Trail Of The Torean (Book 2)

by Ron Collins

  The guard weighed his options. “Keep an eye on the boy,” he said to a compatriot, then turned and walked into the manor.

  A butler appeared shortly thereafter, and escorted Garrick to a moderately sized receiving room that was darkly decorated, and smelled of stale incense.

  “The viceroy will be here momentarily,” he said before leaving Garrick to his own devices.

  A solid table of polished cherry dominated the area. It was covered with scrolls, loose papers, and books. A silver tray filled with the prior evening's bread and goat cheese sat nestled inside the mounds of paper. An immense chair was positioned behind the table, pushed away at an angle. The rugs were more than a bit threadbare in places, and stained in several others.

  Garrick stared at one of the paintings many paintings that lined the walls.

  He did not think it very good.

  His mind wandered a bit before focusing on his posture.

  It was important that Hersha Padiglio see him as a competent wizard, and Alistair taught that half the battle was in how a mage carried himself. If Garrick behaved like a full mage to the viceroy, he would be a full mage.

  He drew his shoulders back just as the viceroy entered from a door behind the desk.

  Hersha Padiglio was a huge man, dressed in flowing robes of black and gold silk that gave him the appearance of a massive bumblebee. His hair was dark and short, and stuck out in stiff rushes and patches of gray that angled upward and sideways like horns. He gave a phlegmy cough and struggled to sit at the table.

  Even from a distance, the viceroy’s odor was rancid.

  The energy inside Garrick bristled. He took a moment to quell it, pleased at the ease with which he was able to control himself here.

  “Beautiful work, eh?” Padiglio said in a voice that sounded like a grinding wheel. He rubbed his fleshy cheeks and indicated the painting Garrick had been studying.

  “Indeed,” Garrick answered.

  “It’s a Haffee.”

  “Of course it is.” Garrick nodded as if he knew who Haffee was.

  “Have a seat, boy.”

  Garrick took a hard chair. “I’m sorry to wake you,” he said.

  “I recognize you.”

  “I was with Alistair some years back.”

  The viceroy waved his hand and tilted his head.

  “Yes. That’s right. So, where is the old spell chucker now?”

  “He ran into an unfortunate incident.”

  “Yes,” Padiglio said. “I think I heard something like that.” He grabbed a handful of cheese squares, and tossed one that looked overly moldy to the side. The rest he shoved into his mouth. “What’s your name, son?”

  “Garrick.”

  “Well, Garrick. Let me ask—what makes you think my job is so trivial that an apprentice can do it?”

  “I am no longer an apprentice.” He hesitated for what he hoped was the proper effect. “And while your job requires a skilled mage, I surmise it also requires trust and the ability to stay quiet after the fact.”

  The viceroy grunted. “Suppose you tell me why you would say that?”

  Garrick steeled his nerves, hoping what he was about to say wouldn’t get him killed. His energy stirred with self-righteous fervor, but he managed to keep it at bay.

  “You used to run games,” Garrick said.

  “So?”

  “A while ago a lot of other people in Caledena ran games, too. But you sent men to your competitors’ tables, and Alistair’s magic provided a little … luck. Before long, your competitors owed these men more gold than they could gather. You swooped in and paid their losses in return for stakes in their businesses.”

  “I am a kind soul, aren’t I?” the viceroy said with a grin that exposed a brown tooth. “I could have driven them out of business completely, couldn’t I?”

  “Of course, your payments went directly back to your own pocket.”

  The viceroy’s grin expanded. “A stunning ploy, eh?”

  “And well executed.”

  “Kind of you to say so.” Padiglio ate another fist-sized collection of cheese. “So, what do you really think about my little coup?”

  “Cities have been taken at greater cost.”

  “You do not disapprove?”

  Garrick had come to loathe the callous way those with power wielded it, but he needed this job and now was not the time to let something as insignificant as a conscience get in the way of success.

  “I don’t have an opinion,” Garrick lied.

