The Queen and the Mage

by Wilma van Wyngaarden

  “Orwen Miller!”

  “Who wants to know?” came the faint response.

  “Woliff of Gryor!”

  “High Priest Woliff?” A large figure stood silhouetted against the faint light along the horizon.

  “Which way are you going?”

  “West… home!”

  “Were you not on your way to Gryor with a load of goods?”

  “What did you say?”

  “Are you not traveling to Gryor?” Woliff repeated at the top of his lungs. The boats rode the waves at a distance almost close enough to converse.

  There was a pause. Then Orwen roared back. “Gryor is not open for business! I will return at some future date!”

  “Row this boat closer,” Woliff snarled at his crew, who were already red-faced and puffing. One was watching the sail and pulling on a rope to control it. A finicky gust of wind played around them, and the boat slowly spun.

  “I do not understand you,” Woliff shouted when they drew a little closer.

  “Your roads are closed by tolls,” Orwen bellowed back. “My buyers could not get through, and even if they had, the wharfs are locked down by armed men… perhaps I will try again when trade returns to normal!”

  “Highly unusual!” Woliff responded after a moment or two. “Accompany me back to the Cities and I will straighten everything out!”

  Orwen shook his head with finality. “Here comes a south wind squall… we must seize the opportunity.” He raised an arm in farewell. The sails of the three boats were quivering and beginning to lift. Their prows swung around.

  “I have a message for your chancellor!” Woliff glared across the distance between them as the boats slid on by, his mask of geniality gone. “Tell him the High Priest Woliff does not play games… Tell him to give me what I want or every soul in that stinking swamp will pay the price!”

  Orwen gave him a cheerful wave. “What did you say, High Priest?… I could not hear! Best of luck for a fast passage home… you are only a day out!” He gave a command over his shoulder without taking his narrowed eyes from Woliff’s. The boats tacked westward, gathering speed, and leaving Woliff’s boat rolling in their wake.

  “Where’s that damned sorcerer?” snarled Woliff, his mouth an ugly line. “Mangus! Throw some of your cold fire at that boat to show them I mean business!”

  Mangus was still gagging over the side. “Throw some fire… now?” he gasped incredulously. “How can I do that when I am as sick as I am?”

  “Do it!” Woliff took a long stride, picked him up by his stained cloak and shook him. Mangus sagged, moaning.

  “I cannot…!”

  “Then I will do it myself! Have you not taught me how?”

  Mangus scrabbled at the deck in sudden consternation. “Perhaps it is better not to, High Priest! I will collect my strength… Give me a moment to…”

  But Woliff had swung back with a flash of temper. Glaring at the nearest boat, he spoke the words Mangus had taught him, gathered up what he recalled of the skills he had practiced, and concentrated all the power he could muster. A ball of flame flew through the air and struck the rear deck with a snap. There was a sizzle, and a rope burned through in seconds. An acrid stink filled the air.

  Orwen yelled at his captain, “Cut that rope and throw it overboard!” but Macory could not get close enough to do so.

  From Woliff’s boat, Mangus blinked in dismay at his student’s achievement. Woliff shook off his rage and now, with a pleased grin, admired the spitting white fire he had created.

  “That is not…” Mangus said uneasily.

  “Ha, look at that! I have found my true sorcerer’s power… and damn it, would you look at that!”

  “That is not cold fire! What have you done?”

  “I threw the cold fire as you taught me. Look at it!” said Woliff. The white sizzle grew in size, with sparks flying from the rope and the deck catching fire around it.

  “It is not cold fire! You have made a mistake… What did you do?”

  “Who cares? Look, the deck is burning! Will that not show them I am not to be trifled with?” He laughed aloud. “Catch that wind, lads! Eastbound and home… let’s go!” His crew, silent and wide-eyed, jumped to their stations as if in fear of their lives. The sail caught the wind, and the boat began to tack toward Gryor.

  From Orwen’s boat, they could hear Woliff roaring with laughter. A crew member threw a bucket of water over the hissing white fire, which only spread it further.

