The Sorcerer's Ascension (The Sorcerer's Path)

by Brock Deskins

  The pungent concoction convinced him to climb out of his hole and find out what Bran and Andrea had been up to lately. Azerick crossed the market square and saw that the bald baker was back in business, thanks largely in part to the success of their counter-rumors proclaiming his innocence in the matter.

  He spotted Bran’s tall form moving through the crowd and noticed that his older friend was not moving with the careful grace that would indicate he was looking for a mark to pickpocket. In fact, his normally carefree face was shadowed with a look of concern. Azerick wondered if he had gotten into some trouble recently.

  Despite the fact that it did not look as though Bran was currently working the crowd, years of habit caused Azerick to move smoothly and quietly up to Bran’s side instead of shouting to get his attention.

  Bran realized Azerick was by his side before his friend had a chance to say anything. “Azerick, have you seen Andrea in the last couple of days?”

  Azerick sensed the tension in Bran’s voice and instantly knew something was not right. “No, I was going to ask you where she was. I have not seen her since the last time all three of us were together a few days ago.”

  Bran’s lips disappeared into a thin line as he clamped his mouth closed. “Damn it!”

  “I am sure she is all right. Maybe she got a job or something and has been busy.” Bran glared at Azerick, both knowing it was unlikely. “You’re right, I was just hoping. Have you gone to her house?” Azerick asked, already knowing the answer to that question too.

  Bran shook his head. “Naw, you know her old man and I don’t get along.”

  “I think we need to though.”

  “Yeah, let’s go.”

  The two young men walked to the docks district toward the rows of shacks mostly owned by fishermen that often spent weeks and months at sea. They were shabbily-built and intended primarily as temporary shelters just to keep them through the winters until the ships sailed out once more. Andrea’s father, when he did manage to sober up enough to work, usually managed to attach himself to a fishing boat hauling in nets or unloading cargo from the merchant ships. He was one of the few people that made Sailor’s Row his year-round home.

  Azerick and Bran approached the house, which was little more than a one room fishing shack with a small iron stove used to cook and fight off the many drafts that found its way in through the single-ply walls and the winter chill.

  Azerick knocked on the door while Bran stood behind him. He had to knock three more times before they heard the sound of movement within. Azerick could already smell the alcohol fumes before Andrea’s father jerked the door open with a scowl on his face.

  His scowl deepened when he saw who had interrupted his breakfast, which sloshed about in the bottle in his hand only half finished.

  “What do you two vermin want?” he demanded through squinted eyes.

  Azerick ignored the barb as he physically recoiled from the fumes that erupted from the man’s mouth. “We are looking for Andrea, is she here?”

  “No,” he replied and began swinging the door shut.

  The slovenly drunkard glared as Azerick blocked the door with his foot. “We have not seen her for a few days. When was the last time you saw her?”

  “Huh, I thought she’d been with you little pukes.” A lewd grin spread across the man’s grizzled face. “Maybe she finally made herself useful and whored herself out. Outta make a good bit of coin if that one ain’t ruined her already,” he slurred as he looked pointedly as Bran.

  Before Azerick could issue a retort, Bran’s fist sailed over Azerick’s shoulder, past his ear, and smashed into the foul-mouthed man’s nose sending a spray of blood across his face. Andrea’s father reeled backwards from the blow, dropping the half-finished bottle of cheap booze on the floor next to several empties.

  Bran shoved violently past Azerick into the shack after the staggering drunk, murder clearly evident in his eyes. The tall lad hit the surprised man twice more, sending him sprawling backwards onto the floor. He reached down, grabbed one of the empty bottles by the neck, and broke it against the stove in the corner before lunging toward the fallen man’s throat with the razor-sharp edge.

  Azerick and Bran both liked Andrea, but Bran’s affection was of a different sort, a kind that went deeper than mere friendship though neither of them had really spoken of it directly. Bran was going to kill her father for what he said, but Azerick could not let him do that. Not because Andrea would be particularly upset at the matter, but because Azerick knew Bran was not a killer, not like himself.

