The Wiz Biz

by Rick Cook

  Frowning, the mistress of Heart’s Ease swept into the room, her long black gown swishing on the uneven floor. “This mirror?” she asked, putting out a hand to brush her fingertips across its silvery surface.

  “Yes, Lady. That mirror.”

  Shiara smiled and shook her head.

  “I’m sorry, Lady, I know you don’t allow magic in the castle, but . . .”

  “Sparrow, I think you have been brooding overmuch,” Shiara told him gently.

  “Lady?”

  “There is no magic here. This is an ordinary mirror.”

  “No magic?” Wiz repeated dumbly.

  “No magic at all. Just a mirror.”

  Wiz felt himself turning crimson to his hair roots. “But it talked to me! I heard it.”

  “It talked to you or you talked to you?” she asked gently. “Sometimes it is easier to hear things about ourselves if they appear to come from outside us.”

  Wiz looked back at the mirror, but the mirror remained mute.

  ###

  Late one afternoon, Wiz happened to pass Moira in the great hall.

  “Moira,” he asked, as she went by with a nod, “what happened to Shiara?”

  The hedge witch stopped. “Eh?”

  “She was a wizardess, wasn’t she? But Ugo told me magic hurts her.”

  “It does. To be in the presence of even tiny magics causes her pain. That is why she lives here in the quietest of the Quiet Zones in a keep built without the least magic.”

  “How? What happened?”

  “By carpenters, masons and other workers who built without mage. Isn’t that the way you build things in your world?”

  “No, I mean how did it happen to her?”

  Moira hesitated. “She lost her sight, her magic and her love all in one day. It is a famous tale, but of course you would never have heard it.” She sighed. “Shiara the Silver they called her. With her warrior lover, Cormac the Gold, she ranged the World recovering dangerous magical objects that they might be held safely in the Council’s vaults.

  “Not only was she of the Mighty, but she was a picklock of unusual skill. No matter what wards and traps protected a thing, she could penetrate them. No matter how fierce the guards set over a thing, Cormac could defeat them. With him to guard her back, she removed magic from the grasp of the League itself.”

  “What happened?”

  “We went to the well once too often,” Shiara said drily from the doorway.

  They both whirled and blushed. “Your pardon, Lady,” Moira stammered. “I did not know . . .”

  “Granted willingly.” Shiara swept into the hall, moving unerringly to them. “So you have not heard my story, Sparrow?”

  “No, Lady. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to talk about you behind your back.”

  “There is no need to be sorry.” Her mouth quirked up at the corner. “The bards sing the tale in every tavern in the North, I understand. The price of fame is having your story told over and over by strangers.”

  “I’m sorry,” Wiz said again.

  “Perhaps you would like to hear the story as it happened?”

  “We do not wish to pain you, Lady,” Moira said.

  Shiara chuckled, a harsh, brittle sound. “My child, the pain is in the loss. There is little enough pain in the telling.” She seated herself in her chair by the fireplace. “Sometimes it even helps to repeat it.”

  Moira sat down on the bench. “Then yes, Lady, we would like to hear the story, if you do not mind.”

  “I’ve never heard it, Lady,” Wiz said, sitting down as close to Moira as he could without being too obvious about it. Moira shifted slightly but did not get up.

  “Well then,” Shiara smoothed out the folds in her skirt and settled back. “We were powerful in those days,” she said reminiscently. “My hair was white even then and Cormac, ah, Cormac’s hair was as yellow as fine gold.”

  “And he was strong,” Moira put in breathlessly. “The strongest man who ever lived and the best, bravest swordsman in all the North.”

  “Not as strong as the storytellers say,” Shiara said. “But yes, he was strong.”

  “And handsome? As handsome as they say?”

  Shiara smiled. “No one could be that handsome. But he was handsome. I called him my sun, you know.”

  Ugo entered unnoticed with a bundle of wood and set about kindling a fire.

