The Thirteenth Magician

by Patrick Welch

  She turned to one of her slaves. “Take him and get him bathed and presentable.

  Then bring him to my quarters.” She looked at Daasek and frowned. “He smells bad.”

  * * * *

  At least her hospitality is warmer than the last magician's, Daasek mused. Three maids had greeted him in his chambers, disposed of his clothing in seconds, and thoroughly and expertly cleaned him. But mechanically; they had steadfastly repulsed his invitations and never said a word through an experience that changed from erotic to exotic to endurance. Then they had doused him in an odd-smelling lotion which he had tried to refuse, but wasn't allowed. Without words, they made it clear their mistress wanted him that way.

  Another amphibiman (or the same; by now Daasek had seen dozens but couldn't differentiate) was at his door minutes after his toilet was complete. All this will be wasted if I'm led through that maze again, he thought. But this time the walk was down a short hall and he was led into her living quarters.

  After the richness of the palace entrance and the alien beauty of the garden, he was almost disappointed. A low table of marble piled with platters of food and two goblets rested in front of a long divan. A few tapestries on the wall, and, on a table by the solitary window, another blood orchid, pristine white and waiting to be fed. Nothing more.

  Aletia was seated, waiting for him. Once again she was all in yellow, a dress this time that covered her completely yet was so sheer it mattered little. “Sit here,” she commanded, not rising. She glanced at the servant. “You may go.”

  The frog man exited immediately. She gazed thoughtfully at Daasek. “Does the austerity of my quarters surprise you?”

  Daasek shrugged. “After the richness of your entrance, yes.”

  “I do not use my powers to amuse myself. Others, perhaps, such as you. I have ... other ways to entertain myself.” She glanced once at her table. “Eat,” she said finally. “I know you must be hungry.”

  Daasek sat and studied the table before him. He recognized only a few of the meats and fruits. Many presented strange odors or strange colors. He took what he considered an apple and bit. He was relieved to discover he was right.

  “Drink some wine.” She handed him a glass. He sipped it, starting at the bitter taste but drinking anyway. When he set it down he noted her glass remained full.

  “So now you will tell me,” she began, suddenly smiling. “What is your name?” “Daasek.”

  “Why were you in my forest?”

  “I was traveling south. I just stopped to rest. I had no idea I was trespassing.” “Where were you going—south?”

  He thought for a moment. “I don't know,” he said truthfully.

  “I see.” She frowned. “Perhaps I have been too rash. I think I might forgive you, Daasek. Drink with me and we shall consider the possibility.”

  The wine was more palatable this time. When he set down his glass, he could even imagine himself feeling the effects of the alcohol. Which, he knew, was impossible.

  “Where are you coming from?”

  “Ta'Bel.” There was no reason to lie, he thought.

  “And why were you there?”

  “I was there,” and suddenly he felt a curtain fall across his mind, separating him from himself. He was a spectator as he heard himself telling everything. About his first visit, his meeting with Krujj, the terrible flight and even more terrible aftermath. He tried to stop himself but couldn't. He was an audience, a voyeur overhearing the story of his most recent life as if for the first time. Although as he listened, he seemed to remember other facts, other events that the storyteller was omitting. Such as his conversations with the magician Krujj. The fact he was controlled by another. Controlled by a magician with a stone similar to hers.

  When his tale was complete, the curtain lifted. The effects of the wine or whatever he had drunk vanished. But, surprisingly, the memory, the real memory of his trip to Ta'Bel, did not.

  She nodded, seemingly satisfied. “Then you are indeed the man I was told to watch for. Although your blood red hair and barrel body were proof enough.

  “You have caused problems, many more than you could ever imagine. At first you were a mere annoyance. But then you became a threat. Finally the Thirteen became interested, and therefore I as well.

  “You have become too dangerous. Perhaps you are getting assistance that we are not aware of. Your success with Krujj ... I was quite impressed. And now, of course, you are here to attempt the same with me.”

