Book 2 Dead Man's Hand: The Knights of the Golden Dragon

by Troy Reaves

  Outwardly he accepted the cup his new acquaintance offered with a plate covered in salted meat, stinking cheese, various tasty looking berries, and vegetables. The hungry pickpocket took a seat, placing his meal on the table in front of him and answered the Archivist with a mouth full of food. “Been called Boremac as long as I was called anything. No surname best I know and don’t much need one.” Boremac took a testing sip of his drink and found it warming despite its coolness, with a fruity taste reminiscent of strawberries and bitter apples. “This is good! What is it?”

  “That is my personal indulgence. A mixture of some fruit squeezing efforts and my favorite dark liquor, just a touch of sweetener, and a secret preparation process to make sure the flavors stay just separate enough. It can dull you if you drink it too fast, but it is a fine sipping drink. Maybe one day you can learn to make it if you prove to be a worthy pupil. We will see.” George giggled at something in the words that Boremac felt certain he missed.

  Boremac put down the food before him, aided by the sharp taste of the questionable cheese on his plate, and turned toward George more fully, taking the cup in hand. “You assume a lot, sir. The food is appreciated and the clean robes are all well and good, but I think you mistake my coming here. I have no desire to be an apprentice, much less a servant, to anyone. Too much like slavery to me.” He took another tentative sip from the cup, favoring the Archivist with what he hoped was his most serious look as he straightened his lips and furrowed his brow.

  “Boremac, you mistake my offering to you. A mistake easily made for the lack of contact I have with those who can answer with a true mind of their own. I want to give you a gift you can take from the halls of this place that will serve you for all your life, and ask no more than work enough on your part to help me with my own efforts here. My life’s work is the gathering and cataloging of written knowledge for use by others and, more specifically, the aid of any who seek it. So much contradictory information in so many volumes colored by various perspectives! Too many of my fellows have forgotten to take a neutral view of the works we are supposed to be committed to researching and gathering. Even I have trouble separating my opinions from my reading and interpretations on occasion. It is a flaw of the mind.” The Archivist smiled openly at his personal chastisement. “I think knowing too much can corrupt one as completely as knowing too little!”

  Boremac got lost in the man’s words and said as much. “I don’t understand.”

  “Exactly! You are untainted and full of curiosity. This makes the perfect apprentice, because unlike the students of the university so many archivists take as pupils, you have no preconceptions, no’right’ answers already cluttering your mind. If you would let me, I can teach you to read and open worlds for you. You can leave whenever you wish. Trying to keep you here would defeat the whole purpose. You chose to follow Rat here, and the door out is open to you when you choose to go.”

  Boremac thought a moment, calling the memory of the letter in his box to mind and thinking of the indecipherable writing, had no problem making his decision. “You have my attention, sir. How does all this learning begin?”

  “So eager!” The Archivist’s enthusiasm was infectious. “You should think if there are any who will miss you before you take on this apprenticeship. Rat and I are not planning on leaving this place any time soon. I would hate to have anyone think you have come to an ill turn. Those types of turns are about all one of your kind can hope, sadly. Take the spare robe and you may depart through the front door rather than braving the sewer again. I know Rat has had quite enough of them for one day just bringing you here.”

  “Finish your food. The cheese won’t kill you, as much as the smell might make you think so, and I am told it is good for you.” The Archivist once more found himself very amusing, laughing openly and reinforcing his point as a cloud of noxious fumes emanated from his mouth.

  Boremac dove into the remaining meal and sipped at his cup as instructed, eager to start his lessons. He would have to check in with Mama Bear at least and collect his meager belongings, and the box with his treasures would have to be retrieved before he was ready to settle in. He only hoped Mama Bear would not fuss too much.

  4

  Mixed Up Mystification

  Her initial assault had been much worse than he could have possibly feared. “Oh, Boremac, I cannot say how proud I am of you! You are going to be taught! God of Light shine on you more! No, no, He is shining light all over you already!” That is the best he could make out of what she was saying anyway. She was trying to smother him in her ample bosom at the same time so it was difficult for him to be certain. Finally she loosened her arms enough to drop him to his feet only to snatch him up and stare hard into his eyes. “What did you do you wicked boy? Speak quick before I just paddle you with my hand until I think I have punished you enough!” Once more she had engulfed him in her embrace and he remembered well why they all called her’Mama Bear’. Her size would have given a full grown black bear pause and, if she had come at them with arms flung wide and growling, they would have run away. “Oh, my good boy, I don’t care how you got his attention, so long as you keep it. What a gift you have been offered!”

  Boremac was not sure what was worse, being smothered in Mama Bear’s chest or her treatment of him in front of all the tavern ladies she could summon. She poked and preened him, cooing like a mother over her newborn infant and making him feel about as useful as one. Boremac had grown to the age of thirteen by Mama Bear’s best count and he had already noticed that several of the servers under Mama’s guidance had grown significantly more attractive of late. The two that had drawn his interest the most were in front of the group of those that were present and just able to hide their smiles behind their hands during his mistreatment. They did not even bother to disguise their giggling when the older ladies, many of whom had raised him and cleaned his bare behind as an infant, took their turn at kissing his cheek and sharing their best wishes. Boremac felt his cheeks would burst into flame when the pair moved to the end of the line to give him their blessings as the others had done. Mama Bear saw what she mistook for embarrassment and’saved’ him from his first kiss, shooing the younger lasses away to clean tables.

