Norton, Andre - Anthology

by Magic in Ithkar 04 (v1. 0)

  "It will take a master wizard healer," Arnis told her shortly. "I know where to find one; the problem is payment. If wizard whoever-he-is can help me sell the egg at a good price, then he can dictate his own terms. Including where and when we meet."

  Senta clamped her teeth together and turned back to her part of the table without a word.

  The wizard was waiting just a little way beyond the watch fires at the enclosure entrance when Arnis arrived. "It occurred to me my instructions to you had been somewhat vague," he explained, taking Arnis's arm and leading him away from the enclosure. "I thought it would be simplest to meet you here."

  And easier to see if I had brought friends or fair-wards along for protection? Arnis swallowed, suddenly aware of the hopeless inadequacy of the small engraving knife in his tunic should the wizard have something deadly or devious in mind. They passed a group of fair-wards, and he thought once of calling to them, of breaking off this foolishness before it was too late. But Torren's gaunt face floated before his eyes, and he passed the fair-wards without a word. Whatever the risk, his son was worth it.

  The wizard led him past the handful of tents that had been set up outside the enclosure and near the river, bearing toward the dark stretches away from dock and canal. At last, when the noise of the fair was barely audible above the rustle of the wavelets and the buzz of night insects, he stopped. "Let me have it," he said, holding out his hand.

  Arnis reached into his tunic, fingers brushing against the knife hilt as he did so, and drew out the egg. The wizard took it, and by the faint light from upriver Arnis could see his lips moving. Abruptly there was a faint clink, as of two pieces of metal tapping one another. The wizard muttered something and again studied the egg's surface. Then, cupping one end in his left hand, he squeezed down on the other end with his right; lifted the hand quickly—

  The egg split open into two halves, snapping nearly an inch apart yet remaining in some way connected together . . . and Arnis gasped at what he saw in that newly opened gap.

  At first appearance it was like a tangle of fine silk threads, but silk that glowed with ghostly purple light. A closer look showed the threads, far from tangled, were arranged in a definite pattern . . . but as his eyes endeavored to trace the design, Arnis found an inexplicable chill seize his being. Squeezing his eyes shut, he took an involuntary step backward. "What is it?" he asked with a shiver.

  "My vengeance," said the wizard. His voice was almost a purr.

  Arnis snapped his eyes open. The face had seemed only vaguely familiar earlier ... but that voice as he'd said "vengeance"— "You're Dukker!" he blurted. "The outlaw wizard!"

  Dukker's bright eyes— how had he failed to notice those eyes? —pinned Arnis like an insect against a wall. "Yes," he acknowledged at length. "And you, craftsman Arnis, have given me the tool of my revenge against that thrice-accursed snake-spawned Klon."

  "Klon was only doing his duty," Arnis objected as the memory of that incident flooded back. Dukker, a spell of destruction winding like a mad wraith through a glassblower's booth for some imagined insult on the artisan's part. A half-dozen fair-wards writhing on the ground in Dukker's agony spell, while the wizard laughed and sneered. Klon,; alone of all of them, rising above the pain to bring Dukker to the ground with a blow of his quarterstaff at the knees and then to slam his fist behind the wizard's ear before he himself swooned. Dukker, declared outlaw by the high priest, carried bound and gagged outside the fairgrounds, only his bright eyes free to show his hatred of all present. Ten years ago . . . and yet the hatred in Dukker's face as if it had been yesterday.

  “His duty, was it?" the wizard snorted. "Was it his duty to loudly insult my lineage in language even the gutterfolk don't use?" He pressed the egg closed, cutting off the purple light. "For that alone he deserves to die."

  "He was trying to distract you, to keep you from killing the glassbl—"

  Abruptly, Dukker's hand made a short gesture, and Arnis's tongue seemed to turn to lead. "You talk too much," the wizard said quietly. "I must still determine if this object is truly what I suspect it to be."

  Yet for several heartbeats he did nothing but stand and watch. Slowly, sensation returned to Arnis's tongue and mouth until he was able to lick his lips. "Excellent." Dukker nodded. "No more than half a minute—it is a short-lived spell, after all. Now —" He squeezed the egg open and repeated his earlier gesture.

