If the enchantment could not be broken, then he saw no option but suicide. He refused to live out all eternity as a blind, senile cripple. Blindness alone he might learn to live with, were he still young and healthy, but in time he knew his other faculties would go. He would have to kill himself with Wirikidor while he still had the strength to do so.
If Wirikidor would not kill him immediately, he knew he might have to kill however many other men it would take to use up the spell. That might be difficult, but he was sure he could manage it somehow.
With that firmly resolved, he made his plans and preparations. On the third day of the month of Greengrowth, in the year 5041, he set out for Ethshar of the Spices, riding as a paying passenger on an ox-drawn farm wagon, with Wirikidor on his hip.
CHAPTER 26
The wagon’s owner knew nothing about magicians of any sort and, in fact, expressed doubts as to the authenticity of most spells, so Valder thanked him politely and disembarked as soon as they reached Westgate Market. The guards at the gate were more helpful, but the directions they gave him to reach the Wizards’ Quarter were not as detailed as he had hoped. He was to follow High Street for half a league or so — he had forgotten the city was that big — and then turn right onto a diagonal cross-street, a big one called Arena Street, and follow it past the Arena itself and on into the Wizards’ Quarter, down toward Southgate. That sounded simple enough, but there were so very many cross-streets that he was not at all sure he would know the right one when he found it.
The guards had also strongly advised him against carrying his sword openly on his belt. The overlord did not approve of such martial displays, and some people took it upon themselves to enforce the old man’s whims, even though at the moment there was no valid decree in effect on the matter. Valder thanked them, but left Wirikidor where it was. He thought that the sword might discourage thieves who would otherwise be tempted to attack an old man with a fat purse. He had brought all his accumulated funds from forty-odd years as an innkeeper; magic, he knew, did not come cheap.
The crowds and dirt and noise were overwhelming at first, particularly as he was already weary from his long ride. Oxen were slow-moving beasts, and the farmer had been in no great hurry, so the trip had taken a day and a half. He had arrived at mid-afternoon of the second day, the fourth of Greengrowth, his back aching from toes to shoulders. He had not realized, sitting around the inn, just how much age had affected him.
Objectively, he knew at a glance that the crowds were nothing compared to the mobs that had overwhelmed the city when first he saw it, but he still found them daunting as he made his way along High Street, watching for the diagonal cross-street the guards had described.
He passed inns and taverns clustered around the gate-side market and assorted disreputable lodgings. He passed block after block of varied shops, built of stone and wood and brick, selling everything imaginable, from fishhooks to farm wagons and diamonds to dried dung — but very little magic, and none of the signboards boasted of wizardry or witchcraft. A passing stranger, when asked, told him that these shops made up the Old Merchants’ Quarter; there was also a New Merchants’ Quarter to the south. The Wizards’ Quarter was much further on.
He came to a broad diagonal avenue that he took at first for Arena Street, but it was angled in the opposite direction from what the guard had led him to expect, so once again he asked, this time inquiring of a shopkeeper dealing in fine fabrics. The shopkeeper explained that this avenue was Merchant Street and that Arena Street was further on, past the New City district.
Valder trudged on along High Street and found himself passing mansions. Some faced upon the street, their rich carvings and gleaming windows plain to be seen, while others were set back and hidden behind walls or fences. A few stood surrounded by gardens, and one boasted an elaborate aviary. The streets in this area were not crowded at all, and most of the people he did see were tradesmen; only rarely did he spot someone whose finery was in accord with the opulence of the buildings.
The fine houses stopped abruptly, replaced by a row of shops facing onto a diagonal avenue, and Valder knew he had found Arena Street. He paused in the intersection to look around.
Far off to his left, at the end of the surprisingly straight avenue, he could see the overlord’s palace. He had caught quick glimpses of it once or twice before on Merchant Street and again on one of the streets in the New City, but had not stopped to look at it.
That was where Azrad the Great lived, now more than eighty years old but still holding on to his absolute power as overlord of the city and triumvir of the Hegemony. He was said to suffer from bouts of idiocy, to have lost his teeth, and to drool like a baby in consequence. Valder shuddered at the thought. It was not that Azrad’s current condition was so very unpleasant, but that it had come upon him in a mere eighty years or so, while Wirikidor could perhaps keep Valder alive for eighty centuries.
And for that matter, how pleasant could Azrad’s life actually be? His elder son Azrad had died as a youth, in the waning days of the Great War. His wife was long dead. His surviving son, Kelder, was middle-aged and said to be a dreary sort. One grandson had died at the age of fourteen of some unidentified disease, and another was just coming of age. There were three granddaughters as well.
How happy a family could it be? Did any of those still living really care much for the old man? Kelder was surely waiting to inherit the throne, and the others had known Azrad only as a sick old man, never as the brilliant leader he had once been. Still, he had a family. Valder had only employees.
He hunched his shoulders and turned onto Arena Street. The guards had not said how far it was to the Wizards’ Quarter; he hoped it was not far. The sun was already low in the west.
