by S. G. Rogers
His goal was to gather information about Mandral Territory and the wizard Efysian, but nothing ever came free. Therefore, Jon needed something of value to trade with the locals. The only transdimensional currency he could think of was chocolate. He figured most people would do anything for a nice, thick chunk of the stuff. At art camp this summer, Jon had been a king—until the chocolate ran out.
Timing would also be an issue. Judging from the fact he'd seen two suns, Jon figured the daylight hours on Yden were a lot longer than on Earth. If he transported at 3:00 a.m., it would be morning in Mandral Territory.
After Jon had scoured several secondhand stores, he finally located a pullover peasant-style shirt. A drawstring knapsack was a lucky acquisition, although he had to remove the label with his mother’s manicure scissors. It proved to be impossible to get the right kind of pants unless he was willing to make them, so he settled for a pair of black workout pants. They had an elastic waist, but the peasant shirt fell low enough to hide the waistband.
Footwear was his biggest problem. The best he could do was an old, ratty pair of moccasins he bought for a dollar. Jon felt as if he’d overpaid for them, but maybe he could trade for a decent pair of boots somewhere in Mandral Village.
To his surprise, he had a hard time finding the right kind of chocolate. Most of the chocolate at the supermarket was stamped with a brand name and wrapped in printed plastic. Jon finally went to a candy store and bought several boxes of chocolate-covered molasses chips. He lined his father’s wooden box with waxed paper and transferred the candy inside.
One last hurdle was figuring out what to use as a head covering. In Mandral Territory, a hat seemed to indicate one's occupation. Unless Jon wanted to be taken for a vagrant again, he had to wear something. His father's hat was not an option, unfortunately, because he wasn’t a wizard. If he wore a wizard's hat, it would probably be like wearing a big target on his back. From what he remembered of his father’s stories, wizards could be brutal toward one other. A fake wizard wouldn't stand a chance. Mozer had been wearing a black cap, so Jon decided to copy it. Although not an exact match, he found a black beret at a thrift store downtown. A long-overdue haircut took off the bleached ends he had left over from camp.
After he assembled his costume, he tried it on. The outfit made no fashion statements, but as far as he could tell, he could pass as a Mandral Territory local. For his first reconnaissance mission, Jon planned to return to the marketplace in Mandral Village. With no cygards after him this time, he’d be able to walk around and ask a couple of questions. If he were quick, he’d be home before breakfast. Satisfied his preparations were ready, he decided to pick a date.
Jon set his alarm for three o'clock Sunday morning. The box of chocolate and his sketchbook went into his knapsack. He wrote his sister a note Saturday night to let her know where he had gone. The message was cryptic, in case his mother found it.
Sela,
Dreaming of Yden tonight? I know I am. Let's hope we both find what we are searching for. See you in the morning.
— Jon
He slipped the note under his sister’s door and returned to his room, where Ophelia's eyes were already glowing in anticipation. Jon put her on his finger. “Okay, Ophelia. Let's do this.”
Jon took a deep breath as he put the transporter cuff on his wrist. Concentrating on Mandral Village, he let the cuff work its magic. In the next moment, he transported into another dimension.
****
When he materialized next to the tavern tent, Jon startled a couple of men who'd obviously spent a long, thirst-quenching night inside.
“Good Solegra!”
“Sorry. My bad,” Jon said.
The two men tottered back into the tent without a reply, in all likelihood seeking another bracing beverage to steady their nerves.
Jon scanned the marketplace for cygards, but he was relieved to see none lurking around. The larger of the suns was up, and the morning air was remarkably clean. Shoppers bustled about, and the scent of fresh-baked bread wafted on the pleasant breeze. As Jon moved through the marketplace, he was pleased to discover no one gave him a second glance. His disguise seemed to be working, and he began to relax.
Although Jon made sure to avoid Hafne's booth, he enjoyed seeing the different kinds of handmade items available for purchase. A booth selling blankets caught his eye largely because the blankets were weaving themselves on a loom. He stood there, gaping.
“How do you do that?” Jon asked the proprietress.
The woman recoiled, as if offended. “It's a spell, of course. Not everyone is backward, you know.”
“Of course not,” Jon replied. He offered her a piece of chocolate. “I meant no disrespect.”
The woman took the chocolate, sniffed it, and then bit into it with obvious pleasure.
“Could you tell me how to find the wizard who gave you the spell?” he asked. “I'm looking for a new master.”
“Long gone,” she said, speaking low. “Most wizards have been driven out of Mandral Territory by the Wolf Clan wizard.” In a louder voice, she shooed him off. “Now move on, lad. I’ve no work for you here.”
Although Jon wanted to ask her more about the Wolf Clan wizard, her manner implied the subject was not discussed in the open, if at all. As he left the booth, a stout woman wearing a puffy, coarsely woven hat swung a heavy sack of grain at him. “You...boy! Help me to my cart,” she demanded.
“Okay,” Jon replied, taken aback. “I’d be happy to.”
