The Thirteenth Magician

by Patrick Welch

  “What are you doing?" Alegro was on his feet in seconds, his face ashen.

  Daasek set the instrument next to him. “Why?” he asked softly.

  “Why?” Allegro echoed, confused. “It's how I make my living. That is a very expensive instrument, Daasek. It is the only one like it in the world.”

  “I'm sure it is.” He hefted the mandolin, then brought it down heavily on the side of their ship. “No need for concern,” he continued. “You know and I know I cannot harm it. Why?”

  Alegro sat back, and a small smile suddenly appeared. “There are many answers in that question, Daasek. Which do you want first?”

  “Why ... are you following me?”

  “Following you? Hardly. I would say more accurately that you have been following me.”

  Daasek shook his head. “I didn't even know who you were. What you were. Until now.”

  Alegro's smile broadened. “Roaine didn't tell you?”

  “She said there was another. But not who. I should have realized when I saw you leave her home. But I didn't have the knowledge then. But I don't understand. The urge.” He stopped, realizing he was now talking to himself.

  “Dear friend Daasek, if I have been less than honest with you, it was only because I have very strong opinions about self preservation.”

  “But why didn't I want to kill you?”

  “Oh, that.” Alegro waved the question away. “Because Nyxx doesn't know me.” “I still don't understand.”

  Alegro leaned forward, suddenly earnest. “I know Roaine told you about The Thirteen, so you should be able to comprehend what I shall tell you. Once it became clear what the game was, and, more importantly, that Nyxx and his master were winning, The Thirteen that I serve decided to play as well. I represented my Thirteen in another world. It brought me here because I am ... more dedicated than its original Horean representative. That knowledge was kept from Nyxx and The Thirteen.

  “I must thank you, of course. You have made my task that much easier.”

  “Which is?”

  Alegro laughed. “Why, to destroy Nyxx, of course. To become the most powerful magician, the only magician, on this backwater planet!

  “You can't imagine what a great opportunity this is for me. On my world, the Thirteen are not as benign as here, the struggle is continual. My master, unfortunately, is considered a lesser power there, and, inevitably, myself as well.

  “Here it shall be different. I will rewrite history, dear Daasek. With your assistance, I will teach Horea, and the Thirteen, just how powerful a magician can be. How a magician should be treated and respected. No more will I be forced to hide my powers, to slave for a pittance of pence while the Guild members strut their wealth and influence like rutting peacocks.” He looked out at the flotsam and jetsam around them. “With your help, soon this shall all be mine!”

  Daasek felt a coldness settle in his heart. The laughter, the lightness that had been Alegro, was gone. Nyxx, at least, does what he does because he has to. You want to! “You expect me to assist you? You are as mad as your dreams.”

  “I expect you to have no choice. Actually, there is no reason why you shouldn't assist me. We both have the same objective, to destroy Nyxx. You have proven resilient and resourceful thus far. But also very fortunate. Do not assume that Lady Chance will continue to smile upon you. But once you are under my control, luck will not be necessary. Yes, under my rein, you shall have no difficulty achieving your justifiable revenge.”

  “I neither seek nor want your assistance.”

  “Your chances of succeeding without it are as great as a mare birthing a pig. You still have no idea who you are dealing with.” Alegro sighed. “Let me explain the compact to you. When a—magician—agrees to be an agent, he grants part of his soul, part of himself, to one of the Thirteen. In return he or she is granted certain unique but limited powers. Roaine can heal with the slightest touch. Zorell, the corrupt Pasheur of Avania, controlled metals; Krujj, cloth; Ensten, the shape of living beings. But we enjoy other ‘privileges’ beyond severely defined abilities. Knowledge about other lands, other worlds. Communication with The Thirteen. Sometimes the ability to move between the spheres, as Aletia did and I have done. The opportunity for near immortality if we so desire.

  “The more we are willing to cede them—our soul, our existence, our free-will—the greater our power. Some of those you have slain gave up very little. Roaine, for one. Pahluv. Myself. Krujj gave up a great deal.

