Dead Man's Hand_The Knights of the Golden Dragon_Book 2

by Troy Reaves

  2

  Changes

  A few weeks after the encounter with the mercenary and the gang of youths that had almost undone him permanently, Boremac decided it was time to reconsider his current living arrangement. His funds were limited, basically enough coin in his pockets to eat, so arranging a secure situation on his own did not seem to be feasible. He enjoyed his visits to the tavern where Mama Bear served and decided he would have to consider that as a more permanent residence, at least temporarily. Boremac started feeling enclosed, mostly in Mama Bear’s voluminous hugs, a few years ago but things had gotten very uncomfortable when the younger serving ladies of the tavern had come to the conclusion that his hindquarters were getting too tempting not to pinch. His body responded immediately to said attentions and the result had been very embarrassing more than once. Since then he had been choosing to remain outside the Shadowy Pint more often than not. His adopted mother, when he spoke with her about staying there more often, did not even bother to disguise her pleasure at finally having him right where she wanted him, within easy reach and out of trouble.

  The small box of items he kept secreted in his favorite hiding place held the most important things he had. There was a small red gem, well cut for its size, that Boremac enjoyed staring into when he allowed himself the time. It was only the beginning of the fortune he knew one day he would amass but it was good start.

  The two short daggers, well-honed and made for fighting, judging by their lack of ornamentation, were tended often with the oiled sharpening stone kept between them. Boremac’s treasures were rounded out with a bit of parchment. He had found it nestled between the blades and weighted with the sharpening stone in the box not long after he had won his daggers. The parchment that wrapped the stone also held a coin with the markings of Alchendia, Goddess of luck and thieves. He never knew how or when it was placed among his things, though he had his suspicions. The original envelope that had carried the parchment had borne a plain wax seal. He was glad to see the stone though the letter both perplexed and saddened him, bringing home his lack of education all too sharply. He never wanted to read until that moment and after receiving the letter, he desired nothing more. Boremac knew finding anyone willing to teach him understanding of even common writing would be nearly impossible. He was not one to wield stabbing weapons of any kind, relying on quick fists and leg sweeps to disable would be bullies and law keepers alike. The thief knew that stabbers, the roughs that chose direct assault to simple snatching. were hunted by the city’s constables much more earnestly than simple pickpockets. Boremac had been successful at eluding capture so far and had no interest in drawing more attention from the law by displaying his blades.

  The gift and attention that came with the daggers had increased his own focus as well. A fire had been growing in his belly that came with the change young boys were forced to endure drawing his eyes to the fairer sex and killing steel in equal measure. His mind wandered when he would practice alone with the weapons. The balance of the blades could not compensate for his marked lack of skill, mirroring his feelings about the lasses. Both puzzled Boremac. Females just confused the boy, which was just as well. On the rare occasion he thought a lass might be taken with him, he found reality to be sobering. A young man with no prospects to speak of held little interest among the young ladies, even for the ones of low moral upbringing. Boremac found that being a lone unknown was definitely to one’s disadvantage when courting. Boasting friends full of heroic, or diabolical more often, stories often made from whole cloth sometimes seemed to be all it took to make one more appealing, considering the boys who had managed to find a lass. It was all beyond Boremac’s understanding. His one adventure to gain some name and note had been rewarded with the fine blades in the box. That was a bit of reminiscing Boremac often reflected on. He figured things that change one’s life so completely often made even the bitterest people do the same and the blades, even the way he had gotten them, had made his life after anything but dull.

  3

  Strange Liaisons

  Boremac had settled into the Shadowy Pint easier than expected. Despite Mama Bear’s insistence that he did not need a lock on the small inn room she had found for him. His minimal possessions, and subsequent acquisitions, fit neatly into the room. Mama Bear made it clear to the younger servers as well as Boremac himself that anyone caught in his room would be dealt with severely. Boremac had mixed feelings about this but knew two things for certain. His items would be safe and there was no point whatsoever in trying to argue with Mama Bear. His young life settled into a regular rhythm, composed largely of stealing and eating, until one day something odd happened on one of his regular trips to the Market.

  It was a bright day that morning and Boremac was actually excited for once about plying his trade in the Market Quarter. His notoriety for gaining, and keeping, the mercenary’s blades had grown among his peers, but he was still just another undesirable in the crowds of the market. Boremac found some difficulty in stooping low and looking troubled when his head still swam with the pleasure of his increasing skill with the blades after his mornings of practice. He really wanted to stand straight up tall and bask in the morning sun but that would be bad for business When Boremac smiled, everyone wondered what he was up to and it was bad enough that the younger pickpockets already had begun pointing and giggling whenever they saw him. These children did not interfere so much with Boremac’s trade as the others who seemed stunned when they saw him, staring gaped mouthed at him until one of their partners in crime with better sense and more respect clucked them under the chin. It was human nature to follow the eyes of one afflicted with what Boremac came to think of as’open mouth disease’ and he was growing weary of having to keep an eye out for the buggers so he could disappear before being noted.

