Warlord

by Katy Winter

  "Another, my friend?"

  Blinking, Bruno absently held out his tankard. When the scholar returned, Bruno was relaxed and smiling.

  "I hope Melas' children like my boy," he said contemplatively. "It's important to me that they do."

  "I see no reason why they shouldn't," replied the scholar easily. "He and Sar are much of an age, though your boy won't see much of Sar."

  "That's the lad standing at Choice, Melas tells me."

  "Yes," agreed the scholar. "They say he's very like his father and not just in looks either."

  Bruno studied the pattern on the table before he said, "The others never knew their father, did they?"

  "No, the youngest, Myme Chlo, was born after Alfar died."

  "All children need a father," Bruno said after a moment.

  "It'll certainly be novel for them," commented the scholar, likewise drinking deeply. He added, "Something troubles you, my friend." Bruno had become preoccupied, but he looked up at that and gave a half-laugh of unease.

  "What makes you think so?" he queried.

  "You seem uneasy. Are you looking for someone?" Bruno shot the scholar an accusing look.

  "Are you a wizard or something?"

  The merchant's voice was a growl and he held his tankard in a very tight grip. The scholar grinned at him. In spite of himself, Bruno's hostility vanished and he grinned affably back. Almost as quickly, the smile went. Bruno didn't speak for a while, then when he did, it was with hesitation. He clearly longed to trust someone. He stared hard at the scholar and sighed, then he spoke with an odd trace of sadness in his voice.

  "A few cycles ago," he began slowly, "two southmen came to me as contacts in my business." He looked across at the scholar, adding succinctly, "Silks and ermars." The scholar nodded. "They were Yazd, I think, but I can't be sure. They stayed in my home for some days. Each evening one of them came to chat with me. I was always left deeply tired and could never remember anything of any conversation we had." He rubbed a hand across his mouth. "It was rather unnerving, but they seemed harmless enough." The deep voice became a little unsteady. "That was until one morning they took my boy away. They were gone for a day and a half. One man came back on his own - he was courteous but adamant. I was ordered to move north to Ortok where I'd find a woman named Melas whom I'd marry. If I didn't, I'd have to watch my son die." Bruno's voice broke. He downed the last of the liquid from the tankard, slamming it down hard on the table.

  "Was Lian unharmed when he returned?"

  "I don't know what they did to him," Bruno said savagely. "Lian was always a quiet boy, but I thought his spirit was broken, though I can't swear to that. It was just my feeling. Who can really tell what they did to him? They're always about me and monitor every move we make. They know I'm here," Bruno added. His eyes were deeply troubled.

  "How do you know that?" The scholar scanned the merchant's face, seeing there trapped helplessness when Bruno shrugged.

  "They follow me," he explained. "Once, I tried to say enough. They hurt the boy. He was on his knees, begging me to do as they said. What would you do?" The scholar smiled.

  "Exactly what you're doing, my friend." Bruno's responsive smile was wan. "And you care for Melas after all, don't you?" The big man nodded immediately. "Another drink?" Bruno nodded.

  When the scholar returned, Bruno wasn't alone. A fair-haired, slender boy stood next to his father. The scholar checked when he saw him, put the two tankards on the table and went back into the inn. When he came out, he carried another tankard that he offered the boy, gesturing to him at the same time that he be seated. Lian did. He looked across at his father, with an expression that was bland and incurious. This was unusual in one so young.

  "My son Lian," said Bruno. Lian half-rose in response.

  "I'm Scholar," replied the scholar, raising his tankard as a way of greeting.

  The following conversation was desultory and centred mainly on where travels had taken father and son. As the scholar was well read he could ask leading questions, observe both Bruno and Lian all the time, but most importantly it enabled him to read Lian's mind.

  He was shocked to find so much of it blank. What appalled the scholar was that most of the boy's essence, that spark that was uniquely his, had been extracted. The scholar knew only someone of power could commit such an atrocious act and realised, with a sick feeling, that this was the reason the boy was so compliant and quiet. Lian was being allowed to live out a predestined existence, not fully alive other than emotions permitted for control of his actions. The scholar sensed an earnest desire in Lian to ensure Myme Chlo's trust in him. That gave the scholar pause.

