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

by Troy Reaves

  “Oh, anywhere is fine. I have interesting news for you. Well, I hope you will find it interesting anyway.” The archivist’s brow furrowed as if he was questioning the wisdom of sharing his secret. Boremac could find no reason to think the man was intentionally baiting him with the look, but now the pickpocket found that he had to know in spite of his own reservations. He reassured himself with the fact that the archivist had not shown even a hint of ability to be anything but open and thoughtful. Boremac envied him that luxury. “Gather the tableware and make us some places over there, if you do not mind. Should be ready in just a few moments.” George pointed absently toward the far wall, leaving Boremac to find his way. He set the table for three, certain if Rat did not have a plate he would be offended, and retrieved some cleaning towels to place at the center of the table for makeshift napkins. Once the table was set and the plates were filled, Boremac dove headlong into breakfast as he always did. Rat and George ate at a measured pace and stoically ignored the hungry thief. Boremac almost made the mistake of trying to sneak eggs from Rat’s plate, only to have his fingers nipped and send Rat into a chittering frenzy indicating his displeasure. The rest of the meal went well, with the thief gathering up his plate and fork at its end. He practically skipped to the sink to wash his plate. George smiled at his back, already noting the changes in the young man. He was definitely proving to be an excellent student.

  Boremac brought George out of his reverie and back to his purpose. “You said you wanted to tell me about something?” The Archivist noted the suspicion in his voice even though the boy did not turn from his chore to address him and the Archivist could not say he blamed him. George could imagine the thief had not had many pleasant surprises in his life and his news probably would do little to change that trend. Too late to think that over now, he supposed.

  The Archivist plowed stoically forward, warming to his subject as he went. George showed the wear of a long night researching despite his excitement. “I think I have narrowed down your possible birth parents and can say with some amount of certainty when you were born. Only three couples were registered in my census books that had a child that would be relatively your age and male where the mother was known to have died at childbirth and the father faced some uncertain fate soon after.” Boremac flinched openly at the mention of the death of his mother but the Archivist continued, hoping if the boy knew more about himself it would help. “My best figuring and study puts you born in the year of the Golden Dragon, a blessing of a sort since those who are seem to flourish. Do you know that year is only celebrated one in every hundred? That would make you right around fourteen as the calendar measures though you seem seasoned and wise beyond such humble years.” George giggled as much to reassure Boremac as himself. The Archivist, who normally took to laughter and joy so readily, did not care for the forced feel of the sound. Boremac’s narrowing eyes did little to make him feel better. His reply helped even less.

  “And?” The word cut the Archivist like a dull blade, making him think that sometimes knowledge was indeed a dangerous thing. He almost had to force himself to continue, knowing the rest of the story would only worsen Boremac’s rapidly turning mood.

  “Well, if my assumptions are correct, your father was a quite successful burglar until he was caught and hung. Poor man was born in the year of the Unnamed One, a fate most parents avoid at all cost. Did you know that fewer children are born in that year than any other in the cycle? Most that are claim another as their birth year to avoid the curse thought to be attached to it. Of course, such hubbub is foolish. It is quite impossible to trick Fate.”

  Boremac just stared at him, angry flames forming within his eyes as he spoke. “Any good news? I did not care who my parents were, I do not care about some stupid blessing of birth, and I have little use for anyone who thinks my past is any of their concern.” Boremac regretted the attack almost immediately but, damn it, this was none of his benefactor’s business. Before the archivist could speak, Boremac all but charged from the table and ran down the hall in the general direction of his room.

  George looked at Rat hoping for some sign he had done the right thing. Rat only stared back, gnawing intently at a piece of crust in his paws. “That went much worse than I thought it would. Maybe I should think more before speaking with the young one. Obviously there is a great deal of difference between what someone might need to know and what one might want to know.” Rat only shrugged at him, continuing to savor his crumbs, and George frowned sadly for the first time he could remember in a long time.

  George proceeded down the hall to his charge’s room, officially invading his apprentice’s personal space for the first time, and could not help feeling bad about the events at breakfast. He wondered how wise it was to bother the young man so soon. The archivist placated his troubled mind with the realization that no matter how much he hoped Boremac might choose a safer path in life, the young rogue was bound to run into troubles. Even holy people knew how to smack one good time with a mace.

  He was bringing his apprentice a heavy tome full of moral stories written for commoners by a renowned priest of the God of Light. The Brother had been well known for his giving nature and talks with the common people, who never felt like he was preaching at them. He was just an educator who was just as quick to get his hands dirty on a farm he was visiting as talk to the groups of people in the villages he passed through. He was as respected for his commitment to the God of Light as he was loved for his soft touch with his preaching and constant desire to give aid. George knew little about faith in higher powers but he hoped the book might bring some measure of peace to his charge. George had to smile as he reflected later at the irony as he opened Boremac’s door, unfortunately forgetting to knock. The young man was focusing solely on his chosen task, apparently destroying the doorframe around the entryway to his room. The archivist would have found it difficult to say which he found more disturbing; the accuracy of the throwing of the two daggers that now vibrated to either side of his head or the focused anger barely hidden by the wisp of hair over Boremac’s eyes as the blades were neatly driven into the door-frames which had signs of fresh sign of abuse at various heights. “Damn you! Knock! I could have killed you, George!” Boremac’s fury broke then, replaced by the concern and self-admonishment generated by his heart beating in his chest about a million beats a minute at the moment. “I could have killed you.” His eyes hardened again, obviously offended by the show of emotion he had let slip. “We know you can’t quite respect others’ privacy, but for the good of us both at least remember to knock. Damn fool.”

