by B. J. Beach
A bystander called out to Karryl. “Where did they come from?”
The young mage turned away from watching the great birds. A well-dressed merchant, his plump face flushed with cold and excitement, caught his eye.
Karryl replied with the explanation he and Evalin had agreed on. “They come from the regions far to the North, in the mountains where no men dwell.”
The merchant leaned on his gold-topped cane as other bystanders began to press round him to hear what was being said. About to ask another question, his hands reached up as the plumes in his broad-brimmed hat furiously fluttered and danced in the waft from the Lammergeyers’ wings. Question forgotten, the merchant’s mouth fell open with astonishment, and Karryl turned. Heart thumping with pride and admiration, he found himself transfixed by the spectacle taking place barely forty feet above the courtyard.
To a chorus of “Ooohs and Aaahs” the five magnificent birds were, to all intents and purposes, dancing in the air. Hardly seeming to move their wings they hovered and slipped from side to side, gliding and dipping under, over and around each other, yet never once touching. Once again the crowd milling outside the railings roared their approval and enthusiastically applauded. Ekha responded with a long ear-splitting call of acknowledgement. Breaking the dance she led her companions high over the roof of the palace and swiftly out towards the ocean.
It was only when the Lammergeyers had become no more than distant specks that Karryl turned his gaze once more towards the folk out on the street. A new note of excitement had begun to ripple through the motley gathering as the trilling notes of a reed pipe capered above the hubbub. This was certainly a day for the strange and unusual. Head bobbing, elbows jigging, a sturdy broad-shouldered man of about thirty or so moved among the crowd as he blithely tootled a merry dance tune on a slender pipe. His outlandish wide-skirted coat fashioned from randomly stitched patches of differently coloured leather, the oversize pockets, and the various bulging cloth bags slung across each shoulder marked him as a chapman, a travelling pedlar.
Arms folded, Karryl watched with interest. Satisfied that he had roused sufficient curiosity, the itinerant slipped his pipe into one of the capacious pockets. He then began producing various small items from the shoulder bags, showing them around with a practised line in patter, before stowing them away again. The chapman moved through his audience, cheerfully making a sale to one side, then delving into a pocket or bag to satisfy a request on the other, his progress gradually bringing him nearer to Karryl. With only a few paces remaining between them, their eyes met. The chapman raised a hand in greeting. The crowd began to drift away, and the pedlar slipped his hand into a pocket. Drawing out his pipe he gave a self-satisfied smirk before putting it to his lips.
Karryl gasped as something sharp thumped into his right shoulder. His left hand flew to the spot, but not before burning tendrils had already begun to course through his body. The scene before him swam and shifted. Powerless to prevent it, he slowly collapsed towards the cold stone of the courtyard. As everything went black, his fading consciousness registered the chapman striding quickly away. Even before the few remaining onlookers had time to react, Evalin had moved. In the space of a heart-beat she crossed the few paces which lay between her and Karryl. Thrusting herself forward, she flung her arms round his still-falling body and they vanished. A second later Bardeen had also winked out of sight.
23 - The Chapman’s Shadow
Bardeen materialised in the centre of the kitchen to find Miqhal sitting cross-legged on the floor, happily teaching Jadhra swear-words to the multi-coloured bird. Quickly transferring the bird to his shoulder the warrior rose effortlessly to his feet.
His expression darkened as he saw the look on Bardeen’s face. “I sense that all is not well. Something has happened?”
The old magician began to pace the floor, his head bowed. “Indeed it has, but what exactly I couldn’t rightly say.”
He gave the increasingly grim-faced Miqhal a brief summary of the events in the palace courtyard, as he had seen them.
It was only when Bardeen described Evalin’s vanishing with the apparently lifeless Karryl that the Jadhra’s face registered uncharacteristic alarm. “We must not allow this to hold us back. The plan must be followed. But first I will find the enemy who has done this thing. Such a man as you describe will not be hard to find.”
Before Bardeen could utter a word, Miqhal had assumed the role of general and begun issuing orders. After listening for a while, the old magician had to admit that the Jadhra’s proposals made perfect sense. In no more than a few minutes they had thrashed out details, then each set about their individual tasks. Settling himself on the kitchen floor beside the artefacts, Miqhal began to plan his moves.
