by Allan Cole
"Where would you do it?" Olari asked.
"In the stadium, where else?" Safar answered. "Right in front of altar where Umurhan and Didima and Kalasariz will be holding court."
Olari whistled. "Right under their noses," he said. "I like that. And I can follow it up with spontaneous demonstrations and protest parades all over the city." He slapped his thigh. "That’ll make them sit up and take notice."
Absently, Olari took another drink from the jar. "What exactly do you intend to do?" he asked.
"If you don’t mind," Safar replied, "I’d really rather not say. It’s a very complicated spell and very delicate. Just speaking about it could disturb one of its parts and have a disastrous effect on the whole." He was lying. He hadn’t had time to come up with the kind of magical disturbance Olari wanted. "But I promise you," he continued, "that it will be beyond your wildest wishes." This was only a partial lie. Safar did intend to deliver the spellcast, he just didn’t know what it would be.
"The word of Safar Timura," Olari said, pricking Safar’s conscience, "is good enough for me."
Safar hesitated, then took the plunge. "About the money," he said.
Olari gave a dismissive wave. "Don’t worry," he said. "I’ve not forgotten. I promised you fifty gold coins. But I can see now I was being tight-fisted. Make it a hundred."
Safar’s heart jumped - so much? "That’s very generous of you," he said. "My, uh, family, will be more than thankful. But there’s, uh, one other thing I’d like to ask."
"What’s that?"
"Can I get it in advance?"
Olari stared at him long and hard.
"Just so you have all the facts you need to make up your mind, I’ll tell you this," he said. "I intend to leave Walaria right after I do the casting. I know I’m putting a very large burden of trust on your shoulders, but I assure you I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t necessary."
As Safar had hoped, the negative bit of information about his leaving helped sway Olari’s decision.
"I think I can manage that load easily enough," the young nobleman said. "I’ll do as you asked. Meet me at the Foolsmire tonight."
Safar thanked him and they shared a few drinks from the jar.
"I wish I could persuade you to stay," Olari said. "Things really will be different when we get rid of this lot."
"I’m sure it will be," Safar said. "But I worry about you. You’ve caused them no end of grief of late. Big demonstrations that have nearly turned into riots. Broadsides condemning them spread all over the city. What if they tire of it? Or worse, what if they suddenly think you are a great danger to them?"
"I want them to," Olari said. "That’s my intent. How else can we achieve change?"
"I understand that," Safar said. "But you know, times really have been troublesome the past two years. And you can’t blame it all on the Unholy Trio, as you call them. The weather has become increasingly unpredictable. As have the harvests. And there’s been locust swarms and outbreaks of flux and plague. Not just in Walaria, either. It’s happening all over Esmir."
Olari shrugged. "The gods are in charge of those things," he said. "And since it’s their responsibility, what can I do? Besides, times will get better. They always do. History tells us that. And things aren’t really so bad as you say. Deaths have been few. There’s no mass starvation. Actually, many people live in relative plenty. And there’s good news in the land as well. What of Iraj Protarus? He’s our age. And look at all he’s doing to change Esmir for the better."
"I don’t call wars and raids on other people’s kingdoms change for the better," Safar said.
Olari gave him a puzzled look. "I thought you two were friends?"
"We are," Safar said. "Or were, anyway. But that doesn’t mean I agree with him."
Olari chuckled. "It seems Protarus and I have both had the same experience with you," he said. "You give us your friendship but not your company in our cause."
"I suppose you’re right," Safar said. "But I’ve never been enamored of causes. Politics don’t interest me. Only the science and history of magic."
"I suppose you’d like to put that interest to real use someday," Olari said. "To help people, for instance. To better their lot, their condition, with your skills."
"I’ll admit I’ve thought of such things," Safar said.
"That’s a cause isn’t it?" Olari said. "Your cause, of course. But a cause just the same."
"I suppose it is," Safar said.
"So why do you shun my cause, and the cause of your friend Protarus. We’re all the same age. We all have similar ideals. It’s time for a change, dammit. A massive change. We’ve lived under the heels of old men for too long."
