This notoriety carried risks, of course: for one, the gendarmes or acolytes might take an interest in me. But so far I had done nothing illegal, and if I were to give in to the fear that I might once again be arbitrarily apprehended, I’d be so handicapped in my investigation that I might as well resign myself to a career as an assassin of Barbaroki. In any case, the bandages were hardly less frightening than the brand; I thought I may as well select the more unnerving of the two.
It was true I had sent Istvan on a fool’s errand, chasing after Jagr, the thief who’d humiliated me in my youth, but Istvan presumably had better things to do than seek vengeance on me for a minor jest at his expense. Besides, there was as much evidence against Jagr as there had been against me; perhaps Istvan had secured a conviction against the lout. I wouldn’t lose any sleep over it. If nothing else, the joke might have convinced Istvan I would be of no use to him in the investigation of the murder of the acolyte. I’d heard nothing about the incident since my release, and I hoped to maintain my ignorance.
More troubling was the likelihood that word would reach my mysterious deliverer, the man (if indeed it was a man) who’d signed his letter “R.” On one hand, R. had already gotten me out of Nincs Varaslat once, so presumably his interest in me provided some measure of protection. On the other hand, his beneficence depended on a case of mistaken identity. If he were to come looking for me, he would soon realize his mistake, assuming he had known Eben the Warlock by sight. I doubted I would be thrown back into Nincs Varaslat, as undoing his previous machinations would presumably entail additional effort and risk on his part. He might, however, take revenge against me personally, out of anger for having his plans thwarted. An objective appraisal of the situation would suggest it was unlikely I had conspired to have myself thrown into a dungeon in order to hoodwink my benefactor into rescuing me, but R. was obviously a powerful and clever individual, and such men do not like to have their plans foiled. He might, if nothing else, attempt to have me killed to conceal the fact that some high-ranking individual had orchestrated the release of a known sorcerer from Nincs Varaslat.
In any case, my efforts availed me nothing; having accosted every shop owner and most of the residents and pedestrians with a quarter mile of the inn, I knew no more than when I started. Deciding a change in tactics was required, I determined to make another journey eastward, where I might inquire of those who lived near Beata’s parents. I recalled that she had an aunt in the area; it was not inconceivable that Beata might have fled there if she were in trouble rather than returning home. If that visit produced no leads, I would travel farther east to seek out the legendary sanctuary for sorcerers established by Varastis.
The story I’d told Istvan the prosecutor about the apprentice sorcerer Jagr was largely a fabrication, but the sanctuary of Varastis was not. That is, it was not my fabrication. Like many who had traveled through the Eastern Mountains, I had seen the beacon at the top of a high mountain, and I had heard the stories about Magas Komaron, the sorcerers’ fortress. I’d merely embellished the myth with details from one of Bolond’s songs. Was Magas Komaron a real place? I was dubious, but I had no other leads.
I had just finished my dinner and was about to retire to my room for the night so that I might get a good night’s sleep and set off to the east at dawn when a burly, olive-skinned man entered the tavern. He wore rough leather armor accented by a fringe of crimson feathers; it was clear to everyone in the inn that he was a Torzsek, and those familiar with the tribe would have known the feathers marked him as being of high rank. There were perhaps a dozen people in the main room of the inn, and they all stared at the Torzsek as he entered. The Torzsek appraised the room, and they averted their eyes; many of them glanced at me, sitting alone in a dark corner. I sighed. There could be no doubt as to whom the Torzsek had come to see.
I made no signal to the man, but he found me anyway. He motioned to the innkeeper for a flagon of beer and then wended his way through the room to my table. Pulling up a chair, he sat down across from me.
“Have a seat,” I said.
The innkeeper brought his beer and waited while the Torzsek poured the contents of the flagon down his throat. He set it down with a clank and the innkeeper, without waiting for instructions, grabbed the flagon and walked away to refill it.
