The Lure of Fools

by Jason James King

  Arkell nodded and then left the jailhouse annex.

  Kaul lingered a moment, taking in the sight of the three dead guards. He certainly was going to have to kill Argentus’ nephew now. Not that he really planned otherwise. But his bonding the sword would make it necessary if Kaul wanted to wield it himself.

  Killing Jekaran would also make his task more dangerous.

  Although fighting Argentus while he wielded the sword would’ve been challenging, Kaul’s old friend was nearing sixty years of age. Even the sword could only work with what it had, and Kaul knew Argentus enough to anticipate the man’s tactics. The boy, however, was a different matter. His body would be energetic, resilient, strong.

  And if he is newly bonded, Kaul thought, he will be erratic and unpredictable.

  He would have to strike quickly, perhaps while the boy slept. Or perhaps he could paralyze him with fear. Either way, it was going to be a hazardous operation. Those thoughts stirred something inside of Kaul.

  Was that fear that he was feeling?

  “NO!” Kaul snapped aloud. He wasn’t afraid. To be afraid was to be weak, and Kaul was NOT weak. Memories of a thousand beatings suddenly paraded before Kaul’s mind, times when his father had turned from beating his mother to pummel him. You’re afraid! He would scream at Kaul as he sobbed through the beatings. Weak and afraid!

  Kaul chuckled in spite of himself. He treasured the memory of the day when he had stopped being afraid, when he had stopped being weak.

  That was the day he had carved his father up like a roasted pheasant at Harvest Festival and fed the pieces to the hogs.

  Kaul smiled. For all the terror and pain his father had caused him, the cruel bully of a man had taught him to be strong. Anger had turned out to be the key, the only thing that would chase away and replace the fear. He supposed that, in a way, he ought to be grateful to his father. And he was grateful. He showed it every time he shed blood.

  Kaul left the jailhouse, laughing so loudly that he drew the attention of a dozen passersby’s, but he didn’t care.

  He wasn’t afraid.

  The rocks and wild grass scratched at Jekaran’s stomach. He rolled to his side and pulled his shirt down before rolling back onto his belly. He was lying on the incline of a hill peering over the crest and down at a circle of tents a mile away. At this distance they were little more than the size of toys to Jekaran’s eyes, making it difficult for him to properly assess the scene.

  “You think lying on your belly is uncomfortable while spying on an enemy,” Irvis began, “try it when you’re watching a couple bathing and—”

  “That’s disgusting!” He shot him a look.

  “What?” Irvis said, sounding affronted. “I’m just saying that—”

  “I know what you’re saying.” Jekaran returned his focus back to the camp. “I just don’t wanna hear it!”

  “Don’t act like you never get randy. At your age, I—”

  Jekaran turned back and hissed, “I don’t sneak around spying on naked women and doing goddess only knows what else!”

  Irvis didn’t reply.

  Jekaran let his stare linger on the chubby monk to emphasize his point before turning back to survey his target: Gymal’s camp.

  A quiet rustling behind him, but he didn’t flinch. It was only Karak. A distorted translucent shape moved up at his left and then materialized into the reptilian Vorakk shaman. “Three walk circle of camp aka.”

  “How far out?” Jekaran asked.

  Karak hesitated a moment before asking, “Reka what human word for measure of far?”

  “Measure of far?” Jekaran turned to look at the lizard-man.

  Karak struggled with Aiestali, and with good reason. His native form of communication was a combination of hissing, growling, and hand signs. The concept that Vorakk had no spoken language was foreign to Jekaran, and he still had a hard time understanding it. The Vorakk did use sounds to communicate, though they were little more than syllables spoken at the beginning or end of a sentence to communicate the context of the message. This was followed by the message proper relayed through a series of sharp hand signs. Who talks without talking? Well, apparently the Vorakk did.

  “Miles?” Jekaran heard Irvis clarify.

  “Yes.” Karak bobbed his head. “Half of one mile aka.”

  Aka, Jekaran repeated in his mind. He was learning the syllable communicated at the end of a statement connoting a simple statement of fact. As a Vorakk shaman, Karak had studied human languages and learned to vocalize words, but he hadn’t been able to drop the habit of beginning and ending his sentences with Vorakk syllables. It sometimes made deciphering what the lizard-man said difficult, although Jekaran was getting used to it.

