Wizard Spawn

by C. J. Cherryh

  The Sabirn woman—hanged as a necromancer.

  Duran's head spun. Thirty-five years of his life here—with his parents and on his own—in the same shop, the same small apartment upstairs. He had spent his youth here, had roots here, friends here. And . . .

  He could die here.

  Possibly.

  After what he had heard tonight, more than possibly.

  "But I can't take all my things with me," he protested. "I have my alchemist's tools, my books, my notes, my medicines. . . . Without those, I'm worthless!"

  "We have a wagon," Old Man said. "We can get others. How much room do you need?"

  Duran chewed on his lower lip. "But how in Dandro's hells can I move this stuff without the neighbors knowing?"

  "We'll help you."

  "Who," Duran asked again, "is 'we'?"

  Old Man waved a hand. "Myself. Kekoja. Several more. We have our own possessions to take."

  Duran shook his head slowly. There had to be some other way to approach this. He could not run—merely because his neighbors were upset.

  Or could he?'

  Was his pride worth his life? Was it worth all he ever meant to do, all the notes, the knowledge his father had collected, that he had added to over a lifetime, the pages and pages—

  "It's simple, Duran." The Sabirn's black eyes glittered in the lamplight. "We know the dark ways . . . the streets the Guard never travels. We load your belongings—we go. That's all."

  Duran shuddered.

  "And," Old Man said, "we aren't without wizards of our own."

  "Gods . . ."

  "Them, too."

  "You're asking total trust from me," Duran said at last. "Total trust."

  "You have my true name," Old Man said with quiet dignity, "You know what I am. That is a sacred bond."

  "Are you—"

  "You know," Old Man said, in that Voice, "—what I am."

  "I suppose I do," Duran said, and shivered. "When do you suggest we start?"

  "I don't think trouble's imminent. Not by what I've heard. And if Kekoja doesn't show up for work tomorrow . . ."

  "Wait. If Kekoja doesn't come to work tomorrow, won't the neighbors think something's strange?"

  "You said Tutadar suggested you send him off. I would imagine he'll tell the other folk you're going to do something like that."

  "All right," he said. He lifted his chin, decision made. "I'll start gathering everything I need tonight."

  "Good. You have enough baskets for your medicines, don't you?"

  "I'll manage."

  "And your alchemist's tools?"

  "The baskets I keep things in. But my alembics, my -furnace—"

  "We can make you new ones."

  "And where is that? Where will we be?"

  Old Man's face was very serious, still in the lamplight. "A place where the mind can run free," he said.

  * * *

  Ladirno sat at his lately habitual table in "The Golden Shoe," contemplating the walk back to his apartments, but dreading the unpredictability of his companion and looking, still, for some decision, some sense that things might have settled. Wellhyrn sat in a chair opposite him, looking frustrated and angry. As yet, Wellhyrn had not come up with a suitable punishment for Duran—a revenge that nobody could trace back to its source. The lack of inspiration had thrown Wellhyrn into a beastly—and dangerous—mood.

  Oddly enough, some small part of Ladirno took a bleak satisfaction in his companion's discomfiture—but he did not trust him.

  Distant thunder rumbled and Ladirno winced. Gods-blighted storms! He, himself, chose to believe that no one controlled the weather, but he could not remember a stretch of weather like this.

  Perhaps the Sabirn were behind the weather.

  Perhaps.

  A darkly cloaked man walked toward their table, and though Ladirno could see no face below the hood, he thought he recognized him. Wellhyrn lifted his head and stared, then smiled coldly, his face relaxing in dark pleasure.

  "Ah, Mandani. Please join us."

  Ladirno drew in his breath: Mandani, he recalled, was the name Wellhyrn had mentioned, the wizard he had set on Duran—and the wizards he dealt with, this one—this man was not a comfortable drinking companion.

  "I have interesting news," the wizard said, still not throwing back the hood of his cloak. "I believe Duran to be protected."

  "What?" Wellhyrn's face stilled to a portrait in ice.

  "I had an apprentice spell him in 'The Swimming Cat' tonight. Though I was still working on him, he didn't drop a thing."