  The scholar withdrew with a sense of deep sadness. His pity for the boy over-rode any other feeling. He couldn't look at Bruno. He concentrated on his tankard until he felt able to look at both father and son again, then, as politely as he could, he excused himself and went for a long walk, away from the city and out towards the forest.

  As the scholar walked, he realized, with a sense of dread, that only a mage could have perpetrated such cruelty to Lian. And not just a power, he reflected: only a dark malign power would extinguish the light of any living being or creature. The scholar shivered as he entered the forest. His deepening suspicions profoundly shocked him and he thought back to his last conversation with Bene, just before he left Yarilo, the Archmage's words taking on a new and sinister meaning. He walked with long strides, deeper and deeper into the gloom, his mind mulling over what he'd learned. His main concern was Myme Chlo and the vexed question of why she had to be made to trust Lian. The scholar turned to walk back the way he had come, his mind still troubling him. A vileness stalked Ambros. It was stirring. The scholar could actually sense it.

  When he left the forest, however, much of the anxiety seemed to have left him. He'd pulled out his pipe, filled it, and now puffed gently, his rapid stride slowed to a more leisurely gait. He continued to mull over the Archmage's warnings to him about Malekim eight cycles ago.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Choice was a wonderful time for children. It meant days of pleasure and excitement. It brought people from all directions, north and south, many folk come from north of Samar by skirting the huge Blenharm forest to reach Ortok, and few of them hurried. People finally settled either on the riverbank, at the base of the forest outside the city walls, or they camped on the enormous city common that stretched out like moorland and was bounded on two sides by a canal network of waterways. Folk camped along the canals as well, in fact anywhere where they could find room.