  Jekaran turned back to stare at the circle of tents in the distance. It was late afternoon—almost dusk. With the sun setting behind them, Jekaran had no worries any of Gymal’s security thugs would see him. But distance made seeing detail problematic. “I really wish I had Ez’s looking glass with me.”

  “Reka need more looking?”

  Jekaran looked at Karak as he twisted his scaly claw-hand palm up and produced a floating sphere, translucent like the Vorakk shaman was when he camouflaged himself. The small sphere floated over to Jekaran and hovered at eye level.

  “Uska,” Karak said as he mimed for Jekaran to look at the sphere.

  “I see it,” Jekaran said.

  Karak shook his head. “No! Rok look at camp in ball.”

  Comprehension dawned on Jekaran, and he leaned forward to peer through the translucent sphere with one eye as though it were a telescope. He started as Gymal’s camp suddenly appeared to be right in front of him. Jekaran pulled back and shot a glance at Karak, who flashed a sharp-toothed grin.

  Jekaran quickly looked back through the sphere and at the magnified view of the camp. The awe of Karak’s wondrous magic fled, and his heart sank as he saw armored soldiers mingling amidst the circle of tents. “Oh no.”

  “What is it?” Irvis asked anxiously.

  Jekaran pulled back from the sphere and looked at the chubby monk. “It looks like Gymal hired a band of mercenaries.”

  “Why?”

  Jekaran shook his head and leaned forward to peer through the sphere again. “For security. He didn’t do it last year, but he was probably rattled by the raid on our camp by Karak and his friends.”

  Karak’s only response was a grunt.

  Jekaran pulled back and looked at Irvis. “So, what should we do now?”

  Irvis looked confused at the question. “Why are you asking me?”

  Jekaran barked an incredulous laugh. “Because you have experience with this sort of thing.”

  Irvis shook his head. “I’ve never raided a camp.”

  Jekaran’s humor faded into rapidly rising irritation. “But, you were a member of the Rikujo.”

  “I wasn’t a raider.” Irvis spread his hands helplessly. “That was men like your uncle and Kaul.”

  His chest compressed as though a pile of rocks were piled on top of it as nausea swept him. “Then what did you do?”

  Irvis suddenly looked ashamed. “I mostly counted the coin and tended to ledgers.”

  Irvis’ answer brought all of Jekaran’s stress to bear, as if all of his fear, frustration, guilt, and confusion came crashing down on his shoulders. He heard himself snap, “You were a bookkeeper? Why didn’t you say so? You filthy fat pervert!” His frustration with the man had come out harsher than he had intended, and Jekaran realized he was shouting.

  A scaly palm pressed against his mouth. He shoved Karak’s hand away and shot him a warning look, and the Vorakk shaman answered with a hiss. “Isk!” He then motioned to the camp below. “Shouting goes far from high place to camp.”

  His face flushed red, embarrassment extinguishing his anger. He glanced at Irvis and felt even worse as he saw the man’s pained eyes. Why had he railed on him like that? Irvis had saved his life and had come to help him in spite of the man’s objections
to Jekaran’s plan.

  “I’m sorry.” He cast his eyes to a patch of ground off to Irvis’ left. “I don’t know why I said that.”

  It was a lie. Jekaran had a very good idea what was setting his teeth on edge. He cast his thoughts out to the sword locked up among Gymal’s personal possessions. It responded instantly, mirroring his anxiety over their distance.

  His fingers combed through his hair. The connection forged between himself and the talis was growing every time he reached out with his thoughts, and making his anxiety grow. The sword mirrored every emotion, making him far more irritable than he had let on.

  “Are you well?” he heard Irvis carefully ask.

  Jekaran closed his eyes, put his palm against his temple and nodded. “Just a little overwhelmed. After all, it was only a couple of weeks ago that I found out that the man who raised me was really Aiestal’s most infamous bandit, and that he had a talis that could make me into a warrior.”

  “Reka human boy have head pain?” Karak asked, a strange note of concern in his rasping voice.

  “Yeah,” Jekaran said. “Ever since …” he stopped. Ever since I used the sword.

