The Wiz Biz

by Rick Cook

  With Wiz’s help, she hauled the lumpy stinking burden to the hole and dumped it in. It weighed surprisingly little, Wiz thought.

  They shoveled dirt onto the quilt as quickly as they could. Wiz wielded the spade uncomplainingly in spite of the aches in his arms and back and the blisters springing up on his hands.

  “It will not stop wolves or others from digging down,” Moira said frowning at their handiwork as Wiz scraped the last of the earth onto the mound. “It should be covered with stone that their rest may be more secure.”

  “You want rocks?” Wiz said warily.

  She thought and then shook her head. “There is not time. We will leave them as they are and hope.” Then she bowed her head and her lips moved as she recited a blessing over the pathetic mound of fresh earth. When that was done she turned abruptly and signaled Wiz to follow.

  The hurried back to the shelter of the forest. For once Moira didn’t have to urge Wiz on. He was more than eager to get away from that grisly farmstead and he was absolutely convinced of the reality of magic and their present danger.

  ###

  “How did it go with the Council, Master?” Bal-Simba’s apprentice asked as the giant wizard came into his study.

  “Well enough, Arianne.” He leaned his staff against the wall and loosened his leopard-skin cloak. “But it is very good to be away from them for a while.” Bal-Simba settled into a carved chair with a sigh and leaned back.

  The tower room was bright and sun-washed. The batik hangings spoke of animals, birds, flowers and cheerful things. The wide windows on both sides were thrown open and a soft summer breeze wafted through the room, stirring the hangings on the walls and ruffling the parchments on the large table in its center. Arianne, a tall thin woman with ash-blonde hair caught back in a single braid, brought him a cup of wine from the sideboard.

  Bal-Simba drained the cup with another sigh and handed it back for a refill.

  “Well, I have done all I can to protect our visitor. The Watchers are on the alert and they are confusing the search as best they may.”

  “And the other matter?” she asked, handing him a second cup of wine.

  “The Council has not the faintest idea why Patrius brought this Sparrow among us.” He shook his great head. “I had hoped that Patrius had confided in one of the Mighty, but it appears he did not. The Sparrow is as much a mystery to us as he is to the League.”

  “Why do you think Patrius Summoned this one?” Arianne asked.

  “Our red-headed hedge witch thinks it was a mistake, that Patrius intended to Summon some great wizard, became confused under the attack and got this Wiz instead.”

  “And you, Lord?”

  “I do not know. Certainly the Sparrow has no skill at magic, or ought else that I can find. But yet . . . Did I tell you that Patrius did not mark a pentagram to enclose the Summoned? That suggests he did not expect the Summoned to defend himself with magic.”

  Arianne frowned. “Which means that he either was certain the Summoned would not attack him or that he knew he had no magic. Yes. What did Patrius say to the hedge witch?”

  “Apparently, Patrius was being oracular. He said he sought help but when she asked him what kind he talked in riddles.”

  “That would be like Patrius,” Arianne agreed. “He loved his little surprises.’

  “This surprise cost him his life, Lady.”

  They were silent as Bal-Simba finished the second cup of wine. Arianne moved to refill it, but Bal-Simba shook his head.

  “Lord, there are certain aspects of this business I do not understand.”

  “You are not alone, Lady.”

  “I mean your actions.”

  “Ask then.” Arianne was Bal-Simba’s apprentice not only for her skill in magic but because, like Bal-Simba, she had considerable administrative ability. One day she would sit on the Council of the North.

  “Why did you leave the pair of them on the Fringe with no protection?”

  “I could not bring them here by the Wizards Way, so I sent them to a place of safety. Why alone? Because two can go in stealth where an army may not tread. This Moira is no woods ranger, but she grew up on the Fringe and she has the reputation for a sturdy head on her shoulders.”

  “Where did you send them?”

  “Heart’s Ease,” Bal-Simba told her.

  Arianne looked hard at the huge map on the wall. “Lord, that is deep within the Wild Wood itself! You set them a dangerous course.”

