid, with no stairs, ladders, or other way to ascend the interior; certainly they had no windows, and the tops of the two intact ones were rounded and smooth, not intended for anyone to stand on.
They made Sterren nervous.
“Can you feel it?” Vond asked, his voice amplified to a thunderous roar. “Feel the power!”
That, Sterren realized, was what was making him nervous — he could feel the power, and he had spent the last fifteen years suppressing any hint of magical ability he might have. Vond had altered Sterren’s brain so that he could draw energy from these towers, just as Vond himself did, but Sterren had deliberately refused to do so. He did not want to be a warlock. Oh, he had wanted to, a long time ago, when as a boy of twelve he had tried to apprentice himself to a warlock, but he had long since decided that he had been very fortunate to have failed that apprenticeship by showing no talent for warlockry. He had not wanted to ever be Called. And once the Wizards’ Guild banned warlocks from the region, he had not wanted to anger the Guild. Before that he had sometimes allowed himself just enough magic to win at dice more than was natural, but after Ithinia delivered the Guild’s ultimatum he had forsworn even that.
But here, flying maybe fifty feet from the towers that gave Lumeth of the Towers its name, he could feel power in the air around him. He could feel it flowing through his body, and his head almost seemed to be vibrating with it.
Vond clearly enjoyed this, but Sterren emphatically did not. “Can we go now?” he asked.
Vond gave him an angry glare, then took another long look at the towers. He swept up close and reached out one hand to touch the sleek gray side of the nearest one.
There was a sudden crack, like the sound of a tree limb snapping, and a green flash, and Sterren felt himself falling. He flailed wildly, reaching out, trying to find something to catch, to hold himself up.
Then he stopped in mid-air; Vond had caught him. He had fallen perhaps sixty feet — and so had Vond, Sterren realized.
Or no, Vond had fallen perhaps fifty. Where before the two men had been flying at the same altitude, Sterren was now several feet below his companion, and Sterren’s luggage hung unsupported still lower.
“It would seem there are protective spells on them,” Vond said. “Probably wizardry, from the feel of it.”
“Oh,” Sterren said, looking down at the hundred-foot drop beneath him.
“It’s a good thing we’re warlocks,” Vond continued. “That blast would have killed most people. My magic protected us.”
“Oh,” Sterren said again.
Vond frowned. “That was quite a powerful spell,” he said.
“Are you sure it was a spell, and not the towers themselves?” Sterren called up.
“No,” Vond admitted. “There’s something...something very strange about th
ese towers. They’re magical, and of course we already assumed that, but it’s very strange magic. And the stuff they’re made of — it isn’t anything I’ve ever seen before. It’s got magic all through it, but I can’t tell what kind of magic.”
“Your Majesty,” Sterren called, “as your chief advisor, I suggest we stay well away from these things.”
“But this is where my power comes from!”
“They cause headaches in normal warlocks, one of them just tried to kill us, and the wizards claim to have put a variety of wards and safeguards around them.”
“Did they?” Vond glanced down at him, then up at the towers. “That might explain the green flash.”
“Yes, your Majesty, it might.”
Vond stared at the towers a moment longer, considering, then turned up an empty palm. “We can always come back later,” he said.
Then the two of them were swooping off to the northwest, Sterren’s baggage trailing behind, moving so quickly that for a moment Sterren had trouble breathing.
He glanced back at the towers, standing tall and straight, their west sides bright and the east sides black with shadow. Whatever they were, he was glad to be moving away. Being close to those towers was inexplicably disturbing.
He was also very glad Vond had not landed. He did not want his feet to touch Lumethan soil.
The sun was on the horizon and sinking fast; the detour to deliver the Called to Akalla had delayed their flight. Sterren wondered how far Vond intended to go tonight. As a warlock he was tireless, of course, and could generate his own light if necessary, so they might travel the entire distance to Ethshar, but he rather hoped they would not; Vond might not tire, but he did. He was not exerting himself in any way to stay airborne, but the journey was tiring nonetheless; the constant wind was wearing, the cold air sucked the warmth from his flesh, and he could not keep from tensing. He knew, intellectually, that he was securely supported by Vond’s magic, but some deep animal part of his brain did not accept that. It was convinced he was falling, and kept bracing for the inevitable impact, which became exhausting after a time.
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