The Unwelcome Warlock loe-11

by Lawrence Watt-Evans

  One of the people on the carpet was speaking, but his voice was completely lost in the noise of the crowd. Hanner grimaced; warlocks could vibrate the air to make their voices louder, and could therefore be heard over anything, no matter how loud, but these wizards apparently did not have an equivalent spell, and of course there were no more warlocks, except for Vond.

  “Quiet!” Hanner bellowed. “We want to hear the wizards!”

  Beside him Rudhira was up on her toes, trying to see through the crowd; she was not tall enough to peer over all those shoulders. Once upon a time, Hanner recalled, she would have been able to fly straight over everyone’s heads to the wizards’ carpet, or for that matter, straight to the city; she had briefly been the most powerful warlock in Ethshar of the Spices. Now, though, she was just a tired, frustrated woman in a green skirt and embroidered tunic, trying to follow what was happening around her.

  The wizard was still talking, waving his arms, but no one seemed to be listening. Hands were still stretching up toward the carpet, and people were squeezing closer together, trying to get at the wizards.

  That could be dangerous, Hanner realized. People could be crushed.

  “Hai!” he shouted. “Give them room!”

  No one paid any attention, but a moment later the wizards seemed to see the danger for themselves; the carpet rose up a few feet, then swept forward, over the heads of the former warlocks.

  Someone screamed.

  “Don’t leave us!” someone else shrieked.

  Several panicky voices joined in.

  “Calm down!” Hanner shouted, arms raised. “Calm down! Let them talk!”

  No one paid attention; the wizards were looking at one another uncertainly, and the carpet seemed to be drifting gradually higher, and moving slowly northeast — toward Hanner.

  Hanner frowned, and reached out to grab Rayel’s shoulder. He turned, found Sensella, and grabbed her, as well.

  Rudhira was looking up at him for guidance.

  “Shut up!” Hanner shouted. “You two, all of you who can hear me, tell everyone to be quiet, so we can hear what the wizards have to say.” He pushed Rayel to one side, and Sensella to the other. “Quiet! Listen!”

  Rayel got the idea quickly, and began grabbing shoulders, turning people to face him, and hushing them, a finger to their lips. Sensella saw what Rayel was doing and turned to Hanner, who nodded; then she, too, began forcing herself in front of people and trying to silence them.

  “Stand still! Face the wizards!” Hanner called, and this time his voice was somewhat more audible over the din — his neighborhood was gradually growing quieter.

  As he had hoped, the wizards noticed; one of them pointed at the little cluster of people standing silently, as if waiting. The carpet veered and swooped, and a moment later it was hanging almost directly over the bloody remains of the mizagar’s victim, about fifteen feet up.

  The watching crowd gradually quieted.

  Hanner grimaced, wondering whether the wizards had noticed the body.

  “Is someone in charge here?” the tallest wizard called, when the crowd’s noise had died away enough for him to be heard. He wore a deep purple robe trimmed with gold.

  Hanner had not yet decided whether to respond when Rayel pointed at him and said, “He is!”

  The wizard leaned forward and peered down at Hanner. “Are you?”

  “As much as anyone,” Hanner called back. “I’m Hanner, formerly Chairman of the Council of Warlocks.”

  “Ah! I’ve heard of you,” the wizard replied. “I’m Molvarn of Crookwall. I am here as a representative of the Wizards’ Guild, and on behalf of Azrad the Seventh, Overlord of Ethshar of the Spices, Triumvir of the Hegemony of the Three Ethshars, Commander of the Holy Navies and Defender of the Gods.”

  Hanner bowed at the overlord’s name.

  The wizard looked out over the throng; there were still hundreds of raised voices and waving hands, though most of the crowd had quieted and the nearest portion was entirely silent. “I understand you people need help.”

  “Yes,” Hanner said.

  “You were headed for Ethshar of the Spices?”

  “Yes.”

  “The overlord does not feel that the city has the facilities to accept so large a group of refugees,” Molvarn said. Then he continued quickly, before anyone could protest, “But we are here to offer you other choices.” He held his hands to his mouth and bellowed at the top of his lungs, “Is anyone here from Ethshar of the Sands?”

