With his wrists free, Tipper sat up and rubbed them. He looked over at Samson’s body on the cave floor. “That bastard said I was taking a ship to go work in a mine for the rest of my life. I don’t know where, but it sounded horrible.”
Tipper tried to stand, but stumbled. Brock leapt forward and grabbed his arm to steady him.
“Are you sure you’re OK? You have a nasty lump on your head,” Brock said in concern.
Tipper nodded. “My head is pounding something fierce alright. Whoever hauled me here must’ve knocked me out. I think I’ll be okay though. Let’s go. I just want to get out of here.”
Brock helped Tipper to the tunnel leading back to the house.
“Wait here.” Brock leaned Tipper against the tunnel wall.
He ran to where Samson lay on the cavern floor. Searching through the dead man’s clothes, he found a money pouch and cut it loose. He poured the contents into his palm and counted four gold imperials and seven silvers. It was more than enough.
After replacing the coins, he slid the pouch into his coat pocket and ran back to where Tipper waited. “I almost forgot what I came for.”
“I thought you came for me,” Tipper gave a weak smile.
Brock grabbed his friend’s arm and hooked it over his shoulder. “I didn’t know it was you. I only knew it was some poor soul who needed help.”
Tipper smiled again. “Well, it don’t matter to me. I’m just glad you showed up.”
Brock nodded. “Me too, Tip. Now let’s go before Samson’s friends get here.”
The two boys disappeared into the narrow tunnel, leaving the dead minister behind.
CHAPTER 8
Lively music danced in the air above the buzz of conversation. A white-bearded man strummed on a lute, patrons periodically dropping coppers into the bowl at his feet.
Approaching the bar, Brock spotted Alonzo on the same stool as their last meeting. The man was working on a bowl of potatoes and a half-eaten jackaroo leg. Claiming the stool next to Alonzo, Brock waved to the barkeep. The large man approached, raising an eyebrow.
Brock smiled. “I’ll have a cider.”
The barkeep remained still, waiting until Brock placed a copper on the bar. Sweeping up the coin, the man turned to fill a mug and set it on the bar before moving on.
Brock took a long drink of the cider and turned to Alonzo.
“Mister Alonzo, I have the five imperials. How soon can we do business?”
Without looking at Brock, Alonzo finished the poultry leg, set the bone down, and wiped his mouth with his sleeve. He took a swig of his ale and set the tankard on the bar.
“The night’s young, and I think we have an opening. If you’ve got the coin and the time, we can do it now,” Alonzo said.
He then shoveled a scoop of potatoes into his mouth, glancing toward Brock as he chewed. Bits of potato were caught in his brown beard. Alonzo’s piercing green eyes seemed to be measuring him.
Brock was surprised. He hadn’t expected it to happen tonight and he wasn’t even sure of what was coming. Regardless, he wasn’t about to let this chance slip by.
Brock nodded. “Now, it is then. I’m ready when you are.”
Alonzo took one last swig of his ale, used his sleeve to wipe the bits of potato from his beard, and pushed away from the bar.
“Let’s be off then.” Alonzo headed toward the exit.
Brock took a drink of his cider and hurried to catch the big man.
Alonzo stepped outside and turned toward the Lower Wall Gate with Brock close behind. The streets were all shadows now, the scattered clouds above showing a hint of red. They marched through the Lower Wall Gate into Upper Kantar. Shortly after passing through the gate, they turned onto a wide cross street.
Alonzo remained quiet, never looking to see if Brock still followed. He turned again at the next intersection to enter a white stone building. As Brock climbed the stairs to the entrance, he read the plaque engraved above the door: Kantarian Art Institute.
The interior was spacious with a dark marble floor and rows of round alabaster pillars supporting the high ceiling. The walls formed a series of alcoves, each lit by a small glowlamp illuminating a work of art. Some contained paintings displaying historic figures, majestic landscapes, or static objects. Others displayed marble statues carved into the likeness of legendary heroes or shaped into fearsome beasts.
