A second wall like the first, but five feet high, discolored, and smoothed by weathering, separated the miners’ dwellings from the rest of the town. Unlike the first wall, it had a guard waiting at the gate, and a line of people waiting to enter. The guard barely glanced at most of them before gesturing them inside, but once in a while he would study a face closely and ask questions before finally letting them enter. He refused passage only once, and the man protested—until the guard barked a sharp command and three other guards hurried into the gap in the wall made by the gate. The man gave up and, hurling curses back at the guards, pushed his way through the line behind him. Angus frowned as the man grew nearer; the people were stepping aside to give him plenty of room to pass, but he adjusted his own path and kept bumping into them.
Angus stood his ground, drew his dagger, and let the rest of the gathering step aside. The man followed the throng, made a staggered lunge toward Angus, saw the dagger, and stopped. He stood still for a long moment, perfectly poised with his weight on one foot. “I suggest,” Angus hissed, “you find another mark.” The man pivoted easily away from him and promptly bumped into the next small group, his fingers sifting through folds of their clothes, deftly searching for coin purses and other valuable items. Angus watched him until he was far enough away before returning his dagger to his sheath. He looked back to the gate and took several steps forward, catching up with the rest of the line.
Someone finally shouted, “Thief!” and Angus sighed. Not my business, he thought as others joined the cry of “Thief! Thief!” Those around Angus turned, and some of them reached for their pockets. Two hands fell on nothing, and they took up the shout of “Thief” and ran after him. Angus stepped forward into the vacuum they left behind.
The victims of the thief continued shouting.
The guards pretended not to notice.
Angus stepped forward, a pace at a time.
He was behind only three people when the first victim barged past him, panting heavily and demanding that the guard catch the thief.
The guard shook his head. “Not my job,” he said. “My post is here. You’ll have to take it up with the magistrate.”
“The magistrate!” the man bellowed. “He doesn’t care about what happens out here!”
Four more victims joined him, and the guard looked them over. “Sure he does,” he said. “I’m sure if you take it up with him, he’ll do his best to catch the thief.” He half-turned and called, “Isn’t that right, Norby?”
Three guards came into view, and one of them—the largest one, easily a head taller than the others and nearly neckless, with shoulders twice as wide as a normal man’s—grunted in agreement.
The group of victims fumed, and the first one demanded, “Then take us to him!”
The gate guard smiled and repeated, “Not my job.” He paused to study their faces, shrugged, and gestured them through the gate. “Second street on the left,” he said. “You can’t miss it.”
The victims of the thief mulled around for a few seconds before one of them finally half-screamed and stormed through the gate. He walked rapidly down the street, and the others hurried to catch up with him. The three guards stepped back to their posts around the corner.
“Sorry folks,” the guard said. “It happens sometimes. Nothing to worry about. The magistrate will take care of it.”
When it was Angus’s turn, the guard looked him over, squinted in the twilight, stepped a bit closer, and looked again. “Have you been here before?” he asked.
“Not as I recall,” Angus said.
“Business?”
“None,” Angus said. “I seek only a night’s refuge and a warm meal.”
The guard looked at him a bit longer and muttered, “A bit taller, longer hair….” He shook his head. “All right,” he said, nodding him past and turning to the next in line.
“Thank you,” Angus said. He stepped through the gate, paused, and turned back. “If it is of any help,” he offered, “the man you denied entrance was the thief.”
The gate guard frowned, glanced at him, and waved him away.
Angus turned, took a few steps, and smiled. So, he wondered, What’s your cut?
Inside this ring of the city were inns, taverns, stables, shops—everything a traveler might find useful in his journeys. It was the largest part of the city, with many cobbled streets branching off from the main road. The side streets were well lit by oil lamps spaced strategically along them. At the peak of the caravan season, Wyrmwood could easily provide lodging, food, shelter, and entertainment for nearly two thousand guests, but this wasn’t the caravan season; many of the shops were closed and the few people who were there were nearly dwarfed by the wide streets. Angus ignored most of those and headed south until he came up against the last, oldest, innermost wall and the cobbled road wrapped around it. That was where the north road ended.
The wall was a high barrier that appeared to have been built in layers. The bottom ten feet were ancient, crumbling stone that had been patched many times. Even in the encroaching darkness, there was a small group of workmen scraping out mortar in one section and replacing it with fresh cement. The second layer reached up nearly fifteen feet above the first and was made from newer stone; its weathered surface resembled that of the walls separating the workers and shops. It was probably constructed at the same time, with the last layer—wood capped with a walkway and guard posts spaced within easy earshot of each other—added sometime later, perhaps when they had built the outermost wall?
