by Rick Cook
The little red dragon paused in mid-hiss and scampered off the table. Pryddian watched in satisfaction as it ran whimpering for the bedroom.
Eagerly he bent over the desk and began to riffle through the material piled there. The large leatherbound book in the center of the table seemed most important, so he opened it first. But what was inside was the confused mishmash of the nonsense the Sparrow foisted off upon the wizards. Not a true spell in the lot. He slammed the book in disgust and turned to the piles of parchment, slates and tablets stacked around.
Quickly he sorted them, putting aside everything that was too arcane or too fragmentary to be useful. He was left with a sizable amount of material. Stacking the pile on top of the book, he reached into his cloak and produced a pen, a travelling inkwell and a sheaf of parchment. He dipped his pen into the ink and began to copy as fast as he could write, cursing when he blotted something in haste.
This was what he wanted. Not the inane babblings the Sparrow expounded in his classes, but his spells. His real power. Frantically he copied the crabbed smudged characters, taking care to put alternate lines on different sheets of parchment to prevent activating the spells. He added the marginal notes as he went, even though most of them meant nothing to him. With time perhaps he could puzzle out their meanings.
He was perhaps halfway down the pile when he came to the real prize. A powerful searching spell that would show the user anything that went on in the world. Flipping through the parchments he saw the spell commanded three separate sets of demons.
Pryddian licked his lips and his hand trembled. This must be the spell the Sparrow had used to track the Dark League. Like any magician, he believed that knowledge was power and this was a spell that would give him knowledge of the entire world.
The dragon demon peered around the corner at him and occasionally ventured a half-hiss. That Pryddian ignored. Every so often he glanced over his shoulder at the door, gripped by a mixture of elation and terror. If he was caught the consequences did not bear thinking about, but if he got away with this he would possess the essence of the Sparrow’s magic.
Throw him out, would they? They would see who was the better wizard before he was through.
As he bent to copy the sheets he looked out between the drawn curtains and saw Moira coming across the courtyard, still wearing her travelling cloak.
Fortuna! The most powerful spell in the Sparrow’s arsenal and he did not have time to copy it. Without thinking he thrust the originals inside his jerkin with the wad of copies. Hastily he gathered up his pen and ink and tried to put everything back where he found it.
Moira paused at the branching of the corridor and summoned up her courage.
Well, she thought, soonest stated soonest done. She took a deep breath, squared her shoulders and strode off down the hall toward the apartment she shared with Wiz.
As she made her way down the hall, a figure in a hooded cloak hurried by her. She nodded and half-voiced a greeting out of habit, but the hooded one ignored her. As he twisted to pass her she saw that it was the apprentice who had insulted Wiz on the drill ground.
If she had been less distracted, Moira might have wondered what an apprentice was doing in a wing reserved for wizards. Or why he was wearing a cloak with the hood up indoors. But she had more important things on her mind. She paused outside the door to their apartment, took a deep breath, wiped a sweaty palm on her skirt and opened the door.
The room was deserted. The little red dragon raised its head inquiringly as she came in, but there was no sign of Wiz.
Just like him! Moira thought. She was all steeled for what must be said and he wasn’t here. She plopped down in her chair, determined to wait for him to come back.
Around the corner, Pryddian leaned against the wall, shaking and cursing inwardly. She saw me! He ground his teeth. The bitch saw me! True, she had not seen him come out of their apartment, but she had seen him in a hall where he had no business being. Once the Sparrow returned and missed the searching spell, it would take no great leap to trace the deed to him.
Even if the Sparrow noticed nothing amiss, it meant his foray was useless. As soon as he started using the knowledge he had stolen, the hedge witch would remember his presence and it would be obvious to everyone what he must have done. For all his daring and cunning, he was blocked before he could even begin. Pryddian turned his face to the wall and beat his fist against he stone in frustration.
Then he dropped his hand and gained control of himself. Perhaps he was not so blocked after all. If he used the Sparrow’s magic anywhere in the North he would be detected as a thief. But there were other magics—and other places.
