The Wilder (The Trouble with Magic Book 1)

by Beach, B. J.

  He scratched his head, his brow furrowing as he turned to take another look at the thick, unbroken hedge. “Baffles me how you got us down here so quick.”

  Symon placed a reassuring hand on Karryl’s shoulder. “You’ll understand in time. But for now, your way back is through Great Market to the top of Broad Street, turn right into Stony Lane, follow it round past the barracks and onto the lane that runs past my tower.”

  Karryl’s mouth twisted in a wry smile. “That’s a fair old step.”

  Symon chuckled. “Nothing for your young legs. Just remember to keep the palace and the grounds to your right, and be back before dark. That’s a tricky path at night.”

  Giving a quick hitch to his robe, the little magician set off across the street. Karryl watched until he had disappeared amongst the stalls and early morning crowds of Little Market. After a quick checking to make sure the coin was still safely in his pocket, he cut across the end of the market and down a little side street. His heart pounding with anticipation he broke into a steady jog and headed down towards the docks.

  * * *

  Emerging from a narrow alley made slick and muddy by the recent rain, Karryl glanced around before darting light-footed along the back of a row of long, low buildings. Cautiously he peered round the end of a wall. A few yards away the remains of a little campfire lay cold and sodden, a few old charred chicken bones adding to the atmosphere of desolation. Karryl wandered over, stirred the miserable ashes with his toe, and looked about him. In daylight, the patch of waste ground with its haphazard collection of upturned battered wooden crates, boxes and tattered canvas, seemed bleak and uninviting. The place he had called home for almost six years cowered under the threat of looming, stony faced warehouses. Lying back to back, a pair of dead rats, their shriveled corpses crawling with maggots, served as a message to those who could read it, that the site had been abandoned. Almost contemptuously Karryl kicked at the soggy grey remains of the fire and turned away.

  With the familiarity which comes from long use, he slipped unseen through the damp and detritus of closely confined alleyways. His gorge rose at the sickly sweet odour of rotting vegetation mingled with the acrid stench of human waste, which only a few weeks ago he would barely have noticed. What he did notice was something which raised his hopes of finding the ragged group who had once been all he could reasonably call his family. Above the roofs of the warehouses towered the swaying mast tops of one of the queens of the ocean, in which Karryl had so often dreamed of sailing the world.

  The carter’s curses ringing in his ears, he narrowly escaped the iron-shod hooves of a heavy horse as he darted across the broad, packed stone cartway. A favourite place of the streetboys had been the long dock where the tall ships berthed. Running nimbly along the backs of a row of warehouses, Karryl ducked into a narrow alley leading to the dock. He heard voices raised as a pair of shadows moved across the narrow patch of sunlight at the alley’s far end. Some long suppressed instinct surged to the surface, bringing Karryl skidding to a halt. Without warning, his skin began to prickle, and for a brief moment an unreasoned fear washed over him. Startled, he pressed himself flat against the wall, straining his ears to hear what the two men were saying.

  The arms of the tallest shadow waved for emphasis, as a strong deep voice spoke in low, urgent tones. “Father, you must listen to me. Naboria has given me something far more precious than wine. I have made a deal, the like of which dreams are made.”

  Barely breathing, Karryl watched the shorter stouter shadow turn away.

  Tense with pent up anger, an older voice hissed in reply. “I sent you halfway across the world to buy wine. How is my business to survive if all you return with is fanciful tales of things I can’t see?” He spat a foul curse. “Naboria? Whatever came out of Naboria that wasn’t either corrupt or downright evil?”

  Karryl’s skin prickled again as the taller shadow darted out of sight, boot heels stamping loudly on the wooden planks of the dock. He stood quietly and listened to the sounds gradually fading away, waiting until the second shadow moved before he crept forward and poked his head round the edge of the warehouse wall. His mouth tightened in a thin line of disappointment. The two men were already gone from sight, either into one of the warehouses, or concealed within the steady stream of handcarts and wagons flowing out through the entrance towards the city. Karryl allowed himself a puzzled frown. He had recognised the voice of the older man, and what he had heard didn’t fit with what he knew.

