The Wiz Biz (22 page)
Authors: Rick Cook
“But you promised,” the mirror said soundlessly.
That stopped him. To these people promises were something important. You kept your promises here because they had a force more binding than contracts on his home world.
People were so much more
sincere,
so much more
real
here. Surrounded by magic and the stuff of fantasy the people were more intensely human than the people he had known at home.
Or was it just that he cared more about them? He did, he realized. Not just Moira, but Shiara and Ugo, too. Even the tiny unseen folk of the forest.
He’d hurt them by betraying their trust and that, in turn, had hurt him. He was unhappy here so he’d tried to do what he always did—take refuge in technical things, to bury himself in not-people. Only this time it had only involved him more closely with the people around him.
Slowly, slowly, William Irving Zumwalt began to think about what it meant to consider other people’s feelings.
Perhaps he was right about the magic language. But that didn’t make what he had done right. Magic wasn’t a computer system where he had the expertise to follow up his idea.
What was it one of his professors used to say?
Always use the right tool for the job.
The right tool to repair a television set is a television repairman. The right tool for this job was a wizard. He should have talked to Bal-Simba or one of the other Mighty and let them follow through. But he had wanted to be somebody here so he had charged ahead like some damn user with a bright idea. And very predictably he had screwed things up and caused a lot of people trouble.
Let’s face it. I’m not a magician and I never will be. I can’t be anything special here. I’m just me and I have to live with that and make the best of it.
Bal-Simba had said that too. The black giant was wise in ways more than magic.
So no more magic,
Wiz resolved firmly.
I’ll explain my idea and that will be the end of it. Then I’ll chop the wood and learn to live as best I can. Perhaps someday, they’ll forgive me for what I did. In the meantime . . .
He grinned.
In the meantime, I accept being a sparrow and quit trying to be an eagle.
He looked at the mirror. But all he saw was the dim reflection of a moonlit window and he heard nothing at all.
Wiz rose from his chair, drained, exhausted and his knees aching from sitting in one place too long.
Time for bed,
he thought.
Way past time. You’ve got a life to build tomorrow.
There was a “whoosh” overhead followed by several bumps on the roof.
A confused bat?
He hesitated, then picked his cloak off the chair and went into the hall. It was doubtful anyone else had heard and he wanted to see what the noise was.
His shoes padded lightly on the stone corridor. All the castle was deathly still. He heard no more thumps. At the end of the corridor was a short flight of stone steps to the roof door. Wiz put his foot on the first step up.
The door burst inward with a crash and black-clad warriors poured down on him. Too stunned to shout, Wiz flinched back from the black apparitions.
He found himself staring into merciless dark eyes and felt the prick of a dagger at his throat. He was forced back roughly against the wall and held as the rest of the storming party rushed by, but otherwise he was unharmed.
The Shadow Warriors’ orders were explicit seize the magicians and burn the castle. Whether the other inhabitants lived or died was not in their orders and was thus of little concern to them. Wiz was subdued and silent, so he lived.
The Shadow Captain spared a long searching glance for the prisoner as he went by. The man so expertly pinned against the wall was peculiar, but he was clearly not a magician. There was neither trace nor taint of magic about him.
It never occurred to the Shadow Captain that someone might be working magic second-hand or that there was no more reason to expect a magic sign on such a one than to expect machine oil on the clothes of a programmer who wrote control software for industrial robots. The notion was so utterly alien that Toth-Set-Ra himself had not considered it. The Captain’s orders covered only magicians.
Swiftly and silently, the assault force padded down the stairs. In teams of two and three, warriors checked every room on every level, but the vanguard never slowed. Wiz was dragged along by a knot of Shadow Warriors to the rear of the party.
They were down on the second level when they met their first opposition. It was Ugo, coming up the stairs with a tray balanced on one hand and a branch of candles in a candelabra in the other.
The Shadow Warriors flattened against the wall as the flickering light preceded the wood goblin onto the landing. When he reached the top of the stairs the warriors closed in.
Unlike the human, Ugo did not freeze when the black shapes came out at him out of the shadows. With a roar he threw the tray at the closest men and rushed the others brandishing the heavy brass candelabra. He made three steps before a blade lashed out. The wood goblin gasped, staggered and took two more steps toward the Shadow Warriors. This time three blades licked evilly in the candlelight and Ugo shuddered and fell. The candles flickered out on the cold stone floor.
The door on the landing flew open and Shiara and Moira appeared, outlined by the hearth fire in the room behind them.
