The Rover

by Mel Odom

  He sat, wide awake for a long time, talking to Harran though his throat was parched. Their conversation drifted, not holding much to any one subject. After a bit, Harran drifted off to sleep. And when the man did, Wick took his journal from under his shirt and used the bit of charcoal he had left to write. He sat in the shadows of the wall, the moonlight barely enough to let him see the words on the page as he wrote them. Mindful of the guards patrolling the stockades, he made sure he stayed out of sight as they passed.

  Thought of destroying the journal was gone now. It was an important record. He wrote down everything he’d learned since arriving in Hanged Elf’s Point about Orpho Kadar, the goblin ships, and the massing army. Grandmagister Frollo and others needed to know the news.

  When he finished, he closed the journal. Tomorrow, if possible, he needed to find more charcoal to continue his work. Even if he never made it out of the goblin city, he had to find a way to get his journal out.

  A whispered voice leaked through the slatted wall. It sound cold and cultured, the voice of someone used to speaking, and used to command as well. “What are you doing?”

  13

  The Man in Black

  Surprised, Wick started to back away from the wall. Through the slats, he saw a midsized human dressed all in black standing in the shadows beside the wall. “N-n-nothing,” the little librarian stammered. His heart felt like it was going to hammer a hole through his chest.

  “You were,” the man in black accused. Gloved fingers slid through the slats. In the opening of his hooded cloak, his face was narrow, patrician. Dark bangs hung over close-set black eyes on either side of a narrow, pinched nose. A thin, neatly trimmed beard and mustache colored his upper lip and traced his chin. “You were drawing. I saw you.”

  Wick said nothing, but took another step backward.

  Goblin footsteps rang on the iron bars overhead.

  “Stop, you fool!” the man in black hissed.

  Spurred by the commanding tone in the man’s voice, Wick froze.

  “Keep moving like that,” the man in black said, “and you’re going to draw the attention of those ugly brutes patrolling the wall.”

  Unconsciously, the little librarian struggled to place the man’s accent. Although learning accents was part of any Librarian’s acumen, Wick couldn’t place the tall human’s at all.

  The man smiled, showing very white teeth. “I’m sure neither of us would want that.”

  “No,” Wick agreed nervously.

  “The goblins don’t know you have your drawing pad, do they?” the man in black asked.

  Wick didn’t answer, but he held the journal tightly.

  “Of course they don’t.” The man in black looked pleased. “You have a secret, don’t you?”

  Wick remained silent. He watched a firewood wagon rumbling across the street behind the man. A flaming torch mounted by the wagon’s seat chased away some of the shadows in the street.

  The man in black moved quickly with smooth grace, somehow appearing even more fluid than a khelcat. Though the eroding shadows were chased past the slatted wall as the firewood wagon clattered past them, the man in black appeared to melt into the darkness and was never revealed. When it had gone, the man in black curled his gloved fingers back through the slats.

  “I love secrets,” the strange man said, eyes glittering with black fire. “Especially those of other people.” He glanced at the book in Wick’s hand. “Do you want to tell me yours?”

  “I have no secrets,” Wick answered.

  The man in black smiled again. “I like lies, too, my small friend. They’re like secrets that come in puzzle boxes. Listen to someone lie carefully and often, and you will learn to strip their secrets from them no matter how hard they try to keep them.”

  Wick felt terrified. “Where did you come from?”

  The man waved a black-gloved hand. “From the city. I was helping myself to someone else’s secrets only moments ago.” He shrugged and grimaced a little, as if he’d bitten into a sour apple. “And a little of their gold. Too little, actually, for my efforts.”

  They were both silent as one of the goblins crossed the wall above them.

  Wick glanced around quickly, wondering if anyone else was awake.

  “Do any of them know your secret?” the man in black asked.

  “Yes,” Wick answered.

  The man in black raised his eyebrows, obviously pleased. “You lied!”

