The Unwelcome Warlock loe-11

by Lawrence Watt-Evans

  She replied in the same tongue, “He and the chamberlain are upstairs, seeing to the accommodations. His old apartments were long ago put to other uses.”

  “I know,” Sterren said. “I gave the orders for that myself. So he’s inspecting the palace?”

  She nodded.

  “Has he said anything about the people he brought with him?” Sterren jerked his head toward a clump of black-clad strangers.

  “We are to treat them as honored guests.”

  “That’s all?”

  “I’m just a messenger, my lord.”

  “Thank you.” Sterren patted her on the shoulder, then turned and smiled at one of the strangers.

  He smiled warily back, and Sterren strode over to him.

  “Welcome to the Vondish Empire!” Sterren said in Ethsharitic, raising a hand in greeting. “I am Lord Sterren.”

  “My name is Korl of Cliffgate,” the stranger replied, in an accent that seemed to indicate an origin in Ethshar of the Rocks.

  “I’m pleased to meet you,” Sterren said. “I understand you are a warlock?”

  “Well, I was,” Korl said.

  “Yes, I understand the power you drew upon is gone.”

  Korl shuddered. “Yes,” he said.

  Sterren got the very definite impression that Korl did not care to discuss whatever it was that had departed Aldagmor, and he had no problem with that; he was more interested in matters closer to home. “How did you come to know the emperor?” he asked.

  “I don’t know him,” Korl replied. “I mean, I’d heard of him — I was Called a few years after he conquered all those...well, after he conquered here, I guess. But I never met him.”

  “Oh? Then if you don’t mind my asking, how do you come to be here?”

  “Well, we’d just been freed, and the...the Source had left, and Vond flew up and called for volunteers to come with him, and I raised my hands because I was cold and scared and we were stranded out there in the wilderness at night, with no food or water or magic, and he said he would bring us here and give us important positions. It seemed better than starving or freezing in Aldagmor, or being there if that thing came back.”

  “I see,” Sterren said. “Very sensible.”

  “Maybe,” Korl said, looking around uneasily. “I’m not sure. No one here was expecting us, and we haven’t gotten any food yet, though they did find us wine and water. No one seems to know where we’re to sleep, or what’s to become of us. Vond hasn’t said what he wants us for. And I have this horrible headache, as if my skull were buzzing. I’d think it was an after-effect of losing my magic, but it didn’t feel like that in Aldagmor.”

  “Ah, yes,” Sterren said. “I’ve heard of that. It’s a local effect. It’s said that that was why there were no warlocks here until Vond came — the headaches. They never stop; they just get worse and worse.”

  “Really?” Korl looked around. “But then how does Vond stand it? Why does he still have magic at all?”

  Sterren feigned surprise. “He hasn’t told you?”

  “No. I thought that maybe he would teach the rest of us how we could be warlocks again, but he hasn’t said a word about it.”

  “Ah, I suppose he wants to keep the secret for himself,” Sterren said. “As it happens, he was working for me when he found it — that’s why he kept me around, and how I became a lord here. I don’t suppose there are a hundred people in the empire who know about it.”

  “What secret?”

  Sterren looked around, as if to be sure no one else was listening, then leaned forward. “The headaches were making him utterly miserable, you see, and finally he said something very foolish — he said he would give his soul to make them stop. And apparently he was in the wrong place, or phrased something just right, because a demon heard him, and appeared, and made a bargain with him — in exchange for his soul, Vond would be given enough magical power to shut out the headaches.”

  “A demon?”

  Sterren nodded. “I can’t say its name; I don’t want to attract its attention.”

  “I thought demons wouldn’t touch warlocks.”

  That was news to Sterren, but he didn’t let that slow him down. “This one would,” it said. “Maybe it was because we’re so far from Aldagmor here that Vond barely was a warlock anymore.”

  Korl did not seem to think much of that theory. “Go on.”

