by Ty Johnston
Wyck nodded. “He runs a lot of rackets.”
Lucius wet the ends of his fingers and rubbed the water into his eyes. “I was going to seek you out today. I lost you last night and wanted to make sure no harm had come to you.”
“I’m fine. In fact, I’m better than fine.”
The man’s eyes finally felt able to take the light, and he opened them to see the boy standing at the foot of the bed. On the youth’s face was a huge smirk. In his hands a metallic goblet glinted from the sunlight.
Lucius squinted at the object. “What do you have?”
The boy tossed the goblet.
Lucius caught it and turned the silvered mug over in his hands. He stopped when the word “Belgad” appeared engraved on its curved side.
His head shot up to glare at the boy. “Wyck, you didn’t?”
The smile widened on the lad’s lips. “Yep, I did. I had to come out of there with some sort of profit.”
“How did you get it here without it being seen?”
Wyck tugged at the front of his shirt. “Just cradled it like a baby.”
Lucius set the tankard on the table next to his bed. “That mug could get you killed. You’re lucky you didn’t caught last night.”
“The guards were busy. But I’ve still got a big problem. I can’t sell that thing on the street.”
Now Lucius smirked. “I suppose as soon as someone saw Belgad’s name on the side of it, your goose would be cooked. So, why bring it to me?”
“I can’t take the thing to someone who could melt it down because they might take it from me because I’m just a kid, and I don’t know how to smelt it myself.”
“You want me to fence it for you.” Lucius was not asking a question.
The boy’s face brightened. “Or maybe buy it from me.”
“Why would I need a mug from Belgad?”
“You said you needed money,” Wyck said, pointing at the tankard. “I’d guess that thing’s worth at least a couple of gold.”
Lucius eyed the piece. It was a fine mug, silvered with elaborate lettering, but it was still a mug. Belgad’s name on its side might make it worth more to some collectors, but such a person would be difficult to discover. “One gold, maybe.”
“One gold, then.” Wyck’s smile faltered. “That would still put me up for a good while.”
“You want me to pay you one gold for a silver mug I will have as hard a time selling as you?”
“I thought you might know how to melt it down. Surely the silver alone is worth one gold.”
Lucius glanced at the mug again. It might be worth a gold coin, or it might not. The tankard might also provide some other way to make coin. Perhaps Belgad would want it back? Lucius doubted that. Belgad did not seem to be the sentimental sort.
Lucius waved a hand toward the room’s exit. “Get my belt from the back of the door.”
Wyck looked behind himself to find a hide belt hanging from a hook. He handed the belt to Lucius.
The man pulled back a small flap on the inside of the leather strap and took out a gold coin, holding it up for the boy to see. “One gold and no more.”
Wyck nodded agreement.
Lucius flipped him the coin. The boy caught it in the air.
“Hang this back up.” Lucius held out the belt.
Wyck took the strap and returned it to its hook. The gold coin he slipped inside his shirt.
“Don’t lose that,” Lucius said, meaning the coin, as he leaned back in his bed.
“Don’t you have work to do today?”
Lucius closed his eyes. “I had a day of leave approved when I took last night’s job.”
“I guess you’re going to sleep all day.”
Lucius opened one eye and stared at the boy. “Only if you’ll allow me to.”
Another knock came at the door.
“May I enter?” It was a man’s speaking.
“Sure,” Wyck said, turning to the entrance.
One of Lucius’s hands reached out and grabbed the silver tankard, stuffing it beneath the pillow upon which his head rested.
Wyck opened the door to find Sergeant Gris standing in the hall.
Gris glanced down at the boy, then inside the room to Lucius. “Is this a bad time?”
Lucius eyed the sergeant. “The boy was leaving. Weren’t you, Wyck?”
Wyck squeezed past the sergeant. “I know when I’m not wanted, but I’ll see you soon, Lucius.”
With that, the boy was gone down the hall.