Angus paused to study the wall for several minutes, wondering what was beyond it and somehow knowing it was the wealthy merchant families who owned most of the town, the mines, the farmers’ lands, and the lumber sent downriver by the woodsmen. There were vast fortunes within that little enclave, and it was sorely tempting to find a way inside, sneak through—but the guards on top of the wall patrolled at irregular intervals, never less than a few minutes apart. Still, with a rope and grapple, muzzled with cloth to avoid the clatter…. It would have to be painted with a pattern that would blend in with the stone, since there wouldn’t be time to haul it up; without the camouflage, the guards would see it dangling there. Then what? Once he was inside the wall, the guards on it would be easy to avoid; they were looking out for trouble, not in. But what if there were more guards inside? He would have to bribe some of them, find out the schedule, learn more—but that would be risky. He didn’t have near enough money to match what the merchants could offer, and he would have to kill the guard after he talked with him. But that would alert the merchants….
He frowned, puzzling over the problem. Maybe—
“Move on, wizard,” a guardsman said from beside him, startling Angus from his reverie.
Angus turned and smiled. “Sorry,” he said. “I was lost in thought.”
The guard looked like he wanted to give him a shove to move him along his way but was too hesitant to risk it. “This is no place for gawking.”
“Oh?” Angus asked glancing past the guard to see three more standing nearby. But this one was clearly their superior; he had a long sword in a sharp-looking black leather sheath, his leather armor was reinforced with iron bands, and there was an epaulet—dark blue? gray? It was difficult to tell in the fading light—on his left shoulder. He stood with his hands on his belt, near enough to draw his sword if need be but far enough away so as not to appear threatening, and his back was braced and fluid at the same time. He had the air of a well-seasoned, confident fighter ready to do battle but not seeking it out. His leather-clad companions, on the other hand, milled around uncertainly, shuffling from foot to foot with their hands gripping their short swords a bit too tightly.
“I was admiring the construction of the wall,” Angus offered. “History is a bit of a hobby of mine, and I am curious about its construction. The lower portion,” he pointed at it, “is no doubt from the founding of Wyrmwood, and the higher levels are reminiscent of the town’s expansion. That second layer in particula
r must have been built before the coal mines, and—”
“Yes, yes,” the guard interrupted, his disinterest readily apparent. “You’ve had your look-see, now move on. It is not wise to hover near the inner wall.”
“Really?” Angus asked. “Then perhaps you can direct me to someone who has knowledge of its construction? I may wish to visit with him about it tomorrow.”
The guardsman shrugged. “The stone mason’s guild might know something,” he said. “They’re in the southern quarter.”
“Surely there is a library?”
“What’s a library?” one of the other guards asked his companion. “Is it dangerous?”
The second guard nodded, “Very,” he said. “I hear it’s a place where dragons sleep.”
Their leader half-turned and snapped, “Quiet!”
As one, their hands went to their sword hilts, their feet came together, their backs straightened, and their jaws clenched.
“A library is only dangerous to those who fear it,” Angus said to the guard who had posed the question. “It is a source of knowledge. Books, scrolls, maps—”
“Never mind that,” their leader interrupted. “You won’t be able to gain access to the library. It’s in there,” he nodded through the wall, “and no one is allowed into The Sanctum without invitation.”
“Ah,” Angus said. “That is unfortunate. Perhaps you could arrange such an invitation for me?”
“No,” he said. “We have tarried too long, here. We must continue our patrol, and you—” he paused. “Where is your destination?” he asked.
“Fenbrooke’s Inn,” Angus said without thought.
“Fenbrooke’s?” The guardsman’s eyes narrowed and his hand inched toward his sword hilt. He looked closely at Angus for the first time, and asked, “What business do you have there?”
“Food and lodging,” Angus said without hesitation.
The guardsman continued studying him for a few more seconds, and then relaxed a bit. “Have you been to Wyrmwood before?” he asked. “I feel as though we’ve met.”
“Doubtful,” Angus replied. “This is my first visit to Wyrmwood.”
“Hey Jasper!” a shadowy figure shouted down from the top of the wall. “Is there a problem?”
The guardsman looked up and shouted, “No problems, Landon. He was just leaving.” Then he turned to Angus and said, “Weren’t you?”
“Yes,” Angus said. “I suppose I was. It’s too dark to inspect the wall more carefully, anyway. Perhaps tomorrow it will reveal its secrets to me?”
The guardsman lingered for a long moment, nodded toward the south, and said, “Fenbrooke’s is that way.”
Angus smiled, nodded, and said, “Thank you—Jasper is it?”
Jasper nodded.
“I’ll be on my way, then, Jasper.” Angus turned and made his way around the wall until he was almost to the southern quarter. But instead of entering it, he turned west and worked his way through a tangle of lamplit streets and shadow-encrusted alleys until he was standing across from Fenbrooke’s Inn. It was a three story building built from whitewashed block and mortar. A sign—a beer stein dripping on a pillow—jutted out over the front door. Music—the strident strains of a playful jaunt being strummed on a harp and accompanied by the lilting whistles of a flute and the steady thumping beat of a drum—escaped through the front door and flung itself toward him, as if it were trying to charm him into submission.