  Still this had been a good day and he had several coins for his meager efforts already. Daylight was beginning fail and he wanted to make one solid take while Alchendia was favoring him. Boremac spotted a curious figure making his way through the crowds and the game was on. The man was easily taller everyone else in the crowd, aided by a fancy hat denoting his station as an archivist in the city, and garbed in dusty brown robes that showed wear by the threadbare nature of the hem that dragged the ground. This was interesting enough because, on the rare instances Boremac had seen other archivists in the markets, they had always been dressed to make an impression, with robes that rivaled even the lords and governor who sometimes visited. What really drew Boremac’s attention was the rat at the man’s shoulder, roughly the size of a small cat, with matted fur, a dusty grey matching the archivist’s own hair. The rodent seemed to be more a companion than a pet to the man, taking off its own periodically only to return after some time with a bit of food or treasure. The rat deposited the bits of material it found interesting into one of the archivist’s many pockets, while it would eat on the man’s shoulder when it found food. Boremac’s major interest was the man’s many pockets. He factored the man would keep his dearest items inside his robes, but Boremac thought odds were good there would be something of value the man held in an outer pocket, possibly purchased in the market. Boremac noted that the man did not put anything in a pocket he patted frequently on his right hip. The food purchases went into a woven basket carried on his left side and his coins exchanged for goods came from a pocket just over the one he paid so much attention to. He just had to know what was in that pocket.

  Boremac soon saw his chance. The archivist was haggling good-naturedly with a fruit vendor and seemed ready to agree to a price. As the man reached out to shake the hand of the vendor, Boremac slithered his fingertips into the pocket to retrieve the mysterious item, finding a ring as his prize. He made off into the crowds, cautiously heading back to his home territory. Boremac figured he would have more than enough time to examine his treasure once he made it back to his loft. Fencing an archivist’s possession, any archivist’s possession, would be difficult. If the ring proved to bear personal markings, any g
ain from the theft might very well be impossible.

  Dusk gave way to night while the pickpocket cautiously took his time making his way home. Boremac was disappointed with the ring once he had the chance to examine it. The plain band of silver held only a tiny stone that was so nondescript it practically disappeared into the basic runes and decorative markings on the band itself. He would have missed the small gem altogether except for a glimmer of moonlight that brought it to his attention as he turned it carefully in his hands, preparing to open his treasure box to toss it inside. Boremac found his eyes drawn to the minor gem and decided maybe it may have some value after all if he could find someone willing to trade for it. Before he could stop himself, Boremac decided to try the piece on even though the ring appeared much too small for even his thin fingers. He found the fact that it slid onto the ring finger of his left hand without any effort mildly disturbing. The fact that it held snuggly behind his knuckle as if the ring had been made for him gave a moment’s pause as well. He tested the fit, shaking his hand in front of his face in case he launched it into the loft in the process, and the weight of it never even shifted. He also found his hand, and the length of his arm as well, had disappeared before his eyes. He brought his other hand to his eye level and noted it was gone as well. More importantly, his fingers, then his hands and arms, began to tingle as if they were going to sleep. Soon he could not feel his fingertips at all. Boremac made a panicked grab at the ring to try and remove the ring, thinking desperately that cutting away his hand would turn out to be his only hope if he could not free himself of it. The thought of taking his dagger between his boots to saw at his own invisible hands was so ridiculous it almost made him laugh. That was when it hit him. Boremac realized most of his body was still visible, including his upper arms, though the disappearance that started at his hands was quickly spreading to the rest of his body. His legs were already gone to the knees and he was starting to get dizzy from a lack of sensation in his head. In a desperate effort Boremac shoved what he could still see of his upper left arm under his right armpit and gripped the length of where he thought his arm should be with it, praying to Lady Luck with all his might. Once more the Lady favored Boremac and somehow he was able to catch the ring in his right armpit. He dropped the thing to the ground at his side as if it were a hot ember. The returning of hands and legs to view would have been a greater comfort if the accompanying pain of returning sensation to the affected body parts had not been so extreme. Boremac rolled to his side, away from the ring and into a tight fetal position as waves of needling pain shot through his arms and legs for what seemed like forever. When he gained some amount of control of himself, he noticed a high chittering noise at his back somewhere near where he assumed the ring had fallen. Boremac turned toward the noise, motivated by curiosity strong enough to overcome his lack of desire to see the ring again, and he was somewhat relieved to note the rat he had seen at the archivist’s shoulder was sitting on top of the cursed piece, chittering at Boremac as if the creature were trying to chastise him for taking it. “No need for that, little fellow.” Boremac smiled openly at the rodent as he continued. “Lesson learned. I won’t trouble your master again, or any archivist for that matter. He must be a powerful sorcerer to wear such a ring.” Boremac rubbed his hands together, as much to assure the rat as he was making certain he had full use of the tools of his trade once more.

