Illusion's Child (The Mindbender's Rise Book 1)

by D J Salisbury

What name? He was nameless. Outcast, and forever nameless. That’s all he could say.

  Gandar turned back and knelt on the cobblestones. He gripped the Outcast’s shoulders and shook him. “You’ve got so much to learn. If you won’t learn, you’ll eat dirt all your life. The man we’re meeting can help you crawl out of the mud. Understand?”

  How could he crawl out? He existed below dirt, below mud. In most ways, he didn’t exist at all.

  Gandar studied his face for a moment. The old man shrugged, stood, and led the way into the tavern.

  The Trader’s Inn was crowded, noisy and warm, and cavern dark compared to the Monitor-lit street outside its door. He smelled ale, fresh on the table and stale on the floor. Peppery stew simmered on the hearth.

  Gandar grabbed his hand and towed him through the crowd.

  Sweat-stained cloth and scuffed leather belts blocked his view. Everybody was so tall he’d need to stand on a table to see the far wall. And not one person stood as tall as a Setoyan warrior.

  His stomach rumbled. How humiliating. As if his situation wasn’t shameful enough. His shoulders hunched lower.

  The old man glanced back, halted. He bent and scooped him up like a baby, trapping his sack between them. His sister’s knife pressed against his ribs.

  “Put me down!” He squirmed like a coney trying to escape a gyrfalcon’s claws, with about the same success.

  “Don’t you fight me, now.” Gandar hitched him higher against his chest. “There’s too many people here, I’ll lose you.”

  “I’m not that short.” He kicked and wriggled. “Put me down.”

  “Not that tall, either. They’ll mash you like a bug. Stop it or I’ll spank you.”

  “I’m not a baby,” he muttered. “I’m not a runt.” He subsided into the wagon master’s warm arms and tried to ignore the stares that followed him.

  Finally, at the farthest corner from the door, Gandar set him on his feet next to the only table in the tavern with a single occupant. A table surrounded by six empty chairs. Now that was weird. Was something wrong with this corner?

  The caravan master sank into one of the empty chairs and pushed the table’s lantern to one side.

  The nameless boy searched the faces around them, but he found no one in the area who looked remotely important. Or even interesting. The only person at Gandar’s table was a tall and skimpy creature. Taller than Gandar, at least. His fath– Agrevod stood head and shoulders over this old man.

  He forced furious, bloodshot eyes out of his mind.

  Bright green eyes dominated the old man’s craggy face, a long narrow face framed by curly gray-brown hair and a frizzled beard. Pale olive skin contrasted with the outsider’s shabby black clothing. The old man was too thin to be worth feeding to the hungriest bahtdor, but there was something about his face that caught the Outcast’s attention. Something joyfully old and painfully alive.

  The stranger beamed at Gandar as if the wagon master might become his youngest wife. “What distant trade hast thou brought hither, Master Gandar?”

  Weird old man. He sounded like he was reciting a hero’s tale. A really old hero’s tale.

  “Blessed evening, Master Trevor.” Gandar covered his mouth to hide a grin. “Kindly don’t talk fancy at me. I’m no scholar. I’ll never understand you.”

  Trevor chuckled and waved his hand at a girl carrying a tray of cups. “I’ve hope of getting you some ale, my friend, but I’m not sure it will get here before you leave town.”

  These old men were boring. The nameless boy considered creeping away, but saw Gandar glancing at him. Frequently.

  “It will get here soon enough.” Gandar sighed and leaned his arms on the table. “I have a proposition to make, Master Trevor. A favor I need to ask.”

  He sighed and leaned against the wall. Maybe now he’d find out what Gandar planned. He hoped he wasn’t being sold to the creepy old man.

  “Ah.” Trevor stared intently at the wagon master and lifted one hand. “What have you in–”

  The girl shoved a bronze goblet into the old man’s hand and splashed a leather flagon in front of Gandar. “Three farthing, master.”

  The scent of ale wafted to his nose. The Outcast’s stomach rumbled again.

  Trevor blinked, but dipped into his pocket and handed coins to the girl. He turned to glare at his companion. “I have entirely forgotten what I wanted to say.”