  Emerging from the stinking alley into the autumn sunshine, Karryl took a deep breath before turning and heading down towards the recently berthed ship. He stopped to watch and listen. Murmurs of astonishment and consternation still rippled back and forth among a small crowd of onlookers as they cast their eyes over the unfamiliar lines of the majestic vessel berthed dockside, and caught their first sight of the crew.

  Rarely, if ever, had they seen a ship so stately and slender, nor men so tall and broad shouldered, or with skins so dark. Each one to a man, wore nothing above the waist apart from a necklace of white stones which glinted in the late afternoon sunlight. They trod the decks with bare feet, their legs covered in baggy trousers of a rippling yellow fabric, cuffed at the ankle and drawn in at the waist. They went busily about their tasks, one or other of them occasionally pausing to look down with dark slanted eyes at the small crowd gathered below.

  A gust of wind caught the broad pennant swinging lazily from the top of the mast, snapping it out to reveal its full colours. A gasp of recognition went up from the men in the small gathering as they saw the emblem. Like a tidal wave the name of Naboria travelled along the dockside. Turning away, the onlookers hurried towards the dock gates without looking back.

  The wrath of stevedores and carters a constant risk, Karryl dodged round piled boxes and stacked bales as he looked both dock and ship up and down. It didn’t take him long to establish that the gang weren’t working the docks. An enquiry to one of the stevedores he knew slightly, brought the gruff reply that the gang hadn’t been seen there for some time. Thanking the man, Karryl gave the tall ship a last lingering look. Hands stuffed into his pockets he strode away from the docks and headed back to town.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Once among the streets of neat terraced houses which overlooked the docks, Karryl slowed his pace to a walk. No longer recognisable as a street-boy, his passing went unremarked as he headed for Great Market. A sprawling permanent encampment at the foot of Broad Street, the market guarded both sides of the wide thoroughfare which led up the long hill towards the palace, and on out of the city. His keen eyes missing nothing, Karryl stood in the shadow of a large striped awning and watched. Everything was there, spread out beneath a veritable ocean of gaily striped canvas. From one end of the market to the other, his eyes fell on brightly coloured and beautifully woven fabrics from all over the world. Jewellery and trinkets, glassware, leather goods, metalware and pottery were all displayed to catch the eye.

  His ears were assailed by a discordant chorus of bleating, mooing and cackling while his nostrils were tickled by the sweet, heady aromas of spices, perfumes, and exotic fruits and vegetables. Interspersed with the miasma of the livestock market, aromatic emanations from the stalls of the hot food vendors filled the cool autumn air. Karryl had only been standing there a few minutes when a shuffle and a snigger from behind put him on his guard. Slowly, he looked over his shoulder.

  He knew only too well the narrowed eyes and full lipped mouth that twisted at him in a sneer. “Well, look who’s ‘ere, all dressed up and tidy.”

  The rest of the gang edged forward, a ragged crew of a dozen or so slightly grubby boys, the youngest about eight, the eldest a swarthy youth of about eighteen. The youth leaned closer towards Karryl.

  Muscles and nerves poised for a quick getaway, Karryl smiled and nodded. “Big Tyke. I was hoping to find you.”

  The answering grin held no warmth. “Yeah. We ‘eard you was prowlin’ the old camp. Well, Grub, now we
’ve found yer, so you can clear off. You ain’t one of us no more.”

  Hurt to the core but determined not to let it show, Karryl shrugged. “No matter. I just wanted to find out if Legs was alright.”

  The rest of the gang looked at each other askance before lowering their eyes. Tyke’s expression tightened. “‘E’s dead. Snuffed it with blood comin’ out ‘is nose and ears. Cryin’ for you, ‘e was.”

  Karryl choked back a sob, and swallowed hard. “Did you…did you…?

  Shoulders hunched, Tyke glanced behind him then back at Karryl. “We pitched ‘is corpse in the river, a half-month or more gone. ‘E was never the same after that do o’ your’n at the market.”

  A sensation he’d felt only too recently began to surge through Karryl’s body. Heart pounding, fists and teeth clenched, he fought for control. A red haze flickered behind eyes stinging with the heat of unshed tears.

