Wizard Spawn Read online

  "Come over to the shop, and I'll give you something to make you feel better."

  Lalada stared for a moment. "Only if you give it to me. Don't want no Sabirn handlin' it."

  Duran matched the ale-girl's stare. "You'll get it from me," he promised, "and no one else."

  "Then I'll stop by tomorrow. 'Fore I come to work. You be up that early?"

  "I can be."

  "I'll be there."

  Duran watched her go back toward the bar and shook his head. Damn Zeldezia! Gain a bit and that woman's mouth undid it all again . . . He had gotten around her before. He dropped his chin on his hand and thought. . . .

  Tut came up with the beef pie—beef pie more often these days, thank the boy for that: nothing wrong with fish . . . in fact, he liked fish . . . but gods, a body could get tired of second-choice. . . .

  The door to the inn opened, a momentary rush of rain-sound, a rumble of thunder overhead.

  Ladirno and Wellhyrn entered the common room.

  Gods . . . not tonight.

  What in hell brings them down on the harbor-route?

  The two ducal favorites made quite a show of shaking the rain from their costly cloaks and slowly walking to take a table near Duran's. In a perverse way, it warmed Duran's heart that none of the "Cat's" customers paid any attention to the newcomers' fastidious settling-in.

  "Duran." Ladirno nodded slightly as he took a chair close by. "I hope you're doing well."

  "I am. And you?"

  Ladirno smiled. "Excellently. We did an experiment for the Duke a few days back—in between the storms—and produced him gold from a stone."

  "And received quite a handsome gift from His Grace for doing so, I might add," said Wellhyrn, inspecting his fingernails. He looked at Duran and lifted an eyebrow. "We've just come back from the harbor. My shipment's been delayed again by the weather.—How are you doing in this dreadful summer? How are the finances?"

  Duran tried to keep his face expressionless. "I'm doing all right. Thanks for your concern."

  Tut came out from the kitchen; Ladirno and Wellhyrn placed their orders in loud voices, the "Cat's" most expensive, -individually prepared selections. Duran busied himself with his pie, though neither alchemist seemed interested in talking with him again.

  Pompous asses! He chewed a bit of pie, swallowed, and took a long drink of ale. He was doing far better than they thought. . . .

  But he had no inclination to compare finances and he certainly had no desire for their attention. Ladirno he never minded much; the fellow was competent but all too willing to practice the tried and true without ever seeking the new. It was Wellhyrn who puzzled Duran: there was something hard and dark and twisted about the man . . . something Duran did not like or trust.

  He kept his head down, eating his pie and drinking his ale, and trying not to pay attention to his colleagues' conversation. Most of it, he thought was aimed directly at him, since Wellhyrn was recounting events that Ladirno must already know . . . successes at court, admiration from fellow alchemists, and gifts of money from the Duke and other nobles.

  Dammit, man! he chided himself. If you wanted a life like theirs, you could play the game, too.

  And have them for permanent company . . .

  " . . . hear about the necromancer they hanged over on the west side?" Wellhyrn was asking Ladirno, as the two of them started their dinners. "The Guard caught her practicing and took her before the priests. They say she never would admit to -anything—but one knows."

  "They put her to the question, of course. . . ."

  "Hot irons," Wellhyrn said. "She cursed the priests when they were hanging her. Quite a show. Big crowd."

  "In all this rain? Gods."

  Wellhyrn laughed, a cold laugh, unnerving to hear coming from one so young. "Folk know there's something odd in this weather. You should have seen it. All these hundreds of people standing in the storm and the lightning—"

  "You saw it?"

  "Oh, I did."

  "Huh." Ladirno gave a shiver or a shrug. "Demon-worshippers. I want no part of it."

  Enough to curdle a man's appetite, Duran thought, listening to it. He finished his pie—he had no inclination to be chased out of the warm tavern in the height of the rain, and he hoped they would leave soon—turned slightly away, and leaned back in his chair, trying to give the impression he was dozing after a rich meal. He heard Wellhyrn and Ladirno rise, finally scatter coins on the table in payment for their food, and leave.

  But he heard the gossip they left in their wake. He heard people mutter—sorcery . . .

  "Duran."

  He looked up: Ithar stood at his side, a mug of ale in one burly hand.