  Azerick knew what it was like to kill a man. He knew what it did to a person’s soul, and he felt he was a harder sort than Bran was. Bran had a light heart and gentle nature. Azerick did not want to see that destroyed in an act of rage like his had been. He grabbed his friend by the wrist just before Bran was able to bring the bottle across the vile man’s throat.

  “No, Bran, don’t! He is not worth the cost,” Azerick shouted, barely able to restrain his friend.

  Bran turned and looked at Azerick’s pleading eyes before dropping the broken bottle and standing up.

  “If you ever say anything like that about her again, nothing will keep me from killing you,” Bran warned Andrea’s father in a strained voice before spitting in the man’s face and kicking him in the jaw.

  Azerick had to walk quickly to keep up with Bran as he practically ran from the house, needing to put as much distance between himself and Andrea’s father as he could. Azerick knew that Bran’s violent reaction was only partly due to her father’s vile words. The other part was what his ignorance of her whereabouts portended.

  “Don’t worry, Bran, we’ll find her,” Azerick swore.

  Bran surprised Azerick by spinning about, grabbing Azerick by the front of his shirt, and shoving his back against one of the rough-boarded shacks. “How are we going to do that? You know those gods-be-damned slavers got her!” He shouted, tears streaming freely down his face.

  Azerick wanted to deny Bran’s angry assertion but he knew he would be lying to them both. “We’ll still find her. If she is still in the city, we will find her, free her, and make them pay.”

  “How are we going to find her? The King has men who do nothing but look for slavers within the kingdom, and he can’t find most of them much less stop them. Hell, he can’t even keep his own nobles from buying them right in front of his face!”

  “I do not know, Bran, but I will find a way,” Azerick replied.

  Actually, Azerick had an idea and was now putting that into effect now that the sun had gone down and those who were most active at that time was out. He darted from shadow to shadow keeping a sharp lookout for two types of people, the ones he was looking for, and the ones that might be looking for him, or at least the category he fell into that made him their prey.

  It was past midnight when he finally found one of the people he was looking for. Azerick was not exactly on friendly terms with the men he sought and needed to be very careful in his approach. He crept as quietly as he could toward the man standing at the darkened corner of a building appearing to be doing nothing, but Azerick knew he was working, on what was anyone’s guess.

  Azerick got within ten yards of the man before he felt the tip of the knife poke through his thin shirt and drew a bead of blood that tickled as it left a red trail down his side. Azerick cursed under his breath. The ease with which the man had snuck up behind him reminded him that he was little more than a glorified street rat and not a real thief like the man now digging his blade into his side unless Azerick found a master to train him, and not being a guild member, likely never would. He would never learn to move so silently and wrap the shadows around his form with the perfection of a real thief.

  “Three seconds,” the man growled.

  “I need to speak to Andrill,” Azerick replied without hesitation.

  “I don’t think he wants to speak to you.”

  “Braxis, please, it is urgent. I need his help, and I need it f
ast,” Azerick told the Night Raven lieutenant.

  “Andrill does not like the idea of you being around the guild house.”

  “Then ask him to meet me somewhere he feels comfortable,” Azerick said in exasperation.

  Braxis could tell that whatever the boy needed was important, possibly valuable. He removed the point of his knife from the young man’s back.

  “All right, go to the Salty Sailor and wait. Someone will tell you whether Andrill wants to talk to you or to go stuff yourself,” Braxis told him.

  The thief disappeared before Azerick could even turn around. He looked back at the corner but the other man was gone as well. Azerick knew the Salty Sailor, it was the same tavern he had followed Merik from to his chapterhouse.

  Azerick quickly made his way down the dark streets, narrowly avoiding a couple men who seemed to have taken too much of an interest in him. He may not be a master thief, but those who failed to learn how to hide or lose a pursuer did not last long.

