by Mel Odom
I don’t think I can walk, let alone run, Wick thought ruefully. Moving carefully, wondering if any permanent damage had been done during the ride up the mountainside, he slid off the saddle, missed the stirrup on the way down, and landed on his posterior with a painful thump.
“Slow-witted and awkward,” Sonne commented as she rummaged through her saddlebags. She gazed at Wick and shook her head disdainfully. “I still don’t see what possessed you to risk so much to acquire this halfer.”
“When I saw him drawing in his sketchpad,” Brant said, “he intrigued me.
Wick stood cautiously, his ill-treated knees protesting. They’d stopped at a wooded glen overlooking Hanged Elf’s Point far below. From above, the city looked even worse, like a child’s stack of toy buildings that had been cruelly smashed.
He scanned the harbor, counting twenty-two ships at anchor. Travel up and down the nine ledges fronting the sea was thick. The tree line around them was thick and verdant. Birds sang upon the leafy boughs. As they’d ridden into the mountains, the sun had finally burned through the clouds, bringing warmth and golden light.
“Was there anything interesting in the sketchbook?” Sonne asked.
“He is a good artist,” Brant mused, “but I question his composition.”
Startled by the announcement, Wick ran his hands along his shirt. My journal! It was gone. He’d been so frightened of the mountain travel on horseback that he hadn’t even noticed. He turned and looked at Brant, who’d taken a seat beneath a spreading elm tree.
Brant casually flipped through the pages of the little librarian’s homemade book.
“Hey,” Wick cried, starting forward. “That isn’t yours!” How much could Brant have already guessed from the things he’d seen? The little librarian brushed aside a branch, holding it back.
Sonne flicked her hand forward and a small silver knife thudded home in the branch the little librarian held out of his face. The knife quivered only inches from Wick’s left eye.
“Not one more step, little man,” the young girl ordered.
Brant didn’t even look up from Wick’s journal. “I believe she means it,” he stated calmly.
Wick didn’t say anything, and he didn’t move. He stared nervously at the journal in Brant’s hands. How had the man gotten hold of it? The little librarian had known for sure that he’d had the journal up until the time he’d mounted the horse. After that, he’d concentrated on holding on for dear life. He glanced at Sonne, suddenly understanding. “You!”
She smiled and batted her eyes.
“You picked my pocket,” Wick protested. “You did it when you gave me the clothes.”
“Yes.”
“You’re a thief.”
Sonne frowned in mock disappointment. “You say that as if it were a bad thing. I’ll have you know there are many less honorable professions than thievery.”
“And even more that are honorable,” Wick replied.
She exhaled in rude disgust.
Brant closed the book and glanced at Wick. “You fascinate me, little artist. I’ve never known a dweller with talent such as yours.”
The compliment, even coming under such strange and auspicious circumstances, embarrassed Wick. He felt his face burn, and it made his injured ears throb even worse.
“Of course,” Brant continued, “I’ve not known very many dwellers. Why do you keep a sketchpad?” He rifled the pages. “And such a shoddy one at that. I’d think you’d want something far larger than this.”
Sketchpad? Wick thought. Doesn’t he realize what he’s holding? Or maybe I didn’t write neatly enough for him to easily comprehend. He hated thinking that the failing might be his handwriting, but if it was enough to keep his secrets secret, he resolved to be glad of it.
“I’ve seen the sketches you’ve done of Hanged Elf’s Point,” Brant went on. “Very true to life and easy to place. However, these other people and the ships at sea—and this.” He held the journal open and showed Wick the picture of the Embyr. “I don’t understand this at all.”
Sonne stared at the pictured with vibrant interest. “She’s pretty. But who burned her?”
“No one burned her,” Wick said. “She’s an Embyr.”
Brant shook his head. “I don’t know what an Embyr is except for small coals in a fire.”
“She is one of the beings called Embyrs that Lord Kharrion created near the end of the Cataclysm,” Wick explained, wanting to make sure they at least understood the picture.