  Yes he was, but now he discovered he had the power to lie. “No,” he responded. He raised a scarred arm. “I have paid enough of a price.”

  “Yes, so you have,” she caressed his arm with fingers of cold fire. “Perhaps I can make it all worth while.” She touched her gown and it fell from her like dust. “Kiss me,” she commanded.

  He reached for her and her mouth exploded at him. He caught his breath at her surprising passion, but then realized it was not passion at all.

  It was hunger.

  She grasped his head with both hands. He felt a terrible pressure building, as if somewhere inside him a whirlpool was rising, threatening to take him down to some unholy pit of Hys. Far beneath his consciousness, he realized with a cold fear that it was a feeling he had experienced before. He wanted to cry out, to break away, but it was as if he was caught in a hurricane, helpless to raise a hand, to talk, to breath, to hear or smell or feel or even think. To do anything save go where the wind demanded.

  Faces appeared before him. Krujj, laughing at him even as the fire burned his flesh away. The frog man, smiling while the blood orchid drained him dry. The three swordsmen he had faced in the alley. Men he did not remember but who, he knew with fear and pain, had all died by his hand. And one he did remember, the man who terrified him most of all.

  But that memory vanished as the pressure within him slowly began to turn to fire. He knew that within seconds he would have to scream.

  There was a scream. But as the pressure relaxed and he began to return to his body, he realized it hadn't come from him.

  It had come from Aletia. He opened his eyes and looked at her. She lay across from him on the divan, her body ashen and trembling. And it was no longer the teen-ager he had first met, or the full-bloom woman in the garden. This woman's hair was white, her skin wrinkled, her breasts hollow and sagging. She weakly opened one eye. “You have no soul,” she whispered.

  He now knew what she was. A succubus. A soul-vampire. As well as a witch in possession of the black stone. He rose shakily. He knew somehow what had happened to her. In discovering little or no soul to feed upon, she had suffered a psychic backlash more painful than his own. He would make it more painful still.

  The stone first, he realized. He picked up the bowl of fruit, emptied it on the floor, then struck her on the forehead. It took three of his heaviest blows before the gem cracked and a small cloud began to escape. Then he walked unsteadily to the far table and removed the blood orchid. Its roots began to tremble, understanding that it was about to be fed. “But not me, not tonight,” he said. Instead, he placed it on her forehead, directly over the black stone. He waited until the roots were firmly implanted, then left the room. He still had much to do.

  It took him only moments to find one of the frog creatures. “Do you know the way to my world?” he demanded.

  The creature didn't hesitate. “Yes,” it said awkwardly.

  “Take me there.” As Daasek followed the servant through halls and passages, he recalled her comment in the garden. So obedient, yes. So loyal, no.

  * * * *

  There was no one in the alcove. None of the beauty that had greeted him—the art, the light, the suits of armor or hordes of people—remained. A few torches flickered against cold gray walls, nothing more. The illusive powers of the witch had died with her. He quickly walked past the door, through the bare cottage, and outside into his own world. His horse, his clothing and, most importantly, his dagger were still there.

  One duty rema
ined. It came unbidden, as if by instinct. He dismounted, gathered a handful of wood, and reentered the cottage. He piled the wood before the doorway to the other worlds. His hands made arcane movements by themselves. He found himself voicing formulae he had neither heard nor practiced. Then he felt a blast of heat come from the pyre of wood. And even though the wood did not itself burn, he could see the door behind dance in the flames of the invisible fire. The immortal, indiscernible flame would prevent traversal between his world and the other twelve for eons.

  The forest he now rode through was lit only by the natural glow of the moons. The sound of the night creatures hid no evils unknown. The urge was fulfilled. He should have been satisfied, but he was more troubled than before. The words and events of Krujj now bore down upon him like sod upon the grave. And the words of Aletia as well. “You are a tool,” he now recalled Krujj saying. “You have no soul,” said Aletia. What worried him most of all was that he now knew there had been others. So many faces and names he could not remember, but faces, he now fully realized, he had slain for reasons he knew not. How many more? He wondered. How many have I killed? How many more must I kill? He rode through the night in fear of the answer.

