The Unwelcome Warlock

Mavi gave Rudhira only the briefest glance. “That’s your business, not mine,” she said.

Hanner grimaced; that comment told him that Mavi was serious about not wanting him back. He started to turn away, then stopped. “I’ll want directions to our children’s homes,” he said. “When would be a good time to come by for that?”

Mavi glanced at Terrin. “Any time,” she said.

“Any time during the day,” Terrin corrected her.

Hanner nodded. “Thank you,” he said. Then he did turn away.

They had walked the two long blocks to the left onto North Street before Rudhira said, “I’m sorry, Hanner.”

“It’s been seventeen years,” he said.

They were crossing Moat Street when he said, “I should have waited until tomorrow. I should have just gone to Warlock House in the first place, and then gone to see her in the morning, when we weren’t so tired.”

“It might have been better,” Rudhira agreed.

“I’m not used to being tired!” Hanner said angrily. “I never was when I was a warlock.”

“I was only a warlock for a few days,” Rudhira said. “I didn’t have time to adjust.”

At that, Hanner lowered his head, ashamed of himself. Yes, he had been flung seventeen years into the future, he had lost his wife, he had missed seeing his children grow up and his grandchildren’s births, but he still had family, and probably friends, and if Mavi was right and he still had belongings stored at Warlock House, he wasn’t destitute. Whatever happened now, he had had seventeen years as a powerful magician.

Rudhira had nothing. She had never had anything, except for a sixnight or so when she was the most powerful warlock in the World. She had lost twice the time Hanner had, thirty-four years; most of the people she had known were probably dead.

They turned right onto Old Merchant Avenue and started up the hill toward High Street. The lamps were lit, but most of the shops were closed for the night, and the few pedestrians they saw were hurrying home.

Hanner hoped that they could find beds at Warlock House; he did not like the idea of looking for somewhere else. Lady Nerra and her husband lived not that far from here, really, but they might well be sound asleep by the time Hanner and Rudhira could get there. And while Lady Alris could undoubtedly find space for them somewhere in the palace eventually, getting past the guards to talk to her at this hour might be impossible.

If worse came to worst, there was always the Hundred-Foot Field, but Hanner really didn’t like that idea.

Old Merchant Avenue did eventually connect to High Street, but there was a shorter route, taking West Lower Street diagonally over to Merchant Street and then turning up Coronet Street. That brought them to the iron- fenced dooryard on High Street, and a few more steps carried them around the corner, across a brick pavement that had not been there when last Hanner saw the place, and through the wrought-iron gate to the front door of Warlock House.

The gate was open, and the lanterns on either side of the front door were lit; that was a promising sign. Apparently Warlock House was still in use, even if there were no more warlocks. Hanner stepped up and knocked.

As he did, he glanced at the brass door-handle, and saw that it was scratched and gouged.

The last time he had been here, which seemed as if it was no more than a sixnight ago, he had used his magic to open the latch; that was the standard method. Since only warlocks and their guests were permitted inside, there had been no need for locks or keys that ordinary people could use.

But then warlockry had abruptly ceased to function. That must have been awkward for whoever was here at the time, but presumably someone had managed to get the door open somehow, damaging the handle in the process.

Hanner looked up at the lanterns on either side of the door, and saw that they held oil lamps. Sometimes those had been lit with magic — some bored warlock would keep them glowing — but now the light came from ordinary burning oil.

Then the door swung open, and Hanner found himself face to face with Zallin of the Mismatched Eyes.

The two men stared at each other for a moment as Hanner took in Zallin’s face. When last they met Zallin had been more youth than man, with pimples on his brow and an embarrassingly sparse attempt at a beard, but now, in his late thirties, his features had matured, his skin had cleared up, and his beard had filled in. But there could be no question of his identity; his eyes still did not match. The left was brown, and the right a blue so pale it was almost silver.

“Hai!” Zallin said. “Do I know you?”

“Hello, Zallin,” Hanner said. “It’s been several years, but you don’t recognize me?”

Zallin stared for a moment, then stepped back in surprise. “Chairman Hanner?”

“This is Rudhira of Camptown,” Hanner said, gesturing toward his companion. “I don’t believe you’ve met. Rudhira, this is Zallin of the Mismatched Eyes. I’m told he was my most recent successor as Chairman of the Council of Warlocks.”

“You’ve come back?” Zallin asked. His tone mingled surprise and outrage.

Hanner frowned. “I would think that was obvious.”

“Ithinia said you would, but I didn’t really...well, not so soon.”

“Zallin, may we come in?” Hanner asked wearily. “We need somewhere to sleep tonight.”

Zallin hesitated, then sighed. “Of course,” he said, opening the door wide. “Come on in. Which room would you like?”

“Which are available?” Hanner asked, stepping into the entrance hall.

“All but mine,” Zallin said. “Everyone else left when their magic failed.” He hesitated again, then added, “I have the master bedroom. I suppose it was yours, originally.”

It had been Hanner’s for seventeen years, but for sixteen of those he had shared it with Mavi. Right now, he thought he would do just as well in one of the others, where he would not be quite so strongly reminded of her absence.

Hanner looked around at the entry. One of his successors had done some redecorating, he saw; Uncle Faran’s old-fashioned white-and-gold wallpaper had been replaced with an intricate pattern in black and gold on cream, and the gilt was gone from the white pilasters and the doors. The fine wood wainscoting was intact, though, and the dark wood of the stairs and balusters was freshly polished. The old red stair-carpet had been replaced with a red-and-gold one.

The parlor to the left was dark, but Hanner didn’t care. He was tired and ready for bed.

“Come on,” he told Rudhira, heading for the stairs.

“Hanner, we need to talk,” Zallin protested.

“In the morning,” Hanner said without stopping.

“But...”

“In the morning,” Hanner repeated.

It took a conscious effort at the head of the stairs to turn and head for the nearest of the ten guest rooms, rather than marching straight ahead into the master’s chamber, but Hanner managed it.

At the first door he paused. The door stood slightly ajar, and no light came from within. Lamps were burning in the entryway and stairwell, but not in the passage or chamber. He started to say something, then decided not to bother. He didn’t have the energy to make any more arguments or demands; he just pushed the door open.

Whoever last vacated this chamber had not bothered to make the bed. Except for cooks, Warlock House had not had ordinary servants in decades; warlocks had generally enjoyed using their magic to attend to all their needs. That meant there were no housemaids to attend to such details. Other than the rumpled sheets, though, the room was reasonably tidy.

“Rudhira,” Hanner said. “This one is yours.”

Rudhira seemed somewhat startled, but then she nodded. “All right,” she said.

“I’ll take the next one,” Hanner said.

“As you please, then,” Rudhira said.