Swords & Dark Magic (15 page)

I’m
really
not here,
he sent, heart pounding. But a hand snaked out and grabbed the front of his shirt.

“Magician,” the fugitive said.

“Not me!” Willem protested, and backed up, pulling his shirt and himself and the loaf of day-old bread free of that grip. He sent very, very hard:
I was never here!

The man looked confused for a moment, and that was enough. Willem ran for it, clutching the loaf of bread and feeling in his belt-pouch for one of the paper freeze-spells, in case.

The man was following him. But the Alley had twists, and out of sight was enough. Willem stopped with his back against grimy stone, and his feet amid blown debris, next to the potter’s steps.

Lost him. By now the only doorway the man would see was the one that had let him into the alley, and that was Wiggy’s place, where the guards were. So the man would stay there a while, and then go back up into the Merry Ox, and presumably get out and away for good.

It was a narrow escape. Really narrow. And going back to the Merry Ox right now to finish up business for the day was not a good idea. Hersey was going to be upset, Wiggy was, and they wouldn’t be in a bargaining mood, especially if the duke’s men had broken up the furniture.

And especially if the stranger came traipsing back through the bar wanting to be served.

No, it was a good time to be home, and home was two more bends down the Alley.

It was a relief, the solid sound of the door and the bar dropped—thunk!—into its slot. Willem drew his first whole breath.

But looking around at the occupants of the little house, all sitting by the fire, with its scant pot of yesterday’s beans—

Willem raked a hand through his hair. He was sweating. He had run the last block, to make sure there was no way the man could have overtaken him to spot another hole in his defense. And the faces arrayed around that waiting fireside mirrored his, in his disarray.

“Nobody followed me,” he said, first off, with a wave of his hand. “I didn’t lose the spells.” That was second. “Trouble got into the Alley and I’m sure it’s out again, by now.” Unless the duke’s men had stayed to swill down Wiggy’s warm beer and stranded the armored fellow out in the Alley for an hour or two. Neither side was going to be happy in that transaction.

“I brought bread,” he said, and admitted the truth. “I didn’t get down to trading with Hersey.” The usual pay was the butt end and bones of whatever roast or fowl Wiggy had been parsing out to his customers. And it made a big difference in supper. “And Melenne, well, this isn’t one of her best, but it’s solid.” A lot of flour was in that loaf. He took the two pieces of it out of his shirt, which it had blacked with its charred end, and it weighed like two bricks. “We might want to just add that to the beans.”

Two glum faces—Almore and Jezzy—greeted that suggestion; and one kind forgiveness—that was Master Cazimir, who tolerated everything.

“We can toast it, at least,” Jezzy said.

“Looks as if it’s
been
toasted,” Almore said glumly. “Twice.”

“Now, now,” Master said. “With the beans and all, it should be substantial, and maybe we can conjure up a taste of butter.”

Conjure was it, for sure: a taste, but no substance. Master could still do the butter trick, and occasionally toasted cheese. But Master wasn’t himself lately. He looked weary, and he forgot things, and occasionally his spells went astray…it was no sure thing that the taste Master conjured would be butter, but no one mentioned the last time.

Nobody said
anything
about the last time.

“I didn’t lose the papers,” Willem said. “I’ll go out early, before daylight. I’ll go back to the tavern. They’ll buy. And I’ll bring back breakfast, with maybe a bit of coin.”

“Coin!”

“Well, maybe a pot I can turn for coin. Ratty’s going to fire the kilns this week. That’s a long firing, for sure. That’s worth a pot.” He took the big knife from the cutting board—cook had run off with Master’s silver, but left the cutlery—and Master, being the kind heart he was, hadn’t cursed it, just contented himself with the knives, which were useful.

A little silver would have been useful, long since. But things were as they were. They survived, in their little pocket of an Alley. Things had nearly gone wrong today, but they’d toast the bread, Master would conjure butter, and they’d have beans to fill out the corners, with water to drink. There was always that.

And after dinner there were lessons. The day was long and they worked at whatever there was to do, carrying wood and water, selling spells where it was safe—a narrow, risky market, that, since spells could give them away: the duke’s wizard, for one, was always sniffing about—

But in the late evening, after dinner, Master would get into his Book, and read to the three of them, and tell them about philosophy and spells and charms. Master lately never remembered where he had stopped—reading the Book was less about reading words than about the symbols in it, and Master explaining how they fit together—but they could scratch a meaning out of it, and Almore in particular kept asking about the fire mark and how to make it longer and longer and steady, and the last three evenings Master had been mostly on topic, which had Almore in a froth of earnestness on fire signs.

