by Ty Johnston
Belgad’s gaze traveled down the center of the hall to an approaching thin fellow in a red silk robe swaying about his feet. The man passed Stilp, who exited between armed guards and through a huge door of oak. Belgad paused in anticipation of what Lalo the Finder would have to say. Lalo never minced words, and nearly everything he said was of import.
“I beg your pardon, my lord.” Lalo halted at the bottom of the throne’s steps, his head slightly bowed. “There is a situation of which you should be aware.”
“Speak, Finder.”
“The house of Trelvigor the mage is in flames. There has been no sign of the wizard himself, and I fear the worst.”
Trelvigor was an old client to Belgad, having been in the northerner’s employ since Belgad had arrived in Bond fifteen years earlier. The wizard had dark, sometimes disturbing faults. But those same faults had often been used in Belgad’s service. Being a patron meant one had certain responsibilities to one’s clients.
Besides, Belgad realized this gave him an excuse to leave his fortress and to cancel the rest of his meetings.
The Dartague stood straight, at his full height, towering over Lalo. “Ready a carriage.”
***
It was dark, but not late, and the journey by carriage from the Swamps to Trelvigor’s mansion in Uptown took nearly an hour because of the foot traffic on the cobblestone streets. The trip could have taken longer for many, but Belgad’s reputation cleared the way with help from an escort of two heavily-armed guards driving the carriage and two other men on horseback.
Mages Way was one of the widest roads in Bond, its fancy homes lining the street for a mile or more, but Belgad could not see the wizard’s burning mansion from the open window of his carriage. There were too many wagons, horses and people blocking the path to see much of anything other than an orange glow in the distance. All classes of persons filled the street, from the bored wealthy who lived nearby to the dirty slum dwellers come up from the Swamps. The fire was the entertainment of the night.
“Stop the carriage,” the Dartague ordered.
The guard steering the horses reined the animals to a halt.
Belgad shoved open the carriage door and climbed out to the street. “I’ll walk from here.”
He tromped away from the carriage and his personal guards. A person would have to be a fool to try and strike down Belgad the Liar in the middle of the streets. Even if Belgad were killed, the repercussions could be devastating.
Still walking, Belgad watched the glow that flowed over the crowd ahead. The northerner could make out a bucket brigade of well-meaning citizens and city patrolmen transferring water from the river several blocks south. Even from this distance, he could tell the firefighters were wasting their time. It was obvious there would be nothing left of the mansion other than its stone frame and tower.
Closer to the flames, Belgad could make out several orange tabards of the city guards. The men huddled together next to the bucket brigade. He made a straight line for the guards.
“Who is in charge in this district tonight?”
One of the guards stepped forward. “That would be me, Lord Belgad.” A disquieted hand gripped the pommel of the sword at his side. “Sergeant Gris at your service.”
Belgad waved a hand toward the flames. “Is river water the best you can do?”
“It is the best we could arrange for now, sir.” Gris waved a hand toward the bucket line. “The water pumps at the Docks are being used to drain ships, and no mages along the Way are available.”
Belgad stared over the crowd to other expensive homes lining the road. Several of the buildings, a number of them minor fortresses or mansions, showed burning lights in the windows.
“You mean none of them would come.”
The sergeant nodded toward the wealthy abodes. “I asked several myself personally, but I was told they did not have the proper spells prepared to be of aid.”
“They had no love for Trelvigor.” It made a cruel sense to the Dartague. Wizards were a fickle lot, and Trelvigor was not welcome among their numbers. The mage whose home was in flames had gained no love in sorcerous circles through his connections with the city’s underworld.
The heavy ceiling beams in the burning structure collapsed with a cracking din, shaking the ground. Cries of fear went up from the crowd as orange and yellow sparks exploded into the air, showering the bucket brigade with soot and sending its members fleeing.
Belgad looked through open windows where the shutters had been burned away and saw a furnace with stone walls. “Has there been any sign of Trelvigor?”
Gris glanced at the blaze, then back to the larger man beside him. “Not yet, sir. And to be honest, I don’t expect to find anything until the fire has been put out.”
“Any idea what started it?” With a roving gaze, Belgad watched the bucket brigade reform its line to the river.
“I do not know, sir,” Gris said, following the Dartague's look, “but others who saw it early on said the fire started from within. Probably the kitchen, but you never can tell with wizards. Sometimes they’ve got potions brewing and Ashal knows what other goings on.”
Belgad had to admit the sergeant might be correct. Trelvigor had not been an exceptional alchemist, though he did know how to cook a poison or two.
A yell went up from the front of the bucket line.
“Excuse me, sir.” Sergeant Gris took off at a run.
Belgad watched the man go. From his viewpoint he could make out the bucket brigade near the front entrance to the remains of the wizard’s mansion. Several men were kneeling as Gris approached, but the flames and crowd kept Belgad from seeing more.
The sergeant spoke briefly with the bucketeers before jogging back to Belgad.
The Dartague nodded toward the flames and the gathering of men there. “What news?”
“They’ve found him.”
“The wizard?”
“Yes, sir, and he’s alive. He managed to crawl his way to the front door before passing out, but he’s in bad shape.”
