Two doors down on the right was a signboard announcing the presence of Thorum the Mage, which was one of the names Sterren had memorized. He headed directly for it.
Two hours later they took a break for a midday meal and bought bits of beef fried in dough from an open- front shop between two gambling halls on Games Street. They ate in silence, leaning against a wall, as snow drifted by and Sterren, between bites, considered what he had learned.
For one thing, he now knew what a prestidigitator was, little more than a charlatan, really. A great deal of magic appeared to be fraudulent. Never having had money to spend on spells and amulets, he had never had occasion to find this out.
Other magic, of course, was completely real and authentic and could be enormously powerful.
Unfortunately, while the frauds would often work cheap, for the more serious magicians a pound of gold would not pay for a sixnight’s work, let alone the month or more that might be necessary for a trip to Semma and back with a war in the middle.
He had been turned down by two witches, two theurgists, a wizard, a warlock, and someone who called himself a thaumaturge, a term Sterren was not familiar with.
On the other hand, he had turned down a prestidigitator, an illusionist, a sorcerer whose talents seemed genuine but hopelessly inappropriate for the job at hand, and an herbalist.
Not all of these were from the advertisements at the Arena; the theurgists and the sorcerer had turned up on their own while Sterren and his party were discussing matters with Thorum the Mage, a pleasant old fellow who, thanks to his central location, made a significant income as a message center and referral service, in addition to what his wizardry brought him.
The morning, Sterren had to admit, had been a washout. He chewed his last bite of dough, pulled his coat collar tighter, and stared longingly through the snow at a dice game visible through a tavern window on the opposite side of the street.
He wished that he could just go back to playing dice and thinking entirely in his native tongue, without having to switch languages every few minutes, without worrying about wars or wizards or warlords or warlocks, hereditary duties, and summary executions. He wanted to forget that Semma had ever existed, forget that he had ever met any of the inhabitants of that silly little kingdom.
He couldn’t, of course. Semma was real, and somehow or other he had the misfortune to be its warlord now, rather than just a tavern gambler.
Joining that game across the street was a tremendous temptation, but a glance at Lady Kalira’s sour expression convinced him that it wasn’t even worth asking if he could take a few minutes to replenish their finances.
He sighed, swallowed the last traces of his meal, and said, “Come on.”
The three Semmans looked at him, uncomprehending. “Oh, come on,” he said, in Semmat this time. They came.
CHAPTER 17
The afternoon was more successful than the morning. For one thing, the snow stopped and the sun came out, which improved tempers all around. For another, the neighborhood grapevine was working for them now and when they checked back in at Thorum’s they found a young witch, eager for adventure in foreign lands and willing to work cheap.
Another cooperative and promising witch turned up a few stops later, and then a sorcerer by the name of Kolar, whose collection of talismans included a few that clearly had some military usefulness, and, fortunately for Sterren, not all that much commercial value, so that Kolar was willing to accept Sterren’s offered job.
All three of these individuals were instructed to report to the chartered ship, the Southern Wind, by midday on the twenty-fourth.
At the next stop an argument broke out. The magician in question here was ready and willing to take the job, but Lady Kalira recognized the emblem she wore at her throat.
“She’s a demonologist!” she said. “We can’t take a demonologist!”
“Why not?” Sterren demanded. “She can probably do more for us than the rest put together! Demons love war! They created it!”
“And that’s one reason that using a demonologist is too dangerous!” the Semman aristocrat shouted.
“That’s ridiculous!”
“It is not...” Lady Kalira began; then she caught herself and continued with enforced calm, “it is not ridiculous, my Lord Sterren. And in any case, the reasons do not matter. If I might remind you, his Majesty specifically forbade the inclusion of sorcerers or demonologists. Are you going to defy a royal edict? Might I point out that the penalty for doing so is entirely up to the king’s discretion, even to beheading, for a member of the nobility?”
Sterren opened his mouth to argue, then stopped.
Phenvel III was more than a little foolish and prone to whims. For all Sterren knew, he really might order Sterren’s execution if he was angry enough and only think better of it after it was too late.
And he had specifically forbidden demonologists and sorcerers.
Sterren had forgotten that for a moment. He had not made the connection when he hired Kolar, Kolar the Sorcerer.
“Oh, damn,” he said.
He apologized to the demonologist, a woman by the name of Amanelle of Tirissa, and led the way back to the house where Kolar rented an upstairs room.
When that little problem was dealt with, Sterren continued with his search.
When the sun was below the rooftops and the shop-keepers began lighting the torches out front, he called it a day and headed back toward Spicetown, the Semmans trailing along behind him.
He didn’t even think about trying to slip away. The quest for magicians had caught his interest.
If was full dark well before they reached the wharves, and Sterren had to ask directions twice before locating the Southern Wind. He was asleep within seconds of falling into his hammock.
That was the twenty-second of Snowfall.
On the twenty-third, once again, the day was spent in the Wizards’ Quarter, recruiting. Word had gotten around, however, and this time Sterren was able to sit at Thorum’s table, drinking cheap ale and making jokes with old Thorum about the Semman barbarians he was saddled with, while candidates presented themselves.
The Semmans sat idly by, wondering what Sterren and the fat old wizard found so funny.
The weather was warmer, too, and the snow had melted away completely by midafternoon.
Even the now-familiar walk back to the ship seemed easier, especially since Sterren took care to set out well before dark. Lady Kalira brightened considerably when she discovered Alar aboard the vessel, waiting for her, apologetic about both his own extended absence and having completely lost track of Kendrik, Bern, and Zander.
Sterren thought he was a fool for coming back, but did not say so.
Sterren did not bother to leave the ship on the twenty-fourth, but instead began the preparations for the journey back to Akalla of the Diamond.
He had found no chance to slip away and he was not at all sure he would have taken it if he had. Princess Lura’s grin and Shirrin’s blush lurked in the back of his memory, and he did not want to leave them defenseless.
When the ship sailed on the evening tide, she had aboard her Sterren, Lady Kalira, Alder, Dogal, and Alar, of the original party of eight; the other three had never turned up. Sterren hoped that they would get by, stranded in a foreign city where they didn’t speak the language or know the customs. They had chosen to desert, but they had not necessarily known what they were getting into; life in Ethshar was much more complex than their simple existence back in Semma.
Perhaps, he thought, Alar was not such a fool after all.
