by A. C. Cobble
A sinking sensation was settling in Ben’s stomach.
“I recognize these,” whispered Amelie.
“We should not go here,” replied Rhys, shifting Lady Towaal in his arms.
“It could be coincidence,” murmured Milo uncomfortably. “Many people travel through the City. Many people have seen the faces of the First Mages. These could be copies.”
Ben shot a glance at the former apprentice.
“These are not copies,” hissed Rhys, fear seeping into his voice. “No mundane craftsman formed these. We should go.”
“I see you’re admiring our gates,” called a friendly voice.
The companions turned to see a robed and turbaned man emerging from a narrow passageway set beside the iron doors. It was hidden discreetly in the stone. They hadn’t noticed it with the huge copper faces in front of them.
“They’re, ah, impressive,” responded Amelie.
The man nodded. Then a look of concern crossed his face when he saw Towaal. “You have an injured companion?”
“We crossed the sand sea,” replied Ben quickly. “We ran out of water. I’m afraid she did not fare well. Is there a place we can recover here?”
“We can find help for your friend. There are healers inside who are experts at treating heat and dehydration-related illnesses. I’m afraid I must ask, though. Do you have coin or barter to offer in exchange?”
Amelie shook her belt pouch, and the man smiled.
“I apologize for being so callous, but the desert is a difficult place to survive. We are unable to offer assistance for those who cannot compensate us, but we are open to all kinds of commerce, even from a group as strange and diverse as yourselves. Come. Follow me.”
The man turned and disappeared back into the passageway.
The companions shared a look and followed him inside. They’d have to watch their backs while in Frisay, but with limited supplies and Towaal still unconscious, they had no other option.
The passageway was a tunnel formed of solid rock, lit only by the light behind them. Above, Ben spied narrow openings in the roof of the tunnel. Places that hot oil or arrows could be rained down on attackers, he suspected. A dozen paces into the tunnel, the passageway turned, and beyond the bend, a stout iron door stood open. This one was normal sized but was as thick as Ben’s leg. In the narrow confines of the twisting passageway, no battering ram or serious force could be mustered to bust through it. This place was designed for a siege.
Through the stout door, the passageway opened into a brightly lit courtyard hemmed by tall stone walls, a mustering yard for soldiers or a killing field for enemies. A road zig-zagged away from the courtyard. Fifty paces later, they found themselves in a vast, open plaza.
The robed man turned to them and explained, “Most foreigners stay on this square and conduct their business here. You are welcome to proceed deeper into our city, but you will not find any inns. There are some shops which may be open for outsiders.” He turned to Thyr. “Have you been here before?”
The Dirhadji nodded.
“Then,” finished the man, “I will leave your companions in your hands.”
He disappeared back down the road he’d brought them in on.
The companions turned and surveyed the plaza. It was sparsely populated, with only a handful of small groups walking around together. The square could house ten times the number of stalls that littered its expanse. Ben spied half a dozen small inns and two taverns. There were several open shops selling iron goods, and a few that sold food for travel. There were places that offered clothing, leather wares, and other small items that must have been useful to the desert dwellers who would come here to trade.
The tents and stands in the plaza were set up haphazardly. There weren’t enough to make competition for space necessary. They appeared to be manned by outsiders and were selling to robed townspeople. It was quiet compared to any of the other market squares Ben had seen. It looked safe and well-maintained.
“I’ve stayed at that place before,” advised Thyr, gesturing to a non-descript building at one end of the plaza. “Many Dirhadji stay there. It is clean, and there is no drunkenness.”
Ben eyed a pair of drunken revelers stumbling out of another place nearby. Cheerful music chased them out the door.
“Let’s try that one first,” he suggested.
Thyr grunted and Rhys winked.
The building was a hulking chunk of stone. Narrow windows flanked an animal hide that substituted for a door. The hide didn’t look very secure, but Ben supposed attackers weren’t getting over the thick stone walls around the town so they didn’t need secure fortifications at an inn. The sound of music and laughter drifted out to greet them. The sign above had two crossed swords and painted letters beneath.
“The Fisherman’s Plow,” read Rhys.
“That doesn’t even make sense,” muttered Corinne.
“I like it already,” declared Rhys. He strode to the building and pushed aside the hide door.
The inside was cooler than outside, and Ben instantly appreciated the small windows. In the dim light, they saw rows of tables braced by sturdy benches. Men sat around them, hoisting mugs of ale and talking loudly over earthenware plates heaped with food. Most of the clientele appeared to be fringe desert dwellers like the people of Vard. There were a few that looked to be from Ooswam and even a trio of Dirhadji in the back.
A pleasantly portly innkeeper bustled up and offered, “Rooms, board?”
Ben smiled. It felt like they were back in Alcott.
“Both,” he answered. “Also, we have a companion who is suffering from heat sickness. Is there a healer you recommend who could check on her?”
The innkeeper nodded and snapped his fingers, summoning a thin boy who was instructed to show them rooms and then fetch Mother Snell.
“Is the ale any good?” inquired Rhys, thirstily eying three heavy barrels lined against the back wall.
