Realms of Magic a-3

by R. A. Salvatore

  The other Jehan took another two steps and reached up, grasping the merchant by the forehead. Yellow lances of energy raced across Khanos's face, and the foreign merchant screamed, his skull shuddering under the other Jehan's grip. After a few moments, the merchant toppled forward, his ears and mouth streaming with thin wisps of white smoke.

  The other Jehan turned to the young mage and scowled, that serious scowl that Jehan used when listening to his master. "Now that this is all taken care of, you'd best get home. I'll see to the disposal of the powder."

  The original Jehan shook his head. His voice cracked as he spoke: "There is another one here, a giff. He has a pistol, as well."

  "That is true," said Ladislau, standing by the barrel of smoke powder. The giff's face and topcoat were slick with black blood, and he had lost an eye to the bronzework deva. He aimed the gun at Jehan's duplicate.

  "You saw what happened to your ally," said the other Jehan. "Do you think you can hurt me with mere bullets?"

  The giff gave a bloody-mouthed smile and said, "No, not with bullets." He aimed the gun at the barrel of purified smoke powder. "Not with bullets," he repeated. "But a single shot will blow us all to our respective afterlives."

  The other Jehan took a step forward and snapped his fingers. A single flame appeared and danced at the tip of his index finger. "Run, boy," he said to the battered, original version.

  Jehan ran, making long, limping strides. As he cleared the door, he heard the giff shout, "I'm not bluffing."

  The other Jehan replied coolly, "Neither am I."

  Jehan made it ten, maybe eleven steps past the door when a huge hand grabbed him and pressed him flat against the ground. Then the thunder, this time like a thousand arquebuses firing at once, swept over him and pressed him farther against the cobblestones. Then the heat washed over him in a single blast, pushing past in its rush to escape the alley.

  Jehan rose slowly and saw that the warehouse was in flames, the fire already licking up through the broken skylight and setting the roof ablaze. The single entrance was an inferno, and while the walls seemed to have resisted the blast, nothing could live within it.

  The other Jehan stepped out through the doorway, unblemished by the explosion, and unsinged by the flames. He looked around, spotting the unsteady youth, and walked toward him. —

  As he walked, the duplicate's features changed. He became taller, almost gangly, and his hair changed from Jehan's dark ponytail to an icy blond tint, worn short. Gerald, Anton's friend.

  Then he changed again, the blond darkening to a night-black shade, worn free over the shoulders, the face aging and gaining a full beard, black with a white stripe in its center. The shoulders widened, and the wizard's stride became long and measured. Khelben Arunsun, the Black-staff of Waterdeep. The Old Spider.

  "Are you all right, child?" asked the elder mage.

  Jehan, propped against a wall, managed a weak nod. He noticed that no mind-killing lights danced at the older man's fingertips.

  "Good," said the wizard. "Maskar takes a dim view when I get his apprentices damaged, and doubly so when they are his relatives. Of course, he's dismissed apprentices for much less serious crimes than this."

  Jehan's mouth finally found purchase. "What…?" he said. "What happened?"

  Khelben's mouth formed a thin line. "For what it's worth, you can tell your master that my original plan did not involve you. I had found this little bit of smoke powder, and put the sand in it, hoping to turn up the conspirators. Then as Gerald, I would hang out at the better taverns loudly declaring my anti-elder, pro-powder thoughts, waiting for someone to contact me to solve the little problem I had given them. I did not count on another young whelp making a better case than myself on the use of smoke powder. I did not even know you had been contacted until an abjuration I had placed here warned me that the powder had been purified. At that point, it seemed to make more sense to imitate your appearance, and throw the conspirators off-balance, should they have killed you. My 'Gerald' identity failed to impress them earlier, and I would set them to immediate flight in my natural form, the one you so aptly titled 'skunk-maned.'"

  The elder mage paused in his lecture, as if just remembering Jehan was still there, leaking his blood into the wall. He looked at his battered companion and added, "So, child, you still think everyone in Waterdeep should have smoke powder?"

  Jehan looked at the flaming wreckage of the warehouse. Already the locals had responded and were forming bucket brigades from nearby cisterns. Everyone was ignoring the two mages-more magic of the Old Spider, no doubt.

