Aeromancer

by Don Callander

“Once the storm wind dies down on its own, the desert air will be cool and clear—ideal for tracking Myrn across High Desert, if that’s what you plan. By late morning the air should be still,” the Air Adept observed.

  “What is it I really want to do, however?” Douglas asked the darkness beyond the windows. “I must give it careful thought. Meanwhile, we might as well get some sleep, old boy.”

  “If it’s any consolation, Douglas,” Cribblon grumbled, allowing himself to fall on one of the low beds, “whoever stole Myrn must surely be a local and therefore more accustomed to these storms than others not born here. Desert people know how to ride out a sandstorm, just as sailors know what to do in a gale at Sea.”

  “I’m not really worried about Myrn,” Douglas protested.

  Cribblon grunted... a sound which Douglas decided was one of agreement.

  ****

  Flarman Flowerstalk pushed back his second cup of black coffee and glanced sharply across the kitchen table at his companions, Augurian and Litholt, who were still dawdling over the rich chocolate pudding and cream Blue Teakettle had whipped up for a luncheon sweet.

  “We can polish off the Farbwelt disenchantment in a few hours,” the Aquamancer said, feeling Flarman’s gaze upon him. “Litholt and I, I mean. A little water, a little of the lore of stones, I should think.”

  “How did you know I was thinking of taking the afternoon off?” cried the Pyromancer, rising from his chair.

  His Napkin shook itself free of crumbs and folded itself neatly into a square. Flarman’s Plate, Cup, and Silverware jumped up and scooted away to steaming Dishpan, which greeted them all with a bubbly gurgle.

  “My dear Flarman!” The Earth Wizard laughed, sending her empty dessert plate after Flarman’s. “Your attention’s been wandering since yesterday’s message from Douglas. At the moment, I don’t really see how we could assist either the young Fire Wizard or his bride. But if you feel you must...”

  “I thought... just to take a peek or two?” murmured Flarman. “You two go ahead and complete the disenchantment. I intend to do some long-looking while the atmospherics are suitable. The thunderstorms yesterday clouded the best views.”

  He nodded his excuses and disappeared through the kitchen door. They heard his quick footsteps cross the sun-warmed cobbles of the courtyard, where the High’s hens and their yellow chicks were resting in the shade of the kitchen wellhouse.

  “Sometimes,” the Geomancer sighed, “I think you menfolk lack complete confidence in your own students. Myrn will do just fine. And young Douglas, if anything, is better suited for such adventures than any of us older magickers, Augurian.”

  “Still...” The Water Adept sighed.

  A disturbance in the air in the darkest far corner of the kitchen heralded the arrival of Deka the Wraith. When she had firmed her embodiment, she smiled dazzlingly at the Wizards and flowed across to them.

  “Welcome, far traveler,” called Litholt.

  “Have a seat, here, my dear,” Augurian echoed her greeting. “Here is some mousse left from luncheon. I think you’ll find it most sustaining after your journey from ... where? The Nearer East?”

  “Now the thundering’s passed northeastward,” said the Wraith, hovering daintily before occupying one of the Chairs. “Atmospherics were quite disturbing, if not dangerous.”

  Litholt Stonebreaker served her a dish of pudding and gestured to Creamer to come forth. Silver Pitcher poured the Wraith messenger a small glass of chilled miscytwine. Deka laughed happily and tasted the pudding.

  “Any news?” prompted Augurian.

  “Nothing new to report, Water Wizard,” answered the Wraith, looking more substantial now that she’d had a mouthful or two of the pudding and a swallow of Blue Teakettle’s best lemonade. “Douglas, Marbleheart, and Cribblon have arrived in a place called Balistan—the Sultan’s capital in Samarca—but Myrn, who’d been there before them, has gone off into High Desert.”

  “You make no estimate of their progress?” Litholt inquired.

  “No, ma’am. That’s not my task. I was to be careful only to observe, as I was asked.”

  “Of course,” cried the tall, lean Aquamancer, nodding his head. “Journeying’s always harder on those who must stay at home. As you say, Myrn is both quite adept and quick as a dolphin. And Douglas, also.”

