Gemworld

by Jeremy Bullard

  Chuckling silently, he turned his mule westward, and started whistling a tune about good ol’ boys never meanin’ no harm.

  Chapter 20

  Sal adjusted his padded vest as he neared the western gate of the city. A brand new green badge—the Ring of the Emerald Rank, the old man had called it—stood out conspicuously against the faded leather. Not for the first time, Sal was amused at how much the old man knew of the Highest and his forces, but how little he knew of actual arcane lore. Well, no matter. What he did know was plenty. Sal was also grateful for Mikel’s tailoring skills, especially how deftly the ring covered the darker square spot that the dead mage’s badge had occupied. But for all his skill, Mikel surely could have coaxed a better fit out of the overlarge tunic.

  Guards stood outside the gates of Scholar’s Ford, randomly checking those who wished to gain entry into the city. Travelers unlucky enough to be noticed were questioned as to their business in the Ford, their packs and wares inventoried. Those who complied were generally admitted, once everything was properly cataloged Those who did not were summarily turned away, forced to find another way downriver or across. No explanations, no excuses, no second chances. It was an effective enough system, with a few random searches discouraging the many criminal elements that would like to gain entrance to the city. Even as Sal approached, a young man stormed from the gates, gathered his family, and joined the myriad other travelers trudging southward along the well-beaten path.

  “Oy, move along, you maggot-ridden...” prodded the man behind Sal. The curses died abruptly as Sal turned to face him. The man was a lumberjack, beefy, standing head and shoulders above Sal, but he collapsed in on himself as the single emerald eye took him in. The big man snatched what passed for a hat from his head and crushed it to his chest in fearful respect. “I’m so sorry, Milord Mage!” he sputtered, turning the honorific into a title of sorts. “I had no idea! None at all! Why, if I’d have known... of course, that’s no excuse...”

  The big man groveled on for a while that way, swearing himself and his descendants to Sal’s service, if only the mage didn’t turn him into a toad. Sal struggled to keep his face neutral through the lumberjack’s fawning. Outside of Caravan, he’d had very little experience with how the world in general viewed mages. Were all mundanes this terrified of the arcane? The thought that mages not only allowed this kind of behavior, but might actually encourage it, appalled him. His disgust must have been apparent, for the big man, fearing his amphibious future, redoubled his efforts. Sal silenced him with an imperious swipe of his hand. He hated to act so overbearing, but he couldn’t afford to be viewed as different from any other mage.

  “If you’ll quit that incessant prattle, I’ll overlook your insolence this once,” he said with as much arrogance as he could muster. He was privately pleased with himself. He hadn’t used such big words since senior year in high school. The big man also seemed pleased, then moved seamlessly from self-reproach to gratitude without even pausing to take a breath. Sal silenced him again. “You can repay your impudence by telling me what you know about this city.”

  “The Ford? Of course! It’s my second home, so it is. Anything you wish to know, I can tell you,” the big man said as he thumped his chest confidently, his lips parting to reveal a toothless grin.

  “Of course,” Sal said dubiously.

  The lumberjack trailed Sal faithfully for the better part of an hour, spewing forth useless information at a frightening clip as the line inched toward the western gate. Oh, he knew the Ford alright—the cheapest whorehouses, the rowdiest pubs, the shiftiest merchants. He stopped short of revealing just how such debauchery made it past the initial checkpoints at the city gates, but not by much. Thankfully, he had the presence of mind to clam up as they neared the guards.

  Sal sized up the men guarding the gate. The men were well built, and filled out their leather armor imposingly. But they were mundane. Sal, ever thinking in terms of security, found this odd. He’d assumed that the main gates to the city would have had arcane guards overseeing things. Amethysts could scan whole carts full of merchandise effortlessly, without even removing the tarp. And rubies, with their demonic red eyes, could keep the peace without ever having to actually invoke their power, and yet more effectively than a mundane constabulary.

