Damodar held his silence and watched the great mage drink his full measure of glory.
CHAPTER
2
Ridley watched the girl squeeze her way through the noisy crowd. He admired her courage and prayed she’d make it all in one piece. Braving the wall-to-wall mob at the Ferret and Fox was no easy task. Nigh impossible, Ridley thought, and risky at that, if you happened to be incredibly tall, lean, and blessed with good looks. If, on top of that, you were holding six heavy clay mugs above your head…
Now that was something else again.
When she finally broke through to Ridley’s table, he saw she was well worth the wait—silver-green eyes and tiny, golden spiders in her raven-black hair. Her shoulders were bare, and her skin was the color and scent of spice.
“I’m glad you made it,” Ridley said. “Now that you’re here, you shouldn’t try to get back. It’s a whole lot safer if you’ll sit down here with me.”
“Is it now? I’d not be certain of that.” The girl laughed and set a mug of ale on the scarred table top. When she moved, the golden spiders danced and made a crownlet in her hair.
“What’s your name, then?” Ridley asked. “I haven’t seen you here before. I’d remember if I had.”
“Alycia. And you haven’t seen me, sir, as I started only tonight.”
“I’m Ridley, and I swear on all the gods that I have never met such a beautiful lady in my life.”
“You’re just saying that now, but I’m right pleased you did.”
“Tell me, Alycia, how do you keep those spiders in your hair? I’d think they’d get away or bite.”
“It’s a small spell is all.” She lightly patted her hair. “I wanted eight, but they only had six.”
“Only six?”
“You’re very nice, Ridley, but I can’t sit around drinking ale like some I could name. I have work to do.”
“Well, of course you do. I only—”
Alycia was gone, swept up in the crowd. Ridley sipped his ale, made a sour face, sniffed at the mug, and set it down.
“If you’re not going to drink that, I will.”
Snails suddenly appeared across the table. He carried a nicely carved chair in one hand and a dirty cotton sack in the other. Setting down the chair, he perched on the edge and, without waiting for an answer, finished off Ridley’s ale.
“Good,” he said, wiping a line of foam off his lips. “Best ale in town. Who’s the lovely lass? I confess I’ve not seen her before.”
“She’s too tall for you.”
“Oh? But just right for you?”
“We talked. She has spiders in her hair. What’s in the sack?”
“A lady’s mirror—partially intact—two fresh apples, a twist of yellow cheese, and brand new barber’s shears. I doubt they’ve trimmed half a dozen heads.”
“And the chair?”
Snails looked blank. “What chair? This chair?”
“That chair. They don’t have chairs in the Ferret and Fox. They have benches—like the one I’m sitting on—not chairs.”
Ridley stared at Snails a long moment, rolled his eyes, and looked at the sooty ceiling.
“You stole it. You stole a chair.”
“What’s the matter with that? There’s never any place to sit in here.”
“Get up. Leave the chair here.”
“What for? I just got here. I haven’t finished your ale.”
“Yes you have,” Ridley said, standing and glaring at his friend. “Get up, Snails. We’re leaving right now.”
Snails stood and followed. He knew Ridley well. When he got some fool idea in his head, the best thing to do was listen and let him talk it out. After a while, he’d go back to being the same old Ridley again.
* * *
The air outside was heavy with the smells of the city—garbage smells, food smells, smells from the people passing by. Now and then, the familiar odor of a corpse wafted up on the hot evening breeze—some poor soul murdered and tossed in the river for half a copper.
Still, Ridley told himself, a breath outside was almost refreshing after the Ferret and Fox, and that was a most depressing thought.
He leaned against the stony tavern wall, slapped at a giant mosquito on his neck, and brought his palm away red. He sniffed the air again and decided he was wrong. The smells were very little better outside. The foul odors of the river were particularly strong in the lower, older part of the city. The Ferret and Fox was only a short spit away from the damp stone quay where every sort of unseemly dreg washed up on the shore.
