The Locksmith

by Howe, Barbara;

  The conversations Arturos had had with René about power and control reassured me. Of all the Warlocks I had ever heard of, past or present, Warlock Quicksilver would be the most gentle.

  Again I struggled with opening the lock, and then I held the lines of the spell in my mind’s eye, with the flame poised at the beginning but not moving, and said, “I’m ready, sir.”

  He closed his eyes. Without looking at me, he touched me lightly with his wand and began to probe.

  Vivid memories, good as well as bad, flashed past. The pressure was more like my father’s firm hand on my shoulder when I was a child than lustful groping or bruising violence. I grew angry, as before, but at the Office for subjecting me to this indignity, rather than at the Warlock.

  He had been wise in having Arturos go first. Having been prepared by clumsier handling, I did not often flinch. The flame quavered and pulsed, sparked and jumped, flared and danced, but I held it at the beginning.

  And held it. For twice as long as Arturos had probed. What had been easy when it started became harder with every minute. I ground my teeth, breathing shallowly. Rivulets of sweat trickled down back, chest, legs, arms. I closed my eyes to keep the sweat out of them. The flame seemed mere inches from my eyes, burning them. My right foot was at a slant on the rough rock, straining the knee, but I couldn’t see the pentagram, and didn’t dare move. Locks of hair wet with sweat came loose and slithered down my back.

  After it had gone on more than three times as long as Arturos had probed, I was in agony. I shook as with a fever, and my right knee throbbed. I flinched at a mild jolt that would not have bothered me at the start, and the flame slipped away from me. I caught it halfway through, and forced it back.

  If it happened again, I wasn’t sure I could catch it. How quickly would I die if I couldn’t?

  The Warlock said, “Done.” The pressure vanished.

  I gasped and let the flame go. The lock snapped back into place. I opened my eyes. The pentagram had disappeared.

  I took a step towards the Warlock, my tortured knee gave way, and I pitched forward, falling towards the rough floor.

  The Missing Warlock

  I did not fall far. The Warlock caught me, and staggered with my weight. For a moment we clung together, sodden dress against wet tunic, fighting for balance. Then Arturos pulled me upright, away from the Warlock.

  He stood with his head lowered, eyes closed, cheek turned towards me, expecting me to hit him, and willing to let me.

  I said, “Thank you.”

  His head snapped up, and he stared at me with red-rimmed eyes.

  Arturos growled, “Let’s get out of this hellhole.” He picked me up with as much ceremony as he would have given a sack of flour, and carried me at a trot towards the tunnel mouth.

  As soon as we were clear the Warlock grabbed Arturos and we shot into the air, soaring upwards as fast as a striking falcon dives. The wind whipped the rest of my hair loose, and it streamed out behind like a banner. The vast bowl, so hideous before, now seemed imbued with majesty, but I had no time to contemplate its beauty as we rocketed up towards the pinnacle. René, with frightened eyes and a pale face, waited in the space of the aerie’s missing wall. We were on him and he scrambled away as we tumbled in, staggering as we landed and collapsing on the couches.

  The wall snapped back into place and shut out the sight of the caldera. A tray appeared, with glasses and a bottle of spirits. The Warlock reached out to pour, appeared to think better of it, and asked René to do it. I used both hands to hold the glass steady. I took big gulps, and choked and gagged, but forced it down, the awful, wonderful stuff burning my throat and spreading heat all the way down, like a lava flow of my own in the pit of my stomach.

  Arturos was also shaking, sloshing the spirits out of his glass, but both men drained their glasses in one long, steady draught.

  I finished my glass, and lay down on the couch to wait for the trembling to stop.

  Where was I? I raised my head and looked around. I was in a room with four sofas around a small fire. A red-haired giant sprawled on his back on one sofa with arms and legs too big to fit splayed out in all directions. Another man, more compact, lay turned away from me, face down on another sofa. He looked like a lazy black cat. A boy sat with his arms around his knees, staring from one to another with wide eyes.

  What in the world? Disconnected memories flashed past, none explaining why I was here—wherever here was. I sat up, and had to grab the back of the sofa to keep from falling off. Why did I feel drunk? Had I fallen victim to the lascivious men Mother Janet always warned me about? Everything hurt. I inspected my arms and found bruises.

  The memory of the probe came back, and I recoiled. I slid back into a prone position, and reviewed the recent torture.

  I was alive. I had used a lock spell. I was a witch?

  My whole body ached. A drunken orgy might not have been much worse than the beating Arturos had given me, but it was a small price to pay for surviving. He hadn’t wanted to hurt me. He’d done the best he could, and I’d repaid him by slapping him.

  I hit a warlock? My God.

  “Arturos, I—”

  “Not Arturos.” He turned his head without moving anything else and looked at me. “Beorn. After what we’ve been through, we must be the closest of friends or the worst of enemies. I’d rather have you as a friend.”

  “Thank you, Beorn,” I said, trying out his name shyly.

  The Warlock rolled over on his couch, exposing his ring. The ruby had gone back to its usual hypnotic flashes and deep red glow. He eased himself upright, wincing, but his voice was steady. “Quite right. You must call me Jean.”

