Wanderlust

by Mary Kirchoff

  He was rudely awakened some time later when the hard wheels of the wagon struck a very large rock in the road and sent the cart bouncing high into the air. Delbridge spun about to look ahead of the wagon but could only see the back of the farmer’s head. He struggled to raise himself to his knees among the bags.

  From where they perched at the crest of a hill, he could see that they were past the foothills and well into the mountains. Below them, nestled in a small valley already in shadows from the surrounding mountains, was a town about the size of Solace—Tantallon. Although it was not yet dusk, lanterns were winking through the trees and the wind was tinged with the smell of wood smoke from home fires. A swift, cold stream ran from the west, where the largest mountains of the range lay.

  And there, rising majestically out of a rocky outcropping beyond the stream was an imposing stone facade, its tall turrets, towers, and defensive barbican reflecting purple in the fading light.

  “What’s that?” Delbridge called ahead to the farmer, who had signaled the horses to continue on the road, which spiraled down into the valley.

  “Castle Tantallon.”

  Delbridge was intrigued. “Who lives there?”

  “As the story goes,” said the farmer, warming up to gossip, “it’s owned by a Knight of Solamnia whose family, if one believes the tales one is told, left Solamnia in the north shortly after the Cataclysm, when the persecution of the knights was just beginning.

  “Our province of Abanasinia, as you may remember from your history lessons, was in chaos as well. So when the current knight’s ancestor and his armed retinue arrived in exile here, they brought a bit of law and order with them. Such survivors of the Cataclysm as they found were organized and well led so that the family and everyone under it prospered. Even through hard times, the family fortune remained intact.”

  The farmer beamed with community pride. “The Curston line has since lived, uninterrupted, in that castle above the town that the first Lord Curston established more than three hundred years ago.”

  Riding down into the town now, Delbridge was surprised to find such an isolated village so prosperous; the roads were skillfully cobbled, and not a scrap of waste littered them. The buildings were whitewashed, their stones neatly tuck-pointed with mortar, thatched roofs thick and in good repair. Very few businesses or homes had oiled paper for windows—expensive stained or opaque glass was the norm. It looked like a storybook village. Such prosperity could only be a good omen, Delbridge decided.

  Abruptly, the wagon rattled to a stop on the south edge of town before a cheery-looking inn whose shingle identified it as The Crashing Boar: A large, snorting boar smashed through a gate while a man snoozed peacefully on its back. Newly planted flower boxes graced the two windows, whose interiors were framed by ruffled white curtains.

  “End of the line,” called the farmer.

  Delbridge thanked him and hopped off the wagon to look at the inn. Certainly it was as good a place as any to find out what was happening in Tantallon, and Delbridge needed a meal and a place to sleep. But while people would often give away information for free, room and board cost money.

  This was also a good a place to test the abilities of the bracelet, he decided, which he must certainly do before investing money in a new ensemble. He reached into his shabby pouch and pulled out the bracelet. Cupping his hand, he forced the slim copper band over his fingers and onto his pudgy wrist. “Who was this made for, a pixie?” he snarled as it pinched his soft flesh. He needn’t have worried about losing it, for he doubted that it would ever come off his wrist.

  As he pulled the door open, he paused to examine an obviously new piece of parchment nailed to the door. It was an official announcement of some sort. Delbridge stepped close to read it in the fading light.

  Royal Court

  His Lordship Sir Curston will, on the third day of Yurthgreen, 344, hear and judge the grievances, pleas, and boon requests of his loyal subjects. All those wishing an audience with His Lordship must appear in the hours between sunup and the beginning of the evening watch.

  “Quit blockin’ the door, you great hog. Are you comin’ or goin’?”

  Delbridge blinked and stepped back. His sight fell on an angry, hawk-nosed fellow wearing a sparkling white apron: the barkeep, apparently.

  “Huh? That is … Pardon me, I was just reading the door,” Delbridge stammered.

  The owner frowned. “Well, shut it. I’ll not be heatin’ the outdoors.”