  “It is doing no good. Men, get ready to launch the rowboat! If this sorcerer’s fire does not die on its own!” Orwen’s mind ran quickly through what he had on board, and he ducked into the cabin to snatch up his carpetbag and a few other things of value.

  Woliff’s fire was not fading on its own. Captain Macory tried to smother it with a wet tarp only to have the tarp catch fire. Another sailor took an axe to the flaming wood. He dropped it with a yelp when white sparks ran up the handle like a pack of tiny wolves.

  “Leave it!” Orwen ordered. “Get your things and get in the rowboat! Now!” The other two boats were circling back, the crews watching slack-jawed as the white fire spread along the deck. It ran up the ropes and caught the edge of the sail.

  Orwen, Macory and the crew descended to the rowboat, cutting free from their vessel as it wallowed and spun. The loosely flapping sail was soon blazing brighter than the sun’s rays as the sky brightened.

  “I will take a loss on that one!” Orwen exclaimed. “At least we have our lives, lads. Get us as far away from that fire as you can! Good Goddess—I can still hear the fiend Woliff laughing.” Moments later, they climbed from the tossing rowboat to one of the other boats, clutching the few belongings they had caught up. As soon as they were aboard, the other crews put as much distance as possible between them and their doomed sister vessel. As the strange fire consumed it, the cargo boat lit up like a torch. A cloud of acrid smoke billowed on the wind.

  “Good Goddess!” Orwen repeated in awe, watching it tilt to one side and begin to sink. “Did you see that, Macory? And still burning beneath the waves!” he marveled.

  “That was no true fire—it was sorcerer’s fire,” Macory muttered bitterly, as the vessel he had captained disappeared beneath the waves.

  “It was. I am glad I did not agree to return to Gryor. Can you imagine the position we might have found ourselves in, Captain? A message for the chancellor indeed… the war between us has just escalated!”

  10

  “Slop wagon!”

  Arrow, jerked from his sleep, could only gape in bewilderment at the figure lit by two sputtering candles and the dawn light finding its way through the window.

  “Well-named, Bell-fool!” said the old man with a snarl. He swung around in his chair and stared out the window with his heavy-lidded gaze. Arrow rubbed drool off his chin, shut his gaping mouth, trying to calm his fluttering heart. He was covered with a blanket, lying on the mat, and... yes... itching.

  With a curse he sprang up half awake, staggering. “Curses—fleas!”

  “I hear the slop wagon,” said the old man irritably. “I missed it yesterday and... yes, also the day before.”

  Arrow cursed again and got up. He stumbled through the outer rooms. Guided by the foul smell, he found the slop pail and went down the twenty-two steps and along the arched alley corridor to the Street of Three Stars. He surmised correctly that the slop wagon did not service the alley. In the Street of the Thin Horse, he spotted a narrow cart. Ahead of it, in the dim light, the rump of a thickset blue-roan pony was visible, and next to it shuffled the slop collector himself.

  “Hey, master!”

  The cart was a tank on wheels, tarred wood with liquid dripping from a crack in the right rear corner. A rich organic odour wafted by... no, engulfed him. “Who be you?” croaked the wiry little man leading the pony, having stopped and peered back through the dim light.

  “Bell-fool, Teacher's new em-ploy-ee! Reporting with slops, SIR!”

  “
Oho!” cackled the slop collector. “Is he still alive, then? Toss 'er in! Old man hasn't been out in a week.”

  Arrow up-ended the pail and shook it, trying not to splatter himself. Fleas and shit! If he’d had the foresight to grab his few belongings, he'd have dropped the slop pail in the wagon and trotted off in the opposite direction.

  “Onward, SIR!” he shouted too loudly, still playing the fool as he fought the gag reflex.

  The man cringed and waved a bony hand at him. “Shh, shh, go back to bed, fool! Get up, Blue!”

  The pony shook its ears and leaned into his collar. Arrow dropped the pail, shucked off his tunic and shook it out. He peered at it for fleas. Not enough light reached down into the street and the damp cold of early morning turned his skin to gooseflesh. He shook it out with a snap and then put it back on.

