The Wiz Biz

by Rick Cook

  “I know. And between the two of us, I agree.” He shrugged and spread his hands. “But who am I? The Sparrow sits on the Council of the North and has Bal-Simba’s ear. He can see to it that apprentices either learn the new magic or are no longer apprentices.”

  “How is this? I thought apprenticeship was a matter between the wizard and pupil alone.”

  “And so it is,” Ebrion assured him. “But a wizard must consider relations with his fellows. You understand these things, surely.”

  Pryddian nodded. “I suspected there was a favor involved, in spite of what everyone says.”

  “Oh, not favor,” Ebrion said hurriedly. “We prefer to think of it as maintaining harmonious relations.”

  “Call it what you will, I am blackballed by the Sparrow.”

  “Well,” the wizard admitted, “it would be—hmm—difficult for any wizard to take you as an apprentice.”

  “And my ability counts for nothing?”

  “Times have changed. It seems the Sparrow’s new magic is more important than talent for the old.”

  “So I am forever barred from becoming a wizard. Unless you . . . ?” He trailed off hopefully.

  “The Sparrow knows how I feel about him and his new magic. I would do you little good, I fear.”

  Pryddian nodded knowingly. “And doubtless it would do you little good to have me.”

  Ebrion shrugged.

  Pryddian finished his beer in a single long pull. “This Sparrow rises above himself,” he said darkly.

  “Perhaps, but he is of the Mighty.” The wizard rose. “In any event, I felt you should know. I cannot speak openly, of course.”

  “Of course.” The would-be apprentice looked up. “I thank you for the information, Lord. And as to this Sparrow, perhaps he needs his feathers plucked.” He dropped his eyes to scowl at the now-empty mug as Ebrion left.

  Outside the door of the day room, Ebrion allowed himself a smile. Under any circumstances Pryddian would never have become a wizard. Talent he had, and stubbornness to persist in the face of gentle hints and not-so-gentle discouragement, but he was undisciplined and he had a vindictive streak that ran both broad and deep. If he had started his training in the villages he probably never would have been sent to the Capital. But Ebrion was very glad he was here. His combination of talent, frustration and a viperish tongue made him ideal. Yes, the wizard thought, he is the perfect choice to bait the Sparrow into some heedless action.

  Four: Fenceposts and Falling Rocks

  Those who can’t do, teach.

  —article of faith among students

  And vice-versa.

  —programmers’ addendum to students’ article of faith

  Malus was waiting impatiently when Wiz arrived, obviously fuming.

  To salve wizardry pride, Wiz did most of his teaching of actual wizards in private sessions. Malus was one of his least-favorite pupils. As a person, the pudgy little wizard was nice enough, always merry and joking. But he had particular trouble in grasping concepts and the thought that he was a slow learner made him even more resistant to the new magic.

  Malus didn’t even let Wiz finish his apology for being late.

  “This spell you showed me,” he said accusingly. “It does not work.”

  Wiz sighed inwardly. “Well, let me see your code.”

  Grudgingly, the plump little sorcerer produced several strips of wood from the sleeve of his robe. Laid in the proper order the characters on them would list out the spell. Putting them on separate pieces of wood was a safety precaution against activating the spell by writing it down.

  Wiz arranged the wood strips on the table and frowned briefly at what was written there.

  “Oh, you’ve got a fencepost error.”

  “Fencepost?” the wizard asked.

  “Yeah. Look, say you’ve got a hundred feet of fence to put up and you need to put a post every ten feet. How many posts do you need?”

  “I am a wizard, not a farmer!” Malus said, drawing himself up to his entire five-foot-four.

  “Well, just suppose,” Wiz said half-desperately.

  Malus thought hard for a minute. “Ten, of course.”

  “Nope,” Wiz said triumphantly. “Eleven. Unless you strung your fence in a circle.”

  “But one hundred taken as tens is ten.”

