Couric’s nostrils flared in abhorrence. “I most certainly am not.”
“Justices are the only ones who come looking for wizards on purpose,” Dickon pointed out. “To kill them.” Every muscle in his limbs was taut as a bowstring, his whole body poised to bolt at the slightest whiff of danger.
“Oh, I don’t want to kill them,” Couric assured the two brothers, shaking his head. He settled back against the wall and his eyes glittered like stars in the shadows beneath the stairs. “I want to hire them.”
The brothers both blinked in perfect unison, unable to believe that they had heard him correctly. Then Dickon’s blank stare shifted to overt suspicion. “You one o’ the princess’ men?” he challenged brusquely. “Folks in the city don’t hold kindly to her these days. Word is she tried to kill the king. Done it by witchin’ her other brother, Prince Nicolas.”
Couric fought to suppress a bubble of contented laughter. The Sage had accomplished many things during his eight-year rule on the Isle of Sare, but that turn of events had been a stroke of genius. Over the past year, Athaya Trelane had emerged as the undisputed leader of the Lorngeld on mainland Caithe, beseeching them to defy the laws forbidding the practice of magic and to turn their backs on the Church-sanctioned rite of absolution. But since she proved unwilling to extend her influence into backing a rebellion against Caithe’s king—professing that it was only the laws she wanted to eliminate and not the king himself—the Sage of Sare sought to discredit her among her own people. Granted, the spell he placed upon Nicolas had failed—Durek had not taken a single sip of the poison the prince had offered him—but the damage was done just the same. Athaya had been blamed, thus paving the way for the Sage to replace her in the hearts of Caithe’s disaffected masses when the time came.
If he doesn’t destroy himself before he gets here. The unwanted thought slithered into Couric’s mind and lingered there as he remembered his master’s condition on the day he sailed for Caithe. The Sage had assured his people that he had studied the dangers of the sealing spell quite thoroughly and that a certain amount of sickness—and yes, insanity—was to be expected. But if Couric was any judge, Brandegarth was suffering the imprisonment of his magic far more than he ever intended, and the spell could very well kill him before the prearranged date for his release. Whatever additional spells his master sought to obtain by the ordeal, Couric seriously doubted they were worth such awful risk.
“Yes, I’ve heard of the princess’ escapades,” Couric replied evenly, careful not to betray any of his own misgivings. “But in truth, I’ve never laid eyes on Athaya Trelane in my life. I obey another master—a wizard of far greater power and loftier vision than your renegade princess.” Couric shifted his gaze to Rob. “He can do great things for you—for all of us—if you and others like you will help him.”
“Help him how? My family’s farm… it’s all I know.”
Just as Couric started to answer, the barmaid was at his side, bending low to refill his cup—and to provide a generous view of her breasts. Couric jumped when she spoke; he hadn’t realized she was so close.
“Anything else I can get for you?” she asked, her eyes silently informing him that far more was available for his purchase than simple food and wine. This time, however, Couric sensed that she was looking for something more—that she was probing him for an answer to some unspoken question. Though feigning the same breezy wantonness, her manner had an edge of coolness to it… and an imperceptible measure of fear.
“No, not just yet, thank you.”
She shrugged and sauntered away without further argument, her gaze brushing lightly over Dickon and Rob. As she left, two of the men involved in the fistfight, now busily wrestling on the floor, rolled into her and sent her spiraling into an empty table. Mouthing a curse, she tipped the dregs from her flagon onto their heads.
“As I was saying,” Couric continued, “my master means to rule in Caithe and we need to gather an army to take it. He is coming, friends. Soon. Those who support him in his task will be richly rewarded; those who do not will perish.”
“A-are you asking me to turn against the king?” Rob asked, mouthing the words rather than daring even to whisper them.
“The king and his laws will kill you for being a wizard,” Couric replied matter-of-factly. “Is that the sort of man you owe allegiance to? Stay loyal to him and the best you’ll get out of it is a hasty absolution service.”