  Seven: Shiara’s Story

  Shiara sensed the boy and girl looking up at her. Young, Shiara thought, so very young. Convinced the world is full of hope and possibilities and so blind to the truth. She felt the warmth of the fire on her face and turned her head to spread the heat. Then she sighed and began the old, old tale.

  “Once upon a time, there was a thief who loved a rogue.

  Cormac, tall and strong with his corn-ripe hair caught back by a simple leather filet. He had doffed his leather breeks and linen shirt and stood only in his loin cloth. The fire turned his tan skin ruddy and highlighted the planes and hollows of his muscles. The scars stood out vividly on his torso and legs.

  “Well, Light. Do we know what the thing is?”

  Shiara shook her head and the motion made her tresses ripple. The highlights in her hair danced from the flames and the motion.

  “Only that it is powerful—and evil. An evil that can shake the World.”

  “Mmmfph,” Cormac grunted and turned back to his sword. Again he checked the leather cords on the hilt, running his fingers over them for any sign of looseness or slickness that might make the sword slip in his hand. “And it lies above us, you say?”

  Shiara nodded. “In a cave well above the tree line this thing sleeps.” She bit her lip. “It sleeps uneasily and I do not like to think what it might become when it awakens.”

  “And we must either possess it or destroy it.” He shook his head. “It’s an awful way to make a living, Light.”

  “Terrible for two such honest tradesfolk,” she agreed, falling into the well-worn game.

  ###

  The thief had been very, very good. With skill, cunning, carefully arrayed magic and a good element of luck he had managed to penetrate the crypt beneath the Capital where the most dangerous treasures of the Council were stored.

  In the end it had not been the Council that had caught him. When the vault’s magic detectors screamed and guards and wizards came rushing to investigate, they found the thief already dead, his throat torn out by the guardian the original owner had set upon the thing he had come to steal.

  The object of the daring raid had been a chest imprisoning a demon of the sixth order, a thing powerful enough but not so unusual as to attract the close scrutiny of the Mighty. The real treasure was in the hidden drawer in the bottom of the chest. What the compartment contained was well worth scrutiny.

  “I had heard of the thieving of course,” Cormac told her as they toiled up the steep trail toward the foreboding summit, “but I had not known what was in the compartment.”

  “A parchment,” Shiara said. “A map and a note that a very old and very great treasure of magic lay somewhere in a cave near the top of this mountain.”

  “So we come hotfoot deep into the Wild Wood to stir up something which has lain undisturbed for aeon and on,” Cormac said. “Better, I think, to leave it lie. Sufficient unto the day are the evils thereof, Light.”

  Shiara smiled thinly. “This evil’s day has come it seems. Someone knew of the map and we have strong reason to believe that that someone now knows at least generally what the map had to say. We think someone was looking through the eyes of our thief when he died.”

  Cormac grunted. “So it is a race then.” He looked up at the summit with its wreath of gray-black clouds.

  “A race,” Shiara agreed. “Although we may have lost already.”

  “You sense something?”

  “No, but I can use my head as well as my magic. Whoever sent that thief had more time to prepare than we did. If the League knew generally what was on that parchment the
y could easily have been ready to move.”

  “So that is why we were sent upon the Wizard’s Way. I mislike this, Light. If the League are ahead of us it means a meeting battle. Those are always chancy and I have the feeling we would be outnumbered.”

  “I doubt any of the factions of the League Council would be left out of such an enterprise, so I cannot argue with you. But what would you? There were no others in the Capital fit for such a mission and we dared not delay.” She looked up the trail. “We can only hope we are in time.”

  As they worked their way up the steep slopes the forest changed around them. The great oaks and beeches gave way to pine and firs and thick green rhododendrons. Here and there outcrops of dark rock poked through the thinning soil, more and more of it as they climbed.

  The air changed about them as well, growing cooler and dank with the glacier’s breath. There was a dampness in the air that hinted fog and even in full daylight the mists moved the horizons closer. The mountain loomed over them and they had to crane their necks further and further back to see the snow-clad summit.

