The Western Wizard

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

  Mitrian glowered.

  “Now?” Garn asked, his mouth full of bread.

  “If we wait until the card game is over, I can’t win it. But if I do win, we’ll have more food than you and twenty like you could ever eat.” Colbey waited while Garn weighed the value of a full plate against the promise of more in the future.

  Mitrian’s face reddened with rising anger.

  Tannin cut a wedge of cheese, balanced it on a slice of bread, and handed it to Garn. The ex-gladiator sighed. He gulped down half his mug of mead, took the proffered food, and left the tavern.

  Mitrian opened her mouth to protest, but Colbey caught her arm and dragged her toward the crowd. Just out of earshot of their companions, Mitrian jerked free and turned on him. “Rache knows his father was a slave. Does he have to think of Garn as a thief as well?” She stormed back toward the table, stumbled over a misplaced floorboard, and caught a chair for balance.

  Colbey suppressed an urge to laugh with difficulty. The din swallowed their conversation, but Colbey spoke in Renshai to make certain no one who overheard would understand. “That’s ludicrous, Mitrian. Rache is Renshai. He’s dedicated his life to killing. He’s slaughtered the sons of mothers and the mothers of innocent sons. Do you suppose he finds it horrible when his father steals so we can eat?”

  Mitrian scowled but made no reply.

  Colbey took her wrist and again maneuvered her toward the throng. “Actually, I didn’t send Garn away to steal. I got rid of him because he wouldn’t approve of what I’m about to do.” Colbey knew no one else would approve of his idea either, including Mitrian, but only Garn would resort to violence. Or so he hoped. “Do as I say. Please.”

  “What about Northmen? You just sent Garn out there to face them alone.”

  Colbey denied the possibility. “Garn’s smart enough to be careful and quiet enough to scout. If Northmen had come, I believe the bartender would have known it.” He steered Mitrian into the crowd. Effort, force, and more than a little finesse brought them through the press to a position behind Dayaan, the goldsmith, that gave them a reasonable view of the game.

  Colbey scrutinized the players. Shalan sat to Dayaan’s right, the standard coarse-featured, swarthy Easterner. He wore tan leather leggings and a red silk shirt. His expression seemed grave, though friendly, haloed by thick eyelashes and a broad, black mustache. A crooked stack of gold lay at his elbow.

  To Dayaan’s left sat Prince Oswald, a homely youngster with dimples in his cheeks and wrinkles at the corners of his eyes. His teeth jutted at angles when he smiled, which was often, but his dignified manner and rich dress precluded laughter. Colbey studied Mirkae longest. Thin as a rag, the Wynixan moved with the confident ease of a master. His eyes looked dead, dark except for a faint glimmer that Colbey read as avarice. Disliking the card shark, Colbey required no effort to consider the man an enemy and to choose to probe his mind. The Renshai’s mental tendril fought through a net of emotion: arrogance, joy, and faint undertones of fear. He recognized no guilt or remorse, and those seemed conspicuously absent. A responding hatred rose within Colbey. He hoped he would find a means to expose the rat-faced card cheat.

  “What. . . ?” Mitrian started, but Colbey waved her silent.

  The Renshai plunged deeper into Mirkae’s thoughts, worming gently into the recesses of the Wynixan’s deception. He discovered the answer to Mirkae’s success involved the patterns on the card backs, but weariness touched him before he could elicit more than the basics of the technique. Afraid to tap his strength too completely, Colbey withdrew, turning his attention to the cards. Just that short journey made him feel wobbly, but it had given him enough information to begin his own investigation. He watched the game for several hands, occasionally making brief prods into Mirkae’s mind for details.

  Time ran short. Dayaan lost the last of his coins to Prince Oswald’s lucky draw. The goldsmith rose, grumbled something about next year, and forced his way through the crowd.

  Though he still had not grasped the complexities of Mirkae’s code, Colbey knew Dayaan’s opening might be his only chance. “You seem to have an extra chair. Might I join?” Without waiting for an answer, Colbey sat in the recently vacated seat. He grasped Mitrian’s wrist briefly to indicate that she should stay.

