by Mel Odom
Wick stubbornly kept his mouth closed.
“There’s no disease,” Boolian Toadas assured him. “Orpho Kadar allows no diseased halfers inside in the city. Surely ye’ve heard that.”
“I have,” the man in black agreed. “That’s why I thought if I purchased a halfer from one of Orpho Kadar’s own agents that I would be safe in spending the money I was given by the man who wanted a halfer. And now I find that this halfer hasn’t even been properly beaten. Did you see the way he refused to let me look at his teeth?”
“I’ve hardly had him in me possession. Ye can’t hold this halfer’s obedience against me.”
The man in black considered that, touching his beard lightly. “Perhaps not. Do we have a deal then?”
Boolian Toadas silently regarded Wick with deep suspicion.
Snap! “Ow!”
“Why,” the man in black said, “if you’re nervous about selling this halfer to me, perhaps I shouldn’t purchase a halfer from you at all. Would it be a problem to ask for my money back?”
Boolian Toadas’ hand clenched around the silvers. “Ye can’t go about welshing on the payment. We have a deal.”
“I thought we did, too. Until it became apparent that there was some problem.”
“There’s no problem.”
“Then why haven’t I left here with my halfer yet?” the man in black asked.
“I was only curious about why ye wanted this particular halfer,” the arena master said.
“It isn’t this particular halfer,” the man in black said. “I would take any halfer you’ve got.”
“Ye would, would ye?”
“Yes, in delight, good sir. I tell you that in all honesty. I’ll gladly take any halfer ye have with red-gold hair.”
Boolian Toadas glanced along the line of dwellers. Wick knew he was the only one among them that had red-gold hair. “I only have the one.”
The man in black glanced back down the line. “Ah, so you do. Pity. Perhaps I should try somewhere else. I do hate doing business at a place that doesn’t boast a selection.”
“No,” the arena manager said quickly.
Wick looked around, noting that there weren’t very many other dwellers with red-gold hair in the slave market.
Snap! “Ow!” the dweller in front of Wick yelped.
“We have a deal,” Boolian Toadas reminded.
“Perhaps,” the man in black said, “you wouldn’t think ill of me for asking the return of some of those silvers I gave you.”
“I think not.” The big goblin raised his voice and made it stern.
The goblin holding the pliers grabbed Wick and pulled him forward.
Lightning fast, Boolian Toadas yanked the little librarian away from the jaws of the pliers and stood him in front of the man in black. The man in black never even looked at him. “Ye’ll take this halfer, ye will. Or else I’ll think ye’re a-questionin’ me ability at a-pickin’ halfer flesh. An’ in that, ye’re a-questionin’ Orpho Kadar’s ability as well, ye are.”
The man in black straightened his cloak and dusted the sleeves. “Well, I’d hardly relish the thought that any injurious action I might take on Orpho Kadar’s name should reach his delicate ears.”
“Ye’re darn right ye don’t want that to happen,” Boolian Toadas remarked. “Ye’d probably have yer head on a pike before mornin’.”
“Not likely a very joyous happenstance.” The man in black grimaced and nodded. “Very well. I’ll take this halfer and be glad, good sir, that you were gentleman enough to sell him to me.”
“Do ye want him marked?” the arena manager asked. “If ye don’t have a tag, we can notch his ear or nose for ye.”
“If you would be so kind.” The man in black extended a tag.
Boolian Toadas glanced at the tag and pulled at his eyepatch. “Ye got a picture of a toad on yer marker?”
“That’s not a toad,” the man in black said, “though I can easily see how the mistake could be made. However, that is a Callavarian bullfrog-the chosen symbol of Cholot Verdim.”
“An’ who’s he?”
“A caravan trader baron,” the man in black answered. “It is Cholot Verdim’s opinion that halfers with red-gold hair are the best groomsmen for his proud horses.”
A groomsman for a caravan trader’s horses? Even while Wick was trying to absorb the answer, wondering if any of it was the truth, the goblin with the pliers quickly grabbed the little librarian, yanked him over, and tagged his other ear. He cried out in pain and felt fresh blood trickling down the side of his face.
The man in black leaned down, grabbed Wick’s wrist manacles, and yanked him to his feet. “Come along, halfer. That didn’t hurt that much.” He glanced back at Boolian Toadas. “May fortune favor you, good sir.”
Half-blind with pain, the whole side of his head throbbing, Wick stumbled after the man in black. The manacles pinched his wrists. He followed the man in black through the crowd, then into one of the side streets leading from the courtyard. The street was filled with people and wagons, all busy converging on the marketplaces down near the harbor.
“Why did you do that?” Wick asked a few minutes later as he followed the man in black down the winding streets of Hanged Elf’s Point.
The man in black glanced down at him. “Do what?”
“Buy me.”
“Why, to save your life, of course.” The man in black headed down the street with purpose. “And, might I say, I find a truly startling lack of appreciation on your part.”
“I don’t think I have anything to be thankful for,” Wick said. He pulled his hands back, but the man in black kept the chain tight. He glanced around, looking for some place to dispose of the journal if he could. That thought pained him, though, because he had put so much work into it and there were so many things that needed to be remembered. He wasn’t sure if he could remember it all, or find the right words the second time through.
