With a Single Spell loe-2

by Lawrence Watt-Evans

  For one thing, quite aside from the difference he had always assumed to exist between fiction and reality, this princess did not quite fit the mental image he had always had of princesses; despite her finery, she was plain-faced and flat-chested, with an unpleasantly nasal voice and a singularly ugly accent. Some of the whores on the waterfront had looked more like the traditional storytellers’ description of a princess.

  Well, Tobas told himself, not all princesses can be beautiful, can they?

  It seemed very odd to be in a place where anyone could even claim to be a princess; he wondered if perhaps some of the old stories he had taken for mere tales were truer than he had thought and seemed like fantasy to a Telvener only because Telven was an exceptionally dull part of the World.

  Tobas moved on, intrigued by the idea that there might be far more to the World than he had realized. Perhaps, he thought, he would find an opportunity here that would be better than trying to make a living off wizardry. It seemed unlikely, but it might be possible.

  The next group was again recruiting for a ship, and the one after that hiring miners to work in the diamond mines of Tazmor; Tobas began to lose interest. This was all very well, but none of it was getting him anywhere. These job opportunities were not what he wanted, and he berated himself for his momentary foolishness in thinking he might find anything worthwhile here. He had no money, no food, no place to sleep, and the afternoon was already on the wane; he had done nothing about learning more spells. If he really wanted to, he could come back here later; right now, though, he had more urgent matters to attend to.

  What could he do, though? He had not thought this out in advance. He cursed himself for wasting all the time aboard ship that he could have spent thinking and planning for every eventuality.

  He had no money, so he could get no food or shelter save by stealing or by selling something. He had nothing to sell save himself and his single spell and he was not yet desperate enough to sell himself into slavery — nowhere near it! — and could not imagine why anyone in this vast and wealthy city would want fires lit by magic. He might find work of some sort — would have to, he supposed — but all the recruiters in this particular market appeared to be hiring for work outside the city, usually dangerous or unpleasant, and he was not yet ready to leave the city, nor desperate enough to sign up for anything that might get him killed. He would prefer to learn more spells, somehow, and become a proper wizard. To learn more spells he needed a teacher, and surely, if there were wizards anywhere in the world, there would be wizards in Ethshar of the Spices!

  And that brought him to his one feeble hope of establishing himself without immediately having to undertake any hazardous or strenuous work. He could appeal to his Guild brothers, tell them his tragic tale, and hope that they could spare him enough to keep him alive until he could find a worthwhile position.

  They might even teach him more spells at no charge.

  First, though, he had to find them. Gathering up all his nerve, he tugged at the sleeve of a man listening in amusement to a particularly incoherent speaker.

  “Excuse me, sir,” Tobas said when the Ethsharite turned, “but I’m newly arrived... ah, from Tintallion. Could you tell me where I might find a wizard?”

  “Wizard Street, I suppose.” The man stared at Tobas’ rather worn and dirty clothes with obvious disdain.

  “Of course, sir, I should have realized. Ah... how do I get there from here?”

  The Ethsharite smiled unpleasantly. “I’ll be damned if I know,” he said. “That’s not my part of town. The Wizards’ Quarter is all the way across the city, down by Southgate.” He pointed in a vaguely southeasterly direction.

  Tobas thanked him and looked about. Seven streets radiated from the marketplace: three to the north, one each east and west, one to the southwest, and one to the southeast. He chose the last and began walking.

  After half a dozen long blocks of shops, tenements, and warehouses, he found himself in another market, this one a long, narrow triangle pointing to the south, with its eastern side open to a canal. This market was more traditional than the other; piles of goods were on display on all sides, and no one in the milling throng was making speeches, though a raised wooden platform stood empty on one side. The goods were obviously freshly arrived by ship, furs, fabrics, jewelry, carvings of stone and wood, and boxes, jars, and bottles of herbs and spices.