From the front of the tavern, he could see one of the heavy stone bridges that linked Oldtown with the opulent domes and towers of Sumdall City—or, he thought, cut off the very rich from the multitude of poor. On the far side of the river, behind the high walls, secure from the swarming masses below, lived the wealthy merchants and traders, high lords of the land, powerful mages, and the royals themselves.
Ridley let his gaze wander up the dark, massive walls, the battlements ridged with sharp crenellations like the jaws of some enormous beast. The capital of the empire was ageless, stretching back to a time when short, bronze-armored warriors had come down from the north to conquer. The riders themselves were still in the blood of the people, descendants of spoilers who’d tired of pillaging far from home and settled down themselves.
Through the long years, through wars and plagues, through fire and flood, one city was built on the ruins of the next. Now, it was a maze of dark and narrow streets, grand avenues, and frail, twisted stairways that wound like serpents through the jumble of twisted keeps, golden spires and gilded domes, great vaulted halls of emperors, and shadowy tombs of careless kings. Parapets, palaces, and castles of marble and ancient stone perched on precarious heights as if they’d simply sprouted there. In the last faint moments of the day, a thick and ominous haze turned the towers of Sumdall a grim and ominous shade of red.
While Oldtown was nearly dark at this hour, the portals of the denizens of power were still ablaze. What was it like to live there, Ridley wondered, to drink fine wine from crystal instead of sour ale from clay, to eat all the succulent, crispy pig you could hold, all the fruit pies with syrupy juices bubbling up through the crust? Would he ever tire of that, become bored with silken underclothes and warm fur jackets made to fit his form alone?
“No, by damn, I would not,” Ridley said, certain he could smell a berry pie, instead of rotting vegetables floating by.
“What’s the matter with you?” Snails asked. “What are you muttering about?”
“I’m not muttering,” Ridley said. “I’m thinking is all.”
Snails let out a breath. “That’s what I was afraid of. Ridley, I’m asking you nicely, please don’t do this again.”
“Do what?”
“You know. Think about things, things that I don’t want to do. Nothing good ever comes of this, and usually something very bad.”
Ridley turned to his friend, his eyes reflecting the light from the portals above.
“You know what we are, Snails? We’re thieves. Great dragon dung, Snails, we steal chairs. Chairs, apples, broken clocks, jewels made of glass, old men’s purses, which, by the way, are empty most of the time.”
“Barber shears,” Snails reminded him, “and cheese. Good shears and very recent cheese!”
“Exactly. That’s what I’m talking about.”
Ridley reached out and got a firm grip on Snails’ arms. “We’re through, Snails. We are not going to waste the rest of our lives. We’re not going to do this anymore.”
Snails stared. “We’re not?”
“No. We most certainly are not.”
Snails was horrified. His features seemed to collapse. He looked as if some terrible pain had just struck him in the heart, which, indeed, it had.
“Ridley, don’t say that, please. I’m a thief, that’s all I am. That’s all I know how to do. My old dad was a thief, and mama was too. If I can’t steal anymore…”
&nb
sp; “Hey, old friend.” Ridley released Snails’ arms and gave him a playful slap on the cheek. “You’re not listening, or I’m not talking straight. I didn’t say we weren’t going to steal anymore. I said we’re not going to do what we did.”
“No?” Snails was more confused than ever now.
“No. We are not going to be common thieves, stealing trash from people who own little more than we do. That’s a disreputable—a despicable—thing to do, and we’re not going to shame ourselves again.”
Ridley paused and glanced up once again at the dark and lofty heights, at the pure yellow light, light as bright as gold, winking from the crimson-tainted towers far above.
“We’re going to steal from them,” he said, “from those fat and lazy louts eating pork and pies up there.”
Snails grabbed at his chest. For a moment, his heart seemed to stop.
