The Unwelcome Warlock loe-11

by Lawrence Watt-Evans

  “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.

  But Hanner thought it should be her choice, not his.

  There were only three men left in the village now — Hanner, Gerath, and Marl. Gerath was starting to look impatient; Marl looked uncertain. “Gerath,” Marl said, “I was wondering if...”

  “No,” Gerath said, grabbing Marl by the arm. “Go.”

  Marl gave Hanner a look, but Hanner did not meet his gaze. Marl shook off Gerath’s grip, then said, “I’m going.” He turned, stepped up to the hanging, and disappeared.

  “You’re next,” Gerath said.

  Hanner frowned. “Why?” he said.

  “Because I said so,” Gerath said.

  “I wanted to get the other tapestry and take it back with me, to see if it can be repaired,” Hanner protested.

  “So go get it,” Gerath said. “Then get back here.”

  “You don’t need to wait,” Hanner said.

  “I want to be sure everyone is out of here,” Gerath said.

  Hanner started to ask why, what concern it was of his, then thought better of it. “All right,” he said, “but you can do that just as easily from the other side. If I’m not there in a few minutes, you can go back to Warlock House and come back and get me.”

  “Or I can wait here.”

  “If you want,” Hanner said. “If you aren’t worried about Rudhira popping out of hiding and cutting your throat. She didn’t much like you.”

  Gerath stared at him for a moment, then turned up a palm. “Please yourself,” he said. “But if you aren’t there in half an hour, I will come back for you.”

  “Of course. I’ll just go get the tapestry, then.”

  “Whatever you like.” Gerath watched as Hanner headed for the door, but had marched into the tapestry before Hanner had gone a single step past the threshold.

  Out in the street Hanner paused. He looked around, then called, “Rudhira?”

  No one answered. Hanner shook his head in disappointment, then ambled across to the house where the ruined tapestry hung.

  He brushed it, just to be sure, before taking it down, but it did not transport him anywhere; it was mere lifeless fabric, with a long gash in it.

  He had it rolled up and slung on his shoulder, and was halfway back to the other house, when Rudhira stepped around a corner.

  “Hello, Hanner,” she said.

  He stopped in his tracks, and smiled. “Rudhira,” he said. “It’s good to see you! I was a little worried.”

  “You shouldn’t have been,” she said. “I can take care of myself.”

  “I know, I know, but I’m a worrier.” He hesitated, then said, “Thank you. You probably saved my life.”

  “That was the idea,” she answered. “I couldn’t let him hurt you.”

  “You didn’t have to —” Hanner began.

  “Yes, I did!” Rudhira interrupted. “I had to! I couldn’t let him hurt you, Hanner. You’re too good a person for that. You...I care too much for you to let that happen! When I saw that sword at your throat, I had to.”

  “You...” Hanner blinked, overwhelmed by her words. At last he managed, “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “I suppose you couldn’t just wound him...” He let his sentence trail off unfinished; he knew the answer even before Rudhira spoke.

  “If I left him alive, he would have sent his men after both of us,” she said.

  “I know,” Hanner admitted.

  “It’s not as if I had never killed a man before.”

  “I know that, too.”

  For a moment they stared silently at one another. Then Rudhira said, “So you are going back?”

  For a few seconds Hanner hesitated; then he nodded. “I want to see my children,” he said. “They haven’t seen me for seventeen years, and I want to see how they’ve grown up, and be sure they’re happy. I want to see my sisters. I want to make sure the tapestry that brings people here is somewhere safe. I want to help clean up Vond’s mess.”

  “It isn’t your mess.”

  “Still, I want to help. I take it you intend to stay here? The wizards tell me no one’s planning to charge you with anything, that the overlord’s laws don’t apply here, so you could come back with me.”

  She shook her head. “I’m better off here. I like it here.”

  Hanner looked up at the unmoving sun. “I like it here, too. I think I might eventually miss the moons and stars, though.”

  “You don’t have to come back. You certainly don’t have to stay.”

  “If I come back, I do have to stay — that new tapestry is going to disappear soon.”

  “Is it?”

  Hanner nodded. “It’s not too late to change your mind,” he said. “If you stay here, you’ll be trapped.”

  The little redhead looked around thoughtfully at the deserted village, then nodded. “That’s fine,” she said.

  Hanner had hoped she would reconsider; he did not want to leave her here. It was not, he realized, that he was concerned for her safety; it was that he would miss her. Her outburst proclaiming her concern for him had caught him by surprise, but now that it had sunk in he found himself warmed by the thought. She cared for him, and he cared for her.

  He hefted the damaged tapestry. “I’m going to see about getting this thing fixed,” he said. “Or maybe commission another one, if I can ever afford it. I’ll bring it back here. Then you can come and go as you please.”

  “So can you,” Rudhira pointed out.