“If I can get a fire to hold on,” Almore had said to Willem, “and keep being just as hot, and quit exactly when you want—”

“Ratty’s kiln,” Willem had said, figuring that. Every potter, every cook, every smith in town would want
that
one…

Which argued that nobody had ever been able to make a charm like that, or it would already be in the Book, wouldn’t it?

But Almore had his dreams, and he was going to get Fire and Time to behave themselves, and they were all going to be rich. If they were rich, they could smuggle Master out of this city and get over to Korianth, where there
wasn’t
a duke and a wizard trying to find Master and kill him.

Well, it was worth wishing for. But illusions didn’t do any good at making things happen; and of Master’s three students, the only one who could call himself a journeyman magician was him.

Which meant the best of Master’s students could just barely make the duke’s men think they were in a narrow alley with no other doors.

It was important when you had to do it, but it didn’t put bread on the table. Only the two apprentices could do that.

The secrets of the Fire and the Time sigils didn’t appear this night. Master nodded off in the middle of the explication of first binding marks, and didn’t even finish his bread, which was the best end of the loaf, to boot.

Master’s three students sat there eyeing the half-eaten piece of bread, and thinking unworthy thoughts that maybe Master wouldn’t miss it, except Jezzy, who was goodhearted, got up and wrapped the heel of bread in a cloth and put it away in the cupboard for Master’s breakfast.

And it stayed there. Willem was sure of that. He would have known if Almore had gotten up in the night. Nobody did, but he got up before daylight, put his clothes to rights, put on his boots, checked the little pouch of papers that was his stock in trade, and nudged up the bar on the door, so that it would fall down and lock the door behind him. He held it, slipped past the door edge, and was just halfway out the door and into the Alley…

A shadow rose up right next to him, and a hard hand seized his arm.

“Got you!” a man’s voice said.

He struggled. He struggled at first to get back inside and then fought to get outside and let the door shut, but first he couldn’t break the grip and then his struggling made him let go the bar, so when the door swung to, the bar stopped it from closing.

A second iron grip seized the front of his jerkin and shoved him against the wall beside the door as, inside, Jezzy called out:

“What’s going on?”

“Shut the door!” Willem yelled. He never shouted in the Alley. But the man who had hold of him shoved him toward the door and must have hooked the door edge with his foot, because he shoved him right in, where it was dark, and where there was only an old man and two boys holding the place.

“Magician,” the stranger said, letting go Willem’s arm, but keeping a grip on Willem’s throat. “I’m looking for Cazimir Eisal.”

“I’m the one,” Master said, out of the dark. “Light a lamp, boy. And let go of my student.”

“Thought so,” the stranger said, and didn’t let go. Willem took hold of a hand like iron—used both his hands, trying to disengage that grip, and had no luck.

Almore had a straw and a lamp down by the banked fire in the hearth. That took, and a faint, single wick gave them more light than they’d had. Two wicks, and three—it was a three-sided lamp, and Willem saw the face that stared straight at Master—
he
seemed forgotten, merely a thing the stranger was determined to hold on to.

But the stranger didn’t have a weapon drawn. He had several—a dagger in his belt, with knuckle-loops, for infighting; and a longsword, and well-worn armor, and the glimmer of chain at the sleeves. The man smelled of sweat and woodsmoke and all outdoors—not a city smell.

“Master Cazimir,” the man said quietly, respectfully, while still close to strangling Willem. “It is you.”

“Certainly it is,” Master said. “It has been. It will be.”

“Tewkmannon. Fyllia’s son.”

“Fyllia,” Cazimir said. That was the old duchess’s name. And he was much too young, a fool could see that, even while he was strangling. “Fyllia’s dead.”

“The
other
Fyllia,” the man said, this Tewkmannon. “Duchess Fyllia’s niece. She’s dead, too. I’m here for Jindus. Grey Raisses said you were the one to talk to.”

“Raisses. Raisses.” Master looked overwhelmed, and gripped the table edge and sank onto the bench. He was in his nightdress, his gray beard was straggling, his hair was on end, and he didn’t have the belt that kept the robes in order.