The innkeeper huffed in offense. “Sir, I do not exaggerate when I say it is the best ale in Qooten.”
“Perfect,” exclaimed Rhys.
Rhys collected a mug of the suds, then they followed the boy upstairs.
After they were settled in their rooms, Amelie told Ben, “Go downstairs with Corinne and Rhys. Someone needs to watch that scoundrel. I’ll wait with Towaal until this Mother Snell arrives. Even if none of the ministrations she tries help, it will be good for everyone to think we needed her assistance. In this place, I am certain no one thinks twice about a northerner who couldn’t take the heat.”
Ben nodded. “Fitting in, I suppose. Just like we planned.”
Amelie laughed. “If this was your plan, you need to sit down and rethink things.”
Ben grinned at her and then exited into the hallway. He headed for the stairs, certain the rogue was already ensconced near the ale barrels below.
Their mission was nowhere near completed, but they’d survived the sandstorm, and they had made it through the sand sea. They had a chance to rest and recover. Hopefully, with Thyr’s help, they could locate some of the Dirhadji in town and learn if there was any indication of the Purple in the deep desert.
As he stomped down the stone stairs, Ben tried to not think about the man’s insistence that there were no mages in Qooten. Someone had built this town from nothing, and someone had placed those copper faces on the gate. It may not have been the Purple, and whoever did it could be long gone, but sometime in the past, someone had practiced magic in Frisay.
Rhys and Milo were hunched over two full ale mugs when Ben got back down to the common room. Milo was running a hand through his curly mop of hair, listening intently to Rhys.
From across the room, Ben thought his friend looked worn. The rogue’s vigor was drained. The journey into the desert had taken a toll on him. Ben knew he didn’t have the same well of stamina that he used to. The effects of the battle in Northport were still catching up, and if Rhys wasn’t careful, he’d push himself too hard.
When Ben got closer, he heard Rhys pressing the former apprentice. “You said ‘First Mages’. I heard you!”
Milo shrugged uncomfortably. “I told you. It must have been something I read in the library in Northport.”
“There is nothing about the First Mages there. I know,” growled Rhys.
Ben sat on a bench across from Rhys. The rogue barely spared him a glance.
“You know more than you’re letting on,” accused Rhys.
Milo leaned back and sipped his ale. “I wasn’t even thinking about what I was saying. It just slipped out.”
“What are the First Mages?” queried Ben.
Rhys kept glaring at Milo and didn’t answer.
Ben turned to the former apprentice.
“I don’t know!” exclaimed Milo, throwing up his hands. “Rhys, you seem to know a lot more than you are saying. Maybe you can tell us. I certainly can’t share anything else.”
“Not here,” said Rhys after a long pause.
Ben eyed his friend curiously and then flagged down a server to order another round of ales. Rhys and Milo stared at each other frostily.
When Thyr arrived, Ben was surprised that he was glad. They needed a distraction, even if it came in the form of the Dirhadji.
“Drink?” Ben asked him.
The warrior shook his head.
“I don’t blame you,” jested Ben. “After the last time I saw you drink, I’d give it up for a little bit too.”
“Yes,” agreed Thyr. “After the last time when you and your friends sentenced me to death, I decided I would not drink for a little while. Two weeks, maybe three. How long do you think I should wait?”
Ben swallowed. “I, ah…”
Thyr smirked at him. “Do not worry. I know you have no intention of following through on your threat. You used our code to coerce me into bringing you into the desert but not because you felt any sense of injustice. You could have slit my throat in Vard if you wanted to or any time I was sleeping on this journey. No, I believe you are looking for something.”
“We, uh, we needed…” Ben stuttered.
“We did coerce you,” admitted Rhys, “and you’re right, we don’t intend to kill you for attacking O’ecca. She was unharmed, and we’ve been through a lot together since then. I have a feeling that we no longer need to hold the threat over your head. You’ll help us anyway.”
Thyr glanced suspiciously around the table. “Why do you think that?”
“You’re curious,” explained Rhys. “You want to know what we’re doing.”
Thyr sat back in his chair. “I am curious, but I also want to get back to my family. I had no desire to continue with Raim on his foolish endeavor. I only went with him because I am taking his sister. Guiding you was going to get me home and satisfy my curiosity. Before we get to my tribe, though, I need to know what your intentions are. I will not risk my family for your foolish insistence on following the code.” Thyr crossed his arms and looked around the table. “Will you tell me what you are intending?”
“We can’t,” stated Ben. “Not yet.”
“Then I cannot take you further,” declared the Dirhadji. “Kill me if you must.”
“Very well,” responded Rhys, sighing dramatically. “We no longer hold you to the code. You are released. You are free to go as you please. You can go back to your wives. We’ll continue our mission without you.”
Ben raised his mug to Thyr. “Thank you for taking us this far.”
Rhys took a long sip of ale and turned to Ben. “I’m not sure if it’s the best in Qooten, but it’s not bad.”
Ben nodded. “Best we’ve had since Indo. What do you think, Milo?”
The former apprentice grunted but didn’t respond to Ben.
