The Locksmith

by Howe, Barbara;

  The wizard smiled. “Let me introduce myself. I know who you are, the Guillierre sisters, Lucinda, and Claire,” inclining his head to each of us in turn, “but you do not know me. I am Warlock Arturos, member of the Fire Guild Council, Practical Arts teacher, and Keeper of the Challenge Path. I am indeed a warlock—little a, little w, but not The—capital T, capital W—Warlock. I am an ambitious man and someday I may be the Warlock, but not yet, no, perhaps not for some time yet.”

  I looked up at his massive shoulders. Arturos. The bear? I am tall for a girl, but next to this man I was a midget. “Arturos sounds like an appropriate name for you.”

  His smile turned into a grin. “Ah, an educated young woman. Of course, Warlock Arturos is my war name. My parents named me Beorn.”

  I groaned, and his grin broadened. Claire looked confused, but she didn’t ask for an explanation, as I would have.

  I said, “Keeper of the challenge path? Then, that beast—”

  “I hope my little pet—”

  “Your pet?”

  “—didn’t frighten you too badly. One badly perhaps, since that is his job, but not two.”

  I couldn’t suppress another groan, and he laughed. My “Thank you” as he took my bag was a reflex action. He hadn’t commented on two girls coming together to see the Fire Warlock. He seemed more amused by us than angry, to my relief. An angry warlock would have frightened me more than the lion.

  I pulled my cloak tight so my dress wouldn’t show as we walked into town, even though getting the cloak clean was going to be a devil of a job. I had been filthy even before I rolled on the ground, and the grass sticking to the sap was hideous. What right did the Fire Warlock have to ruin my clothes? I’d like to give him a piece of my mind.

  I gulped. I’d get my chance soon enough, and I couldn’t even get up the nerve to growl at Warlock Arturos about his infernal pet.

  Warlock Arturos ushered us into an imposing building in the centre of town. “The Warlock has other business this morning, and can’t see you until after dinner. You’ve had a strenuous morning, but we have comfortable chairs and good food here at the Guild Hall, so you may as well relax until he’s ready to see you.”

  He eyed Claire. “You can both get cleaned up, too.”

  I snorted. Claire looked, as ever, immaculate, not a hair out of place. It wasn’t fair.

  A brisk, middle-aged witch led us into a small room and started pulling brushes and other items out of a cupboard. “These brushes are enchanted. Use them to get the sap off.”

  I swiped my skirt. The sap hardened and crumbled as the brush touched it, falling to the floor like sawdust.

  “Don’t forget to brush your hair or your petticoats, and when you’re done, sweep it all up and put it in this bucket. Here’s salve for your scratches. When I come back, I’ll take your measurements. We’ll give you a new dress to replace this ruined one, even if he sends you home. Which isn’t likely—he’s a bit of a soft touch, the current one is—especially when it comes to girls,” she said as she walked away.

  A new dress? Girls? The Fire Warlock, a soft touch? I stood for a moment gaping. Then I recovered and ran after her. “Wait, wait! Other girls have walked the challenge path?”

  “A few,” she said. “Not often. It’s been close to twenty years since the last one. Most girls go to the Earth Mother or the Frost Maiden. All the girls I know of who came here were fire witches whose talent wasn’t identified early enough, or whose families wouldn’t let them come to the school when they should’ve. He always sends them to do their year’s labour in the school, learning how to use their talent and helping out with the younger children.”

  “I’m not a witch.”

  “I can see that. What he’ll do with you, I have no idea.”

  Claire scrubbed at her face and clothes as if she’d rolled in the mud, and insisted that I give her back a good brushing. I shrugged. It seemed to make her feel better, and she brushed mine without complaint.

  My anger at the Warlock crumbled to dust along with the sap as I brushed my hair. A glance in a mirror confirmed that my hair looked better after I got it pinned up again than it had when I started out in the morning. A new dress for one day’s work? That was a bargain. Even if he sent us home, I’d done what no one else in Lesser Campton had ever attempted. The warm glow that had started in the pit of my stomach suffused my whole body. I felt as light as a bit of ash drifting up a chimney.

