The Misenchanted Sword

by Lawrence Watt-Evans

  Still, he had a family. Valder had only employees.

  He hunched his shoulders and turned onto Arena Street. The guards had not said how far it was to the Wizards' Quarter; he hoped it was not far. The sun was already low in the west.

  The Arena itself, a large and impressive structure, was roughly a mile from High Street, Valder discovered. A block beyond it, he saw the first sign advertising a witch's shop. A witch, of course, would be able to do nothing against a sword enchanted by a wizard, but it provided encouragement.

  In the next block was a theurgist's shop, and Valder was tempted. The gods, after all, could do anything—if they could be convinced to pay attention at all, and if you contacted the right god. He was unsure just how effective theurgy actually was since the gods had gone into their self-imposed exile, however, and he preferred to stick to the more straightforward approach.

  The next two blocks were full of gaming houses, but, beyond that, Valder's search was abruptly rewarded with greater riches than he had anticipated. The street was suddenly lined with magic shops of every description, advertising all manner of wizardry, witchcraft, theurgy, even demonology and sorcery, as well as arcane arts Valder could not identify, on a profusion of boastful signboards. "Abdaran of Skaia," one read, "Miracles of Every Description." "Intirin the White," the next read, "Your Prayers Answered or Your Money Back." One bore no boasts but simply a black outline of a hand superimposed on a red eye and the name Dakkar—Valder thought that was rather ominous and probably represented a demonologist.

  He walked on, following what seemed to be the thickest grouping around a corner to the right, and finally spotted, "Tagger, Tagger, and Varrin, Counterspells and Cures for Every Purpose." That sounded like exactly what he was after.

  The iron-studded door was closed, the windows draped with heavy dark velvet; he hesitated, but then knocked loudly.

  He waited for what seemed a reasonably long time and was about to knock again when the door swung open and he found himself facing a small, black-haired man in a red robe and hat.

  "Hello," Valder said, "I need to have a spell removed."

  "Oh," the red-clad man said. "Come in, then. I'm afraid the others are both out just now, but I'll see what I can do. I'm Tagger the Younger."

  "Valder the Innkeeper," Valder replied, nodding politely.

  "The one with the magic sword?" Tagger asked.

  Startled, Valder nodded.

  "Ah! Come in, come in! What can I do for you?" He swung wide the door and escorted Valder inside, leading him to a comfortable, velvet-upholstered chair. He then sat down in a similar chair on the opposite side of a small table.

  It took Valder a few seconds to gather his wits sufficiently to reply. He looked around the shop, which was furnished much like a small parlor, with many dark woods and rich fabrics, predominantly red. "Since you already know about the sword," he said when he had composed himself, "I don't suppose I need to explain everything after all. I want the spell removed from the sword."

  It was Tagger's turn to be disconcerted. "Why?" he asked. "I thought the sword protected you and made you a formidable warrior!"

  "It does to some extent, but what does an innkeeper need with that? It also happens to include a sort of curse that I'd like to be rid of."

  "Ah, I see! What sort of a curse? Do you know?"

  "Do you really need to know?"

  "It would probably help considerably."

  Valder paused. "Could we leave that for later?"

  "I suppose. In that case, what can you tell me about the sword? Do you know who enchanted it or what spells were used?"

  "The spells were put on it by a hermit in the coastal marshes north of what is now Tintallion..." Valder began.

  "After it was forged?" Tagger interrupted.

  "Oh, yes, of course; it was just a standard-issue sword for at least three years."

  "Ah. Good, then we shouldn't have to destroy it. Go on. Did you know this hermit's name?"

  "No; he never told me. I don't believe I told him mine, either, for that matter."

  "And what was your name at the time? Surely you weren't an innkeeper then."

  "No, I was Valder of Kardoret, Scout First Class."

  "Go on." Tagger shifted in his chair.