“You are the sorcerer,” said the Torzsek, loud enough to be heard three tables away.
“Keep your voice down,” I said.
“Sorcery is no sin among the Torzsek.”
“Perhaps not, but it is a crime here.”
“You have a strange way of hiding your proclivities,” he said more quietly, looking over my face. Unlike the townspeople, he showed no trepidation.
“The brand persists, although my supposed crimes are in the past. What do you want from me?”
“I am Davor Sabas, the right hand of Chief Nebojsa of the Torzseki. If what I hear about you is true, the chief may wish to hire you.”
“What makes you think I am for hire?”
“The chief was told by Count Hildemar that you were instrumental in delivering his son from bandits. The chief supposed that you involved yourself in the matter of Pyotr’s kidnaping expecting a reward. He also supposes whatever reward you received probably was not as substantial as you had hoped.”
“Your chief is an insightful man.”
Davor smiled at this. “Count Hildemar claims that you single-handedly vanquished a group of twenty. Is this true?”
I considered the question. “There were only twelve of them,” I said after a moment, “and they were not a particularly dangerous sort of bandit.”
“But you faced twelve men alone?”
I shrugged.
“You slipped into their camp while they slept and untied the count’s son?”
“No, I strode into their camp while they were awake and convinced them it was in their interest to give me Pyotr.”
“You did this with the sword or by some sorcery?”
“I had no sword, at least not at the beginning of the encounter.” I motioned toward the rapier, which I had leaned against the wall near my right hand. “A prize I took off the mastermind of the group.”
“A fine weapon. What is your name, sorcerer?”
“Konrad.” I judged that there was no harm in using my true name; no one in the city knew me.
“May I ask what business you had in our territory?”
“None. I was returning from a visit to an old friend.”
“Then you did not visit the ruins of Romok?”
“No.”
“But you know of them?”
“I have heard of them. They are said to be haunted.”
Davor nodded. “It is hard to know what to make of such stories. Strange moans are heard there at night, and the local shepherds report that sheep have gone missing.”
So, I thought, the Torzseki were in search of a sorcerer to vanquish the spirits that haunted the ruins. Judging from what young Pyotr had told me, there was little danger, and I sensed an opportunity to make enough money to allow me to stay in Nagyvaros for a few more weeks to continue my search.
“How is this a concern of the Torzseki?” I asked. “Isn’t your territory many miles south of the ruins?”
“It is a delicate matter,” Davor said. “As you seem to have some knowledge of it already, there is no harm in telling you of it in more detail. The Torzseki have an agreement with the Count by which we are allowed to move our livestock through the valley in which the ruins are located. It is an informal agreement, you understand. The sort that would be disapproved of by the Governor.”
“Because the Governor doesn’t like the idea of Torzseki moving freely through territory that is technically part of his fiefdom.”
Davor nodded. “And now, because of these strange happenings, our herdsmen are afraid to travel through the valley. To get to the grasslands of Athor, they drive their herds to the south of the Gray Mountain, adding some ten leagues to their journey. There i
s little grass along the way, and many of the animals don’t survive. The chief is displeased, but he lacks the authority to order the herdsmen to do otherwise. The Torzseki are an unruly people; our chiefs have absolute authority only in matters of war.”
I nodded, understanding. “You wish to deal with the threat, but cannot send a contingent of Torzsek warriors to the valley for fear of risking the wrath of the Governor. And you dare not allow the Count to ask for help from the Nagyvaros because the gendarmes might, during the course of their reconnaissance, learn about your arrangement with the count.”
“You have divined the essence of the problem.”
“It is simple enough,” I said, with a dismissive shrug. The fact is, I’d only pieced it together because of what Pyotr had told me about his father serving at the mercy of the Torzseki. I had wondered at the time why the Count didn’t appeal to the Governor for help against the Torzseki, but now I knew: the Count had compromised himself by entering into an agreement with the Torzseki against the Governor’s wishes. The family seemed to have a knack for getting themselves into compromising situations.
