by Damien Lake
Marik slowly loosened the cord tying the soot pouch closed, careful not to accidentally loosen the cord tying it to the belt instead.
“What he does is not your concern. I believe you might have come into possession of an item that could greatly help me in my work. Do you want to play games until nightfall, or start talking business?”
Quickly shifting to magesight, Marik floated a foot from his body to see behind him. The two thirsty thugs slowly inched closer while Reed verbally bantered with Ilona. Marik snapped back into his body as soon as he had left it, which meant he missed none of the conversation while his consciousness traveled the etheric plane.
“I’m always ready to talk business, sister. What we haven’t talked about is whether I have these items you yearn for.”
Marik sidled sideways so his right arm was concealed from view behind Ilona, using her to hide his fingers dipping into the pouch. The soot smeared across one finger tip and he hoped she had mixed in plenty of black powder. He also prayed it would not injure him.
“You do carry stock for magicians, don’t you?”
From the twitch in her dangling left arm, Marik guessed Reed’s two friends had not escaped her attention. Time to set a wolf amongst the shopkeeper’s flock.
He began forming the etheric sphere, the only attack he had mastered. Unlike the last time he used it, he formed it small, into a ball hardly larger than his fingertip. Marik poured energy into the sphere much slower than usual, being exceedingly careful.
“Of course I do, but you don’t sound like a component is what you want today.”
After a moment he felt it was ready. It held less energy than the spheres at the chapter house, remaining invisible to the naked eye of non-mages. He hovered it over Ilona’s right shoulder and raised his fingertip so it pointed toward the leather tube sitting beside Reed.
At the same moment his fingertip made contact with the floating orb, he gave it the final bit of energy that would make it seen to the shop’s other inhabitants. He remembered at the last second to utter a nonsense word which he made up on the spot, “Bluvumm!”, and then his finger stung with a sharp burn, a cutting razor formed of fire.
A tiny flash and a smoky wisp curled upward, then he sent the small orb shooting forward. Reed let out a startled yelp when the leather tube bent in half at the midsection. Sticks exploded everywhere like autumn leaves gathered by a spiraling wind dervish. They rained down in a shower as the tube hit the far wall with a soft thup before dropping to the floor.
Marik stood still for a moment. Ilona stared at his hand, which still hovered over her shoulder. He had his fingers half-curled while his index pointed in a graceful, upturned arc. Movement caught his attention before Ilona could react. The two thirsty men moved with speed. They had decided he was dangerous, yet still prey they could handle.
He almost reached back for the sword he no longer carried before adjusting his reactions accordingly. His fighter’s reflexes in full swing, Marik swept his hand down to the pouch. This time he shoved his hand fully into it, coating all his fingers to the first knuckle with black soot.
The pair came within a step a heartbeat later. He thrust his hand forward, fingers spread wide. “Careful!” he shouted, which made them freeze in their tracks, their knuckles brushing his coarse robe. His hand held steady inches from their faces. “I’ve got five shots loaded and locked. The next one might punch through your skull like a crossbow bolt.”
Their expressions clearly indicated that this development was not supposed to happen. Reed spoke, his composure regained. “That’s a pretty gods damned unfriendly gesture. I—”
Marik cut him off by swinging his hand to aim directly at him. “Don’t take me for an idiot, Reed. Or a fool.” He stepped closer to the table, pleased to see his bluff working. Reed leaned away the closer he drew. “Tell your boys to step back or I’ll take exception to it.”
Infuriated, knowing he’d been caught out, Reed nodded to the two thirsty thugs. The others stayed in their chairs, minding their own business for all appearances. Marik sat in one of the vacated seats and continued pointing his blackened fingers at Reed.
Ilona resumed the proceedings. He gave her credit for her unwavering voice. “Are we done with the bullshit? I’ve lost my patience.”
Marik held up his other hand before Reed could respond. “Hold a moment.” He fumbled with a different pouch. Ilona glanced at him, an expression on her face beyond his ability to interpret. Probably she’s angry everything went to the hells so fast. Probably mad I made such a scene when she likely already had an out planned. And right after I decided to keep her happy, too. Damn.
Once his clumsy left hand finally undid the tie, he reached in and was pleased to see she had filled it with the sand from the Spell’s ashtray. He had guessed so from the weight and feel, believing she only meant the pouches for show. His luck, if it held, might be able to bluff Reed further with another false spell. If the man truly did know enough about magicians to see through his façade so quickly, then the sand might work against him.
The magicians Marik had seen use sand always used it for casting various sorts of vision aiding spells. He took a pinch between his fingers, holding it so Reed could easily see it. “Hold still, and don’t try anything clever.”
Reed made no protest while Marik sprinkled the sand through his hair while uttering a nonsense phrase. He held his fingers close to the man’s scalp so his friends would not see the sand remained undestroyed by the spell he pretended to cast.
“There. If you lie at all, I’ll be able to see it.” He darted his sooty fingers close to Reed’s eyes. “Don’t lie,” he advised.
