“And Konned?” Sterren did not care to try pronouncing Unniel.
“Well, if you make a regular sacrifice to him, he’ll provide you with supernatural light at night, brighter than any candle, and he’ll keep you warm in the winter, so we don’t have to worry about freezing during a siege—but that’s about it. And freezing isn’t very likely in Semma anyway.”
“And...”
“Unniel’s our best hope, I suppose. She knows everything there is to know about all the other gods, and sometimes she can be coaxed into carrying messages to them; I found you by having her call her brother Aibem for me. I know a prayer for Aibem, but I can never make it work right, so when I really need him, sometimes I can get him through Unniel. Aibem is a god of information; I’ve never found anything he doesn’t know, but getting him to tell me what I’m after is usually like trying to catch a black cat in a dungeon at midnight. Unniel can also talk to the dead, sometimes—not all the dead, just certain ones, and I have no idea why.”
“Information? Couldn’t Unn ... Unniel or Aibem tell us how to avoid the war, then?”
Agor shrugged. “I don’t know,” he said. “Maybe.” He sighed. “It’s too bad I could never get Piskor the Generous to answer; she provides food and water and advice, and that would be ideal if we’re besieged, wouldn’t it?”
“It would help, certainly,” Sterren agreed.
They sat in moody silence for a moment, thinking.
Sterren considered what he had just been told, and decided that he did not care to rely on the gods for help.
That meant returning to his original intent of locating a really powerful magician and somehow buying a miracle. Agor, it appeared, did not qualify.
“So, Agor,” he said, “are there any other theurgists in Semma?”
“No,” Agor answered. “It’s too bad, because I wouldn’t mind having someone to talk theurgy with.”
“What about other magicians? Do you know of any?”
“Oh, certainly! When I first got the job here, naturally I looked over the potential competition. It turned out I had nothing to worry about.” Sterren suppressed a groan at this news. Agor continued, “There are a few village herbalists, of course, and a couple of local shamans who seem to be more fraud than anything else. There are two wizards in the whole kingdom; one’s here in the castle, where he helps out in the kitchen, and the other’s in a village to the east. The one here in the castle used to be the other’s apprentice, I think.”
He paused, thinking.
“I don’t remember exactly how many witches there are; four or five, I’d say. None of them are in the castle.”
“What about sorcerers, or demonologists, or warlocks, or thaumaturges, or ... or anything?”
“Well, demonology is illegal, of course, and I haven’t found any outlaw demonologists, but I suppose one could be hiding somewhere. The gods can’t see demons, usually. Sorcery is illegal, too, I suppose because the Northerners used to use it so much, and I know for certain there aren’t any sorcerers.”
“And warlocks?” He used the Ethsharitic word, since he had never heard a Semmat term.
Agor looked puzzled. “What’s a warlock?” he asked.
“Another sort of magician,” Sterren explained. “We’ve had them in Ethshar for about twenty years now.”
Agor shrugged. “I never heard of them,” he said.
That accorded well with Sterren’s suspicion that warlockry did not work in Semma, that the Power in Aldagmor was too far away. Quite aside from his losses at dice, surely, if warlockry were possible, there would be warlocks.
“Anything else?” he asked.
“Not that the gods would tell me about. Believe me, I’ve asked them.”
Sterren nodded. No mysterious hermits, then. He could not help asking, “You’re absolutely sure there aren’t any you’ve missed?”
“I could have missed a demonologist, and maybe one of these warlock things you mentioned, but that’s all.”
“How good are the two wizards? And the witches?”
“My lord Sterren, the younger wizard is working in the castle kitchens, lighting fires and entertaining the cooks; how good do you think he is? And they always say you can judge the master by the student.”
Sterren did not entirely believe that particular proverb, but he admitted that the older wizard could not be much of a miracle-worker. “What about the witches?”
“Well, my lord, none of them ever gave me any competition for the post of royal magician; does that tell you enough?”
Sterren had to agree that it did. He stared at the gleaming silver hasp on a nearby trunk, trying to think what else he could ask.
“My lord Sterren,” Agor said, after a thoughtful pause, “do you really mean to use magic to fight this war?”
Sterren started. “Of course I do!” he shouted. “How else am I going to get out of this alive?”
“In that case, my lord, I don’t think you’d want Semman magicians in any case. They’ve all been raised in the tradition of using no magic in war. Wouldn’t it make more sense to get your magicians from somewhere else?”
“I suppose so, but where?”
“Ethshar, of course.”
“Of course,” Sterren said sarcastically. “Except that I’m not allowed to go back there!”
“Really? Well, then you could send somebody. But are you really sure you aren’t?”
Sterren opened his mouth, and then closed it again.
Because of the way he had arrived, he had assumed that he would not be allowed to leave Semma, but nobody had ever actually said that. And certainly, there were all the magicians he could ever need in the Wizards’ Quarter of Ethshar of the Spices.
Not that they would be eager to go gallivanting off to Semma to get involved in something as nasty and unpleasant as a war. He would need a powerful incentive.
Gold would work just fine, of course.
