The Unwelcome Warlock

and I wound up leading a band of warlocks that eventually became the Council of Warlocks, with me as the chairman. We tried to negotiate an agreement with the overlord, but old Azrad was in a panic and wanted nothing to do with us — until Ithinia and the Wizards’ Guild came to our aid.”

“They came to your aid?”

Hanner nodded. “They did. They had decided it would be better all around if we could negotiate a peace; they didn’t want a horde of angry warlocks fighting the overlord’s men and flattening half the city.” He pointed at the front window. “They showed up in High Street, right out there, between us and the city guard, and delivered an ultimatum acknowledging warlocks as magicians and the council as our governing body.”

“I’ve seen the Guild delivering an ultimatum,” Sterren said. “They aren’t subtle about it.”

“No, they aren’t. So the overlord backed down, and warlocks were recognized as respectable magicians, and everything was the way it was when you were growing up, with warlocks living peacefully and earning an honest living with their magic.”

“And you believe Ithinia was responsible for that, so you think you owe her a debt?”

“That’s part of it, yes. But I’d talked her into helping us, and part of my argument was that the Calling meant warlocks could never be that big a threat. That was right there at the heart of our understanding, right from the first — warlocks were acceptable because the Calling limited us.”

“But now the Calling is gone.”

“Exactly. Which means that the terms of our agreement have changed. Under our agreement, the Council would punish any warlock who got out of hand. The Guild accepted that, and agreed not to interfere, because Ithinia trusted me, personally. She accepted my word that I would keep order among warlocks. And now she’s still holding me to that, even though I don’t have any magic anymore. Which means the only way I can keep warlocks in line is by making sure there aren’t any.”

“But there’s already Vond,” Sterren said, eyeing Hanner closely.

“Yes, there’s Vond,” Hanner acknowledged, “and the Guild agrees that he’s not my problem, but making sure there aren’t any others — that is my problem.”

“Because you gave your word thirty years ago?”

“Yes.”

“That’s very respectable of you.”

“I gave my word,” Hanner said.

“Thirty years ago, under fundamentally different circumstances.”

“I gave my word,” Hanner repeated.

“Right.” Sterren’s expression clearly said that he didn’t understand this, but wasn’t going to argue any further. “You said that was the short term reason?”

“Well, yes. The long-term reason is that Ithinia is right — warlocks who don’t have to worry about being Called are really dangerous. I mean, look at your friend Vond — when he thought he was free of the Calling, he built an empire, practically overnight. Oh, most warlocks would be peaceful enough, but if just one warlock turns out to be a murderous lunatic, think how much damage he could do! And if there were two who got into a fight, it could be catastrophic.”

“But if there are a hundred warlocks, and ninety-eight of them are ordinary peace-loving folks, can’t they keep the troublemakers in line?”

“I don’t know,” Hanner replied. “Can they? Warlocks get more powerful every time they use their magic; it wouldn’t be hard for a troublemaker to become so strong no one else can match him.”

“So you and Ithinia want to make sure that warlockry is gone forever?”

“Except for Vond, yes.”

“Except for Vond? Why except for him?”

“Well, he’s already here, isn’t he? We can’t undo that.”

Sterren glanced at the door, then leaned forward and said quietly, “We can’t undo it, but he can be killed. I had assumed the Guild intended to do exactly that.”

Hanner hesitated.

“They probably do,” he admitted.

Chapter Twenty

Ithinia watched as the air shimmered and then tore open, replacing a section of the plaza in front of the overlord’s palace with a patch of mud. She looked through it at the bedraggled crowd beyond. There was an odd feeling of pressure, and a peculiar smell, reminiscent of the ocean before a storm. The wizard’s ears ached, though there had been no loud sounds to cause any such discomfort.

You have until sunset tonight, the god’s soundless voice announced. When the light of day departs, the gate will close forever.

“Thank you,” Ithinia said, though she was deliberately vague about whether she was addressing the god Asham the Gate-Keeper, or the four theurgists who had summoned him. She could not see the god, and as she spoke she was less able to feel his presence, as well; he had done what had been asked of him, and now seemed to be fading away, back to wherever the gods went when they weren’t in the World. As that sensation of pressure vanished, Ithinia raised a hand and waved.

On the other side of the gate Molvarn waved back, and began calling orders. Oddly, sound did not seem to travel through the opening; Ithinia could not hear a word of what Molvarn said, nor anything else from beyond the aperture.

On her own side, lines of guardsmen in red and yellow were holding back crowds who were watching, fascinated. It wasn’t often that magic this showy was performed openly in the streets, and not saved for the Arena or paying customers.

Then the first of the refugee warlocks stepped through, and the air seemed to ripple as he emerged into Ethshar of the Spices. He was a man in late middle age, wearing a black silk tunic belted with black leather; his clothes were much the worse for wear, and his hair desperately needed to be washed and combed. He gave every impression of being exhausted, but when he looked around at the plaza, at the overlord’s palace and the familiar houses that lined the other three sides of the square, he broke into a broad grin. The crowd began cheering.

The former warlock turned and gave a cheerful wave to the people beyond the gate, then stepped aside, clearing the way for the next.

That next was an old woman, also dressed in black, as were most of the Called. She was closely followed by two more men, then another woman, and after that it was no longer individuals so much as a steady stream of humanity pouring through the divinely-provided portal. The crowd’s enthusiastic applause turned into more specific shouts as people began to recognize lost friends or family members. “Kelder! Over here!”

“Aunt Irith! It’s me, Intirin!”

“Oh, gods, it’s Shennar! Shen, I thought I’d never see you again!”

“Master Kardig! Master! I’m here!”

“Kelder! No, I mean the other Kelder, Kelder of Hawker Street!”

Ithinia watched for a few minutes, but as the plaza began to fill up she called to one of the soldiers, “Keep them moving! We need to get everyone through before sundown!”

The guardsman nodded, and conferred with his companions; half a dozen men in red kilts and yellow tunics stepped forward and began shouting. “Come on, move it along! Make room for the poor bastards, will you? Keep walking, there’s plenty of space up Central Avenue or along Merchant Street. Let them through!” They didn’t hesitate to grab shoulders and turn people in the right direction, then give them a shove to help them along.

And that, Ithinia thought, was that. Asham had done what was asked, and then gone away. That before- the-storm smell still lingered, and probably would as long as the gate was open, but the god himself had definitely departed.

With this final portal functioning, and the other spells and operations already in place, fifteen thousand former warlocks were being efficiently distributed to the three Ethshars, to Sardiron of the Waters, and to vacant land suitable for farming in the northeastern corner of the Hegemony — and not to