“Up there? Oh, no, Ridley! I don’t want to go up there. I’m perfectly happy down here. I like stealing apples. I like stealing chairs—”
“Stop! Stop it, now.” Ridley draped his arm over Snails’ shoulder and walked him farther from the tavern door. “There’re riches up there simply lying about, waiting to be taken. Rings, gems, silver plates, goblets of gold…”
“…Thieves like us, hanging in the streets,” Snails finished.
“Not thieves like us. Thieves who are ignorant, dense, thieves who don’t have a plan.”
Snails felt his heart stop again. “Gods protect me, you don’t have another plan. Please say you don’t have a plan.”
“Ah, but I do, and it’s one you’ll thank me for, Snails, when you’re wearing velvet trousers and silver buckles on your shoes.”
“I don’t want silver buckles on my shoes.”
“How do you know? You never tried ’em before.” He slapped his companion heartily on the back. “I’ll see you later on. I’ve got a matter of importance to attend.”
“Like what?”
“Like a lady named Alycia, who serves the worst ale in town.”
Snails opened his mouth to speak, but Ridley was already gone.
“It’s always that way,” he muttered to himself. “If I got a word in, we wouldn’t be in trouble all the time.”
A sudden burst of laughter reached him from the Ferret and Fox. Snails looked up at the high battlements of Sumdall City, and in that instant, something cold touched the back of his neck and crawled all the way down his spine. This time, he would not let Ridley talk him into some hapless venture, some hopeless scheme.
There was nothing he wanted in Sumdall City. Nothing waited there for a snatcher of cheeses, a stealer of chairs, nothing but a dark and untimely end….
CHAPTER
3
Damodar was bored but didn’t dare show it. Taming the dragon wasn’t enough for Profion. He had to humble the creature, humiliate it, drain it of all its majesty and strength. He would stalk around the monster, first one way and then the next, taunting it, cursing it under his breath. Now and then he would pause, inches from the dragon’s great nose, and stab at the air with his staff, lunging back and forth, as if the two were engaged in a courtly duel.
The dragon, frozen in the mage’s spell, scarcely moved except to breathe, its massive sides heaving like a bellows feeding a flaming forge. Its blood-red eyes, though, followed its tormentors every move, and the cold, unrelenting hatred in those eyes gave even Damodar pause.
No man could say what thoughts coursed through a dragon’s brain. Did they truly think like men, or merely with the cold, calculating cunning of a cat—an alien, unreasoning creature with little more than murder on its mind?
The latter, most likely, Damodar thought, though there were tales from ancient times, true or not, one couldn’t say—
God of Night! What is the fool doing now?
In spite of his awesome powers, Damodar wondered if Profion was addled or simply mad. Raising the glowing rod above his head, the mage spread his arms as he might embrace the universe itself. The purple sleeves of his robe billowed like silken wings.
“Come,” he spoke to the dragon. “Come, I tell you. Follow. Follow me.”
The beast trembled, struggling mightily to resist. It raised one taloned claw, moved it slowly forward at Profion’s command…
“Yes, follow!” Profion demanded, his voice as harsh as a rasp on iron, “Do as I tell you. You have no will now, dragon. Your will is mine!”
Its claws mere inches from the ground, the dragon fought to ward off the mage’s power. Every muscle and leathery tendon strained to break free. Its jaws opened wide, and a viscous green fluid dripped from its mouth. One claw, touching the stone floor now, bowed to Profion’s will.
The mage roared in triumph, sweeping his glowing rod in a circle about his head. The dragon was his! He had broken its spirit, shattered its power with his spell!
At that precise moment, the creature suddenly stopped and balked, as if the magician’s victory cry had brought it to life again.
“Follow!” Profion shouted, his eyes ablaze with anger. “You… will…follow… me!”
Once again, he whipped the bright rod above his head and thrust it like a lance directly at the dragon’s red eyes.
The dragon quivered, fighting the rod’s spell, and from deep within its fiery soul, it summoned a magic of its own. Its ruby eyes faded then glowed with a pale, unearthly green, a green as cold as glacial ice, cold and deadly as the space between the stars.
