Wizardry Compiled

One: Politics and Strange Bedfellows

Pelus the wizard paused for dramatic effect. "… and so, My Lords, we must act quickly," he concluded ringingly.

For the sixth time that morning.

"Not so quickly, not so quickly," old Honorious said testily from the end of the table. He cleared his throat and prepared to restate his position for the eighth time.

The traceried windows along the south wall of the council chamber had been thrown open and the fitful summer breeze rustled the brightly colored tapestries hung along the buff sandstone walls. Outside trellised roses climbed the walls and peeked in the windows, perfuming the air. The stained glass in the window panes threw patches of brilliant color on the walls, the table and the men and women in the chamber.

Sitting at the long wooden table was the Council of the North. Fifteen of the mightiest wizards in the World—and one programmer from Cupertino, California who was bored out of his skull.

William Irving Zumwalt, "Wiz" to his friends, "Sparrow" to most, tried to shut out the bickering and concentrate on the latest improvement to his magic compiler. It wasn’t easy, especially since every so often he would be called on to say something and he had to keep at least one ear cocked to the conversation.

The Council had been arguing over the same point for the entire morning. Everyone knew that eventually they would do it, just as everyone knew the idea was good as soon as it had been proposed. But Agricolus had to get his opinions on record, Juvian saw an opportunity to snipe at Pelus and Honorious was constitutionally opposed to anything that looked like action. The result was a three-hour wrangle over nothing much.

For Wiz, who had made a career out of avoiding bureaucracy in all forms, it was sheer torture.

And I thought ANSI standards committee meetings were bad. He tried to shut out the incessant droning and concentrate on the idea he was developing.

A shimmering green shape began to form in the air in front of him. Wiz realized he had been moving his lips and that was enough to start the spell up. The wizards on either side of him glared and he quickly wiped out his unintentional handiwork, flushing under their eyes.

"Come, My Lords," rumbled Bal-Simba from the head of the table. The enormous black wizard was clad in his usual leopard skin and bone necklace. Somehow he had managed to seem interested through the entire morning. "The hour draws nigh. Let us decide." He gestured to a ray of light moving along a design inlaid in light wood in the darker wood top of the table. The spot of light was almost at the end of the design.

That was one merciful feature of the Council meetings. By custom and for arcane magical reasons they lasted no longer than it took the sun to traverse a certain arc in the sky. That meant about four hours.

So Honorious grumbled, Juvian sniped and Agricolus had one more thing he wanted to make clear, but they voted nonetheless and of course they decided to act.

Wiz stood with the others while Bal-Simba led them through the closing ritual. Another morning shot to pieces, he thought as they filed out of the council chamber. He sighed to himself. It could have been worse. All the Council members could have been present.

"Wiz."

He turned and saw Moira waiting for him. The redheaded hedge witch was wearing a gown of sea green that matched her eyes and set off her milk-white freckled skin. Its cut showed off her figure as well. Wiz thoroughly approved.

"Darling, have I told you you look lovely?" he said hugging her.

She gave him a look that made him catch his breath. "Why no, My Lord," she said, with her green eyes wide. "Not for, oh, at least five minutes."

"Too long." Ignoring the Council members who were knotted about talking, he kissed her.

In a vague way he knew he had improved in the two years since he had been kidnapped to this world. A more active life had put muscle on his slender frame. He had let his dark hair grow shoulder length in the local fashion. Tight breeches and puffy-sleeved shirts had replaced jeans and short-sleeved white shirts. Over-all he now looked more like a romantic’s idea of a pirate than a pencil-necked computer geek.

But Moira had been beautiful the first day he saw her and she had only gotten more beautiful. Well, he admitted, maybe that was subjective. They had been married for less than a year and brides were always beautiful. Then he looked at her again. Nope, she was definitely more beautiful.

"I wanted to see you and perhaps have lunch with you."

"Is something wrong?"

She shook her head. "Nothing, I just wanted to be with you."

"I wish I could darling, but I hadn’t planned on having lunch. I’ve got a special tutoring session scheduled and I’m trying to get the module for the spell compiler done by the end of the week."

Moira sighed. "Of course. I understand."

"I’m glad to see you though."

"Probably the only chance I’ll get," she muttered.

"What?"

"Nothing, my love. Nothing."

"Look, I’ll try to get home early tonight, okay?"

"I’ll have dinner waiting."

Wiz sighed. "No, you better go ahead and eat. You know how this works."

"I know," she said softly.

The man in the blue wizard’s robe looked around carefully before stepping into the clearing. A lesser man might have shivered, but he was of the Mighty and he knew well how to hold his emotions in check.

There was no sign of life or movement in the open space. The summer grasses lay pristine and untrampled. Here and there small red and yellow flowers nodded above them. The trees surrounding the clearing rustled and sighed as the breeze played through their tops. The air at ground level was still and smelled of leaves and sun-warmed grass.

The blue-robed man knew better than to trust ordinary senses. This was the time and the place appointed for the meeting and his higher senses told him magic of a lofty order lurked in that glade.

It is for the good of the entire World, he told himself firmly.

Still, if any of his fellow wizards found out…

Little enough chance of that. No one kept watch on the Mighty and with the Dark League defeated, watch of all sorts was lax in the North.

Even so, he had taken good care that the others would not find out. He had traveled the Wizard’s Way only part of the distance to this place and come the final league on foot. He left the Capital with a plausible story about a real errand near here, an errand he had accomplished. If no one inquired too closely into these few hours, there was no way they could find out where he had gone or what he had done. If the other had taken similar precautions, they were both safe.

In the center of the clearing he stopped, extended his staff and traced a design in the air. The sigil glowed bright red and then began to fade imperceptibly toward crimson.

"Welcome magician," a voice hissed out behind him. Whirling, he saw the person he had come to meet.

The man was almost as tall as the blue-robed wizard and cadaverously lean. His skull was shaven, but showed black stubble from lack of recent attention. A wizard’s staff was clasped firmly in his right hand. But most striking was his clothing.

In contrast to the blue of the first wizard’s robe, the other wore the black robe of a wizard of the Dark League.

Wiz Zumwalt plopped down in the carved oak chair, poured a cup of wine from the carafe on the inlaid table and sighed deeply.

Bal-Simba looked up from the corner of the Wizards’ Day Room where he was studying a scroll. "I take it it did not go well?" the giant black wizard asked mildly.

"You might say that." Wiz took a pull on the cup. Then he snorted with laughter.

"May I ask what is so funny?"

Wiz shook his head. "I was just thinking. Two years ago today I was being chased through the Wild Wood by trolls, bandits, Dire Beasts and the sorcerers of the Dark League."

"I remember."

"Now here I am, safe in the Capital of the North, the Dark League is in ruins and," he gestured mock grandly, "I’m supposed to be the greatest magician in the whole World."

"Your point, Sparrow?" Bal-Simba rumbled.

Wiz sighed deeply. "Just that right about now trolls, bandits and evil sorcerers look awfully good."

"I am Seklos," the black-robed one said. "I speak for the Dark League."

"Where is your master?" the northern wizard demanded.

"He is—indisposed," Seklos said. "I serve as his deputy with full authority to act in this matter."

The first one nodded. Since the great battle between the Sparrow and the Dark League, the conclave of sorcerers had been reduced to a pitiful few remnants. Their City of Night on the southern continent lay ruined and deserted and the black-robed ones who had once threatened to engulf the entire North were fugitives everywhere. The leaders of the Dark League, including Toth Set Ra, their chief, had died in the battle and the new leader was much less powerful. There were also disturbing rumors about him. The northern wizard was not surprised he had sent a deputy.

He advanced a step and then stopped. Crouching watchfully next to the wizard was a Shadow Warrior in the tight-fitting black of his kind. A slashing sword hung down his back and his eyes were hard and merciless through the slits in his hood.

"Foolish to bring such to a wizard’s meeting," the blue-robed wizard said.

The other shrugged. "It seemed a simple enough precaution."

"We meet under a sign of truce. You need fear nothing from me so long as the sign glows."

Seklos regarded him with amused contempt. "I know the usage. But we did not come here to discuss custom. What is your proposal?"

"My proposal?"

"The sign changes color," the wizard pointed at the glowing character, which was now definitely orange. "Let us not waste time."

He hesitated, thrown off his carefully prepared approach. "Very well. It concerns the Sparrow, this Wiz."

"Ahhh," said Seklos in a way that made the other think that he had known very well what the subject would be.

"You mean you are not—what was that phrase you used?—’living happily ever after’?" Bal-Simba smiled gently. "Few people do, Sparrow."

"Yeah, I know, but I didn’t expect it would be anything like what it’s turned out to be. I thought I’d be able to finish my magic compiler and teach a few people how to use it. Then I could go on to more advanced magic programs."

Bal-Simba nodded. More than most of this world’s wizards, he understood that Wiz’s magical power came not from innate talent—Wiz had no talent for magic in the conventional sense. Rather, his abilities rested on his discovery that it was possible to write a magic "language," like the computer languages he had used back in Silicon Valley. Wiz might be spectacularly untalented as a magician, but where computers were concerned he was about as talented as they come.

Wiz shook his head. "1 never saw myself sitting in meetings or in a classroom, trying to pound programming into a bunch of apprentices."

"Power makes its own demands, Sparrow," Bal-Simba said gently, laying the scroll aside. "Your new magic makes you powerful indeed."

"You know this Sparrow," the northern wizard hissed. "You know his power. He broke you utterly in a single day."

"And you are cast down from your former high estate in the North," the black robe retorted. "Do you wish our aid in restoring you? A trifle chancy, I fear. As you say, we are not so great as we once were."

"I desire no such thing," the blue robe said with dignity.

"Oh, the presidency of the Council then? To replace Bal-Simba?"

"I desire what we of the north have always sought. Balance, the preservation of the World."

"I fear your Sparrow is proving as dangerous to your precious balance as ever he did to our League," Seklos said. "Well, what did you expect when you Summoned someone so powerful?"

"We did not agree to the Summoning," the other said testily. "That was Patrius’s idea and he did not share it with the Council. And as for danger, he went on fiercely, "he is a greater danger than you know. With his outlandish magic he upsets the very balance of the World. Mortals attract attention from those who have ignored us ere now. They are likely to act against us, Council and League both."

Seklos nodded, saying nothing.

"There is still time. He can be stopped before matters come to a head, but to do it I must have your magic behind me."

Seklos laughed. "You propose to become an initiate of the Dark League?"

The blue-robed one gestured angrily. "Do not mock me, wizard. And understand this. We are mortal enemies, you and I. Under other circumstances I would crush you as I would kill a poisonous serpent."

Seklos smiled unpleasantly and cocked his head, but he did not interrupt.

"But," the first man went on, "the Sparrow is a threat to every human magic user in the World. For this once and on this one matter I suggest that we have common cause and propose that we act in concert to rid ourselves of this menace."

"You put the matter succinctly," said the black robe. "Let us therefore consider the destruction of this Sparrow."

"No!"

The other cocked an eyebrow. "Does our new alliance flounder so soon?"

"The Sparrow is to be neutralized, not destroyed."

"Why not?"

"Two reasons. First, I forbid it." Seklos smiled again, but the blue robe ignored him. "Second, if you had a modicum of mother wit you would know his death is your destruction. Kill the Sparrow, harm one hair of him, and every wizard in the North will descend upon you. They will grub you out of your burrows and exterminate you all."

"And doubtless in the inquiry your part in the business would be discovered."

"Doubtless," the blue robe agreed, making a brushing motion as if to shoo off an annoying insect. "No, we cannot kill him. But if he were to disappear there would be many to mourn aloud him and few to lament his passing in private."

"And you suggest… ?"

"A Great Summoning to send the Sparrow back where he belongs. Him and his alien magics."

"Such a thing would not be easy to do."

"It would take a number of wizards, but it would not be impossible."

"Patrius did it alone."

"I am not as great a magician as Patrius," the northerner said with dignity. "Nor do I wish to end as he did." He remembered how the Dark League had cut the mighty wizard down as he performed unaided the Great Summoning which brought the Sparrow to this world. "This requires more than I can accomplish alone and the others on the Council who feel as I do will not act."

"And you think we will?"

The northerner shrugged. "You have more reason and less to lose. It cannot be pleasant to be reduced to lording it over field mice and birds."

Seklos’ eyes glittered and the other knew his shaft had gone home.

"We can do nothing while he remains in the Capital," Seklos said at last. "He must be brought to us."

"He can he maneuvered out of the Capital."

"He must be brought to—a place. It would be best if it were done while he treads the Wizard’s Way. Then it is a matter of a simple spell."

The blue robe shrugged. Any wizard of the Mighty could be counted on to use that magical means for transport for any journey of over a few leagues.

"How long would it take you to be ready? The next full moon is on…"

"I did not say I would do it," Seklos cut him off. "I said we would consider it." He nodded toward the sign hanging in the air, now a deep violet fading to black. "The sigil darkens. Our meeting is at an end." He turned and walked toward the opposite edge of the clearing. Wordlessly the Shadow Warrior followed, moving crabwise to keep his enemy always in sight.

Behind them the blue-robed wizard nodded. He knew full well that the remnants of the Dark League would join him in this. What other choice had they?

Two: Nailing Jelly to a Tree

"I dunno," Wiz sighed again and drained his wine cup. "This isn’t working out anything like I thought it would." He set the cup down and leaned toward Bal-Simba, elbows on knees.

"Look, I took the seat on the Council because you wanted me to. I’m not a wizard, I’ve never been a politician and those meetings are torture."

"Your position and power entitle you to a seat."

"Yeah, but I’ve got important work to do."

It was Bal-Simba’s turn to sigh. He did so gustily and the bones of his necklace clattered with the movement of his barrel chest. "Sparrow, listen to a poor fat old wizard for a moment.

"You talk of finishing your spell engine. But that is only half your task. The other half is teaching others to use it and the largest part of that is getting them to accept it."

Wiz toyed with the cup, running his finger along the rim. "I suppose you’re right. I never was any good at teaching. I guess I need to try harder."

"Perhaps it would be more to the point if you tried to understand how others feel. Your task is difficult. But you make it more so. Your attitude does not make you friends, either on the Council of among the other wizards and that adds to the hostility against your methods. Specifically, you do yourself no good at all when you belittle the Council."

"I don’t belittle the Council!"

Bal-Simba arched a brow. "No? But your work is more important."

"Well…"

"Sparrow, the Council of the North has stood for centuries as the shield of humans against malevolent magic, both from the Dark League and from the World at large. It is the closest thing to a ruler this land has."

Wiz nodded. "Look, I’d be the last person to deny you and the other wizards have done a heck of a job. But magical programming changes things. As soon as I get the compiler perfected and get to work on the spells, anyone will be able to use magic. There won’t be a need for a Council of wizards to guard and protect humans."

Bal-Simba shook his head. "Sparrow, much as I admire your directness I think it leads you astray. But even if what you say is so, we must still get from where we are to where you wish to be. To do that you need the cooperation of all wizards, especially the Mighty and most especially the Council. You do not get someone’s cooperation by telling him he is obsolete and his life’s work is outworn."

"It would be easier if some of the Mighty would learn to use the compiler. But they’re all so dense."

"Wizards do not have the reputation for being stupid," Bal-Simba said with deceptive mildness.

Wiz sighed and rubbed his eyes. "You’re right. Stupid isn’t the word for it. But they don’t generalize. You guys learn one thing at a time and you can’t seem to work from a bunch of specifies to a general proposition." He shook his head. "And a lot of programming is generalization."

"Nonsense!" came a firm voice from the doorway. Wiz and Bal-Simba turned to the sound and saw a tall theatrically handsome man in wizard’s blue. His silver hair swept over his ears in carefully arranged waves to perfectly set off his aristocratic features and evenly tanned skin.

Bal-Simba nodded. "My Lord Ebrion."

Wiz stiffened, but he also nodded politely. Dammit, I will not lose my temper.

"The essence of magic is in the particular," Ebrion said in his beautifully modulated voice as he came into the room. "To control magic we must understand this tree or this fire, not these ’classes’ you keep on about. All trees are not alike, Sparrow, and it is only by deeply perceiving an object that we may control it magically."

Wiz kept quiet. He had enough trouble with Ebrion and his traditionalist friends already. Like all the traditionalists, Ebrion didn’t like Wiz. Unlike most of them he made no secret of his dislike beyond a certain cold civility. Worse, he was a theoretician, or the closest thing to a theoretician of magic this world had ever produced. Wiz’s success had thrown him into the shade in his own specialty and that made him dislike Wiz all the more.

