The Vondish Ambassador

by Lawrence Watt-Evans

  "I doubt there's a wizard anywhere in the Small Kingdoms who could scry that well," Lar said, in tones of disgust. "Wizards who are any good at what they do can do better than living in a kingdom a few miles across, where the only people with any money to spend on magic are the ones who call themselves kings, and where they can't get half the ingredients they want for their spells. Witches, though – we do have witches. They like little villages and scruffy peasants."

  "They could hire a wizard here," Emmis pointed out, amused that Lar knew the Ethsharitic word for "scruffy." "They wouldn't need to have one back in Lumeth. It probably wouldn't even need to be a wizard. I'd guess that a theurgist could find out about your mission, too. Maybe even a sorcerer, or a scientist."

  "That's probably true." Lar sighed. "You know, I retired a couple of years ago; I had a little money put aside, and I was going to just live quietly, minding my own business. Then Lord Sterren got worried about other warlocks, and he didn't trust anyone else to deal with it, so here I am. I'd much rather be back home tending my garden."

  Emmis had no useful comment to make about that; he thought gardening sounded horribly boring, but he wouldn't want the ambassador's job, either. He looked down at the plates, both now empty. "Shall we head back to the house?" he asked. "There's still plenty of unpacking to do."

  "No," Lar said. "We came this way to eat for a reason. We're going to the Wizards' Quarter for a look around. And if our robed friend follows us, well, so be it." He pushed back his chair and reached for his purse.

  "As you please," Emmis said. He didn't see what visiting the Wizards' Quarter at this hour would accomplish, but he was in no hurry to haul boxes hither and yon.

  Together the two men ambled out the door of the inn, and turned south, toward the Arena. When they had gone half a block Emmis glanced back over his shoulder.

  As he had expected, Hagai was following them, fifty feet back.

  Chapter Seven

  The Arena was unlit; the next show was not scheduled until the first of Newfrost, more than a sixnight away. Even so, Lar was visibly impressed by the vast dark shape that loomed above them as they passed.

  The notice boards on the corners were lit, though, with two lanterns hung above each of them. They stood out all the better against the blackness behind them.

  "What's that?" Lar asked.

  Emmis explained. "Didn't you see the one in Shiphaven Market?" he asked.

  "I didn't," Lar admitted. "There was so much happening there!"

  "Don't they have notice boards in Vond?"

  Lar shook his head. "Most people in the Small Kingdoms can't read." He looked at the tangle of messages and advertising tacked to the rough boards. "Do you think there might be anything there about warlocks?"

  Emmis turned up a palm. "Openings for apprentices, perhaps." He glanced over his shoulder at Hagai, who was hanging back, trying to blend with the other pedestrians and not doing a very good job of it. "Stopping to look would be awkward for our friend."

  Lar grimaced. "I wouldn't want to be rude. Perhaps another time." They strolled on past without stopping.

  The incident got Emmis thinking as they walked, though. If Hagai was a witch, he ought to be able to do a better job of not being noticed. Witches could usually sense what other people were going to do before they did it; the good ones could allegedly actually hear people's thoughts. If Hagai was a witch then he surely knew he had been spotted, but he was still pretending to be just another passerby.

  So he probably wasn't a witch.

  He might be some other sort of magician, though.

  Emmis wondered whether he should say any of this to Lar. The ambassador had said witches were fairly common back where he came from, though, so he ought to be able to figure it out for himself.

  Or perhaps not. Just because witches were common didn't mean Lar knew anything about them.

  He had not reached a conclusion by the time they crossed Games Street five long blocks later.

  "This is the Wizards' Quarter," he said. "The next cross-street is Wizard Street. Warlock Street is a little further on."

  "I see," the Vondishman said, looking around with interest.

  In most respects this stretch of Arena Street was much the same as the rest – a broad avenue of hard-packed dirt lined with three- and four-story buildings, most of them stone for one or two floors and half-timbered above, with tiled roofs and assorted gables and overhangs. Balconies were common but not universal. Large torches were mounted in brackets at every corner, providing light; Emmis knew the city guard replaced those daily, as they usually burned away to nothing somewhere between midnight and dawn. Many of the ground-floor doors had signboards or lanterns or both above them; many of the windows were big, many-paned things holding displays of one sort or another. Some were lit, while others were not – not every magician stayed open for business this late.