  Tightening stomach muscles against the urge to vomit, he dropped his gaze, his voice a strained hoarse whisper. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

  A silent and uncomfortable pause followed, broken by a firm grip on his shoulder making him wince.

  He heard Tyke release a deep regretful sigh. “Reckon you didn’t. We all took it bad.”

  An inappropriate and misplaced feeling of elation briefly overcame Karryl as the threatened surge of wild magic failed to manifest itself. He forced a weak smile as Tyke’s hand remained on shoulder.

  The older boy kept his voice low. “We ‘eard you’d fell on yer feet.” His quick grin took a wry twist. “It’s about time one of us ‘ad some luck. Now, like I said, clear off. We got work to do.”

  With a jerk of his head Tyke started his little gang moving. Slowly he slid his hand away from Karryl’s shoulder and started to follow after them, turning as he reached the far end of the long market stall.

  He raised a cocked thumb in brief salute. “See ya.”

  Then he and the gang of street-boys were gone, leaving Karryl standing alone. A chapter of his life discarded in a few short minutes, he stumbled to a nearby packing case. Dropping heavily onto it, and not giving a tinker’s cuss who saw him, he covered his face with his hands and cried bitter tears.

  * * *

  When he could cry no more, he took a few deep breaths and sat gazing into the middle distance, elbows on knees, as he gave his thoughts free rein. Persistently intruding, eventually to the exclusion of all else, was the realisation that he had been able to overcome the wilder magic which had once again threatened to engulf him. The spark of elation which had earlier glimmered only briefly, now re-ignited, growing steadily until his chest felt full to bursting with the strength of it. Overturning the packing case in his haste he set off, determined to cover the long incline towards the palace precincts and on to Symon’s tower as quickly as possible.

  Prompted by the tempting aromas drifting from a nearby hot pie stall, he paused, turning Symon’s silver coin over and over in his pocket, until an insistent growl from his stomach urged him forward. A couple of minutes later, a cluster of small change now jingling in his pocket, he was shifting a large and very hot meat and potato pie from hand to hand. Looking around for somewhere to sit and devour his feast, his glance fell on the broad steps of the city museum and its sheltering portico. A few tense moments of weaving through the jostling market throng brought him and his pie safely to the other side. With a sigh of relief he dashed up the half dozen steps and carefully sat down, leaning back against one of the portico’s tall pillars.

  He was just licking the last crumbs and traces of gravy from his fingers when the first large spots of rain began to fall from a sky which had been getting progressively darker, and was now a deep and ominous blackish purple. The distant rumble of thunder was enough to bring him to his feet. Not seeing any point in getting wet when he didn’t have to, he brushed pastry crumbs off his clothes and turned round. For the first time in his life he pushed open the wide, brass-embellished doors and entered the museum.

  The entrance foyer was, to say the least, impressive, and Karryl stood gazing up and around, open-mouthed. The museum’s massive grandeur coupled with a sense of a history poised on the threshold of discovery, wrapped itself around him like a warm but light cloak on a cool spring day. His appreciation of the silence and majesty of his surroundings came as something of a surprise to him. Now it seemed as though he was viewing things through different eyes, his agile mind taking in the great domed ceiling, decorative plasterwork, bas-reliefs and works of art placed at aesthetically selected intervals on the polished blue flagstones. The atmosphere seemed to Karryl almost holy, and he was stunned into silent contemplation, his hands clasped in front of his face as if awaiting a benediction.

  His peaceful reverie was destined to be short-lived. Unnecessarily resplendent in a blue uniform with an excess of gold braid and shiny buttons, an attendant stepped quietly up behind him, announcing his presence with a somewhat officious clearing of the throat. Startled, Karryl quickly turned to see who had disturbed his moment.

  The attendant gestured towards the massive double doors, indicating that he should leave. “You don’t use this establishment to shelter from the rain.”

  Thinking on his feet, Karryl gave the stern-faced man what he hoped was a disarming smile. “Oh, I’m not sheltering. My master sent me to find out something about the history of the city. Could you show me where I would find that please?”