"Magic is both organic and particular, Sparrow," Ebrion went on as if lecturing an apprentice. "The best magic cannot be built up from bits and pieces like a jackdaw’s nest. It must be conceived of whole."

"Wiz’s method seemed effective enough against the Dark League," Bal-Simba said quietly.

"Lord, I have never denied that the Sparrow ranks among the Mighty, but sheer talent does not make his theories correct."

He waved a hand dismissingly. "Oh, I will admit the trick of constructing a demon to recite his spells for him is useful—albeit it was not unknown to us before. But his notion of how magic works?" He shook his head.

"The compiler is a lot more than a spell-reciting demon," Wiz interjected.

"So you have told us repeatedly. But at bottom that is all it does, is it not?"

"No, it’s a compiler written in a threaded interpreted language that…"

Ebrion touched his fingertips to his forehead, as if stricken with a sudden headache. "Please Sparrow, spare us one of your explanations. You have told us this ’compiler’ demon recites the spells you create and that much, at least, is comprehensible."

Wiz started to protest and then clamped his jaw. Ebrion wasn’t interested in explanations and he wasn’t any good at making them.

"Anyway, you’re wrong," he said sullenly. "I don’t have any talent for magic. Any one of the Mighty can sense that."

"We can all sense that you do not have our kind of talent. But you have shown us that you have enormous magical ability. What you have not shown us is that your system works. To do that you would have to teach others to make magic with it, by your own admission."

"So I’m a lousy teacher," Wiz said, nettled.

"For over a year you have dwelt here and tried to teach this marvelous system of yours. Have any of us mastered it? Has anyone but yourself learned it?"

"Programming takes time to learn. You didn’t learn magic overnight did you?"

"No, but with a few-months study I was able to perform certain useful spells. Your pupils work and work and can do little—and that poorly."

"You’ve got to learn the basics and work up."

"No Sparrow, this ’general theory of magic’ of yours is an illusion. You must learn one spell at a time. You must practice every gesture, every word, understand every influence. One spell at a time, Sparrow." He looked down at Wiz and smiled mockingly.

"That is how magic is made."

Wiz ground his teeth. He remembered one of the first classes, back when he was still trying to teach wizards in groups. The lesson was to construct a simple apparition spell, the rough equivalent of the "hello world" program in the C computer language.

Of course, the point was no more making a form appear than the point in C program was to put the words "hello world" on a computer screen. It was to familiarize the magicians with the basic workings of the magic compiler. Slowly and carefully, Wiz led his class through the fundamentals of his program for constructing magic spells. Then he asked each of them to make the spell with the compiler.

With a disdainful flick of his wand, Ebrion had created a shape that was ten times as real as the shadowy blobby forms the other students were struggling to make through the program.

"That is how magic is made," he said in a condescending tone as Wiz and the students stared at his result.

"The theory works," Wiz ground out. "Or did I just imagine taking on the Dark League?"

"Once again, I have never denied you were powerful," Ebrion said, as if repeating a simple lesson to a very slow pupil. "You attacked them with the completely alien magic of your world and overwhelmed them with spells they had never seen before. Thus you established your power. Surprise is ever an important weapon, Sparrow. As for the rest of your power, it would be a simple matter to put it to the test."

Ebrion meant a contest of wizards. Superficially it was a fair way of determining who was the better magician. But there were tricks to such contests, just as there were subtleties to any kind of competition. From apprentices to wizards of the Mighty, all magicians practiced against each other for sport. The only experience Wiz had in such a contest was when he had inadvertently gotten into a duel to the death with the second most powerful wizard of the Dark League. Only Bal-Simba’s intervention had saved him.

When he saw Wiz would ignore the implied challenge, Ebrion went on. "You have taught us some new tricks and given us some important insights and for that we must thank you. But they do not amount to revolutionizing the practice of magic, nor do they sweep away all we have done here for hundreds of years. Magic is as it ever was, Sparrow."

"Except that the Wild Wood isn’t pushing into human lands any more," Wiz snapped. "The Dark League isn’t one step from throttling the entire North and the common people have a defense against hostile magic. You and all your traditions couldn’t do any of that!"

As soon as the words were out of his mouth, Wiz was sorry. Ebrion’s head jerked back as if he had been slapped and he blanched under his tan. He turned his back on Wiz and addressed Bal-Simba.

"My Lord I came merely to tell you that I will be leaving the Capital for Mountainhame on the morn and to inquire if there was some service I could perform there for you."

"No, nothing." Bal-Simba said.

"Then I will take my leave of you, Lord." And with that he bowed and left the room, ignoring Wiz completely.

"That was ill-done, Sparrow," Bal-Simba said as soon as the door had closed behind Ebrion.

"I know, Lord," Wiz said uncomfortably. "Do you think I should go apologize to him?"

Bal-Simba shook his head. "Leave him for now," he rumbled. "Perhaps when he returns you should speak to him."

"He was trying to get under my skin."

Bal-Simba frowned. "Get under… ah, I see what you mean. So he was, but you let him and that gave him the advantage of the encounter. You must learn to control yourself better."

"I’ll try, Lord," Wiz said uncomfortably.

"Let us hope you succeed," Bal-Simba said. "You have students soon, do you not?"

"Yipe. I’m already late!"

"Go then, Sparrow. But remember what we have discussed."

Three: Stirring the Pot

Presumptuous puppy! Ebrion fumed as he made his way down the stairs and out into the main courtyard.

He did not return to his tower or to any of his other usual haunts. Instead he crossed the yard and made for the main gate of the keep. Just inside the gate was a much less plushly appointed day room used by off-duty guardsmen, minor merchants, castle servants, apprentices and others.

The big, low-ceilinged room was several steps down from the yard. Light flooded in through the windows up next to the whitewashed ceiling and reflected down onto the worn plank tables and rough benches and stools.

Heads turned as he came in and then turned back. This was hardly a place for the Mighty, much less a member of the Council, but Ebrion was known for his common touch. Two or three times in every turning of the moon he could be expected to drop by and exchange a few words with the habitués.

It was a time when apprentices should be at their studies or serving their masters. Still, Ebrion expected to find the one he sought here and he was not disappointed. Sitting by himself in a corner was a lank man with smoldering brown eyes and bowl-cut brown hair. Arms flat on the table and legs thrust straight out into the aisle, he was scowling into a mug of small beer as if he expected it to rise up and challenge him.

"Well met, Pryddian," Ebrion said pleasantly.

The young man looked up and nodded, but he did not rise as befitted an apprentice in the presence of one of the Mighty.

"My Lord."

Ebrion eased himself down upon the bench and studied the man. Pryddian was the oldest of the Keep’s apprentices and now he was an apprentice without a master.

Pryddian seemed oblivious to the scrutiny. He kept his eyes fixed on his mug.

"I would speak with you on a matter of some import," Ebrion said. He made a show of looking around the room and lowered his voice. "What I say must stay between us."

Pryddian looked at him narrowly and nodded. Ebrion did not ask for a binding oath and the apprentice did not offer one.

"I had heard that Juvian released you."

"Arrogant old fool," Pryddian muttered. That earned him a sharp look from the wizard.

"I am sorry, Lord," he said sullenly. "But you know my story. I started my training here in the Capital instead of in some hedge witch’s hovel. I am widely acknowledged to have more talent than any of the other apprentices." Ebrion nodded, acknowledging a plain fact and Pryddian took another swallow of beer.

"Yet after two years I am turned off over a trifle. Juvian assured me I would have no trouble finding another master. But no other wizard will take me on and no one will tell me honestly why."

Ebrion nodded sympathetically. That was not the story Juvian told, but it did not serve his purpose to say so.

"I know. I sought you out because I thought you should know there was more to the matter than a disagreement between you and Juvian." He paused, picking his words.

"Naturally I cannot violate the confidences of my fellow wizards, but I can tell you that today there is more to being a successful apprentice than magical talent and a willingness to work hard. It is also necessary to master the Sparrow’s new magic."

Pryddian snorted. He had attended one or two classes and had not done well. Ever since he had made no secret of his contempt for Wiz’s method’s.

"I know. And between the two of us, I agree." He shrugged and spread his hands. "But who am I? The Sparrow sits on the Council of the North and has Bal-Simba’s ear. He can see to it that apprentices either learn the new magic or are no longer apprentices."

"How is this? I thought apprenticeship was a matter between the wizard and pupil alone."

"And so it is," Ebrion assured him. "But a wizard must consider relations with his fellows. You understand these things, surely."

Pryddian nodded. "I suspected there was a favor involved, in spite of what everyone says."

"Oh, not favor," Ebrion said hurriedly. "We prefer to think of it as maintaining harmonious relations."

"Call it what you will, I am blackballed by the Sparrow."

"Well," the wizard admitted, "it would be—hmm—difficult for any wizard to take you as an apprentice."

"And my ability counts for nothing?"

"Times have changed. It seems the Sparrow’s new magic is more important than talent for the old."

"So I am forever barred from becoming a wizard. Unless you… ?" He trailed off hopefully.

"The Sparrow knows how I feel about him and his new magic. I would do you little good, I fear."

Pryddian nodded knowingly. "And doubtless it would do you little good to have me."

Ebrion shrugged.

Pryddian finished his beer in a single long pull. "This Sparrow rises above himself," he said darkly.

"Perhaps, but he is of the Mighty." The wizard rose. "In any event, I felt you should know. I cannot speak openly, of course."

"Of course." The would-be apprentice looked up. "I thank you for the information, Lord. And as to this Sparrow, perhaps he needs his feathers plucked." He dropped his eyes to scowl at the now-empty mug as Ebrion left.

Outside the door of the day room, Ebrion allowed himself a smile.

Under any circumstances Pryddian would never have become a wizard. Talent he had, and stubbornness to persist in the face of gentle hints and not-so-gentle discouragement, but he was undisciplined and he had a vindictive streak that ran both broad and deep. If he had started his training in the villages he probably never would have been sent to the Capital. But Ebrion was very glad he was here. His combination of talent, frustration and a viperish tongue made him ideal. Yes, the wizard thought, he is the perfect choice to bait the Sparrow into some heedless action.

Four: Fenceposts and Falling Rocks

Malus was waiting impatiently when Wiz arrived, obviously fuming.

To salve wizardly pride, Wiz did most of his teaching of actual wizards in private sessions. Malus was one of his least-favorite pupils. As a person, the pudgy little wizard was nice enough, always merry and joking. But he had particular trouble in grasping concepts and the thought that he was a slow learner made him even more resistant to the new magic.

Malus didn’t even let Wiz finish his apology for being late.

"This spell you showed me," he said accusingly. "It does not work."

Wiz sighed inwardly. "Well, let me see your code."

Grudgingly, the plump little sorcerer produced several strips of wood from the sleeve of his robe. Laid in the proper order the characters on them would list out the spell. Putting them on separate pieces of wood was a safety precaution against activating the spell by writing it down.

Wiz arranged the wood strips on the table and frowned briefly at what was written there.

"Oh, you’ve got a fence post error."

"Fence post?" the wizard asked.

"Yeah. Look, say you’ve got a hundred feet of fence to put up and you need to put a post every ten feet. How many posts do you need?"

"I am a wizard, not a farmer!" Malus said, drawing himself up to his entire five-foot-four.

"Well, just suppose," Wiz said half-desperately.

Malus thought hard for a minute. "Ten, of course."

"Nope," Wiz said triumphantly. "Eleven. Unless you strung your fence in a circle."

"But one hundred taken as tens is ten."

"Yeah, but if you’ve got a hundred feet of fence and only ten posts in a straight line, you leave one end of the fence hanging free. If you put the posts in a closed figure, you only need nine because you start and end on the same post."

"And how am I to know such things? I told you I am not a farmer."

"Well, just keep it in mind, okay? Boundary conditions are always likely to give you trouble."

"Borders are always unchancy places," Malus agreed.

"Uh, yeah. Let’s leave that for a minute. Do you have any other problems?"

"There is this business of names."

For about the fiftieth time, Wiz wished he hadn’t been so cavalier in choosing names for the standard routines in his library. To wizards, a thing’s name was vitally important and they took the name to be the thing.

"I told you that the names I used aren’t necessarily representative."

Malus looked at him like he was crazy. "Very well. But even granting that, why must the names change haphazardly? That is what I do not understand."

"They don’t change at random. They don’t really change at all. It’s just that an object can be a member of more than one class."

"Classes again!"

"Look at this," Wiz said, dragging out a couple of sheets of parchment and laying them out side by side so all the spell was visible. "Okay, here this variable is called ’elfshot,’ right?"

"Why is it named that?"

"It’s not named that. That’s only what it’s called in this routine. Its name is ’dragons_tail’."

"Well," demanded the wizard, "if it is ’dragons_tail’, why do you call it ’elfshot’? And how do you add a ’dragons_tail’ to this, this loop variable."

"No, no," Wiz said desperately. "It is actually seven at this point in the program and that’s what gets added to the loop variable."

"Well, if it’s seven then why don’t you just say so?" roared the wizard.

"Because it isn’t always seven."

The wizard growled in disgust.

"Look, I think I’m getting a headache. Why don’t we leave this for right now, okay? Just try working the program through again and we’ll go over it in our next session."

The early end to the tutorial with Malus left Wiz with time to spare and a completely ruined temper. He wanted someplace quiet where he could be alone to think. Leaving his workroom door unlocked he left the central keep, threaded his way through two courtyards and climbed a set of stairs to the top of the wall surrounding the entire complex.

The parapet was one of his favorite places. It was usually deserted and the view was spectacular. The Capital perched on a spine of rock where two rivers met. From the north the ridge sloped gently up to drop off precipitously in cliffs hundreds of feet high to the south and along the east and west where the rivers ran.

On the highest part of the ridge stood the great castle of the Council of the North, its towers thrusting skyward above the cliffs. Here the Council and most of the rest of the Mighty had their homes and workshops. Behind the castle and trailing down the spine came the town. In the cliffs below the castle were the caverns that served as aeries for the dragon cavalry. As Wiz stood and watched, a single dragon launched itself from below and climbed out over the valley with a thunder of wings.

The parapet was nearly fifteen feet wide. It sloped gently toward the outer wall so that rainwater and liquid fire thrown by enemies would both drain over the sides and down the cliff. The outer edge was marked by crenellations, waist-high blocks of stone that would protect the defenders from enemy arrows. It always reminded Wiz of the witch’s castle in The Wizard of Oz, except that this was much grander.

Wiz walked along, guilty about taking the time away from his work and yet happy to be away. The swallows whipped by him as they swooped and dove along the cliff edge to catch the insects borne aloft by the rising current of air.

The day was bright and cloudless and the air soft and warm enough that he appreciated the breeze blowing up from the river. Faintly and in the distance he could hear the sounds of the castle and town. Somewhere a blacksmith was beating iron on an anvil. From this distance it sounded like tiny bells.

There was a place he favored when he wanted to get away, a spot where a bend in the wall and a watch tower combined to shut out all sight and most sound of the Capital. From there he could look out over the green and yellow patchwork of the fields and woods and into the misty blue distance.

He leaned forward, resting his elbows in one of the crenellations. If only . . .

He felt the stone shift under his weight but by that time it was too late. The block gave way and he was pitched headlong out over the abyss.

Frantically he lashed out with his arms and miraculously his fingers met stone. His arm was nearly yanked out of its socket as he twisted around and slammed face first into the wall. But his grip held and he was left dangling by one hand against the sheer wall.

The crenellation had taken part of the stone facing with it, leaving the rough inner masonry beneath. Wiz was hanging by his fingertips from the edge of the facing, just below where the stone block had been.

Far below him, between his dangling legs, he saw the dislodged block bouncing and tumbling off the cliff. It hit the water with a splash that looked no bigger than a match head. Wiz sucked in his breath and clinched his eyes tight to ward off the dizziness.

Frantically he scrabbled for a hold for his left hand. First his fingers slipped over the smooth surface of the facing. Then at last they caught on another place where the facing blocks had pulled loose. With both hands secure, Wiz opened his eyes and stared at the stone in front of his nose, breathing heavily.

At last he managed to look up. Bracing his feet against the wall, he levered his way up and snatched another handhold slightly higher up the wall. Then another and another and at last he was able to put his feet on the lip where the facing had pulled away. One more heave and he flopped back on the parapet. Bruised and shaken, he pulled himself back through the space where the crenellation had been.

He moved away from the edge and sank down with his head between his knees, breathing in great shaking gasps. Gradually he got himself back under control and looked around him.

