by Dorian Hart
Not often at a loss for words, Dranko nonetheless could do nothing more than open his mouth and make small choking noises. While he tried to think of something believable to say, Grey Wolf gestured to the open door of the Icebox.
“Please tell me you didn’t use our food box to conjure a dead rat for a stray cat.”
“I didn’t.”
“So the cat did it by itself?”
The cat’s head swiveled between him and Grey Wolf as they talked. But what struck Dranko as particularly odd was that after he spoke, the cat switched its attention to Grey Wolf before Grey Wolf answered.
“Yes. The cat ordered a rat for itself. I just opened the door for it.”
Grey Wolf let out a long sigh. “Dranko, maybe I should find it comforting that you didn’t change while I was gone, but that may be the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard you say. In a few hours we’re going to be hosting a house full of archmagi, and you just wasted one third of our lunch buffet on a stupid cat.”
Grey Wolf hadn’t changed much either. Those first few days after his return, he’d been quiet, tolerable, while he finished piecing his old life back together and caught up on what he’d missed. But a month in, he was back to being an overbearing ass.
“Cat,” Dranko said. “If you can understand me, raise a paw.”
The cat blinked its eyes and did as he asked.
“See!”
Grey Wolf shook his head. “So you trained a cat to do a simple trick. That’s a far cry from—”
“Cat,” said Dranko. “What is three plus four?”
The cat spent a few seconds grooming, licking its left paw and smoothing the fur on its cheek. Then it meowed seven times.
Dranko grinned widely, now that it was Grey Wolf’s turn to look flummoxed. “You can apologize any time you want.”
“Hmmm,” Grey Wolf rumbled. “How did you do that?”
“I didn’t. I just found the cat here when I came downstairs. Never seen it before in my life. Smart little bugger, huh?”
“How did it get in the Greenhouse?”
Dranko shrugged. “Through a window, I guess.”
“Should we be worried? What if it’s a spy?”
That was a prudent concern. Given that the Greenhouse was soon to be occupied by arguably the five most important people in the kingdom, the presence of the cat was highly suspicious.
He addressed the cat. “Are you a spy?”
The cat shook its head.
“Did you get in through a window?”
The animal shook its head again.
“Then how did you get in here?”
“Oh, I see that you’ve met Pewter.”
Aravia came into the kitchen wearing a long purple bathrobe and matching purple slippers. A damp towel was wrapped turban-like around her head.
“Did one of you summon up some breakfast for him?” she asked. “That was considerate, but I thought that we agreed to reserve the Icebox’s daily allotment for this afternoon’s meeting.”
Pewter hopped up onto her shoulder.
“Oh, never mind,” she said. “Pewter, please keep in mind that the Icebox is a limited resource. It is best used to produce human food.”
“He…uh…he didn’t say anything,” Grey Wolf pointed out with confused hesitation.
“He can speak to me telepathically,” said Aravia. “Pewter’s my cat from back home. He got here last night. It’s a long story, but I’ll wait until everyone’s up.”
Dranko couldn’t help but laugh. “You have a cat that’s as smart as I am?”
“Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” said Aravia. “Pewter knows nearly everything that I do, so he’s certainly smarter than you are.”
Dranko’s desire to protest was dampened by the knowledge that she was probably right. “Yeah, well, at least I can use a door handle.”
Aravia smiled. “Pewter says he has human servants for that.”
* * *
Dranko, it’s Praska! I think I’m finally safe enough to tell you where I am. Meet me on Jeweler’s Row, upstairs from Belle’s Baubles, at an hour before noon next Marketday. I’d feel safer if it was just you. I have news about Mokad. Can’t wait to see you!
Having slipped out after breakfast, Dranko read the letter a block away from the Greenhouse. Praska was Dranko’s childhood friend from the Church of Delioch, the one who discovered that the Scarbearer Mokad secretly worked for the Black Circle cult. (And in so doing, he supposed, she had indirectly saved Abernathy’s life.) Praska had been on the run ever since, and Dranko had been hoping against hope that she would eventually turn up unharmed. And what perfect timing! With luck, she’d have more dirt on the Black Circle, which he could share with Abernathy’s cadre of wizards.