  It worked. The attendant’s grim expression softened. “And who might your master be?”

  Starting to pat his pockets, Karryl affected a look of apologetic confusion. “Oh, it’s Master Symon. I’m Karryl. I have my paper here somewhere.”

  The attendant’s stiff bearing relaxed as he started to walk forward towards the softly lit interior. “Of course. Not to worry lad. This way. Just don’t touch anything, please.”

  Karryl experienced a little flush of triumph as he dutifully followed the attendant down long wide corridors with gleaming parquet floors along which, at regular intervals were placed equally gleaming glass topped display cabinets containing everything from coins, to geological samples, to ancient weapons.

  He managed to sneak glimpses as he hurried to keep up with the long-legged attendant, but the man eventually stopped and pointed to a heavy wooden door embellished with a polished brass plate. “Here you are lad. Local History.”

  Grasping the doorknob, he swung the door inwards for Karryl to enter. Leaving him gazing intently into the first display cabinet he came to, the attendant sauntered off down the corridor, softly whistling a popular tune.

  After a few minutes of looking briefly into each cabinet in turn, and gazing up at paintings of local landscapes, portraits of long departed dignitaries, and watercolour maps and sketches of a city he hardly recognised, Karryl’s attention was drawn to a wide, shallow, glass-topped case standing alone on the far side of the room. He wandered across and peered in.

  On display was a large open book. The left hand page and half of the right were covered in a neat, close written script, the remaining half page taken up with a well executed sketch of some ruined buildings, into which was inset a small map. Further inset into this was another small circular drawing, seeming rather vague and indistinct when compared with the surrounding artwork.

  Placing his hands on the sides of the display case, Karryl leaned further forward until his nose was almost touching the glass. Eventually, after a few moments of frowning and peering, he stepped away, a deeply thoughtful expression on his face. The text seemed to be describing an archaeological dig that took place in the ruins of the ancient city, some years in the past. Unable to make out a few of the words, which seemed to be in a strange dialect, he was surprised to see Symon’s name twice amongst the closely written script. He returned to the case and peered in again, slowly re-reading the account of an event which had apparently taken place long before even his grand-parents were born, and of what had been discovered. He puzzled for a while longer over the small drawing whic
h accompanied the text, before turning reluctantly away and heading for the door, stopping at intervals to examine cases of artefacts and read the detailed descriptions.

  Before leaving the room Karryl turned. A pensive expression on his face, he took one more long look down the hall to the cabinet containing the mysterious book. Deep in thought, his mind filled with imaginings of buried treasure and ancient cities, he left the building. Once down the museum’s broad steps however, the heady bustling environs of Great Market quickly returned him to the present. Threading his way through the crowded aisles, he was hardly aware of the people he jostled and bumped, or the colourful and tempting displays of the busy stalls. Ideas and notions, unlike any he’d had before, swarmed in his agile mind, and he knew Symon was the only person in the world who would understand what, for the present, he couldn’t.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  At the edge of the market, where the crowds were thinner and the stalls fewer, Karryl stopped to admire a deep red embroidered neckerchief which had caught his eye. Regretting the impulse which had led him to part with most of the money Symon had given him, he was about to move on when a commotion behind him made him turn swiftly round. Unable to stop himself, he burst out laughing. A hairy, long-legged, scrawny dirty-white dog was hurtling through the thinning crowd, a loudly squawking, furiously flapping chicken held firmly in its jaws. Close on its heels, but losing ground as onlookers impeded his progress, the puffing, red-faced figure of the poulterer waved his arms and shouted, his long, blood-spattered white apron flapping around his ankles.

  Quickly assessing the situation, Karryl threw caution to the wind and gave chase, the dog with its hapless victim having drawn almost level with the spot where he had been standing. Catching sight of its new pursuer, the dog suddenly jinked to its right and lengthened its stride. Karryl made a flying tackle to the dog’s left flank, and the now silent chicken dropped from its jaws. Chicken and Karryl landed together. For a few seconds both lay gasping on the cobbled street, gazing into each other’s eyes.