by Jared Shurin
The man ceased his hoeing and straightened. He twisted a ring on his finger and said something Alphronz could not hear. Then he raised his voice and said, “Who wants to know?”
Alphronz had prepared a story to open the discussion, including a name of convenience. Now he was surprised to hear him name himself accurately followed by a succinct description of his way of making a living. The sorcerer studied him for a moment, then said, “Come through the gate.”
Jarndycek met him on the walk that led from the gate to the house but diverted him to a small area paved in flagstones where a table and chairs similar to those of Alphronz’s balcony stood in the shade of a wystol tree. “Sit,” he said.
Alphronz, to test the fellow’s power, resolved to stand. He managed to do so but the longer he remained upright, the stronger grew a sense of dread until he trembled like a child who fears a monster lurks beneath his bed.
The tall man sat and regarded him pensively for an extended moment. Then he said, “I can make it much worse.”
Alphronz sat and felt the fear ebb from him, though his breathing remained rapid and he was bathed from head to toe in a sheen of cold sweat.
Jarndycek said, “I find conversations more useful when I am certain of the other party’s candour. Now, what do you seek?”
Alphronz decided there was no sense trying the sorcerer’s patience. He said, “I wish to know if, and how, I could gull affluent people out of some of their wealth by pretending to be a wizard’s henchman. I would tell them I was seeking a property where he could set up shop.”
“And they would pay you to go elsewhere.”
“That was my thought.”
Jarndycek studied him with a sharper eye. “You were not thinking of enlisting me as the wizard?” he said.
“No, only as the source of information and perhaps some magical paraphernalia that would confer verisimilitude on the imposture.”
“Hmm,” said the sorcerer. “And how would I benefit from the scheme?”
“I would pay you for your services.”
“How much?”
Alphronz had come with a figure in mind, but had intended to offer far less as an opening move in the bargain. Instead he found himself plainly stating what he was really prepared to pay.
“What would that buy me?” he said.
Jarndycek used a thumb and forefinger to squeeze his lower lip into a clump then said, “I would have to think about that.”
He proceeded to do so for a while, casting his gaze toward the stone-walled field that lay across the road from his house and the forest that stood beyond the field. Finally, he turned back to Alphronz and said, “I cannot make you into a convincing wielder of magic in your own right. It takes years of study to master the elements of the craft and, even then, you might be limited by the strength of your talent. Thaumaturges are not all created equal.”
“Oh,” said Alphronz. He saw the prospect slipping away.
“However,” Jarndycek went on, “you are not seeking to present yourself as a practitioner, but merely as the servant of one.”
“That is so.”
“In which case, your putative master might equip you with something that would allow you to wield some of his power, by proxy.”
“Ah,” said Alphronz, “and could you do something along those lines for the fee we have discussed?”
“No,” said Jarndycek, in a tone and with a slow shake of his head that said the notion was far out of the question. Then, as Alphronz’s hopes crashed once more, the sorcerer said, “But I could do it for a fraction of the take.”
“Oh?” Alphronz began to wonder if he was like the farmer in the old tale who bought a goat that was supposed to able to eat anything and would grow to a prodigious size. The last thing the goat ate was the farmer.
“How much of a fraction?” he said.
“How much do you normally make?”
Despite himself, Alphronz told the truth. Jarndycek’s face showed that he was impressed. “Twenty parts in a hundred,” he said.
Alphronz said, “That is more than I have to set aside from one operation to fund the next. I would be better off to keep doing what I’ve been doing.”
“Understandable,” said Jarndycek. “What would you say to ten percent?”
“I would say I would rather it was five.”
The sorcerer considered the response. “Let us say, if the ‘operation’ yields no more than the sum you have already admitted is your annual income, you will give me five percent. But you will give me ten percent of whatever you make above that figure.”
“Less expenses?” Alphronz said.
“Less expenses.”
And so the bargain was struck.
