As the Crow Flies: An Epic Fantasy Adventure

by Robin Lythgoe

  A good twenty minutes of lurking finally produced a servant about my height and weight. Soundlessly, I slipped out behind him and glided up close. One hand grabbed the handle of the bucket he carried while the other took the mop and brought the handle up to whack sharply across the lad’s skull. He was sturdier than he looked. He stumbled sideways, but did not fall, and I had to thump him again. I supported him as he slid to the floor. Much to my consternation, he was still conscious, looking at me vaguely through glassy eyes. The mop handle came down a third time, and his eyes rolled back into his head at last.

  I concealed the mop and bucket in my nook, then dragged the servant after. I froze—albeit briefly—as a pair of maids took to the stairs. My weakened condition made getting up into the alcove with the servant an extremely difficult business, and all praise to the gods of chattering women, they did not spy us up above them as they passed. Up the stairs and to the left was a convenient storage room for clerks and such. Holding the servant tightly 'round the chest, I hitched him up a bit and searched for the ledge with my foot, then down onto the stairs proper. I had scarce begun my journey upward before hushed chattering assaulted my ears once again. Did the maids not know that they were supposed to be working, not lollygagging up and down the stairwell?

  Back into the alcove I dragged the servant, hugging him close and hoping the maids were too busy with each other to notice me. The steady rising of the sun was making my hiding place less and less “hidey” by the moment, and I was more than ready to leave the invisible spiders behind. Our ascent brought us into contact with the suit of armor and I froze again, waiting for the thing to go crashing and banging right into the path of the maids. Perhaps they would run away shrieking and I would be blessed with a moment in which to recover the situation before the Baron’s Best were once again underfoot.

  To my vast delight and relief, some of the deities were watching out for me again. When I had a moment I would ardently thank the gods of armor, armorers, thieves, good intentions, and as many others as might qualify for the occasion. Perhaps the armor was fixed solidly into place, which would explain how the thing stayed together at all, it was so old. In that case I should thank the gods of good sense who’d inspired the decorator to take such precautions. At any rate, the armor did not so much as budge, so I squeezed my eyes shut and waited. It is a well-known fact that some people can sense when others are looking at them, and I had no desire to test the theory on the maids.

  “His name is Remzi,” one of the girls insisted.

  “No, I’m sure it’s Ramazan,” the other argued.

  “We shall have to eavesdrop and find out,” the first declared in a loud whisper.

  “Does it really matter?” the second giggled. “He’s soooo handsome!”

  Their entire conversation was in whispers, but I suppose that, given the earliness of the hour, it was only prudent. Lords, ladies, and assorted nobility would take a dim view of any noise that might wake them from their precious slumber.

  “And did you see the tall blond with the scar on his face?”

  “He frightens me! Even so, I’m glad the baron has finally hired some replacements.”

  Replacements? I strained to hear them as they continued their passage down the stairs.

  “What a terrible thing to have lost…“

  Their whispering voices dwindled away as the conversation got interesting. What had the baron lost? People, obviously, but why? How? And to who? I would likely never know, but my perpetual curiosity was piqued—and doomed to disappointment, for I had not only an unconscious servant in my arms, but ladies to rescue, a potion to find, and a mythical dragon’s egg I must attempt to steal. Even supposing dragons really did still exist, all the stories portrayed them as gigantic, magical creatures with really big teeth. Ending my life as a snack did not come high on my list of glorious ways to die.

  Hitching up the servant again, I eased out of my little nook. The armor stayed cooperatively in place, the servant remained unconscious, and we made it to the landing without incident. Three steps up toward my goal, and the sound of voices came to me again; male, this time, and coming down the stairs. I scurried back to my concealment—with the servant—and prayed fervently that we would continue to remain unseen, for I had not just picked a stairwell reasonably convenient to the staff area, but a major highway. At least the men talked loudly, so I had a little more warning.

