The Unwelcome Warlock

by Lawrence Watt-Evans

  “She was murdered a sixnight later,” Leth said. “With the house gone, we were sleeping in the Hundred-Foot Field, and she didn’t hide what was left of her money well enough. That’s why I’ve been walking the streets in Camptown.”

  That matter-of-fact little biography horrified Zallin. He remembered his own mother, who was still alive — or at least, she had been a month ago.

  “What about your father?” he asked.

  “I have no idea who he is. My mother never said. Well, when I was very little she said he was a sailor by the name of Kelder who was lost at sea, and maybe he really was, but I don’t know.”

  “No other family?”

  “No other family. What about you?”

  “I grew up in Westwark, with three older brothers,” Zallin said. “Everyone thought I was magical because of my eyes, so I decided I might as well be magical, and apprenticed myself to old Feregris the Warlock. I haven’t seen my family much since, and after Feregris was Called…” He stopped in mid-sentence, blinking.

  “Feregris was Called?” Leth prompted, after they had gone another half-dozen paces in silence. “You were saying?”

  “He must be back now,” Zallin said. “Feregris, I mean. It’s been almost twenty years, but he must be back. All the Called came back.”

  “You think so?” Leth asked.

  Zallin stopped walking. They were in the short block of High Street between Arena Street and Fishertown Street, just across the line from the New City into Allston, and the tall houses on either side gleamed golden in the early morning sun. “We’re going the wrong way,” he said.

  “Not if we’re headed to Eastgate,” Leth said.

  “I’m going to Crookwall,” Zallin said. “I want to see if Feregris is back.”

  “He lived in Crookwall? Not the Wizards’ Quarter?”

  “In Crookwall,” Zallin said. “On Incidental Street. When I was twelve I didn’t dare go as far as the Wizards’ Quarter, and Feregris was the only magician in Crookwall or Westwark.”

  “You said it’s been twenty years,” Leth pointed out. “Would he still have a place there?”

  “He had a daughter.”

  Leth nodded. “If she’s still there it’s worth asking her, anyway.”

  “If Feregris is there — he was good to me. I want to be sure he’s all right.”

  “That’s kind of you.”

  Zallin blinked. No one had called him “kind” for as long as he could remember. No one had been kind to him, either, that he could recall.

  But then, he hadn’t done much to deserve kindness. Ever since he lost his magic he had been so focused on getting it back that he had not given much thought to anything else. He had followed Vond around, begging for his magic like a puppy hoping for a treat. He had ignored or argued with Hanner, who had merely tried to talk sense to him. He had treated all the other Called warlocks as a nuisance, something to be pushed aside as much as possible.

  He remembered Feregris smiling patiently at him, surprising him with candies every so often, showing him clever little things a warlock could do, ways to accomplish his goals with a minimum of power, so as not to hasten the Calling. Those tricks hadn’t been enough to save his master, though. By the time Zallin completed his apprenticeship, Feregris was having nightmares almost every night, and had a tendency to turn his face northward whenever he wasn’t paying attention. Two months later he was gone.

  That had hurt, losing his master. Feregris’ daughter Virris had wanted no reminders of her father’s magic, and had asked Zallin to stop visiting, and he had complied. He did not particularly want to be reminded of his loss, either; he had stopped visiting anywhere in Westwark or Crookwall.

  Then he had set out to be the best warlock he could be, to prove himself worthy of his master’s memory, and he had worked his way up until he became Chairman of the Council of Warlocks. He had used Feregris’ old tricks to avoid using too much magic, so he had never been Called.

  But then he had lost his magic, and he had tried to find a new master, in the form of the Great Vond.

  Zallin mentally compared Feregris with Vond, and then his own behavior with both. He did not think he fared well against Feregris at all, but at least he wasn’t as bad as Vond.

  Not quite as bad as Vond, anyway.

  His magic was gone; he had finally accepted that. Now he had to think about what he was going to do without it — not just how he might earn a living, but who he was going to be.