Fear flared anew in Rob’s eyes, and Couric quickly used it to his advantage. “Is that what you want? Your friends and family gathered in church to watch you drink a cup of poison, the lot of you convinced that it’s some sort of sacrament? Yes, I know, I’ve heard the whole speech—your priests say that our powers come from the Devil and that we can’t defeat him except by giving our lives back to God.” Couric snorted indelicately. “Your priests also say that a man can’t lead a pious life unless he keeps his breeches on day and night, and I’ve never seen the sense in that, either.
“Athaya Trelane promises what? Life—a thing you have already! My master promises wealth and power and the homage owed to us as stewards of this world.” As one of the Sage’s most trusted servants, Couric’s eyes gleamed with the knowledge that his share in this glorious future would not be small. “And if you want to turn your back on absolution and accept what you are, why should you join Athaya? Her people almost starved to death this past winter, and I doubt they’re much better off now. And since they refuse to fight for what they want, they’re all but asking the Tribunal to come and slaughter them! But the Sage can offer you food and money and a warm bed to sleep in—not a tent in the woods and a ball of pemmican for your dinner.”
Couric knew Rob was interested, judging by how silent and attentive he’d become. Lofty concepts were all well and good, but it was the simple things like food and shelter that would win the masses to the Sage’s side.
“The Sage’s people won’t sit back and do nothing,” he went on, luring Rob into a web of glory. “Our army will take what we deserve. The Sage has hundreds of well-trained wizards at his command—wizards who have been working their spells since before Athaya Trelane was ever born! Our powers make us special, Rob—not cursed. We’re better than other men and our place is to rule over them. It is God’s will. It is the reason our magic was given to us.”
Dickon made a rumbling sound in the back of his throat. “Now wait just one minute—”
“Perhaps ‘better’ isn’t the right term,” Couric added quickly, aware that he had waxed a bit too poetic in the presence of an unblessed man. And he had no wish to lose Rob by casting indirect aspersions upon his brother. “But we are different. The Lorngeld are graced with a special gift—a gift that is also found among the saints and angels… and to a far greater extent, in the good Lord Himself. Princess Athaya may be a wizard, but she refuses to believe in the sanctity of her own people. She is not worthy to lead us, Rob. The Sage is.”
Couric ended his sermon then, aware that Rob would need time to chew on everything he’d been told. Beside him, Dickon scowled in profound confusion. Princess Athaya had preached the sanctity of magic all along, but Couric suspected that Dickon was having trouble putting theory into practice. Believing that magic comes from God is one thing, but seeing his younger brother as some sort of heavenly incarnation was something else again.
Rob opened his mouth to ask something when Couric realized that the tavern had fallen eerily silent; so silent that he heard the rumble of a man’s stomach from the opposite side of the room. The bloodied brawlers halted their fistfight in mid-blow, and even the woodsmoke stopped swirling in the air above their heads. Warily, Couric glanced over his shoulder. Each man and woman in the common room had gone rigid as a stone gargoyle, as if it were the king and his full entourage rather than a slender priest and two armed bodyguards that stood silhouetted in the doorway in silent tableau. One of the guards licked his lips hungrily, as if he were planning to devour his prey rather than merely arrest it.
The priest’s eyes scanned the room, scraping an unforgiving gaze over it like a dull razor. The black surcoat emblazoned with the blood-red chalice of absolution clearly marked him as a Justice of the Tribunal. Spotting Couric and his two companions, he slowly inched his way toward them, stepping cautiously over globs of wax, puddles of spilled beer, and chunks of moldy food. The others mouthed prayers of relief as this angel of death passed by, and after an encompassing glare from the priest that bade them all attend to their own business, they went nervously back to their drinks and games, though in a far more subdued fashion than before.
Couric didn’t have to ask who was responsible for the Justice’s unexpected appearance; the barmaid was taking great pains to appear innocent—an expression Couric doubted she had ever worn sincerely in her life. Of the dozens of folk gathered in the tavern, only she did not appear shocked by the priest’s arrival.
