by Terry Brooks
“You’d have to pay well,” Shea said at once. “More than you’ve probably been asked to pay before.”
The newcomer smiled. “An excellent riposte. Well done, young Shea. Are you ready or not?”
“Stop all that whispering and play the game!” the dock marshal snapped. “Chat with the boy later, if you admire his company so much.”
The woman slid off the newcomer like a sheet of silk and onto Shea, wrapping herself protectively about him. Her deep-auburn hair tumbled over his shoulders and brushed his face. The boy went rigid all over at the touch of her body enfolding his, and his eyes fixed on the newcomer. “She’s awfully close,” he whispered. “Can you ask her to move?”
The man smiled once more. “Cross the room to the doors leading to the street,” he replied. “When things start to get rough, as I think they will, I will signal you with a raised arm. When I do, scream Fire! as loud as you can. Fire! Scream it. Then throw open the doors and step away from them at once.”
“If I do that,” the boy replied, eyeing the newcomer, “I’ll lose my job.”
The other smiled. “I don’t think so. But if you do, I’ll give you a new one. With better pay.”
He reached into his pocket and produced a leather pouch. The boy could tell by the bulge of its contents that it was chock-full of credits. A second windfall in one month, he thought—and this one perhaps larger than the one resulting from his encounter with the black-cloaked grandfather. Still, he hesitated.
“Just shout Fire and nothing more?”
“And step clear of the doors.”
“Are you playing or not?” the purported assassin demanded, sharp eyes fixed on them.
“I’ve been watching you,” the newcomer said to Shea, a hint of urgency in his voice. “You’re a sharp young lad. A better future than this awaits you. A richer future. Take a chance, and don’t disappoint me.”
Seelah slid off the boy’s back and onto the shoulders of the newcomer once more. Her eyes had turned a curious fragmented gold and green, and they glittered like gemstones as they watched him.
Shea accepted the bag and tucked it away. “I won’t,” he managed.
The entire conversation had taken no more than a minute, and no one had heard a word save the newcomer and the boy. Shea backed away into the crowd and then moved off as if to fulfill whatever errand had been entrusted to him. Behind him the game resumed. Everything returned to the way it had been before—as if time had stopped for a few moments and then started up again. Yet Shea Ohmsford knew something important had happened, even if he had no idea yet what it was.
At the very least, he was about to make a change in his life, and he had to hope it was a change for the better.
He edged his way through the crowd of men and women, sidling past the gaming tables until he had reached the entry. Once there, he positioned himself by the closed doors and waited, a rush of expectation surging through him, wondering what would happen next.
For long moments, nothing did. He waited patiently, on edge for the disruption the newcomer had promised, with one eye on the table and the other on the closed doors. The minutes passed. He found himself wondering just what it was he thought he was doing. What did he know about this man and his…his creature? Neither one might be anything like what he thought them to be. This was dangerous ground he was treading, allowing himself to become involved in a scheme that could very easily get him killed. He was violating his own rule about avoiding such situations, even if he was a child of the streets and used to such risks. The credits mattered, but not at the cost of his life. He resisted the urge to look around the room and see if anyone noticed what he was doing, just standing there. Someone must, he reasoned. He began to feel self-conscious about his presence and his inactivity, and then he began to worry that some other patron would summon him and he would have to find a way to ignore them without calling attention to himself.
Then all of a sudden he noticed that Seelah was no longer clinging to the newcomer. She had disappeared.
He glanced hurriedly about the room, searching for her, but she was nowhere in sight. He had not seen her go. Nor, apparently, had anyone else. Or if they had, they were not remarking on it or responding in any way. Everyone’s attention seemed to be somewhere else.
A moment later the round ended, and the newcomer gathered up his credits, shoving them into his pockets as he rose. Instantly the other men began shouting at him, their accompanying gestures expressing their displeasure. Even from across the room, Shea Ohmsford could tell they were not going to permit the newcomer to take his winnings and leave without giving them a further chance to win them back.
From their positions against the wall, a few of the big men who served the establishment as peacekeepers stirred to life. The dock marshal was on his feet now, too, blocking the newcomer’s way. The other two men were starting to rise with him. A knife blade glimmered in the assassin’s hand.
The newcomer’s arm shot upward, his closed fist opening to release dozens of tiny fireflies that scattered everywhere, their tiny bodies glowing a brilliant white against the gaming room’s backdrop of shadows and smoke and gloom.
An instant later the fireflies burst into explosions of flame.
“Fire!” Shea Ohmsford cried out.
Men and women were already overturning tables and chairs and surging for the exits. Shouts and screams filled the Sticky Wicked, bodies slamming up against one another and the furniture and walls as patrons and servers alike sought to escape. Bits of fire tumbled from the ceiling, and the room was in chaos.