  Gandar muffled a cough. “Maybe I should tell you a bit about my idea first. I know you like living alone, but I’ve been thinking on a new way of learning things.”

  Trevor sat up and gestured impatiently, brushing against his drink in the process. He rescued the toppling goblet before a drop of wine was spilled. “Keep talking.”

  “You talk with travelers a lot, don’t you?”

  “Of course I do.” Trevor grinned at the varied patrons of the inn with open pleasure. “How else can I learn?”

  The Outcast snorted.

  “But travelers don’t live in the places they visit.” Gandar stared into the distance as if no one had spoken. “They go in, go out, but never taste the place deeply.”

  “True enough.” Trevor leaned back in his chair and watched the caravan master as if he’d said something interesting.

  “There’s a better way to learn about faraway places.” Gandar sighed and stared into his flagon.

  “Tell me. What are you talking about?”

  Gandar looked over his shoulder and beckoned. “Boyo, come here.”

  The nameless boy sighed and trudged to the table.

  Gander hooked an arm around his shoulders and drew him up to the table, shaking him gently. “Behave,” he muttered.

  The Outcast straightened his back, took a deep breath, and stared at the wall behind the strange old man. If ‘behave’ meant hold to warrior discipline, he could comply.

  “The boy, here.” Gandar shook him again. “This boy was born in a Setoyan tent, so he knows more than ten traders put together. More than a hundred and ten. And traders mostly aren’t here when you want them.”

  Trevor glanced from Gandar to the Outcast.

  “The man who has this boy can learn all about the Setoyans. This boy knows the truth. He won’t tell you the campfire tales traders like to spread. Traders really don’t know much about those mad giants.” Gandar shrugged. “They shove their spears at us when we ask questions.”

  Trevor raised an eyebrow. “He’s a lovely creature, but he’s far too small to be a Setoyan of any age.”

  What did the old turybird mean, calling him lovely? He looked just like every other boy. So what if he was short? It wasn’t his fault.

  “And what’s he doing outside his clan, if he is Setoyan?”

  Didn’t the old man know anything? “Setoyans live in Tribes, not clans, Outlander.”

  Both of Trevor’s hands jerked up. The wine goblet hurtled off the table.

  Gandar shook the Outcast’s shoulder until his teeth rattled.

  The bronze goblet clanged like a sword on the stone floor, but only the serving girl noticed. Everyone else in their corner of the tavern pointedly turned their back to the old man.

  The girl scooped the goblet off the floor and tapped it against Trevor’s head. “Another round?”

  Trevor blinked and nodded. He turned back to Gandar. “I’ve forgotten what we were talking about.”

  The nameless boy glared at the old man. I’m sure he’s faking this forgetful-ancient routine. I ought to warn Gandar, but if he can’t see it… Thunderer, no. These two deserve each other.

  Gandar smiled. “You were thinking about taking in this Setoyan boy.”

  “I was?” Trevor studied him the way his mother inspected a new slave. “I suppose I was. What’s his name?”

  “Well, boyo?”

  The old man’s eyes widened. He glanced at Gandar. “Don’t you know?”

  “Boy didn’t offer, I didn’t ask. The tribe treated him rotten. I didn’t think it good to ask too many questions.”
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  Trevor stared at him, his craggy face both perplexed and delighted.

  The Outcast raised his chin and returned the stare. I know Gandar wants to sell me to this old turybird, but I don’t have to like it. There’s sure to be some way I can get around him. Eventually.

  “Gandar, you meddler.” Trevor leaned back and grinned. “You knew I’d be fascinated with a puzzle like this one. What is your name, child?”

  He edged out of Gandar’s grasp. “I have no name.”

  “Surely the Setoyan name their children?”

  “Of course we do.”

  “What happened to yours?”

  “It was taken away from me when I was declared Outcast.”

  Gandar put his head down on the table.

  Trevor raised an eyebrow. “Taken away from you? An odd thing to do. In that case you must pick a new name.”

  Gandar sat up and looked at him hopefully.

  Like a false name would make any difference. They just didn’t understand. But he knew a symbol he could live with.

  The Outcast crossed his arms over his chest. “I name myself Viper.”

  “A marvelous name. Small, but fast and powerful.” Trevor grinned at some inner memory. “At one point I almost named myself Greenfinch for similar reasons, but the time isn’t yet right.”

