The Western Wizard

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

  Tannin continued his practice, blithely unaware of his audience.

  Colbey considered. He could easily catch Tannin from behind and cut the youth down before he could think to defend. The thought lasted less than a fleeting instant, and it merited no deliberation. Neither the Renshai’s code nor Colbey’s personal honor would allow such a thing. That Tannin may have discarded that same honor was immaterial. Colbey knew that the very substance of honor involved sticking to its tenets despite the nature or methods of the enemy.

  Colbey frowned, studying Tannin as he hacked through a wild flurry of attack. Here, following his principles came easy to Colbey. He could confront this problem head-on and without fear, as Renshai were meant to do. Facing Episte’s slayer, when it happened, would become another matter, one Colbey tried to cast aside for now. If I got the opportunity to kill that madman dishonorably, would I take it? Can result ever justify chaotic action or corrupted intent? Colbey tried to forget questions that had little to do with his current task, but they would not be banished. He considered the dilemma of the Northmen: It is evil to murder, and evil should not exist. So is it evil to murder those who follow evil just because they are evil? Clearly, the Northmen had answered this paradox to their own satisfaction, since they slaughtered that which they considered evil gleefully, without a war of conscience. At times, Colbey wished the world could be as direct and simple for warriors of neutrality.

  Colbey forced his thoughts back to the problem at hand. The previous night, he had believed Tannin’s story; but the Northmen had no reason to suspect that the Renshai would veer eastward. Whoever had constructed the trap had done so to catch men, and Tannin alone had known the path the Renshai would take. Though circumstantial, the evidence seemed irrefutable. Still hating what he felt a need to do, Colbey stepped into the clearing. A single upstroke stole the weapon from Tannin’s hand. Catching the hilt, Colbey jabbed both swords for the youngster, backing him against an oak.

  Surprise shocked through Tannin, easily read. It fluttered into confusion. He met Colbey’s gaze, then glanced swiftly away. The confusion strengthened and channeled into a fear Colbey could not refute.

  Afraid. Is that because he’s innocent or guilty? Colbey hated the need to try a man based on radiating emotion, though he knew he would receive more evidence than any judge. “Why did you lead us into a trap?”

  “What?” Tannin flipped up his wrists to indicate surrender. He seemed too startled to answer the question.

  Recalling how Tannin had danced around his previous queries, Colbey stuck to the point. “Why did you lead us into a trap? Reply directly and quickly, if you value your life or your honor at all.”

  Emotions flickered and changed. At first, Colbey believed that Tannin intended to comply docilely. A flurry of thought followed, too quick for Colbey to sort. Then came a tiny glimmer of amusement, nearly masked by fear. Finally, Tannin’s consciousness settled into a familiar acceptance of death, and all fear disappeared. Despite the threat, Tannin skirted the interrogation. “The way you phrased the question, I couldn’t possibly answer it directly without condemning myself. Why did I lead you into a trap? I’m innocent, Gullindjemprins. I didn’t lead anyone into anything. I chose my route for two reasons only. First, to take you to the Fields of Wrath where my people . . . our people eagerly await you. Second, I took us toward the nearest town where I knew we could get rations.” His eyes again rolled to meet Colbey’s cold gaze. This time, the youngster did not look away.

  Colbey wanted to believe so badly it hurt. He tried not to let hope color his objectivity. “How did the Northmen know where to put that trap?”

  “I don’t know.” Tannin glared in defiance. “Maybe they found us. Maybe they overheard something.”

  Colbey considered. He had explored the minds of enemies before, and now he walked the borders of propriety. If Tannin is untrustworthy, he must die. If he’s a friend, I must trust him implicitly. But I have to give him at least the same chance as I gave Valr Kirin and his troop at the dam. Tentatively, Colbey spread his consciousness, threading into Tannin’s mind. Recalling the agony he had caused Valr Kirin, he kept his touch light.

  Tannin continued, apparently oblivious, “Man traps don’t fit Northmen’s methods anyway. They’re more likely to charge into single combat. Maybe the tree just happened to fall then. Or maybe the trap was set by someone else for someone else, and we just came along at the wrong time.”

