“I’m coming,” a man shouted from down the corridor. “Hold your horses ’til I get there.”
Giorge led his horse into its stall and turned to help Ortis with the young colt, Max, who was balking at the confined space. “There, there, boy,” he soothed, patting it on its shoulder. “I don’t like being cooped up either, but it’s only for a few weeks. You can manage that, can’t you?”
Ortis removed Teffles’ body from the last horse before leading the horse into its stall. It was a calm, placid beast, easily managed and content with the directions Ortis gave him.
“Was that Teffles horse before he joined you?” Angus asked.
“Yes,” Ortis said. “Why?”
Angus nodded. “I’d like that one if I join your banner. Would that be all right?”
Ortis shrugged. “Not our decision,” he said. “Teffles bequeathed it to the Wizards’ School.”
It must be trained for wizards, Angus thought. “I see,” he said. “Perhaps they will part with it?”
“I’ll take you with me when I let them know it’s here,” Hobart said. “I believe you wanted to visit there, anyway. It’s in the city proper—you can’t miss seeing it when we get to The Rim—and we’ll have to get special permission from the guards to visit it. I don’t think it will be a problem. You are a wizard, after all.”
From Blackhaven Tower, Angus thought. “Yes,” he said. Will they receive me in the same way Ulrich did? Will I be looked on as a blight?
A man limped half-free of the shadows and came to an abrupt stop. He stared at Hobart for a long moment, and then began shaking his head. “So it’s you, is it? I thought I recognized that infernal voice. I would have thought the Death Swamps had swallowed you up by now.”
“Not yet, you scoundrel,” Hobart glared. “Why isn’t your corpse feeding the rats?”
“Bah,” the man spat, limping forward and dipping beneath the inner rail of the empty stall. “They’re too smart. They know they’d die of indigestion.”
Hobart glared a bit longer, and then they grinned at each other and deep, rich, belly-laughs rumbled from them both. They clasped hands to forearms and pretended to wrestle for a few moments. Then Hobart wrapped his arms around the man’s shoulder and led him out of the stable.
“It’s been a long time, Hobart,” the man said, nudging him with his elbow. He was a grizzled, dirty, sweat-soaked old man dressed in a worn-out wool tunic whose sleeves had been torn off, and breeches secured to his waist with a frayed red scarf. “You’ll have to let me buy you a beer at Hedreth’s.”
“Now Bandor,” Hobart said, shaking his head. “You know I can’t drink just one.”
“Two, then,” Bandor replied. “How long are you here for?”
“A week or two. Three at the outside,” Hobart said. “Plenty of time to catch up.”
“I’m sure you have stories,” he said. “You always do.”
“Bandor,” Giorge said, politely nodding as he returned from helping Ortis.
“You’re still riding under his banner?” Bandor said, his eyes wide. “I would have thought Hobart would have thrown you out of it after last time.”
Giorge grinned. “They can’t live without me, Bandor. You know that.”
“But how do they live with you?” Bandor retorted, shaking his head and leaning back to look around Giorge. “And that triad’s here, too. That leaves,” he turned to Angus and stared. After a moment he said, as if it were an accusation, “You’re not Ribaldo.”
“No,” Angus said. “My name is Angus.”
“Where’s Ribaldo?” Bandor asked, looking up at Hobart.
“With his gods,” Hobart said. “Or someone else’s.”
“No,” Bandor said. “He was such a fine old man.”
Hobart nodded and let his arm slide from Bandor’s shoulders. “Too old,” he said. “He died in his sleep just over a week ago.”
Bandor shook his head. “That will be my fate, I’m sure. With this bum leg, I’ll never get out of this hole in the wall. They may as well bury me in it now.”
“You’ll never die, Bandor,” Hobart said as he moved to his saddlebags. “You’re too stubborn.”
“Ah, well, if only death were so easily swayed,” Bandor said. “But we’ll all end up like Ribaldo one day,” he added, nodding toward Teffles’ body. “He will be missed.”
