“Not me,” the other said. “I’ll have one egg. You know, a grand Easterlain feast.”
“I thought a grand Easterlain feast was an empty plate.” They laughed, as did many others who couldn’t help but overhear. Dagorat clenched his fists and glared at the strangers darkly. Frostbite at their throats would shut them up.
Cyril’s schoolmaster face returned. “Don’t even think about it. I know that look on your face. Let the frost leopard sleep. You may give away our true identities.”
“Aren’t you tired of these damned Mentirians and their Easterlain jokes?”
“They’re filled with false pride and ignorance. That’s the true humor.”
The clang of the triangle rang out again. Dagorat covered his ears to muffle the inevitable roar. “Flatcakes and bangers, mixy eggs and rashers!” Standing at half the height of most people, the red-haired Halfling’s voice boomed in a volume not at all proportional to her stature.
Cyril had finished his eggs and was now devouring his tater cakes, much to the frustration of his “servant.”
“There’s a jewelsmith down the street. Perhaps we can have a ring made so you can propose either to your breakfast or to Lilly.” Dagorat studied Cyril for his reaction.
A red flush formed on Cyril’s cheeks as he glanced up from his breakfast. Dagorat folded his arms and leaned forward. “Now that I have your attention, let’s talk. There’s enough noise to mask what you say.”
“Very well, we’ll talk about the runes,” Cyril said in a low voice.
“So, the runes offered a one-word answer? Theft?”
“More than that, really. Imagine the word ‘theft’ being written in letters as tall as our home, along with a multitude of people screaming it in unison.”
“So…something more than silver spoons stolen from some rich bloke’s house.”
“Quite right.” Cyril leaned back and sipped his tea. “This theft affects many…and you.”
“Me?” Dagorat cocked his head.
“Even though you’ve never fully developed your Mage-Sense, it surfaced today to give warning. You know you are going to be affected in some way. Perhaps both of us. Whether for good or ill, I cannot say.”
Despite Cyril’s soothing tone, his words rang hard as steel. How could this theft affect him in a good way? It could only be a sinister business. A warning from one’s Mage-Sense meant an inescapable fate of some sort. Would he lose an arm? His life? Cyril? Spend his remaining days in a dank, dirty prison?
“Sunny eggs and porridge oats!”
Dagorat winced again. Can’t even think straight when she’s working. He surveyed the area, chiding himself for letting his mind wander. A patron in the opposite corner caught his attention. He had never seen the man before, but noted his crisp, new clothes. While pretending to peer through a window, he observed the stranger through the slits in his cowl. The stranger’s hand shook when he added sugar and stirred his tea. He peeked at Cyril several times, but also darted a few glances around the tavern, as if taking in his surroundings. All right, then. Probably new in town.
“On to Abernathy’s. He should be open by the time we get there.” Cyril swigged a final gulp of tea. “Let’s go through Bister Square. Maybe we’ll pick up some news on the way. There should be a sizable crowd near the merchant wagons.”
Outside, Dagorat peered around the area. Two acolyte monks, clothed in tan cowls and brown robes, browsed at the window of a nearby shop. “You don’t see many of them casually roaming about.” He tilted his head toward them. “Wait a moment.” Dagorat observed the monks for a moment, but they were engrossed in the shop’s display. They never so much as peeked at Dagorat and Cyril.
“Bound to run into all sorts on a day like this,” Cyril said with a twitch of his shoulders. He spun around to head toward the crowds in the nearby market. Master and “servant” marched through the streets; Dagorat kept his hood up to obscure his face.
They made their way to Bister Square, a noisy, bustling place packed with farmers, craftsmen, and food vendors all barking about their wares. Delivery boys scurried about, people haggled with the vendors, coins clinked, and the aromas of tasty treats filled the air. Street performers competed with the vendors for attention. Jugglers, stilt-walkers, puppeteers, bards, and magicians appeared, all dressed in bright clothes with catchy patterns. An endless parade of happy faces met their probing eyes. Dagorat listened intently to all the voices around him. In all the din of revelry, there wasn’t even a whisper about a great theft.
