“Yes, sir.” The goblet returned to the table, empty.
“Ready?"
The boy nodded and stood up. He looked around the room, locating the two circles Nikkolynda had painted on the floor earlier. One was red, with arcane symbols drawn all around the outside. The other was purple, and the same symbols were scrawled along the inside. A chair stood in the second diagram.
Nikkolynda strode to his worktable and picked up a long, slender wand of pure silver. The tapered end was discolored somewhat, gleaming purple as the wizard passed through the bright sunlight from the window. Adam already stood inside the red circle, quite familiar with the ritual to come. Nikkolynda took a seat in the opposing position, raising both arms as he began to chant. Though the boy didn't understand the language, the words were easily recognizable. He watched, unafraid, as the tip of the wand glowed to life. Purple sparks sputtered from the device, burning out before reaching the stone floor.
Nikkolynda's gaze locked into Adam's. His lips stopped moving, yet the strange chant continued to echo from the walls of the workroom. Adam heard himself joining in; then the burning wand descended. He watched it approach a spot between his eyes, fascinated by the tiny streamers that dripped soundlessly toward the floor. The metal touched the bridge of his nose, and it was surprisingly cool. Nikkolynda's chant ended suddenly, and a flash of pain split Adam's mind. It felt as though someone had driven a nail through his skull, right between the eyes. Mercifully, the sensation vanished as quickly as it'd come.
A lavender film seemed to float across the boy's eyes. He blinked until his vision cleared. Nikkolynda rested in his chair, arms folded in his lap, chin touching his chest. He looked like an old man who'd fallen asleep reading. Adam reached out tentatively, trying to place his hand under the wizard's nose without actually touching him. When he was satisfied that Nikkolynda still breathed, he stepped out of the circle. The frog watched him intently; Adam nodded to it and departed the wizard's abode.
* * * * *
Adam crouched near the hearth of the common room at the Sign of the Rabid Scrymger. Only a few of the tables were occupied, as most of the patrons had either eaten and gone about their business or were still sleeping off the previous night's activities. The innkeeper looked his way on occasion but didn't move to kick him out. Such was typically the case when Nikkolynda rode in the back of Adam's mind. The boy noticed that others tended to overlook or ignore him. He assumed the wizard had something to do with this. He was never curious enough to ask.
Nikkolynda had found him three years ago, a ten-year-old living off the scraps of the street with the other urchins. Adam never knew what criteria had separated him from the dozens of other castoff children. He and two companions had been begging for food in yet another inn when a giant of a soldier had entered and clamped one vise-like hand on Adam's shoulder. His friends vanished instantly. After a terrifying ride on the back of the soldier's horse, including several failed attempts to slide off discreetly, Adam had found himself in a cold, barren room in the keep. The old wizard entered and simply stared at the boy for the better part of an hour, then quizzed him for an equal duration. Adam answered the questions in his matter-of-fact manner, though they'd seemed rather silly to him. Where did he sleep? Did he know any numbers? Did he cough more in the summer months or the winter?
After a while the wizard had apparently decided he was acceptable, and Adam began spying for the wizard once every few months. In return, the wizard paid a couple of toughs to watch over his young helper. With a few coins in his pouch each week and no need to scrounge for food, Adam bought nicer clothes and began running errands for the merchants in the northeast quarter. Except, of course, on the days when Nikkolynda called.
The stairs at the back of the common room were suddenly filled with huge, black-robed bodies. There, thought Adam, and felt Nikkolynda awaken in the back of his head. It was an odd sensation, as if his vision suddenly sharpened. He watched the Burning Men, four of them, troop into the room and claim a table far from his position. The boy's skin tingled, and he knew he'd just faded from view. He froze immediately. Movement would shatter the illusion, and Nikkolynda had impressed upon him in the past that such spells were not easily accomplished.
The innkeeper brought large bowls to the table. The Sandlanders waited for him to depart, then hunched over their breakfast and conversed as they ate. Their voices were too low for Adam to hear, but he remained stationary. In a moment, he found he could hear the strange quartet clearly. Their strange language sounded like gibberish to the boy, but that also was remedied in short order. The wizard was going to be exhausted after today's adventure, Adam thought.