The innkeeper had returned with another beer, which Davor gulped more slowly than the first.
“And your chief has decided to hire a sorcerer to deal with this problem?”
Davor seemed slightly embarrassed. “We do not know what lurks in the ruins, if anything at all. Perhaps it is only bandits, but it may be something more. You have proved yourself more than capable of handling bandits, and if it is something else, perhaps you have the expertise to deal with that as well. More importantly, as a lone man, unaffiliated with either the Torzseki or the Governor, you can investigate the matter without raising any concern.”
“And if I’m killed by whatever lurks in the ruins, you lose nothing.”
Davor gave a slight smile and shrugged.
“You could have been more discreet in approaching me,” I said, glancing around the inn. The patrons had returned to their drinks, but they spoke in hushed tones and some shot occasional glances toward the corner where Davor and I conversed.
“I doubt the Governor has agents in a place like this,” said Davor, “but it was a chance we had to take. There was no time to wait for a more opportune moment, as there is some urgency to the matter. The spirits that haunt the place are said to be at their full power during the full moon, which occurs tomorrow. If there is anything to be seen at the ruins, that seems to be the best time to see it.”
“That’s one way to look at it,” I said. “Another is that tomorrow night will be the time of greatest danger to anyone investigating the site. How much do you propose to pay for this vanquishing?”
“The chief has empowered me to pay a hundred ermes upon receipt of proof that the threat has been dealt with.”
I frowned. “It seems a paltry sum for ensuring your safe passage through the valley, but assuming I were amenable to this, how am I to prove to the chief’s satisfaction that I have dealt with the threat? I can’t very well present to him the head of a ghost.”
“You will go to the ruins tomorrow night and investigate the site. The next day, assuming you have not been done in by bandits or demons, you will report to the chief regarding what you have learned. Whether or not you have dealt with the threat, if the chief is satisfied you have made a good faith investigation and reported your findings with complete candor, he will pay you an advance on the fee of ten ermes. The balance shall be paid precisely one month later, which is to say on the day following the next full moon, if there have been no mysterious deaths—human or animal—in the vicinity of the ruins in the meanwhile.”
“Who is to determine what is a suspicious death? Am I to be denied payment if a sheep falls into a well?”
“You needn’t worry about being cheated. The chief is an honest man, as anyone who has had dealings with him will tell you.”
“Does that include the Count?”
Davor frowned. “The chief has never deceived the Count, although it is true that he has exploited the Count’s short-sightedness. Surely it is not incumbent upon the chief to protect a rival from his own foolishness?”
“You call the Count a fool?” I asked, more out of amusement than surprise.
“I say only that a man capable of looking out for his own interests has no reason to be suspicious of the chief. In the interest of full candor, I will say that I don’t believe Chief Nebojsa is convinced the ruins are haunted. Or rather, he is worried that they may not be.”
“The chief thinks that if he sends warriors and they find nothing at the ruins—or find only wolves or sheep thieves—the herdsmen will be unconvinced that the problem has been dealt with. If, however, a sorcerer reports that the spirits have been vanquished….”
“Again, you have pierced to the heart of the matter.”
“Fair enough,” I said. “I will look into it.”
“You will go to the ruins at midnight tomorrow?”
“Yes, but I wish to modify the terms of the deal. As I have no immediate need for ten ermes, and do not wish to give the appearance that I am accepting payment for a job that I don’t intend to finish, I will forego the advance. However, the fee for the job will be two hundred ermes.”
“For such a fee, the chief could employ a platoon of mercenaries.”
“Mercenaries whose weapons will avail for naught against the spirits that haunt the ruins,” I said with a smile.
Davor let out a heavy sigh. “I will agree to your terms on his behalf, on the condition of absolute secrecy about our agreement.”