  The scholar wandered in and out of the crowds as they gathered, listening to conversations that might help him understand what could be happening. He wasn't consciously disguised, but he had the appearance of a scarecrow. His clothes, Laras informed him severely, were disreputable: his beard was ragged and his untrimmed, thick and tawny curls were hidden under a grubby black beret. He looked nondescript and unthreatening. As he walked, he listened.

  ~~~

  Since he'd arrived cycles before in Ortok, he'd followed his instructions implicitly. All knowledge of the old scholar, Bene, who'd resided there, was erased, the scholar going about his business very quietly but with business-like efficiency, the man a model of unobtrusiveness when he chose to be.

  He'd flinched upon entering Melas' mind, working as quickly as he could so that he could leave it. By the time Myme Chlo was two cycles, the scholar had no further need to enter Melas' mind. She had no memory of Bene. The scholar reflected sadly that she'd never use the talent that he saw was so plainly a part of her. No one, thought the scholar, remembered Bene, but he'd forgotten a small boy who loved the old man very deeply; Sarehl never spoke of the old man to anyone. He never asked about the old man's sudden disappearance, either, though it hurt the boy deeply.

  When the scholar looked up from his musings of the past, he found he'd wandered to the far side of the common, where there were hundreds of tents as far as the eye could see. Children were everywhere; they
ran here and there in disorganised groups, laughing, bickering, fighting and getting under foot. There was an air of jovial chaos that the scholar wouldn't have described as restful.

  People were toing and froing with merchandise for stalls being set up in the markets throughout the city, and for booths that would entice people to come and see, taste or experiment. Performers surrounded the common, prior to gathering in groups to entertain anyone who wanted to watch or listen. The scene was colourful, exciting and explosive.

  The scholar found himself in one part of the common where he could neither move forwards nor backwards. Towheaded children swarmed round him, their bare feet stamping on the trampled grass. They hung on his arms and pulled on his coat.

  "Give us coins," they begged, tugging at him. The pressure from the small grasping fingers was painful.

  "Tell me then," he responded, "where you're from."

  "The south," they chorused.

  "What city?" In reply, they tried to pull his arms down.

  "We travel," one small girl volunteered. "We're driven from our home."

  "Are you gypsies then?" The children all stepped back as one.

  "Nah," growled one. "We're southern."

  "My apologies," murmured the scholar.

  He reached into his pocket for a handful of coins that he threw negligently among the children. As the children flung themselves on the ground, brawling and snarling, the scholar turned. He was confronted by two very tall, large blond men. One of the children looked up at the men, a hand went to her mouth and her eyes filled with terror. She shrank back, calling to her friends. The other youngsters took one look at the two men and fled, coins still left scattered on the ground. The scholar stooped to retrieve them and pocketed them.

  "Who are you?" one of the men asked the scholar, a note of menace in his voice.

  "Scholar," was the polite reply. The scholar was well aware of the latent threat in both the man's voice and tensed body.

  "You are not wanted here." The scholar looked so surprised, the blond man gave a sudden laugh, but it was a display of mirth that made the scholar feel even more uncomfortable. "For bringing brats here for money," the first blond speaker added, in way of explanation when he saw the second blond man frown at him in warning.

  "Oh, aye," mumbled the scholar. "Sorry about that."

  "Do not worry," said the first blond. "I get touchy with those children constantly demanding things."

  The scholar nodded understanding, asking cheerfully, "Are you here for Choice?"

  "We are here to do business with a silk merchant," responded the second blond man, eying the scholar disinterestedly.

  "Ah," said the scholar, with instant but startled comprehension. He doffed his beret respectfully. "I hope you enjoy the fun of Choice, as well as your business."

  He turned away, easing himself back into the crowd. He quite clearly understood why Bruno was deeply apprehensive, even afraid. The meeting with the men, so coincidental, made the scholar very thoughtful indeed.

  The next day passed pleasantly for the scholar. He met with Bruno and they enjoyed a convivial time in an inn, until Bruno said he had to leave to find his son. The scholar wandered into one of the squares to find something to eat. He stood outside the corn booth munching and watching the antics of a strolling player who entertained the children, conscious of the puppeteer who stood to one side awaiting his chance.

  The scholar ambled on, stopping every so often to buy a nibble. He chewed on glazed reeli meat wrapped in vine leaves and then enjoyed a piping hot sweet-spiced roll. He looked up and over to the horizon, realising the sun would soon set. It grew dark in Ortok quite quickly, so he knew he should make a move towards the inn where he knew he'd find Bruno. He walked very slowly at a shambling pace, keeping his very tall frame well bent in the way he remembered seeing Bene walk when the Archmage was very tired. In only seconds there was no scholar, just a gaunt old man moving at a slow pace. At the end of the square, he halted hesitantly at a booth and spoke in a cracked voice.

  "Do you have a used cloak for an old man?" The gypsy woman lit a lantern, and hung it on the front of the booth so that its light fell on the scholar standing hunched in front of her.

  "A used cloak eh, old man?" she asked incuriously. "What would you offer me for one then?" She was a tall, thin, rather desiccated-looking woman, her long lank tresses interwoven with colourful beads and imitation silver baubles. She wore a thin shawl across scrawny shoulders and she suddenly shivered. "You're right, old man," she mumbled. "It is getting cool. Come over here."

  She swung back the little gate that led into the booth. The scholar went past her as she wrenched back a heavy blue curtain. There the scholar saw racks and racks of old clothes, coats, cloaks, hose, shirts, breeches and more. The gypsy woman waved him towards the nearest rack and then went back to the front of the booth, showing no further interest. The scholar, still stooped and walking ponderously, rifled through the range until he found a very long navy cloak made of a heavy woven material. He threw it around himself to see if it was all enveloping. It was capacious and covered down to his scruffy boots. He then bent almost double, and tossed hats, scarves and mittens to one side, until he found a full crowned cap and a long trailing blue scarf with mittens to match.

  He stuffed his old beret into a cloak pocket, set the new one jammed hard over his curls, wrapped the scarf round his neck and pulled on the mittens with a grumble of satisfaction. He drew the curtains across the racks, and returned to the front of the booth where he haggled cheerfully with a ruthless and practiced opponent. When the price was settled upon, the scholar had to ruefully acknowledge he'd been fleeced by an expert. The gypsy gave him a wintry look before turning to trim her lantern.