  Then he saw them, lounging in the guard shacks. Three mages in each, taking their ease while the mundane guards monitored the influx. Every last mage wore the studded leather armor of the Earthen Rank. He noted the Segmented Fist tattooed on the forehead of each of the Rank officers. Although Mikel had assured him hundreds of times that it was perfectly normal for an Unmarked to pass through the Ford on the way to Bastion, it did nothing to assuage the nervous knots in his gut. Whatever they expected out of him as an Unmarked, he hoped he’d catch on quickly enough to avoid ridicule.

  As he got closer, however, he noticed that the officers’ status stripes were all fewer than those adorning his own armor. He must outrank them. He couldn’t stop the smirk from marring his otherwise cool facade. He hoped it came across as disdain, though he didn’t think he’d have too much trouble pulling that little act off.

  “Name, please?” came the voice before him.

  “Hmm? Oh! I’m sor—uh, certain that the rest of your city is more secure than this gate,” Sal said archly, quick to cover the apology he’d almost given. “I’m not impressed in the least with the security measures in place here. A rebel army could just walk in and take over anytime they wanted to.”

  Sal’s tirade drew the guard’s full attention. Ire etched the guard’s face as he looked up from the logbook in his hands, the same logbook that almost ended up falling from the guard’s suddenly nerveless fingers as he noted the apparent rank of the mage before him.

  “Yes, Subsergeant! I’m sorry, Subsergeant. I’ll do my best to...”

  The guard’s voice trailed off as Sal pushed his way past him, making a beeline for the nearest guard shack. He barked at the Rank officers within, and both guard houses emptied before him.

  “I have never seen such a display of incompetence in my life!” he barked at the assembled soldiers. “You have a duty to man this gate, not lounge around while lesser guards do your work for you. Tell me, which of these mundanes can see an unauthorized weapon hidden in a rick of wood? Or a known criminal hidden beneath a hay bale?”

  The soldiers, even those bearing the same rank as Sal, wilted as one as their laziness was publicly rebuked. Their eyes dropped, humiliated, to the ground as the one-eyed soldier raved. Sal barked at them, and they snapped to attention again.

  “If I ever—ever—pass though this gate and find you slouching at your post, by the Prophets I’ll see you guarding latrines for the rest of your tour of duty! Have I made myself clear?”

  “Yes, Subsergeant!” came the emphatic reply. Sal nodded encouragingly at the soldiers as they went about their task with renewed purpose, then disappeared into the crowd.

  That went well, he thought a bit smugly. Killed three birds with one stone. I got into the city without a hassle, I found out what rank I am, and I got a chance to dress down a couple of slackers as an added bonus. Things are starting to look up.

  “Milord Mage! Milord Mage!”

  Sal groaned. The lumberjack had passed inspection already, and was now plowing his way through the crowd to Sal.

  “That was truly inspiring back there, Milord!” the big man gushed. “I’ve never seen a Rank officer snap to like that! Why, you’re a born leader, Milord! I’ll bet—”

  “Enough,” Sal returned languidly. He had to find a way to get rid of this chump before he took it upon himself to become Sal’s personal yes-man. “If you could just tell me where to find an inn...”

  Given a directive, the big man happily rattled off directions to about five inns before Sal stopped him. Dear God, does this frikkin’ do-flunky have a life?!? Misunderstanding Sal’s scowl, the lumberjack nodded sagely. “Ah... You must me wanting the Wizard’s Tome.”

&nbs
p; Sal’s blank stare was all the invitation the rube needed. He spewed forth his directions, taking Sal down one side street, then another, his route growing impossibly snarled before finally reaching the end.

  “Would you like me to take you there myself?” he offered.

  “No!” Sal said, glad for the opportunity to be rid of the big man. “No, that won’t be necessary. I thank you for your assistance, and free you of your obligations. You may go.” He waved dismissively. The burly rube, glad to be of help, was equally glad to be gone. He bowed his way almost out of sight, then broke and ran before the one-eyed mage could change his mind.

  Sal turned down the main street, headed along the lumberjack’s tangled directions as best he could. He missed a few turns along the way, and had to double back, but he was glad for the mishaps. For the first time since coming to this world, he had the opportunity to see how the populace in general actually lived.

