The Making of a Mage

by Ed Greenwood

  “There is no place to hide from strong magic,” Broarn said soberly. “ ’Tis why men hold these lands now, and not the Fair Folk.”

  “I thought elven magic o’ermatched that of men,” Elminster said curiously.

  “If elven mages wielded it together, aye—but elves have little taste for war, and spend much of their time feuding with each other. Most of them are also … we would call it idle; they trouble themselves more about having a good time and less about doing things.” The innkeeper reached back through the door he’d come in by, produced a blanket, and tossed it over the side of a stall.

  “Human wizards know less,” Broarn went on, stepping into the unseen passage beyond the door and reappearing with a covered serving platter and an old, battered tankard as large as Elminster’s head, “but’re always trying to find old spells or create new ones. Elven mages only smile, say they already know all they need to—or if they’re arrogant, say they know everything there is to know—and do nothing.”

  Elminster saw a nearby stool and sat down. “Tell me more,” he said. Please. What that mage said about my simple ways is true enough. I would hear more of the way of the world, hereabouts.”

  Broarn smiled and passed him the tray and the tankard. His smile broadened as Elminster lifted the lid, saw cold fowl, and dug in eagerly. “Ah, but you have the wits to know that, lord, where most don’t. Here in Athalantar, there’s little to say: the magelords have this land by the throat and don’t mean to shift their grip. Yet for all their airs, they couldn’t hold a magic apprenticeship at some places in the southlands.”

  Elminster looked up with his mouth full but his eyebrows raised. The innkeeper nodded. “Aye, the lands down there have always been rich, and crowded—fair crawling with folk. The greatest realm is Calimshan; the place those dusky-skinned merchants with their heads wrapped, who come here all bundled up in furs in spring and fall, come from.”

  “I’ve never seen them,” Elminster said quietly.

  The innkeeper scratched at his mustache. “You have been hidden away, lad. Well, to tell the tale short, there’s a huge lawless land north of Calimshan, all forests and rivers, where their nobles always go to hunt game—or went, that is. An archmage—that’s a wizard stronger by far than these magelords—” Broarn paused to spit thoughtfully on the dead wizard at his feet “—set himself up there and now rules most of it. The Calishar, it used to be called; I know not if he’s renamed it, as he seems bent on changing all else. The Mad Mage, they call him, because he chases his whims so fiercely, and doesn’t care about what he destroys in the doing; Ilhundyl’s his name. Since he claimed the land, all the folk as didn’t want to be turned into frogs and falcons have moved on—north, most of them.”

  Elminster sighed. “It sounds as if there’s nowhere in all the world at peace from mages.”

  Broarn smiled. “It feels that way, my lord, it does. If you must hide from the magelords, go up the Unicorn Run, deep into the High Forest. They fear the Fair Folk will rise against them there, and they’re right on that … the elves fear to lose more land to the axes of Athalantar and will fight for every tree. If you need to hide only from armsmen, Wyrm Wood right behind us here will do—they fear dragons. The mages know better; they slew the last dragon hereabout—and took its hoard—some twenty winters gone, but can’t get us simple folk to believe that.”

  Elminster smiled. “And if I want to stand and fight? How can I best a wizard?”

  Broarn spread his large and hairy hands. “Learn—or hire—stronger magic.”

  El shook his head. “How would ye trust anyone stronger in magic than magelords? What’s to stop them from just taking the throne themselves after they’ve slain these wizards?”

  The innkeeper nodded and gave Elminster a nod of approval. “A point, aye. Well, the other way is much slower and less sure.”

  Elminster leaned forward on the stool, and swept his hand up in a beckoning wave. “So tell.”

  “Work from within, as a rat gnaws away in the pantry.”

  “How does a man become a rat?”

  “Steal. Be a thief in the back streets and the low taverns and the markets of Hastarl, close to the wizards’ backsides, and wait and watch and learn. Warriors have to stand tall and wave blades … and be seen and slain by any mageling that points a wand their way, and outlaws must needs come out to seize food all too often. You’ve probably seen enough of the wilderlands of your realm to satisfy your curiosity. ’Tis time to learn the ways of the city, of thieving. It prepares one for ruling, some say.” He lifted a corner of his mouth at his own jest. “Besides, a warrior’s way is no more nor less safe than being a thief; any man can be overcome if caught alone—as you learned tonight—and if you wait long enough …”

  El grinned like a wolf over dinner, rose, and took hold of the magelord’s legs. “Have ye a shovel?”