The Arena itself, a large and impressive structure, was roughly a mile from High Street, Valder discovered. A block beyond it, he saw the first sign advertising a witch’s shop. A witch, of course, would be able to do nothing against a sword enchanted by a wizard, but it provided encouragement.
In the next block was a theurgist’s shop, and Valder was tempted. The gods, after all, could do anything — if they could be convinced to pay attention at all, and if you contacted the right god. He was unsure just how effective theurgy actually was since the gods had gone into their self-imposed exile, however, and he preferred to stick to the more straightforward approach.
The next two blocks were full of gaming houses, but, beyond that, Valder’s search was abruptly rewarded with greater riches than he had anticipated. The street was suddenly lined with magic shops of every description, advertising all manner of wizardry, witchcraft, theurgy, even demonology and sorcery, as well as arcane arts Valder could not identify, on a profusion of boastful signboards. “Abdaran of Skaia,” one read, “Miracles of Every Description.”
“Intirin the White,” the next read, “Your Prayers Answered or Your Money Back.” One bore no boasts but simply a black outline of a hand superimposed on a red eye and the name Dakkar — Valder thought that was rather ominous and probably represented a demonologist.
He walked on, following what seemed to be the thickest grouping around a corner to the right, and finally spotted, “Tagger, Tagger, and Varrin, Counterspells and Cures for Every Purpose.” That sounded like exactly what he was after.
The iron-studded door was closed, the windows draped with heavy dark velvet; he hesitated, but then knocked loudly.
He waited for what seemed a reasonably long time and was about to knock again when the door swung open and he found himself facing a small, black-haired man in a red robe and hat.
“Hello,” Valder said, “I need to have a spell removed.”
“Oh,” the red-clad man said. “Come in, then. I’m afraid the others are both out just now, but I’ll see what I can do. I’m Tagger the Younger.”
“Valder the Innkeeper,” Valder replied, nodding politely.
“The one with the magic sword?” Tagger asked.
Startled, Valder nodded.
“Ah! Come in, come in! What can I do for you?” He swung wide the door and escorted Valder inside, leading him to a comfortable, velvet-upholstered chair. He then sat down in a similar chair on the opposite side of a small table.
It took Valder a few seconds to gather his wits sufficiently to reply. He looked around the shop, which was furnished much like a small parlor, with many dark woods and rich fabrics, predominantly red. “Since you already know about the sword,” he said when he had composed himself, “I don’t suppose I need to explain everything after all. I want the spell removed from the sword.”
It was Tagger’s turn to be disconcerted. “Why?” he asked. “I thought the sword protected you and made you a formidable warrior!”
“It does to some extent, but what does an innkeeper need with that? It also happens to include a sort of curse that I’d like to be rid of.”
“Ah, I see! What sort of a curse? Do you know?”
“Do you really need to know?”
“It would probably help considerably.”
Valder paused. “Could we leave that for later?”
“I suppose. In that case, what can you tell me about the sword? Do you know who enchanted it or what spells were used?” “The spells were put on it by a hermit in the coastal marshes north of what is now Tintallion...” Valder began.
“After it was forged?” Tagger interrupted.
“Oh, yes, of course; it was just a standard-issue sword for at least three years.”
“Ah. Good, then we shouldn’t have to destroy it. Go on. Did you know this hermit’s name?”
“No; he never told me. I don’t believe I told him mine, either, for that matter.”
“And what was your name at the time? Surely you weren’t an innkeeper then.”
“No, I was Valder of Kardoret, Scout First Class.”
“Go on.” Tagger shifted in his chair.
“I saw part of his work when he was enchanting the sword, but I didn’t pay close attention, and he never explained any of it to me or told me anything about it. Even if he had, it’s been more than forty years now, and I wouldn’t remember much. When I got back to Ethshar, the army wizards tried to analyze it and they said that it included the Spell of True Ownership and some sort of animation; that’s all I remember. Oh, yes, I think they said it was eighth-order magic.”
Tagger started. “Eighth-order?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, dear.”
Valder did not like the sound of that. He waited for the wizard to continue.
“I can’t do anything for you, I’m afraid. My father might be willing to try, though, if you can pay enough; he’d stand a good chance of succeeding, I think, and would almost certainly survive the attempt, but I’ll admit frankly that you might not.”
“Why?”
“Because your life-force is linked to the sword by the Spell of True Ownership; tied to it, as it were, by an invisible knot. The wizard who made the connection in the first place, or any really extremely powerful and skilled wizard, might be able to untie that knot — but you don’t know who the original wizard was, and I don’t know of any wizards skilled enough to handle an eighth-order linkage properly, which is what it would be if the True Ownership were applied as part of the eighth-order spell rather than as a separate enchantment. If my father were to make the attempt, he wouldn’t be untying so much as cutting the knot, and that would mean possibly cutting away part of your life. To carry the analogy a step further, the severed ends are likely to lash about, and one might strike him and harm or kill him. Naturally, that means a high price is called for.”
Valder was already pretty certain that he did not want to pursue this route, but asked, “How high?”
“I can’t speak for him, really; at least ten pounds of gold, though, I’m sure.”
That settled the matter, since Valder did not have that much.
“Would you by chance know of anyone who might attempt it for less?”
