With a Single Spell loe-2

by Lawrence Watt-Evans

  That was clearly a signal, and a heavy oaken door in one of the long walls swung open almost the instant the king finished his speech. The thrilling scent of roast beef spilled into the audience chamber. As Tobas joined the mob that pushed its way through into the dining halls, he forgot all about dragons and wizardry and did not worry about them again for the remainder of the evening.

  CHAPTER 11

  “Are you really a wizard?” Alorria asked in her oddly lilting Ethsharitic, leaning over the table.

  Tobas smiled. “Yes, I am.”

  “Could you show me a magic spell? Please?”

  Tobas noticed that he could smell her hair and that he liked the scent very much. She seemed a very agreeable person.

  “Oh, I suppose so,” he said, drawing his athame and reaching into his pouch for his vial of brimstone. He looked around for a target and spotted a fat peach sitting atop a convenient bowl of fruit. “Watch,” he said as he transferred the ripe fruit to an empty pewter plate.

  Alorria watched as he made the single simple gesture; the fruit burst into flames with a satisfying sizzle as the dew burned off the fuzz. It was too moist to burn very well; the flames died down quickly, but continued to hiss and smolder until he doused the peach with a sprinkle of rosewater from a finger bowl.

  “Ooooh!” Alorria said, and a few seats over Tinira applauded. Tobas smiled and tried to look modest. He had never considered Thrindle’s Combustion much of a spell, but to people who had never seen wizardry, it seemed impressive enough. He remembered old Roggit, ancient and feeble as he was, casually drawing glowing runes in the air with a fingertip, or walking calmly up a nonexistent staircase to repair the roof thatch; the Combustion appeared depressingly trivial next to such feats.

  “A pretty little trick,” one of the princes nearby remarked, his words almost incomprehensible with his barbaric accent. “But the dragon has his own fire; what use will your magics be against that, Ethsharite?”

  Tobas, worried about exactly that, dodged the question, replying, “I am no Ethsharite.” He noted mentally that everyone seemed to agree that the local dragon was a fire breather, which did not bode well.

  “You can tell from his accent he’s not Ethsharitic,” Arden remarked. “He speaks the language very well, though.”

  “Oh?” The prince looked at Tobas with new interest. “Did you not arrive with the party from Ethshar of the Spices?”

  “Yes, but I was only visiting Ethshar; my home lies farther west.”

  “Ah! Tintallion, perhaps?” someone farther up the table asked.

  “No. My homeland has no name.” That was more or less the truth. The Free Lands of the Coast was more of a description than a name in the usual sense, and it had become apparent that no one outside the Free Lands used that term. Tobas had no idea what outsiders did call the place, Captain Istram had referred to “the Pirate Towns”, but Tobas was not sure what that included.

  That answer seemed to satisfy his audience, even to impress them somewhat. Tobas realized he was building up an air of mystery about himself; but, looking into Alorria’s fascinated eyes, he could see nothing wrong with that.

  He was beginning to think seriously about ways he might manage to get into the successful dragon-slaying party; Alorria was quite a temptation, aside from the money. She looked fifteen, maybe sixteen, he decided, just a little younger than himself.

  None of the other princesses was undesirable, either, not even the oldest, Falissa, who was, as best Tobas could judge, in her midtwenties.

  The servants were clearing away the dishes; a footman hesitated as he reached out for the plate that held the smoldering peach. “It’s safe,” Tobas assured him.

  Someone thoughtfully translated that into Dwomoritic; the footman bowed acknowledgment and removed the unsightly remains.

  Tobas turned back to Alorria. “You speak Ethsharitic very well,” he said.

  “Thank you,” she replied. “Daddy thought it was important that we all learn it. Sellatha refused, she’s just not very good with languages, but I thought it was fun.”

  “Do you speak any other tongues?”

  “Oh, yes! Gellian, Amorite, Vectamonic, and, don’t tell Daddy, he thinks it’s common, I’ve picked up a little Trader’s Tongue.”

  “That’s quite impressive.”

  “What about you? Is Ethsharitic your native speech?”

  “Yes, it is; I’m afraid Ethsharitic is... ah... the only human tongue I know.”

  “Oh!” she said.

  Tobas felt a little guilty about deceiving the girl by accenting “human” as he had, but the wave of adulation she poured over him drowned that out quite effectively.

  Just then someone at the high table called out something in Dwomoritic, and the buzz of conversation died as everyone’s attention turned in that direction.

  The king rose and made a short speech in Dwomoritic. Tobas resolved to learn the language as soon as he could — but he would hardly have time, if in four days he was to be out in the mountains hunting dragons.

  The speech ended, and Tobas joined in the polite applause. Immediately, the guests arose, and the dinner party broke up. He was amazed at the speed at which the gathering dissipated and wondered where the princesses, in particular, had vanished to.

  He also wondered where he was expected to go.

  The Ethsharites, he noticed, were similarly confused, lingering in the dining halls.