Of course, the odds were about fifty-fifty that this was a trap. The handwriting matched, but the whole “come alone” thing was almost too obvious. Either way, he would find out. The voice of reason nattered in his mind at the supreme foolishness of not telling anyone where he had gone. The voice was undoubtedly correct. But Praska was his oldest friend, for many years his only friend. For all that he had grown closer to the rest of Horn’s Company, there were some things Dranko needed to keep for himself.
Dranko had walked only four more blocks when he stopped to catch his breath. He wished he could chalk up his weakness to the hangover, but the sudden fatigue came with a wave of chill that indicated otherwise. No, though these episodes came less and less frequently, he still suffered from the excess of channeling he had performed three months earlier.
Five seconds of channeling were as physically demanding as a day of hard labor, but more than that, acting as a conduit for Delioch’s divine healing involved releasing a small portion of one’s soul to ferry the power. Each time Dranko channeled, he lost a vital piece of himself. He hadn’t told the others that last bit. They’d just feel sorry for him or try to talk him out of future channeling. That’s the kind of people they were.
Priests of Delioch who were trained as channelers could, with rest and meditation, reclaim their souls, recover their vigor and vitality so as to ply their healing trade with some regularity. Channeling once every month or so was considered proficient. But Dranko, booted from the church years ago before receiving any real training in divinely inspired restoration, had managed it five times in a matter of weeks. Delioch had clearly bestowed his favor upon Dranko. The problem was, it was slowly killing him.
After a brief rest Dranko set off again through the busy streets of Tal Hae. The scents of fish and salt filled the hot, damp air, along with the sounds of loud and optimistic hawkers selling everything from painted kites to peasant skirts. Dranko was well familiar with Jeweler’s Row, and inside half an hour he stood beside the colorful signboard announcing that Belle’s Baubles offered exquisite handcrafted fineries. A burly guard stood silently beside the door, as was typical on Jeweler’s Row; most proprietors hired muscular and humorless men to discourage the light-fingered. Dranko was highly conversant with burglars’ tools, but he had never plied his trade on this particular street. In terms of burglary, the ratio of risk to reward here wasn’t quite what he was looking for.
Usually the guards standing watch over jewelry stores were ominously silent, but this one nodded slightly at Dranko. “Inside, door on the left.” Dranko grunted and pushed open the door into a tiny foyer, finding two more doors: the main one that opened into the store proper and a battered, narrow door to his left, with a small dirty window revealing a steep flight of stairs beyond. How had Praska wangled this arrangement? Did she know someone who worked here? He mentally adjusted his expectations: Two-to-one this was a Black Circle setup meant to ensnare him.
The stairs creaked as he ascended, ruling out any chance of a stealthy approach to the upper floor. Near the top the final three steps turned a sharp bend to the right and led directly into a low-ceilinged attic. It smelled stale. A tattered curtain was drawn back from the only window, allowing in enough light to reveal several stained crates of glas
sware stacked up near one wall.
Praska stood in the middle of the room. He hadn’t seen her in six years, and she had transformed from a short, scrawny teenager into… well, she was still short, but with noticeably adult proportions. Her close-cut red hair was the same, as was her proliferation of freckles. Dranko felt a gush of tension drain out of him; this wasn’t a trap after all.
Her face broke into a grin, and she rushed into his arms, knocking him back a step despite his greater size. “Dranko, gods, look at you!” She released him and took a step back. “Are your tusks longer? I think your tusks are longer.”
“Yeah, I stopped filing them down,” said Dranko. “Figured if I let ’em go long enough, I wouldn’t need my fingers to pick my nose anymore.”
“Always thinking ahead,” said Praska. “Well, except for pretty much everything you ever did or said. Lunkhead.”
“Shrimp.”
“Malcontent.”
“I’ve missed you too, Praska.”
They stared at each other for a long moment.
“Life at the church wasn’t the same without you,” said Praska. “Nobody there has your…” She seemed to grope for the right word.
“Style?” offered Dranko. “Panache? Dashing good looks?”