  Once again squeezed into the cramped space behind the armor, I held my breath and closed my eyes. Some bit of decorative masonry dug at my shoulder, and I shifted in irritation. This was getting quite ridiculous. Already plagued by passersby, I had no desire to be stabbed by chunks of rock, no matter how lovely and—

  Hold just a moment, what was that? My keen ears brought to me the faintest grating noise, and a whiff of air that was different than the rest. Musty, like… a library. Crates full of parchment exuded a similar smell.

  Carefully, I turned my head. The crack opening up in the stonework just behind my left shoulder was as black as—well, black. A secret passage. That was interesting, though a wizard could certainly be expected to have secret passages. The question was whether it could be lit and whether the door would lock behind me and leave me trapped. Having already escaped attention thrice, the odds of remaining unseen decreased by leaps and bounds. On the other hand, if the hidden door squeaked or groaned or otherwise gave me away—admittedly unlikely, since a noisy door does not remain a secret for long—I would be caught. However, if the door was a secret, the men coming down the stairs just now were unlikely to know how to open it, and thus the baron would need to be summoned. And if they did, well… I needed to talk to Baron Duzayan anyway.

  Giving the masonry a cautious shove, I dragged the servant into the area beyond, and pushed the door with my foot until it was nearly closed, but not quite. A passageway of perhaps six feet opened up into a large area. Glowing warmly, an assortment of glass-corked bottles hung at intervals along the shelf-lined walls. Another sat on the desk, and a pair hung on an iron candelabra. Witchlights!

  I had seen these before, and very handy they were, too. And rare, though you wouldn’t guess it by the number of them adorning the chamber. I should have one, perhaps even two or three. Easing my servant to the floor, I went to study one of the lights more closely. The bottles were rather too bulky to go lugging about in my waist pouch. I needed something smaller. Glancing about, I spied ink bottles lined up in a little tray on a desk. How terribly convenient. I pulled the cork out of one and was immediately treated to a most obnoxious stench. Maybe they weren’t ink bottles after all. A little more rummaging about uncovered a wooden box full of empty glass jars similar in size to the ink bottles—useful things for storing eyeballs and elixirs and other wizardly knickknacks. I made quick use of them. Prying the glass stopper from one of the witchlight bottles, I poured some of the contents into each of three of the empty jars, careful that they didn’t escape and go flitting about the room.

  Now, witchlights, in case you are unfamiliar with them, rather resemble fireflies, except that—well, no they don’t, except for the bit about flickering and flying about. Insubstantial blobs of light no bigger than a thimble, they will burn your skin if you touch them. That, and when left to flit about in the air they tend to disintegrate after a week or two, leaving behind a sad little wisp of ash. Harvested somewhere in the northern regions, the difficulty in finding and catching them makes them rare and, as you can imagine, quite expensive.

  With three tiny witchlights in my pouch, I had myself a leisurely look about the room. Along one side stood a work table. All sorts of curious paraphernalia littered its top—decanters and crucibles, pestle and mortar, candles, bones, feathers, jars of nasty things labeled with meticulously written tags. The descriptions meant little or nothing to me. Some of them were written in a language I didn’t recognize, and none of them said “Crow’s Antidote,” more’s the pity. A curiously worked knife garnered my acquisitive attention but remained untouched.
Who knew what spells a wizard might have wrapped around it? I searched with great dedication through the jumble of goods, but if the antidote to my poison was there, it didn’t volunteer itself. Any number of the vials and bottles I sniffed at might have held it, and me none the wiser—a depressing fact, indeed.

  The books and scrolls lining the shelves were old, and many of them written in foreign languages which, considering Marketh’s reputation as a crossroads of the world, was not entirely unexpected. It was impressive, though, that Baron Duzayan could read so many diverse tongues. Those whose languages I recognized seemed to be about magic (shocking, I know), science, and history.