  “Nyxx gave up everything. That is the reason he is the most powerful mage on Horea.” He relaxed against the bow of the boat and smiled. “But soon I shall wear that mantle.”

  “There was no reason to kill the guard in the desert,” Daasek said after several moments. “Or destroy that ship. You called the sand lizard and the warback, did you not?”

  “What use is power if you don't exercise it? I don't appreciate threats on my person, Daasek. Only a coward permits an insult to remain unavenged. I am no coward. And I can avenge myself.”

  Daasek decided to challenge him, to learn more of his powers. “Why didn't you use your magic in Brayf? Surely we could have left there long before we did.”

  “Professional pride.” Allegro grinned at Daasek's questioning look. “I was a musician long before I was a magician. I merely underestimated how dearly the residents value the contents of their purses.”

  Daasek looked out at the wreckage. I am getting so tired of magicians. “When we land, I will turn you over to the Merchants Guild and Captains Guild at Ferring. They will decide what to do with you.”

  “I think not. You will get us to Ferring. Then you will lead me to Nyxx. Then, under my control, you will kill Nyxx. That appears to be a more sensible plan.” “Roaine told me every magician has a soulcatcher.” Daasek held up the mandolin. “I suspect yours is in here. Let's find out if I'm right.” He turned and threw the instrument far out into the ocean.

  Alegro favored him with a withering stare. “Your balls will miss you, Daasek,” he snarled and immediately dove after it. Daasek quickly manned the oars. If the mandolin wasn't lost—he was certain the soulcatcher was part of the inlay—at least he might have the opportunity to escape.

  But he had only rowed a short distance when the silver sound of the mandolin drifted across the waters.

  Daasek had never heard anything as haunting as that melody. It came at him in waves, like the gentle caresses of a long-lost lover. He could almost see a woman's face in it; hear a woman's voice in it. Come back, love Daasek. Come back to me. Do not abandon me.

  He saw Alegro sitting serenely on a small section of the shattered ship, stroking his silver strings and smiling confidently. Daasek then felt himself changing course towards Alegro.

  I will not be controlled again. I will not! He steeled himself, focusing his concentration from the music without to the anger within. Slowly he forced himself to release the oars, to bring his arms up from his side, above his head. He stood in the middle of the craft, arms and legs spread wide, trembling. He allowed himself to open his eyes and look at Alegro. “NO!” he screamed and slapped his open hands against his ears as hard as he could.

  The force of the blow drove him to his knees, but the sudden rush and roar of pain erased the siren lure of the magician. He rested briefly, shaking his head, trying to clear his sight. He staggered to his feet, reached down, tore off a piece of the tattered canvas. The cloth parted easily in his strong hands. He wadded it up, then tore off another piece and did the same. The roar inside his head was dimming and the silver call of the mandolin was beginning to intrude. He crammed the canvas into his ears deeply, painfully. The harsh fabric brought blood, but it also muted the music.

  When he once again looked out at Alegro, the pounding in his head had stopped and the mandolin was just a whisper and easily ignored. “I'll leave you now,” he shouted at the musician. “Perhaps your magic can summon a rescuer. Or perhaps the currents will carry you to shore. Perhaps your master can save you. I will n
ot.” He began to row. “Daasek!” He could barely hear his name, but he turned out of curiosity. Alegro was gesturing frantically. Since he was not playing, Daasek removed the cloth from one ear. “You cannot leave me. I saved you,” the mage yelled.

  “And you also killed,” he shouted back, more loudly than he needed. “You should thank me. The vengeance of the Guild would be much worse than the vengeance of the sea.”

  “Then I will not die alone,” and the magician's fingers began to fly across the frets. This melody did not call to him and he ignored it easily. Instead, he began to plan how to ready his craft for a safe sail as he rowed swiftly away. The mast would be first, although he was confident it would not take long to prepare that. Make a tiller out of shattered wood. Unfortunately, there was enough of that about. The boat still leaked in many places, and he knew he would spend most of his time bailing. Still it seemed solid enough to get him to Ferring. He would be satisfied with that. He looked back occasionally but Alegro remained where he was, content merely to play his music. What he hoped to accomplish Daasek could not imagine.

