The Scrolls of the Ancients

by Robert Newcomb

  Some of these purported merchants of the craft were legitimate, it seemed, and some were not. Selling anything they could get their hands on, they all claimed their wares to be of the craft. But what did appear certain was that with the fall of the Royal Guard and the Directorate, there was no shortage of those now willing to take advantage of a newly curious, souvenir-hungry populace. Many citizens had become morbidly anxious to own something that smacked of magic, or its supposed connection to the fallen House of Galland. It was said that anything that had come from the looted royal palace—and had its authenticity verified—would bring nearly its weight in gold.

  Marcus looked down again at the rolled-up rug in the dilapidated wheelbarrow, thinking of what lay inside it. He had no idea whether it had come from the palace, but he was certain it was of the craft. Nothing else would glow like that—he was sure of it. And he was anxious to turn it into kisa so he and Rebecca could stop hiding and get on with their lives.

  But that was not to say he was willing to sell the scroll to the first interested party who came along. Marcus had made it clear to the man meeting them today that he was merely to give them a price, and that he and his sister were going to entertain other offers before bargaining their item away. If an offer was good today, it would also be good later, he assumed.

  Still, he remained nervous, and his palms were beginning to sweat. Reaching into his pocket, his hand found the cool, comforting handle of his knife.

  “Come on, Marcus!” Rebecca started pleading again. “It only costs one kisa, and I know you have a few in your pocket. I heard them jangling together as you walked!”

  Marcus smiled down at his sister. As he took in her dirty, tattered dress and the clubfoot that she never complained about, he felt his heart slip a bit.

  In truth he would have much preferred to carefully spend all the kisa on food. It had been a long time since he had felt the comforting weight of coins in his pockets, even if they were few in number. And acquiring them had come hard. He had been forced to lounge around almost all afternoon yesterday on a nearby street corner before finding the perfect victim to “accidentally” bump into and relieve of his coins. And after all of that, he had only come up with four.

  “Are you sure that’s what you want?” he asked. “I know it’s only one kisa. But when you buy one of those, it doesn’t seem that you get much for your money. I worked hard for these coins, you know.”

  Rebecca just gazed up at him with her big, brown eyes, giving him the forlorn look that she knew he could rarely resist.

  As she expected, Marcus finally relented.

  “All right, all right,” he said, smiling and reaching into his ragged pocket. “But only one, piglet. Do you understand?”

  Nodding gleefully, she snatched the shiny gold coin and ran over to the stand, followed by Marcus and the wheelbarrow.

  The vendor’s stall was a simple, square-roofed affair. An ancient-looking woman sat inside on a stool, taking care of her customers. A young male assistant sat beside her, tending to the wares. Dozens of small wooden cages hung from the roof and lay scattered along the countertop. As Rebecca looked them over, Marcus smiled, reminded of what a nonsensical custom this was. Not to mention a very bad investment. Still, they weren’t the only people standing here, willing to spend their kisa on what the crafty woman offered.

  Each of the cages contained a throat lark. The birds were remarkably small: three of them could usually fit into the palm of a grown man’s hand. They had presumably acquired their name because of the bright colors adorning their throats. The remainder of the bird was usually a very soft, dappled blue, although that sometimes varied. Well known for their singing voices, they were prized as house pets. As the larks danced happily about in their cages, their twittering combined to create a singularly beautiful harmony, attracting yet more of the curious to the old woman’s stall.

  Marcus smiled and shook his head as Rebecca picked out a lark of soft powder blue with a deep green throat. Satisfied, she handed the single, precious coin up to the woman on the stool. Then she took the bird, cage and all, over to where her brother was standing.

  The highly unusual, implied agreement with the vendor was that once the purchase had been made, the cage door was to be opened immediately, and the bird set free. Then the cage was to be returned to the stall.