Ilona began her questioning as though she’d expected everything Marik had done. Sweat beaded the shopkeepers brow. His eyes darted between Ilona and Marik’s hovering fingers. From time to time, Ilona would glance at Marik, silently asking if the answer tendered had been truthful. He would always nod, praying the man was still soiling his smallclothes in fear.
In the end, they cleared Reed’s shop from their list. Ilona insisted on going into the backrooms to see the stock the cityguard wanted to catch him dealing in. Reed rolled back a small rug to reveal loose floor planks that opened onto a hole about two feet deep.
The hole’s contents were unsavory. Marik looked at a jar of eyeballs suspended in liquid and felt sick. Were the former owners fledgling magicians who had come to Reed’s shop in hopes of obtaining greater power? To judge by Reed’s answers…yes.
Nothing in the concealed hiding place was an actual item. Only spell components of the most gruesome type. Ilona ended the questioning by telling Reed that if she ever returned to his alchemy shop, she would not be so polite if he attacked her again. The man found little comfort in this.
Out on the street, Dietrik rejoined them the moment they stepped into the fading sunlight. “That one took long enough. Three separate recruiters tried to convince me to rejoin the bloody army.”
Ilona faced Marik, who cringed slightly. Instead of the withering condemnation he expected, she suddenly smiled in a way that made his legs turn watery. “I was wondering about you.”
“Uh...wondering? About what?”
“About if you actually were a mage, or if that was a load of horse elbows you thought might impress me. I see it wasn’t.” She sauntered down the street to find the next shop.
“What happened this time?” Dietrik wanted to know. “Trouble?”
Marik shook his head in utter bewilderment. “She reacts exactly the opposite way I think she will to everything I do!”
Dietrik slapped his back. “That’s how women are, mate! A thousand generations of men have not been able to figure them out. Don’t waste time thinking you might succeed in that. Tell me what happened in there.”
They only visited two further shops before evening cloaked the world in blazing pinks and businesses across Thoenar began closing for the day. At both, Ilona manipulated the situation to where he needed to demonstrate his powers,
though their lives were hardly in the danger they had been at Reed’s. He struggled to understand why she suddenly wanted him to show off. In the end he adopted Dietrik’s advice. Hoping to figure her out would only end with him howling at the moon.
When they exited the fourth shop with no luck, Dietrik could see it in their faces. “So that’s a flop as well, is it? That makes four out of eighteen. Or three I suppose. The first shop might be worth a second visit if we reach the end of the list without finding anything.” They walked back to the Standing Spell, the streets thick and noisy with the evening traffic of people returning home from a day at the tournament.
Before Marik could raise the issue, Ilona suggested, “Then we had better get an earlier start tomorrow, hadn’t we? Why don’t you two come by around about the second morning bell?”
Marik nodded eagerly. He might be imagining it, or only hoping for it, but her words were slightly less hostile toward them than earlier in the afternoon. Tomorrow might be very enjoyable indeed.
Oh, yes…indeed.
Chapter 18
Once again, the nearly physical torrent of noise battered Marik like storm winds. The crowd did not, apparently, believe in the theory that allowing the competitors silence in which to concentrate on their shots was proper spectator etiquette. Blazing heat from the sun’s renewed onslaught made sweat run into the mercenaries’ eyes while they watched Hilliard draw back his eighth shaft.
This afternoon, Hilliard’s turn to participate came far earlier due to the absence of over seventy entrants cut during the racing and swimming events. Noontime sunlight baked them alive.
Hilliard drew his line on the target two-hundred feet away. In the island center of the horse track, long aisles had been painted on the ground with chalky limestone dust. Ten contenders stood in a row shooting at straw men targets while Galemar’s entire population made the best attempt they could to collapse the bench stands. The previous summer’s war was still fresh in the event coordinators’ minds. They had dressed the straw men in the dark blue uniforms of the Nolier army. Perhaps they were legitimate uniforms, confiscated off Nolier prisoners, or else the palace had created over one-hundred-forty mockups.
One official stood away from the targets. He shouted to release the flight. Since no one could hear the man, he also waved a red flag. Hilliard loosed his shaft. It flew true along the corridor and struck the target in one straw leg.
Landon let out a held breath. “It’s a point, at least.”
“Yes,” Kerwin agreed, “but he’s riding awfully close to the line. He’s only one point ahead of Crossley and Delouen both. Wait, strike that,” he abruptly amended. He peered, as they all did, at the straw men lined in a matching row opposite the contenders.
Officials examined each arrow while the archers nocked their next shafts. The official lofted a white flag at Hilliard’s, signaling one point scored for a strike on the body. At the next, Crossley’s, he raised the brown flag.
“Damn it,” Kerwin swore. “He scored on the centerline! He’s tied with Hilliard!”
Pages holding large boards with numbers, as they had at each event thus far, kept them steady while a taller youth, who might be a squire, painted black lines under each, representing the score. He added one line beside Hilliard’s six tick marks to display a total of seven points. Crossley’s received a pair.
The official scrutinized Delouen’s straw man carefully, paying particular attention to the three inch red line painted down the torso’s center. Finally, he raised the brown flag.
“And him as well,” Kerwin said sourly. “Must have nicked the centerline. Hilliard’s tied for eighth place. Not good.”
