Metal and Magic: A Fantasy Journey

by Steve Windsor

  He would return to investigate on another day. He was always hungry to learn. He wondered what demanded such protection. But not today. There was a box and a boy to hunt, a fat man and a master thief to find, and the trail of the Guild to sniff along until it led him to whoever—or a whatever—had commissioned the theft.

  A whatever.

  Where had that thought come from? The histories mentioned other beings who once lived in these lands—Tormay, and the older countries lost in the east centuries ago. Beings other than the ogres and giants and dragons and such that existed uneasily on the fringes of man’s civilization. For some reason, the image of the sceadu staring from the mosaic sprang into his mind.

  Nio muttered a few words under his breath, and then opened the door of the Goose and Gold. He had an impression of shadow and odors of food and ale and tobacco, but then his eyes adjusted to the gloom. Men sat around tables, busy at their lunch and busier at their ale. A fire crackled on the hearth. Stairs rose up on one side to a second floor. Lodging available for travelers, no doubt. Grime blackened the timbers in the ceiling. The rumble of conversation lulled when he entered, but it picked up again. He nodded to himself, satisfied. The obscuring worked. It was a minor weaving, but one he had never tested before.

  He sat down at a small table in one corner and looked around. From the looks of the clientele, the inn was favored by the rank and file of the Thieves Guild, and not their masters. To Nio’s eye, everyone seemed on the oafish side. Pig-eyed, thick-necked dolts with fat hands and small heads. He had trouble imagining anyone in the room burgling a house successfully, let alone stealing their grandmother’s eggs.

  “What’ll it be, love?”

  A serving girl materialized at his elbow. She was young enough to be his daughter, but her eyes were much older. Faded brown and looking right through him.

  “Ale and—what do you have for food?”

  “Beef stew and bread,” she said.

  “All right, then.”

  She returned with a platter and a tankard. The ale was decent and the bread was only half stale. He eyed the crowded room while he ate and considered what to do.

  An old man lurched up to his table.

  “Spare a copper, mister?”

  “Perhaps,” said Nio. “If you can answer a question.”

  The old man swayed closer and tried to look knowledgeable. He breathed wine fumes in Nio’s face.

  “Do you know a man called the Juggler?”

  “Aye, I do,” said the old fellow. “He’s like a son to me. A dear son.”

  “Bring him to me and you’ll have your coin.”

  “Bring him to you?” repeated the other.

  “Yes.”

  “Maybe a drop of ale first. Just to ease the dryness, you know. It’s terribly dry in here.”

  “Go on.”

  Nio turned back to his lunch. The old man shuffled away, mumbling to himself. A few minutes later, someone slid in across the table from Nio.

  “Here he is, and I’ll have my coin.”

  He looked up. The old sop was standing by and, across the table, sat a fat man. Nio fished a silver piece from his pocket.

  “As promised.”

  He tossed it through the air. But before the old man could grab it, a hand darted out and snatched it.

  “Hey there,” protested the old man.

  “You don’t rouse me from my drink for nothing, Gally,” said the fat man.“Here's a copper. That’s enough for some ale. Get on with you.”

  Grumbling, the old man took the coin and shuffled off toward the counter.

  “You shouldn’t throw away silver on garbage like that,” said the fat man. “No telling what those around here’ll do if they catch wind of money.”

  “I’m touched by your concern,” said Nio.

  “Right you are,” said the other. “I don’t like to see folks taken while I’m around. Gives the place a bad name, and we don’t want that. Now then, old Gally told me you wanted a word.”

  “You’re the Juggler?”

  “Fifteen years and counting. Took over for my father before me, as he’d done for his. It’s a family thing. One Juggler after another. Fathers and sons. Tradition ain’t a thing to be taken lightly. What can I do for you? You seem a gentleman of distinction—not the sort to frequent the Goose, if you don’t mind me saying so. Is it a spot of trouble you’re reluctant to bother the city guard with? Need a word spoken in someone’s ear? Bits and bobs you want scooped up? Something found, something lost?”