“Lord Kharrion.” Brant’s attention returned to the journal and he flipped pages. “You believe that the Goblin Lord existed and that a war was fought that covered the world?”
“Yes,” Wick replied.
Brant laughed and shook his head. “I can understand the goblinkin’s interest in believing those legends. It makes them out as the near-conquerors of the world.”
“They’re not legends,” Wick insisted. Maybe if I can convince him how dangerous the knowledge contained in that book is he will give it back to me. “Lord Kharrion existed. That city down there is proof of that.”
“Hanged Elf’s Point?”
“It was once called Dream. Haven’t you heard of it?”
“No,” Brant said.
“How can you live here on the Shattered Coast and not know of Dream?” Wick asked incredulously.
Brant’s face hardened in warning. “I know of several other legends and myths, and I know when to separate fact from fiction. Therein, many times, lies the profit in a matter.” He flipped through the journal’s pages again. “You got here by sea, and presumably you traveled with dwarven pirates for a time. But where were you before that?”
Wick shook his head.
“I see this little house,” Brant said, referring to the picture Wick had drawn of his father’s house. “I know it has some significance to you. But it was drawn amidst all the pictures of the pirates and the sea. So I think you were thinking about some other place. A city you’d been in before you joined the pirates. Where is this place?”
“I can’t tell you.”
“Why?”
“It’s not my secret to give,” Wick said.
Brant grinned. “Ah, little artist, you know how I am about secrets.”
Wick shrugged stubbornly.
“And what are these strange markings on these other pages?” Brant asked. “I would think perhaps you’d gotten bored, except that the markings show rhythm and measure, and a great deal of time and skill to get them all right.”
Markings? Wick looked at the page of script Brant pointed to. Then the little librarian understood. “You can’t read,” he whispered.
Color flooded into Brant’s face and anger twisted his features. “Are you trying to say that you can?”
Wick remained silent, not believing his good luck. He already knew that not many humans bothered to learn to read or write before the Cataclysm except those who intended to become mages or historians. Even ships’ captains and merchantmen only learned the rudiments of the written language of trade and navigation. Wick knew his own writing was anything but common.
“I’m not stupid,” Brant said angrily. “I know that only mages can read. They have spell books, but I’ve never seen any of them that looked like this.”
Desperately seizing the idea that suddenly presented itself to him, Wick stood up to his full height and lowered his voice. He tried to appear all-knowing and grave. “Would you believe that I am a mage?”
Brant regarded the little librarian. “Perhaps. If you turned Sonne into a frog.”
“I could—” Wick began, thinking maybe he could somehow gain the upper hand on his captors. Although, he had no clue what he would do then. He wasn’t even sure in which direction Greydawn Moors lay after spending nine days chained in Ill Wind’s lower cargo hold.
Another knife magically appeared in Sonne’s hand. “Don’t even think about it.”
Wick crossed his arms over his chest. “I have no desire to turn her into
a frog.”
Sonne smiled prettily at Brant. “See? He likes me.”
Brant ignored her. “If you’re a mage, how did you come to be captured by slavers?”
“I—uh—!—” Wick thought furiously. If there was a chance that Brant would believe him even for a little while, maybe he could turn it to his advantage in some way. “I was ambushed.” He nodded, happy with his answer. “Yes, that’s it, I was ambushed.”
“Why didn’t you turn into a puff of smoke and disappear from the slave pens in Hanged Elf’s Point?”
“Because,” Wick said, remembering Minniger’s tale on the way up the mountain, “magic doesn’t work in Hanged Elf’s Point. Everyone knows that.”
“True,” Brant conceded. “Then why not turn the goblinkin slavers into frogs and take over their ship when you woke?”
“I didn’t—uh—” Wick was stumped again, but only for a moment. Latheril Duonden had written a series of comical mage stories that were on the shelves in Hralbomm’s Wing. “I lost my magic hat.” Latheril’s character had the habit of producing anything he needed from his enchanted hat.
“Pity,” Brant said, “that you still don’t have that hat. Otherwise, I’d find you dreadfully frightful.”
