Certain he had found his edge, Tristan walked casually over to the table to stand directly behind Ichabod. He looked down at the sailmaker's hand, then over at the values on the front sides of the cards being held by the others.
One of the other players glared angrily up at him, then, after looking Tristan over, went back to his cards. Any moment now, one or more of them would most certainly object to his presence. As the precious seconds ticked by, Tristan held his breath.
Finally the moment came that the prince had been waiting for: It was Ichabod's turn to play a card. Reaching down quickly, Tristan selected one of Ichabod's cards and threw it on the table, amidst the others already lying there.
"Dreng," he said quietly.
Ichabod was up on his feet in no time, as were two of the other players, daggers drawn. For a moment the entire place went silent as a tomb, rife with tension. All seventy-three eyes in the tavern had fallen directly onto the man with the strange, curved sword lying across his back.
"And just who are you to be playing my cards for me, you insolent bastard?" the sailmaker shouted. A vein in his forehead beat noticeably. He looked Tristan over, and his face screwed up at the sight of the prince's unorthodox weapons.
"I'm the one who just made you fifty kisa," Tristan replied calmly, never taking his eyes from the sailmaker's. "Your king over the last player's pageboy."
Tristan gave the man a short, conspiratorial smile that he hoped would soften things a bit. "I won't even ask you for half of the pot," he added craftily. "All I want is a little of your time, and now you can afford to give it to me."
Sensing the possibility of a profit, Ichabod calmed a bit. Glancing back down at the table, a short smile crossed his mouth. "Dreng it is," he said softly, looking back over at the prince. "But that's not good enough. Who are you really, and what do you want? Surely it isn't to give me card lessons. I've never seen you before. Tell me true, or I'll have my friends here cut you from groin to gizzard with a dull deer antler and feed what's left to the sharks."
Tristan looked over to the two glaring pirates who had so quickly risen from their chairs. The light from the chandelier glinted off their weapons. The fact that he had just cost each of them money had only added to their desire to act on Ichabod's grisly suggestion, and he knew it. But he stood his ground, holding his own in the contest of wills.
"I'm a prospective customer," he told Ichabod. "One with money to spend. I need a rush job, and I'm willing to pay extra for it. Is there someplace where we might speak in private?"
Thoughtfully rubbing his chin, Ichabod looked back at his friends. With a decisive grunt he finally picked up his money and directed Tristan to a table in the corner. As the tavern slowly returned to normal, the sailmaker came straight to the point.
"I assume you have a list of your needs?" he asked. Tristan produced Tyranny's list and handed it over.
"This is a very big job," Ichabod mused. "You must have more than one ship in distress."
Tristan nodded shortly, almost rudely. He didn't want much small talk, for that might only trip him up. "We were attacked by screechlings," he explained simply.
"When do you need these?"
"By dawn."
Ichabod tossed the list to the table. "These are unusually large and must be custom-made. Not only that, but you want them very quickly. All of my people would have to put everything else aside and work straight through the night in order to accomplish this. And that is going to cost you."
"How much?" Tristan asked, holding his breath.
"One thousand," Ichabod said confidently, leaning back in his chair. Reaching up, he began twirling one end of his mustache with his fingertips.
"Three hundred, and you deliver them to my ships by dawn," Tristan countered.
Ichabod scowled at Tristan as if he had just descended from another world. "I don't even get out of bed in the morning for less than five."
"Four hundred, then, take it or leave it," the prince said.
Pushing his chair back with finality, Ichabod stood. "You're insane," he said gruffly as he turned to go. But before he could, he found Tristan had taken him by one wrist.
"If you don't accept my offer here and now, you will never be able to visit this place again," Tristan growled quietly. "In fact, you may lose your life over it. Tell me, is it really worth it?"
Bending over, Tristan reached down and stuck his hand into the surprised sailmaker's right boot. He pulled out several playing cards, examined them closely, and casually tossed them down onto the table.