Tagger shook his head. “No, I’m sorry, but I really don’t. High-level magic is expensive. Besides, you know, the really powerful wizards don’t need to make money by selling their talents; they provide for themselves by other means. I don’t suppose I should admit it, since it’s hardly good business, but since I’ve already told you we probably can’t help you, I might as well go on and tell you that we’re all second-raters here, all of us shopkeepers in the Wizards’ Quarter. If I could untangle an eighth-order spell, I could probably conjure up a castle in the air and live in luxury for the rest of my life, instead of spending my days removing impotence curses or curing baldness and scrofula and so forth.”
That made a great deal of sense, but also presented another possibility. “But such powerful wizards do exist?” “Oh, yes, there’s no doubt about that; the ones who can still be bothered with mundane affairs run the Wizards’ Guild, so I’ve met a few — but never by their true names, and probably not even wearing their true faces.”
“Where could I find such a wizard?”
Tagger shrugged eloquently. “I haven’t any idea at all. Certainly not running a shop in Ethshar of the Spices, unless you find one visiting to remind himself what he need no longer tolerate. And before you get any high hopes built up, let me remind you that a truly great wizard would have no particular reason to help you by removing the enchantment from your sword.”
“He’d have no particular reason not to help me, though.”
“Laziness comes to mind — and even for a really powerful wizard, undoing an eighth-order spell is likely to involve considerable difficulty and even some risk.”
“I see,” Valder said. He started to rise.
“Before you go,” Tagger said, “would you mind explaining to me just what this curse is you’re so eager to avoid? Perhaps we can find a way around it.”
Valder settled back again. “What do you mean?”
“Well, for example, we had a client once who had been cursed with what seemed like a simple enough spell; he had been given a really unpleasant odor, so that nobody could stand to go near him for very long. It’s a standard little curse, useful for revenge or blackmail — but in this case, the wizard had been feeling particularly vengeful, and had booby-trapped the spell, linking it to some very complicated wizardry we couldn’t be bothered untangling for any price the victim could pay, so that we couldn’t use the usual countercharm. Instead, we put another curse on the poor fellow, one that stopped up the sense of smell of anyone near him — and just to be sure, we gave his wife a love potion strong enough that she wouldn’t mind the stink, even if it reached her. There are still some effects — for example, dogs and other animals can’t go anywhere within a hundred feet of him, so he has to travel entirely on foot — but at least he’s not totally isolated.”
Valder considered, looking at the little wizard’s face; the man seemed quite sincere, and there was always some way out, if only it could be found.
“All right,” he said. “The curse is that I can only die when slain by the sword, Wirikidor; nothing else, not even old age, is supposed to be able to kill me. That’s what Darrend of Calimor and the rest of General Karannin’s wizards said, at any rate. However, I still age, can still be wounded, and I’m still going blind.”
“We can cure the blindness, I think,” Tagger said.
“That’s not the real point, though. I’m still going to age; I’m going to get older and older, weaker and weaker, and I won’t die. Ever. I don’t think I can face that.”
“You can kill yourself with the sword, though.”
“Not if I get too weak to lift it.”
Tagger looked thoughtful. “That’s a good point. I’m not sure how that would work, not knowing the exact spell.”
“I’m not sure either — and it’s my life that’s in question here.”
“Have you tested your supposed immortality?”
“No; how can I test it? I can still be harmed, after all.”
“You might take poison and see what it d
oes.”
“And perhaps spend the rest of my days with my belly burnt away? That’s just the sort of thing I want to avoid.”
“Oh, come now, there are plenty of deadly poisons with no long-term side effects. Still, I see your point. You haven’t tested it, in short.”
“No.”
“And you want some way out of your current situation, where you believe you will age normally, but never die of it.”
“Exactly.”
“You would consider suicide acceptable?”
“I am not enthusiastic about it, but it seems preferable to the alternative.” Tagger stared at him thoughtfully. “Could you really find it in yourself to do it? Killing oneself with a sword is not easy.”
Valder shifted uncomfortably. “I’m not sure,” he admitted.
“You could hire someone to kill you, I suppose.”
“No, not really; nobody else can use the sword while the spell holds, and the spell still has several deaths to go.”
“Several deaths? How do you mean that?”
“Oh, I didn’t explain the whole enchantment; it’s complicated. Between my acquisition of the sword in its enchanted form and my death, every time I draw it, it must kill a man, up to about a hundred times, and then it will turn on me and kill me. I had figured that I could live forever by simply not drawing it any more — but now I think that looks worse than death, as I’ve told you.”
“If I understand you, I feel obliged to warn you that I don’t think you will be able to kill yourself with the sword. I’m familiar with spells of that type, though not quite that form; they were discovered right about the time the Great War ended. The sword is semianimate, with a will of its own, is it not?”
“Yes.”
“Then it will not permit you to kill yourself until it has served out its full quota of deaths in your hands; your own determination aside, it’s physically impossible for you to commit suicide with that sword; I’m sure of it. You will have to kill however many men remain to the predetermined allotment, and then the sword will claim a new owner, who will kill you; no other outcome is possible while the sword and spell exist.”
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