“Ravasakh says he'll have the thief next time,” one of the Sandlanders said.
“Good,” replied one of the others. Of the four, only this one was armed. A massive, curved sword hung from his belt, the tip reaching all the way to the floor. His robe was also the most decorative, covered with swirling patterns of gold. “Kalnai, recruit some of the local scum today to help locate the thief once Ravasakh has a name or description."
“I'll have them by sundown,” said the one named Kalnai.
Ravasakh is their thaumaluk, thought Nikkolynda. To Adam, the voice sounded as though the wizard squatted next to him on the hearth. He was curious about the word—thaumaluk—but knew better than to distract the wizard.
“Do you want me to oversee the training again today, Fandyiha?” asked another of the red demons.
The fandyiha is the leader, Nikkolynda said in Adam's mind. Not just of this group. Leader of the entire crag.
“No,” said the fandyiha, “Shinvai and I will see to that. You visit camp this morning. Make sure discipline is high. In fact, start a rumor that I'll be testing the sentries tonight. That should keep them alert."
“And bring us back some decent food,” said Shinvai. He dropped his spoon in disgust while Kalnai laughed.
“We'll find something more suitable in the market today,” said the fandyiha.
They picked at their meals for a few more minutes, chattering about the layout of the city, their dislike for the Emperor's majordomo, the lack of suitably sized furniture in the Western Realm. One of them produced laughter from the other three with cryptic remarks about the Evening District, which Adam didn't understand and Nikkolynda deigned not to explain.
“How much longer do you think the Emperor will put us off?” asked Kalnai.
“It's the western way,” said the fandyiha. “These people expect to circle a mountain before reaching the top. The Emperor will make time for us the day after we return to the desert."
The round-faced Sandlander, the one assigned to review the troops, tossed his spoon in an empty bowl and spoke. “I still say we should brace this Prime thaumaluk of theirs. If any westerner has the power to command the grimoire, it must be him.” Adam couldn't swear to it, but he thought he heard Nikkolynda chuckling in the back of his head.
“Yes, an excellent idea,” said Kalnai. “We'll simply storm the keep, overcome the house guard and capture one of the Emperor's favorites. Perhaps before we kill him he'll be kind enough to conjure you a brain."
“Enough,” said the leader. “No one approaches the keep, and the Emperor's pet wizard is off-limits, even should he stroll into our camp. We wait until Ravasakh has identified the thief, then we find the thief's employer. Understood, Teriya?"
“As you say, Fandyiha,” said Teriya.
“Besides,” said Shinvai, “we know their thaumaluk can use the grimoire. We need to take such a man unaware."
“Exactly.” The fandyiha pushed his chair back and rose, robes swirling around his legs. “We meet back here at the evening meal."
“Ah, more of this wonderful western fare,” said Shinvai. “My mouth waters already.” The others laughed and the entire group departed the common room, two headed up the stairs, the other two making for the door.
Follow the one called Kalnai, said Nikkolynda.
Yes, sir. He stood up
and stretched, relieving the ache in his young muscles before dashing out the door after the departed Sandlanders. The innkeeper let out a yelp as the small body flashed past the bar. A wooden bowl hit the floor and broke in half while the old man made a sign against spirits. He resolved on the spot to turn away any future business from the Burning Men, no matter how well the Emperor paid.
* * * * *
Kalnai glanced at the sun, not yet high overhead, but already glaring down with unseasonable intensity. The Sandlander muttered a quick thanks for small favors. He hated the humid mornings of the western climate, particularly the dew that collected on tent covers and supply chests. At least he was sleeping in the inn and not back at camp. Even the uncomfortably short beds were better than the moist, open air of this horrible realm. A week at camp here and he was sure his skin would soften and slough off.
He headed south, walking deeper into the Evening District. The doors to the brothels and gambling parlors were mostly closed but street vendors and deliverymen abounded. Despite the crowd, most of the westerners swerved away from the Sandlander. Kalnai watched their faces as he walked; about every third person was a dwarf or gnome. He pondered the social evolution of the Western Realm, finding it interesting that men lived happily alongside dwarves, gnomes and even ogres, while elves and scrymgers were considered vermin. Kalnai wondered how men would react should they ever encounter the giants of the eastern mountains. He chuckled and glanced at a cart laden with apples and pears. Grimacing, the Sandlander continued down the street.