  That stung, and the archivist made a poor effort at hiding the pain. His face crumbled under the weight of the accusation as he looked down at the ground. “Yes, I suppose so. Should not be a problem to remember to knock anymore. Daggers thrown at you will bring that right to the front of the memory box. About the other, Boremac, I am sorry. I am sorry for your loss and sorry for bringing it up at all. I just thought you would want to know. I guess I just don’t know very much about young men, or people for that matter. Rat is good company as far as he goes but not much for conversation, so far as I can tell anyway. Of course, he may very well think me a fool put here for his care and feeding.” That brought George’s face back into view again, sporting a haphazardly formed smile. “He did adopt me after all. Anyway, I just stopped by to drop off another book you might find interesting. Dinner will be ready at the usual time. Rat will come for you if you remain here. I will be in the library if you need me. Do be careful.”

  Rat had come around later as promised when dinner was ready. The Archivist had thought perhaps Boremac might need a bit more time alone and had prepared a tray of food to bring to his room if Rat had returned to the library without his apprentice but was pleased to see his apprentice appear. Boremac still seemed shadowed by his foul mood, but the fog that shadowed his brow was not nearly as dense as sit had been.. He thanked his benefactor but spoke little when George made a final attempt to engage
the young man with guarded cheer. He left shortly after he had eaten, shoulders hunched and brooding with skill that seemed possessed only the wounded young, at once appearing proud and slighted.

  The Archivist hoped Boremac had read some of the new book. “He will have to find peace with his past some way, Rat. I guess the blades are his way for now.” Rat only chittered in reply as the odd pair wandered down the hall back in the direction of the library, the Archivist slowly shaking his head in dismay as they made their way. He could not help thinking there would be little solace for him in his ancient books tonight.

  George need not have worried because Boremac had opened the book almost before the Archivist had closed the door earlier that morning. He found the servant of the God of Light who had written it was both a man of extraordinary faith and humor. He shifted from thoughtful reflection to outright amusement with the unfolding of each story. This Brother was a master craftsman of the written word and a sneaky preacher, entrancing and entertaining while he taught the lessons of his God. Boremac felt his mood lighten even as his eyelids grew heavier, and he wondered what dreams the proverbs would bring as he curled up under his blankets with a full belly and mind.

  6

  Misty Memories

  Boremac felt safe and warm held against the bosom of the woman who had become a mother to him. His other caregivers were there in the drizzly morning, all four, touching him softly as he cooed in his mama’s arms. They were sad. Boremac, or Bore as they called him so often when he was crawling underfoot or getting into things, could not understand why they were sad. He wondered why Daddy was not near to make them laugh like he always made Boremac laugh. They needed tickles. Boremac liked tickles and wished his Daddy was here to tickle him now. He looked around in the gathered crowd, wanting his Daddy, knowing his Daddy could help if he could find him. Boremac thought about crying. That always made his Daddy come but he sensed the sadness growing heavier among his mommies. His crying always made them feel different, so he would just have to find his Daddy some other way. Boremac popped his little head up from the warm safe bosom and craned his neck over his shoulder, looking for daddy. Daddy was up on a stand that looked like a really big table, too big for him to climb. Boremac thought that it was strange that there was a man with a bag on his head near his Daddy and felt he should ask mama. “Daddy?” Her reply was immediate and weighed down with something Boremac had never heard from his mama. “Yes, Boremac. Daddy is there. Pay attention to Daddy, Boremac. I think he wants to tell you something. Wave to Daddy. Let him know you are here. Your Daddy loves you and always will.” Boremac did as instructed, waving with both his little arms as best he could. He wanted to let his Daddy know he was here. He wanted his Daddy. The man in the sack scared Boremac a lot though he was not sure why. Sometimes the loud men in the place mamas worked scared him too, but this was different. He started feeling cold even though mama held him close. The sadness around him was worse when Daddy looked at him and smiled. Boremac smiled back and waved even harder. Mama let him. Daddy spoke in his quiet voice, making no sound. It was a game he and Boremac played. Boremac was not very good at it and Daddy was so far away, too far away. “I will tell you, Boremac.” Mama said seeing Boremac’s confusion. Boremac liked mama. She always helped when Boremac had trouble with the game. “He is saying,’Live fully. Do what you must to survive, my son, but live fully.’ Remember, Bore. I will help you remember. Remember Daddy loves you. Tell Daddy. Tell Daddy you love him too.” Boremac waved both arms at his Daddy and used his silent voice. Daddy would understand. Daddy was always good at the game. “Wuv you, Daddy. Come bring tickles.” Boremac saw Daddy smile as fresh lines ran down his face despite the misting rain, tracing through the dirt on his cheeks where his father stood. He nodded to Boremac and mama turned away from Daddy, drawing Boremac back into her bosom while the other mamas moved in behind her. Boremac did not struggle, once more nestling into the warmth. There was a loud sound of wood slapping wood followed by a thunderous reply from the clouded sky. Boremac tasted strange, salty water as the mamas moved to take him out of the increasingly hard rain. “There will be a storm soon, Boremac, but you are safe. You are safe, Bore.”