  “No,” Wick assured him. “I didn’t. I—”

  “Yes you did,” the man crowed in delight. He clapped his black-gloved hands almost silently. Only the rough rasp of leather reached Wick’s ears. “You lied, and now I know two things.” He ticked them off on his hands. “One, you do have a secret, because—after all—you just told me that some of your companions know your secret. And two, I know how you look, how you sound, and how you stand when you lie.”

  Wick thought quickly, realizing he had made a mistake. He’d thought to take away the possibility of a secret by saying there was no secret. He was so tired from being held in the goblin ship for all those days, plus the long climb up to Hanged Elf’s Point that he could scarcely think.

  “Do you want to tell me now?” the man in black asked.

  “Who are you?” Wick asked.

  “That, my little friend, is one of my secrets. Perhaps you’d care to trade. A secret for a secret.”

  “You would lie to me.”

  The man in black grinned and shook his head. “Of course I would. That’s one of the best ways to keep a secret. Now do you see why I so enjoy learning the secrets of others? It’s one of the grandest games. Everyone knows how to play. It’s just that some of us are better at it than others.”

  Another goblin guard passed overhead again. Wick remained silent, watching the black-garbed man draw again into the shadows.

  “Are you an artist?” the man asked.

  “Yes,” Wick answered instantly.

  “Hmmm.” The man in black tapped his gloved fingers against his bearded chin. “That’s, perhaps at best, a half-truth. So you draw, but you’re not an artist. And tired as you are, you feel it important to both do the work you were engaged in—out of the sight of the others in this pen as well as the guards—and yet hide it as well.”

  Wick remained silent, wondering if the man in black was some kind of test that the goblinkin engineered. But he instantly dismissed that idea. The goblinkin were not that crafty even on their best days. “Why would you want to know the secrets of a slave?”

  “How is it that a slave comes to have a secret that his jailers don’t know about?” the man in black countered. Then he shrugged again and sighed in expansive contempt. “Of course, we are talking about these infernal goblinkin who don’t have the sense the Old Ones gave geese when it comes to slyness.” He focused on the little librarian again. “Whom do you show your drawings to?”

  “No one.”

  “Then you draw them for yourself?”

  Wick said nothing, wishing for nothing more than the man in black to disappear with the same speed he’d appeared.

  “An artist who admires his own drawings,” the man in black mused. He appeared to think that over for a moment, then shook his head. “No, I don’t think that’s true either. You would be a desperate fellow. Possibly even desirous of having someone else look at your art. But no, you choose to remain mysterious.” He suddenly pressed his face against the slats, cocking his head to one side and fixing the little librarian with his left eye. “Are you a spy, little dweller?”

  “A spy for who?” Wick asked.

  “Exactly,” the man in black agreed.”For whom indeed. Orpho Kadar has his enemies and jealous constituents. Uneasy lies the crown, they always say of kings. Has someone inserted you into the slave quarters to find out more about Hanged Elf’s Point?”

  “Would a spy subject himself to this?” Wick demanded, stepping closer to the slatted wall. He felt more at risk standing out from under the shielding embrace of
the walkway overhead than he did closer to the man in black. “That’s stupid.”

  “Stupid, you say?” The man in black smiled. “Have you ever considered the span between stupidity and genius?” He held out his black-gloved hand, forefinger and middle finger held tightly together. “They are as close as the seam between these two fingers, my friend. The only deciding factor is that one doesn’t work and is called-unfairly, I sometimes think←stupidity. And if the other works, though it is just as foolhardy on the surface, why it’s called brilliance.”

  “I want you to go away,” Wick said.

  “Whatever for?” the man in black asked. “Why, we’re only now getting to know each other.”

  “I don’t even know your name.”

  “Nor do I know yours. But you’re interested in knowing my name, aren’t you?”

  Wick started to say no, wanted to say no, but he was afraid that the man in black would catch him in another lie. Then his hesitation dragged on too long to make any kind of response at all.