"What do you think will happen to you if I drag you back over to those men by your hair and show them what you keep in your boots? Whose friends do you think those drunken morons with the daggers will be then, eh? Not to mention that you have been cheating your partner's patrons, right under his very nose. And I seriously doubt you've been giving Rolf a cut-that's something he won't take kindly to." Tristan's face turned as hard as granite. "Now sit down, before I cause you some real trouble."
Still unimpressed, Ichabod gave Tristan a confident, arrogant glare. "Go ahead and try," he dared. "I'll tell them the cards belong to you. Who do you think they'll believe?"
Tristan only smiled. "Actually, I think they'll believe me," he said softly.
"And just why is that?"
"Because there is wax on the edges of these cards," Tristan answered casually, as he grabbed one up from the table and held it before the sailmaker's eyes. "The same as that on your mustache. And in case you haven't noticed, I'm clean-shaven. So tell me, sailmaker, now which of us is the insolent bastard?"
Ichabod's face went white. On trembling legs he searched absently behind himself, finally finding his chair. He sat down carefully.
"Four hundred, you say?" he asked, his voice breaking. His tone had suddenly become far more agreeable.
"Four hundred," Tristan nodded. "Far be it from me to swindle a card cheat. And no deposit. Rather, payment in full on delivery to my ships tomorrow at dawn. You'd best not cross me. I wouldn't take it well."
"Where are you anchored?" the sailmaker asked.
"On the eastern shore. In the rocky cove, just off the wooden docks. Do you know it?"
"Yes."
"Then I will see you there at dawn," Tristan replied. "With the sails."
Ichabod's eyes narrowed a bit. "Once you leave the Wing and Claw, how do you know I'll keep my end of the bargain?"
Reaching back, Tristan casually produced one of his throwing knives and held it to the chandelier. The soft light glinted off the dirk's razor-sharp edges.
"Because if you don't, I'll come to you tomorrow night," the prince said quietly. "Sanctuary is a small island, and I'll find you no matter where you try to hide. I'll find you, and I'll cut you." Looking back down into Ichabod's eyes, he smiled. "From groin to gizzard."
Ichabod swallowed hard. "Very well," he said in a much smaller voice. "It shall be as you say."
Remembering what Tyranny had taught him, Tristan spat into his right palm and held it out. After a moment, Ichabod followed suit, and they shook hands. The prince had been inordinately lucky. He also knew that he should leave quickly, before anything went awry.
But as he stood to go, someone else entered the Wing and Claw. Someone he knew. It was Scars.
As might be expected, the giant's frame filled the doorway, blocking out much of the afternoon sun. But as Tristan looked more carefully, he saw that something was very wrong. Scars' hands were tied behind his back, and his face was bruised. He was being prodded into the room by two leering pirates, their sabers held to his back. Tristan froze, trying to act as though he had never seen the colossus before. His mind began to race.
Scars and the pirates finally entered the tavern and slowly walked over to one side. Then, from the sunlight beyond the doors Tristan detected something standing there, its silhouette dark against the afternoon sun. It looked like a man. But it had too many arms and legs to be a man, and some of them weren't where they were supposed to be.
Then he saw the thing start to spin around, and Tyranny came flying through the air to crash into one of the nearby empty tables. It collapsed beneath her, and she went down hard. Dazed and hurt, at first she seemed unable to get up.
Tristan started to go to her, but somehow her eyes found him in the crowd. She gave him a short, decisive shake of her head, telling him to stay put. Understanding, he fought down the impulse to help her and forced himself back down into his chair.
He heard boot heels on the clapboard sidewalk, and a man walked arrogantly into the tavern. Striding over to Tyranny, he reached down and, viciously grabbing a handful of her short hair, wrenched her face up for everyone to see.
"I'm looking for the other man who came into town with this!" he shouted. "It has come to my attention that there is another rooster in my henhouse! Reveal yourself, whoever you are, and I'll let her live!"
Staring at the man with hatred, Tristan's endowed blood began to rise hotly in his veins.
His hand closed automatically around the handle of his knife.
