This was not so difficult a matter.
Not far away, a pillar of green fire shot into the night sky. It could be but one thing. Magic. Following the telltale beacon, I came to a broad plaza. In the center was a tall bronze statue, a monument to some long-forgotten ruler of the city. Now magical emerald flames engulfed the statue. Hard bronze sagged, melted, and dripped down the statue to flow in molten rivulets across the cobbles. Zeth had been playing with his newfound power.
Disgusted at this irresponsible waste of magic, I hurried on. Zeth seemed to be moving toward the Tor. I could not let him get too far ahead of me.
I passed the open door of an inn, from which spilled golden light and the sounds of merriment. But the music was eerily frantic, and the laughter had a manic note to it. I peered through the doorway. Inside, men and women whirled around in a chaotic dance, jerking like marionettes under the control of a mad puppeteer. Garish smiles were plastered across their faces, yet terror shone in their eyes.
A young woman spun wildly past the doorway and saw me standing outside. "Please, help us!" she gasped, her face gray with exhaustion.
I shook my head in sorrow. There was nothing I could do. They would dance, consumed by the enchantment, until they dropped dead from exertion. Even as I watched, the woman whirled on and careened into a wall. A crimson blossom appeared on her brow. Pain racked her eyes, but her smile only broadened as she danced on.
"Damn you, Zeth," I hissed, forcing myself to turn away from the ghoulish scene. He was drunk with magic, wielding it with no regard for the consequences. He had the power but none of the discipline usually required to gain it. Urgency renewed, I ran onward.
The trail of mayhem left in Zeth's wake continued to trace a direct line toward the Tor. For some reason he was making for the Old City. Glancing up, I saw that the moon had passed its zenith. Time was slipping away. At last the dark bulk of the Tor loomed above me. I turned onto the road that wound up the crag. Abruptly I lurched to a halt.
Iron bars blocked the way. The gate was closed.
I cursed my stupidity. No doubt Zeth knew what I had forgotten. The wealthy citizens who lived high on the Tor preferred to keep the rabble down in the New City at night. By law the gate to the Old City was shut at midnight and would not open again until dawn. No doubt Zeth had passed to the other side by means of magic. How was I to follow?
Torches lined the stone wall that surrounded the Old City. The wall was high and smooth, crowned by a sharp overhang. A master thief would have been hard pressed to scale it, let alone an out-of-shape wizard. I turned my attention to the gate that covered the arched opening in the wall. The bars were thick and closely spaced. A heavy iron lock held the gate securely shut. I pulled on the bars, but half-heartedly. No human strength would be enough to bend them.
I turned away from the gate. The moon was steadily descending in the jet dome of the sky, and my hopes sank with it. In the past, I would have waved a hand and strode through like a proud lord. Yet what was I now? Weary, bedraggled, powerless. I was nothing without my magic.
Or was I? I still had my mundane knowledge. How would a scholar confront the problem of the locked gate?
My mind raced. I found my eyes lingering upon a torch that had burned down to a black stub. Then it struck me. I dug into the pocket of my doublet and came out with a handful of soft, yellow rocks. Brimstone. I often had some about me, for it was useful in the casting of many spells- none of which I knew anymore. However, the brimstone might serve me yet. I moved to the wall and pulled down the burned torch. That would provide the necessary charcoal. Now all I needed was one more ingredient. My gaze moved down the street. Then, in the fading moonlight, I saw what I was looking for: a mortar and pestle hanging above a doorway. An apothecary's shop.
I did not like resorting to thievery, but such moral regrets are better suited to less desperate moments. With a stray rock, I broke through the shop's window. By the time a wavering light appeared in an upper story and angry shouts rose on the night air, I was gone with what I needed. Hiding in a shadow near the gate, I examined my prize: a clay pot filled with small white crystals. Niter. It was commonly used by physicians to treat seizures. I had another use in mind.
I spread a handkerchief on the ground before me and emptied the clay pot onto it. I crumbled the charcoal and soft brimstone with my fingers and added these to the niter. With great care, I mixed the three ingredients until they formed a dark gray powder. Gathering the corners of the handkerchief, I tied them tightly, forming a bundle with the powder inside. I found a stray bit of frayed rope and tucked one end inside the handkerchief. Then I wedged the bundle between the bars of the gate next to the lock. I reached up and took one of the burning torches from its sconce, touching it to the free end of the rope. A flame curled up the length of cord. I turned and ran for cover.
The dry rope burned faster than I had thought. I had gone less then ten paces when a brilliant flash and a clap of thunder burst the night asunder. A great force struck my back, like the invisible hand of a giant, throwing me to the ground. After a stunned moment I pulled myself to my feet. Acrid smoke clouded the air.
While the Red Wizards of Thay claimed that smoke powder-which they were infamous for making and using-was a powerful enchantment, this was a lie. Smoke powder was not the result of magic, but of alchemy. It was no more magical in nature than a fire burning on a goodwife's hearth, though it was infinitely more powerful.
As the smoke cleared, I approached the gate. It was still shut, and for a moment I thought my plan had failed. I reached out to push on the iron bars. As my fingers brushed the still-warm metal, there was a dull clink. The weakened lock broke. The gate swung open. At the same moment, a hue and cry went up somewhere along the wall. It seemed my little trick had not gone unnoticed by the city watch. I hurried through the gate and, keeping to the murk and shadows, made my way unaccosted up the Tor, to the many-spired Old City above.
At first, I despaired of finding Zeth's trail amid the mazelike streets. I need not have feared. After a few moments, I stumbled upon a smoking pit that had been torn open in the middle of a lane. Not far ahead, a majestic old ash tree was twisted into contorted knots. Anger and dread filled me at these sights. The more powerful the magic Zeth tried to wield, the less he was able to control it. Ignoring my weariness, I pressed on, following the trail of destruction left by the magic thief. Then, at last, I knew where he was going.
The moon hovered just above the western horizon when I stopped before my tower on the Street of Runes.
I gazed up at the dark spire that had been my dwelling for many long years. A light glowed in the window of the topmost chamber. Finally I understood. Zeth did not simply covet my magic. He coveted my life. He had come to my tower to claim it for his own. I almost laughed at the irony. Over the years I had woven my tower with myriad wards and protections. Now I was the one they would prevent from entering. Yet enter I must. Somehow.
Stealthily, I circled the tower. "Think, Morhion," I whispered to myself. "There must be some chink in the armor you conjured to protect yourself. Certainly you could not have been so perfectly safe as you believed."
Yet, even knowing where and what they were, I could see no way to get past my own defenses. The door was bound with enough arcane energy to roast an elephant. The thick walls were made smooth and slick by magic. A dusky vine wound up the western face of the tower, passing near the study window, and might be climbed. Yet even from here I could see the faint blue sheen that covered the window. Anyone trying to pass would be instantly struck dead. The only way to enter the tower was to be invited by the wizard within.