  “Ever since what?” he heard Irvis ask.

  Jekaran shook his head, looked up at the chubby monk, and forced a smile. “I’m fine.”

  Irvis nodded acceptance of his excuse. He knew Jekaran was becoming obsessed with the sword.

  He turned from Irvis and found Karak staring at him intently. “I’m fine,” he repeated. “Really.”

  After an uncomfortable moment, Jekaran rose up and sat back on his haunches. “Well,” he said cheerily as he clapped his hands together to brush the dust off his palms. “Looks like we’re going to have to figure out how to get me past a group of armed mercenaries – a dozen people who will recognize me – and into Gymal’s tent without anyone noticing.”

  “Oh, is that all?” he heard Irvis grumble.

  “Isk stupid human boy,” Karak hissed. “Karak go.”

  Jekaran slowly shook his head. “I thought of that. But if I’m caught, the worst that will happen is that I will be arrested.” He smiled ruefully. “Again. If they find you, Karak, they’ll kill you for sure.”

  “Daka, humans not see Karak.”

  Jekaran turned to look at the Vorakk shaman, who had also risen from his stomach. “I saw you and I caught you.”

  Karak’s reptilian eyes narrowed. “That what spirits want ska.”

  “That may be,” Jekaran agreed, not wanting to argue with Vorakk fatalism. “But this is something I need to do.” He left it at that, not caring to let his two companions in on his powerful mental, physical and emotional compulsion to reunite with the sword as quickly as possible.

  “Do you have any ideas?” Irvis asked hesitantly.

  Another pang of guilt shoved Jekaran. Shouting at this man had been way out of line. He remained silent for a long moment before finally nodding. “I think so.”

  After another beat of silence, Irvis stirred, then leaned toward him. “Well, tell us, child!”

  Jekaran looked at Irvis and just smiled.

  Jekaran stumbled again. He had lost count of how many times he had tripped over Irvis’ robes. The chubby monk wasn’t taller than he was, but his girth required larger robes, which, of course, added to the length. Why not have them tailored to a better fit? He shook his head, sure he didn’t know. And how the monk never tripped over his own two feet …

  He must draw his robes up like a lady lifts her dress to step over a puddle in the street. He snickered to himself at the mental image of Irvis wearing a dress when he tripped again, this time falling flat on his face.

  “Who goes there?” a gravelly voice demanded.

  Jekaran froze in the middle of rising onto all fours. His torch lay on the ground just out of arm’s reach, the guttering of the grounded flame giving him only the barest glimpse of an approaching figure.

  “A humble servant of Rasheera,” Jekaran said as he risked sitting back onto his haunches. A beat later a white light exploded, blinding him, and he lifted his forearm to shield his eyes.

  A light talis!

  “You’re a long way from your brothers, monk,” the voice accused.

  Still shielding his eyes, Jekaran grasped for his cover story, all thought made slippery by the surprise of meeting a scout for fifteen minutes earlier than he expected. He must’ve been watching me from the dark. With clouds hiding the moon, Jekaran’s torch would’ve been as bright as a sea beacon.

  “Please child”—he was proud of himself for remembering what Irvis said about calling laymen child—“I am brother Ulan.” For some reason, Irvis had objected to Jekaran pretending to be him. “And I come on a mission of mercy.”

  “Child?” The mercenary scoffed. “You look young enough to be my child.”

  Jekaran bobbed his head and quickly recited what Irvis had told him to say if someone questioned his age. “I am young in body, but old in soul.”

  While it would be unusual for a teenage boy to be anything more than an acolyte in the brotherhood that served the Divine Mother, orphans raised by monks often ascended their ranks quicker than those who joined later in life.

  The mercenary lowered his light so it no longer shined directly into Jekaran’s face. He had blinded me on purpose. His anger flared once again.

  “Are you alone?”

  That was a dangerous question. What if this wasn’t one of Gymal’s mercenaries? What if it was a robber? The wrong answer might make Jekaran a dead man. “The servants of the goddess are never alone, child.” He smiled at his clever, deliberately ambiguous answer.

  The mercenary reflexively lifted his eyes to scan the surrounding area. After a moment he returned his stare to Jekaran. “Where are you going?”

