Authors: Garon Whited
“I can’t argue that.”
He chuckled wickedly. “Of course you can; that’s what arguing is about. You can argue any statement or fact. It’s debate that’s difficult.”
I found I was grinning. I liked this game of words.
“That’s because debate,” I replied, “involves using one’s brain for more than padding between the ears. Most people barely have enough brains to keep their ears from knocking together.”
“I’d argue, but I’m too smart for that,” he said. “Here, take a look at this.” He shoved a paper toward me. I approached his desk and looked at it. It was a chain with little paddle-like things attached at intervals. The illustration showed it being drawn by a team of horses, pulled around a roller at the end of the river-pipe.
“So that’s how you keep the silt from building up,” I commented.
“One of them. The river is fairly swift, and the spring floods tend to wash anything and everything out. But you’ll want to see it’s sludged out a month or so in advance of the floods, just in case.”
“I can understand that.”
“So, how do you get the chain
into
the pipe in the first place? It won’t wash downstream; it’s too heavy.”
I thought about it.
“A large wooden block and a rope.”
White eyebrows went up. “Oh? The chain drags the block down; it’s been tried. Won’t work.”
“Sure it will. Tie a rope to the block. Put the block in the upstream end of the pipe. Feed out rope until the block comes out the other end. Fish it out and hook it to the team of horses. Tie the upstream end to the chain and start pulling. Ideally, I’d want enough—what’s this thing called?”
“A sludging chain,” he replied, smiling.
“I’d want two sludging chains, both several yards longer than the pipe itself. Once one is fed through, the other gets attached; when one is fully through, attach it to the tail of the second and just keep repeating until the pipe is ‘sludged’ out.”
“You’re hired, Halar.”
I blinked. “This is a job interview?”
“Yes. I can quit Calling, now; I’ve summoned my successor. Hail Halar, Court Wizard of Baret!”
Bloody hell.
I argued. It’s not that the idea held no appeal—a good position, power, money, influence (not to mention probable perks and bennies)—but I just didn’t feel qualified to be The Personal Wizard To His Lordship. I admit I’m talented, but talent only goes so far. Training helps a lot. Besides, I have a whole Church after me—well, a whole division of it—and I don’t understand the world I’m in. How could I possibly hold down a serious job?
“I’m not competent to be a court wizard; I’m really just a beginner,” I said.
“Do you blow holes in things by accident?”
“Well, no… generally only when I mean to.”
“Shouldn’t be a problem, then.”
“But… but I don’t know all that many spells!”
“Can you improvise?”
“That’s about
all
I ever do!”
“Then you’re a wizard. It’s the magicians who have spells handed down to them as the
perfect
spells for any given application. I even know a few. Horzun’s Fabulous Firestarter is indispensable, in my opinion.”
“Oh?”
He flourished a pipe and snapped his fingers, lighting it.
“Oh, yes. Absolutely.”
“So what do you do when someone has a problem you’ve never seen before?”
He grinned at me. “I solve it.”
“Oh?”
“Yep. I figure out how it needs to be solved. And who is best to solve it. Can’t go around fixing everything
for
people, my lad. Does them good to do it themselves. You only fix personally the things they can’t fix for themselves. That’s your job. If they do need a little help, you don’t make a big production out of it—you just quietly put a thumb on the balances of the cosmos in their favor.”
“So people don’t ever see you do anything, is that it?”
“Done right, doing nothing looks like hard work.”
I stared at him. “So the job of court wizard basically boils down to looking busy and giving advice?”
“Mostly. There’s a trick to it, though.”
“And that is… ?”
“You have to give
good
advice, or you’re out of a job. And, most likely, out of town in a hurry.”
“Doesn’t sound that great. One mistake and you’re in the midden?”
“Every occupation has its hazards. You would rather keep wandering around, looking for some place to settle?”
I thought about it. What could be the worst that happened? I screw up, get banished, maybe even run for my life. Gee. And how is that worse than my present situation? Gold star for the correct answer. On the other hand, if I
didn’t
screw up…
“Not really, I guess. But why
me
?”