  “Why Viper, eh?” Gandar tapped the tabletop. “Why’d you choose that?”

  He shrugged. “A viper bit me, and I stopped growing, and now I’m too small so I’m Outcast. The viper is my shame.”

  Trevor leaned back and blinked. “How intriguing.”

  Gandar clapped his hands over his face and dropped his head back on the table.

  “Pay attention, Gandar.” Trevor shook a finger at the caravan master. “You’ve not drunk enough ale to fall asleep on me. I am interested in taking the child. What are you terms?”

  The wagon master peeked up through his fingers. “Terms? I’m not trying to sell the boy. Take him as a servant, maybe, or as your apprentice. I don’t sell slaves.”

  Liar. The Outcast pushed the slaves’ wails from his mind. They’d known what was going to happen to them.

  He wished he knew what was happening now. Could he turn this pile of bahtdor poop to his advantage?

  “I wouldn’t know what to do with a slave, my friend. They’re illegal in Zedista. And I don’t need a servant. However, I do not want an apprentice. I have too much left to accomplish.”

  Gandar leaned back. His mouth worked slowly, as though he had a bone in his throat and couldn’t get it out.

  ‘Viper’ watched the pair and tried to hide a grin. He hadn’t been so amused since a magician pulled both of his sister’s earrings out of his hat. “Why don’t you hire me as your teacher?”

  A radiant smile wrinkled Trevor’s face. “My own private tutor. What a splendid idea.” The old man stood and bowed formally.

  What a strange custom, this bending over at people to honor them. He returned the bow as awkwardly as a half-grown turybird.

  “Young master Viper, I offer room and board plus one farthing a day for thy services as my tutor of all things Setoyan.” Trevor lifted his coattails with both hands as he sat down.

  The Outcast climbed into a seat between the two men and crammed his sack into his lap. His feet dangled far above the ground. Stupid outlander chairs. What was wrong with pillows on the floor? “Gandar,” he whispered, “what’s a farthing?”

  “One fourth of a copper pence, boyo. It’s a decent wage for a youngster.”

  Was he allowed to bargain? He could spend all day haggling just for the fun of it. “A farthing a day plus two coppers at the end of the lunar.”

  Trevor propped his long chin in his fists and counted inaudibly for a few seconds. “At that rate you can be my servant, also.”

  Thunderer’s drums! The old man cut right to the bone. Servant, indeed. It was almost an insult. “Three coppers and I’ll help as you need me, but I don’t want to be a servant.”

  “Done. You are hereby my man, or lad as the case may be. You will aid me in all my endeavors until you come of age or death do us part.”

  “What endeavors? What do you do?”

  “Didn’t Gandar tell you? I am a member of the Society of Sorcerous Sciences.”

  A what? That couldn’t mean what he thought it did. But surely it had something to do with magic. “Does that mean you’re a magician?”

  “A magician? A charlatan of that sort? Scarcely. I’m no paltry entertainer. If I thought you knew what you were talking about I’d be offended.”

  “Be offended quietly, if you please,” Gandar whispered. “You’ll offend the Magician’s Guild with such talk.”

  Trevor drummed his fingers on the table. “They can be offended for all I care. Society members outrank magicians in intelligence, education, and magical strength.”

  What a clawless old turybird. Viper tried to keep his face straight, but he felt his lips twitching. “If you’re not a magician, you must be a wizard.”

  “Alas, no, I’m not a wizard.” Trevor stared at his own palms for a moment. He leapt to his feet and waved his hands above his head, below the table, all over the place as if he were trying to take flight. “However, had I had the proper training as a youngster, I would be a wizard by now.”

  Viper ducked out of range of the old man’s arms.

  “And mind you, boy, I’ll be a wizard yet.” Trevor’s shouts pierced the tavern’s din. “As soon as I finish a few more experiments, I’ll take the Wizard’s Route. Then we’ll see. Then they’ll be sorry they laughed.”

  Had the old man gone insane? What was he shouting about?

  Drinkers nearby cringed and turned their backs.

  The serving girl hurried to the table and shoved a goblet into Trevor’s hand.