  “The deal didn’t work out quite the way either of them expected,” Sterren said. “Apparently it takes a lot of power to shut out the headaches, so much so that Vond was able to use it to build this empire. And Vond thought that having his soul promised to the demon would mean that the Calling couldn’t get him, but it didn’t work out that way. He was Called anyway.” Sterren glanced around. “You know, I hate to suggest it of my own liege lord, but I wonder whether he might have brought you people here to see if he could swap your souls to the demon in place of his own, now that he’s safe from the Calling.”

  Korl threw an uneasy glance over his shoulder. “So he’s not a warlock any more? He’s a demonologist? All his magic is demonic?”

  “What else could it be? There isn’t any more warlockry, and you know warlocks can’t be wizards or theurgists, and a witch would never have the sort of power he does. I mean, he’s wearing a black robe — not exactly hiding it, is he?”

  Korl frowned. “I thought...I don’t know, I thought maybe it was another kind of warlockry.”

  Sterren snorted. “Really, how likely is that? Isn’t it strange enough having one of those things arrive on the Night of Madness and snatch away thousands of people, and now you’re suggesting there was a second one that only affected one person? And that one person just happened to already be an Aldagmor warlock?”

  “Well, I...” Korl frowned. “That does sound unlikely.”

  “It’s a demon. A big one. Sometimes you can glimpse it in the desert east of here, a big shadow with glowing eyes.”

  Korl bit his lower lip so that his beard bristled.

  “I’m afraid you’ll just have to put up with the headaches,” Sterren said. “At least, if you value your soul.”

  “What causes the headaches, though?”

  Sterren turned up an empty palm. “Who knows? An old curse, maybe? A wizard’s spell gone wrong? Some left-over magic from the Great War? Or maybe it’s the demon itself, trying to lure victims.”

  Korl’s eyes shifted nervously.

  “So will you be staying here in the capital, do you think, or might this position the emperor promised you be somewhere else?”

  “I don’t know,” Korl said. “I don’t know much about the Vondish Empire.”

  “Oh, well, there are eighteen provinces,” Sterren said. “Eight of them lie along the South Coast, and the rest are inland. We’re in Semma, the capital; you landed in Imperial Plaza, the heart of New Semma, and across the valley is the Old Town, where the regent’s castle is. We speak twenty different languages in the empire, I’m afraid, but Ethsharitic is the official imperial tongue.” He smiled. “There are eighteen provinces now, but his Imperial Majesty has already said that he wants to add a nineteenth, Lumeth of the Towers.”

  “Oh? Where is that?”

  “A few leagues northwest of here, in the foothills of the central mountains. Vond never conquered it in his first reign because it was under the protection of the Wizards’ Guild, but apparently he feels that he’s now powerful enough to defy them.”

  Korl, already a little pale, went white. “The Wizards’ Guild?”

  “I’m afraid so — but I’m sure they’ll be too busy elsewhere to involve themselves.”

  “Of course.”

  Sterren frowned. “You don’t look well; the headaches must be getting to you. Should I see if I can find a witch? Vond never found their healing very useful, but it might be better than nothing.”

  “No, that’s...that’s...I’ll be fine. Thank you.” Korl turned away.

  Sterren let him go, then stepped back to the wall and found th
e messenger still there.

  “Did you hear that?” he asked her in Semmat.

  “No, my lord.”

  He gave her a glance, unsure whether to believe her, but her face did not give much away.

  “I think some of our guests may be departing the capital soon,” he said. “Perhaps the empire itself.”

  “Yes, my lord?”

  “I think we should accommodate them,” he said. “Are you available to carry a message?”

  “Of course, my lord.”

  “Then I want you to head for the coast at once, and visit all the eight ports, from Akalla to Quonshar, and tell the harbor masters that any former warlock who wishes to leave the empire is to be provided with free passage to Ethshar of the Spices as quickly as possible. I will pay any expenses out of my own funds; invoices can be sent to the castle, and will be given the very highest priority.”

  “Free passage for all former warlocks, from any port in the empire?”

  “Exactly. Paid by the Regent’s exchequer. And your own fee, as well — I believe two rounds of silver would cover it?”

