Moment Of The Magician Page 2

  “What have you done with him?” Domurmur’s teeth were clenched, but he knew when he was overmatched. There was little more he could do than ask. “Where is he?”

  “Where is he? Well now, let me think.” Markus rubbed his chin. “He might be over. . .there!” He pointed sharply toward a far doorway. Servitors stationed there scattered, dropping a platter of fruit behind them. Markus turned, inspecting the chamber.

  “Or he might be. . . under there.” A couple of the members of the Quorum inadvertently peered under the table, hastily sat up straight in their chairs when they realized how easily the newcomer had manipulated them.

  “But he’s actually probably right. . . here.” Markus the Ineluctable removed his black hat, turned it upside down, and tapped it once, twice, a third time. Out plopped a dazed and very disoriented Oplode the Sly. Disdaining Markus’s proffered hand, the salamander struggled to his feet and backed away, shaking his head and trying to regain his bearings.

  From the Quorum came a rising cry in support of Markus.

  Oplode ignored it, stared narrowly at his opponent. “I don’t know how you did that, but of one thing I am certain: it was no clean wizardry.”

  “Oh, it was clean enough,” said Markus smugly. “Just a mite different from what you’re used to, that’s all. Are you afraid of something different, something new?” He turned to face the Quorum. “Are you all afraid of something different, even if it’s better than what you’ve been used to?”

  “No,” said Trendavi quickly. “We are not afraid of what is different, or of what is new. We of Quasequa pride ourselves on accepting new things, on promoting innovation.” He gazed sorrowfully in Oplode’s direction. “It is my recommendation and I hereby move that the Quorum officially nominate Markus the Ineluctable to the position of chief advisor to the Quorum on matters arcane and magical, and I furthermore move that Oplode the Sly, who has served us so well lo these many years, be retired from the post with a vote of thanks and an official commendation to be decided upon later.”

  “Seconded!” said a pair of voices simultaneously.

  And that was that. It was done, over, and Markus stood smiling, arms crossed before him as his supporters gathered around to congratulate him on his victory and those who had opposed him moved to offer grudging words of acceptance. A few would have offered their condolences to the defeated Oplode, but the salamander did not linger. Instead, he left quickly and with dignity, still a bit shaken from the manner in which Markus had handled him, but in no way cowed or beaten.

  It was dark in the wizard’s study. But then, Oplode preferred the dim light and the dampness. His rooms were situated at the edge of the Quorumate Complex and below the water line. Ancient stones held back the warm water of the Lake of Sorrowful Pearls while allowing a pleasant dampness to seep through. Thick moss, red as well as green, grew on the stones and ceiling. The furniture was fashioned of stone or boram root, which resists rot.

  Glow bulbs dangled overhead, their magic lights dimmer than usual, the weak illumination a reflection of the wizard’s uncomfortable state of mind. Oplode stared steadily at one flickering bulb as he lay in his thinktank. The stone basin was filled with freshly drawn lake water rich with lichens, mosses, light blue hot pads, and minute aquatic insects.

  Altogether, the rooms constituted a benign and thoroughly salamandrine environment.

  But as Oplode lay on his back, his arms crossed over his chest, his tail gently agitating the water, it was plain to see he was disturbed. Tending the crackling fire nearby was a much smaller and younger salamander, well aware of his master’s unease. Flute wore the cloak of an apprentice. He was stouter than Oplode, marked with black spots instead of red, and his expression was anxious. His feathery pink gills lay flat against his neck as he waited patiently for Oplode to arise. A sad day. He knew what had happened in the Quorum chamber far above. Everyone in the city would know by tonight.

  Finally Oplode rose from the basin, shifting easily to inhaling air instead of water, and declared portentously, “This thing must not be allowed to happen!”

  “Your pardon, Master,” said Flute softly. “What must not be allowed to happen?”

  “I have lost. There is nothing that can be done about that. Nor do I deny the strength of this newcomer’s magic. He is a valid wizard, or magician, or whatever he chooses to call himself. A manipulator of the unknown. But it is not his abilities I fear; it is his intentions. Those I comprehend even less than his magic.”