“I was going to say, ‘willingness to sneak grasshoppers into the stew pot.’ But I always warned you not to overdo it.”
“I never meant for the outhouse to catch fire like that.”
“At least no one was in it.”
Dranko walked to the window and looked out over Jeweler’s Row. On the street below a man cursed at his horse, which had thrown a shoe. Dranko slid open the window to let in some air. “It’s all worked out, though you’re not going to believe what’s happened to me recently. But you first. Tell me about life on the run!”
Praska sat down on the rough wooden floor. “It’s boring. I’ve been staying with my cousin Angela. She owns a fruit shop in the grocers’ district. There’s a spare room above the store. More of a closet, really. Smells like apples. Wasn’t sure if Mokad was going to come after me or not after I caught him stealing from the church. He must have figured out that no one would believe me if I came back and accused him, so he was willing to let me go.”
“Mokad is bad news,” said Dranko. “But you’re probably right. So why did you wait so long to contact me again?”
Praska didn’t answer right away; she stared at the window. “I…don’t know. I guess since I wasn’t sure whether Mokad knew where I was, I didn’t want to risk getting you involved in my troubles. Same reason I’m meeting you here instead of at Angela’s.”
Dranko burst out laughing. “Praska, that was thoughtful, but you can’t imagine the troubles I’ve gotten myself involved in since we last saw each other. I’m glad you changed your mind and sent your letter.”
Praska turned back to look at him. “A few days ago I heard from a friend in the church that Mokad had up and left, along with another half-dozen priests—all the ones who were in on those secret meetings. Cleared out all their stuff and skedaddled in the night, no notes, no warning. I’m sure it has something to do with the papers I found in Mokad’s office.”
“It has everything to do with that,” said Dranko. “Listen, Praska, you’re not going to believe this, but your snooping around eventually saved the lives of hundreds of people.”
“What? Dranko, come on.”
“I’m serious.”
“No, you’re not. You’re never serious.”
“I am now. You know why I live at the Greenhouse? I was hired by the archmage of Tal Hae to be an errand-runner, and since then my life has become depressingly serious. I’ve nearly died several times in the past few months. Mokad and his pals are tied right up in all of it. He’d probably try to kill me if he had the chance, though given his age I bet I could take him.”
Praska stared at him, then chuckled. “Dammit, Dranko, you almost got me.”
“It’s true! Have you heard about the giant turtle that rose out of the desert near Sand’s Edge? My friends and I helped kill it!”
Praska gave him a sly look. “Have you been plotting all this time to feed me this kind of tripe if we ever saw each other again? This is just like the time you convinced Gregor those spider eggs were capers. Well, I’m not falling—”
“Praska!” Dranko sat down before his old friend and tried to look as solemn as possible. “I swear on Delioch’s healing hand that everything I’m telling you is true. Abernathy the archmage summoned me and a bunch of other people because the kingdom is going to the hells and he needed help. The Black Circle—you remember that, from what you found in Mokad’s room? It’s an old evil cult, and they’re trying to break an incredibly dangerous guy out from his prison. There’s more, too, but it’s complicated, and I’m not sure how much of it I’m allowed to talk about. Oh, but it’s probably fine for me to tell you I’m a channeler now.”
Praska’s eyes searched his face. “Dranko, I—”
The staircase down below let out a creaking groan. Dranko whipped his head around. “Do you know the guard downstairs?”
“Not personally. I slipped him a talon to send you up here. How many guys with tusks come to Belle’s Baubles to shop for jewelry?”
“Does anyone else know you’re here?”
Slow footsteps grew louder in the stairwell.
Praska shook her head. “Just Belle. I asked her if I could use this room if I promised to buy a trinket afterward.”
“Get behind me.”
“What? Dranko—”
“Do it! I think you were followed.”
Damn! Dranko pieced the puzzle together too late. The Black Circle had someone keeping tabs on Praska all this time, knowing eventually she would lead them to Dranko. Now both of them were trapped. He glanced at the open window, but there wasn’t enough time for them both to escape. They barely had time to regain their feet before a figure rose into view, climbing the last few stairs. Praska gave a little gasp of dismay.
