The Unwelcome Warlock

defined “neighborhood” broadly, and a few blocks to the north lived a witch of dubious reputation by the name of Kyrina of Newmarket, but the nearest warlock Kelder knew of was a journeyman calling himself Berakon the Black, who had a place on Locksmith Alley in Allston. Kelder was not at all sure Berakon could even fly — he had located his shop in Locksmith Alley because he earned most of his living working with locks and other small hardware — but he was a warlock and only about a dozen blocks away.

Kelder pulled on his tunic and boots, grabbed a jacket, and headed out the door.

He called a brief explanation to the landlady on his way, but did not take the time for more. The sooner he found help for that poor woman, the better.

Ten minutes later he was at Berakon’s tiny shop — or really, his stall; it was a single room, barely wider than its double doors and perhaps ten feet deep. Kelder had wandered past it several times and looked it over, so he was familiar with its appearance. He knew he had the right place.

But it was closed. The doors were shut and secured by a large brass padlock.

Kelder frowned. Locksmiths usually worked late, since people found themselves locked out at all hours, but Berakon’s stall was definitely closed. He hurried to the much larger but non-magical locksmith’s shop next door.

A bell jingled as he opened the door, and the proprietor looked up from a disassembled mechanism.

“Where’s the warlock?” Kelder asked. “There’s an emergency.”

“He closed up a few minutes ago,” the locksmith said. “Said he wasn’t feeling well. He asked if I knew a good healer witch.”

Kelder blinked. That didn’t make sense. “A warlock not feeling well?”

The locksmith grimaced. “I know, but that’s what he said.”

Kelder shook his head. “What did you tell him?”

“I sent him to Alasha of the Long Nose, up on Superstition Street.”

Superstition Street was another four long blocks to the south, toward the Arena. Kelder was not eager to range that far from home.

“Thank you,” he said. “Do you know of any other warlocks around here?”

“Around here?” The locksmith shook his head. “No.” He hesitated, then asked, “What’s going on? Why do you need a warlock?”

“One fell out of the sky and is stuck on my roof,” Kelder said. “She says her magic stopped working. I thought another warlock could get her down and maybe figure out what was wrong.”

The shopkeeper studied him for a moment, then said, “Berakon borrowed a padlock.”

Kelder had been trying to decide whether to head for Superstition Street, or back to the boarding house, or maybe to Warlock Street in the Wizards’ Quarter, so he had not really been listening.

“What?” he said.

“Berakon borrowed a padlock,” the locksmith repeated.

“I’m sorry, I don’t see...” Kelder let the question trail off.

“He never needed a padlock before,” the locksmith explained. “If he went out, he used his magic to weld the doors shut, and then undid it when he got back. I didn’t think he really needed to lock it at all, because who would be stupid enough to steal from a warlock? But he did it anyway, every time. Until tonight, when he asked me if I knew where he could find a witch, and then borrowed that lock from me.”

Kelder stared at him.

“You think they both lost their magic,” he said. He tried to think how that could happen. Might there be some contagious disease that stole a warlock’s magic? He had never heard of such a thing, but that didn’t mean it couldn’t happen.

“Maybe,” the locksmith said. “Maybe they did. And maybe it’s not just the two of them. I mean, warlockry just appeared out of nowhere on the Night of Madness, didn’t it? That’s what my mother told me. I was just a baby, so I don’t remember it myself.”

“I wasn’t even born,” Kelder said, “but yes, that’s what I always heard.”

“Well, maybe tonight it just stopped, as suddenly as it started.”

Kelder started to protest, then hesitated.

Why not? Maybe it had just stopped.

If so, then there wasn’t any point in looking for other warlocks. He needed some other way to get that poor woman off the roof. What other magic might work?

Well, wizards had various ways to fly or otherwise reach inaccessible places, but wizardry was expensive. A demonologist could probably get her down, but they were dangerous. Kelder wasn’t about to hire a demonologist without a much better reason than this. He had no idea whether a theurgist, or a witch, or a sorcerer, or some other sort of magician could do anything to help.

Maybe he had been hasty in deciding magic was called for in the first place. He had never seen a ladder tall enough to reach that high from the ground, but couldn’t it be set on the roof next door?

“Thank you,” he said. He dropped a copper bit on the counter, then turned to go.

Rander the house-carpenter had some good ladders. Maybe he could help.

Lador the Black was leaning over the girl’s sickbed, systematically sweeping the poisons from her blood, when suddenly he could no longer sense anything beneath her skin at all. He could still see her face, her brow slick with perspiration, and the soft green blanket tucked up to her chin. He could hear her labored breathing, smell the foul odor of illness, but everything below the surface had vanished.

His head felt strange, almost empty. All the things he normally perceived that ordinary people could not were gone — including that nasty, insistent murmuring that he knew would someday have drawn him away to Aldagmor. His hand, which he had been holding over her chest for dramatic effect, was no longer glowing; the only light came from the oil lamp on the shelf over the bed.

He blinked and straightened up, confused.

“Something’s wrong,” he said.

“What?” the girl’s mother asked. “What is it?”

“I don’t know,” Lador said.

“Is she worsening?”

Lador shook his head. “No,” he said. “No, something’s wrong with me.” He looked down at the girl, who seemed to be breathing a little easier. “She’s no worse. I think I helped her a bit. But...something is wrong. I can’t do any more. I’m sorry; you’ll need to find someone else.”

“But you said you could cure her!”

“I thought I could,” Lador said. “I’ve seen this kind of fever before, and I’ve cured it, but this time...” He frowned. “I’ll return your fee, of course.”

“But what about Larsi?”

“You’ll need to find another magician,” he said. “Perhaps a witch would do better.”

As he spoke, he had been trying several little experiments — trying to extinguish the lamp, trying to move the blanket, trying to lift himself off the floor, trying to warm his hand.

None of them had worked. His magic was gone. All of it. It had simply ceased to exist.

He was no longer a warlock.

That raised a thousand questions — was his magic gone forever? Would it return in a few minutes, a few hours, a few years? Were other warlocks affected? Did this mean he would never be Called?

That last question brought another — if there was a way to get his magic back, did he want to?

Thira the Warlock had been sitting in her kitchen, trying to decide whether wine made the nagging in her head better or worse, and wondering whether oushka might make it stop, or might overcome her resistance entirely. She had been dreading the night ahead; if she slept she knew she would have nightmares, and she knew she might wake up in mid-air on her way to Aldagmor, but if she didn’t sleep, she would weaken as she grew wearier, and might doze off and find herself as badly off as if she had just gone to bed. Maybe worse.

She had been toying with a carving knife, wondering whether suicide might be preferable to the Calling, and wondering whether suicide was even possible for a warlock, when the Call stopped.

It was like a physical blow; she rocked back in her chair, her eyes wide, and the knife fell from her hand