  Ladirno flashed a dismayed glance at Wellhyrn. "But he has no wizard—he couldn't possibly afford a wizard!"

  "I don't know."

  "We have to suppose," Mandani said softly, "that someone is protecting him. I don't know the nature of this wizard, I don't know where he is, or what he is, but he exists."

  "Are you asking for more money?" Wellhyrn's green eyes were cold in the lamplight. "Perhaps it's you. Maybe you're not as good as you say you are."

  "Hyrn," Ladirno said, shooting his younger colleague a silencing look, his heart beating in dread of this man. "Forgive him. Things haven't gone well lately. We're—in some personal difficulty."

  Mandani's expression did not change.

  "Do you think you might need help?" Ladirno asked carefully.

  "Assistance might be useful. Assuming his adept has none."

  "I don't see how he's affording one!" Wellhyrn snapped.

  Ladirno signed him: caution. "All right. If you think two of you can get the job done, then choose your partner. The fee for his services will be the same as your own."

  "Thank you." Mandani's deep voice never varied. "We'll start immediately."

  He rose and walked away.

  Ladirno stared at Wellhyrn. "It seems," he said, "Duran's not innocent."

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Hail fell—heavy, large hail that coated the streets of Targheiden with ice-white pebbles, shattered two panes of glass in the Great Hall, killed livestock, killed an old man on the West Side.

  Hajun sat and glared at the silent Hall. None of his courtiers were talking; stiff-legged, they stood with their backs to the wall, their expressionless faces telling him more than words. The priests stood in a corner, whispering among themselves—and not a wizard was to be seen.

  Cowards.

  A runner came into the hall—spoke briefly to the priests. Faljend, the chief priest of Hladyr, quickly left that cluster and approached the dais. "If I might talk to you, privately, Your Grace. . . ."

  Hajun beckoned him closer, closer still.

  "There's a certain panic, Your Grace," Faljend said in the faintest of voices. "People gathering in various places, in the markets—they're afraid—"

  "So?" Hajun snapped. "Their shingles are lying in the streets—their windows battered—what's remarkable they should be afraid?"

  "Gently, Your Grace. We must stand as an example—"

  "How in Hladyr's name are we going to do that?" Hajun leaned forward. "The merchants are at each other's throats . . . they're ready to lash out at anything that moves. And, depending on shipping as I do, I know how they feel, dammit!"

  "We priests are doing everything we can, Your Grace. We've had special prayers offered at the Temple. Common folk are praying for a change in the weather. None of this seems to have done any good."

  Hajun grunted a reply.

  "It's wizardry, Your Grace, it's the Sabirn!"

  "I'm so damned tired of hearing everyone howl about the Sabirn I could puke! What do you suggest? That we round up every Sabirn we can get our hands on and hang them?"

  "Your Grace, if something's not done soon, we could be facing riots in the streets. Everyone's suffering, everyone, from you, Your Grace, down to the smallest shopkeeper in Old Town. No one's immune."

  Hajun rubbed his forehead, willing his headache to vanish. "So?"

  "I know, Your Grace, I'm telling you nothing new. I do, however, suggest that you ma
ke a public plea for calm. Send your heralds among the people to tell them your concern. . . ."

  "How am I supposed to do that in all this wind and rain? Who'll listen? Everyone's inside."

  "They'll listen, Your Grace. When people become as emotional as they are now, they'll listen from their windows, to anything that tells them what they want to hear."

  "Words! Words are nothing! The question is doing, priest!"

  "Search out the necromancers—there's more than one, Your Grace, there must be a nest of them. And hang them, one and all!"

  "If my wizards can't stop them, priest, how in Dandro's hells are we going to lay hands on them?"

  "We have to try, Your Grace! We have to smoke them out, divert them with danger from different fronts—"

  "Give me names, dammit, give me names!"

  Faljend bowed deeply. "We have our spies, Your Grace, as I'm sure you know. We do know names, Sabirn who hold themselves out to be wizards and fortune-tellers. We know who they are."

