by Mel Odom
“If that riddle led you here,” Evarch said, “then you’ve come about the book.”
“The second book of the trilogy?” Juhg asked.
“I don’t know anything about that.” Evarch stepped back and waved them into his house. “Years ago, Wick delivered a book to me for safekeeping and told me that one day his apprentice would show up for it. He claimed that only his apprentice would be able to read it.”
Juhg followed Yurial through the door into the house. Nothing about Evarch’s house smacked of business. It was a home first, and as such the first room was large and spacious, filled with decanters, tankards, and glasses from everywhere in the Shattered Coast.
Evarch waved them to comfortable furniture. There was room for all of them with space left over. Evarch sometimes entertained large numbers of guests, which belied the curmudgeonly persona he displayed.
“Juhg, light a few of the lanterns,” Evarch directed. “We’ll need illumination.”
Juhg used the flames in the fireplace to light the lanterns. Soon, the room was cheery and bright. The flames reflected off the glass, stone, and metal containers arranged on the shelves around the room. The windows held stained glass images of grape fields and decanters, a concoction as audacious as the man who lived there.
Evarch returned in a few minutes with a large book in his hand. The blue cover caught Juhg’s eye immediately. It was a reptile hide of some kind, and it immediately made him remember Rohoh.
“Before I give this book to you,” Evarch said, “even though I know you, I want to abide by Wick’s wishes in this matter.”
“Of course,” Juhg answered.
“He said whoever came for this book would know how to read it. He said that not even every Librarian he knew would be able to do that.”
“Because he invented a code to write it in,” Juhg said.
“Yes.” Still a little hesitant, Evarch handed over the book. “I will know if you can read this.”
Juhg opened the cover of the book with the reverence Edgewick Lamplighter had taught him to have for books. The code in this book was the same that had been used in the last. After days of translating the other book, Juhg could read the code with a little speed.
“‘Read this passage to Evarch the Vintner to prove that you know how to read the code.’ Signed, ‘Second Level Librarian Lamplighter.’” Juhg took a breath and deciphered the next section. “‘Evarch, obviously the situation I pursued regarding the Battle of Fell’s Keep and Lord Kharrion’s Wrath has become worse than I had imagined. Some old secrets never go away, and fear remains just as sharp for those that have done wrong. Please rest assured you have carried out to the best of your abilities the favor I have charged you with. Drink that bottle we set aside to seal this agreement in good health.’”
“Then he is truly gone.” Tears showed in Evarch’s eyes. “I’m going to miss that little halfer. I have known few friends like Wick.”
The old man’s emotion touched Juhg and made him more aware of his own loss. “I don’t know that he is gone for good, Master Evarch. Only that he has been gone these eight years.”
Evarch sat in one of the overstuffed chairs. “Eight years. I’d feared something had happened to him. In the whole time that I’ve known him, I’ve never known more than two or three years to pass before I saw him again. I knew too many years had slipped by this time, but I continued to hope that I would see him once more.”
“You may still yet,” Juhg said, but he knew he was hoping that more than he believed it. The power wielded by The Book of Time was incredible, and Juhg could only guess at the number of worlds it had opened up to Grandmagister Lamplighter.
“The book will help you?” Evarch asked.
“I think so,” Juhg said. “There’s still a lot to learn.” He flipped through the pages, glancing at the pictures Grandmagister Lamplighter had drawn all those years ago when he was a Second Level Librarian. “While Grandmagister Lamplighter was in the Cinder Clouds Islands, he crossed the path of a thieves’ guild called the Razor’s Kiss.”
“They operate out of Wharf Rat’s Warren,” Evarch said. “I’ve heard of them.”
“So have I,” Yurial said. “They’re very dangerous.”
Thoughts of the scarecrow that had attacked them the night before and of the bloodstains that were all that remained of Craugh aboard Moonsdreamer collided within Juhg’s head, worrying at him. He wanted to get up and get moving, get back to Calmpoint and return to the ship. But Grandmagister Lamplighter’s words—even across the years—seized his attention once more and pulled him into those events that had happened so long ago.