  They served me no purpose and, quickly bored, I sat down at the desk and picked up a sheaf of papers weighted down with an ordinary-looking rock. I did not believe the disguise for even a moment, but it didn’t erupt with dire magical spells, and when I turned it about, it continued with its impressive disguise of ordinariness. The letters appeared to be fairly trivial correspondence and hardly worthy of being kept hidden away, but… looking more closely, I discovered that several came from a place called Hasiq something-or-other. The name sounded familiar. Taking out the map the baron had given us, I spread it out on the desk to have a look. Sure enough, that was the name of the wretched little village where he’d said the egg would be found.

  My curiosity was aroused all over again. Stashing the map away, I looked more closely at the missives, which were from a certain Magister Ammeluanakar. What a horrible name. The poor fellow. The term “magister” generally referred to the senior member or leader of certain orders, and so I could assume the man with the awful name was just such a one. A quick glance through the sheaf of letters revealed a few reports about the baron’s recent activities, mostly of a militant nature—not that such a thing was wrong or even particularly unusual, but as I was eventually going to destroy the baron, the information might come in handy.

  With a groan that startled me right up out of the chair, the servant reminded me of his presence and my duty. The unremarkable rock worked well to shut him up again, and I suffered a passing moment of sympathy for the headache he was going to be nursing. It is a tragic thing to be an unwitting victim of circumstance, and the poor fellow would likely never know the part he played in the epic events of the day—nay, in my life!

  Undressing an unconscious man is not easy, but I accomplished the task with minimum fuss, and donned his servant-for-the-House-of-Duzayan garb. He wore shoes and not boots, and though I was loathe to trade those, I must, or be unmasked right away. I bound the useful bits of the uncommonly interesting correspondence around one calf beneath the covering of my new pants. The servant was also safely secured; I didn’t need him announcing my presence to all and sundry.

  It was time to get back to work.

  Applying my considerable talent and experience, I went through the room with an eye toward redistributing the baron’s wealth into my own pockets. Well, not pockets, precisely, because that would be dangerous and foolhardy. Into my pouch went a purse full of gold coin that came from an embarrassingly large collection, several of the gems I found hidden away in a dusty disemboweled book, and a tiny ivory figurine of exquisite craftsmanship. While there were several other things I might find a market for, I restrained myself lest they were ensorcelled.

  The door opened easily, and I spent a moment with my eye to the crack, waiting for the next flock of servants migrating through the stairwell. Now and again I had to wipe from my face cobwebs that I could not see and which should not have been there at all on account of my having passed this way just moments ago. The traffic had died down to nonexistence, but whilst waiting to ascertain that fact, I had some time to consider the situation. Perhaps, just perhaps, it might be to my benefit to keep my knowledge of the secret room to myself—and that meant I couldn’t leave my servant there, no matter how amusing I found the notion.

  — 6 —

  Fitting and Sowing

  I did not relish lugging the fellow about, but there was no help for it. Closing my eyes and bowing my head, I murmured supplications to several appropriate gods, checked the stairwell again, then collected the unfortunate lackey. Thankfully, he was no strapping guard. After wriggling him out the door and past the armor, I tried to get him up over my shoulders, but nearly succeeded in toppling us both down the stairs. Grabbing his wrists, I dragged him thumping up the stairs and around the corner to the closet I had earlier espied. It was so full there was scarcely room for the servant, even with his legs propped up on one of the lower shelves. The simple latch took only a moment’s work to jam without making the damage look deliberate—a moment in which another servant came tromping up the stairs, humming noisily to himself. I was forced to stand on the unconscious fellow and hold the door closed until the passerby was gone, and it seemed a small eternity until I could dash back to the alcove to claim the rest of my disguise.

  Armed with mop and bucket, pouch tucked under one elbow, I began the next stage of my home invasion, which included lifting every small item of decent value that I could find—still searching for my stolen woman. It wasn’t as though I was greedy—not about women, anyway. I had avoided women for a long time; they were such a tedious, carping lot, but this particular one was different, and I was not going to let the stinking baron have her, nor think he could get away with such woman-stealing behavior unscathed.

