“Gor and Azrad are old men. What are their heirs like?”
“I…” Azlia frowned. “You’re starting to worry me.”
“I was…”
Before Garander could complete his thought he was interrupted by a sound unlike anything he had ever heard before, a high-pitched squeal; he and Azlia turned to look for its source.
The isolated tent where the Sardironese sorcerer was studying Tesk’s weapon was glowing an eerie blue, but they only had an instant to observe that before it vanished in a flash of red-orange light, with a noise like a gigantic lantern blowing out. It did not explode; it vanished, leaving a circle of bare earth that seemed to shimmer briefly.
Someone screamed, and several people raised their voices. Azlia took one step toward the spot where the tent had been, but Garander caught her arm.
“You can’t do anything,” he said.
“I’m a wizard,” she snapped, shaking off his grip. “You don’t know what I can do.”
“That was sorcery,” Garander said, “and you can see there’s nothing left.”
“You don’t know that!” Azlia insisted. “Not everything is visible.” But she did not try to leave again; they could both see other people, including magicians, rushing to the site.
“I’m sorry,” Garander said, “but Tesk did warn Lord Dakkar. Was Arnen a friend of yours?”
Azlia shook her head. “I barely knew him,” she said.
For a moment the two of them watched as assorted Sardironese explored the area where the sorcerer’s tent had been, apparently finding nothing. Garander glanced over in the direction of the flying carpet; he could see some of the Ethsharites watching, as well, but none of them were approaching.
“I thought it would explode,” Garander said. “Not do that. Whatever it was.”
“Magic can do the unexpected,” Azlia said. Then she turned her attention from the vanished tent to Garander. “What was it you wanted to talk to me about? This war your father thinks is coming?”
“That’s part of it,” Garander said. “We think there might be war, and we don’t want that. And we don’t see any way this can end without Tesk either dying, or taking one side or the other, and we don’t want him to die, and if he chooses a side-well, I don’t like that idea, either.” He gestured at the cluster of people where the sorcerer’s tent had been. “I don’t like the idea of either side doing things like that.”
“Oh, that’s nothing much,” Azlia said. “We already have far worse magic than that. But your point is taken.”
“If he won’t choose a side, they’ll kill him,” Garander said. “If he does choose a side, the other side will kill him eventually. It’ll just take a little longer.”
Azlia sighed. “You’re probably right.” She watched the investigators poking at the ground where the tent had vanished.
This was the moment when Garander had to reveal his scheme. He knew it was a risk; if Azlia decided her loyalty to the baron was more important than preventing a war or saving the shatra, this would ruin everything. But he needed a wizard; he needed a particular spell that he had heard about in old war stories. He took a deep breath.
“So we need to make everyone think the other side already killed him,” he said.
“What?” Startled, the wizard looked up at Garander.
“We need to convince Lord Dakkar that Lord Edaran killed the shatra, and we need to convince Lord Edaran that Lord Dakkar did. That’s where I need your help,” Garander said.
“What are you talking about?”
“There’s a spell my father told me about. Tesk knew about it, too. It makes someone look dead-really horribly dead, with blood everywhere. Ethshar used it during the war to fool Northerners into leaving live soldiers on the battlefield, instead of taking them prisoner.”
“I never heard of it,” Azlia said.
Garander’s heart sank. “Oh,” he said. It had not occurred to him that she would not know it; he had somehow assumed that if some ordinary soldiers had heard of it, every wizard knew it.
But on the other hand, if it wasn’t well known, then it was less likely anyone would guess what was happening. He hesitated, then asked, “Do you think any of the other wizards Lord Dakkar brought might know it?”
Azlia considered that for a moment, then said, “No, not really. There’s just the one, a man who calls himself Bardak the Dreaded, and I’m pretty sure he’s something of a charlatan, not half the wizard he pretends to be. I mean, a real wizard doesn’t call himself ‘the Dreaded.’ That’s just unprofessional.”
“Oh,” Garander said again. His scheme was crumbling practically before it even got started.
“But there are at least two wizards with Lady Shasha,” Azlia said. “One of them might know.”
Garander blinked. “But…they’re on the other side.”
“What of it? We’re all wizards, and we aren’t at war yet. I can say I need to talk to them about Wizards’ Guild business.”
Garander’s spirits lifted. Perhaps his scheme wasn’t as hopeless as he had thought. “Don’t talk to Zendalir the Mage, though,” he said. “Talk to the other one.”
Startled, Azlia asked, “Why?”
“Because Zendalir is a pompous ass. I wouldn’t trust him to keep his mouth shut; he’d probably brag to Lady Shasha about what a good job he did faking Tesk’s death.”
“Ah.” She wrinkled her nose. “Thanks for the warning. It’s fortunate that they’ve brought another.” Then she abruptly turned and started marching south, toward the carpet.
“Wait a minute,” Garander called, stumbling after her. “Where are you going?”
“To meet the wizards from Ethshar, of course,” Azlia called back.
“Should I come?”
She shook her head. “Go home. Talk to your family.”
He stopped, and watched her go.
Her suggestion was good advice, he decided; he headed back toward the house.
Chapter Twenty-One
His father and sisters looked up when he stepped through the door; his mother was busy with a delicate bit of stitchery and paid no attention. “What was that strange noise?” Shella the Younger asked.
“The baron’s sorcerer finished studying that wand.”
“You mean he figured out how to make it work?” Shella sat up. “Lord Dakkar’s soldiers…”
“He didn’t figure out how to make it work,” Garander interrupted. “Not unless you consider blowing himself up is making it work.”
“He’s dead?” their father asked.
“He’s vanished without a trace, along with his tent and everything in it,” Garander said. “I’m guessing he’s dead, but it wasn’t an ordinary explosion, it was something strange, so for all I know he’s now riding the lesser moon across the sky.”
His father frowned. “A man is dead, Garander,” he said. “Show some respect.”
“Tesk warned him,” Garander replied.
“Still.”
“I’m sorry, Father.”
For a moment no one spoke; then Grondar said, “You spoke to the shatra?”
“Yes.”
“Is he going to flee?”
Garander hesitated.
This was the moment when he should tell his family about his plan, but he could not bring himself to do it. Ever since Ishta found that talisman every time he had revealed a secret, no matter to whom, it had made things worse. He did not trust his parents or sisters to maintain appearances, even if they did not actually tell anyone what was happening.
“I don’t think so,” Garander said. “Actually, I think he’s getting ready to die. He expects the magicians to kill him. Or if they don’t he may kill himself, in hopes of averting another war.”
“That’s…unfortunate,” Grondar said.
“He can’t kill himself!” Ishta exclaimed. “I don’t want him to die! He should go live in Ethshar; the baron’s wizards can’t get at him there!”
“He can’t live in a city, Ishta,” Garander said. “You heard him. His magic won’t let him.”