Wizard (The Key to Magic)

by H. Jonas Rhynedahll

  Reasoning that the reactions of other pedestrians would soon enough reveal the quality of his imposture, he made his way back to the station.

  None of the people going to or coming from the rotunda stared unduly as he approached and as his projected expression was the same off-putting glare as his model had had, all tended to glance away from eye contact with a point at the height of his breastbone -- the spot where the woman's eyes would be.

  By staying out of the main flow near the line of planters, it was not difficult to avoid, without appearing to be doing so, being brushed by the few dozen people walking to and from the station. When he approached the nearest column, he detected no unusual ethereal reaction from the magics of the station. He paused for a moment, but no Faction monstrosities or automatons swooped down. Still alert, he opened the map. Again, no alarm. Pleased, he proceeded.

  Surrounded by towers that he thought must be half a league high, the station for the Plaza of Eternal Justice was twelve ports away. Travel there took less than half an hour, but then he had to quarter the heavily congested area for almost a full hour before he located an open space large enough to be considered a plaza.

  Entirely bordered by continuous stairs with three-pace wide treads, the rectangular, east to west oriented pavement of the space was sunk several manheight below the maze of intertwining promenades that led up to it. While statues and other constructions that had no purpose that he could determine crowded around the upper lip, the lower level was empty save for a colossal obelisk at its center. Golden but unadorned, the three-sided structure rose at least thirty manheight to a starburst pinnacle of flaring rays. Allowing that it had been constructed with the assistance of magic, the simply-stated magnificence of the obelisk would still have easily put all of the self-important vanities of Khalar's Old City to shame.

  The lip was a popular place, with a large number of people idling, sitting, and sauntering, but the steps were even more so. Hemmed in by the great constructions that soared all around it, the Plaza could only have full sun at midday, as now, and a large luncheon crowd had encamped on the steps in small and large groups to take advantage of the transient warmth while they picnicked and socialized.

  The two Common words and an understanding of their meaning came to his thoughts without effort and he briefly wondered whether he would retain the language's odd concepts when he no longer had opportunity to speak it.

  Drawing a few casual stares but otherwise causing no stir, he stopped on the lip alongside the pedestal of a martial statue cast in bronze. The rearing horse, its sword-waving, mustachioed rider, and the chest-high pedestal provided some concealment and it was from this partially protected perch that he surveyed the Plaza.

  He saw no Compliance Officers, monstrosities, or automatons, but he had expected none. If this were a Faction trap, then the door would close only after he had gone all the way in. Save for a few strolling couples and a dozen or two individuals crossing from one side to the other, the area about the pylon was clear. The female medic, who he had expected to see, was not in evidence.

  The note had indicated no time or day and he had presumed, in retrospect perhaps unwisely, that the woman would present herself as soon as he arrived. He was unprepared to wait, but seemed to have little other choice save to do so. Taking a seat on the top step, he occupied himself by roaming his magical sense over the crowd to examine ethereal presences.

  Only a few moments had passed when a familiar aroma wafted over his shoulder. Drawn to turn his head, he caught sight of a woman patiently guiding a two wheeled, box-like cart through the swirling traffic. She stopped not far back from the lip, unfolded a hinged counter, and strapped on an apron as potential customers began to crowd close. On the white facing side of the cart was the glowing insignia of Bebe's Savories.

  He winced at the thought of another of the greasy concoctions, but rose anyway and went to join those waiting.

  Hanging back to let the rush clear out, he happened to glance to his left. Standing but four paces away and also apparently waiting to patronize the cart was the medic. Turned at a slight angle so that he was out of her direct line of sight, she was among a loose group of chatting men and women, but only listened and nodded on occasion.

  He had not noticed her immediately because she was not wearing the severe, all-covering uniform in which he had first seen her but rather was dressed in a fashion that blended with those around her. Her loose, flowing dress, made of effervescent cloth embossed with a confused pattern of intertwining blue and green lines, would have been bizarre in Mhajhkaei but here it was the norm. The asymmetrical cut of the garment left rounded shoulders, muscular arms, and trim legs up to her thighs bare, but the thin cloth outlined the rest of her in such a way that she hardly seemed more covered than had Nali when he had first met her.

  She gave every indication of being totally unaware of his presence. In fact, save for the note that had brought him here, it would have seemed that their paths had crossed as a result of mere coincidence.

  Having kept his new glamour in place, his outward seeming was still that of the elderly woman, both visibly and magically, and the medic would not have recognized him, but if their meeting had been the arrangement that the note purported, then it seemed to him that she should be searching through the throng or otherwise making herself known, not engaging in an impromptu luncheon with friends.

  He wondered if that meant that the medic indeed had had no foreknowledge of having been appointed to introduce him to the Proctors.

  If so, then the aegis was on him to speak to her -- save that he could not without revealing his masquerade to all within hearing distance. The voice that would emerge from the glamour would be his own and not that of an elderly woman. Having no example and no apparent need, he had not tried to derive a modulation that would alter his voice.