“Ugo. What . . . ?” Moira gasped at the sight of armed men in the hall and tried to slam the door, but the warriors bounded forward, pushing the women back into the room.
Instinctively, Wiz tried to break free of the warriors holding him.
“Wiz!” Moira screamed as she saw a knife flash high and then descend at his back, but the warrior had flipped the blade so he struck only with the heavy pommel. Wiz collapsed instantly, held up only by the warriors.
The Captain’s gaze flicked about the room. The one on the floor was not a magician. He knew of the white-haired one and confirmed that she was not practicing magic. That left the shorter red-haired woman and she was definitely a magician. He gestured and his men closed in on her.
If it had been in the Shadow Captain’s nature to question orders he might well have questioned this one. However Shadow Warriors exist to obey, not question.
“Sparrow? Wiz?” Shiara asked plaintively. “Moira what have they done to Sparrow?”
But Moira did not answer. Three warriors closed in on her and Moira screamed and struggled in their grasp. Wiz lay like a sack on the floor and Shiara stood helpless, groping about her. Then one of the warriors broke a seed pod under Moira’s nose. She inhaled the dark, flourlike dust and sagged unconscious.
At a gesture from their leader, the Shadow Warriors turned and filed out of the room. Two of them carried Moira and two more stood in the door menacing the unconscious man and the blind woman lest they should try to follow. Then they too turned and ran fleetly down the stairs.
As they passed through the great hall, the last of the Shadow Warriors tossed small earthen pots in behind them. The pots shattered against the walls and floor and burst into searing, blazing flame that clung and clawed its way up the wooden beams.
The wood was dry and well-seasoned. The flames ran across the painted rafters and leaped into the shingles. The hangings caught and flared up as well.
###
“Lord, they’re pulling back!” the Watcher sang out. Bal-Simba scowled and shifted on his high seat. To his left the magicians continued their mumbling and gestures.
The runes of fire on the wall told the tale. The League forces were veering off, turning away to the south. Here and there the skirmishes continued as forces too closely engaged to break off fought it out. A few Northerners pursued, but cautiously, aware that every league to the south strengthened their opponents’ magics and weakened their own.
Even the clouding magic was ebbing away.
“What damage?” Bal-Simba asked. Down in the pit a talker passed her hands over her crystal again and her lips moved silently.
“Three villages burned, Lord. Alton, Marshmere and Willow-by-the-Sea. A hard fight at Wildflower Meadows where a band of trolls gained the wall and torched some houses. There are others but I cannot see clearly yet. And the battle casualties, of course.” She shrugged. The last were not her concern.
Bal-Simba frowned. “Little. Surprisingly little for such an effort.”
Arianne looked up tiredly. “We were too strong for them,” she said.
“Or they did not push too strongly,” the High Lord said half to himself. He turned quickly to his talker.
“Get reports from all the land. I want to know what else has happened.”
“Isn’t this enough Lord?” asked Arianne.
“No,” Bal-Simba told his apprentice grimly. “It is not nearly enough. I would learn the rest of the price we paid this night.”
###
“Sparrow? Sparrow.” Dimly and faintly Wiz heard Moira’s voice calling from a great distance. He stirred, but his head hurt terribly and he just wanted to sleep.
“Sparrow, wake up, please.” Moira’s voice? No. Shiara’s. He was laying on the floor and there was smoke in the air. He pushed himself to his hands and knees. His head spun from the effort.
Shiara helped him stand. “Quickly,” she said. “We must leave.”
“Moira?” Wiz asked weakly.
“Outside! Hurry.”
“I won’t leave Moira.”
“She’s not here. Now outside.” Wiz clasped her hand in his and started for the door.
As he led the way down the stairs he stumbled on a small limp form in front of the stairway.
“It’s Ugo,” he said, bending down. He gasped as he saw the horrible gaping wound that nearly severed the goblin’s head from his shoulders.
Shiara knelt and moved between him and the body. She gently cradled it in her arms and the ends of her long silver hair turned dark and sodden where they touched the goblin’s breast.
“Oh, Ugo, Ugo,” she crooned. “I brought you so far and for so little.” By the flickering orange light Wiz could see the tears streak her face.
“He’s dead, Lady.” A fierce, hot gust brought choking gray straw smoke and the pungent odor of burning pine up the stairwell. “Come, Lady,” Wiz tugged at her sleeve. “Come on. We’ve got to get out of here.”
Shiara raised her head. “Yes,” she said. “Yes we must.” She picked up Ugo’s body, supporting the nearly severed head with one hand, cradling him as if he were a baby. For the first time Wiz realized how small the goblin had been.