  I was clean, and the room tidy, when the witch came back. She led us to a table in the hall and directed a young witch to bring us dinner. The food may have been excellent, but I didn’t notice what I shoved in my mouth. Claire stared down at her plate and picked at her food, responding to everything I said with one-word answers. I stopped trying to talk to her, and examined the bas-relief frieze running around the interior of the hall—no flammable tapestries here—to take my mind off the impending interview.

  After dinner, the witch suggested we wait by the fireplace. The dancing fire evoked memories of stories about the Fire Guild, and I relaxed. After a few minutes I was entranced, dreaming of glory waiting around every corner and danger lurking in every shadow. A hand dropped on my shoulder. I started up with a shout and fell over the footstool.

  The big wizard caught me and set me on my feet with a grin. I followed him out of the Guild Hall with a hot face, praying I wouldn’t embarrass myself in front of the Fire Warlock.

  “No, I’m afraid there are no dragons here—pets, babies, or otherwise,” Warlock Arturos said. “They’re too dangerous for anyone, even the Fire Warlock, to keep as pets. Yes, the geyser shoots up a spray of steam and boiling water higher than my head every two hours and fourteen minutes, as regular as clockwork. Yes, all level two fire wizards and fire witches can walk through the flames unharmed. The spell for protection against fire is one of the first things we teach the youngsters, but only the most powerful—level fives—can use the fire to travel from one place to another.”

  I had dozens of questions about Blazes, the Fortress, the Guild. We got to the base of the Fortress long before I ran out of questions, and, thank God, before he ran out of patience. A gate at the right end of the curtain wall, closest to the town, stood open. Despite the cool air, I sweated, but the guardsmen on duty saluted the big wizard and let us through without a challenge. I walked at the wizard’s heels through a tunnel dozens of feet long before coming out into the open air inside the walls. He led us over towards the mountain wall, where three parallel sets of steep stairs led up and out of sight.

  Claire said, “Sir, how many flights of stairs do we have to climb?”

  He grinned. “You don’t have to climb any. After you,” he said, gesturing for us to take the stairs. “Please hold onto the handrail.”

  Claire looked confused but stepped onto the first step, and let out a squeak, clutching at the rail, as the stairs began to move. I followed, and laughed as the stairs carried us up the mountainside. The wizard got on two steps below me. I still had to look up.

  He said, “The stairs on the left go away from you, the stairs on the right come towards you, and the stairs in the middle do not move, so you can walk if you want to.”

  “Who would do that?” Claire asked.

  “The Warlock usually does,” the wizard said. Claire and I both stared at him.

  “What? Why?” I asked.

  He shrugged. “Says he doesn’t get enough exercise otherwise.”

  What an absurd idea. I paused in my catechism and looked around. There was a roof over the staircase but no walls. Off to the left, the curtain wall sheltered stables and other buildings tucked into the side of the mountain. Above us, the second wall, further back, drew closer. We walked across a landing at the base of the wall, and rode the stairs on up. The Fortress rose up the sloped face of Storm King in tiers, not built onto ledges as other castles have been, but carved out of the solid mountain
wall itself by the magic of the second great power, the Earth Mother, the Fire Warlock’s staunchest ally. The windows, and the shutters hanging beside them, grew bigger, and my heart lighter, with each tier.

  Why had I been afraid? I was safer here than anywhere else in Frankland.

  We reached a tier as impressive in its opulence as the first tier had been in its stark defensive strength. Huge windows with shutters as big as barn doors and mouldings decorated in gold leaf hinted at large open spaces. Ballrooms? A wide courtyard, covered in snow, sat at the base of this tier. A glassed-in section held trees in pots. Lemon trees? Oranges?

  Overhead, the roof had changed from slate to glass. The clouds had lifted, and snow on the ramparts glittered in bright sunlight. Blazes and the surrounding forest dwindled beneath us, and a bare expanse of rough lava fields stretched out to the southwest.