A scowl grew on Cyril’s face. “What did you say before? All too normal.”
Dagorat pointed across the square. “Some of the shops are opening.”
“Good. Let’s get through to Abernathy’s.”
They bumped and squeezed through the crowd. A trumpet blared nearby. Dagorat stiffened, then pivoted to find the musician. There. The man’s pasty white make-up and shimmering costume of multicolored diamond patches screamed as loudly as his trumpet. A blue vein on Cyril’s temple pulsed. “Infernal dullard.”
A man next to the trumpeter jumped onto a barrel in a bid for attention. “Gather ’round and see the magician Blackfang the Great! Watch as his magic makes rabbits and doves appear and disappear before your eyes!” The pitch attracted some curious on-lookers. Behind the announcer, a tall, stout man in obnoxious purple robes – presumably Blackfang – bowed to the gathering crowd with a flamboyant flourish.
Dagorat forced a peek at Cyril and found the angry expression he’d expected. “It’s the Solstice. You should expect things like this.”
“Hmmph! Magician, my foot! There’s no magic in anything he’s doing; it’s all sleight-of-hand, tricks and nonsense. He’s a performing prestidigitator and nothing more.” Cyril thumped his staff on the cobblestone street.
Blackfang’s pants fell, a rabbit scurried away and several white birds flapped their wings and escaped. The “magician” turned beet red. Pants still around his ankles, he stumbled back into his wagon, cursing over the crowd’s peals of laughter.
“Let’s go,” Cyril said. He stormed away and Dagorat followed. The noise of the crowd faded as the pair approached the bookshop. Old Abernathy must have been watching the street from his window, because he burst through the door and hurried toward Cyril. The shopkeeper reminded Dagorat of a crane. His spectacles made his eyes appear too large for his thin face.
“Master Cyril, I’m so glad to see you.” He made an extravagant Mentirian bow and beamed ear to ear. “Wait ’til you hear the news.”
They froze, staring at Abernathy, hanging on his next words.
“Just yesterday, I acquired a copy of Korak’s treatise on the people of the Red Desert.”
Not again. Dagorat huffed a heavy breath.
“Excellent, Master Abernathy.” Cyril put on a false smile to cover his disappointment. “So little is known about that place. I must see it.” The two disappeared into the shop.
Dagorat waited outside, as befitted a servant. He peered in through the window. A group of well-dressed men gathered near the center of the store, sipping tea and laughing. These must be the people Cyril had mentioned earlier, competing over who had the best news.
In a reflection on the glass, he caught sight of two acolyte monks milling about on the opposite side of the square. He turned away from the window, and peered at them through the slits in his cowl. They had the same height, weight, and postures of the two he had seen earlier near the tavern. Are they following us? Only one way to find out; he’d force them to make a move.
His pulse quickened as he meandered in front of Abernathy’s, trying to maintain a casual air. Gradually, he extended the pattern, passing the bookshop and stopping in front of the tobacconist’s. He found a spot where several vendors’ wagons broke the line of sight between himself and the monks. Now they’d need to move about five paces to their right and ten yards closer to keep observing him.
The monks emerged from behind one of the wagons, stopped short, and pretended to
converse. Their new point of observation broadcast their intention. But why hadn’t they made a move against him yet?
When he and Cyril had first arrived in Mentiria, Dagorat spent weeks wandering the streets of their quarter, making mental notes of all its alleys and niches. He used those memories now to calculate the best escape route. Sheep Street lay nearby, and provided a better strategic choice for an escape. It had no side passages and sloped upward for the first hundred yards away from Bister Square. The slope crested at a tailor’s shop before descending. Good, he thought. They’d be ten feet higher than anyone entering the street from the square. A higher vantage point offered a clear view, and the crest gave him and Cyril precious time out of sight once they passed the tailor’s. Yes, Sheep Street would do nicely.
Dagorat drifted back to the bookshop and strolled inside, where tall rows of dusty bookcases dwarfed him. He made his way through the labyrinthine aisles to the shopkeeper’s desk. Abernathy chattered away with his usual small talk as he wrapped Cyril’s new book. Using one of their pre-arranged phrases for trouble, Dagorat asked Cyril, “Just the one book, sir? Or shall we expect a delivery later?”