With Wiz leading, they groped down the stairs, gasping in the heat and blinking from the thick smoke. Wiz guided Shiara through the blazing Great Hall, past the overturned furniture and patches where the floor burned fiercely. As they skirted along one wall, they passed the window seat. Wiz saw that the chair he had moved so long ago lay on its side roughly where he had dragged it.
They picked their way over the shattered remains of the door and out into the courtyard. The cold night air was like balm on their faces and they sucked great, gasping lungfuls, coughing and hacking up dark mucus that reeked of smoke.
Behind them the flames consumed Heart’s Ease and shot high into the sky, grasping for the pitiless stars.
Eleven: Hacking Back
Heart’s Ease burned the whole night through. Far into the bleak winter morning sudden tongues of flame leapt from the ruins as the rubble shifted and the embers found fresh fuel. The walls stood, black and grim, but a little before dawn the roof crashed in, carrying with it what was left of the floors. There was nothing to do but stand aside and watch the flames. There was no help for Heart’s Ease.
Shiara buried Ugo, refusing Wiz’s offer of aid. Wiz didn’t press. He sat alone, wrapped in Shiara’s smoke-stained blue velvet cloak, utterly filled with pain and misery. Not even the chill of the stone beneath him penetrated.
It was mid-morning when Bal-Simba arrived. He came upon the Wizard’s Way, accompanied by a party of armed and armored guardsmen who quickly spread out to search for any of the League’s servants who might remain. The wizard closeted himself with Shiara for the rest of the day.
Wiz barely noticed. About noon he got up from his rock and returned to the tiny stable workroom in the clearing outside the palisade. It was almost evening when Bal-Simba found him there.
“You will be leaving Heart’s Ease,” he told Wiz gently. “There is nothing left worth staying for. The Lady Shiara has agreed to accept accommodation closer to the Capital and you will live in the Wizard’s Keep itself. There is no longer any point in trying to hide you, it seems.”
Wiz just nodded mutely.
“Shiara has told me what happened yesterday,” he went on. “I hope you learned from it.” He paused. “I am sorry the lesson had to be taught at such great cost,” he said more gently.
Wiz said nothing. There was nothing to say. Bal-Simba waited, as if expecting some reply.
“What about Moira?” Wiz asked at last.
“Most likely she was stolen away for questioning in the City of Night. The raid here was masked by a whole series of attacks all along our southern perimeter. It seems the League has a powerful interest in your kind of magic so I would expect she will be taken to their citadel for interrogation.”
“Shiara said it was me they were after,” Wiz said miserably.
“Most likely. The League has been tearing the North apart seeking knowledge of you ever since you were Summoned. When your actions drew their attention here they came looking for a magician and Moira was the only one they could find.”
“What will they do with Moira?”
Bal-Simba hesitated. “For now, nothing. The Shadow Warriors are fierce and cruel, but they are disciplined. Doubtless their orders are to bring her alive and unhurt to their master.”
“And then?”
Bal-Simba looked grave and sad. “Then they will find out what they wish to know. You do not want the details.”
“We’ve got to get her back!”
“We are searching,” Bal-Simba said. “The Watchers have been scouring the plenum for trace of her. Our dragon riders patrol as far south as they dare. We have sent word to all the villages of the North and searchers have gone out.”
“Can they find her?”
Bal-Simba hesitated. “I will not lie to you, Sparrow. It will be difficult. The Shadow Warriors use little magic and they are masters of stealth. We are doing everything we can.”
“But you don’t think they’ll find her.” It was a statement, not a question.
“I said it would be difficult,” Bal-Simba sighed. “The Shadow Warriors may already be upon the Freshened Sea, or even back in the City of Night itself. If that is so, she is lost. We only know they did not transport her magically.”
“We’ll have to go get her! We can’t let them have her.”
Bal-Simba sighed again and for the first time since Wiz had known him, he appeared mortal—tired and defeated.
“I’m sorry Sparrow. Even if she is already upon the sea there is nothing we can do.”
Rage rose up in Wiz, burning away the guilt and grief. “Maybe there’s nothing you can do, but there’s something
I
can do.”
“What is that?”
Wiz interlaced his fingers and cracked his knuckles. “I’m gonna hack the system,” he said smiling in a manner that was not at all pleasant.
“Eh?”
“Those sons of bitches want magic? All right. I’ll
give
them magic. I’ll give them magic like they’ve never seen before!”
“It is a little late to start your apprenticeship, Sparrow,” Bal-Simba said gravely.
