Wizard (The Key to Magic) (17 page)

Instead of the tightly packed roll that he had hoped for, he saw only a single slip of paper clinging to the inner curve. Blowing out a puff of frustrated air, he slid out the slip. Inked in neat Imperial Script, its inscription read:

The Proctors have what you need. Seek ye the medic in the Plaza of Eternal Justice.

As soon as he saw this, he jammed the note in one pocket and the cylinder in another and rushed out of the cellar to exit the building. In the empty street he straightaway cast his adapted glamour and flew up through the crisscrossing mesh of promenades until he spotted a projecting ledge large enough to accommodate him. An involved decorative feature, the ledge lay several manheight above the lighted balconies and leaping promenades and would put him out of the direct line of sight of anyone that could not fly. Crouching down into a nest-like swirl, he leaned his back against the cool not-quite-stone, brought out the cylinder, and stared at it.

His first thought was that the Pyrai word
medic
in the note might refer to Llylquaendt, but in short order he realized this to be improbable. Even were Llylquaendt's younger self alive in this time, he would have no knowledge of Mar and would be in Pyra, not be here in the Commonwealth. As for his older version, the Llylquaendt that Mar knew was no wizard -- he could not have brought himself to this time -- and was too frail, too weary of the world, and too cantankerous to allow anyone to drag him willy-nilly through undertime.

No, the note could only refer to the only other
medic
that he had encountered, the Faction woman who had treated him in the dungeon of the Faction stronghold. She had to be the one that he was directed to find.

He worried for moment at the possible implication of the presence of the archaic phrase,
Seek ye
. The phrase was not uncommon in the bombastic literature of the Early Empire, the supposed divine writs of the Forty-Nine Gods, and the presumptuous scribblings and affectations of modern scholars, but it struck him as decidedly odd to find it in this simple note. It hardly seemed mere coincidence that the clue left with the first cylinder had also contained it.

Penned in a script that he could read in this strange land of curlicue alphabets, the note had to have been created only for him. Delivered in the distinctive brass cylinder, it had also been presented in such a way that it would be impossible for him to ignore. Only the Gods' cursed author of the first clue or another who had full knowledge of the hiding of the texts could have done this.

Old Mar could have done it, but he had said that he would not interfere any further. Mar had believed his aged twin when he had made the promise and still believed him now. Knowing himself as he did, he was certain that he would have been able to detect deceit in his own face.

Old Mar had said that "another meddler" had hidden the texts. As the first two texts had been originally placed in locales widely separated in space and time, it seemed that the meddler
must
possess the skills of a wizard.

What
of
the mysterious Oyraebos? While Mar had interpreted what Old Mar had said to confirm that there were indeed two using the name, the author of the text and the meddler, his twin had not actually confirmed this to be true.

Before he had travelled to the Waste City, Mar had known Oyraebos as a being of myth and legend, but according to Waleck a sorcerer by that name had actually lived. The legends referred to him as often as not as a
wizard
, but this meant little; in the common usage the words
sorcerer
and
wizard
were synonymous with
evil one
. No real distinction existed in the myths that corresponded to the actual magical disciplines. Certainly none of the old tales spoke of him as a master of time and space.

Waleck had characterized him as
ancient
and Mar had taken that to mean
long dead
. With all that he had learned of magic, though, he no longer believed that he could take that demise for granted.

If there were but one, then that one could be the meddler and likely a wizard. If there were two, then the second was a fraud, a wizard, and perhaps the meddler.

This line of reasoning led to another very disagreeable conjecture -- that the search for the magical texts had been nothing more than a pretext, bait to lure him onto a path whose twists and turns were determined by others. Though he had no way of knowing it at the beginning, the supposedly ancient texts had not been written in one of the indecipherable scripts of this phantom world from which it was purported to originate, but in a variation of Old Formal, a script that, while centuries obsolete, had been one that Mar could readily understand. In hindsight, this fact was too convenient to be a simple happenstance.