The parapet was deserted. Not even the guards could be seen from this spot and there were no other strollers along the walls. He was completely isolated, but…

Was it his imagination or had he seen a figure flit behind a tower as he pulled himself back onto the parapet?

The rest of the day passed uneventfully. He gave two more private lessons, tried to teach a class of apprentices what the concept of zero was all about and spent nearly half an hour listening to Pelus, who was trying to get him to vote against Juvian at the next Council meeting. The sun had set over the towers of the Capital by the time he left his work room and trudged down the winding stairs to the suite he and Moira shared. Lanterns along the walls cast a warm mellow light on the wide corridors.

Wiz was so tired he barely noticed.

As he came down the hall a young man came toward him. Wiz stepped slightly to the side but instead of moving out of his way the man seemed to step in front of Wiz so he jostled him as they passed.

"Clumsy Sparrow," the young man hissed.

Wiz started to say something, thought better of it, and swept past the sneering young man.

What the hell is his problem? Wiz thought.

He knew the man more or less by sight. An apprentice with a vaguely Welsh name. They had never exchanged more than a half a dozen words and now the man was going out of his way to be insulting.

One more thing to worry about. This place was getting to him. He was trying to do a job he wasn’t very good at, a lot of the people here seemed to hate him, he couldn’t concentrate on the parts he could do and even the simplest thing seemed to take forever. He was stretched tauter than a violin string and the fatigue and tension was telling on him.

The door to their apartment was open and he saw Moira sitting in the light of a magical lantern. The light caught her hair and glints of brushed copper played through it. Her mouth was twisted up in a little moue as she bent over the mending in her lap.

Still, Wiz thought, there are compensations.

As he came into the room he saw there was someone else there. A painfully thin girl with flyaway brown hair was sitting at Moira’s feet working on a piece of embroidery.

Without a word the girl got up and left.

"Hi June," Wiz said to her back as she brushed by.

"What have you been doing?" he said as he came to her.

"Sewing." Moira laughed. "I fear I will never be skilled with a needle."

He leaned over and kissed her. "That’s all right. You’re good at plenty of other things."

She arched one of her coppery eyebrows. "And how am I to take that, My Lord?"

"As a compliment." He bent down and kissed her again.

"And how has your day been?"

Well, let’s see. I insulted one of the most powerful members of the Council, botched a tutoring session and nearly killed myself by falling off the parapet. "Oh, okay," he mumbled.

Moira looked at him sharply. "What did you do to your nose?"

"I ran into a door. How is June?" He asked quickly to change the subject.

Moira gave him an odd look, but she took the bait. "She improves, I think."

Like Moira, June had been found wandering as a child in the Fringe of the Wild Wood. Unlike Moira, no one knew where she came from or who her parents were. She was quiet, as shy and skittish as a woodland animal. She worked as a maid and servant around Wizard’s Lodge—when anyone could find her.

Wiz had never heard her speak, although Moira said she occasionally talked.

"Can’t you do something to heal her?" Wiz asked.

"Bronwyn, the chief healer, says she is not ill in her mind," Moira said. "That it is merely her way."

"If she’s not ill, she’s sure peculiar."

"That is odd coming from you, Sparrow," Moira said.

"Hey, I’m alien. I admit it. But she," he jerked his head toward the door, "is about three sigma west of strange."

Moira ignored the comment, something she often did when she didn’t understand her husband. "She seems fascinated by your desk," she said.

Wiz looked at the disorderly pile of manuscripts, strips of wood, slates and books on the desk under the window. "Did she touch anything?"

"You know better than that. I would never allow it."

A wizard’s working equipment was dangerous. Even Moira would not touch Wiz’s desk, though having such a mess in their sitting room pained her.

"Hmm. Do you suppose she has a talent for magic?"

Moira shook her head. "I think it is your guardian that attracts her."

Like any wizard, Wiz had created a demon to guard his paraphernalia. His took the form of a foot-long scarlet dragon, now curled peacefully asleep atop Wiz’s big leather-bound "notebook."

Wiz sat down and reached for the notebook. The dragon demon woke and slithered over to a corner of the desk where it resumed its nap.

For the next quarter hour neither of them said anything. The only sound in the room was the scritching of Wiz’s pen and the rustle of fabric as Moira turned the piece in her lap this way and that.

"Oh, I have some news as well," Moira said, putting down her mending.

"That’s nice," Wiz said without looking up.

"Bronwyn says she will teach me the rudiments of the healer’s art. I am too old for an apprentice, of course. In the village of Blackbrook Bend I often did simple healing and Bronwyn says we can build on that."

Wiz grunted.

"And then I’ll sprout wings and grow two extra heads," she said sharply.

Wiz raised his head. "What?"

"You have not heard a word I said, have you?"

Moira threw her mending on the floor and stood up.

"It is bad enough that you are always gone, but when you are here the least you can do is admit that I am alive!"

"I’m sorry, I was just…"

"I will not be ignored." Moira burst into tears.

Wiz came to her and took her in his arms.

"Oh, darling. I didn’t mean to upset you."

"Hold me."

"Moira, I’m sorry I…"

"Don’t talk, just hold me." She clung to him fiercely as if he were about to be swept away from her.

They made love that night. Afterward they lay in each other’s arms without speaking. Wiz didn’t fall asleep until long afterward and he didn’t think Moira did either.

The next day Wiz stumbled through his classes, groggy from lack of sleep. By the time he got home that evening he was ready to drop, but when Moira suggested they walk out to the drill yard he didn’t object.

In the early evenings the guardsmen held free-form practice on the drill ground. Because there was a gathering of young men there, the young ladies of the castle naturally congregated, to sit in the shade or walk along the colonnaded porch that surrounded the beaten earth of the practice court. And where the young ladies congregated naturally became a gathering place for everyone in the keep. From the highest of the Mighty to the workers in the scullery, it had become the traditional place for an evening stroll.

Wiz and Moira joined the promenade with Moira clinging tightly to his arm. They exchanged small talk with their acquaintances, received respectful bows Wiz’s station entitled them to and spent a few minutes talking with Shamus, the Captain of the Guard and a friend of Moira’s from her time at the Capital learning to be a hedge witch.

From a window above the practice yard Ebrion watched them pass. It would go hard on the hedge witch when the Sparrow disappeared and looking at them walk arm-in-arm that thought troubled him. With an effort he shook it off. The good of the many was much more important than the feelings of one hedge witch. Besides, there were rumors that the two were not getting along.

She’ll get over it quickly enough, he told himself. Then he concentrated on what he knew was about to happen in the courtyard below.

"Look, there’s Donal," Moira pointed to a tall dark-haired guardsman who was using a short spear—actually a padded pole—against a man with a sword and shield.

Donal was one of the guardsmen who had accompanied Wiz on his foray into the dungeons beneath the City of Night to rescue Moira. He was skillfully using the length of his weapon to keep his opponent at a distance and flicking the spear out in quick thrusts, searching for a weakness in the man’s guard. As they watched he executed a fast double thrust and parry that swept his opponent’s sword to the side and finished with a solid thrust to the face.

"Oh, well done!" Moira said, laughing and clapping.

Wiz smiled. In the back of his head a small voice was nagging him about all the work he had to do, but the evening was lovely, the place was pretty, and it was pleasant to walk with a beautiful woman, especially when she was your wife.

As they ambled along, a man stepped out from behind one of the pillars and ran into Wiz, nearly knocking him down.

"Hey, watch it." He saw it was the apprentice who had nearly run into him in the hall the night before.

Pryddian curled his lip. "Clumsy Sparrow. Why not use your magic to fly out of the way?"

Moira gasped. Wiz wanted to smash his sneering face. Instead he stepped around Pryddian and walked toward the opposite side of the drill field.

"Wiz, you shouldn’t let him talk to you like that," Moira hissed once they were out of earshot.

"What should I do? Turn him to stone?"

"Oh, don’t be silly," she said angrily. "But at the very least you should put him in his place."

"How?"

Moira considered. Wiz did not have the wizard’s manner that came with years of practicing magic. He could not freeze an apprentice with a look the way a real wizard could. Short of using magic on him—a thing unthinkable—there really was nothing he could do.

"I will speak to Bal-Simba about him."

"I wish you wouldn’t. It will be all right, really."

Moira pressed her lips together and kept walking.

"Ah, Sparrow, My Lord." They turned and saw Juvian coming toward them, a fussy, balding little man who was always in a hurry.

Wiz nodded respectfully. "My Lord."

"Ah yes," Juvian came panting up. "My Lady, I wonder if you could excuse us for a moment. There is a matter of Council business we must discuss." He took Wiz by the elbow and led him off to the reviewing stand that stood on poles at one side of the field. Wiz threw Moira a helpless look over his shoulder, but he did not try to break the Wizard’s hold on his arm.

"He’s a lucky man," said a voice behind her.

Moira turned and saw Shamus.

"I doubt he would agree with you at this instant."

"Nonetheless, lucky." He smiled with an infectious warmth Moira remembered from her student days and extended his arm. "While he is occupied would you do me the honor of accompanying me?"

Moira smiled back. "Gladly."

Shamus was a lithe, compact man whose shock of sandy hair was thinning with the approach of middle age. His face was deeply tanned and a little windburned with tiny crinkles of laugh lines at the corners of his eyes and mouth. Moira had had a minor crush on him when last she stayed at the Capital, but her studies left her little time to pursue such things.

"We do not see you out here often enough."

"Wiz’s work keeps him busy," Moira said with a trace more acid than she intended.

"True, but a wife does not have to walk only with her husband."

"I suppose so," Moira sighed and looked around at the strolling, chatting people. "It would be pleasant to be out more."

"It could be pleasant indeed," Shamus said with a smile. "I would be happy to show you."

Moira understood exactly what he was offering. Such things were accepted in the Capital and as long as the affair was carried on discreetly no censure attached to any of the parties.

Moira glanced over to where Wiz was finishing his conversation with Juvian. It would serve him right! She thought. Then she buried the notion with a guilty start.

"I am sorry, My Lord, but I must decline."

"Ah," said Shamus, looking across the drill yard. "A very lucky man indeed." He sighed. "You’ve broken my heart, you know."

Moira followed his eyes to Wiz standing beneath the reviewing stand. "I feel it will mend by the time the next pretty face comes along."

The object of this by-play leaned back against one of the posts, oblivious to the things being said about him.

In the rings the guardsmen whirled and dodged in mock combat.

As Wiz put his weight against the post it shifted and the entire marshal’s stand teetered.

"Look out!" Moira screamed.

It all seemed to happen in slow motion. The guardsmen and strollers froze. Wiz looked up, mouth open, to see the entire mass toppling down on him. He started to move out of the way, but he was obviously too late.

An armored body hurtled into him, knocking him sideways and slamming him into the earth. Behind them the stand crashed to earth, raising a cloud of dust off the practice field. A few boards fell across the pair, but the guardsman was on top and his armor protected them both.

"Are you all right, Lord?" Wiz opened his eyes and realized that the man on top of him was Donal.

"Fine," he gasped. "I’m fine."

Donal rolled off Wiz and climbed to his feet. Wiz started to rise and fell back, gasping in pain..

"My shoulder. I’ve done something to my shoulder."

Moira came running across the drill yard, skirts flying.

"Are you all right?"

"I"ve hurt my shoulder."

Moira knelt beside him and ran her fingers lightly over the injured joint. "It is separated." She looked up at Donal. "Help me get his tunic off and I will fix it."

"It would be better if we let the healers handle it."

Moira’s green eyes flashed. "Are you saying I cannot heal a shoulder separation?"

Donal met her gaze levelly. "No Lady, only that Bronwyn or one of the others can do it better."

Moira started to snap back, then with a visible effort, she relaxed. "You are right, of course. Send one of your men for her, and quickly."

"Already done, My Lady."

"Oh shit," Wiz muttered, "this hurts."

Moira rested her hand gently on the injured shoulder. "I know, my love. But Bronwyn will be here quickly enough. Try to relax and do not move."

Behind them Shamus was examining the post where it had snapped off. "Rotten wood," he said, wrinkling his nose. He broke a piece off and crumbled it in his fingers. "This needed replacing months ago, and probably all the rest besides."

Arianne knelt by the post, her brown eyes fixed on the break. "Yes," she said and reached up with slender fingers to caress the broken spot. "Yes, they should all be examined most carefully."

Bal-Simba was in his private study when Arianne found him a few hours later.

"You heard that Wiz nearly brought the marshal’s stand down on himself on the drill field this afternoon?" she said without preamble.

Bal-Simba grunted. "I heard. Besides all else, our Sparrow is clumsy."

"He is that," she said tonelessly.

Bal-Simba looked up and gave his lieutenant his full attention.

"Meaning?"

"Meaning I examined that post just after the accident. The wood was old and beetle-bored, waiting to fail. So I went back and looked at the place on the parapet where he slipped the other day. It was damp and somewhat slick. There was nothing obviously unusual about either the post or the place on the parapet."

Bal-Simba waited.

"I could find no definite trace of magic about either the post or the damp spot. There seemed to be a hint of—something—about the post, but if it was indeed there it was so faint I could not be sure."

"You obviously think there is more to this than simple accidents," Bal-Simba said. "What?"

Arianne paused, choosing her words carefully. "Lord, I think someone is trying to kill Wiz by magic."

When Bronwyn finally released him, Wiz went looking for Donal. He found him alone in the armory, replacing a strap on his chain mail hauberk by the light of a magic globe.

"I wanted to thank you for this evening," Wiz told him. "You saved my life, I think."

"So clumsily you needed the attention of a healer to put your shoulder right," Donal said wryly.

"I’m alive and that’s the important thing. Thank you."

Donal stared down at the new strap. "As you saved mine beneath the City of Night."

"Still…"

"Lord, if you wish think of it as payment of a debt." He turned back to the job of threading the strap into place.

"You know, I think about the time we spent at Heart’s Ease. You, I, Kenneth and Shiara." His mouth twisted into a half-smile. "Back when there was a clear, simple job to do and all we had to do was do it."

"Yes, Lord," Donal said without looking up from tying the strap into the chain mail.

"Now everything’s so complicated and there’s so much more to it." He sighed. "What do you do when you’re overwhelmed?"

"You do the best you can for as long as you can, Lord."

"And then?"

Donal jerked the strap tight and looked up. "Then, My Lord, you put your back to something and go down fighting."

"I don’t think that really applies here," Wiz said.

Donal fixed him with his icy blue eyes. "Lord, I hope you are never in a situation where it does apply."

"Subtle," Bal-Simba said at last. "Subtle indeed. But so subtle it is not sure."

Arianne smiled nervously. "If you mean to make me doubt my suspicions, Lord, you may spare yourself the effort. I do not know if I believe this or not."

"Oh, it is believable," Bal-Simba rumbled. "Overt magic in this place would be too easy to detect—and to trace back to its source. Wiz is known to be clumsy and an accident would be easy to accept. An attack using just the tiniest of magics to set up a mischance could perhaps pass unnoticed. And if the first one did not succeed, the next one might, or the next after that."

"That is my thinking, Lord."

He shook his head. "We have grown lax, Lady. With the Dark League broken we have let down our guard."

"You suspect the Dark League?"

"Who else? They are not all gone, after all, and those who are left would have ample reason for harming our Sparrow."

"There is one other thing, Lord."

"Eh?"

"I did not come by this on my own. Another first suggested the idea to me—before today."

"Who?"

"June, the orphan servant girl. She is convinced Wiz is in danger."

"How is your shoulder?" Moira asked as soon as Wiz came in.

"Fine now." He windmilled the arm. "See?"

"I am glad," she said quietly.

"What’s the mater?" he asked, dreading the answer.

Moira bit hr lip. "Wiz, we have to talk."

"All right." I’m losing her, he thought. I’m blowing it and I’m going to lose her.

"I am sorry, I cannot go on like this."

"I know. I’ve got to stop ignoring you."

"Wiz, you are killing yourself," Moira said desperately. "Your ignoring me, that I could live with—I think. It is in a good cause. But you are burning yourself out trying to do too much."

"I’ve got to do it. Bal-Simba won’t let me off the Council and we’ve got to have a version of the spell compiler anyone can use."

Moira bit her lip and considered. This wasn’t just about her needs. As a hedge witch she had been inculcated with the idea that service to the community came before personal needs. The whole World needed Wiz and what he could do. She pushed her feelings to the back and tried to look at the situation as the helper of one of the Mighty with an important task to perform.

Wiz, lost in his thoughts, missed the shift completely. "I dunno," he sighed. "Sometimes I think it’s getting worse instead of better."

