by M. C. Planck
The wizard sat on a stone throne, draped in black robes. Christopher could not see his face under the hood. But remembering Lalania’s description rendered the illusions ineffectual.
“For good reason, Lord Wizard. I have come to report a murder.”
“Isn’t that what I pay the Captain for?” The querulousness of the question diminished the effect of the grave tone.
“This is beyond his ability,” Christopher said. He had completely forgotten to even mention it to the Captain, but he knew it would have been a waste of time. “The murderer is a professional assassin.”
The wizard tapped long fingernails on the stone arm of his throne. “I presume the assassin stalks you. So why does this concern me?”
Christopher came straight to the point. “I want your help in finding her.”
Leaning back, the wizard shook his head gently, so as not to disturb the careful folds of his hood. “You fail on two points. First, I have no incentive to help you, and secondly, I could not if I wanted to. Hunting down an Invisible Guild rat is a job for dogs and policemen, not wizards.”
“Then give me permission to search the city.” He would funnel every adult woman through a zone of truth if he had to.
But the wizard anticipated him. “I will not let you turn my city upside down and shake it until everything falls loose. I would hear no end of complaining, and I cannot bear it. Have you not done enough already?”
“Then what are you going to do?” Christopher demanded.
“The obvious solution would be to remove the attraction. Banishing your army would be easier than banishing one invisible woman.”
The wizard’s tone was ironic, but the truth of it washed over Christopher like fresh water.
“Yes. Banish me. Build me a fort to the south, and I will take my army and my person away from here. For the small cost of a week of your time, I will extend your southern border twenty miles, giving your farmers the protection of at least an early warning.” He was making up plans as fast as he talked, all the pieces tumbling into place easily. “They will flock to those empty lands, raising your taxes. My soldiers will only trouble your tavern keepers every few weeks, when their pockets are full of silver. And I may be able to find some ulvenmen, which will make the King happy.”
The wizard stopped his improv with a raised hand.
“I see your point. Indeed, it makes so much sense one wonders why no commander has ever volunteered it before. I confess a certain curiosity as to your motivation.”
Because life in this city had lost its allure, slain by a single white quarrel. And also, paradoxically, because it had too much allure. Not just the teenage girl in his bed, but the desire to upend the entire social order, which the wizard would probably interpret as a threat to his rule.
“Because I am haunted by too many women,” he said, trying to give an answer that was reasonably close to the truth. The luscious body of his young seductress, still fresh in his memory, brought him not even a shred of guilt-tinged arousal. In his mind she wore the face of the young mother he had so terribly failed.
The wizard laughed, forgetting his role as undead overlord. Then he caught himself, and tried to cover it up with a fit of coughing.
“It’s okay,” Christopher said. “I know it’s just an illusion.”
“How?” Then, again, in the graveyard tones. “How do you defeat my magic?”
“What incentive do I have to reveal my secrets?” Cheeky, yes, perhaps even impertinent in the face of so much rank, but Christopher was buoyed by his sudden plan. Though escape was no victory, it was better than despair.
“To earn my favor. Does that mean so little to you?”
A sense of relief washed through Christopher. The mere fact that the wizard was arguing meant Christopher had room to negotiate.
“Now that you mention it, I would like to ask a favor of you. Can you teach me to fly?”
The wizard was taken aback. “I thought you a priest.”
“I am, but of a god of Travel. I can memorize the spell, I just don’t know how to use it.”
The wizard hesitated, and then came to a decision. He pulled his hood back, so he could look Christopher directly in the face. The transformation from figure of dread to middle-aged insurance adjustor was more unbalancing than any of the theatrics had been.
“You would be a most unusual apprentice.”
“Not exactly an apprentice. After all, I’ll be showing you something new, too.”
“You would be an odd choice of partner, as well.”
“It’s true, I’m just plain odd.” Geek humor, but the wizard smirked, and then said the most unexpected thing possible.
“Would you like a drink? I’ve got some imported wine around here, somewhere.”
The emotional depletion of the entire day sagged at Christopher. “Yes, actually, I would.”
When the wizard stood up from the throne, he was a head shorter than Christopher. He started pushing at the lid of a stone coffin, and Christopher went to help him. Inside the coffin was a pile of hay and a number of bottles.
“Keeps it cool and dry during the day,” the wizard said. “These blasted summers are unbearable. Now . . . some glasses.” He stared absently into the distance, and Christopher could hear glass tinkling. Straight out of the stone wall floated a pair of huge goblets, suspended on thin air. This was spookier than anything else Christopher had seen in the tower, sending an involuntary twitch through his shoulders. The wizard seemed oblivious, absently snatching one of the goblets while he rooted around for a bottle.
Christopher steeled his nerve and plucked the remaining goblet out of the air. It came away in his hand with only the slightest resistance, and then it was just a glass.
Not just a glass. When he looked inside it, a huge beetle crawled out and fell to the floor.
“Blasted bugs,” the wizard snorted, and stomped on it.
“Um. Do you have a sink?” Christopher stared at the remains of the huge insect that had just been in his drinking vessel.