  Delbridge remembered himself. “My apologies, good sir.” He straightened his back and smoothed the bulging front of his velvet jacket, but the man had already returned to his work inside.

  Delbridge waddled his way inside before the door closed fully. The room was cozy and warm with a haze of smoke in the air. Eight other patrons sat around several tables. Most appeared to be laborers or craftsmen, but two were obviously soldiers. A small fire burned in the hearth, just right for the warming season. All eight stopped their conversation to see who had rushed in.

  The barkeep had barely stepped behind the bar when he looked up and saw the man he had just spoken to in the doorway already standing at the rail. He glanced back toward the door, then squinted at Delbridge. “What do you want, stranger?”

  “Nothing, I’m sure,” replied Delbridge, trying to look surprised. “I only wanted to discuss a simple business arrangement with you.”

  “I don’t give out no free rooms.” Having settled the matter, the barkeep turned back to his work behind the bar.

  A hand flew to Delbridge’s breast. “Heavens, I never expect anything for free! Did I say free? I don’t believe so.

  “No, what I propose is a legitimate business transaction. I get something, you get something. As you so insightfully guessed, all I want is supper and a room for the night. But you … you get my services for the evening.”

  The barkeep snorted. “And what is it you do? Wait, let me guess. Sing? Dance? Tell stories? And for that, I get to feed and house someone who eats like a pig and snores like a siege engine.”

  He blew his hawk nose into the hem of his white apron. “Sorry, stranger, we don’t need any entertaining. Why don’t you try the Stumbling Goose Inn, down the street.”

  Several of the other guests laughed out loud at the barkeep’s insults, but Delbridge was unperturbed. Instead of bristling, he drew himself up as tall as possible.

  “I am no common entertainer. I am an oracle. The future is mine to see and predict.”

  A chorus of snickers and guffaws rattled the room. The barkeep leaned in close and said, “I can predict your future, stranger. I predict that if you don’t haul your shifty, fat carcass out of here yourself, it’s going to get tossed out.” The volume of laughter rose, and Delbridge noticed for the first time that it had a distinctly unpleasant edge.

  Bracelet or no bracelet, Delbridge knew it was time to plunge in and either sink or swim. In the past this sort of life-and-death pressure had always sharpened his wits wonderfully. He closed his eyes and placed one hand against his forehead while gripping the counter with the other. His mind raced ahead, searching for some sort of vague prediction that he could make and then verify moments later.

  He was lucky that he had one hand on the counter, otherwise he would have fallen when the stream of images burst into his mind. As it was, he reeled sideways and prevented a fall only by clutching the bar reflexively.

  In his mind Delbridge saw one of the other patrons, a balding, middle-aged gent with arthritic hands, gulping an enormous mouthful of baked trout. Instantly he began choking and gasping for breath. His eyes bulged out, his hands circled his own throat, and his tongue swelled obscenely until, within moments, he fell from his bench to the floor. There he kicked and squirmed several moments more before lying still.

  A stumble was not what Delbridge’s hecklers expected. They watched with genuine curiosity now, wondering what this apparent con artist would try next. When he stood and wiped the cold sweat from his forehead, he saw them sta
ring, half amused, half bewildered.

  If this was the work of the bracelet, thought Delbridge, the tinker from whom he had stolen it was prone to gross understatement. But, as he liked to remind himself with pride, years of experience had taught him to seize opportunity immediately whenever it presented itself. Hesitation was a luxury he could ill afford.

  With all the dignity at his command, Delbridge took two bold steps away from the bar, then he swept his arm up and pointed toward the group. “I have seen what is to be. Death is watching over this room and stalking one of you right now. I could tell you who—or I could hold my tongue and let the man die, since no one believes me anyway.” He dropped his arm to his side again and looked at them sadly. “I pity you.”

  Several members of his audience blanched, which filled Delbridge with enormous satisfaction. The man who had appeared in the vision waved his arm as if to brush Delbridge away, then turned back to his meal. Delbridge saw with mixed elation and horror that it was indeed a plate of baked trout!