  And then he heard a familiar muffled roar, and he knew. He saw it coming many kines away, the great spikes cutting through the water like a hot knife through paper. A warback.

  He looked at Alegro. The musician was smiling now. He yelled across the churning water. “This is the true warback's song, Daasek, not that drivel I performed for those sand fleas. You boasted of your courage before the warback. How courageous are you now?”

  Daasek stood, watching the wake as the warback sped directly for him. He felt warmth inside his chest and knew that if he could see it, the heartstone would be glowing. All my life I have believed. Now I will learn. Whose magic is stronger, that of the magician or the heartstone?

  As the king of the sea approached, Daasek felt the heat of the stone grow still stronger. Yet it seemed to matter not to the attacking warback. I will not fight you, brother, he sent his thoughts out to it. I had to do that once. I will not do so again. He left his knife at his side. Instead, as collision appeared imminent, he spread his feet and steadied himself, waiting for the inevitable crash of bone and scale and fang. Seconds before collision, the warback dove. He could almost feel it pass beneath his fragile craft. As it did so he sensed another presence, a shadow of feral power and grace, a shadow that recognized him, acknowledged him, even greeted him after a fashion. And then that touch, that whisper of consciousness, vanished.

  Only with effort could Daasek prevent himself from laughing. Thank you, brother. He turned slowly, proudly, and stared at Alegro. The musician had stopped his playing and was staring at the boat, at Daasek, and the wake the great creature had left.

  “I told you I had nothing to fear from the warback. No true member of the Guild does. Your magic is strong, Alegro, but not as strong as the heartstone.” He smiled. “Your song brought the creature. Can you create a lullaby to send it away?”

  His last words stirred Alegro to life. Frantically, he began to fashion a melody.

  Too late. The warback exploded from the water directly beneath the musician. Alegro shrieked in amazement and terror as he was flung in the air, his mandolin flying from his grasp. When he landed, it was not on water or wood, but on the great sharp spines that gave the warback its name.

  Daasek turned away as the warback hooted, then sounded, with Alegro impaled and lifeless on its back. You were my friend, once. You did save me, once. Daasek felt a tear form, and, almost embarrassed, brushed it aside. The dreams of the magician did not warrant recrimination. Perhaps someday he would find the time and pity to mourn him. Now he had much to do; a boat to repair, provisions to find, Ferring to reach. Something clunked against his boat. He looked down and saw Alegro's mandolin floating, seemingly undamaged, nearby. He picked it out of the water and studied it. The surface was festooned with stones. One, he knew, held Alegro's soul. He pressed each and all save one resisted the pressure.

  The mark of the covenant, the connection between his world and The Thirteen, Roaine had said. And once destroyed ... “Horea would be better off without all magicians.” He held the instrument underwater, letting it fill the gourd back. He released it and smiled as the mandolin quickly sank beneath the waves. Let the Thirteen form a pact with a fanfish.

  He sighed. Nyxx had gotten his wish. Now all the magicians save he were destroyed and only one Thirteen held communion with Horea. But I will change that. He began to set up the mast. With a steady breeze, he might reach port mid-moonphase. But he knew he would reach port. Then he would find a passage to Myniah.

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Chapter Nine: To Myniah

  Daasek watched from his post near the door as the press gang went into their routine. He had been working as a guard for the Ferring tavern owner for nigh on a month and in that time, he had seen the body snatchers strike several dozen times. The fact they usually succeeded never failed to amaze him.

  The main group always entered first. Four to eight burly men who immediately occupied a center table. Although their conversations and activities belied otherwise, they spent their time scouting the room for suitable recruits. Within the hour a thin, short man would enter alone. Daasek hadn't yet decoded their signals, but inevitably, the man would approach the table of their intended. He would bump into it, “accidentally” spilling the wine of the man or men who sat there. He would apologize profusely—after all, he was unarmed and certainly was no barbarian and didn't want any difficulties and could he buy them a drink as compensation? He would return with drugged wine and sit with them and chat until they had finished it and the drug had taken effect. Then his comrades would join him and quickly bear their new, unconscious recruits away.

