their rich carvings and gleaming windows plain to be seen, while others were set back and hidden behind walls or fences. A few stood surrounded by gardens, and one boasted an elaborate aviary. The streets in this area were not crowded at all, and most of the people he did see were tradesmen; only rarely did he spot someone whose finery was in accord with the opulence of the buildings.
The fine houses stopped abruptly, replaced by a row of shops facing onto a diagonal avenue, and Valder knew he had found Arena Street. He paused in the intersection to look around.
Far off to his left, at the end of the surprisingly straight avenue, he could see the overlord’s palace. He had caught quick glimpses of it once or twice before on Merchant Street and again on one of the streets in the New City, but had not stopped to look at it.
That was where Azrad the Great lived, now more than eighty years old but still holding on to his absolute power as overlord of the city and triumvir of the Hegemony. He was said to suffer from bouts of idiocy, to have lost his teeth, and to drool like a baby in consequence. Valder shuddered at the thought. It was not that Azrad’s current condition was so very unpleasant, but that it had come upon him in a mere eighty years or so, while Wirikidor could perhaps keep Valder alive for eighty centuries.
And for that matter, how pleasant could Azrad’s life actually be? His elder son Azrad had died as a youth, in the waning days of the Great War. His wife was long dead. His surviving son, Kelder, was middle-aged and said to be a dreary sort. One grandson had died at the age of fourteen of some unidentified disease, and another was just coming of age. There were three granddaughters as well.
How happy a family could it be? Did any of those still living really care much for the old man? Kelder was surely waiting to inherit the throne, and the others had known Azrad only as a sick old man, never as the brilliant leader he had once been. Still, he had a family. Valder had only employees.
He hunched his shoulders and turned onto Arena Street. The guards had not said how far it was to the Wizards’ Quarter; he hoped it was not far. The sun was already low in the west.
The Arena itself, a large and impressive structure, was roughly a mile from High Street, Valder discovered. A block beyond it, he saw the first sign advertising a witch’s shop. A witch, of course, would be able to do nothing against a sword enchanted by a wizard, but it provided encouragement.
In the next block was a theurgist’s shop, and Valder was tempted. The gods, after all, could do anything — if they could be convinced to pay attention at all, and if you contacted the right god. He was unsure just how effective theurgy actually was since the gods had gone into their self-imposed exile, however, and he preferred to stick to the more straightforward approach.
The next two blocks were full of gaming houses, but, beyond that, Valder’s search was abruptly rewarded with greater riches than he had anticipated. The street was suddenly lined with magic shops of every description, advertising all manner of wizardry, witchcraft, theurgy, even demonology and sorcery, as well as arcane arts Valder could not identify, on a profusion of boastful signboards. “Abdaran of Skaia,” one read, “Miracles of Every Description.”
“Intirin the White,” the next read, “Your Prayers Answered or Your Money Back.” One bore no boasts but simply a black outline of a hand superimposed on a red eye and the name Dakkar — Valder thought that was rather ominous and probably represented a demonologist.
He walked on, following what seemed to be the thickest grouping around a corner to the right, and finally spotted, “Tagger, Tagger, and Varrin, Counterspells and Cures for Every Purpose.” That sounded like exactly what he was after.
The iron-studded door was closed, the windows draped with heavy dark velvet; he hesitated, but then knocked loudly.
He waited for what seemed a reasonably long time and was about to knock again when the door swung open and he found himself facing a small, black-haired man in a red robe and hat.
“Hello,” Valder said, “I need to have a spell removed.”
“Oh,” the red-clad man said. “Come in, then. I’m afraid the others are both out just now, but I’ll see what I can do. I’m Tagger the Younger.”
“Valder the Innkeeper,” Valder replied, nodding politely.
“The one with the magic sword?” Tagger asked.
Startled, Valder nodded.
“Ah! Come in, come in! What can I do for you?” He swung wide the door and escorted Valder inside, leading him to a comfortable, velvet-upholstered chair. He then sat down in a similar chair on the opposite side of a small table.
It took Valder a few seconds to gather his wits sufficiently to reply. He looked around the shop, which was furnished much like a small parlor, with many dark woods and rich fabrics, predominantly red. “Since you already know about the sword,” he said when he had composed himself, “I don’t suppose I need to explain everything after all. I want the spell removed from the sword.”
It was Tagger’s turn to be disconcerted. “Why?” he asked. “I thought the sword protected you and made you a formidable warrior!”
“It does to some extent, but what does an innkeeper need with that? It also happens to include a sort of curse that I’d like to be rid of.”
“Ah, I see! What sort of a curse? Do you know?”
“Do you really need to know?”
“It would probably help considerably.”
Valder paused. “Could we leave that for later?”
“I suppose. In that case, what can you tell me about the sword? Do you know who enchanted it or what spells were used?” “The spells were put on it by a hermit in the coastal marshes north of what is now Tintallion...” Valder began.
“After it was forged?” Tagger interrupted.
“Oh, yes, of course; it was just a standard-issue sword for at least three years.”
“Ah. Good, then we shouldn’t have to destroy it. Go on. Did you know this hermit’s name?”
“No; he never told me. I don’t believe I told him mine, either, for that matter.”
“And what was your name at the time? Surely you weren’t an innkeeper then.”
“No, I was Valder of Kardoret, Scout First Class.”
“Go on.” Tagger shifted in his chair.
“I saw part of his work when he was enchanting the sword, but I didn’t pay close attention, and he never explained any of it to me or told me anything about it. Even if he had, it’s been more than forty years now, and I wouldn’t remember much. When I got back to Ethshar, the army wizards tried to analyze it and they said that it included the Spell of True Ownership and some sort of animation; that’s all I remember. Oh, yes, I think they said it was eighth-order magic.”
Tagger started. “Eighth-order?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, dear.”
Valder did not like the sound of that. He waited for the wizard to continue.
“I can’t do anything for you, I’m afraid. My father might be willing to try, though, if you can pay enough; he’d stand a good chance of succeeding, I think, and would almost certainly survive the attempt, but I’ll admit frankly that you might not.”
“Why?”
“Because your life-force is linked to the sword by the Spell of True Ownership; tied to it, as it were, by an invisible knot. The wizard who made the connection in the first place, or any really extremely powerful and skilled wizard, might be able to untie that knot — but you don’t know who the original wizard was, and I don’t know of any wizards skilled enough to handle an eighth-order linkage properly, which is what it would be if the True Ownership were applied as part of the eighth-order spell rather than as a separate enchantment. If my father were to make the attempt, he wouldn’t be untying so much as cutting the knot, and that would mean possibly cutting away part of your life. To carry the analogy a step further, the severed ends are likely to lash about, and one might strike him and harm or kill him. Naturally, that means a high price is called for.”
Valder was already pretty certain that he did not want to pursue this route, but asked, “How high?”
“I can’t speak for him, really; at least ten pounds of gold, though, I’m sure.”
