The Spell of the Black Dagger loe-6

by Lawrence Watt-Evans

  The door to the mudroom was open; she tumbled through it, tripping over somebody’s boots, and groped for the door to the alley before she even regained her feet.

  Then she was out and stumbling along the hard-packed dirt toward the light of Grand Street. She was breathing too hard to seriously listen for pursuit, but at any rate she heard no shouting, no threats, none of the unnatural sounds that accompanied some spells.

  At the comer she hesitated not an instant in turning toward Grandgate Market, even though that meant passing in front of the house. The marketplace crowds were unquestionably the best place to lose herself. She hoped that Serem and Lirrin hadn’t gotten a good look at her and that Serem had no magic that could ferret her out once she was lost.

  By the time she had gone three blocks she felt she could risk a look back over her shoulder. She saw no sign of Serem or Lirrin and slowed to a walk.

  If they spotted her now, she would just plead innocent, claim they had mistaken her for someone else.

  Of course, if they insisted on taking her anyway, and if they had some magical means of discovering the truth, or if they had none themselves but took her to the overlord’s Minister of Justice, who reportedly kept several magicians around for just such matters... well, if anything like that happened, she would just have to throw herself on somebody’s mercy and hope that the penalty wasn’t too harsh. After all, she hadn’t actually stolen anything.

  She glanced back again and saw lights in the windows of Serem’s house; the shutters had been opened, and light was pouring out into the streets.

  Maybe they thought she was still inside somewhere—but that was silly. She hadn’t even taken the time to close the alleyway door behind her. Well, whatever they thought, they weren’t coming after her, as far as she could see. She let out a small gasp of relief. And the market square—which was called that even though it was six-sided and not square at all—was just ahead. In only seconds she would be safe.

  Then the arched door at the corner of Grand and Wizard opened, spilling light, and even from four blocks away Tabaea could see that Serem stood silhouetted against it, peering out. Tabaea shuddered and forced herself not to run, and then she was in Grandgate Market, in the milling crowds.

  Even so, even after she had seen Serem march out into the street, glare in all directions, and then go back inside, it was hours before she felt at all safe. It was two days before she dared go home, and two sixnights before she dared pass within a block of Serem’s house.

  CHAPTER 6

  During the days following Lirrin’s athamezation, Tabaea reviewed the ritual repeatedly, both silently and aloud. Tessa and Thennis heard her mumbling the incantations and mocked her when she refused to explain—but that was normal enough.

  The whole question of how to use what she had learned was a baffling one. The secret of the athame was clearly one of the most important mysteries of the Wizards’ Guild, and therefore tremendously valuable—but how could she cash in on it? There was a word that described people who crossed the Wizards’ Guild, by stealing from them, or attempting to blackmail them— the word was “dead.”

  So she couldn’t do anything at all that would bring her to the attention of the Guild. That left two other options: sell the secret elsewhere, or use it herself.

  And where else could she sell it?

  Wizards and sorcerers were traditional enemies, so one afternoon in Summerheat she strolled over to Magician Street, in Northside, and wandered into a sorcerer’s shop. The proprietor didn’t notice her for several minutes, which gave her a chance to look around.

  The place didn’t look very magical; there were no animated plants, no strange skulls or glowing tapestries or peculiar bottles. There were some tools, but they looked as appropriate for a tinker or a jeweler as for a magician—pliers and hammers and so forth. Assorted colored wires hung on one wall, and crystals were displayed on another, but Tabaea, who had a competent thief’s working knowledge of precious stones and metals, quickly concluded that none of these were particularly valuable.

  The sorcerer finally realized she was there; he took in her youth and ragged appearance in an instant, and said, “I’m not looking for an apprentice just now, young lady.” “I’m fifteen,” Tabaea replied, annoyed. “My apologies, then. What can I do for you?” Tabaea hesitated; she had thought over a dozen possible openings without definitely choosing one, but now she could put it off no longer.