  "Mind if I join you?"

  Duran shook his head and gestured to a chair.

  "Saw them snot-nosed rich boys tryin' to bother you," Ithar said, sitting down. "Don't you let 'em get to you, Duran. Them kind ain't worth more than fish food." His dark eyes sparkled. "An' maybe the fish'd spit 'em back."

  "Sometimes it's hard to ignore them," Duran admitted. "Them and their money."

  Ithar cocked his head. "Why?"

  "Hladyr only knows. I can't think of anything I'd want from them."

  "Fah! You just remember that them kind don't never do nothin' for anyone but themselves. They may have all the money an' importance, but they can't take it with 'em."

  Duran drew a deep breath. "I think you're right, Ithar, but there are times when I'd like to punch their smirking faces in, and me, a gentleman."

  "Don't waste your time. You got better things to do." Ithar crossed his arms on the tabletop. "That Sabirn boy of yours workin' out?"

  He looked hopefully at Ithar. So maybe the damage was not that widespread. "Aye. I wish I'd thought to hire someone long ago. I never thought I had the money for it"

  "An' Sabirn come cheap."

  Duran nodded. "I've been doing all right lately than I've seen in years. I might be able to buy some better equipment for the shop if things keep going so well. I might want some smithing. . . ."

  "Be glad of the work. But you just be careful, Duran. An' you tell that boy of yours to keep his head down an' never look like he's doin' anythin' but run for you. You understand?"

  "Zeldezia's been talking again."

  "It's not only that," Ithar said. "It's that hanging—"

  "The boy's nothing but an orphaned kid! He's damn sure no wizard, let alone any—"

  "No, no. I didn't mean it that way." Ithar lowered his voice. "We ain't seen no necromancers in years, Duran. Not in years. Now they go an' find themselves one that's probably been spellin' the weather . . . bringin' on the storms and such . . . An' maybe that's it an' now it'll stop—"

  "I don't believe anyone can control the weather," Duran said. "Not even the Duke's wizards, else he wouldn't have lost so many ships at sea."

  "Ah, but what if his enemies got themselves a bunch of wizards to counteract his wizards? Eh? What then?"

  Duran closed his eyes. What had caused his father to fall from power and the friendship of the Duke? Was it wizards again?

  "You just keep yourself out of trouble, Duran . . . an' keep an eye on that lad. Whatever that necromancer did, she got caught at it."

  "Or, she was an easy one to blame for the bad weather," Duran suggested. "Some poor old soul—"

  "Duran. Duran, lissen to me. That necromancer they hung?—She was Sabirn."

  * * *

  Duran left "The Swimming Cat" earlier than was normal for him, while the rain was still falling and lightning played in the heavy clouds. He ran across the street, stood in the windy space beneath his second story overhang, and cursed the key that stuck in the lock. The warm feeling of late afternoon had disappeared from his heart, leaving coldness behind . . . a coldness next to fear.

  Gods above and below! If Targheiden's folk decided that Sabirn were at fault for the weather—

  He shook the rain from his cloak, hung it behind the door, absent-mindedly patted Dog, who stepped outside to
his nightly duties all oblivious to hazards—

  He resolved to say something to Kekoja in the morning, warn the boy—gods, how did one explain such lunacy to a boy?—warn the boy to keep the lowest profile he could.

  And himself? Damn. He was Ancar. His personal danger was negligible. He was no courtier, had no enemies with political reasons—he refused to be a coward, could not turn back from what he had done, from hiring Kekoja . . . honor forbade that. Pride did. He could not desert the boy—or fling him off, out of some stupid, weaseling fear—

  By the time Duran had lit his lamp, Dog came back into the shop, stopping in the doorway and shaking the rainwater from his coat. He sat down, scratched at one ear, then jumped to his feet and whirled about.

  "Sor Duran."

  Old Man stood in the doorway beneath the overhang . . . Old Man, and Kekoja.

  "Come in," Duran said, wiping his hands on his tunic. Gods hope there was no problem. He tried to tell himself it was other-wise, a personal business. Gods, who might be seeing him here, from the "Cat's" door? "Come in, you'll drown out there."