  Again Arnis's tongue was frozen ... but as the minutes passed the spell showed no sign of wearing off. Dukker gazed at him impassively as he tried with an ever-increasing feeling of panic to force his tongue to move. But to no avail. Standing there in the faint light, the sounds of the riverside all about him, he fought the rising terror and tried to come up with a way to escape. But there was no way out. None. With a defensive spell around him he might have been able to flee without danger; without one, the wizard could drop him before he'd taken two steps. There was nothing he could do but wait, and so he did.

  Finally—finally—the wisps of feeling began to return, and at last he was able to gasp moisture back into a mouth that felt as parched as a desert. "Wh-why?" he managed to croak.

  Dukker ignored the question. Glancing up at the stars overhead, he nodded in evident satisfaction. "Half an hour, at the least. I was right." Carefully, he closed the egg. "And now, craftsman, I must decide how to silence you."

  A cold hand clutched at Arnis's heart; but the terror of the past half hour had left him too drained to feel aught but a dull ache. "Will you at least tell me what it is my son found?" he asked. "Surely I deserve that much."

  Dukker shrugged. "It is of no consequence one way or the other. In the language of the Three Lordly Ones, it is an ampli-fire —a talisman which increases many times over the effect of magic spells. Possibly lost in the Death Swamp by one of the Three themselves."

  A talisman of such power—? "But the wizard-of-the-gate allowed it into the fairgrounds—"

  "Of course he did, the fool. He had no idea what it was. I suspect all of the Three's weapons were equally harmless in abearance."

  "Weapons?" Arnis felt his mouth fall open. "The Three were not in any way warlike—"

  "Fool! Do you think they constructed this ampli-fire simply to create music and halo-butterflies for the amusement of their children?" He held up a hand as Amis started to speak. "Enough. I have granted your last request, and I will not debate theology with you. Perhaps you will meet the Three soon; if so, you may ask them yourself how they used their ampli-fire in their wars." The egg snapped open . . . and, belatedly, Arnis filled his lungs for a final scream for help.

  The sound never came. Dukker's gesture silenced him for a third time . . . and then, at a longer series of gestures and words, the remainder of his body was taken from him as well. Slowly, his legs began walking him toward the river.

  Where he would die.

  Arnis had no doubt of that. Dukker would walk him straight into the water, in over his head, where he would drown. By the time his body was found, all traces of the spell would surely have vanished, and he would be merely one more anonymous death on the fair's records.

  His feet slapped mud now. Two steps later he was ankle deep in water; then, all at once, it was up to his waist, climbing his chest. For a moment his bewitched feet fought for purchase, and Arnis thought he would slip beneath the wavelets right there. But he recovered his balance, gaining another few heartbeats of life. The water reached his neck ... his chin ... He took one last breath and closed his eyes. . . .

  The water surged up over his head, and his feet finally ceased their march as the river bed fell away beneath them. A few more heartbeats and it'll be done, he thought almost distantly. I'll be dead, and Torren will follow soon, and Dukker will be free to plot his vengeance with no one the wiser—

  Senta!

  A horrible surge flooded into his mind and body. Dukker was not yet free—he would have to kill Senta to finally cover all traces of his theft and remove any suspicion of involvement in Amis's ow
n death. Senta—

  His ebbing will to live reversed its flow, and with it came a mental strength the like of which he had never before known. Senta could not die— would not die—for his own foolishness in trusting Dukker. Summoning every ounce of his strength, he hurled it against the spell binding his body.

  To no avail.

  Again he strove, and again, and again. But each time it was the same. He had failed . . . and as his lungs began to ache, he knew there would be no time to try anything else. Once, he'd hoped to someday make enough money from his work that he could ask Senta to marry him. Now, instead, he had assured her an early death. Perhaps her eternal hatred would be his punishment in the next world—

  And without warning his head broke through the water.

  He gasped, gulping in great lungfuls of cool night air. A hand shifted from a hitherto unnoticed grip on his arm to cup his chin; a body, barely felt through cold-numbed skin, pressed against his back. A mermaid? he thought, dazed mind afraid to believe it. "Rgh?" he growled, the only sound he could make.