  He walked into the tavern, the noise hitting him like a physical force, and found a seat at a small table by himself. He noted the looks of more than one set of eyes following him as he sat down. Azerick knew that if one of Andrill’s men did not come for him he was going to have to run a gauntlet of potential trouble on his way out.

  He ordered watered wine from the serving woman with a few of his remaining coins, nursing it for all it was worth since he did not know how long he would be waiting. Azerick looked at the many faces about the tavern and found a few pair of eyes still watched him. Night Ravens, slavers? There was no way to tell. A good thief would not be so obvious in his observations. Slavers, if he was to hazard a guess.

  Perhaps he could follow these men and find out where they went if they were indeed slavers. Azerick discarded that plan almost immediately. His earlier encounter reminded him of the level of stealth he possessed, and slavers were a type of thief, they just stole people instead of property. He would likely wake up on a ship headed south before he knew what hit him.

  Despite his small sips, his mug was nearly empty by now. He was just coming to the conclusion that Andrill had decided he had no interest in speaking to him when three men got up from their table and walked purposely toward him.

  The men grabbed chairs and sat down without invitation, pressing Azerick between two of them while the third looked at him from across the table.

  “Don’t say a word, boy,” the man said threateningly. “All three of us is gonna get up and walk on out like we was the best of chums. You got it? If you think anyone in here is gonna come runnin’ to your rescue because you make a fuss, all it’s gonna get ya is a good thump on the noggin. Now stand up real calm-like.”

  Two men suddenly appeared behind the one that had issued the orders. “Sit your asses back down,” one of the men said, punctuating his command with a poke from a blade hidden in his hand.

  “This don’t concern you, friend,” the slaver rebutted but followed orders.

  “That’s where you’re wrong. This boy has a prior appointment with us, slaver scum. You and your girlfriends had best keep your seats for a good long while and hope we don’t find you out on the streets tonight.”

  “You got us all wrong, friend. We were just talking to the lad, that’s all. No harm in talking, is there? We needed a new cabin boy, thought maybe he’d like a job, that’s all,” the slaver replied.

  “Remember what I said, slaver. I know your faces, and I’ll be looking for you. Come on, boy, Andrill don’t like to be kept waiting.”

  Azerick slid past the slavers and fell in between the two men. They left the tavern and walked quickly down the dark streets and alleys. Azerick lost sight of the man in front of him several times when he disappeared into the shadows of a building. He was not intentionally trying to lose the young man following him but was simply moving as he always did out of a habit that became his natural form.

  “Where are we going?” Azerick asked as he exerted himself to keep pace.

  “King’s Coffer, an inn in the upper district.”

  “Why did Andrill not meet me at the tavern?”

  The man in front of him gave a snort. “Andrill don’t frequent places like the Salty Sailor. He has a higher standard that he don’t break for anyone.”

  “I am glad you came when you did, or I would probably be tied up in a sack right now.”

  “Will and I’d been watching you and them for better’n half an hour. We just wanted to see what they were going to do before we moved. It was more fun that way.” The thief spat on the ground. “Filthy slaver scum.”

  Azerick was surprised and gladdened to see that there was no love lost between the guild and the slavers. It made Andrill much more likely to help him. He had feared that the guild and slavers might have a mutual agreement of some sort. Seeing now that that was very unlikely would make his job a lot easier.

  The upper ward was nearly the entire way across town and it took over half an hour of swift walking to reach the King’s Coffer even though it stood at the nearest edge of the district. Azerick was impressed at first sight. The building was in excellent shape with fresh white paint covering the exterior and a large, shingled awning stretching across the entire front of it. Several panes of amber glass let out enough light from the interior to illuminate the porch and boarded sidewalk beneath it.