Alonzo approached the reception desk. “Hello. I have an appointment with Mr. Bennett.”
The girl searched the schedule on her desk. Brock noticed how her long black hair flowed over her bare pale shoulders when she leaned forward. Her elegant hand scanned the paper until her finger stopped.
She looked up with large brown eyes. “Yes. He’s scheduled to be in the drawing studio at this time. It’s on the second floor, third door on the left.”
Alonzo thanked her and proceeded to the wide, curved stairwell. Brock nodded to her, smiling when she smiled back at him. She had a nice smile that made his heart race.
Still looking back at the girl as he walked toward the stairwell, he stubbed his toe on the first step and nearly fell. Recovering, he sped up the stairs to catch Alonzo.
When they reached the drawing studio, Brock counted eight people intensely sketching on large sheets of yellowed paper. Some were using charcoal while others were using ink. In the center of the room, a man dressed in armor was standing motionless. The man had a sword in one hand and a fierce look upon his face. Glancing at the nearest artist’s work, Brock noted that she had created a strong likeness of the subject.
Alonzo waved his hand to catch notice. A young man, whose long brown hair was tied in a tail, nodded and rolled his paper before sliding it into a tube. He snatched up his charcoal and headed to the door where Brock and Alonzo waited.
Alonzo apologized, “Sorry, Bennett. I know I’m a bit early.”
“That’s okay. I can always make time for someone with a commission,” Bennett replied. “Let’s head to my apartment, and we can discuss the job.”
Bennett headed to the stairwell, descending to the first floor with Alonzo and Brock in tow. They walked out the back door of the gallery, crossed a wide alley, and entered a building located behind the institute.
They ascended the stairs to the second level and proceeded down a long hallway lined with doors. Bennett stopped at a door, opening it with a key tied to a cord around his neck. He entered, waving for Alonzo and Brock to follow. As Bennett closed the door, Brock surveyed the interior.
The small one-room apartment had a bed along one wall and a desk, a chest, and a variety of art supplies along the other walls. Two chairs sat in the middle of the room.
Bennett gestured for Brock to sit before he turned to rifle through his art supplies. As Bennett prepared himself, Alonzo addressed Brock.
“Now that we’re here, there’s a matter of the commission that was promised. You need to pay before we perform the job.”
Brock looked over at the man. “Yes, I have the gold.” He removed a pouch from an inside coat pocket and jingled it. “But I still don’t know what this gets me.”
A rumble of a laugh burst from Alonzo. “Silly boy. You came all this way with all that gold and you don’t know what you’re buying?” Shaking his head, he laughed again. “You said you wanted a new life. Well, there’s only one way to get that as far as I know.” He pointed a finger at Brock. “You, my boy, need a rune to mark you for your new vocation. You just need to choose one first. Of course, this won’t please Issal much since the mark won’t be from a true Choosing, but I figure you can’t make your lot in life any worse. The way I see it, you’ve got nothing to lose except five gold coins.” He laughed at his own joke.
Brock was dumbstruck. Being so focused on getting the gold needed to change his life, he hadn’t considered what might be involved. After being denied a rune in his Choosing ceremony as an infant, he never considered another route to acquiring a rune.
He noticed Bennett preparing ink and a set of
needles.
“Body art? But…but that’s forbidden,” Brock said. “The Ministry says it’s profane, a crime punishable by death.”
Now it was Bennett’s turn to laugh. “It’s funny how I can make so much more gold doing what’s forbidden than trying to sell my art through the gallery.”
Alonzo spoke next, his tone serious. “You aren’t having second thoughts, are you boy?”
“No. It’s just a lot to consider,” Brock replied. “I can’t just show up with a rune on my head. Everyone I know will know it’s not real.”
Alonzo leaned closer, looking Brock in the eyes. “That’s why you’ll need to leave. You wanted a new life. Well, that means you’ll have to leave the old one behind. You need to start over somewhere else: somewhere far from Kantar.”