He shrugged. “Couldn’t tell you. I cast a Calling spell to bring me someone worthy to be my successor, powerful enough to do anything I can do—although I admit I did not specify ‘skilled enough’—smart enough to not be taken for a fool, wise enough to do my job well, and most especially someone with enough personality and guts to keep the baron happy. I suppose I might’ve included ‘and wants the job,’ but I’m not as picky as you appear to be. Lately, I’ve been dreaming of you and that metal horse you ride. You’re here sooner than I thought, but that’s good.”
I thought about it.
“Okay, I tell you what…”
He grinned around his pipe and leaned forward, listening. “Yes?”
“Suppose I agree to try this out. How long will you be around?”
“About a week or so, I think; that’s when the lines come together. The future is always a fuzzy thing. But that’s a point at which I am very likely to die—and I’m old, my boy. Very old. I think it may be the last nexus I see.”
“So, as long as you
are
still around—will you teach me?”
He grinned wider, if anything.
“That’s the question I hoped to hear. Of course I will.” He stuck out a hand.
“And if I hadn’t asked it?” I said, shaking the withered, bony hand of his. He had a good grip.
“I would have marked you as overconfident, greedy, or incautious. And if you had said ‘no’ a bit more firmly, I’d have let you go—and not taken you back, either; indecision kills. You did well on my little tests.”
“Glad to hear it,” I replied, then thought a little further. “They aren’t over, are they?”
He laughed aloud and released my hand, using that skinny arm to hold his stomach. When he finally settled down to mild chuckles, he looked at me with a twinkling eye.
“Not even close.”
FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 23
RD
I
am in Hell. My personal devil is a nasty old man with a talent for showing me how utterly wrong I am. It isn’t that the job is hard. Not really. It really boils down to the job of being grand vizier to the baron and wise man to the tribe in Baret.
I got a rare treat for a commoner: I met the baron socially.
The baron Xavier Baret is shorter than I, about five-nine, but solid and with a tough, wire-hard air about him. He uses the practice rooms on a regular basis—that is, every single day. He appears to enjoy it, even to the point of conducting business while at archery and during the turns at jousting—although to be fair, the jousting is outdoors. I don’t think much of jousting in the rain, but “wars don’t wait on the weather.” When I met him, he was working with a pair of the baronial guard—the guys on security detail at the manor—at target practice with the crossbow. The guards were jogging back and forth to different targets to fetch back practice bolts while the baron kept loading and firing. Jon introduced me to the baron.
The baron observed that I wore Firebrand.
“Jon, does this replacement of yours think he can fight?”
“He hasn’t been a wizard long, lord.”
The baron regarded me critically. “Why do you bear arms, wizard?”
“It’s mine.”
The baron’s eyebrows shot up. “Is it now? By what right is it yours?”
“It has been in my family for generations.”
Well, my wife’s family—and for several centuries, anyway…
“But you are not a knight?”
“No.”
“Then let us see if you are worthy to carry it. Bhota! Fetch me a pair of practice swords. No, the bigger—yes, those.”
Bhota was a skinny guy in plain homespun; he bustled up, carrying two of the wooden weapons. Lethal in a clubbing fashion, they at least didn’t give me the feeling I was about to be skewered. The baron took one and nodded that I should take the other.
I unbuckled Firebrand and hung the belt on a wall, then leaned my staff next to it. I took the offered weapon.
“Ready?” he asked. I noticed Jon was grinning.
I set myself and tried to concentrate on Sasha.
“No. But go ahead.”
And he did.
I can’t say I got my butt kicked. I can’t say he trounced me thoroughly. But I can say, quite definitely, that I lost. I
usually
managed to tag him with a wound—I am
very
fast—but even that wasn’t certain. I’ve fought against men and women in the Society for Creative Anachronism who are fast, talented, and skilled. I’ve fenced with a couple of guys who spent time in Heidelberg before joining the local fencing club. But I’ve never—until that moment—fought anyone who lived their whole life in the study of arms and combat. Admittedly, the baron had a lot of other things to do and study; he had a city to administrate and a barony to govern as well. But every single day from the time he could gnaw, someone was either teaching him, practicing with him, or being hammered by him.
Today was my day to be hammered.
It was about a half-hour, I’d say. It felt like a wooden hailstorm. I had bruises on bruises. Thrusts to the chest. Whacks to the arms. One rib that felt like it wasn’t completely attached to the ones above and below. A knee that swelled up nicely inside my trouser leg. A muscle in my other thigh that screamed at me every time I took a step. One stroke that almost cost me teeth. And more than one lump on my precious noggin. I was suddenly glad I was a lot tougher than I used to be, and I wished it was night—I heal at
lot
quicker when it’s dark.