  “Something lost,” said Nio. His mind feathered out to touch the Juggler’s thoughts. But then he stopped and withdrew, for a ward shielded the fat man’s mind. It was a cheap one, probably just a bauble carried in the pocket. He could have broken it easily, but such dispelling always generates attention, and he did not want that.

  “Well, now,” said the Juggler. He turned and signaled to the serving girl. “Lost things don’t always want finding. It can take effort and skill. But you’ve come to the right man, assuming you’re a man of generosity, that you’re a man of liberality, that your purse is ready to aid me in my search. Why, I’ve got the cleverest little hands in the city. Just right for finding things.”

  He waggled his stubby fingers in the air. Nio knew, though, the man was not talking of his own hands.

  “The item I’ve lost,” said Nio, “might be difficult to find.”

  “And why’s that?”

  “I think other people might be looking for the same thing.”

  The serving girl materialized at the table and plunked down a tankard of ale. The Juggler took a swig and shook his head happily.

  “Other people mean problems, headaches for me, say, if I were to find this missing thing you speak of. Headaches can be expensive. Especially if they’re mine. But I know you wouldn’t want me to suffer needlessly.”

  “Of course not.”

  “Gold has a medicinal quality.”

  “Naturally.”

  The Juggler smiled. “I think we’re in agreement. Now, what is it you need to find? A chestful of coin wandered into someone else’s coffers? Deeds, diamonds, a mortgage paper in need of disappearing?”

  “No,” returned the other. “Nothing like that. I first need to find a person.”

  “You refer, sir, to a series of jobs. If there’s a first, then there must be a second. Series of jobs are more costly to accomplish. It’s the focus that must be maintained, you see. The follow-through. Often I see the young lads setting up shop, thinking to do me out of my business, but I never worry. And d’you know why? The follow-through. They have no follow-through.”

  “I need to find a man known as the Knife.”

  The Juggler flinched, but recovered so quickly that Nio was uncertain of the reaction. It had been only his eyes flicking open wide, and a glimpse of something behind them. Fear, thought Nio.

  The Juggler leaned forward, his voice quiet. “Why would you want to look for such a man? There are a lot of men in Hearne, but only one Knife. Might be easier to find someone else.”

  “As you said, there’s only one Knife. I’ve heard he’s a unique sort of person.”

  The Juggler glanced around the room and then back at Nio.

  “A city crammed with people and you’re bent on finding this one man? Being picky can be hard on your health. Why, I remember when I was a young lad, examining a merchant’s storeroom. It was filled with all kinds of wonderful things. Being young and lacking wisdom, I took my time to find only the best, as opposed to grabbing what I could and making a hasty exit. Imagine my surprise, as I knelt there attempting to determine whether a cube of Harthian jade was more valuable than a bolt of gold-threaded silk, when the master of the house barged in. The ensuing unpleasantness would have been avoided had I been content with lesser things. What a valuable lesson!”

  “I can always go elsewhere for help.”

  “No, no,” said the Juggler. “I’m sure the man can be found. It’s just that . . .” Here, his voice
trailed off and he gazed pensively down at the table.

  “Money is not an object.”

  “Ah,” said the fat man. “That always helps.”

  They came to an agreement, though Nio found the fat man as stubborn as a Vomaronish moneylender. But he did not care. The box was priceless in his eyes. He would have been willing to give a fortune for it. Still, it was somewhat irritating to be cheated.

  “It just so happens,” said the Juggler, “I might know a thing or two about the Knife’s habits.”

  “I expected nothing less of you.” Nio slid several gold coins across the table.

  “Now I remember,” said the Juggler. “There’s a house on a street called Forraedan. Heading west, it’s the seventh house, past the south market square. The Knife visits there most Thursday nights—a certain young lady. I’ll have a word with him beforehand. He’ll be pleased to meet a gentleman of your distinction.” The Juggler paused and then added, “And the rest of the gold?”

