“So does plague, pox and an infestation of trolls,” said Kenneth, replacing the knife in his boot.
Toth-Set-Ra sat on his raised seat in the League’s chantry and heard the reports of his underlings. The great mullioned windows let in the weak winter’s light to puddle on the floor. Magical lanterns hung from the walls provided most of the light that glinted off apparatus on the workbenches. Seated at a long table at his feet were the dozen most powerful sorcerers of the Dark League. Atros sat at his right. The Keeper of the Sea of Scrying was just finishing his report.
“And what else?” asked Toth-Set-Ra.
“Lord, there are signs of magical activity at Heart’s Ease. It is possible the Shadow Warriors missed the magician.”
Atros scowled at the man. The Shadow Warriors were his special preserve.
“Our magic detectors are excellent,” Toth-Set-Ra said. “If there was another magician there, we would have found him.”
“As you will, Lord. But we still show signs of magic in what was once a dead zone.”
“Strong magic? Like before?”
The black robe shrugged. “Not strong, Lord, but the taste is much like before. The magician is . . . odd.”
A thrill went down Toth-Set-Ra’s spine as he remembered the demon’s words.
“Perhaps our magician had an apprentice who was absent when the attack came,” Atros suggested.
“You say not as strong as before?” Toth-Set-Ra asked. The black-robed one nodded. “Then watch closely,” he ordered. “I wish to know all which happens at that place.”
“Thy will, Lord,” the black robe replied. “But it will not be easy. The northerners are screening it and we cannot get clear readings.”
“Keep trying,” he snapped.
“Thy will, Lord. Perhaps however the Shadow Warriors should return.”
Toth-Set-Ra shook his head. “No, that is a trick which only works once. Bal-Simba—may the fat melt from his miserable bones!—will not be caught napping again.” He frowned and sunk his head to his chest for a moment. “But I am not without resources in this matter. I will see what my other servants can do.”
Night and day, Wiz drove himself mercilessly. Writing, thinking, rewriting and conducting occasional experiments—usually in the forest with only Donal or Kenneth for company. He slept little and only when exhaustion forced him to. Twice he nearly slipped because of fatigue. After that he made a point of getting a little rest before trying an experiment.
The blackmoss tea numbed his tongue and made his bowels run, but it kept him awake, so he kept drinking it by the mugful.
Wiz wasn’t the only one getting little or no sleep. Shiara wasn’t sleeping much either and there was no blackmoss tea to ease her. Wiz passed her hut late at night and heard her sobbing softly from pain. The lines in her face etched themselves deep around her mouth and down her forehead, but she never complained.
“Lady, you are suffering from all this magic,” Wiz said to her one afternoon as they waited for a spell to finish setting up.
“I have suffered for years, Sparrow.”
“Do you need a rest?”
A haggard ghost of a smile flitted across her face. “Would you rest, Sparrow?”
“You know the answer to that, Lady.”
“Well then,” she said and returned to her work.
And the work seemed to go so slowly. Often Wiz would get well into a spell only to have to divert to build a new tool or modify the interpreter. It was like writing a C compiler from scratch, libraries and all, when all you wanted was an application. Once he had to stop work on the spells entirely for three precious days while he tore apart a goodly chunk of the interpreter and rewrote it from the ground up. He knew the result would be more efficient and faster, but he gritted his teeth and swore at the delay.
Wiz took to talking to the guards, one of whom was with him constantly when he worked. Neither Kenneth or Donal said much as he favored them with his stream of chatter. Donal just leaned on his two-handed sword and watched and Kenneth simply watched.
Worst of all, he had to be painstakingly careful in constructing his spells. A bug here wouldn’t just crash a program, it could kill him.