Safar couldn’t say he theorized change might already be occurring. But it was a change on a scale much greater than two young men who wanted to be king.
Instead he said, "Allow me my delusions, Olari. I’m sure you and Iraj will soon prove me to be a blind fool. And I hope you forgive me when that time comes."
"You’re forgiven already, my friend," Olari said. "Just make sure that when the time comes you know which way to jump."
"That’s wise advice," Safar said. "I’ll remember it. But I hope you’ll also remember mine. Be careful of Kalasariz. I have a feeling he’s becoming anxious."
"What if he does?" Olari said. "What can he do to me? The brutal truth of the matter is that there are two kinds of people in Walaria. Those who have reason to fear Tulaz’ blade. And those who do not. And I, my bookish friend, belong in the first category by reason of my birth and my father’s fortune."
Just then Gundara whispered in Safar’s ear. "The spy approaches!"
Safar held up a hand to silence Olari. A heartbeat later they heard Ersen’s sarcastic voice. "Do I hear sounds of merrymaking within?"
Ersen ducked into the room and saw the wine jar in Olari’s hand. "What a greedy lot of beggars," he said. "Keeping the wine for yourself when your poor friend Ersen is nearly dying of thirst."
Olari laughed and handed the jar over. Ersen took a long drink, then sat on a mattress. "What are you fellows up to?" he asked. "Plotting the overthrow of the world as we know it, is my guess."
Ersen was not a member of Olari’s group. He was too much of a jester to be welcomed. Still, Safar was worried that Olari would say too much. He made a hidden gesture of warning, then said to Ersen:
"You found us out, you canny devil. We’ve been sitting here for hours planning our revolt. We’re thinking of starting with Didima. I’ve got a recipe we can slip into his food that’ll make him limp as a wet rag."
"That’s a good start," Ersen said. "What about Kalasariz. I’ve heard he doesn’t have a tool at all."
"Exactly what I’ve been telling Timura," Olari said. "We have to come up with something different for him."
"Well, I’m just your man," Ersen said. "See if you can find another jar of wine in there, Timura. There’s a good fellow. Conspiracy makes thirsty work."
* * *
Chapter Thirteen
Zeman's Revenge
It was just after Last Prayer and the Foolsmire was filling up with thirsty students. Inside the shop Zeman kept an eye on the alley entrance while he handed out books and collected rental fees. The word had come down from Kalasariz that Safar was expected to visit tonight in order to meet with Olari and his group of malcontents. Zeman’s orders were to learn the purpose of that meeting and to report back what he found.
Zeman was vastly pleased with himself. His grandfather had been away when the letter from Iraj Protarus had arrived for Safar. Soon as he saw it Zeman thought his fortune was made. As anxious as he’d been to pass it on to the spymaster, he’d first taken time to examine the opportunity from every angle.
He’d been in Kalasariz’ employ for over a year. He had a small copper chest under his bed filled with money earned from all the information he’d passed on to the spymaster. The Foolsmire was an ideal place to pick up gossip from wine-soaked students and learn of their crime
s; past, present, and planned. It was a task Zeman found himself ideally suited for. His awkward ways, bad manners, and sly, short-changing habits had made him an object of derision among the young customers. He’d suffered their mocking remarks for years. Like most insensitive people Zeman’s own feelings were extremely delicate and the remarks wounded him deeply. His reaction had been to become more abrasive and to cheat them every chance he had. Once he became a paid informer, however, the jibes no longer injured him. As an informer he was a man of power who secretly repaid every insult with a report that put a black mark next to their names. Also, except for the jibes, no one paid any attention to Zeman when he came near. The students thought so poorly of him they spoke freely in his presence, unaware all they said was being passed on to Kalasariz.