Was the trail that he and Waleck had originally set out to follow a complete sham?

Did the other eleven texts even exist?

If the answer to those two questions were yes and no, did that make Waleck the meddler?

Waleck knew of the texts and had clearly used his magic to manipulate Mar and others. The old man had had numerous names in his dissipated former lives. "Oyraebos" could very well be just another alias appropriated during his five thousand years.

As the idea rolled around in his head, Mar realized that it did not ring true. With his obsessive craving for magic, the old man, if he had had the ability to travel through undertime, would surely have fled to this ancient magical era long before Mar had met him. Waleck could not be Oyraebos.

And that meant that Mar had not moved any closer to solving the mystery, but had only added more questions to it

He produced the note and read it through again.

Who were these Proctors? Another ineffectual clutch of would-be usurpers?

The broad implication seemed to be that the female
medic
would be acting as an agent of these, rather than as a minion of the Faction. Further, there was a clear suggestion that she would lead him to the Proctors and that they in turn would provide the instruction in wizardry that he sought.

At best, the note might lead to nothing more than another headlong rush toward disappointment.

At worst, it was the perfect lure for a trap.

In spite of all that he had learned of magic, of the power he wielded as King of the Mhajhkaeirii and Emperor of the North, and of his own unrelenting efforts to control his own fate, it seemed that he was still just a puppet dancing to the tune of some faceless wizard.

The machinations of that despised demon, whoever it might be, would have to be brought to an end.

A yawn interrupted the tumult of his thoughts and a creeping lethargy made him realize how tired he was. Wrapping his coat tightly against the night chill and wishing that he had been able to cache a few more Savories, he leaned against the building and closed his eyes for a few minutes.

A disagreeably bright dawn woke him, driving red spikes through his eyelids and into his eyeballs. Thirsty, hungry, and reminded how truly and intensely he detested both, he rose, grumbling incomplete curses, and made water in a downspout. The morning was cold this high up, even in full sun, and as he stood gazing unimpressed at the fantastic, sun-washed towers of Dhiloeckmyur, he shivered in spite of Nali's coat.

The city was indeed a wonder, but he had seen enough of it.

After verifying that his glamour was still in order, he fluttered down to the nearest tower-spanning promenade. Even at this fresh hour, quite a number of people were about, but the high-railed walkway was more than wide enough to stay out their way as they hurried about their business.

His empty stomach convinced him that finding the Plaza of Eternal Justice should wait until he had solved the problem of financing a meal. Before magic and kingship had found him, he had not often had to resort to being a cutpurse, but had never shrunk from taking coin from a passerby when such was the only thing standing between him and another missed meal.

Of course, these forgotten phantoms would carry nothing so primitive as a purse bulging with silver thal that could be clipped with the fast swipe of a tiny blade, but he had the surely unbeatable advantages of being unseen, being able to sense and disable any potential protective spells, and being able to interrupt time at his whim.

Moving along the promenade toward the climbing sun, he began to select a target.

He rejected the first three possibilities -- a woman with two children, an older couple, and a pair of workmen -- not because a sympathy that he did not feel deemed them too worthy to be stolen from, but because he did not believe that any of them would carry an amount of money sufficient to make them worth his while. The woman and children were dressed in abbreviated trousers and lightweight tunics and their casual manner indicated that they were only out for a morning jaunt and thus had no need of money. Wearing matching stern expressions, the older couple walked with purpose, perhaps marching toward a sad duty, but the clothing of both had a frugal, well-worn look that signaled paucity. The workmen wore simple, matching outfits of blue trousers and jackets, but none of their visible pockets showed any sign of having anything in them.

The next person along was a tall man with the lordly, the-rest-of-the-world-does-not-matter air of a Khalarii'n Patriarch and clothing made of a shimmering, near-metallic material. The clear quality of the man's apparel proclaimed
affluence.