Half a mile away, a stoop shouldered, crotchety-faced old man leaning heavily on a stick, appeared from behind a high-sided cart. At surprising speed he shuffled through the Great Market, his objective the large canvas-covered pitch of the basket-maker. The young man looked up from weaving the pliable osiers to watch as Bardeen, continually muttering to himself, methodically poked, peered and prodded. Eventually the young craftsman put his work to one side.
He approached his nosy but apparently non-purchasing browser. “Looking for something particular was you, sir?”
Bardeen sniffed as he scratched at his white-stubbled chin. “Maybe. These all you’ve got?”
Somewhat baffled, the basket-maker looked about him. “There’s enough here ain’t there? ‘Ow many was you wanting?”
Leaning on his stick, the old magician gave the young man a toothless grin. “Just the one.” He tapped the side of his thin nose. “But it’s got to be the right one.”
The basket-maker shook his head. “Dunno ‘ow I can help then, unless you ‘as a special order. In a hurry, are you? I can make what you wants in a few days if you tells me what it is.”
At that moment a gust of wind lifted the edge of the canvas which formed the back wall of the broad open-fronted tent. Releasing a dry rasping chuckle Bardeen scuttled round behind the covered pitch, quickly followed by the slightly alarmed basket-maker.
He found the old man standing beside a deep, wide basket and tapping it approvingly with his stick. “This one’ll do. Sell me this one.”
The young man threw up his hands in frustration. “That ‘un ain’t fer sale. You can see I carries me withies in that, and it’s full.” His tone softened. “I’ll make another like it if you wants.”
Bardeen chuckled again. Chin thrust out, he peered up into the young man’s hopeful face. “Make another for yourself then. I want that one.” He grinned and flipped a gold coin in the air, catching it deftly. “I’ll give you a good price.”
The young basket-maker swallowed hard. The coin in the old man’s hand was enough to buy half his entire stock. He didn’t spend too long thinking. With a nod to Bardeen he hurried off to collect two smaller baskets and carefully transferred the straight slender osiers into them. Peering into the large and now empty basket, Bardeen lifted it by one of its four strong rope-twist handles, laying it on its side as he tested the bottom. The rim of the basket came up to his chest.
The basket-maker grinned. “Manage that on yer own can you? Bit too much for you I reckon.”
Bardeen winked and tossed him the coin. “Don’t you worry. I’ll manage. Now go and find me a length of cord.”
Swiftly pocketing the coin before the old man changed his mind, the young basket-maker went off to find the cord. Having sorted out a good clean length, he returned to the rear of his pitch. Basket and old man were nowhere to be seen.
* * *
The basket materialised in the middle of the kitchen floor, closely followed by Bardeen.
Miqhal nodded his approval as he examined it. “This is an excellent basket. I feel certain it is what Master Karryl had in mind.” He placed it on the floor beside the artefacts. “Is there some way we may discover what has befallen him?”
Bardeen sat down and rested h
is elbows on the table. “I think all we can do is wait and hope. It would be pointless going to the palace. I doubt whether we would gain admission in Lady Evalin’s absence, and I could only hazard a guess as to where she’s taken him.”
Looking down, he managed a little smile as he watched Moonstone wander over to the new basket, sniff at it briefly, then saunter out of the kitchen. Giving no further thought to the cat, Bardeen relinquished the guise of Hieronymus Smeers and set about preparing a rather belated lunch. Miqhal declined. As Karryl had done, he borrowed a robe and cap from the old magician, slipping the robe over his desert clothes so as not to draw attention to himself. After transferring to the fountain garden of the palace, the only place that he could accurately visualise, he walked briskly to one of the side gates and told the guard he had been visiting. Robed magicians were becoming a common occurrence just lately and he was let out unquestioned into the lane. Making his way round to the wide mall which fronted the palace he began to focus on his quarry. He intended to find whoever had struck down and possibly killed Master Karryl. That person would spend a long time wishing they were dead before their wish was finally granted.