  A few tentative voices replied, and a few hands rose uncertainly.

  “If you could gather over here, please?” Molvarn called, gesturing to his left.

  Slowly, with much muttering, people began to move through the crowd toward the indicated spot.

  “And anyone from Ethshar of the Rocks?”

  Again, a few hands were raised. Molvarn gestured to his right. “Over here, please?”

  “Pass the word!” Hanner called. “There must be hundreds of people who didn’t hear — pass the word!”

  “Thank you, Chairman,” Molvarn said with a nod. “Now, all of you over here — we are going to be providing transportation to the Grandgate barracks in Ethshar of the Sands. The magic is on its way, about an hour behind me. I don’t know just how fast we will be able to move people through, it may take some time, but we can transport everyone from that city; the spell has unlimited capacity. We’re going to start with the more recent arrivals, since you’ll still probably have friends and family who can help you once you’re home. We’re also going to ask those of you who do still have homes to help your less fortunate fellows — some of you were trapped in Aldagmor for more than thirty years, and not only are your homes and families long gone, there may not be anyone left who remembers you ever existed. I know that’s hard, that it’s not what you want to hear, but it’s the simple truth. I don’t see anything to be gained from misleading you.”

  That elicited unhappy murmurs, but no open protest.

  Molvarn gestured toward the sea of people milling about, too far away to hear. “Please tell your compatriots as they arrive.” Then he turned to the other side and announced, “If you heard what I just told the others, we have about the same news for you — there’s a spell on the way, an enchanted tapestry, that will transport you to a small shop in Ethshar of the Rocks, on Wizard Street where it passes between Center City and Highside. More recent arrivals should go first, to find their families, and we hope you’ll be able to arrange to help some of the people who were here longer.”

  “Pass the word!” Hanner repeated.

  Molvarn turned back toward the main crowd. “I’m sure some of you’re wondering why we don’t have magic ready to take you to Ethshar of the Spices. We’re working on it. Unfortunately, most of the existing magic we wizards use to visit Ethshar of the Spices is not suitable for this group. Please be patient. Now, my companions would like to speak.” He slid back on the carpet and rotated it slightly, bringing one of the other two passengers to the front.

  This was a woman in a long maroon coat over a white tunic and maroon skirt; Hanner had at first taken the coat for a wizard’s robe, but now he saw that it was not. She cleared her throat, and started to speak.

  Hanner could barely hear her, and quickly shouted, “Louder!”

  She paused, frowned, and tried again. Listening required an effort, but Hanner could make out her words now.

  “Lord Azrad has conferred with Lord Ederd and Lord Wulran, and sent word to the Council of Barons in Sardiron. Many of you undoubtedly came from farms or villages, and of course, if you still have families to return to, you are free to do so. Most of you, though, either worked as warlocks and have no land or trade to return to, or left so long ago that you were presumed dead, and any holdings you may have once had are gone. You need new lands.” She spread her arms and gestured at their surroundings. “This land is unclaimed. It lies almost ten leagues east of Sardiron’s borders, and well north of the Hegemony’s inhabited areas
. This was a battlefield of the Great War that changed hands many times, far from the major trade routes, so it had not been settled by the Night of Madness, and after that — well, it was uninhabitable, until now. We are about sixteen leagues from the outermost villages of the Hegemony. There are no roads, no houses, nothing but wilderness — but it’s good land, with enough water, and moderate summers. Yes, the winters can be hard, but they aren’t as fierce as in Sardiron or Tazmor or Srigmor. Lord Azrad, with the provisional consent of Lord Ederd and Lord Wulran, is offering all this land, from this point south and west to the borders of Sardiron and the edge of existing farms, to anyone who cares to claim and work it. He assures you that roads will be built, and that supplies to survive the winter and make a start will be brought in. He suggests that raising beef cattle would be profitable; you already know that the lands north of here are home to dragons, and strange as it may sound, those dragons will buy your cattle, through human agents. I will be in charge of settling anyone who wants to work these lands; a group of advisors is on the way to assist me.”

