Ink Mage

by Victor Gischler

  The third man was something else. He was a head taller than the others, a wide-shouldered, powerfully built hulk under a heavy cloak whose hood was pulled forward, hiding his face within deep shadow. He walked with his back straight as if the wind couldn’t touch him. He was the only man at Harran’s Bay not cowering from the harsh weather.

  The other two stopped in front of them, the hulk halting a few steps behind. One was older, with long, braided white moustaches. Boney and thin. The other was younger by two decades, with a round face and a closely trimmed black beard.

  “I’m Prullap,” said the round faced one. “Are y-you the m-man in ch-charge?” He was trying not to shiver and was failing.

  “Yes, sir.” The commander bowed. “I’ve been holding horses for you and your comrades. General Chen has asked you to proceed on to Klaar immediately.”

  “N-Now?” Prullap glanced at one of the nearby shelters then back at the commander. “Right now?”

  The commander shrugged an apology. “I’m afraid so, sir.”

  * * *

  A detail of Perranese warriors escorted the three newcomers to Klaar. They crossed the Long Bridge well after dark, the gates clunking closed behind them as they were waved through to the keep.

  Grooms appeared to take their horses to the stable, and they were ushered inside the castle and immediately taken to an ornate reception room. A fire roared in the hearth, and Prullap and his bony compatriot immediately rushed to warm themselves. Prullap had to make a physical effort to keep from weeping as the feeling seeped back into his feet and hands, hot needles as the circulation returned.

  “We’re being punished,” Prullap said through chattering teeth. “It’s the only explanation.”

  “No,” said the older one with the braided white moustaches. His name was Jariko. He was stoic and just as cold as Prullap but was better at hiding it. “It is an opportunity.”

  Prullap laughed without mirth. “An opportunity for what? To lose our jewels to frostbite?”

  “Those who come after us will have to answer to us,” Jariko said. “We’ll be the experts. We’ll be experienced.”

  Prullap rolled his eyes. “If we live.”

  “There is that, I suppose.” Jariko glanced sideways at the younger man, pitched his voice lower. “Shall we be frank with each other?”

  A pause. “What do you mean?”

  “How many spells can you hold?” Jariko asked. “And how many in your spell book?”

  Jariko sensed Prullap go rigid next to him. Among wizards, such a question was like asking a man the length of his member.

  Prullap asked, “You propose some kind of … alliance?”

  “We both serve the Empire,” Jariko said. “But I think it would behoove us to also look out for each other. They selected us to accompany the first wave of the invasion for a reason. We’re powerful enough to be of some use but also commonplace enough among our brethren to be expendable. Surviving until spring means we grow stronger. The Mages’ Council will be forced to let us select from the Imperial spell book. There will be land grants and titles.”

  Jariko allowed that to sink in a moment before adding, “But only, as you say, if we live.”

  Prullap said, “I watch your back and you watch mine, eh?”

  Easier said than done, Jariko realized. Spell casters were generally envious and distrusting of one another. Spells and magical secrets were jealously guarded.

  A long moment stretched, the fire snapping and crackling.

  “I can hold three spells,” Prullap said in a whisper. “Sixteen in my book.”

  Jariko smiled to himself. “I can hold five. Twenty-two in my book.” He could actually hold six and assumed Prullap was hedging as well. It was only natural.

  Prullap nodded back over his shoulder at the dark figure in the corner. “What about him?”

  Jariko turned slightly and looked. The hulk sat cross-legged on a bench, back straight, his hood still covering his face. The brooding figure seemed to draw all the light and energy in the room to be devoured in his dark corner although Jariko understood this was an illusion. The mysterious man had kept to himself for most of the voyage across the sea and had answered questions with grunts, nods or shrugs. He projected an aura that made it clear he wanted to be left alone, and the ship’s crew and other passengers were only too happy to oblige.

  Jariko turned back to the other mage. “We know what he is. There’s no help for us there.”

  “Agreed,” Prullap said.

  They lapsed into silence, and minutes later one of the locals entered the chamber, a pallid, greasy man in fine robes. His smile was filled with lies, and Jariko instantly disliked him. Evidently, smarmy bureaucrats were cut from the same cloth in all lands.

  “I’m Lord Giffen,” he announced. “You’ve arrived just in time. General Chen has an urgent task for you.”

  So soon? Jariko was still half frozen. They’d not even been offered a hot meal and already there was work for the wizards. Probably something that would get them killed. Maybe Prullap was right. Maybe they were being punished.

  Typical.

  CHAPTER FORTY

  Brasley had to find just the right sort of pub, which meant he first had to find a town big enough to have one.

  In the week since leaving Rina and the others and traveling north, he’d passed through a dozen villages and farming communities, none suitable for his purpose.

  Rina had charged him with a simple mission: travel to Merridan and report through proper channels to the king that the Perranese had invaded Helva and taken Klaar. Simple enough.

  But no, it isn’t simple at all, thought Brasley. One does not simply show up to the capitol in travel-stained clothes and demand an audience with his majesty to report an invasion from across the sea. Brasley was only a few years older than Rina, but he’d seen much more of the world than she had, including Merridan, the capitol of Helva. Rina was strong willed and would make a good duchess. But not yet. She still didn’t know how the world worked.

  What Rina didn’t realize was that simply delivering a message to the king wasn’t good enough. The message, once delivered, would be out of his control, merely information working its way up the hierarchy to the throne. Brasley—Sir Brasley now—meant to control the message, shape it. And that meant whispering it into the right ears before it reached the king.

  And that took money.

  Rina had given him a small purse of copper and a few silvers, enough to feed him and put a roof over his head on the way to Merridan. Under no circumstances would that be enough for Brasley to make the impression he needed to make upon arriving in Helva’s capitol. And there was only one way he knew of to turn the small purse of coins into a big one.