* * *
Rather than waste valuable time attempting to persuade one of the guards to open a door, Moonstone opted for the risky shortcut through the palace kitchens. He was in luck. Despite the chill, the heavy kitchen door stood wide open, great clouds of steam billowing out into the wintry air. The big tortoiseshell sidled round the door-jamb and ducked into the deep shadow against the wall to his right, just as one of the pot-boys was sent to close the door. When he was sure no one was looking in his direction, Moonstone quickly trotted across the front of the wide deep-set hearth with its spits, pots and irons. Beyond this, a large alcove made storage for an assortment of boxes and barrels. Slipping between them the cat made his way to the rear wall. Hidden by kegs and tuns he wriggled through a broken air-grille. From there he squirmed along a horizontal shaft through the wall and into an unlit and little used passage. Hugging the walls, and dodging out of sight whenever he heard anyone approaching Moonstone quickly made his way through the palace corridors, leapt nimbly down the stairs and along the circuitous route to the door of Vailin’s office and sitting room.
An armed bodyguard stood leaning on his halberd, his eyes wearing the vacant look of the utterly bored. Moonstone sauntered along the tiled hallway as if he had every right to be there. Sitting down in front of the guard, he looked up and uttered the most persuasively pathetic “miaow” he could muster. Totally unmoved, the guard glanced down, shifted his weight to his other foot and continued to lean on his halberd. Moonstone tried again with even less success. This time the guard didn’t even bother to look down. Almost out of options, the cat decided to try the direct approach. A loud, far-reaching drawn-out “Meee-ee-oow” echoed along the hallway, eliciting a less than satisfactory response from the un-co-operative guard.
Glaring down at Moonstone he flapped a dismissive hand towards the far end of the hall. “Clear off cat. I’m not letting you in, so scram!”
Not one to be easily discouraged, the big tortoiseshell uttered one defiant “miaow” before ambling off towards the end of the hallway. He did know another way in but it was difficult and time-consuming and he didn’t relish the prospect. However, his luck was about to change. As he reached the end of the hallway, Jobling came striding along the adjoining corridor with a large tray of silver cups. Catching sight of the cat, the unflappable major-domo stopped and regarded him thoughtfully. Moonstone sat down, closed his amber eye and looked at Jobling with the green one.
Jobling shook his head. “If you’re looking for Lady Evalin you’ve just missed her. She popped back to collect some things and has returned to Arinel to care for Master Karryl. I’m afraid she will be away for quite some time.”
If cats have a god and Moonstone had been praying, his prayers would have just been answered. Giving Jobling a little “ miaow” he began to wash his paws, allowing the man-servant enough time to be well out of the way. He then scampered down the corridor in the opposite direction. It was getting dark as Moonstone headed down towards the cellars. Having found out what he wanted to know, he was no longer in a hurry. Getting out would take a good while longer than getting in, but he was quite confident he wouldn’t be seen. He might even have chance to catch supper on the way.
* * *
Miqhal was puzzled. Despite the most diligent searching of the immediate area, he could find no magical trace of his quarry. Returning to the spot where Bardeen estimated he had last seen the chapman, Miqhal changed his approach. Enhancing his olfactory powers he sniffed and analysed the minute traces lingering in the cold air, systematically rejecting each one that proved to be of no consequence. As he inched closer to the tall railings which fronted the palace courtyard, his heightened sense of smell detected an alien piquancy lingering among the everyday scents of bustling humanity. Although the day was well advanced, enough traces still remained for him to follow, but as darkness fell even these would sink lower until they dispersed into the cobbled surfaces of the streets. Quickening his step Miqhal trailed the unique and increasingly sporadic wisps a short way along the mall, losing them briefly before picking them up again. They led him into a long narrow side street to his left, heading down towards the town centre. Recognising the distinctive cap and robe, people in the street nodded respectfully as they passed, little realising how much Miqhal wanted to run in pursuit of his quarry. Instead he maintained a brisk pace to the bottom of the street. At the intersection the Jadhra looked both ways. His options were limited and he had lost the scent. If the chapman had turned left he could have followed the wide road to its junction with Broad Street and disappeared amid the hurly-burly of the Great Market, both himself and the scent of his poison swallowed up in the anonymity of the crowd. Miqhal thought it unlikely. It was far more probable that the itinerant would want to put Vellethen far behind him and head for the coast road. The Jadhra turned right.