  "I saw part of his work when he was enchanting the sword, but I didn't pay close attention, and he never explained any of it to me or told me anything about it. Even if he had, it's been more than forty years now, and I wouldn't remember much. When I got back to Ethshar, the army wizards tried to analyze it and they said that it included the Spell of True Ownership and some sort of animation; that's all I remember. Oh, yes, I think they said it was eighth-order magic."

  Tagger started. "Eighth-order?"

  "Yes."

  "Oh, dear."

  Valder did not like the sound of that. He waited for the wizard to continue.

  "I can't do anything for you, I'm afraid. My father might be willing to try, though, if you can pay enough; he'd stand a good chance of succeeding, I think, and would almost certainly survive the attempt, but I'll admit frankly that you might not."

  "Why?"

  "Because your life-force is linked to the sword by the Spell of True Ownership; tied to it, as it were, by an invisible knot. The wizard who made the connection in the first place, or any really extremely powerful and skilled wizard, might be able to untie that knot—but you don't know who the original wizard was, and / don't know of any wizards skilled enough to handle an eighth-order linkage properly, which is what it would be if the True Ownership were applied as part of the eighth-order spell rather than as a separate enchantment. If my father were to make the attempt, he wouldn't be untying so much as cutting the knot, and that would mean possibly cutting away part of your life. To carry the analogy a step further, the severed ends are likely to lash about, and one might strike him and harm or kill him. Naturally, that means a high price is called for."

  Valder was already pretty certain that he did not want to pursue this route, but asked, "How high?"

  "I can't speak for him, really; at least ten pounds of gold, though, I'm sure."

  That settled the matter, since Valder did not have that much.

  "Would you by chance know of anyone who might attempt it for less?"

  Tagger shook his head. "No, I'm sorry, but I really don't. High-level magic is expensive. Besides, you know, the really powerful wizards don't need to make money by selling their talents; they provide for themselves by other means. I don't suppose I should admit it, since it's hardly good business, but since I've already told you we probably can't help you, I might as well go on and tell you that we're all second-raters here, all of us shopkeepers in the Wizards' Quarter. If I could untangle an eighth-order spell, I could probably conjure up a castle in the air and live in luxury for the rest of my life, instead of spending my days removing impotence curses or curing baldness and scrofula and so forth."

  That made a great deal of sense, but also presented another possibility. "But such powerful wizards do exist?"

  "Oh, yes, there's no doubt about that; the ones who can still be bothered with mundane affairs run the Wizards' Guild, so I've met a few—but never by their true names, and probably not even wearing their true faces."

  "Where could I find such a wizard?"

  Tagger shrugged eloquently. "I haven't any idea at all. Certainly not running a shop in Ethshar of the Spices, unless you find one visiting to remind himself what he need no longer tolerate. And before you get any high hopes built up, let me remind you that a truly great wizard would have no particular reason to help you by removing the enchantment from your sword."

  "He'd have no particular reason not to help me, though."

  "Laziness comes to mind—and even for a really powerful wizard, undoing an eighth-order spell is likely to involve considerable difficulty and even some risk."

  "I see," Valder said. He started to rise.

  "Before you go," Tagger said, "would you mind explaining to me
just what this curse is you're so eager to avoid? Perhaps we can find a way around it."

  Valder settled back again. "What do you mean?" x "Well, for example, we had a client once who had-been cursed with what seemed like a simple enough spell; he had been given a really unpleasant odor, so that nobody could stand to go near him for very long. It's a standard little curse, useful for revenge or blackmail—but in this case, the wizard had been feeling particularly vengeful, and had booby-trapped the spell, linking it to some very complicated wizardry we couldn't be bothered untangling for any price the victim could pay, so that we couldn't use the usual countercharm. Instead, we put another curse on the poor fellow, one that stopped up the sense of smell of anyone near him—and just to be sure, we gave his wife a love potion strong enough that she wouldn't mind the stink, even if it reached her. There are still some effects—for example, dogs and other animals can't go anywhere within a hundred feet of him, so he has to travel entirely on foot—but at least he's not totally isolated."