  “Ye needn’t flail the arms so, master.” The girl shifted the laden tray to her other arm. “I be comin’ as quick as I can.” She plopped a flagon in front of Gandar and handed Viper a thick glass mug filled with a steaming, dark liquid. “Six farthing for the round.”

  “Six farthings?” Trevor dropped into his chair. “Since when does wine and ale cost six farthings?”

  Viper sniffed at the steaming mug. Vanilla and smoky licorice tickled his nose. Warm chocolate mist teased his tongue. “And cha. Real Erchan cha in real glass.” He sipped from the hot mug and sighed. Glass rarely survived transport to the plains. Genuine cha was so expensive he’d only tasted it once in his life. “It is truly an honor you do me, Master Trevor, celebrating our agreement with a drink of cha.”

  “Our agreement?” Trevor sat back and smiled. “Yes, of course. That’s why I ordered it. To our new contract.” He cheerfully handed the girl six small coins. Gandar slipped two more coins onto her tray as she whisked by.

  “I’m confused, Master Trevor.” Maybe he’d get an answer if he asked enough times. “If you’re not a magician or a wizard, what are you?”

  “I told you, child.” Trevor sat up and raised his chin. “I am a member of the Society of Sorcerous Sciences.”

  Viper scowled at the old turybird. The words made as much sense as hissing from a sloppy snake.

  Trevor added hastily, “It means I’m a sorcerer.”

  “Thunderer’s dice.” Traveling magicians hinted that sorcery was an illness caught by old magicians, something like dementia or foot-in-mouth disease.

  What had Gandar gotten him into? This ridiculous old man couldn’t be as crazy as he seemed or the wagon master wouldn’t think so highly of him. He offered a silent chant to the Thunderer begging for luck, and sipped at his cha.

  “Such odd coloring.” Trevor stared at him with a child’s curiosity. “Tell me, do all Setoyans have black eyes and blond hair?”

  Viper glanced at the old man’s weird green eyes and nodded.

  “I’m told your people are head and shoulders taller than normal folk.” Trevor leaned back in his chair, his head tilted to one side. “Do the children usually start out so small?”
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  Gandar flushed and stared into his flagon.

  “I’m half as tall as I ought to be.” His heart pounded like a host of war drums. Viper wasn’t sure if he was angry at Trevor for asking, or at himself for the betrayal of his body, but fury seethed under his words. “I've been this short for more than five years.”

  “Oh, dear.” Trevor covered his eyes for a moment. “You’re due for a growth spell. Are clothes included in our contact? You’re sure to need them soon.”

  Viper nodded, his throat too tight to answer. Even if he doesn’t buy my clothes and I have to wander in rags, I hope he’s right. I’m tired of looking like a toddler’s doll.

  Trevor took a long draught of wine. “Are you finished yet, child?”

  Viper held up his half-finished glass. “No, sir.”

  Gandar chuckled. “A toast I would offer. To your partnership.”

  Trevor raised his goblet and attempted to drink. He managed to look bewildered when he found it empty.

  My partnership with a turybird. Sorcerer, indeed. I’ll be lucky if I’m still sane myself once a single year has swung by. What did I do to earn such havoc in my life?

  Viper raised his glass mug to the toast and hissed at Gandar, “May all your journeys be as fruitful as this mess you’ve gotten me into.”

  “In that case, I’ll have a profitable life. Drink up.” Gandar bowed and walked away.

  Viper swallowed the last delicious sip of cha as he watched Gander’s stout body disappear into the crowd. He took a deep breath, straightened his back, scooped up his sack, and followed Trevor between the crowded tables.

  At least the old turybird didn’t offer to carry him.

  Trevor opened the heavy door and waved him out onto the street.

  Tall stone structures loomed like canyon walls above him. The cloudless night sky looked peculiar, but he was grateful for the Monitor’s clear light. Moonlight helped him fight off panic, though it made the shadows even darker.

  He followed on Trevor’s heels, nervous as a coney hidden in the middle of a bahtdor herd, though he couldn’t say why. He glanced into the silent side streets so reminiscent of abuelo snake dens.

  “This street is called– Don’t jump, child.” Trevor stopped and stared down at him. “There’s no reason to be afraid. This street is Outland Ter. You’ll need to remember that.”