After flying up to circle behind his intended victim, Mar swooped in close to the man and hummed
The Knife Fighter's Dirge
. When he pried open and went through the man's pockets, he found a comm, a handkerchief, a small pouch stuffed with Bazaar tokens, a handful of the square coins, and a thick fold of warehouse warrants held in a gold clasp. The receipts were sorted by color and he took only one of each -- few enough to not significantly change the weight of the fold and thus perhaps delay the man's realization that he had been robbed -- then returned everything else to the proper pockets.

Finding a place to exchange the profits of his thievery for breakfast proved a bit more difficult. At first, skulking near buildings and giving a wide birth to anything with any whiff of magic, he flew about in an attempt to identify a tavern or bakery, but had no success. Signage was uncommon and the three establishments that he descended to investigate proved to be a cobbler's where footwear came in boxes delivered by an
automaton
, a bright, noisy shop that sold comms and other magical devices, and an open air market that, as far as he could determine, sold something immaterial that brought cheerful smiles to the faces of its customers. Presently, he hit upon the idea of following people at random based upon the fact that he could not be the only person in the city looking for breakfast. After only a single false start, the method led him at last to a shop that provided a surprisingly familiar meal of sausage, bread, butter, hot cereal, and eggs.

While he was stuffing himself at a small exterior table, he caught himself smiling and wondered why.

After he finished, he dispensed with his spells and set off walking along a descending promenade, allowing the coalescing pedestrian currents to bring him to a port station. Stopping a dozen paces short of the steps, he took a seat on a large planter that held blue and red flowers in a flowing pattern.

The station's map would reveal the way to the Plaza of Eternal Justice, but not knowing if he also was now in the
system,
he hesitated to walk up in plain view to make use of it.

The Phaelle'n assassin that had killed Phehlahm had used a glamour to reflect a perfect semblance of E'hve. Though Mar had not seen it, he had to assume that the faked murder of the odalisque in Khalar had been accomplished with the same sort of deceptive magic.

If he could do that -- project the image of another through his own glamour -- then one possible magical method of identifying him would be defeated. If he could also counterfeit the entire ethereal presence of another person -- what the Common term
flux signature
surely must mean -- then he should be able to pass any of the Faction's watchdog spells and use the ports unmolested.

The incident still as clear to him now as it had been the moment it occurred, he remembered the exact nature of the flux modulation of the assassin's glamour and would have no difficulty recreating the pattern. However, that would project an image of E'hve as he had been on Number One at that moment -- bearing weapons and armor. That ensemble was certain to attract attention rather than deflect it. Mar would need to project the image of someone that would blend in naturally with the populace of Dhiloeckmyur.

The first thing that he had to do was to discover which fraction or ethereal characteristic of sunlight -- of any light -- caused the world to be revealed to his eyes. He already knew well the screaming red that lent power to his sand spheres and as he examined the sunlight beaming down through the scattered clouds, he found a legion of other fractions that related to one another very much like the shades of a rainbow, though the sound-colors that he perceived with his ethereal sense did not match the colors that he perceived with his eyes. Further examination showed that these fractions, all wrapped up together, moved at a speed so great that their travel was nigh instantaneous. Some were absorbed when they struck objects, but many others bounced to continue their flight. It was these bouncing fractions that gave him sight when they found their way to his eyes. A product of the bouncing fractions, the image of each thing that he saw was a natural ethereal modulation.

As practice, he spent several minutes creating copies of a single flower in the planter, learning to mimic each stir caused by the inconsistent breeze, each droop of a petal, and the changes due to variations in shade and light. His copied spell lent itself natively to the adaptations required to correct for different vantages, so it appeared correct from any angle. Flux links to cause the copies to reflect the movements of the real flower, something like a puppet's strings, were a simple task. In short order he was satisfied that the copies could be differentiated from the original only by magical means -- or by sticking one's hand through them, but he had already known that he would need to avoid direct contact.