  ~~~

  The scholar continued a slow, shambling progress out of the main square. He passed the brightly lit and inviting eating-houses that vied with brothels and communal baths for custom, refusing to enter any of the premises when he was invited. As he drew level with an inn door, it suddenly opened. Two huge blond men, talking in low, guttural voices, emerged, looked warily around and then moved in the direction of the common.

  Recognising them from the day before, and intrigued, and not a little suspicious, the scholar followed them. He followed a hunch concerning Bruno. His disguise didn't allow him to hurry, so he ambled along, keeping a reasonable distance so as not to alert the two men. He'd intended seeking Bruno in the city, but now wondered if, indeed, as he guessed, he'd find the merchant by trailing the men.

  The lane the men trod was well lit by high-poled lanterns. Since the shadows from the hedgerows made patterns on the path, the scholar entertained himself by giving each pattern a recognisable form in his mind. Preoccupied by his imaginative musings, the scholar realised too late that he'd come too close to the two men. They stood, arguing hotly and pointing at him.

  The scholar instantly closed his mind and stooped very low, at the same time cursing himself for a fool. He thought the best thing to do was to keep moving. Nearing the men, he slowed enough for one of them to lean forward and drag him to a halt. The scholar's head was bent.

  "For the gods," muttered one of the men. "It is only an old man."

  "Old men can spy," snarled the second man, his grip on the scholar firming. "Though," he added in disgust, "this one lacks much intelligence by his looks." He stared down at the scholar who sensibly wore an extremely vacuous expression and had let his mouth go slack. "Speak to us, old man." The second man shook the scholar hard. "Why have you been following us?" Released, the scholar shambled forward and removed his cap respectfully. He was all obsequiousness.

  "I'm old," he whined, in a quavering voice, "and not quick on my feet. I don't follow anyone."

  "Where are you going then?"

  The scholar pointed vaguely in the direction of the hundreds of tents, then fished in his pocket for some coins. He placatingly offered them. The first man came forward, saw the coins and struck the scholar's hand contemptuously. />
  The scholar stayed motionless, even when he got a hard and malicious kick. He barely restrained a curse. He was pushed sharply to his knees and knew a beating would follow. He got it. As he stayed crouched, with venomous thoughts chasing themselves backwards and forwards across his mind, he barely felt the blows that rained down on him. The beating stopped. The scholar remained hunched, listening to the men squabbling above him, then got another kick and a cuff before being left alone in the gathering night. The scholar was relieved it happened in shadow; he guessed if he'd been recognised he would've had to fight for his life.

  He stayed crouched for some minutes to be sure the men had gone. He rose a little shakily. He knew his beating would raise little comment in a city the size of Ortok, because it seemed tacitly accepted there would be heightened tensions and roughness over the days of Choice. With a touch of mental asperity, the scholar decided he wasn't cut out for this sort of rough and tumble. He'd never willingly hurt another living creature on any plane. Gratuitous violence was abhorrent to him. So it came as a shock, therefore, that he felt a grim resolve to punish the two young men for such an unprovoked assault. Had the scholar been an old man, the beating could have killed him. As he stood there, contemplating what he'd enjoy doing to the two men, his sense of caution and proportion returned and he knew, without further thought, he'd do nothing. A mage used his powers, in protection of himself or another, only as a last resort.

  He started along the lane at a fairly quick pace. There was no one around so his appearance, old or otherwise, was of no moment. A decision to jog had two advantages; it helped restore the scholar's mental equilibrium and it meant he could keep the two men in view because the lane now curved.

  It didn't take the scholar long to catch up with them. They strode briskly and laughed heartily over the old man. This time the scholar slipped behind trees and shrubs. He moved as silently as a shadow. He realised the men had reached the common, making it an easy matter to follow them as he lurked behind tents, lines of washing strung between bushes and behind spindly trees.

  The men seemed to know where they were going, though they took a circuitous route. The scholar kept his distance. He flitted from refuge to refuge, until the two men stopped abruptly and looked about. The scholar peered out. He saw Bruno step forward. He was ungently flanked and then roughly frog-marched to an adjoining tent.