  “Yeah, but if you’ve got a hundred feet of fence and only ten posts in a straight line, you leave one end of the fence hanging free. If you put the posts in a closed figure, you only need nine because you start and end on the same post.”

  “And how am I to know such things? I told you I am not a farmer.”

  “Well, just keep it in mind, okay? Boundary conditions are always likely to give you trouble.”

  “Borders are always unchancy places,” Malus agreed.

  “Uh, yeah. Let’s leave that for a minute. Do you have any other problems?”

  “There is this business of names.”

  For about the fiftieth time, Wiz wished he hadn’t been so cavalier in choosing names for the standard routines in his library. To wizards, a thing’s name was vitally important and they took the name to be the thing.

  “I told you that the names I used aren’t necessarily representative.”

  Malus looked at him like he was crazy. “Very well. But even granting that, why must the names change haphazardly? That is what I do not understand.”

  “They don’t change at random. They don’t really change at all. It’s just that an object can be a member of more than one class.”

  “Classes again!”

  “Look at this,” Wiz said, dragging out a couple of sheets of parchment and laying them out side by side so all the spell was visible. “Okay, here this variable is called ‘elfshot,’ right?”

  “Why is it named that?”

  “It’s not named that. That’s only what it’s called in this routine. Its name is ‘dragons_tail’.”

  “Well,” demanded the wizard, “if it is ‘dragons_tail’, why do you call it ‘elfshot’? And how do you add a ‘dragons_tail’ to this, this loop variable.”

  “No, no,” Wiz said desperately. “It is actually seven at this point in the program and that’s what gets added to the loop variable.”

  “Well, if it’s seven then why don’t you just say so?” roared the wizard.

  “Because it isn’t always seven.”

  The wizard growled in disgust.

  “Look, I think I’m getting a headache. Why don’t we leave this for right now, okay? Just try working the program through again and we’ll go over it in our next session.”

  ###

  The early end to the tutorial with Malus left Wiz with time to spare and a completely ruined temper. He wanted someplace quiet where he could be alone to think. Leaving his workroom door unlocked he left the central keep, threaded his way through two courtyards and climbed a set of stairs to the top of the wall surrounding the entire complex.

  The parapet was one of his favorite places. It was usually deserted and the view was spectacular. The Capital perched on a spine of rock where two rivers met. From the north the ridge sloped gently up to drop off precipitously in cliffs hundreds of feet high to the south and along the east and west where the rivers ran.

  On the highest part of the ridge stood the great castle of the Council of the North, its towers thrusting skyward above the cliffs. Here the Council and most of the rest of the Mighty had their homes and workshops. Behind the castle and trailing down the spine came the town. In the cliffs below the castle were the caverns that served as aeries for the dragon cavalry. As Wiz stood and watched, a single dragon launched itself from below and climbed out over the valley with a thunder of wings.

  The parapet was nearly fifteen feet wide. It sloped gently toward the outer wall so that rainwater and liquid fire thrown by enemies would both drain over the sides and down the cliff. The outer edge was marked by crenellations, waist-high blocks of stone that would protect the defenders from enemy arrows. It alway
s reminded Wiz of the witch’s castle in The Wizard of Oz, except that this was much grander.

  Wiz walked along, guilty about taking the time away from his work and yet happy to be away. The swallows whipped by him as they swooped and dove along the cliff edge to catch the insects borne aloft by the rising current of air.

  The day was bright and cloudless and the air soft and warm enough that he appreciated the breeze blowing up from the river. Faintly and in the distance he could hear the sounds of the castle and town. Somewhere a blacksmith was beating iron on an anvil. From this distance it sounded like tiny bells.

  There was a place he favored when he wanted to get away, a spot where a bend in the wall and a watch tower combined to shut out all sight and most sound of the Capital. From there he could look out over the green and yellow patchwork of the fields and woods and into the misty blue distance.

  He leaned forward, resting his elbows in one of the crenellations. If only . . .

