Actually, life in Semma and even in Semma Castle had not really changed that much at all. Most of the nobles still lived in the castle, undisturbed; a few had slipped away, but the majority remained, still more or less acknowledging Phenvel’s authority. Admittedly, about a fourth of the servants had deserted them to work at the palace, but that did little more than reduce the crowding somewhat. For most of the castle’s inhabitants, life coasted on, and they tried very hard to ignore the warlock and his palace.
Sterren noticed that peasants no longer came to the castle much. No taxes were paid to King Phenvel any more, and the castle’s stores were being consumed but not replaced, taxes were now going to the warlock’s citadel. This did not affect Sterren directly, since he was welcome at Vond’s table, but it did not bode well for the other nobles.
Those few of the bolder aristocrats who departed had accepted that their old way of life was doomed and had gone looking for greener pastures, “visiting” relatives in other kingdoms, or simply seeking their fortunes, like so many failed apprentices.
The nobles who lingered all seemed to think that matters would somehow right themselves, and everything would go back to what it had been before, with Phenvel once more uncontested ruler of Semma, but none of them seemed to have any idea how this would come about, and none of them, so far as Sterren could see, were doing anything to help it along.
He was helping it along, at least slightly, but he did not dare explain that; instead he put up with being labeled a traitor. He was not entirely sure that in a sense, he might not be betraying Semma by working toward Vond’s downfall. After all, for the peasants, all the changes were for the better. Vond controlled the weather and regulated the climate to an unheard-of evenness of temperament. Rain came when needed, usually at night, and never more than needed. When days threatened to grow uncomfortably cool the clouds would be forcibly scattered, and when the sun was hot clouds would gather. As a result, the spring planting was begun earlier than usual, and the fields were already turning green.
Vond had promised that roads and houses would be built once the palace was no longer occupying his time and energy. The peasants Sterren had spoken to all agreed that this would be wonderful, but he thought they didn’t really believe it would ever happen. They were accustomed to empty promises from their rulers.
Somehow, this bothered Sterren far more than the hatred of the dispossessed nobles. He knew that Vond sincerely intended to carry through on his promises — not so much out of altruism as to enhance his own position. The ruler of a rich land accrues more power and glory than the ruler of a poor one, and the warlock knew that well.
But Sterren also knew that Vond might not have time to make his promises good.
He sat in the tower room the warlock had given him, staring out the window at the palace sprawling below him, and wondered what he should do.
He had encouraged Vond to build his citadel as lavishly as possible, big and elaborate throughout, and created entirely with magic. Not a single stone had been lifted into place by human muscle; even the carpets and tapestries, although woven by hand, had been delivered and laid or hung by warlockry. Sterren had steadily urged Vond to use as much power as possible, not that he had needed much urging. Warlockry was like a drug; the more Vond used, the more he could use, and the more he wanted to use.
And somehow, he did not see what the inevitable outcome of this would be.
Sterren thought that he, ignorant as he was of warlockry, knew what was going to happen to Vond better than Vond did himself. The warlock was having too much fun with his magic to see that in time, the Calling would find him even in Semma.
Sterren stared down at the citadel and wondered whether he should warn him. Now that the palace was complete, Vond might not throw his power around so freely.
That brought up the question, of course, of what he would do.
Well, Sterren told himself, he could hardly learn anything about Vond’s plans sitting in his room. He headed for the door. He had intended to go all the way down to the warlock’s audience chamber, but halfway down the first flight of stairs Sterren changed his mind and at the next landing he turned down the corridor and knocked on the first door.
It opened, and Annara of Crookwall thrust her head around the edge.
“Hello,” she said.
“Hello,” Sterren replied. “May I come in?”
Annara hesitated, glancing back into the room, then swung the door wide and admitted him.
Sterren was not surprised to see Agor, the Imperial Theurgist, sitting on Annara’s bed. They exchanged polite greetings.
At Annara’s direction Sterren found a seat by the window. He settled onto the cushion and then fumbled about, trying to figure out how to ask what he wanted to ask.
Annara offered him a plate of honeyed cashews, and he nibbled on those without speaking, while Agor chatted in his newly acquired and horribly accented Ethsharitic about the delightful weather that Vond had ensured.
Sterren glanced around the room, looking for something that might serve to divert the conversation along the lines he wanted. He noticed a sparkle on a high shelf.
Something shiny was moving up there, he realized.
He squinted.
A coin, a silver bit, was spinning on edge, but he had not seen anyone spin it, and it showed no signs of slowing down as he watched.
“What’s that?” he asked, pointing.
The two magicians followed his finger. Annara said, “It’s a spinning coin.”
“How long has it been spinning?”
“Oh, three or four months,” Annara replied.
“But you haven’t lived here that long!” Sterren said, startled.
“I brought it with me from the castle,” Annara said.
“How could you do that?”
“It’s on a little card that folds up into a box for traveling,” she explained.
“What’s it for? What keeps it spinning?”
“It’s magic,” Agor said.
“I could have guessed that for myself,” Sterren said sarcastically. “I mean, what’s it for?”
“It’s a very simple little spell,” Annara said. “It’s called the Spell of the Spinning Coin.”
“And it just makes a coin spin on forever? That seems pretty pointless.”
“It does do a little more than that,” the wizard admitted. “Emner spun that one, I taught him the spell, as it wasn’t one he knew. It will keep spinning as long as he’s alive. If he’s seriously ill, or badly injured, the spinning will slow down, and it may even wobble a little if it’s very bad. If he dies, it will stop.”
“Oh, I see,” Sterren said. “So you would know if, say, he had been killed by bandits on the way to Akalla.”
Annara and Agor exchanged glances. “It wasn’t the bandits I was worried about,” Annara said.
Sterren nodded. “I suppose not.” He hesitated, then pushed on. He could hardly have realistically hoped for a better opening. “I see it’s still spinning, and he’s been gone for all these months. He must have contacted the Wizards’ Guild by now.”
“Yes,” Annara said, flatly.
“And they haven’t done anything? Have they communicated with you?”
She hesitated, then said, “My lord Sterren, why do you ask?”
Sterren blinked. “I’m curious,” he said.
“You’ll pardon me, my Lord Chancellor, but I’m not sure I care to satisfy your curiosity.”
He had half expected this reaction. “Annara,” he said slowly, “I can understand your caution, but believe me, I’m not going to cause you any trouble.”