Well, how had the Semmans located him, when they needed a warlord?
They had asked Agor, of course.
And Agor might actually be quite a good theurgist, for all Sterren knew. He might be all the miracle-worker Sterren needed.
Sterren glanced again at the dice-players, at the unmade bunks, at swords lying about unsheathed and dropped carelessly anywhere convenient, and decided that it was time he spoke with Agor. He had tried acting like the warlord he was supposed to be and had gotten nowhere; now, thinking like the Ethsharite he had always been, it was time to call on a magician. When all else fails, hire a magician, that was sound Ethsharitic thinking!
He turned and marched out the door of the barracks.
He knew exactly where he was going, for once. Princess Lura had pointed out the theurgist’s door to him a few days earlier. Agor made his home in a small room in one of the smaller towers, far above the barracks, but a level below Sterren’s own more luxurious quarters.
Sterren stood in the corridor for a minute or two, gathering his courage, before he knocked.
“Come in,” someone called from within.
He lifted the latch and stepped in.
Agor’s chamber was hung with white draperies on every side, covering all four walls. Two narrow windows were left bare, and provided the room’s only light, but given all that white and the sunny weather outside, that was plenty. The chamber smelled of something cloyingly sweet, incense, perhaps? Sterren was unsure.
A few trunks, painted white and trimmed with silver, stood against the various walls. A plump feather bed, also white, occupied one corner.
In the center of the room, seated on a grayish sheep-skin that had probably been white once, was Agor himself, a rather scrawny fellow of thirty or so, with a pale, narrow face and a worried expression.
He wore white, of course, white tunic worked with gold, and off-white breeches. His feet were bare. A scroll was unrolled on the floor in front of him.
“Yes?” he asked, looking at Sterren in puzzlement.
“I’m Sterren, Ninth Warlord,” Sterren said. “You’re Agor, the theurgist?”
“Oh, yes, of course, my lord. Yes, I’m Agor. Do come in!” He gestured welcomingly.
There were no chairs of any description, so Sterren rather hesitantly seated himself on the stone floor, facing the theurgist.
“So you’re Sterren,” Agor said. “I’m glad to meet you. I take a special interest in you, you know; I was the one who found you.” He smiled uncertainly. “I know,” said Sterren, while inwardly wondering just what sort of special interest the other was referring to. After all, in the dozen days since his arrival in the castle, Agor had not bothered to say as much as a single word to him and had apparently not even bothered to get a look at him, since he had not immediately recognized him.
He knew he should say more, but found himself unsure how to begin. He knew he wanted a miracle that would keep him from getting killed as a result of the coming war, but he did not know how to ask for it.
He didn’t really know just what sort of a miracle he wanted. He did not really want anyone to get hurt or killed.
He was still thinking about this when, after a slightly longer-than-comfortable silence, Agor asked nervously, “What can I do for you, my lord?”
Sterren resolved to simply present the situation to Agor and then see where the discussion went. Perhaps a way out of his quandary would appear.
“Well, first, you can promise me that anything I tell you won’t be repeated outside this room,” he replied.
“If you wish it so, my lord.”
“I do. Ah... tell me, have you taken any interest in Semma’s military situation?”
“No,” the theurgist immediately answered, “would you like me to?”
This response caught Sterren off guard, and his tongue stumbled over his answer.
“I... that... I mean, that’s not...” He paused, caught his breath, and tried again.
“What I meant was, are you aware that Semma is in very serious danger?”
“No,” Agor replied calmly. “Is it?”
“Yes!” Sterren collected his wits and continued. “This is what I don’t want you telling anyone. A war with both Ksinallion and Ophkar is coming, and soon. I expect both of them to attack as soon as the mud dries in the spring. And we don’t have a chance of defeating them; we’re outnumbered four to one, and our army is in terrible shape, and I’m the warlord, but I have no idea at all how to run a war, or even how to get these damn soldiers to take it seriously!”
“Ah,” Agor said, his face blank.
“Yes,” Sterren said.
“So you expect to lose a battle? Do you want me to try and get a god’s blessing on our troops, is that it? I don’t suppose that would violate the ban on using magic to fight wars.”
“No! Or at least, not just that, though I suppose it couldn’t hurt.” He paused, considering. “Would it really help?”
“No,” Agor said, without an instant’s hesitation. “I’ve explained this to everybody before, but I suppose you weren’t here. The gods don’t approve of war or fighting and they won’t have anything to do with it. They don’t take sides.”
“I don’t approve of it, either! Are you sure they wouldn’t be willing to take into consideration that we’re being attacked, that we don’t want to fight?”
“It wouldn’t matter. The gods swore off war after they wiped out the Northerners two hundred years ago and they don’t change their minds easily. Besides...” This time Agor did hesitate, but at length he said, “besides, can you tell them that we did nothing to provoke an attack?”
“I didn’t do anything!”
“But did anyone?”
Sterren remembered what Lar had told him about King Phenvel’s behavior. “I suppose so,” he admitted.
“Then the gods won’t help. At least, not directly.”
That reminded Sterren of his original intention in visiting Agor. “But they might indirectly?” he asked.
“Oh, certainly. It might seem odd to a layman, but the fact is, the gods tend to be very careless indeed about the long-term consequences of their actions. You could probably get a great deal of useful advice from them, as long as it’s not overtly military.”
Locating a powerful wizard would hardly be overtly military, but Sterren decided to check out other possibilities first. He asked, “Could they, perhaps, do something to stop Ophkar and Ksinallion from attacking? Start a plague, or something?”
Agor was visibly shocked by the suggestion. “A plague? My lord, how can you think such a thing?”
“Could they?” Sterren persisted.
“No, of course not! My lord Sterren, I am a theurgist, not a demonologist! The gods are good; they do not do evil. Plagues are the work of demons!”
Sterren’s cynicism, drummed into him by years on the streets of Ethshar, came surging to the fore. “The gods don’t do evil?” he inquired, sarcastically, remembering that he, himself, was in Semma, facing eventual execution, because of a god’s interference.
“Well,” Agor said, “not directly. Sometimes their actions can have evil consequences, for some-”
“I would think so!”
“But they won’t start a plague, or anything else like that.”
Sterren considered this.
Agor was probably right. After all, he was a theurgist and surely he knew his business. All his life, Sterren had heard from priests and theurgists and even laymen that the gods were benevolent, that they did not approve of any sort of destruction or disorder, that the evil in the World was due to demons or human folly.
It was probably true.