That settled the matter, since Valder did not have that much.
“Would you by chance know of anyone who might attempt it for less?”
Tagger shook his head. “No, I’m sorry, but I really don’t. High-level magic is expensive. Besides, you know, the really powerful wizards don’t need to make money by selling their talents; they provide for themselves by other means. I don’t suppose I should admit it, since it’s hardly good business, but since I’ve already told you we probably can’t help you, I might as well go on and tell you that we’re all second-raters here, all of us shopkeepers in the Wizards’ Quarter. If I could untangle an eighth-order spell, I could probably conjure up a castle in the air and live in luxury for the rest of my life, instead of spending my days removing impotence curses or curing baldness and scrofula and so forth.”
That made a great deal of sense, but also presented another possibility. “But such powerful wizards do exist?” “Oh, yes, there’s no doubt about that; the ones who can still be bothered with mundane affairs run the Wizards’ Guild, so I’ve met a few — but never by their true names, and probably not even wearing their true faces.”
“Where could I find such a wizard?”
Tagger shrugged eloquently. “I haven’t any idea at all. Certainly not running a shop in Ethshar of the Spices, unless you find one visiting to remind himself what he need no longer tolerate. And before you get any high hopes built up, let me remind you that a truly great wizard would have no particular reason to help you by removing the enchantment from your sword.”
“He’d have no particular reason not to help me, though.”
“Laziness comes to mind — and even for a really powerful wizard, undoing an eighth-order spell is likely to involve considerable difficulty and even some risk.”
“I see,” Valder said. He started to rise.
“Before you go,” Tagger said, “would you mind explaining to me just what this curse is you’re so eager to avoid? Perhaps we can find a way around it.”
Valder settled back again. “What do you mean?”
“Well, for example, we had a client once who had been cursed with what seemed like a simple enough spell; he had been given a really unpleasant odor, so that nobody could stand to go near him for very long. It’s a standard little curse, useful for revenge or blackmail — but in this case, the wizard had been feeling particularly vengeful, and had booby-trapped the spell, linking it to some very complicated wizardry we couldn’t be bothered untangling for any price the victim could pay, so that we couldn’t use the usual countercharm. Instead, we put another curse on the poor fellow, one that stopped up the sense of smell of anyone near him — and just to be sure, we gave his wife a love potion strong enough that she wouldn’t mind the stink, even if it reached her. There are still some effects — for example, dogs and other animals can’t go anywhere within a hundred feet of him, so he has to travel entirely on foot — but at least he’s not totally isolated.”
Valder considered, looking at the little wizard’s face; the man seemed quite sincere, and there was always some way out, if only it could be found.
“All right,” he said. “The curse is that I can only die when slain by the sword, Wirikidor; nothing else, not even old age, is supposed to be able to kill me. That’s what Darrend of Calimor and the rest of General Karannin’s wizards said, at any rate. However, I still age, can still be wounded, and I’m still going blind.”
“We can cure the blindness, I think,” Tagger said.
“That’s not the real point, though. I’m still going to age; I’m going to get older and older, weaker and weaker, and I won’t die. Ever. I don’t think I can face that.”
“You can kill yourself with the sword, though.”
“Not if I get too weak to lift it.”
Tagger looked thoughtful. “That’s a good point. I’m not sure how that would work, not knowing the exact spell.”
“I’m not sure either — and it’s my life that’s in question here.”
“Have you tested your supposed immortality?”
“No; how can I test it? I can still be harmed, after all.”
“You might take poison and see what it does.”
“And perhaps spend the rest of my days with my belly burnt away? That’s just the sort of thing I want to avoid.”
“Oh, come now, there are plenty of deadly poisons with no long-term side effects. Still, I see your point. You haven’t tested it, in short.”
“No.”
“And you want some way out of your current situation, where you believe you will age normally, but never die of it.”
“Exactly.”
“You would consider suicide acceptable?”
“I am not enthusiastic about it, but it seems preferable to the alternative.” Tagger stared at him thoughtfully. “Could you really find it in yourself to do it? Killing oneself with a sword is not easy.”
Valder shifted uncomfortably. “I’m not sure,” he admitted.
“You could hire someone to kill you, I suppose.”
“No, not really; nobody else can use the sword while the spell holds, and the spell still has several deaths to go.”
“Several deaths? How do you mean that?”
“Oh, I didn’t explain the whole enchantment; it’s complicated. Between my acquisition of the sword in its enchanted form and my death, every time I draw it, it must kill a man, up to about a hundred times, and then it will turn on me and kill me. I had figured that I could live forever by simply not drawing it any more — but now I think that looks worse than death, as I’ve told you.”
“If I understand you, I feel obliged to warn you that I don’t think you will be able to kill yourself with the sword. I’m familiar with spells of that type, though not quite that form; they were discovered right about the time the Great War ended. The sword is semianimate, with a will of its own, is it not?”
“Yes.”
“Then it will not permit you to kill yourself until it has served out its full quota of deaths in your hands; your own determination aside, it’s physically impossible for you to commit suicide with that sword; I’m sure of it. You will have to kill however many men remain to the predetermined allotment, and then the sword will claim a new owner, who will kill you; no other outcome is possible while the sword and spell exist.”
Valder mulled that over; somehow, he was not surprised. He thought that he might have suspected it to be true all along, on some unconscious level, or perhaps had once heard it explained, long ago, by a wizard studying the sword.
At last he rose, saying politely, “Thank you for your help; I have one more favor to ask. Could you direct me to a good diviner or seer?”
Tagger, too, arose. “Certainly; I would recommend either Sella the Witch, across the street and down two blocks to the east, or Lurenna of Tantashar, four blocks west.”
“Lurenna is a wizard, or another witch?”
“A wizard. There are also a few theurgists who deal in prophecy and divination...”
“No, a wizard is fine.” Valder bowed and departed.
He paused for a moment at the door, noticing for the first time that full night had arrived while he spoke with the red-clad wizard; he was footsore and weary, feeling his age, and he considered for a moment simply finding a place to sleep and continuing in the morning.
The streets, however, were torchlit and inviting, the shop-windows mostly aglow, and he decided he would pursue matters now, having delayed so long already. He would find Lurenna of Tantashar, not in hopes that she might remove the sword’s enchantment, but rather that she might be able to locate for him a more powerful wizard who could. Tagger had said that such wizards existed.
True, he had little to offer in compensation — but he would deal with that problem when he had to. He would find a way.
Tagger watched the old man with the sword march away, then returned to the shop parlor to find that Varrin had slipped in the back way, unnoticed.