  “But the safest available under the circumstances,” Bal-Simba replied. “The League will be searching for a magician. This Sparrow has not the slightest magic. The League will expect him to come to the Capital, or at least to the civilized lands. Instead they go in the opposite direction. If we keep interfering with the League’s searchers we can further confuse the League.”

  “We know the League is searching for them with every resource at their command.” She smiled thinly. “Old Toth-Set-Ra must be stirred indeed to mount such an effort.”

  “When he realized Patrius had performed a Great Summoning, he decided that the Summoned was a weapon of some land. He means to have it.” Bal-Simba smiled. “Perfectly logical if you know how Toth-Set-Ra’s mind works.”

  “And we bend our efforts to frustrating him. Lord, is this Sparrow really worth so much of our effort?”

  Bal-Simba considered for a moment. “Probably not. But while the League is engrossed in trying to find our Sparrow, they cannot make mischief elsewhere. That is worth some little effort on our part.”

  He stroked his eagle’s skull pendant absently. “Besides, I think we owe this Sparrow something. He was snatched from his own world and dropped here by the efforts of one of the Mighty. It was no fault or choice of his own.”

  The blonde woman nodded. “But still, to send two people into the heart of the Wild Wood . . .”

  “Would you have me bring them here by the Wizard’s Way and all of us lost when the League saw and struck?” Bal-Simba said sharply. Arianne stiffened.

  The wizard’s face softened. “Forgive me, my Lady. You are right about the dangers and I am uneasy about our fugitives.” He heaved a great gust of a sigh. “I gave them the best chance I could, now let us hope they can make good use of it.”

  She smiled and placed her hand on his shoulder. “Apologies are not needed, Lord. I understand.” He smiled back and put his bearlike paw over her hand.

  “There are so few unconstrained choices, Arianne. So very few choices left to us.”

  “We do the best we can, Lord.”

  Bal-Simba sighed again. “Aye. That at least we do.”

  ###

  Moira allowed them a fire that night, which was a mixed blessing for Wiz. It meant warmth and hot food, but he had to gather firewood, and the sticks and branches rubbed his blistered hands raw.

  “Now what’s your problem?” she asked when she saw him wince as he dropped a load of wood by the stone hearth.

  “Nothing,” Wiz said, blowing on his hands.

  Moira scrambled up and took one of his hands in hers. “You’re hurt,” she said with real concern. “I’ll attend to those once the food is started.”

  When she had the mixture of dried meat, fruit and barley simmering in a small bronze pot, she pulled out her shoulder bag and motioned Wiz to sit down beside her in the firelight.

  “You must not be used to work,” she said as she rummaged in her kit.

  “You don’t get many blisters at a VT 220,” he agreed.

  Moira looked blank.

  “It’s a terminal. A, ah, thing that . . . oh, forget it.”

  Moira produced a tiny earthenware jar and smeared the raw and blistered places on Wiz’s palms with the dark, pungent salve it contained.

  “Your hands should be healed by morning,” she told him, scraping salve from her finger back into the jar. “We should cover those, but I don’t have anything to put over them.”

  “That’s fine,” Wiz said. “It doesn’t hurt anymore. Whatever
that stuff is, it works like a charm.”

  “Oh, it’s not a charm,” Moira said seriously. “Just a healing potion. With the proper charm I could heal your hands instantly, but that would take magic and it might attract attention.” She moved away from him to check the contents of the pot.

  “You’re a magician, right?” he asked, trying to recapture the moment.

  Moira shrugged. “In a small way. I am a hedge witch.”

  “That’s interesting. What does a hedge witch do?”

  “What do I do? Oh, herbs and simples. A little healing. Some weather magic. I try to warn of dangers, find lost objects and strayed animals.” She lifted the pot off the fire and produced two wooden bowls and horn spoons from her pack.

  “Eat now,” she said. “You can use a spoon well enough even with your hands.”