He let out a long, deep breath and straightened up. It was not the path he would have chosen, but there was a way still open to him.
Bal-Simba looked up at the knock upon his study door. He wasn’t surprised to see Moira standing there.
"Merry met, Lady," he said, leaning back in his oversize chair. "Come in."
"Merry met, Lord. Where is Wiz?" The words tumbled out almost as a single sentence.
"I sent him on an errand," Bal-Simba told her. "It seemed expedient."
"I heard something… Lord, did he really threaten magic against someone?"
Bal-Simba nodded and Moira closed her eyes in pain. "Lord, we have got to help him. We must!"
The giant wizard shook his head. "Neither of us has the skill, Lady. We are mere novices at this new magic and Wiz needs the help of the Mighty of his own world to do what needs to be done."
"Lord," she said formally. "I ask it of you and the Council that you do whatever is within your power to aid Wiz."
Bal-Simba smiled, showing his pointed teeth. "Willingly granted Lady, but what would you of us?"
"I have been thinking about this," Moira said. She stopped, gathering herself. Bal-Simba waited. The candles gave a bayberry tang to the air and the evening breeze made them flicker and the shadows dance on the wall.
"Lord," the redhaired witch said slowly, "we promised we would not Summon anyone hither, did we not?"
Bal-Simba looked at her narrowly. "That we did. A most solemn promise."
"So it was," Moira agreed. "But I do not recall ever promising not to ask others to help us."
"Eh?"
"Suppose we did not Summon another to us," she went on. "Suppose instead we used a Great Summoning to send someone to Wiz’s people to appeal for their aid? Would the Council approve, do you think?"
The black giant’s face split in an enormous grin. "Brilliant, Lady!" His laughter pealed off the ceiling. "You will wind up on the Council yet."
Then he sobered. "But it would be a dangerous journey."
"True, but think of what we could do if I brought Wiz back one of the Mighty of his world!"
"If you brought back… Oh no! No, My Lady! Wiz would have my head if I let you go haring off on such a scheme. And he would be richly entitled to it."
"But Lord…" Moira began.
"No! Not you. Someone else, but not you. And that’s final!"
Wiz leaned back against the stone wall and shivered. He was so tired he could not keep his eyes open, but the least little movement or sound brought him awake with a start.
He was terribly hungry. His last meal had been at Duke Aelric’s—how long ago? More than that, he was cold. Desperately, numbingly, bone-chillingly cold. He exhaled and watched his breath puff white.
It would be so simple to be warm again. But with that thing around he dared not use magic of any sort. He had only to begin forming a spell in his head and he could feel the quiver of the demon’s anticipation. No matter how careful he was, he would be dead before he could ever complete the first line.
In theory he could write the spell out and then summon a demon to execute the code. But that wouldn’t buy him much. In the first place, just the act of putting the spell down might be enough to send the demon arrowing after him. In the second place, even if the demon did finish the spell he wouldn’t live to see it. H
e might come up with something that would finish the demon, but he wouldn’t be there to see it.
Besides, he thought, I’ve got a war to stop. I’ve got to get back to the Capital.
He had been stupid to travel unprotected, he saw now. Moira had told him that wizards kept one or more defense spells primed and ready against sudden danger. He’d laughed and told her he didn’t need such precautions. With his new magic he could launch a spell in an instant. He remembered that Moira hadn’t looked happy, but she hadn’t said anything.
If only he had time to prepare he knew he could take the beast, or at least get beyond its grasp. But he had come unsuspecting and unprotected and now it was too late.
He leaned back and thought of Moira. At least she’s safe, he told himself as he drifted off into a restless half-sleep.
Twelve: Stranger in a Strange Land
Never argue with a redhaired witch. It wastes your breath and only delays the inevitable.
the collected sayings of Wiz Zumwalt
"I still think this is too dangerous," Bal-Simba grumbled for the twentieth time.