  Daasek would have fallen victim himself had not a kindly innkeeper at another establishment warned him beforehand. His current employer was not so charitable. Daasek's duties were to prevent duels and discourage nonpayment, a task, thanks to his strong, scarred body, easily accomplished. Press gang activities, as well as others criminal, were tolerated as long as they earned the merchant a profit.

  Daasek heard the distinctive crackle of breaking glass. A goblet had dropped from the numb hands of the farm boy or merchant's son or simple wayfarer, whoever their victim was this time. The nearby table emptied quickly and strong hands carried their newest deckhand hurriedly outside. Onlookers made no attempt at intervention, no sign even of concern. The thin man, as always, was the last to leave. He handed Daasek three gold crous, nodded, then followed his comrades.

  Daasek walked to the bar and gave the innkeeper his payment. The fat man smiled and dropped them in one of the voluminous pockets in his apron. “Easy money,” he winked.

  Daasek said nothing; instead, he cleared away the empty and broken glasses. The tables were now ready for the next victim. He took his stool by the door and waited impatiently. Within twenty minutes, six of the recruiters had retaken their position. They began to wait impatiently also.

  It seemed waiting was all Daasek had been doing for the past few months. He had had no difficulty reaching Ferring. Between the sail and the oars he had reached the harbor within two weeks. He had not, however, informed the Merchants Guild or Captains Guild of the disaster to the Brayf trader because there would have been too many questions about his solitary survivorship. By landing at night and beaching far from the teeming harbor, he had been able to enter the city unobtrusively. It was a simple task to lose himself within the sprawling dockyards, where strangers, even as badly scarred as he, were a common sight. Now it was a matter of waiting for an opportunity to go farther south.

  He had already been approached by several captains, but they were either going safely north or, as far as Daasek was concerned, straight to Hys. Daasek sighed as he watched the constant flow of sailors, soldiers, travelers and merchants pass on their way to other climes. To come this far and wait! But his few wages would purchase him no craft. His opportunity, he was convinced, would have to come from elsewhere. When was the ques
tion.

  It was answered that afternoon in the guise of two merchants. Daasek paid them little notice when they entered. It was nearing evening now and the wineshops were fast filling as they took a table near the door and began a heated discussion. Daasek sat at his post, only half listening. That changed when he heard one say, “Tscheran.” He edged his chair closer.

  “...a whole shipload just sitting there, rotting on the docks,” the fat man muttered. “My offer is still good,” his reedy companion consoled him.

  “At Tscheran I would get five times what you offer.”

  “And how do you get it there?” the man asked smoothly. “Get a ship past pirates and warbacks? You're working yourself into a snit over nothing, Choro.”

  “Nothing, the man says!” Choro stared at the ceiling as if he had just learned his mother was his sister. “5000 crous is nothing! Why don't I just give you the spice and be done with it? Let me live the rest of my days in joyful poverty, delighted with the knowledge that I have made you, at least, a rich man. Bah!” He took a deep drink of his wine. “There are no men of courage any longer, that is the problem!”

  I can't let this pass. Daasek took a deep breath and approached their table. “Perhaps I can help.”

  The two men looked at him warily. “A barbarian. And an ugly one at that,” the thin man said. “Do you have need of another guard dog, Choro?”

  “You know what I need,” he muttered, returning to his wine.

  “You need a pilot. Someone who knows the Horean Sea. Someone who can get your boat safely to Tscheran,” Daasek finished for him.

  Choro set down his glass. “I think we should go elsewhere, Faya. The rats grow rather large here.”

  Daasek decided this was no time for subtlety. He removed his Guild blade, which, until now, he had refused to use in Ferring, and stuck it into the table between the merchants. “Do you know what that is?”

  Faya shivered, but Choro remained unmoved. “A knife. Very nice.” He picked it up and studied it briefly. “This is your lucky day, barbarian. I happen to collect trinkets. I'll give you five crous for it.”