1
Wharf Rat’s Warren
Act like a thief, he says, Second Level Librarian Edgewick Lamplighter thought crossly as he trod the icy streets of the city of thieves, murderers, assassins, brigands, thieves, cutthroats, cutpurses, thieves, burglars, thieves and—I’m repeating myself. That can’t be good. He snorted in disgust. Act like a thief, indeed. As if I know anything about being a thief. Why Craugh should—
A howling wind from the Great Frozen North ripped through Whisper Street and distracted him. Out in the harbor, where a handful of ships sat sheltered in the Whipcrack Sea, so named because the sea had a tendency to freeze over with the sound of a whip cracking and crush ships mastered by unwary captains, rigging popped and rang against masts.
Wick pulled his black cloak more tightly around him and tried to remember the last time he’d felt his feet. They were frozen blocks at the ends of his legs that might as well have belonged to someone else.
As a dweller, he didn’t really have a need for footwear. Generally his feet were tough enough for any task he had ahead of him. Today, however, he wished for a pair of boots just his size. Still, his discomfort was only an errant thought. The ruse he had yet to play consumed his thoughts.
He’d never before had to play the part of an assassin. Or was it a thief? For a moment, near frozen from his trek over the Ice Daggers, the small mountain range south of the city, and famished from not eating for what seemed like hours, Wick truly couldn’t remember what part he was supposed to play.
He was supposed to be a thief or an assassin. He was pretty sure about that. The whole thing was Craugh’s idea, which Wick had thought to be dumb from the beginning but hadn’t had a better idea (or wanted to risk being turned into a toad by saying that), so he’d agreed to subterfuge. That had been onboard One-Eyed Peggie, though, and there’d been a meal waiting.
And he’d actually thought Craugh or Cap’n Farok would have become inspired and come up with something much better by the time they actually reached Wharf Rat’s Warren.
He’d expected a hot breakfast that morning, too. Instead Craugh had roused him from his hammock, ordered him into his clothes, and marched him out to the little village where they’d dumped him.
Walking through the screaming wind, feeling the icy teeth of winter gnawing him all the way to the bone, Wick nearly tripped on his trousers again. The legs were several inches too long. Craugh had chosen to overlook that and told Wick he could simply keep them rolled up. Rolling them up hadn’t lasted long. As soon as they’d gotten wet in the snow, they’d promptly unrolled and been a nuisance ever since.
He pulled the pants legs up again and felt the cold material slapping against his legs. The numbness seemed to be spreading. He had to pinch his ankles to discover that he could feel them even though he hadn’t expected to.
To make matters worse, the donkey he was using as a combination mount and pack animal was becoming increasingly rebellious. Wick had to lean into his effort to bring the donkey along, and every now and then his efforts caused him to trip on a slippery spot and end up face-first in the snow. He didn’t have a stitch of clothing that wasn’t gunked up with mud.
When he fell again, Wick spat the dirty snow from his mouth and wiped it from his face. He was so cold that the snow actually felt warm against his skin, which was another bad sign.
I’m goin
g to get frostbitten all over, he told himself. If I somehow make it back out of here alive, Craugh and Hallekk are going to carve my toes, fingers, nose, ears, and other pieces off me.
He turned to the donkey and stared the animal in the eyes. It was refusing to move again and strained at the end of the reins. Of course, since it outweighed him nearly ten times, the donkey didn’t have to strain hard.
“Come on with me, you great lummox,” Wick ordered. “You’ve got the easy part. At least all you have to do is act like a donkey.”
The donkey swiveled its ears toward Wick as if it were listening intently. When he tugged again, it pinned its ears back, pulled its lips back in a big grin, and brayed donkey laughter. Then it sat on its haunches.
“I’ve got a mind to sell you to a renderer to be made into glue,” Wick threatened. He set his feet and pulled with all his might.
Suddenly, laughter punctuated the howling wind.
Startled, Wick stepped back into the donkey’s larger bulk for protection. He wasn’t ready to start pretending to be a master assassin yet. Or thief. Whichever it was.