“Interesting guest,” Gris said, closing the door behind him. He glanced around the room, spotted a chair, and pulled it nearer the bed. “Mind if I sit?”
Lucius motioned for the man to do as he pleased.
Gris sat. Lucius noticed the sergeant’s hand never strayed too far from the hilt of the sword sheathed on his hip. Lucius also noted the sergeant still had on the same uniform he had worn the night before.
“A late night?”
The sergeant appeared haggard with dark spots beneath his eyes. “I have not yet found my bed, but I see you have.”
Lucius sat up in his bed again. “We were not dismissed until nearly sunrise.”
Gris glanced around the room as if searching for something. “Been in bed since?”
Lucius’s eyes followed wherever Gris looked. “Except for breakfast, yes. The boy woke me only minutes before you arrived.”
Gris glanced back at the door as if he expected to see Wyck still standing there, then turned back to Lucius. “What was the boy doing here?”
“Is this an interrogation?”
The question was a simple one, but it seemed to chill the air in the room.
The sergeant was quiet for a moment, allowing a beat to pass as if he were unsure how to continue. Then, “I spoke with some of the other guards from last night. They told me you left your station for some little while. They said you were chasing a young boy into the mansion.”
“I told you as much last night, and they have no reason to lie.”
“Do you?”
Lucius did not answer. His face turned hard as stone.
“Lucius, we have been friends a long time,” Gris said, appearing genuinely concerned, “and I want you to know you are free to say anything to me. It is possible I will be able to help you.”
“I have nothing to tell you.”
“Darkbow.”
Lucius’s eyes flared. “What did you say?”
“You heard me.”
“You said Darkbow.”
“That’s right. It’s a name you should recognize since it was yours in the Lands, and it belonged to your mother before she married your father.”
Wardens never used their real names in the Lands. It protected them and their families.
Lucius nodded to his friend. “And you were called Griffon.”
“That’s right, after that big bird I caught my first week on the job.”
Lucius suddenly appeared perturbed. “What does this have to do with your questioning me?”
“The man tormenting Lord Belgad is calling himself Kron Darkbow.”
“Coincidence.”
“Is it coincidence Darkbow first appeared in the city the same week as you?”
“Am I under arrest?” Lucius saw no reason not to be blunt.
Gris’s hand drew closer to his sword. “I have nothing to charge you with, and I do not have any plans of having you arrested. But I need to know the truth. It’s the only way I can protect you.”
“What makes you think I’m your man? It has to be more than just the name.”
Gris nodded. “You are right. I’ve heard what this man Darkbow is capable of. Only someone of your background could have his skill.”
“You mean a border warden?”
“No. A thousand wardens couldn’t do all of that, but you, you grew up in the Lands. You had teachers, men from all parts of the world and skilled in all manners of combat, to educate you. You’re unique. To my knowledge, no other man but
you has been raised from youth to be a Prisonlands warden.”
Lucius had nothing to say to that. Gris was correct. Lucius had spent more than half his life within arrow shot of the Prisonlands. During those years, Lucius had learned sword fighting, climbing, stealth and anything anyone would teach him. His uncle Kuthius had been his first teacher, showing Lucius how to track man or animal, and how to ride a horse and use a bow. Many of the border wardens, and not too few of the exiles, were from far lands and had skills unknown to Ursians. Lucius’s schooling had come from all of these men. He had even studied alchemy and foreign styles of combat. He had learned numerous languages and studied books from the captain’s personal library.
“Lucius, if you are Darkbow, I only want to help,” Gris went on. “If Belgad gets to you first, he will make sure you are killed. I could at least help you flee the country.”
Lucius remained silent, as if weighing his options. Finally he spoke. “If I am your man, do you think I would let it drop after things have gone so far?”
Gris shook his head. “Probably not. I remember you could be stubborn, and impatient.”
“I most definitely can be.”
“Just like your uncle.”
Both men smiled.