  He walked over to stand before the fire. Flute moved to the table and checked the settings for supper, then to the stove on which a big pot of caddisfly stew sat boiling. He stirred it carefully. One had to have a delicate touch with the dish or the nests within would become soft and stringy and would lose the delicate crunch so beloved of gourmets.

  “Nor do I like the attitude of his original supporters on the Quorum,” Oplode went on, staring into the fire. “Kindore and Vazvek. Those two opportunists would throw in their lot with anyone they thought might help them turn a profit. And Asmouelle and some of the others have the spines of worms. With so much support, there is nothing to stop this Markus.”

  “Stop him from doing what, Master?”

  “From doing whatever he wishes to do. He is chief advisor to the Quorum. A prestigious position and one which would satisfy most. But not him, I think. I saw that much in his eyes. That is not sorcery. That is thirty years of experience, Flute. No, he wants more. I fear, much more.”

  “Evil designs, Master?”

  “Flute, I have lived long enough and dealt with those in power often enough to recognize the hunger for power when it manifests itself on the face of another. I saw it in the face of Markus the Ineluctable as I left the Quorum chamber. He conceals it from the others, but he cannot hide it from me.

  “Did you know, Flute, that the great joy of living in Quasequa is that we have never had a single ruler? No kings here, no presidents or emperors. Only the Quorum, which functions in a kind of constrained anarchy. It suits us, we Quasequans.

  “This Markus will think otherwise. He will see weakness where we see strength. And it does have its vulnerabilities, our system, particularly when some are ready to grovel at the feet of the first would-be dictator who comes along and declares himself.”

  “You think he means to announce himself absolute ruler?”

  “I wish I could be certain, but I can’t.” Oplode absently cleaned his left eye with his tongue. “In any event, I am no longer in a position to stop him.”

  “Is his magic so much stronger than yours, Master?”

  “It was today. On another day”—he shrugged slick shoulders—”who can say? But there is no denying his power. If I only knew the source he draws upon. . .” He broke off and moved to the table, the frustration sharp on his face.

  Flute reached for the potholders. “Supper, Master?”

  “No, not yet.” Oplode waved him off, his mind working intensely. “If I could only be certain of his intentions, of his motivations—but where humans are concerned, nothing is obvious, nothing is certain.”

  “What if he truly is more powerful than you, Master?” It was not a disrespectful question.

  “Then we will need the assistance of one who can deal not only with strong magic but with strange magic.”

  “There is one more talented than you, Master?”

  For the first time that day, Oplode smiled slightly. “You have seen but little of the wide world, my young student. It is unimaginably vast and rich with wonders and surprises. Yes, there are wizards more powerful than I. I am thinking of one in particular. One who is wise beyond all others, knowledgeable beyond comprehending, stronger even, I think, than this Markus the Ineluctable. . . I hope. One who is brave, courageous, and bold, an inspiration to all other wizards. It is he whose help we must have: Clothahump of the Tree.”

  Flute frowned, turned away so that Oplode could not see the skepticism on his face. “I have heard of him, Master. Truly it is said th
at he is wise and full of learning, long-lived and powerful. However, I have yet to hear it said of him that he is brave, courageous, and bold.”

  “Well,” Oplode retreated somewhat, “I confess some of it may be rumor. But his ability is proven fact. You know that he was largely responsible for the recent defeat of the Plated Folk at the battle for the Jo-Troom Gate.”

  “I have heard many versions of that battle, Master, some of which were less flattering to Clothahump of the Tree than others. It is told that he was there at the critical moment, yes, but to what degree he was involved depends on which storyteller you are listening to.”

  “Nevertheless, he is the only one powerful enough to help us. We must seek his aid. He cannot refuse us.”

  “How will you inform him, Master?” Flute gazed sadly at the supper that was en the verge of overcooking. “Shall I prepare the pentagram for a traveling conjuration?”

