by Randy Nargi
“Trader?”
“Yes. A woman—and a bit less straightforward to deal with. Her name is Talessa Kreed. She has a riverboat down at the Malverton Trading Post. Do you know it?”
“I’ve never had the occasion to travel that far south, Master.”
“Well, let’s hope you don’t have to. Just planting the seed, my boy. I trust that your visit with this Sward fellow will prove to be fruitful and I await your good news, Mr. Rowe. That is all.”
Back at his own house, Mortam Rowe shared the news with Keave.
“Malverton? That’s in the jungle.”
“It is indeed, Keave. Far to the south.”
“Beyond Vale.”
“Well beyond Vale. But if we’re lucky, my friend, the farthest we’ll have to travel is the Steading.”
“I can get us to the Steading,” Keave said.
“I know you can.”
“But not to the Wilderlands.”
“Oh really?”
“Never been there. Nothing to bind to.”
Because he had worked with Keave for so long—and another locestra, Bailor Fenn, before him—Mortam Rowe was very familiar with the limitations of of the type of portals that Keave could open. Locestrae did not have the same abilities as mages. They didn’t attend a university to learn the magical arts. Their powers were innate. And certainly less controllable. Keave could open a portal to certain places he was very familiar with.
Most locestrae could bind to a dozen or so places, but Keave was remarkable in that there were nearly a hundred locations fixed in his mind that he was bound to.
Unfortunately teleportation sapped a lot of his friend’s energy. Keave would be hard pressed to open more than one portal a day—which meant that they would have to plan this mission well.
“Come along, Keave. We’re going to the Vulgar Raven.”
“It’s early for lunch, though. Isn’t it?”
“Quite right, Keave. But not too early for a sweet. Which we will obtain on the way to the Raven.”
“And why are we going to the Raven if it’s not lunchtime?”
“Information, my good friend. Information.”
Chapter Eighteen
Bander and Valthar returned to Mrs. Heffring’s house, Valthar giddy with excitement. He raced up to their rented room and set himself up at a writing desk near a bright window.
“I can tell you will be occupied for an hour or two,” Bander said.
“An hour or two? Are you addled? This is an opportunity of a lifetime. Old Sward must be going soft in the head to have lent this to me. You know I’ve badgered him for years to let me take even a glance at a single page of Travels and he has denied me every time.”
Valthar placed the book carefully on the desk and rummaged through his bag for his notebook and pens. “His humanity finally got the better of him.”
“Perhaps,” Bander said. “Or perhaps he just doesn’t care anymore.”
Valthar turned to him. “What do you mean?”
“If Bryn Eresthar is successful in dissolving the Guild, a lot of things will change.”
“You’re probably right. Still, I must make the most of this opportunity. Will you sit with me? We can discuss what I discover as I read.”
“I’d sooner plunge knitting needles into my eyes.”
“I forgot that you are an illiterate brute. Very well! Bring me some supper in a few hours—when you return from your wanderings. That is what you plan to do, isn’t it? Wander, I mean?”
“I thought I might ask Mrs. Heffring if there’s anything she needs help with.”
“Very kind of you. Now begone!”
Bander found their hostess in her kitchen, teetering on a wooden stool, trying to reach something on a tall shelf.
“Mrs. Heffring?”
She turned so quickly she almost fell off the stool. “You startled me, sir!”
“I did not mean to, madam.”
She took a deep breath and patted her chest. “Is there something I can do for you, Mr. Bander?”
“It’s just Bander, and—no. But I was wondering if there is something I might do for you.” He went on to explain that Valthar was occupied with scholarly pursuits and he had some time on his hand.
Mrs. Heffring nodded in agreement. “That one. He comes to visit four or five times a year, and he always has his nose in a book. Bah, books. They’re no substitute for actually living!”
“I couldn’t agree more,” Bander said. “So is there something I might assist you with?”
“Thank you, but no. I have enough to keep Mr. Langer busy and no more.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, quite.” She hesitated. “Unless you happen to be a fisherman, sir. And if that is the case, you may certainly help me.”
“You need a fish?”
“My stocks of tornat are low and since Tarr Holt left for his apprenticeship in the city, I’ve had to rely on Langer. He’s a piss-poor fisherman, and if you ask him, he’ll admit it to your face.”
“Well, however piss-poor Langer may be, I assure you I am five times worse.”
“Are you sure about that? You seem like a capable gentleman.”
“Not when it comes to fishing.”
“Well, perhaps you can enlist Valthar’s aid. I know he has been out with Tarr Holt during some of his previous visits. I can provide the boat and the gear. You can row and Valthar can fish.”
“I’ll think about it.”
“I’d be much obliged. In the meantime, if you have nothing to do, I might suggest a walk by the river. The birds are beautiful. We’ve got kosherds, marsh warblers, all sorts. Wonderful plumage.”
“Maybe, I will, Mrs. Heffring. Thank you.” Bander turned to leave, but before he made it to the kitchen door, Mrs. Heffring called out.
“Oh, there is one thing you can help me with, dear sir.”
“What’s that?”