I didn’t do anything over-rash. I didn’t kill him. I didn’t try to do anything magical or underhanded, although the thought of shooting him did cross my mind.
Finally, he laid me out on the floor again—a cut to the bad knee, a parry of my wild stroke as I toppled, and a double-handed thrust down into my chest. I say “a cut” and “into,” but you know what I mean.
He looked down at me as I lay there, “pinned” to the ground.
“Aaaarrrgh. Hack, hack, cough, gasp. Ugh,” I said, and pretended to expire.
He
tried
not to smile. He tried really hard; I could tell. Finally he just gave it up and laughed. He even extended a hand and helped me to my feet, grunting as he took more weight than expected
“All right, wizard; carry your father’s sword. You are no knight, but… carry it. At least you won’t disgrace it.”
“Thank you, my lord,” I replied. I bowed—not as deeply as I might have under other circumstances, but I wasn’t feeling well—and slowly hobbled to my staff and Firebrand.
“It looks to be a very nice weapon,” the baron went on. “May I see it?”
I leaned against the wall and dabbed sweat from my forehead. “Of course, my lord. Be my guest.”
He took the hilt and drew it partway, then frowned at the blade. He did not draw it
farther, but examined the steel.
“Excellent workmanship. Would that I had its like. But what is it that lives within that mislikes me?”
“I do not know, my lord. I know only it is pleased to be wielded by myself; I think it is aware of my family and my lineage.”
“Ah, a familiar spirit for denoting an heir. Quite impressive. Your ancestor must have been a powerful enchanter.”
“So I’m told, my lord. I know almost nothing else of him.”
The baron
tsk
ed. “Family is an important thing. But you wizards know little of
that.
”
Jon interjected, “True words, sire. Now, if you will excuse us? I have much to impart before I depart.”
The baron smiled slightly at the rhyme and Jon returned a millimetric smirk. The baron waved a hand at us in dismissal and accepted a drink from Bhota. I buckled on Firebrand again and hobbled with my staff. Jon was surprised I could still walk. I didn’t bother to tell him I’m harder to hurt than a normal human. Density, you know. But I was really looking forward to sundown.
Dealing with the baron was going to prove somewhat easier for me, he said. The baron never respected magic, not really, but he did respect fighting. Apparently I would have a head start over Jon in that regard. Jon was merely been “my wizard” from the day baron Xavier could speak.
Other things Jon went over with me included most of the city. The streets, the sewers, the gutters, alleys, back streets, and wharves.
And defenses. Most definitely the defenses.
Apparently, the savages beyond the Eastrange occasionally circumnavigated the southern tip of the range in coracles—it was easier than going through the pass, or safer. They used to take a day or so in their boats to row around, raid, and go home again with whatever loot they fancied—generally knives, axes, and jewelry. With the introduction of a seawall, that slowed down a lot. With the addition of arrow engines, the raids pretty much stopped. It’s been several years since they’ve tried it.
Of course, a minor skirmish or two with pirates and raiders has also occurred. Loading an arrow engine with flaming arrows isn’t that hard, and wooden ships do not take it well. Pirates generally avoid the place.
There also exists another kingdom, farther south, about six weeks by sea. They aren’t exactly friendly, but they also aren’t openly hostile. The two kingdoms—Rethven, the one I was in, and Kamshasa, the one across the Southern Sea—were more like cautious trading partners than anything else. The baron trusted them about as far as he could comfortably throw his horse, so the city defenses were well-maintained.
Jon also went over a lot of wizarding with me—the magical end of things. He showed me how to get rid of warts, cure a cold, and make crops favor the idea of growing bigger. He taught me to see far places in a bowl of water, a mirror, or a crystal. He instructed me on how to read signs and omens in a handful of bones, to listen to the life of the world in the wind, and some of the language used by the gods in the creation of the world—what he knew of it, anyway.
One of the things I found most interesting was making a Mental Note. Quite literally, it was like having a private study inside my own head. He taught me to “go inside” and find my “inner room.” There I could sit at the desk, lounge on the couch, read, write, and do whatever else I fancied. The things I read in there were rather disjointed—like reading a book in a dream—unless I had gone in and
written
it there. It was handy for making notes about things, and I immediately started updating my journal there. Here. In the study.