"Hush, Lord," Moira placed her hand gently on his massive ebony arm. "It is less dangerous for me than for any other. Who else knows as much about Wiz’s world?"
"Will you not at least take a couple of guardsmen? Donal and Kenneth…"
"No, Lord. From what Wiz has told me they would only attract notice. And perhaps trouble."
"I suppose so." He sighed and looked around the room. Six other wizards were already at their places and the shadow on the sun dial crept ever closer to noon. "Best you take your place then, Lady. Remember, we will search for your signal every day two day-tenths after sunrise and two day-tenths before sunset. When we sense your signal we will perform the Grand Summoning. Do you have the cord?"
"Yes, Lord," Moira said, touching the pouch at her waist, "and thank you." She stretched up to kiss him on the cheek. "Please when Wiz returns tell him not to worry." Then she turned and strode to her place in the center of the circle of wizards.
Bal-Simba frowned slightly at that. He did not tell her he had expected Wiz back days ago. The great black wizard was beginning to get worried.
"Merry part, Lady."
Moira dropped him a slight curtsey from her position in the center of the floor. "Merry meet again, Lord."
The chant swelled up in six-part harmony as the wizards sought to bend the forces of the Universe to their will. Moira stood straight-backed at her place in the growing maelstrom of magical energies. As the grayness swirled up about her Bal-Simba thought he saw her lip quiver.
Jerry Andrews rattled off the sequence to start compiling the program. Then he leaned back and the chair creaked. He sucked a lungful of the chill, air-conditioned air and rubbed his eyes. The after image of the screen was burned into his vision.
The fix he had just installed was a fairly elegant piece of work. He would have liked to show it to someone, but he was alone. His new cubicle mate was a day person and they seldom met unless Jerry was going home late while he was coming in early.
Whole damn company’s going to hell, he thought sourly. Next thing you know we’ll be doing weekly project reviews with input from marketing. When that happened Jerry intended to bail out. He was an old hand and he knew the signs.
Besides, he thought, this place hasn’t been the same since Wiz Zumwalt went away.
Wiz’s disappearance had shaken people up plenty. There were lights in the parking lot at ZetaSoft now and security guards patrolled the grounds and the buildings.
It wasn’t unknown for a late-working programmer to be robbed or killed in company parking lot, but it still struck hard when it happened close to home. Especially since they never found the body.
Besides, Wiz had been his friend. If it hadn’t been for his taste for truly rotten puns, he would have been the perfect work companion.
Well, he thought, just link this module in and…
There was a sudden blurring of the world and Jerry Andrews realized he had a girl in his lap.
Since most of Jerry’s lap was already taken up by his rather ample stomach, she promptly rolled off and landed on the floor.
She shook her mane of red hair and looked up at him, her green eyes wide. "Oh! Crave pardon, My Lord."
Jerry stared at her, stunned.
Moira rose quickly and clutched at the edge of the desk as the room spun around her. Even with Bal-Simba’s improved technique she was still dizzy and weak from the aftereffects of the Summoning.
"Uh, hi," Jerry said for want of anything better to say. Not only was this totally unexpected, but she was gorgeous—if you liked busty redheads. Jerry liked busty anything.
"Greetings, My Lord," Moira said, still clutching the edge of the desk. "I am called Moira."
"I’m Jerry Andrews."
Her eyes widened again. "Oh, well met! Wiz has told me a great deal about you."
"Wiz? Wiz Zumwalt?"
"Yes. He is in trouble and he needs help."
"Wiz is alive?"
"Oh yes, but he is not here. There was a Great Summoning and Wiz…" she trailed off. "It is a rather long story, I fear, and perhaps a complicated one."
Jerry nodded. "That sounds like Wiz."
They couldn’t stay here, he decided. Moira didn’t have a badge and sooner or later the guard would come by. But it was early in the morning and there wasn’t any place to sit and talk.
* * *
Jerry decided to fall back on his first instinct whenever he had a problem. "Let’s get something to eat."
