The chest was going to be obvious, but he couldn’t split it into bags here. He was still too close, too likely to get caught. He picked up the chest and ran. It was his chance for another life, and he wasn’t going to risk it. He’d bag the coins later.
Stret entered the hovel he shared with his mother and several, younger, women who plied the same trade as her. This late in the night, even prostitutes returned to wherever they hid away, and this little hovel was where this small group of women slept, at least when they slept alone.
Nonetheless, two of them were awake when he ducked under the ragged leather curtain they used as a door. The inside of the small building defied the outside, with cheap but well-made furniture settled onto a clean floor. Curtains that at least lacked holes, though they also lacked any other virtues, separated the various beds. A thief and a half-dozen whores had managed to make their home as home-like as they possibly could.
Jen’sar, Stret’s mother, came over to him wordlessly as he entered and hugged him. She did almost everything wordlessly, for she found it difficult to speak. Her speech impediment was legacy of one of her pimps – her last pimp, as a matter of fact. The man had scored her throat when she’d wanted to stay home and take care of Stret when he was sick. Less than a month later, Stret had killed the man.
The second woman, a girl by age, waited until Jen had pulled away before coming in to kiss Stret. “Where were you?” Shai’ran demanded.
Stret kissed his lover back to quiet her down. “I was making a run,” he explained softly.
“Ah,” Shai replied. “What did you get?” she asked after a pause.
He grinned at her. “What would you say to never walking the streets again?” he asked.
“That much?” she squealed.
“I cleaned out old Kels’nar’s private chest,” Stret told her happily. “There’s enough to start a new life for all of us, a decent life, a long way away from here.” He turned to his mother and kissed her on both cheeks. “Tomorrow, I’ll buy horses and a wagon, and we can leave this town forever.”
Jen’sar smiled and nodded. She returned her son’s kisses with some of her own, then retired to her own alcove.
Shai smiled at Stret and took his hands. “That’s for tomorrow, though,” she told him firmly. “For tonight, let’s celebrate.” With that, she led him into the curtained off alcove the two shared.
Stret had had to leave the wagon behind. There were no real roads that went near their hovel, only alleys. So he’d paid one of the beggars, a man he knew and trusted, to watch over it, and headed home.
He was halfway there when he heard the first screams. It took him a moment to locate them, and to realize they were coming from his section of the alley. Without thinking, he broke into a run.
His heart dropped out of his chest as he saw the two men standing casual guard outside his hovel. They were dressed in uniforms, the kind that the noble houses gave their guards. He tried to lunge past them, but one of them blocked his way.
Barely slowing down, Stret kneed the man in the groin, and slammed a fist into the guard’s temple as he doubled up. The man crumpled like a puppet with cut strings. He burst through the curtain door of the small building, and stopped in horror at the scene inside.
Three men – no, boys – in fancy dress stood in the center of the single room, with swords out. Jen’sar lay crumpled against one wall, curled around what seemed to be a gut wound. The other girls were gathered around Shai, standing between her and the nobles.
Even as Stret watched, the lead noble advanced on Shai. “You don’t break an appointment with Kij’naki and walk away from it, you little whore,” the fancily-dressed man snarled at her. “You spread your legs for me now, or I cut your pretty little neck.”
Cold rage flared through Stret and he stepped forward. “Get away from her you louse!” he bellowed, charging at the man.
The noble, Kij’naki, glanced back at Stret, and waved his non-sword hand dismissively. One of the nobles faced Stret and attacked. Stret managed to dodge the lunge, redirecting the man’s charge into the wall.
Stret tried to lunge for Kij’naki, but the noble he’d sent into the wall grabbed him from behind and sent him spinning into the wall himself. Stret crumpled to the floor. He rolled to the side, desperately trying to regain his breath, as the sword lashed out. It scored along his arm, leaving his blood to soak into the cloth flooring.
He tried to roll away again, but the sword lashed out again. It seemed to move slowly and inexorably towards his throat.