Sterren didn’t have any gold himself, but Semma’s royal treasury contained a good bit of the stuff. As warlord, his officers had assured him that he had access to the treasury for legitimate military expenses. He didn’t even need the treasurer’s cooperation; as warlord, he outranked the treasurer.
However, he did need the king’s permission for any expenditures out of the ordinary.
Sterren realized that it was time to speak to the king.
Chapter Twelve
His Majesty Phenvel III looked distinctly bored, but Sterren pressed on with the speech he had prepared, trying not to stumble over any of the unfamiliar words. He had picked up a few choice Semmat phrases from Agor and Lar, and did not want to ruin their effect by mispronouncing them.
“It seems clear,” he said, “that if Semma has won so many of its wars, and yet neither treacherous Ophkar nor perfidious Ksinallion has ever resorted to magic to defeat us, then Ophkar and Ksinallion cannot have many magicians available. If they had magicians, surely they would have used them rather than admit defeat! Therefore, they will be unable to counter whatever magic we use. One really good wizard could probably turn the tide of this next conflict—a competent demonologist might be even better, if one could bring oneself to deal with such dark forces...”
“No demons,” the king interrupted.
“Your Majesty?”
“No demons, no demonologists,” Phenvel said, emphasizing his words with a wagging finger. “No sorcerers, either. We’ll use good, clean magic if we need to use magic at all.”
“Oh, we do need to, your Majesty,” Sterren replied quickly. “I swear that my own inexperience and the sorry state that my poor senile great-uncle left the army in leave us no other choice.” He mildly regretted insulting his dead relative, but after all, the man was dead, and he really had left the army in sad shape.
“All right,” the king said. “But no demonology and no sorcery. Is that clear?”
“Oh, yes, your Majesty!” Sterren grinned with sudden relief. Up until that moment he had thought the king was not listenin
g, and would reject the whole idea out of hand.
“It might be entertaining to have some real magic around here,” Phenvel said. “Agor’s all very well, with his lights and voices, but I’d like to see something new. Do you think you can find a wizard who can fly? I’ve heard that some of them can do that; is it true?”
“Oh, yes, your Majesty,” Sterren assured him. “I’ve seen it myself, in Ethshar’s great ... in Ethshar.” That was true enough. He had meant to say that he had seen wizards fly in the Arena, but he didn’t know the Semmat word. He had also seen his warlock-master fly. It was not a particularly rare or valuable talent.
“Good. Find a magician who can fly.”
Sterren nodded. He knew better than to argue, though he could see little military value in the ability to levitate.
“Yes, your Majesty. Then may I have a letter of credit against the treasury, to show that I...”
“No letter!” Phenvel snapped. “Do you think I’m a fool, to give you free run of my money like that? No, I’ll give you a pound of gold and a few jewels—I understand that wizards like jewels. That should be enough, I should think.”
The bottom dropped out of Sterren’s stomach, but he did not dare argue at this point, for fear the king would change his mind and cancel the whole project.
A pound of gold, though, would barely buy a single untraceable death spell back in Ethshar, let alone magic on a scale to be of real military value. Powerful wizards did not work as cheaply as the pitiful village witches and herbalists out here on the edge of the World.
So much for borrowing against the entire royal treasury to hire a squad of hotshot magicians from the Wizards’ Quarter! He would be lucky to find one really good wizard at that price; more likely he would have to settle for a few failed apprentices.
“I do like the idea of getting a few new magicians around here,” Phenvel mused, “I really do. But no sorcerers, and no demonologists, not even a little one.”
Sterren nodded again. The king was repeating himself, but that was hardly unusual. Nobody had ever dared point out such little slips, so the king made them frequently.
Sterren was trying to phrase a request to be excused when Phenvel said, “You’ll need to have a guard along, of course, and I think Lady Kalira should accompany you. Does that suit you?”
“Very much, your Majesty,” Sterren lied. He had hardly dared to admit it even to himself, but he had had the idea of taking this opportunity to simply vanish in the streets of Ethshar in the back of his mind right from the start. Guards would make that much more difficult—but perhaps no more difficult than buying the services of a competent magician for a pound of gold and a few nondescript gems.
It appeared he was still doomed.
At the very least, though, he would be able to revisit his homeland before he died. He had been fighting off homesickness for the last day or two, ever since the possibility of returning to Ethshar had begun to seem real.
“Good,” the king said. “You’re excused, then, and I wish you a safe journey.”
Sterren bowed, and backed out of the audience chamber.
In the corridor outside he straightened up, brushed at his cut-down black tunic, and then stood, staring stupidly at the door, for a good three minutes.
What was he supposed to do now? Just turn and go? How was he to collect the gold and gems, or find Lady Kalira? Who was to choose the guards he would take with him?
Kings were not much on detail work, he supposed. It was up to him. Unless someone told him otherwise, he assumed that he would have to organize the expedition himself.
He glanced around. The only people in the antechamber with him were the two doorkeepers, and he knew better than to ask one of them to leave his post.
Sterren had no servants of his own, and always felt uneasy ordering the castle servants about, since they always seemed to have plenty of work to do without running his errands, but he was the warlord, commander of the Semman army, and his soldiers never seemed to do anything at all unless he was there egging them on. He headed for the barracks.