Jon hoisted the sack onto his shoulder and followed. Before long, it became clear the woman had forgotten where she’d parked. She scoured the entire market before locating her two-wheeled wagon harnessed to a fat puleden. Jon laid the sack on the bed of the cart.
“There you are, ma'am,” Jon said as he tried to avoid the puleden's overly friendly tail.
The woman held out a slender pale yellow tile, about the size of a finger. Was he supposed to take it, he wondered? His hesitation triggered a sound of disgust from the woman.
“One yellow's not good enough for 'em these days,” she grumbled, producing a second yellow tile.
As he took the tiles, Jon realized they were supposed to be a tip. Tiles were probably the local currency. “Um, thank you,” he said.
The woman rode off. Jon shrugged and dropped the tiles in his knapsack. He didn’t get more than a few paces before a sun-baked old man wearing a wide-brimmed straw hat tossed a rope at his feet. The rope was attached to a pair of animals with a fleece made of something resembling steel wool.
“Follow me with these wooly goats, boy. I live down the lane,” the old man said.
Jon began to wonder if he had the word “flunky” tattooed on his forehead. As they set out, he discovered the man was elderly but spry. Although Jon attempted to muscle the wooly goats down the road, the man was outdistancing him. At the outskirts of the market, Jon passed another kid with a black cap, cleaning up after a couple of puledens. It finally dawned on him he was a lackey for hire—perhaps not a profession he would have picked if he’d known better. Then again, maybe he could learn valuable information this way.
After a dusty stretch, the old man stopped at a farmhouse. Jon pushed the animals through a gate, and the man tossed him an orange tile. Jon caught it with one hand.
“Thanks. Say, I'm kind of new here. Have you ever heard of the Dragon Clan?”
“Of course I have.”
“Could you tell me where I could find one of them?” Jon asked, suddenly excited.
“I think the whole line died out turns ago,” he replied.
Jon’s hopes fizzled.
“The last Dragon Clan wizard disappeared when he was about your age, I reckon,” the man continued. “Maybe he died, I don't know. Just as well...I heard there was something strange about him.”
“Like what?”
The man shook his head. “Couldn’t say.”
“And what about dragons? Have you ever seen one?”
“T
he Wolf Clan wizard hunted down every last dragon, as near as anyone can tell. Look here, lad, you'll steer clear of wizards, if you know what's good for you,” he said, slamming the gate shut behind him.
A lot of the morning traffic had dwindled when Jon returned to the marketplace. He had felt every pebble through the thin soles of his moccasins, and his feet had begun to ache. His hands smelled musky from wrangling the wooly goats. He rinsed his hands off at a nearby water pump, making a mental note to bring a bar of soap next time.
The other lackey approached, bristling with hostility. He jostled Jon aside as he shoved his hands in the water. “Move over,” he muttered.
Usually Jon wouldn't have bothered to be polite, but the lackey might prove useful. He decided to be friendly. “No problem,” he replied. “I was done anyway.”
“This is my marketplace,” the boy said. He shook the moisture on his hands off in Jon’s direction. “Clear out.”
Jon ground his teeth, but he kept his temper under control. “Sure. I didn't realize this was your gig. “Listen, do you know if there are any wizards in Mandral Village?”
“Go catch flies.”
Friendly wasn't going to cut it, so Jon tried bribery next. He produced a yellow tile. “I only want to talk.”
The boy grabbed the tile and stuffed it into his pocket. “What do you want wizards for? Good for nothing show-offs.”
“I'm looking for someone in particular,” Jon said.
“You want the Seer. She’s got a tent near the river. Tell her Keldan sent you and—”
“No, I need an actual wizard.”
“Who doesn't?” Keldan said. He glanced around to make sure he wasn’t overheard. “From what my ma tells me, everyday people used to be able to hire wizards to do stuff. But not anymore.”
“I heard Efysian has scared a lot of wizards away?”
“The best ones have left the territory or were killed. A Falcon Clan wizard passed through here the other day, but he was on his way to Gnoam Territory.”
“So there aren't any wizards left?” Jon asked, aghast.
“There’s a Leopard Clan wizard wandering around, but since he got drained he's not much good anymore.”
“What's drained?”
Keldan suddenly spied an elderly woman trying to drag two bags through the mud. He darted off to score a job. Jon watched him go, feeling as if he’d definitely wound up on the short end of the deal. Next time he wouldn’t hand over the tile until he’d gotten some satisfactory answers.
Jon decided to try the tavern next. He passed a shoemaker's tent along the way and made a small detour inside. After some tough negotiating with the merchant, he emerged with a pair of used boots. They’d cost him his moccasins (which the merchant had found fascinating for some reason), his remaining tiles, and most of his chocolate stash.
“I'll let you have the boots cut-rate, seeing they come off a dead guy,” the merchant said.
“What killed him?”
“Cygards,” he confided.