  They were almost to the treeline when Cormac pulled even with Shiara and spoke quietly in her ear. “We’re being followed I think.”

  Not by look or action did Shiara show she had heard. “How many?”

  Cormac shook his head. “Not many. Not creatures born to the woods either.”

  “The League? The ones who set the thief?”

  “Possibly.”

  Shiara stopped and closed her eyes. With intangible eyes and ears she searched for signs of magic about them. She did not dare risk active magic so close to something so powerful.

  “Ahhh,” she breathed at last. “The League indeed. But one man only. Luck may be with us, my Sun. I think this is a private quest, not an expedition sent by the League Council.”

  “You know this man?”

  “He is called Toth-Ra, a minor wizard.”

  “Is he dangerous?”

  “Like an adder. Small and puffed with malice.”

  “And we seek a dragon yonder.” Cormac jerked his head toward the snow-covered heights. “Well, Light, what say you?”

  “I say leave him for now. He cannot do us much harm and I will need everything I have for lies above.”

  ###

  Well behind the pair Toth-Ra toiled up the slope. He puffed as he came and stopped to rest frequently both because he was unused to exertion and because he did not want to tread too closely on the heels of the two Northerners ahead of him.

  A pretty train this, he thought, like ants following a scent trail.

  Even further above, he knew, was the party sent by the League to obtain the treasures of the mountain. A group of black robes and apprentices, carefully balanced to represent each faction of the League council. After them the two from the Council of the North. And finally, himself, representing naught but his own interests.

  Like a jackal following lions. He smiled sourly. Well enough. For when lions fight, jackals win.

  Toth-Ra had little doubt these lions would fight. Even without the Northerners, the very richness of what lay above guaranteed that.

  And if perchance he was wrong? If the fragile coalition that governed the League could hold together under the pressure of the indescribable wealth and power from this hoard? Well, there would still be crumbs for a clever jackal to gather.

  With his face set in an unaccustomed smile, Toth-Ra continued his climb.

  ###

  Shiara and Cormac were almost to the tree line when they heard a noise. The trail paralleled a cliff here and a thin moan came from a clump of bushes off the trail off the cliff side.

  Cormac drew his sword, but Shiara moved instinctively to the sound of a creature in pain. She thrust through the narrow band of bushes that lay between them and the cliff face.

  “Cormac, come here.”

  As Cormac breasted through the brush he saw a twisted shape like a small man lying on the rocks. Obviously it had fallen from the cliff above them.

  “It’s a wood goblin,” Cormac said, looking over it. “Leave the poor creature.”

  Shiara shook her head. “He has a soul and so deserves succor.”

  “Have we time to do this?”

  She looked up at him. “Have we time not to?”

  Gently she moved the twisted broken body off the blood-smeared rocks and placed it carefully on a patch of grass. Quickly the wizardess spread out a collection of healing implements and set to work.

  Shiara labored the chance-found creature as if it were one of her own. She chanted and muttered, made passes with her silver wand and sprinkled the body with herbs and powders.

  As Cormac watched, the wounds scabbed over and began to close. The twisted limbs straightened and the bones within them knit. The little creature’s breathing slowed and became more regular. At last it relaxed and began to snore sonorously.

  “Now what?” Cormac asked as Shiara turned away from the sleeping goblin.

  “He needs rest and a chance to rebuild his strength. In another day or two he will be fine, but now . . .”

  “We do not have a day or two to give over to nursing him. Have you forgotten what brought us here?”

  “No, I have not forgotten. But he,” she nodded to the creature, “will be awake soon and we can ask where his tribe is. I will have to rest a bit in any case.” She finished packing her kit and sat down heavily beside her patient.

  It was less than an hour later that the wood goblin stirred, moaned and opened his eyes. He started and tried to rise at the sight of the two humans, but Shiara placed a hand on his shoulder.