  “I don’t want to stay in Ethshar!” Fanria protested. “I’m Sardironese!”

  Hanner was unsure whether the woman on the carpet heard Fanria or not, but the third rider, a man in a green wizard’s robe, was straightening up and cupping his hands to his mouth.

  “Ie ban Bergen fin Aldran!” he shouted.

  Fanria had turned to Hanner to voice her objections, but now she whirled to face the man on the carpet.

  “Ie shtarfur Rada Garafai al yez, be kardin bar Kor Azrad!”

  “Is that Sardironese?” Hanner asked.

  “He says he’s speaking on behalf of the Council of Barons, but only provisionally; it was Lord Azrad who actually sent him,” Fanria replied.

  That seemed to be a lot to fit into the one sentence, but Hanner had always heard that Sardironese was more efficient than Ethsharitic. Northerners didn’t like to keep their mouths open any more than they had to; it let in the cold air.

  “His name is Bergen Aldran’s son,” Rayel added.

  No one had specifically said it was Sardironese, but the translations from the two Aldagmorites left little doubt.

  The green-robed wizard launched into a speech now, and Hanner made no attempt to follow it. He knew some Trader’s Tongue and a few words apiece of three of the dead languages wizards sometimes used in their spells, but found Sardironese completely incomprehensible. The scholars said it had originally been a blend of Ethsharitic military slang of three hundred years ago and one of the languages spoken in the old Northern Empire, but to Hanner it was gibberish. He waited patiently while Bergen spoke and the Sardironese in the crowd listened intently.

  At last the speech ended.

  “What did he say?” Hanner asked Rayel.

  “He said...” Rayel paused, obviously trying to switch from thinking in his native tongue to thinking in Ethsharitic. Then he continued, “He said the Council of Barons is still debating the situation, but the Wizards’ Guild stands ready to transport us to Sardiron of the Waters, once permission is granted. If we don’t want to go to the capital, the Guild is also talking to the Baron of Aldagmor about sending some of us to his keep, just the other side of the dragons’ territory. He says the Baron — well, it’s the grandson of the man who was the last baron I knew about, and he’s very different. The old baron was obsessed with mining; he thought the hills must be full of gold. The new baron is more interested in trade. There isn’t much farmland available, but we can probably find work. It’s all still pretty vague.”

  “Still, they’re trying,” Hanner said.

  “Yes, they are,” Rayel agreed. “But it’s...it’s very confusing.”

  “It is,” Hanner acknowledged.

  It was confusing — but it was encouraging, as well. The Wizards’ Guild and Azrad VII had responded with gratifying speed, and seemed to have been surprisingly thorough. Old Azrad the Sedentary, the current overlord’s father, would never have been this effective, especially not after Lord Faran’s death.

  So everyone from Ethshar of the Sands or Ethshar of the Rocks would be sent home, and anyone who wanted to settle down on new land as a farmer would be welcome to do so, and arrangements were being made to send all the Sardironese home. That would take care of thousands of the former warlocks; Hanner didn’t have any real idea of the exact numbers, but thousands.

  But it wouldn’t be all of them. It wouldn’t help him.

  He hoped the wizards and the overlords would get to the rest of the former warlocks soon, before the weather turned any worse.

  Chapter Twelve

  “You know,” Vond said, as he looked down at his capital, “there really isn’t any reason to stay here.”

  “This has been the heart of the empire for fifteen years, your Majesty,” Sterren protested. “Moving the entire government would be —”

  “I don’t want to move the government,” Vond interrupted. “I’m talking about me.”

  “Oh,” Sterren said. He turned up a palm. “Well, you can do as you please, of course.”

  “I only stayed here because of the Calling,” Vond said, rotating slowly to take in the view. The two men were hanging in mid-air, perhaps sixty yards up. “I only let you hire me and bring me here in the first place because of the Calling. I was trying to get as far from Aldagmor as I could. I only stopped conquering kingdoms because I could hear it again when we got to Lumeth.”