  The viceroy sat back and sized Garrick up. “Is it possible that you destroyed Alistair’s manor to take over his clientele?”

  “No,” Garrick laughed, actually surprised at the idea. “Even if that had ever been my desire—which it most definitely was not—Alistair’s experience is not something I would have cared to test.”

  Padiglio nodded.

  “Yes. I’m sure you’re right. Alistair was too good to be fooled by his junior. No offense implied.”

  “None taken. I was fortunate to be trained by him.”

  “Tell me more about this thing with Alistair. How did it happen?”

  Garrick shrugged, thinking the less he said, the better.

  “I was gone, so all I can say for certain is that mages from the orders attacked the manor, and that Alistair lost.”

  “Hmm. Not surprising, I suppose. A lot of Torean wizards seem to be finding themselves dead recently.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean that Alistair is not the only Torean to take an axe to the back of the head this past month.”

  “What …” Garrick paused, thinking. “Torean mages are being hunted?”

  The viceroy shrugged.

  The answer wasn’t good enough.

  “I may be young,” Garrick said, “but I know you’ve made it to your business to understand things like the orders.”

  “Flattery will get you anywhere.”

  “So, what does it mean that Torean mages are being hunted?”

  “Flattery may get you anywhere, but I’m no expert when it comes to the orders.”

  “Don’t avoid the question.”

  The viceroy shrugged again, clearly enjoying the negotiation.

  “I know a group of Toreans got a bee up their arse back in the winter months and built a little order of their own. And I figure they cut into the orders’ pie deep enough to get them frazzled up to the point they had to put a stop to it.”

  “How do you know this?”

  The viceroy gave a greasy smile. “I hear things.”

  “Such as?”

  He waved a meaty palm.

  “All the usual things. Raids. Prices on Torean heads. I don’t think they can make a clean sweep of ‘em, though—you can’t raise a damned rock around here without finding some feckless street urchin who wants to be a wizard, and the orders don’t exactly have an open-door mind toward them.”

  He gave another phlegmy cough.

  Garrick took it in. Had Alistair known about the Toreans merging to form this new order?

  Garrick looked at the viceroy. “So, when are you going to turn me in for my bounty?”

  Padiglio laughed. “Don’t get too cocky.”

  Garrick smiled.

  The viceroy continued. “I figure it’s best to steer clear of mage wars until the bodies are buried. Besides, boy, unless you’re a confirmed wizard you’re only worth ten copper at best.”

  “But I am a wizard.”

  Padiglio’s smile suggested he felt otherwise. It also suggested that Garrick would not be walking out of this office with a paying job.

  Garrick pursed his lips, and locked his sight onto a letter opener that peeked from under the mountain of parchment on Padiglio’s desk. He grabbed his link to the plane of magic, and set his gates. A surge of life force pulsed up so strongly that he nearly gagged. Its need clogged his senses. It wanted to move. It wanted to flow through his gates. But Alistair’s training held, and he was able to push back the tide
. He whispered the word of power that released his own flow of magestuff to swirl unimpeded through his gates.

  The letter opener rose and spun end-over-end around the chair before Garrick released it to fly across the room and embed itself into the frame of a painting with a satisfying thwack.

  “I am a wizard,” Garrick said, knowing Alistair would have been unimpressed but hoping the bluff was enough to work on Padiglio. “If the fee is right, I will complete Alistair’s task.

  “I liked that frame,” the viceroy said.

  “I’m sure you’ll be able to find another.”

  Padiglio’s eyebrow rose.

  “It is true,” Garrick said, “isn’t it? That my superior’s absence leaves a hole for you?”

  The viceroy gobbled a final handful of cheese.

  “I like you, boy,” he said. “And I admit I’d hate to see the orders get hold of such a vigorous young pup as you.”

  “Perhaps you could describe your problem,” Garrick said.

