Chapter Thirteen
Hanner’s feet hurt, and he was horribly cold, chilled through and through, as he sat on the bare ground; there wasn’t enough fuel handy to keep more than a few fires going, and the young, the old, and the injured were given priority in crowding around those few — even, gruesomely, the pyre of that poor half-eaten person, whoever he was. The theurgists never had managed to contact Tarma or Konned, the witches were still busy with healing and calming, and the wizards had devoted their efforts to planning and transportation, rather than warmth.
Hanner wished the wizards had brought out a few better theurgists, as well as tapestries and bureaucrats; the handful of theurgists who had been Called warlocks had not accomplished anything at all after their initial success with Piskor the Generous. Not only would Tarma or Konned have been useful, but Alladia said that Asham the Gate-Keeper could get everyone home quickly. Unfortunately, it would take a really top-level theurgist to invoke him. If the wizards had found a theurgist like that, it would have been lovely. They hadn’t, so most of the throng of former warlocks was still here, sitting and waiting, cold and hungry. Rudhira was huddled against Hanner, shivering; that pretty white tunic of hers was not warm enough for this weather.
It wasn’t very white any more, either, after this stay in the wilderness.
Still, everyone was doing what they could, and progress was being made. Hundreds of people had been sent safely off to Ethshar of the Rocks and Ethshar of the Sands; the magical tapestries were hanging from sturdy frames, and a half-dozen apprentices were checking names, dates, and addresses before allowing anyone to touch them. Sensella of Morningside, having been the very last arrival from Ethshar of the Sands, had been one of the very first to go.
It was startling, watching the tapestries in action. A person would give his or her name to the apprentices, who would write it down. He would give his last address, so that the apprentices could check it against their maps and make sure the person actually knew the city he claimed to live in, and then the date of his Calling. One of the apprentices would then ask a question or two about the news of the day for that time, to make sure the earlier warlocks weren’t trying to sneak in ahead of their proper place.
When the apprentices were satisfied, they would move aside, and the applicant would step forward and touch the tapestry.
And then the applicant was simply gone — there was no transition, no flash, no bang, no fade or flicker or whoosh or whisper, the person just wasn’t there anymore. The eye didn’t want to accept it; it was almost easier to believe the person had never been there at all. The heavily-trampled ground in front of the tapestry was as empty as ever.
Whereupon the apprentices would let the next one through, and the scene would repeat.
Hanner hoped very much that the wizards were telling the truth, and that those people had indeed been transported instantaneously to the right places. He knew that Transporting Tapestries were real, obviously, since he had commissioned a pair of his own, but he had no proof that these two were really taking people to their alleged destinations; the rooms depicted on them could have been anywhere. He couldn’t think of any reason the wizards would lie about it, but you never knew, with wizards.
If they were going to lie, though, they would probably have claimed one of the tapestries led to Ethshar of the Spices, since there were more people who wanted to go there than to either of the others. As yet, no third tapestry had arrived, any more than had Asham the Gate-Keeper.
Someone was making another announcement in Sardironese, but Hanner had stopped listening to those. The Council of Barons kept sending out decrees, and then changing their minds an hour or two later. Rayel and Fanria had gone to join several of the other Sardironese in the group clustered around the wizard relaying the news.
The Baron of Aldagmor was definitely willing to accept refugees, whether the rest of the Council did or not, but no one had a tapestry to anywhere in his domain — at least, no one would admit to having one available to lend; Hanner suspected there were a few stashed away somewhere that their owners preferred not to display. In the absence of a tapestry plans were being made to use flying carpets, or some other magical method, or even just a wagon train to get some of the crowd safely past the dragons to his keep.
Hanner turned his head and craned his neck, peering off to the southwest; that was the direction most of the would-be settlers had gone. An entire carpet of bureaucrats, wooden stakes, strips of colored cloth to use as markers, and pre-prepared, half-written deeds had arrived an hour ago, to assist in claiming land, and that maroon-clad woman had led the bureaucrats and a couple of hundred former warlocks off to start choosing homesteads. Hanner would have preferred it if the wizards had sent a carpet loaded with food, blankets, or firewood, rather than property markers, but no one had asked him.
He had to admit, though, that the Wizards’ Guild and the overlord’s bureaucrats had done an impressive job of organizing a rescue effort. There was still plenty more to be done, but they had made a very effective start.
He picked up one of his last brown sticks of divine nourishment. Piskor had said she was providing a three- day supply, but most people — those who hadn’t simply lost theirs — had eaten them all by the end of the second day. Rudhira, on the other hand, had hoarded hers, perhaps because her past life had accustomed her to going hungry. Hanner didn’t know how many she still had out of her original dozen, but he was fairly certain it was more than his own supply. He was down to three more sticks, despite being very careful, and the wizards had yet to bring in more food.
The Called wizards and witches, Hanner remembered, hadn’t received any food in the first place; the goddess apparently hadn’t considered them worthy. A few people had shared their supply with the magicians; Hanner had given one stick to one of the witches who had been healing the injured, but only one. Thousands of other people had received Piskor’s gift, so he had seen no need to shoulder more than his share of the burden.
He wished he had something he could drink, to wash the brown stuff down. The stream the horde had been following had been reduced to a muddy trickle by the attention of thousands of hands, cloths, and improvised receptacles, but the wizards had not yet brought water, either. Two of the witches were purifying water for the injured, but soon a lot of other people would be getting thirsty.
Just then a low rumble sounded; Hanner looked up, expecting to see an approaching storm, but the sky was mostly clear, with only a few scattered, fluffy clouds.
The rumble increased, and the ground began to shake; around him, Hanner heard people screaming and shouting questions.
Then the earth humped up about forty feet away, rising up in a mound; people tumbled down the new slopes and quickly scattered, desperate to get away. Hanner sprang to his feet, startling poor Rudhira, just as the mound split open and fell away to either side, revealing a young man holding a large sack. He stepped forward, and another man seemed to rise out of the ground behind him.
Hanner realized he had seen this spell, or one very like it, once before, long ago, when the leaders of the Wizards’ Guild had intervened between the overlord’s guards and Hanner’s collection of warlocks. This time, though, the people rising up out of the ground were not wizards in formal robes, carrying staves and ultimata; instead they were tradesmen in brown or tan, and all of them were carrying bags and bundles.
There were a
“Beer!” one of them called, lowering a bundle from his shoulders to the ground. The bundle clinked with the unmistakable sound of bottles. “Good dark beer from the breweries in the Old Merchants’ Quarter, three bits a pint. I’ve got Shipmaster’s Brown, Felris Stout, and Old City Ale!”
“Good white bread, two bits a loaf!” called another, lowering his own pack.
Well, Hanner thought, there was the food and drink he had hoped for. Unless things had changed during his long absence, though, those prices were outrageous — a single bit should buy a loaf
But Hanner had his purse, he realized. He had given it no thought at all since he first awoke atop the Source, but the pouch still hung on his belt, just as it had when he had entered Arvagan’s shop to inspect his new tapestry. He reached down, tucked his gift from Piskor back into its wrapper, and dug into his purse. He groped to make sure he wasn’t missing anything, then pulled out every coin in it. There weren’t many; he had two bits in silver, and a handful of coppers.
