Stealing Life

by Antony Johnston

  “Millurat! Hey, Nicco!”

  Sothus shouted to him across the throng of shoppers and traders. Nicco turned to see the man walking toward him with a smile on his face, the woman in tow.

  Nicco smiled back, feigning surprise. “Sothus! How good to see you! I thought perhaps you’d been caught in the blast.”

  Sothus frowned. “Already in a cab and away when it went off. Heard about it, though. Awful mess. Were you still there?”

  “Yeah.” Nicco indicated his bruises and cuts. “But I’ll live. So what are you doing here at the market? Thinking of setting up a stall for discount entropy guns?”

  Sothus laughed. “Morning off, old boy. I’m trying to find something pretty for the wife before we go to the lagoon for lunch.”

  Nicco cursed himself for assuming the worst of Sothus so quickly. He’d spent so long lurking in the underworld, cynicism was just his normal state of mind. He smiled and offered his hand to the woman. “Nicco Millurat. Pleased to meet you. Your husband’s a good man, he saved my bacon back at the airship port. But I’m sorry, I really must...”

  The woman laughed. “I am not his wife, silly man,” she said with a Varnian accent.

  Sothus winked at Nicco. “No, no, this is Charruna. My escort.”

  Nicco deflated. Perhaps he should trust his instincts after all.

  “And what about you, eh?” Sothus asked. “Enjoying your vacation?”

  “Oh, yeah,” laughed Nicco, thinking what a state he must look, “never better. But I really must be off. I have to find a wizard. Preferably one without flying boxes that clobber people over the—never mind, it’s a long story.”

  Charruna smiled and shrugged. “Go to Hullorik,” she said. “He is powerful wizard. Hullorik has many magics, exactly.”

  Sothus smiled. “There you go. Nothing like a bit of local knowledge, eh?”

  “Where is he?” Nicco asked.

  Charuna pointed to the other side of the market. “White hair,” she said, pointing to her head. “He will burning, yes.” She smacked her lips together, miming smoking a pipe.

  “Looks like we’ll say goodbye, old boy,” said Sothus. “Take care, ‘Mr Millurat.’ See you around.”

  “Yeah. Goodbye, Sothus. Felishe, Charruna. Hurrka, bikka!”

  They faded into the crowd of shoppers.

  Nicco turned and walked over to the other side of the plaza, following Charruna’s direction and hoping it wouldn’t lead him to the grey-robed man with the kamikaze flying boxes from earlier. It was about time he caught a stroke of luck in this place. If he’d been a religious man, he might have considered it an omen of good things to come.

  He would have been wrong, of course.

  Nicco reached the other side of the market, but didn’t see anyone who looked like a wizard. Then he noticed a single stall, more like a tent, standing apart from the others on one edge of the plaza. The painted sign hanging from the awning read BUSY DO NOT ENTER in Varnian. A skull and crossbones was painted underneath the words. Lovely, thought Nicco. But he was pretty sure this was what he was looking for.

  There was a trinket stall nearby, staffed by a man swathed from head to toe in bright orange robes. Only his face and hands, lean and hollow-cheeked, were visible. Nicco could clearly see the other tent’s entrance flap from there, so he sauntered over and pretended to be interested. The stall owner smiled, revealing broken teeth, and enthusiastically encouraged Nicco to examine his wares more closely. Nicco browsed absent-mindedly, keeping one eye on the tent stall. The trinket stall was full of cheap rubbish and souvenirs—wooden versions of central Varn’s famous white-stone statuettes that looked as if they were carved by a blind, one-armed Kyasi; oddly coloured crystals that, to Nicco’s thieving eye, weren’t even cut properly; charm bracelets and necklaces; head scarves embroidered with the Varnian flag; ceramic models of what Nicco assumed to be a notable mountain from the Hurrun Peaks; even replicas of Werrdun’s necklace, which made Nicco laugh bitterly. He wondered idly if he could persuade the tent-dwelling wizard to enchant one so he could give Bazhanka that instead. It would save Nicco a lot of trouble, but he guessed that an enchantment to literally keep someone alive past their natural lifespan would be out of his budget. And even if Bazhanka was fooled, these copies wouldn’t stand up to scrutiny by someone who knew the necklace well—like Werrdun himself.

