The Tiger's Eye (Book 1)

by Robert P. Hansen

  “The same with Teffles’ book?”

  Angus nodded. “Books and scrolls are pretty much the same. They’re both mnemonic devices to assist wizards in remembering the precise methods for producing the knots necessary for casting particular spells. We can manipulate the strands without such guidance, but it rarely does what we hope it will do. Magic is more like an unruly master than an unruly servant.”

  “Well,” Ortis said. “I’m glad you used the wand. It may yet save our lives if the winter snows come earlier than normal.”

  Angus nodded. At least I know how the wand works, and if I ever master the spells involved, I might even be able to capture them in the wand myself.

  “If we’re going to stay here, then,” Hobart said. “We may as well get started.”

  “Giorge and I will bring back firewood,” Ortis said. “There are a few bushes with large enough branches to burn for the night. No trees, though; the slope is too rocky and steep.”

  “Angus and I will care for the horses,” Hobart said. “He needs practice.”

  15

  “Angus?” Ortis hissed, his voice soft, urgent. “Wake up. Someone is approaching.”

  Angus blinked, rolled over. It was cool, almost cold. The fire was out. There were few stars, and the moon was half-hidden behind clouds. He yawned, smacked his lips, and reached for his water flask. “So?” he said, blinking groggily.

  Ortis turned and watched him for several seconds before saying, “It’s a rider.”

  “Just one?” Angus grumbled as he sat up. “Why wake me for that?”

  Again a pause, then Ortis said. “He’s seen me.”

  “Good,” Angus said.

  Ortis shook his head. “He’s stopped. No, he only slowed down. He’s approaching me.”

  “Well,” Angus muttered. “Why don’t you shoot him already?”

  Ortis turned to him. “He’s from a patrol, Angus. And even if he wasn’t, he hasn’t made any threatening gestures.”

  Angus shrugged and stretched. “If he’s so friendly, why did you wake me up?”

  Ortis sighed. “Just because he isn’t acting aggressively, it doesn’t mean he won’t.” He paused and added, more softly, “Even friends can turn on you, Angus.”

  Angus rinsed his mouth again and spat. Then he reached into a pocket and brought out a leaf to chew on. It had almost no flavor, but it was juicy and did wonders for his tongue and teeth. Unfortunately, he only had a few of them left.

  “He’s hailing me,” Ortis said. “He’s keeping his voice low; he doesn’t want it to carry.”

  “What does he want?” Angus asked, looking around the campsite. “Where are Giorge and Hobart?”

  “With me,” Ortis said. “We waited to wake you until it was clear that he wasn’t going back.”

  “How far away are you?” Angus asked.

  “Half a mile,” Ortis said.

  “I have time to relieve myself, then,” Angus said, moving to the edge of the clearing. When he returned, he asked, “Has he told you why he’s here?”

  “Yes,” Ortis said. “He’s a scout. The rest of the patrol is behind him. They’ve camped in your tunnel. They sent him ahead because they didn’t want to startle us with a larger party.”

  Angus half-smiled. A lot of good that did. “The tunnel made an impression, did it?”

  Ortis nodded. “Yes,” he said. “It told them they were following the right group.”

  “Why would they be following us?”

  “Not us,” Ortis said. “Giorge.”

  “Giorge?” Angus said, peering up the road but seeing nothing. “What do they want with him?”

  “They have a Truthseer with them,” he said. “They want to ask him some questions. He doesn’t want to answer them.”

  Angus shrugged. “Then he doesn’t have to, does he?”

  “It’s not that simple,” Ortis said. “The scout said they would continue to pursue us until this Truthseer talks to Giorge.”

  “Did he do something to annoy them?” Angus asked. “Like the last time he was in Hellsbreath?”

  “No,” Ortis said. “He has no idea what it could be about. But it doesn’t have to do with the patrol. They are only the Truthseer’s escort. The Truthseer was sent by—” Ortis frowned and his muscles tensed.

  “Who sent him?” Angus asked, his tone and posture suddenly more alert, concerned.