  I nudged Claire, and pointed, but after a quick glance over her shoulder she turned back to face the stairs, clutching the rails with both hands. I shrugged. She could miss the view if she wanted, but I wasn’t going to waste my time being afraid.

  At the base of the next tier, the wizard led us away from the stairs and waved us through a door, saying, “Please wait in here, the Warlock will be with you soon.”

  Claire trod on my heels as I stopped in the doorway and stared.

  The Warlock

  Would the Warlock let me in his library? My God, I never dreamed… The room dwarfed any I had ever been in before, even the church in Rubierre, and bookshelves covered every square foot of wall space. Freestanding bookcases divided the space into smaller bays, uncrowded tables and chairs in each one. My knees buckled and I grabbed onto the doorframe. I could spend a lifetime—”What was that?”

  “I can’t see around you,” Claire said. “Please move.”

  “Sure.” Ahead of us, through an open doorway, a corridor stretched off into the distance, with more bookshelves in the rooms beyond. My father’s collection would not have filled even one of the small bays. When I had daydreamed about the fabled library at Alexandria, my paltry imagination had not made it so—”Ow!”

  Claire’s second poke in my back had been much harder. “You’re still standing in the doorway,” she said. “Move!”

  I lurched towards the first bay, and came face to face with a bust of Warlock Fortunatus, the first Fire Warlock. I curtsied, as a girl should on meeting one of the four Officeholders, and did a decent job of it for once. The fixed smile on Fortunatus’s face beamed his approval at me.

  I scanned the titles in the first bookcase, and my throat tightened. ∑, Ω, π—it was all Greek to me. I moved on, and found a section with titles in Latin. I had expected that, but it didn’t help. I rounded the corner, and gulped. I didn’t even recognise the alphabet on the books shelved on the back wall. Please, let there be books in Frankish here. Please?

  Startled by a noise overhead, I looked up, and watched a man dressed in scholar’s robes scurry along a gallery above me, scanning the shelves. He was intent on his search, and didn’t appear to notice me.

  I craned my neck and discovered, further up, a second gallery. I gawked at the arched ceiling, decorated with stars in gold leaf on a dark blue background. I turned in a circle, taking in a globe, charts, maps, alcoves in the outside wall with heavy curtains of dark red velvet, drawn back to let in the light from floor-to-ceiling windows. My eyes came back down to a shelf nearby, and I spied words in Frankish.

  I flew towards the shelf. My first love, ancient history, welcomed me. There were books I had read, translations of works by Livy, Tacitus, and others I knew only by reputation. Thank you, I breathed aloud. I reached for a book by Pliny the Elder, then pulled my hand back, gasping at my own presumption.

  And there—oh, glory—was Rehsavvy’s Roman Warlocks, calling to me. I snatched my disobedient hand back, inches from the coveted book.

  My pulse raced, and I trembled. I closed my eyes, but I could not undo that one glimpse. If only I dared take it off the shelf. I wouldn’t even open it. I would run my hands… My hands were damp. That would never do. Never. I rubbed them on my skirt, and clasped them together behind my back, to keep them out of mischief. I would hold the creamy leather against my cheek, sniff the pages, and trace a light finger across the top, where minute flakes of gold leaf would decorate my fingertip like fairy dust… Enough of that.

  I walked away with a tight chest, scanning the titles on other shelves. Where were the books on magical theory and practice? Father had said the Fire Warlock had a copy of every book ever written on magic. Every book ever written, more likely.

  I came to the end of the first bay with my eyes still on the shelves, and almost walked into the young man standing there. I jumped back with an exclamation, made a shallow bob with a hasty “Excuse me,” and walked on around him.

  How long had he been watching me? Was that fur border on his silk robe sable? Somebody important, maybe even a prince. I swung back around with another exclamation, attempted a deeper reverence while still turning, and came close to falling on my face. He reached for me, but I grabbed the bookshelf and righted myself. I stammered, “I’m sorry, sir.”