  The mixture in the pot looked awful but tasted surprisingly good. The tartness of the fruit and the rich saltiness of the meat blended well with the bland barley.

  “Is Bal-Simba a hedge witch too?”

  Moira laughed, a delightful sound. “No, Bal-Simba is of the Mighty.” Her face clouded. “Probably he is the Mightiest of the Mighty now that Patrius is dead.” She returned to her eating.

  “What do the Mighty do?” Wiz asked in an effort to keep the conversation going.

  “They are our greatest wizards. They teach the other orders, they help wherever great magic is required, they study arcane lore and they try to protect us from the Dark League.” She sighed. “These days mostly they try to protect us from the Dark League.”

  “Why aren’t they protecting us then?”

  Moira looked annoyed. “They are protecting us, Sparrow. Bal-Simba stayed behind to cast false trails to confuse the League’s agents who sought to spy us out. The whole North is protected by the Watchers of the Council of the North who blunt the League’s efforts to use their magic here. Even now the Watchers are doubtless holding off the League’s efforts to search us out. Just because you cannot see the works of the Mighty, never doubt they protect you, Sparrow.”

  “Sorry.”

  “You should be sorry.”

  They sat in uncomfortable silence.

  “What’s magic like?” Wiz asked at last.

  “Like?” Moira asked, puzzled, “It’s not like anything. It simply is. Magic is the basic stuff of the World. We swim in a sea of magic like fish in the ocean.”

  “And you can make it work for you?”

  “A magician can make magic work for himself or herself. But there are very few magicians. Perhaps one person in one hundred has any talent at all for magic and far, far fewer ever become truly skilled.”

  Wiz studied the effect of the firelight on her hair and eyes. “How do you learn to do magic?”

  “You find a magician to take you as an apprentice. Then you study and practice and learn as much as you can. Eventually you either cannot learn more or you must travel to find a more advanced teacher.”

  “But there aren’t schools or anything?”

  Moira snorted. “Magic is a craft, Sparrow. It cannot be learned by rote like sums or the days of the week.”

  “How did you learn?”

  “There was a hedge witch in the village that took me in after . . . after I left home. He taught me what he could. Then I traveled to the Capital and studied under some of the wizards there.” She sighed. “I did not have talent of a high order so I became hedge witch for the village of Blackbrook Bend.”

  “So, how do you work magic?”

  “First you must know what you are doing,” Moira said. “Then you must perform the appropriate actions with the proper phrases. If you do it correctly and if you make no mistakes, then you make magic work for you.”

  Wiz gestured with the stick he had used to poke up the fire. “You mean if I wave a magic wand and say—uh—‘bippity boppity boo’ then . . . ?”

  A lance of flame shot from the smoldering end of the stick into the heart of the campfire. The blaze exploded in a ball of incandescent white and an evil orange column soared above the tops of the trees. Wiz gasped for breath in the suffocating blast of heat. Through the haze and blinding glare he saw Moira, on her feet and gesturing frantically.

  Suddenly, it was quiet. The fire was a friendly little campfire again and the cool night air flowed into Wiz’s lungs and soothed his scorched face. Moira stood across the fire from him, her hair singed, her cloak smoldering and her eyes blazing.

  “Yes.” She snapped. “That’s exactly what I mean.”

  “I’m sorry,” Wiz stammered. “I didn’t mean to . . .” Then his jaw dropped. “Hey, wait a minute. That was magic!”

  “That was stupid,” the hedge witch countered, beating out an ember on her cloak.

  “No, I mean I worked magic,” Wiz said eagerly. “That means I am a magician. Bal-Simba was wrong.” He grinned and shook his head. “Son of a gun.”

  “What you are is an idiot,” Moira snapped. “Any fool can work magic, and far too many fools do.”

  “But . . .”

  “Didn’t you listen to anything I just told you? Magic is all around us. It is easy to make. Any child can do it. If you are careless you can make it by accident as you just did.”

  “Well, if it’s so easy to make . . .”