“No!” one of the girls screamed, just before she slammed into the noble from the side, deflecting his thrust. The noble swore, and tried to push her away – with his sword hand. She crumpled as the sword went through her chest.
Rage filled Stret, and he was suddenly on his feet. His knife flashed out of his vest, and cut across the noble’s throat before he could dodge or block. The man slumped to the floor in a spray of blood.
Stret looked up from the man he killed just in time to hear Shai’s gasp as Kij’naki’s sword slid between her ribs. He didn’t know if it was intentional or an accident or what, but time seemed to freeze for him.
His eyes took in the entire room. The girl who’d tried to protect him lying dead on the ground. His mother lying against the wall, where a brutal sword slash had thrown her as it disemboweled her. Another one of the girls, prostitutes maybe but his friends, lay at the third noble’s feet, bleeding from a blow to her head that would likely kill her. Two of the girls, by some mercy of the Gods, weren’t here. Finally, Shai’ran, the girl he loved, slowly sliding off the sword of the man that had killed her.
The two nobles looked at Stret, and froze. Something in him snapped. From deep down inside him, where the little tricks of magic he’d used on the streets dwelled, fury rose. A fury of heat and rage and uncontrollable destruction.
His hands rose to point at them, and fire flashed from his hands. The fire wasn’t red or white, but a deep and shifting purple. He felt it flare through him and out of him. The fire. The power. Chaos.
The chaos fire took the two nobles and burnt them to ashes. It flared around the hovel, burning the home that Stret had taken a life to build – and a single moment of bloody violence to lose. The wood and adobe walls burst to light with a more conventional flame, as did the furniture and cloth flooring.
Tears ran down Stret’s face as chaos fire continued to blaze from his hands. His fury and his pain unleashed it, and he burned the life he’d built. The people he’d built it for were dead.
The wagon went through the town gate. Stret didn’t bother to wave to the single guard who’d passed him through. Even the knowledge that the rest of the guards were off trying to quell the blaze he’d started didn’t penetrate his haze.
The rage was gone now, and all he felt was sick. And the magic. He could always feel the magic now. Not buried, as it always had been before, accessible almost at random, but just under the surface. Magic. He was a Mage.
He turned onto the High Road, guiding the horses with a flick of the reins, but his mind was elsewhere. He probed the magic, seeking… he didn’t know what.
He wasn’t helpless anymore, always at the mercy of others. He was a Mage. Magi were supposed to protect the people, help them. But where had the Magi been when nobles destroyed his life?
Stret followed the Road northeast, towards the mountains dividing the Kingdom of Vishni from the Waste where the Swarm dwelt, and a cold hatred burned within his soul.
Stret exited the estate villa, shading his eyes against the bright sun, and turned to look at the man behind him. “I like it,” he said calmly, turning to face the merchant. “What’s wrong with it?”
“Wrong, my lord?” the merchant asked. “What makes you think anything would be wrong?”
“A fifteen acre estate and villa for this price?” Stret replied with a sneer. “There’s something you’re not telling me.”
The plump little man straightened indignantly. “Are y
ou saying that Kih’lik of Likari would market damaged estate?” he demanded.
A moment later, the man squeaked as the jeweled sword Stret had stolen from a noble nearly a hundred miles back pricked his throat. “Don’t lie to me, little man,” Stret told him. “What’s the catch?”
Kih’lik’s beady eyes glistened in fear as they focused on the blade. “The previous owner went bankrupt,” he explained quickly, “and is selling the estate to cover his debts.”
Stret pulled the blade back slightly, allowing the man to breathe. “And?” he encouraged.
“There’s been a problem with bandits,” the merchant admitted. “The lord was unwilling to ask the Magi for aid, and they ended up stealing most of his herds.”
The Mage smiled coldly. “I see,” he said coldly. “Bandits do not bother me, Kih’lik. Return to your business and draw up the papers. I will bring you your money by tomorrow, my word on it.” He brought the sword up to point at the merchant. “Don’t try and sell it to anyone else between now and then, either.”