  Deciding to deal with his most important priority first, he moved up to a vacant spot near the cart, caught the proprietress' eye, held up three fingers and as her experienced hands flew to slap Savories on paper trays and condiments on Savories, he extended a red warehouse warrant, then cavalierly waved off the change to the woman's evident delight.

  Moving off a short distance, he began to eat.

  When he had been very young, an old sot had once told him, "Sometimes, boy, you have to go into the fire."

  "What do you mean?" he had asked while wondering if he could sneak a morsel of meat from the inebriated man's plate without being caught.

  The sometime scholar had waved his gravy-encrusted fork in the general direction of the tavern's hearth where a maid had begun to lay a fire. "Ever seen a bird get trapped in a chimney?"

  "All the time. When there's no fire in the hearth, the little finches wiggle in through the holes in the rain cap and there's nowhere for them to perch on the inside so that they can't wiggle back out. They just flutter about complaining."

  "What happens to them when a fire's put on like Syl's doing now?"

  "The smoke makes them pass out and they fall into the flames. The feathers smell bad when they're burning."

  "All of them burn?"

  "No, sometimes they fly down into the fire and out of the hearth and everyone starts jumping around trying to shoo them out the door."

  "Like I said, boy, sometimes you have to go into the fire."

  When the medic and her friends left the cart, he followed.

  The group, five woman including the medic and two men, made a half circle around the lip of the plaza as they munched on Savories, then made a lazy swing toward a promenade to the south.

  Picking up his pace, he cut across the corner of their path, took out his remaining warehouse warrants, and began to count them while pretending to not pay attention to where he was going. By careful timing, he collided with the woman trailing on the medic's left with enough force to send her staggering into one of the men. Rebounding from the collision, he twirled about as if out of control and sprayed the squares into the startled faces of the rest of t
he group. As the men and women scrambled to help their friend and retrieve the fluttering money, he stumbled adjacent to the medic and stole time.

  The spell immobilized her in a half turn, her face seized in a bizarre meld of surprise and curiosity.

  Studying her face and the way she stood, he saw an ingrained self-assurance that came from physical competence; she would not fail to react to what she could only interpret as an assault.

  His recent experience had shown that fully extending his own time frame to another object required close contact with the Vessel -- his own body. A touch would partially shift an object out of slowed time, but the song had only completely included Nali when she had been clasped tightly against his chest. To be able to speak with the medic as was his plan, he could not simply grasp her arm. He had no desire to embrace her, which would place his groin within easy reach of a retaliatory knee and make his nose subject to a head butt. A clasp from behind would similarly make shins and insteps vulnerable to kicks and face again subject to a backwards head smash.

  After a bit more thought, he decided that a choke hold was his best chance to avoid injury. It would allow him to control the medic's upper body while keeping his own vital areas -- eyes, throat, and groin -- out of her range. Sliding around behind her, he rotated half a turn to make it harder for her to find his ribs with her elbows, then leaned in to loop his right arm around her neck, biceps on one artery and forearm on the other. Keeping his grip loose until all was in place, he locked his right hand in the crook of his left elbow and cupped his left hand around her head. Then he slowly tightened the hold as he drew her torso back against the right side of his chest.

  When he felt her stiffen and then instantly snap a kick backwards that was aimed at but missed his knee, he flexed his right arm to cut off the flow of blood to her head.

  Both of her hands flew up to dig nails into his arm, but he only tightened the choke.

  "Stop struggling, or you'll be unconscious before I can count to twenty," he told her.

  After a tense couple of seconds, the medic retracted her nails from the claw marks on his arm, held her hands out in an exaggerated display of submission, and then dropped them to her sides.

  Watching in case her surrender should be a ruse, he relaxed his hold just enough to feel her pulse throbbing against his upper arm, then incidentally healed the claw marks.

  "I recognize your voice," she said. "You're the wizard that escaped."

  "Yes. I want to talk to you about the Proctors."

  The medic remained quiet for a moment, then said, "You may release me. I won't attack you."

  "If I break contact, you'll fall back into normal time. In order for us to talk in slowed time, I have to maintain the hold."

  "Are we in undertime? Is that why nothing is moving?"

  "No. This isn't wizardry. Tell me about the Proctors."

  "I'm not a member of the organization. I just do work for them occasionally."

  "What kind of work?"

  "I sell information and from time to time perform small tasks."

  "Who are they?"

  "Lunatics and philosophers, as far as I know. I don't trouble myself with ideologies."

  "Where can I find them?"

  "I have no idea. I have no direct interaction with them. All of our communication is by comm."

  "Then I want you to send them a message that I want to meet with them."

  "I can do that, but I don't work for free."

  "You can have the flimsies I scattered."

  "You were the old woman? That's an exceptionally good glamour. I have a detector that normally warns me about disguise spells."

  "Do we have a deal?"

  The medic laughed. "That's less than a hundred flimsies. I wouldn't even blink for that."

  "It's all that I have."

  "I'll take a wizard's promise."