“He already has been,” Hobart said. “That’s his replacement. He only lasted almost two days before the wolves got to him.”
Bandor shook his head and looked at Angus. “You’re that one’s replacement, then? You might want to reconsider it if you want to live a while longer.”
“I’m—”
“Let’s just say he’s with us for now,” Hobart said. “Nothing permanent has been established yet.”
“Ah,” Bandor said, nodding. “Testing him, are you?”
Hobart shook his head. “The offer has been made, Bandor, but he has yet to accept it.”
“I may have a more lucrative opportunity here in Hellsbreath,” Angus said. “I understand they have need of wizards, here.”
Bandor nodded, “There’s always room for more skilled wizards in Hellsbreath.”
“We should be getting our things over to the lift area,” Ortis said. “We don’t want to have to wait for another one.”
“Right you are,” Bandor said. “We’ll talk later at Hedreth’s, Hobart. Let’s see, seven horses for how long?”
“Let’s say two weeks,” Hobart said. “If we stay longer than that, we’ll settle up when we leave.”
“Two gold, four silver,” Bandor said as he stepped back into the stall to retrieve the blue scarves. “I’ll even make sure they get the same treatment as the soldiers’ horses. Only the best for you, Hobart.”
“Thank you Bandor,” Hobart said, counting out the coins in his palm. “Until this evening, then?”
Bandor nodded, exchanging the blue scarves for the coin and the black scarves. Before limping away, he turned to Angus and said, “There’s no better banner than Hobart’s. He’s a fair and honorable leader, and he’ll do right by you if you do right by him.” He paused, glanced sidelong for a moment, winked, and added, “I don’t know how many others would have put up with Giorge for as long as he has.”
Hobart chuckled as the scruffy man left, ignoring the feigned, exaggerated pain on Giorge’s face. Then he turned abruptly and said, “Let’s get our gear.” He hurried to the pile of saddlebags and began draping them over his shoulders. Angus joined him, accepted two of the lighter ones, and followed him out from behind the partition. Hobart pushed it closed and fumbled with the blue scarf, eventually tying a shabby but effective knot. When he finished, he turned and said, “Let’s report in.”
“Report in?” Angus asked as they walked toward the lift area.
“Whenever banners arrive at a major outpost, we have to report in to the guard,” Hobart said. “They like to keep track of us in case they need to recall us to duty. We’ll also be reporting on the changes to our membership,” Hobart said. “I’ll put you down as a provisional member; that way, you’ll get the benefits of membership while we’re in Hellsbreath, and if you decide not to join, I can strike your name from the roster when we leave.”
As they approached, Angus studied the people near the lift platform. There were apparently two groups of them: the passengers and the guardsmen. The guardsmen were armed, and several were positioned around the platform in a protective fashion, preventing people from stepping onto it. Perhaps they were concerned that someone would walk off the edge of the platform while the lift was gone or might disturb the complex pulley system? The three remaining guards were stationed near a little alcove where an old scribe sat with a thick tome and small chest. As they approached, the scribe opened the book, picked up his quill, and uncorked his inkwell. Between him and the lift platform, half a dozen passengers waited for the lift to return from The Rim.
“Those are all locals,” Giorge said from beside him. “By the
look of the one, he’s a fisherman. He probably has a few fish in that basket of his. He uses that bow to shoot them. The arrows are short and too brittle for anything else. It’s not as easy as you might think. Try it sometime. The water distorts your perception, and it takes a long time to learn how to judge where the fish really is. Until then, you kill a lot of water.”
Angus nodded and asked, “You can tell that by the arrows?”
Giorge nodded. “They are heavier than the normal ones, and they don’t have any fletching. It’s almost like a crossbow bolt. They don’t have to fly far, but do need to penetrate deep enough into the water to kill the fish. He probably has string tied to them so he doesn’t lose them in the river when he misses.”
“Isn’t the river moving too fast for that kind of fishing?” Angus asked.
Giorge nodded. “He must be a bit desperate,” he said. “Most locals wouldn’t risk fishing when there’s this much ash in the air.”