"Worse than you know," the redheaded witch said. "There are some who claim you hide your secrets from us behind a veil of deliberate obscurity. That in this way your power among us grows."

"Oh, bullshit! Look, I’m doing the best I can, all right? But I’m a rotten teacher and these people are so dense."

"Some of the wisest and most powerful of our wizards have placed themselves under your tutelage," Moira said sharply. "Are you so superior that they cannot learn the most elementary matters?"

"Of course not! But you people don’t think the way we do. I know they’re trying but they just don’t pick up the concepts."

"I understand that," Moira said more gently. "I remember what it was like when you tried to teach me this new magic. But Wiz, it makes problems for everyone."

"At least the ordinary people seem to appreciate what I’m doing. We’ve already got a few spells out there that anyone can use. ddt, the magic repellent spell, is everywhere and that’s solved a lot of problems. But I can’t do many more of those until I get the tools built. Meanwhile, I’m trying to teach the system to people who hate it and wasting time sitting in Council meetings listening to endless debates on nothing much."

Moira nodded sympathetically. Wiz was like a blacksmith with a good supply of iron and charcoal but no tools. Given time he could make his own tools, but until he got them made, there was very little else he could do. She wasn’t used to thinking of a spell as a thing built up of parts like a wagon, but by analogy she could understand the situation.

"If I could just get the other wizards to see that and take me seriously, I’d be a lot further along. Instead I have Ebrion claiming the spell compiler doesn’t work at all!"

"But doesn’t ddt show Ebrion and the others that your way of magic works?"

"It doesn’t penetrate. They see it as a clever hack and claim it’s like a non-magician using an enchanted item."

"But you created it!"

He shrugged. "So I’m a great magician. Any great magician could come up with something like that, they say. It’s all an accident."

"They should have been in the dungeons beneath the City of Night when you broke the Dark League single-handed!"

"They weren’t. Most of them didn’t find out about the attack until the day it happened and they never had a really clear picture of what was going on. Besides, they claim it only proves my magic was so alien the Dark League didn’t know what to expect."

Moira said something very unladylike under her breath.

Wiz made a face. "Look, the truth is they don’t see it because they don’t want to see it. I can’t fight that—at least not until I’ve got better tools and can teach some more people to use them."

He sighed. "I don’t know. I feel as if I’m being nibbled to death by ducks. If I could just put everything else aside and concentrate on writing code I could get this done. But the way it is now," he waved his hand helplessly over the books. "The way it is now I’ve got so many other things happening I just can’t stay with anything long enough to accomplish anything."

"Perhaps you could."

"Yeah, but I’ve got to have trained helpers. Until I get some people who understand this kind of magic I can’t do half the critical stuff."

Suddenly Moira brightened. "I have it!" She turned to Wiz excitedly. "You need help, do you not?"

"Yeah," Wiz sighed, running a hand through his hair. "I need help."

"And there are many in your land who can do what you do?"

"More or less."

"Then the thing to do is to have the Council bring others to your aid. With the Dark League broken they can do a Great Summoning easily enough and…"

"No!" Wiz snapped around, shaking her arm off his shoulders.

Moira turned white and flinched back as if he had struck her.

"I’m sorry," Wiz said. "I didn’t mean to scare you. But no, I’m not going to have that on my conscience."

"Look, what Patrius did to me was a damn dirty trick." He took one of her hands in both of his. "I’ll admit it worked out well in the end, but it was still a terrible thing to do. Even with you and all the rest I still get homesick sometimes." He grinned lopsidedly. "There are times I’d trade almost everything for a sausage, pepperoni and mushroom pizza."

He took her in his arms. "Look darling, I know you mean well, but I can’t let you do that to someone else. Promise me you won’t try to yank someone else through."

Moira blinked back tears. "Very well." She tapped herself on the chest with her fist. "I swear I will not use a Great Summoning to bring someone else here from your world."

"And that you won’t influence anyone else to do it either."

She glared at him, but she swore.

"I’ll have to ask Bal-Simba to swear that oath tomorrow," he said, releasing her arms.

She stood up straight. "Very well then. What will you do?"

"It’ll work out," Wiz mumbled. "I’ll think of something."

"What? What will you do?"

"Something! Look, leave me alone, will you?" He shook her arm from his shoulder angrily.

Moira stood stiff and straight. "Very well, My lord." She turned and ran from the room.

Wiz half rose to follow her and then thought better of it. He sank back to the bench and turned his attention to the book in front of him.

Let her work it off, he told himself. She’ll come back when she’s calmed down some. It wasn’t a very attractive solution but it was the best he could think of at the moment.

Moira slammed the door behind her and stormed down the hall, the cloak she had hastily grabbed slung over her arm. By the time she reached the stairs she was crying openly. She paused at the landing to throw the cloak about her and raise the hood to hide her tears, then swept out into the main court.

She did not see the figure in the shadows at the foot of the stairs.

Well, well, Pryddian thought as Moira went past. Trouble in the Sparrow’s nest. He smiled to himself and continued down the corridor.

Five: Shiarra Again

Like the original Heart’s Ease, the new one was a stone tower with an attached hall. The stones of the tower still bore traces of the fire which had destroyed the original and the hewn logs of the halls shone white and new. The freshly raised building exuded the odor of woods; the faint sweet smell of oak from the floors and paneling, the resiny tang of pine from the walls and rafters and the perfume of cedar wafting down from the shingles that roofed the hall.

Gliding through the hall like a swan, Shiara the Silver absorbed it all. She could not see, but she could smell and she could touch. What she sensed pleased her very much.

The warmth streaming in through the diamond-paned windows told her the day was bright and sunny. Perfect for sitting outside and enjoying the feel of the summer breezes.

She smiled. It was somewhat lonely here without Ugo, her goblin companion killed in the raid that destroyed Heart’s Ease. Then Wiz and Moira had gone. But the forest folk took good care of her and Heart’s Ease was still well named. It would be pleasant to sit in the sun, feel the breeze and smell the growing things.

Suddenly she stiffened as the presence of magic sent a sharp pain through her.

Either very near and very weak, or not too near and stronger. She considered again. The Forest Folk were careful of her and would not allow magic to approach Heart’s Ease without warning her. Further away, then.

She heard the light pit-pat of tiny feet on the floor. "A visitor, Lady," the little creature said. "She is asking for you."

Shiara nodded, stately and graceful. "Make her welcome then. I will receive her here."

As the sound of tiny feet faded into the distance Shiara smiled once more. She had company. Obviously one of the Mighty since she had come on the Wizard’s Way. It would be pleasant to talk magic and lore once more. Shiara was no longer of the Mighty. The accident that had deprived her of her sight left her hypersensitive to magic. Living as she did in the deadest Dead Zone in the North, Shiara was spared the pain of magic, but it also meant she was isolated from the World. Still, she enjoyed sitting and talking about what had once been so central to her life. Besides, it was a chance to catch up on the news from the Capital.

"Lady?" came a tremulous voice from the door.

"Moira?" The voice was so strained it was hard to recognize. "Merry met indeed."

"Merry met." Then a pause.

"Lady, I need help and I did not know where else to turn," Moira said miserably.

"… and there you have it, Lady. I could not stand it, so I went away."

Moira and her hostess sat on a log bench outside the rebuilt keep of Heart’s Ease. The night was mild and the moon near full above them. Both had cloaks, but they were only sitting on them rather than wrapping up in them. The moonlight picked out the glistening tear streaks down Moira’s cheeks.

"Lady, I do not know what to do. There is no living with him and I’m miserable without him."

Shiara could not see the tears, but she heard them in Moira’s voice.

"Do you love him?" she asked gently.

Moira sniffed. "You know I do, Lady. And I know he loves me. But that doesn’t solve everything."

"It never does," Shiara said with a sigh.

Moira hesitated and Shiara heard her skirt rustle against her cloak as she turned toward her.

"Lady did you and Cormac…"

Shiara paused at the mention of her dead lover and quest companion, killed in the same accident that took her sight and magic. "… ever fight?" Shiara finished the question. "Oh, aye. Often and fiercely. He would stamp and bellow and bang his fist and I would scream like a fishwife and throw things. Crockery mostly." She smiled at the memory.

"That is not part of the legends, is it? Still, it is true. I think a necessary part of loving someone—loving them enough to share your life with them—is being able to have it out with them when needs be."

She put her hand on Moira’s shoulder. "You are strong willed, both of you, and neither is easy. I would be surprised if you did not fight."

"But it doesn’t seem to settle anything," Moira said despairingly. "We argue and nothing gets any better."

"Now that is another matter," Shiara said.

Shiara turned her sightless eyes to her guest. "I do not know that I am the person to advise you. I had little experience in such matters."

"You and Cormac were as famous for your love as for your deeds." She saw the look that crossed Shiara’s face. "I’m sorry, Lady, I did not mean to pain you."

"Little enough pain in remembering the times you were happy, child." She shook herself.

"Since you want my advice," she went on practically, "the first thing I suggest is that you start with yourself."

"I have done all I can, Lady."

"Forgive me, that is not quite what I meant. From what you say, it sounds as if you have submerged yourself in the Sparrow and his work. You have told me much of him and his problems, but near nothing about you and what you do. It seems that as Wiz has risen in the World you have come down."

"It is no small thing to be the wife of a member of the Council of the North and the mightiest wizard in the land," Moira said.

"Aye, but that is reflected glory. What do you do yourself?" Shiara asked gently.

Moira stiffened.

"It is no small thing to be hedge witch of a village and have everyone look up to you," Shiara went on. "You are someone in your own right and you do important work. At the Capital you have no such work and your place is less clear, is it not?"

"There is something in that," she admitted grudgingly.

"One of the reasons Cormac and I were so in love was that we both had important work. Neither of us was identified by what the other did."

Moira considered that. "So you are saying I should change?"

"It is easier and more certain to change yourself than to change another person."

"And Wiz?"

"He must change too, in his own way." Shiara frowned. "This may not work. You cannot do all the changing, nor will he change simply because you nag at him. You must both strive, and hard, to succeed."

"I will try, Lady. I think he will also. But he is so weighted down with his work it will be difficult."

"It sounds as if the Sparrow is trying to take all the weight of the world upon his shoulders," Shiara said. "Like a certain hedge witch I once knew."

Moira blushed.

"But Lady, there are none in the World who can help him and he has forbidden us to Summon another from his world."

"Then you must give him the help he needs," Shiara told her.

"But how, Lady? I have no talent at all for this new magic."

"You are resourceful. You will find a way, I think. But that is not the worst of it, is it?"

"No," Moira sighed. "He gets lost in his work and it is as if his soul were stolen away. His body is there, but Wiz is gone."

"Then finally, you will have to train him to stop ignoring you. You must make him take time away from his work to spend with you."

"But how do I do that?"

"Seduction is one way," Shiara said judiciously. "More commonly, you simply must tell him when you feel slighted."

Moira sniffed. "I would think that anyone would recognize the signs."

Shiara sighed. "Anyone but a man."

Wiz sleepwalked through the whole day. He couldn’t concentrate, he couldn’t work and he knew his teaching was worse than usual. Even Malus noticed and approached him diffidently to ask what was wrong.

Bal-Simba hinted delicately that he was available if Wiz wanted to talk, but Wiz wasn’t in the mood. He liked the giant black wizard as much as he respected him, but for the first time since coming to the Capital it was borne on him that he really had no close friends here. He thought about Jerry Andrews, his old cubicle mate, and some of the other people he had known in Silicon Valley and missed them for the first time in months.

He broke off in mid-afternoon and raced back to the apartment, his mind full of all the things he wanted to say to Moira. But there was no one there when he arrived.

Wiz sat down heavily at his desk and tried to work. After shuffling things around for half an hour or so, he gave up even the pretense.

Then he moped about the apartment, trying to think and take his mind off things at the same time. With no stereo, television or movies, it was hard to kill time, he discovered. There weren’t even any books to read except a couple of grimores he had borrowed from the wizard’s library.

And they don’t have much of a plot, he thought sourly.

Finally he opened the sideboard and poured himself a large cup of mead from the small cask Moira kept there. Moira preferred the mead of the villages to the wines of the Capital and she liked to have a cup after supper. Wiz hadn’t eaten yet, but it looked to be about supper time to him.

Normally he didn’t care for mead, finding its sweetness cloying. But tonight it wasn’t half bad. He had a second cup and that wasn’t bad at all. The mead didn’t exactly make his thinking clearer, but it did seem to narrow down the problem and focus him on the major outlines.

"Priorities," he said, hoisting his third cup to the dragon demon sitting atop his books. "I’ve got to start setting priorities." He drained the cup in a single long draught and went to the cask to refill it again.

"Moira’s priority one," he said waving the cup in the general direction of the demon. "I’ve gotta get Moira back." He slopped a little mead from the cup and giggled. "Screw the wizards, scroo’m all. Moira’s what’s important."

He poured half the contents of the cup down his throat in a single swallow.

"Then the compiler. Never mind the Council. They’re not important anyway. I finish the compiler and where’s the Council, hey? Poof. All gone. Don’t need them no more."

It took him a while, but sometime early in the morning he finished the cask of mead.

Well, he thought muzzily as he staggered into the bedroom, it’s one way to pass the time.

The morning was death with birdsong.

Wiz’s head was pounding, his eyeballs felt like they had been sandpapered and his mouth felt as if something small and furry had crawled in there and died.

Now I understand why they invented television, he thought as he splashed cold water on his face and neck. No hangover.

There was no food in the apartment and the only things to drink were water and a bottle of mead. The thought of the mead nearly made Wiz lose his stomach and the water wasn’t very satisfying.

Somewhere in the back of his head, buried under several layers of pain, he remembered that the wizards had a spell that cured hangovers. He needed that more than he needed anything else right now, except Moira. Afterwards he could get breakfast in the refectory with the inhabitants of the castle who chose not to cook for themselves.

He groped his way toward the Wizards’ Day Room where he expected to find someone who could put him out of his misery.

Naturally the first person he met was Pryddian.

The ex-apprentice took in Wiz’s condition in a single glance. "A good day to you, My Lord," he said, much too loudly.

Wiz mumbled a greeting and tried to step by the man.

"What is the matter this morning, Sparrow?" Pryddian boomed, moving in front of him again. "Suffering from an empty nest?"

"Leave me alone, will you?" Wiz mumbled.

Pryddian was almost shouting now. "Poor Sparrow, his magic fails him this morning. All his mighty spells cannot even cure a simple hangover." Again Wiz tried to move around him and again the man blocked his way.

"You need the help of a real wizard, Sparrow. Maybe he could make you a love philtre while he’s at it, eh? Something to keep your wife home at nights."

Suddenly it was all too much.

Wiz whirled on his tormentor. Pryddian caught his look and stepped back, hands up as if warding off a blow.

"backslash," he shouted.

The lines of magical force twisted and shimmered.

Wiz froze with his arm extended and his mouth open.

Pryddian shrank back, his face white.

Wiz dropped his arms. "cancel."

"I’m sorry," he mumbled. I didn’t mean to…"

Pryddian gathered himself and beat a hasty retreat.

Wiz became aware that a dozen people were watching him from doors along the corridor. His face burning, he turned and fled.

Wiz had little less than an hour to contemplate the enormity of what he had almost done before Bal-Simba came calling. The giant black wizard was obviously not in a good mood.

"I must ask you this and I compel you to answer me truthfully," he said as soon as he had closed the door. "Did you threaten to use magic on Pryddian?"

"Yes, Lord," Wiz said miserably.

"And he did not threaten you first?"

"Well, he got in my face."

"But he offered you no threat?"

"No, Lord."

Bal-Simba looked as if he would explode.

"Lord, with the problems with the project and Moira gone and then him… Lord, I am sorry."

Bal-Simba scowled like a thundercloud. "No doubt you are. But that would not have saved Pryddian if you had followed through with your intent. Magic is much too powerful to be loosed in anger. You above all others should know that."

"Yes, Lord. But he has been riding me for days."

"Is that an excuse?" Bal-Simba asked sharply. "Do you hold power so lightly that you will loose magic on any person who annoys you? If so, which of us are safe from you?"

"No, Lord," Wiz mumbled, "it isn’t an excuse."

The huge wizard relaxed slightly. "Pryddian’s behavior has not gone unnoticed. He will be dealt with. The question is what to do with you."

He looked at Wiz speculatively until Wiz fidgeted under his gaze.

"It would be best if you were to absent yourself a while," Bal-Simba said finally. "I believe matters can be smoothed over but it will be easier to do if you are not here."

