The Unwelcome Warlock

Chapter Eighteen

Sterren had fallen asleep hours ago; Vond might have a warlock’s supernatural endurance, but Sterren had carefully avoided ever acquiring any such talents. By the time they left the Southern Mountains behind, flying westward across the night-shrouded forests of Ansumor, he was having difficulty keeping his eyes open, and somewhere past a castle – Sterren had not been sure whether it was Yorbethon or Lumeth of the Forest – he had dozed off.

Now, though, he jerked awake at the sound of Vond’s voice, and found himself in mid-air above sandy beaches. To his left, sand and scrubby plant-life extended as far as he could see, with a few houses and shacks scattered across the dunes; to his right open sea glittered in the morning sun that was shining on his back.

Directly ahead was the city wall of Ethshar of the Spices. The wall extended a hundred yards out into the sea, and ended in the Seacorner Lighthouse; a watchtower stood on the beach, and he could see the top of another watchtower in the harbor beyond. Behind that farthest tower was a tangle of masts and spars – that, Sterren realized, would be the ships berthed at the wharves of Seacorner and Newmarket. A little farther inland the city wall was broken by the mismatched towers of Eastgate. He and Vond were going to pass over the wall between the gate and the beach.

“I’ve been gone for fifteen years,” Vond said. “You haven’t. Where would you suggest we find lodging?”

“A good morning to you, too,” Sterren said. “I haven’t been back to Ethshar since you were Called, either.”

“You must have heard some news, though.”

“Well, yes, but I generally didn’t concern myself with locating the best inns in Seacorner.”

“We don’t need to stay in Seacorner. I was thinking we might find a place in Warlock Street. I shared a shop there once.” With that, they veered southward, away from the water.

“I’m sure your shop is long gone,” Sterren said. “In fact, I suspect all of Warlock Street is in disarray right now.”

“Oh – yes, I suppose it would be,” Vond agreed, slowing.

“If you want to find more former warlocks, like the ones you left in Akalla, that would probably be the place to look.”

Vond shook his head. “No,” he said. “I want somewhere comfortable to stay, but someplace that will reflect my status as the only remaining warlock in the World.”

“The most powerful, anyway,” Sterren said, shaking his head to clear it. He was still only half awake. Then he realized what he had said, and almost bit his tongue; he did not want to remind Vond that he, too, was a warlock, albeit an incredibly feeble one.

“Yes, the most powerful warlock in the World,” Vond said thoughtfully. “Which should make me Chairman of the Council, shouldn’t it?”

“I don’t know,” Sterren said. “Is that how it worked?”

“I don’t really know, either,” Vond admitted. “But really, if I declare myself Chairman, who’s going to argue with me? Where are any other warlocks who might claim the title?”

“I don’t know,” Sterren said. “Where are they?”

“Warlock House,” Vond said. “At the corner of Coronet and High Street.”

“What?”

“I mentioned it before. I think I may claim it as my new home. That’s where the Chairman of the Council lives. It was Karannin of Zobaya when I left Ethshar, and before that it was Lord Hanner, who founded the Council.”

“I never heard of them,” Sterren admitted.

“You weren’t supposed to. The Council was warlock business, not intended for outsiders. Oh, the other magicians knew about it, and the city magistrates, but they didn’t exactly hang out a signboard.”

“I knew there was a council,” Sterren protested. “I just didn’t know who the chairman was.”

“You weren’t really a warlock.”

Sterren couldn’t argue with that, and in any case, he was distracted by the sight of the city wall passing beneath their feet. There was a guardsman on the ramparts, watching them; the fellow did not look particularly alarmed.

Sterren wondered whether everyone in Ethshar knew that warlockry had, except for Vond and himself, vanished from the World. If so, then that soldier probably assumed they were wizards, levitating themselves with one of the various spells that would allow a person to fly.