  Colbey heard the words in stereo, once from Tannin’s lips and the other as a brash echo in his head. His exploration brought details he would otherwise have missed. The mass of conflicting emotions that assailed Tannin included frustration, the sorrow of loss, and a respect that could pass for awe. Tannin’s aggressive bluster covered a fear that stemmed less for his own life than for losing the finest treasure his tribe could find: the Golden Prince of Demons. And Colbey found an eagerness to learn that he searched for in every student, raw and unprotected by normal, outward defenses. He discovered a pocket of comments, the things Tannin would have liked to have shouted, but wisely held back: If I wanted to kill Renshai, I only had to poison the food I passed around. And I’d be a fool to start with anyone but you. Colbey’s invasion revealed that Tannin was exactly what he claimed to be.

  Guilt assailed Colbey. Having established Tannin as an ally, he withdrew instantly, feeling offensive and cruel. Still, though he knew he had used his gift in a manner that Shadimar would not approve, he felt better for having done so. Had I not found a means to and a comfort in trusting Tannin, I would have had no choice but to kill him. Colbey lowered his arms, the weapon in each fist feeling inappropriately heavy. He flipped Tannin’s sword so that its hilt faced its wielder. Though he had done it tens of thousands of times with hundreds of different swords, this time the maneuver seemed awkward. Only a sudden shift kept him from cutting his hand, and even that movement felt slowed. A new fatigue plagued Colbey, appearing to have no source, and Colbey remembered then how much his mental techniques drained him. He sheathed his own sword cautiously, without wasted motions.

  Tannin reached for his hilt, his stance crouched and uncertain.

  Colbey revealed his change of heart without explanation. “Drop Gullindjemprins. It’s a title of disrespect against the Renshai.”

  Tannin paled, hand closing over his hilt. “I didn’t know.”

  “It comes from the Westerners’ belief that our skill stems from magic and chaos. They called us the Golden-Haired Devils from the North. The Golden Prince of Demons, I believe, is merely their way of naming me a leader of Renshai.”

  Tannin sheathed his sword. “Then what can I call you, sir? It feels wrong to use anything but a title. I’m not partial to Bringer of Evil or to Deathseeker.”

  Colbey let the silence build. Despite the simplicity of the question, he knew the response he was about to give would mean more to Tannin than any vow or death threat. He offered more than a means of address. With his answer would come a responsibility without equal, one that went beyond any bonds of blood, as well as a promise. “Call me your teacher.”

  “Torke.” Tannin spoke the most important word in the Renshai language without the trace of Western dialect that had pervaded his speech. His lips twitched, then his grin spread to encompass his entire face.

  * * *

  The city of Wynix huddled in a steep-walled valley like a fetus in a womb, and sunset struck highlights from its enclosing stone wall. Colbey examined the layout from a broad stretch of forest, with the eye of an invader. Clearly, its citizenry had built the town with the same hopes and specifications as the auspicious trading town of Pudar, though on a smaller scale and with little success. Less accessible and with a more stable population, Wynix could never attract the richer merchant caravans, nor, thankfully, the riffraff and pestilence that seemed to accompany them. Colbey also noticed that the fools had designed the city wholly indefensibly. Archers could annihilate the populace or an infantry siege them without a casualty. Yet Wynix boasted no fert
ile soil for farming nor mineral wealth, and its low ground would be as difficult to protect for the invaders as the Wynixans. Therefore, Colbey believed, Wynix had almost certainly enjoyed peace in the decades since the Renshai had razed the West.

  Colbey turned, heading back to his waiting companions. “I think it’s safe. It’s not well-defended, but I doubt the Northmen would assault an entire Western village without exhausting peaceful methods of getting us first. I don’t think the Northmen will guess that we’ve swung eastward.”

  “They know.” Mitrian shook a pebble from her sandal, fully recovered. “Someone set that trap.”

  The fading light stole color from vision and made Tannin’s hair seem nearly as dark as Mitrian’s.