  “You’ll have it once I’ve met him,” said Nio.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR: OLD RESEMBLANCES

  That evening, the autumn feast was held at the castle in Andolan. It was early in the season to celebrate the autumn harvest, but with the duke and duchess soon leaving for Hearne, this could not be avoided. Besides, no one cared. A feast was a feast, and the people of Dolan seized any chance to get together and eat and argue and drink large amounts of wine. All that day, the lords of the holdings scattered throughout the reaches of the Mearh Dun had been arriving with their retinues. The whole town was invited, though it was tacitly understood that children were not welcome.

  “It’s not that I don’t like children,” said the duke. He fiddled with his cravat and frowned at himself in the mirror. “They grow up, mostly, which seems to work out. It’s just, as children, they do better far from me and, er, vice versa.” The duchess smiled and said nothing. She had been doing this frequently in the last two weeks. It made her husband uneasy.

  The duke and the duchess went down together to greet their guests in the great hall. Three tables ran the entire length of the hall. At the far end, raised on a dais, was the high table. Candelabras filled the hall with light. A throng of townsfolk and crofters eddied about the hall, threaded through by servants offering mulled ale. The duke and the duchess stopped to chat with villager and holder alike. Here was Weorn the miller, talking oats with Gan Ierling and his three silent sons who farmed on the high plain. Several traders in town from the southern duchies were arguing amiably in one corner about the spring market in Hearne. And there was Slivan Hyrde, the largest sheepholder of the hills, flirting with the young widow of Foren Mallet.

  “Already set her cap,” said the duke in his wife’s ear, “and her man not in the ground thirty days.”

  “She’s merely looking after herself,” said the duchess. “I would do no less.”

  “Oh, you would, would you?” said the duke loudly, outraged.

  “Shush, Hennen. I’m teasing you.”

  A serving boy appeared in a doorway and blew a strangled-sounding note on a horn that startled the hall into silence. He scampered away, and Radean the steward, looking pleased with himself, tottered onto the dais.

  “Lords and ladies, gentlefolk,” he called, his old voice cracking, “My Lord and Lady Callas bid you welcome to the autumn feast. Please take your places.”

  The assembly moved toward the tables. Radean steered select guests to the high table. The duke got to his feet, cup in hand, and a hush fell over the hall.

  “Friends,” he said, “Thank you for attending my lady wife and me this evening. The Callas family lives to serve this land, and you are this land, every one of you. Long ago, when Dolan Callas first rode north into the Mearh Dun, he saw a wild countryside. He saw promise. He saw—”

  “He saw a woman!” cackled old Vela Hyrde from the far side of the room. The hall erupted into laughter and the duke grinned.

  “That he did. The first Levoreth Callas, your own sturdy Dunnish stock, whose blood runs strong in all our veins and who our family has honored every hundred years by naming so another girl-child.” Here, the duke broke off at the sight of Levoreth attempting to unobtrusively edge her way toward the dais and the empty chair next to the duchess.

  “And here’s my niece, our own Levoreth!” called the duke, raising his cup of wine. “Back with us after these two years!” Heads swiveled, necks craned, eyes stared. Levoreth turned bright red and dropped into her chair.

  “To Levoreth!” roared the duke, upending his cup.

  “To Levoreth!” roared the hall back at him, raising their cups.

  “Is he already drunk and the meat not served yet?” said Levoreth, frowning at her aunt.

  “We’ll live, my dear,” said Melanor. “Besides, you should have been on time.”

  “Dolan!” bawled the duke, downing another cup of wine.

  “Dolan!” echoed the hall.

  “More wine!”

  “Aye, more wine!”

  “Let the feast begin!”

  A procession of servants filed in and out, bearing the choicest of summer’s end and the beginning of the fall. Grouse and quail, roast boar, trout from the Ciele, and haunches of venison. Baked squash, pickled onions, snap beans as sweet as honey, leeks smothered in dill sauce. Fragrant loaves of crusty bread. White rounds of goat cheese redolent with thyme. Pies, cakes, pastries stuffed with the last peaches of summer, pear and strawberry tarts. And through it all came more and more pitchers of wine: the smooth reds of Harth, the darker flavors of Mizra, and the unpredictable vintages of the north.