  “That’s true.”

  There was another moment of silent contemplation; then Hanner said, “I’ll come back, whether I have it fixed or not. Eventually. I do want to see my family, all of it, and make sure everything is as right as I can make it. It may be months, maybe even a year or two, but I’ll be back.”

  She looked up at him. “I’ll be waiting,” she said. Then she smiled, and he dropped the tapestry so he could lean down to kiss her.

  A few minutes later, uncomfortably aware that Gerath was probably getting impatient, Hanner pulled away from her. He smiled at her, then hoisted the damaged tapestry back to his shoulder, and trudged into the room where the new, functioning tapestry waited. He reached out toward the image of that sunny, whitewashed room. Just before his fing
ers touched it, he repeated, “I’ll come back.”

  “I’ll be waiting,” Rudhira answered again, from the open door.

  In the end it was eight months before he could return, but return he did.

  And she was waiting.

  Chapter Forty

  Sterren looked thoughtfully out at the harbor, at the masts swaying slightly as ships rocked at their moorings. The air was cold, but the afternoon sun on his back kept off the worst of the chill.

  He glanced up at the overlord’s palace, hovering above the Fishertown docks to the east. The workmen were supposed to have its old site prepared for its return any time now, if they didn’t already, but rumors said Lord Azrad was in no hurry to give up his newfound mobility. For most of Azrad VII’s reign there had been no consensus on just what cognomen should be attached to his name, but now, after more than a decade of being labeled Azrad the Hard to Classify or Azrad the Ambiguous, more and more he was called Azrad the Airborne. He had already taken one aerial cruise along the coast as far as the mouth of the Great River, and had not seemed to be in any hurry to return.

  But the spell only lasted a month, and Sterren knew Ithinia had no intention of renewing it, so Azrad would be earthbound again in another few days.

  Well, let the overlord enjoy his flying palace while he could. Sterren had had his fill of flying, and he hadn’t had a palace around him while he did it. Right now, he had his own concerns.

  He had thought, when he escaped from Vond, and then when Vond’s death was reported, and when his wife and children had finally reached Ethshar safely and rejoined him, that his worries were over. He had thought he could take his savings from his fifteen years as regent, invest them, and live off the earnings — or if necessary, if the investments failed, then he could live by cheating at dice, as he had when he was a boy. He was, after all, the only warlock left in the World, and almost no one else knew there were any. No one would ever suspect him of using warlockry to win. He had thought he would settle here in Ethshar, in his home city, and live happily ever after.

  But it seemed that wasn’t going to work.

  He had thought that the Imperial Council might want him back, and that that might be a problem, but so far there was no hint that they cared one way or another whether he returned to Semma. No messages, magical or mundane, had reached him. From what little Sterren had heard, Lady Kalira seemed to be doing just fine as the new regent.

  He had thought some of Vond’s victims and enemies might hold a grudge for his service to the late emperor, but again, no one seemed to care.

  No, his big problem was one he had never expected at all, and he felt foolish that he had not foreseen it. It was really quite simple, and he should have considered it.

  Shirrin didn’t like it here.

  In fact, that was seriously understating the case. His wife hated Ethshar of the Spices. She hated the crowds, the smell, the size of the city. She hated how closed in it felt. She hated not being recognized as a princess and the regent’s wife. She said it was dirty and dangerous and decadent, and she wanted to go home.

  The children weren’t quite as emphatic, but they didn’t care for Ethshar, either. They, too, wanted to go back to Semma — or at least, to somewhere in the Small Kingdoms, somewhere other than this vast, intimidating city.

  Sterren, however, did not particularly want to go back to the Vondish Empire. He was not at all certain that he could reclaim his title of regent from Lady Kalira, and if he retired instead, what would he do with himself? But he didn’t want to make his family miserable.

  “May I join you?”

  Startled, Sterren looked up to see a man of medium height wrapped in a worn brown cloak. “Of course,” he said, sliding over to make room on the bench.

  The man sat down, and for a moment the two of them sat silently side by side, looking out at the harbor. A cold breeze brought the odors of fish and salt water to Sterren’s nose, and he shivered slightly.

  Then the brown-clad man said, “You are Lord Sterren of Semma, I believe? Late of His Imperial Majesty’s service?”

  Sterren threw the man an uneasy glance. “And if I am? Who are you?”

  The man held out a hand. “I am called Kelder of Demerchan,” he said.

  Sterren had started to stretch out his own hand in response, but at the name “Demerchan” he froze, staring.

  Kelder smiled. “Don’t worry,” he said. “If you were our target, you would already be dead.”

  “That assumes that all you wanted was my death,” Sterren replied.

  “That’s true,” Kelder acknowledged. “Let me rephrase it, then, and simply say that we mean you no harm.” He lowered his hand, which Sterren’s own had never reached.