  Valder considered, looking at the little wizard's face; the man seemed quite sincere, and there was always some way out, if only it could be found.

  "All right," he said. "The curse is that I can only die when slain by the sword, Wirikidor; nothing else, not even old age, is supposed to be able to kill me. That's what Darrend of Calimor and the rest of General Karannin's wizards said, at any rate. However, I still age, can still be wounded, and I'm still going blind."

  "We can cure the blindness, I think," Tagger said.

  "That's not the real point, though. I'm still going to age; I'm going to get older and older, weaker and weaker, and I won't die. Ever. I don't think I can face that."

  "You can kill yourself with the sword, though."

  "Not if I get too weak to lift it."

  Tagger looked thoughtful. "That's a good point. I'm not sure how that would work, not knowing the exact spell."

  "I'm not sure either—and it's my life that's in question here."

  "Have you tested your supposed immortality?" "No; how can I test it? I can still be harmed, after all." "You might take poison and see what it does." "And perhaps spend the rest of my days with my belly burnt away? That's just the sort of thing I want to avoid." "Oh, come now, there are plenty of deadly poisons with no long-term side effects. Still, I see your point. You haven't tested it, in short." "No."

  "And you want some way out of your current situation, where you believe you will age normally, but never die of it."

  "Exactly."

  "You would consider suicide acceptable?" "I am not enthusiastic about it, but it seems preferable to the alternative."

  Tagger stared at him thoughtfully. "Could you really find it in yourself to do it? Killing oneself with a sword is not easy."

  Valder shifted uncomfortably. "I'm not sure," he admitted.

  "You could hire someone to kill you, I suppose." "No, not really; nobody else can use the sword while the spell holds, and the spell still has several deaths to go."

  "Several deaths? How do you mean that?" "Oh, I didn't explain the whole enchantment; it's complicated. Between my acquisition of the sword in its enchanted form and my death, every time I draw it, it must kill a man, up to about a hundred times, and then it will turn on me and kill me. I had figured that I could live forever by simply not drawing it any more—but now I think that looks worse than death, as I've told you."

  "If I understand you, I feel obliged to warn you that I don't think you will be able to kill yourself with the sword. I'm familiar with spells of that type, though not quite that form; they were discovered right about the time the Great War ended. The sword is semianimate, with a will of its own, is it not?"

  "Yes."

  "Then it will not permit you to kill yourself until it has served out its full quota of deaths in your hands; your own determination aside, it's physically impossible for you to commit suicide with that sword; I'm sure of it. You will have to kill however many men remain to the predetermined allotment, and then the sword will claim a new owner, who will kill you; no other outcome is possible while the sword and spell exist."

  Valder mulled that over; somehow, he was not surprised. He thought that he might have suspected it to be true all along, on some unconscious level, or perhaps had once heard it explained, long ago, by a wizard studying the sword.

  At last he rose, saying politely, "Thank you for your help; I have one more favor to ask. Could you direct me to a good diviner or seer?"

  Tagger, too, arose. "Certainly; I would recommend either Sella the Witch, across the street and down two blocks to the east, or Lurenna of Tantashar, four blocks west."

  "Lurenna is a wizard, or another witch?"

  "A wizard. There are also a few theurgists who deal in prophecy and divination..."

  "No, a wizard is fine." Valder bowed and departed.

  He paused for a moment at the door, noticing for the first time that full night had arrived while he spoke with the red-clad wizard; he was footsore and weary, feeling his age, and he considered for a moment simply finding a place to sleep and continuing in the morning.

  The streets, however, were torchlit and inviting, the shop-windows mostly aglow, and he decided he would pursue matters now, having delayed so long already. He would find Lurenna of Tantashar, not in hopes that she might remove the sword's enchantment, but rather that she might be able to locate for him a more powerful wizard who could. Tagger had said that such wizards existed.