“Please,” Willem said, prying at the hand that held him, and this Tewkmannon looked at him as if he’d just remembered he had something he didn’t need, and then let him go.

Willem straightened his shirt and went and got Master his staff: it was Master’s one weapon, and Willem put it next to his hand and stood there. He had a knife in his boot. That was all. And the two boys had the ladle and the cooking pot, such weapons as they were. But they were nothing against this man, if Master and he came at odds.

“I’m here for Jindus,” Tewkmannon said. “The bastard.”

He didn’t like Jindus. That was good. But
here for Jindus
? That didn’t sound good at all.

“All we have is water,” Master said in a thin, faint voice. “Not a crust of bread, else.”

“There’s a heel left,” Jezzy said, not too brightly.

“I don’t think he’d want it,” Willem muttered. “Master’s an old man, sir. M’lord.” They’d been talking about the old duchess, and kinship, and maybe that was due. “He’s sick.”

“Done for,” Master said.

Tewkmannon asked: “Is it Miphrynes?”

“We don’t mention that name here,” Willem said in a voice he’d hoped would come out strong and forbidding.

“Miphrynes,” Tewkmannon said again. “That black crow.”

“Vulture’s more apt,” Master said under his breath. “I can’t hold him. He won’t come in here. Knows I’m here. I’m sure he knows I’m here. I’m not worth it to him. He knows I can’t do anything. And I
can’t.
He’s got all the upper town.”

They’d never heard Master talk this way. They didn’t talk about the duke’s wizard. They didn’t talk about the things he did in the high town. But they knew as an article of faith that Master didn’t let him come into the lower town. Miphrynes was
afraid
of Master. Left him alone.

While Master got older, and sicker, by the year.

“It’s too late. You’re too late…
What’s
your name?”

“Tewk.” Tewkmannon sank down on the bench at the opposite corner of the table, one hand resting on the scarred tabletop. “Tewk will do. Fyllia’s son.” Now Tewkmannon sounded as if he’d run out of breath in a long, long climb. “It’s that bad, is it?”

“My rival,” Master said, “probably guesses this place exists—in some form. But my students are gone, all but these three. This is all there are.”

For the first time Tewkmannon looked directly at Willem, and then at Almore and Jezzy, and Willem stood there in the realization he was a disappointment to Master and to everybody else in some way he’d never even guessed existed.

It hurt. He didn’t know who Tewkmannon was to make him feel like that. But he wished he could do things he didn’t even guess the name of. And knew he couldn’t.

“The kid can throw an illusion,” Tewkmannon said. “He’s pretty good.”

“He is,” Master said. “Almore’s a pyromant and Jezzy’s a beast-talker—if they live to grow up. If you can wait that long. Who sent you?”

A moment of silence followed. Then Tewk said: “Korianth.” With a directional nod, as if he was talking about the potter’s down the block. “King Osric’s got the force now. Got an army ready to move.”

“Folly, at this point,” Master said. “Jindus isn’t your problem. His hire-ons—they suck up the gold his tax collector bleeds out of the town—and when the town stops bleeding, Jindus as he is will be done. He’s not the problem.”

“This wizard of his.”

“He’s the problem. Jindus is just a convenience, while our enemy gathers the real power.” Master coughed, and went on coughing for a moment. Jezzy moved fast and got him a cup of water. Master drank it.

“What real power?” Tewk asked.

“Demon,” Master said, on his first good breath, and that word spread a chill through the air. Tewk sat back. And Master just shook his head wearily. “Soon enough, it won’t be just gold this town bleeds. It’s here. It’s already
here
.”

Tewk drew back and sat up. “We’ve got a problem.”

“Oh, a big problem,” Master said, and tapped the scarred table with a long, gnarled finger, making little sounds that was Master trying not to cough. “You’re here to kill Jindus. Good luck. But it won’t solve your problem. These youngsters…they can’t. I don’t know if I can. But here’s what I know. It’s not manifested. It’s
here,
up in the fortress, but it’s not here, down in the town, you understand me. I don’t think it can hear us. I’m betting heavily it can’t. He’s containing it, mostly, but it sends fingers out, sometimes a lot more of itself. I think—I’m not sure—” Another fit of coughing and a sip of water. “I’m betting Miphrynes is aiming it right for Jindus when it manifests. Big man. Strong. Attractive. Virile, frankly, capable of siring descendants, and that particular demon is a prolific bastard.”