  Everywhere he looked, he saw diversity. Norean, Onatae, Ysrean, Mandiblean—every race was represented here. But Scholar’s Ford was not like Caravan. In Caravan, diversity was of little consequence. The multiple cultures were intertwined, shared as their struggle against the Highest was shared.

  Here, things were different. Diversity was celebrated, not just accepted. Sections of town stood out vividly as belonging to one race or another, one culture or another, bringing to mind visions of China Town, or the French Quarter—and the further from the center of town, the more segregated the population became, until finally Sal began to feel decidedly self-conscious under the scrutiny of the locals.

  Sal was also quick to discover that here, status ruled. The richly dressed carved a swath through a sea of rags, with men in shining armor looking on protectively. Those of similar station greeted each other warmly, while disdainfully tolerating those beneath themselves, or groveling to those of higher station. Only the vendors were oblivious to this division. They hawked their wares just as loudly to the rich as they did to the poor. Scholar’s Ford was a bustling melting pot of humanity, New York to Caravan’s Mayberry.

  Then he saw the mages.

  They stood apart from the press, aloof. Their simple yet immaculate robes barely rustled as the crowd flowed carefully past like a river around a jutting promontory. There were three of them, talking amongst themselves, paying the city around them no mind. They stood on the stoop of an large building. An open book stood over the stoop in bas-relief, runes etched into its stone pages.

  Sal smiled. It could only be the Wizard’s Tome.

  Sal studied the inn as he approached. Three stories tall, it was easily the highest point for blocks in any direction. The inn was a masterpiece of stonework, far removed from the buildings that made up the bulk of the city. Those buildings had been of cut stone, marble or granite, and though the blocks had been fit together expertly, the evidence of masonry was still visible. But this... it almost seemed as if the inn had been shaped from a single stone. From the foundation to the bulwarks, the inn appeared to have been grown rather than crafted, and was a most impressive piece of architectural engineering in any case. And most imposing, as well. Looking up, he found sentries patrolling the rooftop, though he bet it was more for show that anything. The mages of Scholar’s Ford seemed to thrive on intimidation. Marshaling his arrogance, he glided past the mages near the door and went inside.

  The lobby was remarkably cool, though not uncomfortably so, and well lit. Balls of flame floated over the lobby, glowing brilliantly where they stood suspended in midair, seemingly fixed to an invisible rafter. Bookcases lined both walls of the lobby with mages between, lounging on plush couches, engrossed in the scroll or book of their choice. As Sal crossed to the front desk, the sound of muted conversation wafted in from a common room to his right. In there, men and women sat in guarded discussion, for all the world looking like a gossips support group. Sal almost laughed out loud at their self-importance.

  “Welcome to the Wizard’s Tome, milord,” said a rotund Onatae from behind the desk. “I am Finley, the owner of this establishment. May I be of service?”

  “Yes,” Sal said, turning his attention fully to the proprietor. Finley was a mundane, as evidenced by his natural slanted eyes, but Sal wouldn’t have been able to tell it by his smug manner. A sickening, if strangely polite, arrogance seemed to roll off him in waves so that a blind man would be hard pressed to tell the difference between the innkeeper and a seasoned mage. Absently he wondered if all innkeepers were blessed with obesity. “Would you happen to know when the next ferry bound for Bastion is due in?”

  “Mundane, arcane, or no preference?”

  Sal blinked, but quickly recovered. Of course, Sal should have expected such segregation, given what he’d seen since reaching the Ford. “No preference,” he said casually. “I’m in a hurry.” That was the truth. He didn’t want to spend any more time in this backwards city than he had to.

  The innkeeper sniffed. Apparently, he thought himself better than many of the mages that came through as well. “In that case, we have an open ferry in port now, bound for Bastion at dusk, milord. However, if you’d prefer, there is also moored a student transport, the Academic. She is due to leave for Bastion around noon tomorrow. We’d be honored by your patronage,” he added suggestively.

  Sal was anxious to get going, and was about to book passage on the open ferry when he thought better of it. Considering the sickening deference that mundane gave mages in a sprawling city like Scholar’s Ford, he could well imagine the cramped quarters of a ferry magnifying it.