  “Rest now,” she told him. “We’re friends.” The goblin looked dubious but settled back. “I am Shiara and this is Cormac. What is your name?”

  “Ugo. Me Ugo.” The goblin’s speech was creaky and slurred but he was understandable.

  “Does your tribe live nearby?” Shiara asked.

  “Tribe all dead,” the little goblin said sadly. “Ugo all alone.”

  Cormac grunted in sympathy. Unlike their large cousins the hobgoblins, wood goblins lived in closely knit groups. A wood goblin whose tribe had perished had little to live for and scant chance of surviving.

  “I am sorry,” Shiara said. “Now rest here for a while and you will feel better.” She rose and signaled Gormac that she was ready to move on.

  “Wait, Lady,” cried Ugo. The little creature scrambled painfully up and knelt in front of her. “Take me with you. I serve you, Lady,” the goblin pleaded. “Let me stay and serve you.”

  Cormac looked at Shiara. The last thing they needed was a servant of any sort, much less an ailing wood goblin. But refusing would surely doom him. Without a substitute for his tribe the little creature had no will to live.

  Shiara reached down and put a hand on the goblin’s head. “Very well, Ugo. We accept your service.” His ugly face glowed and he looked up adoringly at Shiara.

  “Here is your first task, Ugo, and it is an important one. We go to the top of this mountain on a mission from the Council of the North. If we are not back in three sunsets,” she held up three fingers for emphasis, “you must make your way to the Fringe and contact the Council. Tell them we have failed and others must be sent to complete the business. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, Lady. Wait three sunsets. If you not back, go tell Council.”

  “Then wait for us here, Ugo. Do not follow. Rest and stay out of sight we should be back in three days and if not, the message must reach the Council.”

  “Yes, Lady. Ugo wait.”

  “Do you really think the wight can get through the Wild Wood if something happens to us?” Cormac asked once they were out of earshot.

  Shiara shrugged. “Probably not. But it gives him a reason to live and a sense of his own worth. We will be done in less than three days.”

  “Much less, I hope,” said Cormac, scowling at the mountain jutting above them.

  ###

  Evening found them above the tree line,
halfway across a jumbled field of boulders. There was no snow but the air was cold and the wind keen and sharp. They used the faggots they had gathered on their climb through the forest to build a fire in a place where two great boulders leaned together and provided shelter from the winds.

  “Our follower?”

  “Camped down in the trees. He apparently plans to gain the summit in a single push tomorrow.”

  “By which time, luck willing, we will have completed our business and be away.”

  “Luck willing,” Shiara agreed.

  Their evening meal was barley porridge flavored with dried meat. It was quickly eaten, but neither made a move to bed down. Instead they sat, staring into the fire and enjoying the warmth reflecting off the boulders.

  “Light, would you have chosen this life,” Cormac asked her. “Could you have chosen freely, I mean?”

  Shiara stared into the flames. “I do not know,” she said at last. “Being a wizardess is not a free choice. You are born gifted and you try to build your life around it.” She lifted her head and looked at him. “And you? Did you choose freely?”

  He laughed easily. “Oh, aye. Even as a child I had a taste for trouble. Mine was a free choice.” He sobered. “As freely as any man can choose, at least. I had no hand for farming and I did not want to starve.”

  “Do you regret it?”

  Cormac shook his head. “We’ve had a good run, lass. We’ve had some fine times and our fame will live after us. But there are times I miss the things I have not had.”

  “A home?” She asked with a little smile. “And children?”

  “The rest, aye. And children, perhaps. I was an only child you know. My line dies with me.”

  Shiara laid her fingertips on his shoulder. “That could still be,” she said softly.

  “Perhaps. But I’m an old horse to break. I suppose it’s a matter of making choices and then regretting that in making them we give up other things.” He picked up a stick and poked the fire with it idly. “I chose the sword road because it promised honor and fame. I have had all that, so I cannot complain of a bargain unfulfilled.”