We also went over magical theory and practical applications, but mainly over the
why
and the
how
of magic, not the step-by-step engineering of spells.
“That’s for magicians,” Jon said; the scorn in his voice was plain. “They’re nothing but technicians for something that is Art. You can’t put Art into a classroom to memorize. You have to live and breathe it.”
One evening, sitting on a rooftop, watching the nighttime glitter and flow of life in the city, I reflected I certainly eat and drink it, which isn’t quite the same as living and breathing it.
Later, in the study, I also asked Jon about his life as a wizard. I caught him after a good meal and a pipe, so he was more talkative about his personal life than usual.
He knocked out the bowl of the pipe and scraped it a bit, filled it again, lit it, puffed, thought.
“I can’t say I’m so different,” he said, finally. “I’d like t’think I am, sure, but I don’t know. Looking back, I’m a lot like all the rest—just older and with steady work.”
“How do you mean?”
“Take yourself, for example,” he said, pointing at me with his pipe. “You travel all the time, going from place to place, working spells for whatever the traffic will bear. Never settling for long because nobody really
trusts
a—a wizard. There’s no telling what sort of crap is going to come boiling out of a wizard’s shack. Or, at least, that’s what the bloody-minded peasants think.
“Of course, the traveling wizards will come through and undercut your prices; they’ll resent you, too, for taking business out of the town for them.” He settled sullenly back in his chair and dropped his eyes to his smoldering pipe. “We don’t get along at the best of times; we’re too conscious of keeping our own reputation as high as possible to really cooperate. I’ve never known a wizard to share a spell with anyone else unless he got at least as good a spell in return. I hear that may be changing a little, but I don’t get out much anymore. That’s the way things were fifty years ago, anyway!
“And then there’s the local priest,” he added, almost savagely. “He’ll have the peasants muttering and cursing you under their breath in a fortnight. Thanks to him, you get blamed for every sick sheep—after all, some peasant will be paying you to cure it. You hexed it to make him hire you!” The bitterness in his voice was plain. “They’ll accuse you of everything from well-poisoning to stillbirths without any care for whether or not it would actually profit you!
“Then there’s the idea that you’ll fall in love with some local girl—forget it! She may like you and be willing, once you get past her fear of you, she’ll never
really
love you, and her father will never stand for it and her other suitors will just say you bewitched her—” he broke off sharply, aged knuckles white around the bowl of the pipe. He sat silent for long moments, then puffed viciously for a while. I was quiet, just waiting.
“I’ve talked too much tonight,” he said, finally. “Go to bed.”
I left, but I didn’t go to bed. I did notice that there was light in the study late into the night.
I couldn’t resist it. I looked into a bowl of water to see what he was doing. “For practice,” I told myself.
Jon was sitting in his favorite chair, brooding. On the table in front of him, there was a mirror, laid flat, face up. Above it was the image of a girl. She was just on the pretty side of plain, but she had absolutely gorgeous eyes. It was like a three-dimensional photograph; it didn’t move, but seemed otherwise completely real.
I noticed that Jon occasionally had to wipe at his eyes.
I stopped looking and went for a walk, feeling like a heel for poking my nose in. I vowed to never bring it up again.
We also went over the basics that every wizard should, at least in theory, know. A lot of that included a bunch of mental exercises—and spells to hurry the process of educating me. Normally, I hate having my mind tampered with; I get allergic to subliminal audio tapes and hypnosis videos, to say nothing of mind-altering drugs. It’s
my
mind, and in that respect I am an unrepentant control freak. But Jon accepted my emotional aversion with grace.
“Good. Can’t have a wizard getting his thoughts all muddled up. So we’ll do the spells together and I’ll let you walk through my headspace first.”
That wasn’t so bad.
The headspace is a mental construct, an imaginary world a wizard keeps in his head, like the inner study—but larger. When a wizard wants to sit back and put his feet up and think about a problem—and he’s in the middle of a swamp—he can. Just step inside into an imaginary study and think. A wizard can also file good ideas and spells in his headspace; just work it out in your imaginary study or laboratory, then put it in a box. Be sure to label the box, or finding it could be a problem.