They stood in nearly the same place as they had during the horse race. Hilliard glanced toward them from across the way while waiting for the next draw signal to come. Landon swung his arms in large, sweeping gestures that, if Marik hadn’t known what he mimicked, made him look comical if not slightly deranged.
“With the whole chest,” Landon mouthed largely as he could. “Pull back on the draw with the whole chest!”
Hilliard returned his attention to his own doings. They would have to wait and see if he’d understood Landon’s message.
That had struck Marik as extremely humorous the day he and Dietrik returned to Paddy’s stable to collect the others. In spite of all the advanced resources the nobles claimed over the commoners, the practical experience of the lower classes would always be the better teacher. He kept his peace, though. Marik liked Hilliard and thought the observation might hurt the younger man’s feelings.
Despite his numerous instructors in swordplay, Hilliard only ever had one master in archery. A master Landon had come to think little of. The man taught Hilliard the basics, true enough, and saw to it the young man practiced enough to hit a specific area on the side of the proverbial barn at the very least. But that had been that. Archery, in the upper-classes, meant being able to hit the deer you were hunting, and little else.
No one ever believed that teaching him advanced skill with a bow could be nearly as important as skill with a sword. While that thinking followed a certain logic, considering the battlefield positions the future baron would likely be in if he ever participated in actual combat, it meant harder work on Landon’s part than he’d anticipated. Hilliard had been eager to hear everything the experienced archer could say on the subject, yet no one mastered the greater techniques of shooting in only two days. Or two months.
Hilliard, like most sword fighters Marik knew, pulled back on the bowstring with only the strength in his arms. Landon had spent an afternoon explaining that drawing on the bow’s true strength meant he needed to pull back with his entire chest. They practiced that, but Hilliard was unable to match Landon’s precision or power.
When Marik and Dietrik arrived at the stable, he’d been telling Hilliard, “You can still improve, if you are willing to invest the time in it. It would have been better for your form if you had wielded a bow since you were a child. Only a person raised in the way of the bow can fully tap into its true strengths.”
That was news to Marik, and he intended to ask Landon about exactly what he meant later. Hilliard had been so enthralled in his practices with Landon once the absinthe’s lingering affects finally wore off that he’d been disappointed to call it a day.
The tournament officials, no doubt acting under orders from the palace, were running this year’s contest in a slightly different manner than normal. With the goal of making it as exciting for the commoners as possible, they sought out rivalries such as between Sestion and Gardinnier. From the beginning they had kept the one-eighty block as intact as possible. Rather than shuffling the contenders down into the previous block to fill spaces left by the disqualified, they redistributed contestants from less exciting blocks to keep the most interesting match-ups paired together.
Three other blocks had also been marked for special consideration. The thirties held three men who were all longtime bitter neighbors. Their skirmishing thus far had incited the crowds into roaring cheers while sending the bets placed on the thirties block through the roof. Further up, both the one-twenty and one-thirty blocks each contained rivals who captured the population’s enthusiasm.
And the crown is turning the tournament more into a show than ever. I wonder what the first Arm would say if he saw what it has sunk to? The process he created to provide a strong champion to protect Galemar has become a festival acrobat exhibition dominated by the haves to keep the have-nots under control.
No matter how much fun the Arm of Galemar tournament might be, did it still serve its primary purpose of supplying the king with a warrior capable of snatching victory from near-certain defeat? Marik hoped the question would not be put to the test in the coming years.
Renewed roaring from the crowd drew Marik’s attention back to the pages. Ferdinand and Keegan had again swapped the lead. With every flight, the other would step forward to claim the highest score, only to fall behind on the next. The squire painte
d three ticks on Keegan’s board after the official held up his green flag. He had raised it for no one but those two the entire round thus far. Once the squire finished, Keegan led with a score of sixteen against Ferdinand’s fifteen.
The draw order came. All down the line bows lifted, targeting on the mock Noliers two-hundred feet away. Hands drew back bowstrings. Men sighted.
When the red flag came down, ten arrows sliced through the air. Hilliard’s struck, apparently on the small target of concentric rings over the straw man’s heart.
Kerwin jumped up, his fist pumping the air. His glee quickly switched to a string of profanity as the official raised the white flag for Hilliard’s target. “What the—”
They let him rant until Landon, his voice calm, simply said, “It did not strike. It was close, but didn’t score the triple.”
Worse yet, Crossley had also scored a point on the body as did Delouen. The three were still tied at the bottom.
“Comes down to the last shot,” Kerwin mumbled. “Last shot. Let it all roll of the last throw of the dice.” His words were nearly lost under the constant thunder from the crowd.
“I thought you said these were the best types of games to watch,” Dietrik demanded of the sour gambler. “Something about tensions being thick enough to peel with a knife, I believe.”
“Not when you’re the bloody one playing,” Kerwin snapped waspishly. He spun on Marik and Landon. “What if our boy Hilliard goes down? Do we stick, or fly back to Spirratta with the dawn?”
“I don’t know,” Marik admitted. Landon shrugged. “Hilliard hasn’t said, and Locke’s instructions don’t mention if there’s any end-of-tournament banquet or ceremony the contenders are required to attend.”