  One of the soldiers spoke up. “All right, oracle, at least tell us who it is. I’d like to know which of us is about to keel over so I can buy him a drink before he goes.”

  Even without this facetious invitation, Delbridge would have acted. As the man from the vision raised a forkful of fish to his mouth, Delbridge lunged forward and seized the man’s wrist. The customer recoiled in anger, trying to twist his arm away, but he didn’t have the strength or the leverage to get free. Delbridge pushed the man’s plate away and then dumped the contents of the fork onto the table. Turning to the next fellow on the bench and inwardly praying for all he was worth that this was the fatal bite, he asked, “Examine this closely, and tell us what you find.”

  The man looked to his companions for support of some sort, then shrugged and picked up the dropped fork. He used it to poke through the crumbling meat on the table and within seconds found something. With his fingers he picked out a sliver of bone about as long as his fingernail, shaped and sharpened to a point. It was a broken bit of a handmade fish hook. With a look of amazement, the customer held it out in his palm for all to see.

  The man whose dinner had contained the bone hook swallowed a large lump in his throat and massaged his neck. “I guess we don’t need any oracle to tell us what would have happened if I’d swallowed that.” The rest of the onlookers were silent. Delbridge struggled to look appropriately smug.

  The man whose life had been spared addressed the barkeep. “Shanus, I don’t know whether you intend to offer this man a room, but I’d like to buy him supper. What’ll you have, friend?”

  Delbridge didn’t hesitate. “Anything but fish,” he replied, filling the room with good-hearted laughter.

  Reclining in his free room after the meal, Delbridge finally had time to think. He was hardly a wise man, but he was far from stupid. That this was magic he was certain, just as he knew it had to be the work of the bracelet. It was also the biggest thing he had ever gotten his hands on.

  He had no idea what the bracelet’s limits or capabilities might be, but its potential for turning a profit was huge. Assembling a stage show would be simple, once he knew how to control the item.

  Control was a problem, however. Delbridge knew next to nothing about magic. He did know that a reputable wizard would charge an exorbitant fee to analyze the bracelet, and taking it to a disreputable wizard was out of the question. That left experimenting with it himself, learning its uses through trial and error. That path seemed crowded with peril, but Delbridge could think of no other alternative.

  In the meantime, word of what had happened that evening would spread through the town like a fire. Better yet, it was likely that the two soldiers who’d been in the taproom during his display would carry the tale to the garrison in the castle, where eventually even the knight—what was his name, Curston?—would hear it.

  Delbridge sat upright. This could be much bigger than any traveling mystic show, he realized. The service of a legitimate seer would be invaluable to a ruler. That could mean appointment to a royal court, which would bring to Delbridge everything he’d always wanted: leisure, respect, dignity, and wealth.

  Delbridge’s mind flashed back to the note on the taproom door: tomorrow was court day! Delbridge resolved to seek an audience with the knight and offer his service. But that left very little time to master the bracelet.

  I have a long night ahead, Delbridge realized.

  Chapter 8

  Audience Day

  “Straight up this road,” said Shanus, pointing with his thumb. “Take the first right, just after the milliner’s shop, and then a sharp left. You can’t miss it, Master Omardicar—

  “—Omardicar is sufficient.”

  “Yes, sir. It’s the first drawbridge over the river.”

  Already, thought Delbridge, people acted differently toward him. In preparing for today, he had sent a page from the inn to purchase a new suit of clothes more suitable to an oracle: a long purple gown trimmed with white rabbit fur and decorated with abstract designs, topped by a tall rabbit fur hat. Shanus even offered to lend Delbridge the money to pay for it, to be repaid after his royal appointment.

  Greatly encouraged, Delbridge hurried up the street to the right, and then to the river. A large stone bridge with a removable plank roadway spanned the water. Beyond it loomed the castle, towering in the midmorning sun. Delbridge’s footsteps on the bridge were drowned out by the thunderous, swiftly flowing waters below.