Rhys pushed the ale pitcher toward Thyr. “I’m buying for anyone who’s traveling with us.”
“Just give up, Thyr,” said Milo with a heavy sigh. “I didn’t want to join them at first either. Eventually, the curiosity will burn a hole in you. You want to know what they’re doing, and there’s only one way to find out. I can promise you this. Helping them may eventually help your people as well.”
The Dirhadji glared at them then finally relented. “Maybe I will have one ale.”
Rhys leaned over and slapped the man on the back. “Glad to have you with us!”
Rubbing his shoulder, Thyr muttered, “I hope this is not a mistake.”
The next morning, they clustered back in the common room. Upstairs, Corinne was taking her shift watching Towaal. The rest of them needed to strategize.
“You wanted to know more about our mission?” Ben asked Thyr.
The warrior nodded.
“Since you agreed to come with us of your own free will, I think it’s important we show a bit of trust and tell you what we’re doing,” acknowledged Ben. He drew a deep breath before explaining. “We’re looking for mages.”
The Dirhadji looked at him blankly.
“A group called the Purple,” added Amelie. “We believe they fled Alcott and are hiding out here. We need their help. All of Alcott could be overrun by demons without it.”
“Demons,” responded Thyr, a bitter frown twisting his lips. “I know of demons. We come across them from time to time, but there are no mages in the desert.”
Ben smiled at him. “Who built this city then? You have to admit the walls of this city were not built by mundane means in the space of a few months.”
Thyr winced. “Let me rephrase then. I do not know of any mages currently in the desert.”
“What about strangers?” asked Ben. “Aside from this place, are there other locations with strangers, others who are not Dirhadji?”
Thyr mumbled under his breath and dropped his head into his hands.
Ben waited patiently.
“There is one place,” admitted Thyr through crossed fingers. “Some of the Dirhadji do business with them. They sell them things that cannot be obtained from northern merchants. My companion from Vard, Raim, he is going there. I have never been, but I have heard stories. If these are the people you seek, I do not believe they will help you. They are bad men, these strangers.”
“Can you take us to where they are?” asked Ben.
“I do not know where the place is,” replied Thyr.
Ben opened this mouth to speak, but the Dirhadji held up his hand.
“That doesn’t mean I cannot help,” continued the desert warrior. “The Dirhadji in this town will not speak to you, but they may talk to me. I will ask around, and I will find where these strangers live. Understand, though, I will not go with you.”
“Fair enough,” agreed Ben.
While Thyr was trying to connect with the other Dirhadji in Frisay, Ben and Rhys ventured out to purchase herbs for Lady Towaal and a sword for Ben. He’d grown so used to the mage-wrought blade that he wasn’t sure how he’d adjust to a lesser sword, but it would be foolish to continue without some sort of weapon.
Mother Snell, who had tended to Towaal, referred them to a street away from the market square where they could find a specialty healer.
“Maybe she’ll know what you’re looking for, because I certainly don’t,” she had offered with a sniff and up-turned nose. With a skeptical glare, she’d muttered, “Northerners. Always thinking you know best.”
Mother Snell had recommended rest and water. She seemed offended they were asking about additional herbs. They couldn’t tell her it was because she’d misdiagnosed the nature of the problem. The healer had no way of knowing that Towaal was actually suffering from extending too much of her will. Fortunately, that presented many of the same symptoms as heat sickness, so they only had to put up with Mother Snell’s frosty attitude. They weren’t worried that stories would get around.
Rhys knew of some herbs that could boost Towaal’s ability to recover. He wasn’t sure they could find them in a desert herbalist’s shop, but after so many days, they were willing to try anything.
Rhys and Ben walked through the near empty str
eets of Frisay, looking for a bright red door. There was hardly any color in the town, and where they did see it, it was usually faded by the sun. They were assured they couldn’t miss the red door.
“What did Mother Snell say was the healer’s name?” asked Ben.
“Mistress Albie or something like that,” responded Rhys absentmindedly.
Ben nodded and kept peering down alleys and cross-streets. At the end of the street they were on, he spied a shop with bright metal hanging out front. Weapons and tools, he guessed.
“Should we stop there first?” he suggested.
“Looks like they have what you need,” agreed Rhys.
As they approached, Ben saw most of the blades were the scimitars favored by the southerners. Inside the open windows and door, he spied short spears, and rows of practical-looking knives. There was no armor, but in the boiling desert climate, maybe it wasn’t worth it.
“What can I help you with?” called a short, bald-headed man. He sat on a stool in the shade and wore a simple leather vest that left his scar-covered arms bare.
“I’m looking for a sword,” replied Ben.
The man stared at him. “Not from around here, are you?”
Ben shrugged. “Do you not sell swords to foreigners?”
“I’ll sell to anyone with yellow gold,” responded the man. He lurched off his stool and strode over to the rows of hanging swords. “Most of my wares are stuff the locals prefer. Scimitars, daggers, and spears. Won’t do you much good facing a man in plate armor, but no one wears that in this heat.”
“You’re not from here either?” inquired Rhys.
The man grinned mirthlessly. “Only the Dirhadji are from here. Do I look like one of them to you?”