Details, Wick thought sourly, remembering the admonishment he’d received from several First Level Librarians. The work is always undone by sloppy attention to details. He sighed. “All right. I’m not a mage.”
“But you fancy yourself a writer?” Brant asked. “As well as an artist?”
“I do know how to write,” Wick said. “And I know how to read.”
The sound of horses’ hooves striking the stony ground drew their attention. Sonne’s hands seemed to fill with the small knives, and Brant put his hand upon his sword hilt as he stood.
Two dwarves and two humans on horses appeared at the top of the ridge, riding along the trail up the mountains. They called out greetings to Sonne and Brant, which were returned.
“Did anyone follow us, Cobner?” Brant asked as the dwarves and humans dismounted and tied their horses up as well.
“No one,” one of the dwarves grimaced as if pained. His voice was gravelly and severe. He was almost as big as Hallekk had been, and may have even been a little broader across the shoulders. Blade scars showed on his face, disappearing under his sandy-gray beard. “Though Boolian Toadas was fit to be tied after hearing two of his goblins got knocked about.”
Brant sheathed his sword. “You did rob them, didn’t you?”
All four men nodded.
“Well?” Brant prompted.
Cobner dug in his traveling cloak and produced a small money purse. “They didn’t have much. Evidently Boolian Toadas pays his help very little.” He tossed the bag at Brant.
Brant caught the bag, briefly inspected the contents and frowned, then divided it up between himself and Sonne. “Still, it’s something. As long as we’re still showing a profit, we’re doing just fine.”
Cobner nodded at Wick. “What’s the story with the little halfer?”
Holding up Wick’s journal, Brant said, “He says he can read.”
Immediately the two dwarves and two humans stepped back and started drawing their weapons, swords for the humans and battle-axes for the dwarves.
Wick stepped back, letting go the branch he’d been holding. To his horror, he saw that the little silver blade embedded in the branch shot loose, flying directly at Sonne’s face. The young girl didn’t move at all except to snatch the twirling blade from the air as quickly as a frog flicking a fly. She smiled at Wick.
Brant held up his hands to stop the humans and dwarves. “He’s not a mage. If he had been, do you think he would still be here?”
Still suspicious, the dwarves and humans put their weapons away.
“He forgot his magic hat,” Sonne said.
“Make up your minds,” Cobner growled irritably, keeping his hands on the haft of his great battle-axe. “I don’t like your little jokes. I’ve told you that often enough before. I’d soon as lop a mage’s head off as look at him. They’re nothing but trouble in the end, you know.”
Wick swallowed hard.
Amusement twinkling in his black eyes, Brant looked at the little librarian. “Go on and tell Cobner the truth. Are you a mage?”
Wick glanced at the fierce dwarf. Cobner didn’t look as though he had a friendly bone in his body. “No,” the little librarian said. “I’m not a mage. I only told Brant and Sonne that so they might let me go.”
Cobner glowered at Wick and shook his head. “That’s mighty stupid, halfer. Orpho Kadar already don’t allow mages into Hanged Elf’s Point and will kill any that he finds. And Brant, why he’d tell you to change Sonne into a frog or somesuch to prove you were a mage.” He spat. “You’d have been better off eating one of those sour green persimmons off those trees over there so that you’d foam at the mouth, then tell Brant that you were diseased or mad.”
“Oh.” Wick blinked, noticing the sour green persimmons on the small trees only a short distance away. All those stories of brilliant escape plans and derring-do he’d read in Hralbomm’s Wing, the little librarian thought, and the best I can do is, I’m a mage!
“Don’t judge him too harshly, Cobner,” Brant commented. “I think he’s totally new at being a slave. Which makes how he came to be here and what he really is terribly interesting.”
“Faugh!” Cobner growled. “You and your secrets, Brant. They’re going to be the death of you. And maybe us if we don’t keep our wits about us. I say that anything—or anyone,” he fixed Wick with an icy stare, “that gets too mysterious ought to just get chopped on general principle. I don’t like your little mysteries. I’m a good honest thief and know when I should be about my business and when I shouldn’t.”