As the gambler had instructed, Shea threw open the doors to allow for easy flight, thinking as he did so that the other had been right—none of this was his fault or was likely to get him fired. He just barely managed to get out of the way as the first members of the surging crowd reached the entry and disappeared into the night. Outside the building, passersby were gathering, trying to see what was happening, heads turning and people slowing to gawk, hampering the escape of those inside and adding to the general confusion.
Across the room, the four Pickroll players were all moving. The boy caught a glimpse of the assassin’s blade as it was thrown, but it was the dock marshal the knife struck. He grunted at the impact and charged the assassin in response. The military man was calling for help in restoring order, his voice booming out. But no one was paying attention and no one was stopping, military or otherwise.
The newcomer had backed away from the table and was moving across the room toward Shea. But the dock marshal and the assassin both saw what he intended, and instantly broke apart to come after him with long knives in hand.
What they might have done if they had caught up to him would forever remain a subject of speculation, because before either pursuer could manage to lay hands on the newcomer a massive form sprang up from out of nowhere—seemingly from the floor itself—to intercept them. A moor cat of enormous size filled the space separating the pursuers from the pursued, all bristling fur and wide-spread jaws, teeth gnashing as it roared, great claws tearing at the wooden floorboards. Another man might have tried to face it down, but neither of these two cared to try. With cries of mingled fear and anger, the dock marshal and the assassin began scrambling for the protective barrier of the serving counter.
Within seconds they had disappeared into the kitchen, and the moor cat had vanished. And just as suddenly the newcomer was beside Shea, taking his arm and steering him out the door and into the night.
“Now, that was exciting, wasn’t it?” He shouted to be heard above the din of the crowd surging now through the streets. He glanced at the boy. “You handled your part perfectly. I was right, wasn’t I? You won’t lose your job over anything that happened tonight. You’re a quick and willing lad. I’d like to hire you for something more.”
They stumbled ahead, the man turning him toward the docks.
Shea broke free of the grip on his arm and began walking on his own, keeping slightly apart. “I’ll at least listen to your offer, but let’s settle up on tonight’s work first. Is your promise of a better job and a richer future still good?”
The newcomer laughed. “Of course! I always keep my promises.”
“You’d be the first,” the boy muttered under his breath as they disappeared into the shadows of the buildings and hurried on toward the docks.
* * *
—
Their passage through the lower end of Varfleet was swift and silent. They kept to the seclusion of back alleys and side streets, and when they were almost to the water Shea’s companion turned to him.
“Do you have somewhere to go tonight?”
Shea hesitated, uncertain where this was leading. “I have a place to sleep, if that’s what you mean.”
Though what he had was the back room of an inn that was mostly used for storage but contained a bed he was allowed to sleep in as payment for sweeping out the front rooms and cleaning up the trash each morning. But that was for him to know and not this stranger.
“Come with me. I have a bed for you and we can talk a bit about your new job.”
The boy shook his head. “I don’t need it. I have my own place.”
“A place known to the gaming house owner and soon to be known by those men who will start to put two and two together.”
“They’re not that smart. I wasn’t doing anything odd. They won’t even remember me.”
“They’ll remember you were the last one who talked to me and want to find out if you know anything. No, you shouldn’t go back tonight. Come with me.”
Shea frowned. The offer troubled him. This gambler was too quick to want him close. “I don’t even know your name.”
The man laughed. “Well, you ought to know a man’s name before you agree to work for him. I’m Rocan Arneas.”
Shea had never heard the name, but he nodded in response without making any further effort to follow the man. “I don’t know.”
He was thinking of the bag of credits in his pocket and the long knife strapped to his ankle. It didn’t pay to be careless in the Dock District. Rocan Arneas seemed sincere, but you could never be sure. Shea hadn’t survived on his own for this long by being foolish, and he wasn’t about to abandon the habit now for the promise of a few more credits.
Then again, the lure of additional credits kept him from disappearing into the night. Like anyone in need, he could be tempted.
Rocan had moved over to stand close to him, and Shea realized he was not as big as he had appeared earlier. He was sturdy but not tall, and solid rather than large.
“I live right here,” he said, gesturing to the building behind him. “Doesn’t look like much on the outside, but that’s to prevent those who might wish me harm from finding me.”
“Like those men tonight.”
“They’re not too happy with me just about now, even though they have no reason for it. I took their credits in a game of chance—one I just happen to be better at playing than they are. But that doesn’t change things. There are others, too—men of even worse dispositions and intentions. So I try not to let them know where I sleep.”
“But you’re telling me. And you barely know me.”
Rocan nodded. “Listen to me, Shea Ohmsford. I was serious before. I have work for you, if you want it. I will pay you well. I saw the way you worked the room—a boy with sharp eyes who takes everything in and makes up his own mind. I have uses for those skills. Don’t misjudge my intentions and don’t disappoint me in my evaluation of you.”
Shea pulled a face. “When you’ve got no one, you’ve got to be good at looking after yourself. If I trip up, no one’s going to pick me up and put me back on my feet.”
“I understand that well enough. We’re not so different, you and I.”