  Just as he was deciding simply to wander off and explore the castle, a robed official appeared, a tall, thin man in late middle age.

  “Gentlemen... and lady,” he said, belatedly noticing Azraya, “I am the Lord Chamberlain and I will show you to your rooms, if you will be so kind as to accompany me.” He spoke slowly and stiffly, his phrasing and pronunciation a little old-fashioned, but his accent was very good.

  Tobas and the others followed obediently. Four were dropped off as two pairs in tiny, bare stone rooms, and three more were given a slightly larger room. Azraya got a garret to herself and a cot instead of a straw pallet, and, finally, Tobas found himself escorted up a steep, winding staircase to a high-ceilinged, narrow, drafty room atop a tower.

  Looking about in the light of the chamberlain’s lantern, Tobas spotted an old lamp in a niche on the wall; he lit it with a flick of athame and brimstone, revealing the little chamber to be furnished with a small featherbed, a blanket, and a pile of rusty debris.

  “Thank you,” he said as the chamberlain turned to go. “But why do I have my own room, and why up here?”

  The chamberlain turned back. “It was our understanding that this was customary for a wizard’s accommodations,” he said politely. “If there is any difficulty...”

  “Oh, no,” Tobas assured him hastily. “It’s fine, thank you.”

  The chamberlain bowed and departed, leaving Tobas shivering slightly. The month was still Summersend, but he was chilled nonetheless; the weather seemed to have turned unseasonably cool as the caravan climbed from the hills into the mountains, and the wind that muttered around this tower room felt downright cold.

  He looked about, shrugged, and lay down, wrapping himself tightly in the heavy woolen blanket.

  This was not how he had pictured himself spending the night; the warmth and luxury of the dinner had misled him, but undoubtedly the castle was jammed to the rafters, with no beds to spare. He knew he had no right to complain, since most of the adventurers had only straw whereas he had a featherbed, but he could not help wondering if the other rooms were as drafty as this one. As a great magician, he supposed he was expected not to mind the cold and to have spells to keep himself warm.

  As a matter of fact, he did have a spell that would keep him warm, but he was afraid he might burn down the castle if he used it on the rubbish pile and then fell asleep.

  He wondered what Alorria’s bed was like, then quickly wished he hadn’t.

  He turned over the evening in his mind, remembering the rich food and the beautiful princesses, and, for that m
atter, some of the other women at dinner had been comely enough, too.

  Women were not a good thing to think about; he forced himself to concentrate on the food and drink, the clever conversation, at least, that part of it which had been in Ethsharitic. Most of the conversation had been pure gibberish to him.

  He hoped that whoever he was teamed with for the dragon hunt would speak Ethsharitic.

  That turned him to thoughts of the dragon, wondering what it might be like and whether he would actually meet it, which led to reviewing his entire adventure so far, and the next thing he knew, he was awakening to sunlight in his eyes.

  The tower had three windows, a fact he had not observed the night before, all of them shuttered and none of them glazed; no wonder it was drafty! He had slept against the western wall; light was seeping in around the edges of the eastern window, and a stray beam had struck his face, waking him.

  He sat up and brushed himself off. Doing so, he was reminded how dirty his one tunic and one pair of breeches had become. No one had minded last night, since he had just arrived from a long journey, but he dreaded the thought of facing Alorria and the other inhabitants of the castle in the same garb for another day.

  He had no choice, though. He had no other clothes and knew of no way he could wash those he had.

  From the angle of the sun he judged it to be about two hours past dawn, breakfast time, if Dwomor Keep followed the same pattern as Telven. He found the door and headed down the stairs.

  At the foot of the tower he found himself in a short corridor that debouched into a longer one, and he hesitated for a moment, trying to remember which way led down to the castle’s dining area. To the left he thought he saw stairs; he turned left and a moment later was descending an unfamiliar flight of worn stone steps.

  At the foot of those stairs, however, he was stymied; he was in a large square hall he did not recognize that was equipped with several doors, all closed, and no other exits but the stairs.

  A serving maid emerged from one door and then vanished through another without acknowledging his presence; after a moment’s hesitation, he followed her and found himself in the kitchens.

  Here, at least, were people, many of them, all busily going about their everyday business, servants of every degree. He tried to ask the nearest person, a lad with a broom, for directions, but got only a blank stare. He shouted and was rewarded with a brief moment of silence, but no answer.

  No one in the room spoke Ethsharitic.

  Defeated, he returned to the hallway and tried the door the servant had emerged from.

  That was better; he was in a small dining chamber, not the one he had eaten in the night before. Half a dozen young men, surely some of his fellow dragon hunters, were arrayed around a table.

  “Hello,” he said. “Am I in the right place?”

  No one answered. Again, none of them spoke Ethsharitic.

  Baffled, he again retreated to the hallway, where, this time, he found the Lord Chamberlain.

  “Ah, the wizard! A pleasure to see you!”

  “Lord Chamberlain! Someone I can speak to!” His relief was evident in his tone.