  That meant, Tobas realized with a shock, that he was still in the waterfront district, Shiphaven, the sailors had called it, when he had walked a distance as great as the entire width of Shan on the Sea. The depth of the city, as seen from the ship, had been no illusion. He marched on, deeper into the metropolis.

  The streets leading out the south end of the second market were a confusing tangle, and Tobas found himself doubling back and going in directions he did not care to go before he finally emerged onto a broad avenue running due south. He followed this for a few blocks, then paused when it crossed another avenue just as broad and busy, full of the clatter of cartwheels and the acrid smell of hot metal from somewhere farther on.

  By this time the shadows were beginning to lengthen; where the buildings topped four floors, their shade reached clear across the avenue and partway up the faces of the structures on the east side. Tobas was hopelessly lost and knew it. Reluctantly, he tugged the sleeve of a strolling passerby and again asked for directions to Wizard Street.

  The Ethsharite, richly clad in black velvet, smiled at the ignorant foreigner and explained, “Follow High Street through the New City, then turn southeast on Arena Street, and about a quarter of a mile past the Arena you’ll see the signboards.” He pointed east along the cross avenue to indicate High Street.

  Tobas thanked him profusely and set about following the directions.

  By the time he arrived at his destination, he was tired, hungry, footsore, and convinced that he could not be surprised by anything else the city might have to show him; he had walked past mansions and collapsing slums, past the huge arena, among people of every description, for a greater distance than he had imagined could be enclosed in a city’s walls. The sun was invisible behind the buildings on the west side of the street, and the sky above them dimmed to red, when he finally reached Wizard Street, just in time to see torches and lanterns being lit to illuminate signboards and storefronts.

  He knew Wizard Street immediately, beyond question; he had passed any number of signboards that afternoon, but none like these.

  At a corner a broad green board announced, “TANNA the Great, Wizardry for Every Need, Love Charms a Specialty.” The next shop proclaimed in red letters on peeling gold leaf, “Alderamon of Tintallion, EXPERT WIZARD”; a third was labeled “THORUM the MAGE, Love Charms, Curses, Sundry Other Spells.” Similar advertisements hung on every shop on both sides of the street for as far as he could make out the writing. Strange sounds, thumps, and flutterings, trickled from the surrounding shops; colored lights flickered eerily in one nearby window, and a smell resembling fresh lye soap, but somehow not exactly right, reached him.

  Tanna the Great sounded slightly intimidating, so Tobas skipped by that door and knocked at the next, beneath the board announcing Alderamon of Tintallion. He hoped, also, that a fellow foreigner might not be upset by a Freelander accent.

  The door opened to reveal a large, middle-aged man wearing a black tunic, brown suede breeches, and a carefully trimmed reddish beard. An odd, squarish black cap adorned his head and, Tobas guessed from the visible expanse of gleaming brow, hid a sizable bald spot.

  “May I help you?” he asked.

  “I hope so,” Tobas replied. “I’m a wizard myself — sort of — and I’d like to ask a favor.” He looked hopefully up at the red-bearded wizard.

  Alderamon stared at the stranger for a moment, seeing a ragged and exhausted youth plainly on the brink of despair. He stood aside. “Come in,” he said, “and tell me about it.”

  The interior of the shop was draped in red velvet and gold brocade, and furnished
with three low black tables and six velvet-upholstered chairs. Tobas noticed, even in his weary state, that the upholstery looked somewhat worn; he could not decide if that was good, because it meant the man had a lot of customers and was therefore presumably a success, or bad, because it meant that he was too poor or too lazy to pay for new fabric.

  It was clean, at any rate.

  At Alderamon’s invitation, he sank into one of the chairs, infinitely relieved to be off his feet; the wizard sat across the table from him.

  “A little wine?” he offered.

  “Yes, please,” Tobas agreed.

  The wizard rose again and vanished through a draped doorway at the back of the shop, to emerge again a moment later with a tray bearing a decanter, two glasses, and a few small cakes.