  “Still,” admitted Litholt, “it’d be very nice to know. Shall we go up to the library? We have the problem of Farbwelt to attend to, you know. Those poor elephants have been sorely enchanted for far too long as it is.”

  The Wraith finished her pudding, daintily drank a bit more of the tart-sweet miscytwine, and shimmered through the kitchen wall, avoiding the sunniest part of the courtyard, and appeared in Flarman’s workshop under the High.

  The Pyromancer looked up at her entrance and smiled warmly.

  “Ah! Good! I was just about to call you, Wraith. Welcome, once again.”

  “I do so love this dim and richly fragrant place, Fire Wizard,” said the Wraith, settling on a proffered stool beside the Wizard’s long worktable.

  “All goes well over in Nearer East?” Flarman inquired.

  “Well as can be, when it comes to Wizards and Journeymen and such,” said the Wraith with a wry smile.

  “Douglas and Myrn are together, then?” Flarman asked, anxiously.

  “Not yet, Magister. But they’re close in miles and will be reunited shortly, I’m sure.”

  “Well... so! They can handle themselves, even if there is a nasty Servant of Darkness in those far mountains somewhere. I’ve just learned of it myself. We’ll keep an eye on them all, won’t we?”

  “Certainly, Pyromancer,” the Wraith said.

  Chapter Twelve

  Stone Trees Oasis

  “The Grand Vizier has sent us a prize, I see,” said one of the Slave Dealers, examining Myrn thoughtfully. “Worth the silver asked and given, I’d say, wouldn’t you?”

  The second, younger Dealer nodded silently.

  Myrn smiled and pirouetted gracefully, her arms outstretched.

  “I can sing and play a few musical instruments fairly well,” she said. “And cook up a storm, diaper babies, and—”

  “Not required,” interrupted the younger Dealer sharply. “A pretty face. Clean limbs. No visible scars—at least I’ve seen none as yet. She must be examined more closely, Brother.”

  Myrn shook her head.

  “I wouldn’t advise closer examination,” she said evenly.

  “Ah, but we really must,” cried the older man. “What if your backside were striped with many whippings? A sensible buyer would think you were unruly and thus too expensive, were he to purchase you. Our customers demand perfection.”

  “Well, there you are bound for disappointment, I guess.” The Journeyman Aquamancer grinned. “You’ll have to take my word for it. No scars nor stripes! Just a little cicatrix on my right calf, where I was bitten by a startled baby tiger shark a long time since, Master.”

  The two black-clad Dealers stared at her, their eyes narrowed and calculating.

  “Slaves are property,” the older Dealer told her at last. “We’ll see you as we please, young woman! Disrobe, now ... or suffer very unpleasant consequences!”

  Myrn drew herself up to her full five feet, eight inches.

  “What you see is what you get,” she snapped. “I’ll disrobe for no man here!”

  She stood her ground as the two men advanced warily, reaching for her arms and shoulders.

  Myrn murmured a quiet spell word and clapped her palms together softly.

  “Yes, well, I am satisfied,” said the older Slaver, stepping back and dusting his hands together. “And you, Brint? She’s perfect, I’d say.”

  “Oh, yes ... quite perfect,” agreed the other, blinking, and falling back also. “And surprisingly intelligent, too, I would add. Should bring a good profit to the Company, I’d venture.”

  Myrn smiled at them brightly, unmoving, waiting.

  “Well, as I sai
d ... where were we? She shouldn’t need to be chained, do you think?”

  “No one can escape your captivity, way out here on the empty High Desert,” suggested the Aquamancer. “Why bother with chains?”

  “Yes, why chains . . . which might leave unsightly marks and maybe suggest untoward behavior,” considered the older Slaver. “No chains, then! Take her to a holding tent, Brint. I’ll send the seamstress to examine her clothing and perhaps arrange something more ... suitable.”

  Brint nodded gravely and gestured to the Journeyman to follow him, the matters of searching and chaining clearly forgotten.

  “Tell me about yourself, kind sir,” Myrn said as they crossed from the large main residence tent to a smaller, less decorated pavilion on the other side of the Slavers’ compound. “You name is Brint, I gather. My name, in case anyone should ask, is Myrn Manstar Brightglade.”