CHAPTER
Forty-three
"T ell me, Wulfgar," Krassus asked. "Are you comfortable?"
The hard, white marble table pressing against his back, Wulfgar looked around the Scriptorium as best he could. He and the wizard were alone. He had been forced here by several of Krassus' demonslavers, and they had tied down his hands and feet, making it impossible for him to move.
He was naked save for a pair of emerald-green silk trousers. His long, sandy hair fell down over one edge of the table and stretched toward the floor. As he lay there, looking up into the smiling face of the wizard with the long white hair and the strange, two-colored robe, his heart beat wildly. Sweat born of fear poured maddeningly off his face and body.
Craning his neck to one side, he saw a partially unrolled scroll hovering in the air nearby. It was magnificent, and it glowed with the same strange blue color that he had seen come and go so often since being imprisoned here in the Citadel.
"What are you going to do to me?" he demanded, straining against his bindings for what seemed the hundredth time.
Krassus wiped the perspiration from his subject's brow. It was almost as if he were a healer, compassionately tending to a patient.
"I am nothing if not a man of my word," he said calmly. "I'm going to do exactly what I promised you that day in your quarters. I shall introduce you to something wonderful-something that will change your life forever. In the end you will thank me. And before we are finished, you will find yourself begging for more."
Summoning all of the saliva he could, Wulfgar arched his back and spat it directly into the wizard's face. Unperturbed, Krassus calmly wiped it away.
"I will fight you; you must know that," Wulfgar swore. "One day I will find Tristan and Shailiha, and join them. Together we will kill you-you and all of these monsters that serve you." Exhausted, he lay back down against the hard, almost welcoming coolness of the stone.
"Of course you will fight me," Krassus said. "Given the nature of your blood, I would be very disappointed if you did not. So will Serena, when her time comes. But by then you won't want to kill the demonslavers, Wulfgar. You will want to command them. I am simply an intermediary, doing my late master's bidding." Krassus turned to view the scroll.
"I believe prudence dictates that we begin with one of the simpler Forestallments," he said casually. "Although the process will not be pleasant, it will have nowhere near the impact of some of the more powerful ones that will eventually follow. But by then your unique blood will have adjusted. When I finally deem you ready, I will gift you with the one Forestallment that will change the world forever-the one my loyal consuls worked so hard to uncover in the scroll."
Narrowing his eyes, Krassus called on the craft, and a section of the beautifully elegant, glowing text lifted itself from the scroll and came to hover before his dark eyes. But just as it did, Krassus began to cough again.
Taking his rag from his robes, he covered his mouth. His hacking went on unabated for some time. It was becoming progressively worse, he realized. Finally the convulsions subsided, and he put the rag away. Now it was Wulfgar's turn to smile.
"Perhaps you will die before you can turn me, wizard," he said. "Did your supreme master consider that before he departed?"
"Of course," Krassus answered hoarsely. "But have no fear: I shall easily live long enough to turn you, perhaps even long enough to see you fulfill my master's plans. What a glorious day that shall be! Now then, shall we begin?"
Pointing an index finger at one of Wulfgar's arms, Krassus caused a small incision to form. It immediately started to bleed. Reaching over to a nearby table, the wizard retrieved a small glass vial, with which he collected some of the blood. Then he closed the vial and caused it to glide back over to the table. Narrowing his eyes, he watched the wound close, the skin knit back together, and the angry red scar disappear completely.
The wizard committed the glowing words and calculations hovering before him to memory. With a smile, he then placed one of his palms on Wulfgar's head.
Wulfgar began to scream.
His body arched with exquisite pain; drool ran from his mouth. His body jangled mercilessly, relentlessly, against the cold, white marble table. Sweat poured from him, and at first Krassus worried that Wulfgar's violent thrashing might break the bones of all his limbs. But the wizard continued with the process of imbuing the first of many Forestallments into Wulfgar's blood.
When Krassus was done, Wulfgar had gone unconscious from the pain, but he was still breathing. Pointing an index finger at Wulfgar's other arm, the wizard caused another incision to form, then ordered a single drop of blood to rise from the wound and come to rest on the table.