  When my pouch had become quite heavy, I found myself another bag and some linens, then made my way to the top floor of the mansion. With my mop and bucket and a cowed expression—and the proper clothing, of course—I had considerable freedom, though not without cost. The bucket was cursedly heavy and I got scolded several times for missing spots and doing shoddy work. Rolling up the baron’s unwieldy, expensive carpets in order to do the alleged mopping was a royal pain in the backside, too. I did a slapdash job at each task, for which my taskmasters lamented and threatened to fire me, but with the baron desperate to fill the ranks, they could not expect better. It would take time to find decent replacements for those who had been lost.

  There it was again, that hint of tragedy and countless deaths. I took advantage of my temporary position as a menial to make a few inquiries, and discovered that a good number of servants had accompanied the baron on a recent (and apparently long) trip, during which the traveling household had been attacked and all the poor servants killed. It was lucky indeed that the baron and a handful of soldiers had escaped.

  Ha. I found it disheartening to discover that I had come so very close to never knowing his annoying lordship. A two inch correction of trajectory by some imaginary archer might have relieved me of much hardship.

  A good portion of the fourth floor was given over to living space for the staff, and those rooms were cramped and suffered from low ceilings. I also discovered that the windows were nailed shut, which must have made for horrendous conditions in the heat of summer. It was another exercise in my substantial patience to pry the nails out of one of the windows without making noise and thus drawing untoward attention. Thankfully, with the sun well up the rest of the staff was busy working to make the baron’s residence exude cleanliness, efficiency, and—in the kitchens—delectable aromas.

  My newly acquired assets were transferred from my pouch to the bag I’d picked up, and I carefully wrapped each item in lengths torn from a purloined sheet in order to protect them. Broken goods were useless goods. The nails from the window, too, went into the bag, as I could not hammer them back into the wood, nor leave them lying about for someone to discover. Humming to myself, I tied the bag tightly closed and lobbed it far out onto the neighboring rooftop. I have a remarkable aim, and the bag tumbled down the slope to rest neatly against a chimney for me to retrieve at a later time—providing that none of the items within were protected by shrieking, bothersome demons. I watched for a little while, and when none appeared I smiled in satisfaction, then made my way out of the room.

  As it happened, the shrieking, bothersome mistress of housekeep
ing accosted me. Viciously. Making my way back down the long, narrow corridor, I turned the corner and nearly ran the woman right over.

  “What are you doing up here, boy?” she demanded, propping her fists on her bony hips and glaring at me as though I’d somehow just muddied the entire length of the hall.

  I darted her a look. Had she really just called me “boy”? Quickly, I lowered my head in an appropriately submissive gesture. “N-nothing, mistress.”

  “Nothing? Who gave you permission to do nothing? You don’t get paid to do nothing!” She boxed my ears soundly, and I blinked in surprise. The ringing saved me from most of the scolding she delivered, but I made out something about my wages being docked and how I should be more appreciative of my employment. Countless numbers in the streets would gladly trade me places and would doubtless do a better job than I. Then she grabbed at the tool pouch tucked under my arm.

  “What is this? Are you thieving? They’ll cut your hand off if you’re thieving, boy. What is your name? I’ll report you myself, I will!”

  “No!” My elbow clamped the pouch tightly to my side, and for a moment we engaged in a brief bout of tug-of-war.

  “Give it over, you oaf!” she said, and clapped me upside the head again.

  “I cannot, mistress!” I wailed, the tenor of my voice aided by an extreme sense of indignation. Such were the eccentricities of disguise. One had to roll with the punches, so to speak, and improvise a great deal. “I am supposed to deliver it to Andari House on Sycamore Street in Copely End. Personally.”

  “Personally?” The housekeeper glared at me, suspicion in her steely eyes. “Who gave you such orders?”

  “I-I don’t know his name, mistress.” I didn’t know the name of every guest, of course, but during the course of the day I’d recognized some of them as gracious donators to my upkeep over the years. “He is a short man with a fringe of white hair and a bald spot. And, um… a wart on his chin.” I pointed to the appropriate position on my own much handsomer jaw.