The Unwelcome Warlock

Chapter Thirteen

Hanner’s feet hurt, and he was horribly cold, chilled through and through, as he sat on the bare ground; there wasn’t enough fuel handy to keep more than a few fires going, and the young, the old, and the injured were given priority in crowding around those few – even, gruesomely, the pyre of that poor half-eaten person, whoever he was. The theurgists never had managed to contact Tarma or Konned, the witches were still busy with healing and calming, and the wizards had devoted their efforts to planning and transportation, rather than warmth.

Hanner wished the wizards had brought out a few better theurgists, as well as tapestries and bureaucrats; the handful of theurgists who had been Called warlocks had not accomplished anything at all after their initial success with Piskor the Generous. Not only would Tarma or Konned have been useful, but Alladia said that Asham the Gate-Keeper could get everyone home quickly. Unfortunately, it would take a really top-level theurgist to invoke him. If the wizards had found a theurgist like that, it would have been lovely. They hadn’t, so most of the throng of former warlocks was still here, sitting and waiting, cold and hungry. Rudhira was huddled against Hanner, shivering; that pretty white tunic of hers was not warm enough for this weather.

It wasn’t very white any more, either, after this stay in the wilderness.

Still, everyone was doing what they could, and progress was being made. Hundreds of people had been sent safely off to Ethshar of the Rocks and Ethshar of the Sands; the magical tapestries were hanging from sturdy frames, and a half-dozen apprentices were checking names, dates, and addresses before allowing anyone to touch them. Sensella of Morningside, having been the very last arrival from Ethshar of the Sands, had been one of the very first to go.

It was startling, watching the tapestries in action. A person would give his or her name to the apprentices, who would write it down. He would give his last address, so that the apprentices could check it against their maps and make sure the person actually knew the city he claimed to live in, and then the date of his Calling. One of the apprentices would then ask a question or two about the news of the day for that time, to make sure the earlier warlocks weren’t trying to sneak in ahead of their proper place.

When the apprentices were satisfied, they would move aside, and the applicant would step forward and touch the tapestry.

And then the applicant was simply gone – there was no transition, no flash, no bang, no fade or flicker or whoosh or whisper, the person just wasn’t there anymore. The eye didn’t want to accept it; it was almost easier to believe the person had never been there at all. The heavily-trampled ground in front of the tapestry was as empty as ever.

Whereupon the apprentices would let the next one through, and the scene would repeat.

Hanner hoped very much that the wizards were telling the truth, and that those people had indeed been transported instantaneously to the right places. He knew that Transporting Tapestries were real, obviously, since he had commissioned a pair of his own, but he had no proof that these two were really taking people to their alleged destinations; the rooms depicted on them could have been anywhere. He couldn’t think of any reason the wizards would lie about it, but you never knew, with wizards.

If they were going to lie, though, they would probably have claimed one of the tapestries led to Ethshar of the Spices, since there were more people who wanted to go there than to either of the others. As yet, no third tapestry had arrived, any more than had Asham the Gate-Keeper.

Someone was making another announcement in Sardironese, but Hanner had stopped listening to those. The Council of Barons kept sending out decrees, and then changing their minds an hour or two later. Rayel and Fanria had gone to join several of the other Sardironese in the group clustered around the wizard relaying the news.

The Baron of Aldagmor was definitely willing to accept refugees, whether the rest of the Council did or not, but no one had a tapestry to anywhere in his domain – at least, no one would admit to having one available to lend; Hanner suspected there were a few stashed away somewhere that their owners preferred not to display. In the absence of a tapestry plans were being made to use flying carpets, or some other magical method, or even just a wagon train to get some of the crowd safely past the dragons to his keep.

Hanner turned his head and craned his neck, peering off to the southwest; that was the direction most of the would-be settlers had gone. An entire carpet of bureaucrats, wooden stakes, strips of colored cloth to use as markers, and pre-prepared, half-written deeds had arrived an hour ago, to assist in claiming land, and that maroon-clad woman had led the bureaucrats and a couple of hundred former warlocks off to start choosing homesteads. Hanner would have preferred it if the wizards had sent a carpet loaded with food, blankets, or firewood, rather than property markers, but no one had asked him.

He had to admit, though, that the Wizards’ Guild and the overlord’s bureaucrats had done an impressive job of organizing a rescue effort. There was still plenty more to be done, but they had made a very effective start.