Brock looked down, his brain racing. Was he ready for this? What would it mean to start over? He had never been close to his father, especially since his mother’s death. Of the other people he knew in the city, Tipper and Sally were the only ones he would really miss.
What should he choose? He was a blank slate and could be anything he wanted to be. At only seventeen summers, he was still young enough to apprentice for almost any vocation.
However, he didn’t want just any vocation. He wanted to make a difference: to achieve something special. He wanted to be able to save the next loved one when they needed him. That made his choice easy.
“Okay. Let’s do this.” He took a deep breath, turning toward Bennett. “I want the rune of Issal.”
Bennett’s brows lifted in surprise. He glanced at Alonzo, who whistled. “Wow, boy. You’re a bold one. I’ll give you that.”
Bennett shrugged and sat in the chair across from Brock.
“I guess one rune is the same as any other as long as you’re paying. After all, you’re the one who has to live with it.” Bennett dipped the needle into the ink and held it to Brock’s forehead. “Hold still. This will hurt.”
CHAPTER 9
Brock circled the crowd surrounding the farmer’s wagon, continuing down the busy street. As he walked, he reflected on his father’s reaction upon seeing the bandage around his head. When Brock told him he had run into a tree while playing a game with his friends, Milan’s only response was, you’d think you were smart enough to watch out for something as big as a tree.
Rather than asking further questions, his father had set him to work like any other day. After finishing his work and eating, Brock set out to find Tipper.
With the sun dipping behind the rooflines, he approached The Whispering Wench. The inn was a popular stop for travelers due to its proximity to Southgate and the low price for a room. That’s where he found Tipper, seated on a barrel near the front door.
Tipper was waving his cup at some sailors entering the inn. One man dropped a copper into the cup and then followed his shipmates inside. Tipper pocketed the coin, smiling when spotting Brock.
“What happened to you? I was the one who got thumped on the head.” Tipper’s eyes narrowed at the bandage on Brock’s head. “Is this a sympathy ploy? Are you trying to poach my turf?”
Smiling, Brock shook his head. “Not at all. Let’s go someplace private and I’ll tell you about it.”
“The wall?”
“Sounds good.” Brock nodded, waving for his friend to follow. “If we hurry, we can catch the sunset.”
. . .
By the time they were on the wall, the sun was at the horizon, its long reflection stretching across the water.
“I’m going to miss this. Watching the sunset is one of the most amazing things about living here,” Brock said.
“Why are you going to miss this? Are you in trouble with your father again?” Tipper asked.
Brock turned toward Tipper, whose face was orange in the light of the setting sun.
“I’m leaving Kantar. I haven’t told anybody else yet. I’m telling you because I’d like you to come with me.”
“Leave Kantar?” Tipper stared down at the road below the wall. “I guess I’ve never thought about it. I’ve never been anywhere else.”
“Neither have I.” Brock became passionate. “Think of the wonders and possibilities of the world out there. What do we have here? Can you honestly tell me you want to spend your life living in crates and begging for your next meal?”
“No. I’d love to have another option.” Tipper shrugged. “But what can I do?”
“Come with me. I have a plan. I think we can really start over, but I need your help.” Brock spun, hopping off the merlon. He pointed to his head. “Under this bandage is the mark of a new man, Tipper. I’ll no longer be the poor Unchosen boy who lives in the tannery on Flower Street. Now, I can be something more. I can make a difference.”
Tipper squinted at him. “I don’t understand.”
“Tip, I’ve got to tell you a secret. Something we need to keep between just you and me.”
“You know me, Brock. I ain’t telling nobody.”
“I know. That’s why I’m telling only you.” Brock began to unwrap the bandage on his head. As it fell away, Tipper gasped.
Brock pointed to his forehead. “Tip, I’m entering the Ministry.”
Tipper was quiet, his jaw dropped open.
“The man who did this told me it would need a couple days to heal. He also told me to keep it bandaged and to treat it with this ointment.”