  Colbey turned his attention to Tannin, smiling slightly. “Someone reminded me that traps aren’t the Northmen’s way. Anyone could have set it. Apparently, this road is well-traveled, so it could have been meant for someone else. Or it might simply have been the work of a highwayman. A cruel trap, but that sort isn’t known for chivalry.” Colbey did not voice his deeper concern, that the person or group who had violated the headless corpse was responsible. The memory of movement in the woodlands haunted him, and he wished he had tracked their stealthy follower more persistently.

  Always practical, but rarely pensive, Garn fidgeted. “I don’t see it makes much difference. We need food and horses. We can get them there.” He pointed toward the valley.

  Rache stared in the direction of Garn’s finger, though he could not see Wynix through the foliage. “If the Northmen can recognize Mama alone, they’d know any of us. I think we’re safer together.”

  Colbey nodded his agreement. “We’ll need rations, seven horses, and a sword for Korgar.” He caught a glimpse of Rache’s notched blade and winced. “At least one sword.”

  “We’ll need something else,” Mitrian added. “We’ll need gold. Horses don’t come cheap, and I couldn’t even pay for my own meal in Porvada.”

  Colbey turned his attention to Tannin hopefully.

  The Western Renshai shook his head. “I have a handful of copper. It’ll buy us a modest meal at The Merchant’s Haven. That’s Wynix’s inn. One meal. One. It won’t cover horses and weapons.”

  Colbey frowned. In the past, he had won food and lodging for himself and his companions with his healing arts or by selling his skill. In his youth, the Renshai had swept, slaying, through the West, taking what they wished. Money had no value to him.

  Garn glanced from Colbey to Tannin. “I’ve been known to . . . um . . . take . . .”

  Mitrian silenced her husband with a glare, but not before Colbey recognized his intentions. As a gladiator, Garn had stolen from the guards who kept him prisoner. For the moment, Colbey discarded this option, leaving it as a distant possibility if no better ones appeared.

  Tannin kicked at his nearly empty pack. “In the years I’ve been traveling looking for you, I’ve been doing odd jobs for barter or money. That’s kept me fed and clothed. If we hang around the tavern at a busy time like . . .” He studied the sky, assessing the time. “. . . now, we’re bound to find someone who can use a group of able-bodied Renshai.” He laughed. “So long as we don’t tell them that’s what we are.”

  Colbey frowned, disliking the idea of wasting time in a city, yet understanding the need. He could see advantages to remaining in a densely populated area. Though it would raise their profile, it would also hinder open combat. Attacking one stranger in a dark alley in Porvada might have limited complications, but declaring open war on an entire group in a crowded trading city would prove difficult as well as dangerous. So long as the Renshai remained in the inn or on populous streets, the Northmen would not dare to break the laws or risk the lives of bystanders. For their part, the Renshai and their friends could not go much longer without rations. The rest and change promised by Wynix might do them good. “All right, then we go to the inn.”

  Hunger kept contrary arguments at bay. Colbey and his companions spiraled into the valley, following the beaten track that led to Wynix. A cheap copy of Pudar’s, Wynix’s gate also apparently remained open until sundown, and no one challenged the group’s entrance. They padded down roadways lined with stands and wagons. Most of the tables lay empty in the waning light, as even the more persistent merchants packed the last of their wares until morning. When the Renshai wandered by, some of these looked up, but no one bothered with a sales pitch. Apparently something in the party’s manner told the merchants that they had little money or a purpose besides shopping, and Colbey crossed the market square unaccosted.

  Tannin took the lead on the narrower streets beyond the market. Colbey tensed, alert to signs or sounds of movement. Occasionally, he heard the shuffle of a foot against cobble, the sound of one man or woman gliding through the alley shadows. This did not bother Colbey. No lone person, whether Northman or footpad, could harm them. Rats scuttled through the alleyway ahead, their nails clicking against stone and their squeaks of protest feeble. Soon, Tannin brought his charges before a stone-fronted building lit by a row of lanterns hanging over its doors. A gaily painted sign proclaimed it as The Merchant’s Haven in Western trading tongue runes. A dense uproar of inseparable voices filtered through cracks in the doorway.

