North of Games Street the window displays had generally been of fabrics, or furniture, or kitchenware, or other commonplace goods. Here, though, they were a little less ordinary. One window held strangely-shaped bottles of multi-colored liquids, while another displayed only a dusty stuffed dragon – a mere baby, perhaps seven feet from the tip of its nose to the tip of its tail, and a wingspan Emmis judged to be no more than ten feet, though it was hard to be sure, since the wings weren't extended. A third held nothing but a dinner plate that was inexplicably sending up an endless shower of sparks, a spray reaching perhaps a foot high, and that changed color every few seconds.

One did display kitchenware, in the form of a teapot and half a dozen cups, but the teapot was ambling about on stubby little china feet.

Several windows had no displays at all, just velvet curtains.

And some held cards listing spells offered for sale, often in runes so ornate they were hard to read. A few of these glowed without need of any visible light source. Lar stopped to read one of these cards, and Emmis stopped beside him.

It was a fairly modest list – Fendel's Rune of Privacy, the Spell of the Spinning Coin, the Greater and Lesser Spells of Invaded Dreams, Eknerwal's Preserving Spell, Fendel's Infatuous Love Spell – concluding with, "and Many Diverse Others."

"That's a wizard's shop?" Lar asked.

"Yes," Emmis replied, even before looking up at the signboard over the door that announced, "Edarth of Ethshar, Master Wizard."

"What about that?" The Vondishman pointed at a shop window illuminated by a glowing sphere about a foot in diameter. The globe was surrounded by a dozen gleaming constructions of crystal and metal ranging from a thumb-sized amulet to an open-work contraption the size of a large dog, none of them with any recognizable purpose.

"I think that's a sorcerer," Emmis said.

Lar stared for a moment, then turned away shaking his head. "We don't have anything like that in Vond!"

The two of them continued down the street, with Emmis occasionally looking over his shoulder to be sure Hagai was still there, and soon reached the corner of Warlock Street.

"There it is," Emmis said, gesturing.

Lar frowned. "It's dark," he said.

Emmis had to admit that he had a point; where about half the shops on Arena were lit, almost none on Warlock Street were. "I suppose they don't want to work as late," he said. "You know the proverb – working on Festival means good money but it's bad advertising."

"Bad what?"

"Advertising." Emmis sighed. "I don't know the word in any other languages. Signs, notices, things like that."

Lar looked confused. "I don't think that's a proverb back in the empire," he said. "At least, I can't place it."

"Maybe not."

"And it isn't Festival for months, so I don't…"

"Never mind," Emmis interrupted. "Just forget it. All I meant is, warlocks don't seem to work late. I suppose they don't need to; they don't need to pay for any ingredients, or buy herbs, or appease any demons."

"They still need to buy food and pay taxes, don't they?"

Emmis grimaced. "Honestly, I'm not sure. There's a rumor that warlocks can live on their magic, like someone with a wizard's bloodstone, and if I were a tax collector I don't think I'd press a reluctant warlock very hard."

Lar's expression changed. "And… well, they try not to use more magic than they must."

"Yes. The more magic they use, the sooner they're Called."

Lar walked along Warlock Street and looked over the unlit signboards and darkened windows, with Emmis tagging close behind, while Hagai hung back, apparently still unaware that he had been spotted.

There were no stuffed dragons or crystal structures here; most of the windows held nothing but shutters or black curtains, though Emmis supposed that might be different by daylight. The signboards mostly simply gave the proprietor's name. Some appended the word "warlock," but none claimed any further title; no one here called himself a master.

"Not very informative," Emmis remarked. "Perhaps we should come back tomorrow."

"Tomorrow I am to meet with the overlord, am I not?"

"I don't know," Emmis said. "Tomorrow I talk to my contact at the Palace, and find out whether he's arranged anything."

"Ah." Lar stopped in front of one of the handful of illuminated shops, where a card stood in the window. "ISHTA OF FRESHWATER," proclaimed the large runes at the top. Beneath, smaller, elaborately-curled runes added, "Healing a Specialty – man, woman, child, or beast. Antiquities Restored. Porcelain amp; Other Valuables Repaired."

"It would seem at least one warlock works late," he said.

Emmis made a noncommital noise.

Lar marched up and tried the door; it opened with a light push, and he stepped inside. Emmis reluctantly followed.

They found themselves in a good-sized, well-lit room where half a dozen people were clustered around a table at one end.

"…told you, there's a piece missing," a woman was saying. "See, right there?"

"No," another voice said, a male one.

"It's tiny," replied a third, one that sounded like a child.

"Yes, it is," the first agreed, "but it's definitely missing, and if I replace it out of thin air I can't guarantee it'll match perfectly."

"But we'll never find something that small!" a fourth voice said – another woman, Emmis thought. "Someone's probably stepped on it and crushed it, or the cat might have eaten it!"

"I can make a replacement," the first woman said. Emmis was fairly certain the voice was coming from a black-clad figure, presumably Ishta of Freshwater. "I just want you to understand that it may not be exactly as it was before. Without the original piece I can't just rebuild it, I need to make a new piece, and since I never saw the missing bit, it may not match exactly."

"You can't use your magic to make it match?" the man demanded.

"No. I'm a warlock, not a wizard. I can move and shape things, down to the very tiniest particles, and I can see and feel things you cannot, but I can't simply make the damage unhappen. A wizard probably could, with the right spell, but it would almost certainly cost you more than my fee." She glanced over her shoulder at Lar and Emmis, then turned back to her customers. "Why don't you discuss it, and I'll be right back?" Without waiting for an answer she turned and left the table, striding briskly toward the two men just inside her door.

She was short and a little thinner than average, with a pointed chin and dark, piercing eyes, and she wore her waist-length hair loose. She stopped a few feet away and looked up at the new arrivals. "Yes?"

"Hello," Lar said, as Emmis inched back to make it plain that he was not in charge. "I had a few questions I was hoping you could answer."

"Then ask them," the woman said.

"You're Ishta the Warlock?"

"Yes."

"I have a grandson of an age to be apprenticed," Lar said. "We were thinking of sending him to Ethshar to learn warlockry."

Ishta held up a hand and glanced back at her customers, who were whispering amongst themselves. "That's a subject that deserves my full attention. Let me finish with these people, and then we can discuss it."

"As you please."

"You can't even see where it's missing!" one of the other women shouted, before Ishta could say anything more; the warlock turned and glided back to the table.

Emmis bit his lip; Ishta had glided back, her feet an inch or two off the floor, rather than walking. Any doubt about whether she was a real warlock had just vanished; only a warlock could fly so casually.

And any thought of asking Lar whether he really had a grandson vanished, as well – warlocks were more sensitive in certain ways than ordinary people. That didn't necessarily mean Ishta could hear a whisper from across the room, but it might.