  "Shh!" a voice whispered tautly in his ear. "He might yet hear you."

  Not a mermaid. Merely an angel.

  Senta.

  "I didn't trust him, so when you left I followed you." A breeze wound its way along the river bank, and she shivered violently.

  Arnis nodded, holding her closer to him. They'd been in the water together for a long time, until she'd judged it safe enough to emerge. Even then, it had been over half an hour before he could move his body, and she'd had to drag him out of the river without any help from him.

  "You're lucky he didn't see you," Arnis told her, shivering a bit himself. That was good—it meant his body was sufficiently awake to react to cold. Soon he'd give walking another try.

  "Not him." Senta shook her head. "He's far too arrogant to think simple people like us might be able to interfere with his plans. It was lucky I was using the river reeds for cover, though, or I wouldn't have been able to get into the water fast enough."

  Arnis found her cheek, stroked it. "I'm glad you, at least, were too smart for him. I just hope you can keep it up."

  "What do you mean?" she asked, twisting in his arms to look at him. "Surely it's over now. We denounce him to the fair-wards and—“

  "And the priests order him captured." Arnis sighed. "And with the ampli-fire he brushes away every defensive spell they create and kills them all."

  She was silent a long moment. "Oh, gods," she whispered at last. "He could do it, couldn't he? And destroy all of Ithkar Fair if he chose."

  "I see no way of stopping him," Arnis admitted. "Surely the temple boasts more powerful wizards than Dukker—they bound him once, after all. But with the ampli-fire . . ." He shook his head.

  "Then we must at least warn this Klon," she persisted.

  He grimaced. "You don't know Klon, do you?" He felt the shake of her head. "I do, a little. He acts good-natured enough, but underneath it he's as hard and high-minded as they come. If we told him Dukker was back, he'd set off to capture him; if we convinced him the fair would be put in danger, he'd simply make sure to confront Dukker outside the barricade."

  "And would go to his death either way," Senta murmured. "Drawing Dukker's anger onto himself alone."

  "Though he'd never admit that was his purpose." Arnis shivered violently. "Help me up, please. I think I'll be able to walk now."

  He was. Not very steadily, but at least his knees stayed firm beneath him. "So what are we going to do?" Senta asked as they stumbled toward the bright watch fires at the fair's entrance.

  "I don't know," Arnis admitted through chattering teeth. "One of us needs to keep an eye on Dukker—that much is certain."

  She nodded. "My job."

  "No, mine. You are going into hiding where he can't find you. As far as he knows, you're the only other person alive who knows he has the ampli-fire. You can clean out the booth and leave a message at one of the nearby ones that you were suddenly needed at home."

  "There are locater spells."

  "Which would probably bring every wizard at the fair down on him before he'd finished casting it. If that doesn't bother him . . . well, we can get someone to work a concealment on you, perhaps, and hope Dukker doesn't care enough about you to do his locater spell with the ampli-fire. It's the best we can do."

  "And then you walk around in his wake, waiting for him to notice you?" Senta scoffed. "I might as well have let you drown."

  "Wizards aren't all-seeing godlets," he reminded her. "As long as I'm careful and wear a disguise, he shouldn't recognize he's being followed. Besides, I'd wager the thought will never even enter his pride-swollen mind."

  "Arnis—"

  "There's no other way, Senta. Not without causing a panic and maybe a disaster. If we can figure out how Dukker plans to get his revenge before he actually finds Klon, we may be able to figure out how to stop him. Or maybe the temple priests can." He shrugged helplessly. "Or maybe we should just turn around now and get out of here while we can."

  Senta squeezed his arm. "Come on—I know a group of hawk trainers who will give us shelter for the night. In the morning things may be clearer."

  Dukker passed the sweetmeat booth at the end of the row with a lingering glance at its display and turned the corner in the direction of the armorers' section. Twenty yards behind him, Arnis paused just long enough to stuff his hat inside his tunic and replace it with a new one before following. Senta's hawk trainer friends, with the bare bones of the story, had advised him to change tunics every hour and hats more frequently still. Arnis had wondered where they'd learned such tricks; but the advice had so far stood him in good stead. In two days of cautious tailing, Dukker had given no sign of noticing the man he'd tried to kill.