  With a curse he ran back down the alley, remembered the pail and got it, then trotted all the way back to his new home. “Temporary!” he assured himself and ran up the twenty-two steps to pound on the door.

  After an interminable wait, he heard shuffling sounds. The door opened and the old man reminded him with dignity, “I am not a gazelle.”

  Arrow's ire subsided. “Fleas and shit!” he muttered, but not with the force that would have burst out of him a moment ago. “I will not sleep in this hovel another night.” He closed the door behind him in the darkness and followed the shuffling sounds.

  “I have some herbs for the fleas,” the old man's voice said with a hint of chagrin beneath the scholar's loftiness. “The last one had a dog. I had forgotten it slept on that mat with him. You can hang it from the window.”

  “I'll throw it out the window,” snapped Arrow as they re-entered the living room. “My employment with you is over!”

  His mentor said impatiently, “Herbs, I say! I have the means. T’was merely an oversight. Did you catch the slop wagon?”

  Arrow had left the pail at the top of the stairs. “The wagon master was glad to hear you were alive, as you hadn't been down in a week.”

  “Complaints, complaints,” complained the old man. “If I myself could trot down those stairs, would I need help?” He clamped his thin lips together and shot a glance at Arrow, who violently shook the sleeping mat outside the open window. “I have a new mat in the shop for you. Give me that one. I will wrap it up with herbs for a few days and it will be good as new.”

  Arrow gave him a disgusted glance. “I suppose it will go to the market to be sold...!” He stopped as the sage glared at him.

  He had an instinctive regard for the teacher, and he had slept well in the safety of the man's abode. Since the horseman, his previous master, had taken ill, he had been on edge. And there was no way to know what troubles lay ahead, with so much unrest in the countryside. But now he was in the City and had even found a niche of sorts. Was he not wiser to stay where he was, at least for now?

  “Well, if you can do something about the fleas, master, I will stay… What is your plan for today?”

  Some time later Arrow staggered down the stairs and into the alley with a large, lumpy burden on his back and the old man shuffling along behind. When the morning light found them, it also found a gleeful gleam in the teacher’s eyes.

  “I shall bring in some coinage today, so I shall!” he said to Arrow. “It has been some weeks since my servant left and I could not carry on as usual. You may entertain yourself after we set up the goods. I shall not need you continuously but please return at times, in case I do.”

  “I will need some time to recover my strength, sage!” Arrow panted, wobbling a little as his load shifted. “Was it necessary to take half the inventory?”

  “Half the inventory?” There was a wheezing chuckle. “Weakling, this is but the tip of a bedrock—much remains unseen.”

  Arrow groaned but pressed on. The Street of the Thin Horse seemed much longer now he was pressed into service as a beast of burden. “Can you not keep a donkey? Or perhaps trade something for a barrow?”

  In the Middle-market, the old man chivvied Arrow over to where he had been sitting the day before. He urged him to use caution lowering his load to the ground and then told him to untie the moth-eaten velvet fabric. It looked like a bedcover, originally woven with wealthier surroundings in mind.

  They spread the fabric flat and arranged the display for the perusal of market-goers. The goods varied from several pairs of children's leather booties and shoes to carvings in wood, ivory and bone, along with metal curios, dishes, glassware and a few books.

  Arrow sank to the ground and pulled out the rest of yesterday's flatbread, content to sit and watch the market's early morning bustle. Vendors busied themselves, yawning. Some apparently lived within their stalls, others arrived with barrows of wares, or wagons that were unloaded and then driven off again. Some wagons were the actual stalls, and the horse or donkey pulling it was led elsewhere for the day after unhitching. It was a market of endless variety, of fabric, food, spices, clothing, utensils and furniture, and even musical instruments and hair cutting.

  The larger farmers’ market was on the outskirts of the City, where live animals and produce were bought, sold and traded. Arrow had wandered through it when he had arrived the day before, eyeing horses as he went. He had seen none that he knew, but had exchanged glances with a few. One had nickered at him.

  It was a good morning for a walk through the farmers’ market again today. And he had other plans as well.