Belgad waved to one of his bodyguards and the man came forward. “Go to the nearest healing tower and let them know we’re bringing a man badly burnt.”
“Yes, my lord.” The man ran off through the crowd.
“He looked in bad shape, sir.” Gris took a step back as Belgad turned to him once more. “I don’t know if the healers can save this one.”
“They had better.” Belgad grimaced. “That’s why I make donations to them every month.”
***
Randall Tendbones had seen a lot of pain and death in his twenty-one years, but he had never seen someone burnt so horribly they were hardly recognizable as human.
The blackened, smoking husk that was Trelvigor the wizard was curled in a fetal position on a padded table. It was difficult for Randall to tell where the man’s clothing ended and the remains of the flesh began; all had been burnt and melted together into a crispy mush. Hardened flakes of black skin protruded from the wizard in the few places raw muscle did not show.
The healer closed his eyes and rested a hand on a forehead that looked like cooked strips of beef. Randall breathed in slowly, allowing magic to flow from within his soul and to seep into the unconscious mage. He could not quickly heal someone injured so badly, but for now he could calm Trelvigor and keep the mage from waking to the anguish, if he could awaken at all.
A knock at the door caused the healer to remove his hand and open his eyes.
“Yes?”
A coarse voice spoke from beyond. “Lord Belgad would like a word with you.”
“I’ll be right with him.”
Booted feet stomped away as the healer pulled off the white robes of his profession and dumped them in an open barrel next to the door. For a moment he stood in his simple tunic, contemplating the man he was about to meet.
Beyond the door was a circular chamber familiar to Randall, a portion of the tower proper that was a combination waiting room and work room for the he
aler. The man Randall knew by reputation as Belgad the Liar was sitting in the healer’s chair behind his desk. Two men clad in chain armor stood opposite Randall next to the room’s other door. Beyond that door could be heard the various comings and goings of other healers and patients.
Belgad stood. “What is his condition?”
Randall walked to his desk. “He will probably live.”
“Probably?”
“There’s been much damage,” the healer explained. “He will take some time to heal. It’s a wonder he’s alive at all.”
Belgad nodded and returned to the chair. “How long?”
Randall pulled up a chair and sat in front of his desk. “Master Belgad, there’s no magic strong enough to entirely undo what has been done to him.”
The Dartague grunted. “I should ask one of the other healers, or take him to the other tower.”
“Believe me, Trelvigor will be best served here.” Randall stared with earnest across the table top. “Healing magic takes much endurance. My youth allows me to channel far stronger resources from within than could another, older healer.”
“Your youth also reveals your inexperience.”
“I’m Kobalan. If anyone understands pain, it would be I.”
Belgad blinked.
Randall regretted the slip about his nationality, but he wanted to prove to this man he was the best healer available.
He was soon glad to notice the Dartague let the remark go.
Belgad pointed to the healer. “You still haven’t told me how long it would take to work your magic.”
“About three weeks.”
“How long until he can talk?”
“A couple of weeks, perhaps longer.” Randall shrugged. “The inside of his mouth was seared, his tongue nearly gone, and his lungs have been singed.”
“You can ... grow back his tongue?”
“That’s why it will take at least a couple of weeks before he can talk.” Randall motioned toward the room where Trelvigor lay in a stupor. “The magic needed to grow major tissue or organs is quite straining. I’m afraid I won’t be doing much other work for a month or so.”
Belgad stood, showing the conversation was at an end. “That is why you have other healers.” The large man moved toward the door.
One of the guards opened the portal, but the northerner paused and turned back to the healer. “Let me know when he can speak.”
“Yes, my lord.” Randall watched the three men exit his chamber.
Chapter Three
The boy was only twelve, but he knew an opportunity when he saw it. From between two fruit stalls he spied Ezra the baker’s shop across the way of the bazaar’s central path.
Ezra had been foolish to leave a window open, and Ezra had been foolish to leave a loaf of nut bread cooling in the window. Ezra could expect to lose a little business that day.
The boy glanced from side to side. It was morning and the bazaar wasn’t at its busiest, but a number of hawkers and early customers were on the streets. No one seemed to notice the lad in grimy rags kneeling between two stalls.
He glanced at the cooling loaf of bread again. It would be so easy. He could dart across cobbled stones and snag his breakfast, then it would be zig, zag, zoom! And he’d be gone. No one would know from where he had come and no one would know where he had gone.
He licked his lips. He could already feel the warmth of the bread on his tongue. It was time for breakfast.
The boy took a step.
A boot slid between his feet.
He dropped hard, his quick hands all that saved him from a broken nose.
Before he could roll over, a hand clamped on the back of his shirt and yanked him to his feet.
The boy tried to run, but he was held in a grip of iron and his struggles soon ceased.
He twisted his head to stare at a gloved hand that led up to a man in a deerskin tabard. He was tall, with dusty boots rising to his knees. A leather vest covered a linen shirt and a long, tan cloak hung from his back. The clothes were those of a man who spent much time in the woods or on the roads, but they were clean and in good condition. Also, the sizable sword on the fellow’s left hip told the boy this was someone he should take seriously.