  She blinked. “Very generously, my lord.”

  “If you reach all eight ports before the first warlocks arrive, you’ll get three rounds. Now go.”

  “Yes, my lord!” She turned and hurried away.

  Sterren watched her go, then turned to see Korl whispering intensely to three other members of Vond’s new entourage.

  Sterren didn’t know whether Vond had any intention of teaching other warlocks to use the same source he did; quite possibly the emperor would prefer keeping the power to himself over sharing it. Still, if some of these people were getting headaches, they might eventually tap into the Lumeth-based power on their own, just as Vond had. One power-mad warlock was bad enough; Sterren considered anything that would scare the others away before they managed the transition to be a good thing.

  Now, if only he could find a way to restrain Vond himself!

  Chapter Nine

  The dream was completely unlike any Hanner had dreamt in years; there were no inhuman whispers, no images of flames, no sensation of falling, no desperate irrational urges. Instead he found himself standing in a wizard’s workshop, face to face with a stranger, and every detail was clear and comprehensible. Still, Hanner was fairly certain it was indeed a dream. While he supposed he might have been magically snatched away while he slept and brought here, something about it did not have quite the solidity and definition of real life, and he knew well that wizards could communicate in dreams.

  “Chairman Hanner?” the stranger said, his tone deferential.

  “Yes?” Hanner replied cautiously.

  “I’m Rothiel of Wizard Street. Guildmaster Ithinia asked me to contact you.”

  “Ithinia? Is she still...” He didn’t finish the question; he realized it was foolish. Ithinia had been the senior member of the Wizards’ Guild in Ethshar of the Spices from before the Night of Madness until Hanner was Called, and since she had already been a couple of centuries old then, there was no reason to think she wouldn’t remain the senior member for the rest of Hanner’s life. He had only been gone seventeen years; that was nothing to a wizard of her ability.

  “The Guildmaster sends her greetings. She says she remembers you fondly.”

  “I’m flattered.”

  “I am speaking to you in your dreams by means of a spell —”

  “The Greater Spell of Invaded Dreams,” Hanner interrupted. “I was a student of magic before I became a warlock. I was responsible for keeping an eye on the various magicians for Azrad VI.”

  That was not entirely accurate; he had been sent to study and oversee the magicians of Ethshar by his uncle, Lord Faran, not by the overlord himself. Faran had nominally been working for Azrad, though, so it seemed close enough to the truth for now.

  “Oh,” Rothiel said. “Then you understand —”

  “I understand that if anything wakes me up, this conversation will end abruptly and may be difficult to restore, so please tell me whatever Ithinia wanted you to tell me.”

  “Yes, of course.” Rothiel was visible flustered, but continued quickly. “Well, firstly, Dumery of the Dragon delivered news of your situation to several wizards in Ethshar of the Spices, and it was passed on to the Guildmaster. We will be sending assistance fairly soon.”

  “Good!”

  “However, matters here are somewhat chaotic. As you probably realize, warlockry vanished not just in Aldagmor, but throughout the World, last night, resulting in a great deal of confusion. Other magicians are being called upon to fill in everywhere that warlocks suddenly couldn’t. There were several injuries and even a few deaths when the warlocks’ magic failed.” He waved toward a window that hadn’t been there before, and Hanner looked out to see warlocks plummeting onto rooftops and fires bursting out here and there throughout the city. “We are still gathering information about the damage. Your party is not necessarily our highest priority. Can you give us any details about what you need?”

  “Everything,” Hanner said. “Food, water, shelter, clothing, transportation.”

  Rothiel nodded. “How many of you are there?”

  “Our best estimate is somewhere between fifteen and twenty thousand, not counting the dead.”

  Rothiel appeared to be momentarily stunned.

  “Fifteen thousand?” he said at last.

  “At least.”

  “Dumery said there were thousands, but we didn’t...I mean, we...”

  “Fifteen to twenty thousand,” Hanner repeated. “That’s the survivors. We counted four hundred and eighty-six dead, but we may have missed some. We couldn’t get an exact count on the living.”

