Lawrence Watt-Evans - The Misenchanted Sword

The crowds and dirt and noise were overwhelming at first, particularly as he was already weary from his long ride. Oxen were slow-moving beasts, and the farmer had been in no great hurry, so the trip had taken a day and a half. He had arrived at mid-afternoon of the second day, the fourth of Greengrowth, his back aching from toes to shoulders. He had not realized, sitting around the inn, just how much age had affected him.

Objectively, he knew at a glance that the crowds were nothing compared to the mobs that had overwhelmed the city when first he saw it, but he still found them daunting as he made his way along High Street, watching for the diagonal cross-street the guards had described.

He passed inns and taverns clustered around the gateside market, and assorted disreputable lodgings. He passed block after block of varied shops, built of stone and wood and brick, selling everything imaginable, from fishhooks to farm wagons and diamonds to dried dung—but very little magic, and none of the signboards boasted of wizardry or witchcraft. A passing stranger, when asked, told him that these shops made up the Old Merchants’ Quarter; there was also a New Merchants’ Quarter to the south. The Wizards’ Quarter was much further on.

He came to a broad diagonal avenue that he took at first for Arena Street, but it was angled in the opposite direction from what the guard had led him to expect, so once again he asked, this time inquiring of a shopkeeper dealing in fine fabrics. The shopkeeper explained that this avenue was Merchant Street, and that Arena Street was further on, past the New City district.

Valder trudged on along High Street, and found himself passing mansions. Some faced upon the street, their rich carvings and gleaming windows plain to be seen, while others were set back and hidden behind walls or fences. A few stood surrounded by gardens, and one boasted an elaborate aviary. The streets in this area were not crowded at all, and most of the people he did see were tradesmen; only rarely did he spot someone whose finery was in accord with the opulence of the buildings.

The fine houses stopped abruptly, replaced by a row of shops facing onto a diagonal avenue, and Valder knew he had found Arena Street. He paused in the intersection to look around.

Far off to his left, at the end of the surprisingly straight avenue, he could see the overlord’s palace. He had caught quick glimpses of it once or twice before, on Merchant Street and again on one of the streets in the New City, but had not stopped to look at it.

That was where Azrad the Great lived, now more than eighty years old but still holding on to his absolute power as overlord of the city and triumvir of the Hegemony. He was said to suffer from bouts of idiocy, to have lost his teeth and to drool like a baby in consequence. Valder shuddered at the thought. It was not that Azrad’s current condition was so very unpleasant, but that it had come upon him in a mere eighty years or so, while Wirikidor could perhaps keep Valder alive for eighty centuries.

And for that matter, how pleasant could Azrad’s life actually be? His elder son Azrad had died as a youth, in the waning days of the Great War. His wife was long dead. His surviving son, Kelder, was middle-aged and said to be a dreary sort. One grandson had died at the age of fourteen of some unidentified disease, and another was just coming of age. There were three granddaughters as well.

How happy a family could it be? Did any of those still living really care much for the old man? Kelder was surely waiting to inherit the throne, and the others had known Azrad only as a sick old man, never as the brilliant leader he had once been.

Still, he had a family. Valder had only employees.

He hunched his shoulders and turned onto Arena Street. The guards had not said how far it was to the Wizards’ Quarter; he hoped it was not far. The sun was already low in the west.

The Arena itself, a large and impressive structure, was roughly a mile from High Street, Valder discovered. A block beyond it he saw the first sign advertising a witch’s shop. A witch, of course, would be able to do nothing against a sword enchanted by a wizard, but it provided encouragement.

In the next block was a theurgist’s shop, and Valder was tempted. The gods, after all, could do anything—if they could be convinced to pay attention at all, and if you contacted the right god. He was unsure just how effective theurgy actually was since the gods had gone into their self-imposed exile, however, and he preferred to stick to the more straightforward approach.

The next two blocks were full of gaming houses, but beyond that Valder’s search was suddenly rewarded with greater riches than he had anticipated. The street was suddenly lined with magic shops of every description, advertising all manner of wizardry, witchcraft, theurgy, even demonology and sorcery, as well as arcane arts Valder could not identify, on a profusion of boastful signboards. “Abdaran of Skaia,” read one, “Miracles of Every Description.” “Intirin the White,” read the next, “Your prayers answered or your money back.” One bore no boasts, but simply a black outline of a hand superimposed on a red eye, and the name Dakkar—Valder thought that was rather ominous and probably represented a demonologist.

He walked on, following what seemed to be the thickest grouping around a corner to the right, and finally spotted, “Tagger, Tagger, and Varrin, Counterspells and Cures for Every Purpose.” That sounded like exactly what he was after.

The iron-studded door was closed, the windows draped with heavy dark velvet; he hesitated, but then knocked, loudly.

He waited for what seemed a reasonably long time and was about to knock again when the door swung open and he found himself facing a small black-haired man in a red robe and hat.

“Hello,” Valder said. “I need to have a spell removed.”

“Oh,” the red-clad man said. “Come in, then. I’m afraid the others are both out just now, but I’ll see what I can do. I’m Tagger the Younger.”

“Valder the Innkeeper,” Valder replied, nodding politely.

“The one with the magic sword?” Tagger asked.

Startled, Valder nodded.

“Ah! Come in, come in! What can I do for you?” He swung wide the door and escorted Valder inside, leading him to a comfortable velvet-upholstered chair. He then sat down in a similar chair on the opposite side of a small table.

It took Valder a few seconds to gather his wits sufficiently to reply. He looked around the shop, which was furnished much like a small parlor, with many dark woods and rich fabrics, predominantly red. “Since you already know about the sword,” he said when he had composed himself, “I don’t suppose I need to explain everything after all. I want the spell removed from the sword.”

It was Tagger’s turn to be disconcerted. “Why?” he asked. “I thought the sword protected you and made you a formidable warrior!”

“It does, to some extent, but what does an innkeeper need with that? It also happens to include a sort of curse that I’d like to be rid of.”

“Ah, I see! What sort of a curse? Do you know?”

“Do you really need to know?”

“It would probably help considerably.”

Valder paused. “Could we leave that for later?”

“I suppose. In that case, what can you tell me about the sword? Do you know who enchanted it, or what spells were used?”

“The spells were put on it by a hermit in the coastal marshes north of what is now Tintallion…” Valder began.

“After it was forged?” Tagger interrupted.

“Oh, yes, of course; it was just a standard-issue sword for at least three years.”

“Ah. Good, then we shouldn’t have to destroy it. Go on. Did you know this hermit’s name?”