Then Gris’s smiled died. “This is a serious matter, Lucius. Men have been killed. Because of the public nature of this situation, I am obligated to arrest this Darkbow if my men catch him. Before things get that far, are you sure there isn’t anything you want to tell me?”
“I have nothing to say on the matter.”
Gris stood, shaking his head from resignation. “I’m weary and need sleep. I apologize, old friend, if I have caused you stress.”
“Nothing with which I can not cope. I just hope you continue to trust me.”
Gris turned toward the exit. “I don’t know who to trust anymore. It was simpler in the Lands. At least there you knew who your opponents were.”
“I’m no opponent to you.”
Gris opened the door and turned to face Lucius again. “There’s one other thing. I noticed you have not been out of bed since I’ve been in your room. Why is that?”
Lucius’s face remained calm. “I told you I was awakened only moments before you arrived.”
“Very well, but I don’t suppose you’d mind standing for me?”
Lucius showed no signs of moving. “I’m going back to sleep, Gris, which is something you should consider.”
The sergeant did not move for a moment. He thought of pushing the point further, but then realized it did not make a difference. If Lucius were Kron Darkbow, then he was not going to admit it and nothing Gris could say or do was likely to change that fact.
“Take care of yourself, Darkbow,” Gris said, stepping out of the room.
“And you, Griffon.” Lucius watched the closing door.
Chapter Seventeen
Trelvigor looked almost human again. Most of the flesh had grown back over his body, though Randall could see some scarring would be permanent, especially the tissue on the face and arms.
Randall continued to lay hands on the unconscious mage, slowly tracing the contours of the body and seeping his magic into the flesh. The healer’s eyes remained closed, but his mind was so in tune with Trelvigor’s body he could almost feel every pain the wizard felt and every ounce of relief Randall’s own magic was bringing to him.
Feeling the pain, and how much less it was now than it had been just days before, Randall realized Trelvigor would be fully healed in a week or less. It was even possible Randall could wake the wizard from his herb-induced sleep in another day or two. Trelvigor’s wounds had been so horrendous when he had first been brought to the healing tower that he had been in a state of oblivious numbness, but for the last several days it had been a mixture of Randall’s brewing that had kept the wizard from waking. Randall didn’t want his patient up and around before the body had been fully healed.
The healer squinted his eyes tighter from the strain of expending his own life force. His own soul was like water dripping slowly from the lip of a well pump, forever splashing into nothingness.
Randall forced himself away from the wizard. He had done enough for the day and mustn’t tire himself further.
The young man plopped into a cushioned chair, closing his eyes. He would rest a few minutes to catch his breath and build his strength, then retire to his own quarters.
A knock came at the door.
It seemed Randall would never get any rest. “Enter.” His voice was soft.
With eyes still closed, the healer heard the door to Trelvigor’s room creak open.
“You about finished with him?” It was Stilp’s voice.
Randall stared up at Belgad’s man. “A few more days. Then he should be nearly as good as before.”
“He wasn’t much good before,” Stilp said, leaning against the door’s frame.
“Then perhaps my healing will bring about an improvement. Is there anything in particular I can do for you today?”
Stilp’s eyes wandered to the sleeping mage. “The boss sent me to check on his wizardliness.” He pointed with his chin at Trelvigor. “He’s looking better.”
“That is a practical judgment for a layman. Trelvigor should be aware of himself within a few days, and he might be able to move within a week of that.”
“When can he talk?”
“A week, maybe less,” Randall said with shifting, restless shoulders, “but we must be careful. His body has been through a terrible trauma, and he has been in a coma for several weeks. There is no telling how he will react upon regaining his senses. Likely he will be stupefied, and it will take him a day or two to become coherent.”
“A week, then?”
“Possibly.”
“Hell, that won’t do. Belgad’ll want a definite answer.”
“I’m sorry I cannot provide one for him, but matters of restoration are often delicate and imprecise.”
“Hell,” Stilp repeated.