  Might as well be direct, she thought. “I think I might have something to sell you,” she said. “Oh?” The sorcerer was a black-haired man in his thirties, with thick, bushy eyebrows that looked out of place on his rather pale and narrow face. Those eyebrows now rose questioningly. “What might that be? Have you found an interesting artifact, perhaps? Some relic of the Northern Empire?” “No,” Tabaea said, startled. “There were never any Northerners around here.”

  “True enough. Then it was around here that you found whatever it is? ”

  “Yes. It’s not an artifact—it’s a piece of information.” The sorcerer frowned, his eyebrows descending. “I am not usually in the business of buying information,” he said.

  “It’s about wizards,” Tabaea said, a note of desperation creeping into her voice.

  The sorcerer blinked. “I am a sorcerer, young lady, not a wizard. You do know the difference, don’t you?”

  “Yes, of course, I do!” Tabaea replied angrily. Then, calming, she corrected herself. “Or at least, I know there is a difference. And I know that you people don’t like wizards, so I thought maybe... well, I found out a secret about wizards.” “And you thought that it might be of interest to sorcerers?” Tabaea nodded. “That’s right,” she said.

  The sorcerer studied her for a moment, then asked, “And what price were you asking for this secret?”

  Tabaea had given that some thought and had decided that a hundred pounds of gold would be about right—a thousand rounds, that would be, equal to eight hundred thousand copper bits. That was most of a million. She would be rich, she wouldn’t need to ever steal again. Magicians were all rich—well, the good ones, anyway, most of them; surely, they could afford to pay her even so fabulous a sum as that.

  But now she found she couldn’t bring herself to speak the numbers aloud. Eight hundred thousand bits—it was just too fantastic.

  “I hadn’t decided,” she lied.

  The sorcerer clicked his tongue sympathetically and shook his head in dismay. “Really, child,” he said, “you need to learn more about business. Let me ask, then—would this secret help me in my own business? Would it let me take customers away from the wizards?”

  Tabaea hadn’t thought about that. “I don’t know,” she admitted. Attempting a recovery, she added, “But the wizards really don’t want anyone to know about it!”

  The sorcerer frowned again. “In that case, isn’t this a dangerous bit of knowledge to have? How did you come by it?” “I can’t say,” Tabaea said, a trifle desperately. “Well, all right, then,” the sorcerer said. “I’m not usually one to buy a closed casket, but you’ve caught my interest.” Tabaea caught her breath.

  “I’ll pay you four bits in silver for your secret,” the sorcerer said.

  Tabaea blinked. “Four bits?” she squeaked. “Half a round of silver,” the sorcerer confirmed. Tabaea stared for a moment, then turned and ran out of the shop without another word.

  Later, when she could think about it clearly, she realized that the sorcerer had really been making a generous oifer. Tabaea had given him no hint of what her secret was, no reason to think it would be profitable for him to know it—and in fact, she saw now that it would probably not be profitable.

  Wizards and sorcerers were traditional rivals, but they weren’t blood enemies. Sorcerers weren’t about to wage a full-scale war against wizards—for one thing, there were far more wizards in the World than sorcerers. And what possible use would knowledge of athamezation be to any magician who was not prepared to use it against wizards?

&nbs
p; Selling her information, she saw, simply wasn’t going to work. That left using it herself as the only way to exploit it. And the only way to use it was to make herself an athame. That certainly had its appeal; she would be a true wizard, then, according to what Serem the Wise had said, even if she didn’t know any spells. And if she ever did learn any spells, the athame would make them easier to use, if she had understood correctly. The knife would be able to free her from any bonds, if she could touch it. It would mark her as a wizard to other wizards, but not to anyone else—and yet she would not be a member of the Guild.

  And she had the impression that there was far more to it than she knew. She hadn’t heard all of Serem’s teachings to Lirrin. She had learned the entire twenty-four-hour ceremony, but had missed a fair amount of the other discussion about the athame. So, one bright day early in Summersend, two months after Lirrin completed her own athame, Tabaea slipped out of a shop on Armorer Street with a fine dagger tucked under her tunic, one that she had not paid for.