Profion drew in a breath and quickly stepped back from the creature, its body now webbed in a shimmering azure veil. Profion stared in disbelief at the rod in his hand. Its glow suddenly vanished, all its power gone. Now he held nothing but a dull gray bar of iron.
The dragon shook its great head in fury, spread its great wings, and stretched its scaly form above its small tormentor.
Furious, Profion lashed out with his hand, and unseen magic lashed out. Wood splintered with a shriek, and the winch gave way. The loose chains lashed at the air, and the massive gate thundered down. The dragon bellowed in pain as tons of weighted iron crushed its skull. The fire of the dragon’s eyes faded, flickered, and died.
Profion stared at the useless rod, then tossed it to the floor in disgust. The terrified workers fled in panic, spilling over one another to get away from the site. The monster seemed somehow more frightening dead than alive.
“Clearly, the metal was impure,” Profion scowled. “If it had been tempered as I instructed… There’s another, better avenue. Another way.”
Suddenly aware of the howling mob behind him, he turned and glared at Damodar. “Get those fools back here. And get that stinking carcass out of here!”
Damodar had anticipated his command. One pair of guards and then another pounded after the workers. Some were running in circles, some had simply collapsed on the stone floor, too frightened to move.
“I’m not finished with this,” Profion said, glaring at the enormous, fetid corpse. “No one has truly seen the powers I can bring to bear.”
“Of course,” Damodar said, with a slight bow of his head. “I’m sure it won’t cause us great delay.”
“I assure you it will not.” Profion paused to make sure he had Damodar’s full attention. “Make certain that anyone who played a part in this… unfortunate experiment does not live out the day. I do not want this business to reach those chattering jays at court.” Profion caught the slight tension at the corner of Damodar’s lips. “That includes your people who were here today. I’m certain you have more than enough of the brutes to take their place.”
“As you wish, sire.” Damodar said, swallowing his rage, knowing he had given himself away. He looked from Profion then, relieved to see one of the mage’s liegemen coming swiftly across the stone floor. With a startled glance at the dead dragon, the man bowed before his master.
“My lord, forgive the disturbance. I thought you should know—”
“Know what?” Profion said, making no effort to hide his irritation.
; “The Emperor, sire. I must inform you he is dead.”
“How terrible,” Profion said, darting a look at Damodar. “How could such a thing happen?”
“The physicians feel it was poison of a sort, my lord, though none can name the potion or how it found its way to the Emperor’s favorite wine.”
“And our lovely princess?” Damodar asked.
“Mourning her loss, sire. She has, of course, been quickly sworn in as Empress of all Izmer.”
“We share her sorrow,” Profion said. “Now leave us. And say nothing of what you may have seen here.”
“Yes, my lord.”
Profion waited until the courier was out of sight.
“Well and swiftly done, my friend. When we’re rid of her, I’ll see you are suitably rewarded.”
“To serve your needs is all I ask, lord. However, if I may dare to observe, ridding ourselves of the girl may not be a simple thing. After the Emperor’s . . . accident, the palace guards will be around her like bees about a hive.”
“I expect you’ll think of something,” Profion said, jabbing a finger in Damodar’s chest. “Surely one of your costumed apes can squirm his way past the palace guard.”
Damodar’s flesh crawled at the mage’s touch. No one in the Empire, not even Profion himself, had ever dared lay a hand on him before. He could not abide another’s touch, as he was certain Profion was aware.
“And while my ape is slicing the lady’s throat,” he blurted out before he could stop to think, “perhaps I should have him pick up the imperial scepter as well?”
Profion showed him a wicked smile, delighted at Damodar’s obvious discomfort.
“I forgive your outburst,” the mage said. “I know you meant no disrespect, Damodar. You are much too wise and cautious for that. Leave the matter of the scepter to me. I’ll take care of that. Summon the Council of Mages, immediately. Do so at once, and do it quietly, if you will.”
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