  A handsome prince? Well, no. He was rather thin, not tall—I could look him in the eye—with black hair, dark eyes, and a clean-shaven plain face. I would not have given him a second glance if he had not been in fancy clothes.

  He looked as if he was struggling not to smile, and my face, even my ears, got hot. At least he was polite. I would almost have preferred that he be offended, so I could justify being angry. I was tired of being embarrassed.

  He said, “I am sorry I startled you. But now is not the time to lose oneself in books. Come.” He turned and walked away without looking back.

  Acted as if he owned the place. What was a nobleman doing here, anyway, and what did he want with me? Maybe Claire was right, I should have paid more attention to who was who in the upper classes.

  I followed him towards the windows where Claire was waiting, noting the embroidery in silver thread on the black silk, and the heavy silver and opal belt. Wait, opals? But opals are Fire Guild tokens.

  Claire turned at the sound of our footsteps and her eyes widened. She made a deep reverence, with more grace than I have ever managed, saying, “Your Wisdom.”

  My stomach dropped to my toes. The Fire Warlock. It couldn’t be. My face went from hot to ice cold in an instant. I’d nearly ignored him? I’d wanted him to be offended? Oh, dear God.

  Claire waited for him to come and raise her. I would have forgotten that nasty little bit of protocol even if I’d known who he was. He led us towards a small table with several chairs in one of the windowed alcoves. There was a silver tray on the table. We sat in the bright sunlight and poured tea.

  The Warlock was ancient. This man looked younger than Warlock Arturos.

  He picked up his cup and saucer, and the Token of Office of the Warlock of the Western Gate winked at me. I stared. I had seen illustrations of that ring: ornate, old-fashioned, with a gold dragon cradling an enormous ruby. The stone—the focus of the spells and bindings constraining and directing the Fire Office, and the conduit by which he could draw on the power of the volcano—sparkled, flashed, and glowed a velvety deep red. There could be no mistake, this was indeed the Fire Warlock. I clutched at the arms of my chair, and fought off dizziness.

  The Warlock and Claire made small talk. I contributed only “Yes, sir” and “No, sir” in response to direct questions. Then he leaned forward to put down his cup, and moved out of the partial shadow cast by the telescope in the corner of the alcove. Direct sunlight hit the ruby; flashes of brilliant scarlet splashed across the table and dazzled my eyes. He leaned back, into the shadow, and the stone resumed its deep inner glow.

  I breathed a drawn-out sigh. This was why the wealthy lusted after gemstones. Were the mundane stones they could buy, not lit by magic from within, on
e-quarter as mesmerising as this?

  The conversation had stopped. I looked up. Claire was staring at the ring with her mouth half-open, cup in mid-air.

  The Warlock said, “A fine spring morning is a good reason for a vigorous walk, but you did not come here by accident or whim. What do you wish of me?”

  He addressed the question to me rather than to Claire. A flock of butterflies took wing in my stomach. I drew in a deep breath. How could I explain our errand without it sounding ridiculous? Father’s stern voice admonished me, “Never, ever, lie to a warlock.”

  Claire’s tea cup rattled on its saucer. “Your Wisdom, Father died before he could ensure good marriages for us, and there aren’t any suitable young men nearby. I’m not resigned to being an old maid, even if my stepsister is.”

  I splashed tea onto my skirt. “I am not an old maid!” The Warlock’s glance flicked to my face and then back to Claire’s.

  Claire said, “You know all the nobility and wealthy merchants in this kingdom. Will you please help me find a good match?”

  I cringed, and fumbled for words, but something seemed to have control of my tongue.

  The Warlock regarded her over steepled fingers for a few moments. “You are setting your sights rather high. Why should one of even the minor nobility consider you? And why you and not your sister?”

  “Because I’m beautiful and Lucinda isn’t.”

  Thank you, Claire, for pointing that out.

  The Warlock’s black brows drew together.

  She smiled at him. “I need to marry a wealthy man so my beauty won’t be ruined by the drudgery of housework.”