  “They said to tell him it was Dirk,” Ortis said.

  “Dirk?” Angus asked, a sudden, intense uneasiness inexplicably swarmed through him. “That sounds like a nasty name,” he half-whispered.

  Ortis nodded. “When Giorge heard it, he stopped smirking and agreed to speak with the Truthseer. Apparently, we’ll be staying here longer than we expected. The rest of his party won’t arrive until tomorrow.” He turned and shrugged. “I guess you can go back to sleep, now.”

  Angus frowned as Ortis went to the fire and began stoking the embers back to life. After awhile, he lay down again but, when he closed his eyes, sleep was reluctant to join him. When it finally did, it was troubled and angry….

  16

  The Truthseer’s party arrived at the campsite near midmorning and claimed the half of it nearest them. They set up a small tent and the Truthseer—a mysterious, gray-robed figure with its face hidden—stepped inside. A few minutes later, Giorge was called over and went inside the tent. He stayed there for nearly half an hour, at the end of which he came back to the group.

  “Well?” Hobart asked. “Why did they want to talk to you?”

  Giorge shook his head, and turned to Angus. “She wants to see you now.”

  “Me?” Angus asked. “Why?”

  “It’s best if you don’t know until she asks you about it,” Giorge said. “Just tell the truth. Dirk is not one to trifle with, and the patrol is under her command. If she doesn’t like your answers,” he shrugged.

  Angus frowned. “And if I don’t go?” he asked. “They have no jurisdiction out here, do they?”

  “Other than their swords?” Hobart asked. “There’s a wizard with them, too, remember? You can never tell which one it is by looking because they all dress alike.”

  “Angus,” Giorge said. “Trust me. It’s better to get this over with. If you don’t talk to her now, they will assume what they think is true is true, and that will go very badly for you—and us.”

  “What do they think is true?” Ortis asked. “Has Angus done something—”

  Giorge shook his head and met Angus’s gaze with two somber, dark brown orbs. “Go,” he said softly. “Tell her the truth.”

  “All right,” Angus said. “I’ll go. But I don’t promise to answer any questions.”

  Giorge’s lips curled slightly upward as he said, “You may not have a choice.”

  The tent was empty except for the Truthseer and two stools set opposite each other across a brazier of hot coals. A thin cloud of gray smoke hovered near the top of the tent, shifting its shape as if it were almost alive. The Truthseer’s hood was down, and Angus saw that she was quite old, perhaps the oldest woman he had ever seen. Her face was a mixture of wrinkles, pockmarks, and age spots; her hair was a thin shield of gray wisps bound together with a golden clasp inlaid with polished topaz. A pair of matching earrings dangled from her tired lobes, and her wrinkled, age-spotted hand beckoned for him to sit across from her. As he moved to sit down, her deep-set blue eyes studied him intently, with such shrewdness and clarity that it almost undermined his resistance.

  “I understand you have questions,” Angus said, sitting down and crossing his arms. “Ask them.”

  Her eyes both danced and were vacant at the same time, as if she were simultaneously looking both at him and through him. “You are Angus?” she asked, her voice reedy, as if it had to struggle to escape from her throat.

  “I am,” Angus said.

  The wrinkles in her brow tightened, their contours becoming more crisply defined. “Apprentice to Voltari, Wizard of Blackhaven Tower?”

&nb
sp; “Yes,” Angus said.

  A gnarled hand snaked out of her robe and sprinkled incense onto the brazier. The smoke wavered for a long moment before it stretched outward toward both of them. It had a heady, deeply floral scent that tingled as it touched his nose, enticing him to take a deep breath that left him lightheaded.

  Her questions came quickly as he swooned under the drug’s soporific influence.

  “Did you give Giorge the gold coins to sell in Hellsbreath?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where did you get them?”

  “Blackhaven Tower.”

  “Who gave them to you?”

  He wanted to answer. He tried to answer. But he couldn’t. He didn’t know the answer.

  She was beginning to unravel, her left and right halves whirling apart as if she were trying to smother him in love, in death.

