Although the idea had a certain appeal, he marched onward down Wall Street rather than turning aside; he had no desire to become lost in the city’s tangled streets.
It also occurred to him that perhaps he overestimated the boldness of the city’s thieves in expecting an attack by daylight; he resolved that the next time he came to a tavern or inn he would settle in, eat an early dinner, and wait until dark.
The next inn, however, did not turn up until almost half an hour later, in Southgate, as he drew near Southgate Market. There he paused, glanced at the sun sinking behind him, down nearly to the rooftops; with a shrug, he stepped inside.
It was indeed well after dark when he stepped out again, and he was slightly the worse for drink, but his belly was full and his feet did not hurt quite so badly as before, whether from the rest or from the liquor he was not sure.
With fresh resolve, he strode onward toward Southgate Market, past innumerable cookfires scattered among the ramshackle shelters in the Field, and beneath the torches that lighted Wall Street.
He had gone perhaps two blocks when a thought suddenly struck him; would a thief approach him on Wall Street itself, where there were torches and campfires lighting the way and any number of possible witnesses in the Hundred-Foot Field who might be bribed into identifying an attacker?
Far more likely, he decided, they would look for their prey in alleys and byways that were uninhabited and not as well lighted. With that in mind, he turned left at the next opportunity, into a narrow unlighted street.
He wanted to remain in the vicinity of Wall Street, however, so he doubled back at the next intersection.
For the next hour or so, he wandered the back streets of Southgate; several times he sensed that he was being watched, though no one was in sight, and once he thought he heard stealthy footsteps, but no one accosted him. Still, he was encouraged.
He was also tired; he sat down on the stoop of a darkened shop and caught his breath.
He reviewed his actions of the day and evening and decided that he had done the right thing so far — save that it had taken him far too long to realize that dark alleys were better places to find cutpurses than Wall Street, even if Wall Street might be their home. He wished he had thought of it sooner, if only for the sake of his poor abused feet and tired legs. He stretched them out, feeling the muscles twinge as he did so, and rubbed his calves.
If he were to be attacked, he thought, he wasn’t certain he would be able to draw Wirikidor fast enough to prevent injury to himself when he was this tired.
It was with that in his mind that he heard a scream, suddenly cut off, and thrashing sounds from around the corner nearest him.
He leaped to his feet with the trained response of a man who had spent much of his life breaking up drunken brawls before they could damage the furnishings; without consciously intending it, he found himself rounding the corner into the alley whence the sounds came.
A smile twitched across his face as he saw what was happening; here he had been roaming the city looking for a robbery, and one had come to him while he rested. The light was poor, coming primarily from torches in a neighboring avenue, and his eyesight was not what it once was, but he could still plainly see that two men were attacking a woman. One held her from behind, one hand holding a knife to her throat and the other clamped over her mouth, while the other man was pawing at her skirt, searching for her purse or other valuables.
Valder had found himself a target and without luring anyone to himself. He drew Wirikidor, dropping the scabbard to the road and hoping that the second man would flee, rather than fight.
Hearing his approach, the man who had been kneeling at the woman’s skirt whirled and lost his balance, tumbling awkwardly to the street. The other released the woman, flinging her aside and whipping a sword from its sheath.
He had time to get a good look at Valder in the flickering torchlight before the two swords met with a clash of steel. “Ho, old man,” he said, starting a jibe of some sort; Valder never heard the rest of it, as Wirikidor whirled back to the side and slid under the thief’s guard so fast that he probably never even saw it coming and certainly had no time to parry. The blade, sharper than any razor, sliced through leather tunic, flesh, and bone with ease, spraying blood in an arc across the entire width of the alley.
Valder could not see the thief’s face; the light was behind him. All he saw was a black outline that slowly crumpled to the ground, the sword still clutched in the dead fingers. He brought Wirikidor up into guard position and looked for the woman’s other assailant.
That man had scrambled to his feet even as his comrade fell and had out his own sword now. Valder watched him warily.
The thief looked down at his dead companion, then back at Valder. “I don’t know how you did that, old man,” he said. “I guess you surprised him. I’m ready for you, though; you won’t take me by surprise. Maybe you’re better than you look, but you’re still old and weak and slow.”
Valder forced a grin. “I’ve killed fourscore better men than you, fool; run while you can.”
“So you can hit me from behind, perhaps? No, I’ve a friend’s death to avenge and avenge it I will!” With that, he lunged forward, sword extended.
Valder stepped back, suddenly realizing just how much trouble he was in as the other’s blade slid past his neck; he was old and slow, just as the man had said, and yes, without Wirikidor’s aid, he was almost defenseless. The sword sagged in his grip as he flailed helplessly, trying to fend off the next attack. He wouldn’t die — the curse assured that — but it looked to him very much as if he were about to be badly cut up, with eighteen men yet to kill. He saw the blade approaching and knew that his parry would not stop it before it drew blood and weakened him further; he tried to duck and felt himself losing his balance.
Then everything vanished in a sudden violent blaze of intense golden light; he staggered and fell, dazed, to the street.