  Broarn returned the look. “Aye, and a nice warm manure pile to dig with it, Prince.” They clasped each other’s arms, as one warrior to another.

  “At least get some more food into you before you move on,” Broarn grunted, handing a tray into the end stall.

  Elminster took it; steam and a delicious smell were rising together from a bowl on the tray. “Nay,” he said, “I should be—” And then his stomach growled so loudly that he and the innkeeper both laughed.

  “Mind you take that pendant with you when you go, and hide it somewhere else,” Broarn said sternly. “I don’t want magelords tracing it here, digging it up from whatever clever hiding place you’ve chosen, and then trying to gently ‘question’ me with their spells.”

  “It will leave with me,” Elminster promised. “It’s under a stone on the road outside right now, where a road-thief might have left it.”

  “Well enough,” said Broarn, “so I—” He broke off and held up a hand to bid Elminster to silence.

  Then the innkeeper bent his head to the hatch at the back of the stables, listening intently. After a moment, he slid his hand back through the side door. It reappeared clutching the old axe, raised and ready

  Elminster drew the broken Lion Sword and sank down in the stall, holding up a large armload of straw to conceal himself, though betraying steam rose idly from the tray.

  The hatch opened in well-oiled silence. Broarn stood calmly just inside it and broke into a smile at about the time a familiar voice said, “Waiting up for me, dearest? Wert expecting me?”

  “In with you, Helm, while there’s still some warmth in my stables,” the innkeeper growled in reply, stepping back.

  “I brought friends,” the knight said as he stepped into the room, looking dirtier than ever. He scowled as Elminster rose in his stall, straw in his hair and sword in hand.

  “Is this how far ye’ve got? I thought ye’d be well across the river by now,” he said.

  Elminster shook his head, losing his grin fast. “The magelord who escaped us at the camp found me here somehow—probably he can trace the spellbook—and nearly slew me. Broarn cut him down with that axe.”

  Helm turned to regard the innkeeper with new respect. “A slayer of magelords, now.” He circled Broarn as if viewing a lady in a bold new gown, then nodded approvingly. “ ‘Tis a most exclusive brotherhood, ye know … besides the lad here an’ meself, its only members are the dead, an’ a few living magelords. Why, th—”

  “Helm,” Broarn broke in bluntly, “why are you here? I’ve armsmen in the house, as you should know.”

  As they’d been talking, knight after outlaw knight had slipped in through the hatch, crowding into the end stalls. So many of them wore armor scavenged from the soldiery of Athalantar that it looked as if a dozen or more rather scruffy, armsmen stood in the stable now.

  “There is a matter of some small urgency, aye,” Helm said more soberly. “Which is why Mauri’s shivering in a sledge outside, with another twenty-odd brave blades.”

  “They took Lawless Castle?” The innkeeper sounded shocked.

  “Nay. We fled from it before th
ey could trap us there. The magelords sent a large band of armsmen out of Sarn Torel, guarding over a dozen mages. They’ve slain twenty or more wildswords we know of and tortured at least one with spells—they know where the castle is, by now, and are heading straight for it.”

  “So you brought them here. My thanks, Helm,” Broarn said bitterly and sketched a courtly bow.

  “They’ll have no way of knowing we did any more than steal a horse or two,” Helm said firmly. “We’re leaving very soon, now that ye—and the lad, here, a country boy called Eladar, by the way if he hasn’t told ye—” The two men exchanged a fleeting, level look “—know the tidings. Eladar was right, we’ve been too good at killing armsmen an’ now they’re determined to slay the lot o’ us. The wizards daren’t let such defiance succeed or soon the whole realm will be up in arms. We must run. Any suggestions, wise innkeeper?”

  Broarn snorted. “Run to the Calishar and get Ilhundyl to teach you to be master mages so you can come back and fight these magelords … get a friendly mage to hide all of you as frogs before the magelords can find you and do it swifter … go to the depths of the elven realms and get them to hide you somehow … call on the gods for miracles … I believe that about covers it.”