“My ears were burning,” said Mokad.
Gods, how Dranko hated that face. It was so severely slashed with scars it made the man look like a burn victim, and as far as Dranko knew they were all self-inflicted. The Scarbearers were the branch of the church of Delioch responsible for discipline and punishment. The idea, Dranko had been told, was that when one was cut with a Scarbearer’s knife, it more freely allowed the healing spirit of Delioch to enter the body. Each resulting scar was a benediction. Some of the more zealous Scarbearers took the scarring blade to their own flesh, the better to become closer to their god, and none were more fanatical than Mokad.
Or so everyone had always thought. Now evidence suggested Mokad had mutilated himself only to put his cover persona beyond doubt. Had he been a member of the Black Circle from the beginning, or had he been corrupted somewhere along the way?
“I want you to know,” said Dranko, “that Abernathy is watching this place right now using a wizardy scrying spell, and if you try anything, he’ll teleport over and turn you into a slug.”
Mokad smiled and looked around the room, as though he thought he might catch a glimpse of a magic eyeball hidden in a shadow. His face showed no great concern. “No, he’s not, but that was good,” said Mokad. “Yet another example of your ability to improvise.”
“Flatterer. I know it’s me you want. Let Praska go.”
“Fine.” Mokad stepped to the side, away from the stairwell.
Praska crossed her arms. “No. Dranko, I’m not leaving you alone with him, especially if he’s dangerous.”
Mokad turned to Praska. “I’m not going to hurt your friend. Quite the opposite. He and I have important business to discuss. Private important business. Yes, you did cause me some annoyance with your spying, but it didn’t amount to anything in the end, and I bear no grudge. Honestly, you’re no longer of any concern to me. Now please leave.”
Praska looked imploringly at Dranko, who gave her a slight nod. “I’ll be fine. I really
do work for the archmage, so Mokad won’t be stupid enough to threaten me. We’ll catch up later. Now count your blessings and scram.”
When his friend had left, Dranko relaxed and smiled at Mokad. Oh, how he longed to punch that pockmarked face.
“So,” said the Scarbearer, “here we are. You’re looking well.”
“Wish I could say the same,” said Dranko. “You look the same as always: like a ballista fired you into a knife-seller’s stall.”
Mokad’s face remained impassive. “Do you think you can forgo the barbs long enough for a brief interview?”
“Interview? I hate to break this to you, but I already have a pretty good job.”
Mokad made a show of examining his fingernails. “Yes, I know. When I last saw you, your life had become a shambles. We expelled you from the church for your relentless juvenile antics, and predictably you descended into a life of squalor and petty crime. But now look at you, rescued from your plight by the wizard Abernathy and inexplicably in favor with Delioch.”
“You know what the best part is?” said Dranko. “It’s that I don’t have to worry about a sadistic zealot slicing me open every time I forget to lock up the bindery or accidentally misplace a pile of laundry. I know he had a low bar to clear, but Abernathy is the best boss I ever had.”
Mokad gave a short huff. “You were never this gullible at the church. Abernathy has much more important matters to worry himself over than what happens to an expendable slave like yourself. The truth is, you are in much greater danger from Abernathy than you are from me.”
Dranko snorted. “Right.”
“On that subject,” said Mokad, “I’m sorry about Ysabel Horn. A pity you couldn’t save her.”
Dranko went cold. “How do you know about that?” he asked, before he could stop himself.
“We know a great deal about subjects that interest us. And your meddling out in the desert marked you as a very interesting person. If it helps, you can think of the Circle as a god of knowledge willing to grant significant powers to his devotees.”
Dranko looked more carefully at Mokad. The man was in his sixties, a wiry bastard but not an imposing physical specimen, once you got past his intimidating collection of scars. In the church the old man had never demonstrated any wizardry or fighting skill, but that would have blown his cover. It was possible he had some magical abilities, like that fellow Haske in Sand’s Edge, but if Dranko stayed on his guard, he could find a way to escape this attic and bring more information back to Abernathy.
