by Mark Shane
Barges pushed slowly down the river as smaller, swifter craft swerved in and around them. The boats were packed together so thick in some places Michael thought he could reach the other bank stepping from one to the next. He noticed several boats ferrying people. According to Max, it was the fastest way to go from one side of the city to the other. Michael was still pondering the idea of such a vast city when Max stopped at an inn.
The Stag and Lion was easily the largest inn Michael had ever seen. Four stories of rooms towered above them and the windows protruding from the mansard roof indicated there were more rooms in the attic. He appreciated the visual effect of the half-timbered exterior which was surprisingly intricate for such a large structure.
The front room proved as spacious as the outside suggested, tall with exposed wooden beams supporting the rooms above and plenty of large chandeliers to light the expansive room. Dust danced in the sunlight flooding through the windows, but the inn was far from dirty. There were two hearths in the room which promised to keep the night’s chill out. Across the grand hall, cozy booths with drawn curtains lined the wall opposite the windows.
Michael noticed Falon grinning at him and realized he was standing there slack-jawed. His face reddened thinking how stupid a country boy he must look to her.
A jovial fellow with gray, balding hair and a round belly moseyed his way to them. “Welcome to the Stag and Lion,” he said, wiping his hands on his apron. A well-fed innkeeper was always a good sign the food and business were good.
“I’m Bartholemu Patton, but please, call me Bart. Are you in need of rooms? I have four next to each other in the attic. We are a bit full right now, but they’re fine rooms.”
“Two will suffice,” Max replied, “and the attic is fine.”
“Excellent!” Bart replied enthusiastically, but Michael thought he saw a hint of disappointment in the man’s eyes. It passed quickly, though, when Max dropped two silver coins in his hand.
“Durin!” he called into the kitchen behind him. “Durin, will take care of your horses and bags.”
“We have no horses.”
Bart glanced at the packs slung over their shoulders, a confused look passing over his face. A pinched-faced man appeared from the kitchens. “Very well. Durin will show you to your rooms.” With a nod, he disappeared into the kitchens where they could hear him bellowing at the cooking staff about getting supper ready.
Michael was so relieved to fall into a bed he only gave the room a perfunctory once-over, noting its simple design. The wardrobe, water basin, and beds carried the same simple theme. Not nearly as nice as what Serin had given them, but fit for royalty as far as Michael was concerned.
Max gave the room a more thorough look, examining the lock on the door then moving to the window. Michael and Garen exchanged a questioning look when he opened the small window, slipped out onto the roof for a quick look and then slipped back in.
“Looking for something particular,” Garen asked as Max closed the window.
“I chose this inn because it has windows on the roof and the buildings next to it are the same height. If we are discovered, I would prefer to have a way out. Wouldn’t you?” He eyed both of them with a look Michael was sure many young pupils had received when caught not working on their studies.
“Good idea,” Garen quipped.
Michael propped his head up with his arm. “So what is the plan now?”
“Well, I don’t think we have to worry about the nightstalkers again, Max said. “I don’t like the idea of two running loose, but that’s the least of my worries to be honest. Perhaps the Creator will see to it they are disposed of in the Black Woods. We’ll stay here in Rhalmadia for a few days. I have friends I need to see.”
“Friends?” Michael and Garen said together.
“There is a remnant of magichae who have been waiting for the new Keeper to rise. I must see to it they are ready when the time is right.”
“Are they going to join us?”
“That would draw attention we don’t want. No, they’ll make their way to Shaladon separately and wait my signal to advance.”
“And what will that be?” Michael asked.
“They will know, my boy. They will know. Now, let’s get some rest shall we?”
Michael happily obliged. His adrenaline drained with the realization their run from the nightstalkers was truly over. No more grabbing a few hours of sleep before running to the next town, no more looking over their shoulders for the sight of a black beast or listening for the inevitable hellish howl. Tomorrow morning he would be able to enjoy breakfast, a large and proper breakfast, and relax. He was not certain he could learn to relax again, but he was looking forward to trying.
“But it’s early.” Garen protested, stifling a yawn. Realizing how contradictory his actions were, he closed his eyes and fell asleep.
There would be plenty of time to explore the city tomorrow. A prospect Michael relished for the simple fact that tomorrow would not be like the last ten yesterdays.
***
Michael was surprised to see their room full of sunlight when he woke. Felt like forever since he had slept past sun up.
“Ah, the young ones stir,” Max said, standing at the wash basin wiping water off his face.
Garen tried in vain to capture a few last fleeting moments of slumber under his pillow then conceded by getting out of bed. Both of them had slept in their clothes, something they had grown accustomed to.
“Get changed and meet me downstairs for breakfast,” Max said with a glint in his eye.
Michael had not seen him happy in so many days it seemed unfamiliar. The last ten felt like a year, his life at Whitewater’s Forge a distant memory. He buried the thought deep within, trying not to dwell on what was lost.
In the great hall they found Max and Falon seated at one of the booths; eggs, sausages and a basket of hot bread already on the table. They discussed the supplies needed and procuring horses, tasks Max left in their capable hands.