“Of course,” I said. “And I must make the same demand. Sorcery may not be a crime among the Torzseki, but it is a serious offense here. You may tell your people you have hired a sorcerer, but you must not mention my name, and you must swear them to secrecy.”
“I understand. Not a word of your involvement will be spoken outside our tribe.”
“Good. Where am I to find you?”
“At morning, head southeast from the eastern mouth of the valley until you come to a path. Take the path south. After a league or so, you will be met by men of my tribe. I will describe your face to them. They will take you to Chief Nebojsa.”
“Then we have an agreement, Davor. I will expect to see you the day after tomorrow.”
Chapter Thirteen
I set out early the next morning for the Maganyos Valley. I expected to arrive at the ruins of Romok at least an hour before dusk, which would give me some time to look over the site in daylight before settling in for the night.
Like Chief Nebojsa, I doubted the threat was of a supernatural nature. It wasn’t that I was a skeptic regarding such things; during my time as a janissary I had heard too many stories of inexplicable events to dismiss supernatural occurrences out of hand, and of course I’d had some firsthand experience with the inexplicable—although some maintain that sorcery, like alchemy, is simply an occult variation of natural philosophy. I’d developed some doubts about that hypothesis, but more to the point, I believed in the existence of such entities as demons and ghosts.
By the same token, though, I’d experienced enough superstitious nonsense and baseless rumors to know just how rare occurrences of the supernatural are. Nine times out of ten, the supposed spirit of a deceased relative trying to communicate from beyond the grave turns out to be a stray cat in the attic or a second cousin disgruntled about being left out of Grandmother’s will. Many animals—notably humans of low character—will prey on stray livestock, and the wind whistling through ruins will account for strange noises. As for the synchrony of these events with the full moon: people see and hear ghosts during the full moon because they have been told that spirits come out at such times and are therefore more attuned to strange sights and sounds. I expected to find a small band of sheep thieves who, taking advantage of the superstitious locals’ reluctance to investigate, had camped out at the ruins. I supposed I would have no more trouble intimidating them than I’d had with the hoodlums who had taken Pyotr. Tho
se accustomed to depending on the fear of others are doubly unsettled by a man who evinces no fear.
About three leagues south of Nagyvaros, the plains begin to give way to low hills of gravel and shale in which very little grows. It is a bleak and depressing place, and the road is narrow and ill-maintained. The hills grow gradually higher as one goes south until suddenly one finds oneself at the crest of a ravine that forms the northern edge of the Maganyos Valley. The other side of the ravine is visible some three miles farther south, a near-mirror image of the northern edge. The floor of the valley is roughly a mile across and dotted with a few species of wiry vegetation; the soil is only marginally better here than in the hills to the north and south, and the river that presumably cut the valley out of the shale has long since departed, having found a more amenable route to the sea. The valley connects two flat basins that once were lakes but are now the grasslands that make up the territory of the Torzseki. It is possible to pass from one basin to another over the hills, but only with some difficulty; to feed their cattle the Torzseki must drive them through the valley or across the steppes many miles to the south.
The Maganyos Valley is, in other words, a forlorn and desolate place, through which one travels only by necessity and does not tarry on the way. Both conduit and barrier, it is cold and shrouded in darkness most of the day; at night the wind howls its protests at being forced to traverse such a place. Animals go there only to consume dead things or to die themselves.
Despite—or perhaps because of—the desolate nature of this place, some ancient civilization chose to build a temple there. Using technology now lost, this vanished people brought down from the Soveny Mountains great slabs of dark granite to assemble a structure that must have once surpassed even the grandeur of the palaces of the Sultans of Ahktan. Scattered across the valley floor are over a hundred granite slabs, some of them as much as forty feet long. So thorough is the destruction of the temple that only the vaguest guess can be ventured at the structure’s design or purpose; it is called a temple because no purpose could be served by such a structure in such a place except fulfilling the whim of some dark and baleful god.
The Brand of the Warlock Page 12
