tagging close behind, while Hagai hung back, apparently still unaware that he had been spotted.
There were no stuffed dragons or crystal structures here; most of the windows held nothing but shutters or black curtains, though Emmis supposed that might be different by daylight. The signboards mostly simply gave the proprietor’s name. Some appended the word “warlock,” but none claimed any further title; no one here called himself a master.
“Not very informative,” Emmis remarked. “Perhaps we should come back tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow I am to meet with the overlord, am I not?”
“I don’t know,” Emmis said. “Tomorrow I talk to my contact at the Palace, and find out whether he’s arranged anything.”
“Ah.” Lar stopped in front of one of the handful of illuminated shops, where a card stood in the window. “ISHTA OF FRESHWATER,” proclaimed the large runes at the top. Beneath, smaller, elaborately-curled runes added, “Healing a Specialty — man, woman, child, or beast. Antiquities Restored. Porcelain amp; Other Valuables Repaired.”
“It would seem at least one warlock works late,” he said.
Emmis made a noncommital noise.
Lar marched up and tried the door; it opened with a light push, and he stepped inside. Emmis reluctantly followed.
They found themselves in a good-sized, well-lit room where half a dozen people were clustered around a table at one end.
“...told you, there’s a piece missing,” a woman was saying. “See, right there?”
“No,” another voice said, a male one.
“It’s tiny,” replied a third, one that sounded like a child.
“Yes, it is,” the first agreed, “but it’s definitely missing, and if I replace it out of thin air I can’t guarantee it’ll match perfectly.”
“But we’ll never find something that small!” a fourth voice said — another woman, Emmis thought. “Someone’s probably stepped on it and crushed it, or the cat might have eaten it!”
“I can make a replacement,” the first woman said. Emmis was fairly certain the voice was coming from a black-clad figure, presumably Ishta of Freshwater. “I just want you to understand that it may not be exactly as it was before. Without the original piece I can’t just rebuild it, I need to make a new piece, and since I never saw the missing bit, it may not match exactly.”
“You can’t use your magic to make it match?” the man demanded.
“No. I’m a warlock, not a wizard. I can move and shape things, down to the very tiniest particles, and I can see and feel things you cannot, but I can’t simply make the damage unhappen. A wizard probably could, with the right spell, but it would almost certainly cost you more than my fee.” She glanced over her shoulder at Lar and Emmis, then turned back to her customers. “Why don’t you discuss it, and I’ll be right back?” Without waiting for an answer she turned and left the table, striding briskly toward the two men just inside her door.
She was short and a little thinner than average, with a pointed chin and dark, piercing eyes, and she wore her waist-length hair loose. She stopped a few feet away and looked up at the new arrivals. “Yes?”
“Hello,” Lar said, as Emmis inched back to make it plain that he was not in charge. “I had a few questions I was hoping you could answer.”
“Then ask them,” the woman said.
“You’re Ishta the Warlock?”
“Yes.”
“I have a grandson of an age to be apprenticed,” Lar said. “We were thinking of sending him to Ethshar to learn warlockry.”
Ishta held up a hand and glanced back at her customers, who were whispering amongst themselves. “That’s a subject that deserves my full attention. Let me finish with these people, and then we can discuss it.”
“As you please.”
“You can’t even see where it’s missing!” one of the other women shouted, before Ishta could say anything more; the warlock turned and glided back to the table.
Emmis bit his lip; Ishta had glided back, her feet an inch or two off the floor, rather than walking. Any doubt about whether she was a real warlock had just vanished; only a warlock could fly so casually.
And any thought of asking Lar whether he really had a grandson vanished, as well — warlocks were more sensitive in certain ways than ordinary people. That didn’t necessarily mean Ishta could hear a whisper from across the room, but it might.
“Just fix it,” the man said. “If it isn’t perfect, we’ll worry about it then.”
“Very good,” Ishta said. “I’ll have it for you by midday tomorrow.”
“You can’t do it tonight?” the child’s voice whined.
“Tomorrow,” Ishta said firmly. “Now, if you will excuse me...” She began herding the entire party toward the door.
Lar and Emmis stepped hastily aside as a middle-aged man, a middle-aged woman, a young woman, a youth, and a boy of perhaps ten were marched out onto Warlock Street. Ishta closed the door behind them, then turned to the ambassador.
“Would you care to sit?” she asked, gesturing toward chairs near the table.
“Thank you,” Lar said, with a partial bow.
A moment later the three of them were seated, Ishta and Lar facing each other, while Emmis was slightly to one side, next to the table. Emmis took the opportunity to study the object on the table, obviously the item Ishta had promised to repair.
It was an elaborate ceramic sculpture of a tree, about two feet tall, with a girl seated in the branches and a young man standing below and looking up at her, all delicately painted in colors a little brighter than nature. The level of detail was astonishing; the tree’s leaves were individually modeled, veins painted on each, and tiny ripe fruit hung from the branches here and there. The girl’s hand, clutching at the realistically-textured tree bark, had every fingernail clearly depicted; one of her sandals hung loose, while the other was secure. The man’s clothing was so carefully done that Emmis thought he could count the coins in the purse on his belt.
“Their cat knocked it off the shelf,” Ishta said, following his gaze. “I’ve put it back together, but if you look, there’s a bit missing just here.” She pointed at the girl’s right ear. Sure enough, half the earlobe was gone, and a curl of hair behind the ear was snapped off short. “I’ll have to conjure that out of dust in the air. It’s not all that difficult to find the right material, but blending it in smoothly and getting it just the right shape will be tricky.”
“Oh,” Emmis said.
She smiled at him, then turned to Lar. “Now, you said your grandson was looking for an apprenticeship?”
“Yes,” Lar said. “He says he wants to be a warlock. I don’t know where he got the idea, since there aren’t any warlocks in Semma, but he’s very sure.”
“You’re from Semma?” She glanced at Emmis.
“I am,” Lar said. “Emmis isn’t. He’s my wife’s cousin’s son; they live in Shiphaven. Emmis is my guide.”
“Where is Semma?”
“In the Small Kingdoms, far to the south, near the edge of the World,” Lar replied.
“And your grandson is there?”
“Yes.”
“But he would come to Ethshar?”
“For his apprenticeship, yes. But we thought he would come back when he’s a journeyman.”
Ishta nodded. “I haven’t trained any apprentices,” she said, “but I’m ready to try.”
“You’re a master warlock?”
“We don’t...” Ishta hesitated. “We don’t have formal ranks like wizards or smiths, but I’m qualified to train an apprentice.”
Lar looked uncertain — though Emmis recognized the expression as feigned, and hoped that the warlock didn’t. “Is there a Guild? We don’t — we have no warlocks in Semma, we don’t know how it is. I heard about a council...” His voice trailed off.
