Forbidden Magic

by Angus Wells

  Varent laughed.

  “Would that it were so simple, my friend. But it is not! Azumandias is a mightier wizard than I can hope to be and he guards himself with magic. And there are laws in Aldarin—the punishment for murder is the gallows.”

  “The man who sent those demons against us respected no laws,” Bracht retorted.

  “No,” agreed Varent, patiently, “but what proof is there Azumandias sent them? Save for you and Calandryll, they came and went unseen. And should I produce you as witnesses, Azumandias must know for sure you are here. At present, he must wonder. At the least, be unsure where you are.”

  “It takes no wizard to guess we’ll be here,” Bracht argued.

  “Probably,” Varent nodded, “but he cannot be certain. I have estates beyond the city and I might have secreted you there. While you remain behind my walls he cannot know for sure.”

  “Your servants?” the mercenary demanded. “The men who rode with us? They might talk.”

  Varent beamed approvingly. “Your caution is admirable,” he applauded, “but you heed not fear on that score—my people are trustworthy. They will give nothing away.”

  “And when we leave?”

  Varent raised a conspiratorial finger. “When you leave,” he said, “you will go swiftly to the harbor. A ship will be waiting and with luck you’ll be gone before he knows it.”

  “When will that be?” Bracht asked.

  “Soon,” promised Varent. “I must locate a suitable vessel—a trustworthy captain—before you may safely depart.”

  “So until then,” Bracht said slowly, “we are prisoners.”

  “Hardly prisoners,” Varent chuckled. “Honored guests. I think you will find your sojourn comfortable enough.”

  Bracht grunted and drained his goblet. Calandryll asked, “What of the charts?”

  “The charts,” smiled Varent, “Yes, the charts. Immediately my business with the Domm is concluded we must study them. Then I must find a ship. Likely, I shall be required at the palace most of tonight. In the morning, then?”

  Calandryll nodded, satisfied. Varent said, “Now, shall we eat?” and rose, ushering them from the room.

  He was an agreeable host, maintaining a flow of casual conversation throughout the meal that precluded any further discussion of their plans, and Calandryll found himself relaxing, enjoying his sophistication and ready wit. Bracht remained taciturn, but that was not unusual, and he offered no objection when Varent declared that he must attend the Domm and left them in the care of his servants.

  They were shown to adjoining rooms, where baths were drawn and women in fine silk robes waited to assist them. They were attractive, but Calandryll dismissed the pair intent on bathing him and climbed alone into the tub, disturbed by their presence: their fair faces and luscious bodies reminded him of Nadama. It was strange, he mused as the hot water lapped about him, that he had not thought of her in days, yet it was her rejection that had set him on this path. Had she preferred him, would he still be in Secca? Certainly, he would not have run from the palace to get drunk in the Sailors Gate; and if he had not done that he would never have met Bracht; perhaps Varent might not have offered him the means to escape the destiny decreed by his father. Reba had outlined the path he might take, but that was not predetermined, and if Nadama had accepted his suit he might never have taken those first steps along the path that brought him here.

  He wondered what his father did now. Did watchmen scour the city? Did patrols search the countryside? Perhaps Bylath had hews from the caravanserai, but what if he did? Would he send a mission to Aldarin, demanding the return of his errant son? Would even Bylath dare accuse Varent of aiding his escape? It seemed unlikely: political expediency would surely override the risk of such insult. And Varent heed only deny it: the Domm of Aldarin was hardly likely to suspect his own ambassador. So he was safe under Varent’s protection.

  He grinned at the thought or his father’s rage; then felt the smile dull: he was safe only so long he was under Varent’s protection, just as Bracht had said. Without Varent he was lost, no better than a refugee, outlawed from his home city and perhaps hunted by the Chaipaku.

  That hew thought chilled him and he rose, water splashing from the tub. Then shook his head, fighting that surge of panic.