  Jean? “I can’t do that, sir.”

  “Why not? Am I not deserving of friends, too?”

  My protest that of course he was, died, half-formed. He was teasing me.

  “Of course, you should continue to call us by our noms de guerre in public, but it is inappropriate to make such distinctions of rank between warlocks in private.”

  I jerked upright, facing him. “What do you mean, between warlocks?”

  His eyebrows arched upward. “My dear, if you can address me in that tone of voice, surely you can manage to call me by my name.”

  My cheeks burned. He was teasing me again. Damn the man—he made me blush entirely too often. And what did he mean, between warlocks? I was a witch.

  Oh God, I was a witch.

  He said, “As you are still here—praise be—you may surmise that I, Beorn, and the Fire Office are all satisfied that you are not a threat to Frankland. The Office therefore has little interest in you. Beorn and I, on the other hand, are finding you to be a very, very interesting young woman.”

  Arturos said, “I always said she was interesting.”

  The Warlock said, “Had I argued? I meant in terms of magical talent. My flippant analysis turned out to be almost correct, much closer than I would have thought possible. That is, at the age of six, you displayed a precocious talent for the specialised subcategory of spells known as locks. And so, on some occasion, when an adult you did not like probed too hard, you created a simple but quite effective lock.”

  “Who was it, Your Wisdom?”

  He waved his hand. “A stranger you are unlikely to remember. Your lock hid your magical talents from his probing eyes. You did not know how to undo the lock, and its presence made no difference to your life at the time, other than having the desired effect of getting rid of nosy strangers, so the lock stayed in place and you forgot about it. Hiding your talents from the outside world did, however, have the side effect of hiding them from yourself as well, and you arrived at adulthood with no training in how to use your talents, and not even aware that they existed.

  “As far as your talents go, the range is such that for the most part you are an ordinary level three fire witch—”

&n
bsp; “Is that all?” René said. He looked disappointed. The Warlock eyed him but didn’t respond.

  I was a witch. After what they said earlier about level four or five, level three was a relief. Maybe I could handle that. And Master Sven would be pleased.

  The Fire Warlock said, “The sole talent that you have developed unconsciously is prescience, attuned to a strong sense of self-preservation. You were wise in not telling me about your dreams.”

  His eyes were quite sombre. “If the Office had divined that you were hiding a magical talent under a lock before you knew how to release it… Steady, girl.”

  Arturos sat down beside me and put his arm around my shoulders. The Warlock poured me another glass of spirits and waited for my shaking to subside before continuing his analysis.

  “What sets you apart from the ordinary are three things.” He ticked them off on his fingers. “One: your burning curiosity, manifested in a love of scholarship. What you lack in practice, you are making up for in theory. In the past five months, you have blazed through the basic texts on magical theory. You and René are working at the university level. You can read a recipe, and with tutoring in the practical arts, you should someday be able to work almost any spell you put your mind to.”

  René’s eyes glowed. I looked away from his eager face.

  “Two: power and control. You have both of those as well. You need training in using them, but the fact that you could create that solid a lock at a breathtakingly early age indicates you already have an intuitive grasp.”

  Training? Did that mean the school, and not Master Sven?

  “Three: your talent for locks. Most spells make something happen. Locks are about prevention. Most witches and wizards spend their lives mastering the art of agency. Few study locks. Those that do may find they cannot adjust mentally so as to make them work. Perhaps the fact that you had no training in spellcraft is what allowed you to create that simple and elegant lock. I do not know, I can only speculate. There have been few natural locksmiths in our history, and we know little about them, but you appear to be the most powerful one since the Warlock Locksmith of the Great Coven a thousand years ago.”

  René crowed, “I knew it, I knew it. I knew she was good.”

  When did the Warlock start speaking gibberish?

  “And so, taken together, that adds up to a level five talent.”

  Level five? Hadn’t he just said I was level three? I raved at him. “What do you mean, level five? Are you crazy? That’s impossible! I’ve never done anything…I couldn’t possibly…”

  The Warlock was on his feet, towering over me, his black hair standing on end like an angry cat’s, sparks flying from his eyes. “Be quiet and listen,” he thundered. Arturos and Rene scrambled to their feet, looking stunned.

  I said, “Yes, sir,” and shut up.

  The Warlock turned to Arturos and said in a normal voice, “Just trying to get her attention.” Arturos grunted and fell back onto the couch.

  René looked at the Warlock as if he was a cat the boy wasn’t sure would purr or scratch. “How did you do that with the sparks?”

  The Warlock grinned and said, “Nice parlour trick, eh? Some day I will teach you, but not today.” He staggered a little sitting back down.

  I said, “I’m sorry, sir.”

  He sighed. “I suppose it is upsetting to find oneself a level five witch with no warning. It must be as shocking to you as it is to me to find out that you fooled me, and the Office, for so long. I feel rather like getting hysterical myself.”

  He poured another round, and proposed a toast. “To the Fire Guild’s newest warlock.”

  “But, sir—” I said.

  “Jean,” he corrected.

  “Yes, sir, Jean, sir, I mean.” His dark eyes danced. “Why are you calling me a warlock?”