She pointed up at a tall shelf cluttered with dusty baskets, jars, baking racks, and other kitchen equipment. “Can you fetch that jam pan? One of the handles fell off my other one, so I need a substitute while it is being repaired.”
“Which?” Bander extended his arm up and felt around on the shelf.
“Well, you don’t even need a stool. They must grow ’em big from wherever you come from, sir. That copper, if you please.”
Bander found the proper pan and handed it down to Mrs. Heffring.
“Thank you kindly, sir.”
“Happy to oblige.”
Bander left the kitchen and strolled into the heart of the village. He treated himself to a mug of Irfals Stout at the Polestar. Besides a pair of elderly gentlemen engrossed in their game of pone, he was the only patron. The barkeep wasn’t particularly talkative either, so Bander finished up his beer and walked back towards Mrs. Heffring’s house. He kept going, hiking along the river, taking his time, looking at a few birds. Eventually he found himself back up on top of the hill at the ruined Temple of Dreams.
“Sward!” he called at the gate. Then he rang the bell for good measure.
A minute later Eton Sward huffed over. “I’m coming! I’m coming!”
He opened the gate and said, “Bander! Long time, no see. Where’s that old bag of bones Devil Dog? You haven’t come to tell me that he absconded with my book, have you?”
“No, he’s safely ensconced in Mrs. Heffring’s upstairs bedroom.”
“I hope he’s keeping my book well away from any candles.”
“He’s a very careful man.”
“Hmph. Well, then, what can I do for you?”
“May I come in?”
“Of course. I was moving some firewood into the shed. That barbarian Wescalas just dumps it wherever he pleases.”
“I’ll help you while we speak.”
Eton Sward led Bander across the courtyard to the south. Nearby was a large pile of firewood that looked like it had been dumped from a cart.
“Where does this need to go?” Bander asked.
Eton Sward pointed to a shed near his cottage. It was at least forty yards away. “It’s a bit much to levitate.”
Bander nodded and then surveyed the wood pile. There must have been hundreds of pieces of split logs there on the ground.
“You have a wagon and a horse?”
“An old wagon. No horse, I’m afraid. This isn’t a particularly hospitable location for livestock.”
Eton Sward led him east behind the temple to another shed. “Right back here.”
As Bander turned, he caught a glimpse of a lake far below them. It stretched out for at least a mile and shone like a blue jewel.
Eton Sward noticed where he was looking. “It’s magnificent, isn’t it? One of the perks of being stuck here. I get to wake up to that every morning.”
When Bander pulled his gaze from the vista, he saw a derelict farm wagon half hidden in the tall brush around the shed. Once he cleared the vines and brambles from it, he was able to grab the wagon’s falling tongue and pull the vehicle free.
“Gods, man,” Eton Sward said. “Who needs a draft horse with you around!”
The wagon rolled on wobbly wheels—barely. But Bander worked it across the yard to the pile of wood. Then he started loading it up.
“So to what do I owe this return visit?” Eton Sward asked. “Don’t get me wrong. I welcome the free labor, but I am curious.”
“What do you know about the Viceroy’s designs on the Guild?” Bander asked.
“It’s no secret. Eresthar wishes the Guild dissolved, which is an endeavor as ill-fated as it sounds.”
Bander hung his jacket on the side of the wagon. “I agree. But I also know Bryn Eresthar personally. And he is a man of exceptional will. If this is his intention, I fear it may come to pass. And sooner rather than later.”
Eton Sward’s expression darkened. “We have heard the rumblings for some months.”
“And?”
“And it concerns me, of course, but look around. I am as far removed from Guild affairs as a mage can be—effectively in exile.”
“Then why stay?”
“What do you mean?”
“You don’t owe the Guild anything. Pack up your books and leave.” Bander heaved another couple of logs into the wagon. “Ahead of the purge.”
“Is this what you wanted to speak to me about?”
“I am curious about what you will do.”
The other man shrugged. “I haven’t really thought about it. Maybe I’m in denial. I’ve had no life outside the Guild, so I am not really sure what I’ll do. I’m not sure what any of us will do.”
“There’s talk about privatizing some of the Guild functions. Not the portal mages, of course. Nor the battle mages. They will be brought under the aegis of Imperial and provincial governments. But many of the others—lore mages, binding mages, mage engineers—will probably be hired by private companies.”
“I’m not sure who would want to employ the likes of me.”
“You’d be surprised. This quest that Valthar is on, to find the Temple of Fate… he could use a man like you.”
“Is that what this is about? Did Devil Dog put you up to this?”
“No one puts me up to anything.”
They were both silent for a while. But once the wagon was loaded with firewood, Bander told Eton Sward to take the wagon’s tongue and guide it.
“How is that going to work?” Eton Sward asked.
“You steer. I’ll push. It’s not far.”
Eton Sward shook his head. “You’ve done all the hard work already. I can use a spell to move the cart.”
“Where’s the fun in that?” Bander grinned.
“This I have to see.”
Bander stripped off his shirt and noticed Sward’s eyes widen as the mage took in the sight of the map of scars crisscrossing Bander’s torso. He went around to the back of the wagon and pressed his hands to the rear of the bed.
“Ready?”