“He could have been caught by surprise,” Ortis said. “Some of these fishermen go out at night.”
“More likely he didn’t have a choice,” Hobart offered. “We don’t know how long that eruption has been going on. They can last weeks, you know.”
“Maybe you should ask him,” Angus suggested. “I’m sure he would welcome the conversation. After all, it may be a while before they send the lift back down.”
When they were within a few feet of the scribe, Hobart said, “Stay here,” and walked up to him.
“The two with axes were probably gathering wood or clearing away debris from the bridge,” Giorge continued, stopping next to Angus. “When it rains, the river rises quickly and catches up all kinds of stuff—trees, branches, boulders, dead animals, whatever. Sometimes a tree will get caught on the bridge supports.”
“It’s too early to clear the debris,” Ortis offered. “The river’s too deep and moving too fast.”
“What about the others,” Angus asked. “They look like the villagers I met on my way to Wyrmwood.”
“We are the Banner of the Wounded Hand,” Hobart told the scribe.
The rickety old man leafed through the tome propped up on his desk. When he found the appropriate entry, he skimmed through it quickly and looked at the group. “You are Hobart?” he asked. “The holder of the banner?”
“Yes,” Hobart said. “And these are—”
“Ortis, Giorge, and Ribaldo?” He frowned and scanned the page again. He looked back at Angus and shook his head. “No, not Ribaldo.” He pointed at the corpse two of Ortis were carrying between them. “Is that Ribaldo?”
“No,” Hobart said. “It’s Teffles, Ribaldo’s replacement. He won’t be on your list, yet. He was added to our roster in Wyrmwood less than a week ago.”
The scribe frowned and drew the quill across a portion of the page in his book. When he finished, he jotted something down and asked, “How do you spell Teffles?”
Hobart frowned. “I don’t remember,” he admitted. “Maybe you can wait until the update comes in from Wyrmwood and make the change then?”
“He was added to your roster in Wyrmwood?”
Hobart nodded. “When Ribaldo’s death was reported.”
“Has Teffle’s death been recorded?”
“Yes,” Hobart said. “We reported it in Wyrmwood on our way here.”
“What is your new member’s name?” the scribe asked, dipping his quill in the inkwell. It was a large glass inkwell that had seen much use.
“Angus,” Hobart told him. “He is a provisional member under the protection of our banner.”
“Provisional member?” the old man repeated, reaching up to scratch his wrinkled brow and darkening the ink-black streak in the tangled mop of gray hair cascading over his shoulders and down his back. He sighed. “That is a complication.”
Hobart nodded. “Nevertheless, I do want it in the records. We have offered Angus a position in our banner, and he is considering it. While he does so, I wish to have him treated as a member of my banner. His decision will be made prior to our leaving Hellsbreath, and we will update the roster accordingly before that time.”
“Very well,” he said. “I will add Angus to your roster and make a note of his provisional status.”
“Thank you,” Hobart said.
“I will need to know how to spell it,” the old man said, and Hobart looked at Angus.
Angus stepped forward and stated each letter clearly as the old scribe’s quill scratched them out. He continued writing for several seconds, and then motioned Angus closer.
“You are a wizard, are you not?” he asked without looking up from his tome.
“Yes,” Angus confirmed. “I was trained by Voltari in Blackhaven Tower.”
One of the guards looked sharply at him, and seemed to want to say something. But he didn’t, and the scribe ignored him as he wrote down the information. “Tradecraft: Wizard. Hair: black, short. Eyes: light blue.” He looked up and squinted at Angus. “They’re almost silver, aren’t they? No matter; light blue will suffice. Beard—” he paused again and asked, “Do you intend to maintain that beard?”
“For now, yes,” Angus replied. “Why do you ask?”
The old man shrugged, his wicker-like spine creaking a bit as he did so. “Just wanting to maintain accurate records,” he said. “Why don’t you turn around for me?”
Angus frowned and turned slowly around. “Height: five feet six inches. Weight: one hundred fifty five pounds. I better make that one sixty,” he muttered.
