by Chris Turner
The city officials seized the rattle and took it to the Museum of Antiquities at Bazuur, much to Risgan’s misfortune. The relic hunter’s attempt at freeing the distraught magician from jail by use of the wish bone had failed. Apparently the one wielding the magic must also be a beneficiary of the enchantment in order for it to work. Risgan cursed himself for entrusting the rattle to the ineffectual Moeze in the first place. Moeze had somehow managed to swallow Afrid’s small skull amulet in the time he had before he was hauled to jail; doubtless with the intent to retrieve the adjunct at a later time, again to Risgan’s alarm.
Luck had likewise soured for Risgan in Bazuur, owing to his lack of merchandise. Penury and depressed spirits were his due. He commanded no crew; he curried no favour with supporters or repeat clients. A fresh start was what he decided he needed. At sunrise, he trudged to the balloon way past the southern magisterial quarter and waited at the near vacant station. The destination signs were stripped down and the balloons lay idle. He lay on a bench, dispirited, bone-tired from the last tasking days in Zanthia. He fell asleep, and dozed for an unknown time.
He awoke to a cry. People had gathered in the time while he slept. The sun was half way to the zenith. The conductor was bawling out the day’s destinations for the express carriage—to Fugis or Jeuth. One seemed as good as the other and Risgan chose Fugis. He paid his fare, four ozoks, and mounted the gangway of the foremost balloon, now looming red and white like a great celestial object rippling in the breeze. The long distance hauls required balloons of similar enormity. Risgan shared the carriage with two men and two women. A healthy fire roared smartly in the centre, heating the air that would keep the balloon afloat. Two teratyx birds the size of boulders flapped idly to the starboard and port flanks, tethered loosely to launch the vessel in its swings into the open sky. The conductor flared the fire, the ropes were cut and the carriage came drifting up like a great floating caravel.
From lofty heights, Risgan gripped the rope railing, gawping at the countryside below. To the west, glinting pavilions sparkled and spires of Bazuur were fast-disappearing. To the east, green pastures, woods, dells, thickets receded in a blue blur, merging into wilder terrain as the balloon rocked in a down-draught while passing over a small lake. The rigging creaked; the guy-wires took the stress of the weight. The gondola groaned while lifting higher upon currents of air on a course east. The squawks of the teratyx came loud and strident in their ears, wings beating as the conductor made small adjustments to the course.
For the whole of the morning the balloon drifted, traversing leagues upon leagues while the winds blew fair and the teratyx flew true.
The first part of the journey seemed uneventful, save for a minor encounter with an isk. The creature was only a smaller version of the monsters Risgan had fought in Zanthia, but the menace had brawn and approached without fear, a bowshot away from the gondola, while the conductor, somewhat experienced in the approach of feral marauders, repelled it with strike-poles tipped with a mild nerve poison. The huge bird zigzagged away, squawking in frustration.
The balloon passed over the region of old king Rarbur’s hunting-grounds, now fields of violet clover and grey-green woodland. While the passengers made small talk with one another, the conductor gestured to the sites below and Risgan saw standing stones, temples, keeps, bridges. Risgan studied his fellow passengers. The gentleman Imstiv was a lanky, somewhat spare travel agent and entrepreneur working out of Fugis. Bavast was shorter, a portly Lingarian tailor with an inclination for long stares and mutters. Of the two women, Vimisk was incontestably prettier than Ruzli and the most affable. Ruzli was stone-faced and taciturn: a seamstress with straight black hair, coiled back in a tight bun; Vimisk, a chestnut brunette, turned out, much to Risgan’s pleasure, to be a temple decorator in the famous sect of Vitus which had spread throughout the eastern regions of the lands. She was currently en route to Ghisli via Fugis.
Risgan tipped his hat, introducing himself as a dealer in rare gems and authentic curios. To his chagrin, he received no favourable response from the group, especially from the women, likely due to his raffish costume, which was soiled and spotted with brown didor blood, a consequence of the giant isk that had attacked their camp at Mirdask.