Angus frowned. Bards were known to use magic…. He concentrated for a few seconds before dismissing his concern. None of the nearby strands of magic were acting as if they were being manipulated. The music may be entrancing, but it wasn’t the result of magic; it was just a vibrant, lively tune to lure in customers. He half-smiled, left the shadows of the alley—ignoring the other two shadows still lurking there—and made his way across the street and into the front door. He stopped and surveyed the room before him.
Twelve tables. The flautist, harpist, and drummer were on a raised platform in the far corner. Three barmaids bustled among the patrons with platters full of food and drink. Thirty-two patrons, six of whom were clearly disreputable—bandits? ruffians? thieves? Nine more were suspicious; they sat with their backs to the wall and were only pretending to enjoy the music while their eyes roamed the crowd. Three of them studied him closely without appearing to do so, and he smiled, nodded slightly to each one—an almost imperceptible tilt of his head to the right. Then he purposefully moved up to the bar and sat down with his back to them all, knowing there was no more serious insult he could make. He ordered food and wine, and requested a room for the night. When he finished his meal, he got up and made his way to his room.
It was a small room, the standard fare of the inns he had visited on his way to Hellsbreath. Mattress—straw, grass, feathers; they were all the same and much too soft—small table, candle or lamp, water pitcher, basin, chamber pot, coverlet (always warm, sometimes infested with lice or bedbugs), and a lock that could be set from the inside. Some of the rooms, like this one, had a window with shutters; others did not. Some had a chair or two, but others, like this one, did not. Usually the innkeeper brought in a half-loaf of bread, cheese, dried meat, or something else to snack on in the morning, emptied the chamber pot, and made sure he was out of the room early enough to pretend to clean it for the next customer. Sometimes, like this one, the inn had thieves who tried to rob him.
He would be ready for them when they came.
They knew he would be ready, but they would come anyway.
Just before Angus went to bed, he brought the magic around him into focus, aligned it with the magic within him, and selected a light, airy thread with a faint-but-noticeable red tint. It was a weak thread, perhaps near the end of its influence, but it would still serve his purpose. He wove it into a quick series of simple knots, and a small, yellowish, glowing orb appeared in his palm, not quite bright enough to overwhelm the candle. He guided it with his hand until it slipped under the dull, gray, wool coverlet and then intensified it. He left it beside his backpack—no sense making it easy for them to take his spells—and walked to the table to extinguish the candle. The room was dark; not even a wisp of light bled through the coverlet. He made his way back to the mattress and slid under the coverlet. For a brief moment, a dazzling light lit up the room, but it only lasted long enough for him to crawl beneath the coverlet. The orb was warm, which surprised him, even though it shouldn’t have been surprising at all: flame magic always generated heat, even with the simple Lamplight spell. But he had never noticed it before because he was always too focused on reading Voltari’s books or scrolls to pay attention to the little globe of energy floating over his left shoulder, and he had always kept the light diffuse. But this time, he needed it to be as bright as the sun on a clear day, and that meant concentrating the power into a smaller orb—and more heat in a smaller space.
He used his hand to nudge the Lamplight into a more comfortable position and rested.
Still the body.
Still the mind.
Still the body.
Still the mind.
His muscles relaxed and his mind became acutely focused.
Still the body.
His senses screamed at him, detecting every minor disturbance within range.
Still the mind.
His awareness narrowed, cordoning off the faint music, laughter, and merriment rising up from the common room and sending it away.
Still the body.
His breathing subsided to soft, slow, long draughts, and his heartbeat fluttered softly in his chest.
Still the mind.
He sent them out of his awareness, flinging the little scraping sounds of the rodent scurrying in the wall with it.
Still the body.
He tasted the faint, pungency sneaking out through a crack in the chamber pot lid and rid himself of it.
Still the mind.
The coverlet was rough, its tiny, hair-like fuzz crawling along the bare skin of his
wrist, his hand, his neck. He shifted his position slightly and sent it away.
Still the body.
He catalogued and dismissed all of the normal sounds and smells, and focused his attention on what remained.
Silence.
Emptiness.
He had no idea how long he waited in the trancelike state before he heard it, the nearly silent scrape of a blade lifting the window shutter’s latch. It was a daring maneuver; Angus’s room was on the second floor, and there weren’t any ledges beneath the window; there was only the thin indentation left behind when the mortar between the stone blocks had shrunk as it dried. He half-smiled—and quickly dismissed the intrusion.
Still the mind.
Prepare the body.
The shutter slid softly outward and settled quietly against the outer wall. A blade slid under the window, pried it from the sill….
Prepare the mind.
A muffled thud as a soft-soled boot lightly touched the floor.
Prepare the body.
A near-silent footfall.
Patience….
Another.
Now!
Angus closed his eyes and threw the coverlet off him.
A gasp, but no scream.
Discipline! Angus felt for the heat of the orb and lifted it from the mattress, guiding it toward the muffled noises as the thief hastily backtracked. He squinted, tried to ignore the glare, and rolled off the mattress into a crouch. The orb followed his hand as if the two had been glued together.
The Tiger's Eye (Book 1) Page 5
