Lawrence Watt-Evans: Relics of War

“I never heard of it,” Azlia said.

Garander’s heart sank. “Oh,” he said. It had not occurred to him that she would not know it; he had somehow assumed that if some ordinary soldiers had heard of it, every wizard knew it.

But on the other hand, if it wasn’t well known, then it was less likely anyone would guess what was happening. He hesitated, then asked, “Do you think any of the other wizards Lord Dakkar brought might know it?”

Azlia considered that for a moment, then said, “No, not really. There’s just the one, a man who calls himself Bardak the Dreaded, and I’m pretty sure he’s something of a charlatan, not half the wizard he pretends to be. I mean, a real wizard doesn’t call himself ‘the Dreaded.’ That’s just unprofessional.”

“Oh,” Garander said again. His scheme was crumbling practically before it even got started.

“But there are at least two wizards with Lady Shasha,” Azlia said. “One of them might know.”

Garander blinked. “But…they’re on the other side.”

“What of it? We’re all wizards, and we aren’t at war yet. I can say I need to talk to them about Wizards’ Guild business.”

Garander’s spirits lifted. Perhaps his scheme wasn’t as hopeless as he had thought. “Don’t talk to Zendalir the Mage, though,” he said. “Talk to the other one.”

Startled, Azlia asked, “Why?”

“Because Zendalir is a pompous ass. I wouldn’t trust him to keep his mouth shut; he’d probably brag to Lady Shasha about what a good job he did faking Tesk’s death.”

“Ah.” She wrinkled her nose. “Thanks for the warning. It’s fortunate that they’ve brought another.” Then she abruptly turned and started marching south, toward the carpet.

“Wait a minute,” Garander called, stumbling after her. “Where are you going?”

“To meet the wizards from Ethshar, of course,” Azlia called back.

“Should I come?”

She shook her head. “Go home. Talk to your family.”

He stopped, and watched her go.

Her suggestion was good advice, he decided; he headed back toward the house.

His father and sisters looked up when he stepped through the door; his mother was busy with a delicate bit of stitchery and paid no attention. “What was that strange noise?” Shella the Younger asked.

“The baron’s sorcerer finished studying that wand.”

“You mean he figured out how to make it work?” Shella sat up. “Lord Dakkar’s soldiers…”

“He didn’t figure out how to make it work,” Garander interrupted. “Not unless you consider blowing himself up is making it work.”

“He’s dead?” their father asked.

“He’s vanished without a trace, along with his tent and everything in it,” Garander said. “I’m guessing he’s dead, but it wasn’t an ordinary explosion, it was something strange, so for all I know he’s now riding the lesser moon across the sky.”

His father frowned. “A man is dead, Garander,” he said. “Show some respect.”

“Tesk warned him,” Garander replied.

“Still.”

“I’m sorry, Father.”

For a moment no one spoke; then Grondar said, “You spoke to the shatra ?”

“Yes.”

“Is he going to flee?”

Garander hesitated.

This was the moment when he should tell his family about his plan, but he could not bring himself to do it. Ever since Ishta found that talisman every time he had revealed a secret, no matter to whom, it had made things worse. He did not trust his parents or sisters to maintain appearances, even if they did not actually tell anyone what was happening.

“I don’t think so,” Garander said. “Actually, I think he’s getting ready to die. He expects the magicians to kill him. Or if they don’t he may kill himself, in hopes of averting another war.”

“That’s…unfortunate,” Grondar said.

“He can’t kill himself!” Ishta exclaimed. “I don’t want him to die! He should go live in Ethshar; the baron’s wizards can’t get at him there!”

“He can’t live in a city, Ishta,” Garander said. “You heard him. His magic won’t let him.”

“Well, that’s stupid magic!”

“Of course it is,” her father agreed. “It’s wartime magic, and wars make everything stupid.”

“Can’t someone fix it?”

Grondar shook his head, but Garander said, “I talked to that wizard from Varag, Azlia. She doesn’t want a war, and doesn’t think giving one side a shatra is going to be good for anyone, so she’s going to see what she can do.”

“How good a wizard is she, really?” Shella the Younger asked.

“How should I know?” Garander said, turning up a palm.

“Will the shatra come back at dusk, as he said, do you think?” Grondar asked.

“I think so,” Garander said. He glanced at the window; the sun was low in the west, its rays reaching the hearth in the east end of the room. “In fact, I think I’m going back out to wait for him.”

“I’ll come, too!” Ishta called.

“No, you won’t,” her mother said, looking up from her embroidery. “You’ll stay here and help me in the kitchen. When this big important meeting is over we’ll still need to eat.”

“But Mother! Tesk’s life is at stake!”

“And your presence isn’t going to change whatever happens,” Shella told her. She set down her stitchery. “Come on, let’s get this started; once everything’s cooking you can go watch.”

Ishta started to argue, but Garander did not wait around for the inevitable outcome. He slipped back outside, and ambled around the side of the house in the general direction of the flying carpet. As he rounded the back corner, though, he noticed two figures in the shadows. He turned to look.

The smaller figure was Azlia; the larger was a man he did not recognize. They had been talking quietly, but they looked up as he approached.

“Garander,” Azlia said. “Allow me to introduce Ellador of Morningside.”

The man wore a dark blue robe and a blue velvet cap with red piping; white hair spilled down over his shoulders, and a long white beard hid much of his face and chest. He looked very much like the traditional image of a wizard. “Hello,” Garander said, unsure what he should do or say when introduced to a magician.

“A pleasure to meet you,” Ellador said. “I understand you live here, and you are concerned about whether this dispute over the shatra might trigger a war.”

Garander smiled wryly. The man certainly got to the point. “Yes,” he said.

“You inquired about the Sanguinary Deception?”

“The…what?”

The old man smiled. “The Sanguinary Deception. The spell that makes a person look very, very dead.”

Garander straightened up, and felt his heart beat a little faster. “Yes,” he said. “Do you know it?”

“Oh, yes,” Ellador replied. “It’s quite simple, and once upon a time every wizard in the army was expected to know it. Since the war it’s fallen out of fashion, though; it really doesn’t have many legitimate uses in peacetime. I’m sure Azlia’s master didn’t see any reason she would want to learn it.”

Azlia made a wordless noise that Garander could not interpret, and he was more concerned with learning whether his plan was practical. The spell he wanted did exist, and this wizard claimed to know it, but was it practical? Remembering Azlia’s spell in the root cellar, Garander asked, “How long does it take?”

“Oh, just a few seconds.”

Garander’s breath came out in a sigh of relief; he had not realized he had been holding it. Then another thought struck him. “Do you have the…materials you need for it?”