  “You...I understood your group to be warlocks who somehow survived the Calling.”

  “That’s right,” Hanner said, starting to become annoyed. “We all survived the Calling. It turns out that the Calling itself was never fatal. The deaths here all occurred after it ended, when some of us were crushed, or fell out of the sky. Most of the dead were people who had been in Aldagmor on the Night of Madness — they were crushed to death, or smothered, as they were at the bottom of the pile when we woke up. We’ve dealt with the dead as best we could, and now we’re all trying to go home — at least, those of us who still have homes; it seems dragons have claimed eastern Aldagmor for themselves, so the survivors from that area are homeless.”

  “But fifteen thousand —”

  “Wizard,” Hanner said, trying not to lose his temper, “every single person who was ever Called, from the Night of Madness right up to the last few days, just woke up in the wilderness where the Warlock Stone used to be. Our theurgists managed to get us a three-day supply of food, but none of them can get us back to civilization — our best priestess, Alladia of Shiphaven, says that Asham the Gate-Keeper could do it, but she can’t remember how to invoke him, and none of the others were ever at her level. We’re getting water from the streams running down out of the mountains, but even that isn’t going to be enough for all of us. We are in desperate straits. Dumery and his dragon chased us out of the immediate area where we woke up, but there are so many of us that by the time we had laid out the dead for cremation, and made arrangements to transport the injured, we were scarcely able to cover two leagues before we had to stop for the night — and even that left most of us with aching feet; we aren’t accustomed to walking. We are bound for Ethshar of the Spices because it’s the closest of the great cities; we cannot head toward Sardiron because the dragons’ nesting ground is in the way. There are no roads out here. We have no one who knows the route with any certainty. We think there are wild beasts in the area — not just dragons, but other creatures that have taken advantage of Aldagmor’s depopulation. There may be other dangers, as well; we don’t know. Some of us are fairly sure we have homes and families waiting, while others have been gone for ten or twenty or thirty years and have no idea what the World is like now, or whether anyone remembers us. If the Wizards’ Guild can hel
p us, we will be grateful for whatever aid you provide.”

  “Of course.” Rothiel was recovering quickly from his surprise. “My apologies, Chairman; I admit we thought Dumery must have been exaggerating, but clearly he was not. We will see what can be done. We’ll put out the word that all Called warlocks are returning; some of you may indeed be hearing from friends and relatives soon.”

  “Thank you!” Hanner said, greatly relieved.

  “Is there anyone you would like us to speak to on your own behalf?”

  “Oh,” Hanner said. The question had caught him off-guard.

  “The current Chairman of the Council of Warlocks for Ethshar of the Spices is Zallin of the Mismatched Eyes; would you like us to inform him that you’re alive?”

  Hanner started; he remembered Zallin of the Mismatched Eyes. That annoying youngster was now chairman? He had been only a year or two out of his apprenticeship, and very fond of stupid jokes, when Hanner last saw him; Hanner could almost still hear his irritating bray of a laugh.

  “No, I don’t care about him,” Hanner said. “But if you could find my wife, Mavi of Newmarket — is she safe? Is she well?”

  “I’ll see what I can find out.”

  “And our children — we have three children. They must be grown by now.”

  “I will make inquiries.”

  Hanner had already made a few inquiries of his own, asking warlocks who had been Called after him, but no one seemed very sure what had become of his family. That worried him.

  Most of the warlocks he had known who were Called before him had turned out to be alive and unhurt; he had found Rudhira of Camptown, and Varrin the Weaver, and Desset of Eastwark, and most of the others who he had gathered on the Night of Madness. He had found other warlocks he had known through his seventeen years as Chairman of the Council of Warlocks. He had talked to several warlocks who had been Called after him, from Goran the Tall, who appeared to have flown north just a few days after Hanner himself, to Sensella of Morningside, who never did quite reach the Source.

  But he hadn’t found anyone who knew what had happened to Mavi, or to Faran, Arris, and Hala.