Cyril darted a startled glance at him. “Just this one,” he said. “Thank you, Master Abernathy, but we must be going.” His voice wavered with tension.
The shopkeeper bowed, and the two wound their way back through the maze, feigning normalcy. They paused near the door. “What happened?” Cyril asked.
“Those monks near the tinker’s wagon.”
Cyril peeked through the glass. “They’re the same ones we saw near the tavern. Assassins?”
“I don’t know. Let’s get back to the house. If they’re after us, we can put up a better fight from there.”
“Don’t you have your dirk?”
“Yes, but they might have something better under those robes. I’ve got a plan.” He paused, and then had a sudden thought. “Or you could cast a sleep spell on them.”
“An unprovoked attack on two monks in the middle of Bister Square? With that crowd around? They’d stomp us flat.”
“All right. Then it’s time for a little deception. Let’s go.”
Together, they exited the shop. Cyril headed right, the shortest route home.
“No, Cyril. This way. We’ll take Sheep Street.” His friend wouldn’t second guess him. Runes and magic were Cyril’s strength, but stealth and strategy were Dagorat’s domain. They passed by the tobacconist’s and turned onto Sheep Street. “When we get to the top of this hill, stop at the tailor’s window.” Cyril responded with a stiff dip of his chin.
Stopping as planned, they pretended interest in the shop window. Dagorat peered through the fine slits in the side of his hood. The acolytes had advanced about twenty yards into Sheep Street. “Time to throw them off. Start talking and pointing like you’re giving me orders.”
Although his hands had a slight flutter, Cyril managed to do as directed. Almost.
“No, not at me. Point like you want me to head east.”
The mage complied.
“Now take the book from me, and keep walking. Don’t rush. Try to act casual.”
Now heading downhill, the two approached the Ales and Tales pub. “Good, we’re out of sight for a bit,” Dagorat said. “There’s a niche for deliveries at the pub. I’ll head in there, and you go home. Main streets only. No alleys or shortcuts.”
“Ah,” the mage replied in a strained voice, “the old Ales and Tales. We haven’t been there in a while.”
“If all goes well, we’ll have a pint and hear some merry tunes tonight.”
Even on the Solstice, the Ales and Tales wasn’t open in the daytime, ensuring a lack of prying eyes. Dagorat removed his cloak, trotted past Cyril, and slipped into a recess just wide enough for a wagon. Tucked in the niche, Dagorat arranged himself under the cloak. There he surveyed the street through the side of his hood. The dumbfounded expression on Cyril’s face when he peeked into the nook told Dagorat his specially stitched cloak had been worth the price.
“How does he do that?” Cyril mumbled as he strode by.
The stitching on the reverse side of the cloak had disguised Dagorat as a pile of wooden scraps. He remained still until the acolytes passed, then counted to twenty, to allow him to follow at a safe distance. On the verge of standing up and switching his cloak to black again, he spied another figure coming into view – the man with the crisp new clothes who had been in the Sword and Anvil earlier. What was he doing here?
He let the stranger pass by, then stood and reversed his cloak. Dagorat followed them all around a corner onto Bardwell Terrace, where they fast approached an alley. With a quickened pace, he seized the opportunity to catch up with the trailing man. His hand reached up his sleeve and grabbed Frostbite’s carved leopard handle.
Up ahead, Cyril stopped to glance in a store window, acting casual as Dagorat had suggested. The monks also halted, and so did the stranger.
Perfect! You’re involved in this business too, aren’t you? Dagorat closed the gap, clapped a hand over the man’s mouth from behind and dragged him into the alley. There, he pushed him hard into a brick wall. The stunned man could do nothing as Dagorat brought Frostbite to his neck. “One move or one sound, and I’ll cut your throat wide open,” he growled. How easy to slide back into his former profession. “C’mon, behind the cart.”
He wrestled his prey over to the cart along the opposite side of the alley, where they were concealed from view. “On your knees.” Once the stranger complied, Dagorat pressed his weight against him to pin his shoulders and face to the wall.