  True, he had little to offer in compensation—but he would deal with that problem when he had to. He would find a way.

  Tagger watched the old man with the sword march away, then returned to the shop parlor to find that Varrin had slipped in the back way, unnoticed.

  "Who was that?" the older man asked.

  "Oh, an old veteran with a magic sword with a curse on it—nothing I wanted to deal with, though. Eighth-order, he said."

  Varrin shook his head. "Those idiots during the war didn't know what they were doing, throwing around spells like that; it's amazing we survived, let alone won."

  Tagger, who had not yet been born when the war ended, shrugged. "I wouldn't know," he said, reaching for the candy jar.

  Chapter 27

  Valder found Lurenna's shop only with difficulty; reading signs by the flaring, uneven torchlight was more than his weak eyes could handle readily, and hers was small and discreet, a simple panel reading, "Lurenna of Tantashar: Your Questions Answered."

  Fortunately, the window was still lighted, behind heavy wine-red draperies. The blue-painted door, however, was securely locked; he knocked loudly.

  It was a long moment before the latch slid back and the door swung in. A thin woman in a lavender gown— a color Valder had never before seen used for an entire garment—peered out at him.

  "I have closed for the night," she said.

  "My - apologies for disturbing you, then, but I have come a dozen leagues today to find answers to my questions."

  "Then you must be Valder the Innkeeper, here to ask about Wirikidor." She seemed to hesitate for a moment, then said, "Come in—but I warn you, I can't help you."

  "I have not yet said what I want."

  "I know—but I know that whatever it might be, although I will answer your questions, the answers will not be the ones you seek."

  "How can you know that?" Valder said before he could stop himself; no wizard, he still knew exactly what her reply would be.

  "It's my business to know things; why else would you come to me? I can answer my own questions as well as anyone else's and I like to know who my customers will be and whether I will please them—though I had neglected to ask when you would come and had not expected you until morning. Now, come in and be seated."

  Valder followed her into a small room hung with wine velvet and sat down in a velvet chair by a small table. Lurenna seated herself opposite him and reached for a small velvet pouch.

  "My price is fixed; I will answer three questions for a gold piece and guarantee t
he answers to be correct and complete. For a silver piece I can answer one question with no guarantees save that what I then tell you will be the truth."

  Valder hesitated; that was more than he had expected to pay. Still, he needed answers. He fished out one of his carefully hoarded gold pieces and tossed it on the table.

  "Good; now, what are your questions?"

  "Are there any limitations? Must answers be yes or no?"

  "No, of course not—I would not dare charge gold for that! However, be careful just what you do or don't ask; I will probably answer only what you say, not what you intended to say."

  That seemed fair enough. He thought for a long moment, composing his question.

  "Who," he said at last, "of all those alive today, is capable of removing the enchantment from the sword Wirikidor, which I carry?"

  "And your second question?"

  "Will depend upon the answer to my first."

  The wizard looked displeased. "That makes it more difficult for me, but I'll get your answer. Wait here." She

  Lawrence Watt-Evans 245

  rose and vanished behind one of the velvet draperies.

  Valder waited, growing ever more bored and ever more aware of the pain in his overworked feet and his general weariness; finally, after what seemed like days, Lurenna emerged.

  "I have a list of some eighty or ninety names here," she announced. "Do you want them all?"

  "I might," Valder said, pleased.

  "Have you decided upon your second question?" Lurenna asked.

  "No; I hadn't expected so long a list."

  "If I might make a suggestion, what would be the consequences of removing the enchantment?"

  "I had been thinking rather of where I might find the one of those ninety wizards most willing to perform the removal, but I have two questions left; very well then, what would be the consequences?"

  "I have already asked that, in anticipation and to satisfy my own curiosity, you would die, and, of the wizards listed, only one, a hermit living on the Plains of Ice beyond the old Northern Empire, stands any chance of survival. The number of innocents in the area who would also die could reach as high as thirty-three."