  “Sparrow, easy to make and useful are not the same thing. To be useful magic must be controlled. Could you have stopped what you just created just now? Of course not! If I had not been here you would have burned the forest down. A careless word, a thoughtless gesture and you loose magic on the world.”

  She stopped and looked around the clearing for signs of live coals. “And mark well, magic is not easy to learn. There are a hundred ways, perhaps a thousand of doing what you just did. And most of them are useless because they cannot be controlled. Without control magic is not just useless, it is hideously dangerous.”

  “But I still made magic,” Wiz protested.

  Moira snorted. “You made it once. By accident. What makes you think you could do it again?”

  “What makes you think I couldn’t?” Wiz countered, picking up the stick. “All I have to do is point at the fire and say—”

  “Don’t,” Moira yelled. “Don’t even think of trying it again.”

  Wiz lowered the stick and looked at her.

  “Sparrow, heed me and heed me well. The chance that you could do that again is almost nil. The essence of success in magic is to repeat absolutely everything with not the tiniest variation every single time you recite a spell.”

  She gestured at him. “Look at you. You have shifted your stance, you are holding the stick at a different angle, you are facing southeast instead of North, you are . . . oh, different in a dozen ways. Could you say those words with exactly the same inflection? Could you give your wrist exactly the twist you used in the gesture? Could you clench your left hand in exactly the same way?”

  “Is all that important?”

  “All that is vital,” Moira told him. “All that and much more. The phase of the moon, the angle of the sun. The hour of the day or night. All enter into magic and all must be considered. No matter what you have been told, magical talent does not consist of some special affinity for magic, some supernatural gift. Magical ability is the ability to control what you produce. And that turns on noticing the tiniest detail of what is done and being able to repeat it flawlessly.”

  That makes a weird kind of sense, Wiz admitted to himself. Like programming. There’s no redundancy in the language and the tiniest mistake can have major consequences. Look at all the time I’ve spent going over code trying to find the missing semicolon at the end of a statement, or a couple of transposed letters. It also meant he probably was a magical klutz. He was the kind of guy who walked into doors and spent five minutes hunting for his car every time he went to the mall.

  “Wait a minute, though,” Wiz said. “If all it takes is a good memory, why can’t most people learn to do magic?”

  Moira flicked a strand of coppery
hair away from her face with an exasperated gesture. “A good memory is the least part of what we call the talent.”

  “Sure, but with practice . . .”

  “Practice!” Moira snorted. “Perform a spell incorrectly and you may not get the opportunity to do it again. Look you, when those without the talent attempt a spell, one of three things will happen. The first, and far away the most likely outcome is that nothing at all will happen. What comes out is so far removed from the true spell that is it completely void. That is the most favorable result because it does no harm and it discourages the practitioner.

  “The second thing that can happen is that the spell goes awry, usually disastrously so.” She smiled grimly. “Every village has its trove of stories of fools who sought to make magic and paid for their presumption. Some villages exist no longer because of such fools.

  The third thing is that the spell is successful. That happens perhaps one out of every thousand attempts.” She frowned. “In some ways that is the worst. It encourages the fool to try again, often on a grander scale.”

  “So what you’re saying is that it’s easy to make magic by accident but hard to do on purpose.”

  “Say rather virtually impossible to do on purpose.” Moira corrected. “Without the talent and proper training you cannot do it.

  “But there is another level of complication beyond even that,” Moira went on. “A magician must not only be able to recite spells successfully, he or she must thoroughly understand their effects and consequences.” She settled by the fire and spread her cloak. “Do you know the tale of the Freshened Sea?”

  Wiz shook his head.

  “Then listen and learn.

  “Long ago on a small island near the rim of the Southern Sea (for it was then so called) there lived a farmer named Einrich. His farm was small, but the soil was good and just over the horizon was the Eastern Shore where the people would pay good money for the fruits his island orchards produced. All he lacked was fresh water for his trees, for the rains are irregular there and he had but one tiny spring.