  And in that time he'd learned a great deal about the outlaw wizard.

  Dukker's arrogance he'd already been made aware of; what he hadn't before realized was that the wizard didn't reserve his contempt for low born craftsmen. Everyone, whether beggar or noble, left Dukker's presence with either hunched shoulders or else the pressed lips of anger. Arnis wondered for a long time that the wizard risked drawing so much unfriendly attention to himself; only gradually did he realize Dukker was likely doing it on purpose. With the power of the ampli-fire in his grasp, he had no need to be subtle in his leisurely search for Klon. He could allow his true feelings toward others to show without fear of censure or punishment.

  With the ampli-fire Dukker was invincible.

  A pair of religious beggars stepped into Arnis's path. Pushing past them, he hurried toward the comer. He couldn't afford to lose Dukker now.

  The clear solution was to somehow relieve Dukker of his talisman—even Arnis could see that far. But finding how to do that was another problem entirely. Dukker appreciated fine wines but so far had shown no tendency to indulge overmuch. He also seemed fond of cream-filled pastries, meat pies, and the attentions of pretty, dark-haired wenches.

  Fill a pastry with sleeping potion? Or hire a whore from the enclosure's outer fringes to steal the ampli-fire! Amis ground his teeth in frustration as each plan crumbled like old ox horn before the awareness that, for all his arrogance, Dukker was too clever to be taken in by such a simple ruse.

  Arnis rounded the comer booth—and skidded to a halt.

  No more than ten yards ahead, Dukker's green cloak rippled in the breeze as the wizard glowered at a trembling but stubborn-looking armorer journeyman who stood before him. The usual flow of buyers had halted, and already the two men were at the center of a small circle.

  "Repeat that, churl." Dukker's quiet voice carried easily over the noise.

  The armorer flinched, but his own voice was steady enough. "I said you had no appreciation for true ironsmithing skill, my lord."

  To Arnis it hardly sounded like an insult ... but Dukker apparently saw it differently. “I’ll show you what I think of ironsmithing skill," he snarled. Gesturing to a heavy breastplate on display, he began speaking in another language.<
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  Arnis shifted his attention to the breastplate. Beads of molten metal were beginning to form on its etched, surf ace—to form, and to run off onto the table, each sizzling and smoking where it struck the wood. But the armor was well forged, and it held . . . and as the words ended and the spell began to fade, Arnis noticed a small smile on the armorer's lips. A smile Dukker would surely not endure. Holding his breath, Arnis waited for the wizard's reaction.

  It came swiftly and without a single word on Dukker's part. Reaching beneath his cloak, he withdrew the ampli-ftre and opened it . . . and with a roar of tortured metal the breastplate melted before its owner's horrified eyes, setting the table alight as it burned through to become a foul-steaming puddle on the ground.

  Somewhere in the circle a woman shrieked; and as if that were the release for a spell, the entire crowd exploded into pandemonium. The armorer's table was burning brightly now, and a score of men leaped to save the other articles there and to move the table itself safely away from the booth behind it. Where molten metal lay stray grasses were smoldering, and water was fetched for both that and the table. Those trying to escape the fire or Dukker or both scurried about like mad insects, adding to the confusion and the noise.

  And in the midst of it all, Dukker vanished.

  Arnis pushed his way back through the crowd, the sharp j taste of defeat in his mouth. For certain, now, it was all over. He had lost Dukker. Worse still, with such a blatant use of unauthorized magic to spur them, the fair-wards would now be moving in on the wizard, playing directly into his plan. Within a day, perhaps sooner, Klon would be dead . . . and many others likely with him.

  An unoccupied chair sat at the end of a toolmaker's table, three booths back from the armorer's. Sinking into it, Arnis buried his face in his hands and wondered what he was going to do.

  The edges of the chaos swirled about him . . . and gradually he became aware that someone was shouting at him from behind the table. Raising his head, he looked up into the furious eyes of a bear-sized man. "Here, you, wha've you done t' m' stock?" the man bellowed over the noise.