Risgan paid no heed. He thought of his future plans, and smiled a condescending smile. When he arrived at Fugis, he would take a hot bath at a reputable inn and enjoy a repast of fine lamb and ale. Yet realizing that he had no money, he gave a bitter groan. Such was sour fortune! Only a single ozok graced his pocket. He recalled that the well-scrubbed Imstiv seemed a man of coin and good humour and he decided to try a possible gambit. Casually he introduced the topic of certain business prospects in Fugis.
The man held up a firm hand. “Sorry, Risgan. I am full up with personnel in my turlyn carriage business and can take no more passengers to Dogas or Dharpun or wherever east you may be heading.”
Risgan stepped back, bowing politely. He turned his attention to Bavast, the stocky, inscrutable tailor who wore his hair cropped short, sported a brow of freckles and dressed in a black and green gown of fusk-silk. He wore a tiny red cap of a practicing Diosiphimes, a sign that he was perhaps more fastidious than one might favour when choosing a potential gambling partner. Nevertheless, the tailor seemed a man whose coins would prove as welcome as any other. However, Bavast would not gamble even at the low stakes of a single ozok, at which point Risgan gave a croaking cry of disappointment. Opportunity knocked when another rogue isk flew alongside the gondola and peered at them with jovial anticipation and its plump set of riders. The bird snapped at the port ropes and threatened to undermine the basket. The closest guide teratyx uttered an appalling shriek. Its eyes mirrored the threat of danger hanging imminent in the air. There was a single fierce struggle: a flurry of bloody feathers that floated thickly about the basket. The guide bird hung limp for a space. Then Risgan sprang to action. The conductor was hard put to repel the monster with the pipe forks strapped at the railing. The isk was big enough rip the head off a horse and Risgan little relished the prospect of being gored and eaten by one of their kind.
He flashed his gibbeth bone club; the wood found purchase as the gruesome head swung low. The winged horror went plummeting in a tailspin, landing impaled in a mesh of thorn bushes far below. The port teratyx was badly wounded and likely not to survive. Here, the conductor was forced to cut its reins and the beast wheeled awkwardly to land dead-weighted in the bushes. With visible consternation, the balloon conductor navigated the gondola to steadiness with one guide bird and he kept his eye peeled for new threats.
In retrospect, Risgan’s action was highly commended by Imstiv, who gave Risgan a hearty slap on the back. No less did Bavast, who afforded the relic hunter nods of approval. The tailor went so far as to boast that he might introduce Risgan to his nephew, Kluns, who owned a small curio shop in Fugis. “Kluns may be able to help you, Risgan, if not buy your curios from you directly, like that with the saffron glimmer I chanced to notice through the cracks of your purse when the isk thought to make you its dessert.”
Risgan gave a polite laugh. “The bauble is not for sale, so no need to worry.”
“Pity!” the man groaned. “Even I who am parsimonious, would venture a few coins for the piece. How much would you let such an item go for?”
Risgan stood back in reflection. It seemed the bauble was valuable in their eyes and he could indulge in some latitude. “It is extremely rare and would fetch a supreme price. But, as I intimated, the item is not for sale.”
“Come now, relic hunter!” the tailor teased him. “It must be, or else you would not entertain my vagaries, at least, for the right price.”
Risgan showed a dry smile. He had some leg room and suggested an alternative, “I might be inclined to venture a few similar items if not the actual bauble, as a barter in the game of Minx.”
Imstiv lofted bushy brows. “Minx, eh? I have some knowledge of the game. Here, I have my own jacks.”
Risgan
politely refused. “You are too generous, and I am not good at the game. By chance, I happen to have my own tokens right here, which are of superior quality. Look! They are new and slightly more colourful. They are inscribed with glyphs of ‘Rose’ and ‘Didor’, accepted in any standard, modern, game-playing arena.”
Imstiv instantly deferred with a placid nod. “As you will, Relic-trader.” He waved his hands as if the matter were of little ado.
“Perhaps I will join the game too,” Bavast ventured baldly, “if only to entertain the possibility of winning the bauble and passing these dreary hours in a more pleasant fashion.”
