ahead and to the left. “This way,” he said, marching on.
The Semmans followed. Alder and Dogal close on his heels. Lady Kalira just behind, and the others trailing along.
The next intersection was another cross street, and he turned left, to find himself looking directly at Shiphaven Market, two blocks away.
He recognized the street, then; he was on East Wharf Street. He still could not identify the one he had followed from the canal, however.
“There you are,” he said, pointing, “Shiphaven Market!”
He was rather proud of having led the party successfully through an unfamiliar part of the city, but none of the Semmans seemed impressed by his accomplishment. None of them realized, of course, that this part of the city was unfamiliar.
In fact, he wondered if it had really sunk in yet that the city was big enough that he wasn’t familiar with all of it.
“Good,” Lady Kalira snapped. “Let’s go find a wizard and get back to the ship, before we all freeze.”
“Doesn’t have to be a wizard,” Sterren began, but Lady Kalira’s glare discouraged him from saying any more. He marched on.
The market was not crowded, probably because of the weather, Sterren guessed. The foul winds would have kept down the number of ships reaching the harbor with goods to sell or vacancies in their crews to fill, and the cold would discourage the casual browser. He doubted he saw much more than a hundred people milling about.
One of them, however, was unmistakably a wizard, complete with crimson robe and an assortment of well-filled pouches and sheathes on her belt. Another, tall, thin, pale, and wearing black, might well be a warlock.
Sterren suddenly began to think that his presence here was a mistake. What did he want with magicians? All he wanted was to be left alone. He stopped walking.
“Come on,” Lady Kalira said, and Alder reached out for his elbow.
He walked on into the market square, found a quiet spot, and then stopped again.
“Now what?” Lady Kalira demanded.
Sterren was overcome with irrational fear, stage fright, although he had never encountered that term for it. He knew that the time had come to call out his recruiting pitch, but he could not bring himself to speak.
Inspiration struck. “You tell them what we want,” he told Lady Kalira.
“Me?”
“Yes, you; as your warlord, I demand it.”
“But my lord, I don’t speak Ethsharitic!”
In his panic, Sterren had forgotten that.
Reminded of it, a sudden inspiration struck him, and before he could lose his nerve again he raised his hands and shouted, “People of Ethshar! These barbarians think I’m going to give a recruiting speech for them, but the truth is that they’re holding me prisoner against my will! I ask that you summon the city guard!”
“Wait a minute,” Lady Kalira said, hauling down one arm. “What was that you said?”
“I said-”
“You didn’t say anything about magicians, and I heard you say something about the city guard, I think.”
Sterren saw that doubtful expression on Alder’s face again and saw his hand fall to the hilt of his sword. He cleared his throat.
“Just warming up,” Sterren said. He looked about and realized that nobody else had paid any attention to him, anyway. The wind had apparently carried his words away unheard, or perhaps they had been taken for a joke, or a stunt to attract attention.
He looked over his own party and for the first time he noticed that Kendrik was gone.
He smiled, but decided not to point this absence out. Not yet, anyway. For now, it would clearly be safer to behave himself and seriously try to recruit magicians; his chances of slipping away might well improve later on.
He turned back toward the center of the square and shouted in Ethsharitic, “Magicians needed! Magicians needed! I represent his Majesty, King Phenvel the Third of Semma, and I am here to hire fine magicians of every school to aid the royal Semman army!”
“That’s better,” Lady Kalira muttered, recognizing the familiar names.
A young man stopped to listen as Sterren continued, “Excellent pay! Comfortable accommodations! An opportunity for glory and honor in a worthy cause! Magicians of every sort are needed!” He found himself getting into the spirit of the occasion; it wasn’t really all that different from the times he had needed to talk a losing opponent out of retaliation.
“You think you’re going to find decent magicians here, at this time of year?” the young stranger asked, smirking.
“Shut up,” Sterren answered conversationally. “Magicians!” he called.
The listener snorted.
A middle-aged couple in fine clothing wandered up to listen.
“We need magicians! Payment in gold and gems, all expenses to be borne by the royal treasury!”
The red-robed wizard approached, and then the tall man in black.
“You, wizard,” Sterren asked, beckoning, “would you be interested in a trip to Semma, the jewel of the Small Kingdoms?”
The wizard smiled wryly and turned away.
“I might be,” the man in black answered.
“Are you a magician, sir?” Sterren asked.
The man in black raised a hand, and a thick swirl of dust rose up from the hard-packed ground of the market, spiraling upward before him, ignoring the wind that should have scattered it across the marketplace. The dust gathered into a ball the size of a fist, hung there in the air for an instant, and then burst apart and vanished, whipped away on the breeze.
“I’m a warlock,” said the man in black.
CHAPTER 15
After an hour’s harangue, Sterren gave up. His throat was sore, his voice giving out, and he had lost the crowd’s interest completely.
The warlock had stood by, waiting patiently the whole time. He had neither committed himself to the venture nor turned it down, had not demanded to know more, but had simply waited.
A black-haired woman with a runny nose, about Sterren’s own age and wearing a purple gown with stains that resembled those one might acquire sleeping in the Hundred-Foot Field, had also turned up, claiming to be a wizard, and she had actually volunteered. She had been more concerned with Sterren’s guarantee that she would be fed for as long as she was in Semma’s employ than in the particulars of the job, or the payment offered.
The sun was low above the rooftops on the western side of the square. “Time for dinner,” Sterren said in Semmat, turning to Lady Kalira. “Don’t you think so?”
“I suppose,” she said.
She had spent much of the hour wandering about the market looking at the goods offered for sale, but she had not bought anything. Sterren suspected that she had been too embarrassed by her poor command of Ethsharitic, if you could call her dozen or so phrases “command”, to try to haggle in that language, and the local merchants, while likely to speak several tongues, would not be likely to know anything so obscure as Semmat.
Of course, Lady Kalira spoke Trader’s Tongue, Sterren remembered, and most of the merchants could probably handle that, but perhaps she didn’t realize it. Or maybe language had nothing to do with it, and her funds were running low. That might be inconvenient, since he had hoped that her purse would be there to fall back on in