  Levoreth toyed with some trout on her plate and then set her fork down. She did not have much of an appetite. Some bread and cheese would do. Glancing up, she caught the eye of the eldest son of Gan Ierling staring at her. He had a vacant look on his face. Particularly with his mouth hanging open. Like a sheep, she thought, and she scowled at him. Flushing, he turned away.

  “Really, Levoreth,” said the duchess. “You shouldn’t do that. It’s bad manners, and people think you’re peculiar enough as it is. Besides, those Ierlings can be muddle-headed. If you glare at him too much, he’ll probably fall in love with you.”

  “Nonsense,” said Levoreth.

  “How odd,” said the duke.

  “What’s that, dear?” said his wife.

  “Have you known Ginan Bly to ever miss a chance at a good meal?”

  “No, I haven’t. Though I recall he seems fonder of his wine than meat.” And here the duchess looked at her husband, for he was in the act of refilling his own cup.

  “I’d never noticed.” Hennen took a sip. “At any rate, he isn’t here.”

  He would have said more on the subject, but the sight of a roast boar’s head teetering by diverted him. Resplendent with apples and plums and a stuffed grouse perched inexplicably in between the beast’s ears, it was borne on the shoulders of two servants who seemed just as old as Radean the steward. They maneuvered up to the dais and plonked their burden down in front of Levoreth. She forced a smile but then ruined the effect by scowling and waving the platter away.

  “I have it!” said the duke conspiratorially, in what he obviously thought was a whisper directed at his wife. He set his empty wine cup on the table and eyed it suspiciously for a moment before leaning over.

  “I have it!” he repeated again. Heads turned in interest from along the high table. “Do you know why, my dear, I always feel like a little boy around our niece?”

  “Later, Hennen. Have you tried this peach pastry yet? I must confess that Ada works absolute magic with the—”

  “It’s because she’s the spitting image of my great-aunt! You know, my grandfather Toma’s sister, or, er—I can’t remember whose sister she was—somebody’s sister, I’m sure. I lived in terror of the woman, ever since she caught me smoking cornsilk behind the barn with the stable boys. She came after me with a horsewhip. Wasn’t able to sit down for a week! Horrible woman! I think she drowned in the spr
ing thaw when I was twelve. She has the same sort of glare—like she’s doing now.”

  “Within families,” said Levoreth, “resemblances have been known to happen. Perhaps it did not occur to you, but that’s why you look, sound, and behave like your father—a more pigheaded man I do not recall.”

  “My dear,” said her aunt.

  “It came to me,” said the duke stubbornly, “quite clearly. While I was drinking my wine.”

  “Precisely,” said Levoreth.

  The advent of an enormous trifle, borne by several staggering servants, prevented the conversation from going any further. A collective, drawn-out sigh was heard from the other members of the high table who had been attending the exchange the duke and his niece. Old biddy Clummian, who was standing on her seat down at the second table, snorted in disappointment.

  Levoreth looked out across the hall. Ierlings, Hydres smelling of sheep, flaxen-haired Meyrtts and their Wendish cousins. Mallets, Feorlins, Farlins, Ealu Fremman and his six sons. Munucs—pious to a fault, every one of them—solemn Murnans, old biddy Clummian who knew every bit of gossip there was to be had in Andolan and was never loath to pass it along. Sceohs, fat Wynn the cobbler, merry Elpendbans, and the dour Hyrian family. They were all crowded elbow to elbow, eating, drinking, talking, laughing, arguing, red-faced and cheery in the candlelight.

  Dolan.

  Her people—if something like that could be said. Her heart turned over in her chest. They were a stubborn lot, set in their ways and determined not to see beyond the ends of their noses. But that same quality was also what kept Dolan strong and rooted in the Mearh Dun, right on the edge of the cold north and bounded by the dangerous beauty of the Mountains of Morn.

  Levoreth sat on the windowsill of her room later that night and brushed out her hair. Lights shone in the village clustered around the castle. She could smell wood smoke in the air. Two years away. Perhaps she was losing her touch. Falling asleep all the time and dreaming about the past. Dozing off during the day. Getting into ridiculous arguments with the duke in front of half the town. How mortifying! She smiled.