  Everyone knew, of course, that the birds were trained to fly immediately back to the old woman, only to be caged again by her assistant to await yet another customer. But none of that mattered to the buyers. Eutracian custom said that paying to set a caged creature free, even if for only a moment, would gladden the heart and bring good luck.

  The practice had sprung up after the recent hostilities accompanying the return of the Coven. Mourners had begun freeing birds already in their possession to honor the departed souls of their loved ones, wishing them a safe journey to the Afterlife.

  Smiling from ear to ear, Rebecca gingerly opened the cage door, releasing the throat lark to the sky.

  With a short, clear call, the bird left the cage and went winging straight back to the stall, to land on the countertop. Rebecca turned back to her brother. Her eyes were wet. No one had to tell Marcus whom she had been thinking of when she had opened the cage door.

  “Do you feel better?” he asked softly.

  All she could do was nod. Then remembering her responsibility to the vendor, she hobbled back to the stall with the empty cage. Watching her go, Marcus couldn’t help but think how much he loved her—and that he would do anything to make sure that, unlike the birds in the cages, she stayed free. It was just then that his thoughts were interrupted by a deep male voice.

  “Good afternoon. Right on time, I see. I like that in a businessman. Shows proper intent, I always say.”

  Turning, Marcus took in the man’s tall, plump frame, silver hair, and expensive clothes. His name was Gregory of the House of Worth, which fit him perfectly. Gold jewelry flashed at his fingers and wrists, and a thick, white mustache lay elegantly just above the decisive mouth. His predatory eyes were dark, and seemed never to miss a thing.

  The moment Marcus had first met him, he had taken the fellow for a shrewd bargainer. After making a few polite inquiries, he had learned that Worth seemed to have an honest reputation. Still, Marcus remained nervous as he tried his best to steel himself against whatever first offer Worth might make. Even at the tender age of twelve Seasons of New Life, he knew that someone’s first proposal was never the best, and he had no intention of being taken advantage of. He also had a plan.

  With a distasteful grimace, Worth looked down at the rug lying in the wheelbarrow.

  “Perhaps I was mistaken,” he said slyly. “I didn’t come here to buy a rug.”

  “That’s good,” Marcus answered calmly, “because I didn’t come here to sell one.”

  Worth smiled. By now Rebecca had joined them, and Marcus bade her nearer.

  “Are you alone?” Marcus asked him. He realized that it was a foolish question, for Worth could have any number of confederates waiting here in the plaza to rob him, and Marcus wouldn’t recognize any of them. But he hoped the question would set a certain tone, rather than glean reliable information.

  “Of course,” Worth answered, stabbing his thumbs into the shiny, expensive vest that stretched its way around his prodigious middle. “That was our agreement, was it not?” Looking down at the rug again, he smiled, then twisted one of the ends of his mustache. “It’s in there, isn’t it?”

  Checking to see that no one stood too near to them, Marcus beckoned Worth and Rebecca closer, until they all stood crowded around one end of the rug. From this position, even if someone walked directly behind them there would be little to see.

  Slowly, carefully, Marcus removed the rags from the end of the rug, grasped the golden rod at the base of the scroll, then pulled it free a short distance. It was just enough to give Worth a taste of the glories promised within.

  Worth gasped. He had never seen such a treasu
re of the craft. To his mind it was easily worth tenfold the entire contents of his shop. The glistening, golden rod and its end knobs alone were worth a king’s ransom, to say nothing of the historical value of the elegant Old Eutracian script.

  Knowing he had succeeded in whetting Worth’s appetite, Marcus quickly slid the scroll back into the relative safety of the rug. “How much?” he asked, coming straight to the point.

  Sweating, Worth ran a pudgy index finger around the inside of his shirt collar. “Six—six thousand kisa,” he stammered.

  Marcus thought he might faint. Six thousand kisa was a huge sum—more than he might earn in an entire lifetime of honest labor. Still, he tried to retain his composure.

  “Twelve,” he said sternly. Rebecca’s eyes went wide. She was quite sure her brother had just lost his mind.