“Havin’ trouble with your donkey, halfer?” one of the three men in front of the Tavern of Schemes asked. He was a tall human with a florid face and a big nose.
“No,” Wick said, straightening to his full three and a half feet minus in height.
“You looked like you were having problems with him,” the man continued.
Glaring, hoping the effect was both chilling and an expression of warning, Wick patted the donkey’s neck. “No. Not any problems. This is where I wanted him to sit.”
“In the middle of the street like that?” The man looked at Wick doubtfully. “Someone will steal him.”
Let them, Wick thought. If they can get him to move when they want him to, they can have him. After all, the donkey wasn’t part of his assassin’s disguise. Or thief’s. He could gladly spare the stubborn beast.
“I’m toughening him up,” Wick replied. “Having him sit in near-frozen mud puddles increases his endurance and strength. It’s part of a training process.”
The donkey yawned, smacked its lips, and stood, looking anything but trainable. Unbidden, it tramped toward the livery next door to the Tavern of Schemes, obviously smelling the hay and grain inside. The animal’s sudden movement yanked Wick into motion and he stumbled along after it. Maybe he looked ridiculous, but at least he hadn’t fallen on his face again. Still, looking in command of himself while being dragged by the donkey was impossible.
“And now I’m done punishing him,” Wick said with feigned authority and confidence, falling into step with the donkey because he found the length of rope he’d tied around his wrist wasn’t going to loosen up. “He knows who’s boss.”
The men laughed again at him, shaking their heads and going on with their business.
The donkey headed straight into the livery and Wick went with the animal, grateful to be out of the wind.
“How long are you going to be in town?” the dirty-faced young boy asked as he took the donkey’s lead rope from Wick’s wrist.
“I haven’t decided yet.” Wick gazed around the livery, surprised at how clean it was. Wharf Rat’s Warren wasn’t known for its cleanliness.
“The charges are daily or by the ten-day,” the boy said.
“By the day,” Wick said. “For now.” Craugh hadn’t been overly generous about funding his present mission despite Wick’s protests. The wizard had insisted that Wick couldn’t very well play the part of a thief looking for work if he was flush with gold. The little Librarian didn’t want to spend what meager amount he had on caring for the cantankerous donkey when it might mean he’d have to skip meals himself.
The boy lifted his thin shoulders and dropped them. “Whatever. If you’re late on a day’s pay, though, my da will sell the donkey for whatever he can get.”
“All right.” This could work out all the way around, Wick thought. He wasn’t looking forward to dragging the donkey back over the Ice Daggers.
Several horses stood in the paddocks, munching hay and oats, and snorting and stamping. A few coaches and carts occupied the far end of the livery. Wick didn’t think the wheeled vehicles were often used. The streets in Wharf Rat’s Warren were filled with potholes and covered only in oyster shells and loose shale.
Ryman Bey and the Razor’s Kiss thieves’ guild have Master Oskarr’s battle-axe, though, and I can’t allow that to continue. Especially since Wick blamed himself for losing the weapon while on the Cinder Clouds Islands. (Actually Craugh blamed him for it, and there was no arguing with the wizard once he became convinced of something.)
Bulokk was still recovering from his wounds during the battle against the Razor’s Kiss. Upon discovering that Wick was about to leave One-Eyed Peggie, Bulokk had asked the little Librarian to promise him that he would do everything in his power to recover Boneslicer.
Wick, even though he hadn’t wanted to promise such a thing, hadn’t been able to say no. Of course, he’d envisioned he’d have someone at his back to do all the heavy lifting and sword-swinging that accompanied such promises. Bulokk would have been better off asking one of his warriors. Then again, maybe he’d asked everyone.
The other dwarves had volunteered to accompany Wick, but Craugh had forbidden that. Craugh insisted that Wharf Rat’s Warren was primarily a human dwelling, albeit a lawless one, and that having a party of dwarves in their midst would alert the Razor’s Kiss. There were dwarven bandits and thieves, of course, but they didn’t live in Wharf Rat’s Warren.