  He felt the stone shift under his weight but by that time it was too late. The block gave way and he was pitched headlong out over the abyss.

  Frantically, he lashed out with his arms and miraculously his fingers met stone. His arm was nearly yanked out of its socket as he twisted around and slammed face first into the wall. But his grip held and he was left dangling by one hand against the sheer wall.

  The crenellation had taken part of the stone facing with it, leaving the rough inner masonry beneath. Wiz was hanging by his fingertips from the edge of the facing, just below where the stone block had been.

  Far below him, between his dangling legs, he saw the dislodged block bouncing and tumbling off the cliff. It hit the water with a splash that looked no bigger than a match head. Wiz sucked in his breath and clinched his eyes tight to ward off the dizziness.

  Frantically, he scrabbled for a hold for his left hand. First his fingers slipped over the smooth surface of the facing. Then at last they caught on another place where the facing blocks had pulled loose. With both hands secure, Wiz opened his eyes and stared at the stone in front of his nose, breathing heavily.

  At last he managed to look up. Bracing his feet against the wall, he levered his way up and snatched another handhold slightly higher up the wall. Then another and another and at last he was able to put his feet on the lip where the facing had pulled away. One more heave and he flopped back on the parapet. Bruised and shaken, he pulled himself back through the space where the crenellation had been.

  He moved away from the edge and sank down with his head between his knees, breathing in great shaking gasps. Gradually he got himself back under control and looked around him.

  The parapet was deserted. Not even the guards could be seen from this spot and there were no other strollers along the walls. He was completely isolated, but . . .

  Was it his imagination or had he seen a figure flit behind a tower as he pulled himself back onto the parapet?

  ###

  The rest of the day passed uneventfully. He gave two more private lessons, tried to teach a class of apprentices what the concept of zero was all about and spent nearly half an hour listening to Pelus, who was trying to get him to vote against Juvian at the next Council meeting. The sun had set over the towers of the Capital by the time he left his work room and trudged down the winding stairs to the suite he and Moira shared. Lanterns along the walls cast a warm mellow light on the wide corridors.

  Wiz was so tired he barely noticed.

  As he came down the hall a young man came toward him. Wiz stepped slightly to the side but instead of moving out of his way the man seemed to step in front of Wiz so he jostled him as they passed.

  “Clumsy Sparrow,” the young man hissed.

  Wiz started to say something, thought better of it, and swept past the sneering young man.

  What the hell is his problem? Wiz thought.

  He knew the man more or less by sight. An apprentice with a vaguely Welsh name. They had never exchanged more than a half a dozen words and now the man was going out of his way to be insulting.

  One more thing to worry about. This place was getting to him. He was trying to do a job he wasn’t very good at, a lot of the people here seemed to hate him, he couldn’t concentrate on the parts he could do and even the simplest thing seemed to take forever. He was stretched tauter than a violin string and the fatigue and tension was telling on him.

  The door to their apartment was open and he saw Moira sitting in the light of a magical lantern. The light caught her hair and glints of brushed copper played through it. Her mouth was twisted up in a little moue as she bent over the mending in her lap.

  Still, Wiz thought, there are compensations.

  As he came into the room he saw there was someone else there. A painfully thin girl with flyaway brown hair was sitting at Moira’s feet working on a piece of embroidery.

  Without a word the girl got up and left.

  “Hi June,” Wiz said to her back as she brushed by.

  “What have you been doing?” he said as he came to her.

  “Sewing.” Moira laughed. “I fear I will never be skilled with a needle.”

  He leaned over and kissed her. “That’s all right. You’re good at plenty of other things.”

  She arched one of her coppery eyebrows. “And how am I to take that, My Lord?”

  “As a compliment.” He bent down and kissed her again.

  “And how has your day been?”

  Well, let’s see. I insulted one of the most powerful members of the Council, botched a tutoring session and nearly killed myself by falling off the parapet. “Oh, okay,” he mumbled.