“Apprenticeship be damned!” Said Wiz, taking slight satisfaction at the way the wizard started at the blasphemy. “I’ve spent the last five months building tools. I’ve got an interpreter, an editor, a cross-reference generator and even a syntax checker. They’re kludgier than shit, but I can make them do what I need. They didn’t call me Wiz for nothing!”
“Remember what happened the last time you tried.”
Wiz’s face twisted. “You think I’m likely to forget?” He shook his head. “No, I know now what I did wrong. I knew it then, really. The next time I call up a hurricane it will be on purpose.”
“Will you then compound your folly?” Bal-Simba asked sternly. “Will you add fresh scars to the land just to satisfy your anger?”
“Will you get Moira back any other way?” Wiz countered.
The Wizard was silent and Wiz turned back to the wooden tablets scattered over the rude table.
“Hurting us further would be an ill way to repay our hospitality to you,” Bal-Simba said.
Wiz whirled to face him. “Look,” he snapped. “So far your ‘hospitality’ has consisted of kidnapping me, making me fall in love with someone who hates me, getting me chased by more damn monsters than I ever imagined and nearly getting me killed I don’t know how many times. When you get right down to it, I don’t see that I owe you much of anything.”
He glared, at Bal-Simba, challenging him to deny it, but the giant black Wizard said nothing.
“There’s another thing,” he went on. “You’re so damn worried about the effects of magic on your world. Well, your world is dying! Every year you’re pushed further back. It’s not just the League. There’s Wild Wood too. How long do you think you have before the whole North is gone? Do you really have anything to lose?
“All right, maybe I’ll screw it up again.” He blinked back the tears that were welling up in his eyes. “I’ve done nothing but screw things up since I got here. Maybe I’ll make that scar on the land you keep talking about. But dammit! At least I’ll go out trying.”
“There’s no maybe about it,” Bal-Simba said sharply. “You will ‘screw it up.’ You have no magical aptitude and no training. At best you can destroy uncontrolled.”
“Patrius didn’t think so,” Wiz shot back. He turned to his tablets again.
“I could forbid you,” Bal-Simba said in a measuring tone.
“You could,” Wiz said neutrally. “But you’d have to enforce it.”
Bal-Simba looked at him and Wiz stayed hunched over the tablets.
“I will do this much,” he said finally. “I will not forbid you. I will not commit the resources of the North to this madness, but I will send word to watch and be ready. If by some chance you do discomfit the League, we will make what use of it seems appropriate.”
Wiz didn’t turn around. “Okay. Thanks.”
“I will arrange for some protection for you in case the Shadow Warriors return. I will also pass word for everyone to avoid this place. I think you will scar the land and kill yourself unpleasantly in the process.”
“Probably.”
Bal-Simba sighed. “Losing a loved one is a terrible thing.”
Wiz grinned mirthlessly, not looking up. “Even that wasn’t a free choice.”
“Love is always a free choice, Sparrow. Even where there’s magic.”
Wiz shrugged and Bal-Simba strode to the door of the hut. The black giant paused with his hand on the doorjamb.
“You’ve changed, Sparrow.”
“Yeah. Well, that happens.”
Wiz did not see Bal-Simba leave. He stayed in the hut most of the day, scrawling on wooden tablets with bits of charcoal. Twice he had to go out to split logs into shingles for more tablets.
The second time he went to the woodpile, Shiara approached him.
“They tell me you will make magic against the League,” Shiara said.
Wiz selected a length of log and stood it upright on the chopping stump. “Yep.”
“It is lunacy. You will only bring your ruin.”
Wiz said nothing. He raised the axe and brought it down hard. The log cleaved smoothly under the blade’s bite.
“Where will you work?”
Wiz rested the axe and turned to her. “Here, Lady. I figure it’s safe enough and it seems appropriate.”
“You will need help.”
He hefted the axe and turned to the billet. “I can manage alone.”
He raised the axe above his head and Shiara spoke again. “Would it go better if I were here for—ah—a core dump?”
Wiz started, the axe wobbled and the log went flying. “You’d do that? After what happened?”
“I would.”
“Why? I mean, uh . . .”
“Why? Simple. You mean to strike at the League for what they did here when even Bal-Simba himself tells us we can do nothing. I owe the League much, and I would hazard much to repay a small part of that debt.”
“It will be dangerous, Lady. Most of what you said about this thing is true. It’s a kludge and it’s full of bugs. I could kill us both.”
For the first time since Wiz had known her, Shiara the Silver laughed. Not a smile or a chuckle, but a rich, full-throated laugh, as bright and shining as her name.