  "I think," Jehan started, too tired and battered to be properly respectful or afraid, "I think you just can't blow up the future and hide in the past. Somewhere, someone is going to get past you, and you need to be ready for the day. You can't stop progress."

  That was when Khelben surprised the young mage. He laughed-a sharp, staccato chuckle. "Ah, so at least we agree on something. You are right: we can't stop progress. Smoke powder, the printed word, new forms of magic-it's all coming. But we can slow it down from a run to a walk, so at least we can be ready for it. So we can be its master, instead of it being ours."

  Jehan groaned. "You think the Old Rel… Maskar will dismiss me for this?"

  Khelben nodded at the wreckage. "Well, he no longer changes apprentices into newts for forgetting the lemon in his morning tea… but yes, this is pretty serious. I could put a good word in for you. Or perhaps…"

  Jehan looked at Khelben, but his eyes refused to focus properly. "Perhaps?" was the best the youth could manage.

  "I could use another youth to scrub the pots, sweep the conjuring floor, and learn what snippets of magic I deign to teach. And an adventurous youth would be suitable, since I think my Gerald persona should leave town for a while." The Old Spider chuckled again. "And Maskar would be relieved of having to face your parents with your latest escapade."

  Jehan tried to smile, but the effort broke his last bit of willpower. He fell into soft, warm darkness.

  The young mage awoke at home, the healer speaking to his parents in the next room in quiet, relaxed tones-the tones of one confident the patient will recover without further interference. Jehan's shoulder and leg were still sore, but it was the soreness of strained muscles and bruises as opposed to ripped and bloodied flesh.

  His parents wavered between anger at him risking his life in some damned-fool adventure and pride in the impression he had apparently made on the great Black-staff, who had brought him home and spoken of his heroism. Even now, they said, Khelben was talking with Uncle Maskar about taking Jehan under his wing. Imagine, one of the Wands family learning from the Old Spider himself. But of course, regardless of the outcome, he should not have taken up with that sinister merchant in the first place.

  His parents were still trying to determine if they were angry at Jehan or proud of him as he drifted back to sleep.

  He awoke much later, having slept through the entire day. Beyond his open window, Waterdeep lay spread out before him with a thousand flickering lights, marching southward toward the sea.

  Suddenly there was a series of bright flashes, down by the wharves. A moment passed, then another, then at last the staccato of small explosions reached his ears. Khelben probably had found the rest of the smoke powder stashes, Jehan thought. The ripple of thunder sounded like Khel-ben's chuckle.

  Jehan sat there for a long time, looking out over the darkened city, but the effect did not repeat itself. The young mage wondered, Is Khelben rewarding me by making me his apprentice, or punishing me?

  Or is he up to something else entirely?

  Jehan was still trying to figure this out, the first of many puzzles Blackstaff would pose to him, when sleep finally reclaimed him.

  THE MAGIC THIEF

  Mark Anthony

  I am penning this story as a warning, so that it will not happen to another as it happened to me. My first mistake upon meeting the thief was that I pitied him. But then I have always pitie
d his kind: those who have longed all their lives to become wizards but-by some cruel trick of birth or accident-are incapable of touching or shaping the ethereal substance of magic. How easy it was for me, so comfortable in my wizard's mantle of power, to feel pity for such a man. Yet pity can be a weakness. And as I have learned, it is not my only one. Here then is my tale.

  It was just after sunset when I received the curious invitation.

  Outside the window of my study, the last day of autumn had died its golden death, and twilight wove its gray fabric around the countless spires of the Old City. I sighed and set down my quill pen next to the sheaf of parchment I had been filling with musings of magic. As it had with growing frequency of late, a peculiar restlessness had fallen upon me. Absently, I gazed about my sanctuary. Thick Sembian carpets covered the floor. A fire burned brightly in a copper brazier. The walls were lined with shelves of rich wood, laden with books, scrolls, and crystal vials. Everything about my study bespoke learning, and comfort, and quiet dignity. I decorated it myself, if I do say so.