Safar was one of the few regulars who never joined the others in the game of Zeman-baiting. Zeman hated him for it. He saw condescension, not kindness, in Timura. He also strongly believed Safar had designs of his own on the Foolsmire. Look at how he toadied up to Katal, pretending he actually liked the old man and cared what he thought. Zeman saw his grandfather as a crazy, irresponsible old man who lived in a dreamworld where food for thought was more important than food for the table. Katal had the audacity to tell him some months ago that when he died he’d made arrangements for two small bequests - one for Timura and the other for that little thiefbitch, Nerisa.
Zeman had been scandalized by the news. The old man was giving away what rightfully belonged to his grandson. He became convinced the bequests had been Timura’s goal all along. Safar was stealing Katal’s affection and if Zeman didn’t put a stop to it soon the old man would end up handing over all his worldly goods to Safar, leaving Zeman with nothing. As for Nerisa, why it was as plain as a full moon on a cold night that she was in league with Timura. Look at how she played on the old man’s weaknesses - pretending to be a helpless orphan but all the while cozening up to Katal so she could win a place in his home and at his table. Zeman also believed her relationship with Timura was scandalous. He was certain they were sleeping together, which made Nerisa a child whore and Timura a whoremaster who probably traded her around to other decadent men who savored the flesh of children.
Zeman considered it his holy duty to put a stop to it. He’d plotted long and hard to find the rock that would crush them both. The letter, combined with Nerisa’s robbery of the stallmaster, had given him that opportunity. When he’d finally delivered the letter he’d added a report linking the two together as conspirators against Walaria.
Now his plan was about to bear fruit. Other evidence had been found against Timura. At least that’s what he surmised when the urgent message came that he was to watch Safar carefully tonight and report back all that he’d found. Zeman sensed a crisis coming - a crisis for Safar and Nerisa, at least. When it arrived the only thing that would make Zeman’s world even more perfect would be if he could rid himself of his grandfather as well. He didn’t know how he could accomplish that feat just yet. But he was confident if he were especially watchful the idea would come.
A voice broke into his thoughts: "What’s the matter with you, Zeman? Got dirt stuffed in your ears?"
He looked up and saw the sarcastic amusement in a young customer’s face. "I’ve told you twice, now," the student said, "that you’ve given me too much change."
Zeman glanced at the rental book in the student’s hand and the coins on the desk. He’d been so lost in thought that he’d forgotten his original intent - which was to shortchange the student. He made a quick count of coins and saw that instead he’d returned too much.
"I don’t mind cheating you," the student said. The gods know you’ve robbed me often enough. But that was for your own pocket. This is for old man Katal."
"No one’s forcing you to come here," Zeman snarled as he pulled in the excess change. "If you don’t like I how do business, go someplace else. You won’t be missed by me."
Instead of getting angry the student laughed at him. "No one cares what you think, Zeman," he said. "You don’t own this place. Your grandfather does. We only put up with you because of old man Katal."
He grabbed his change and walked into the patio, laughing and telling the others about the encounter. Zeman was about to shout an insult when he saw Timura coming down the alley. Quickly he put out a coin basket and little sign telling the other bookstore patrons to wait on themselves. It was an honor system Katal had instituted long ago for the busiest hours. Zeman disliked the practice and had argued against it many times. He planned to end it soon as Katal gave up his stubborn hold on life and died. But just now it served his purpose.
As he headed for patio and the crowded tables of wine drinkers someone tried to stop him and hand him money for a book.
"What are you - blind?" Zeman retorted, pointing at the basket. "Put your money there. I’ve got other things to do."
He rushed out, not hearing the response. His grandfather was at the well, drawing up buckets of cold wine jugs and stacking them on trays. Zeman saw Timura head for a large table in the far corner where Olari was holding court. Zeman was thrilled - the intelligence he’d received about the predicted meeting was evidently correct.
He snatched a tray from Katal’s hands. "Here, let me help you with that, grandfather," he said to the startled old man.
Zeman ignored the pleased expression on his grandfather’s face. He balanced the tray above his head and moved slowly through the crowd. People shouted for service as he passed, but he paid them no mind, concentrating instead on Safar and Olari. Timura’s arrival was met with shouted welcomes and Olari rose to greet him, slapping him on the back and then leaning close to whisper something in his ear. Safar laughed as if he’d just been told a grand joke, but Zeman saw Olari pass him a small object, which he tucked into his robe.