Kih’lik began to expand indignantly again, but quickly deflated as Stret tapped his sword hilt. “Certainly not, Lord Stret’sar,” he said quietly.
Stret watched the little merchant mount up and ride away. While the price for the estate was, indeed, pathetic for what it was buying, it was more money than he currently had. Which, fortunately, wasn’t a problem.
He bared his teeth as he considered. The little man had shown him the offices of his main competitor in Likari. There would be enough gold there to make the purchase, and to provide the sort of funds that the itinerant nobleman he was pretending to be would have.
The next morning, bright and early, saw Stret walking calmly into Kih’lik’s office. A pair of hired porters followed him, carrying an ironbound chest. He gestured to the merchant’s desk and the porters dumped the chest on it.
“Good day, Kih’lik,” Stret’sar said cheerily. “Your money, as promised.”
He pulled the key to the newly purchased chest out of his pocket and opened it. “Four thousand one-ounce gold coins, in this chest. There are three more chests in the wagon outside, if you will send men for them. Your fifteen thousand, and a one thousand commission for your services.”
Kih’lik, looking a little dazed, gestured to a man, then outside. The man nodded and vanished into the back. The merchant bowed to Stret. “You are most generous, my lord,” he said, gesturing to the papers that the chest had narrowly missed. “I have drawn up the papers to transfer ownership of the estate to you. If you will sign these.” He passed the papers to Stret.
Stret skimmed the papers, pretending to making sure all was in order. In reality, he had no idea what any of it meant, but he didn’t think Kih’lik would cheat him. The man was too afraid of him now. He signed.
“Now, there is one more service you can do me, Kih’lik,” Stret told the merchant. “If you do well, I may even decide your firm on a permanent retainer for when I need to deal with the city.”
“And what would this be?” Kih’lik asked.
“I want you to negotiate access to the town libraries for me,” Stret told him. “Complete, unlimited, access. Any fees they request I will be happy to pay, but I would like to pay the least possible. Can you do it?”
The merchant hesitated for a moment, and then nodded. “Most likely, my lord,” he said firmly.
“Good. Inform me when you have made the arrangements,” Stret told him. With that, he strode out of the office, leaving the lawyer behind.
The bandits made their appearance four days after Stret’sar moved in. They obviously had noted the arrival of the wagons carrying Stret’sar’s first set of purchases through Kih’lik, mainly books and weapons, and decided to see what they could acquire.
Twenty men, dressed in black and with ash-darkened faces, snuck into the courtyard. Stret watched them from the roof of the villa. Since he’d started using the magic heavily, he’d found his night-sight had weakened, but there was enough light reflected from the fire in the villa to show the thieves.
He waited until they were well inside the courtyard, and blocked the exit with a wall of flame. As the bandits panicked, drawing weapons and gathering in a small group, he lit the lanterns around the courtyard with flicks of fire.
Stret waited a moment more, allowing the effect to sink in, and then dropped off the roof onto the ground. He strode calmly into the light, his plain gray tunic blending in with the flickering light and shadow. “Good evening, gentlemen,” he said softly.
Three of the bandits had bows. At the sound of his voice, they spun around and loosed arrows. None of the arrows came anywhere near him, but Stret burned the men who’d fired to ashes anyway. Their screams disturbed him, but they didn’t last very long, and it was necessary. Besides, they’d chosen their fate.
“Anyone else planning on being stupid?” he asked. Silence was his answer. “Very well. Who leads here?”
One of the men lowered his sword, and slowly sheathed it. He stepped forward out of the group of bandits and faced Stret. “I do,” he told the Mage.
“Your name?” Stret demanded.
“Bor’yets,” the man replied, shortly.
“Very well then, Bor’yets, get your men to lay down their weapons,” Stret told him. “Then perhaps we can discuss this.”
“Why bother?” the man said quietly. “I doubt we can do much against a Mage, but I’d rather die fighting.”