“True. Probably you don’t. I should imagine that a resourceful fellow like yourself should be able to defeat any number of wild pigs in battle in the arena. You could probably even have worked your way into becoming a champion, maybe even winning your own freedom.”
Sarcasm, Wick thought, is not appreciated. “What do you want from me?”
“You’re an artist. I may have need for an artist.”
“For what?”
“A special project. Something I can’t do for myself.”
“What special project?”
“My, my,” the man in black said. “You’re remarkably curious, aren’t you? When the time is right, I’ll let you know.”
Wick struggled to keep up with the man in black’s long stride. Still, even in his frustration and anxiety, the little librarian couldn’t help but glance around the city. The stories of Dream and the peoples who had lived there were infuriatingly lacking in detail. Yet, here he was——walking the same streets those legends barely spoke of. If he could learn anything at all of Dream, he knew he could write a book that would sit in the Vault of All Known Knowledge. And it would be a treasured work, too, something seldom seen. Librarians these days usually only wrote books that were compilations of other books, or educated guesses from other sources to fill in holes in histories or biographies.
His mind filled with images of what the city must have looked like when everything was new. But he remained on the lookout for someplace to lose the journal as well. He really couldn’t afford to leave it where it would be found.
He was so intent on finding a place that he didn’t see the man in black’s sudden turn around a corner into an alley. Before he knew it, the little librarian hit the end of his manacle chains and was yanked into the alley after the man in black, stumbling into the man and falling to the ground.
As he got to his feet and dusted himself off, Wick happened to notice two goblins duck back into an alley further up the street. Both of them looked like guards that had been with Boolian Toadas. The little librarian acted as though he hadn’t s
een anything.
“Well, come along now,” the man in black said, tugging gently yet firmly on the manacle chains. “For an artist, you’re not particularly attentive, are you?”
Wick followed the man in black into the alley. Should I tell him about the goblins?
The man in black kept going down the alley and avoided the debris strewn between the two buildings. Empty windows stared into vacant rooms on either side of them.
“You may call me Brant,” the man in black announced.
“Brant?” Wick blinked in confusion, wondering where that had come from.
“Brant,” the man in black said. “You’ve probably been thinking of me as the man in black since you have no other reference for me. I find that appellation most distressing since it’s based on my clothing and not me all. Should you happen to tell this story later, people will hear you call me Brant, which sounds rather friendly, I think, and not the man in black, which, I think, sounds rather off-putting.”
“Off-putting?”
The man in black—Brant—frowned at Wick. “If I’d wanted a parrot, I would have bought one. Please don’t repeat every last word I say while you take time to think. I find that habit most annoying. If you need time to think, just be silent and take it.”
Wick glanced backward. There was no sign of the two goblinkin. Did I imagine them? His newly sore ear was paining him enough that he supposed it was possible.
“If you refer to me simply as the man in black,” Brant said, “such choice will make me sound threatening, or perhaps—worst of all—a caricature.”
“Is your name Brant?” Wick asked.
“Do you not like it?”
“I think it’s a fine name,” the little librarian said. “I just don’t think it’s your name.”
Brant smiled. “What is your name, little artist?”
Wick considered his answer. “Frazz.”
“That’s a lie,” Brant replied without hesitation. “Give me your true name. I’m telling you, I’ll know when you lie to me.”
“Wick.”
“Ah, there’s a truth. Wick what?”
“Wick is enough,” the little librarian said. “Just as Brant is enough for you.
Brant nodded. “Very well. Wick is a fine name. I think it suitably fits you.
Wick glanced back over his shoulder. The two goblins stepped around the corner, acting painfully nonchalant.
“Wick,” Brant whispered.
The little librarian turned back to face the man, wondering again if he should tell him they were being followed. “What?”
“Please don’t stare at the goblins,” Brant whispered. “I’d rather they didn’t know that we know that they’re there.”
Wick swallowed hard.
“It would spoil the surprise,” Brant went on.
“What surprise?”
Without warning, metal rang out dully, followed immediately by startled yelps. Drawn by the noise, Wick turned and peered over his shoulder. Two dwarves and two humans had stepped out of the vacant buildings on either side of the alley with small milk pails, evidently without being seen. Then the humans had upended the pails and covered the goblins’ heads with them. While the goblins were stumbling around trying to yank the pails from their heads, the dwarves swung hammers into them. Hollow THONKs echoed in the alley and the goblins fell on their face on the ground. The humans and dwarves vanished once more into the vacant buildings.
“My associates,” Brant said coolly, pulling on Wick’s chains to get him moving again. “I really don’t care to be followed.”
“What are you doing?” Wick demanded. “If Boolian Toadas finds out his guards have been attacked, he’ll have us killed.”
“They won’t know that I had anything to do with that.”
“It wouldn’t be that hard to figure out.”
“Why should Boolian Toadas bother? You’re just another slave to him.”
“He sent those men.”
“He was curious. Although, should I ever see that goblin again, I’m sure he would remember me.” Brant grimaced. “I really don’t like being known. It’s not good in my line of work.”