  There is a teacher … Trust him … And one will come after. …

  He tracked wet footprints across the tiled floor as he concentrated on the words of Reba’s prophecy. They had to refer to Varent and Bracht. The one had come offering him escape, refuge, offering fulfillment of the spaewife’s vision; the other was a comrade, a sword to guard his back. Bracht’s dour warnings stemmed from his dislike of Varent, nothing more. He was safe while Varent protected him: he grunted, irritated with himself, irritated that Bracht should place such doubts in his mind.

  What was it the byah had said?

  Trust is your ally and your strength.

  Well, he trusted Varent. If Bracht chose not to, that was the Kern’s affair.

  You must choose your friends with care.

  The tree creature had said that, too, and he had chosen Varent. For every pessimistic argument of Bracht’s there was a positive view: it depended on the observer.

  His logic pleased him and he walked from the bathroom into the chamber, seeking fresh clothes.

  Varent’s servants had taken his own travel-stained garments for cleaning, but there was a well-stocked wardrobe from which he selected a shirt of fine white cotton and breeks of dark blue, a pair of boots, and a loose tunic of grey silk. He decided the chart would be safe enough here, leaving it in the wardrobe, and went in search of Bracht.

  His knock was answered by a muffled voice that he took as invitation to enter and he pushed the door open, stepping into the room. Bracht and a yellow-haired girl looked up from a confusion of sheets and he felt his cheeks grow hot, mumbling an apology. The mercenary grinned.

  “Varent’s hospitality is everything he promised.”

  Blushing, Calandryll sprang back, closing the door, feeling the warmth that pervaded his face grow deeper as the girl’s shrill laughter rang in his ears, echoed by the Kern’s deeper chuckling. He cursed, angry with himself, uncertain whether he was angry once more with Bracht or merely envious, and decided to find the library Varent had described.

  A servant showed him to a chamber filled with books, shelves rising from a floor of polished pine to the white-plastered ceiling, a single window spreading light over a desk of mahogany, a padded leather chair drawn up before the bureau, two others set either side of a cold hearth.

  The books were cataloged and he had no difficulty in finding the tome Varent had mentioned, Marsius’s Comparison of Religions, and settled at the desk, rapidly immersed. Bracht found him there as dusk fell, engrossed in his studies. The Kern was smiling cheerfully; Calandryll closed the book.

  “Our host’s servants are most enthusiastic,” Bracht grinned, leaning against the desk. “Rytha offers some small compensation for this confinement.”

  “I’m pleased you’re …” Calandryll sought the right word, “… satisfied.”

  “With her, yes,” Bracht nodded, rising to peer from a window. “With other things, no.”

  “What troubles you now?” Calandryll demanded.

  Bracht turned to study his face, frowning curiously.

  “The girl offends you?”

  “No!” he said, a little too quickly. “Why should you not avail yourself of the … amenities?”

  Bracht shook his head, a quizzical grin exposing white teeth. “Did you not?” he asked.

  “No. I … No, I didn’t.”

  The Kern seemed about to say something, but thought better of it and shrugged instead; Calandryll sought to change the subject, embarrassed by his inexperience.

  “What troubles you?” he repeated.

  “Confinement.”

  Bracht went to a chair; dropped into it. Calandryll said, “Varent explained why we must remain here.”

&nbs
p; “Indeed,” Bracht nodded, “And most convincingly.”

  “Then why do you protest?”

  Bracht shrugged again. “We come to Aldarin by secret ways; in the city we must remain behind his walls. It smells too much of prison.”

  “Hardly a prison,” Calandryll argued, “and Lord Varent explained the reasons.”

  “Do you notice that when you take his side you honor him with a title?”

  The question was mildly put, but still Calandryll felt himself blush, irritation stirring afresh. He shook his head, dismissing it.

  “He seeks only to protect us from Azumandias. Dera, Bracht! You’ve seen what he can send against us!”

  “‘Deception cloaks your path and you must choose your friends with care,’” Bracht quoted. “You heard the byah, Calandryll.”

  “Yes!” he snapped, “and I believe it spoke of Azumandias.”

  “I believe it spoke of Varent,” Bracht returned, his voice still mild.

  Calandryll shook his head, sighing. “We come full circle again. Have you witnessed evidence of treachery? What has Lord Varent done to earn this mistrust?”