  “I’m afraid the cakes are a bit stale,” he apologized.

  Tobas saw no need for the apology as he wolfed down all but one of the cakes and drained a glass of thin golden wine.

  When he had recovered himself somewhat, he sat back, a little shamefaced at his display of ill manners, and tried to think of the best way to begin.

  “You said you’re a wizard?” Alderamon prompted.

  “In a way; I was apprentice to Roggit of Telven, but he... he died, before the apprenticeship had gone very far.”

  “Oh? How far had it gone?”

  Tobas was too tired and desperate to lie. “A single spell; he taught me one spell.”

  “Which one?”

  “Thrindle’s Combustion.”

  “Hmmm.” Alderamon stared at him thoughtfully for a moment, then asked, “May I see your dagger, please?”

  Puzzled, Tobas drew his athame and handed it to the wizard.

  Alderamon drew his own knife and very carefully touched the two blades together, point to point.

  A sharp crack split the air; multicolored sparks showered the table, and an odd smell that reminded Tobas of the air after a heavy thunderstorm filled the room. “I didn’t know it would do that!” he exclaimed.

  “Now you know,” Alderamon said, as he handed back the knife. “You are indeed a wizard, beyond question, since you own a true athame. An athame has many special properties, including that sensitivity to others of its kind; even the experts don’t know everything an athame will do.”

  “Roggit never told me that; he just said that I would need it for most of my spells and that it was the mark and sign of a true wizard.”

  “It is that and rather more; did you know that so long as you touch its hilt, you cannot be bound? No rope or chain can hold a wizard so long as he has his athame. Touching the points, as I have just demonstrated, will tell you whether another knife is an athame or just a dagger, and thereby whether its owner is a wizard or a fraud; the intensity of the reaction varies with the proximity of the rightful owner, so that, had you stolen the knife from him who made it, the noise and sparks would have scarcely been noticeable.”

  Tobas was fascinated. “Really?”

  “Really.”

  Tobas stared at the dagger in his hand for a long moment, then recalled himself and returned the blade to its sheath.

  “Now, you say your master died after teaching you only one combustion spell?”

  “Yes.”

  “When was this?”

  “He died about three sixnights ago.”

  “How old are you?”

  “Seventeen,” Tobas admitted reluctantly.

  “And in five years he taught you just one spell?”

  “Ah... I was older than twelve when he took me on, and he was a very old man, slow to teach me.” He stared at the worn floorboards, wondering what Alderamon would do about this confession of unforgivable irregularities in his apprenticeship.

  “Oh, well, it’s none of my concern,” Alderamon said. “What’s done is done, and you’re a wizard now, however it happened. What do you want of me?”

  “Well, I’m alone in the world now, my parents are dead, my master is dead, my cousins have thrown me out. I was hoping that the Wizards’ Guild would take care of one of its own and help me out. I have no money, no place to stay, and no prospects as a wizard with a single spell. Could it be arranged that I be taught more spells, so that I can earn a living?”

  Alderamon stared at him for a moment. “Why did you come to me?” he said at last.

  “You were the first wizard I found,” Tobas replied.

  Alderamon shook his head. “Boy, I am no Guildmaster, no member of the inner circles, if there truly are any inner circles.”

  “But you’re a wizard, a member of the Guild!”

  “Well, yes...”

  “Can’t you help out a fellow wizard, then?”

  “It’s not my problem, lad; why should I burden myself? The Guild has done little enough for me over the years, and you’ve done nothing for me at all.”

  “I’d do anything I can for you, in exchange for being taught more spells, but what is there that I can do?”