  It was crowded inside and filled with the noise of many voices but much more subdued than the raucous, obnoxious shouting that filled the common rooms of the inns and taverns that he had been at in the lower wards. Polished tables with nice chairs were scattered about the large common room, a long polished bar with clean, clear glass mugs stacked behind it served patrons sitting on the tall stools before it, while others sat at tables lit by glass fluted oil lamps; good ones with oil that did not reek of fish.

  The inn smelled of wood smoke, good food, beer, and wine that had not gone sour. The two thieves crossed the room where Azerick saw Andrill sitting with Braxis at a table in the corner.

  Andrill stood up and extended his hand. “Ah, Azerick sir, how interesting it is to meet you again. You are a little late. I hope you did not run into any trouble. The fire crews are busy enough as it is.”

  “Couple ‘a slavers were about to move in on him. Will and I set them straight,” one of the thieves answered.

  Andrill grimaced and washed out his mouth with a sip of wine as if the very mention of a slaver had left a foul taste upon his palate.

  “Mm, Azerick sir, you must try the wine,” Andrill insisted, pouring the young man a glass from a dark green bottle that rested in a silver pail full of chipped ice.

  Azerick picked up the delicate glass, brought it to his nose and sniffed it as he had seen Andrill do, and took a small sip, then a larger one. The wine left a pleasant trail of warmth from his tongue to his stomach and a slightly sweet aftertaste in his mouth.

  “How is it?” Andrill begged.

  “It is very good,” Azerick replied honestly.

  Andrill laughed as if Azerick had just told him the best joke he had ever heard. “It is good he says! My boy, that is the last winter wine, made of the finest grapes of the finest vineyard in Brightridge. The grapes for the wine must be picked within four hours of midnight on a full moon of the very last day of harvest. Marrying a beautiful and wealthy woman is good. Not dying from a stab wound is good. Even stealing the most prized treasure from your most hated rival is good. This, my boy, is divine!”

  “Precisely what I meant to say, I simply lack the vocabulary to give it justice,” Azerick returned in an attempt to save face.

  Andrill roared in laughter again, slapping the table with his palm. “Oh I am so glad I decided to ask you to join me. I knew you would not fail to be entertaining, my quick-minded young friend. However, we must eat before discussing business since I doubt this is purely a social call. Do not look so frightened, your wit and humor have already paid for your dinner, which I have taken the liberty to order. I doubt you could afford a glass of wat
er in this place.”

  As if on cue, two attractive serving women brought out large round trays with several plates laden with different meats, bowls full of potatoes cooked at least four different ways, vegetables that Azerick was helpless to identify, and three types of bread. It was a banquet that would feed a kings court and Azerick looked about to see of anyone else was going to join the three of them.

  “I must apologize,” Andrill said as the two women began loading plates up with food and setting them in front of the diners. “I imagine you are feeling a bit out of place here. I should have sent a set of finery along with my men so you could change. Do not fret. Most the people you will find here are exceedingly polite and will not stare, and the rude ones are smart enough not to, so enjoy your meal.”

  Andrill surprised Azerick with his seeming ability to read his mind. He was feeling extremely under-dressed and out of place. Just his inability to appreciate the wine properly showed how far out of his element he was, but the guild boss’s words put him at ease enough to enjoy the food. He did not know what half of the items were but every one of them was delicious.

  The three shared small talk as they ate; how Azerick was faring, how the Night Ravens were growing once more with the elimination of their arch rivals, and some of the better court gossip that was going around. Word was that Duke Ulric was increasing the number of guards under his command but few were seen on the streets with any real increase in numbers. The thieves’ guild had feared there was going to be a crackdown on their activities, but so far, nothing overt had occurred.

  Azerick finally had to push his plate away, unable to consume another bite. He had not wanted to overindulge, but he had been unable to help himself and he sensed that his obvious pleasure in the food pleased his host.

  “So, now that we have gotten the preliminaries over with, what is it that has you so concerned that you would seek me out even though you are behind on your taxes?” Andrill asked, sipping another glass of winter wine.