Jarndycek removed his ring and placed it on the table between them. They had moved inside, to what the sorcerer called his workroom: a windowless, shadowy chamber full of corners that looked even darker than the yellowy lamplight could account for. Tall shelves against two walls held tattered books bound in odd colours of leather, interspersed with unusual objects: a human skull figured with strange symbols; a rounded lump of black iron pierced by several holes; a set of small brass hammers hung by wires from a frame of dark wood that clattered softly against each other, though no breeze stirred them; and an oval frame of silver surrounding a vague image that seemed to move of its own accord.
Jarndycek drew Alphronz’s attention to the ring. It was a thick circle of what looked like tarnished silver but in places it showed transient glistenings of a purple light so deep as to hurt the eyes.
“This,” said the sorcerer, “is what you will use.”
“What is it?”
“Not what it seems. It is my familiar, a creature I bound to my service in the twelfth year of Duke Osmain’s rule.”
“Osmain of Vanderoy?” Alphronz said. “He died in my childhood, a very old man.”
“The same. The term of indenture is three hundred years. We are nearing the middle point.”
Alphronz could think of no cogent reply. He was beginning to feel like a man who wades through waist-deep surf only to encounter a sudden plunge of the seabed into dark and chilly waters in which who knows what monsters may lurk.
Jarndycek did not appear to notice and kept speaking. “It is an athlenath, which is to say an entity of the Seventh Plane. I lured it into our Plane by means I need not describe, shackled it, and caused it to accept the conditions of its servitude.”
“What is an athlenath?” Alphronz said.
“You would probably call it a demon. They come in different strengths. This is a young one, but strong enough for my purposes. An older one would have been too powerful, or too experienced, for me to capture. Indeed, when I finally free it, I doubt anyone will be able to catch it again. But by then I will have acquired sufficient mana to translate myself permanently to the Overworld, and none of this will ever concern me again.”
“I am surprised that one who commands a demon would be interested in the arrangement we have made, that will yield only material wealth.”
Jarndycek sighed. “You nuncupes have fanciful notions of what it means to be a practitioner.”
He went on to explain that it was almost every thaumaturge’s aim to leave this, the Third Plane, to dwell forever in the Fourth, commonly called the Overworld or, sometimes, Elysion. But the translation required a huge stock of psychic energy, which had to be husbanded and built up over decades by arcane exercises of will and spirit.
“Controlling my athlenath requires an expenditure of that energy and reduces the time I have for building up mana. As does cultivating my garden and every other mundane task.” Jarndycek leaned forward and said, “But if you provide me with gold and silver, I can hire persons to perform many functions, leaving me more time and energy to concentrate on the ultimate goal.”
Alphronz was taking this in and turning it over in his mind. “But if I command your demon, will that not drain energy from me? I do not wish to become pale and semi-transparent, and end up
as a ghost haunting the house that used to be mine.”
The sorcerer waved away the concern. “You will lose some life-force when you invoke the athlenath,” he said. “But that will come back to you in full when you rest between operations. And I will give you a tonic.”
The depths below Alphronz now felt cold and perilous indeed. But he saw in his new partner a bright enthusiasm for the scheme he had proposed. To attempt a withdrawal now would risk angering a wizard who controlled a demon. The truth spell Jarndycek employed at first sight of the prevaricator had already given Alphronz a taste, a very mild taste, of the other’s power. He would not like to face that power when it was motivated by anger and an urge toward revenge.
He swallowed and said, “What do I have to do?”
Jarndycek nudged the ring with a finger, the one that had a black rune incised into the nail. “For simple tasks,” he said, “you must speak a brief cantrip, only five ergophones, then –”
“Ergophones?”
“Syllables of power. They will take a little getting used to, but once you have mastered them, Yaffrik will do your bidding.”
“Yaffrik is its name?” Alphronz noticed that when he spoke the appellation, the ring lit up with a flash of the eye-paining purple.
“Yes, but don’t say it again until I’ve trained you.”
“Why not?”