“My innocent, I died a long time ago. My life passed with my magic, my sight and Cormac. The chance of dying against the chance of striking at the League is no hazard at all.”
She glowed as bright and bold as the full moon on Mid-Summer’s Eve and held out her hand to Wiz. “Come Sparrow. We go to war.”
###
Donal and Kenneth entered Bal-Simba’s study quietly, respectfully and with not a little trepidation. It was not every day that the Mightiest of the North summoned two ordinary guardsmen and even Donal’s naturally sanguine disposition didn’t lead him to believe that the wizard wanted to discuss the weather.
“I have a service it would please me to have done,” Bal-Simba rumbled.
“Command us, Lord,” said Kenneth, mentally bracing for it.
“That I cannot do,” Bal-Simba told them. “This service carries a risk I would not order assumed.”
Oh Fortuna, we’re in for it now!
thought Kenneth. Out of the corner of his eye he saw that Donal looked unusually serious.
“May we ask the nature of this service?”
“There is a Sparrow whose nest needs guarding,” Bal-Simba told them.
###
“Have you got any tea?” Wiz asked Shiara. They were sitting by the fire in the hut which had been the kitchen and was now their home. Both of them were hoarse from talking and Wiz was surrounded by a litter of wooden shingles with marks scrawled on them in charcoal.
“Herbs steeped in hot water? Are you ill?”
“No, I mean a drink that give you a lift, helps you stay awake.”
Shiara’s brow furrowed. “There is black moss tea. I used to use it when I was standing vigil. But it is vile stuff.”
“Do you have any?”
“In the larder, if it was not burned,” she told him.
The tea was in a round birchbark box which had been scorched but not consumed. Wiz put a pot to boil on the hearth and watched as Shiara skillfully measured several spoonsful of the dried mixture into the hot water. The stuff looked like stable sweepings but he said nothing.
Shiara preferred the cup and Wiz took a gulp. It was brown as swamp water, so pungent it stung the nose and bitter enough to curl the tongue even with the honey Shiara had added.
“Gaaahhh,” Wiz said, squinching his eyes tight shut and shaking his head.
“I told you it was vile,” Shiara said sympathetically.
Wiz shook his head again, opened his eyes and exhaled a long breath. “Whooo! Now that’s programmer fuel! Lady, if we could get this stuff back to my world, we’d make a fortune. Jolt Cola’s for woosies!”
“That is what you wanted?” Shiara said in surprise.
“That’s exactly what I wanted. Now let’s let it steep some more and get back to work.”
###
Bal-Simba’s guardsmen showed up the next day. They were a matched set: Dark-haired, blue eyed and tough enough to bite the heads off nails for breakfast. Kenneth, the taller of the pair, carried a six-foot bow everywhere he went and Donal, the shorter, less morose one, was never far from his two-handed sword. In another world, Wiz would have crossed the street to avoid either of them, but here they were very comforting to have around.
With their help, Wiz moved his things out of the old stable and into one of the buildings in the compound. The accommodations were not much of an improvement, but it was closer to the huts where they now lived and Shiara could come to it more easily to advise him.
###
“What do you think of this Sparrow?” Donal asked Kenneth one night in the hut they shared. Kenneth looked up from the boot knife he was whetting. “I think he’s going to get us all killed or worse.”
“The Lady trusts him.”
“The Lady, honor to her name, hasn’t been right in the head since Cormac died,” Kenneth said. “That’s why she’s been living out here. Even for a magician she’s odd.”
“Not half as odd as the sparrow,” said Donal. “I don’t think he’s slept in three days. He sits in there swilling that foul brew and muttering to himself.”
“He’s a wizard,” pronounced Kenneth as if that explained everything. “All wizards are cracked.”
“They say he’s not a wizard,” said Donal. “They say he’s something else.”
“That’s all the world needs,” Kenneth said. “Something else that works magic. I say he’s a wizard and I’ll be damned surprised if we come out of this one whole.”
“Well,” said Donal as he stretched out on the straw tick, “at least he keeps things interesting.”
“So does plague, pox and an infestation of trolls,” said Kenneth, replacing the knife in his boot.
###
Toth-Set-Ra sat on his raised seat in the League’s chantry and heard the reports of his underlings. The great mullioned windows let in the weak winter’s light to puddle on the floor. Magical lanterns hung from the walls provided most of the light that glinted off apparatus on the workbenches. Seated at a long table at his feet were the dozen most powerful sorcerers of the Dark League. Atros sat at his right. The Keeper of the Sea of Scrying was just finishing his report.