After a time Kalnai stood before an unmarked doorway. The large front window had been painted black. A dwarf exited the store, clutching a leather satchel in one hand and glancing up and down the street as the door closed. He saw Kalnai and hurried off, leaving behind the foul odor of a body that hadn't been washed for weeks. The Sandlander opened the door and entered, hoping the dwarf hadn't been inside long enough for his stench to linger.
The interior was a dimly lit mess of sloppily arranged displays. To the right of the door, warped shelves and broken clotheshorses were overloaded with all manner of garments. Immediately to Kalnai's left stood racks of swords, spears, crossbows, pikes and just about any other weapon he could bring to mind. Some appeared to be in good condition, though many sported chipped blades, splintered hafts or broken handles.
Kalnai stepped over a woodworker's tool kit and let the door swing shut behind him. It slammed and a small cloud of dust rose from a pile of moth-eaten silk. The Sandlander made his way to the counter on the far wall. He gathered his robe in one hand to prevent its brushing against any of the filthy boxes or barrels. A metal-banded chest stood to one side. Kalnai had seen the grimoire trunk twice in his lifetime; this chest reminded him of it.
“Help you, Sandlander?” asked the man behind the counter. He appeared to be the living embodiment of his store. Greasy hair was combed back from a grizzled, unshaven face. Only half his original teeth remained in his mouth, and those were well on their way to joining their lost comrades. The shopkeeper's shirt was a veritable masterpiece of food stains; its original color was completely hidden under the memories of a hundred meals. The man leaned on the counter and kept one arm beneath it as he watched Kalnai approach.
“Are you Hambly?” Kalnai asked. He stopped a few paces from the counter, partly from a soldier's caution and partly in fear of the shopkeeper's breath.
“You know the rest?” As Kalnai had expected, a rancid odor drifted across the counter.
“Hambly of the Silver Teeth,” said Kalnai. The shopkeeper grinned, revealing the inaccuracy of the name.
“The teeth ain't mine,” he said. He jerked a thumb at a shelf behind the counter, where a yellowed skull stared out into the store. The teeth were capped with silver. “Dumb jackabout thought he could cheat ole Hambly. Owed me about the cost o’ them teeth. You in the market for silver teeth, Sandlander?"
“I'm in the market for something I don't see here."
Hambly's eyes narrowed. “Like what?"
“Information. I need to find a thief."
“City's full of thieves. Depends on what you want stolen, what kind o’ place it's in."
“I don't want something stolen. I want to find something stolen from me."
The shopkeeper grunted as his head bobbed up and down. “That kind o’ thief costs you a lot more, Sandlander. Sure you have enough gold? Sandlanders carry gold, don't they?"
“Among other things,” said Kalnai. He released a buckle on his belt, moving slowly lest Hambly take the gesture as an attack. A leather sheath fell loose in his hand, and he set it on the counter. Then he stepped back quickly, as Hambly's breathing grew excited.
“You'll trade oblatt?” the shopkeeper asked. He drew the dagger from the sheath, revealing a long, black blade. Flecks of white were scattered along its length. Forged by the thaumaluk in an enchanted fire, the blade was considered unbreakable. Though strong as western steel, the weapon was composed mainly of sand and weighed next to nothing. Oblatt weapons were rare in the Western Realm and, thus, highly valued. It was obvious to Kalnai that Hambly recognized the dagger's worth—it could easily buy a month's lodging at a respectable inn.
“You're reputed to be one of the best informed traders in Hurst,” Kalnai said. “Is this true?"
“Anything the desert lord wishes—"
“I'll have a name for my thief by tomorrow morning. I want a dozen men prepared to find him. If I catch him alive, you keep this dagger and two others. Is this possible?"