The Capital of the North did not so much end as it trailed off in a dispirited gaggle of buildings, set ever further apart along the high street as the rocky promontory slanted down to the surrounding plain. At the upper end of the town, the Front, the houses and shops of the well-to-do crowded close to the walls of the Wizards’ Keep. The further you moved down the spine of rock, the meaner and poorer the town became.
Pryddian was no stranger to the Back of the Capital, but this was an area he had little occasion to visit. Down a twisting side street, so narrow the overhanging houses almost blocked the sun, there was a stable. So small and dark was the entrance Pryddian nearly passed the place before he realized it was what he sought. He kept the hood of his cloak up and looked up and down the street before ducking through the low door.
Inside the place smelt of moldy straw and horses ill-kept. The ex-apprentice wrinkled his nose at the odor and wondered what kind of person would keep a horse in such foul quarters.
"You want something?"
He whirled and saw a man standing beside one of the stalls, leaning on a pitchfork.
"I am looking for something."
The other advanced, still holding the pitchfork. Pryddian saw the man was short and powerfully built, with a permanent squint and lank dark hair. As he came closer Pryddian’s nose told him he was as ill-kempt as his stable.
"If it’s a horse we got ’em. If not, be on your way."
Pryddian licked his lips. If the rumors were wrong about this place he could be in a lot of trouble. But if they were true…
"I wish to meet—some people."
"Well, there’s none here but myself. Now be off with you!" The man gestured threateningly with the pitchfork.
Pryddian almost turned and ran. But he was desperate, so he stood his ground.
"I need to reach the Dark League."
The man stopped. "You’re an apprentice from the castle."
"Former apprentice. I seek a different master and I bring something with me that will be valued in other quarters."
"The way to the Dark League lies south and over the Freshened Sea, as everyone knows," the man said sullenly.
"No more. The City of Night is in ruins and the old roads are closed."
"That’s nothing to me. I have no truck with the likes of those."
"A pity," said Pryddian, fingering his pouch. "I am prepared to pay for information." He reached in and pulled out a silver c
oin. "I pay well." He turned the coin around in his fingers so it flashed in the dim light.
"Well," said the stableman, lowering the pitchfork. "I don’t say I know anything and I don’t say I don’t. But there are those that say that if you take the road west to the Wild Wood there is a place where you might be met, sometimes."
Pryddian held out the coin to the man’s grasp. "Tell me more."
Damn! Jerry muttered as he peered around the corner into the lobby. The guard was at the desk reading a supermarket tabloid.
He pulled his head back and stopped to think. Moira had no business being in the building, of course, and right now Jerry didn’t think he was up to inventing a good excuse for her presence. He had hoped the guard would be off making a round, but they did rounds at irregular intervals and in this case it looked like the next interval would come when the guard finished his reading.
"Okay," he whispered, "just stay close to me and don’t say anything." Moira nodded and they both sauntered around the corner.
As they came into the lobby the guard glanced up briefly and went back to his reading. Moira was behind and to one side of Jerry’s bulk and the man obviously missed her.
Jerry leaned over to sign out on the sheet. The guard kept his nose buried in the tabloid.
"Good night," he said. The guard mumbled a response without looking up from his magazine. As they went by, Jerry got a glimpse of the headline.
Americans Falling Down
On the Job, Prof Warns
Wiz took a deep breath and examined the scene in front of him carefully, weighing the odds. There was a faint reptilian scent in the air he didn’t like at all, but he was hungry enough and desperate enough to ignore it.
Most of the buildings in this district were utilitarian; warehouses, barracks, workshops and the like. This one was different. It was made of glossy dark marble instead of rough hewn basalt. The slanting late afternoon sun picked out the fine carving on the window and door frames. The courtyard itself was paved in an elaborate pattern of black and white and dark green blocks, laid in a way that made the surface appear to swoop and undulate wildly even though it was perfectly flat. Around the court was a colonnade and extending off the colonnade at close intervals were open doors like gaping black mouths. Wiz stood in a niche in the gateway for a moment and studied the place.