  “I remember.”

  “The Calling isn’t there anymore. I could go home to Ethshar.”

  “After all these years, your Majesty; it’s probably not quite as you remember it.”

  “Neither is Semma.”

  That was obviously true, so Sterren did not bother to argue.

  “I’m the only warlock left,” Vond continued. “I’m the most powerful magician in the World. I should live in the most powerful city in the World, not way out here near the edge.”

  Sterren resisted the temptation to correct Vond, and point out that Sterren himself was also still a warlock, albeit a very feeble one. He also found himself in a dilemma; he would be very happy to see Vond go away, but at the same time, he dreaded to think how much damage the warlock might do in Ethshar of the Spices. That one great city probably held more people than Vond’s entire empire.

  “You would be avoiding conflict with the Wizards’ Guild,” he said at last, unsure whether Vond would consider that a benefit or a challenge.

  Vond was staring off to the north, not really listening. Sterren suddenly began worrying that the warlock would get distracted and let him fall. He glanced down between his feet at the plaza far below; the fountain at the center was splashing merrily, and people were going about their business, only occasionally glancing up at their emperor and his chancellor. “Your Majesty?”

  “What? Oh, yes. The wizards. I’m not really concerned with them. They haven’t tried to enforce their edict yet, have they? I think they’ve thought better of defying me.”

  “It’s only been a couple of days, Vond.”

  “That’s true.” He frowned, and turned back to Sterren. “Do you think they’ll try something?”

  “I’m afraid I do, your Majesty.”

  “Maybe I should go take a good look at those towers. From what you all have told me, that seems to be what they were most concerned about.”

  “That might provoke the wizards, your Majesty.”

  “What if it does?” He turned up an empty palm. “That doesn’t concern me.”

  “I think you may underestimate them, your Majesty.”

  “Oh, I don’t think so,” Vond said. “I was there the day they ordered the city guard to leave the warlocks alone, you know.”

  Sterren, who was too young to remember the Night of Madness, was not sure what Vond was talking about; he said, “Oh?”

  “I was a boy of eleven, starting to think seriously what trade I would apprentice myself to, and I was walking down Merchant Street when I heard the commotion and
went to see what was happening. Azrad the Sedentary had sent a bunch of soldiers to escort some warlocks out of the city — he wanted to exile them all. I was just in time to see the earth rise up between the soldiers and the warlocks, and split open to reveal half a dozen wizards, with their robes and staves, who ordered the guardsmen to go back to the palace and tell old Azrad to leave the warlocks alone. They said warlocks were their equals.”

  “Did they?”

  “They did. And that was back at the very beginning, before anyone even knew what warlocks could do. Do you know what I think?”

  “No, your Majesty.”

  “I think they knew, even then, that warlocks were more than a match for wizards. We don’t need books and spells, no spider’s blood or hair of an unborn child, no magic daggers or fancy chants; whatever we want to happen simply happens. I think they wanted to ingratiate themselves, so that we would not return and drive them out of the city. That was why I apprenticed myself to a warlock a sixnight after my twelfth birthday. Magic that didn’t need books and ritual, magic that wasn’t weak like witchcraft, or dependent on the whims of gods or demons — I wanted that.”

  “I see.”

  “I’m not afraid of the wizards; they’re afraid of me. The Calling was the only thing that kept warlocks in check, and now it’s gone, but I’m still here.”

  “Obviously.” Sterren glanced uneasily down, between his dangling feet. “However, there is only one of you, and there are hundreds of wizards.”

  Vond waved a hand dismissively. “Most of them can barely light a fire, while I can do this.”

  A huge band of red flame appeared out of nowhere, writhing around the two men like a serpent; Sterren heard muffled shrieks from below.

  “Some can do considerably more,” Sterren pointed out. “There’s the Tower of Flame in Eknissamor; a wizard made that.”

  Vond grimaced. “Well, yes — we flew near that on the way here. It’s fairly spectacular. Some of the wizards can indeed do more than light fires; that earthquake on High Street was also very impressive. But I think much of it is just pretense, just for show.”