  “Who gave you the gold coins bearing King Urm’s image?”

  Sweat beaded on his forehead. It felt like a leech was sucking on his face, but he still could not answer. He wanted desperately to answer her, to tell her the truth no matter how it might sound—but he couldn’t. He didn’t know the truth.

  She swirled around him, her warm, ghostly embrace stabbing into him, working through him, searching….

  “How did you acquire the gold coins bearing King Urm’s image?” she asked.

  He smiled. He could answer this question. “They were in my tunic when I put it on. I don’t know how they got there.”

  The specter quickly retreated, as if it had been bitten by the sharp point of a poisoned dart. It hovered there, above the brazier for several seconds, and then she asked a new question.

  “Do you know Bug-Eyed Jake?”

  “Yes,” Angus said, glad to be able to answer another question. “He was in Hellsbreath’s Hellhole with me.”

  “He claims you are Typhus, an assassin. Are you?”

  Angus frowned and opened his mouth and worked his tongue as if he wanted to say something but nothing came out. The leeches were growing in number, blood dripping from their sated tongues….

  “Are you Typhus?” she purred, her vague, smoke-like form spreading out before him, hovering above the brazier, spreading its arms out wide.

  He opened his mouth, but the sound that came forth was strangled, unintelligible. He shut it again.

  “Answer truthfully,” the Truthseer demanded, fluttering forward to envelop him in her crushingly insubstantial grip.

  The smoke was dense, smothering, making him dizzy, nauseous. Angus shook his head, trying to free it from the smoke, trying to breathe. “No,” he finally rasped. “I am Angus.”

  Her smoke-like form retreated, allowing him to breathe. It studied him until he stopped panting, and then asked, “How many coins did you find in your tunic? What did you do with them?”

  “Thirteen,” Angus said at once. “I spent one at Nargeth’s inn in Woodwort. Giorge sold the rest in Hellsbreath.”

  “Are you an assassin?”

  Angus opened his mouth and closed it again. He frowned and shook his head. “No. I—” he paused, and when he finished, his voice sounded uncertain. “I am a wizard.”

  “Why did you hesitate in your response?”

  “I can’t remember,” Angus said, a wave of relief flooding through him. It was so delightful to be able to tell her the truth, to be able to answer her questions.

  “You don’t remember why you hesitated?” she asked, her voice confused.

  He didn’t understand the question, so he answered as best he could. “I can’t remember anything before the spell went wrong,” he said.

  “The wand? In Hellsbreath?” she prompted. “When you struck your head against the wall?”

  He shook his head. “No,” he corrected. “The spell in Blackhaven Tower.”

  “Explain,” she demanded.

  “Voltari said I cast the spell wrong,” Angus chirped. “I don’t remember doing it. I only remember waking up not knowing who I was. Voltari told me my name was Angus and I was his apprentice. That is who I have been ever since. I don’t know who I was before that.”

  The smoke fluttered, hovered. “How long ago did this occur?”

  Angus frowned, shrugged. “It is difficult to say,” he said. “There were no calendars in Voltari’s tower; he kept his own schedule. I can only estimate that it was over a year ago but less than two.”

  “Interesting,” the Truthseer said. “Perhaps if we dig deeper we shall find more truths?”

  She tossed more incense on the brazier and the haziness of her form solidified into a thick, amorphous, almost viscous form. As it approached, something deep inside of him braced itself, saying over and over again, My name is Angus. I am Voltari’s apprentice….

  17

  His back ached the way it did when he hunched too long over one of Voltari’s tomes. He tried to move into a more comfortable position, but his hands were tied. So were his feet. But he wasn’t gagged.

  He was moving—a steady swaying jostled his body around and aggravated the soreness of his back. The ropes chafed his wrists and ankles, but he could flex his hands and fingers without any difficulty. Whoever had tied him up had done a poor job of it; the ropes were tied so loosely that he could easily slip them off if he wanted to, but he needed to know who had him first.