  Jekaran thought about answering wherever the goddess wills it, but decided against pressing his luck. “I was sent by my brothers to search out Lord Tyrus Gymal. He is captaining an expedition that was headed out this way.”

  “Why?” the guard demanded, voice suddenly turning hard.

  So it is one of Gymal’s men. The thought brought a measure of relief to Jekaran.

  “It is a delicate matter, and the servants of the goddess are charged to keep such matters private.”

  “You will answer me if you wish to see Lord Gymal.” The armored mercenary put his free hand on the pommel of the sword sheathed at his left hip.

  Jekaran’s thoughts reeled. Irvis had said threatening a holy man was considered bad manners at best, an affront to the goddess at worst. He also said, most civilized men respected the tradition, but there were plenty who did not. Especially when no one else was watching.

  “You are one of Lord Gymal’s men?” he asked, hoping to sound like he naively hadn’t noticed the threatening gesture.

  “Your business, monk!” the mercenary snapped.

  Jekaran deliberately chewed his lower lip. He waited just long enough to bait the mercenary into repeating his command and then spoke just as the man was opening his mouth. “Lord Gymal asked for healing before he left Rasha, but at the time, no healers were available to minister to him. When my brothers learned he had departed, they sent me to find him and fulfill his request.”

  “He doesn’t look sick,” the mercenary said through slitted eyes.

  Jekaran gave his best nervous titter before clearing his throat. “The symptoms of his particular ailment are not…” he paused, pretending to choose his words carefully. “… obvious.”

  “That sounds like an assassin’s excuse,” the mercenary said, hand now fully gripping the handle of his sword.

  This time Jekaran made a show of seeing the gesture and raised his hands defensively. “No-no-no, you misunderstand. Lord Gymal suffers from a social illness.”

  “What are you talking about?” the mercenary demanded.

  “Lues!” Jekaran said, genuine anxiety lending credibility to his pretended panic. “He visited the whorehouses and caught the lues disease from a harlot!”
/>   For a long moment, the mercenary’s face remained impassive, and then he broke into a fit of laughter.

  Jekaran chuckled nervously, working to look embarrassed.

  “Then I sure hope your ministrations don’t involve having to touch him.” The mercenary continued to bellow his deep laugh. “And are you sure it was harlot and not a bugger? Story is Gymal had one show up to answer a summons in front of his men last year. Whole camp saw it!”

  Jekaran had to work to keep the smile from his face. He had hoped his prank would have endured in memory and sparked the worst kind of gossip. The fact that it had was very satisfying.

  The mercenary leaned down, extended a hand to Jekaran, and helped haul him to his feet, laughing to himself the entire time. “Come on, monk. I’ll take you to him.”

  It worked.

  After trudging over the rocky plains for about half an hour, and, hearing an endless confession of the mercenary’s various violations of Rasheera’s moral laws, Jekaran finally arrived at the well-finder’s camp. It was set up as usual, a ring of tents circling an impromptu fire pit, with one exception. Gymal’s tent was set closer to the center and guarded by no less than four armored soldiers.

  “Piss!” Jekaran whispered under his breath.

  “What was that, brother?” The guard’s question interrupted a particularly tawdry confession of what the mercenary had done on his last visit to Jeryn city.

  Jekaran chided himself for breaking character and then quickly danced a few steps in place. “I am sorry, child. I must relieve myself.”

  The mercenary chuckled and pointed to a latrine just outside the ring of tents. Jekaran hurried to the pit, enclosed on all sides, save the entrance, by a line of portable pickets. He entered and made as though he were urinating. When it came time for him to finish up, he bent slightly and checked his robe pockets for his tools: lock picks and a utility knife.

  Three days ago, they had passed through a village—well, he and Irvis had, while Karak passed around the hamlet to avoid being seen—where Irvis was able to invoke his monk’s right to free provisions. Fortunately, the mayor had been an observant worshipper of the goddess and had made sure they had more than enough of what they needed. Last on the list Irvis had unabashedly made was lock picks. This invoked suspicious stares from the village blacksmith, but Irvis passed it off as necessary replacements for lost keys to his wardrobe closet back in the Rasha monastery. The man was remarkably good at lying, something that struck Jekaran as incongruous to the chubby monk’s round friendly face.