The man nodded across the way to the baker's shop. “Looked as if you were about to have breakfast.”
The boy had learned early in his young life to read human character, and he knew right away this man was no fool. It would be stupid to lie. “A good breakfast it would have been, too, without your intrusion.”
The man pointed to their right past a line of booths to the edge of a stone warehouse. “Two city guards around that corner,” he said, then pointed to their left between another row of stalls, “and a member of the beggars’ guild up that way. He probably would not like you scaring off his business. I think I saved you a bit of trouble.”
The stranger released his grip on the youth.
The boy thought about running, but his curiosity got the best of him. He wanted to know how he had been caught. He was sure there had been no one near him mere seconds before. “Where’d you come from just now?”
The man chuckled. “That corner.” He jabbed a thumb behind them to a dark spot aft of a fruit stall. “I was sitting on a crate finishing my breakfast when you showed. If you’re going to have a future as a thief, you’re going to have to learn to read your surroundings better.”
“I’m no thief!”
The man chuckled again. “You were about to pay for that loaf of bread?”
The boy pouted. He would have stuffed his hands in his pockets, but his ragged pants didn’t have any pockets.
Towering over the youth, the man showed no signs of allowing the boy to flee without answering questions. “What’s your name, boy?”
“Why should I tell you?”
A smile remained on the stranger’s lips, but not in his eyes. “Because I’m asking, and in polite society, one generally gives one’s name when asked.”
“Who says we’re in polite society? Anyway, I don’t know you.”
“I am Lucius Tallerus,” the man said with a polite nod of his head. “Now you.”
The boy bit his bottom lip. He didn’t like giving his name to this man. The fellow seemed almost as if he were a member of the city guard. The lad didn’t think he was in trouble, but he didn’t want to take any chances. Still, there was no use in putting off the inevitable.
“Wyck.”
The grin on Lucius’s lips grew wider, but his stern eyes were not blinking. “Try again. Your real name.”
“I don’t know my real name.” The boy was telling the truth. “I never knew my mom and dad, but on the streets they call me Wyck.”
Some of the cold fled from the man’s eyes as he pulled a small leather sack from beneath his tabard. He opened it with one hand, retrieved three silver coins and held them out. “Take these.”
The boy’s eyes were wide as he stared at the coins.
Lucius’s gloved hand moved a little closer to the boy, the coins in his palm. “I want you to buy some food and new clothes. And I want you to get a room off the streets, at least for the night.”
Wyck’s eyes darted from the coins to the man’s face. “I’m not doing anything sick for you. I might be living on the streets, but I’m not desperate.”
The grin returned to Lucius’s face. “I didn’t mean anything of the sorts. The coins are for you, then we part ways if you wish.”
Confusion was plain on the boy’s face. “Why are you doing this?”
He saw a glazed look come over the man’s eyes. “Because I lived on these streets for a while when I was about your age.”
Lucius's voice showed he was telling the truth.
The boy lifted the coins.
Lucius pointed to the money. “There can be more of those.”
It was Wyck’s turn to smile. “How?”
“I take it you spend most of your time here in the Swamps.”
The lad nodded.
“Then you are someone who hears things,” Lucius said, scanning their surroundings as if making sure no one else was listening, “someone who knows things.”
“I hear enough.”
“Good, because that’s how you can earn my silver.” Lucius stared at the lad again. “I want you to be my eyes and ears on the streets. If there’s news or gossip, let me know.”
Wyck stared at the coins in his hand. “That’s easy enough.”
“Off with you, then. I’ve business to attend to.”
The boy turned and ran as fast as his legs would carry him. His mind was already filling with fruit-filled pastries and sugar candies.
He pulled to a halt after a dozen steps and turned to see the man still standing next to the stall. “How do I find you?”
“You know the Rusty Scabbard?”
Wyck nodded again. He was familiar with the tavern.
“Leave word for me there.”
With that the boy rushed off.
Once the youth was gone down an alley, Lucius turned to his right. He had been telling the truth about the two city guards, and he needed to ask directions of them.
***
The blackened shell that had been the home of Trelvigor the wizard was little more than smoking walls and rubble by morning. Even the mansion’s tower had fallen once the wooden roof of the main structure had collapsed.
It was the job of Sergeant Gris to clean up the mess. It was not a job he enjoyed, but it was not one he detested. It was merely another task to be performed among the steady stream of tasks he dealt with daily.
Soon after the sun was above the remainder of the wizard’s mansion, Gris and three of his men were overseeing a crew of workers who had been pulled from various jobs around the city to attend to the burnt building. Someone from another division of the city’s bureaucracy would normally be in charge of such an operation, but the mayor had wanted the Guard there because of the nature of the building. It had been a wizard’s home and could present untold dangers. Gris believed any dangers would have gone up in flames, but he didn’t question what he was told to do.
Wheelbarrows were lined up in front of the mansion’s remains as workers loaded them with pieces of blackened wood and stone that had fallen outside of the residence proper. The inside of the structure was still too hot for anyone to enter, but the crew was cleaning as best it could.