“It would be...” Jarndycek’s hands opened, his fingers eloquently spread, “...not good.”
Alphronz swallowed. He wondered how far he would get if he rose and fled the house now. And told himself, Not far if pursued by a demon. “I will remember that,” he said.
“Good. Now here are the ergophones.”
Jarndycek spoke each one clearly, pausing between the individual sounds. Alphronz listened closely, heard the first, and then the second, but by the time the sorcerer voiced the third, the first had faded from his consciousness. He frowned and Jarndycek stopped.
“You are having trouble keeping them in mind?” he said. “It takes some time to develop the capacity to encompass sounds of power. Persevere, and it will get better. You would not have succeeded in your profession if you did not have the will.”
“Perhaps if you wrote them down,” Alphronz said.
The sorcerer wagged an amused finger. “That would give Yaffrik an opportunity to alter one or two of them. Then when you spoke its name, followed by the banjaxed cantrip, the athlenath would indulge itself in all sorts of hijinks.”
“Hijinks?” Alphronz said.
“A euphemism. I do not wish to trouble your mind.” Jarndycek tried an encouraging smile. “Now, let us try again.”
The two partners had given comprehensive thought to the details of the scheme and tested various scenarios to find any inherent flaws. Thus it was a good two weeks before Alphronz, now clad in skintight livery of rose and silver, arrived in the town of Old Almery. His was an ostentatious entrance: a golden barouche drawn by two coal-black steeds, with eyes that blazed like blown-upon coals and from whose lips dripped a steaming froth, came down from the sky at noon and alighted in the Grand Plaza.
The carriage’s gold-shod wheels rattled over the cobblestones, throwing up sparks, before the twin werehorses could be drawn to a halt – which happened to be just before the town hall. Alphronz stepped down, tied the reins of braided silk to an iron post, and hailed the plump, white-bearded man who wore a robe of purple velvet and a chain of gold links that hung from his neck to his waist, standing agog at the top of the marble steps.
“Hey, fellow! Where might I find a land office or some such? I am seeking a good stretch of country, preferably with a hill on it, where my master might build his manse.”
It had been decided that the putative master would be a known thaumaturge of Grand Master or Emeritus rank, but that his name would never be uttered. Voicing the name of such an exalted personage, Jarndycek had explained, was tantamount to tapping him rudely on the shoulder. The wizard might not himself be listening, but he would have set imps and sylphs to do that for him, if not an athlenath more powerful than the one bound into the ring.
But the conspirators had put on the doors of the carriage a heraldic device consisting of a star in the open jaws of a griffin whose claws clutched a sword and a feather. Though not identical, the arms were closely modelled on those of Hildefranch the Ineffable, a centuries-old thaumaturge of supernal power.
“He is close to translating himself to the Overworld,” Jarndycek said, “and unlikely to exert himself over mundane concerns. As long as his name is not mentioned, all should go well.”
As indeed it did. The man in purple, trembling and dry of voice, directed Alphronz to an office across the square. The prevaricator set off at a brisk walk, but he had scarcely arrived at the land bureau before the old fellow came in, along with three other town elders in plush robes bearing emblems of civic rank. They were breathless from hurry married to worry.
Hesitantly, they approached Alphronz where he pretended to study a map of the area. A conversation ensued, which began with vague generalities but soon spiralled in toward the crucial issues of concern to the four fuglemen of Old Almery.
Thus it was less than an hour after his arrival that Alphronz oversaw the loading of a coffer full of precious metals and jewels into the barouche. He spoke to the steeds and they rattled around the square until they had achieved sufficient speed, then launched themselves into the air. In moments, Old Almery was receding into the larger landscape.
Alphronz blinked not only from the speed of his passage through the upper air but also at the alacrity with which the scheme had achieved its goal. The funds in the coffer amounted to a greater sum than almost any of his previous operations had yielded. Moreover, instead of spending weeks carefully cultivating the greed of his targets, he had been in and out in no time at all.