  Moira looked at him sharply. “What did you do to your nose?”

  “I ran into a door. How is June?” He asked quickly to change the subject.

  Moira gave him an odd look, but she took the bait. “She improves, I think.”

  Like Moira, June had been found wandering as a child in the Fringe of the Wild Wood. Unlike Moira, no one knew where she came from or who her parents were. She was quiet, as shy and skittish as a woodland animal. She worked as a maid and servant around Wizard’s Lodge—when anyone could find her.

  Wiz had never heard her speak, although Moira said she occasionally talked.

  “Can’t you do something to heal her?” Wiz asked.

  “Bronwyn, the chief healer, says she is not ill in her mind,” Moira said. “That it is merely her way.”

  “If she’s not ill, she’s sure peculiar.”

  “That is odd coming from you, Sparrow,” Moira said.

  “Hey, I’m alien. I admit it. But she,” he jerked his head toward the door, “is about three sigma west of strange.”

  Moira ignored the comment, something she often did when she didn’t understand her husband. “She seems fascinated by your desk,” she said.

  Wiz looked at the disorderly pile of manuscripts, strips of wood, slates and books on the desk under the window. “Did she touch anything?”

  “You know better than that. I would never allow it.”

  A wizard’s working equipment was dangerous. Even Moira would not touch Wiz’s desk, though having such a mess in their sitting room pained her.

  “Hmm. Do you suppose she has a talent for magic?”

  Moira shook her head. “I think it is your guardian that attracts her.”

  Like any wizard, Wiz had created a demon to guard his paraphernalia. His took the form of a foot-long scarlet dragon, now curled peacefully asleep atop Wiz’s big leatherbound “notebook.”

  Wiz sat down and reached for the notebook. The dragon demon woke and slithered over to a corner of the desk where it resumed its nap.

  For the next quarter hour neither of them said anything. The only sound in the room was the scritching of Wiz’s pen and the rustle of fabric as Moira turned the piece in her lap this way and that.

  “Oh, I have some news as well,” Moira said, putting down her mending.

  “That’s nice,” Wiz said without looking up.

  �
�Bronwyn says she will teach me the rudiments of the healer’s art. I am too old for an apprentice, of course. In the village of Blackbrook Bend, I often did simple healing and Bronwyn says we can build on that.”

  Wiz grunted.

  “And then I’ll sprout wings and grow two extra heads,” she said sharply.

  Wiz raised his head. “What?”

  “You have not heard a word I said, have you?” Moira threw her mending on the floor and stood up. “It is bad enough that you are always gone, but when you are here the least you can do is admit that I am alive!”

  “I’m sorry, I was just—”

  “I will not be ignored.” Moira burst into tears.

  Wiz came to her and took her in his arms. “Oh, darling. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

  “Hold me.”

  “Moira, I’m sorry I . . .”

  “Don’t talk, just hold me.” She clung to him fiercely as if he were about to be swept away from her.

  They made love that night. Afterward they lay in each other’s arms without speaking. Wiz didn’t fall asleep until long afterward and he didn’t think Moira did either.

  ###

  The next day Wiz stumbled through his classes, groggy from lack of sleep. By the time he got home that evening he was ready to drop, but when Moira suggested they walk out to the drill yard he didn’t object.

  In the early evenings the guardsmen held free-form practice on the drill ground. Because there was a gathering of young men there, the young ladies of the castle naturally congregated, to sit in the shade or walk along the colonnaded porch that surrounded the beaten earth of the practice court. And where the young ladies congregated naturally became a gathering place for everyone in the keep. From the highest of the Mighty to the workers in the scullery, it had become the traditional place for an evening stroll.

  Wiz and Moira joined the promenade with Moira clinging tightly to his arm. They exchanged small talk with their acquaintances, received respectful bows. Wiz’s station entitled them to and spent a few minutes talking with Shamus, the Captain of the Guard and a friend of Moira’s from her time at the Capital learning to be a hedge witch.