  The sound of canvas brushing on canvas caught Nicco’s ear. He glanced at the tent stall. A young woman dashed out, sobbing, and quickly disappeared into the market crowd. A grey-haired man followed her outside and stood at the tent entrance. He wore bright yellow silk robes, all the brighter against his almost-black skin. The man watched the young woman go and rolled his eyes, then turned and removed the painted sign from the awning.

  The trinket stall trader had noticed Nicco looking at the replica necklaces, and was trying to make him try one on. Nicco pushed the trader’s hands away, apologised and walked toward the man outside the tent stall.

  The owner of the trinket stall shouted after him. It was a rapid-fire shout, and Nicco had trouble translating, but from the trader’s tone of voice he guessed that he wasn’t the first customer to wait at the man’s stall with no intention of buying. The grey-haired man glanced over and shouted back at the trader, dismissing him with a wave of his hand. Nicco understood the words head and some form of the verb make smaller. The trinket stall owner fell silent.

  The grey-haired man reached into a fold of his robe and pulled out a long-stemmed pipe, watching Nicco as he lit it with a leafstick burner.

  “Mekkla Hullorik?” said Nicco. “Zenrrok lok hulluda Turithik?”

  The man smiled. “I am Hullorik. And yes, I speak Turithian... but it will cost you extra.”

  Nicco looked in the direction the sobbing young woman had gone. “What was her problem?”

  “She could not handle the truth,” said the wizard. “A card reader would have been better for her, I think. Then she would have heard only what she wanted to.”

  “Let me guess. Man trouble?”

  Hullorik drew on his pipe. “Young people,” he sighed. “Now what can I do for you, friend from Turith? Come inside where we may talk freely.” He pulled aside the canvas flap and gestured for Nicco to enter the dim tent. Then he hung the BUSY sign back on the awning and followed him inside, puffing smoke as he went.

  The smoke wafted over Nicco and made him cough. He didn’t smoke himself, and preferred not to get it blown in his face, but as he crossed the threshold to walk inside the tent he saw he would be out of luck there. Incense and oil burners filled the wizard’s makeshift store and he walked into a wall of scented smoke.

  Then he realised it was heading straight for him. It coiled around him, mixing with Hullorik’s pipe smoke as it circled Nicco’s body, starting at his head and slowly drifting down. He felt a tingling, itching sensation around the red gem in his palm. He tried scratching, but it didn’t help. Frustrated, Nicco clenched his fist around it and walked further inside the tent, trying to ignore the itch and hoping the smoke would disperse.

  Looking around at Hullorik’s paraphernalia Nicco was reminded of “Xandus’” place in Azbatha. And now that he knew the purpose of the fake wizard’s hideout, he recognised the transitory nature of Hullorik’s setup. Small sideboards and tables held ornaments and scrolls, bowls of brightly coloured powder sat alongside tomes of runes and sigils bound in thick tallus hide, a thick Praali rug lined the floor and deadened the sound within... It was all very familiar, and Nicco shivered. But unlike Ven Dazarus, Hullorik was clearly the real deal, and the reminder of how he was duped strengthened Nicco’s resolve to see Ven Dazarus punished.

  Hullorik tied the canvas flap shut and turned to Nicco. “You are a criminal?”

  “What?” The question took Nicco by surprise.

  The wizard sat down in a chair and indicated for Nicco to do the same. “It is all right. I do not care for myself. But I wonder why a Turith man comes to see a Varnian wizard. And then my home warns me
he is with a following gem. And I think does he want me to remove this thing? Because it can be done, but the cost is very high. And my friend from Turith does not look a wealthy man.”

  Nicco sat down. “Your home warned you? That was what all that smoke was about?”

  Hullorik gestured to the tent around them and smiled. “I am a wizard, friend from Turith.”

  Nicco placed his hand on the table between them, palm up. The gem was dull at the moment, the colour of dried blood. “So you’ve seen one of these before.”

  The wizard leaned forward and took Nicco’s hand in his own. He had a firm touch. His fingers traced the gem’s facets and it began to glow softly, warming and brightening to Hullorik’s touch. He raised an eyebrow and cocked his head. “Interesting. Who put this gem upon you?”

