“I’m trying to find out what he’s up to first,” said Damon. “Verro plays a long game—but so do I. Once we know, then we can act.”
“That makes sense,” said Merry. Her tone was uncertain, however, as if she wasn’t sure anything Damon had said truly made sense. “What’s the Blue Whale?”
“An inn and tavern near the royal palace,” Damon replied. “It’s a great place to hear gossip.”
“Hmmm…” said Merry, remembering the bench on the street of the jewelers in Tyford where she liked to read—and listen.
Damon moved to open the door. Merry grabbed his elbow.
“Stop,” she said. “I told you there were two people in the kitchen.”
The older wizard pushed her gently aside and pulled the heavy oak door open on silent, well-oiled hinges.
“Don’t worry. They’re friends, of a sort.”
“Of a sort?” came a deep voice from the kitchen. “And you’re a wizard of a sort, old man.”
The door opened all the way and Merry saw a short man with a fringe of fox-tail colored hair wearing a stained linen shirt, green breeches, and a green apron. His mid-section resembled the sort of cider barrels that would last a farm family for a year. Next to him, in a similar outfit but wearing a long green skirt instead of breeches was a tiny woman whose waist was smaller than one of the short man’s upper arms.
“Don’t tease him, Tibbo,” said the woman. “He’ll turn you into a toad.”
“Never, dear Tannis,” said Damon. “I’d have to change him into the namesake of your inn to use up all of him in the transformation.”
“I’d be more of a dolphin than a whale if you tried,” said Tibbo. “Good to see you, you old scoundrel.” He shook Damon’s hand then gave him a crushing hug. Tannis stood on her tiptoes and kissed Damon’s cheek when Tibbo had finished.
“Who’s the young lady?” asked Tannis, finally noticing Merry.
“Don’t tell me you have another grandchild,” boomed Tibbo.
“To the best of my knowledge I’m no relation,” said Merry, stepping forward.
“You’re still welcome at the Blue Whale, lass,” said Tannis. “Would you like some breakfast?”
“That would be lovely. I’m Merry—from Applegarth.”
“Are you now,” said Tannis with a soft lilt that made it seem like a question.
“Breakfast sounds like a fine idea,” said Damon.
“I’m sure you’re ready for some good home cooking with the way Damon feeds his apprentices,” said Tannis, looking Merry up and down.
“I’m not one of…” began Merry.
“You can see she’s perfectly healthy—not wasting away from lack of nourishment,” Damon interjected. “You know I love your cooking, dear lady, but I’m in a bit of a rush and need information while we eat.”
“I’ll bar the front door and set four places at table,” said Tibbo.
As he moved out of the kitchen and into the common room, Merry could see the big man was light on his feet. She spotted a heavy cudgel leaning against the back of the bar on the other side of the pass-through from the kitchen and expected Tibbo was quite effective at quelling any sort of disturbance inside the inn. He effortlessly placed the thick length of wood by the front door in a pair of iron brackets, ensuring no one would enter from that direction with anything short of a battering ram.
“How do fried duck eggs, sausage and fresh manchet bread sound to you, dear?” Tannis asked Merry.
“Wonderful,” Merry responded.
“It might be worth lifting a knife and fork for,” said Damon.
“Feed him gruel and bacon drippings,” said Tibbo from the common room. “I’ll eat his eggs.”
“You’d eat an old shoe if someone put gravy on it,” Damon responded.
“But with Tannis as my wife I don’t have to,” said Tibbo. “She’s the best cook in Tamloch, nay, in all of Orluin.”
“There’s a young man I know I’d put up against her for that honor,” said Damon.
Merry put her hand on the old man’s shoulder. He turned to her and she smiled. He was talking about her Eynon, she was sure.
“What can I do to help?” asked Merry.
“You can slice the bread,” said Tannis. “It’s in a box behind the dough trough.”