  The next problem, now that she had the knife, was to find a place where she could perform the spell. Her home was out of the question, with her sisters and her mother and her stepfather around—if her stepfather had turned up again, that is.

  The people of the Wall Street Field had a reputation for minding their own business, but there were surely limits, and the all-day ritual with its blood and chanting and so forth would draw attention anywhere. And what if it rained? Right now the summer sun was pouring down like hot yellow honey, but the summer rains could come up suddenly.

  She needed someplace indoors and private, where she could be sure of an entire day undisturbed, and such places were not easy for a poor young woman to find in the crowded streets and squares of Ethshar of the Sands. Maybe, she thought, if she left the city... But no, that was crazy. She wasn’t going to leave the city. There wasn’t anything out there but peasants and barbarians and wilderness, except maybe in the other two Ethshars, and those would be just as unhelpful as Ethshar of the Sands. There were places that most people never went, such as the gate towers and the Great Lighthouse and all the towers that guarded the harbor, but those were manned by the overlord’s soldiers.

  She wandered along Armorer Street, vaguely thinking of the South Beaches, but with no very clear plan in mind; she squinted against the sun and dust as she walked, not really looking where she was going.

  She heard a man call something obscene, and a woman giggled. Tabaea looked up.

  She was at the corner of Whore Street, and a man in the yellow tunic and red kilt of a soldier was shouting lewd promises to a red-clad woman on a balcony.

  Those two would have no trouble finding a few minutes’ privacy, she was sure—though of course they’d have to pay for it. That was a thought—she could pay for it. She could rent a room—not here in Soldiertown, of course, but at a respectable inn somewhere. She was so accustomed to stealing everything she needed that the idea of paying hadn’t occurred to her at first.

  But she could, if she wanted. She had stashed away a goodly sum of money in her three years of thievery and had never spent more than a few bits. Maybe making herself an athame would be worth the expense.

  It took two more days before she worked up the nerve, but at last she found herself in a small attic room at the Inn of the Blue Crab, with the proprietor’s promise not to allow anyone near for a day and a half.

  She had tried to convince him, without actually stating it, that she was a wizard’s apprentice and that her master had assigned her some spell that required privacy; fear of wild magic was about the only thing she could think of that would reliably restrain the man’s natural curiosity. She wasn’t at all sure it had worked.

  She had laid in a good supply of candles for light, and a jug of reasonably pure water—the inn’s well, the innkeeper boasted, had a permanent purification spell on it, but Tabaea suspected it was just not particularly polluted. She couldn’t have any food, she knew, but she was fairly sure that water was permissible. She had brought a change of clothing, for afterward. She had fire and water and blood, and of course, she had her dagger. She had rested well and was as ready as she knew how to be.

  Still, she trembled as she began the first chant, the dagger held out before her.

  The incantations, the gestures, the eerie little dance, she remembered them all. She had no master or teacher in attendance urging her on, nor any other helper to light candles for her, so parts of the spell had to be performed in darkness, but she continued, undaunted.

  The attic room was warm and close, and as the candles burned down it grew hotter and stuffier. When the candles died, it was almost a relief—but then the sun came up, and by midmorning the heat was worse than ever. She would have opened the window, but to do so would have meant stepping outside the pattern of the ceremony. The innkeeper would have come up and opened the window for an ordinary customer, if only to help cool the inn as a whole, but she had forbidden him entrance.

  If she had thought ahead, she realized, she would have had the window open all along. She hadn’t, and she had to make the best of it; she couldn’t stop now.

  In fact, she was unsure whether it was literally possible to stop; she could sense the magical energies working around her, a strange, new, but unmistakable sensation. She was afraid that the magic would turn against her if she stopped, so she ignored her thirst, ignored the heat, ignored her fatigue, and continued with the spell, sweating heavily.