  “I don’t know,” Nicco lied. “I was in the bomb blast at the airship port yesterday, and when I woke up it was just there.”

  Hullorik snorted. “I am not one who asks questions lightly, man from Turith. You will tell me truth or you shall leave now.”

  “Look, this isn’t why I came to you,” said Nicco, noting the change from friend to man. “I’m not a criminal, or at least that’s not why I’ve got this bloody thing in my hand. I wanted to ask you two things...”

  “I shall tell you a truth, to make you understand, and in return you shall tell me the truth I desire. I can see now that this gem is not of the police. I know this because it is one of mine.”

  Nicco sighed. Why wasn’t he surprised? “Then you probably don’t need me to tell you where I got it. Who bought it, the gormless goons? Brinno and Huwll?”

  “Exactly them, yes.” Hullorik shrugged. “It is not the first time.”

  A sudden thought struck Nicco. “Wait a minute... If it’s one of yours, does that make it easier to remove? Can you get it out now?”

  Hullorik ignored the question. “Tell me these things you want to ask me.”

  “It can wait. Just remove this bloody gem!”

  “Tell me.”

  Nicco sighed. “All right... The first thing I need to know is, this Ven Dazarus guy. Is he a wizard?”

  Hullorik laughed, a deep rumble that shook the table between them. “Ven Dazarus? He is a soldier, not a magician. There is more magic in you, with that following gem in your hand, than in his entire body. Why do you ask this? Are you an agent of Werrdun, to know such men as Brinno and Huwll?”

  “Never mind why. Are you sure he’s not a magician?”

  “Why would a man who controlled magic need a man like me to make thinmen for him?”

  Nicco stared at Hullorik. Bindol had said something similar, but Nicco had already mentioned the thinmen by that point. He hadn’t said anything about them to Hullorik. He suddenly felt very paranoid, and wondered if he was being watched. Had Bazhanka found him again? Perhaps he’d been recognised by one of the Kurrethi in the city. Even worse, maybe Ven Dazarus knew Nicco was on his trail...

  “You made his thinmen.” Nicco couldn’t help but think of Clarrum. The poor bastard was only doing his job.

  “Many times. I make the most accurate and reliable golems in Bishlurram. It is not the only service I perform for him. But I can see this surprises you. Why should it?”

  “It’s a long story. I’d been...” Nicco chose his words carefully. “I’d been led to believe he was a wizard.”

  “He is not. What is the second?” Nicco looked confused, so Hullorik leaned forward and spoke slowly. “You said there are two things you want to ask me.”

  “Oh!” The wizard’s revelation had almost made Nicco forget why he came here in the first place. He reached into his shirt and pulled out his father’s pendant. “I was told you could read this.”

  Now it was Hullorik’s turn to be surprised. He took the pendant in his hands and turned it over, examining it. “Now why should a man from Turith be carrying such a thing? It is real?”

  “So I’m told. It was my father’s, but I never knew him.”

  Hullorik looked at Nicco in question. “And you are sure you want it read? If he was a stranger to you, it may not be all you want to hear. And you know already that Hullorik is not one to hide the truth.”

  Nicco took a deep breath and nodded. “I’m sure.”

  “Very well.” Hullorik slowly closed his hands around the golden teardrop, shut his eyes and leaned back. Smoke from the smoldering incense and herbs around the tent seemed to seek him out, drifting over his hands and face. Nicco glimpsed soft rays of golden sunlight break through the gaps between the wizard’s fingers, hazy and diffuse through the smoke. Nicco mentally kicked himself for never thinking to ask Bindol about the pendant. Though on reflection, he figured it was probably better to ask someone from Varn itself. Bindol might have misread it, or not know how to read it in the first place.

  Hullorik opened his eyes and placed the pendant down on the table.

  “Your father’s name was Nicco. Nicco Miarrlak. He was a journalist.”

  Nicco stared at the wizard. The name fit, of course, but surely there was some mistake. “What? No, no, that’s an army tag, the Bishlurram army...”

  “Yes. He wrote for the army. Many countries sent reporters to live in other countries, to broadcast news streams. You are perhaps too young to remember.”