  “Nothing, that’s just the problem. I have an apprentice of my own coming next month, when she turns twelve, so I have no need for a student, particularly as you can’t be apprenticed at your age in any case. You have no way to pay me for food or shelter, let alone teaching you spells. We don’t do that, you know; a wizard’s spells are his stock in trade, and he’s not likely to give them out to the competition. I’ll trade spells on occasion, teach a fellow one of mine in exchange for learning one of his, but I don’t sell them and I certainly don’t teach them for free.” Seeing Tobas’ look of utter desolation, he tried to soften the blow by adding, “But you can stay here tonight; I can do that much for you, keep a roof over your head for one night and give you breakfast in the morning. When you’ve rested and had a good meal, the world will look better. Perhaps you can find someone on Wizard Street who will take pity on you.”

  Tobas nodded in mute acceptance.

  “All right, then. I’ll show you where you’ll sleep; I have an extra bed upstairs that my apprentice uses, when I have an apprentice. You’re probably weary from your travels and ready to sleep, aren’t you?”

  Tobas nodded again and followed.

  CHAPTER 7

  Tobas spent the entire day after his arrival talking to wizard after wizard, up and down Wizard Street and all through the Wizards’ Quarter, which, despite the name, also included an incredible variety of other magicians, from warlocks to witches and priests to prestidigitators, seers, sorcerers, and soothsayers, demonologists and necromancers, scientists and ritual dancers.

  It was one of the most frustrating and depressing days of his life. Every single wizard acknowledged that Tobas was indeed a true compatriot and member of the Guild, and that he had had amazingly bad luck in having Roggit die when he did, and every single wizard refused to consider teaching him anything at all. His age, obviously well over thirteen, immediately ruled out the possibility of an actual apprenticeship, and his complete lack of money or negotiable skills ruled out any possibility of buying lessons.

  And no wizard in all of Ethshar of the Spices gave away trade secrets for free, not even to acknowledged compatriots and fellow Guild members.

  Alderamon had been exactly right.

  “Listen,” one very sincere young woman had told him after rejecting his desperate offer of a months’ servitude for a single useful spell, since she could get apprentices, why bother with a bondsman? “Why don’t you just forget about being a wizard for now? Go out and make your fortune at something else, then come back and buy spells. All of us can use money, despite what some of these hypocrites may have told you; if we didn’t need money, we wouldn’t be running shops here, would we? You won’t see any really powerful wizards around the Wizards’ Quarter, you know, they can afford better. So go and get rich and you can come back and laugh at us all. Don’t tell anyone you’re a wizard; keep the Combustion a secret, for emergencies. Any spell can be useful if used cleverly, and there are plenty of opportunities for a brave young man.”

  “I don’t think I’m parti
cularly brave,” Tobas answered doubtfully.

  “Well, a clever young man, then; brains are better than brawn, anyway.”

  “But I don’t know how to make my fortune at anything else! I’ve never learned to fight, or farm, or sail, or anything!”

  “Well, you’ll have to find something; because, Tobas, you are simply not going to get anywhere as a wizard here in Ethshar. Go up to Shiphaven Market and sign up with one of the recruiters there, that’ll get you started.”

  “If it doesn’t get me killed,” Tobas replied under his breath. More audibly, he thanked the wizard for her advice and politely took his leave.

  That had been midafternoon; by dusk he was convinced he would need to find some sort of work immediately, even if it meant leaving the city. When the torches and lanterns in front of the shops began to be extinguished or allowed to die, around midnight, he could see no alternative but Shiphaven Market. He had not eaten since Alderamon’s generous breakfast; his feet were tired, and his knuckles sore from rapping on so many doors.

  The thing that amazed him, however, was that he had covered less than half the wizards in the area. The competition for magical business here, he decided, would be much too fierce for him, even if he did pick up a few more spells.

  He remembered the shipmasters and the dethroned princess and shuddered slightly at the thought of signing up with someone like that, with no clear guarantees of just what might be involved.

  He had little choice, however. Reluctantly, he turned north on Arena Street and set out for Shiphaven Market.

  Not surprisingly, given his unfamiliarity with the city, he got lost no fewer than three times on the way and in the hours between midnight and dawn there were very few passersby he could ask for directions.