Annoyed, Garander closed the pouch. “You said you would fetch a wizard?”
Equally annoyed, the guard said, “Right. Wait here.” Without waiting for Garander to reply, he turned, opened the door, and vanished inside, closing the door behind him.
Garander stood by the step, unsure what he should do. He was not particularly inclined to pack the magical object away again, since he hoped to be bringing it out for inspection soon, but he felt foolish standing there holding the pouch. He lowered it and pulled the drawstring tight, but kept it in his hand as he closed the box and returned the box and the outer bag to his pack. Then he looked around.
There were a few townspeople in sight, going about their business; some of them glanced in his direction every so often, but no one stared or pointed or tried to get his attention. Garander shifted uncomfortably. He was not used to being around strangers.
Then the baron’s door swung open again, and the guard reappeared, beckoning. “This way,” he said.
Garander followed him into the house, and then stopped, stunned, to stare at his surroundings. He was in a large room, and he had never seen such opulence. The floor was not earth, nor wooden plank, but polished stone in black and white squares. The walls and ceiling were all smooth plaster painted gleaming white, without a single exposed beam anywhere, and no fewer than five large tapestries were on display, hanging on three of the four walls. Half a dozen gilt-edged little tables of dark polished wood stood scattered about, and two of them held grand vases finished in bright enamel and mother-of-pearl. The sconces on the walls held gleaming copper-bottomed oil lamps with glass chimneys so clear as to be almost invisible, though of course at midday they were not lit.
“This way,” the guard repeated, and Garander followed him down a wood-paneled passage to a small sitting room where a woman sat waiting. She was small and slender, with long black hair-not quite his mother’s age, Garander thought. She wore a blue velvet gown embroidered with gold, and a brimless blue velvet cap that curled back to a sort of point. A silver dagger gleamed on her belt.
A pointed hat, a silver dagger… “You’re a wizard?” Garander asked.
“Azlia the Wizard,” she replied. “And you are…?”
“Garander Grondar’s son,” Garander said, with an awkward bow.
“Landin tells me you have something you want me to see?”
“Oh,” Garander said, embarrassed. He held out the pouch, and pulled it open.
Azlia leaned forward, reached into the pouch, and pulled out the object. Her eyes widened. “Northern sorcery,” she said. “Where did you find it?”
“My sister found it,” Garander said. “On our farm, near Ezval.”
“Were there any other talismans with it?” the wizard asked, turning the object over in her hands.
“No,” Garander said. “Ishta said it was under a pile of dead leaves.” He cleared his throat. “Did you say Northern sorcery?”
“I did,” Azlia replied, holding the thing up to catch the light from the room’s only window.
“But…the war’s been over for twenty years, and it looks almost new.”
She turned and smiled at him. “Oh, twenty years is nothing to a Northern sorcerer. We’ve found talismans a century old that look as if they were conjured up yesterday. In a pile of leaves, you said?”
“That’s what Ishta told me.”
“Then someone probably just dropped it there during the final retreat.” She looked down at the glowing thing in her hand. “I wonder what it’s for?”
“We were hoping you could tell us that,” Garander said.
Azlia shook her head. “Not I,” she said. “You need a sorcerer.” She looked past Garander to address the guard. “Landin, would you please go tell Sammel we need his services at his earliest convenience?”
The guard nodded, then turned and vanished, leaving Garander alone with the wizard. Garander looked around uneasily.
Azlia noticed. “Calm down,” she said. “I’m not going to turn you into a worm or anything.”
“No, of course not,” Garander said. “It’s just…I’m just a farmer. I’m not used to magic, or to places like this.” He gestured at their surroundings.
“I understand,” she said. “I suppose you’ve lived your entire life on your farm?”
“Yes, of course,” Garander said. “Where else would I go?”
She smiled wryly. “Wherever you want,” she said. “You know, during the war people moved around more, fleeing from the fighting, or following the troops. Now it seems everyone wants to stay on their own little piece of ground and never go anywhere.”
“Well, farmers can’t exactly wander around like tinkers or witches,” Garander said. “The land doesn’t go anywhere, so neither do we.”
“Well, if you’re satisfied with that, who am I to argue?” She smiled. “You walked here from Ezval?”
“Yes.”
“Then please, sit down! You must be tired.”
Reluctantly, Garander took a seat two chairs away from the wizard.
“How old are you?” Azlia asked, looking up from Ishta’s find.
“Eighteen,” Garander said. He was unsure why the wizard wanted to know, but he didn’t dare refuse her.
“You said your sister found this thing?”
“That’s right.”
“How old is she?”
“Almost eleven.”
“Ah.” She nodded. “Is that why you’re here, and she isn’t? She’s too young to make the trip?”
“Yes. Father said he couldn’t spare both of us.”
“Who else is in your family?”
“Our mother, and our sister Shella.”
“Three children? No aunts, uncles, or grandparents?”
Garander shook his head. “Our parents came here after the war, and the rest of the family stayed in Ethshar.”
“Any magicians in the family?”
The question astonished Garander. “No!”
“You needn’t sound so shocked,” Azlia said with an amused smile. “Magicians are just people-we have families and friends like anyone else. I have four brothers, and my father’s a tanner; I didn’t spring full-grown from some spell.”
“Oh,” Garander said, trying to absorb this. He had never thought of magicians having families. It didn’t fit his mental image of a wizard. They sat silently for a few seconds while Garander considered the idea of witches and theurgists being people, with parents and siblings, and Azlia studied the glowing talisman. Then she looked up, and Garander realized he could hear approaching footsteps.
“That will be Sammel,” Azlia said. “He’s quite knowledgeable about Northern sorcery. Perhaps he’ll be able to tell you what this thing is for.”
“I hope so,” Garander said. By this point, though, what he really hoped for was that whatever was going to happen would happen quickly, so he could go home, away from this strange place and these strange people.
Sammel, Garander discovered, was stocky and white-haired, his face worn and wrinkled, and his left hand was missing two fingers. He was wearing a thigh-length leather vest over a dirty white tunic and well-worn black breeches. He marched into the room, Landin on his heels, then stopped dead and glared at Garander. He did not look friendly. “You’re the one who claims to have found a Northerner talisman?” he demanded.
“No,” Garander said. “My sister found it. I just brought it here. And I don’t know if it’s a Northern talisman or not.”
“Well, where is it?”
Garander pointed at Azlia, who held out the glowing object. Sammel strode over and snatched it from the wizard’s hand, then studied the talisman intently, holding it up to catch the sunlight just as Azlia had. The hostility in his expression faded, to be replaced with intent interest.
“It’s Northern, all right,” he said. “See these glyphs in the crystal? That’s Shaslan military cipher. This was part of some soldier’s equipment.”
Garander had no idea what a Shaslan military cipher might be, but apparently that was what those shifting shapes were. “What’s it for?” he asked.
Sammel frowned. “Don’t know,” he said. “It’s not standard issue. I’ve never seen one like this.”