“Is there anything else with which I may help you?” Randall asked, trying not to sound too impatient. He could feel the fatigue in his muscles and bones and spirits. He needed rest.
Stilp rubbed at his thigh. “That leg of mine is bothering me again.”
“I’m tired, Stilp. I’ve spent myself on Trelvigor.” The healer waved a hand at the unconscious wizard. “Why don’t you ask one of the other healers?”
“Because I know you’re the best healer in town.” Stilp grinned. “I’m not expecting you to work any magic. The leg’s been cramping a little. I just want you to take a look at it.”
Randall sighed. Some days were like this for a healer, with no rest in sight. What was it his father had told him when he was young? The good are at a disadvantage because they are so often taken advantage of. Randall felt it was true today.
“Let me see the leg.”
Stilp began to roll up his trousers.
***
Spider didn’t mind sneaking around the grounds of the healing tower in the middle of the day; he was dressed to fit in with nearly any crowd in Bond, a fleece shirt over simple breeches. Spider also didn’t mind waiting in the hall outside Randall’s personal quarters, waiting for the hall to empty so he could get to work. Blending in was nothing new to Spider, and came easy to him with his small frame and forgettable drab gray hair. What Spider didn’t like was using a minor spell to unlock the door to Randall’s room. He couldn’t take out locksmithing tools in the middle of the hall in case someone should wander by, but using magic on the door of a known mage, even a healer, wasn’t a smart idea. The consequences could quite literally be alarming, even severe.
Finally seeing he was alone, Spider closed his eyes as he crossed the hall to the door. He placed a hand against the lock and said two words in an ancient language which he did not understand, though he had said them dozens of times in his life.
There was a small flash of light in the palm of his hand, followed by the click of the lock.
&
nbsp; Spider waited a second before opening his eyes, then did so with a grin. It had been too easy. Spider figured this Randall Tendbones must be one unsuspecting fellow. He had half-expected to be covered in a sheet of flames or jumped upon by a demon appearing out of the wall. Nothing like that had happened, however, and the short, thin man called Spider found himself feeling somewhat disappointed.
He had a job to do, though, so he brushed his disappointment aside and stepped through the door, making sure to pull it closed behind him. Inside he found the circular room of the healer’s quarters, the desk to the right with its chair and a couple of other chairs to the left. Scattered on top of the desk were papers Spider ignored and a feathered quill sticking out of a glass inkwell.
Spider’s first impression of the room told him little other than he was in an office. He knew he had the right room, though, because Stilp had pointed it out to him.
Knowing he had only as long as Stilp could keep Randall busy in another part of the tower, Spider crossed the room to the back of the desk and pulled open the top drawer. Inside were ground, dark herbs. He sniffed the leaves but didn’t recognize them.
Spider glanced further back in the drawer, saw nothing of interest, and closed it. Another drawer was quickly opened. As he rummaged, it dawned on Spider he didn’t know what to be looking for. Lalo and Stilp had told him to be on the watch for any evidence that could link Randall Tendbones with Kron Darkbow.
Spider grinned. He couldn’t imagine what kind of man would be brave enough to intentionally frustrate Belgad.
Finding nothing in the drawer, Spider closed it and yanked open another. He paused upon discovering a pale silk cloth, something small but bulky wrapped inside. Ever so gently, Spider lifted an edge of the white cloth to see a heavy gold ring with a large, flat facing. Engraved into the facing was a black fist with spikes between the knuckles. The image seemed vaguely familiar, but Spider couldn’t place where he had seen it.
He went back and forth in his mind about whether he should take the ring. It looked like it could be just what Belgad wanted, but on the other hand it looked like something the healer would soon notice missing.
The ring appeared heavy and expensive, as if made of real gold. The only way Spider would be able to tell for sure would be to weigh the item in his hands, and maybe cast a little detection spell.
He reached for the ring. He at least wanted to feel its weight before making a decision on whether to take it.