  “You need no more distraction than you can dream up yourself, Boremac.” Mama Bear stated dourly as she followed the path of his eyes. “You cannot know how much this will change everything for you. Doors, no, worlds will open to you beyond what you can imagine, my son. Boremac, you have to take every advantage you can of this teacher.” She kissed him firmly on the forehead as if to punctuate her point and Boremac felt a splash of a tear run down his face, trailing from his head and into his own left eye.

  ***

  Boremac was surprised, and pleased, to have the Archivist himself greet him at the main entrance to his home. His ego was flattened quite nicely almost immediately.

  “Good to see you again… Boremac, right?” George looked at him as if puzzled. “What can I do for you?”

  Boremac stood there, as finely groomed as Mama Bear had been able to manage, and robed in the apprentice robes that this very man had given him with a small pack on his back and a parcel containing the other robe that had been cleaned under his arm. He had expected an invitation for dinner at the very least if the man was to turn him away. That possibility had troubled him, that the Archivist might come to his senses and rethink his choice of pupil while Boremac was absent, but this greeting had not even been an option in his wildest imaginations. He could think of only one thing to say. “Sir?”

  Rat chose that moment to run up the Archivist’s leg and perch on his shoulder, chittering at George insistently. Boremac noted the rodent was holding a small bit of paper in its front paw. It took momentary breaks in chittering at the Archivist to bash its head soundly into the side of its owner’s head.

  “What has gotten into you, Rat! I am trying to help this young man! Oh, a note! I think it is safe to assume you did not write it. I think there is no quill in th
is vast place to suit your paws. Let me see what you have there.” When Rat would not give up the note, George addressed him once more. “Come now, we will settle later. Give me the note.” When George tapped his palm, Rat dropped the small folded sheet in his hand and appeared to share his feelings about his role in the whole interaction. He seemed to say that he was not pleased and would have greatly preferred payment now in the form of stinky cheese, or at least that was what Boremac thought Rat meant.

  The Archivist squinted at the tiny writing that covered the page and muttered under his breath as he did. “Hmm… new student… getting senile… there now no need to be rude to me… remember to research ring further… feed Rat… bed and food… learning… Salutations, The Archivist.” George folded the paper neatly and placed it into one of the many pockets of his long dark blue robe. “I should probably hang on to that one. It appears you made quite an impression on me when last we met. I had much to say about you, all favorable though I did appear to overlook your current choice of profession. Does anyone choose to be a thief? I mean are there trainers in that to help youngsters learn to steal? It makes my head hurt to think of it. No matter. You have your things, it appears, and must be hungry. I am sure I was myself enough earlier to put a sign on a room I intended for you.” Boremac could not reply before the Archivist had spun around and started down the hallway without preface. He was gliding down the hall at a good clip when Boremac realized he would lose him at the first corner. Boremac broke into a run to catch up, forgetting the oddity of the encounter moments ago and already fired with the desire to learn. He was pretty certain his time with George would not ever be boring.

  Boremac put his things away quickly and set out to find the library as George had instructed him before leaving the young man in his new room. He found the kitchen first. George had placed an apron over his robe and was whistling his way through a kitchen meant to serve a small army of learned people and their servants. He had a pot of soup boiling on an immense woodstove and several different cuts of meats, cheeses and raw vegetables strewn over a counter. There was a fresh baked loaf of bread nearby that had yet to be cut. Boremac did not bother to hide the drool that ran from his mouth. He doubted George would mind the compliment and he really did not think he could control it anyway. The smell of the soup was exhilarating. Mama Bear had been a wonderful cook but her resources had obviously been limited when compared to this banquet. George did not bother with place settings and the like, instead making a spot within easy reach where the two could sit and eat. Boremac only smiled by way of acknowledgement of the Archivist’s efforts and set about letting his stomach voice his thanks.

  Once the pair had eaten, the Archivist seemed eager to begin teaching his new student. He led Boremac through numerous halls to finally take him to the library. Boremac took a seat at the only table that was clear in the vast room and was kept waiting for just a moment while George retrieved a large rectangular book from one of the shelves. This first book George turned over to him for perusal was bound in a thin leather jacket with many stains coloring the corners of it. The pages within held large single letters at the top with bracketed letters in smaller precise print below, and a picture. The Archivist explained that the letters on each page represented the common alphabet with the words and pictures below showing different ways the letter could be pronounced. “Wonderful letter’A’ there, Boremac, blessed with so many ways to be said. There is apple and grape with’A’ that looks the same but sounds so different! Both make me hungry too! What fun!” Boremac’s head was already swimming. “‘B’ is much easier. There is the bumblebee which shows two ways the letter sounds in one word! I had forgotten how much fun these simple learning books can be! Oops, wait, the’B’ sound in bumblebee is because of the two’ee’s there. The letter’B’ sounds like we say’bee’ but that will make more sense later.” Boremac’s headache must have shown on his face because the Archivist drew back from his shoulder and withdrew his trembling finger from the book Boremac had closed his eyes against. “Must be the cheese. Sorry about that. Such a fine, lingering taste on the palate plays terror with the breath. Have a sip of your cup and Rat will show you to your room. All the excitement of the day must have taken its toll. Rest well, Boremac. Take the book if you like. You will find the lanterns in the bedrooms well suited to studying. Studying itself is well suited to inducing sleep.” George all but cackled this time. “That is a universal truth demonstrated by countless students of the university on a daily basis.”