  “No.” Oplode rose from the table. “This Markus might be strong enough to detect it. And there is no guarantee of its working, given the distance the conjuration would have to travel. Clothahump’s home lies a long way from Quasequa—and I am getting old. It has been a long time since I attempted a traveling conjuration over such a distance.”

  Flute was shocked by this admission of weakness but fought not to show it. Truly the loss of today’s contest had weakened not only his Master’s stature but his confidence as well.

  Or perhaps Oplode the Sly was merely being properly cautious. Flute preferred to think that that was the case.

  “We must have a messenger,” the wizard muttered. “A reliable messenger. One who is used to traveling far and fast and who will not be afraid to leave the familiar country that surrounds the Lake of Sorrowful Pearls.” He thought a moment longer before nodding to himself and looking up at his apprentice.

  “On the Isle of Kunatweh, the furthermost of the four high islands that form the eastern part of the city, in the place where the fliers congregate, lives a raven named Pandro. Bring him here to me. Make certain that none see you. I will explain what he must do. Although I have never had reason to use one such as him before, by reputation he is brave and trustworthy. Again I tell you to take care in your going and returning. It is said that this Markus already has spies roaming the city and reporting back only to him.

  “Although he defeated me today, he strikes me as no fool. I am sure he still regards me as his most dangerous rival. In that he is right,” Oplode muttered grimly. “I sense and see what kind of individual he is and so am unalterably opposed to having him in a position of power in the city I love so dearly. I believe he must know my feelings toward him, and in any case, such as he will leave nothing to chance. So he will have this place watched. At least you can slip out without being seen. I do not believe anyone else knows of my private entryway.”

  “When do I leave, Master?”

  “Now.” The wizard hesitated. “Have you eaten?”

  “It does not matter, Master. I can eat anytime.”

  “No,” Oplode said firmly. “You may need all your strength. First we eat.”

  They did so, the meal passing largely in contemplative silence. Then Flute secured his waterproof cloak snugly around him and moved to the arched alcove on the far side of the room. The arch was an inverted bell fashioned of tightly chinked tile. A pressure spell invoked by Oplode kept the lake water out.

  Flute climbed the stone steps until he could look out onto the black water that lapped against the wall of the bell. He readied his gills, fluffing them out with his hands, and dove into the water.

  A couple of fast kicks carried him well out into the open lake. He did not surface but swam hard and unerringly for the four high islands of the east. Like the other isles that combined to form the sprawling city of Quasequa, they were connected to one another by causeways, but this was not the time to walk openly on city streets.

  It was time for stealth and for clinging to the dark bottom of the lake.

  II

  Oplode sat in his robes of office, a thin, narrow upswept cap balanced on the middle of his slick head, and regarded his visitor. Flute stood quietly by the front door.

  The raven wore the kilt of his clan, colorful material striped with green, purple, and red. His vest was lightly spun lavender. A single gold chain hung round his neck to rest against his chest feathers. He rubbed the underside of his beak with a flexible wingtip.

  “Let me gel this straight, now, sorcerer.” He was studying the papers Oplode had handed him. “You want me to fly north along this route, turning slightly west here, to deliver this message.” He shuffled the papers, held up one filled with writing instead of diagrams. “It goes to an old turtle named Clothahump who lives in”—he checked the map briefly—”this major tree here. For one hundred coins.” Oplode nodded.

  “That’s a helluva long flight,” Pandro said.

  “I had heard that you were not afraid of long flights.”

  “I ain’t. I ain’t afraid of anything, least of all a little long-distance traveling. But considering how quiet you’re being about this, and the amount you’re paying me, well, no disrespect, Master Oplode, but—what’s the catch?”

  Oplode glanced at Flute, then sighed and smiled down at Pandro. “It would not be right for me to keep it from you. You must know what you are about, as well as its importance.

  “You must have heard that another has assumed my position as chief advisor to the Quorum.”

  “Sure. It’s all over town. This Markus fella. . . what’s it to me?”

