Swords & Dark Magic: The New Sword and Sorcery

But Almore had his dreams, and he was going to get Fire and Time to behave themselves, and they were all going to be rich. If they were rich, they could smuggle Master out of this city and get over to Korianth, where there wasn’t a duke and a wizard trying to find Master and kill him.

Well, it was worth wishing for. But illusions didn’t do any good at making things happen; and of Master’s three students, the only one who could call himself a journeyman magician was him.

Which meant the best of Master’s students could just barely make the duke’s men think they were in a narrow alley with no other doors.

It was important when you had to do it, but it didn’t put bread on the table. Only the two apprentices could do that.

The secrets of the Fire and the Time sigils didn’t appear this night. Master nodded off in the middle of the explication of first binding marks, and didn’t even finish his bread, which was the best end of the loaf, to boot.

Master’s three students sat there eyeing the half-eaten piece of bread, and thinking unworthy thoughts that maybe Master wouldn’t miss it, except Jezzy, who was goodhearted, got up and wrapped the heel of bread in a cloth and put it away in the cupboard for Master’s breakfast.

And it stayed there. Willem was sure of that. He would have known if Almore had gotten up in the night. Nobody did, but he got up before daylight, put his clothes to rights, put on his boots, checked the little pouch of papers that was his stock in trade, and nudged up the bar on the door, so that it would fall down and lock the door behind him. He held it, slipped past the door edge, and was just halfway out the door and into the Alley…

A shadow rose up right next to him, and a hard hand seized his arm.

“Got you!” a man’s voice said.

He struggled. He struggled at first to get back inside and then fought to get outside and let the door shut, but first he couldn’t break the grip and then his struggling made him let go the bar, so when the door swung to, the bar stopped it from closing.

A second iron grip seized the front of his jerkin and shoved him against the wall beside the door as, inside, Jezzy called out:

“What’s going on?”

“Shut the door!” Willem yelled. He never shouted in the Alley. But the man who had hold of him shoved him toward the door and must have hooked the door edge with his foot, because he shoved him right in, where it was dark, and where there was only an old man and two boys holding the place.

“Magician,” the stranger said, letting go Willem’s arm, but keeping a grip on Willem’s throat. “I’m looking for Cazimir Eisal.”

“I’m the one,” Master said, out of the dark. “Light a lamp, boy. And let go of my student.”

“Thought so,” the stranger said, and didn’t let go. Willem took hold of a hand like iron—used both his hands, trying to disengage that grip, and had no luck.

Almore had a straw and a lamp down by the banked fire in the hearth. That took, and a faint, single wick gave them more light than they’d had. Two wicks, and three—it was a three-sided lamp, and Willem saw the face that stared straight at Master—he seemed forgotten, merely a thing the stranger was determined to hold on to.

But the stranger didn’t have a weapon drawn. He had several—a dagger in his belt, with knuckle-loops, for infighting; and a longsword, and well-worn armor, and the glimmer of chain at the sleeves. The man smelled of sweat and woodsmoke and all outdoors—not a city smell.

“Master Cazimir,” the man said quietly, respectfully, while still close to strangling Willem. “It is you.”

“Certainly it is,” Master said. “It has been. It will be.”

“Tewkmannon. Fyllia’s son.”

“Fyllia,” Cazimir said. That was the old duchess’s name. And he was much too young, a fool could see that, even while he was strangling. “Fyllia’s dead.”

“The other Fyllia,” the man said, this Tewkmannon. “Duchess Fyllia’s niece. She’s dead, too. I’m here for Jindus. Grey Raisses said you were the one to talk to.”

“Raisses. Raisses.” Master looked overwhelmed, and gripped the table edge and sank onto the bench. He was in his nightdress, his gray beard was straggling, his hair was on end, and he didn’t have the belt that kept the robes in order.

“Please,” Willem said, prying at the hand that held him, and this Tewkmannon looked at him as if he’d just remembered he had something he didn’t need, and then let him go.

Willem straightened his shirt and went and got Master his staff: it was Master’s one weapon, and Willem put it next to his hand and stood there. He had a knife in his boot. That was all. And the two boys had the ladle and the cooking pot, such weapons as they were. But they were nothing against this man, if Master and he came at odds.

“I’m here for Jindus,” Tewkmannon said. “The bastard.”

He didn’t like Jindus. That was good. But here for Jindus? That didn’t sound good at all.

“All we have is water,” Master said in a thin, faint voice. “Not a crust of bread, else.”

“There’s a heel left,” Jezzy said, not too brightly.