  I took a sip of wine from a silver goblet, wondering at the source of my unease. Certainly nothing could harm me here in the haven of my tower. Over the years I had bound walls, doors, and windows with protective magics and charms of warding. No one could enter the tower without my leave. I was utterly and perfectly safe.

  I set down the goblet and caught a reflection of a man in its silver surface. He was tall and regal, clad in garb of pearl gray. His handsome face was unlined, and his eyes gleamed like blue ice. A long mane of golden hair tumbled about his shoulders. The man looked far younger than his true years. Yet magic can have a preservative effect on those who wield it.

  This I knew, for the man was me. Morhion Gen'dahar. The greatest wizard in the city of Iriaebor.

  I shook my head, for I had not chosen this title. True, years ago I had traveled on perilous adventures. I had helped defeat beings of ancient and terrible evil. Perhaps, in those days, I had known something of greatness. Yet what had I done since then? Nothing, save keep to the peaceful fastness of my tower. I was secure, and comfortable, and safe. Yes, safe. That was the word, and suddenly it was like a curse to me. I clenched a fist in anger.

  After a moment I blinked. Bitter laughter escaped my lips. If this tower was a prison, I had wrought it for myself. Drawing in a resigned breath, I reached for my quill pen once more.

  I halted at the magical chiming of a small bronze bell. Someone stood upon the front steps of my tower. Curious, for I had few visitors these days, I hurried from my study and descended a spiral staircase to the tower's entry chamber. Belatedly I waved a hand, dismissing the spells that bound the door-which otherwise would have given me a nasty shock-and flung open the portal.

  There was no one there.

  The path that led from the Street of Runes to my tower was empty in the gloaming. Oddly disappointed, I started to shut the door. I paused as something caught my eye. It was a piece of paper resting on the stone steps. I bent down to retrieve the paper. A message was written upon it in a spidery hand:

  I wish to meet you. Come to the Crow's Nest at moon-rise. I believe there is much we can gain from one another.

  — Zeth

  I gazed at the words in mild interest. It was hardly the first such invitation I had received. Usually they came from would-be apprentices, wandering mages seeking knowledge, or-on occasion-brash young wizards wishing to challenge me to a duel of magic. I studied the paper, wondering to which category this Zeth belonged. That last line was unusual. Most wanted something of me. Yet this man seemed to believe I had something to gain from him.

  Intriguing as it was, I knew I should discard the invitation. Yet I was suddenly loath to return to the safe confines of my tower. I had heard of the Crow's Nest. It was a rough tavern on the riverfront, a dangerous place. Yet was I not the greatest wizard in Iriaebor? I thought with a sharp smile. What did I have to fear? Before I knew what I was doing, I grabbed my dusk-gray cloak from a hook in the entry chamber. I shut the door of my tower, rebinding the enchantments with a wave of my hand, and headed into the deepening night.

  I moved quickly down the twisting Street of Runes. The numberless towers of the Old City loomed above, plunging the winding ways below into thick shadow. Soon I came to the edge of the labyrinth and, following a steep road cut into the face of the Tor, made my way down into the sprawling New City below. Here the streets were broader and more open than in the Old City, lined by bright torches.

  I was just on the edge of a shabby, less savory section of the city when I was accosted by the girl.

  "Would you like to buy some magic, milord?" she asked in a pert voice. A grin lit up her grimy face as she pulled something from her tattered clothes.

  "So this is magic, is it?" I asked solemnly, accepting the proffered object. It was a small tube woven of straw.

  The urchin nodded enthusiastically. "If someone puts his fingers in each end, he won't be able to pull them out. And the harder he pulls, the more stuck his fingers will be. That's the enchantment."

  A low laugh escaped my lips. "And a powerful one it is." No doubt this girl was an orphan, and under the power of some petty thief. If she failed to sell her wares, it was likely she would be beaten. I drew out a silver coin and flipped it to the girl.

  "Thank you, milord!" she cried as she snatched up the coin and vanished into the gloom. I tucked the cheap finger-trick into a pocket and, wearing a faint smile, continued on my way.