Shea thought it unlikely, but gave him a nod, anyway. “So what sort of use do you have for me?”
“I need someone to scout out the gaming halls I might want to play in. It’s not always wise for me to go in ahead of time, so I need someone else for that. Someone to get the lay of the land, so to speak. Someone to make a judgment on the character and appearance of a place and then report on what they’ve seen. A boy like you can do this and not be noticed. You’re sharp enough, and I judge you to be honest. What do you think?”
“I think you might have trouble with appearing in any gaming hall in all of Varfleet after tonight. Word gets around.”
“Which is why we are leaving Varfleet and going elsewhere. Another city might prove safer for the time being. And my skill at gaming tends to work better in places where I am not known.”
Shea froze. Leave Varfleet? Leave his home—the only home he had ever known?
“But don’t they know you everywhere by now? How long have you been doing this?”
Rocan Arneas gave him a look. “If you come inside, I will be happy to tell you. I have an aversion to speaking of private matters in public places.”
The boy looked around. They were deep down a side street with no lights and no sign of another living soul. He felt uncomfortably vulnerable. Still, he understood the reason for cautious practices in a city like Varfleet.
He shrugged. “All right. If you think you can behave yourself.”
Rocan gave him a wry look. “I think I can manage that.”
He took Shea farther along the building to a heavy metal door inset into a stone-block wall and flush to its rough surface. There were no windows and no signs of a lock or handle. Shea studied it a moment, then looked at his companion. “How do you get in?”
Rocan grinned. “That’s the point.”
He walked along the wall for perhaps a dozen yards, Shea following, to where a series of metal spikes protruded along the length of an attached drainpipe. He pulled on several of them in turn. When he finished, the door opened.
“Built it myself,” he said, walking back to the boy. “I have talents other than gaming. Some of them are rather useful.”
Shea was impressed. In spite of his misgivings, he wanted to know more about this man. He started through the open door and then stopped, remembering.
“Where’s Seelah?” he asked, looking around. “What happened to her?”
Rocan Arneas clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Another mystery. Where did she go? She was behind us for a while, watching our backs. Didn’t you notice?”
Laughing softly, he guided Shea Ohmsford through the doorway and into what the boy hoped was not a mistake.
EIGHTEEN
When Tarsha woke again, the day was dark and threatening, clouds washing across the sky and mounding up on the horizon to form huge banks. The air smelled of rain, and she could tell a storm was on the way. She lay in her bed for long moments, trying to remember what had happened to put her there. She knew she had risen at some point and gone outside, but what…
She caught herself, the memories flooding back.
Tavo.
She had gone outside when she’d heard his voice. She had tried to reason with him. She had tried and failed. He was beyond reason, and he had attacked her. Using the magic of his wishsong, he had struck out at her. He had tried to hurt her, overpowering her with the strength of his violence. She had fought back against him because he had given her no choice, but she was no match for him.
In the end, her defenses had been smashed and she had fallen, battered and broken.
And after that, nothing.
But she knew one thing for certain now. He had tried to kill her.
Yet she was still alive. It did not seem possible. She looked about with bleary, unfocused eyes. She was back in her bedroom. Clizia must have brought her here and put her to bed. The old Druid woman must have fought off Tavo or intervened to save her life. She had been quick to tell Clizia to
stay out of it, that this was her battle to fight, her life and Tavo’s to reconcile.
It was a bad decision. She had clearly not been up to the task.
She wondered if it was the same day or another.
She tried to rise and couldn’t. Her limbs were leaden and her willpower sapped so completely she could not make herself move. At first, she was certain she was mistaken and this was just an aftereffect of her struggle with her brother. But several tries later she found that nothing had changed. She wanted to rise, but her body would not obey her. She was completely limp and helpless.
Her capacity for reasoning was likewise impaired, but she knew something had been done to her beyond what might have resulted from her battle with Tavo. She did not feel any pain and she could sense her body parts. She was not crippled or broken. She simply couldn’t make herself move.
Instinct nudged her into concluding that, since this wasn’t the result of something Tavo had done, Clizia must have caused it. Again, she heard Drisker speaking to her in his spirit form, warning her against the old woman, telling her she was dangerous and would use Tarsha if she could.
“Clizia,” she hissed softly, the sound barely recognizable in her ears.
Within seconds, Clizia Porse was there, entering the bedroom swiftly and taking a seat next to her on the bed. “Awake at last,” she observed with a thin smile.
“What…have you…done to me?”
The old woman shrugged one shoulder. “What I had to, to save your life. Your brother wanted to kill you, so I convinced him to spare you long enough to serve other purposes. A lie, of course. He thinks I can help him improve his magic, and I let him believe this as a way to keep him under control. I had to agree to give you a potion that would keep you immobile in order to convince him I was not trying to find a way to help you escape him—which I am, naturally. Then he agreed that he needed to rest. I used a spell to put him to sleep, and there he remains for the present.”