  The man in black flashed his white teeth again. “See? Already we have a common bond. You would like to know my name as badly as I would like to know yours.” He hesitated. “At least, I think I would like to know your name. Perhaps the only thing of interest about you is what you consider important enough to draw in your sketchbook.”

  Wick made himself stand taller, no longer wanting to be afraid of the man in black. “I could call out to the guards and tell them you are here.”

  “Maybe I’m supposed to be here,” the man said. “Have you considered that?”

  “Yes,” Wick answered. “But my secret gives away yours.”

  “Does it? And how does that happen?”

  Wick leaned closer, looking up at the tall man, hoping that no fear showed in his eyes or in his posture. “If you were supposed to be here, you would order the goblinkin to hold me down and take my … my sketchbook from me.”

  “Where would the fun be in that, though?” the man in black asked. “Secrets are much more enjoyable when they’re stolen from someone rather than beaten out of them. By the time you beat a secret out of someone, they don’t care if you have it or not.”

  Without warning, the man in black lunged forward, throwing himself against the slatted wall. His gloved hand darted in, grabbing for Wick’s journal.

  Dodging back, the little librarian slapped the man in black’s gloved hand away. His heart thundered in his chest and hammered at the side of his head where his ear had become infected from the marker.

  A savage mixture of joy and rage twisted the man in black’s bearded face. “You’re very quick, my friend. Very few people are even as quick.” He took his arm back through the slats. “Of course, I am working at something of a disadvantage.”

  “I’m going to call for the guard,” Wick warned.

  Unbothered, the man in black pulled himself to the wall again, a dark silhouette standing in the darkness. “Why do you not call out now? Is it because you fear that I am so quick the guards will not see me and so beat you for disturbing them?” He cocked his head to one side. “Or is it me and concern for my well-being that keeps you from calling out to them?”

  Wick said nothing. Time was on his side now. If the man in black continued to stay around, the chances were good that the goblinkin would discover him.

  “Oh, you do fascinate me, little artist,” the man in black said. “You are a puzzle I’m going to enjoy investigating.” He glanced over his shoulder. “However, at the moment I’m afraid I do have a rather pressing engagement elsewhere.” He turned back and smiled at Wick. “We’ll continue this stimulating little chat at another time.”

  Wick watched in wonderment. The man in black never seemed to move, just evaporate like smoke, as if he’d never been there. Though the little librarian moved to the wall and peered through the slats, he never saw the man in black cross either of the streets.

  Worn and worried, Wick sat on the ground and remained watchful. Somehow, the measured tread of the goblinkin patrolling overhead seemed reassuring now. Though he tried to remain awake, sleep claimed him, pulling him down deeply.

  Rattling iron bars woke Wick early the next morning. He’d slept against the slatted wall, curled up into a ball as tightly as he could for warmth. His limbs moved stiffly and ached as he sat up. There was no sign of his mysterious late-night visitor and his journal was still hidden within his shirt.

  Overhead, goblin guardsmen marched out onto the corridor that allowed egress into the slave pens. Their long, prehensile toes wrapped around the iron bars and held them with surefooted ease as they carried a steaming cauldron to the edge. Without preamble, they used ropes to lower the cauldron.

  Wick sniffed, testing the air, and discovered that the cauldron contained more of the gruel they’d been fed aboard Ill Wind. However from the scent he felt certain there were pieces of apples mixed in with the gruel.

  No bowls or silverware were provided, so the dwellers had no choice but to dig into the thick gruel with their bare hands. Another cauldron, this one containing tepid water and a single dipper, was lowered into the pen next.

  Wick woke Harran, who’d slept through the arrival of breakfast. Then the little librarian’s eyes located Minniger lying on the ground in the same place he’d gone to sleep yesterday morning. Trepidation filled Wick as he stared at the old man.