Except from what Sterren knew of wizardry, which was admittedly not much, there were no spells that provided the speed and control of a warlock’s flight – well, other than the spells that required a vehicle of some sort, such as a flying carpet. The levitation spells Sterren knew anything about were mostly slow and awkward, allowing the user to drift on the wind or walk on air, rather than soaring like a warlock.

But the soldier on the rampart might not know that, and there might be spells Sterren had never heard of. At any rate, the guard did nothing to stop Vond and Sterren from flying into the city, nor to warn anyone of their arrival.

Once the two of them were past the wall they were above a maze of streets, rooftops, and courtyards, and Sterren could make little sense of it. From the location of the lighthouse and the watchtowers he knew they were over Seacorner, but beyond that he was lost. He had grown up in the Old Merchants’ Quarter, on the far side of the city, but more importantly, he had never looked at the streets from above before, and he hadn’t seen Ethshar at all for more than fifteen years. He could see a clear area ahead that was too big, and too open to the streets, to be a courtyard, and knew it must therefore be a market square, but was it Newmarket or Hempfield? Or possibly even the Old Market on the edge of Fishertown? It was too far from the waterfront to be Fishertown Market itself.

There were people in the streets and courts, but that didn’t tell him anything; the people of Hempfield and the people of Newmarket could not be distinguished by their appearance. The market did not look busy, but after all, it was still early; the merchants were still folding out awnings and setting up tables.

Whatever square that was, Sterren was sure it was north of High Street. Apparently Vond was certain enough of his navigation that he didn’t need to follow High Street. The corner of High Street and Coronet – that would be in the New City, wouldn’t it? Yes, thinking back, Sterren was sure Vond had said Warlock House was in the New City, back when he first mentioned it in the sky above Semma.

They passed the market and Sterren still couldn’t identify it, but presumably Vond knew where he was going; after all, from his point of view he had only left the city a year or so ago, and he had probably done some flying here before.

Sunlight glinted from water, and Sterren realized that was a canal, ahead and to the right. There was a tangle of narrow streets and strange buildings that he realized must be the Old City almost directly ahead of them, and beyond that the first structure he actually recognized – the overlord’s palace, its rich yellow marble walls gleaming in the morning sun.

That meant that the slope ahead and to the left, with its big stone and brick homes, and its gardens fading with the season from green to brown, was the New City. Warlock House was somewhere in there.

They soared over a corner of the Old City, with its misshapen spires and turrets, then crossed a broad avenue that Sterren guessed must be Arena Street. He looked down at the houses and gardens below, and noticed a pair of gargoyles on one gray stone mansion were watching them, their carved heads turning to follow the two warlocks as they flew past.

Someone had probably paid a lot of money to get those things animated, Sterren thought.

“It should be right…” Vond muttered. “Right about… Yes! Right about there.” He pointed.

Sterren didn’t bother to look; after all, they would be there in a moment. Sure enough, he hardly even had time to get his feet under him and brace himself before he hit the ground – or rather, the pavement – on what he assumed was High Street.

It hadn’t been paved when he last saw it, Sterren was fairly sure, but now it was paved in good red brick, with a broad carriageway in the center, and raised walks on either side, with deep gutters separating the walks from the carriageway. Sterren stumbled as his feet hit the bricks, and he went down on one knee, scraping a hole in his black woolen breeches. His luggage thumped loudly to the street behind him.

The one consolation was that the street was virtually empty, so almost no one had seen his awkward landing. Vond had paid no attention, and the only other potential witnesses were people going about their business on Merchant Street at the end of the block, and a couple strolling High Street two blocks to the east. None of them seemed to take any particular notice of the two warlocks, any more than the guard on the wall had.

When he had gotten himself upright again Sterren turned to find Vond staring at a huge house on the south side of the street. A spiked iron fence and a small dooryard separated it from the street, but it was plainly visible – in fact, it dominated their view. It was immense, four stories high and very wide, with several broad, many-paned windows and a big white door set into an ornate facade of red brick and black stone.

“That’s it,” Vond said. “Warlock House.”