Brock pulled a small jar from his coat, opened it, and rubbed the ointment onto his forehead. It left his skin shiny, reflecting in setting sunlight. He then wrapped the bandage around his head, folding the trailing end under the tight wrap to keep it secured.
Tipper came to grips with Brock’s revelation.
“You have to leave Kantar. Nobody that knows you can see that,” Tipper said, finally understanding. “But if you’re leaving, I’m leaving too.”
Brock smiled. “I am so happy to hear that, Tip. I don’t want to go alone and you’ve been my best friend for years.”
“When do we leave?”
“I’m going to buy some things for the trip. Meet me at Eastgate at sunrise the day after tomorrow.” Brock started toward the gate.
Tipper jumped off the merlon and followed along. “Where are we going anyway?”
Brock stopped and smiled. “Isn’t it obvious? We go to Fallbrandt. If I want to become a master, I need to enroll in the Academy.”
CHAPTER 10
Brock stepped from behind the changing curtain to show the tailor the fit.
She nodded. “It seems I was right. Those fit you well young man.”
He smiled. “I’ll take these, and I need another set like this for my friend. He’s about this tall.” Brock held his hand about a half-head higher than his own. “But he’s a skinny one. His waist is even smaller than mine.” He gestured with his hands to get his point across. “Also, do you have any inexpensive traveler’s cloaks? We’re going on a trip, and we’ll need to stay warm and dry.”
The woman nodded. “You’re in luck. I bought some lightly used wool cloaks from a man who was in yesterday. I’ll be right back.”
She ducked into the backroom, returning a minute later with another shirt, trousers, and two dark gray hooded cloaks. She tossed a cloak to Brock.
“I think that one will fit you,” she said to him.
He held out the cloak to inspect it and then slipped it over his shoulders.
“This one does fit me. How much for the lot?” he asked as he admired himself in the mirror.
The woman scribbled notes on a sheet of paper while muttering to herself. She had a reputation as a fair business owner, so Brock was hoping for a reasonable price.
After a moment, she replied, “Two silvers for the lot. And that’s a fair price.”
Brock nodded and handed the woman two silvers. He scooped up his old clothes, the new set for Tipper, and the two cloaks before thanking the woman.
His next stop was obvious. If he was going to travel, he needed good boots. After walking a bit further
up Center Street, he entered a familiar cobbler shop. The shop owner raised an eyebrow upon seeing Brock’s bandaged head.
“My, if it isn’t young Tannerson. It looks like you banged your head. Did some young lass thump you for getting too frisky?” He laughed.
Brock smiled. “No, Melvin. It was a tree that apparently thought I was too frisky. It got me good though.”
Melvin laughed again. “Right you are, boy. Trees tend to do that when your head runs into them. Now, what do I owe the pleasure of your presence today? I don’t see any hides so it must be somethin’ else.”
Brock pointed down at his boots. “I’m ready for an upgrade. What do you have that’s stylish, yet functional? More importantly, they need to fit and not be overly expensive.”
Melvin put his finger to his cheek as his eyes stared-off at nothing. After a moment, his eyes lit up. “I’ve got it!”
He darted around the corner. Brock heard him digging through shelves before he emerged with black boots in hand.
“You’re in luck, boy. A minister was in here last week and traded his son’s riding boots for a larger pair. I guess the boy outgrew them in a matter of weeks due to a growth spurt. I’m thinkin’ they’re your size.”
Brock took the boots, sitting to try them on. Not only did they fit, they felt good. The normal stiffness of new leather was gone, so blisters wouldn’t be much of an issue.
He walked around the shop to test out the fit. “They feel great, Melvin. Please tell me there’s a discount since they’re used.”
“Lightly used that is. However, you are correct. There’s a discount.” Melvin stepped up to his desk and opened a logbook. He backed up a couple pages, reading his notes. “Yes. Just as I thought. The man purchased them from me new for four silvers, but I can resell these to you for as little as two silvers and five coppers since they’ve been used.”
The Buried Symbol (The Ruins of Issalia Book 1) Page 4