  Slowly, the little librarian forced himself to his feet. His head throbbed from the effort and he could feel heat all over the side of his face where they’d put the marker through his ear. He ignored it as he hobbled over to Minniger’s side. Respectfully, the little librarian knelt, barely able to restrain a scream as his knees threatened to come apart after all the stair-climbing the previous day. He touched the old man’s shoulder and shook him gently.

  “Minniger,” he called. Then he noticed how stiff the old man’s arm was. No! Gently, he pulled Minniger over so that the man lay on his back.

  The old man stared sightlessly up at the clear blue morning sky.

  The scream ripped through Wick’s mind as he realized what had happened. Tears blurred his vision as sadness for the old man and hopelessness at his own plight filled him.

  “Wick?” Harran called, stumbling over. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

  “Minniger,” Wick whispered. “He’s dead.”

  Harran knelt beside the little librarian and stared at the old man’s body. “He went in his sleep, Wick. It was a gentle death, one almost anyone here would have hoped for.”

  “I know,” Wick replied. “But he wasn’t wishing for death. He only wanted to go back to his family, to serve the best razalistynberry wine anyone could ever hope to make.”

  The dwellers nearby pulled back from the dead man fearfully. That hurt Wick, too. In Greydawn Moors, death wasn’t something to be afraid of. True, no one wanted to die, but the old and infirm were allowed to die peaceably in their own beds surrounded by people who loved them. Those sitting up with him or her would talk to the dying person, and keep talking even after that person could no longer talk.

  Wick reached out for Minniger’s hand, remembering how he and his father had held his grandfather’s hand as the strength had drained from him. The little librarian clasped the winemaker’s cold, callused hand and blinked away his tears. He wondered what it would have been like to sit across a table from Minniger and talk of stories and people the old man had met in his years. So much had been lost, Wick felt certain even from the short time he had known Minniger. “I wish I had known,” he whispered. “If I had, I swear to you that you would not have died alone on cold, hard ground surrounded by enemies.”

  “Wick,” Harran called softly.

  Wick shook his head, memorizing the old man’s face. Tonight, when no one was awake, he would draw Minniger’s likeness into his journal. I will not allow you to be forgotten, he silently promised the old man. If I live through this somehow, I swear to you that I will find out about you and remind the world that you lived and that you were imp
ortant.

  The promise felt cold and hollow, but it was all the little librarian had to give. The cool wind sweeping up the mountains from the harbor below burned his wet cheeks with an icy touch.

  “Wick,” Harran said again. “There’s nothing you can do for him.”

  Wick nodded, unable to speak because of the swelling caught in his throat. He looked up from Minniger’s body and at the faces of the other slaves. Most of them only spared furtive glances or cowered in their own arms.

  Harran pulled at his arm. “Come away. You’re doing no good here.”

  Wick glanced at Harran. “Don’t you understand?” His voice broke and he thought he sounded like a frog croaking.

  “The old man has passed on. What else is there to understand?”

  “This,” Wick said, “this is all we have to look forward to as long as we stay here.”

  Harran stared at him in silence.

  Guilt almost held Wick’s tongue, but his anger and fear made him speak anyway. “We can’t stay here.”

  Harran’s mouth worked, as if he was trying to think of something to say.

  A shadow fell over them from above, and a raucous voice demanded, “What are ye halfers a-doin’ down there?”

  Legs trembling, Wick forced himself to his feet. He wiped at his face, not ashamed of his tears, but knowing that the goblinkin guards would only see that as weakness in him. “This old man has passed on.”

  The goblin wrapped his prehensile toes around the iron bars near the wall and peered down suspiciously. “Is he diseased?”

  “No!” Wick answered furiously. “He was old. Just old and ill-treated. The climb up the mountains to this place killed him.”

  “That’s too bad,” the guard said, shaking his head. “Some slaver captain somewhere has lost a few silvers.”

  Lost a few silvers? Wick blinked and shook with anger. He tried to find words to express the pain and rage that he felt, but even his vast command of the language failed him. There was nothing he could say that would ever make goblinkin care about one old dweller that hadn’t survived long enough to become a productive slave.