“It’s big,” Sterren remarked.

“I think that’s fitting. After all, I gave up my palace back in Semma to come here; did you think I’d settle for some ordinary little hovel?”

“I had no idea what to expect, your Majesty.” He looked at the house – the mansion, really – and allowed himself a frown. This did not look like a place where the present owners would be happy to hand it over to Vond.

But if it belonged to the Council of Warlocks, and there were no other warlocks left…

The gate swung out of Vond’s way, but he stopped on the doorstep and knocked, rather than simply walking in. Sterren hurried to catch up to him, leaving his baggage on the street.

They both stood and waited for a long moment, but no one answered. Sterren was uncomfortably aware that they were clearly visible to anyone on High Street or Merchant Street who cared to look. As the wait grew, Sterren remarked, “I’d expect a place like this to have a staff ready for guests at all times.”

Vond shook his head. “They don’t have any servants,” he said. “I’m told they did once, but whenever I was here, everything was done by magic.” He glanced up and down the street, then said, “I think we’ve waited long enough.” He gestured, and the door unlocked itself and swung open.

Sterren hesitated, but Vond walked calmly in, and after a glance around at the nearly-deserted street, Sterren followed him.

The entrance hall was quite impressive, with twelve-foot ceilings, white pilasters, and polished wainscoting, but the lamps in the brass sconces were unlit, and there was an indefinable air of neglect. To the left was a grand parlor, to the right a few closed doors, and ahead a majestic staircase led to the upper floors.

And they could hear voices from somewhere upstairs. “We should have knocked louder,” Sterren said.

Vond did not bother to reply, but began drifting up the stairs, his feet a few inches above the treads. Sterren hurried to follow, and by the time they were halfway up he started to make out what the voices were saying. They were arguing.

“…isn’t any Council, Zallin! There aren’t any more warlocks, so how can there be a council?”

“We need to stay organized,” the other voice insisted. “If we ever hope to get our magic back, we’ll need to work together.”

“We aren’t going to get our magic back,” the first voice said, and Sterren could hear disdain in the speaker’s every word. “Ithinia said…”

“Ithinia doesn’t know everything!” the second voice interrupted. “She has no authority over us. We aren’t wizards, we’re warlocks!”

“We aren’t anything, Zallin. We used to be warlocks. We aren’t now.”

“I won’t accept that!”

“Hai!” Vond called.

The debaters suddenly fell silent, and a moment later a head appeared, leaning over a railing. “May I help you?” The voice was the one that had refused to accept his loss of magic, and Sterren noticed that the man’s eyes were different colors. He had never seen that before, and wondered whether one of them might be glass, or whether a spell of some sort had gone wrong.

“I’m looking for the former chairman,” Vond replied.

A second head appeared. “Which one?”

Vond smiled. “Whoever the current claimant is.”

The two exchanged glances. “Why?” the second man asked.

“Because I believe that I am now Chairman of the Council of Warlocks, by default.”

“By what right?” the first man demanded. “I was chosen to succeed Abdaran.”

Vond lifted himself straight up from the stair until he was standing in mid-air, level with the other two, leaving Sterren behind.

“But I,” he said, “am still a warlock. I do not believe either of you can make that claim.”

“Emperor Vond?” the second man asked.

The first man was standing with his jaw hanging open in astonishment; at the other’s words he snapped his mouth shut. “Vond?” he said.

“Yes,” Vond said. “I am Vond, emperor of Semma, Ksinallion, and Ophkar, lord of the southern lands, and the last warlock in the World. That fellow below me is my chancellor, Sterren of Semma. Who are you?”

“My name is Hanner,” the second man replied. “I saw you in Aldagmor, though I don’t suppose you noticed me in that crowd.”

“I’m Zallin, Chairman of the Council of Warlocks,” the other said defiantly.

“I think not,” Vond said, and Zallin was flung backward, to slam against a wall. Sterren winced at the sound of the impact, and hurried up the stairs.