“I’ll wager that you can’t—”
All of a sudden the wagon rocked. Bander let out a roar and threw all his weight into shoving the wagon. He used his shoulder and braced his feet, pushing with all of his might.
The wagon lurched forward, and once he got it moving, Bander kept going, pumping his legs and maintaining the momentum. Luckily, the courtyard was flat and Eton Sward steered the wagon towards the woodshed.
“Stop!” he called after they had crossed the yard.
Bander let up the pressure and then caught the back of the bed and held the wagon firm.
“Unbelievable!” Eton Sward said, circling back to where Bander leaned, breathing hard.
“It was nothing.” But Bander was dripping with sweat from the exertion. Truth be told, it felt good. Maybe that might change in a few hours when his muscles clenched up, but for now he had nothing to complain about.
“Do you come by your strength naturally?”
“As far as I know.” He stretched a few times and then began unloading the wood. “How about I unload it from the wagon and you stack?”
Working together, they transferred the firewood from the wagon into the shed. It took less than an hour. Eton Sward brought out a jug of water and Bander dragged the wagon back to its original location.
“I’m grateful, of course, but just because you helped me with some firewood doesn’t mean I’m obligated to go chasing after some mythical temple,” Eton Sward said.
“Think about it. That’s all I ask. We’ll be back in the morning to return the book.” Bander drank a few cups of water and took his leave.
As he walked back to the village, the last rays of afternoon sun peeked over the tree-line, illuminating the river and making its surface sparkle like gold. He decided to strip off his clothes and wash himself off.
The water was frigid, so he was in and out as quickly as possible. Then he found a boulder that was still warm from the sun and sat there until he was reasonably dry.
Back at Mrs. Heffring’s place, Bander smelled the aroma of stew boiling and bread baking.
“What happened to you?” she asked, noticing his wet hair.
“A little dip in the river.”
“There’s tonguefish in there. It’s dangerous.”
“And you were going to send me fishing?” He smiled.
“Not in the river. In the lake.”
“Well, nothing bothered me.”
“You were lucky. Come, sit yourself down here next to the stove. You must be freezing. Let me pour you a glass of riga, will you?”
“Only if you join me.”
Mrs. Heffring brought out a dusty bottle and two small crystal glasses. She poured the dark red wine and handed Bander a glass.
He raised it to her and thanked her. The riga was potent and rich-tasting. Normally he wasn’t a fan of fortified wine, but he appreciated the warmth that rose up from his belly after drinking it.
“Tell me, Bander, how are you finding our little town?”
“Very nice. You were right. The river walk was beautiful.”
“I know. The birds are fascinating. One of the things I love most about living near the river. Almost makes the spring floods tolerable.” She took another sip of riga. “And where do you hail from, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“Here and there. I lived for many years in Rundlun.”
“The Luminous City.”
“Yes. Have you been?”
“Never had the pleasure. Always wanted to visit, but it’s a long way from here.”
“Not too long,” Bander said. “Less than two weeks by river boat.”
“That’s a long way for me.”
They chatted for a half hour or so, then Mrs. Heffring checked on the stew and the bread.
“Just about done,” she said. “Why don’t you tell Valthar to pull his nose out of that book and come down to the dining room and we’ll all have a civilized meal.”
Upstairs, Bander found Valthar in almost exactly in the same position as when he had left him. His fr
iend had placed the bright crystal in a candle holder and was studying the book under its glow.
“Well?” Bander asked.
“Well what?”
“Does Burritch have anything to say about your temple?”
“I haven’t gotten to that part as yet.”
“Well, you’ll have to read faster—after dinner. Mrs. Heffring wants you to come down.”
“Can’t you just bring me up a plate?”
“No. It would be impolite.”
Grudgingly Valthar marked his place in the book and slowly stood, his bones audibly creaking.
“What did you do all day?” Valthar asked.
“Not much. Wandered.”
“Big surprise.”
“Paid a return visit to Eton Sward.”
“What?”
“I helped him move some firewood.”
“And?”
“And we chatted.”
“You are trying my patience, oaf!”
“We discussed the Guild and what might happen when Bryn Eresthar dissolves it.”
“You mean if he dissolves it.”
“Likely he will. You know Bryn. He’s a willful man.”
“Stubborn as a goat. What did Sward say?”
“He said that he might be open to joining our expedition.”
“He did?” Valthar turned quickly, surprise registering on his face.
“We’ll need to speak with him further in the morning.”
“Hmm. I didn’t know you had a mind for parlaying. Perhaps I’ve misjudged you all these years.”
“Don’t get excited. It wasn’t much of a parlay.”
They had a pleasant dinner with Mrs. Heffring, then Bander helped clean the dishes while Valthar returned to the Burritch book. He was still deep into it when Bander came up and stretched out on one of the beds.
Bander knew better than to interrupt his friend, so he closed his eyes and within thirty seconds he was asleep.
Bander awoke to a sun-filled room. Valthar was still at his desk, nose in book.
“Did you sleep at all?”
“What? No.”
“Any luck?”
“Not yet,” Valthar said. “This is my fifth reading and, I have to confess, things are blurring together.”