  "What do you mean?"

  "A favor. Promise that you'll do me one favor of my choosing at some point in future."

  He grunted. "How do you know that I'll honor my promise?"

  "I don't, but the only two possibilities are that you will or you won't, which gives me fifty-fifty odds and that's not a bad bet to win a wizard's favor."

  An open-ended promise might contain considerable risk, but this one would be to a phantom who would soon vanish from his life forever. He gave a constrained shrug.

  "I agree. You'll excuse yourself from your friends, leave this area with me, and then use your comm."

  "My name is Prim. Remember it. You'll look like the old woman?"

  "Yes."

  "You just became my aunt Halyle. Behave accordingly. How do we withdraw from this situation?"

  "The choke hold? Easy. I just let go." And he did.

  TWENTY-ONE

  When Prim waggled her hand to cast the spell that transformed her voice into the rough baritone of a man, Mar paid close attention to the modulation.

  "Orange, here. I have information."

  The voice that responded was grating and unnatural. "Nature of information?"

  "Priority 4."

  "Fee is contingent on acceptance of information."

  "I have located the individual."

  "Fee sent. Location of individual?"

  "He's sitting right beside me. He wants a meeting."

  The other voice said nothing for a few seconds, then, "Stand by. We will contact you."

  The terrace upon which they sat was a hundred manheight above the west end of the Plaza of Eternal Justice. The place was a tavern of some sort. The scattered round tables were mostly empty, but the few patrons present had been provided with bowls of victuals and glasses of what he took to be ales or wines, though no staff was in evidence.

  Prim had efficiently taken leave of her friends, offering quick apologies laced with whispered references to senility, accepted the retrieved flimsies, and then firmly ushered "Auntie Halyle" away.

  Prim rubbed her thumb across the face of the comm that she had bought from a street vendor and tucked it in what passed for the bodice of her dress.

  "What sort of spell makes the comm work?" he asked, moved by a stray thought. He had not been able to delve the complete modulations of the devices and thought that they must use a combination of several sorts of magic.

  Prim gave him a curious look. "I just buy them. I don't worry about how they're manufactured."

  "The spell that changes your voice?"

  She shrugged. "I bought it as well. You're not from here, are you?" She clearly did not mean just Dhiloeckmyur.

  "No." He felt no need to elaborate.

  "Well, I was taught the basics in school like everyone else, but I'm not a hobbyist and I don't have the aptitude or desire to become a sorcerer. They're the only ones that research new spells. Everything that I need has already been invented and it is easier and cheaper just to pay for technology."

  Not quite scowling, the medic leaned back in her chair and rubbed the side of her neck with one hand. "I think you left a bruise."

  Mar cast a spell.

  The medic continued to rub her neck for a few seconds, then her eyes widened slightly and she took her hand away.

  "So you give bruises and you take them away. That must be very convenient."

  "Sometimes."

  She waved a hand across the tabletop and a list in glowing green Common script wrote itself on the air in front of her. Her eyes slid down the list, then she drew her index finger through one of the items and its letters began to flash.

  "Want anything? I'm buying." She waved "Aunt Halye's" flimsies.

  "No thanks."

  Prim snapped her fingers, causing the list to fade, then dropped an orange flimsy on the table. This sank down into the apparently still solid surface and a frosted glass filled with red liquid rose up in its place.

  The beverage emitted no reek of spirits as she brought it to her lips and took a long swallow, and he took it to be juice of one sort or another.

  "How long will we have to wa
it?" he asked.

  Prim took another drink. "They may not respond at all. I don't really know, but it seems to me that the Proctors -- at least the ones that I have dealings with -- behave like they operate under a committee whose members usually don't get along."

  Her bodice gave out a single, sharp tone, causing her to lift her shoulders. "Fancy that."

  She brought out the comm and cast her voice spell. "Orange."

  "Drop site six. Ten minutes."

  She dropped the comm on the table alongside her abandoned drink and stood up. "Let's go."

  They did not go far. Rushing, the medic led him by a confusing path along promenades that passed in and out of the shadows cast by the great buildings, and stopped on another terrace with a large granite statue at its center. The misshapen lump seemed representative of something, but he could not figure out what that something might be.

  Prim went to the pedestal, reached between the statue's seven spindly legs, pulled out a port stone, and handed it to him.

  She gave him a stern look. "Don't forget my favor."

  "I won't," he lied.

  "Use that."

  He did.

  As the lozenge crumbled into dust, he appeared in a forest glade.

  Or, at least, the semblance of one.

  Mature pines an armlength thick at the base soared upward at least twenty manheight all around, but above them was not sky but a softly glowing white dome. Off a good distance through the trees, he could see that the dome extended down on every side. The ground beneath his feet had the resilient feel of normal earth and supported a thick carpet of trimmed grass in the clearing he stood upon and a fluffy mulch of browned needles under the trees, but he could sense a heavy concentration of magic not far down. Spells kept the trees and grass alive, not the natural fecundity of soil, air and water.