“Yes, this way.” He walked through the wall and disappeared. Christopher could not help himself; he extended a hand and watched it disappear into the wall, feeling nothing. It was, as he expected, mere illusion. He still closed his eyes as he stepped over the barrier.
On the other side was a staircase, circling up the side of the tower. The wizard was already halfway to the next floor, almost as if he had forgotten about Christopher.
“Sorry about the mess,” he mumbled, when Christopher came out of the top of the stairs into a fiendishly untidy room. A huge table dominated the center, and bookshelves lined the walls. Much to Christopher’s amazement, there were books on the shelves. Perhaps a hundred volumes.
“Your library is impressive.”
“It’s mostly junk,” the wizard said. “That whole set over there are just tax records. Why would anybody write that stuff down? You get what you get. Writing about it doesn’t make it more. Oh, right, a sink.” Across the room, to another hidden doorway, and they walked through an illusionary bookcase to the next flight of stairs.
Living quarters, and if possible, even more untidy. But there was a sink in the corner, and water flowed from the tap when he depressed the lever.
“There’s a tank on the roof,” the wizard said, “and I leave the phantasmal servant running at night to fill it. Cheaper than feeding an apprentice to do it.”
Christopher washed out his glass, moved a pile of dirty laundry from an old and faded armchair, and sat down. The wizard made a grand gesture, and the table swept itself clean, all of the junk sliding off the edge and floating gently to the floor. Almost all of it. There was sound of crockery shattering.
“Clumsy servant,” the wizard grumbled. “But watch this.” He said a word in a language Christopher had never heard before, and the cork popped out of the bottle and flew across the room.
“That’s my limiter. When I can’t remember the magic word, I know I’ve drunk too much.”
Christopher smiled at the attempt at humor. The wizard really must be desperately lonely. And no wonder: not only was he isolated by social class and profession; his paranoia was justified. His head was the most valuable thing in the county; boiled, it would yield enough tael to raise a commoner to Christopher’s rank and still have enough change left over to buy a new suit and a haircut.
So Christopher held his glass out for wine and put his grief and anger aside.
“A toast to whatever peasant trod these grapes, so that we might have a moment’s respite.” The wizard raised his glass, and Christopher joined him. It was the kind of toast Christopher could drink to.
“And to your god,” the wizard added politely, raising his glass again.
“Why? He didn’t pick any grapes,” Christopher said. The wizard laughed, they took a long drink, and it was time to talk business.
“How?”
“You bring in a woman every week, but your mind-spell can be defeated.” Christopher was nervous about giving away Lalania’s secret, even though it was necessary. He needed allies. He needed this ally.
“I knew that girl was too good to be true. The blonde, right?”
“Yes.” Thinking of the buxom girl in bed with this seedy little man was an uncomfortable image, so he took another long draft of wine.
“Dark take it, I know the spell landed. How did she undo it? Or was that your work?”
“No, she did it on her own, with paper. She wrote down her intentions and gave it to an innkeeper to return to her the next day. Reading what she had set out to do the night before apparently jogged her memory and let her remember everything.”
“Ah,” the wizard said. “I got lazy. Should have used two compulsions, one about coming here, and one about what happens when she does come here.”
“Or you could just avoid literate women.”
The wizard laughed again, a rusty sound, like he’d forgotten how to do it in front of company.
“That would be easier, I agree. You’re just full of easy answers. I think I like your religion.”
Christopher had to laugh then. “Don’t look to me for conversion. What I know about religion is less enlightening than your tax books.”
“Then I’ll fulfill my part of the bargain. But before I tell you how to use the spell, I should tell you how to not kill yourself with it.”
That was a promising start.
Christopher pounded three times on the huge iron door. Then he did it again, just for the sound of it.
“Patience, my esteemed lord. I crank as fast as I can,” the doorman said. But Karl and Gregor were already pulling the door open.
Christopher staggered forth into their arms.
“Priest, heal thyself,” Gregor muttered, as Torme leapt forward in concern.
But they all relaxed once they realized he was just drunk.
“I take it things went well,” Gregor said.
“They did indeed. I got us banished.” Christopher, never politic, was utterly inept when he was three sheets into the wind.
“Grave news, my lord,” Torme said, but Christopher waved him off.
“No, it’s great news. That wench won’t be able to hide in a fort full of men. The wizard’s going to build us a fort, see. He’s not such a bad guy.”
“I’m certain it is only the liquor talking,” the doorman said, shaking his head at the last comment. “He is most assuredly nothing but that.”
The sun was just coming up, light creeping into the dark sky.
“I would like to take a nap now,” Christopher said. He looked around for a comfortable place to lie down.
“This way, sir,” Torme said, guiding him home. Karl and Gregor fell in behind, the squad of surreptitiously yawning soldiers following.
“This would be the perfect time for her to strike,” Gregor muttered.
“Unless he only fakes his impairment.” Torme always cast Christopher in the best light.
“Is that possible?” Gregor said, prepared to be impressed.
