George Martin - The Way of the Wizard

Well , Linda thought, he must be powerful, or he’d be dead already. And Garlock wouldn’t have sent for her at all.

All this she noticed, although she had trained herself to display nothing. All of Garlock’s clients were engaged in the Trade. They were dealers in misery, one much like another. It was not her job to stop it, but to stay alive.

It would be a blessing if they killed each other off.

The trader’s head came up as Linda entered the room, although her feet made no sound on the stone floor.

She drifted to a stop in front of the trader, keeping her eyes on the floor, her arms relaxed at her sides. The dress she wore was silk — loose and slip-like, and she’d wrapped a gauzy scarf around her neck to hide the silver collar beneath.

In truth, it didn’t matter what she wore — her real power sizzled under her skin, and her eyes were windows to that gift. A strong, wary wizard could resist, but most chose not to. Most were willing to risk ensnarement for the pleasure of connection.

She looked up, then, into the trader’s eyes. They were green, and sheltered under thick black brows. His nose was on the large side, and the skin of his face tightly drawn over high cheekbones. An oddly handsome face, given the unlikely parts of it.

When their eyes met, the trader took an involuntary step back, putting more distance between them, and shifted his gaze to Garlock. His voice was as cold and complex as a November day. “An enchanter? I thought I had made myself clear. I represent a syndicate that wishes to field a player in the Game. We are looking for Weirlind — for a warrior.”

“Of course, Mr. Renfrew,” Garlock said, dry-washing his hands. “And you shall have one, if we can come to terms. But we are brokers for a spectrum of talent in the underguilds — sorcerers, warriors, seers, and enchanters. I thought it would do no harm to display her. If not your group, perhaps you know of someone else who would be interested.”

After a moment, Renfrew reached out and put his fingers under Linda’s chin, lifting her head so she looked into his eyes again. He studied her, either assessing her value or perhaps assessing his own ability to resist. She put her shoulders back and met his gaze boldly, spinning out the spider silk of attraction. She was what she was, and it was not her fault that wizards made the rules.

“She’s young,” Renfrew said, releasing her chin and running a hand through his dark curls, looking a bit clouded. “How old is she, anyway?”

Garlock rested a proprietary hand on Linda’s shoulder. “Youth is an advantage, some would say, given that enchanters do not live so long as wizards.”

“What’s her name?” Renfrew asked, still directing his questions to Garlock, as if she were a pony or a pet bird.

Or as if he didn’t dare engage her in conversation.

“Linda Downey,” Garlock replied. The broker was confident now, convinced the client had been redirected. Linda wasn’t so sure. If she’d entangled him, she couldn’t tell it. She couldn’t read this wizard at all.

“What about the boy? The warrior I came to see?” Renfrew raked back his sleeve and looked at his watch. “Given the weather, I’ll be late getting back to York as it is.”

For an instant, Garlock looked slapped, but he quickly rearranged his face.

“Ah, yes,” he said, clearing his throat. “Tomorrow. You can see the warrior tomorrow.”

Renfrew took a step toward Garlock, and the broker raised both hands, palms outward, as if to ward off a blow.

Garlock’s words spilled out like marbles from a bag. “It isn’t often a warrior comes available, and I had to be sure you were a serious bidder. You must understand that, given the current shortage of Weirlind, it isn’t wise to keep such a valuable asset on site.”

Though Garlock sounded conciliatory, Linda had trained herself to read his moods. She could tell he was furious, and she would pay the price. She shuddered, biting her lip, trying to control her thrashing heart. Then looked up to find Renfrew staring at her, eyes narrowed.

He turned back to Garlock. “Well, no, I don’t understand,” Renfrew said, each word a spike of glacier ice. “I did not travel all this distance out of York only to be told ‘tomorrow.’ I need to know whether you can deliver.” He paused, then added softly, “Or not.”

Linda slid out from under Garlock’s hand. If flames began to fly, she had no intention of being caught in the crossfire of wizard politics.

Garlock noticed, of course. He glowered at Linda before turning back to Renfew.

“Did you bring the piece we spoke of?” Garlock blustered. “The heartstone you offered in trade?”

Renfrew nodded brusquely. “Unlike you, I came prepared to deal.” He opened his fist to reveal the heartstone, centered on his palm. It was about the size of a deck of cards, carved of stone, polished by centuries of wizard hands. It gleamed softly as if it made its own light.

The heartstone disappeared as quickly as it appeared. “You can examine it more closely once I know you are serious,” Renfrew said.

Linda stared at the floor. Damn! Renfrew had it on his person. That sealed it. The trader would die tonight, and Garlock would get what he wanted.

Garlock still focused on where he had last seen the stone. “Very well. I will send for the boy. He will be here tomorrow morning and we will make the trade.”

“I’ll return midmorning tomorrow, then,” Renfrew said. “I will call before I come, so as to avoid another wasted trip.” He took a step back, toward the door, but didn’t turn his back on Garlock.

Renfrew was smart, then. Smarter than most. He must be very interested in this deal.

“Please — stay with us tonight,” Garlock said, as if seized by a spasm of affability. “As you said, it’s a long way back to York. Hours there, and hours back again, and the weather is abysmal. Perhaps our hospitality can make up for this inconvenience.”

Renfrew took another step back. “Thank you, no. Driving clears my head.” He had that distracted look again, his breathing quick and ragged.

Perhaps Linda was getting to him after all. She was putting considerable effort into it, bringing all of her power to bear.

Smelling blood in the water, Garlock gave Linda a rough push toward the trader. “Stay with us, and Linda will serve you supper. Perhaps we can yet convince you to do a second deal.” He smiled, and everyone knew he was promising more than supper. A promise Linda hoped she wouldn’t have to keep.

Linda knew her role by heart. She wrapped her fingers around Renfrew’s arm, smiled at him, feeling the ripple of power through layers of fabric — hers and his. “Please,” she whispered, her voice yet another web of magic. “I would like to hear more about how you play the Game.”

He froze, as if pinned by her touch, and stood looking down at her. “Do you take me for a fool?” he said, raising an eyebrow.

Young as she was, Linda was a master at making smart men foolish. Pushing up on her toes, she reached up and pressed her free palm against his cheek.

His eyes widened and he flinched back, knocking her hand away. But then he stopped, his eyes fixed on her face.

Taking a deep breath, he released it. “All right,” he said. “Against my better judgment, I will stay.”

“Good, good,” Garlock said. “I’ll show you to your room while Linda puts your supper together.” The broker scowled at Linda before he turned away. He’d have words for her later. More than words. Sliding her fingers under the scarf, she pried at the metal against her skin, swearing under her breath.

The two wizards headed toward the bedroom wing, and Linda the other direction, to the kitchen. Unlocking the sideboard with a key at her belt, she set the silver tray on the counter, brought down the crystal carafe used for such occasions, and two glasses. She chose a bottle from the rack on the sideboard. A merlot or cabernet was best for this purpose; the tannins hid a multitude of sins. Drawing a small pouch from the drawer, she ripped it open with her teeth, and emptied it into the carafe, tapping it to free the last grains. Then she deftly uncorked the bottle, filled the carafe, stoppered it, and swirled the contents, like blood washing against the glass.