“What are you up to?” Wick asked.
“Not now,” Brant replied. “For the moment, we have to finish our escape.”
“Escape?”
“I swear, I’d entertained real hopes that an artist such as yourself would be capable of carrying on a decent and lively conversation.” Brant walked out of the alley and turned right.
A lean young human waited at the street’s edge with three saddled horses. Only the lack of facial hair at her age led Wick to believe that she was feminine. She wore loose, dingy brown clothing, a traveling cloak pulled up over her head, and scarred boots that reached to her knees. Her blond hair was short-cropped, hanging level with her jawline. Wick doubted she was out of her teens, which was of a nearly adult age in humans, but she still looked young. “Did everything go according to plan?” she asked, reaching into a saddlebag.
“Well enough,” Brant said. “Except that I think I’ll have to be careful around Boolian Toadas for quite possibly the rest of my life.”
“Brant, you’re careful around everybody,” the young girl said.
Wick stared at the young girl and felt terribly confused. Evidently Brant had planned on everything that had happened, but the little librarian still had no clue why anyone would go to such trouble for him.
The young girl walked to Wick carrying a dark green traveling cloak and a rolled-brim hat. “Hi,” she said, smiling. Mischievous merriment glistened in her green eyes. A light dusting of freckles tracked across the bridge of her nose. “I’m Sonne.”
“Hello, Sonne,” Wick said, feeling awfully confused. The girl seemed so open and friendly compared to Brant’s arrogance. “I’m Edgewick Lamplighter, Third—” The little librarian stopped himself just in time to keep from giving away his position at the Library.
Already mounted on one of the horses, Brant grinned down at him smugly.
Angrily, Wick glanced away from Brant and looked back at Sonne.
The young girl held out the traveling cloak and hat. “Would you hold these?”
Wick accepted the garments after only a moment’s hesitation, not really knowing what else to do.
Sonne took a hammer and punch from the other saddlebag. She waved the little librarian over to a broken window in the nearby building. “Let me get those manacles off you. It’ll be hard to ride with them on.”
Totally lost, Wick did as he was bid. With two swift strokes, Sonne knocked out the pins holding the manacles closed. Then she did the same for the ankle manacles. Finished, she returned the hammer and punch to the saddlebag. She left the chains lying at Wick’s feet.
“Get dressed,” she suggested. “It gets cold up in the mountains.”
“The mountains?” Wick repeated.
Sonne looked at Brant.
“It could be,” Brant told the girl, “that he’s not as bright as I’d hoped.”
“It’s not like you to waste money,” Sonne replied. She turned back to Wick. “Get dressed. Or we can leave you here with slave markers in your ears so that the first greedy goblins to come along can claim you as theirs.”
Wick quickly pulled on the traveling cloak. He fit the hat more gingerly since it rode low enough to touch his sore ears.
Sonne held out a stirrup. “Get up on the horse.”
Remembering his last riding experience in Greydawn Moors, Wick said, “I’d really rather not. Horses and I just don’t get along well.”
“If we could walk there,” Sonne said, “I wouldn’t have brought the horses. Get up there.”
Wick glanced around the street and wondered if he had a chance of running away.
As if by magic, a small slim blade appeared in Sonne’s hand. “Don’t,” she warned coldly. “You wouldn’t make it. Whether you lived or not, I’d take you down to the harbor and throw you in to the sharks myself.”
Despite h
er youth and the slight smile on her lips, the coldness in her green eyes made Wick believe she meant what she said. Sighing, knowing he was still a prisoner just as surely as though he’d still been manacled, the little librarian pulled himself onto the saddle. He was still too weak from being underfed to make it on his own. Sonne helped with a shove that very nearly put him over the horse. He reached for the reins, but the young girl snatched them away.
“I’ll be leading you,” she told him. Effortlessly, she vaulted up onto her own mount. She kept the reins to Wick’s horse clasped in one hand while controlling hers with her other hand. Without a word, she put her heels to the horse’s flanks.
“Wait!” Wick protested, then grabbed for the saddle horn with both hands. The stirrups were close to the distance he needed them, but they were still a little too long. As he bounced on the saddle, he slid from side to side, touching first with one foot, then with the other, never quite balanced.
Sonne turned away from the harbor and headed east instead.
“Where are we going?” Wick asked, but his question might as well have been asked of a stone wall. His companions didn’t answer. He stared at the tree-lined mountains up the path they traveled. At the other end lay the Forest of Fangs and Shadows, and the little librarian couldn’t even guess what waited for him there.
15
The Den of Thieves
Let’s rest here a moment.”
Tired and aching from the past few days of hard manual labor, plus the last hour of riding the horse, Wick was grateful for the break. Sonne led his horse to the left side of the little-used trail they’d followed up into the mountains.
The lithe girl swung her leg over her own mount and dropped to the ground. She tied her horse’s reins to a nearby branch and glanced over her shoulder at the little librarian. “Don’t get any ideas just because the woods might tempt you. Even if you got away from me somehow, there are a lot of bad things in this forest that would eat you up in one gulp.”