“Anything else?” Angus asked.
The scribe reviewed his notes. “Yes,” he said. “Your age.”
“I—” Angus frowned and thought for a moment. “I’m not sure,” he said. “I haven’t paid much attention to it.”
“What do you think, Hobart?” he asked.
Hobart shrugged, his armor jingling as it settled. “I don’t know. Maybe thirty?”
The old scribe’s deep brown eyes seemed to pierce Angus’s as he said, “No. Older. I’ll put down thirty-five.”
He turned the tome so it faced Hobart and handed him the quill. “Sign here,” he said, pointing.
Hobart very carefully drew out his name and handed back the quill.
“I will send an update on your roster with tomorrow’s dispatch to Tyrag. For the time being, I will withhold Angus’s name from the roster, but I expect you to clarify the situation before you leave Hellsbreath. If not, I will assume you are in breach of your Banner Contract.”
“Of course,” Hobart said. “I will update the information when I am able to do so.”
“How long will you be staying?” the scribe asked.
“We don’t know yet. No less than a week and possibly as many as four.”
“Seven for the lift, counting the corpse.” He glanced at the others. “It will likely be a few hours before it returns. There hasn’t been much interest in leaving the city today. If you’re in a hurry, I can have them send it down, but it will cost more.”
“We’ll wait,” Hobart said. “I’m sure it will be down by nightfall. If it isn’t, we’ll catch the lift up when they change guards.”
“The fee—” the scribe began.
Hobart handed him a few silver coins and said, “I believe this will be sufficient?”
The scribe accepted the coins, counted them, turned to a different page in his book, wrote down a figure, opened the chest, and dropped the coins in among those that were already there. Then he closed the chest’s lid, looked up, and gave them a toothless smile as he said, “I hope you have a pleasant and uneventful stay in The Rim.”
“As do we,” Hobart said, nodding.
The scribe waved them on and his smile quickly dissolved as they passed. One of the guardsmen opened up the gate to the platform loading area and ushered them through. There was enough room in the lift area to accommodate far more than those already inside, and it was not at all difficult for them to find a place to sit. “Make yourselves comfortable,” Hobart said. “It may be a
while.”
They dropped their gear down and sat on it or beside it. Angus took Teffles’ book from his backpack and began reading it. The first few pages were an explanation for the marks he would be using in it, each one a representation of a specific series of knots. The symbols were unfamiliar to him, but once he began to understand their purpose, he realized how effective it must be. If he applied a similar process to his own spells, he could save a considerable amount of time while priming for them. But it would take a great deal of patience to learn the system of shorthand symbols and implement it….
7
Angus was beginning to understand Teffles’ shorthand well enough to interpret the first cryptic description of a spell. It was a simple spell, one that reminded him of the Lamplight spell: a single, carefully controlled knot. Instead of relating to the sphere of flame, it was related to the sphere of sky, but the result of casting it—if he understood it correctly—would have a similar effect: the slow release of the magical energy. But he wasn’t sure how it would release it. He thought it would create a steady, slight breeze, but he wasn’t sure. He would have to wait until he cast it to find out, and the magic within him was already aligned for his own spells. If he were to draw upon more energy now it would disrupt the spells he was already prepared to cast, and that was always risky. How it disrupted them was always uncertain, and one of the very real possibilities was a sudden, explosive release of energy. He had already experienced something like that once—or so Voltari claimed—when his memory had been obliterated, and from what Voltari had said about the incident, it was a rather mild result of overextending the magic within oneself. The spell would have to wait.
He flipped through several pages without reading them, noting that with each new spell Teffles’ shorthand script became more precise and smaller. By the time he reached the last spell, he had to strain his eyes to see it clearly, but when he tried to read the instructions, the complexity of Teffles’ shorthand was far beyond him. In fact, he wasn’t at all sure if he would ever understand it. Maybe if he unraveled each symbol and wrote it out long-hand as a sequence of knots and then—
The Tiger's Eye (Book 1) Page 15
