"Very well," Naitachal agreed, and turned back.
Soren descended the rest of the stair and motioned to him to follow.
The wizard led him through a short passageway, opened a door with a flourish, and gestured grandly.
"Behold!" he said, proudly. "The heart of the Associa- tion!"
"This is it?" Naitachal almost said. He couldn't believe it. All the kingdom's magic is performed in this little place?
Though considerably larger than the great hall of the palace, this place left much to be desired. At least here some sunlight came in through two narrow windows, high at the top of the rafters. It was enough light, though, to show the sheer barrenness of the room, the pale wood planks that served as wall and floor, the brazier that hung above them, the unpainted walls. Hanging in the air was a nasty aroma reminding him of burning tar.
"So, as I understand it -- all magic must be cast here, and only by license." He raised an eyebrow. "To someone from my land this seems somewhat -- restrictive."
"The King is very generous when he grants licenses to practitioners," Soren replied defensively. "He almost never turns anyone down."
"Interesting." Naitachal tried to look as if it was interesting. "How much does a license cost? For say, a simple spell of good luck?"
Soren beamed. "Oh, that would be three thousand crowns. More, depending on the duration of the spell."
Naitachal wasn't sure what that translated Althean currency, but it sounded high. Nothing he saw explained why such things were regulated; and nowhere did he see a sign of all the official mages that were supposed to be here. All those wizards mat had burst into the Audience Chamber the day they arrived were nowhere in sight. Perhaps they resided in the palace on a more or less permanent basis.
Perhaps not. Perhaps, despite the robes and silly hats, they hadn't been wizards at all. Perhaps this whole thing was a facade.
But if that were the case, who was finding the "unli- censed" mages last night? And who had cast that spell of magic-detection that had come sweeping over him- self and the boy before they ever arrived here?
The hall wasn't empty. At one end, sitting outside a circle of what was probably salt, crudely drawn inside a pentagram, a "wizard" sat staring at the contents of a jar which was set at the middle of the pentagram. He sat cross-legged, looking utterly bored. As Naitachal watched, he yawned.
"He's been there all day. I'm not sure what he's up to," Soren said. "I hope you didn't have something in mind. He's booked the Hall for the rest of the day."
"And if I did?" Naitachal asked, shrewdly. "And I had the coin?"
Soren shook his head nervously. "I'm afraid that simply wouldn't be allowed. First of all, you're not a citizen."
The Dark Elf suspected this was the least of the reasons.
"And -- " the wizard continued. "You're an -- elf."
Naitachal chuckled, surprising the wizard. "I know that. My parents told me, long ago; my mirror repeats that information every day. What special significance does that have?"
Soren frowned, looking down at the wood floor. "I think perhaps it is time for you to leave." He started towards the door. "This way, sir."
Naitachal shrugged. Nothing he had seen here shed any light on his problems. And he wasn't happy that not one of his main questions had been answered.
This is not where they practice the real magic.
Instead, this is just the place where they let the ama- teurs sit and stare at pentagrams and crystals. The answer must be somewhere in the palace, in a place I haven't seen yet.
As Soren led him to the front door, Naitachal sensed something beneath the hall, deep under- ground. It was the same ominous darkness he'd felt earlier, but stronger now, and obviously coming from directly beneath him. Soren seemed oblivious to it, which only made sense; the Dark Elf had already decided he was far from being a "real" magician. His magical abilities are probably only a notch or two above those of the poor chap back there staring at the jar.