  “I have many problems, Garrick. I have taxes to pay to the leeches in Dorfort. I have a woman in the other room who needs attention, whether she thinks so or not. The orders are sweeping the city for your ilk, and that leaves the good people around here upset with my efforts to provide security—despite, I might add, their complaints when I raise taxes to pay for such. Good sentries cost money, you know?”

  Garrick waited.

  “And,” the viceroy’s eyes glimmered. “I need a sorcerer to help me complete a business arrangement.”

  “Which entails?”

  “Going up to Arderveer to gather up and deliver a pet I’ve purchased.”

  “Arderveer?”

  “You know it?”

  “Alistair spoke of it. It’s somewhere in the Desert of Dust. Northwest, I think.”

  “Yes.”

  “Takril owns it.”

  “Yes, he does,” the viceroy said. “They say he’s a bit daft, but his money spends as good as any.”

  “The way I hear it, Takril is more than daft.” Garrick paused there. Alistair had talked about Takril on occasion. The mage had connections to the underplanes. And he practiced queer magics and strange spell work that none other would ever consider. Garrick didn’t think Hersha Padiglio needed to hear those things, though.

  Padiglio wheezed heavily, breathing through his nose as he wiped his lips clean.

  “I figure a man’s business is his own,” he said. “Takril’s been up front with me, and I’ll treat him straight until I find it better to do otherwise.”

  Garrick said nothing until the silence grew awkward. “Tell me about this pet,” he finally said.

  The viceroy wiped his fingers down his chest.

  “It’s none of your concern.”

  “Fair enough,” Garrick said. “And my payment?”

  “Your payment?”

  “Yes. For delivering your pet?”

  “Oh, Garrick. I’ve enjoyed our conversation, and seeing you throw that letter opener was an interesting way to start the day, but I was serious when I said I needed a real mage to take on this task.”

  Garrick’s anger flared.

  “What if I tell people how you came to power?”

  Padiglio laughed. “What if?”

  “They might just throw you out.”

  “Go ahead, son. Tell them, tell them all. Say anything you want. Then you’ll see what happens to folks who get disorderly in Caledena.” Hersha Padiglio leaned forward, elbows scattering scrolls and parchments over the table. “Here’s the deal, Garrick,” he said. “I really do like you. You’ve got a remarkable spark of arrogance about you, you know? You need a home, and I figure an apprentice who’s been all taught-up by Alistair is probably a good thing to have around. So, I’ll give you a place to stay and three meals a day. You hang around—do a few odd jobs—we’ll see how it goes. Today, for example, I’ve got a jeweler holding out on my cut of a shipment due in from Whitestone. That can be your first assignment.”

  “I’m not going to be your muscle,” Garrick said.

  The viceroy sat back, his chair creaking with the strain.

  “That’s a shame, then. I could have used you.”

  “I’m sure you could have,” Garrick said, rising because he had no idea what else to do. “If you’re done wasting my time, I’ll be going.”

  “As you will,” the viceroy said.

  He picked up his plate and offered it.

  “Cheese for the road?”

  Chapter 3

  “Cheese for the road,” Garrick muttered as he fought his way through the throng of a crowded street. The morning had grown late and the city was buzzing with activity. He passed by a woman outside a weaver’s shop who looked at him as if he was half-crazy.

  Damn her.

  Damn Hersha Padiglio, damn Alistair, damn the orders.

  “I should have shoved that plate right in his face,” he said to himself.

  Garrick fought the urge to punch a man walking toward him.

  He could do it. He could lay him out flat, just like that. Lay him out on the ground to bleed from a busted nose, or to moan in pain at a shattered cheekbone.

  The heat of the day rose around him, and the power of people in the streets pressed on his senses. He was a failure, an absolute, complete failure. Maybe he could start a street brawl. Maybe then people would actually see him, maybe then he would be something more than inconsequential.

  A wave of life force rolled up his spine, and as quickly as those feelings of anger had come, they were gone, leaving him embarrassed of himself as he walked through the streets. What was wrong with him? He had to calm himself before he did something he would truly regret.