Hambly's face had taken on a doubtful expression at the mention of the dozen men, but the promise of two more weapons renewed his interest. “Three daggers?” he said. “I'll have the boys ready by the dinner hour. Whatever the des—"
“I'll be back as soon as I have the thief's name,” said Kalnai. “I suggest you be waiting. I'll be extremely unhappy if I waste time looking for you."
“I'll be sleepin’ in the shop tonight,” said Hambly. Kalnai snorted. He was fairly certain that the man slept here every night, regardless.
“Tomorrow morning,” the Sandlander said, and departed the shop.
Out on the street, Kalnai inhaled deeply. The moist air made him want to retch, but it was a tremendous improvement over the filth of Hambly's business. He stood on the cobblestones for a moment, studying the faces in the direction whence he'd come earlier. Though the unfamiliar city made such precautions difficult, Kalnai was reasonably certain he wasn't being followed. He set off once again, continuing away from his inn and deeper into the city. Though the meeting with Hambly had gone well, Kalnai had two other information brokers to visit. He only hoped the next two practiced better hygiene.
The Sandlander's brisk pace took him quickly through the city blocks. Traffic on the street grew steadily thicker as he moved closer to Shipman's Plaza. Twice he was nearly run down by rickshaws before he remembered to stay close to the buildings. A cluster of young boys and girls hovered around a doorstep, offering to relate the day's news for coins. One of them summoned the nerve to approach Kalnai, but he waved her off. A thin, pale man carrying an empty sack and a spiked stick brushed the Sandlander as he passed but never glanced up from the cobblestones. A ratter, Kalnai realized, returning from his night's work. He marveled at the thought; in the desert, ferrets were trained for such purpose.
Rounding a corner, Kalnai mentally reviewed the directions to the next broker. He glanced at the painted sign at the intersection of a side street then froze in mid-step. A man bumped into him from behind and cursed, but Kalnai scarcely noticed. The figure down the street occupied his attention completely.
It was another Sandlander, but not one of Crag Vysthuk. In fact, he was from no crag at all. Even from this distance Kalnai could see the iron collar locked around the other's neck. The red skin on the Burning Man's neck would be scarred, Kalnai knew, from the intense heat with which a thaumaluk had fused the band closed.
The iron was the mark of an outcast, one who had shamed his clan and been exiled fr
om the crag. Though his crime could have been virtually anything, Kalnai knew it wouldn't be minor. Treachery to his clan, perhaps, or murder of a child. Crag Vysthuk hadn't banished a denizen for nearly fifty years. Though the clans differed in many ways, none would ostracize a man on a whim. For one raised under the sand, exile was considered a fate worse than death. Kalnai had heard of Sandlanders killing themselves rather than leave the clan willingly.
This particular exile appeared to have grown comfortable in the Western Realm. Rather than the typical robes of the Burning Men, he wore black trousers and a vest of leather. Two oblatt scimitars hung from his belt, recognizable in their sheaths by the swept blade. Numerous western-style pouches hung from his belt—little leather boxes with overhanging flaps, rather than drawstring bags. He was walking away from Kalnai, toward the heart of the city. The feyrhakin decided to alter his mission.
“A way is chosen,” he muttered, and followed the other Sandlander down the street.
The exile seemed in no particular hurry. He made his way through a series of smaller side streets, stopping occasionally to look in shop windows. Once he paused to buy a yellow pear from a family of gnomes. He must have lived in the west for quite some time, Kalnai decided, if he could stomach the water-laden fruit. The pursuit lasted another fifteen minutes before they emerged abruptly into the chaos of Shipman's Plaza and Kalnai lost sight of his quarry.
The feyrhakin scanned the crowds frantically. As he pushed his way through the throngs of men and dwarves, Kalnai wondered how a seven-foot figure with bright red skin could disappear in this place. He must have stepped behind a merchant's stall. The only other possibility was that he'd fallen down a hole.
“Greetings, brother,” said a dry voice at Kalnai's side. It spoke the language of the desert. Kalnai turned, reaching instinctively for his scimitar. The weapon, however, was back in the Sandlander camp.
If the exile noticed the motion he didn't acknowledge it. His face was sharply edged, not waterlogged as Kalnai had expected. Gold hoops lined his ears as if to draw attention from the iron ring around his neck.
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