  “There’s one other place,” Elminster said quietly

  The silence of utter astonishment fell on both Helm and Broarn. They turned as one to look at the lad in the scorched leather jerkin, standing alone in his stall. He’d slid his sword into hiding and picked up the bowl of turkey soup Broarn had brought him. As they watched, he calmly took a spoonful, smiled, dipped his spoon into the bowl again, drew forth another spoonful, and blew on it to cool it.

  “I’ll slay ye, lad, if ye don’t stop playing the fool,” Helm growled, taking a step toward him.

  “That’s more or less what the magelord said to me,” Elminster remarked mildly, “and look ye what befell him.”

  Helplessly, Helm started to laugh, and that set Broarn and the other outlaws off into roars of mirth while Elminster assumed an air of innocence over his bowl and ladled several spoonfuls into his mouth, fearing chances to do so later would be few.

  “All right, lad,” Broarn managed when he had breath enough, “give. Where to hide?”

  “Among a lot of folk that wizards dare not slay or upset too many of, or they’ll have no realm left. In Hastarl itself,” Elminster said.

  Helm—and a lot of the outlaw knights behind him—stared at the youth with open mouths, aghast.

  “But ye’ll attack the first mage ye see when ye step inside the gates, and we’ll all perish right then!” the battered knight protested.

  Elminster shook his head. “Nay,” he said. “Watching sheep taught me patience … and hunting wizards is teaching me guile.”

  “Ye’re crazed,” one of the other outlaws muttered.

  “Aye,” another agreed.

  “Wait a bit,” still another protested. “The more I think on it, the better it seems.”

  “Ye want death at yer elbow every day, whene’er ye go out?”

  “I’ve got that now … an’ if I go to Hastarl like the lad says, I might get me a warm house to sleep in o’ winters.”

  Then they were all talking, arguing earnestly, until Broarn hissed, “You will be quiet!” to knight after knight, waving his axe under their noses for emphasis. When he had silence, the fat innkeeper said, “If you make that sort of noise, I’ll have armsmen up from their beds and in here to see what fun they’re missing. Anyone want that?”

  He let silence stretch for a moment or two, and then went on quietly, “Some of you will want to remain in the hills or flee to other lands, but some may want to go with the lad here to Hastarl. Whatever you decide, do it well back in the woods; I want all of you away from here before dawn. Helm, bring Mauri and the home-stuffs she’s got in by the back door. She stays here. Don’t let anyone help you who can’t move quietly. Now out, all of you—and may the luck of the gods cloak you and keep you!”

  The meeting was breaking up; the time to strike was now. This deed would surely win him a rank among the magelords! No more apprenticeship to fat old Harskur … and real power at last!

  Saphardin Olen rose from the cold hillside, letting his eavesdropping spell fade away He raised the wands in his hands, aiming at the hatch—best to strike now, before any of them left the place.

  “Die, fools!” he said with a smile, and then pitched forward like a felled tree as a stone the size of a war helm smashed into the back of his head.

  As the blood-spattered rock settled smoothly into the snow, the two fallen wands rose by themselves and glided in a gentle arc through the trees to the next knoll, where a tall, lean woman stood watching them come with large, dark eyes.

  Her face was bone white, and her hair a curling honey-brown. At one glance, a farmer would have bowed to her as a lady. She put out a hand to take the wands as they glided up to her, and her dark green cloak swirled about her, as if moved by unseen hands. Silvern threads on its shoulders were worked in a mage-sigil of linked circles.

  The sorceress watched the outlaws stride into the woods, and waved a hand. Her body faded, rippled, and became just another of the shifting shadows here in the winter-stripped trees—cloaked and unseen, save for her large, liquid black eyes.

  They blinked once as they watched Elminster hug Helm in farewell before heading south, alone.

  “The soul is strong in you, Prince of Athalantar,” their owner said quietly. “Live, then, and let us see what you can do.”

  PART

  II

  BURGLAR

  FOUR

  THEY COME OUT AT NIGHT

  Thieves? Ah, such an ugly word … think of them instead as kings-in-training. Ye seem upset, even disputatious. Well, then, look upon them as the most honest sort of merchant.