He had gone no more than a few paces, snuffing at the air as he went, when a familiar voice entered his mind. “You’re going the wrong way.”
Stopping to slip his chilled hands into the sleeves of his robe, Miqhal settled his gaze on the far side of the street. “Are you sure?”
“As sure as the roof I’m sitting on.”
Now turned and headed in the opposite direction, Miqhal floated a question into the chill of the evening air. “Have you seen the one I seek?”
“He is at this very moment in the tavern beneath my feet.”
Mystified, the Jadhra moved into the concealing shadow of a doorway. His first thought was that his quarry was obviously a cold-blooded assassin, confident in his ability to remain undetected. Putting that aside, Miqhal considered the implications of another possibility, something he had encountered on more than one occasion.
Curbing his determination to kill, he stepped out into the street and looked about him. “Where is this tavern?”
“That building with the sign and lighted windows a few paces down on the other side of the road is a tavern. The Jolly Fiddler.”
Miqhal allowed himself a wry smile. “And how long have you been watching me?”
Moonstone’s reply surprised him. “Only since you entered this street. I knew you would arrive eventually. I caught sight of the pedlar as I was on my way home and followed him. He seems a merry sort of fellow and I sensed no malice in him.”
Miqhal waited for a horse-drawn carriage to pass, then crossed the street and walked slowly up to the tavern door. Instead of going in he stood quietly, his hands in his sleeves, and waited. After a few minutes he felt something brush against his ankle. He looked down to see Moonstone sniffing curiously at his robe.
The cat looked up. “What are you waiting for?”
Miqhal gave an enigmatic smile. “Be patient my sharp-eyed friend and you will see.”
Moonstone sat down beside the Jadhra’s foot and the strange pair waited. Not many minutes la
ter their patience was rewarded. A bluff faced workman walked up from the direction of the market, stepped around them and reached for the tavern’s door-latch.
Miqhal held out a hand. “Pardon me sir. I would ask a favour.”
Quickly the workman looked him up and down. Noting the robe and cap, he nodded. “It would be an honour Master Magician. You only have to name it.”
Touching his fingers to forehead, lips and chest, Miqhal made a little bow. “My faith does not allow me to enter such places, but a certain person with whom I would speak is within. Please ask the pedlar if he would join me out here. It is possible he may carry an item of which I have need.”
The workman grinned widely as he clicked the latch and pushed open the door. “If that’s the ‘ardest thing I hever ‘ave to do it’ll be an easy life. Wait there Master Magician and I’ll fetch ‘im.”
Using the short time he had to wait to advantage, Miqhal was completely relaxed and fully prepared when the chapman peered round the door. His face brightened as he caught sight of Miqhal. “Well I never! I thought the fellow was having me on!”
He practically danced out into the street, pulling the door to behind him. Making a leg, the chapman flourished a deep bow which set his coat skirts flapping and the tokens on his broad-brimmed hat jingling.
Straightening up, he spread his arms wide. “How can this humble pedlar be of assistance to one so esteemed as yourself, Master?”
Miqhal took a step forward, his hands still inside his sleeves. “I am in need of a small piece of copper or a piece of ivory to complete a spell I am devising. Do you have such a thing?”
Although he never used material spell components himself, Miqhal knew that certain magicians did. He was certain his ploy wouldn’t arouse the chapman’s suspicion. The chapman chuckled delightedly and began to rummage inside the deep canvas satchel slung across his shoulder. Miqhal moved a step closer, his enhanced sense of smell picking up the piquant aroma of the poison. While the chapman searched in his bag, Miqhal searched in the chapman’s mind. What he found only served to confirm what he had begun to suspect earlier. The man had no memory of the evil deed he had done, and Miqhal would not kill an innocent man. The shadow of the implanted suggestion which still lurked inside his brain would do that within a few days, as it grew and drove him mad.