  Being more like Feregris would be a good start, and finding Feregris, offering to help him, was the first step of that start. He looked at Leth, and held out a hand. “It was a pleasure talking to you,” he said, “but I’m going the other direction.”

  “Oh, I don’t have any business in Eastgate if you aren’t going there,” Leth said. “I’ll come along, if you don’t mind.”

  Zallin was startled. “You don’t want to get home to Camptown?”

  “Not particularly. Meeting this Feregris and your family sounds much more interesting.”

  “I wasn’t…I mean, I didn’t say anything about my family.”

  “If you’re going to Crookwall, Westwark’s just a few blocks farther.”

  Zallin hesitated, looking down at the bright red skirt showing beneath her coat that indicated Leth’s occupation. Then he smiled.

  Being more like his old master didn’t mean he had to be the obedient little boy his mother and brother had tried to make him be. “You’ll like my mother,” he said.

  “I will?”

  “Oh, yes. Everyone does. But she’ll hate you.”

  Leth grinned. “Sounds like fun,” she said. “Let’s go.”

  They turned and walked west.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Hanner had been expecting the dream, so when he found himself in Ithinia’s parlor, facing Rothiel of Wizard Street, rather than on his makeshift mattress in the village beyond the tapestry, he was not surprised.

  “What’s going on, Hanner?” Rothiel demanded. “Where are you?”

  “Hello, Rothiel,” Hanner said. “I’m in the refuge beyond the tapestry.”

  “You are? Is Vond… We had reports that he followed you through the tapestry, but since he’d be powerless there, we don’t…Is he there? Where is Vond? Do you know?”

  “I do,” Hanner said. “He did come here after me.”

  “He’s there? But he doesn’t have his magic there, does he?”

  “He doesn’t have anything,” Hanner replied. “Vond is dead. The return tapestry was ruined, and we were all stranded here, and someone cut his throat.”

  “Dead?” Rothiel looked shocked. “You’re sure he’s really dead?”

  “Oh, yes,” Hanner said. “His body has been burned. He’s unquestionably dead.”

  “Then it’s over?” Rothiel asked. “It’s really over? There are no more warlocks?”

  “Well, I don’t know of any more,” Hanner replied, nettled at the wizard’s attitude. Rothiel seemed to have forgotten that he was speaking to a former warlock.

  “Ithinia will be pleased.”

  “Ithinia?” Hanner’s temper got the better of him. “This… This…Ithinia caused this! If she had left Vond alone, he might never have caused any real trouble! If she didn’t want him using his magic, she could have talked to him, made a deal of some kind!”

  The wizard stepped back, startled by Hanner’s outburst, then shook his head. “He couldn’t be trusted, Hanner,” Rothiel said soothingly. “How many times did you see him break promises? How many people did you see him hurt, simply because they were in his way? Yes, we tried to trick him into giving up his magic, but did he try to talk to us when he found out? No, he killed our agent, and made threats and demands, putting hundreds of innocent lives in danger — lives that included your own sister and her family, I believe! Sooner or later, he would have done something catastrophic. He had to be stopped.”

  Hanner did not really want to defend Vond, but he could not resist saying,
“So he couldn’t be trusted with such powerful magic, but Ithinia can?”

  “Ithinia has had her magic for centuries, and I don’t see any disasters she’s caused,” Rothiel replied. “Besides, the Guild disciplines its own members, while no one could discipline Vond.”

  “The Guild disciplines its own?” Hanner said sarcastically, his hands on his hips. “Really? Who has the power to keep Ithinia from doing whatever she pleases?”

  Rothiel’s expression changed. He cast a furtive glance over his shoulder.

  “Don’t ask that, Hanner,” he said. “You really don’t want to know.”

  Startled out of his anger, Hanner blinked and did not answer for a moment. Then he said, “Can you get me back to Ethshar, even though the tapestry is ruined?”

  “I’m fairly certain we can arrange something,” Rothiel said. He hesitated, then asked, “Are you alone? No, you said you all were stranded. Who else is there, besides yourself?”

  “About a dozen former warlocks, and a dozen or so mercenary swordsmen Vond hired.”

