The Unwelcome Warlock

Chapter Twenty-Six

Kirris of Slave Street watched yet another group of ragged former warlocks make their way through the door into the High Street mansion, and bit her lip. It must be getting crowded in there, she thought. She had seen scores of people admitted, and she had only arrived around sunset.

Going unnoticed in a crowd shouldn’t be difficult, and it was clear that these people didn’t all know one another, so getting into the house would be easy enough, but if anyone questioned her she was not sure how convincing a story she could tell. Her witchcraft would ordinarily keep people from paying any attention to her, but it didn’t actually render her invisible, and if they were systematically interrogating each new arrival, she would almost certainly be included. If they were looking for her, they would see her.

Obviously, if questioned she would pretend to be another former warlock, but would it be better to claim she had been Called on the Night of Madness, and therefore knew nothing about being a warlock and using their magic, or to say that she was only recently Called, to explain why she didn’t know what Ethshar was like thirty-odd years ago?

Well, why she didn’t know much about what it was like back then — she had been four on the Night.

Either way, she would be expected to know first-hand what had happened to the Called from the time the Calling ended until Asham opened the portal to Eastgate Market, and of course, she had only second- or third-hand reports.

Still, she couldn’t see any reason anyone would ask her too many questions about that, or why they would be suspicious in the first place. She was a witch; she ought to be able to lie convincingly just by reading people’s reactions and telling them what they wanted to hear.

Not that witches generally did that, other than when they were comforting the dying, or calming the grieving friends and family of the newly dead. The Sisterhood wanted witches to maintain a reputation for truth- telling — it was supposed to make the lies they did tell that much more effective. But it meant Kirris hadn’t had much practice in the art of deception.

She really hoped that none of the three warlocks she had tried to help were in there, but she thought her odds were fairly good on that. They had only been Called a few years ago, and had probably found friends or family to take them in, rather than coming here — Warlock House was a last resort. Any of them would probably recognize her instantly if they saw her, despite her being older; she hadn’t changed that much, and from their point of view, as she understood it, those failed experiments had taken place just a few days ago.

But there were just three of them, which is why she was here, rather than Teneria. Teneria had devoted years to meddling with warlocks, and had probably worked with forty or fifty in all, any of whom might be in there. Kirris had much better odds of not being recognized, and of getting in that door without anyone realizing she was a witch.

Once she was inside she would still need to get close to Vond if she was to carry out the scheme that the gathering at Ithinia’s house had devised, but that shouldn’t be too difficult — Warlock House was big, but it wasn’t that big. It wasn’t as if the Emperor had taken over the overlord’s palace, the way that horrible Tabaea did in Ethshar of the Sands a decade back.

The last of the Called were being ushered in, and the man who let them in was looking up and down the street for stragglers. Kirris almost moved out of the shadows, but then hesitated. If she went now she would be too noticeable. She would go with the next party.

The man looked up to be sure the lamps on either side of the door had sufficient fuel and were burning well, then stepped inside and closed the door. Kirris let out her breath; she had not realized until that instant that she had been holding it.

There was nothing to be afraid of, she told herself. The Calling was gone. Linking her mind to Vond’s would not let that thing that had been trapped in Aldagmor back into her thoughts. All these warlocks were free of its influence, and of them all, only Vond still had any magic.

Of course, she was there to meddle in Vond’s head, and he might not be pleased about that if he realized it was happening, but he was just a man, not a monster. Ithinia had given her some protective charms to try, just in case — but wizardry was notoriously ineffective against warlocks. Her own witchcraft might be better.

She heard footsteps, and turned to see a girl in a filthy nightgown walking uncertainly up High Street. Behind her was a young man in black, almost invisible in the darkness save for his pale oval face.

Kirris stepped out of the shadowed arch and waited for them.

“Hai,” the man called. “I...we heard there was a place here where warlocks could go.”

“That’s it,” Kirris said, pointing. “With the lanterns.”

“You’re sure?” the girl asked. Something about the way she pronounced the words reminded Kirris of her own grandmother.

“I’m sure,” Kirris said.

“Thank you,” the girl said. She and the man trudged on.

“Wait,” Kirris said. “I’ll come with you.”

Together, the three of them made their way through the gate and up to the door, and stood on the stoop. Kirris waited for a moment, but when neither of the others took action she reached up and knocked. A moment later the door opened, and a petite redhead peered out at them, rather than the pudgy fellow Kirris had seen before. “May I help you?” she asked.

Kirris turned to her companions.

“We heard...we were told that...” the girl began.

“We were Called,” the man said.

“I was asleep,” the girl said. “And then I was in that pit full of people, and now my master is gone, and my family is gone, and...and someone said...”

The redhead sighed. “Come in,” she said. “Welcome to Warlock House. Find a place to sit. Hanner is just starting.” She swung the door wide.

“Starting what?” the girl asked.

“Hanner?” the man asked. “Chairman Hanner? He’s here?”

“In there,” the redhead said, pointing.

Kirris followed her finger to a crowded parlor, where the pudgy man was standing in the far corner while the two dozen or so people she had watched enter the house before her were seated, sprawled, or crouched facing him.

“Are there more?” the pudgy man called.

“Just three,” the redhead told him.

“Well, send them in. As I was saying, my name is Hanner, once Lord Hanner, once Chairman Hanner, but for the moment, simply Hanner. I own this house, but long ago dedicated it to the use of the Council of Warlocks.”

Kirris slipped into the parlor and into a dim corner, while her two companions made their way into the room and found places of their own.

“I know you’re probably all tired and confused,” Hanner continued. “You woke up out in the freezing wilderness in Aldagmor with no idea what had happened, but then the magicians showed up and brought us to Ethshar. You probably thought that once you got back to the city everything would be fine, and you could go back to your old lives, but instead you found that the World’s changed, that you’ve been gone for twenty, twenty-five, thirty years or more, and you can’t find your friends, or your family, or your old homes — or you found them, but your wives have remarried, your homes are occupied by strangers, your friends have forgotten you. You’re lost and alone and don’t know what to do, or where to go, and you heard that you could come here, and you thought at least it would keep you away from the slavers and out of the Hundred-Foot Field. So here you are.” He spread his hands to take in the entire room.

Kirris settled to the floor, her back against the wall.

“You are indeed welcome here, until you can build a new life,” Hanner said, “but we don’t have any magical