  The rat went silent, shaking its head slowly as if Boremac was a dullard and the lesson at hand was far from over. Boremac was glad to see the rat take the ring into its teeth and turn away from the pickpocket. He was glad right until the rat moved just a few feet away and stopped, turning back as if to check if Boremac was following him. Boremac got the hint, pausing only long enough to muse out loud before rising to follow the rodent. “Damn curiosity.”

  Boremac had quite a time keeping up with his rodent guide as they made their way through the sewers of the city. The pickpocket smelled much worse than usual but this fact seemed to have little effect on the rodents populating the stone tunnels through which the rat led him. The rat guide wasted little time and attention checking to see if Boremac was keeping up, intent upon returning successfully from the quest set for it by his master, or so it seemed. The only indication that the rat was concerned for his current charge at all was the infrequent chittering, punctuated by occasional hissing when needed, to clear their path of rats too intent on investigating the human among them. Boremac assumed that the rat’s size alone garnered him some measure of respect among his kind as he was easily twice the size of the largest rats in the tunnels, and it was obvious the rat guide was not hesitant about reminding the others of this fact. The pickpocket thought morbidly that there were more than enough of the rodents in the sewer to bear him to the ground with little concentrated effort if they took the notion to do so and felt naked without his daggers, no matter how little protection they would have afforded him.

  The unlikely pair came to their destination, an iron grate with a broken lock and a small hole to the right side of it, which Boremac reasoned must lead to the archivist’s home. The rat appeared to confirm this by squeezing its bulk into the hole and disappearing into the darkness, leaving Boremac to find his own way up. He lifted the grate readily enough out of the way to slip around it and carefully placed it back over the hole. “Better one or two rats at a time than a flood of them in this narrow space.” Boremac found no comfort in that thought as he moved into the thick darkness ahead of him, stretching his hands out and seeking some way to proceed. It appeared this had been part of some escape route or secret entrance to the place. Soon Boremac happened across ladder rungs formed of rusted iron leading out of the base of the tunnel and up into a nondescript stone room at its end. It was apparent that he had been expected. A torch flickered in a metal sconce and there was a piece of metal with a bit of rope tied around it at roughly waist height across the room. Boremac grabbed the torch and moved over to lift the handle. A section of stone slid into the wall revealing a great library with heavy wooden tables everywhere and bookshelves filled with books and scrolls.

  The archivist Boremac had seen in the market sat in the center of the chaos of the library. His head was nestled deeply into a leather bound tome easily twice the size of the man’s head, even counting the hat. “Step in here, boy, before the door closes and douse the torch in the water jug at your left side. Parchment and flame don’t mix well.” The archivist tittered in a strangely disconcerting way at his own joke, never looking up to see if Boremac did as he was told. The stone door had already begun to close as Boremac scooted out of its path, dousing the torch as instructed. “Come here, my fleet fingered new friend. I believe you have an artifact that I was keeping safe. Did Rat relieve you of the burden when he found you? I do hope so. The ring is a terrible cursed thing, as are all the most interesting ancient magical artifacts, more often than not.” A shudder traveled through Boremac’s whole being as the rat skittered toward his master, still clutching the dreadful ring in its mouth. “Oh, I pity you, my young friend. Curiosity got you, I see.” The Archivist extended a palsied hand to the vermin who dropped the ring into his palm all too happily, or so it appeared. The rat sat patiently on its haunches as if awaiting some reward for its services. The old man nodded to the rodent and smiled. “Beggar, here you are.” Rat accepted the bit of bread crust offered and turned toward Boremac, as if sensing his master’s next request. “Sometimes I think you have been around me too long, Rat.” The Archivist lifted his head from his studies briefly to look at Boremac, looking at him for the first time. “Rat will take you to clean up. There is a change of clothes that should fit you well enough in the bathing room. Water is cold but it will do the work with a bit of scrubbing. I will get some food while you tidy yourself. Much to discuss. Indeed much to discuss, my thieving friend!” Again the odd laugh, little more than a giggle, grated on Boremac’s ears. “Go on Rat, and hurry! So much to do, so much to learn!” Boremac noted the archivist never looked away from his
book while addressing him. The pickpocket didn’t know what troubled him most; the man, the rat listening to him, or the giggling, easy, somewhat odd laughter that issued from his new host.

  Boremac cleaned up and made his way back to the library. “Glad to have you with me, my little thief. Rat provides some amount of company but is not much for conversation. Even if my language lessons with him progress better than they have so far, which is to say not at all, I don’t know that he will ever be much for higher understanding. How should I call you? Thief, it would seem to me, would get tiresome shortly. I am called the Mad Archivist, the Knowing One, the Gatherer, and many other titles, but you can call me George. I forgot my given name some time ago and I rather like the feel of this one. Picked it up in an ancient book around here somewhere. It was a curious character in a story book so it seemed fitting as any at the time.” The Archivist laughed, making Boremac cringe inwardly.