  North of Games Street the window displays had generally been of fabrics, or furniture, or kitchenware, or other commonplace goods. Here, though, they were a little less ordinary. One window held strangely-shaped bottles of multi-colored liquids, while another displayed only a dusty stuffed dragon – a mere baby, perhaps seven feet from the tip of its nose to the tip of its tail, and a wingspan Emmis judged to be no more than ten feet, though it was hard to be sure, since the wings weren't extended. A third held nothing but a dinner plate that was inexplicably sending up an endless shower of sparks, a spray reaching perhaps a foot high, and that changed color every few seconds.

  One did display kitchenware, in the form of a teapot and half a dozen cups, but the teapot was ambling about on stubby little china feet.

  Several windows had no displays at all, just velvet curtains.

  And some held cards listing spells offered for sale, often in runes so ornate they were hard to read. A few of these glowed without need of any visible light source. Lar stopped to read one of these cards, and Emmis stopped beside him.

  It was a fairly modest list – Fendel's Rune of Privacy, the Spell of the Spinning Coin, the Greater and Lesser Spells of Invaded Dreams, Eknerwal's Preserving Spell, Fendel's Infatuous Love Spell – concluding with, "and Many Diverse Others."

  "That's a wizard's shop?" Lar asked.

  "Yes," Emmis replied, even before looking up at the signboard over the door that announced, "Edarth of Ethshar, Master Wizard."

  "What about that?" The Vondishman pointed at a shop window illuminated by a glowing sphere about a foot in diameter. The globe was surrounded by a dozen gleaming constructions of crystal and metal ranging from a thumb-sized amulet to an open-work contraption the size of a large dog, none of them with any recognizable purpose.

  "I think that's a sorcerer," Emmis said.

  Lar stared for a moment, then turned away shaking his head. "We don't have anything like that in Vond!"

  The two of them continued down the street, with Emmis occasionally looking over his shoulder to be sure Hagai was still there, and soon reached the corner of Warlock Street.

  "There it is," Emmis said, gesturing.

  Lar frowned. "It's dark," he said.

  Emmis had to admit that he had a point; where about half the shops on Arena were lit, almost none on Warlock Streetwere. "I suppose they don't want to work as late," he said. "You know the proverb – working on Festival means good money but it's bad advertising."

  "Bad what?"

  "Advertising." Emmis sighed. "I don't know the word in any other languages. Signs, notices, things like that."

  Lar looked confused. "I don't think that's a proverb back in the empire," he said. "At least, I can't place it."

  "Maybe not."

  "And it isn't Festival for months, so I don't..."

  "Never mind," Emmis interrupted. "Just forget it. All I meant is, warlocks don't seem to work late. I suppose they don't need to; they don't need to pay for any ingredients, or buy herbs, or appease any demons."

  "They still need to buy food and pay taxes, don't they?"

  Emmis
grimaced. "Honestly, I'm not sure. There's a rumor that warlocks can live on their magic, like someone with a wizard's bloodstone, and if I were a tax collector I don't think I'd press a reluctant warlock very hard."

  Lar's expression changed. "And... well, they try not to use more magic than they must."

  "Yes. The more magic they use, the sooner they're Called."

  Lar walked along Warlock Street and looked over the unlit signboards and darkened windows, with Emmis tagging close behind, while Hagai hung back, apparently still unaware that he had been spotted.

  There were no stuffed dragons or crystal structures here; most of the windows held nothing but shutters or black curtains, though Emmis supposed that might be different by daylight. The signboards mostly simply gave the proprietor's name. Some appended the word "warlock," but none claimed any further title; no one here called himself a master.

  "Not very informative," Emmis remarked. "Perhaps we should come back tomorrow."

  "Tomorrow I am to meet with the overlord, am I not?"

  "I don't know," Emmis said. "Tomorrow I talk to my contact at the Palace, and find out whether he's arranged anything."