“Now you’ve gone and done it,” Dickon snapped under his breath, giving Couric a nasty kick in the ankle.
“Shut up and calm down,” Couric replied with an unmistakable touch of command. “I’ll handle this. Just don’t look so damned guilty—they’ll smell it on you.” Then, in a fluid and well-practiced motion, he dipped his finger into the small leather pouch at his belt and lifted it to his nose; one sniff, and the brown powder vanished up his nostrils.
Gaunt as a corpse, the priest was as hungry looking as his bodyguards; he was, Couric thought, the kind of man who could gorge himself daily and yet never be sated—much like the heinous Tribunal for which he labored. He inspected the trio beneath the stairs as if they were nothing more than cuts of meat for sale in the city shambles, absently stroking his pointed chin and trying to determine which of them would provide the tastiest centerpiece for his dinner table.
“You there. Sarian.”
Couric scowled his displeasure. Apparently the barmaid knew Sarian silver from Caithan after all. “Is that a problem? The Isle of Sare is still a Caithan protectorate. I’m allowed to cross our borders at will.”
“That may be, but we’ve had reports of Sarians combing the western shires and stirring up trouble. Trying to raise an army against the king.” The priest paused, patiently waiting for his imposing presence to elicit his victim’s horrified confession.
Couric did not oblige him, passing the time with a relaxed sip of his Evarshot. The wine, combined with the growing effect of the pastle seed, made him feel quite invincible.
The priest’s eyes narrowed to a pair of cream-colored slits. “Come with us. All of you.”
Rob swallowed hard, and Dickon began to tremble as a fine trickle of sweat snaked down his cheek. Few who departed with the men of the Tribunal ever came back whole and healthy. More often than not, they never came back at all.
“I believe you have the wrong man,” Couric said, with the cool grace of a prince.
“Oh, we do, do we?”
With theatrical flair, the priest reached inside his robe and brandished an acorn-sized corbal crystal suspended on a leather thong. He dangled it before Couriers eyes and waited.
On the brink of his mekahn, Rob would feel nothing from the purple gem; clearly, however, the priest expected Couric to drop to the floor in writhing agony and beg for mercy. Holding back a triumphant cackle of laughter was one of the most difficult things Couric had ever done. Ah, but how could this silly priest know any better? Not a single wizard in Caithe—not even her notorious princess—knew that for many of the Sage’s folk, such trinkets held no terror. They would find out one day, of course… but by then it would be too late.
Couric released an indifferent sigh, as if bored by the antics of an ill-trained acrobat. “Father, please—you waste your time. I told you I was not a wizard, and even your holy crystal proves I speak the truth.”
The priest glared at the crystal, impatiently scouring its surface for flaws and chips. The bodyguards shifted their weight uneasily, betraying their surprise.
“You may not have the power yourself,” the priest snapped, refusing to admit he might have been wrong, “but you can still be a traitor. Many have flocked to Athaya’s side who have no magic, if only because they know someone who does.”
Couric hesitated imperceptibly before replying; though bolstered by the pastle seed, the better part of his mind was engaged with the crystal and he had little concentration left for the Justice. “Yes, I’m sure they have. But please, I’d advise you to put that jewel of yours away. The patrons of this tavern aren’t well-off or overly intelligent, and one of them might just be drunk enough to slit your throat for that expensive little bauble.”
Although Couric knew such a thing was wildly improbable—judging from their reaction to his arrival, no one in the tavern would dare breathe the same air as the Justice, much less try to pick his pockets—the priest himself was not so certain. His jaw worked silently, on the verge of declaring the audacity of such a crime, but he scanned the array of dirty, drunken men slouched on beer-soaked gaming tables around him and hastily reconsidered. Men had done more foolish things for far less wealth, and a corbal this size would bring enough to feed and clothe everyone in the tavern for months. The priest dropped the gem into a small velvet bag and stuffed it deep inside his robes.
Couric blinked several times in rapid succession as if to dispel a sudden wave of vertigo. “Now, my friend, let me assure you once again that I am no friend of Athaya Trelane. I’ve never set eyes on her in my life, and I certainly don’t wish this senseless crusade of hers to succeed.”