  He lit the lamp hanging above the counter and turned up the wick in the other. Old Man and Kekoja came into the shop, shook the worst of the rain from their cloaks, and sat down on the floor.

  "What can I do for you?" Duran asked, coming round the counter to face his guests.

  Old Man's dark eyes were steady in the lamplight. "You left early tonight, Sor Duran. I've come to tell you that story I promised you."

  A sense of guilt washed over Duran—for all his fears. For a woman hanged . . . For thinking—instantly—why? What will the neighbors think?

  "Please." He shut the door against the rain—wondering again who might see, as if that door being shut—made it clear it was no case of Old Man being customer. But he hated cowardice. "Can I get you tea?"

  "Tea, yes, thank you," Old Man said; and Duran got the pan he used for tea, lit a spill, and fired up the little apothecary's stove at the end of the counter—while Old Man settled into the only chair, while Kekoja settled cross-legged at his feet—

  Like some personage with his escort.

  "Thank you," Old Man said, when Duran brought the tea, and sipped it while Duran found himself a seat on the stool, his own cup in hand. . . .

  "This is a story I doubt our neighbors would appreciate," Old Man said after several sips. "You've asked me several times what things were like before our empire fell. Well, I thought I'd tell you a story about those last days, if you want to listen."

  Duran's heart beat in fear. "Of course I'll listen." He realized in his panic what Old Man was offering—he knew what he ought to do, and set the teacup down on the counter at his elbow. "Did your grandson tell you I keep such stories written down? To prevent their being lost? Do you mind?"

  "No. Write anything you like."

  Duran hurried behind his counter and pulled out a sheet of coarse paper and a stick of charcoal. Seating himself on his stool, the paper on the counter, he took up the teacup again, poised himself anxiously to take notes.

  Old Man smiled and began his story. At the first, it seemed a mere recounting of old myths, old accounts reassuringly -familiar—agreeing with what the Temple held the world was like a thousand years ago: the barbaric Armu had pushed eastward across the Irdanu River into Pesedur, thrust out of their homelands themselves by the tall, fair Ancar. Kingdom after kingdom fell to Armu hordes and Ancari armies, all advancing toward the west and the heart of the Empire.

  Then Jarrya fell, the breadbasket of the inner world, and the Ancar came southward into the Sabirn peninsula—toward the capital, where authority tottered—as at sea, Sakar harbored pirates and worse, sitting poised to do any kind of damage they could to failing shipping . . . taking advantage of the Empire's weakness, adding to that weakness by raiding ships, ruining mercantile houses . . . increasing poverty and dissent—

  Duran dutifully made brief notes, interested that once Targheiden had been called Cerinde and that fabled Sakar was now known as the Sacarres. But of greater matters, secret matters, he heard nothing he had not been told before, albeit in pieces and disconnected as a whole.

  Then Old Man spoke of the Empire itself.

  Sabis was the capital of that empire, and the center of the once thriving trade that had made the Sabirn wealthy, drawing substances and goods from all around the Inner Sea. Sabirn ships, far more advanced than those of other nations, carried Sabirn trade into all the surrounding world, bringing back wonders from other countries—arts, slaves, furs and silk and spices. The Sabirn had boasted banks, a class of traders with power in the imperial court, and a beginning guild of artisans. In short the level of their civilization had rivaled what existed today—in everything but the blessings the Temple provided, the knowledge of Scriptures, the work of Hladyr's priests—

  There had been other gods.

  "And wizardry?" Duran asked, as Old Man paused for a moment, "You had your wizards, didn't you?"

  "Ah, wizards. Aye, we had our wizards, as you have yours. Their methods didn't vary much from yours."

  "No more powerful?"

  "No more powerful."

  Duran found himself vaguely disappointed.

  "But there was other knowledge," Old Man said.

  "Alchemy?" A chill went down Duran's back. His hand paused, waiting.

  "Alchemists . . . who were wizards. Wizards who were alchemists. That gave them the power. . . ."

  Duran swallowed. "Did you ever hear of any of them who could turn base metals into gold?"

  Kekoja ducked his head to hide his expression, but Old Man disdained such subterfuge. He laughed quietly.

  "No." His dark eyes glittered in the lamplight as he looked up at Duran. "Can you?"