  Colbey entered first. Yellow walls bore murals of farms, carts, and animals from different parts of the world. Dozens of artists had painted the pictures. The styles varied from talentlessly crude to professional, and some of the individual figures had clearly more than one craftsman. A quick search revealed few blonds, and none of those were obviously Northern. The tavern’s patrons formed a swarming, boisterous mass around some central entertainment that Colbey could not see. The tables on the periphery stood empty. Serving maids wound through the throng with drinks, returning to a fat, pink-cheeked bartender who clapped his hands with glee.

  Colbey steered his charges to one of the empty tables on the fringes, and Secodon slipped beneath it. As they sat, the bartender came personally to their table. He looked over every member of the group interestedly. “Northmen, eh? Welcome. It’s a day for distant travelers.”

  Alarmed, Colbey pressed. “You’ve seen other Northmen today?”

  “Nay. And only once before. Years ago.” The bartender’s eyes strayed to the teeming mass of patrons at the center of the bar. “But I’ve got an Eastern merchant, the prince of Wynix and Ahktar, and a group from Pudar. Now that you’re here, I’ve got everything.”

  Placed at ease by the bartender’s denial of Northmen, Colbey considered. He doubted the bartender would mislead. His childlike excitement reminded Colbey of Sterrane, and he could not imagine the Wynixan keeping a secret.

  “What can I get for you?”

  “Bread and cheese for everyone. And whatever is safe to drink in these parts.”

  “I’ve got the best mead you’ve ever tasted. It’s going well tonight.” Again, the bartender’s attention shifted to the crowd.

  Colbey had to ask. “What’s going on over there?” He inclined his head in the direction that the bartender was already looking.

  The bartender glanced back at Colbey, then returned his attention to the masses. He beamed, taking a skipping step toward Colbey that made his fat bounce like water. His words seemed to tumble over one another. “Card game. Terrific, isn’t it? Brought me a week’s crowd in a night.”

  “High stakes?” Colbey asked.

  Catching a gesture from the crowd, the bartender waved over a serving maid. “Dayaan the goldsmith and Prince Oswald’s playing. Then there’s a merchant from the East called Shalan.” He pronounced it “Shay-lan,” though Colbey suspected the correct Eastern inflection would be “Shigh-layn.” “The fourth is Mirkae, a local. Calls himself king of cards and claims he’s never lost a game. I seen times when he didn’t win neither, but he’s certainly winning this one.”

  The idea of large sums of money held Colbey’s attention neatly. “This an open game?”

  The bartender laughed, and his body shook in
rhythmical waves. “Open to anyone with the twenty gold stake. So far, that ain’t been no one.” He leaned uncomfortably close, speaking in a loud whisper, though the noises of the crowd drowned even normal speech. “Rumor is Mirkae cheats.” With a guffaw that left the odor of garlic breath, the bartender wandered away to fill the order.

  Colbey guessed that any rumor the bartender knew would not remain a well-kept secret. Still, if the local was sharking cards, he must be doing so competently enough to fool the other players, despite suspicion. The scam intrigued Colbey.

  Rache caught Colbey’s arm. “Are you thinking of playing?”

  “We need the money.” Colbey rolled his gaze to Shadimar, knowing the Eastern Wizard would not care for the request Colbey felt obligated to make. “Shadimar, lend me the sapphire.”

  “No!” Shadimar’s rage gave volume to his reply, and it cut over the hubbub. As a few eyes swiveled toward them, the Wizard lowered his voice. “We had an agreement. I keep the Pica Stone so long as we have a vow of brotherhood. I’m not going to let you risk it in some card game.”

  A grimace of annoyance replaced Colbey’s grin. “I’m not going to lose it. I’m a damned good card player. And even if I lose it, and I won’t, I can get it back.” He patted Harval’s hilt.

  “No.” Shadimar’s face assumed sharp lines. Colbey could feel Secodon’s warm breath on his knee. “The Pica is a magical object, by the gods. One of only two in Odin’s world. I won’t have people handling it. It’s too precious and too dangerous.”

  Bothered despite the Wizard’s right to deny him, Colbey let his chin droop to his hands, where it remained until the food arrived. While he and his companions ate, Colbey worked on another plan. He took a few bites of cheese-topped bread as he mulled the problem. “Garn. Go outside and see what you can . . . um . . . find worth twenty gold.”