“No,” Karl admitted. “The man can’t hold his liquor. But she doesn’t necessarily know that.”
“Hey!” Christopher mumbled. “I heard that.” He turned around to find Karl and give him a sound thrashing, got lost, and had to wait for Torme to point him in the right direction again.
The men were careful not to show their dismay. They were not insensitive to the death of the child, but they were still young men. The town, with its rowdy taverns and accommodating women, still held plenty of allure for them.
“You can come back every few weeks, and be party animals then.” The idea of a weekend pass was another one of Christopher’s innovations. “In between times, you’re going to be soldiers.” They perked up at that. They were at that improbable age where fighting sounded like as much fun as chasing girls.
His army poured out of the gates, a long column of wagons and men. The cavalry was already in the field, scouting the advance.
Karl approved, of course. “It was good for them to live a hero’s life, for a while. But it is better for them to have to earn it again.”
Gregor had already registered his delight by leading out the cavalry. He’d been gone from the city since daybreak. No doubt Royal would rather be with them, tromping through the countryside, but like Christopher, the big warhorse was saddled with other responsibilities. Disa rode on a gentle mare, looking uncomfortable and out of place.
“How do you usually get around?” Christopher asked, when it became obvious she had never ridden before.
“The poor walk, Brother,” she said. That was no longer an option. Her magical skills were too valuable for mundane transportation.
The thought made him grin. Just as soon as he got the chance, he was going to travel in a wholly new manner, too.
But today he had an army to oversee, a thousand trivial decisions to make, and a logistics nightmare. The wooden wall-molds occupied most of the space in his wagons, so they would be making multiple trips over the next few weeks for the rest of their supplies. In the meantime they had to pack only what they could not do without.
The locals came out to cheer them as they marched past villages and hamlets. Christopher wasn’t sure if that was because his men had already made friends with them, or because they were just relieved there would now be soldiers between them and the ulvenmen.
After the second day they were out of the farmlands, and the roads ended. Now it was hard slogging through unbroken swampland. Just finding a path would be work, and finding a destination would be impossible. He wanted to build his fort on a hill, but the trees were so thick that visibility was limited to a few dozen yards.
Karl sent a soldier up a tree, to no avail.
“Well then,” Christopher said. “I’ll just have to do it myself.”
Handing the reins of his horse to Karl, he stepped into a clearing, closed his eyes, and cleared his mind. He spread his arms and chanted the words of the spell, waiting for wind beneath his wings.
When the feeling came, it was immediately exhilarating. He drifted upward, slipping through gravity’s fingers like water, elevated by desire alone. It was the same feeling as a heavy sigh, the same release of tension, that moment of weightlessness as you sink into your leather easy chair. Only the direction was different.
Opening his eyes, he soared. Arms outstretched, crucified on a shaft of air, he moved up, past the tops of the trees. He dared not look down, dared not to respond to the sudden shouts and cheers of his men. He did not want to chicken out.
So he went higher, without letting himself think of how high. The wizard had told him the chief danger of the spell was that it only lasted a fixed amount of time—for Christopher, it would be slightly less than an hour—and when it did fail, it did so with little warning. If you were within sixty feet of the ground, you would be safe, the spell letting you down gently for at least that far. But after that, it could disappear at any moment, dropping you like a stone.
As long as he didn’t
lose track of time, he would be fine.
He couldn’t hear the noise of his army as clearly now. There was nothing in his peripheral vision but blue sky. Still he went up, figuring that a thousand feet would give him a good view. He was afraid that if he looked down now, he would not have the courage to go higher.
When he finally let himself stop pushing upward, he brought his hands in and forced his gaze toward the ground, so very far away. He hung in midair, standing on nothing. He had expected it to feel like skydiving. He was wrong. It felt like flying.
His army snaked out below him like a string of ants, tiny brown dots barely glimpsed through trees. He laughed wildly and spun in a circle. Then he leaned forward and began to fly in earnest.
The wind rushing past his face was still light, so he wasn’t breaking any speed records. Without the passing ground as a reference it was hard to guess, although the wizard had described it as half-again as fast as a man could run. Royal could put a stiffer wind in his face in a hard gallop.
But Royal had to work for that, and this was effortless. All of his duty and grief had been left on the ground, discarded like a rumpled night-robe. For these few moments he was simply, ecstatically happy.
The wizard had warned him of another danger. If he went too high, he ran the risk of attracting a passing elemental, some mythical magical beastie that lived in the winds. The creature would undoubtedly take offense at such an unnatural intrusion into its domain and might punish him by dispelling the magic. His sixty feet of graceful drifting would not be much comfort then. And he could only do this spell once a day, so even if he had the concentration to cast it while falling, he couldn’t.
Since the stakes were so high, he had resolved to take the wizard’s words seriously, no matter how much like superstition they sounded. He wouldn’t be setting any altitude records.
Going any higher would not be profitable, anyway. Already the land below him stretched out unbroken and smooth, a carpet of flat, scrawny green with patches of brown mud splattered liberally across it. Beginning to descend, he searched for a lump worthy of his plans.