  Garrick came to Halley’s Inn, the roadhouse at the edge of town where he and Alistair had stayed on a previous trip. The swivel doors squealed as he pushed through. It was dark inside despite the time of day, and it took his eyes a moment to adjust.

  The room was smaller than he remembered.

  The place he recalled was an expansive, open place, filled with traders and rangers who came from all reaches of the plane to tell stories and partake in loud games. But, instead he found a cramped floor and a set of stairs that ran up the side of the room beside the counter. He found walls that were cracked, a floor that was watermarked, and dusty cobwebs that filled the corners of the windows—the glass of which had been painted over and probably hadn’t seen a rag since the place was first built. A weathered canvas hung over the entrance. A wave of laughter hit at the same time as the smell of stale smoke.

  People were gathered around a dragongriff table, and the sound of its spinning ball prattled in the background. The rest of the floor was maybe half-full of card players. Two girls, each certainly less than a dozen years old, mopped the floor in the back.

  He felt the power of Sjesko rising within him.

  There was so much he could do here, he thought. So much he could change.

  And old woman sat behind the counter with a bored expression on her face. Her hair was a wiry mess she had combed over an oily forehead. Dark bags framed her tired eyes.

  “What do you want?” she said. Her voice was brick-on-brick.

  “I’m looking for a room,” Garrick said.

  “Five copper.”

  “And dinner?”

  “Do I look like a cook?”

  Garrick sighed. “I guess not.”

  He placed coins on the counter, and waited while she struggled to stand. The woman was twisted oddly at the waist, and her russet shift bunched over her back. Garrick followed her as she hauled herself up the stairs with slow, painstaking movements.

  Sjesko’s energy rose again. It wanted to touch her pain. It wanted to make a difference. The villagers’ essence felt good inside him. It made him happy. As long as he carried them within, he could pretend their nobility was his own.

  He found himself feeling things about the old woman, understanding them, reading them as if they were actually a part of him.

&
nbsp; She once had a husband and children, but they were all gone now. At one point she had run this grungy inn well, but the woman was older now, her body too frail to handle the day-to-day chores it took to manage the place.

  The wild energy stirred further. Warmth rolled over Garrick. The hair on his arms rose as the strong taste of honey grew over his tongue. An extraordinary sense of anticipation came over him.

  The woman came to the top of the stairs and opened a closet.

  She reached to pull down a blanket.

  As she moved, Garrick touched the tip of her shoulder blade. The villagers moved inside him. Energy flowed. The woman’s spine cracked audibly, and she jumped with a startled cry.

  “Are you all right?” Garrick said.

  The woman straightened and placed her hand along her hip as she stretched and twisted. An expression of wonder came over her face.

  “Yes,” she said, bending farther. “Yes, I think so. I haven’t been able to move like this since before Kallie was born.”

  “That’s wonderful,” Garrick replied, grinning.

  The joy of Sjesko’s villagers was like a sip of mead.

  He stood up straighter, feeling a proprietary sense about the woman that he hadn’t felt before. He looked at her, and he thought also of the peddler on the street with his bucket of apples.

  Braxidane’s magic was a strange mix.

  The woman rubbed the small of her back as she led him around a corner and down a long hallway with windows open and sheer drapes blowing in the cross breeze at both ends. Their footsteps echoed on the wooden floor. Tarnished bronze lamps sat on small shelves that were nailed to the walls between each opening.

  She stopped and handed him the blanket.

  “Here’s your room,” she said.

  Garrick stepped into the sad little space.

  It smelled of dust and mold.

  A straw mattress lay against one wall. An empty basin was pushed against the opposite side, and a bedpan sat in the far corner. A slit near the ceiling let in a thin stream of daylight.

  “It will do,” he said.

  “It’ll have to.”

  She shut the door behind her and walked away, her footsteps fading into the distance.