  "No," Duran admitted, shaking his head. "Not I. And no one I know can—" Thinking of Ladirno and Wellhyrn this evening—and their claim of gold. "—despite what they say." He could hang for what he admitted. The Guild would see to it. "They're simple tricks."

  "What we did have in the twilight of our empire was a man named Sulun, who called himself a 'natural philosopher'—and who came close to developing a weapon to drive the invaders out of Sabir."

  "A weapon—of wizardry?"

  "Of natural force. Sulun and other like-minded folk survived the downfall of the Empire, and went off into the wilderness, taking all their knowledge with them." Old Man smiled slightly. "They were known as wizards, Duran . . . and some of them were. But wizardry only gave them luck. Their wits gave them what they made."

  "Then they could have saved the Empire—"

  "Aye. But when an empire is falling, even philosophers find themselves dealing with time and fools. There was no time. And there was an abundance of fools. So Sulun and his followers took with them a knowledge of medicine, of shipbuilding, of manufacturing . . . of all kinds of things. We remember. We do remember."

  "But remembering—" For a moment Duran was conscious of himself as Ancar, tall, fair, blue-eyed—themselves as Sabirn, the dark, ancient folk—who might want their Empire back—

  Or want revenge for it . . .

  "Your barbaric ancestors crushed Sabis like an overripe fruit," Old Man said, and clenched an uplifted hand. Let it fall. "Say nothing, Sor Duran. You are not your ancestors. We are not ours. Sabis was ready to fall . . . hollow from the inside out. Kingdoms and empires age. They have their lifespans. They breed descendants. Your ancestors happened to be the instrument."

  Duran felt the flush on his cheeks. "Nevertheless, the waste of it all—"

  "Nothing is wasted—nothing lost."

  He stirred on his stool. "You know the priest, Vadami? He told me there was once a great Sabirn wizard named Siyuh—Ziya? Who made fire leap from his hands. Is that a true story?"

  Old Man's smile never wavered; only his eyes became hooded, shut off, remote from Duran's questions. "Perhaps that's a story I can tell you one day. But not tonight. I've talked longer than I should."

  "What would you do," Kekoja asked
suddenly, leaning against Old Mans knee, "if you knew what we knew in the days of our empire?"

  "Me?" Duran blinked in the lamplight. "I've never really thought about it. I'd try to make better medicines first, I suppose. When I see people die and I can't help them . . ."

  "And being an alchemist," Old Man said, "you're interested in changing base metals to gold. What would you do if you could?"

  Duran studied Old Man for a long moment, trying to guess why he and Kekoja were asking such seemingly unrelated questions. "I'm not denying I'd like to have more money. Money can buy many things, Old Man, and it can help people if it's used right. But consider this: if I was interested only in making money, I'd be up in the Duke's palace with the rest of the alchemists."

  Old Man frowned and ducked his head. "I must be going," Old Man said, then, reaching for his walking stick. "At my age, sleep is something I value."

  Kekoja stood, drew Old Man's cloak up, and helped him to his feet. The suddenness of this departure puzzled Duran, but he left Old Man's secrets alone. He stepped down from his stool, set his paper and charcoal stick on the counter, and faced the two Sabirn. Should he tell them about the necromancer who had been hanged, and warn Kekoja to keep very quiet? No. Tomorrow. It was quite obvious Old Man and his grandson wished to leave.

  "When you come to work tomorrow, remind me to tell you something," Duran said to Kekoja. "It's important, but it will keep."

  "Aye."

  Duran watched from his doorstep as Old Man and Kekoja walked across the street. Then, just as he started to turn away, he noticed two men standing in the shelter of the building across the alleyway. Dog joined him at the doorway, growled softly, and sniffed in the newcomers' direction.

  "Old Man," one of the men called out softly. "It's us."

  Brovor, returned with his companion for another treatment.

  Aside from the one time Brovor had let Duran know he recognized him, no one had mentioned names again. Duran's estimation of the heir had gone up; the young lord had not missed one night of coming for his medicine, though it meant going out in the rain and visiting a section of town he otherwise might never have frequented. It must have been difficult for Brovor to get away from the palace every night. But fear was a great motivator, and if getting the pox kept Brovor away from the whores, the lad might have learned a lesson.