The Unwelcome Warlock

Sterren looked thoughtfully out at the harbor, at the masts swaying slightly as ships rocked at their moorings. The air was cold, but the afternoon sun on his back kept off the worst of the chill.

He glanced up at the overlord’s palace, hovering above the Fishertown docks to the east. The workmen were supposed to have its old site prepared for its return any time now, if they didn’t already, but rumors said Lord Azrad was in no hurry to give up his newfound mobility. For most of Azrad VII’s reign there had been no consensus on just what cognomen should be attached to his name, but now, after more than a decade of being labeled Azrad the Hard to Classify or Azrad the Ambiguous, more and more he was called Azrad the Airborne. He had already taken one aerial cruise along the coast as far as the mouth of the Great River, and had not seemed to be in any hurry to return.

But the spell only lasted a month, and Sterren knew Ithinia had no intention of renewing it, so Azrad would be earthbound again in another few days.

Well, let the overlord enjoy his flying palace while he could. Sterren had had his fill of flying, and he hadn’t had a palace around him while he did it. Right now, he had his own concerns.

He had thought, when he escaped from Vond, and then when Vond’s death was reported, and when his wife and children had finally reached Ethshar safely and rejoined him, that his worries were over. He had thought he could take his savings from his fifteen years as regent, invest them, and live off the earnings — or if necessary, if the investments failed, then he could live by cheating at dice, as he had when he was a boy. He was, after all, the only warlock left in the World, and almost no one else knew there were any. No one would ever suspect him of using warlockry to win. He had thought he would settle here in Ethshar, in his home city, and live happily ever after.

But it seemed that wasn’t going to work.

He had thought that the Imperial Council might want him back, and that that might be a problem, but so far there was no hint that they cared one way or another whether he returned to Semma. No messages, magical or mundane, had reached him. From what little Sterren had heard, Lady Kalira seemed to be doing just fine as the new regent.

He had thought some of Vond’s victims and enemies might hold a grudge for his service to the late emperor, but again, no one seemed to care.

No, his big problem was one he had never expected at all, and he felt foolish that he had not foreseen it. It was really quite simple, and he should have considered it.

Shirrin didn’t like it here.

In fact, that was seriously understating the case. His wife hated Ethshar of the Spices. She hated the crowds, the smell, the size of the city. She hated how closed in it felt. She hated not being recognized as a princess and the regent’s wife. She said it was dirty and dangerous and decadent, and she wanted to go home.

The children weren’t quite as emphatic, but they didn’t care for Ethshar, either. They, too, wanted to go back to Semma — or at least, to somewhere in the Small Kingdoms, somewhere other than this vast, intimidating city.

Sterren, however, did not particularly want to go back to the Vondish Empire. He was not at all certain that he could reclaim his title of regent from Lady Kalira, and if he retired instead, what would he do with himself? But he didn’t want to make his family miserable.

“May I join you?”

Startled, Sterren looked up to see a man of medium height wrapped in a worn brown cloak. “Of course,” he said, sliding over to make room on the bench.

The man sat down, and for a moment the two of them sat silently side by side, looking out at the harbor. A cold breeze brought the odors of fish and salt water to Sterren’s nose, and he shivered slightly.

Then the brown-clad man said, “You are Lord Sterren of Semma, I believe? Late of His Imperial Majesty’s service?”

Sterren threw the man an uneasy glance. “And if I am? Who are you?”

The man held out a hand. “I am called Kelder of Demerchan,” he said.

Sterren had started to stretch out his own hand in response, but at the name “Demerchan” he froze, staring.

Kelder smiled. “Don’t worry,” he said. “If you were our target, you would already be dead.”

“That assumes that all you wanted was my death,” Sterren replied.

“That’s true,” Kelder acknowledged. “Let me rephrase it, then, and simply say that we mean you no harm.” He lowered his hand, which Sterren’s own had never reached.

There was no point in arguing about that; if they did mean him harm, there was little he could do to prevent it. “Then what can I do for you, Kelder?” he asked, in the tone he had learned, during his years as regent, to use when speaking with troublesome petitioners.

Kelder’s smile broadened. “I’ll answer that eventually, my lord, but I would like to discuss a few things first.”

“I am at your service,” Sterren said, with a bob of his head.

“You indeed do not, I notice, seem to be heavily burdened with other duties at the present time.”

“I’m not,” Sterren said, pulling his elbows in against his sides.

“I would think a man of your experience would be in great demand.”

Irritated, Sterren said, “I doubt you sought me out to discuss my career options.”

“On the contrary, my lord, that is precisely why I am here.”

Sterren blinked. “What?”

Kelder smiled at him. “You recognized the name Demerchan.”

Sterren snorted. “I was Regent of the Vondish Empire for fifteen years. Yes, I have heard the name.”

“Of course.”

“What does that have to do with anything, Kelder of Demerchan? Why are you talking to me?”

“Bear with me, my lord. Let me begin, then, by saying that despite requests from you, the Imperial Council, and the Wizards’ Guild, we had no part in the death of the Great Vond.”

“I had wondered,” Sterren remarked.

“Many people wondered, and we have no objection if people want to credit us with his removal, but in fact, we were not involved. We had come to the conclusion that the late emperor was worth more to us alive than dead.”

Sterren cocked his head. “Why?” he asked bluntly. “He wasn’t going to hire any assassins; he was perfectly capable of carrying out his own killings.”

Kelder grimaced. “Yes, he was. But the Cult of Demerchan is not merely a company of assassins, and we wanted him alive.”

“Why?” Sterren repeated.

“The Cult of Demerchan is dedicated to gathering and preserving knowledge, my lord.”

This was the first time Sterren had ever heard anything of the sort. “It is?” he asked. “I thought you were assassins.”

“We are. Among other things. The name ‘Demerchan’ does come from an old word meaning ‘hired killer,’ but that is not all we are. We collect information, as well, and in fact we consider that our primary purpose. We protect secrets — we ensure that they are not lost, but also that they do not fall into the wrong hands. Yes, half our name says we are assassins, but do not forget the other half — we are not a guild, or brotherhood, or company, but a cult. We have a hidden purpose, and that is the gathering of secrets.”

That made a certain amount of sense, and would explain why they had wanted the late emperor alive. “You wanted the secret of Vond’s new form of warlockry?”

Kelder nodded.

“What a shame, then, that it died with him,” Sterren said.

Kelder smiled again. “We both know it did not,” he said.

“Do we?” Sterren said, suddenly very uncomfortable indeed. He glanced over his shoulder to be sure no one else was in earshot — though of course, nowhere was safe from scrying spells.

“We dedicate our entire existence to collecting secrets, my lord,” Kelder said. “Did you think we had missed