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  Chapter Four: The End of the Beginning

  Daasek pulled the warback hide tighter and inched closer to his small stove. The seasons had changed since his confrontation with his warback. Little else had. By day he rested, covering himself for protection from the high burning sun. He would fish in the early morning and twilight or practice with his blade. At night he would row for hours, following the southern currents and the five-starred Face of Thren, the constellation which would lead him, eventually, to the warmth and waters of Myniah. As yet he had not crossed the path of another ship.

  Daasek blew into his hands and rubbed them vigorously. The change in weather meant he had been on his voyage nearly half the year. Surely, no one had ever been on the Great Sail this long. His story would be worth several jugs of wine when he returned, he thought wryly.

  He looked down where his mast had been. Now only a shattered stub of wood well-coated with clamshell paste remained. There were reminders of his great battle elsewhere as well, most notably the deep scars that ran the length of his right leg and across his shoulders. My boat would not win the approval of shipbuilders now. He was fortunate the craft was made mostly of unseasoned wood. The wood had swelled at the many cracks caused by the warback's attack, effectively sealing them. The rest of his hurried repairs were holding.

  He admired the flickering fire another minute, then reluctantly extinguished it. It was too small to warm him and what precious fuel remained had to be saved for cooking. There were better, more profitable, methods for getting comfortable. Wrapping his hands in strips of warback hide, he took his seat in the center of the craft and inserted both oars in the oarlocks with arms grown even more powerful from his incessant labors. Above and behind him, the Face of Thren smiled. Somewhere below and beyond lay the cliffs and calm harbor of Myniah and home. He began to row.

  * * * *

  An ascending scale of thirds drifted out across the freshwater sea. Daasek sat in the bow of his boat, drifting and drying in the sun from his recent swim. His fingers ran along the bonepipe, one he had carved as a boy from the spine of a warback. The tune was one of his favorites, a shantey called “Seamocker's Ransom.” Tradition had it that years ago, a fisherman, becalmed in a damaged boat, had fashioned the melody to imitate the calls of that sea predator. So successful had he been that the birds had flocked to his ship and placidly allowed themselves to become his fodder.

  Were it true, he thought wistfully. He had been practicing the tune for nigh an hour. As yet no laughing call rang from the heavens, no shadow of wings caressed the waves. “Perhaps you might instruct me on the proper fingering,” he yelled out. “My taste for grickle is fast disappearing.”

  But at least I have grickle, he thought as he recalled again the song's saga. His net still fed him well, even if monotonously. He stretched, took another position to relieve the pressure on his buttocks, and began again. After all this practice he was still having difficulty with the chorus.

  This time, however, a voice answered his flute. But it was not the chortle of the seamocker. It was the trumpet of the warback.

  The spines appeared first, then the great head broke the surface less then ten kines away. Daasek slowly put down the flute. Not now. I don't want to fight you now. The great creature turned and focused its red rimmed eyes on Daasek. Daasek felt a warmth spreading in his chest. The heartstone, he thought. It recognizes the heartstone

  * * * *

  The sea master continued to regard him, as if trying to decide exactly what sort of creature it was facing. Daasek reached down slowly and retook the bonepipe. Just as carefully he brought it to his lips and assayed a few trembling notes. The warback waited. Finally Daasek decided. If you are going to attack, then do it. I can't stop you. He rudely turned his back to his audience and commenced his practicing. After a few minutes he heard a hoot and then the slap of the warback's great tail. When he looked, the creature had gone.

  The warmth of his heartstone faded as well. But even though he was alone once again, Daasek was smiling. The legends had foretold truly. The warbacks and he were now kin. He was finally and truly a fisherman of Myniah!

  * * * *

  The redness of the cliffs was fading and the wind was picking up from the east, blowing shivering cold across the water. Daasek didn't notice. He was home.

