“None ofus, surely?”
“That remains to be determined.” That created a stir, and for a moment the formal recitation was interrupted. Finally a red-robed figure at the head of the table rose to his feet and spoke.
“While we must continue our investigations,” he said, “I think it would be expedient to also begin to take action in certain cases where it is clearly appropriate.”
“Lord Azrad would certainly like us to do something,” Ithinia of the Isle said, from her seat near the far end of the table. “He expected me to attend him yesterday.”
“Lord Azrad presumes too much,” the red-robed wizard said. “We are not ready to enforce his sentences of exile or join in any campaign of annihilation, nor do we have time to waste in listening to his complaints. However, by our own rules, we are bound to restrain forbidden uses of magic. We have not yet established whether warlockry itself is forbidden by any of our covenants, but there have certainly been uses of it, and instances of its presence, that violate Guild laws. It is time we began to deal with these on a case-by-case basis.” He took a deep breath, then continued, “For one thing, it may be educational to see whether wecan deal with them-it may be that warlocks are more formidable than we think.” He pointed at one of the others. “You, Kaligir-choose a warlock who is unquestionably guilty of serious crimes and send someone to deal with him. Let us see just what happens when wizard and warlock meet in combat.”
“Anywarlock?” Kaligir asked.
“Use your judgment, man.”
“Rather, use a divination,” the white-haired wizard suggested.
“An excellent suggestion,” the red-robed wizard agreed.
“Very well,” Kaligir said, slumping in his chair.
“And, Kaligir,” the man in red said, “I expect a report-remember, a part of your task is to discover just how great a threat to us these warlocks truly are.”
“As you say,” Kaligir replied. He straightened, then stood. “I had best get on with it, then.”
“As had we all,” the red-robed wizard said. “I will remain here to coordinate, but the rest of you, begone, and press onward your researches!”
Robes rustled, chairs creaked, and the wizards arose and scattered.
Shemder Parl’s son watched his intended victim with an unpleasant smile. Kirris was going about her business, hanging her laundry out on the line in the courtyard behind the house she shared with her husband and two young children, blithely unaware of her old suitor’s presence on a nearby rooftop.
Shemder debated just what he would do to her. Perhaps a roofing tile could fall and break her skull. It was a shame, he thought, that he had not had this wonderful magic a month ago, when she bore her second daughter; if he had caught her in childbirth he could have done something really slow and unpleasant without fear of detection.
Perhaps a roofing tile might cause an injury that would not kill her instantly, and he could then find some way to ensure that she never recovered.
But that was risky; her husband might hire a magician to treat her, and the magician might notice some invisible sign that war-lockry was involved. Shemder did not know just what traces war-lockry left, if any; he knew there were none visible to an ordinary person, but magicians could often see things others could not-as he could see things now that ordinary people could not.
A shadow fell across his vision, blocking the light of the setting sun, and he looked up.
As if summoned by his thoughts, a magician was standing in the air beside him, looking down at him-a man in blue robes. Shemder didn’t know much about magic, but he guessed this must be a wizard-demonologists wore black or perhaps red, theurgists wore white or gold, sorcerers didn’t wear robes, and he didn’t think a witch could stand in midair so effortlessly.
“You are Shemder Pad’s son?” the magician asked.
“No!” Shemder said. “My name’s Kelder. Why? Who’s this Shemder you’re looking for?”
The magician hesitated. Shemder did not; he reached out with his own magic and found the man’s heart, beating steadily in his chest.
It was harder than usual; something was in the way, some other sort of magic. Shemder did not let that stop him.
A simple squeeze, and the magician gasped, eyes widening, arms flung wide; he toppled backward, tumbled down the sloping tile roof, and flopped over the eaves.
A second later Shemder heard the dull crunch of the body landing in the alleyway below.
He hesitated only a moment, wondering who the magician had been and who had sent him-had some friend or relative of one of the half-dozen people he had already killed hired a magical avenger?
If so, whoever it was had chosen the wrong hired hero.
Perhaps Kirris or her husband had made a contract for magical protection? They couldn’t have known about Shemder’s plans, but young parents sometimes did foolishly extravagant things out of worry about their infant children.
Either way, this rooftop was no longer somewhere Shemder wanted to stay. Kirris was safe for now-though once he knew what was going on, and how to deal with it, Shemder intended to come back for her..
Staying nearby after killing a wizard, though-Shemder wasn’t fool enough to dothat! He slid down the roof, on the far side from where the magician had fallen, and lowered himself over the edge. Then he caught himself in the air and settled slowly and gently to the ground, landing in the deserted street-though he knew he couldn’t count on it staying deserted. Someone might happen along at any minute, hurrying home to supper, and Shemder did not want to be in the area when someone glanced in that alley and found a dead wizard. He turned, took a step toward the corner...
And felt himself shrinking, twisting, his skin crawling as fur grew, a tail thrusting out behind him, his clothes vanishing and the warm air against his skin. The houses reared up hugely around him, towering over him.
He squeaked in terror and scampered for shelter, running on all fours. He scurried into the shadowy corner beside someone’s front steps, then paused, once he was out of sight of most of the street, to try to see what had happened to him.
It was hard to think, but he struggled to hold on to himself to see what had become of him, to think of a way he might survive and undo whatever it was.
He knew he had somehow been transformed-that wizard must have had a spell of some kind that did this. He looked down at his paws, curled his tail around...
His tail was long and thin and bare, ending in a point. His paws had long, thin claws. He could see whiskers when he wiggled his nose. He measured his height against the steps, and concluded that he was now a rat. A large brown one.
That was bad, that was very bad, but it could be worse. He was still alive. He remembered who he was. And... was he still a warlock?
He found a pebble, and concentrated on it with all his might, trying to see it in that special way that let warlocks move things— and nothing happened. The pebble lay where it was.
He heard voices, human voices, and ducked back into the corner, baring his teeth.
The voices passed, but he waited several minutes, just to be sure.
He could hear rustlings and thumpings and the other sounds of the city, of the neighborhood going about its ordinary business, but he had trouble, in his transformed condition, identifying them and locating them. He was also distracted by smells-rats, he discovered, had a far better sense of smell than humans did.
At last, though, he decided the time had come to venture out. He was hungry and frightened, and wanted to get somewhere safer than a corner in the street. He could see no openings in the foundation of the house he crouched beside, nowhere he could take shelter.
His own room was only a few blocks away. If he could get inside there, he would be safe. He couldn’t unlock the door in his present condition, especially since the purse containing the key had vanished along with his clothes, but perhaps he could find a rat-sized entrance.
And the spell might wear off.
He crept out of the corner, then dashed forward, intending to make a run for the next street-and found himself confronted by a pair of suede slippers.
He looked up and found a robed man staring down at him.