  “Mercenaries? Do you mean professionals from the Small Kingdoms?”

  “No, I mean recruits from Shiphaven Market.”

  “Was it one of them who killed Vond, then? Lost his temper over the ruined tapestry, perhaps?”

  “No. It was…someone else.”

  Rothiel considered that for a moment, obviously considering possible reasons Hanner had not named the killer, then turned up a hand. “Well, we’ll see about getting you all out, and I don’t think anyone is going to bring any charges about any of this — after all, I would think that place is outside the overlord’s jurisdiction. I trust you can hold out for a few more days?”

  “Yes, I think so.”

  “Good. I hope to see you in the waking world soon.”

  And with that, the dream was over.

  When he awoke, Hanner told the others about the dream. He had the very definite impression that not everyone believed him, but there was nothing to be gained by arguing about it. It didn’t really matter what anyone thought; they had all come to terms with their situation, and accepted the reality that there was nothing they could do to aid their rescue or hurry their return to Ethshar. All they could do was wait, and make the best of their situation while they waited. They gathered nuts, caught fish, and made do, Vond’s mercenaries and the former warlocks working side by side.

  The unchanging sun gave the refuge a timeless feel and made it impossible to judge just how long it really was before a wizard’s apprentice appeared at the top of the slope, a heavy tapestry across his shoulders. Hanner and the others had slept twice more, so two or three days seemed like a reasonable guess.

  Rudhira had not been seen during that time; in fact, no one had seen her since she fled after cutting Vond’s throat. Hanner hoped she was safe. There had been vague suggestions that she should be hunted down and imprisoned, to be brought before a magistrate if and when they were able to return to Ethshar, but no one seemed eager to pursue the matter. Certainly, no one had done anything about her by the time the apprentice was spotted.

  The new arrival was greeted with shouts of joy, but Hanner noticed that not everyone joined in — and it wasn’t just the Called who appeared unenthusiastic. A couple of Vond’s hirelings did not cheer. Marl, for one, looked more pensive than excited.

  “Do you think it’s a trick?” Hanner asked him.

  Startled, Marl turned to look at him. “No,” he said. “I just don’t have much to go back to.”

  “Neither do I,” said Sidor, who had overheard, “but I don’t want to stay here. It’s creepy, the way it’s always early afternoon — it doesn’t feel real. Those houses are all a bit strange, too — and who built them, anyway?”

  “I’m not sure anyone did,” Hanner said. “They may have been created by magic.”

  “Well, I don’t like them.”

  “You could build your own, if you wanted to stay.”

  Sidor shook his head. “I don’t. I’m going back to Ethshar.”

  Hanner nodded, and argued no further. Together, they joined the crowd following the apprentice down the hill. When they reached the village, the boy turned and said, “Which of you is Hanner the Generous?”

  Hanner blinked; he had heard someone call him that before, but had not realized it was becoming his accepted name.

  “He is,” Marl said, pointing.

  “Where would you like it, sir?” the apprentice asked Hanner.

  Hanner chose a building more or less at random, and a moment later he watched as the apprentice secured the tapestry’s support rod to the exposed rafters of one of the village houses, and then unrolled the hanging.

  Hanner noticed that the rod had curious orange crystals at either end, and that two more crystals weighted the tapestry’s lower corners. Those drew his attention so that he did not even register the tapestry’s image at first. When he did finally look at the picture, he was startled to realize he recognized it; in fact, he was fairly certain he had been through this very tapestry once, long ago. It showed a sunlit little room with whitewashed walls and wicker furniture, though the image had been carefully arranged to hide the sun’s angle. Hanner knew that room; it was in Ithinia’s house on Lower Street, overlooking her garden.

  If this tapestry did still work, that meant her house was still standing, which was good news — the overlord’s palace really had not been dropped on it. It also meant that Ithinia was making an effort to be helpful; she had not offered this tapestry to bring the thousands of warlocks home from Aldagmor, presumably because she did not want a horde that size traipsing through her home, but she was willing to use it now to get Hanner and the others back to Ethshar.