  “Have you a problem?” The Lord Chamberlain was all polite solicitousness.

  Tobas explained his situation and a moment later found himself in yet another dining hall, taking his place at the table. Four of his companions from the journey from Ethshar were there as well; the others had already eaten and departed. When breakfast had been announced an hour before, no one had cared to disturb the wizard.

  Tobas wished more than ever that he had not demonstrated his magical ability, what little he had.

  He was relieved to see that the others, save for Peren, were also still dressed in their same travel-worn and dirty clothes.

  He settled down and ate quickly, ignoring the fact that the porridge, never particularly tasty, had cooled and congealed, and that the bread had begun to go stale.

  The other four had for the most part finished eating and were lingering only to nibble and talk, rounding out the corners, Dabran had called it when Tobas was a child. Elner, Peren, Arden, and Tillis were present, but Elner was doing most of the talking.

  When Tobas had eaten enough to hold him for a time, he waited for a lull in the conversation, then asked Elner, “Tell me, do you speak Dwomoritic?”

  “No; I never even heard of it until I signed up to kill this dragon of theirs. I can’t tell one of these barbarian tongues from another, anyway.”

  “What about you?” Tobas asked Peren.

  The albino shook his head.

  “Don’t bother asking,” Arden said. “I have enough trouble with Ethsharitic.” “Tillis?”

  “Well, no, not really.”

  “What about you, Wizard?” Elner demanded belligerently. “I suppose you have the gift of tongues and speak it like a native?”

  Tobas shook his head. “Not a word. All I know is fire-magic. If I knew something as useful as the gift of tongues, I wouldn’t be here, I’d be safe at home working as an interpreter.”

  Somewhat mollified, Elner accepted that and asked, “Why didn’t you ever tell us you were a wizard, on the way here?”

  Tobas shrugged. “I didn’t think it mattered. As I said, I’m not much of a wizard at all, really.” He saw no point in lying about it, but no point in admitting the sorry truth in detail, either.

  “I’ve heard that mighty wizards will sometimes slay dragons in order to drink their blood,” Tillis said. “Dragon’s blood is said to have great magic in it.”

  “You don’t just drink it!” Tobas said, startled.

  “But it does have magic?” Elner said.

  “Well, yes, I suppose so,” Tobas admitted, remembering Roggit’s precious jar of the stuff. The old wizard had begrudged every drop, but had used it in a wide variety of spells, none of which he had lived to teach Tobas.

  “So that’s why you’re here!” Elner exclaimed.

  “No, it isn’t,” Tobas insisted. “I’m here for the same reason as the rest of you, I couldn’t find anything more secure back in Ethshar.”

  “But you’re a wizard?” Arden asked.

  “A very poor one.”

  “But you are a wizard?” Peren insisted.

  “Yes, I’m a wizard!” He was almost shouting. “What difference does it make?”

  “Before you came in, we were talking about how we would team up,” Arden said. “Since not everyone here speaks the same language, we can’t go with just anyone.”

  “I shall accompany a prince!” Tillis announced. “Prince Thed of Mreghon has agreed to permit me to join his noble band in pursuit of the monster!”

  “The prince speaks Ethsharitic?”

  “Certainly, as well as you or I do!”

  “What I want to know,” Elner said, “is where in the World Mreghon is. I never heard of it, and nobody here in the castle seems to know.”

  Nobody had an answer to that.

  “Have the rest of you made plans?” Tobas asked.

  “We were thinking of staying together, the three of us,” Arden said, indicating Elner and Peren.

  “You’ll need two more,” Tobas pointed out. This seemed as likely a group as any to join.

  Elner shrugged. “Oh, we don’t need anyone else. I suppose we’ll take two more if the king insists.”

  Tobas thought about making his request plainer, but his pride rebelled. He had been plain enough. If these fools did not want a wizard along, he would accept that.

  He had another three days to find companions; there was no need to hurry.

  CHAPTER 12

  Three days passed quickly. Five by five, the adventurers set out for the hills, starting on Tobas’ second day in the castle; each night the dining halls were a little less crowded.

  The castle armory was also partly emptied, as well as the dining halls, though Tobas noticed that only the second-rate, bent, ill-balanced, or rusted swords were handed out. When he finally decided that he should have a sword, even
though he didn’t know how to use it, he spent over an hour coaxing a decent blade out of the armorer, using dire threats of magical vengeance and unbreakable curses; and even then, he found a few rust spots and had serious doubts about the metal’s temper.

  He asked several Dwomorites about the dragon and got a variety of descriptions. It was said to be blue, silver, black, or green and anywhere from forty to a thousand feet long, with the most common estimate fifty or so. One woman claimed it could fly, another that it recited poetry to its victims before devouring them. Everyone agreed that it was scaly and shiny and shaped much like the traditional storytellers’ dragon, that it breathed fire, that it ate people, and that it had a very nasty disposition. No one had any useful suggestions on how to go about killing the creature.