  There was no point in arguing about that; if they did mean him harm, there was little he could do to prevent it. “Then what can I do for you, Kelder?” he asked, in the tone he had learned, during his years as regent, to use when speaking with troublesome petitioners.

  Kelder’s smile broadened. “I’ll answer that eventually, my lord, but I would like to discuss a few things first.”

  “I am at your service,” Sterren said, with a bob of his head.

  “You indeed do not, I notice, seem to be heavily burdened with other duties at the present time.”

  “I’m not,” Sterren said, pulling his elbows in against his sides.

  “I would think a man of your experience would be in great demand.”

  Irritated, Sterren said, “I doubt you sought me out to discuss my career options.”

  “On the contrary, my lord, that is precisely why I am here.”

  Sterren blinked. “What?”

  Kelder smiled at him. “You recognized the name Demerchan.”

  Sterren snorted. “I was Regent of the Vondish Empire for fifteen years. Yes, I have heard the name.”

  “Of course.”

  “What does that have to do with anything, Kelder of Demerchan? Why are you talking to me?”

  “Bear with me, my lord. Let me begin, then, by saying that despite requests from you, the Imperial Council, and the Wizards’ Guild, we had no part in the death of the Great Vond.”

  “I had wondered,” Sterren remarked.

  “Many people wondered, and we have no objection if people want to credit us with his removal, but in fact, we were not involved. We had come to the conclusion that the late emperor was worth more to us alive than dead.”

  Sterren cocked his head. “Why?” he asked bluntly. “He wasn’t going to hire any assassins; he was perfectly capable of carrying out his own killings.”

  Kelder grimaced. “Yes, he was. But the Cult of Demerchan is not merely a company of assassins, and we wanted him alive.”

  “Why?” Sterren repeated.

  “The Cult of Demerchan is dedicated to gathering and preserving knowledge, my lord.”

  This was the first time Sterren had ever heard anything of the sort. “It is?” he asked. “I thought you were assassins.”

  “We are. Among other things. The name ‘Demerchan’ does come from an old word meaning ‘hired killer,’ but that is not all we are. We collect information, as well, and in fact we consider that our primary purpose. We protect secrets — we ensure that they are not lost, but also that they do not fall into the wrong hands. Yes, half our name says we are assassins, but do not forget the other half — we are not a guild, or brotherhood, or company, but a cult. We have a hidden purpose, and that is the gathering of secrets.”

  That made a certain amount of sense, and would explain why they had wanted the late emperor alive. “You wanted the secret of Vond’s new form of warlockry?”

  Kelder nodded.

  “What a shame, then, that it died with him,” Sterren said.

  Kelder smiled again. “We both know it did not,” he said.

  “Do we?” Sterren said, suddenly very uncomfortable indeed. He glanced over his shoulder to be sure no one else was in earshot — though of course, nowhere was safe from scrying spells.


  “We dedicate our entire existence to collecting secrets, my lord,” Kelder said. “Did you think we had missed yours, after fifteen years?”

  “Well, I had hoped so,” Sterren said. He did not see much point in further denials.

  “Then I regret to say your hopes have been disappointed. We know that you are a warlock, albeit a weak one, and that Vond attuned you to the power of the towers in Lumeth of the Towers.”

  “That’s very unfortunate,” Sterren said. “That you know that.”

  “Perhaps not. We mean you no harm, my lord, as I said before. Indeed, I am here to offer you a position.”

  “A position?” he asked warily. “What sort of position?”

  “As an acolyte in the Cult of Demerchan.”

  Sterren’s jaw dropped. Then he snapped it shut, and said, “I would think I’m a little old to be an acolyte.”

  “Your age is of no concern, my lord.”

  “It is to me. I’m not interested in joining a cult. I’m too old for that sort of idiocy.”

  “I don’t think you understand the situation, my lord.”

  Sterren turned to stare out to sea again. “I understand that you want me because I’m the last warlock in the World, and you want that secret for yourselves.”

  “Well, yes. That’s true. But we did not approach Vond, because we knew he was unfit for the cult, while you seem very suitable.”

  “I do?” He could not resist giving Kelder another glance. “What do you know about it?”

  “We have been observing you for fifteen years, my lord, ever since you first went to Semma.”

  “Oh, that’s endearing!” Sterren grimaced. “Knowing you’ve been spying on me just makes me so eager to join up!”

  “You were the warlord of Semma, and then the Regent of the Vondish Empire,” Kelder said. “Of course you were watched.”

  Sterren could hardly deny that it had been reasonable to keep an eye on him, but that still did not make the idea appealing. That was not the important issue here, though. “I’m not interested in joining a cult of assassins so that you can have a warlock at your beck and call,” he said.

  “Yet I suspect you know almost nothing of the cult’s origins and purpose,” Kelder said.