“Keep a low profile,” Max said looking directly at Michael. “The city is not very trusting of magichae though the citizens might be the least of your worries. Personally, I’d have you stay here, but curiosity will get the best of you I’m sure. Even if people bump into the Sword, they won’t know it’s there unless you draw it. Do not do so unless your survival depends on it. If you reveal yourself now, word will spread like wildfire. I have no idea what we’ll face if Aleister learns you exist.”
Max gave each of them a stern look, measuring their comprehension. Satisfied, he nodded then strode out the door.
Elated to have the chance to explore a grand city, Michael and Garen ate quickly, shoveling eggs, sausage, and bread in their mouths as fast as they could chew. Falon scowled at them with disgust for their table manners.
To their surprise, she chose to stay at the inn. Michael sensed she was unimpressed with the city like it was the norm for her. The sights she must have seen in her travels.
Horse hooves striking cobblestones, wagons rolling noisily along, hawkers making claims about their goods and the constant din of people filled the streets with a cacophony of sound. Michael soaked it all in as he and Garen walked down streets allowing the crowd to sweep them along.
They stopped to watch a juggler in bright blue trousers and yellow vest till Michael noticed a wiry man picking pockets. The thief was good, picking four pockets without a single person being aware. He wanted to stop the man, but that would create a scene he didn’t need. He tugged Garen away, explaining why as they walked.
A commotion ahead drew their attention.
“Let me go! Help! Help! I’m being robbed!” a small boy yelled, slapping at the immovable hand of the man holding him.
The boy’s squawking drew quite a bit of attention, but the crowd gave the man and boy a wide berth. No one wished to be pulled into matters not their own.
“Not only a thief but also a liar,” the man said, holding the boy by the arm. The tall man reminded M
ichael of Stren, solid and all muscle. His blonde hair stood out in a sea of browns and blacks. It made Michael realize how much his own hair made him stand out. The man glared at the boy with fierce blue-green eyes.
“Stop that,” a skinny man said, pushing his way through the crowd. “Do you not have any decency? Attacking a boy!”
“This boy is just shy his twelfth year by my guess and a thief to boot.” The blonde man pulled a gold medallion from the boy’s pocket. “And not a very sharp thief at that. Picking the pocket of a local guardsman would have been wiser than that of a paladin.”
The crowd took a step back at this proclamation. Entrusted with policing magichae, the stories of the Paladin Order hunting down rogue magichae were legendary. They claimed their calling came directly from the Creator himself. Meshema Donai, they called him. It meant, “The Great Lord”. Devout to their cause and the tenants of their faith, they were highly skilled fighters always preparing for the final battle with the Soulless One.
Few questioned the motives and actions of a paladin. They were so renowned courts and kings across the realm welcomed them. Many fought with Timmaron in the Sarlon War. Most paladins were immune to magic. They were called servantag, which meant nullifier, because magic dissipated before it reached them. If this man was a paladin, he was not someone to mess with.
A short, gaunt man slipped through the crowd. “Please, sire, he’s my only son.”
“Then you should take more care in training him,” the paladin said, turning that stern, cold glare on the man. “I have little patience for criminals, but even less for those who fail to raise their children properly.”
The gaunt man licked his lips and dry washed his hand. “He’s unruly at times, my lord, but he’s a good boy. Please have mercy.”
“Justice is mercy. What’s the local penalty for stealing?” he asked the crowd, the boy struggling against his grip with renewed vigor. No one answered. No one wanted to get involved.
“If I recall correctly the penalty is the loss of a hand.” The paladin scanned the crowd. No one blinked, he had their full attention.
Michael started to step forward, but Garen grabbed his arm.
“By what right do you pronounce judgment, foreigner?” demanded a guardsman as he and his partner pushed their way through the crowd.
The paladin held up a small gold disk with a fist gripping a lightning bolt on it. “By my right as a paladin. This young man picked my pocket and stole this medallion. My personal crest if you wish to verify with the magistrate. There are many in this crowd who saw me pull it from his pocket.”
“Can anyone attest to the boy having the medallion?” the guardsman asked the crowd. Several nodded their heads. “Very well, arrest the boy. He’ll lose a hand.”
“Please, my lord, I beg you,” the father exclaimed, falling to his knees.
“Beg all you want,” the guardsman replied.
“I’ll take his place, sire,” the man pleaded with the paladin.
“Why?” the paladin replied, “so he can continue to steal? How will he learn if he doesn’t pay for his own bad choices? Where’s his mother?”
“She died three years ago, sire, in a house fire. We lost everything; he is all I have left.”
“Your loss is no excuse to take from others,” the paladin replied, but the look in his eyes had softened. “Do you swear to raise this boy properly from this day forward? Swear to me he will not steal again? Will you walk in the light of Meshema Donai and obey His teachings?”
“I do, sire, I swear. He will steal no longer.”
“Very well. There is a Mistress Ileana who runs an inn several streets over called the Three Arrows. Tell her Jorgen sent you. She has four sons all of which have turned out well. You will report to her on how to raise this boy properly and you will perform whatever duties she requires of you,” Jorgen set his gaze on the boy, “both of you.”