The response didn’t make Jon feel a whole lot better. As he squelched through the mud toward the tavern, he cast a wary eye up and down the road. The boots provided better protection for his feet, but they were a little too big. If he had to make a quick getaway from a marauding cygard, the boots would prove awkward for the task.
As Jon approached the tavern, he noticed the skeletal old man he’d seen the first time he’d transported to Yden, waving at him. What was his name...Dormouse? Doris...no, Dorsit. Jon waved in return. When a couple of cygards emerged from the tavern, though, he realized Dorsit had been trying to give him a warning.
Veering into a trinket booth, Jon pretended to be interested in a necklace made of polished stones. The sound of clanking told him the cygards were near.
“Looking to please a sweetheart?” the merchant asked from over Jon’s shoulder. “I have some pretty ribbons.”
As the man steered him toward a display of ribbons in the rear of the booth, Jon began to regret entering the place. Not only was the merchant missing his two front teeth, but he also had a distinct air of dishonesty about him. His hair hadn't been washed in days, and he had massive boils on his neck. Jon shuddered, wanting to split in the worst way, but he was stuck there until the cygards moved on.
“Um, yeah, let me see that one,” he said, pointing to a hideous purple-and-green ribbon. Sela would kick him in the shins if he tried to give her anything so ugly, but the transaction kept his face hidden from view. Unfortunately, his sleeve fell back as he pointed, and the merchant noticed his transporter cuff.
“I'll let you have the lot in exchange for the cuff,” he said in a low voice.
“No deal. I've got something else to trade—” Jon stopped when he remembered he was almost out of chocolate.
“Look, kid, I know that cuff is stolen. Hand it over quietlike and I'll give you the ribbon and the necklace. Do it quick and I won't call the cygards on you.”
“Forget it. Let me—”
“Thief!” he yelled. “Cygards, help!”
Before Jon could blink, the merchant shoved him backward. Jon stumbled and tripped on the rolled edge of carpet. Cygards clamped down on his arms and he couldn’t move. The merchant stood over him, his arms akimbo. “I'll thank you to return the cuff you stole from me, lad,” he demanded.
Jon struggled to free himself. “You lying ball of grease.”
One of the cygards reached for his transporter cuff, but to Jon’s surprise and relief it wouldn't budge. The cuff must have the same anti-theft mechanism as Ophelia, he thought.
“It's enchanted, Moala,” the cygard said to the merchant. “We'll have to cut his hand off after the hearing.”
“Huh?” Jon exclaimed. “Hey, that’s not funny.”
Jon couldn’t see the expression on the cygard’s face because of his helmet, but it sounded as if he wasn't joking.
“Give it here,” Moala said with a snarl.
He aimed a kick at Jon’s ribs, but the taller cygard pushed the merchant aside before he could make contact. “Patience. You'll get your cuff returned to you, Moala,” he said.
“If it's actually yours,” added the second.
“See that I do get it back. I'm going to file a claim directly with the warlord to make sure,” Moala said.
He watched the cygards haul Jon away, a smirk of victory on his lips. The cygards dragged Jon past Dorsit, toward an enclosed cart looking very much like a paddy wagon. Dorsit tried to say something, but after one of the cygards glared at him, he fell silent. The cygards opened the cart doors and Jon planted his feet. “Guys, this is a mistake!”
“Your biggest mistake was getting caught,” the taller cygard said with a laugh.
“Moala is lying!” Jon yelled. “I never stole anything from him.”
“Probably not,” the second cygard agreed. “But you stole it from someone. That's a transporter cuff, you stupid fool.”
“This is all a misunderstanding,“ Jon said, desperate. “I’m a wizard and it’s my cuff.”
The two cygards burst into laughter. “Prove it to Warlord Mandral.”
Without warning, one of the cygards struck Jon in the head with a metal prod. He went limp.
****
When Jon came around, he was woozy. The cygard’s prod had raised a painful knot on his skull, and he felt somewhat nauseous. He found himself lying face down in the moving wagon, kissing dirt and savoring every pothole. He spat out the filth that had found its way into his mouth and struggled to an upright position. His ankles were encased in manacles, and his knapsack had been tossed into a corner. Jon managed to pull it toward him with his fingertips.
“Ophelia, it's been fun, but let's go home,” he croaked.
Jon closed his eyes and tried to picture his bedroom. Every time he thought he had the destination clear in his mind, it slipped away. The sweltering-hot temperature of the paddy wagon didn’t help. Both suns were up, and the heat of his mobile prison kept increasing. The trickle of
sweat down his face became a river. All he could think about was getting a drink of water. And then...he passed out.
Chapter Nine
Kira, Warrior Princess
A bucket of water thrown in Jon’s face brought him back to consciousness with a gasp. A cygard unlocked his manacles and hauled him upright.
“On your feet,” the cygard barked. “I'm not lugging your sorry carcass up those stairs.”
As the cygard dragged Jon from the paddy wagon and onto a loading dock, he caught a glimpse of the castle exterior. The fortress had been designed to intimidate, and a shiver went down Jon’s spine at the sight of the cold and desolate citadel.