“That wasn’t necessary,” Hanner said.

“I was making a point,” Vond replied calmly. “A warlock could have resisted.”

“You know perfectly well that there are no more warlocks except yourself,” Hanner said.

Sterren admired the man’s courage – he did not seem the least bit intimidated by Zallin’s experience – and wondered how he could be so certain that Vond was the only one of his kind. What did he know about Vond?

“You’re sure of that?” Vond asked. He jerked a thumb at Zallin. “He apparently wasn’t.”

“Unless you’ve made more in the past few days, yes, I’m sure of it,” Hanner replied. “I told you, I saw you in Aldagmor – you were the only one of the Called who still had any magic, and everyone I’ve spoken to since assures me that there are no others, that you’re one of a kind.”

Vond glanced at Sterren. “Some people,” he said, “may be stating their own beliefs as facts. To tell the truth, I don’t know whether there are still any other warlocks out there.” He gestured to take in the entire World outside the house. “Not every warlock was Called, and there may be others with my abilities. But I think it’s fairly safe to say I’m by far the most powerful, which is why I have chosen to declare myself Chairman of the Council of Warlocks.”

Hanner cocked his head. “Your Majesty, you are already an emperor. Why would you want to be a mere chairman?”

“To amuse myself,” Vond answered. “The Small Kingdoms are boring, and now that I no longer need to fear the Calling, I came back to Ethshar. My empire has fended for itself for the past fifteen years, and it can do so a little longer. But I’m not going to pretend to just be an ordinary citizen; we all know that I’m much more than that. I don’t want to be bothered with running the city, so I have no interest in declaring myself overlord – let Azrad keep the title. But chairman – I think I can claim that title, and whatever respect goes with it. Not to mention this house.”

“I’m the chairman!” Zallin protested. He was back on his feet again, but still looking slightly dazed.

“I’m afraid there’s been a misunderstanding,” Hanner said. “The Council of Warlocks does not own this house; I do. I inherited it from my uncle, Lord Faran, and allowed the council to use it.”

Sterren knew he should be following the argument, ready to jump in if tempers started to fray dangerously, but he was distracted by the sudden realization that there was a fifth person in the house. A petite woman with a spectacular head of red hair was standing quietly in a corridor beyond Hanner and Zallin.

“Were you planning to evict the council?” Vond demanded.

Hanner hesitated. “I was not in any hurry to do so,” he said.

“Good! Then as the only warlock left, I believe I constitute the entire Council of Warlocks, and I hereby nominate myself as chairman. Any objections?”

“The council is supposed to consist of the twenty most powerful warlocks in the city,” Zallin said. “Twenty, not one.”

The emperor gave him a disdainful glance. “Alas, there are no other true warlocks in the city,” Vond said. “I am the only one qualified for the council.”

“Fine, you’re the chairman,” Hanner said, turning up a palm. “For whatever that’s worth.”

“I believe it means I will be living here for the next few sixnights,” Vond replied cheerfully. “As your tenant.”

“Hanner, I am -” Zallin began.

“Oh, shut up,” Hanner said. “Do you really want to argue with the warlock who is said to have once bent the edge of the World?” He turned back to Vond. “Welcome to Warlock House, Chairman Vond. Shall I show you to your room? Zallin has been using it, but I’m sure he can have his things out by tonight.”

“But I -” Zallin said.

“You’ll take the adjoining room, I suppose, so you won’t need to carry your belongings more than a few feet,” Hanner said, cutting him off. “Rudhira was using it, but she can find another.”

“I…” Zallin looked from Hanner to Vond, who was still hanging in the air, his robe swirling gently despite the total lack of any wind in the house. Zallin’s shoulders sagged. “I’ll move my things at once, your Majesty.”

“Thank you,” Vond said, with a gracious nod of his head. “Lead the way!”

Sterren started to follow, then remembered his luggage, still sitting on the street out front. “I’ll be right up!” he said, as he turned to hurry back out and retrieve it.