He picked up another container. This one was filled with red waters taken from the Caves of the Paragon by Nicholas, and entrusted to Krassus just before the son of the Chosen One had died at the Gates of Dawn. Opening its top, he released a single drop and watched it fall to the table, landing next to the spot of Wulfgar's blood. Almost immediately the two beads of fluid began to move and join.
Krassus pulled a scope closer and centered it directly over the freshly forming blood signature. He held his breath and looked down.
The newly created Forestallment in Wulfgar's blood signature was perfect.
Looking further, he found the other change he was hoping for: Wulfgar's already left-leaning blood signature now tilted farther yet. Krassus' heart leapt in his chest. He had just proven in practice what Nicholas had told him would work in theory: that the Forestallments inscribed so long ago on the scroll could still be correctly deciphered and imbued directly into the blood of the living.
Looking up from the scope, he gazed out one of the broad windows overlooking the Sea of Whispers. As he did, several realizations came to him.
Failee, Wigg's deceased wife and onetime first mistress of the Coven of sorceresses, must have possessed and employed at least one of the Scrolls of the Ancients. There was no other way that Tristan and Shailiha could possibly have obtained the Forestallments in their blood. Even Failee was not brilliant enough to have woven such wondrous aspects of the craft on her own. And the same held true for Celeste's Forestallments, as well.
But the Coven had not been in possession of the scrolls when Wigg banished them to the Sea of Whispers. So Failee must have either discovered them in Parthalon or hidden them somewhere in Eutracia before leaving and then ordered her second mistress, upon invasion of Eutracia, to return not only with the Paragon and Princess Shailiha, but with the scrolls, as well.
But how had the scrolls found their way back to Eutracia from Parthalon? he wondered. How was it that they both eventually came to be in the possession of Nicholas? And perhaps most importantly, how had Failee come upon the scrolls in the first place?
Then another, even more fascinating realization hit him. If Failee had had only the Scroll of the Vagaries in her possession, and if she gleaned from it the Forestallmen
ts that she later placed into the blood of Tristan and Shailiha, then all the still-unrealized gifts of the Chosen Ones would be of the darker side of the craft! If she had had both scrolls, would she even have used anything of the Vigors? If so, why? And what about those gifts in Celeste's blood? Would Failee ever want her only daughter's blood infused with anything remotely associated with the side of the craft that she professed to loathe?
His head spinning with questions and contradictions, Krassus looked down at Wulfgar's placid, sleeping face. He smiled to himself. It didn't really matter if he found the answers, he decided. All that mattered was that he complete his master's mission before his disease took him to the Afterlife.
Closing his eyes, he caused the glowing, hovering calculations he had just employed to return to their places in the scroll. Then he selected another section of text and beckoned it to him. After committing it to memory, he placed his open palm back on Wulfgar's forehead. Wulfgar's eyes snapped open.
His screaming went on long into the night.
CHAPTER
Forty-four
"H e will live," Faegan said with relief as he removed his hand from Wigg's forehead. "He has been through a great deal, and it was apparently very close. His heart has been deeply strained, as has his mind. But I believe he will make a full recovery," he said. Then Faegan looked over at Celeste.
Abbey, Faegan, Celeste, and Shailiha were surrounding the lead wizard's bed. Shailiha's daughter Morganna sat in an infant's carriage newly made for her by Shannon the Short.
Wigg lay sleeping, the down covers pulled up to his shoulders. His breathing was still labored, and his face remained pale. Reaching out to touch her father's face, Celeste found that his skin was cold. As she withdrew her hand, her eyes became shiny.
Abbey and Shailiha were no less worried. The two wizards had been gone from the palace a long time, and when the Minions had finally landed in the courtyard with the litter the three women had run to meet them, hoping for the best. But what they had found was a stricken lead wizard, and Faegan frantic to have Wigg cared for. That had been several hours ago. At one point Wigg had opened his eyes, looked at them briefly, and then fallen back into a deep, silent sleep.
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