Stret grinned. “I may yet surprise you, Bor’yets,” he told the bandit leader. “Order your men to lay down their weapons, and you may yet live out this night.”
For a moment, Stret locked eyes with the bandit. Then the man looked away, at his men. “Lay them down boys,” he told them. “Lay ‘em down.” Suiting his actions to his words, he undid his own sword-belt and laid it down.
There was a soft clatter as his men followed. Stret was under no illusions that any of them were really disarmed, but the gesture had been made. They accepted that he was in control of the situation.
“So, Bor’yets, how is the banditry business?” he asked.
The bandit shrugged. “It comes and goes,” he said non-committally.
“It will permanently go if you don’t listen to me,” Stret told him with a cold smile. “As you can see, I am a Mage. As you may guess, I am not a Battlemage. Unless you are terminally stupid, in which case I have no use for you, you can work out what that means.”
The bandits cowered back. Bor’yets faced him solidly. “What do you want?” he demanded.
Stret shrugged. “I play the role of a nobleman, but noblemen need retainers,” he admitted. “I, obviously, need a different class of retainers than most noblemen. I am offering you a job, master Bor’yets.”
“I don’t think I’m interested,” Bor’yets replied. “I’m no man’s lackey.”
“I may point out, master Bor’yets,” Stret told him calmly, “that this is not a choice between working for me or continuing your existence as you have. It is a choice between working for me or not continuing your existence – at all. Do I make myself clear?”
The bandit nodded slowly. “Yes,” he said flatly.
“So make your choice, Bor’yets,” Stret told him. “If you serve me, you and your men will not find the task truly onerous, and there will be rewards. If you do not serve me, I cannot allow men who know my nature to walk free.”
Bor’yets was silent for a moment, then looked at his men, then shrugged. “A noble’s retainer is a higher class of man than a runaway serf, I suspect,” he said quietly. “I can’t speak for all my men, not in this, but I guess I’m your man,” he paused, and continued uncomfortably, “my lord.”
“Good,” Stret’sar said, then calmly turned to the remaining bandits. “Choose now. Service, or death. As your leader says, a noble’s retainer has a higher place than a runaway serf or a bandit… and a vastly higher place than a corpse.”
In the end, none of them declined.
The coughing sound came as
a surprise. Stret left the spell he’d been practicing – a complicated but extremely powerful shield – active, and turned to find Bor’yets standing watching him.
“What is it?” he asked of the man. After several years they’d settled into a comfortable relationship, in which Bor’yets was still the definite head of Stret’s retainers, but was also Stret’s man. The former bandit had turned out to be surprisingly loyal to his master, even as his master delved deeper into chaos magic over the years.
“There’s a man at the door,” Bor’yets told him. “He refuses to give me his name, and demands to speak with you.”
Stret sighed and discarded the purple robes he wore when using magic for the simple blue tunic and hose he wore underneath.
“Did he give a reason?” he asked.
“No,” the former bandit replied with a shrug. “I think he may be a Mage of some sort, but I’m not sure.”
Stret nodded and made certain his knife was both concealed and rapidly accessible. “All right,” he said calmly. “Make sure at least one of the men has him covered at all times.”
“Already done,” Bor agreed with a nod.
With that, the Chaos Mage gestured his retainer away and opened the main villa door. The man outside was short and stocky, with dark brown hair and an aura of… wrongness. Or maybe rightness. Stret couldn’t tell.
The visitor faced Stret squarely and spoke. “Brother, I am the Raven Mage Kor’tal and I request your help,” he said formally.
The man was a Chaos Mage, and more, clearly knew that Stret was. The phrasing was traditional, a request for help that, theoretically, Stret could not refuse. If he did, he’d never be able to deal with the main body of the Chaos Magi. After a moment’s thought, he used an ability he’d learned – from books of gray magic, not chaos – to confirm the man’s statement of his rank. Not that it would matter. Stret had learned much over the last three years, and one of the things he’d learned was his own power, and hence rank, would be matched by few others. He was a Drake Mage, and perhaps two of those came along in a generation.
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