  Again, Delbridge straightened his outfit and extended his hand to a guard. “Omardicar the Omnipotent, prognosticator extraordinaire, at your service. Perhaps you’ve heard of me?” The grim-faced guard, of the Solamnic order, judging from his drooping mustache, said nothing. “Yes, well, I seek an audience with Lord Curston. Good sir, kindly direct me to the proper hall.”

  The guard gave Delbridge an appraising look and a dubious snort, then shook his head. “If you had gotten here earlier, you could have passed through with everyone else. Pay attention, because I won’t repeat this. You are standing at the outer south gatehouse. Go straight past me, then pass through the outer bailey to the inner south gatehouse. Someone there will direct you through the antechamber to the Lesser Hall in the keep, next to the West Chamber.”

  Delbridge’s head reeled at the complex directions. “Tantallon seems peaceful enough. Why the elaborate defenses?”

  “Tantallon is at peace because the castle is well fortified and we are always vigilant,” the guard explained with obvious pride. “Lord Curston believes in being prepared. He employs many local tradesmen to continually improve the castle’s defenses. His most recent addition, requiring the full-time services of thirty artisans, are the stone soldiers on the battlements, placed there to trick enemy scouts into thinking our numbers are even greater than they are.”

  The lord-knight’s expenditures on defenses explained the town’s prosperity, thought Delbridge. Let’s hope the fellow believes in spreading the wealth.

  “You’d better hurry, though,” said the mustached guard. “There is quite a line ahead of you.”

  Delbridge thanked the guard abruptly as he passed him. Quickly crossing the outer courtyard, he went directly to the inner gatehouse as instructed, but no one was there as promised.

  With a shrug, Delbridge let himself into the inner courtyard of the castle. In the courtyard, which was extraordinarily spacious, were hundreds of neatly kept merchants’ stalls, many of them permanent structures of wood or wattle complete with thatched roofs and shuttered windows. They faced military barracks and parade grounds on the opposite side of the area. The cooking fires in the massive kitchens that serviced the keep filled the area with mouth-watering aromas. Mingled with smells from the stables and small food stalls, the ambience was unlike anything Delbridge had encountered before. Shaggy dogs and children romped freely among the carts in the cobbled inner area, scattering flapping chickens, who squawked their disapproval.

  Delbridge tried to recall the guard’s directi
ons. If he remembered correctly, the entrance to the keep was next to the west chamber. He looked to his left, above the merchant stalls shutting their doors and windows in preparation for their noontime breaks. Squinting in the bright sun glaring off distant walls that circled the courtyard, he gave the large, rectangular keep his first real appraising glance.

  At least five stories high, the keep was flanked on all four corners by round towers, one line of windows in each. Merlons and crenels encircled the roof, as they did on the outer walls, surrounding a jumble of chimneys. An occasional balcony jutted from slightly longer windows on the third floor, suggesting the locations of bedchambers or meeting rooms.

  Delbridge stepped through the arched portico to the carved teakwood door and gave it a shove. Although twice as tall as he and perhaps five times as heavy, it swung open easily on well-oiled black iron hinges.

  Delbridge was instantly enveloped by a familiar scent he had not smelled since leaving Thelgaard Keep, a fragrance of wealth and someone else’s sweat: it was lemon-oil wax, commonly used to polish the great quantities of expensive wood found in wealthy homes. Delbridge had spent hours rubbing the slick, pungent paste into the banisters at Thelgaard during his demeaning time spent as third assistant steward. Toward the end of his tenure, he could no longer even smell the beeswax polish.

  When his eyes adjusted to the dim torchlight, he discovered that he stood in an antechamber two stories high. The base of the walls was lined with stands of polished armor of every description, from leather to chain mail to full suits of plate mail. Filling the walls up to the two-story ceiling were weapons, hung so closely together they almost touched (and did in the case of several rosettes formed by swords). Long swords, short swords, maces, spears, halberds, axes, bows, crossbows, daggers, flails, and a host of other weapons Delbridge didn’t even recognize decorated the entire hall. Every one appeared made of steel and that alone, if true, meant that this knight held a fortune in precious metal. Not to mention that he could equip a sizable army with quality weapons from this room. Delbridge’s envy of the man was growing.