  "Ah." Lar stopped in front of one of the handful of illuminated shops, where a card stood in the window. "ISHTA OF FRESHWATER," proclaimed the large runes at the top. Beneath, smaller, elaborately-curled runes added, "Healing a Specialty - man, woman, child, or beast. Antiquities Restored. Porcelain & Other Valuables Repaired."

  "It would seem at least one warlock works late," he said.

  Emmis made a noncommital noise.

  Lar marched up and tried the door; it opened with a light push, and he stepped inside. Emmis reluctantly followed.

  They found themselves in a good-sized, well-lit room where half a dozen people were clustered around a table at one end.

  "...told you, there's a piece missing," a woman was saying. "See, right there?"

  "No," another voice said, a male one.

  "It's tiny," replied a third, one that sounded like a child.

  "Yes, it is," the first agreed, "but it's definitely missing, and if I replace it out of thin air I can't guarantee it'll match perfectly."

  "But we'll never find something that small!" a fourth voice said – another woman, Emmis thought. "Someone's probably stepped on it and crushed it, or the cat might have eaten it!"

  "I can make a replacement," the first woman said. Emmis was fairly certain the voice was coming from a black-clad figure, presumably Ishta of Freshwater. "I just want you to understand that it may not be exactly as it was before. Without the original piece I can't just rebuild it, I need to make a new piece, and since I never saw the missing bit, it may not match exactly."

  "You can't use your magic to make it match?" the man demanded.

  "No. I'm a warlock, not a wizard. I can move and shape things, down to the very tiniest particles, and I can see and feel things you cannot, but I can't simply make the damage unhappen. A wizard probably could, with the right spell, but it would almost certainly cost you more than my fee." She glanced over her shoulder at Lar and Emmis, then turned back to her customers. "Why don't you discuss it, and I'll be right back?" Without waiting for an answer she turned and left the table, striding briskly toward the two men just inside her door.

  She was short and a little thinner than average, with a pointed chin and dark, piercing eyes, and she wore her waist-length hair loose. She stopped a few feet away and looked up at the new arrivals. "Yes?"

  "Hello," Lar said, as Emmis inched back to make it plain that he was not in charge. "I had a few questions I was hoping you could answer."

  "Then ask them," the woman said.

  "You're Ishta the Warlock?"

  "Yes."

  "I have a grandson of an age to be apprenticed," Lar said. "We were thinking of sending him to Ethshar to learn warlockry."

  Ishta held up a hand and glanced back at her customers, who were whispering amongst themselves. "That's a subject that deserves my full attention. Let me finish with these people, and then we can discuss it."

  "As you please."

  "You can't even see where it's missing!" one of the other women shouted, before Ishta could say anything more; the warlock turned and glided back to the table.

  Emmis bit his lip; Ishta had glided back, her feet an inch or two off the floor, rather than walking. Any doubt about whether she was a real warlock had just vanished; only a warlock could fly so casually.

  And any thought of asking Lar whether he really had a grandson vanished, as well – warlocks were more sensitive in certain ways than ordinary people. That didn't necessarily mean Ishta could hear a whisper from across the room, but it might.

  "Just fix it," the man said. "If it isn't perfect, we'll worry about it then."

  "Very good," Ishta said. "I'll have it for you by midday tomorrow."

  "You can't do it tonight?" the child's voice whined.

  "Tomorrow," Ishta said firmly. "Now, if you will excuse me..." She began herding the entire party toward the door.

  Lar and Emmis stepped hastily aside as a middle-aged man, a middle-aged woman, a young woman, a youth, and a boy of perhaps ten were marched out onto Warlock Street. Ishta closed the door behind them, then turned to the ambassador.

  "Would you care to sit?" she asked, gesturing toward chairs near the table.

  "Thank you," Lar said, with a partial bow.

  A moment later the three of them were seated, Ishta and Lar facing each other, while Emmis was slightly to one side, next to the table. Emmis took the opportunity to study the object on the table, obviously the item Ishta had promised to repair.

