Swords & Dark Magic - By Jonathan Strahan Page 0,116

great, gleaming, grim-looking military sabers.

Ghambivole Zwoll understood at once what must have happened. Some Muldemar House maid had confessed, or had been made to confess, that her lady had had an illicit nocturnal visitation. One question had led to another, the whole story had come out, the identity of the sorcerer in question had somehow been revealed, and now these thugs had come on their princely master’s behalf to take revenge.

The way they were glaring at him seemed to leave no doubt of that. But from the manner in which they held themselves, not merely threatening but at the same time wary, ill at ease, it appeared likely that they feared he would use some dark mantic power against them. As if he could! He cursed them for their stupidity, their great useless height and bulk, their mere presence in his shop. What madness it had been, Ghambivole Zwoll thought, for his forebears to have settled on this world of oafish, oversized clods!

“Are you the magus Ghambivole Zwoll?” the bigger of the two demanded, in a voice like rolling boulders. And he slid his great sword a short way into view.

Ghambivole Zwoll, swept now with a terror greater than any he had ever known in his life, shrank back against his desk. If only he could have used some magical power to thrust them out the door, he would have done so. If only. But his powers were gentle ones, and these two were huge, bulky ruffians, and he did not dare make even the slightest move.

“I am,” he murmured, and did what he could to prepare himself for death.

“The Prince of Muldemar will speak with you,” the big man said ominously.

The Prince of Muldemar? Here in the marketplace, in Ghambivole Zwoll’s own shop? The fifth or sixth highest noble of the realm?

Incredible. Unthinkable. The man might just as well have said, The Coronal is here to see you. The Pontifex. The Lady of the Isle.

The two huge footmen stepped aside. Into the shop came now a golden-haired man of fifty or so, short of stature and slender but broad-shouldered and regal of bearing. His lips were thin and tightly compressed, his face was narrow. It could almost have been the face Ghambivole Zwoll had often seen on coins of long ago, the face of this prince’s royal ancestor five generations removed, the great monarch Prestimion.

There was no mistaking the searing anger in the prince’s keen, intense greenish-blue eyes.

“You have supplied a potion to a certain unimportant lordling of Castle Mount,” the prince said.

Not a question. A statement of fact.

Ghambivole Zwoll’s vision wavered. His tentacles trembled.

“I am licensed, sir, to provide my services to the public as they may be required.”

“Within discretion. Are you aware that you went far beyond the bounds of discretion?”

“I was asked to fulfill a need. The Marquis Mirl Meldelleran requested—”

“You will not name him. Speak of him only as your client. You should know that your client, who committed a foul act with the aid of your skills, has taken himself at our request this very day into exile in Suvrael.”

Ghambivole Zwoll shivered. Suvrael? That terrible place, the sun-blasted, demon-haunted desert continent far to the south? Death would be a more desirable punishment than exile to Suvrael.

In a hoarse croak Ghambivole Zwoll said, “My client asked me to fulfill a need, your grace. I did not think it was my responsibility to—”

“You did not think. You did not think.”

“No, your grace. I did not think.”

There was no possibility of success in disputing the matter with the Prince of Muldemar. Ghambivole Zwoll bowed his head and waited to hear his sentence.

The prince said sternly, “You will forget that you ever had dealings with that client. You will forget his very name. You will forget the purpose for which he came to you. You will forget everything connected with him and with the task you carried out on his behalf. Your client has ceased to exist on Castle Mount. If you keep records, Vroon, you will expunge from them all indication of the so-called service you performed for him. Is that understood?”

Seeing that he evidently was going to be allowed to live, Ghambivole Zwoll bowed his head and said in a husky whisper, “I understand and obey, your grace.”

“Good.”

Was that all? So it seemed. The Vroon gave inward thanks to the half-forgotten gods of his forefathers’ ancestral world.

But then the prince, turning, took a long glance around the cluttered shop. His gaze came to rest on the