  He rested on the oars and admired the golden Myniah cliffs. They, at least, hadn't changed, rising out of the sea, monolithic guardians of the harbor and town within. Soon the watch fires would be set, serving as warnings for anyone still at sea. But he was too cold, too eager to await that ritual. Even at sail, he would have several hours to go before moorage. If he hastened, perhaps he would meet several of his friends drinking late at the wine shops.

  But as he rowed into the harbor, Daasek began to sense that something had changed. There were no tardy vessels greeting him, no lights on craft or cliff. Even the seamockers, which claimed the crags as their own, were strangely subdued. He glanced at the sky. Iofhee alone looked down, her father now a denizen of the day. This was among the busiest months of the year. He could think of no festival, no reason at all that would make the harbor so still.

  His caution increased as he further penetrated the harbor. It was nearing winter. The great fishing fleets should be filling the bay and the men hard at work preparing them for the upcoming winter. There were boats here, but not the kind or numbers expected. Instead of the small fishercraft, the harbor was dotted with larger merchant vessels. And several that looked less friendly. He stilled his oars and drifted. Where is the fishing fleet? They couldn't all be out to sea, not this late at night and at this time of year. This was not the Myniah harbor he knew.

  He made his decision. He rowed as softly as possible away from the great craft and selected a dock far to the end of the nearly empty piers. He sheathed his knife behind his back, out of sight but near of reach. His cape of warback hide was no protection against the wind, but the hide was dark. He wrapped himself within and carefully, awkwardly stepped onto the dock.

  Not carefully enough. As soon as he stood on the pier, two lanterns flashed into life, impaling him with their beams like a fly on a pin. “What have we here?” a harsh voice called from behind the blaze. “A pirate sneaking ashore if I miss my guess.”

  Pirates? Daasek shook his head, stunned at both their presence and words. He could not recall when the small Shore Patrol had ever troubled itself with activities at the docks. Their concerns were centered around the few taverns and brothels and the outsiders who frequented them. The reference to pirates made no sense either. No pirates would challenge Myniah. The fisherfolk were too strong on land and sea. “I'm no pirate,” he choked, immediately embarrassed at his voice. It was rusty with disuse.

  “It croaks,” laug
hed the other. “A giant frog. A giant talking frog. This is indeed our lucky day.”

  The taller man stepped forward. In the light, Daasek could see that he indeed wore the uniform of the Shore Guard. But the uniform was different somehow, although he couldn't tell why. A jug of wine dangled from one hand, but that did not capture his attention. The sword he wielded did.

  “I am Daasek,” he tried again. “I just came back from the Great Sail. I can show you my craft. I lost my sail, you see,” he continued as he turned back to his ship.

  “Stop there, criminal. Or I will disembowel you where you stand.” The man flicked out his sword, which left a stream of red across Daasek's left arm. “The Great Sail has been over for months. You have to be a pirate. Or a thief. Or assassin. You are under arrest.”

  Daasek blinked at them, stunned and disbelieving. He had never had difficulties with the Shore Guard and they had never acted so unreasonably. “I've got to see my family, my mother and father,” he finally spoke. “I haven't seen them in nearly a year.”

  They both laughed. “How rare,” the rear voice mocked him. “A thief who actually knows both his father and mother. What are the odds they share the same surname?”

  “Hold out your hands,” the swordsman commanded. Daasek obeyed and watched silently as leather thongs were wrapped tightly around his wrists. Only then did the other man approach. They studied him for several minutes as if admiring a pig on a spit. “Look at those arms,” the taller said finally, holding his lantern close and running one finger along Daasek's massive biceps. “Those are not the arms of a fisherman. A thief or a pirate, a barbarian to be sure. Our captain will want to talk to you.”

  “I don't,” but the remainder of his message was aborted by a harsh shove in the back. It will be all right, he kept telling himself as he stumbled along the pier, both a result of being too long at sea and the close, harsh attention of his captors. I will explain what happened. They will believe me. But somehow he knew they wouldn't.