  THE CHARACTER OGLAR THE THIEFLORD IN THE ANONYMOUS PLAY SHARDS AND SWORDS YEAR OF THE SCREECHING VOLE

  It was just one more in an endless string of hot, damp days in the early summer of the Year of the Black Flame. Folk in Hastarl had taken to lying more or less unclad on the flat stretches of their rooftops and their balconies after sunset, hoping for a breeze to blow over their skin and bring them some fleeting moments of comfort.

  This was good for both pleasure and business—the predictable pleasure, and one business in particular.

  “Ah,” Farl said softly, leaning forward to peer out of the slit window. “The show of flesh beginneth again, so it doth.”

  “When ye’ve finished drooling down the stonework,” the slim, beak-nosed youth behind him said dryly, “do ye hold the line while I go down.”

  “That’ll be about dawn, I’d say,” was the reply.

  “Aye, then, hold the line now and look later.” Elminster cast a glance over the head of his fellow thief and squinted professionally “Ah, yes, quite a tattoo there … though how the man sees it, with the curve of his belly between his eyes and where it is, only the gods can know.”

  Farl chuckled. “Think of what it must have felt like, getting it, too.” He winced with an exaggerated flourish, and added, “But you’re supposed to be looking at the maids, El, not at the men!”

  “Ah, I’ve got to learn to tell the difference. It gets me into more trouble,” Elminster replied serenely. Then what he’d been waiting for befell: a large bank of clouds drifted across the moon. Without another word, he slipped through the narrow window, one hand on the rope harness, and was gone.

  Farl settled the smooth leather rope slide securely on the sill, and with surprising strength slowed the line gliding through it to a gentle, continuous movement until a sharp jerk told him to stop. He thrust a dagger into one of the holes in the wheel from which the rope unwound, then looked out the window.

  Directly under him, in the empty air beneath the outthrust upper room of the tower, Elminster calmly hung suspended outside the window of the room below. One of his hands—the hand wearing a wrapping coated with sticky honeycake—was on the tower wall; El w
as keeping himself to one side of the window, out of the view of the room’s occupants. He peered in for what seemed a very long time before raising his hand in a signal, not looking up.

  Farl passed the reachers down on their own lines.

  Hanging there in the quickening night breeze, Elminster took hold of them: two long, thin wooden sticks with wrist braces at one end, like crutches, and sticky balls of precious stirge glue on their other ends. A hooked and pad-ended side prong jutted from one stick.

  El delicately used that prong to swing the shutters fully back—and then withdrew the reachers and waited patiently No sound came from within, and after several long breaths, he reached out again. One stick slid in until its leather sleeve caught the sill. He balanced its weight there, and then slid it onward through its sleeve, probing delicately inside the room. When he drew it out, a gem gleamed on the sticky end. He backed the stick until he could slide his hand up to its tip, let it dangle from its line while he thrust the gem into the tube-bag of stout canvas be wore around his neck, and then reached into the room with the stick again, slowly … smoothly … silently.

  Thrice more the sticks appeared, were emptied of precious cargo, and returned to the room. Farl saw the youth below wipe sweating hands on dark, dusty leather breeches, and then lean forward again. He held this breath, knowing what that gesture meant: Eladar the Dark was about to try something especially reckless. Farl mouthed a silent prayer to Mask, Lord of All Thieves.

  Elminster reached into the bedchamber once more. His sticks slid over the bare, slumbering body of the young merchant’s wife, only inches above the soft curves of her flesh—and paused over her throat. She wore a dark ribbon there … and below it, a pectoral of linked emeralds, topped by a spider of black wire whose body was a single huge ruby.

  Elminster watched the jewelry rise and fall, ever so slightly, with her slow and even breathing. If it was like others he’d seen, the spider could be unclasped to be worn alone as a cloak pin. If … a touch, just so—a wiggle to be sure it was caught … and now so was he (This had to work, or he’d be left with a stick twice as long as a man stuck to the breast of a naked woman who’d not stay asleep for very long) … and a little lift, up and back, so. Don’t brush her nose with it, now … with infinite care and patience El brought the reachers back out of the window.