He picked up one of his last brown sticks of divine nourishment. Piskor had said she was providing a three-day supply, but most people – those who hadn’t simply lost theirs – had eaten them all by the end of the second day. Rudhira, on the other hand, had hoarded hers, perhaps because her past life had accustomed her to going hungry. Hanner didn’t know how many she still had out of her original dozen, but he was fairly certain it was more than his own supply. He was down to three more sticks, despite being very careful, and the wizards had yet to bring in more food.

The Called wizards and witches, Hanner remembered, hadn’t received any food in the first place; the goddess apparently hadn’t considered them worthy. A few people had shared their supply with the magicians; Hanner had given one stick to one of the witches who had been healing the injured, but only one. Thousands of other people had received Piskor’s gift, so he had seen no need to shoulder more than his share of the burden.

He wished he had something he could drink, to wash the brown stuff down. The stream the horde had been following had been reduced to a muddy trickle by the attention of thousands of hands, cloths, and improvised receptacles, but the wizards had not yet brought water, either. Two of the witches were purifying water for the injured, but soon a lot of other people would be getting thirsty.

Just then a low rumble sounded; Hanner looked up, expecting to see an approaching storm, but the sky was mostly clear, with only a few scattered, fluffy clouds.

The rumble increased, and the ground began to shake; around him, Hanner heard people screaming and shouting questions.

Then the earth humped up about forty feet away, rising up in a mound; people tumbled down the new slopes and quickly scattered, desperate to get away. Hanner sprang to his feet, startling poor Rudhira, just as the mound split open and fell away to either side, revealing a young man holding a large sack. He stepped forward, and another man seemed to rise out of the ground behind him.

Hanner realized he had seen this spell, or one very like it, once before, long ago, when the leaders of the Wizards’ Guild had intervened between the overlord’s guards and Hanner’s collection of warlocks. This time, though, the people rising up out of the ground were not wizards in formal robes, carrying staves and ultimata; instead they were tradesmen in brown or tan, and all of them were carrying bags and bundles.

There were a lot of them; they seemed to be emerging in an endless stream from an opening in the earth itself.

“Beer!” one of them called, lowering a bundle from his shoulders to the ground. The bundle clinked with the unmistakable sound of bottles. “Good dark beer from the breweries in the Old Merchants’ Quarter, three bits a pint. I’ve got Shipmaster’s Brown, Felris Stout, and Old City Ale!”

“Good white bread, two bits a loaf!” called another, lowering his own pack.

Well, Hanner thought, there was the food and drink he had hoped for. Unless things had changed during his long absence, though, those prices were outrageous – a single bit should buy a loaf and a pint. And most of the people here had no money; they had been Called out of their beds, or from the privacy of their homes.

But Hanner had his purse, he realized. He had given it no thought at all since he first awoke atop the Source, but the pouch still hung on his belt, just as it had when he had entered Arvagan’s shop to inspect his new tapestry. He reached down, tucked his gift from Piskor back into its wrapper, and dug into his purse. He groped to make sure he wasn’t missing anything, then pulled out every coin in it. There weren’t many; he had two bits in silver, and a handful of coppers.

More tradesmen were still appearing, carrying wine, blankets, vegetables, cheese, and candles, and some of the weary warlocks were gathering around them, coins in hand.

“Hai!” Hanner shouted. “Don’t forget, not everyone has money! Share what you can!”

A few people glanced at him, but he saw no sign his words were having any real effect. He laid a reassuring hand on Rudhira’s shoulder, then strode forward – or tried to; it was really more of a limp, thanks to his blistered feet. He pushed through to the man with the sack of bread. “Is there a quantity discount?” he demanded, holding out a silver bit.

The man paused, eyed the coin, then looked Hanner in the eye and smiled. “Six for five?” he suggested.

“Seven. You know these prices are ridiculous.”

“It’s what the market will bear, friend, but fair enough, seven loaves for the silver.” He started counting them out with one hand while the other accepted Hanner’s coin. He handed the bread to Hanner, then turned to the next customer.

Clutching his armful of bread, Hanner pushed his way back through the growing crowd around the vendors to where several tired-looking people were sitting disconsolately on the ground. “You aren’t buying,” he said.

“No money,” one of the women answered.

Hanner nodded. “Here,” he said, handing her a loaf. “Share it out.” Then he marched on to the next group.

Five more loaves went to strangers; he gave the last to Rudhira, who hesitated, then passed it on.

When he had distributed all his purchases he turned back to the sellers, and was pleased to see that his actions had apparently shamed some of his comrades into following his example – bread was being shared, wineskins and beer bottles passed from hand to hand. He fished out his other silver bit and started pushing his way back.

