Swords & Dark Magic: The New Sword and Sorcery

But the spells went amiss. Grievously amiss. Not many knew it.

But old Cazimir did.

And took himself and his few students deeper into the alleyways and shadows of Wiscezan.

He was not what he had been, was Cazimir Eisal.

He had been a great teacher when the duchess was alive. He had had his academy and students who came even from Korianth and distant ports to study under his guidance. He had had a library and a fine house and apprentices to do the grinding of herbs and the jotting-down of his great thoughts, so that Cazimir the Wise had very little to do but teach the most advanced of his students, who taught the rest.

But on the waft of a night wind and a stray curtain and the aged duchess’s bare shoulder, fever had arrived…and not all Cazimir’s wizardry had cured it.

He had suspected then, had Cazimir, that there was another Agency at work.

He had seen that Agency when Jindus hired it…seen that Agency for a lean and hungry man standing always near the war-lord, and he had said to himself it was not Jindus they had to fear.

But the duchess had already died, and the power had come into the heart of the new authority in Wiscezan, and Cazimir had had a grave, cold feeling that nothing now would go well for the city, or for him. The times had turned, and new omens were in the ascendant.

Accordingly, Cazimir left his house and took up residence in the lower town. His well-born disciples and apprentices, having a place to go, went to their well-born relatives, or set up shop in other places, scattered about the coast.

He still taught. He protected the Talented, the few he could find.

But age was on him, and his fortunes declined.

Oh, Miphrynes—that being the name of the Agency behind the duke—was sure Cazimir was still out there, but Miphrynes knew the nature of white wizards, that taking them on could provoke unexpected backlashes of magic, and so long as Cazimir stuck to the lower town, and until Miphrynes could get a wedge inside his defenses—well, Miphrynes found it convenient to sit in the ducal palace, enjoying the luxury in the confidence that a black wizard’s citadel was no easier to crack.

And his was a great deal more comfortable.

Take students? Not Miphrynes. He held power. He didn’t share it.

He got power. He obtained it from the depths of hell.

And hell was what was seeping out of Jindus’s palace these days, quiet as yet, and very subtle, but it knew what it wanted. It had failed in Korianth. Now it had a new foothold.

Master had not been well the last week. Master had not made a charm in a month…which left the students to do the spellcraft, and to sell it in the form of bits of paper, easy to carry, that did useful things.

Healing was beyond them. But papers that could light a fire, or chill water, those they had.

And Willem Asusse was in a position. He was the senior of the three of them, but almost as useless as ten-year-old Jezzy, who could only bespell cats, and then only when the cat was in a receptive mood. It was Almore who could light fires and Almore who could freeze water or boil it. So it was Almore’s charms, except one bit of paper, which offered to attract a mouser at least to some loyalty, if fed.

And it was Willem’s job to sell them around and about the Alley, which was his Talent.

Well, more, his talent was illusion, like Master’s, and he did one very important job, helping Master keep the Alley secret and shut off from the rest of Wiscezan.

But he couldn’t so much as light a candle, not like Almore, so it was Almore who kept them fed in Master’s little lapses, and it was Willem’s art of illusion and flummery that convinced householders they were not scared to buy from him.

It had gotten him, thus far today, a loaf of stale bread, which he had broken in half and tucked under his jerkin. It was no small trophy, good, dark bread that had a lot of substance, even if it was burned half-black and full of hollow bubbles—young goodwife Melenne was not the best cook, but she was scatter-witted and a good customer for the fire-starting spells.

And the tavern was a safe bet. The freezing-charm improved its beer to drinkability.

It was an old contact. A safe one. They took a risk taking on any new customer these days: they daren’t advertise. But the tavern relied on them, and the tavern had a back side well planted in Wink Alley.

It was a mazy sort of confusing place to begin with, the Alley: if you didn’t know to take the slit of a passage at Blind Gaijer the Smith’s house, and then to take the next branch to the left, you were going to wander a bit, and you could end up right over in the netherside of Beggars’ Row, where the beggars didn’t like you to be.