  The young Dealer stopped, seeming a bit confused. “Oh, yes ... Brint. The other is Master Burnt. He’s manager of our enterprise, you see.”

  “Is it my imagination, or is this business of slaving—buying and selling people, I mean—seeing difficult days? I heard the Sultan has no favor for it,” Myrn asked, laying her hand on the young Dealer’s arm.

  Brint colored, swallowed, then turned away to hold open the gauze curtain that veiled the entrance to the tent.

  “There’re still plenty of... wealthy customers . . . for pretty girls and talented entertainers, and strong workers,” he sputtered.

  Myrn entered the tent and glanced about.

  The dim, dusty interior was cluttered with dirty old rugs and empty wooden cases, and overall, it smelt strongly of unwashed bodies punctuated with sharp whiffs of camel and horse dung.

  “Ugh! You expect a proper young lady like me to make my bed here? This place hasn’t been properly cleaned in months,” she snorted. “Look at the dirt! Those boxes should have been burned for fuel ages ago, Master Brint.”

  “You won’t be here very long,” explained the young man. “The sales commence in the morning. Put up with the discomfort for a night. Your new master will undoubtedly accommodate you in greater comfort.”

  “I’d rather sleep on the cold sand under those stone trees,” scoffed the Journeyman. “Phew! You say I’m valuable merchandise, yet expect me to lie down in this sty? Any Man with common sense would refuse to buy a field hand who smelled like this, I’m sure. Would you?”

  “Never thought about it that way,” admitted the young Slaver. “You will be given the chance to bathe, of course. Tomorrow at dawn. Until then—”

  “Well! If you haven’t the pride to offer your merchandise a clean place to rest and recover from an arduous trip across the windy desert, maybe you’ll allow me to do some tent-cleaning for myself.”

  Not waiting for his permission, Myrn pushed up her sleeves and gestured sharply at a pile of wooden crates near the entrance. At once they rose in the air and flung themselves out the open tent flap, whistling cheerfully as they hurtled through the air.

  “Look out!” cried Brint sharply as one box narrowly missed his shins. “What do you do? Stop at once!”

  “Not until I’ve made this hovel a suitable place in which a lady can sleep,” snapped Myrn. “Make a clear path, Slave Dealer! I’ll have this place spotless in a few shakes.”

  As good as her word, she quickly cleared out the trash and moldy old straw, then conjured a stiff breeze heavy with moisture to blow the loose chaff and dust from the old carpets that covered the tent floor.

  “Shampooing would be a good idea,” she added, with evident satisfaction.

  Brint jumped out of the way when she pulled a large bucket of soapy, hot water from thin air and set it to swirling frantically over the carpets and up the side walls of the tent.

  “No time at all, you see.” Myrn sniffed. “Smells much better already. What were you keeping in here, anyway, Brint? Pigs would have been neater, I swear! These pillows need a good airing and fluffing....”

  She whisked the down pillows up and out, where she arranged them in a slowly whirling circle about the tent peak, shaking their dust and fluffing their feathers vigorously.

  “Help! What are you doing?” cried the Dealer, wide-eyed with disbelief.

  “Cleaning house, of course,” replied Myrn. “If old Dicksey at the Trunkety General Store offered his goods in such disreputable conditions, the housewives of Valley would’ve driven him out of town years since! When you’ve things to offer for sale, my dear sir, you must present them in the best manner possible. Lesson number one of sensible, successful marketing, I’d say.”

  “I never heard of such a thing,” cried the young man, stepping back to avoid the swirling waters as they flowed out of the tent and quickly sank into the sand. “I don’t think—”

  “Obviously, none of you ever did think,” said Myrn with a shake of her finger. “Well, I won’t allow such a dirty mess. Watch out for the divan! Whew! What a sorry business!”

  Gathering his black robes around his knees, the Dealer turned and trotted off toward the residence tent.

  Myrn shook her head as she watched him go.

  “Come back in a half hour,” she called after her captor. “I’ll have things quite presentable by then.”

  Brint had disappeared into the other tent.

  “She’s a genie of whirlwinds, I swear, Brother!” he said to his superior. “She must be some sort of a witch or. ... I never saw such a thing!”