Risgan agreed though an uneasy feeling tugged at his heart. The passengers made room on a small luncheon table toward the rear of the craft. The conductor passed out chilled cactus juice to the passengers, to supplement their sport—beverages courtesy of the balloon agency. The two women stood by at a distance watching the game with mixed interest. Risgan gave a pleased snuffle at their interest. Perched on his stool, he could enjoy the pleasures of scenery at such impressive heights while simultaneously participating in a game of Minx.
The balloon gave a sharp lurch. Beverages toppled, and Vimisk tumbled into Risgan’s lap, sinking against his chest in a manner of chance intimacy. She gave a startled yelp, a mix of embarrassment and hauteur. Risgan had clasped her tightly in his hands and she was flustered at the handling. In the end, she quickly pulled away, with her hand clutching involuntarily at the youth talisman which was tucked in Risgan’s pocket.
He grunted in consternation. The others, getting a glimpse of the magical curio once more, gave a coo of astonishment. Risgan tore the bauble away from the woman’s hands. Cursing silently, he went off to stuff it back in his pocket, but hesitated, regretting his lack of protective hand-wear. He knew it was ill to touch the thing. Slowly, he laid the relic on the table, thinking the display of no harm now. Its obtrusive double appearance showed a vivid glow—an allure that captured the eyes of all. Even the conductor who had drifted by with an envious stare, ogled its contours of brilliance.
Enthralled by the mystical quality of the curio, Imstiv pulled his stool closer, hard put to repress a breath of enthusiasm. Risgan, realizing that much was at stake, with only one ozok loss leeway, clutched at the wish bone in his left pocket and gave fervent hope that he could walk away from this scenario with more coins than he held currently.
His wishes were confirmed. His one ozok bid earned him three more. Bavast’s tosses had been ham-handed and overconfident, contrasted with Risgan’s smooth touch. Nonetheless, his handling of the wish bone had been improving. Growing confident, the relic hunter gambled all three coins and doubled his winnings, depleting the purse of Imstiv, who returned a jovial laugh. “Why not put also the shiny bauble of yours into the pot since you are on a winning streak?” He gave a genial but hardy grunt. “You could double or triple your earnings.”
Risgan reflected, rubbing his stubbly chin. The idea seemed tempting. With twenty ozoks in his pocket he would have a sizeable purse to purchase tools and supplies in Fugis. The scheme advanced new threads of opportunity. His luck was sound after three straight wins, and there was no need to use the wish bone as a guarantee. Only another liability to use the talisman at this time and he shoved it deeper in his pocket. He tossed the hex-spiked jacks with a new flamboyance.
And lost. To his utter horror, Imstiv’s Brown-tailed Minx defeated his White Doves and the agent gave a whimsical chuckle and pulled the youth talisman toward him with both fists.
Risgan set up a fractious cry. The agent inspected him with queer wonder. “What is wrong with you? It would seem as if you had lost a child.” He flashed Risgan a glance of tolerant pity. “The loss is trifling! If you have other relics or baubles to wager, I suggest you do so now and recover your losses.”
Risgan gave a disinterested howl. “I don’t have baubles of such quality.”
Imstiv gave an indulgent wave. “No matter. Life passes in cycles. In fickle waves. Some are predictable, others are less scrutable. As witnessed, Douran’s luck has deserted you. Recoup your losses in Fugis; in fact, I will extend efforts, on second thought, to help you with upcoming travel plans connecting from Fugis. Bavast will put in some more rounds, if he can cover his bets.”
“Not I!” cried Bavast sorrowfully. “I have lost appreciable funds to your cons and blighted throws.”
“Those are harsh words for a friendly game,” Imstiv declared.
Risgan searched in his pouch for more wagers and discovered only a shiny glass bead which had saved him on more than one occasion, while lighting fires in the desert. He held it up, as an item of collateral.
Perhaps confident his luck was secured, Imstiv thought to project an air of magnanimity, and surprised all. “One last throw then, Risgan. I will wager the bauble for the bead. I feel a quixotic stirring!”
“Of this, I am not surprised,” stated the retriever sedately. A chance! he thought feverishly. Stroking the wish bone in a frenetic manner, he scrunched eyes up and concentrated.