  Boremac found the Archivist’s laugh once more penetrated his skull. He turned from the open book on the table and rose from his seat, favoring his new mentor with a halfhearted wave as he sidled forward, intending to follow Rat to his bedroom. “Tomorrow will be better.” He was not sure if he was trying to reassure himself or George more when he said it a second time. “Tomorrow will be better.” Boremac did not waste time taking in his new room as his addled brain shifted neatly into sleep almost before he had gotten into the blankets.

  5

  Sharp Words

  In the seasons that followed, Boremac was a committed pupil. Despite his initial difficulties, his young mind drank deeply at each study session. The Archivist enjoyed pushing Boremac to the limits of his tolerance, all too happy to note the pickpocket had a thirst for knowledge that rivaled George’s own at that age. Despite initial trouble with the basics of common writing and reading, Boremac’s mind jumped into his lessons with fervor. Soon he was devouring primer books and opening the paths to larger worlds. The archivist found he was only mildly surprised to see the way an old atlas in the shelves captured the thief’s attention and held it. Boremac would spend hours reading the maps and descriptions of the cities the book held, already planning his great adventures in the lands outside of Travelflor. He mumbled to himself constantly, memorizing the roads linking the major cities and the villages noted on the way, already seeking the best paths to shorten his journeys. The trade hub city of Verson, a way station of merchants and mercenaries in equal measure, became a special interest to Boremac. He would break from his reading just long enough to gather more books about the city, and the secrets of tradesmen and the mercenary bounty hunters who made this their primary waystation, trying to gain more understanding about their respective worlds.

  The Archivist had also noticed that at some point Boremac had taken several books pertaining to proper weapon maintenance and training from the library proper, keeping them in his room. George was not as concerned about the books as he was about the boy. Boremac had managed to find weapon manuals in the shelves on his own and, much to George’s dismay, ended up locating the armory in the keep. The last thing he wanted was to find Boremac grievously wounded from his own mishandling of the blades he appeared to favor. He shook his head, as he always did thinking of the many blades, and the many ways one could easily lose a finger wielding them. There was little he could do, by his way of thinking, to dissuade the boy or redirect him to something less hazardous. Boys would be boys, of course, and if he hinted at being unhappy with Boremac’s choice of arms, the boy would dig in his heels. George still remembered his father’s face when he announced he was taking up an apprenticeship with a Magi instead of learning to become a proper blacksmith. His father’s rebuke and the angry tossing out he had gotten had fired the desire to succeed during the brutal trials of his mentor in his earliest years as an apprentice. George shuddered thinking about his own past, wanting to do nothing that would cause a rift between Boremac and himself. The Goddess is a fickle mistress at best and decided a reckoning was due sooner than George would have expected, taking matters into Her own hands just a few months later.

  ***

  Boremac had started the morning troubling himself over the latest of many nicks he had managed to give himself. He and George had come to an unspoken agreement that as long as Boremac came to the library or his meals with all of his fingers and toes, the Archivist would pretend not to notice all the holes’appearing’ in Boremac’s
bedroom door. The scents of cooking caught him and dragged him by the nose to the vast kitchen of the home, where he found George whistling tunelessly while monitoring a large skillet, carefully supervised by Rat. “Yes, I know Rat. Cheese in your eggs. Yes, I am paying attention to the cakes. No burnt edges this time, I promise. Why don’t you go and fetch our guest? I promise I will let my book lie until you return. If you hurry, I should have the sausages ready when you return. Boremac can set out the plates when you bring him.”

  Boremac found it necessary to wipe his chin several times before he could speak. This was the first time since Boremac had come to the Archivist’s home that he had gone to such efforts at breakfast, or any meal that Boremac could recall now that he thought about it, but he was too excited to question it. “No worry, George. Your cooking has done all the summoning needed.” The Archivist favored him with an oddly disarming smile, as if caught in a pleasant memory or keeping a special secret that he was wanting to share. Boremac knew that look all too well and it made him nervous. The same look on his own face would have looked more like the cat had caught the mouse and wanted you to pet it for its efforts. He brushed the concern away, more interested in the first hot meal he had had in a few days, and started gathering the plates and utensils. “Any particular table in here you prefer?” There were many chopping block wooden tables throughout the kitchen as well as a few tables where they had eaten before.