  His nose was clogged with dried mucus. Or was it blood? Whichever it was, it was hard and scratchy, like sand, and clung to the inside of his nostrils. Thin wisps of wheezy breath whistled through them, but it wasn’t enough; he needed more air. He opened his mouth—

  And tasted sweat-drenched horsehair. It was slightly better than the sickly-sweet ooze sliding down the back of his throat, but he needed a drink.

  So, he was tied to a horse. By whom? Why?

  He gasped for air—he couldn’t help it. He tried to stifle the sound, to mimic the wheezing, but he couldn’t.

  “He’s coming around,” someone said. “We better stop.”

  The horse came to a stop and, after a brief adjustment, settled into a perfectly still posture. It helped. If he slid his hands free—

  No. He didn’t know how many there were. He didn’t know where he was. If he broke loose now, it would only get worse.

  “We’ll get you down in a moment,” a man said from beside him as firm, gentle hands working on the ropes.

  He didn’t protest—or help—as he was eased to the ground. He was too weak, and a blacksmith was banging on his head as if it were an anvil.

  “Drink this,” the man said, holding a small glass phial up to his lips. It smelled strongly of mustard, of sage, and of a few other things he couldn’t identify. He thought about protesting, but he was too thirsty.

  He opened his eyes. Subdued sunlight, shadows. The face was familiar. The eyes—orange eyes, catlike…. He knew someone with eyes like that, didn’t he? A survivor of something? He was in cahoots with a thief, a thief who tried to take his gold—who did take his gold!

  “The Truthseer said it will help clear your head.”

  The liquid was warm, spicy, but had almost no taste, despite the smell. The warmth flowed down his throat, into his stomach, and began radiating outward through his body. When it reached his head, the pounding of the hammer stilled, and he said, “Ortis. That’s your name, isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” Ortis said, holding out a water flask. “It will help wash it down. When you’re up to it, we’ve got some cold stew you can eat.”

  Angus drank most of the water and nodded. “After I wake up,” he rasped, finding it difficult to breathe through the scabrous mucus clogging his nostrils. He reached into his nose with a finger, felt the sand-like surface and began prying at it. Only bits of it crumbled free at first, but he kept at it, gradually working it free—despite the pain of pulling out the nose hairs and skin encrusted in it. At least the nosebleed didn’t last too long, and it woke him up the rest of the way.

  “What happened?” he asked, looking around at the narrow ledge on which they were standing. I
t was just wide enough for the horses to ride two abreast without risking a fall. The cliff face was a rough, nearly vertical, surface, as if someone had taken a dull knife and sliced through a slab of cheese. Small nodules of rock bit into his back as he leaned against it, but they weren’t sharp. He did his best to ignore them as Ortis handed him a bowl of cold, congealed stew.

  “You spent a long time with the Truthseer,” Giorge said as he sat down beside him. “Do you remember that?”

  “I remember going in to see her,” Angus said between bites. “She wanted to know more about the gold coins you sold for me.”

  Giorge nodded. “What did you tell her?”

  Angus thought for several bites before shrugging. “The truth, I suppose,” he finally said. “The coins came from Blackhaven Tower, and that was about it.”

  Giorge studied him for a long moment. “That can’t be all,” he said. “You were with her for over two hours. What else did she ask you about?” His voice was steady, serious, and his posture expectant.

  “Like what?” Angus asked, trying to remember the conversation. Had he really talked to her for two hours? It didn’t feel like it; she only asked him a few questions, hadn’t she? Maybe she had asked more, but he couldn’t remember them. The whole encounter with the Truthseer was a blur, as if he was remembering it through a thick gray fog. No, not fog, incense. Yes, that was it; she had drugged him with some kind of incense, hadn’t she? Then—

  Giorge cupped his hand over his mouth, leaned in close to Angus’s ear, and asked, “Did she ask you about Typhus?”

  “Why would she do that?” Angus asked. Who was this Typhus? A thief like Giorge? No, that wasn’t what the Truthseer had said. She said Typhus was an assassin. Yes, that was it, and she asked him if he knew who he was? No. That wasn’t it. She thought he was Typhus because Bug-Eyed-Jake—