  “Nonsense, Brother!” scoffed Burnt. “She’s just a snippy little girl. We’ve housed and sold a thousand just like her.”

  “Not like this one,” muttered his subordinate. “Well, she can’t get away—can she?—so I intend to stay far away from her until her cleaning is finished.”

  “Best advice,” murmured Burnt, who was busily writing items and prices in his ledgers, ignoring the sounds from across the way ... sounds of water cascading and bubbling, hot breezes shooshing, and Myrn singing a lively song:

  “This’s a way we clean our house,

  Sweep outdoors,

  Rinse our floors!

  So early in the morning!”

  “Although,” Myrn’s pleasant voice said cheerfully, “I admit it’s rather late in the day for such an early-morning song!”

  ****

  When the storm finally subsided, Nameless awoke, shook loose sand from her mane, and climbed to her feet.

  Most of the animals who’d shared the ancient temple overnight had already departed. They’d breakfasts and schoolchildren to see to. A pair of young leopards still slept in the far corner of the large room, hunting in their morning dreams, softly snarling, and twitching their whiskers and paws.

  “Well, horseling!” said Lesser Dragon, opening his luminous eyes. “Did you sleep well? Do you have a place to go? I’ll be happy to set you on your way, if you’re lost.”

  Nameless nodded her head and shook her long main, as if to say, I have places to go and things to do, friend Dragon. I appreciate your kind hospitality, but...

  “I understand,” said Lesser, nodding his enormous head. “Well, if you could tell me where you wanted to go ...”

  Nameless shrugged.

  “Still silent? That makes it difficult—but not impossible. Come outside and we’ll try to decide which way you’ll fly, now that the storm has passed.”

  He poked one of the sleeping leopards with the pointed tip of his tail. The cat sprang awake at once, whipping about to see who had prodded him in the haunch.

  “Now, Spots... you can stay as long as you like, of course,” said Lesser in a kindly tone. “But I wanted to mention that the morning hunting hours are nearly over, if you want to do some breakfasting before the heat of day.”

  “Is it?” cried the spotted cat. “I don’t suppose the little horse is fair game? Looks quite tender and delicious to me.”

  “None of that!” The Dragon snorted a puff of acrid blue smoke. “What you seek for your lunch is your business, but the flying horse is my guest. You
know my house rules!”

  “Just asking,” said the cat, sulking a bit. “Here, Ruff! Time to be on our way.”

  With that, the sleek young cats nodded to the Dragon and Nameless in thanks and left without a backward glance.

  “Nice people, really,” the Dragon insisted, “though I can’t always agree with their ideas of proper cuisine....”

  When they reached the outer doorway the leopards were nowhere in sight. Nameless looked about in curiosity, then turned to Lesser, her eyes asking many unspoken questions.

  “This place? Used to be the grand temple of a sect that worshipped their own ancestors, I believe. Long since gone—when I took it over for a lair there were no longer any worshippers, nor ancestors left to worship.”

  He stretched himself to full length in the bright, warm morning sun, groaning deeply with pleasure.

  “Nice desert day! A bit cool for this time of year. I prefer it really hot, of course. Cold leaves me ... cold, to tell you the absolute truth. Now, what’s to do with you, my girl?”

  He led the flying horse up to the top of a nearby dune that hid the City of the Disappeared, as he called his place, from sight. The view was wonderful... and long, as well. In the west they could just glimpse the tips of the Sultan’s palace towers at Balistan and the glint of sun on the lake. In the distant east, gray, blue, and brown peaks fretted the horizon in the clear desert air.

  “Not that way, then?” the Dragon asked, pointing toward the palace. “Then, toward the Darkest Mountains? Not much there, even of wildlife. Some of my friends have warned of a strange being hiding there, however. I wish you could tell me what you’re seeking.”

  The little horse considered the Dragon’s words for a moment, then began to draw with her right fore-hoof in the wind-smoothed sand. Circles interlinked with circles, a dozen or more circles ... a chain.

  “Chain? Ah, yes, I see I’ve hit on it,” cried Lesser.

  Nameless nodded enthusiastically, and then carefully added a stick figure of what was evidently a human female attached to the far end of the chain.