"Yes, Lord," said Wiz miserably.

"In fact, this would accomplish two things," he said absently. "I have received a request from the village of Leafmarsh Meadow. They have asked for one of the Mighty to assist them. That is sufficient reason for you to be gone, I think.

"Also, we have many reports that this new magic of yours is already at work on the Fringe of the Wild Wood."

"That would be ddt, the magic protection spell I hacked up," Wiz told him.

"The reports of the hedge witches and other wizards are somewhat confusing. I want to see what is going on through your eyes."

"Yes, Lord. Uh, what about Moira?"

"I am sure she is safe. If she returns while you are gone, I will tell her where you are.

"I will send a journeyman wizard with you. You will leave tomorrow morning. Meanwhile, it would be best if you were to stay out of sight." He looked down at Wiz. "And take something for that hangover."

This close to the Capital, the woods were carefully tended tree lots rather than the raw forest of the Wild Wood. But the trees still shut out prying eyes and the relative isolation made prying magic easy to sense. That was the important thing.

Ebrion made his way to the middle of the grove. He looked around cautiously, extended his magical senses for any hint of watcher and then extended his arm, finger pointing south.

As if on cue, a tiny bird flickered through the trees and landed on his outstretched finger. To the eye it was an ordinary wren, speckled brown on brown. A magician would have sensed instantly that it was no ordinary bird, but part of the reason for meeting in the woods was to keep the bird away from other magicians.

The bird cocked its head to one side and regarded the wizard with a beady eye.

The Sparrow has left the Capital, Ebrion thought at the bird. He is to be gone perhaps four days and then he will return along the Wizard’s Way. Be ready for him.

He paused and then continued.

One thing more. Your attempts to arrange an accident for the Sparrow have been discovered. I told you I would not have him harmed. Persist and our bargain is broken.

The wren took wing and flashed through the trees. The wizard waited until it rose above the treetops and turned straight south. Then he nodded and started back to the Capital.

Six: Applications Magic

Wiz’s travelling companion was a wizard named Philomen, a slender young man with an aristocratic bearing and a reserved manner. Wiz had met him briefly, but he didn’t know him and he couldn’t remember seeing him in any of his classes.

As was custom, they did not walk the Wizard’s Way straight into the village. Instead they arrived on a hill where the road topped the rise to look down at Leafmarsh Meadow. From here the village looked neat and peaceful, spread out along the road that ran to the Leafmarsh Brook and crossed to run deeper into the fringe. This side of the river was a neat pattern of fields and pastureland. The Fringe started on the other side of the water and there the land was mostly forest, although Wiz noted a number of fields, obviously freshly hacked in the ancient woodland.

Towering over the village was a hill of naked gray granite. It seemed to be a single enormous boulder, placed as if a careless giant had dropped it next to the river. Even to Wiz’s relatively untrained senses there was something about the huge rock that hinted of magic.

"This will be my first real trip out of the Capital in almost a year," Wiz said in an effort to make conversation as they started down the hill toward the village.

"Indeed?" Philomen said. "You will find much changed, I think."

Wiz didn’t have any good answer to that, so they walked along in a silence for a bit.

"Do you have any idea why they wanted help from the Council?"

"None, Lord. If they did not tell one of the Mighty, do you think they would tell one barely raised from apprentice?"

"No, I guess not," Wiz said. "Well, we’ll know soon enough. That’s the hedge witch’s cottage there."

The place was on the outskirts of the village, a single-story house of whitewashed wattle and daub with thatched roof. The whitewash needed renewing and the thatch was turning black in spots. It was surrounded by a rather weedy garden and all enclosed by a ramshackle fence. The cottage wasn’t exactly run down, Wiz decided, but it looked very much like the owner had other things on her mind than the condition of her property.

They came up the flagstone pathway to the door and Philomen rapped sharply upon it with his staff.

"Keep your britches on, I’m coming," came a cracked voice from inside. Then the door was flung open in their faces.

"What the…" She stopped dead when she saw her visitors in wizard’s cloaks with staffs in their hands. She blinked once and her whole manner changed.

"Merry met, Lords," she said, bobbing a curtsey. "I am Alaina, hedge witch of this place."

She was older than Moira, but how much Wiz couldn’t tell because people aged so fast here on the Fringe. Her hair was gray and a greasy wisp had escaped the bun on the back of her head. She was shaped like a sack of potatoes. Her skin was coarse and her teeth, what were left of them, were yellow. From this distance it was obvious she hadn’t bathed recently.

On the whole, she didn’t look much worse than the average middle-aged peasant woman, but to Wiz the contrast with the hedge witch he knew best was striking.

Well, Wiz thought, it would be too much to expect all hedge witches to be like Moira.

"Merry met, Lady," Wiz and Philomen chorused.

"What brings you to Leafmarsh Meadow?"

"We were sent by the Council in answer to your request," Philomen said.

The hedge witch looked blank. "Request? Oh, yes, the request. Well, what can I be thinking of to keep such guests standing in my garden? Come in, Lords, come in and be welcome."

The place was even more run down and messier on the inside, but it managed to be homey at the same time. The cottage was a single large room with a fireplace at one end and an unmade bed in the corner. At the opposite end was a low work table with rows of shelves above it. Dried herbs and other less identifiable things hung from the rafters, giving the place an odor like hay with anise overtones.

"Please excuse the clutter," Alaina said and she moved piles of things off chairs to give them places to sit. "The girl only comes in three days a week and things do pile up in between times.

"Can I offer you refreshment? I have some very good mead. But of course gentlemen such as yourselves from the Capital do not drink mead."

There was an undercurrent of resentment, Wiz realized. As if she didn’t want them here.

"Mead would be most satisfactory," Philomen said.

"None for me, thanks," Wiz said and from the way they both looked at him he realized he had committed some kind of social error in refusing the hospitality.

"I can’t drink just now," he said quickly.

Alaina’s expression smoothed. "Ah, a vow. I understand those things, of course. You are saving power for a special spell."

"More like doing penance," Wiz said wryly.

Once they were settled into the somewhat dusty chairs and Philomen and Alaina were clutching cups of mead Wiz decided it was time for serious talk. Alaina was keeping up a steady flow of conversation on inconsequential topics, as if she was trying to ward off discussion. Philomen was responding to her with bored civility, but making no move to come to the point.

"Your pardon, Lady," Wiz said, cutting off an anecdote about the profusion of dragon weed this year, "could you tell us about your problem?"

"My problem, ah yes," Alaina said, draining the rest of her mead in a single gulp. "It is nothing, really. Nothing at all." She reached over for the pitcher and refilled her cup.

"I am honored that you have come to us, do not misunderstand me," she waved an admonitory hand. "But it really was not necessary. Not necessary at all to send two such great wizards from the Capital for this."

"I thought you had asked for help," Wiz said.

Alaina made a dismissing motion, as if shooing off an insect. "That was Andrew, the mayor. He wouldn’t give me a minute’s peace until I sent off to the Council for aid." She smiled at her visitors. "You know how non-magicians are, My Lords, always frightened around magic and such. But I never dreamed they would send someone so soon. And two of you!"

Meaning you expected to have this all wrapped up before the council took notice, Wiz thought sourly. Now here we are and you won’t get the additional prestige out of this you thought you would.

"I am sure your skill is up to the task, Lady," Philomen said soothingly. "It just happened we were coming this way on other business so the Council asked that we come to assess the situation. Consider us merely observers."

That seemed to mollify the hedge witch.

"Well," she said. "Well indeed. I was going to wait until the next full moon to lay this creature. But since your lordships are here, I suppose I can do the job tomorrow."

"Very well then," Philomen said. "I presume there is a place we can get dinner and stay the night."

"Oh, there is no inn in the village," Alaina said. "Much too small, you know." She hesitated.

"I would ask you to sleep here, but…" She swept out her arm, indicating the clutter and the single bed. "In any event, I am sure you would be much more comfortable staying at the mayor’s house. No, I am sure he will insist that you stay with him as soon as he knows you are here."

"I am sure you know best, Lady," Philomen said.

"He is out on the brook gathering reeds for thatching," the hedge witch told them. "I will have someone send for him immediately." She stood up. "Will you excuse me, Lords?" She bobbed a curtsey and went out.

"Political, huh?" Wiz said once he was sure their hostess was out of earshot.

"Such matters usually are, Lord. At least to some extent. I would suggest that we let her lay this creature." He looked at Wiz. "Unless you have reason to do otherwise."

The man’s tone made Wiz uncomfortable. "No, none at all," he said, looking down at his boots.

"Might I further suggest, Lord, that we stand ready to aid her should the need arise? Her style does not give me confidence in her abilities."

Wiz and Philomen sat in uncomfortable silence for a few minute more. Wiz still wasn’t sure whether Philomen’s coldness grew out of his nature or a dislike for him. A mixture of both, he suspected increasingly.

Alaina came rushing back breathless with the news that mayor Andrew had been summoned from the reed marsh and his wife was preparing to receive them at their house. It would take a few minutes, she told them, but they would receive a proper reception.

Wiz was becoming increasingly uncomfortable with both of them, so he excused himself.

"I want to stretch my legs a bit," he explained.

Philomen nodded. "As you will," and he turned his attention back to Alaina’s latest story.

There wasn’t much to the village, just a gaggle of houses spread out along a narrow lane. Most of them were timber or wattle and daub, but a few of the larger ones clustered around the place where the lane widened into a village square were made of native stone.

There weren’t many people about, or if there were they were keeping out of sight. Once or twice Wiz passed someone in the street who bowed or curtseyed and then moved on quickly. He saw children peering at him from windows and doors, but very few adults.

Either people hereabouts were afraid of strangers or they knew who he was and they were nervous around wizards. Judging from the reactions he got, Wiz suspected the latter.

At the end of the village, where the stream made a looping bend, there was a grove of poplars on a bank overlooking a water meadow. As Wiz approached he smelled smoke and the smell drew him on toward the trees.

Maybe there will be someone here to talk to, he thought.

There was a wagon, hardly more than a cart, and an ox grazing in the meadow nearby. A man in rough brown breeches and a coarse linen shirt was busy building up a small campfire. He was burly with a greying beard and a seamed, weatherbeaten face. He looked up and smiled a gap-toothed smile as Wiz approached.

"Well met, My Lord."

"Uh, hi. Just passing through, are you?"

"Aye, My Lord," the man chuckled. "Passing through on my way to a better life. I am called Einrich."

"Wiz Zumwalt. Pleased to meet you. But why are you camped out here? I thought the villagers put travellers up where there are no inns."

The man shrugged. "I know no one here and I have no claim to guest right. Doubtless a place could be made for me, but the weather is fair. The people are willing to let me pasture my ox in their meadow and gather wood for my fire. That is sufficient.

"Besides," he added, "they have seen many like me recently. Better to save their hospitality for those who are travelling with their wives and children."

Wiz looked around and realized there were three or four other campfire rings under the trees. No one was using them now, but most of them looked as if they hadn’t been long out of use.

"Where is everyone going?"

Einrich grinned, showing the place where his front teeth had been. "Why for land, young Lord. They go into the Wild Wood for land."

"You too?"

Einrich nodded. "I tarry here for a day or so to rest and feed up my ox. Then I am also on my way east for new land."

"All by yourself?"

"My sons and their families stay behind on the old farm to gather in the harvest." He grinned. "They can spare a dotard such as me and this way we can get an early start on our new farm."

Looking at Einrich’s powerful frame, Wiz would not have called him a dotard. Old perhaps, by the standards of the peasantry, but he looked like he could still work Wiz into the ground.

"How far are you going?"

"As deep into the Wild Wood as I can. That way when my sons follow we will all be able to claim as much land as my sons and my sons’ sons will ever need."

"Aren’t you worried about magic?"

"No more!" Einrich said triumphantly. "With the new spell I can defeat any magic in the Wild Wood. Trolls, even elves, I can destroy them all."

Wiz frowned. ddt, his magic-protection spell, wouldn’t destroy anything. It would only ward off magic and tend to drive magical influences away.

Wiz opened his mouth to say something, but Einrich interrupted him. "Oh, it is a grand time to be alive!" His eyes shone like a child’s at Christmas. "Truly grand and I thank fortune that I lived to see this day. No longer must mortals cower at the threat of magic. Now we can walk free beneath the sun!"

"Wonderful," Wiz said uncomfortably.

"Will you join me for dinner, Lord? Plain fare, I fear, but plenty of it."

"No thanks. I think I am expected back at the village for dinner."

Wiz walked slowly back toward the village square, scowling and scuffing his boot toe in the dust of the road. This was what he had fought for, wasn’t it? That people like Einrich could live their lives without having to fear magic constantly. Most of the Fringe and part of the Wild Wood had been human at one time, before the pressures of magic had driven the people back. Wasn’t it just that they were reclaiming their own?

Then why do I feel so damn uncomfortable with Einrich and what he’s doing?

The mayor met Wiz partway back to the village square. He was a stout, balding man with a face red from exertion. He was wearing a red velvet tunic trimmed with black martin fur obviously thrown hastily over his everyday clothes. He had washed the muck off, but the odor of the reed marsh still clung to him.

Mayor Andrew turned out to be almost as garrulous as Alaina. This time it suited Wiz because it meant that aside from complimenting the mayor on the village and making agreeable noises, he did not have to talk.

Dinner that evening was a formal affair. All the important people of the village turned out in their holiday best to honor the visitors. The villagers’ manners were strained as they tried to follow what they thought was polite custom in the Capital. It reminded Wiz of a dinner he had attended once where the principals of an American software company were doing their best to entertain and avoid offending a group of powerful Japanese computer executives. That one turned into a rousing success after both sides discovered they shared a strong taste for single-malt scotch consumed in large quantities. For a moment Wiz considered trying to conjure up a bottle of Glenlivet, but he realized it would take more than booze to help this party.

"What is this thing that threatens you anyway?" Wiz asked Andrew during a particularly strained pause in the conversation as the mountainous platter of boiled beef was being removed and replaced with an an equally mountainous plate of roast pork.

Andrew twisted in his chair and pointed. "That!"

Wiz followed the mayor’s finger out the window. Hulking against the night sky was the huge granite hill, its mass and shape cutting off the stars near the horizon.

"The hill?"

"Aye, the hill. We have lived in its shadow too long."

Wiz realized everyone was looking at him and the mayor.

"Is it dangerous?"

"Dangerous enough," the mayor said grimly.

"What does it do?"

"It mazes people. Those who climb it are overcome by its power and stricken dumb. For days or even weeks they wander as if simple."

"Young John fell off it and broke his back," a slat-thin woman halfway down the table put in. "The healer said it was a wonder that he ever walked again."

Wiz toyed with the pork that had been heaped on his plate. "Uh, maybe this is a dumb question, but why don’t people just stay off the hill?"

There was stony silence all down the table. Philomen concentrated on his plate and everyone else glared at Wiz.

"Okay, so it was a dumb question," Wiz muttered.

"The thing is magic and I will not have magic so close to my village," Andrew said fiercely.

"Look, don’t worry. I’m sure that we can take care of this thing tomorrow so it will never bother you again."

Somehow the rest of the meal passed off without incident.

Deep in the Wild Wood a wren perched on a finger and trilled out its message. Seklos, now second in command of the Dark League, considered carefully the news the bird had brought.

So, he thought, our Sparrow leaves its nest. Very well, we will be ready when he seeks to return. He dismissed the wren with a flick of his finger and turned to his work. In concert with the others of the Dark League, he had a demon to create. A most powerful and special demon.

As he reached for a spell book Seklos wondered idly what that fool in the Capital meant about attempts on the Sparrow’s life. The Dark League would make only one such attempt. And when it came it would be crushingly, overwhelmingly successful.

Seven: Demon Debug

The morning was bright and clear. The day promised to be hot, but by the time Wiz and Philomen emerged from the mayor’s house the whole village was astir.

"Oh, this is a great day," Mayor Andrew told them, rubbing his palms together. "A great day indeed."

"I am sure it is," Philomen said soothingly. "We are honored to be here to observe. Now, if you will excuse us, we must consult with your hedge witch before the ceremony."

As the villagers drifted in the direction of the monolith, Wiz, Philomen and Alaina retired to one corner of the meadow for some shop talk.

"Okay," Wiz said, looking over his shoulder at the enormous mass of granite. "Probably the best tool for this job is the Demon Deterrent Trap, ddt."

"Why not demon_debug?" asked Alaina.

"What’s that?" "A wonderful cure for magic of all sorts," the slatternly hedge witch told him. "It wipes it right out."