There was a wizard among the salesmen now, in a honey-brown robe and old-fashioned pointed hat, and Hanner realized he looked familiar, but it took a moment to place him. It wasn’t Molvarn or Arvagan…

Rothiel, that was it. The one who had come to him in his dreams. He hadn’t been wearing a hat in the dream.

Just as Hanner recognized him, Rothiel spotted Hanner. “Chairman Hanner!” he called. “I’ve been looking for you!” He raised a hand and beckoned.

Hanner blinked in surprise. “You have?”

“Yes, yes! Come here!”

Hanner hesitated, glancing back over his shoulder at Rudhira. He beckoned to her, as Rothiel had to him; he felt responsible for her, and she seemed so small and helpless – though he knew, from her brief time as a warlock, that given half a chance she was anything but helpless.

She rose, and slipped quickly through the crowd to his side; then the two of them made their way past the merchants to the wizard’s side.

From here, for the first time, Hanner could see that the brewers and bakers and vintners and greengrocers were coming up a stone stairway that had appeared from nowhere, and which seemed to lead endlessly downward into the earth. A steady stream of merchants was making their way up this stair, while those who had sold everything they had brought were gathering alongside it, waiting idly, chatting quietly amongst themselves.

Rothiel was standing a little to one side of the topmost step, and as each tradesmen completed his business, Rothiel would direct him to join the waiting group. The wizard glanced down at the crowded steps, then at Hanner and Rudhira.

“I hope this pleases you,” Rothiel said. “We debated inviting butchers and fishmongers, but we weren’t sure you would have any way to cook anything.”

“It’s fine,” Hanner said, “except that most of these people have no money; they were Called out of their beds.”

Rothiel turned up an empty palm. “Alas, there are limits to our generosity.”

“The best thing you could do is get them all back to civilization, where they can find their families, or work for their keep.”

“Indeed, we have every intention of doing that. We finally realized the absurdity of flying carpets back empty after bringing staff and supplies out here, and from now on, every carpet will take passengers back. You’ve seen how we are sending people home to Ethshar of the Rocks and Ethshar of the Sands, and we have a tapestry ready for Sardiron of the Waters if the Council of Barons can ever make up its collective mind.”

“But nothing for Ethshar of the Spices?”

“I realize how unlikely it sounds, but in fact, we do not have a single suitable tapestry available.”

“It seems you could use this magical stairway to take people to Ethshar, rather than bringing supplies here – or does it only work in one direction?”

“Oh, it works both ways, once it’s open, but it can’t be kept open indefinitely, and we thought bringing food and blankets was the better use, for now.”

Hanner did not think he agreed, but rather than argue he said, “Our theurgists tell me that Asham the Gate-Keeper could get everyone safely home; none of our people can invoke him.”

“Asham the Gate-Keeper? Oh, now, that’s interesting! We didn’t know about that one. We’ve been speaking to some theurgists, but either we chose the wrong ones or asked the wrong questions. I’ll see about that as soon as we get back.” He glanced down. “Oh, good, that’s the last of them.”

Hanner glanced down as well, and saw the line of people climbing the stairs was coming to an end; a woman with an absurdly large sack on her shoulders was the last of them. “Then what?” he asked.

“Then we will send these people back,” Rothiel said, gesturing at the waiting merchants. “And the others when they’ve sold their goods. Then you and I will go back to the city, and Hallin’s Transporting Fissure will be permitted to close.”

“But what about all these others…” Hanner started to wave at the waiting crowds, then stopped. “Wait. You and I?”

“Yes, you and I. Guildmaster Ithinia wants to talk to you. Directly, not in a dream.”

“But what about these others?”

“I promise you, Chairman, we will get them to safety as soon as we can. As soon as they’ve finished sending people to the western cities, those apprentices who are guarding the tapestries will start sorting the others, and loading them onto flying carpets, or preparing them to use another of these fissures. And if this god Asham can truly help, we’ll see about summoning him. For now, though, we want you.”

“Why?”

“Ithinia trusts you.”

That dumbfounded Hanner. He knew Ithinia, of course; they had dealt with one another several times over the seventeen years he chaired the Council of Warlocks. He had never been sure she really trusted anyone, and while they had been reasonably comfortable with one another, he had never considered her a friend. While he remembered speaking to her about a month ago, he knew that for her it had been seventeen years; that she would want to see him again after so long, out of all the Called warlocks, baffled him.

