"Just fix it," the man said. "If it isn't perfect, we'll worry about it then."

"Very good," Ishta said. "I'll have it for you by midday tomorrow."

"You can't do it tonight?" the child's voice whined.

"Tomorrow," Ishta said firmly. "Now, if you will excuse me…" She began herding the entire party toward the door.

Lar and Emmis stepped hastily aside as a middle-aged man, a middle-aged woman, a young woman, a youth, and a boy of perhaps ten were marched out onto Warlock Street. Ishta closed the door behind them, then turned to the ambassador.

"Would you care to sit?" she asked, gesturing toward chairs near the table.

"Thank you," Lar said, with a partial bow.

A moment later the three of them were seated, Ishta and Lar facing each other, while Emmis was slightly to one side, next to the table. Emmis took the opportunity to study the object on the table, obviously the item Ishta had promised to repair.

It was an elaborate ceramic sculpture of a tree, about two feet tall, with a girl seated in the branches and a young man standing below and looking up at her, all delicately painted in colors a little brighter than nature. The level of detail was astonishing; the tree's leaves were individually modeled, veins painted on each, and tiny ripe fruit hung from the branches here and there. The girl's hand, clutching at the realistically-textured tree bark, had every fingernail clearly depicted; one of her sandals hung loose, while the other was secure. The man's clothing was so carefully done that Emmis thought he could count the coins in the purse on his belt.

"Their cat knocked it off the shelf," Ishta said, following his gaze. "I've put it back together, but if you look, there's a bit missing just here." She pointed at the girl's right ear. Sure enough, half the earlobe was gone, and a curl of hair behind the ear was snapped off short. "I'll have to conjure that out of dust in the air. It's not all that difficult to find the right material, but blending it in smoothly and getting it just the right shape will be tricky."

"Oh," Emmis said.

She smiled at him, then turned to Lar. "Now, you said your grandson was looking for an apprenticeship?"

"Yes," Lar said. "He says he wants to be a warlock. I don't know where he got the idea, since there aren't any warlocks in Semma, but he's very sure."

"You're from Semma?" She glanced at Emmis.

"I am," Lar said. "Emmis isn't. He's my wife's cousin's son; they live in Shiphaven. Emmis is my guide."

"Where is Semma?"

"In the Small Kingdoms, far to the south, near the edge of the World," Lar replied.

"And your grandson is there?"

"Yes."

"But he would come to Ethshar?"

"For his apprenticeship, yes. But we thought he would come back when he's a journeyman."

Ishta nodded. "I haven't trained any apprentices," she said, "but I'm ready to try."

"You're a master warlock?"

"We don't…" Ishta hesitated. "We don't have formal ranks like wizards or smiths, but I'm qualified to train an apprentice."

Lar looked uncertain – though Emmis recognized the expression as feigned, and hoped that the warlock didn't. "Is there a Guild? We don't – we have no warlocks in Semma, we don't know how it is. I heard about a council…" His voice trailed off.

"The Council of Warlocks isn't really a guild. It doesn't set standards for taking apprentices."

"Ah."

Emmis pretended to study the tree again as he listened.

This was educational, he thought. He hadn't known whether the Council set standards or not.

"We do have several questions," Lar said, after a moment of awkward silence.

"Of course," Ishta said. "Feel free to ask. There will be an initiation fee, but no other charges. If the boy proves completely unsuitable the fee will be refunded, but that's quite rare; perhaps one applicant in a hundred, if that, is unable to become a warlock. If our personalities prove incompatible after initiation, I will arrange for another warlock to take him on in my stead – he can't be sent home or put to another trade, as the process of becoming a warlock is irreversible.* You understand that?"

"I do now," Lar said.

"You may have heard that among wizards, apprentices who are found unfit by the Wizards' Guild are killed. I don't know whether that's true for wizards, or for any of the other magicians, but rest assured, warlocks don't do that. Warlockry has its dangers, certainly, but we don't intentionally kill even the most incompetent apprentice."

"How… how reasonable," Lar said, clearly dismayed by the turn the conversation had taken. Emmis didn't think he was faking this time.

"You said you had questions?"

"Yes! We live in Semma, as I said, and there are no warlocks there…"

"You said that."

"Yes. Well, that's my question – why are there no warlocks in Semma?"

Ishta blinked at him.

"I mean, is there a reason there are no warlocks there? Would Kelder not be able to come home?"

"I don't see why not," Ishta said. "That is, I don't know what your local laws are, but there's no reason I know that a warlock couldn't live there."

"But then why aren't there any?"

"I don't know for certain," Ishta admitted. "You must understand, I was only six on the Night of Madness, and only became a warlock when I was twelve, years afterward, but I've heard stories. I don't know whether they're true."

"What sort of stories?"

"What I heard was that after the Night of Madness, before things settled down again, all the warlocks in the Small Kingdom were killed or exiled. The kings and lords thought they were too dangerous, too unpredictable, so they killed any they could catch and drove the rest away."

"Some places, yes," Lar said. "I remember some of that. I don't think it happened in Semma."

Ishta turned up an empty palm. "If Semma is far enough to the south, perhaps there were simply no warlocks there to begin with."

"But wouldn't some have moved there?"

Ishta frowned. "Why?"

Lar was visibly discomfited. "The thing – the Calling. I have heard about that, and isn't it worse farther north?"

Ishta sighed. "You know about the Calling?"

"Yes. I've heard that it draws warlocks to the north, and is weaker the farther south one goes."

She shook her head. "It's not north or south," she said. "It depends entirely on how far you are from a certain spot in Aldagmor. You're right that it would be weaker in the southern Small Kingdoms, but the stories haven't made us feel welcome there. When warlocks flee the Calling we usually go west to Ethshar of the Rocks, or Tintallion of the Isle, not south. And most of us don't flee. There is no safe place anywhere in the World, and most of us prefer to stay in our homes and fight it there, with our friends around, not go running off into the wild somewhere to live among strangers."

"The Calling can be fought?"

"To a point." The warlock appeared uncomfortable saying this. "I'm told it can help to have other warlocks around, which is another reason not to flee to your Semma. You understand, though, this isn't something we discuss freely with outsiders."

"Of course, but if my grandson is going to hear this Calling someday, I want to know about it."

"He may never hear it, if he's careful. I have been a warlock for sixteen years, and haven't heard it at all yet. I use my magic to do delicate, small-scale work precisely because it's sheer magical power that attracts the Calling; the things I do require intense concentration, but very little raw energy. You won't see me flying about the streets, flinging magic around."

Emmis remembered how she had glided across the room without touching the floor, but said nothing, and tried to let his face show nothing. She might not even know she had done it, and he had no idea how she would react if he mentioned it.