The Book of Swords. Gardner Dozois

send you up some hymetic syrup,” said the wizard.

      “Ooh!” said the red imp, as the two looked at each other with widened eyes.

      “Yum!” said the spotted one.

      The wizard’s workroom was depressingly familiar. Thelerion’s had much the same contents: shelves crammed with ancient tomes, mostly leather-bound, some of the hides scaly; glass and metal vessels on a workbench, one of them steaming though no fire was set beneath it; an oval looking glass hanging on one wall, its surface reflecting nothing that was in this chamber; a small cage suspended on a chain in one corner, containing something that rustled when it moved.

      The wizard gestured for Baldemar to sit on a stool while he went to pick through a shelf of close-packed books. “Don’t try to run away,” he said, over his shoulder. “I’ve been having trouble with my paralysis spell. The fluxions have altered polarity and the last time I used it …”—he looked up at a large stain on the ceiling—“well, let’s just say it was an awful mess to clean up.”

      Baldemar sat on the stool.

      The wizard sorted through the next shelf down, made a small noise of discovery, and pulled out a heavy volume bound in tattered black hide. He placed it on a chest-high lectern and began to leaf through the parchment pages. “The Sword of Destiny, you said?”

      “Yes,” said Baldemar.

      The thaumaturge continued to hunt through the book. “Why did he want it, this Fellow-me-whatsit of yours?”

      “Thelerion,” said Baldemar, “the Exemplary. It was to complete a set of weapons and armor.” He named the other items in the ensemble: the Shield Impenetrable; the Helm of Sagacity; the Breastplate of Fortitude; the Greaves of Indefatigability. As he spoke, the wizard found a page, ran a finger down it, and his face expressed surprise.

      “He was going to put these all together?”

      “Yes.”

      “To what purpose?”

      “I don’t know.”

      The long face turned toward him. “Speculate.”

      “Revenge?” said Baldemar.

      “He has enemies, this Folderol?”

      “Thelerion. He is a thaumaturge. Do they not attract enemies as a lodestone attracts nails?”

      “Hmm,” said the other. He consulted the book again, and said, “But these items do not … care for each other. They would not gladly cooperate.”

      He tugged a thoughtful nose and continued in a musing tone, “The helmet and the shield might tolerate each other, I suppose, but the greaves would pay no attention to any strategy those two agreed upon. And the sword …”

      The wizard made a sound of suppressed mirth. “Tell me,” he said, “your master, he is a practitioner of which school?”

      “The green school,” Baldemar said.

      The wizard closed the book with a clap and a puff of dust. “Well, there you go,” he said, after a discreet sneeze. “Green school. And a norther- ner, at that. Say no more.” He shook his head and made a noise that put Baldemar in mind of an elderly spinster contemplating the lusts of the young.

      The wizard put the book back where he’d found it and favored his visitor with a speculative assessment. “But you’re an interesting specimen. So, what to do with you?”

      He was stroking his long chin while the series of expressions on his other features suggested that he was evaluating options without coming to a conclusion, when another man appeared in the doorway, clad in black-and-gold garments of excellent quality. He was even leaner than the wizard, his face an intricate tracery of fine wrinkles spread over a noble brow, an aristocratically arched blade of a nose, a well-trimmed beard as white as the wings of hair that swept back from his temples. A pair of gray eyes as cold as an ancient winter surveyed Baldemar as the man said, “Is he anything to do with that contraption on the roof?”

      “Yes, your grace,” said the wizard. “He arrived in it.”

      The aristocrat’s brows coalesced in disbelief. “He’s a thaumaturge?”

      “No, your grace. A wizard’s henchman who stole his master’s conveyance.”

      The man in the doorway frowned in disapproval and Baldemar shuddered. The fellow had the aspect of one who enjoyed showing thieves the error of their ways. Indeed, he looked the type to invent new and complex forms of education, the kind from which the only escape is a welcome graduation into death.

      But then the frown disappeared, to be replaced by the look of a man who has just come upon an unsought but useful item. “Stole from a thaumaturge, you say? That’s an accomplishment, isn’t it?”

      The wizard did not share the aristocrat’s opinion. “His master is some northern hedge-sorcerer. Green school, for Marl’s sake.”

      But the man in the doorway was yielding no ground. “Say as you will, it’s an accomplishment!”

      Understanding dawned in the thaumaturge’s face. “Ah,” he said, “I see where your grace is going.”

      “Exactly. We could cancel the race.”

      “Indeed.” The thaumaturge now again wore the face of a man who mentally balances abstract issues. After a while he said, “There is great disaffection this time around. The townspeople and the farmers have lost confidence in your … story.” He gestured toward the looking glass. “I have heard grumblings in many quarters.”

      The aristocrat’s stark face became even starker. “Revolt?” he said.

      A wave of a wizardly hand. “Some vague mutterings in that vein. But more are talking about packing up and moving to another county. The Duke of Fosse-Bellesay is founding new towns and clearing forest.”

      The aristocrat grimaced. “Little snot-nose,” he said.

      “Actually, your grace, he is now in his fifties.”

      The other man waved away the implication. “I remember his great-great-grandfather. He was just the same. Tried to steal my lead soldiers.”

      “Yes, your grace.”

      The conversation, Baldemar saw, had meandered off and left both participants temporarily stranded. Then the aristocrat seemed to recollect himself. He rubbed his hands against each other, their skin so dry it was like hearing two sheets of parchment frictioned together, and said, “So that’s settled. He’s accomplished. He’ll do.”

      The wizard considered for but a moment, then said, “I’ll need him for a little while first. I think I can get an interesting paper out of him for The Journal of Hermetic Studies. But yes, he’ll do.”

      “Do for what?” Baldemar said.

      But the aristocrat had already gone, and the thaumaturge was looking for another book, humming to himself as he ran a finger over their spines. Baldemar thought about easing out the door, then glanced again at the stain on the ceiling, and decided to stay.

      Over the ensuing few days, Baldemar learned several things: he had landed in the County of Caprasecca, which was ruled by Duke Albero, he of the papery skin. The wizard was Aumbraj, a practitioner of the blue school. The race the Duke had mentioned was a contest held every seven years to discover a “man of accomplishment” who would be sent as an emissary of the Duke to some hazily referenced realm. He would be accompanied by a woman who had bested all others in a test of domestic skills.

      “My companion is a beautiful woman?” he asked, when this news was given him by the Duke’s majordomo, a man who wore a large panache in his high-crowned black hat and was given to sniffing in disapproval at virtually everything that existence contrived to offer him.

      “Comeliness is not a factor,” the functionary said, with a mocking smile. “Certainly