The Justice eyed him skeptically. “So you say…”
Damn, but these priests were persistent! Before he spoke again, Couric relaxed his muscles and steadied himself with a cleansing breath, reaching inward for those delicate threads of persuasion that would soon wind their way around the Justice’s narrow mind.
“I would not dare lie to a man in God’s service,” he went on. Had there been other trained wizards nearby, they would have easily detected the subtle shift in the rhythm of Couric’s voice. But Princess Athaya’s hold was not so strong in the capital city of Delfarham, and few Lorngeld dared to venture into public places here.
“In fact, I think you would do well to look to the young lady who summoned you here,” he suggested. “Turning in an innocent man to hide one’s own crime is a common enough ploy. Especially if she thinks to earn a rich reward for a false accusation.”
The priest’s brows furrowed inward like angry stormclouds building on the horizon. ‘There are severe penalties for deliberately interfering with the Tribunal’s justice.”
Couric cocked his head toward the barmaid, now seated on a husky man’s lap and pressed tight against him, brazenly offering her wares. She stole a glance at the priest and, sensing the deadly shift in his thoughts, started to wriggle from the man’s grasp. But her customer was beguiled by the goods she had for sale and roughly hauled her back.
“See how she glances this way too often?” Couric said, pulling the strands of his persuasion ever tighter. “She has a bit too much interest in our conversation…”
“As if she wanted to make sure we arrested you,” the priest murmured, obediently completing the thought.
“Exactly.”
The priest turned to his men and gestured sharply. “Bring her.”
Like a rabbit flushed from its thicket, the barmaid bolted for the safety of the kitchens, but stumbled over a tin cup left on the floor after the earlier brawl and went sprawling across an empty table. She grabbed the rim of the table as if it were the edge of a cliff, but the guardsmen quickly descended upon her and roughly pulled her away, sending dozens of piercing splinters deep into her palms. She kicked and shrieked in savage futility as they secured her wrists with iron shackles and dragged her away for questioning. Despite her wretched screams, no one moved to help her. Few risked even a glance of pity; to do either was to invite the same fate.
Couric sniffed and turned his back to the door. What would happen to the wench he neither knew nor cared�
�it served her right for meddling in a wizard’s affairs. And the priest? His mind had been pitifully easy to bend. Fanatics the world over were all alike—quick to embrace invented devils when they fail to find the ones they seek.
Still cowering beneath the stairs, Rob and Dickon gaped their astonishment not only at the fact that they were still alive, but at how easily the Sarian had turned the Justice aside. “B-but you… the crystal!” Rob stammered. “How did you—”
“Magic can be an effective weapon,” Couric explained, with an enigmatic tilt of his brow. “Yours can be, too, if you’ll but let the Sage shape it for you. And when the Sage takes power in Caithe, men such as that will never trouble you again.”
Rob shook his head in disbelief. “I’ll admit… you’ve got my interest now, if you didn’t before.”
His brother turned on him, scandalized. “Rob!”
“What am I supposed to do, Dickon? I don’t want to be absolved, so the only thing left is treason. All I can do is pick which kind of treason I want. And he’s right—whoever this Sage is, he’s offering more than Princess Athaya ever did. We’re not a rich family, Dickon… think of what some extra money could mean to Mother, now that Father’s gone.”
“But if you’re caught—”
“You didn’t turn him over to that Justice, Dickon,” Couric observed. “That makes you just as guilty if he’s caught. Better for you—and your family—if Rob joins us and wins you all a rich reward one day.
“Here,” he said, dropping a few pieces of silver into Rob’s palm. It was as much as the poor boy would earn in a year and the shock in his eyes revealed as much. “Come to Eriston, in the far northwest. Join us and there will be far more than that to line your purse. The Sage is a rich man, Rob. His people pay generous tribute to him, and in turn he protects them from harm and guides them with his divine wisdom.”
The Wizard King Page 2