  I reached the Crow's Nest just as the pale orb of Selune lifted itself above the city's sentinel towers. Moonrise. The ramshackle tavern stood on an old quay thrust out into the turgid waters of the Chionthar River. The scents of fish and garbage hung on the air. I opened the tavern's door and stepped into the murky space beyond.

  A dozen eyes fell upon me, then just as quickly looked away. This was a violent place. Its clientele were murderers, pirates, and thieves. But all knew a wizard when they saw one. Drunk as most were, none were fools enough to think their fists or knives a match for true magic. They hunkered over their ale pots and returned to their talk. The palm of my left hand tingled, and I rubbed it absently. My fingers traced the familiar pattern of an old, puckered scar: the Rune of Magic, which had branded me a wizard long ago.

  I scanned the smoky interior. In one corner sat a man, pale and nervous, fidgeting with-but not drinking from- a dented flagon. It could be no other. Zeth. He was older than I had guessed. His thin face was sharply lined though not unhandsome, and gray flecked his dark hair. Drab clothes hung loosely upon his lean frame. At once I knew he was no mage. I wended my way through the tavern and sat opposite him. He glanced up, his expression one of surprise. Yet it seemed a strange smugness shone in his dark eyes.

  "I didn't think you'd come," he said in a hoarse voice.

  "Yet, here I am," I countered smoothly.

  He fumbled with the flagon. "Would you like a drink?"

  "No," I replied.

  Silence settled between us. The first move was up to him. He shifted uncomfortably in his chair. "I can feel it radiating from you, you know." A hunger filled his voice. "Magic, I mean. It's… it must be… intoxicating."

  With these words, I knew him. Without doubt, Zeth was one of those few who are utterly dead to the touch of magic-what some mages cruelly called geldings. Their kind was rare, but had been known for centuries. Occasionally, masters encountered students who, no matter their intelligence or effort, could not learn even the simplest of spells. For reason unknown, they could neither sense nor channel the forces of magic. Most geldings gave up their arcane studies and turned to other pursuits, leading normal lives. Yet I had heard tales of geldings who had been driven mad by their ill-fated desire to wield magic.

  "I'm sorry," I said, speaking the first words that came to my mind.

  Anger flared in his eyes. "Save your apologies, Morhion Gen'dahar," he hissed. He clenched his hand into a trembling fist. "I want your power, not your pity."

  I gazed at hi
m unflinchingly. "I cannot give it to you, Zeth."

  He slowly unclenched his hand. His thin shoulders slumped. "No, I suppose you can't," he whispered. He stared despondently at the table. "I had hoped that maybe you would know a way to help me. I should have known better."

  This must be torture for him, I realized. He must be drawn to mages even as he loathed and resented them. It was a cruel illness, but one of which I could not cure him, one which I would only inflame with my presence. "I believe I will go now, Zeth," I said quietly.

  He nodded jerkily, still staring at the table, then looked up as I started to rise. "Please," he choked. "Let me at least shake your hand before you go-so that I can say I have indeed met the great wizard Morhion Gen'dahar."

  I hesitated. It seemed wrong to aid his delusions in any way. Yet such was the haunted look in his dark eyes that I could not resist. "Very well," I replied finally.

  He stood and held out his hand-his left, rather than his right. This was odd, but I thought little of it. I reached my left hand toward him.

  "May Mystra guide you-" I started to speak. The words faltered on my lips.

  An intricate symbol was tattooed on the back of his left hand. The glyph filled me with a sudden inexplicable dread. I tried to snatch my hand back, but it was too late. Zeth's fingers closed around mine. Agony raced up my arm like white fire. I arched my spine, throwing my head back as a scream ripped itself from my lungs. There was a brilliant flash, and the reek of lightning filled the air. At last, Zeth released my hand. I reeled backward, stumbling weakly against a wall. I stared at him in pain-clouded confusion. Strangely, he was laughing.

  "You cannot give it to me," he said mockingly, "but I can take it from you." He held up his left hand. On the palm was a puckered scar, as if from a hot brand. It was a symbol I knew well: the Rune of Magic. His laughter rose to a maddening din in my ears. I clutched at the wall, trying to keep my feet. Then the room spun around me, and I fell down into darkness.