Merry spotted a long, narrow and deep carved piece of wood the size and shape of a child’s toboggan leaning against a kitchen counter a few yards down. Her mother had one just like it for kneading the big batches of bread dough a household went through every week. This one had knotwork along its outside edges. Merry was glad her mother’s wasn’t ornamented. The tiny crevices inside the intertwining designs would be a wolf and a bear to keep clean. She pumped water in the sink across from the hearth and washed her hands. Then she found the bread box, opened it, and took out a round loaf near the front.
“This one?” she asked, holding the bread up for inspection.
“That’s it,” said Tannis. She’d already put a huge soapstone griddle on the coals, which Damon helped along with a touch of fire magic. A string of a dozen sausages hung from a wrought-iron hook near the griddle and the tiny woman was cracking eggs into a glazed green bowl. “Use the knife on the left side of the block to slice it.”
Merry found the knife and a cutting board and proceeded to methodically cut the round loaf into neat, even slices. The manchet bread was white, made from fine, double-sieved flour instead of whole wheat flour with husks included. Her mother only made manchet bread on special occasions. She cleaned off the knife and returned it to its place in a block, then carried the cutting board and sliced bread to Tannis. The tiny woman was pouring eggs on the griddle next to the sizzling sausages.
“Put that bread here beside me,” said Tannis, patting a four-legged wooden footstool to her left. Merry did as she was instructed. “Now be a dear and grate me some cheese,” said Tannis, pointing at a white block on a plate resting on the edge of the hearth.
Merry removed her dagger from her belt and sliced thin slivers from the block of cheese until she’d collected a sizable stack. “Will this do?” she asked.
“It’s perfect,” said Tannis. “Add the cheese to the eggs, please.”
With the back of her dagger, Merry pushed the cheese onto the cooking eggs. Tannis was scrambling them about with a flat metal turner in one hand and turning sausages with a long, two-tined fork in the other. When all the cheese was distributed, Merry put the plate with the remaining cheese back on the hearth. She noticed the left half of the broad soapstone griddle was empty.
“Should I put the bread on to toast?” asked Merry.
“Ask Damon how he wants his,” Tannis replied. “I like toast, but my Tibbo doesn’t. He says it makes bread taste like burnt beer.”
“That doesn’t make any sense,” said Merry.
“Neither does Tibbo half the time,” said Tannis. “He finds it helpful to be underestimated.”
Merry got up and walked across the kitchen to lean over the pass-through to the common room.
“Do you want your bread toasted, old man?” she asked with a smile in her voice.
“Yes, infant,” Damon replied, “if you can manage not to burn it.”
“I’ll try my inexperienced best,” said Merry, resolving not to tease Damon quite so much.
She returned to kneel next to Tannis.
“Toast for three,” she said.
“That means toast half the loaf,” said Tannis. “Tibbo will eat the other half.”
“Guard your plate or I’ll eat your bread, too, toasted or not,” said Tibbo.
Merry could hear the smile on his face even though he was out of sight.
“Come out and help carry the food to the table,” Tannis commanded. Tibbo joined his wife by the fire, took a pair of thick wool mittens off the wall, and picked up the entire soapstone griddle before carrying it to one of the long trestle tables in the common room. Damon and Tibbo had set places with trenchers and salt for eating, plus pewt
er goblets filled with strong ale for drinking. The soapstone griddle was placed in the center of the table and where everyone could help themselves.
Merry carried the untoasted manchet bread slices to the table and Tannis followed with a crock of butter marked with a four-leafed clover on top. That made Merry think about the crock of Flying Frog Farm’s butter she’d shared with Eynon. She felt her cheeks get red at the memory of that and what had happened after and hoped the others would attribute her flushed face to her work at the hearth.
Once they were all seated, Tannis passed around the turner and sausage fork. When it was Merry’s turn, she took a generous portion of eggs, two sausages, and two slices of toast. When she spread butter on the manchet bread, its white surface turned gold.
Damon lifted his glass and so did Tannis and Tibbo. Merry lifted hers a second later.
“To the Blue!” said the old wizard.
“To the Blue!” echoed Tannis and Tibbo, with Merry joining in a beat late with, “The Blue!”
Did they mean the inn? The Blue Whale? Then she understood. The Blue was the Kingdom of Dâron. She should have realized it. She was in the midst of spies.