“You’re all thieves?” Wick blurted before he could think to make himself stop.
“Yeah,” Cobner roared. “It’s a fair trade for a man willing to risk his life. Better than fighting in some duke or lord’s wars over land, which is only another kind of thievery. Or being an animal tender or a farmer having to fight off thieves. Everyone steals from each other in one way or another, halfer, and some of us are honest enough to admit it and be choosey about when and where we work.”
Wick had to admit that the fierce dwarf had a point, if a person was willing to accept his perspective. “Bahbarker voiced similar arguments in his book, The Price Is Right: A Rogue’s Tale,” the little librarian said.
“He reads?” Cobner raised his eyebrows.
Brant shrugged. “So he says.”
Cobner glanced back at Wick. “And where would you find books outside a mage’s library, halfer? Them things are legends, myths poor people tell each other.”
“No,” Wick insisted. “Books did at one time exist outside of a mage’s library. Every city had libraries.”
“And everyone could go there?” Cobner asked. “Free?”
“No,” Wick answered. “Most libraries and academies charged a small price for their use. And there were scribes who would copy books for a buyer if he or she had the price.”
“I don’t know anyone that would have a use for a book,” Cobner said.
“The goblinkin search for them in Hanged Elf’s Point,” one of the humans said.
The others turned to look at him.
“I’ve heard them,” the human said. He was tall and lanky, barely into his shaving years by the looks of him. His light brown hair swept down into his gray eyes.
“Where have you heard them talking about such things, Hamual?” Brant asked, suddenly interested.
“In a few of the taverns down near the docks,” Hamual answered. “When the garrison guards search the slaver ships for disease, they always check for books as well. Orpho Kadar pays a bonus gold piece for any that are found.”
Excitement flared through Wick and he couldn’t still himself. “Have any books been found?”
Hamual swept hair from his face. “No. I overheard some of
the goblinkin bemoaning the fact that no books had ever been found in the time that Orpho Kadar took over Hanged Elf’s Point.”
“Well,” Brant said, “we have one.” He flipped Wick’s journal open again.
“Let me see that,” Cobner growled. He caught the book when Brant tossed it to him and quickly flipped through the pages. He closed it. “Maybe you could claim it’s a book, but I doubt you’d get a gold piece for it. There’s no color in it. It’s not very well done.”
“Not very well done?” Wick exploded. “How can you say that? Why, you’ve never even seen a book before in your life. Who are you to judge my efforts?” Filled with fury and outrage, the little librarian stepped toward the dwarf. “I had to make those pages and bindings myself. I had no access to inks or colors. I used charcoal because that’s all I had. And the work is very well done. I daresay I’m a very good writer. I make beautiful Qs. I’ve been told. And if you could read, you great oaf, you’d realize that my word choice is lyrical and-” Suddenly, he realized that he was standing on the dwarf’s boots and staring squarely up at the bigger man.
Cobner glowered down at him. “You’re standing on my toes.”
“Oh.” Wick was mortified and scared. He took a quick step back. “I’m sorry.” He kept waiting for the dwarf to swing his great axe and lop his head from his shoulders.
“I believe you insulted him,” Brant said calmly from behind Wick.
Cobner shook his bushy head and spat, making Wick dodge back quickly so the spittle wouldn’t land on his bare feet. “One thing I do hate,” the dwarf said, “is a halfer that don’t know his place. Makes me all itchy inside. Maybe you ought to tell me again why I don’t just whomp him and leave him here for the wolves to feed on.”
“The puzzle,” Brant replied. “He’s an artist. I think maybe he can help us with the puzzle.”
“And if he can’t,” Cobner asked hopefully, “then I get to whomp him?”
“Or maybe we can look into this book angle,” Brant said. “Maybe we can put our new friend Wick to work producing books that we can sell to Orpho Kadar.”
“You want me to write books for a goblin?” Wick asked. “Why, there’s no way that I—”