He lay there for a long moment on his back, staring up at the polychrome aftereffects of the flash, streaks and stars of every color superimposed on the smoke-stained night sky of the city; then a shadow slid over him.
“Are you all right?” a woman’s voice asked.
“I’m not sure,” he managed to reply.
“Can you move?”
Valder tried and discovered he could; he forced himself up on his elbows. “I think so. What happened to the man I was fighting?”
The woman gestured. “I took care of him.”
Valder sat up and looked where she indicated, but could distinguish nothing but a vague black shape. “I don’t understand,” he said.
“Here, let me give you some more light.” She gestured again, this time not pointing at anything, but making a curious pass in mid-air with her hand. A white glow appeared in her palm, lighting the whole alleyway.
“You’re a wizard?” Valder said.
He could see her face now in the light that came from her hand; it was a young, attractive face. She smiled. “Yes, I’m a wizard.”
He looked again where she had indicated and saw that the black shape was exactly that, a charred black lump roughly the length of a man, with protruding fragments that resembled arms, legs, and a head. Valder gagged as he saw the distinctive shape of a human skull beneath a coating of ash and realized that this was all that remained of his foe.
“Not very pleasant, is it?” she remarked. “But then, they weren’t very pleasant people; I suppose they were going to rape me and kill me, if I resisted.”
“Did they know you were a wizard?”
“No, of course not; I don’t walk the streets wearing a sign proclaiming my profession, after all.”
“Why didn’t you fry them both right away?”
“They caught me by surprise; I couldn’t reach any of my magics, or move my hands to gesture, once they grabbed my knife and held it at my throat.” She held up the dagger that Valder’s first opponent had used, and he noticed for the first time that it had the white
gleam of silver rather than the gray of steel and that the hilt was carved of bone.
“What were you doing in this alley in the first place, and without any protective spells?”
“Well, if you must know, I took a wrong turn; I’m lost. I had hoped this alley was a shortcut. I was sightseeing, you might say, reacquainting myself with the city; it’s been quite some time since I last visited Ethshar of the Spices. As for protective spells, I had forgotten that I might need them. Foolish of me, I know — but I never claim to be free of human foolishness.” She sheathed the dagger on her belt, then asked, “For that matter, what were you doing here?”
That reminded Valder of his own situation; he looked about, spotted Wirikidor’s scabbard, and got to his feet to retrieve it. The sword itself, under the influence of the Spell of True Ownership, had never left his hand. When he had the sheath, he turned back and answered, “I was looking for thieves and murderers.”
“It would seem you found them,” she replied with a smile. “You’ll have to tell me all about it — but not here. Do you have any idea where we are?”
“Roughly; Wall Street lies three blocks that way, if I’m not mistaken, and we’re not very far from Southgate Market.”
“Ah! Lead on, then.”
“You haven’t any magic to find your way?”
“Not with me; I didn’t expect to need it. I grew up in this city, back when it was called New Ethshar; I hadn’t realized how much it had grown and changed.”
Valder looked at her curiously at that; he had judged her to be in her early twenties, from what he had seen of her, and, though he knew well enough that the city had changed greatly in his own lifetime, he had not thought that any great part of the change had been in the past two decades. Furthermore, he had never heard it called New Ethshar.
That was none of his concern, though. He buckled the scabbard to his belt, sheathed the sword, and then led the way to Southgate Market. They arrived there without further incident, and the wizard then took the lead, in her turn. Valder followed without protest, but did ask, “Where are we going? From what you’ve said, you don’t live in the city.”
“No, but one of my former apprentices does.”
Once again, Valder found himself puzzled; how could so young a wizard have a former apprentice? She seemed scarcely older than an apprentice herself. Still, he walked on in amiable silence, his feet aching with every step, discovering bruises from his fall that had not been immediately apparent.
He had lost track of time, but it was obviously quite late, once they were two blocks from the market, the streets were deserted, and the torches were burning low, some already out. He felt rather burned out himself; it had been a very long and trying day. For a moment, he wondered why he was following the wizard, but that passed; after all, she owed him a favor for his help and might at least save him the price of a night’s lodging.
They arrived, finally, at the door of a small shop in the Wizards’ Quarter, whose sign read “Agravan of the Golden Eye, Wizard Extraordinary.” A light still burned in the window. Valder’s guide knocked twice, and a moment later they were admitted to a young man who did, indeed, have one golden eye, the other being a watery blue.
“Mistress!” he exclaimed. “What kept you? And who is this?”
“I will tell you all about it, Agravan, but first, something to drink, and I think a soft bed would not be amiss — would it, friend? Your questions can wait until morning.”
Valder, who was only semiconscious by this point, managed to nod agreement; he made it up a flight of stairs, then collapsed upon the offered cot and was instantly asleep.
CHAPTER 30
Valder awoke, uncertain of where he was. The night’s events returned gradually, and a glance around reminded him that he was in the loft room of a wizard’s shop. The room was cluttered with books and arcane paraphernalia, jammed on shelves and overflowing from tables; his cot was squeezed into one corner. An unreasonable surge of hope welled up briefly; here he had found himself with a wizard in his debt. Perhaps something could be done about Wirikidor!
