"We can do nothing while he remains in the Capital," Seklos said at last. "He must be brought to us."
"He can he maneuvered out of the Capital."
"He must be brought to—a place. It would be best if it were done while he treads the Wizard’s Way. Then it is a matter of a simple spell."
The blue robe shrugged. Any wizard of the Mighty could be counted on to use that magical means for transport for any journey of over a few leagues.
"How long would it take you to be ready? The next full moon is on…"
"I did not say I would do it," Seklos cut him off. "I said we would consider it." He nodded toward the sign hanging in the air, now a deep violet fading to black. "The sigil darkens. Our meeting is at an end." He turned and walked toward the opposite edge of the clearing. Wordlessly the Shadow Warrior followed, moving crabwise to keep his enemy always in sight.
Behind them the blue-robed wizard nodded. He knew full well that the remnants of the Dark League would join him in this. What other choice had they?
Two: Nailing Jelly to a Tree
Everything always takes twice as long and costs four times as much as you planned.
"I dunno," Wiz sighed again and drained his wine cup. "This isn’t working out anything like I thought it would." He set the cup down and leaned toward Bal-Simba, elbows on knees.
"Look, I took the seat on the Council because you wanted me to. I’m not a wizard, I’ve never been a politician and those meetings are torture."
"Your position and power entitle you to a seat."
"Yeah, but I’ve got important work to do."
It was Bal-Simba’s turn to sigh. He did so gustily and the bones of his necklace clattered with the movement of his barrel chest. "Sparrow, listen to a poor fat old wizard for a moment.
"You talk of finishing your spell engine. But that is only half your task. The other half is teaching others to use it and the largest part of that is getting them to accept it."
Wiz toyed with the cup, running his finger along the rim. "I suppose you’re right. I never was any good at teaching. I guess I need to try harder."
"Perhaps it would be more to the point if you tried to understand how others feel. Your task is difficult. But you make it more so. Your attitude does not make you friends, either on the Council of among the other wizards and that adds to the hostility against your methods. Specifically, you do yourself no good at all when you belittle the Council."
"I don’t belittle the Council!"
Bal-Simba arched a brow. "No? But your work is more important."
"Well…"
"Sparrow, the Council of the North has stood for centuries as the shield of humans against malevolent magic, both from the Dark League and from the World at large. It is the closest thing to a ruler this land has."
Wiz nodded. "Look, I’d be the last person to deny you and the other wizards have done a heck of a job. But magical programming changes things. As soon as I get the compiler perfected and get to work on the spells, anyone will be able to use magic. There won’t be a need for a Council of wizards to guard and protect humans."
Bal-Simba shook his head. "Sparrow, much as I admire your directness I think it leads you astray. But even if what you say is so, we must still get from where we are to where you wish to be. To do that you need the cooperation of all wizards, especially the Mighty and most especially the Council. You do not get someone’s cooperation by telling him he is obsolete and his life’s work is outworn."
"It would be easier if some of the Mighty would learn to use the compiler. But they’re all so dense."
"Wizards do not have the reputation for being stupid," Bal-Simba said with deceptive mildness.
Wiz sighed and rubbed his eyes. "You’re right. Stupid isn’t the word for it. But they don’t generalize. You guys learn one thing at a time and you can’t seem to work from a bunch of specifies to a general proposition." He shook his head. "And a lot of programming is generalization."
"Nonsense!" came a firm voice from the doorway. Wiz and Bal-Simba turned to the sound and saw a tall theatrically handsome man in wizard’s blue. His silver hair swept over his ears in carefully arranged waves to perfectly set off his aristocratic features and evenly tanned skin.
Bal-Simba nodded. "My Lord Ebrion."
Wiz stiffened, but he also nodded politely. Dammit, I will not lose my temper.
"The essence of magic is in the particular," Ebrion said in his beautifully modulated voice as he came into the room. "To control magic we must understand this tree or this fire, not these ’classes’ you keep on about. All trees are not alike, Sparrow, and it is only by deeply perceiving an object that we may control it magically."
Wiz kept quiet. He had enough trouble with Ebrion and his traditionalist friends already. Like all the traditionalists, Ebrion didn’t like Wiz. Unlike most of them he made no secret of his dislike beyond a certain cold civility. Worse, he was a theoretician, or the closest thing to a theoretician of magic this world had ever produced. Wiz’s success had thrown him into the shade in his own specialty and that made him dislike Wiz all the more.
"Magic is both organic and particular, Sparrow," Ebrion went on as if lecturing an apprentice. "The best magic cannot be built up from bits and pieces like a jackdaw’s nest. It must be conceived of whole."
"Wiz’s method seemed effective enough against the Dark League," Bal-Simba said quietly.
"Lord, I have never denied that the Sparrow ranks among the Mighty, but sheer talent does not make his theories correct."
He waved a hand dismissingly. "Oh, I will admit the trick of constructing a demon to recite his spells for him is useful—albeit it was not unknown to us before. But his notion of how magic works?" He shook his head.
"The compiler is a lot more than a spell-reciting demon," Wiz interjected.
"So you have told us repeatedly. But at bottom that is all it does, is it not?"
"No, it’s a compiler written in a threaded interpreted language that…"
Ebrion touched his fingertips to his forehead, as if stricken with a sudden headache. "Please Sparrow, spare us one of your explanations. You have told us this ’compiler’ demon recites the spells you create and that much, at least, is comprehensible."
Wiz started to protest and then clamped his jaw. Ebrion wasn’t interested in explanations and he wasn’t any good at making them.
"Anyway, you’re wrong," he said sullenly. "I don’t have any talent for magic. Any one of the Mighty can sense that."
"We can all sense that you do not have our kind of talent. But you have shown us that you have enormous magical ability. What you have not shown us is that your system works. To do that you would have to teach others to make magic with it, by your own admission."
"So I’m a lousy teacher," Wiz said, nettled.
"For over a year you have dwelt here and tried to teach this marvelous system of yours. Have any of us mastered it? Has anyone but yourself learned it?"
"Programming takes time to learn. You didn’t learn magic overnight did you?"
"No, but with a few-months study I was able to perform certain useful spells. Your pupils work and work and can do little—and that poorly."
"You’ve got to learn the basics and work up."
"No Sparrow, this ’general theory of magic’ of yours is an illusion. You must learn one spell at a time. You must practice every gesture, every word, understand every influence. One spell at a time, Sparrow." He looked down at Wiz and smiled mockingly.