  “Perhaps nothing,” Bracht murmured. “Perhaps I am wrong, but it seems to me that a man who sends demons to do his work takes a straightforward path. Deception is less obvious.”

  “That’s sophistry,” Calandryll declared.

  Bracht frowned, uncomprehending.

  “Your argument trips on its own subtlety,” Calandryll explained. “Who else sent the demons but Azumandias? Their very appearance confirms Lord Varent’s integrity.”

  “I am certain of only one thing: Varent wants the Arcanum,” said Bracht, “Of that I’m certain, if of little else. He plays some game of his own with us as pawns.”

  Calandryll shook his head wearily, tiring of the Kern’s unrelenting suspicion. “I play the part willingly,” he said.

  “As do I, for now,” Bracht returned, grinning as he added, “Five thousand varre buys my trust. Until I know more.”

  “And should you learn more?” Calandryll wondered. “Should you be right?”

  Bracht’s smile grew wolfish.

  “Then we’ll hold the book, and that must be the key to this riddle. When that’s in our hands, we’ll see where Varent stands.”

  Calandryll sighed, not knowing what he could say to convince the freesword of Varent’s honesty.

  VARENT did not return that night, so Calandryll and Bracht ate in lonely splendor, attended by servants who were politely deferential and tactfully vague when the Kern attempted to question them about their master. All he was able to extract from them was that Lord Varent den Tarl was the scion of one of Aldarin’s oldest families, unwed, and a trusted adviser to the Domm, Rebus. Of Azumandias they professed ignorance, and when questioned on the subject of Varent’s own occult talents murmured smooth replies that left the freesword little the wiser. Eventually, to Calandryll’s relief, Bracht gave up and concentrated on the excellent meal; at least until they had finished eating and the servants had left them alone with a decanter of the distilled wine, in a comfortable withdrawing room off the dining hall.

  “They protect him,” Bracht declared obstinately.

  Calandryll shook his head in resignation. He was enjoying the luxury of Varent’s mansion, knowing that soon they must embark for Gessyth and such comforts would lie behind them: he would have preferred to savor the liquor in peace.

  “They have nothing to tell you,” he said.

  Bracht fixed him with a blue stare and said, “You trust too easily.”

  “And you suspect too readily,” he countered.

  The Kern shrugged and rose to his feet, crossing to a window. Outside, the night was dark, moonless behind rolling banks of cumulus blown in from the sea, the sounds of the city muffled by the protective walls. Lanterns lit the room with a mellow glow, striking highlights from the richly polished furniture, a fire burning in the hearth, reminding Calandryll of the comforts of his home. He thought of fetching a book from Varent’s well-stocked library, contemplating an hour or two of literary indulgence before finding his bed, but Bracht gave him no chance.

  The freesword turned from the window and moved toward the door, pausing as Calandryll asked, “Do you retire?” Thinking that he likely sought the girl, Rytha, or some other compliant wench. But Bracht shook his head and said, “No. I’d take a stroll.”

  “Where?” Calandryll inquired; a turn about Varent’s gardens might be pleasant.

  “Into the city,” Bracht said.

  “You heard Lord Varent,” Calandryll protested. “He warned us that Azumandias likely watches this house.”

  “And may send more demons against us?” Bracht shrugged. “I’ve thought on that sending, and it occurs to me that Azumandias’s demons are somewhat clumsy-four could not defeat us, and they were slow-moving creatures. Should I encounter any, I’ll turn tail.”

  “Dera!” Calandryll came to his feet. “Can you not wait a little while?”

  “No,” said Bracht, and quit the room.

  Calandryll hurried after him, his protests falling on deaf ears as the Kern strode to his chamber and secured the falchion about his waist. Calandryll snatched up his own blade, not sure whether he acted from loyalty to Bracht or to Varent, but determined that the Kern should not go unaccompanied.

  “Perhaps you should remain here,” Bracht suggested.

  “No.” Calandryll grew obstinate now. “If you’re determined to ignore Lord Varent’s wishes, I’ll go with you.”