That hope faded quickly, however, as he recalled Lurenna’s words. There was nothing that could be done about the sword.
He might, however, have his eyesight restored, if the wizard he had rescued were really grateful. That would be a relief and might stave off the day when death would be preferable to an enforced life.
He got to his feet and wished he hadn’t; he had done far too much walking in the past few days and had slept with his boots on. His legs and feet were aching, itchy, and swimming in sweat. He found a filled pitcher his host had thoughtfully provided and pulled off his boots to swab his feet.
He was involved in this inelegant task when Agravan appeared on the stairs.
“Good morning, sir,” the young wizard called.
“Hello,” Valder replied. “And my thanks for your hospitality.”
“Oh, it’s nothing; I owe Iridith more than I can ever repay, and you’ve put her in your debt, it seems.”
“It’s kind of her to say so.”
“Would you care for breakfast? Iridith is awake, and I’m sure we all have much to tell one another.”
“I would be delighted,” Valder replied, though he was unsure just what he would have to say that would interest the wizards. He pulled his boots back on and followed his host downstairs.
The breakfast was good, but Valder found himself carrying the conversation, explaining in detail Wirikidor’s nature and how he had come to have his sword enchanted in the first place and his attempts to remedy his situation.
When he had finished, Iridith asked, “Do you really want to die?”
“No,” Valder admitted. “But it does seem preferable to the alternative.”
“Is there only one alternative, though?”
“I told you that I consulted wizards on the matter and was told that the spell can’t be broken without killing me.”
“That’s probably true; certainly I wouldn’t know how to go about it,” Iridith said, spreading butter on a biscuit. “However, as Tagger the Younger told you, there must be a way around it. I’ve never met the lad, but he sounds like a sensible person.”
“How can there be a way around it? I’ll live as long as I own the sword and I’ll own the sword for as long as I live; there isn’t any way out of that. I’ll just grow older and older forever unless I kill another eighteen men and allow myself to be murdered. I don’t mind the idea of living forever, but not if I continue to age.”
“Ah, but then why should you continue to age?”
Valder wondered if the woman was being intentionally dense. “I don’t have a great deal of choice in the matter,” he retorted.
“That’s where you’re wrong, though. You do have a choice. Others might not, but you do; you just don’t know it.”
Valder was not sure if the wizard was speaking in riddles or just babbling outright nonsense. “What are you talking about?” he asked politely. He was tempted to be harsher, but the wizard had saved him from injury the night before, as much, as he had saved her, and besides, offending wizards was never a good idea.
“How old do you think I am?” she asked.
Playing along with the apparent nonsequitur, Valder answered, “Oh, twenty-one or so.” An honest reply would have been twenty-five.
She smiled, and Valder, who had not really had a chance to see her clearly the night before, was startled by how beautiful her face became when she smiled. “I’m two hundred and eighty-eight.”
Valder could think of nothing to say in reply to such an outrageous claim. He had heard tales of immortal wizards, of course — everybody had — but he had never paid much attention to them. He had seen wizards die and knew them for mere mortal humans; two of his childhood friends had taken up careers in magic, one as a theurgist and one as a wizard, yet both had remained ordinary people outside of their magical abilities.
“I don’t think you believe me,” Iridith said, reading his fac
e. “But it’s true. I served as a combat wizard for a century under Admiral Sidor and Admiral Dathet; I was retired long before Azrad came to power, and before you were born. I grew up here before the city wall was built, before the Palace was built, before the New Canal was dug. There are spells to restore or preserve youth indefinitely.”
“Why haven’t I ever heard of them, then?” Valder asked skeptically.
“You’ve never heard of wizards centuries old?”
“Certainly I have, but just rumors — and most of those wizards were supposed to look old, not young and beautiful.”
She smiled again. “My thanks for the compliment; my face is my own, only my age is of thaumaturgical origin. Not all wizards who can restore youth choose to do so; many prefer to stay the outward age at which they learned the spells that prevent aging. Since that’s usually not until one is sixty or seventy years old, many of the ancients like myself still look old. I was vain enough — and weary enough of eating with false teeth — that I chose otherwise. I was... let me see... seventy-four when I learned the secrets.”
“That doesn’t explain why I never heard more about these spells, though.”
“They were secret, of course — the Wizards’ Guild saw to that. Even during the war, when we let the army know so many secrets, we kept that one for ourselves.”
“But why?”
“Isn’t it obvious?”
“Not to me.”
“The spells are very difficult, the ingredients very expensive, and they consume an inordinate amount of magical energy. If everyone knew that such spells existed, everyone would want them; who wouldn’t want to be young forever? However, that’s not practical. First off, if no one were to die of old age, the world would become very crowded very quickly. And besides, we simply couldn’t enchant everyone; there isn’t enough to go around of some of the ingredients, and the spells would use up so much magical energy that it might affect the whole balance of reality. But do you think most people would believe that? Most people distrust wizards enough as it is. In the face of something like eternal youth being denied them, they’d surely accuse us of keeping it for ourselves out of evil motives.” She paused, then added, “Besides, there are plenty of people around I’d just as soon not see still alive a century hence.”
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