  In some lives, a promise might wither and rot like an apple. Arrow’s was still alive. He had a promise to keep, a score to settle. Time was a-wasting.

  The chill of early morning dispersed, and a dry heat crept in.

  Arrow, seeing more shoppers in the market and in particular a noisy group of young women accompanied by children, stood up and stretched.

  “Old man,” he said sharply—partly to wake him, as he seemed to be nodding off. “Allow me to entertain you!”

  The heavy lids lifted, shooting a flash of cynicism from the not-so-sleepy eyes beneath.

  “How do you propose to do that?”

  Arrow pulled off his tunic and tossed it aside, and then with practiced ease did a handstand.

  By the time the children caught sight of him, he was walking on his hands, his toes pointing skyward.

  “Look—look, a boy walking on his hands!” they shouted to their mothers. Arrow played to his audience by running a few steps on his hands, then did backflips from hands to feet, and back to hands. He bounded upright and finished by cartwheeling closely to the goods spread out on the old man’s ground cloth.

  “Mind the merchandise, you young fool!” snapped the old man. In answer, he cartwheeled back and seized a small brass figurine, a wooden lion and a carved ivory pipe.

  Seconds later the three items were spinning through the air as he deftly juggled them.

  The children screamed with delight, while their mothers cast amused glances at the juggler.

  Arrow leaned sideways, then further yet. Meanwhile, his hands descended until they were inches from the ground, and he balanced on one foot while the other pointed toward a roof on the other side of the market.

  Now near his master’s merchandise again, he substituted the things he was juggling, firing them high into the air—first three, then four and five items.

  “You cursed young devil!” croaked the old man, “Mind your... How dare you...! Not the elephant god!... Drop that bowl and die by my poisoned blade!” His voice rose to a fearsome howl, as Arrow flung a brilliant glass bowl skyward. The other items, one by one, dropped back into his hand to go back to the moth-eaten cloth. Just in the nick of time, as the audience gave a collective gasp, he caught the glowing green bowl in both hands and popped upright, slightly out of breath.

  Arrow hugged the bowl to his chest, feeling the cold smooth surface against his skin. He pulled a deep bow, first to his shaken master, then quickly towards the audience.

  The bowl became an object of entreaty. He extended it towards the chil
dren and the others who had paused in the marketplace, their attention caught by the combination of skill and mischief.

  “Oh, see how I have offended, see!

  My master is not pleased with me!

  Tho’ I escape the blade, I fear

  He'll beat me yet. Oh, save my tears!

  A penny here, a penny there

  Will save me from my master's scare!

  Thankye, young friend, thankye young miss

  Thankye, ma'am, I thankye for this...” The verse flowed off Arrow's tongue as the children and a few others dropped pennies into the glass bowl he held out, while nearby vendors hooted with glee.

  “...Thankye, thankye!” The little crowd dispersed, and life in the market continued. With a practiced swipe of his hand, Arrow captured the coins and turned back to the teacher.

  He set down the bowl and casually met the old man's glare. One eye drooped alarmingly, the other flashed evilly. His jaw jutted out, neck thrust forward between hunched shoulders like an ancient vulture, grounded by infirmity.

  Arrow flashed the old man a grin and tossed the coins from hand to hand. “See, old man. I have a handful of coins. How much have you made yet this morning?”

  “You might have thought to warn me,” growled the old gentleman. “I could have prepared an oration to overshadow your dreadful rhyming.”

  Arrow put the coins away and reached for his tunic, eyeing the old man warily.

  “No worry, young master, thou'lt live to juggle another day. But break the bowl and thou'lt be juggling fire with the devil, my boy.”

  Arrow laughed and slipped his shirt back on. The sweat from his efforts cooled his skin against the increasing warmth.

  A clatter of hooves echoed in the streets beyond the market and, with little warning, a group of riders appeared along the main street at the top of the market. Arrow, standing near his master's goods, eased back against the wall and relaxed, his hair falling forward across his face.

  He counted the horsemen. Six, seven, eight, nine in total… five well-horsed soldiers of the King's Guard and a few noblemen surrounding a rider in travel-worn clothing…