Instead of going directly to Olari’s table Zeman delivered his tray to the one closest to it. Moving at a snail’s pace, he put a jug in front of each person; his focus was entirely on the discussion swirling around Timura.
He could pick up only snatches of the excited babble: "...history in the making... teach them a lesson they’ll never forget... Umurhan will just shit... it’s gonna be the best Founder’s Day ever!"
When the tray was empty he stepped over to Olari’s table; as usual, no one paid him the slightest attention, other than to order a drink or to berate him for being lazy and slow. Zeman smiled blandly at the insults, gradually working his way toward Timura. He was just at Olari’s elbow, bending his head close as he could to hear the whispered conversation between the two, when Safar suddenly looked up and saw him. His eyes were wide as if someone had just said something surprising. Then they narrowed in what seemed to be sudden understanding.
Zeman couldn’t bring himself to tear his gaze away from Safar’s stare.
He knows, Zeman thought. Timura knows I’m an informer. But that’s not possible! How could he?
Then Timura broke his gaze and touched Olari’s hand in warning. The young noble snipped off whatever it was he was saying and leaned closer so Timura could whisper something in his ear. Zeman saw him jolt and start to turn to look in his direction, but another warning touch from Timura stopped him.
Zeman calmed himself. His imagination was running wild, he thought. There was no way Timura could know he was a spy. Safar’s behavior was the result of guilt, not knowledge. He and Olari were obviously planning something and Timura was smart enough to make sure that not even someone he held in such contempt as Zeman would overhear. But he still felt uncomfortable, so he hurried away from the table on the pretense of fetching the orders for wine.
* * *
Safar watched Zeman dodge through the crowd, the empty tray clutched tightly to his side.
"How do you know he’s an informer?" Olari asked. "He’s so stupid and lazy, it’s hard to believe Kalasariz would ever want him."
"Trust me," Safar said. "Or at least, humor me. My information comes from an impeccable source."
Gund
ara’s hissed warning had come just as Olari was discussing the disturbances he intended to stage after Safar’s spellcast disrupted the Founder’s Day ceremony. Safar had been nearly bowled over when he realized the little Favorite had fingered Zeman. After his initial surprise he had felt pity for poor Katal. His next thought was the realization that it was none other than Zeman who had put Kalasariz on his trail with trumped up charges. Anger boiled over in his belly, rising to sear the back of his throat. It was Zeman’s fault that his life and Nerisa’s were in danger. Under the circumstances anger was futile, as were any thoughts of revenge that would delay his flight from Walaria.
"You probably think I’ve suddenly gone mad," Safar said. "Insane or not, you can’t be harmed by following my advice and being careful around him."
"I don’t think you’re mad," Olari said. "But I do wonder how you got your information."
"I can’t say," Safar said.
"Anyone else we should be wary of?" Olari asked.
Safar knew if mentioned Ersen, Olari really would think he’d gone crazy. So he said, "Look at it this way - if someone like Zeman can be a spy, then who can you trust? The most unlikely person could be a direct pipeline into Kalasariz. Why, even Ersen - jester that he is - could be with the enemy."
"Ersen?" Olari said. "What brought his name into this?"
Safar shook his head. "Please, just be careful. Question everything. Everyone."
"Actually," Olari said, "Ersen makes more sense than Zeman. His father ran into some trouble with Kalasariz a few years ago. He seemed doomed for awhile, but then suddenly everything was fine again. And he’s done nothing but rise in the ranks of the Walarian Council since Ersen started at the University."
Safar didn’t respond and after a bit Olari realized he wasn’t going to say anything more.
"For a man who doesn’t like politics," Olari said, "you sure have a talent for wading into it up to your neck."
* * *
An hour later Safar lit the oil lamps in his rooms above the old city wall and got out his chest of magical implements. He had an idea for the spellcast he’d promised Olari and he thought he’d work on it while waiting for Nerisa.