  Mirkae regarded Colbey coldly, apparently measuring his competence by size and age. “Any man with gold to lose may join.” His eyes met Colbey’s, hovered a moment, and skittered away little insects. “A Northman.” The thickness of his tone made it sound like an insult. “You’ll have plunder to stake, not coinage, I’d wager. It’ll need to have a twenty gold piece value. And someone will have to be willing to cover it.”

  Colbey nodded. He laced an arm around Mitrian’s waist, and drew her toward the table. “This is my stake.”

  Mitrian stiffened beneath Colbey’s grip, and he thought it safer not to meet her gaze.

  Mirkae studied Mitrian with the same icy thoroughness, his eyes roving up and down and his mouth leering. At length, he spoke. “Tempting, old man, but I’m not interested.”

  Colbey turned his attention to the other players, maintaining an air of confidence that told the crowd that he knew his offer was worth far more than the requested stake. He hoped his certainty would convince the players.

  Shalan examined Mitrian cautiously, with a merchant’s eye. The prince’s teeth jutted from a lopsided grin. “I’ll play for your stake,” he said before Shalan could offer. “My father has paid as much for less hardy-looking slaves, and I don’t mind losing gold to someone other than Mirkae for a change.”

  When Colbey did not meet her glare, Mitrian expressed her dissatisfaction and warning by pinching his arm until it bruised. Colbey released her, trusting her to recognize the importance of playing along. No matter the situation, he would allow no one to take her.

  Mirkae passed Colbey the cards. His previous observation told him that the deck had peasant cards numbered one through ten, knights, princes, queens, and kings in each of five colors. It also contained three wild jesters. Colbey took the cards, but he neither glanced through nor shuffled them. Instead, he set them on the table and watched Prince Oswald gather twenty gold to wager against Mitrian.

  The click of coins disappeared beneath the whispered speculation of the crowd.

  Colbey caught Mitrian’s hand and squeezed reassuringly. With her as his stake, he could not drop out of the hand in the event of an unlucky deal. It appeared that he had as much chance to lose as to win, but Colbey found a means to tip those odds as well as to gain the information he needed. “Since this match is at the whim of the Norns, let’s have it swiftly done. We’ll each choose a card at random. The highest wins.” With a deft sweep of his hand, Colbey spread the deck, facedown, across the table.

  Mirkae’s eyes came suddenly to life. Displaying all of the card backs simultaneously trebled the risk of someone recognizing their differences. Surely, the card cheat realized that Colbey could have only one motive for exposing the back of every card, but the Wynixan said nothing. Only the sudden alertness and the tensing of Mirkae’s fingers on the table revealed his concern.

  Oswald’s hand floated uncertainly above the deck. He seized a card and flipped it over. It was the red knight.

  The audience applauded their prince’s draw politely, but the claps remained scattered. Clearly, many Wynixans wanted to see how a Northman would play.

  Colbey paused, knowing how much rested upon his incomplete understanding of Mirkae’s code. Though he felt certain he could win Mitrian back by violence, the idea of making more enemies of high exposure and political stature bothered him. Once having made his selection, he saw no reason to delay the inevitable. His hand snaked forward and flipped a card in one motion. The blue queen joined the red knight.

  The crowd fell silent. The prince sighed, pushing a pile of gold to Colbey, who had officially joined the game. And now it was a game, where before it had been a killing. Slowly, the gold became rearranged in unequal piles. Cir
cumstances drove the prince from the game, but he remained in his seat to watch. No one tried to take his place. Mirkae kept his lead; but Colbey’s winnings continued to grow, mostly at Shalan’s expense.

  The evening wore on. The spectators grew restless. They wandered off to their own entertainments, and others replaced them as quickly. Mitrian ran between the gaming table and her companions with food, bought by Colbey, and reports of the elder’s progress. When Garn returned to the inn, but did not show up to kill him, Colbey guessed that Mitrian had not told her husband the details of how the old Renshai had joined the game.

  “I’m out.” Shalan hurled his last hand to the table.

  Every eye strayed to the piled gold. Colbey’s winnings nearly mirrored Mirkae’s. The card shark gathered his coins, but Colbey’s cold stare and weathered hand on the deck stopped him. Mirkae met Colbey’s gaze like an equal, and that infuriated the Renshai. “No,” Colbey said sharply. “Where I come from, there is only one winner.”