  “You just doubled your price!” Worth exploded. “That’s not how we negotiate where I come from!”

  “Then we obviously don’t come from the same place,” Marcus countered boldly. “Besides, I didn’t double my price. I never set one. I simply doubled your offer. Saves time.”

  Looking around again, he moved one corner of the rug back a bit to reveal another hint of the golden end knob, letting it shine in the sun. “You’re wasting my time, and you’re not the only artifacts vendor in Tammerland.” He looked hard up into the man’s eyes. “The price just went to fourteen.”

  “Ten,” Worth found himself saying.

  “Sixteen.”

  “Thirteen,” Worth answered, hardly believing his own bid.

  “Is that your final offer?” Marcus asked him. He began to sense resignation in the other man’s eyes.

  “I fear it must be,” Worth answered. “It is all I have.”

  “Then I shall consider it,” Marcus answered. “But as I told you before, I mean to speak to other interested parties.” After replacing the rags in the open end of the rug, he picked up the handles of the wheelbarrow.

  Worth took an anxious step forward. “But how will I know if it’s mine?” he asked urgently. His forehead was bathed in sweat.

  “I know where you work, remember?” Marcus answered. “You will hear from me. But in the meantime, I am leaving. If you ever wish to see the scroll again, you will now leave the plaza by walking away in the opposite direction.”

  Worth nodded. “But if someone outbids me, you will allow me the chance to make a better offer, will you not?” he asked desperately.

  Marcus only smiled. “Why would I bother?” he asked bluntly. “Thirteen thousand kisa is all you supposedly have, remember?”

  Marcus watched as the beaten vendor walked away. As they had planned, he and Rebecca headed the opposite way from their shack, ducked into an alley, and waited there for a long while. When they were sure they weren’t being followed, Marcus began pushing the wheelbarrow toward home, his mind roiling with the unimaginable prospect of having thirteen thousand kisa. But he also knew he was playing a dangerous game, and that his luck couldn’t last forever.

  It was just then that the scroll began to glow.

  From out of the folds of the rags at each end again came the unmistakable azure hue of the craft. Worried, he picked up the pace as fast as he could with ’Becca limping beside him. As one of the rags in the front came loose, he stole a glance up at the sky, to see that darkness was already falling.

  As the glow bled out into the coming night, it would be a miracle if someone didn’t notice.

  Grizelda, Krassus, and Janus stood together on the rooftop of the Citadel, watching the blue streaks of the gazing flame dance in the darkness of the night. Grizelda tossed a few more of the herbs stolen from Shadowood into the fire, and the viewing window in the center started to take form.

  Now that she had all of the goods she could possibly need, the only limits on her search for the scroll would be her personal endurance, and Krassus had insisted on her trying every two hours. This most recent viewing was her eighth such attempt in a row, and she was tired. Nonetheless, she did her best to persevere.

  As the viewing window came into sharper focus, it changed shape, turning into a ragged circle. From within the circle could be seen not only one of the gold end knobs of the scroll, but also what lay past it. It was apparent that the scroll was at least partially hidden, and someone was taking it through a city. But which one?

  And then, finally, Krassus saw a group of unmistakable statues. This was without doubt the Plaza of Fallen Heroes. The scroll was in Tammerland. He had done it!

  His joy at locating the scroll was quickly replaced by a sense of dread. Better that the scroll were in any city other than the one still inhabited by the wizards of the Redoubt. He knew that Wigg, Faegan, and Abbey would also be desperately trying to find it, presumably through the same methods he was employing. True, he had set their labors back by destroying those herbs and oils that he had not stolen from Shadowood, but the wizards were exceedingly clever, which meant that there was no time to lose. He turned to Janus and Grizelda.