  The salty taste on Boremac’s lips when he awakened the following morning brought back everything. His mamas, his dead father, everything stormed in on his mind, no longer held back by the assurances of the women who had raised him. They had never told him the truth, only hid his father’s death by telling him his father had been favored by Alchendia and with luck Boremac would join him one day. Boremac could not fault them. If he had known the truth, he would have been no better off. They only wanted him to have something to hold on to, which was all any of them had. Boremac did something then he had not done for much too long. He knelt at his bed and brought the face of his father into his mind, closing his eyes against the sorrow that wanted to shade the image. “I miss you, Daddy. I never stopped missing you. I love you very much.”

  The dream brought a change in him that could not be ignored. Boremac went to the Archivist in the library clothed in armor of indifference. He had made up his mind, and there was no turning back, no matter how much he cared for and respected the old, crazy archivist who had become such an important part of his life. He had to find his own way and his own path, no matter where it might lead. As nice as learning about mysterious lands and ancient secrets was under George’s guiding hand, and no matter how good the food was, Boremac could not just idle about imagining what happens everywhere else. He needed adventure and that was not to be found here. He had been with George over a year now and learned many things but it was time to get serious about his own future.

  George noted the young man’s red eyes but felt it best, after his previous thoughtlessness, not to mention it. He reassured himself that it might just have been reading, or fury, that reddened his apprentice’s face. Boremac’s initial words to him caught the Archivist completely unaware. “I am hungry. We should have breakfast. If I am to learn, I want a full belly. A growing boy needs a full belly. A growing mind needs a belly that is not growling.”

  “Good points. Away to the kitchen!” Rat chittered his agreement and the three of them made their way to the food.

  The Archivist could not have known that this meal was to be the beginning of the end of the relationship between himself and Boremac. He noted the new fever that took hold of his pupil as Boremac delved deeply into many different books over the next two years that caught his fancy, seemly at random, and after finding the door to Boremac’s room hanging loosely by one hinge, he felt compelled to help set up a practice area for the young man in the armory. The pair had repaired the wounded door as best either knew how, and after a great deal of chiding from George, Boremac promised not to tear it up any longer. The reprimands from the Archivist fell largely on deaf ears, mostly due to the fact that both of them fought back smiles during the poorly worded speeches that George summoned. Boremac reflected that the man was never meant to be a parent, and there were certain things no book could teach you.

  Boremac absorbed information about weapons and all of the lands outside of Travelflor. It was time well invested as his father’s last words played repeatedly in his mind,’Survive. Never fear to live but always survive.’ He practiced his dual wielding with George on occasion; using the short dull daggers found in the armory, with the Archivist using an ancient well cared for metal staff. He was always careful not to stab his benefactor.

  Boremac could not help but wonder about George’s own past when they sparred. The man easily deflected the weapons of his charge, often playfully conking the young rogue on the head and giggling in that odd way he had. It took many sessions before Boremac could fox his way past the staff and many more before he finished their melees without an aching head. The still wooden targets in the armory made good practicing for his throwing blades, but more and more Boremac felt he had exhausted what he could learn in the Archivist’s home. As he grew stronger and more adept, the pull of the unknown grew
as well.

  He had to find someone to teach him the arts he would need to survive. Thoughts of the twins who had ministered his wounds so expertly so long ago came to him more and more frequently. He had observed skills well beyond his own in the little time he had fought against only one. He could not deny that finding them again would please him. Thoughts ran wild as he engaged them in his dreams, parrying their attacks and suffering through their kindness when he was wounded. He was certain there were many things they could teach him.

  Boremac had made his decision. “George, I need to speak with you.”

  The Archivist was immediately alarmed though he did his best to hide it. He had noticed the growing distance between himself and the young man, but Boremac still surprised him with the statement. He never used George’s chosen name, always referring to him as sir or even master, even when they spoke casually. “Please, speak freely, my young pupil.” George tried to look stoic and failed miserably, his concern etching itself into his features despite his best effort.

  “I have to go.”

  The words the Archivist knew were at the tip of Boremac’s tongue for some time now had finally come. He thought he had prepared himself well enough to hear them. He was wrong. All his well thought out replies, all his social grace, went right out the window, though he was able to steady himself even as his heart tipped to the point of falling out of him. “I understand. You should let me send you off properly. It is your birthday, as near as I can factor at present. My mind is not nearly as sharp, mathematically speaking, as it once was. Let me do something for you. Can you wait until tomorrow morning?”