  Mirkae hesitated. His attention ran from Colbey’s stack of gold to his own. Colbey waited patiently while Mirkae wrestled common sense and greed, obviously not convinced by play that his adversary knew the code fully nor that he could match him in skill. The cards and the marks were Mirkae’s. At worst, the odds were equal.

  Colbey passed the deck to Prince Oswald. “Shuffle, please.”

  The prince complied.

  Colbey leaned across the table, and his eyes engaged in a war with Mirkae’s. “We’ll cut cards from the deck. Highest takes all.”

  Mirkae’s mouth twitched like a cut tendon. Since neither man would see his card, front or reverse, until chosen, their chances could only be even.

  Mitrian jabbed an elbow in Colbey’s ribs. “What are you doing?” she whispered in Renshai.

  Colbey continued to stare at Mirkae, directly and with dignity. “Exposing a thief,” he replied in the same language. “All the money in the world isn’t worth cheating over. Even in this, there must be honor.”

  Prince Oswald set the deck in front of Colbey, and the Renshai made one last excursion into the gutter of Mirkae’s mind. He caught the Wynixan’s thoughts verbatim: So what if the old Northie wins. Let’s see him enjoy his gold with a dagger in his spine. The thought amused as much as sickened Colbey.

  Angered by Mirkae’s depravity, Colbey muttered a brief prayer, then cut the deck randomly and slipped the card free. He pushed the rest of the deck toward Mirkae.

  The gamblers stared at one another. Neither dared to look at the card that lay, facedown, beneath Colbey’s relaxed fingers. Mirkae broke first. His gaze dropped to the card and remained there. Sweat beaded his forehead, and his breathing quickened. “I don’t want to play. I’m finished.” He gathered gold hurriedly.

  Colbey raised his brows questioningly. “You seemed ready enough to play before. I haven’t even turned my card yet. Why would you fear it unless. . . ?” He trailed off with a hiss of suspicion.

  Mirkae cleared his throat, his hatred for Colbey tangible. “I don’t want to risk my winnings. Let’s quit now, before I touch the deck or you turn your card, while it’s still fair.” He half rose. “There’s plenty of gold for both of us.” His tone promised a private settlement.

  Colbey examined the back of the card for the first time. “Why would my draw frighten you?” he asked, his voice modulated to make the whole room curious. “Unless maybe you can read it from the back.” He studied the pattern. “Is it a king, Mirkae?”

  “How could I possibly know?” Mirkae dismissed the claim as ludicrous, well versed at looking innocent. “If you’ll excuse me. . . .”

  The prince stood, taking a position at Mirkae’s right hand. The crowd closed off his escape. “Draw!” Oswald said.

  Mirkae reached for the deck. The stakes had risen from gold to life, and Mirkae lost his practiced composure.

  “Yes,” Colbey said, loud enough for his audience. “I believe it is a king.” He traced an obscure curl in the intricate pattern of the card back.

  Mirkae made a pained noise, that would have been lost if not for the throng’s sudden silence.

  “The black king,” said Colbey definitively. He tossed the card over to display the silhouette of the king.

  The crowd erupted in chaos. Mirkae moved like an eel. His hand closed on Oswald’s wrists, twisting. Bone snapped, wrenching a scream from Oswald. A dagger in Mirkae’s fist sped for the prince’s throat.

  Colbey sprang forward. His sword sheared free and struck at once, shattering Mirkae’s skull. The dagger clattered to the floor. The card shark collapsed, dead before he struck the boards.

  Prince Oswald’s eyes bulged. A cracked wrist seemed small payment when, without Colbey’s interference, he might have been the corpse on the barroom floor.

  * * *

  Colbey and his companions spent a restful night in the inn, though they were the only ones calm enough to sleep. The innkeeper gave them a respect that bordered on servility, and Colbey’s negotiations with Oswald had yielded a hundred gold pieces. Though a pittance compared with the winnings that had once sat before him and Mirkae in the card game, the amount more than satisfied Colbey. He could buy whatever the party needed and still have money left for food in the future. He felt far more comfortable restoring an honesty that had, not too long ago, been a certainty for all mankind.