The carriage turned south over the Tepid Sea. Soon Alphronz saw the shape of the Isle of Tortoises rising from the waters, and not long after, he descended to land on the back lawn of Jarndycek’s house. He handed the wizard the ring, then brought out the coffer and opened its lid.
Jarndycek smiled. “And all went as anticipated?”
“It did,” said Alphronz. He did not mention that when he had spoken the cantrip to activate the demon, he had experienced terrifying sensations and near-dislocations of his senses. He hoped the spell-casting would trouble him less the next time.
Which Jarndycek thought should be as soon as possible. “Tomorrow, in fact,” he said. “I have been scrying for new targets. The City of Caer Lyff has a well-stocked civic treasury and there is no practitioner within a two-day journey.”
“Tomorrow?” Alphronz said.
“Why not? I’ll improve the tonic.”
The prevaricator looked at the heap of riches that were now his, after the wizard had taken his share. “Indeed,” he said, “why not?”
Caer Lyff was as easily plucked as Old Almery, as were Bandimee, Syaskal, and New Alathe. Jarndycek hired himself a gardener and purchased two more ancient grimoires he said would assist him in perfecting his axial volition. He did not bother to explain the term and Alphronz did not trouble to ask.
Instead, he contemplated the mounting pile of treasure in his strongroom and thought about buying a grander house in the hills above Port Amberlyne, with a full staff instead of one day servant. He might even wed, though he leaned toward keeping a mistress. But perhaps he would do both.
He told Jarndycek, “Three more such operations and I would be inclined to retire.”
He had feared the wizard would disagree, but the response was encouraging. “I have just about all that I need now. Three more then no more would suit me, too. Come see the results of my scrying.”
So Alphronz flew off to Uz Narim and was back the same day, with a goodly supply of the peerless-quality gemstones traded in that town’s ancient market. The following day, he went to Urzendhi and returned with a basket of that place’s famous ivory statuettes, carved from the teeth of monstrou
s bogworms that infested the surrounding peat plains.
On the third day, he descended upon Toch Meevie. This was a prosperous town largely built from the local grey schist, its architecture like its inhabitants running to stolid and blocky. The civic square was spacious, centred on a fountain and lined with stone benches alternating with stone boxes from which rose stunted but wide-branching shade trees.
Alphronz touched down as usual, but there was no one to see the fire-eyed steeds. He ran them in a circuit around the plaza, their metal-shod hooves and the barouche’s wheels raising a racket. He drew up before the town hall, identified by the arms of crossed keys and iron crown above the entrance, and caused the werebeasts to rear and stamp against the flagstones.
Again, nothing ensued. No one appeared. Alphronz wondered if he had come on some special day, when the populace kept to their houses and all public spaces stood empty. But then he noticed a slight figure seated on a bench to one side of the plaza, a bland-faced man of indeterminate age clad in a nondescript robe and plain sandals.
Upon being noticed, this fellow rose to his feet and strolled over to where Alphronz sat in the carriage. The prevaricator opened the side door and stepped down, raising both hands in a warning to the man to beware of the stamping hooves. But the fellow paid no heed. He approached, regarded the animals calmly, nodded a minimal greeting to Alphronz, and studied the badge on the open door.
He turned a placid countenance toward Alphronz and said, “Do you know, if that star in the griffin’s jaws had seven points instead of five, and if the sword and feather were in the opposite paws, those would be the arms of Hildefranch the Ineffable.”
Alphronz blinked, finding himself at a loss for a response. He opted for his usual spiel and inquired as to the whereabouts of the land bureau. “Also, are any of the town’s worthy elders in the area?”
The bland expression did not change, though the townsman briefly bit his lower lip before saying, “The bureau is closed. The ealdermen are not in their offices today.”
“Is it a civic holiday?” Alphronz said.
“No.”
The prevaricator felt a frisson of concern. He looked around the deserted square. “It’s not a plague, is it?”