"Where did you get it?"

Alaina gestured vaguely. "It is being passed through the villages. Much better than ddt, I assure you."

"Well, let’s see it."

Alaina nodded and raised her staff.

"demon—debug exe!" she bawled at the top of her cracked voice.

There was a shimmering and shifting in the air in front of them and a squat demon perhaps three feet high and nearly as broad appeared on the grass before them.

Wiz looked the thing over and frowned. "This isn’t one of my spells."

"Of course not, My Lord," the hedge witch said. "This is better."

The warty green demon leered up at him, showing saw-like rows of teeth in a cavernous mouth. The thing looked singularly unpleasant, even for a demon.

"How does it work?"

Alaina shrugged. "It is magic of course. How else does a spell work?"

"No, I mean how does it function? Haven’t you listed it out to examine the code?"

"List?" Alaina said, puzzled. "Forgive me, Lord, but how do you make a spell lean? And what good would it do."

Wiz shot her a dirty look. Then he realized she was sincere. She didn’t have the faintest idea how a spell worked or how to find out.

He shook his head. "Well, let’s see then."

Philomen and the hedge witch hung back to watch the master work.

"Emac."

"Yes, master?" A small brown mannikin popped up at his feet. It was perhaps three feet high with a head almost grotesquely large for its body. It wore a green eyeshade on its bald brown head and carried a quill pen stuck behind one flaplike ear.

The Emacs were one of the first classes of demons Wiz had created when he declared his one-man war on the Dark League. They were translators and recorders of spells in Wiz’s magic language, magical clerks.

"backslash." Wiz commanded.

"$," said the Emac.

"list demon_debug," Wiz said.

The Emac pulled the pen from behind his ear and began to scribble furiously on the air in front of him. A mixture of runes, numbers, and mathematical symbols appeared in glowing green fire.

Wiz frowned as he studied the symbols.

"It’s based on ddt, but it’s been changed." He turned to the Emac again.

"backslash."

"$."

"dif demondebug/ddt."

Again the Emac scribbled and again the lambent characters hung in the air. But one section of spell stood out in violent magenta against the neon green.

Wiz bent forward over the Emac’s shoulder to study the magenta section. It represented the changes between the original ddt and this new version. He traced his finger along the lines and his lips moved as he worked out what the changes did.

"Jesus H. Christ," he breathed at last. "What a nasty piece of work!" He straightened up and glared at the other two magicians.

"Who’s responsible for this?"

"Ah, responsible for what, Lord?" Philomen asked.

"This!" Wiz shouted. "It isn’t a defensive spell. It’s offensive, a magic killer. You turn this loose on any kind of magical creature and it won’t just protect you, it will destroy the thing."

"So much the better," the hedge witch said firmly. "That way it will never come around to bother us again."

"But why kill it?"

Alaina set her jaw firmly and her eyes glittered. "Because it is magic and because it threatens us. Perhaps the Mighty do things differently in the Capital, but we are simple folk out here on the Fringe. We treat harmful magic the way we treat poisonous serpents."

Before Wiz could reply Philomen placed a hand on his arm. "Forgive me, My Lord, but perhaps we should discuss this. Will you excuse us, My Lady?"

Alaina curtseyed stiffly and withdrew to the other end of the meadow.

"My Lord, it is unwise to give an order you cannot enforce," Philomen said as soon as the hedge witch was out of earshot. "Were you to forbid this, she could simply wait until we are gone and use demon_debug herself."

"This is too much. That thing doesn’t hurt anyone permanently. From what they say it doesn’t even affect anyone who doesn’t climb it."

"Still, it is strong magic and that makes it an unchancy neighbor. The villagers’ desire to rid themselves of the thing is understandable."

"Great. But where will it all end? Are these people going to go around destroying anything just because it’s magic?"

"If they have the opportunity."

"That’s crazy!"

"No, it is understandable. It is the people in the villages, especially along the Fringe, who have suffered the most from magic. To you in your pale tower in the Capital magic may be a thing to be learned and applied. Here it is a thing to be hated and feared. Is it any wonder that as soon as they were given an opportunity to practice magic safely, they should go looking for a weapon?"

"I gave them a defense," Wiz protested. "I didn’t expect them to turn it into something so dangerous!"

"You did say you wanted even common folk to learn your new way of magic," Philomen said mildly.

"Yes, but not like this!"

"Are you now complaining because someone took you at your word?"

"I’m complaining because this spell is fucking magical napalm!" Wiz yelled. "I expected people to have more sense than this."

"Sense?" Philomen asked with a trace of malice. "My Lord, forgive me, but when have the folk of the villages ever shown such sense?

"Once it was the Council’s job to maintain the balance of the World. But as you have said, the Council is outworn and lives beyond its usefulness. Or did you expect the folk along the Fringe to learn restraint and balance overnight?"

"I never said the Council was useless."

"You never put it in words," Philomen retorted. "But you said it with every act, every gesture, every roll of the eyes or yawn in Council meeting. Oh, your message got through, right enough. Even to the villages on the Fringe of the Wild Wood.

"Then you compound your actions by giving villagers a powerful spell they can use freely and telling everyone who would listen that you do not have to be a wizard to practice magic." Philomen’s lip curled in contempt. "No, My Lord, you are getting exactly what you strived for."

Wiz couldn’t think of anything to say.

"So come, My Lord, let us attend the laying of this thing. And for the sake of what little order remains in the World, let us put a good face on it." With that he turned and walked back across the meadow to where Alaina was waiting. Wiz hesitated for an instant and then followed.

The entire village was gathered before the stone by the time the three magicians arrived. All of them were wearing their holiday best. The adults were clumped together talking excitedly and the children were running around laughing and shrieking at play.

They parted like a wave for the three magicians. Andrew was standing at the front of a few of the other people from the feast last night.

Alaina looked over the crowd, eyes shining and her coarse face split in a huge smile.

"Well," she said briskly, "shall we begin?"

She motioned with her staff and the villagers fell back, Wiz and Philomen with them. Then she turned to face the rock, struck a dramatic pose and thrust her staff skyward.

"demon_debug BEGONE exe!" she bawled.

At first nothing seemed to happen. Wiz could feel the tension rising in the crowd and knotting up in his stomach. He took a firmer grip on his staff and began to review the spells he might use if this only roused the creature.

Maybe it won’t work, he thought to himself, half-afraid and half-hopeful. Maybe the spell will crash.

Then the rock moaned.

The sound was so low it sent shivers through Wiz’s bones, as if someone was playing the lowest possible note on the biggest bass fiddle in the world. It started low and then built and rose until it threatened to drown out all other sound.

There was something else there besides sound, Wiz realized. Some sort of mental influence, as if…

Wiz went white. "That thing’s alive," he shouted to Philomen. "It’s alive and intelligent!"

"Such things often are in their own way," the wizard agreed, keeping his eyes on the mass before them.

"But you can’t kill it, it’s intelligent!"

"Can we not? Watch."

Still groaning, the stone reared above them, heaving itself free of the earth and towering above them as if it would slam down on them and crush them like bugs. The villagers gasped and shrank back, but the thing slammed to earth in its own bed. The ground shook so hard Wiz nearly lost his balance. The creature reared again, not so high this time, and pounded to the earth once more. It tried to rear a third time, but could only quiver.

"Stop it!" Wiz yelled. "Stop it! Can’t you see it can’t hurt you?"

" ’Tis magic," Andrew replied. " ’Tis magic and must be burned from the land.

"Too long we trembled under the magical ones. Now let them tremble." His voice rose to a shout over the windy moans of the dying stone. "Let them know fear!"

The crowd behind him growled agreement.

The thing thinned, its stony gray turning opalescent and gradually lightening until Wiz could dimly see the outline of the hills through it. Then the creature’s body went foggy and he could see that the hills were cloaked in summer’s green. The outline blurred and became indistinct and finally, at last, the mist dissipated, leaving nothing but a hole in the ground with tendrils of smoke rising from it.

Wiz stood shocked and numb, oblivious to the cheers of the villagers. Someone was pounding him on the back and shouting in his ear, but he couldn’t make out the words.

Alaina left in the midst of an excited knot of villagers, talking and cheering and doing everything but hoisting her on their shoulders in triumph. Some of the others remained behind to gape at the huge pit where the rock creature had stood. Then by ones and twos they began to drift back toward the village square.

"A waste, I calls it," one old gaffer said to his younger companion as they passed by where Wiz stood. "They should have pounded it into gravel stead of just making it disappear. We needs gravel for our roads, we does."

Finally only Wiz remained, standing at the edge of the pit and looking down.

He didn’t know what the thing was that had died here today. He had never heard of such a creature and it may well have been the only one of its kind. But whatever it was it didn’t deserve what had been done to it.

His cheeks were wet and he realized he was crying.

There was a footstep behind him. Wiz didn’t turn around.

"Are you coming, My Lord?" Philomen asked. "There will be a feast tonight in honor of slaying the monster."

Wiz turned to face the wizard. "No thanks. Right now I don’t think my stomach could stand a feast."

"Our presence is expected."

"Vomiting on your hosts is probably bad form, even in this bunch."

Philomen’s face froze and he bowed formally. "As you will, My Lord. I will see you at the mayor’s house then."

"Maybe." Wiz strode off toward Leafmarsh Brook and the bridge into the Fringe beyond.

"My Lord, where are you going?"

"Into the Wild Wood," Wiz flung back over his shoulder. "Right now I want some civilized company. Weasels maybe, or snakes."

Eight: Side Effects

Sitting under a flowering bush on a hillside, Wiz called up an Emac and studied the code for demon_debug again.

It was obvious what had happened, he thought as he traced the glowing lines. Somewhere out in one of the villages, some bright person with a knack for magic and a little knowledge of his programming language had taken ddt apart and found a way to make it more effective. What he or she had done was related to the magic-absorbing worms Wiz had invented for his attack on the City of Night. The new spell, demon_debug, sucked the magical energy right out of its victim. It was crude, it was dangerous and it was absolutely deadly.

Without one hell of a protection spell there was no way that anything magical could survive demon_debug. Idly he picked up a water-worn pebble and ran his thumb across it while he thought about the implications.

This must be what Einrich meant when he said he could destroy any magic he met in the Wild Wood. That, and the way Alaina talked, made Wiz pretty sure the spell was spread far and wide through the Fringe.

Wiz flung the stone into the weeds. He had screwed this up more thoroughly than he had ever messed up anything in his life. Before he had just affected himself, and perhaps the lives of a few people around him. Now he had managed to meddle in the lives of an entire world; to meddle destructively.

He wasn’t sorry he had invented the magic compiler. He thought of the last time he had come this way. He and Moira had stumbled over the burned ruins of a farm shortly after the trolls had raided it. He had dug the grave in the cabbage patch to bury the remains of the people the trolls hadn’t eaten after roasting them in the flames of their own homestead. He still had nightmares about that.

He didn’t want to go back to the way things had been. But looking down at the village and the scar where the rock creature had stood for time out of mind, he wasn’t at all sure what was replacing it was much better.

He stood up and looked down on the village. The evening breeze bore the faint sounds of drunken revelry up the hill to him. In the center of the village people were piling wood head high for a bonfire. Ding dong the witch is dead! Never mind that the "witch" had stood harmlessly for longer than the village had been there. Never mind that the people who killed it behaved like a wolf pack with the blood lust up. The witch was dead so let’s have a party. And if it’s a good party, maybe we can go out tomorrow and find some more witches to murder.

He couldn’t go back there. But he didn’t want to go back to the Capital with its packs of wizards and no Moira. All he really wanted was to be alone for a while. Say a couple of centuries.

Well, he decided, there really wasn’t any reason to go back. He had come to the village with only his cloak, staff, and a pouch containing a few magical necessities. He had his staff and pouch and the weather was warm enough that he doubted he would miss his cloak.

Turning his back on the village, Wiz headed down the other side of the hill, toward the Wild Wood.

He very quickly lost any sense of where he was. He might be wandering in circles for all he knew—or cared. If he wanted to go somewhere he could take the Wizard’s Way. What he needed was to be alone and to try to sort out the mess.

Once he stopped to munch handfuls of blackberries plucked from a stand of thorny canes. Another time he stopped to drink from a clear rivulet. Most of the time he just walked.

The evening deepened and the shadows grew denser but Wiz barely noticed. Finally, the second time he almost ran into a tree he sat down to think some more. As he sat the dusk darkened to full night. The last vestiges of light faded from the sky and the moon rose over the treetops. The night insects took up their chorus and the night blooming plants of the Wild Wood opened their blossoms, adding just a hint of perfume to the earth-and-grass smell of the night. Wiz fell asleep under the tree that night. He dreamed uneasily of Moira.

"You step more spritely this morning," Shiara observed as her guest came into the great hall.

"Thank you, Lady, I feel better." She joined Shiara at the trestle table beneath the diamond-paned window and began to help herself to the breakfast spread out there.

"You found a solution then?"

Moira frowned. "Part of a solution, I think."

She heaped berries into an earthenware bowl and poured cream over them. She took an oat cake from the platter and drizzled honey on it. "Wiz always said that when you could not meet a problem straight forward you should come at it straight backwards."

Shiara nibbled reflectively on an oat cake. "That sounds like the kind of thing the Sparrow would say."

Moira nodded. "Once he told me something about a mountain that could move but wouldn’t and a wizard named Mohammed." She wrinkled her nose. "I never understood that, but it gave me an idea."

Shiara chuckled. "Now that truly sounds like our Sparrow. And from this obstinate mountain and a straight backwards approach, you have discovered something to help you?"

"To help Wiz. But Lady, I need your advice."

"I know nothing about going straight backwards or moving mountains."

"No, but you know Bal-Simba. He will have to aid me in this."

The sun was high in the sky before it worked its way under the tree where Wiz lay. Twice he wrinkled his nose and shifted his position to keep the beams out of his eyes, but still he slept on.

Wiz was about to shift for the third time when something ran across his chest.

"Wha…" Wiz made a brushing motion with his arm. Something small and manlike hurdled his legs, squealing like a frightened rabbit. Wiz sat upright and shook his head to clear the sleep fog. He heard something else moving through the brush. Something—no, several somethings—large and heavy. He clambered to his feet and faced the noise just as a troll crashed through the undergrowth and into the clearing.

Fortuna!

Behind the first came two more, and then a fourth. All of them were more than eight feet high, hairy, filthy and stinking. They wore skins and rags and carried clubs the size of Wiz’s leg.

He threw back his arms and raised his staff. Frantically he sought a spell he could use against four trolls.

The trolls stopped short, bunched up in a tight clump.

Wiz braced himself for their charge, but there was no charge. There was fear in their eyes. As one they turned and vanished into the forest.

Wiz let out his breath in a long sigh.

"Okay," he called over his shoulder, keeping his eyes on the place where the trolls had disappeared, "you can come out now."

"Thank you, Lord," said a small voice behind him.

There were five of them, all formed as humans and none of them more than a foot high. One of the women had a child no longer than Wiz’s forefinger in her arms.

As soon as they came into the open Wiz knew what they were. Moira called them Little Folk. Wiz always thought of them as brownies.

"Thank you, Lord," the one in the lead said again. "We owe you our lives. I am called Lannach." He turned to his companions. "These are called Fleagh, Laoghaire, Breachean and she Meoan." At the mention of their names each bowed or curtsied in turn.

"Glad I could help," he said uncomfortably. Then he frowned. "You’re a little far from home aren’t you? I thought you always lived with humans?"

"No more, Lord," the little man said sadly. "Mortals will not have us."

"We lived in the place mortals call Leafmarsh Meadow," Lannach explained. "We were always the friends of mortals. We helped them as best we could, especially with the animals and the household work."

"We asked little enough," the small creature said. "A bowl of milk now and again. A bit of bread on Midsummer’s Day as a sign of respect."

"But now mortals have their own magic and they need us no more."

"Need us no more," the little one crooned. "Need us no more. Need us no more. Need us no more." His mother hushed him and he trailed off into babbling.

"You mean they chased you out?" Wiz asked incredulously. Dangerous magic was one thing, but he’d never heard anyone accuse brownies of anything worse than mischief. People were supposed to be glad for the help brownies provided with the chores.

"Chased us out?" Meoan hissed. "They kill us if they can." The little woman was white and shaking with fury. "Look at us, mortal! We are all that are left of the Little Folk of our village."

"She was handfast to one who is no more," Lannach said. "The father of the child."