  In the morning, Colbey, Mitrian, Garn, Tannin, and Rache headed for the market square. Shadimar remained behind, with Korgar and Secodon, under the pretext of guarding the few valuables they had. As Colbey threaded through the vast sea of noise and people, he guessed that it was simply the Eastern Wizard’s excuse for avoiding the crowds. It seemed just as well. A decade at war and weeks of running, constantly looking back, had left the Renshai wearied and in bad humor. Even Colbey recognized the need for some frolic. Apparently, the Northmen had not tracked the group to Wynix. Until the enemy again picked up their trail, a market town seemed like a good place to play.

  Though far smaller than the bazaars in Pudar, the Wynixan marketplace was more tastefully decorated, without the gaudy signs and ceaselessly beckoning merchants. It seemed more pleasant for this difference. Garn became a magnet, attracted to all steel. No weapon or shred of armor escaped his scrutiny. Mitrian seemed more interested in the odd shapes and colors of southwestern fruit, having been delegated the job of selecting travel rations and given nearly half of the money. Tannin would select the horses. He guided Rache, showing the youngster the many wonders of a market town.

  Crowds made Colbey feel battle-pressed. He remained intent on his purpose, weaponry, noticing only the stands of armorers. Sword after sword fell into Colbey’s hand and was rejected. Many failed before they met his grip, merely for the color of their steel. By his seventh stand, frustration plied him. He stared at the merchant, voice loud with scorn. “Find yourself a blacksmith who can do more than shoe horses. These blades would break in battle, and a rawhide grip will become slippery as a fish when coated in sweat or blood. A fine sword is no more difficult to make than a poor one. These are poor indeed.”

  The merchant flushed, not bothering to contradict. Colbey’s statements contained too much knowledge to pass for the ramblings of an old man.

  Colbey turned away in disgust.

  “Over here!” Garn’s voice scarcely penetrated the din of the passing crowds, but Colbey managed to follow it. At Garn’s side, Mitrian laughed so hard she bent double, nearly incapacitated. Grinning, Garn indicated a sign that spelled out, in the trading runes: Genuine Renshai Swords.

  Colbey grimaced, anger flashing through him. Then, Mitrian’s mirth touched even the Golden Prince of Demons. He smiled, considering a means to vent the harried frustration of what had become constant alertness and paranoia.

  Despite Mitrian’s laughter, the obvious interest of her companions sparked the mind and tongue of the seller. “Yes, friends,” he shouted enthusiastically. “The man who forged these blades . . .” He placed a hand on a row of longswords, slightly shorte
r and broader than most. “. . . learned his skill from his father. His father took the secret right from the golden-haired devils.” His pause was well-rehearsed and lasted just long enough for the gathering audience to digest his words. “Before the Renshai were slain, my craftsman’s father learned their magic. Anyone who wields these few precious swords will have all the skill of Renshai.”

  Colbey scratched his head thoughtfully. Béarn’s rule covered a smaller, direct area in the southern part of the Westlands as well as serving as the West’s high kingdom. In the years when the Renshai had devastated the West, they had spared Béarn in exchange for hospitality. Apparently, either Wynix fell under Béarn’s direct rule or the laws had relaxed. In some towns, it was still a capital offense to speak the tribal name, but this merchant had mentioned them twice. His sign flaunted custom, propriety and, in some places, law. “I had thought the Renshai gained their skill through practice and war. Because of magic? Bah! I’m an old man if one of those blades can give me the skill of a Renshai.”

  Mitrian caught her breath, watching curiously.

  Colbey took a sword from the stand and tested the split leather hilt. The balance lay within a hand’s breadth of the crosspiece, and the steel appeared the right color. The S-shaped crossguard seemed sturdy, built for stability rather than decoration. A metal finger piece jutted from the wrappings, allowing finer control than the standard grip. Pleased, he picked up a second sword and handed it to Garn. “Hold this. Flat of the blade up.”

  Garn obeyed.

  Colbey took a step back. With a brisk snap, he crashed his blade against Garn’s.

  The sword tumbled from the ex-gladiator’s hands, and he rubbed his stinging palms together. “Why’d you do that?”

  The crowd howled with laughter, drawn by the game, but Colbey ignored them. Instead, he examined the edge of the blade. The notch was small but regular, without chips or cracks. The steel seemed hard, yet soft enough that it would not easily break in battle. “A good sword,” Colbey admitted, wanting to encourage any man who sold quality, no matter his methods. “But fight like a Renshai?”