  “So he wasn’t a soldier?”

  “He was, but not as you think of it. It is doubtful he ever fought.” He saw the confusion in Nicco’s eyes. “I warned you it may not be what you are hoping for. You wish he was a brave combat soldier, yes?”

  Nicco considered that for a moment and realised that the answer was no. He didn’t wish that at all. If his father was a reporter of some kind, that meant his hands were clean of blood. That pleased Nicco. Perhaps his own distaste for violence was something he’d inherited from his father without ever realising it. He did regret, more than ever now, that he’d never met the man. He probably had some great stories to tell. Nicco felt a small pang of guilt at his own chosen profession. He felt unworthy next to a man who’d travelled into enemy territory just to send the truth home to his people.

  But the feeling soon faded. Nicco had his own life to worry about right now. He could go on a guilt trip later, once his mission was complete. He picked up the pendant and replaced it around his neck. “Hurrka,” he said to Hullorik. “How much do I owe you?”

  “Ten thousand rakki, I think.”

  “What about removing this gem?”

  “No.”

  Nicco blinked. “But you said it could be done.”

  “It can be. But I will not. Consider: I remove the following gem, and the man who gave it to you decides to watch where you are. He sees you are in the market place. Then later, he looks far for it again, and he sees you are in the market place once more. This is coincidence. But the third time he looks, you are still in the market place, and it is no more coincidence. He comes to me, to find you, but you are not here. What should I tell him? Hullorik speaks only the truth. And what of you? When he finds you he will punish you, and badly if you are so important as to require this thing. No, it is better that the gem stays with you.”

  “And have everyone think I’m a criminal.”

  “You would rather many assume you are a Kurrethi spy, sent from Turith to destroy our government? The man who gave you the following gem may have done you favours, especially now when the gala is at its height. A Hurrundan may feel very... patriotic at this time of the year.”

  “Now hang on a minute, you make thinmen for Ven Dazarus! You’re a Kurrethi supporter!”

  Hullorik raised an eyebrow. “No, man from Turith, I am wizard. Politics, bombs, governors and religion, these are nothing to me. I serve whoever purchases my services. It matters not to me who collects the taxes. And speaking of collection, you remain ten thousand rakki in my debt.”

  Nicco counted off the sea-blue notes and stood up. Hullorik had mentioned the gala, the gala at the city lake he’d been warned to stay away from... He stopped at the tent flap and
turned back to the wizard. “Where’s the lagoon? Is it anywhere near the city lake?”

  Hullorik stopped counting his cash for a moment, looked up and shrugged. “They are the same. But few Hurrundans call it ‘lagoon.’ It is not the right word.”

  Nicco ran out of the tent. He needed to find a street phone.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  THERE WERE STREET phones in the marketplace, but the labourers he’d met in the café might still be somewhere around, and Nicco couldn’t risk them overhearing his call. He ran out onto the streets and saw another street phone a few hundred yards away, on a busy corner. It would have to do, he may not have much time left. He kept running, searching in his pockets. By the time he reached the phone he’d found what he was looking for. Sothus’ business card.

  Nicco punched in the number and shoved rakki coins into the slot. There was a paypod slot too, but that would open the call up to tracing, something he couldn’t risk.

  Sothus’ phone rang twice before he answered the call.

  “Sothus, it’s Nicco. Where are you?”

  “...lo? Sorry, can’t... this again?”

  The line was awful, filled with static. Nicco slowed his voice and spoke as clearly as he could. “It’s Nicco. Sothus, are you still going to the gala?”

  “Gala? Yeah, at... lake. We’re in... cab, on... now.”

  “Don’t go! Turn around! Come back to the city, anything, but don’t go to the lagoon!”

  “...what? Sorry... line’s terrible, I... hear you. Cell phone coverage... bloody awful in... Anyway yes, we’re... gala. Why, do... to come?”

  Passers-by on the corner were starting to give Nicco funny looks, he figured probably because he was speaking in Turithian. That and he looked like some kind of street bum.

  “Turn around! Sothus, do not go to the gala! There’s a bomb! It’s going to be bombed! Do you understand?”

  Nothing but static.