  “Ah, I beg your pardon. I assumed you would have heard about this little linguistic anomaly. Silly of me. We have our basic wizards and witches, male and female. The upper echelons of the other guilds have their male and female counterparts—sorcerers and sorceresses, enchanters and enchantresses, mothers and fathers—but there is no female equivalent to warlock. So by courtesy all the level five fire witches are called warlocks.”

  “Good gracious. I had no idea. Do you mean that of the seventy-three Fire Warlocks, some of them have been women?”

  “Yes, of course. During the Scorching Times, with Warlocks dying right and left, there would not have been enough level five talent available to hold the Office if it had not been willing to use women, but the historical records are not clear. Most of the Warlocks had beards, or wives, or some other feature indicating that they were men, but at least three were clearly women. There are more than a dozen where I cannot tell which they were.”

  René eyes were round. “Does that mean Lucinda could end up being the Fire Warlock?”

  I don’t know how the men reacted to this idea. I did what any sensible person would have done under the circumstances. I fainted.

  They made me lie with my feet up on the sofa until we were sure I wasn’t going to faint again. Nobody had much to say; neither warlock ventured to answer René’s question. I didn’t want to hear an answer anyway. I watched Warlock Quicksilver. He and Arturos—Beorn—stared into the fire as if trying to read the answers to the world’s problems there. His clothes were rumpled and his hair stuck out in all directions. I had never before seen him look dishevelled.

  Why had I ever thought his looks ordinary? His face, with its expressive eyes and rapid mood changes, fascinated me. I could have gone on watching him for hours.

  He looked up, and saw me studying him. He smiled, but it was a bleak smile, as if the weight of all those centuries of history were resting on his shoulders.

  I asked, “What are you going to do with me now?”

  He considered my question a while before answering. “You need intensive tutoring in the practical arts, and for several reasons it makes more sense in the Fortress rather than down in the town. There is an unused practice room with a shield to minimise the noise; we can use that. Keep your lock in place to hide your abilities whenever you are not in the practice room with your tutor. Beorn, you will move up into the Fortress and take over that aspect of her education.”

  Beorn drew in a long, deep breath, held it for several seconds, then let it out again. He nodded, and glanced at René, then looked a question at the Warlock, who said, “It will be easier for Lucinda if she has a partner. René, you may study the practical arts under Arturos’s tutelage also. I will set the shield so that the geas on you will be lifted whenever you are in the practice room with Arturos.”

  René’s eyes glowed, and he barraged the two warlocks with questions that they answered in a distracted manner. I watched the two of them exchanging looks over the boy’s head.

  René didn’t get it. They weren’t telling us everything, and they were worried.

  Practical Arts

  I said, “I don’t care where you go. Just get out of here. Now!”

  René’s face fell and he shuffled out of the kitchen. I felt as guilty as if I’d kicked a puppy. Mrs Cole cast a questioning glance at me, but I didn’t explain.

  I’d had a wretched night, tossing and turning for hours, and when I did sleep, I woke in a cold sweat.

  I was a witch? Not just a witch—a warlock. God Almighty. No wonder I’d hidden my talents.

  I came down to the kitchen with a pounding headache. René bounced in early, eager to get started on the practical arts, and making so much racket I wanted to scream. I encouraged him to go to the library, the classroom, or anywhere else. When he didn’t take the hint, I lost patience and ordered him out.

  As we went in to dinner, I braced myself. The Warlock was going to stroll in looking cool and calm. Why didn’t he ever have a bad night?

  The doors opened, and he walked in
looking frazzled and worried. There were bags under his eyes. My appetite vanished. Several of the scholars cast questioning looks in his direction and whispered among themselves.

  May God forgive me for wishing he’d have a bad night.

  After dinner, the Warlock asked Mrs Cole and me to come with him, and led us into one of the cave-like storerooms ranged on the mountain-facing side of the kitchen. On approaching the stone wall at the back, he told me to put out a hand and push. I did, and a section of stone swung open like a door.

  He bowed us in, and we walked through a short tunnel into a room big enough to swallow the town hall in Rubierre. Two rows of small skylights cast a dim light. He flicked his wand and small flames dancing on air appeared in brackets spaced between the skylights. A fireplace large enough to roast an ox dominated one end of the room; a large table with several chairs stood halfway along the opposite wall.

  Mrs Cole looked around with wide eyes. She said, “Well, La-di-dah! I’d heard the castle had some secret rooms, but all these years I’d had no idea one was right off the kitchen.”

  The Warlock said, “It is not right off the kitchen. The tunnel between the two rooms did not exist until this morning, but—”

  I said, “How did you do that? Isn’t that earth magic?”

  “It is, but an earth witch performed a favour for me. We do favours for the Earth Guild, too. That is not new. There are several of these shortcuts around, including a few that exit the castle completely.”

  Aha. “Like one that comes out in that big cave of a fireplace in the royal palace?”

  He smiled. “Yes, but please do not ever tell the king about that one. We are digressing. Rose, I wanted a way for Lucinda to come and go unnoticed. I need your help in this, but I am going to repay you by taking your assistant away. I offer you my apologies, but I am afraid it is necessary.”