But then, he didn’t suppose she would have much contact with warlocks in the normal course of events.

“I’m not sure I should leave,” Hanner said at last. “I feel responsible for these people.”

Rothiel, who had been watching the last merchants climb the steps, said, “Excuse me, Chairman.” He stepped up and put a hand on the last woman’s back, urging her forward, then turned to the group waiting to the side. “Go on, please,” he called. “One at a time! Walk briskly, but don’t run, and don’t slip, just the way you did in the other direction. You, you go first.”

The merchants obeyed, and began marching back down into the ground, while the later arrivals hawked their merchandise.

The crowd of buyers had thinned; there were still plenty of Called warlocks in need of food and the other commodities on offer, but apparently either no one else had money, or they preferred to wait until they could get to civilization. Still, the later peddlers were doing a brisk trade, while their earlier brethren made their way one by one back into the magical fissure.

Once he had the proceedings moving smoothly, Rothiel turned his attention back to Hanner. “You shouldn’t feel responsible,” he said. “Unless you had an apprentice or two, you didn’t turn anyone into a warlock, and you certainly didn’t lure them all out to the middle of nowhere and strand them there with winter coming on. You aren’t any more responsible than anyone else here. It seems to me you’ve already done more than your share.”

“Nonetheless, I wouldn’t feel right, abandoning them.”

Rothiel glanced out at the throng. “Chairman Hanner,” he said, “let me put it this way. You are no longer a magician. Do you really want to antagonize the most senior master of the Wizards’ Guild in Ethshar of the Spices?”

“Um,” Hanner said.

“Do you really want her to reconsider her plans to help all these people, which were based largely on your cooperation, when I spoke to you in your dream?”

“I don’t,” Hanner said.

“Then when these merchants are done, and the last of them starts down these stairs, you will follow him – or her, as the case may be. I will be right behind you, and the fissure will close behind us when we emerge back in Eastgate Market, but further assistance will be sent as soon as practical, possibly including theurgists who can invoke this gate-keeper you mentioned. Agreed?”

“Eastgate Market?”

“It has the least normal traffic of any market in the city, so using it caused the least disruption.”

That made sense; in fact, his surprise had been because Eastgate Market saw so little use that he had almost forgotten it was there. It was still the best place to get fresh shellfish, as well as oranges and dates in season, but other than that it could not compete with the city’s other markets. “I see,” he said.

“Then you’ll come?”

Hanner looked around, saw Rudhira listening at his side, and said, “Only if she comes with us.”

Rothiel looked at the slender redhead. “And who is this?”

Rudhira did not answer, but looked up at Hanner expectantly.

“Rudhira of Camptown,” Hanner said. “A very old friend I haven’t seen in a long time.”

“Called before you?”

“Years before me. Is that a problem?”

“You’re taking responsibility for her? I don’t want her to wind up in the Hundred-Foot Field.”

“I can take care of myself,” Rudhira said, before Hanner could speak.

“If she doesn’t go, neither do I,” Hanner said.

He knew this was irrational; Rudhira really could take care of herself, and it wasn’t as if the two of them had ever been very close. They had only known each other for a few days – but they had been very important days, from the Night of Madness to Rudhira’s Calling, and then from the moment they awoke in Aldagmor to now.

It occurred to Hanner that while he hoped Mavi was alive and well and would welcome him back, she would probably not appreciate having him show up with a streetwalker at his side. Mavi was not particularly prone to jealousy, but she was his wife.

But he had stated his position, and he was not going to back down. Rothiel was right in saying that he wasn’t responsible for all the thousands of the Called, but he could at least take responsibility for one of them.

“All right,” Rothiel said. “You can bring her along. If anyone objects, you can explain it.”

“That’s fine, then,” Hanner said. That settled, he stepped aside to make more room for the peddlers.

He was startled to feel the touch of Rudhira’s hand on his shoulder. He looked down at her.

“Thank you,” she said.

Uncomfortable, he murmured an inaudible reply.

Almost half an hour later the last candle was sold, the last peddler’s pack folded, and the last merchant had started down the steps. Rothiel gestured for Hanner to follow.

He hesitated, then gestured for Rudhira to precede him. She smiled, and obeyed.

He followed her, and heard Rothiel call a few final instructions to nearby apprentices before the wizard, too, started down the steps.

Hanner took a final look around as his head reached ground level, then took the next step down into the earth, in the narrow space between two stone walls, with nothing to see ahead of him but the brightly-colored top of Rudhira’s head.