  Bracht nodded and returned down the corridor, Calandryll close on his heels. They found the entrance hall and went out into the courtyard. The air was chilly, salt-scented and promising rain before dawn, a solitary night bird serenading the starless sky. As they reached the gates two men stepped from the shadows beneath the arch, positioning themselves before the portal. The lights shining from the mansion glinted on mail shirts and half helms.

  “I’d go into the city,” Bracht said.

  “Forgive me, but Lord Varent left orders that no one is to leave.”

  The man spoke politely enough, but an obdurate note underlined his statement.

  Bracht said, “Stand aside.”

  “Lord Varent left orders,” the guard repeated. “I believe they are for your safety.”

  Calandryll heard the angry intake of the Kern’s breath and feared he would attack. Instead he asked, “Are we prisoners, then?”

  “I obey Lord Varent’s orders,” the guard intoned doggedly. “I understand the city is dangerous for you.”

  “I believe I can take care of myself,” Bracht snapped.

  “No doubt.” The guard remained unmoved, unmoving. “But my orders are clear.”

  The Kern studied the two armored men as though weighing his chances of felling them. They, in turn, set themselves shoulder to shoulder, hands on swordhilts.

  “Bracht,” said Calandryll, warningly.

  “What’s amiss?”

  Calandryll turned to see Darth approaching, three others of Varent’s retinue with him.

  “We are denied the freedom of the city,” Bracht responded.

  Darth chuckled, shrugged, and said, “Lord Varent protects you, man.”

  “I can protect myself,” grunted the freesword.

  “Against blades, no doubt. But against magic?” Darth lowered his voice, glancing at the gates. “Lord Varent has enemies who’d see you slain, I think. Come back to the house and drink with us, if you’ve a mind. And I believe Rytha anticipates warming your bed.”

  He winked as he said it, grinning. His companions smiled, but Calandryll saw that they ranged themselves, albeit casually, between Bracht and the gates.

  “Come on,” Darth urged, indicating the two guards with a thrust of his chin. “These fellows only do their duty.”

  “And you?” Bracht demanded.

  “I serve Lord Varent,” Darth said. “And he’s left orders …”

  Bracht fingered his sword, then shrugged: “So be it.
”

  Calandryll breathed a relieved sigh as the mercenary allowed Darth to lead him back across the courtyard into the house. He followed, but when Darth suggested he join them, he shook his head, declaring his intention of retiring with a book, and went to the library.

  He fetched the copy of Marsius from the shelf and carried it to his chamber. He hoped to find some reference to the Arcanum in the weighty tome that would furnish more information, but it told him nothing he did not already know and after a while he set the book aside, yawning, and promptly fell into a sound and dreamless sleep.

  Sunlight woke him and he rose, wondering if Varent had returned from the palace. When servants brought hot water and the announcement that his host awaited him, he bathed and dressed quickly, eager to hear what hews Varent brought.

  The ambassador was settled comfortably in the dining hall, breaking his fast with fresh-baked bread and fruit. He smiled as Calandryll entered, motioning the younger man to a chair. Calandryll sat, helping himself to food.

  “I understand there was some small misunderstanding last night,” Varent murmured.

  “Bracht had a yen to explore the city.” Briefly Calandryll wondered if he should advise Varent of the Kern’s misgivings; dismissed the thought: it would be a betrayal of Bracht’s confidence.

  Varent sighed as if he considered Bracht a necessary but troublesome adjunct to their purpose. “Our Kern friend has an independent nature,” he murmured. “Surely I explained why that is not possible?”

  He studied Calandryll’s face speculatively, his own radiating a mixture of resignation and mild irritation.

  “Yes,” Calandryll agreed, “but Bracht has little fondness of confinement.”

  “Sadly heeded,” Varent said, “At least until I’ve arranged your passage. The sooner the better, I think.”

  Bracht came into the room then. Calandryll saw that his eyes were somewhat bloodshot, purple crescents darkening the tan beneath. Varent offered a greeting that was answered with a grunt as the freesword slumped into a chair.

  “I understand you’ve found favor with Rytha,” Varent smiled.