As usual, half a dozen soldiers were dicing in the corner. The barracks was otherwise empty.
“You men!” he called.
Two of them looked up, without much interest.
“Settle up, the game’s over. Right now.”
The two glanced at each other, and two more looked up, startled.
“Now!” Sterren bellowed.
Reluctantly, the game broke up, and the six men came sloppily to attention, facing him.
“All right, you, Kather—go find the Lady Kalira, and tell her I must speak to her as soon as possible. Let her choose the time and place, but make plain that it’s very urgent, and then come back here immediately and tell me what she said.”
Kather stood silently, accepting this.
“Go!”
Startled, Kather nodded. “Yes, my lord,” he muttered, as he started off.
“You, Terrin,” Sterren said to the next, “go find the Lord Treasurer, and tell him that I need a pound of gold and a dozen of the finest gems in the treasury, no later than dinnertime tonight, by the king’s express order. Arrange a time and place for me to pick them up. If he needs to check with the king first, I have no objection, so long as he’s quick about it. If he doubts your authority, bring him back here to speak to me.”
Terrin, having learned from Kather’s experience, essayed a quick bow, said, “As you wish, my lord,” and departed.
Sterren looked over the remaining four. He knew them all slightly, but only slightly, and did not think much of any of them.
“Gror,” he said, choosing the best of the lot, “I need a party for a voyage to Ethshar—a peaceful expedition, recruiting aid for the coming war. Who would you suggest?”
“Uh...” Gror blinked. “My lord, I ... I don’t know.”
“You could call for volunteers,” another soldier, Azdaram by name, suggested.
“I could,” Sterren agreed.
He considered the idea.
He almost immediately saw an obvious drawback, and prepared to discard the whole notion.
Then he caught himself.
The problem with calling for volunteers was that he might well wind up with men only interested in a diversion from the tedious life of a Semman soldier. It was entirely possible that some of them would desert at the first opportunity...
He stopped his chain of thought at that point and backed up.
They might desert. The guard intended to keep him from deserting might themselves desert.
That might not be good for Semma, but it would, on the other hand, be a gift from the gods for him, personally. If his escort were to vanish, he could easily lose himself in the streets of the city, and leave Semma to fend for itself.
It probably wouldn’t do much worse without him than with him, really. He was hardly a great warlord, after all.
He tried to think what would happen if the guards did desert, and he, too, slipped away.
What would Lady Kalira do? What would the others, back here in Semma do—the king, the queen, the princesses, his officers and men, even Agor the theurgist?
Well, the officers and men would presumably go out, fight, and lose. Some would die, the rest surrender. Semma would probably be divided up between Ophkar and Ksinallion, and the royal family sent off into exile somewhere. Agor would almost certainly find employment elsewhere, without much difficulty.
That wasn’t so awful, was it? It seemed that a few soldiers were going to die anyway, no matter what happened, so he refused to worry about that. As for exiling the royal family, it was hard to imagine King Phenvel in exile, but on the other hand, it was hard to imagine him doing much of anything. He seemed born to be an incompetent monarch; the only way he could survive the way he was was if other people had no choice about putting up with him.
Princess Shirrin would find exile terribly romantic and exciting, Sterren was sure. Princess Lura would think it was fun. Princess Nissitha would b
e mortified. Queen Ashassa would take it calmly in stride.
The young princes he didn’t know well enough to say, but he suspected they would rather enjoy a change of scene.
As for divvying up Semma, would anyone but the deposed aristocrats care? In his sixnights in Semma he had never seen any sign that the peasants cared a whit which king they paid taxes to.
There might be practical problems in slipping away, though. Lady Kalira would be in Ethshar when he deserted, and she would probably try to track him down. She might even succeed, eventually—though surely not before the war was lost.
What if she found him?
Well, it was obvious that the aristocracy of Semma would not be at all happy with Sterren, Ninth Warlord. He would, beyond question, be guilty of treason under their laws. In all probability, any Semman noble who ever found him would try to kill him on sight.
That was not really a very appealing long-term prospect, but then, he didn’t have to stay in Ethshar of the Spices. He could move on to Ethshar of the Sands or Ethshar of the Rocks, or even head north to the Baronies of Sardiron. The nobility of Semma would not be likely to find him; the World was a big place.
The Small Kingdoms would be too dangerous, though; the Semman aristocracy, all two or three hundred of them, were likely to scatter through the region, sponging off various relatives and allies.
He’d want to take a new name, of course.
It occurred to him that the Semmans knew his true name. That was awkward. That meant that they would always be able to find him if they could afford a good wizard, or even a very good witch. Warlocks didn’t use true names; neither did sorcerers, so far as he knew.
Theurgists sometimes did, and the Semmans were familiar with theurgy. That was how they had found him in the first place.
And worse, couldn’t demonologists use true names?
If the Semmans were determined to track him down and kill him, and had the sense to hire magicians, they could do it.
Desertion looked considerably less appealing than it had a moment before.
The Unwilling Warlord Page 10
