Swords & Dark Magic: The New Sword and Sorcery

So even without a little illusion, the Alley was a maze, and dangerous. It had a few inhabitants, merchants semi-associated with the wizard, who were its outward face, a potter, and a couple of enterprising pickpockets that never worked inside the Alley. And with the illusions—you didn’t see the other doors. You just thought the Merry Ox was the way out, and it was, and that was that. You never saw the other back doors, just that one…no matter where you wandered in Wink Alley.

But illusions were beginning to weaken—Master’s, and his; and though he’d used to go outside the Alley now and again to peddle his wares, he stuck close these days.

Possibly Master’s intent was weakening. Possibly Master could grow more forgetful, and a stray apprentice could end up on the streetside—forever, or at least until Master missed him. Master’s hovel, unlike the commercial establishments, had no streetside door.

At any event, Willem was anxious to be home, and there was no trouble, despite the other confusion in the Alley, in his finding the Merry Ox. Getting the best deal from the innkeep—it was well not to sell him too many spells at a time, lest he get the notion they were easy-made. And it was a good hour for bargaining, the lull in the afternoon, between noon and the siesta hour.

So, turning around three times, and blinking twice, which was guaranteed to find the Merry Ox, Willem skipped up the back steps, went down the unlighted little hall to the dim bar where Wiggy Brewer ran his business. The place smelled of pork pie, of spilled beer, mildew—and Wiggy, whose contribution was sweat and garlic. There was no spell to mask Wiggy, who sold baths but never took one.

It wasn’t Willem’s favorite stop. Goodwife Melenne was that. But he could deal with Wiggy’s daughter, who generally knew what the price ought to be, and was going to be, so it was usually short, sensible dealing and straightforward, Wiggy’s daughter having no designs on him at all—there was a use for illusion in his trade.

But Wiggy’s daughter—her name was Hersey—came flying toward him. “Willem!” said she. “Willem!” grabbing the front of his jerkin, leaning across the bar with a huge expanse of bosom flowing into his view. “There’s trouble here. There’s the duke’s men on the prowl. Go! We c’n talk in th’ alley!”

Willem needed no second hint. He broke free and headed right back down the dark back hallway, with Wiggy’s ample daughter right behind him.

The Alley was safe, untenanted except by old jars and trash bins. Willem caught his breath there in the uncertain pale light, on the gritty back step of the Merry Ox, and, drawing a breath, swung around to ask Wiggy’s daughter what she had seen—

—When a large man in leather armor and a steel helmet came out of that dark hall, knocking Hersey right off the step and into Willem’s arms. Willem staggered backward, steadied the girl on her step, and, still holding on to her, heard a thunderous charge toward the door, from out of that dim hall.

Black-caps. The duke’s men, with swords drawn, and meaning business…but not aimed at them. Willem cast a fast one: I’m not here, she’s not here. And then because he didn’t want trouble in the Alley, he threw another one after it: Nobody’s here.

The guards stopped. Looked around them. Looked at the steps, and the doorway where Willem stood with Hersey, balanced on the edge of the steps. The spell was shredding. Willem held it up, and carefully stepped down to the cobbles of the Alley, keeping the illusion around him, moving slowly—you could break an illusion if you moved too fast, or let fear get into it.

He kept moving. He saw the guards look confused, and then charge back up the steps past Hersey, who delayed a moment, looking just as confused.

Then came the sounds of Wiggy’s bull voice from inside, and furniture being shoved about, and Hersey whirled around and ran back inside in a hurry.

“Here, you!” Wiggy was shouting, and “Where is he?” a foreign voice yelled…

…reminding Willem he wasn’t alone in the Alley. He hadn’t seen the fugitive, who had dived for cover somewhere.

I’m not here, he sent out, and turned around and found himself facing a leather-armored chest and a drawn sword and the fugitive looking straight at him.

I’m really not here, he sent, heart pounding. But a hand snaked out and grabbed the front of his shirt.

“Magician,” the fugitive said.

“Not me!” Willem protested, and backed up, pulling his shirt and himself and the loaf of day-old bread free of that grip. He sent very, very hard: I was never here!

The man looked confused for a moment, and that was enough. Willem ran for it, clutching the loaf of bread and feeling in his belt-pouch for one of the paper freeze-spells, in case.

The man was following him. But the Alley had twists, and out of sight was enough. Willem stopped with his back against grimy stone, and his feet amid blown debris, next to the potter’s steps.