Reluctantly, Wick had admitted the wisdom of that. So, with the Cinder Clouds Islands dwarves and One-Eyed Peggie’s dwarven crew removed from the board, there had remained only two possibilities for the position of spy.
Craugh had quickly pointed out that no one would ever see him as anything less than a wizard. Wick had guilelessly (the threat of being turned into a toad always persisted when talking to the wizard) presented the opportunity for Craugh to pass himself off as a thieving and selfish wizard, and suggested that the role might require Craugh to do a lot of acting, but it wasn’t beyond the realm of the imaginable.
Craugh had only given Wick one of those looks, and the little Librarian knew how things would go. Two days later he’d found himself at the small village of Bent Anchor and equipped with an ill-tempered and stubborn donkey.
Outside in the wind, Wick debated his choices. Twilight was coming on and snow was starting to fall again in thin white flakes.
He shivered, wishful of a warm fire, a good book, and a pipe. Maybe a pint of razalistynberry wine. That was the only way to properly enjoy weather like this.
Grimly, knowing that time counted and he’d lost days while traveling across the Ice Daggers, Wick headed for the Tavern of Schemes.
Like all of the other buildings in the city of thieves, murderers, assassins, thieves, etc., the Tavern of Schemes was heavily weathered by exposure and neglect. Windows were boarded over, the glass panes unreplaced, but space had been left for crossbowmen to take aim. Wick knew the place only because it was next to the livery.
The Tavern of Schemes was one of the most used buildings in the city. It was there that devious plans were hatched, daring robberies planned, and assassinations bought and paid for all along the Shattered Coast. The Tavern of Schemes wasn’t the only such place to sell those services, but it was the only one in Wharf Rat’s Warren.
Wick tried the door.
It was locked.
So what is an assassin—or a thief—supposed to do in this instance? Is this a test?
Wick gave the dilemma some thought. Finally, he reached into the small bag he carried and took out his thief’s lockpicks. He’d just opened the kit up and set to work when he heard someone clear his throat behind him.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” someone said.
2
Quarrel
Looking up and back, Wick saw a slim young man standing behind him. The young man wore heavy outer
clothing and a thick fur cap. The hilt of a rapier jutted over his shoulder. A long knife was scabbarded at his right hip. His eyes were pale blue and the brows sharply arched. A scarf masked his lower face but his breath still blew a fog in the cold.
“Hello,” Wick said, not certain what he was supposed to do.
“Hello,” the young man replied.
Looking at the innocent-seeming blue eyes, Wick couldn’t help wondering what the young man did as a vocation. Most of the other men the little Librarian had encountered while trudging through Wharf Rat’s Warren had hard, selfish eyes.
These eyes seemed genuinely amused. And maybe a little suspicious.
“What are you doing?” the young man asked in a soft voice.
“Picking the lock,” Wick said, gesturing with his pick. There’s no sense lying about it. Besides, this is the city of thieves, murderers, assassins, thieves, etc. It’s not like they’re going to call the watch to lock me up. Such behavior is expected here.
“Why are you picking the lock?”
“Because the door’s locked.”
“Of course it’s locked,” the young man said. “This is the Tavern of Schemes. They don’t just let anyone in. Saves them from getting surprised by any Watch members who come here looking for revenge or justice.”
Wick could understand how the criminals of Wharf Rat’s Warren would see that as a defense. Several of the residents there had prices on their heads all along the Shattered Coast.
“But if you pick the lock,” the young man went on, “you’ll probably get a crossbow bolt between your eyes for your trouble. Utald rarely misses when he sets his sights.”
Wick thought about that for a moment, then put his lockpicks away. “Well, that’s not something I look forward to.” He faced the door and spoke more loudly so that anyone who might be listening behind the door could hear him. “Sorry. Picking locks is a force of habit. I’m a thief.” Or an assassin. He shrugged as nonchalantly as he could with the promise of a crossbow bolt between his eyes staring him in the face. “I find a locked door, I just naturally reach for my lockpicks.” He forced a chuckle to break the tension, then looked at the young man again. “You know how it is.”