Not surprisingly, he lost the round to Imstiv, who with self-indulged smugness, took possession of the bead and the bauble. His mood was gracious, and he passed the bead on to Bavast whose earnings had been slim. Bavast accepted the offering with pursed lips. Risgan scowled unpleasantly. He had nothing left. Now he could offer no further bids nor give useful competition.
“You should have thrown the double-jacks on a single wager,” chided Vimisk from the railing, “not the Joking Jackals on a double, which I think was a foolhardy move.”
“You think you could have done better?” Risgan grunted sourly.
“By all means—pass me the jacks.”
With supercilious resentment, Risgan tossed the woman three silver and white and red tokens. She shook her head and threw with an accomplished hand.
Risgan blinked. The roll was sound. The youth talisman, which still seemed part of the bidding, was now hers.
Risgan gave a strangled cry. How could he be so cursed?. “’Tis only a single lucky throw!”
“A win, nevertheless,” Vimisk said. The decorator snatched up the talisman with a satisfaction in spite of Imstiv’s displeasure.
Imstiv was adamant that the play continue, but Vimisk yawned, saying that it was bad luck to bet the same item twice. Laughing, she turned away with her new friend, Rulfi, to examine Risgan’s precious relic with cool favour.
Risgan seethed.
“Well, then, Bavast! It is just you and me,” cried Imstiv heartily. “Let us augment the alacrity of our bids. I feel myself falling into a lucky spell again.”
“I have lost all my ozoks,” Bavast remarked.
“Perhaps, but never fear,” comforted the agent. “Ozoks are easy to regain, as are leaves after a windstorm.”
“The analogy is irrelevant. How I am to regain my losses?”
“By bidding! That simple.”
Risgan offered a sardonic suggestion. “You could always venture your cap, Bavast, though it is slightly crumpled.”
“The idea is absurd!”
Imstiv was about to insert an additional piece of advice but Bavast had already turned away and removed himself from the table.
With bitter reproach, Risgan brooded deeply on the turn of events. He lingered at the taffrail, realizing it was a drastic mistake to have brought out the nephrite... Curse the day! But then, the curio had an annoying way of making itself appear, even at the most inopportune times.
Risgan gave a weary sigh. There was nothing to be done. Even in the most dismal times, he always accepted his luck, good or bad.
* * *
The afternoon was growing old and gold and orange filled the western horizon as the balloon made its way over the old stone town of Fugis. From far above, three blue-black conical towers made themselves visible. Two market squares showed twin eyeholes filled with a hundred milling people. A crescent lake surrounded the town. North, south and west, long wooden gondolas plied the waters, making regular visi
ts to the boardwalk and the low hills across the lake on which were seen many cottages and manors.
The balloon landed safely in the green fallow field a few hundred yards from the vegetable market. Bavast, somewhat miffed at his losses, including his Diophimes pendant, could not help but think that Risgan was a con man, and did not introduce him to his nephew Kluns after all.
Risgan gave an indifferent shrug. Why fret over these petty people? He trudged down the gangplank with cool aplomb.
At the small balloon junction, the travellers went their ways and Risgan made inquiries of places of antiquity. He had heard mention of Old Fahrur four leagues past the thick forests of Eyre. He looked after the retreating form of Vimisk with a feeling of wistfulness. The slinking coquettishness of the woman he regrettably missed already, now but a fading memory aboard the gondola. She was heading for the bazaar. Scowling and chewing his lip, Risgan considered his short-run prospects on the open road. Much could go wrong without funds, and on a whim he decided to follow her.
As if propelled by a similar inner intuition, Imstiv turned on his heel and set his feet after the relic hunter.
Risgan caught up with Vimisk and returned an affable smile. “Halloo. I trust you are familiar enough with Fugis?”
Her glance was puzzled. Risgan took no heed. “I thought you were en route to Ghisli?”
“I will lay up at Fugis for some time,” she announced matter-of-factly. “What are your plans?”
“My plans remain indeterminate.”
“This bauble has changed everything,” she reflected. “Perhaps I will peddle the curio to Bavast’s nephew, if he will offer me hard ozoks instead of smiles and counteroffers.”