  "Fortune-tellers aren't the ones involved!" Hajun said. "You're dealing with a furtive people, you're not going to find anything!"

  "Divide their attention," the High Priest said. "But first, Your Grace, first you have to have the people behind you."

  Hajun scowled, smelling disaster, thinking of his ships. His hold on this city. "Huhn. All right. I'll write up a speech. My heralds will be out among the people by this afternoon." Rain spattered against the windows, thunder boomed, and Hajun gripped the armrests on his chair. "Damn them!"

  * * *

  Vadami stood in prayer in the cavernous Temple, his eyes shut as he sent his pleas to Hladyr the Shining. He could hear other folk around him constantly praying, their muted voices added to his own.

  He gazed up at the altar, hoping that the sight of it would warm his heart as it had always done. Surrounded by hundreds of burning lamps, overlaid with pounded gold, it sparkled as with captured sunlight, and towering over it was the intricate mosaic of the Shining One himself, standing above the entire world, all creation at his feet. It was a masterwork—a young man in the prime of life, golden hair blown back from a divinely beautiful face, looking down on his worshippers, compassion in his eyes. On either hand the gods and goddesses: beneath his feet, the dark regions of Dandro's hells.

  A crash of thunder. Vadami flinched. Rain spattered against the costly windows.

  The Sabirn were responsible for this, Vadami would stake his immortal soul on that. Dealers in darkness, they had brought this evil on the city. Everyone knew it now—

  Except Duran.

  Vadami said a brief prayer for Duran's soul, though he felt certain that soul was lost forever. Why had such a kindly man succumbed to the Sabirn and their dark ways? Why would Duran not listen to what might have saved his soul?

  Duran did nothing but laugh in Vadami's face.

  Duran blasphemed the Shining One.

  And prayers went unanswered.

  Duran was Ancar—was no Sabirn heathen, but one of their own.

  That was the link the evil had. That was the linchpin of their plot—the seduction of one of the noble blood, the drawing-astray of an Ancar lord, the breaking of the bond between Hladyr and this city—

  The Duke himself—had sent Duran away with only the mildest admonition to not seek out any new Sabirn to befriend.

  Vadami lifted his head again, and stared at the image of Hladyr, terrified.

  Lord of Shining Light, he prayed. Give me a sign. Tell me what I should do about Duran. Nothing happened. No sign appeared. Vadami's heart felt cold and empty.

  Then, of a sudden, a thought. Hladyr has answered. I know the truth. I know the source of the evil—at least where it lodges. . . .

  In my own flock.

  Remove Duran: then Targheiden and its people might be saved.

  He had spent hours upon hours, seasons upon seasons, trying to save Duran's soul. Some souls, it seemed, were destined not to be saved. By anyone.

  Hladyr, guide me! I don't know how to kill! I don't want to hurt any of your creatures, and so far Duran himself is surely no demon worshipper—only perilously close. What can I do? What should I do?

  The image stared back, aloof, unreachable by any man's prayers.

  * * *

  Duran stood in the center of his bedroom and stared at the baskets he had leaned up against the outer wall. In those baskets he had carefully packed his most precious possessions: his father's notes, his alchemist's tools, his collections of various metals, his vials, beakers, a few of his small alembics. In what space remained, he had tucked in other sentimental odds and ends he could not see leaving behind.

  He shook his head at the sight, and looked around at the rest of the room . . . at those things he knew he could not take with him.

  There was the bed his parents had brought with them from the Ancahar estate, along with its nightstand. Next to it stood the old bookcase his wife had brought with her when they had married—the only thing of hers he had. They were among the last physical ties he had to those long-dead people he loved the most . . . the last things he could touch, knowing they had touched them, too.

  He snarled a curse and turned away. He still could not believe he had agreed to leave town, no matter how desperate the -reason: he could not conceive of himself living anywhere else but Targheiden—going—

  Where? Old Man had never yet said.

  But the danger Old Man had warned him of, what Tutadar had said, were obvious facts. Why the hells had he not been able to see this before? He had known when he had helped Kekoja that he was dealing with fire. He had known.