“T-t-take my purse. Whatever you want, take it!”
“I’m not interested in your money.” Dagorat yanked the man’s head back, and then thrust his face hard against the bricks again. “Why are you following me?”
“I’m not following you. I-I-I don’t even know you.”
“Liar.” Dagorat moved the point of the dirk close to the stranger’s eye. “You’ve been following me and Cyril since this morning.”
“Yes, we’ve been following Cyril, b-b-but not you.”
“We?” Dagorat paused. “So you are with those monks. I’m Cyril’s guardian. Threaten him and you threaten me.” He brought Frostbite to the stranger’s throat.
“They’ll do no harm, I swear. I must say,” the man gibbered, “that you do conduct your services fa-fa-faithfully, and w-with great talent, I might add.”
“Why are you following Cyril?”
“I need to see him. A matter of grave importance.” The stranger took a deep breath. “I need to catch him at home b-because I dare not approach him on the streets. I can’t be seen with a mage in public.”
“Why didn’t you go to Cyril’s home and arrange an appointment?”
“I tried, but I was too late. I turned the corner and saw him enter the tavern with you.”
“Cyril’s business is my business. Now tell me what you want.”
The man twisted his face toward Dagorat. His eyes were wide and his lips trembled, straining to speak his next words. “A theft that could spell disaster for us all.”
Stunned, Dagorat pulled back and stared at the stranger. This had to be the news they’d been searching for all day. Cyril was right. The answer had found them.
“Don’t move,” Dagorat instructed, and removed the dirk from the man’s neck. While the stranger still had his face to the wall, Dagorat reversed his cloak and squatted on the ground. “Very well. By the time you get to Cyril’s home, he’ll be there. Now go.” He returned Frostbite back to its lair under his sleeve.
The man stood up, squinted and scanned the alley, befuddled. With a hand to his chest, his rapid breathing slowed back to normal. “I wonder where he went. How extraordinary,” he said as he scampered away.
***
Downstairs, Cyril burst in and hastily locked the door.
From the shadowed corner in his bedroom, Dagorat listened to Cyril hurry up the stairs, then watched him come into his room
and over to the window which overlooked the street. “Are they still following you?” Dagorat asked.
Spinning toward him, Cyril raised his staff in a defensive posture. “Are you trying to frighten me half to death?”
“I told you not to take any shortcuts. But I know them all.” He flashed a playful grin.
Cyril brandished his staff. “I should put this against your thick-blunt skull!”
Dagorat leaned back against the wall with his hands behind his head. “You have a consultation soon. Try to calm down and relax.”
“I’m not in the mood at this particular moment to listen to the worries of some overfed and over-privileged fat merchant whining about finding an over-sized dowry for his over-sized ugly daughter!”
“This is about a theft that could spell disaster for us all. If I’m quoting the man correctly.”
Cyril’s eyes bulged and he grabbed Dagorat’s arm. “A theft. Who told you about a theft?”
“A man.”
“What man?”
“The man who was following the monks who were following us.”
Cyril put his hands on his hips. “Is that everything?”
“All I know right now. But we’ll know a lot more in a few minutes.”
“How can we learn more in just a few minutes?”
“Because he’ll be here…in a few minutes.”
Three thuds echoed through the house. Their mysterious new acquaintance had arrived.
CHAPTER 2
THE CONFESSIONS OF BROTHER MAYNARD
CYRIL AND DAGORAT DASHED TO their places – the mage to the consultation room, and his “servant” to the main entrance. “Give me time to don a proper raiment for our visitor,” Cyril called.
Can’t play a sullen servant with this bloke after the way I introduced myself in the alley. Dagorat counted to ten before he opened the door. The wide-eyed fear written on the man’s face and the purple bruise on his forehead made him flinch. Odd. In his former life, regret had never troubled him after he roughed up and robbed the wealthy. On the contrary, their horrified faces used to make Dagorat chuckle whenever he rode off with their goods. Perhaps living the calm life with Cyril for the past three years had made him soft. “There’s no reason to be afraid. Come in and I’ll take you to Cyril.”
Storm of Divine Light Page 2