"They laid in wait for my Dairmuirgh," she said. "When he came to the stable to groom their horses, they set their demon upon him and made him no more." She was crying openly, the tears trickling down her tiny cheeks, and rocking back and forth. "Ay, they murdered him as he sought to help them."

Back in Silicon Valley Wiz had known a few programmers who refused to work on weapons systems or any other kind of military job. He’d always thought that was a little peculiar. The programmer’s job was to deliver software on time, in spec and functional. It was the job of the designers and managers to worry about what would be done with it. Now he was confronted by the results of his work and those people didn’t seem peculiar at all.

"Oh shit. Look, I’m really sorry." He stopped. "I’m, well I’m responsible in a way," he confessed miserably. "It was my spell they took and hacked up to make that thing."

"We know," Lannach said. "We also heard what happened when that bitch from the village destroyed the Stone." He placed a tiny hand on Wiz’s forearm. "Lord, you cannot be responsible for the uses mortals choose to make of your magic."

That made him feel even worse. "Thanks, Lannach. Where will you go now?"

The brownie shrugged. "We do not know. Unlike dryads and some other creatures, we are not tied to one place. But it was our home." He looked up and his limpid brown eyes gazed into Wiz’s. "It is hard to lose the place which has been your home for so long."

"I know," Wiz said miserably, thinking of smoggy sunsets over Silicon Valley.

"We would not leave even now save for the little one," he nodded to Meoan’s baby. "He must be protected."

Wiz understood. Children were rare among the manlike immortals. An infant was a cause for great rejoicing and such children as there were were carefully protected. The adults might be willing to stay and die in a place they loved, but they would not risk the baby.

"Lord," said the little man tentatively, "Lord, could we impose upon you further and travel with you?"

"I’m not really sure where I’m going."

The brownie shrugged. "Neither are we, Lord."

The Wild Wood was still a tangle of ancient forest that abounded with dangerous magic, but Wiz wasn’t afraid. His own magic was potent and very frankly he wasn’t sure how much he cared.

"Sure," he said, "come on."

They spent the rest of the morning travelling. In spite of their size, the brownies moved quickly and had no trouble keeping up with Wiz. They found berries to eat along the way and once the brownies located a tree bearing small wild plums, just going ripe.

It was shortly after noon when they topped a rise and looked down into the heavily forested valley beyond. Six or eight thin curls of smoke arose from scattered locations on the valley’s floor and merged to form a thin haze over the whole valley.

Wiz remembered the last time he had come into the Wild wood. The forest valleys had been an unbroken sea of green. Mortals were not welcome in the Wild Wood and the few who came were not gently treated.

"I didn’t know there were so many people out here," Wiz said, looking down on the scene.

"Mortals, spread quickly," Lannach observed.

"Aye," agreed Breachean in a rusty voice. "Give them a few harvests and they’ll carpet this valley like flies on meat."

"I don’t think we want to go that way," Wiz said. "Let’s follow the ridge and skirt that place."

It was harder going along the ridge and they used game trails rather than the well-trod footpath that led down into the valley, but it was more pleasant for all of them. The trees here were huge and old, unscarred by woodsman’s axe. The birds sang and the squirrels dashed about as they had for centuries. Most of the time there was neither sight of a clearing nor smell of wood smoke to remind them of what was going on in the valley.

Still, it was slower going. It was almost evening when they came down off the ridge and into the next valley.

They made their way down the trail in the deepening twilight, looking for a place to camp.

"What’s that?" Wiz asked pointing to a strange glow moving though the woods ahead of them.

"Off the trail," Lannach whispered. "Quickly!"

Wiz took a firmer grip on his staff. "Hide?"

"No, just do not stand in their way."

The light came clearer and brighter through the wood, like sky glow at dawn. Then the first of the procession rounded the bend and Wiz saw the light emanated from figures on horseback.

Elves, he thought, a trooping of elves.

They came by ones and twos, riding immaculately groomed horses of chestnut, roan and blood bay. They were tall and fair of skin, as all elven kind, and dressed with the kind of subdued magnificence Wiz had come to associate with elves.

They passed Wiz and the brownies by as if they were not there, looking straight ahead toward a distant goal or talking softly among themselves in their own liquid tongue.

Last of all came the lord and the lady of the hold.

The man wore green and blue satin with an embroidered white undertunic. Instead of a simple filet to hold his long cornsilk hair, he wore a silver coronet. He had a hawk on his wrist, unhooded.

The woman was as fair and near as tall as her lord, with hair the same cornsilk color flowing free of her coronet and down her back to almost touch her saddle. She wore a long gown of deep, deep purple with a train that flowed over her saddle and her horse’s rump.

The woman turned her head to look at Wiz where he stood beside the trail. The combination of beauty and sadness clutched at his heart.

Wiz stood open-mouthed in awe long after the party had disappeared.

"They go East," Lannach said. "Beyond the lands of men."

"I didn’t think the elves would be bothered," Wiz said numbly. "They’re too powerful."

"Not all the Fair Folk are as powerful as your friend Duke Aelric. Oh, doubtless they could protect their hills and a few other spots most dear to them. But what then? The lands they called their own would be changed utterly by the mortals.

"As all the land changes," he added sadly.

Pryddian came into the room a trifle uncertainly.

"You sent for me, Lord?"

Bal-Simba ignored him for a moment and then looked up from the scroll on his desk.

"I did," the great black wizard said. "We have no further need of you here. You are released from your apprenticeship."

Pryddian started. "What?"

"Your presence here is no longer required," Bal-Simba said blandly. "You may go."

"That is a decision for my master!"

"You have no master, nor will any of the wizards here have you." He turned his attention back to the scroll.

Pryddian stood pale and shaking with rage, his lips pressed into a bloodless line.

"So. Because I am the victim of an attack by magic I am to be punished."

"You are not being punished, you are being released."

"And what of the Sparrow, the one who attacked me? What happens to him?"

The giant wizard regarded Pryddian as if he had just crawled out from beneath a damp log. "The affairs of the Mighty are none of your concern, boy. You have until the sun’s setting to be gone from this place." He turned his attention back to the scroll.

"Ebrion will have something to say of this."

"Ebrion is not here."

Pryddian frowned. "Well, when he comes back then."

Bal-Simba looked up. "If Ebrion or any of the other wizards wish to speak for you they may do so. But until they do you are no longer required here."

"I will wait then."

"You may wait. Outside the walls of the Keep."

"I…"

"Do you wish to provoke me now?" Bal -Simba rumbled. "I warn you, you would find me harder sport than the Sparrow and perhaps not as forebearing." He smiled, showing off his pointed teeth.

Pryddian snapped his mouth shut, spun on his heel and stalked from the room.

What would Ebrion have to do with that one? Bal-Simba wondered as he listened to the ex-apprentice slam down the corridor. He made a mental note to ask him when he returned.

The clouds rolled in during the morning, light and fleecy at first, but growing grayer and more threatening as the day wore on. Wiz and his companions trudged onward.

At last, just as the threat of rain became overwhelming, they found a rock shelter, a place beneath an overhanging cliff where the rain could not reach. They were barely inside when the skies opened and the summer rain poured down in torrents.

It was still so warm they did not need a fire and Wiz didn’t feel like dashing in to the rain without a cloak to gather the wood for one. He and the brownies settled down with their backs to the cliff and watched the rain drape traceries of gray over the forest and the hills beyond.

Scant comfort," Lannach said as they settled themselves among the rocks.

"At least we’re dry," Wiz told the brownie. "The last time I came this way I got soaked in one of these storms." He thought of the trek through the dripping forest and the peasant who had sheltered them that night. The one who had gained a farm in the Wild Wood at the cost of his wife and three children dead and a daughter given as a servant to the elves.

Meoan plopped herself down on one of the rocks and yanked at the ties of her bodice.

"We must be grateful for small comforts," she said bitterly. "Those who are driven from their homes had best take what they can find and be happy with it." She pulled down her bodice and offered a breast no larger than the first joint of Wiz’s thumb to her baby.

"I’m sorry for what happened to you," he said tentatively.

The little woman looked up at him. "I know you are, Lord. But sorry does not heal what it hurts." Then she sighed deeply. "And I apologize to you. Since we met you have shown us nothing but kindness. I should not blame you for what those others did."

"We’re not all like that, you know. Where I come from we learned the hard way that you’ve got to protect non-human things, to try to live with them."

"Would that the mortals of this world were so wise," Meoan said.

"Maybe they can be. It’s just that they’ve been oppressed by magic for so long they’re afraid of it and they want to exterminate it."

"Whether it hurts them or not," the brownie woman sniffed.

"When you’re afraid of something it’s hard to make fine distinctions. Humans suffered a lot because they had no protection against magic."

Meoan nodded. "I have heard the mothers lamenting for their children, struck down or stolen away by magic." She held her infant to her breast. "Life has been hard for mortals."

Wiz looked out at the rain. The sun had broken through at the horizon to paint the bottom of the clouds red and purple with its dying rays. The trees of the forest were tinged a glowing gold above, shading to deeper green out of the light. Already the shadows were beginning to thicken and take on substance.

"It’s going to be too dark to travel soon," Wiz said. "It looks like we stay here tonight."

He looked around ruefully. The ground was hard and full of sharp rocks fallen from the ceiling with almost no drifted leaves which could be used to make a bed. There were leaves aplenty out on the slope, but they were soaked.

"Well, it won’t be our most comfortable night, that’s for certain."

"Unless you would care to share other quarters," said a musical voice behind them. "Welcome, Sparrow."

Nine: Meeting by Moonlight

Wiz whirled and saw an elf standing in the gloaming at the edge of the overhang.

He was tall and straight as a forest pine. His skin was the color of fresh milk. His white long hair was caught back in a circlet of silver set with pale blue opals. Although the forest was dripping and the rain still fell in a light mist, he was completely dry.

"Duke Aelric?"

The elf duke nodded. "The same." Then he smiled and stepped aside to reveal another elf standing behind him.

"And this is Lisella."

She was nearly as tall as Aelric and her skin as milk-fair. But her hair was black and glossy as a raven’s wing where Aelric’s was snow white and her eyes were green as emeralds rather than icy blue. Her gown was old rose with a subtle embroidery of deeper red. Her figure was slender and elegant.

Wiz gulped and bowed clumsily.

"I discovered you were in the area and thought you might do us the honor of dining with us this evening," Aelric said. He looked around the rock shelter. "Perhaps you would care to guest the night with me as well."

"Why, uh, yes," Wiz said, managing to tear his eyes away from the elf duke’s companion. "Thank you, Lord."

"Well, then," Aelric said. "If you would care to accompany us. And your friends, of course."

The brownies had dived for cover as soon as Aelric appeared. Now they poked their heads out from behind rocks or from the crevices where they had gone to earth.

"Come on," Wiz said. "He won’t hurt you."

Reluctantly the brownies came out and gathered tight around Wiz. Lannach wasn’t clinging to his pant leg, but Wiz got the feeling he wanted to.

"Shall we go?"

Aelric and Lisella strode to the back of the shelter and the elf duke made a gesture to the blank stone. Soundlessly the rock dissolved and there was an oak door, magnificently carved and bound with silver. The door swung open and warm golden light flooded out.

Wiz had no idea where he was in the Wild Wood, but he was pretty sure he was a long way from where he and Moira had entered the elf duke’s hold the first time they met.

Time and space run strangely in places the elves make their own, Moira had told him then. He shrugged and followed Aelric and Lisella into the hill with a gaggle of brownies close on his heels.

Once again Wiz sat in Aelric’s great dining hall. The magical globes floating above the table cast the same warm light onto the scene. The food was as superb as it had been before and the soft music in the background was as enchanting.

But there were differences. The last time he and Moira had been fugitives, snatched from the pursuing army of the Dark League by Aelric’s whim. Now Moira was somewhere else and Wiz was… what?

And beyond that there was Lisella.

In the warm glow of the magic lights she was even more beautiful than she had been beneath the moon. Her presence reminded Wiz that before he met Moira he had been attracted to tall slender brunettes.

From time to time their eyes met across the table. Lisella looked at Wiz with a kind of intent interest that both stirred him and reminded him uncomfortably of the way a cat regards a baby bird it can’t decide if it wants to play with or eat immediately.

Although Aelric and Lisella were careful to include Wiz in the conversation, he had the distinct feeling that he was missing most of what was actually being said. They were playing some kind of game, he decided, some elaborate elven game with malice at its heart. Whatever these two were they were definitely not lovers.

Throughout dinner Aelric had kept up an easy conversation on inconsequential topics. Wiz had sensed that his host did not want to discuss serious matters, and still in awe of the elf duke, he had likewise avoided them. Finally, as light-footed servants placed bowls of nuts and decanters of wine on the damask-covered table, Lisella rose.

"Alas, My Lords, the hour grows late." She curtseyed to Aelric. "If you will excuse me?"

Aelric stood up and Wiz followed suit. "Of course, My Lady." He bowed and kissed her extended hand.

Then she turned to Wiz and fixed her green eyes on his. "Perhaps we shall meet again," she said softly and with a rustle of her brocaded gown she was gone.

"Remarkable, is she not?" Duke Aelric said. Wiz realized he was gaping and made a determined effort to shut his mouth. Aelric sat down and Wiz followed suit.

"I thought it would amuse you to meet her." He picked up his wine glass and again Wiz followed his lead.

"Uh, why? I mean aside from the fact that she’s beautiful."

Aelric cocked an eyebrow. "My dear boy, she has been trying to kill you for months."

Wiz choked, spewing wine across Duke Aelric’s fine damask table cloth.

The elf duke dabbed the wine drops from his sleeve. "You mean you did not know? Dear me, and I was about to comment you for your insouciance."

"How… I mean why? I mean I’ve never seen her before."

"That is immaterial, Sparrow. As to the how, she has been arranging little accidents’ for you for some time. So far you have been lucky enough to avoid them."

Wiz remembered the falling stone and the toppled viewing stand and felt sick. Then he looked closely at the elf duke. "Somehow I don’t think it’s been entirely luck."

Aelric smiled. "Your escapes were at least as much luck as your accidents were mischance."

Wiz absorbed that in silence. All of a sudden he felt like a piece on someone else’s chess board. He didn’t like it much.

"Thanks, I think. But why is she trying to kill me?"

"Oh, many reasons, I expect. The technical challenge for one. Penetrating a place so thick with magic as your Capital undetected and laying such subtle traps. That required superb skill, I can assure you."

He smiled reminiscently. "So did countering them. You’ve provided quite a diverting experience."

"And if I had missed that handhold on the parapet? Or hadn’t jumped the right way when the stand collapsed?"

Aelric looked at him levelly. "Then the game would have been over."

Wiz was silent again. "You said there were many reasons Lisella wanted to kill me," he said at last. "What are some of the others?"

Duke Aelric poured more of the ruby wine into a crystal glass with an elaborately wrought and delicately tinted stem. "Surely you can guess. When last we met, I said I would follow your career with interest, Sparrow." He smiled wryly. "I admit I did not expect it to be quite this interesting."

"I didn’t either, Lord."

"It is not often a mortal is sufficiently interesting to hold the attention of one of us. You have become interesting enough to fix the attention of quite a number of the never-dying."

The elf duke looked at his guest speculatively. "You have made yourself much hated, you know."

"Yeah," said Wiz miserably. "It wasn’t supposed to work this way. Things kind of got out of hand."

"Not unusual when mortals dabble in magic," Aelric said. "Lisella is a minor difficulty. You would do well to dismiss her from your mind—after taking proper precautions, of course. What you have done has deeper consequences."

"You mean the destruction of magic along the Fringe?"

"I mean the destruction of mortals everywhere," the elf duke said. "You mortals make this new magic and in the process you raise forces against yourselves you do not understand. For the first time in memory there is talk of a grand coalition of magic wielders, a coalition aimed at the mortals."

"That’s crazy!"

"That is mortal logic, Sparrow. None of these are mortals and many of them are not logical in any sense."

"But, I mean a war."

"They would not think of it as a war. Rather the extermination of a particularly repulsive class of vermin who have made themselves too obvious."

Wiz stared straight into the depths of the elf duke’s eyes. "Do you think you could beat us?"

Aelric shrugged gracefully. "I really do not know." Then he caught and held Wiz’s gaze. "But I tell you this, Sparrow. Whoever wins, the outcome is likely to be the utter destruction of the World."

Wiz dropped his eyes. "Yeah. But does it have to happen? I mean, can’t we prevent it?"

"It would be difficult at best," Aelric said. "That is not a consequence all of us wish to avoid. There are some who hunger for death and destruction on the widest possible scale. There are some who by their very natures cannot comprehend or appreciate the threat. And there are some who would find the end of the World merely diverting. A new experience, so to speak."