  Worst of all, she could see her jug of water, and she had the bowl of water used in purifying the metal of the knife, but this part of the ritual did not allow her a chance to drink so much as a drop.

  Her voice gave out by midday; she hoped that didn’t matter. By that time exhaustion, dehydration, and heat had driven her into a state of dazed semiconsciousness, and she continued with the spell more out of inertia than anything else. Around midaftemoon she came to a part that she could not do without conscious effort. The spell called for her to draw her own blood, pricking her right hand, her throat, and the skin over her heart with the dagger.

  Hands trembling, she drew the necessary blood, and used it to paint the required three symbols on the blade, marking the weapon as eternally hers.

  The worst was yet to come, though; for the final section of the spell she would need to slash open her forehead and use the point of the knife to smear the blood across her face, mixing it with the sweat and ash. That would mark her as belonging to the knife, just as the three runes marked the knife as belonging to her. She dreaded that part; she had an irrational fear that in her weakness, she would lose control and cut her own skull open.

  Still, she struggled on.

  The moment came; the blade shook as she raised the dagger to her brow, which terrified her still more. Even if she didn’t cut too deep, what if she slipped and cut an eye?

  She closed her eyes as she drew the blade across the tight skin.

  At first she thought she had somehow missed, and she reached up with her free hand. It came away red.

  Quickly, she continued with the ceremony.

  She could feel the magic around her—but somehow, even in her unthinking state, she began to sense that something had gone wrong.

  Hadn’t Lirrin’s knife been glowing at this point?

  Tabaea’s wasn’t. In fact, though it was hard to be certain in the deepening twilight, the knife seemed to have gone dark, as if blackened by smoke. But she hadn’t managed to light a candle or other fire in hours; there was no smoke in the room.

  She placed the knife before her, as the spell required, and it seemed almost to disappear in the gloom.

  She had no choice but to continue, though. She had the final chant to get through, and then she would pick up the knife and the spell would be over—if she could pick up the knife. She remembered Lirrin forcing her hands down as if against strong resistance.

  She hurried through the chant as quickly as she could in her weakened, frightened, and voiceless condition, thinking all the w
hile that this had been an incredibly stupid thing to try all on her own, that it was fantastically dangerous, that it couldn’t possibly work, that the knife might kill her when she picked it up—and at the same time, underneath her terror, she exulted in the knowledge that she was working magic, that if she came through this she would be a wizard, that the dagger would be her athame, and she would be the World’s only Guildless wizard.

  She spoke the final word and pressed her hands down toward the dagger. They met no resistance at all.

  She closed her eyes against the flash as her fingers closed on the hilt. There was no flash. The eerie sensation of magic at work faded quickly away, and she was just a girl sitting cross-legged on the floor of a hot, airless attic room, holding an ordinary dagger.

  But that couldn’t be true, she told herself, it wasn’t possible. She blinked in the darkness, trying to see the knife, but the daylight was gone, and the light from the window, compounded of lanterns and torches and the lesser moon’s pink glow, wasn’t enough.

  She dropped the dagger and groped for the candles and her tinderbox. In a moment she had a light going, and looked down at the knife that lay on the bare planks.

  It was blackened all over, a smooth, even black; the silver blade still gleamed, but with the dark shimmer of volcanic glass.

  Tabaea felt it. It wasn’t glass; it was still metal.

  But it was black.

  Hilt and guard were black, as well.

  The entire dagger was utterly, completely black, totally colorless.

  That wasn’t right. Tabaea didn’t know much about wizards, but she had seen them in the streets, she had seen the athame that Serem carried and the athame that Lirrin had made. All those athames were perfectly ordinary and natural in appearance, not this unearthly black.

  Something had gone wrong.

  She remembered the tests that Serem had described, but which she had not seen Lirrin attempt because of her need to flee. She couldn’t try any of the ones that involved other people or other athames, but...