“Well,” said Damon, clearing his throat after swallowing a bite of sausage.
“You probably want to know what Verro is up to,” said Tibbo.
“Of course I do,” said Damon.
“I’m not the one you need to talk to, then,” Tibbo continued. “Sal’s your man. He’s been working in Verro’s tower for a fortnight, pouring drinks and cleaning goblets.”
“Fine,” said Damon. “How soon can I talk to him?”
An odd pattern of raps sounded on the front door. One rap. Another. Then two, close together. Then three. Then five.
Merry recognized the sequence. She hadn’t heard it since she was a child. But it couldn’t be…
“Sal has a good head on his shoulders, but he can be quite melodramatic with his secret knocks,” said Tannis. She laughed like a small bird chirping.
Tibbo got up to unbar the door and Merry followed. The short, barrel-chested innkeeper removed the length of wood and a tall, well-proportioned young man with curly red hair, a pointed beard, and a bright smile on his face stepped inside.
His jaw dropped when he saw Merry. Her eyes were wide. After a long second, she spoke.
“Salder? I thought you were dead.”
Chapter 4
Fercha and Doethan
The sun was farther up in the sky when Fercha and Doethan emerged from the gate. Ahead of them, the purple-robed wizard was hovering above a cluster of other wizards on flying disks moving in strange patterns and smacking balls of solidified sound with an odd assortment of magical constructs.
There seemed to be four levels of play, if what they were doing was indeed a game, and Doethan became so entranced with the players’ motions that he stopped following the purple-robed wizard. Fercha had to circle back to get his attention and redirect his focus back on their quarry.
Doethan’s distraction didn’t matter, as it turned out, because the purple-robed wizard moved her flying disk to join them.
“Welcome to Nova Eboracum,” said the wizard in purple robes. Small wisps of dark hair escaping her beaded braids danced around her face in the wind. The purple magestone on the gold plate resting on her neck glowed with a steady light. “You’re Doethan,” she said. “We’ve got quite a lot of information about you.”
She smiled at Doethan. He didn’t notice.
“And you must be Fercha. Perhaps you’ll be able to fill in the blanks on our records of your career during your visit with us, domina.”
Fercha spoke in her usual blunt manner while Doethan had difficulty shifting his attention away from the wizards below.
“Why were you spying on Dâron?”
The Roma wizard laughed. The ease of her voice as she did, made it clear she laughed often.
“A rhetorical question, I’m sure,” said the wizard in purple. “Everyone spies on everyone else these days—and always has. If it’s any consolation, I wasn’t spying on you, I was spying on Verro.”
Now Fercha laughed.
“That’s much more understandable,” she said. “Trouble buzzes around Verro like flies on carrion.”
“From that reaction, perhaps my records about your relationship with Prince Verro are incomplete,” said the purple-robed wizard.
“He’s not a prince,” said Fercha quickly. “He gave that up when he chose to learn wizardry. And your records are woefully out of date regarding my feelings about that son of a…”
“What are the rules?” interjected Doethan, joining the conversation at last.
Fercha stared at Doethan like he’d grown a second head.
What was it about serving as the leading mage of Dâron that turned every man filling the role into a complete idiot? she considered.
“For that matter,” said Fercha, “since you seem to know so much about us, who are you?”
The wizard in purple robes first answered Fercha, then Doethan.
“My apologies. My name is Laetícia. I’m the spymaster for the governor of Occidens Province.” Laetícia moved closer to Doethan and spoke louder to be sure she got his attention. “The game is qua-qua, quattuor quadratum, and the rules are quite complex.”
“Ah, so you’re Laetícia? Your fame proceeds you,” said Fercha. “It’s called four square?”
“Correct,” said Laetícia. “And sometimes the duck game, because qua-qua easily becomes quack-quack.”
“That’s the duck game?” asked Doethan. “I’ve heard about it, but never seen it played. It’s supposed to be how the wizards of the Eagle People practice for war.”