  “Good Pandro, I have reason to believe that this newcomer intends ill toward our great city. But I cannot convince the members of the Quorum of that. They would think I was making accusations out of bitterness at my loss. And I cannot move against this Markus by myself. I need help. This Clothahump that you will seek out is the only one who can help us.

  “The ‘catch’ is that this Markus the Ineluctable is crafty as well as skilled in the arcane arts. You are sure none saw you arrive here?”

  “As sure as we can be, Master,” said Flute. “I took every precaution.”

  “Then, good Pandro, there may be no catch. But be ever alert as you wing northward, for this Markus is not stupid. If he believes you are aiding me, it could be dangerous for you. If he did see you arrive here, or sees you depart, he may try to stop you from completing your journey.”

  “Is that all?” The raven rested his wingtips on his hips for a moment, then rolled up the message and the map and slipped them into his backpack. “Then there’s nothing to concern yourself with, Master Oplode. There isn’t another flier in Quasequa who can stay in the air for as long as I can on as little food as I can. Anybody he sends after me, if he sends anyone, I can outfly.” He flicked his beak with a wingtip.

  “See here? Been broken twice in fights. I can take care of myself and I’m not worried about anything this Markus fella might send up after me. If it flies, I can outrun or outfight it.”

  “It is good to be confident. Overconfidence is dangerous.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll use my good judgment, sir. I’ve a mate and three fledglings to take care of, and you can bet I’m coming back to them. That’s stronger motivation than your hundred coins. Relax. I’ll get your message through.”

  “Can you fly at night?” Oplode asked him.

  “Night, day, the air’s all the same to me whether it’s light or dark out. But if you’d feel better about it, I’ll leave tonight.”

  Oplode smiled. “Feel better, I would. The night must be a friend to us all, now.” Flute nodded solemnly.

  “As you wish, sir.”

  “Caution above all,” Oplode counseled him. “This Markus has spies everywhere. Even among the fliers.”

  “I’ll keep it in mind, sir. Once I’m clear of the lake district I should have free flying all the way north. Besides, I know all the good fliers and fighters in the high islands. I don’t think any are in this fella’s pay.”

  “I was not worried ab
out your cousins,” Oplode said darkly, “so much as I was concerned about what this Markus might call forth from another, more sinister sky to challenge you.”

  “Can’t spend all our time worrying about the unforeseeable, can we, sir? At least I can’t. I suppose that’s your job.” He tapped his head. “Anyway, anything I can’t outfly or outfight I can sure as hell outsmart.”

  “Then be off with you, owner of an unseen cloud, and hasten back to us safely.”

  Pandro started for the doorway. “You can bet on that, sir.”

  “A raven, you say?” Markus the Ineluctable was listening with only half his mind to what the mouse was telling him. He was too busy enjoying the splendor of his new tower quarters, the finest that the Quorumate Complex could offer.

  “Yes, wise one,” said the mouse. It had a tendency to stutter, a condition made worse by its proximity to the powerful and much-feared new chief advisor to the Quorum. “It flew s-s-straight away from the 1-1-landing where Mossamay Street and the wizard’s c-c-close join.”

  “Which direction did it take?”

  “It f-f-flew north, wise one. Few city fliers live to the n-n-north.”

  Markus turned from contemplation of an exquisite wood carving to stare at his bodyguard. The mouse barely came up to his hip. “Prugg, what’s your opinion of this?”

  Prugg was very big, very strong, and not very bright. Despite his size and strength, people had a tendency to laugh at him. At least, they used to. Since he’d become Markus the Ineluctable’s personal servant they’d stopped laughing. Prugg was just intelligent enough to realize this. He was very grateful to the magician. Markus made him feel comfortable, even though he understood very little of what his new master had to say.

  But he didn’t have to think anymore. Markus did all his thinking for him. Prugg found thinking uncomfortable. And nobody laughed at him anymore. He was respected and feared. It was a new sensation and Prugg found that he liked it. Markus understood him, understood his needs. Prugg responded with devoted, unquestioning service.