He held up his gold medallion. “Remember, you are in my debt for the mercy I’ve shown.” He leaned close to the gaunt man, handing the boy over to him. “Fail me and I will return. I give you my word.”
“Thank you, good sir, thank you,” the man said, bowing as he tugged the boy away in the direction Jorgen had pointed.
With the man and his son out of sight, the crowd began to disperse. As Michael turned to leave, Jorgen’s eyes fell on him. A chill ran down Michael’s spine as he realized the paladin wasn’t staring so intently at him but at something just over his shoulder, shock hanging on the man’s face. A group of people passed between them, and Michael took the opportunity to duck away.
“I think I’ve had enough excitement for now. Let’s get back to the Stag and Lion,” Garen said, turning down an alley.
Michael wanted to see more of the city, but the way the paladin looked at him made him agree.
Halfway to the inn the boys came across a peddler challenging people to a game of three cups. A small but boisterous crowd watched as contestants placed bets on which cup the red ball was under. The peddler moved the cups quickly and deftly, his hands a blur. Neither of them could follow his movements yet Michael knew the right cup. The small crowd roared with laughter as people lost their money trying to outsmart the peddler. After five correct guesses in a row, Michael stepped up in front of the peddler.
A lithe man with thinning gray hair and missing two teeth, he smiled hungrily at Michael. “Well, a fine lad, here! You look confident. Think you can find the ball?”
“Perhaps,” Michael said.
“What are you doing?” Garen whispered over his shoulder, “We are supposed to not attract attention.”
“Relax, it’s just a game,” Michael replied, laying a copper coin on the table.
The peddler looked at it with slight disdain, but he covered the red ball with a cup and began swirling the three cups quickly around the table.
“Around and around they go,” his hands moved in a blur shifting from one cup to another as he moved them in fluid circular motions, “where’s the ball? No one knows,” he finished with a flair of his hands and then rested them on each side of the row of cups.
Michael could not follow his hands, they moved too fast, but he could sense where the ball was. He did not know how, but he could.
“Which cup is the ball under?” the peddler inquired with a sly smile.
“Your hands are fast, sir, but I believe the ball is here,” Michael tapped the leftmost cup then pulled it up to reveal the red ball. The crowd cheered with delight.
“Well done, lad, well done,” the peddler said with a cheery tone. “Care to try again? The bet is double.”
Michael stared at him for a moment debating between playing the man’s game and keeping a low profile. He knew Max would not approve, but something inside him wanted to be a little reckless at the moment. Besides he had not been wrong yet. He placed two coppers alongside his previous winning to the glee of the crowd.
“Around and around they go” the peddler began swirling the cups again. His hands moved faster this time and the pattern more intricate. Michael knew it was impossible to follow the right cup, but somehow he did not need to. He knew where the ball was just as easily as if he could see it. When the peddler finished sliding the cups around, he looked up at Michael.
The crowd cheered again as Michael picked up the center cup revealing the red ball.
The peddler’s eyes narrowed, but he quickly hid his annoyance and passed Michael his winnings. “You’re a lucky lad, indeed. Perhaps you would like to try again? Three is lucky they say.”
“I do feel lucky,” Michael replied with a smirk. Garen rolled his eyes but said nothing as Michael laid ten coppers on the table. The peddler smiled greedily. “Around and around they go” he intoned as he swirled the cups in circles again.
When he stopped, Michael could sense the peddler was a little bit nervous. He wondered if anyone had managed to find the ball three times in a row. The crowd was holding their breath as well. Their cheers carried down the street as Michae
l revealed the ball again. The peddler sat with his mouth hanging open.
He quickly regained his composure and said, “Your eyes appear to be faster than my hands, lad. Thank you for playing but I’m sure there are others who would like to play.”
The crowd began to boo the peddler. He looked around nervously and sat back down behind his table. Some people started to place bets on Michael while others bet against him.
“A silver heron!” the peddler blurted out, silencing the barrage of boos. “The wager is a silver heron!” He licked his lips nervously. Perhaps he was hoping Michael had nothing more than coppers, but the way he glanced at the coins collecting in favor of Michael said he needed silver to cover the bets.
The crowd hushed as Michael laid a silver coin on the table imprinted with three crowns from Timmaron rather than a heron. The peddler eyed it for a moment then placed a cup over the ball.
“Around and around they go…” The peddler’s hands moved in such intricate patterns, yet Michael knew where the ball lay even when the peddler moved the cup over the edge of the table and let the ball fall into his lap. Michael blinked in surprise. The movement was so fast, the cheat so deft, no one saw it. When the peddler finally stopped swirling the cups, he rested his hands on the two cups he was holding. He eyed Michael for a moment as if he were afraid to take his hands off the cups. His eyes darted from person to person in the crowd then he removed his hands from the cups with a confident smile.
“So how lucky are you, lad? Which cup is the ball under?” A hint of a challenge rang in his voice.
Michael smiled back. “The ball is not under a cup.” He tipped all three cups over. “It’s in your lap.”
The crowd gasped. A few began crying, “Cheat” and calling for the guards.
Roaring in anger, the peddler jumped up, flipped the table aside with a crash. Seven other men surrounded Michael and Garen as the crowd backed away.