  But there were still some things about the tapestry that puzzled him. “What are those orange things?” he asked the apprentice. He did not recall anything of the sort being attached when he had been sent through this tapestry all those years ago.

  “Hm?” The apprentice glanced at the support rod. “Oh, the Returning Crystals? Yes, well, you see, sir, this tapestry cannot stay here; the Guildmaster needs it back. She’s put a very complex spell on it, combining Pallum’s Returning Crystal, the Spell of Reversal, and the Spell of the Obedient Object. Precisely thirty-five hours after she placed the enchantment, this tapestry will vanish and return to its rightful owner. It took some time for me to bring it here, so I would estimate you have about thirty-two hours remaining.”

  “So anyone who isn’t out of here by then will be stranded again?”

  The apprentice nodded vigorously. “Yes, sir. That’s exactly right.” He glanced around. “I would suggest that you waste no time. Any delay increases the chances that something will go wrong.”

  Hanner decided not to ask what could go wrong.

  “Now, if you’ll excuse me, sir,” the apprentice continued, “I will be returning to Ethshar myself. We leave it to you to make sure everyone is out; we will not be sending any further aid. The Guild does not consider anyone who is stranded here after the tapestry vanishes to be our responsibility. Further, if the tapestry is impaired or damaged in any way, that, too, is on your own heads. These things are expensive, and we will not risk another one.”

  “I understand,” Hanner said.

  The apprentice nodded once more, reached out to touch the tapestry, and was gone. Hanner realized as the youth vanished that he had never even caught the lad’s name.

  “Who’s next?” Gerath called, before Hanner could react.

  “Where does it go?” someone called.

  “What does it matter?” Gerath demanded. “You know it’s safe, or that kid wouldn’t have used it.”

  That didn’t necessarily follow, since they had no way of being certain the apprentice had been what he seemed, and that it had been the tapestry, and not some other spell, that made him vanish, but Hanner was not about to say that. Instead he said, “It comes out in a wizard’s house on Lower Street. I’ve seen it before.”

  That caused a murmu
r, but then Gerath repeated, “Who’s next?”

  “I am,” Sidor said. He pushed past one of his comrades, stretched out a hand, and disappeared.

  That started a rush, but Hanner and Gerath joined efforts to enforce some order, to make sure the tapestry and its appurtenances — like those crystals — were not damaged, and that each traveler had time to step aside, once in Ithinia’s house, before the next approached.

  One by one, with varying degrees of enthusiasm, Vond’s hirelings and the former warlocks vanished through the tapestry.

  “Where will we go, in Ethshar?” one of the Called asked, standing unmoving before the tapestry.

  “We’ll find somewhere for you,” Hanner assured her. “My family is rich and powerful, and I’ll see to it that something is arranged.”

  “Go on,” Gerath said, pushing her forward. She still did not reach out, but another shove sent her close enough that one hand brushed the fabric, and she was gone.

  “We could let some of them stay,” Hanner said.

  Gerath shook his head. “I was sent here to get everyone out, and I’m getting everyone out. If some of them slip back in, that’s not my problem. For now, though, everyone goes.”

  “What about Rudhira?” the last of the Called, a middle-aged man Hanner thought might be named Elner, asked.

  Gerath frowned. “I’ll make an exception for her. I don’t want to go searching for a crazed throat-cutting murderer; do you?”

  “No,” Elner, if that was his name, agreed. He stepped forward, and vanished.

  Hanner stared at the tapestry, and the empty patch of floor where Elner had stood, and then turned to look at Gerath.

  Crazed throat-cutting murderer?

  Technically, Hanner had to admit the description was fairly accurate, but since her attack on Vond had probably saved his life, and quite possibly the lives of hundreds of other people, he did not think of it as “crazed.”

  There were enough people back in Ethshar who might look on it that way, though, that perhaps Rudhira would be safer stranded here in the refuge. Rothiel had said no one was planning to charge her with murder, but still, there were the mercenaries, and the various Called warlocks who had hoped Vond might restore their magic; she might find a very unfriendly reception on the other side of the tapestry.