  I suppose, he thought, it's like everything else in life: we see terrible things; but nothing can happen to us.

  It had happened.

  He had no choice. If he was going to live out what years he had left of life in peace, if he was going to live at all—he would have to leave the city he loved.

  And to do this, he would have to place complete trust in the Sabirn, in Old Man, in Kekoja. All last night, into the small hours, he had wrapped his prized possessions in water-proofed paper: his herbs, medicines, books, and tools. Then, after stowing everything in baskets, he had lowered three of those baskets out the upstairs alley window down into the alleyway and the waiting hands of gods only knew who. He had seen Kekoja, and someone he thought was a woman.

  Where the Sabirn had gone with his baskets, he had no clue.

  And now, he waited for darkness to fall again, so he could deliver the rest of his possessions into those same shadowy hands.

  He began to pace, up and down, past the desk on which he had written so many things. Past the bookcase, nearly empty. Past the table on which his small furnace sat. He reached and ran a hand over the top of that furnace, remembering all the years he had worked in front of it, trying time and again to unlock the secrets of nature and the gods. . . .

  The enormity of it all was beginning to sink in. He would never stand in this room again. He would never see the same sights again. Never, as long as he lived, would he be able to walk across the street and spend an evening with his neighbors in the "Cat," spinning out the day's happenings, and listening to homely gossip. He would be severed from everything he had known since he was a boy.

  Twice now, in his overturned life. Twice a pilgrim in the world.

  It hurt, the thought of it . . . burned in his heart like a brand.

  He stopped pacing, and considered the step he was taking. His standing here in his apartment, visually recording the sights and sounds of it for the future, was like being present at someone's deathbed. But it was his own death, so to speak . . . a personal death, an ending of all the things he knew.

  But dying at the hands of a mob was no way for an Ancar noble to leave the world. He still had things he wanted to do, wanted to learn, wanted to see. And if the gods had decreed that he would have to do all that somewhere besides Targheiden—

  There was no choice.

  * * *

  A crowd had gather
ed in the street outside Ladirno's apartment, some of them having to stand out in the rain, away from the protection of the second story overhang. Ladirno drew the hood of his cloak up over his head and pushed his way into the back of the crowd. He was taller than most, so he had some kind of view.

  It was a ducal herald, on horseback. The fellow looked as miserable as the folk who had assembled to hear him. His royal green cloak was drenched and dark, his wide-brimmed hat drooped, a steady stream of rain pouring off one side. The sight was enough to amuse—except the extraordinary fact of a herald out at all, in streets littered with broken shingle, except the grim, rain-chilled pallor of the faces that nothing would cheer.

  "Attention citizens!" The heralds well-trained voice boomed out in the street as thunder rumbled overhead. "I come to you with word from His Grace, Hajun vro Telhern, Duke of Targheiden. These are the Duke's words:

  "'All citizens of Targheiden: measures to bring an end to this freakish weather are being undertaken. His Grace the Duke, assures you he is confident that, by the grace of Hladyr the Shining, there will soon be an end to these storms. He urges you add your prayers to those the priests are offering. Rest assured that every wizard employed by His Grace the Duke is actively involved in turning this evil from the city.' So says His Grace, Duke Hajun vro Telhern."

  A muster ran through the crowd. The herald drew his horse's head about and rode on. Ladirno snorted under his breath. Prayers? One hoped for more than that.

  And the Duke's own wizards. All the Duke's wizards trying to do what Mandani and his associate were trying—

  But the Duke would not believe—not believe the source of the evil.

  As if—Ladirno shuddered—the Duke himself had fallen under some spell.

  The rain increased and Ladirno broke into a slow run. The sign outside the "Shoe" was just ahead; swaying in the gusty wind, it offered a haven from the storm, and a chance for much needed companionship.

  * * *

  The rain had driven Vadami into "The Golden Shoe" some time ago, but his cloak was still cold and dripping. He sat at a small table toward the rear of the common room, sipping on a glass of hot mulled wine: such a drink had seemed right on this dreary day.