“Also correct,” said Laetícia. “There are four rising square levels: black, green, blue and gold for earth, crops, sky and sun, with a congruency in the center of each. Teams of wizards push balls of solidified sound through lower congruencies and they come out through one a level higher. The team that pushes the most balls through the most congruencies when all sixteen balls have been played is the winner.”
“But what about…” began Doethan.
“Please,” said Laetícia. “Come to the governor’s palace with me to break your fast and I will have one of the master qua-qua strategists of the province instruct you in the nuances of the game.”
Doethan nodded at Laetícia and returned to following the motions of the players below.
“I take it this is more a command than an invitation,” said Fercha.
“One thing our records did say about you was that you were wise—at least in some matters,” said Laetícia.
Fercha smiled, letting Laetícia’s implied criticism roll off her like water off the back of a goose.
“And if we attempt to gate out?”
“There are more than thirty well-trained wizards just below us, counting players, officials, and spectators,” Laetícia replied. “I wouldn’t advise it.”
Fercha tugged hard on the sleeve of Doethan’s robe, tilting his flying disk and getting his attention.
“It’s time to go,” she said. “We’re having breakfast at the palace. You can learn more about qua-qua there.”
“Very well,” said Doethan reluctantly.
“This way,” said Laetícia, indicating the stone citadel and city built at the tip of the island below, near where the Abbenoth River emptied into the sea.
“Do you think you’d be able to arrange a meeting with the provincial governor?” asked Fercha, thinking of opportunities to enlist the help of the wizards and legions of the Eagle People in the upcoming war with Tamloch.
“I’m certain we can,” said Laetícia.
“How can you be so sure?” asked Fercha.
“He trusts my judgment explicitly,” said Laetícia. “And he’s my husband.”
* * * * *
“I never knew I liked pickled lark’s tongues,” said Doethan.
“It’s the honey, almond milk and saffron reduction that makes the dish,�
�� said the governor, Quintillius Marius Africanus, a very tall, well-muscled man with tightly-curled graying black hair who looked like he was carved from a block of obsidian.
The provincial governor had a ready smile and a strong voice. He had insisted Fercha and Doethan must call him Quin, and they obliged. Quin and Laetícia had been plying them with wine and delicacies, seated at padded wooden chairs around a mosaic inlaid table, rather than reclining on couches.
Fercha was happy to be sitting up. She’d always thought it was uncomfortable to eat lying on her side. She drank sparingly and kicked Doethan’s shins under the table when the governors’ servants had filled his goblet a third time. The fundamental rule of diplomacy—and espionage—was to say little and listen more. Doethan was saying a lot, but Fercha was thankful it was only about qua-qua.
For her part, she thought the complex game might have a lot to do with why the Roma wizards were more effective in combat than those from Dâron and Tamloch. The two kingdoms’ crown wizards were masters of palace intrigue, not battle strategy, and the soldiers who led their armies played drinking games, not shah-mat. Fercha had seen a shah-mat board and carved onyx pieces in a library they’d passed on the way to the dining chamber. She’d need to keep her wits about her.
“So the young king wants to make a name for himself and create his own legacy,” said Quin as he spooned fish sauce on Doethan’s salmon fillet with dill and white wine. “I did the same when I was young. Did I tell you about taking Timbuktu for the emperor?”
Laetícia whispered to Fercha. “He tries to work that into every conversation with someone new.”
Fercha smiled and nodded, sure that both she and Doethan were being squeezed for information by a pair of masters.
“Is that what earned you a governorship?” asked Doethan, who seemed to have shaken off his fascination with qua-qua for the moment.
“Indeed it did,” said Quin. “You should have been in Roma to see my triumph.”
“He says that to everyone new, too,” whispered Laetícia.
“Is that why Quintillius was sent twenty-five hundred miles away to be a governor?” asked Fercha softly.
“Crossing the Ocean is a bit more of a logistical challenge than crossing the Rubicon,” replied Laetícia. “Why were Verro’s soldiers digging rocks from a quarry in Dâron?”
The Congruent Wizard (The Congruent Mage Series Book 2) Page 3