  It was an elaborate ceramic sculpture of a tree, about two feet tall, with a girl seated in the branches and a young man standing below and looking up at her, all delicately painted in colors a little brighter than nature. The level of detail was astonishing; the tree's leaves were individually modeled, veins painted on each, and tiny ripe fruit hung from the branches here and there. The girl's hand, clutching at the realistically-textured tree bark, had every fingernail clearly depicted; one of her sandals hung loose, while the other was secure. The man's clothing was so carefully done that Emmis thought he could count the coins in the purse on his belt.

  "Their cat knocked it off the shelf," Ishta said, following his gaze. "I've put it back together, but if you look, there's a bit missing just here." She pointed at the girl's right ear. Sure enough, half the earlobe was gone, and a curl of hair behind the ear was snapped off short. "I'll have to conjure that out of dust in the air. It's not all that difficult to find the right material, but blending it in smoothly and getting it just the right shape will be tricky."

  "Oh," Emmis said.

  She smiled at him, then turned to Lar. "Now, you said your grandson was looking for an apprenticeship?"

  "Yes," Lar said. "He says he wants to be a warlock. I don't know where he got the idea, since there aren't any warlocks in Semma, but he's very sure."

  "You're from Semma?" She glanced at Emmis.

  "I am," Lar said. "Emmis isn't. He's my wife's cousin's son; they live in Shiphaven. Emmis is my guide."

  "Where is Semma?"

  "In the Small Kingdoms, far to the south, near the edge of the World," Lar replied.

  "And your grandson is there?"

  "Yes."

  "But he would come to Ethshar?"

  "For his apprenticeship, yes. But we thought he would come back when he's a journeyman."

  Ishta nodded. "I haven't trained any apprentices," she said, "but I'm ready to try."

  "You're a master warlock?"

  "We don't..." Ishta hesitated. "We don't have formal ranks like wizards or smiths, but I'm qualified to train an apprentice."

  Lar looked uncertain – though Emmis recognized the expression as feigned, and hoped that the warlock didn't. "Is there a Guild? We don't – we have no warlocks in Semma, we don't know how it is. I heard about a council..." His voice trailed off.

  "The Council of Warlocks i
sn't really a guild. It doesn't set standards for taking apprentices."

  "Ah."

  Emmis pretended to study the tree again as he listened.

  This was educational, he thought. He hadn't known whether the Council set standards or not.

  "We do have several questions," Lar said, after a moment of awkward silence.

  "Of course," Ishta said. "Feel free to ask. There will be an initiation fee, but no other charges. If the boy proves completely unsuitable the fee will be refunded, but that's quite rare; perhaps one applicant in a hundred, if that, is unable to become a warlock. If our personalities prove incompatible after initiation, I will arrange for another warlock to take him on in my stead – he can't be sent home or put to another trade, as the process of becoming a warlock is irreversible. You understand that?"

  "I do now," Lar said.

  "You may have heard that among wizards, apprentices who are found unfit by the Wizards' Guild are killed. I don't know whether that's true for wizards, or for any of the other magicians, but rest assured, warlocks don't do that. Warlockry has its dangers, certainly, but we don't intentionally kill even the most incompetent apprentice."

  "How... how reasonable," Lar said, clearly dismayed by the turn the conversation had taken. Emmis didn't think he was faking this time.

  "You said you had questions?"

  "Yes! We live in Semma, as I said, and there are no warlocks there..."

  "You said that."

  "Yes. Well, that's my question – why are there no warlocks in Semma?"

  Ishta blinked at him.

  "I mean, is there a reason there are no warlocks there? Would Kelder not be able to come home?"

  "I don't see why not," Ishta said. "That is, I don't know what your local laws are, but there's no reason I know that a warlock couldn't live there."

  "But then why aren't there any?"

  "I don't know for certain," Ishta admitted. "You must understand, I was only six on the Night of Madness, and only became a warlock when I was twelve, years afterward, but I've heard stories. I don't know whether they're true."

  "What sort of stories?"

  "What I heard was that after the Night of Madness, before things settled down again, all the warlocks in the Small Kingdom were killed or exiled. The kings and lords thought they were too dangerous, too unpredictable, so they killed any they could catch and drove the rest away."