  “A room will be fine, thank you.”

  “Of course, milord. I shall add the cost of passage on the Academic to our standard nightly rate.”

  The innkeeper quoted his price, and Sal doled out a few coins from his still bulging purse. He was surprised at how much was left over. Apparently, Mikel was very generous in his estimate on what “a few pints” might cost.

  Finley took Sal’s money, promising to purchase Sal’s boarding pass the moment the docks opened in the morning, then called a serving wench, also a mundane, to lead Sal to his room.

  “I must say,” Sal started, toning down his acted arrogance a bit for the sake of the young woman, “I’m somewhat surprised to find an establishment that catered specifically to mages being managed by a mundane.”

  “Oh, don’t think lightly of him, milord,” the wench said pleasantly enough. “Master Finley is quite a shrewd man, more than a match for the stuffed shirts that find their way to our front door.”

  “That may be so,” he laughed, thinking back to the self-important examples of arcane mastery that he’d seen since that afternoon. “But does he have to come off as such a... ummm...”

  “A windbag?” she finished sweetly. “Maybe not. But wouldn’t you, as the mundane owner of a place like this?”

  Sal had to agree. The more time he spent in the Ford, the more it reminded him of the big cities back home—dog eat dog, winner take all.

  “I wouldn’t take it to heart, though,” she said as she unlocked a door at the far end of a side hallway, then handed him the key. “He’s a good man, far better than most. You won’t find a more honorable man this side of the Eastern Shores, and definitely not in the Ford.”

  “I’ll remember that,” Sal said earnestly. One never knew when such information would be useful. He thanked her for her services and ordered a hot meal, then ducked inside the room. He had barely time to drop his pack at the foot of the bed when she returned with a platter loaded down with beef and carrot stew, hot bread, and small wedges of white cheese.

  The room was more than satisfactory, as rooms went. After living in this world for the better part of nine weeks—not quite a month, according to the local calendar—he’d gotten used to rustic simplicity that his new world had to offer. Baths of drawn water, horse-drawn wagons, dinners cooked over a spit, they all had a certain appeal to him. Even the outhouses and chamber pots, once he got in the proper mindset. Granted, there were magical helps for all aspects
of life, but the world he found himself in was about as close to medieval Europe as he would ever see, and he had to admit that it was growing on him.

  A hot meal before him, and a warm bed calling him with equal insistence, he instead drew his katana from its sheath and assumed shol’zo mitsu—the primary fighting stance of armed shol’tuk. With a gusto born of abstinence, he fell into his now beloved forms. Though the doeskin forms were few, they were strenuous, especially after almost three weeks on the road. By the time Sal found himself in shol’zo rah, his body was wracked with painful cramps. But it was a bearable pain, the pain of a man satisfied in a long-awaited indulgence.

  He centered himself, mentally kneading his muscles from shol’zo rah. He had found precious little time to work his forms while traveling with Mikel. The old man wasn’t fearful of shol’tuk—quite the opposite; he seemed to have almost as intimate a knowledge of the Silent Blade as Retzu himself—but he was cautious of doing anything that might draw unwanted attention. So Sal found himself sometimes going days at a time without going through his forms, each day hoping that the night would find him in a campsite secluded enough to work out.

  And his inactivity had definitely taken its toll on him. He could still perform each move, quickly and flawlessly, but his body practically screamed in protest. Sitting in shol’zo rah, he could feel the sweat dripping from his blondish hair, now grown a bit shaggy from the time spent in this new world, far removed from the typical Navy barber and his standard high-and-tight. The perspiration cut rivulets between the aching muscles in his arms, his back, his lumbar region. But protest as his body might, he refused to embrace Emerald. He was a mage, true enough, but he was also shol’tuk. He knew that pain was quite often the price one paid for his hilt. And his hilt wasn’t thrust upon him the way Diamond had been. He had earned the doeskin. As much as he’d wanted to be a SEAL in his former life, he was honored to be shol’tuk in this one.