  “The two of you are to leave for Tammerland on the first ship that can be readied,” he ordered. “Take the supplies you’ll need to continue attempting to view the scroll as often as necessary. I don’t care how you do it—just get the scroll back to the Citadel! Anchor well off the Cavalon Delta, and take a small, quiet skiff up the Sippora. Your crew must stay belowdecks, out of sight, while you are gone. Demonslavers have never been seen in Tammerland, and I wish to do this quietly, not start a riot.”

  “You will not be accompanying us, my lord?” Janus asked.

  “I cannot,” Krassus answered briskly. “Wulfgar needs my full attention, as do other matters of importance here. The return of the scroll I leave up to you. Do not fail me in this.”

  He turned on the herbmistress. “Grizelda, do not think for one moment that you will be able to escape me simply because you are out of my sight for a time. I found you once, and I can do it again. If you make me hunt you down, it won’t be to employ your talents. It will be to kill you. Slowly. Do you understand?”

  Looking back to Janus, he had another thought. “When you discover whoever has the scroll, kill him,” he added casually. “Leave no loose ends.”

  The herbmistress bowed her head in submission, while Janus nodded.

  Once the gazing flame was extinguished and Janus and Grizelda were gone, Krassus walked slowly to the edge of the roof and looked out on the Sea of Whispers. The three rose-colored moons were full, painting the sea with their palette. There was virtually no wind, and the ocean looked like a sheet of magenta-colored glass.

  Placing his hands into the opposite sleeves of his two-colored robe, he turned and descended the stairs.

  CHAPTER

  Thirty-three

  Tristan sat looking with worry at Tyranny as she lay on the sofa in her quarters. The ever-present Scars stood by her side with an equally concerned expression on his face. She had fought bravely and survived, but she had been wounded and had passed out from loss of blood. Tristan and Scars had tended to her as best they could before cleaning and bandaging Tristan’s shoulders. Then they had waited.

  It had taken some time for her to come around. Like any good captain, her first concern had been for how many of her crew she had lost. Then she inquired about the general condition of The People’s Revenge and the other two ships sailing with them.

  Their little fleet was in bad shape, Scars reported. Nearly a quarter of The People’s Revenge crew had been lost. A large number had been wounded but were still alive. Many of the sails had been ripped beyond repair, along with much of the rigging. And more than half of the ship’s spars were completely destroyed.

  The other two vessels had fared no better. Each of them was also dead in the water, drifting at the mercy of the elements. Even Tristan was by now sailor enough to know that if they were struck by a sea storm or a fleet of demonslaver ships while in this condition, they would be finished.

  Scars had ordered repairs to begin, but it would be a difficult,
incomplete job at best. They needed help. But out here, this far into the Sea of Whispers, Tristan knew there could be none.

  Tyranny sat up groggily and took a sip of the wine Tristan held out to her. Then she stabbed one of her rolled tubes of leaves between her lips and lit it from the flame offered up by Scars. Taking a deep draught of bluish smoke, she slowly blew it upward, toward the roof of the cabin.

  “What in the name of the Afterlife were those things that attacked us?” Tristan asked, unable to contain his curiosity any longer. “I have never seen anything like them.”

  Tyranny took another sip of wine, then gingerly adjusted her position on the sofa. “We call the creatures screechlings,” she told him. She took in another lungful of smoke and blew it out. “This was only the second time we have fought them. Scars named them for the horrible noise they make just before they attack. They began to prowl these waters only recently, about the same time the demonslavers started taking their captives from Farpoint. I think the screechlings must have originated at the Citadel, but no one knows for sure. Did you see how they glowed, just before they began attacking us? That tells me they come from magic. But who of the craft would be so cruel as to create such monsters and loose them on the sea?”

  Krassus, Tristan thought. It had to be. He would have wanted something that would protect his slave ships and attack any enemies. No doubt the ability had been provided by yet another Forestallment placed in his blood by Nicholas. Tristan lowered his head and closed his eyes.

  “Are you all right?” Tyranny asked softly.

  He raised his head and looked into her eyes. “No,” he answered. “But I will be.” He took a deep breath and forced his thoughts back to the problem at hand.