"What can I do?"

Aelric shrugged. "Remove the cause. The magical forces of the world make uneasy allies. If the threat were gone, the coalition would dissolve in an eye blink."

Wiz thought about that, long and hard. Aelric sipped his wine and said nothing more.

He didn’t know what the chances of heading this thing off were, but he didn’t think they were very good. Given the feelings of the people of the Fringe about magic, and given the power of the tools he had put in their hands, it wasn’t going to be easy to get them to quit wiping out magic wherever they found it. Keeping them from pushing into the Wild Wood in search of land would be harder yet.

And he was going to have to have a hand in finding a solution. Not only because he helped create the problem, but because he was the only one who really understood the new kind of magic that lay at the root of it.

Wiz was even less confident of his ability to solve those problems than he was of his capacity as a politician or a teacher, but dammit! he had to try.

"I’m going back to the Capital," he announced. "Maybe I can undo some of this mess."

"A wise decision," Aelric said. "When do you propose to return?"

"I should go back tonight, but I’m beat and there’s not much I could do there. First thing in the morning, then."

The elf duke nodded.

Wiz reached for his wine goblet. Then he froze in horror.

"Wait a minute! If Lisella wanted to kill me, she just had the perfect opportunity to poison me or something!" He stared at his goblet as if it had sprouted poison fangs and tried desperately to remember if Lisella’s hands had ever been near it.

Duke Aelric chuckled. "Oh no. Murdering you while you sat together at dinner would be gauche. The fair Lisella is never gauche."

Wiz considered that and decided the elf duke was probably right. But he didn’t drink any more wine.

"Oh, one other thing. The Little Folk who came with me. Could you, well, could you take care of them for me?"

Aelric looked startled.

"Are they so important?"

"Not important, no. But I kind of feel responsible for them and I can’t take them with me."

The elf duke’s brow creased and for a second Wiz was afraid he was angry. Then he relaxed and rubbed his chin.

"I doubt they would be happy within my hold," Aelric said finally. "But I could send them on to Heart’s Ease under my protection. I do not think those who dwell there would mind their presence."

"Thank you, Lord. I really appreciate it."

Aelric made a throw-away gesture. "You are most welcome." Then he smiled wryly. "Sparrow, it is always a pleasure to share your company. One never knows what you will do next." He sighed. "Or what one is likely to do under your influence."

Lisella was not in evidence the next morning when Wiz bade Aelric farewell. The elf duke and the brownies accompanied him to a clearing outside one of the elf hill’s many doors. It seemed impolite to walk the Wizard’s Way from inside the hill—something like parking your motorcycle in your host’s living room.

"Good luck, Sparrow," Aelric said as Wiz faced in his chosen direction.

"Merry part, Lord."

Aelric looked at him and Wiz flushed, remembering that the elves did not use the human formula.

"Merry meet again," Aelric said finally.

Wiz raised his staff to begin the spell that would take him home.

"backslash."

Ten: The City of Night

Something had gone wrong! Wiz felt as if he had been spun around and tackled by a lineman. He was dizzy, pointing in the wrong direction and everything was wrong. His vision blurred, his head hurt and he was on the verge of throwing up.

As his sight cleared, Wiz saw he was in a low stone room. It was cold and lit by torches, not magic globes.

Ebrion stood before him.

"Merry met, my Lord," Wiz said instinctively. Ebrion looked uncomfortable.

"Merry met, Sparrow," came a cackling voice from behind him. "Merry met indeed."

Wiz turned and saw a bent man in the black robe of a wizard of the Dark League. He hobbled forward, leaning heavily on his staff.

The black-robed one smiled, not at all pleasantly. "Welcome, Sparrow. Welcome to your final resting place."

"Stayed behind?" Bal-Simba demanded. "What do you mean he stayed behind?"

"He departed into the Wild Wood when we had finished," Philomen told him.

"And you let him?"

Philomen hesitated. "We had words earlier that morning. I fear he was not well-disposed toward me. Then it turned out this rock creature was in some way sentient and that disturbed him even more. The Sparrow has an unusually tender regard for magical creatures of all sorts. He seems to feel that even the useless ones should be protected."

"So he went off into the Wild Wood. Alone."

"Lord, I tried to reason with him, but he would not listen. I am sorry, Lord."

"No need for that," Bal-Simba said flipping his hand dismissingly. "Perhaps our Sparrow needs some time by himself. And in any event, the longer he stays away the better for the situation here." He sighed. "I only wish he had gone through the settled lands rather than into the Wild Wood. But, no, you did nothing wrong."

"Thank you, Lord," said Philomen and withdrew with a bow.

Bal-Simba stood at the window looking out over the rooftops of the Capital toward the east as the shadows groped their way toward the horizon. Then he sighed again, shook himself and turned away to his desk.

At least he will be in no danger, Bal-Simba told himself. As long as he stays away from elves he is certainly more powerful than anything he is likely to meet on this wandering.

Wiz looked around desperately. The chamber was low but wide and long, with rough stone for the walls and floors and a couple of smoking torches to light it. Standing back in the shadows he saw even more black-robed wizards of the Dark League.

"We are going to send you back where you came from, Sparrow," Ebrion said finally. "Back to where you belong."

"But I don’t want to go."

"Then you shall not," the other, black robe, said as he hobbled more fully into the light.

Wiz gasped.

The man’s eyes glinted like chips of obsidian in a pink hairless mass of scar tissue. His nose was a slit and his ears shriveled like dried apricots. The hand clutching the staff was reduced to a claw, with only the thumb and forefinger remaining. Like the face, the hand was pink with scars.

"That was not the agreement," Ebrion protested.

"The agreement has changed," the other flung over his shoulder as he closed in on Wiz, thrusting his face so close Wiz could see where his eyebrows had been.

"Look upon me, Sparrow. I am called Dzhir Kar and I am your death." His breath stank in Wiz’s face.

"My form does not please you?" he said, looking up at his captive. "A pity, Sparrow. For you caused it. A ceiling fell on me when you attacked the City of Night. There was a fire as well and I lay within the flames, slowly roasting and unable to move."

His face split into a hideous grin. "But I do not hold that against you, Sparrow. Oh no, not at all. For as I lay there and burned I discovered new strength within me. As I struggled to recover, I honed that strength. It made me Master of the Dark League, Sparrow."

He grasped Wiz’s chin with a claw-like hand and pulled his face close.

"Look at me, little one! For I am your creation."

Wiz twisted his chin from the other’s grasp and flinched away.

"Then look at my creation, Sparrow. My creation and your doom."

He gestured and two of the black-robed wizards moved forward into the fitful light. Each of them held a heavy chain and on that chain was a thing that made Wiz catch his breath.

It was long and lean, with a body made for coursing. The legs were a hound’s legs, although the three ripping talons on each paw were like no dog that ever lived. The head was narrow with ivory fangs protruding from the heavily muscled jaws. Dzhir Kar made a gesture toward Wiz with his staff and the thing lunged and snapped at Wiz. The sound rang like a rifle shot in the gloomy chamber.

"Do you like my pet?" the black-robed wizard crooned, laying a gnarled hand upon the scaly head. "I made him especially for you, Sparrow."

The demon remained impassive under the caress, its yellow eyes fixed hungrily on Wiz.

"Not nearly as powerful as Toth-Set-Ra’s demon, but he has seen you and that is enough.

"He is attuned to your magic, Sparrow. Make magic. Oh yes, please make magic. He will be upon you and your end will be truly wonderful to watch."

Wiz started to form a spell mentally. Instantly the creature’s yellow eyes flicked open and its ears pricked forward.

"Go ahead," the wizard was almost dancing in anticipation. "Oh my yes, go ahead. We want to see this new Northern magic up close, don’t we?"

The man was insane, Wiz realized. Crazy and full of spite and malice at the same time.

"No?" said the wizard in a disappointed tone. "Well, we will have to persuade you then. Flaying alive for a start. With salt rubbed well into the flesh to preserve it as the skin is peeled off. Toth-Set-Ra was right, there is so much one can do with a wizard’s skin."

"No!" Ebrion bellowed.

Dzhir Kar stopped and regarded him as if he were an insect.

"I told you I would not have him harmed! We are to return him to his place only. That was our bargain."

"Bargains are made to be broken," Dzhir Kar said. He gestured to the surrounding wizards. "Take this one away."

"Fools," Ebrion shouted. "You seal your own doom."

"We will see who is doomed when the Council is deprived of its most powerful member," Dzhir Kar retorted. "And when it becomes known that one of the most powerful wizards in the North had a hand in the deed."

As the wizards of the Dark League closed in on him Ebrion stepped back and raised his arms. With a crash and a roar a dozen bolts of lightning struck him where he stood. Wiz flinched from the noise and the light.

So did the two wizards holding him. Instinctively, Wiz twisted in their slackened grips and broke free. Before anyone could react he was across the room and out the door.

"Get him!" screamed Dzhir Kar and the others leapt past the still smoldering corpse of Ebrion to comply. But Wiz was halfway down the rough flagged passageway and running for his life.

He turned the corner so fast he slipped and a bolt of lightning exploded on the stone behind him. He scrambled to his feet and ran on as the wizards came clattering out behind him.

He ran on at random, turning this way and that on panicked whim. The place seemed to be a maze of low stone passages with rough flagged floors. Behind him always he heard the sound of pursuit, sometimes close at hand and sometimes further away, but always there.

He ran out into a rotunda where five or six corridors came together and dashed down one to his left. Down another corridor he saw the bobbing gleam of torches.

The corridor was long and straight and Wiz ran down it full tilt. He was going so fast he almost ran straight into the wall ahead. Blind alley! He whirled and pounded back the way he had come, ribs aching and breath burning in his throat.

Again out into the rotunda and down another corridor. No sign of the lights now, but he was sure they were not far behind. Halfway down the corridor there was a place where the wall had collapsed. He slowed to avoid the pile of stones and saw lights before him and behind him, distant but coming his way. Without a thought he darted up the rubble pile and through the hole in the wall.

Suddenly he was outside on a narrow street between two- and three-story buildings of rough black stone. It was night, he realized and the moon was hidden by clouds. There was little enough light, but Wiz didn’t slow down. He turned right and pounded down the street, heedless of the stitch in his side.

The empty windows of the upper stories gaped down at him like accusing eyes. Here and there an open doorway yawned like a devouring mouth. He ran without purpose or direction, on and on until a red mist fogged his vision. Finally, chest heaving and staggering with exhaustion, he turned into one of those open doorways in search of a place to hide and catch his breath.

Once through the door he sidled to the right, hugging the wall. After a dozen steps he stumbled over the bottom landing of a stone staircase. Still gasping for breath, he picked his way up the stairs.

The narrow twisting staircase had no railing and the steps were uneven and slick with wear. Wiz hugged the wall and made as much speed as he dared. At last he came to the top of the tower—or what was now the top. The entire upper section was missing, the walls bulged outward and the stonework was disrupted as if someone had set off an explosion inside it. Wiz looked out over the blasted, fire-blackened stone and for the first time he knew where he was.

The harbor with its encircling jetty, the ruined towers and the volcano bulking up behind him told him. The City of Night! The capital and base of the Dark League before their power had been broken.

A gibbous moon cast a sullen, fitful light over the landscape, picking out the tops of the ruined towers and the acres of rooftops below him. Wiz looked out over desolation and shivered.

Puffing and blowing, he sank down to sit on the stair, his back against the ruined wall and his feet dangling over emptiness. He tried to remember what he knew about the geography of this place.

Almost none of it was first-hand. He had been here only once before, when he mounted his great attack to free Moira from the League’s dungeons deep beneath the city. He had come along the Wizard’s Way and departed in the same fashion. In the hours he had been here he had never seen the surface.

The City of Night was on the Southern Continent, he remembered, separated from his home by the Freshened Sea. It was a bleak, barren land, locked in the grip of eternal winter.

Supposedly the city had been deserted after the Dark League had been defeated. Large parts had been destroyed by the forces unleashed in the final battle. The League wizards who had survived had been hunted from their lairs, their slaves had been freed and returned to their homes and the goblins and most of their other creatures had departed as well.

But the land itself was ruined beyond reclamation by decades of exercise of power with no thought to the consequences. For the people of the North the city was a place of fell reputation where no one but would-be apprentices of the Dark League went willingly. There was nothing to attract anyone to the place and even maintaining a watchpost on the Southern Continent had been considered too difficult and not worth the effort. The City of Night had been left unrestored and uninhabited.

If there was anyone here besides the League wizards they were unlikely to help Wiz.

Wiz ground his teeth in frustration. All he had to do to get help or to go home was to use magic. One single simple spell and it was done.

Of course before he could ever finish that spell the monster in the dungeon would be on him. He remembered the eagerness and ferocity burning in the thing’s evil red eyes and he shuddered. He had no doubt at all the wizard had been telling him the truth.

He listened to the wind whistle through the broken tower and tried to decide what to do next.

A clattering in the street below drew his attention. Peering out through the shattered wall, Wiz saw a dark shape cross a silvery patch of moonlight. Then another and another.

"He came this way." The voice floated up to him from the street nearly a hundred feet below.

"He must be near here," the other wizard called out from the shadows. "Down this way."

Wiz could not see which way he pointed, but several pairs of feet pattered off away from his hiding place.

So they weren’t waiting for him to use magic! Those searchers were as dangerous to him as the monster. They knew the city and he did not. How many of them were there? Wiz wracked his brain trying to remember how many wizards had been in the room when he appeared. A dozen? Certainly that. And more besides.

And Ebrion. A traitor to the Council and now dead at the hands of his erstwise allies.

Well, Wiz thought grimly, you brought this on yourself. If you hadn’t been so high-handed with the Council, Ebrion never would have gone to the Dark League.

Somehow the thought didn’t make him feel any better.

The wind gusted and Wiz shivered harder. He didn’t remember any part of the city being this cold. Perhaps the Dark League had warmed it by magic when they held it. Now there was slick black ice in patches on the streets and occasional piles and drifts of snow in the corners and sheltered spots.

Wiz shifted position and listened again. Save for the moan of the wind down the deserted streets and about the ruined tower, there was no sound. Slowly and cautiously, he rose and started back down the steps. He couldn’t stay here and if he didn’t find some kind of shelter soon the wind would do what the Dark League and their pet monster hadn’t yet been able to.

The moon cast a pale light on the steep, narrow street below when it was not obscured by scudding clouds. The City of Night was built on the flank of a volcano and the whole town sloped up from the harbor. Wiz hugged the side of the buildings and headed downhill. Not only was it easier walking, it was away from the underground room where he had appeared and where the wizards and his demon waited for him.

At every corner he paused and listened. The streets were narrow and the hard black basalt of the buildings turned them into echo chambers. His own footsteps rang so loudly on the pavement he was certain that any pursuer could track him by sound alone. He hoped that he could pick up a trace of anyone in the area the same way.

At the third cross street he paused an especially long time to catch his breath. Up ahead there was the tiniest scuffling sound, as if something was dragging stealthily along the building ahead of him.

Wiz froze and then dropped back into the shadows. Across the narrow street on the other side of the intersection he saw a stealthy movement in the shadows. At first it was just a flicker here and there, then it looked as if the entire shadow on that side of the street had come to life. Then the shadow took form and substance and Wiz held his breath as he realized what it was.

The huge head was man-high off the ground as the serpent glided along. Its tongue flickered in and out constantly as it tested the air for scent of prey. Even in the moonlight Wiz could see the diamond patterns of its scales.

Then it turned and soundlessly whipped down the side street. Wiz caught his breath, but he stayed in hiding for a long time.

"Alone?" Arianne asked wide-eyed. "Alone into the Wild Wood?"

"So it would seem," Bal-Simba told her. He had spent the last two hours trying to control his unease and finally told his deputy what had happened. "Philomen did not stop him."

"He could not very well forbid him," Arianne pointed out. "Wiz is a member of the Council, Lord."

"Yes, but he knows less of the Wild Wood than a child," Bal-Simba said. "Remember the stories Moira told about the troubles she had with him on their last journey."

"The Dark League is not seeking him now."

"True, else I would have every magician and dragon rider in the realm searching for him. But he has barely been out of the city in the last two years and he still has little understanding of the World’s dangers."

They were both silent for a moment.

"Lord," Arianne said finally, "what do you think is troubling Sparrow now?"

"If I had to guess, I would say he is discovering the price of power." Bal-Simba made a face. "I do not think he likes it overmuch."