  Brasley placed a card next to the others in the common hand in the center of the table. “The Mermaid Queen.”

  The cards were triple layers of squared parchment sealed in clear wax. Each player was dealt nine cards. There was a discard pile on the table from which players might choose to take another player’s unwanted cards, and next to that a shared hand with cards all players could use. The game was called Kingdom Cards and represented various battles and political maneuvers. Bets were placed on each event and the winner took the pot. It was a complex game Brasley had been playing since he was nine years old, taught by his aunt who not only knew all of the game’s nuances but who was also an expert at cheating.

  However, this wasn’t a crudely made deck like the ones Brasley had used before in low-class pubs in bad neighborhoods. The depictions on each card had been expertly illustrated by a top artisan. The mermaid queen’s breasts were especially exquisite.

  The brewer to his left frowned a moment before adding his own card to the common hand. “The Bailiff.” He glowered at Brasley as if daring him to find fault with his choice. The brewer was a large, barrel-chested man whose puffy face had continued to grow redder the last three hours after each loss.

  Brasley examined the card, nibbling his bottom l
ip. By tossing down the Bailiff, the brewer was trying to turn the event into a political maneuver. That gave Brasley a good guess at the nature of his remaining cards. Brasley glanced down again at the cards in his hand. No, a battle would definitely be better for him. He might need to fold the hand if it went in that direction, but that depended on the next card.

  Brasley looked across the table at the tailor. He was a gaunt man with timid eyes. He pulled a card, licked his lips as he thought about it then pulled another instead. He dropped the card into the shared hand.

  Brasley squinted at it. The Archer. A weak card but it would definitely be a battle.

  The brewer muttered something disagreeable and folded. The tailor looked unhappy, as though he already regretted his play.

  Yes, finding the right kind of pub in the right town had been key, Brasley mused. It was a river town called Klent about a day’s ride south of Merridan. The merchant class tavern was called The Pickled Pixie, a lively place but not the sort of establishment in which a fellow would expect to get knifed, and the stakes would be high enough to do the trick. Most of the lower-class pubs preferred dice games anyway. He’d be able to take these men for some good coin and then quickly leave town.

  Brasley glanced at the growing pot on the table. It would be more than enough. A new jerkin and doublet, hose and cloak. Something with a lot of gaudy gold embroidery. For some reason the upper class of Merridan loved gaudy gold embroidery. And new boots. Brasley was a firm believer in the old saying The clothes make the man, and nowhere was that more true than in Merridan. And there would be some coin left over too, enough to spread around, to tip a servant, to buy wine for a lord or lady and to generally ingratiate himself in the proper circles.

  Brasley realized he was actually looking forward to it. No more riding in the rain. No more cold nights camping under a tree. Warm inns and civilization!

  They all waited for the fourth man at the table to play his card. Like the brewer, the fourth man was big, with broad shoulders, a thick-featured rocky face and jug ears. His round belly didn’t look like it would slow him down much if he wanted to go after somebody. The fourth man had confused Brasely at first. He wore a tattered and stained tunic, hair greasy and disheveled, boots muddy. He seemed out of place in the tavern with the merchants and guildsmen. Brasley had later found out the man was the town’s jailer, which explained his fat coin purse. Jailers were well known for relieving prisoners of their coins and other possessions.

  The jailer threw down his card and snarled, “Ogre General.”

  Brasley raised an eyebrow and frowned as if he were worried. In fact, he was pleased. Ogre General was a strong card, which indicated the jailer would stay in for another round.

  There was a pause while everyone sipped from pewter tankards of strong ale.

  There was a round of betting, and Brasley was pleased to see that the tailor had stayed in the game as well. The pile of coins in the center of the table grew. They each discarded, and Brasley selected a “Stronghold with Moat” card from the discard pile to give the illusion he was still strengthening his hand.

  Another pause for ale, then another round of betting. The pile of coins had grown well beyond Brasley’s expectations. A suite at Merridan’s best inn and a private bath would suit him just fine.

  And someone soft and pretty to bring him wine and wash his back in the tub.

  The size of the pot clearly made the tailor nervous. He licked his lips, eyes darting from face to face before throwing down his final card. “Cavalry Charge.”

  Not bad, Brasley thought. The tailor’d had a better hand than Brasely had suspected, but still not good enough. Even the jailer would have a better card. Brasley had tried to keep track … which was almost impossible. Used cards were shifted to the bottom of the deck and the deck shuffled every dozen hands, so keeping track of which cards had been played already could be tricky. But Brasley’s best guess was that the jailer would play either Storm Giant or Silver Dragon.

  The jailer threw down his final card. “Storm Giant.”

  “Blast.” The tailor threw in his remaining cards.

  Brasley made a face as if the jailer’s play had wounded him.

  The jailer cracked a smile for the first time. A front tooth was missing. He reached for the pile of coins, mostly copper but quite a good bit of silver too.

  Brasley threw down his card. “The Titan.”

  The jailer jerked his hands back as if he’s been bitten. “Fuck me.”

  Brasley tsked as he reached for the coins. “Language, sir. There are ladies present.”

  The jailer glanced sideways as the two prostitutes working the bar, then frowned back at Brasely. “You cheated.”

  The tailor gasped. That’s why Brasley liked working these merchant-class pubs; they were generally a polite crowd. The jailer had the money to be here but wasn’t really in the same social class.

  And that meant he wasn’t too worried about being polite.

  Brasley said, “Sir, as I am a gentleman, I’ll forget you said that.” He began scooping the coins toward him.

  The jailer reached out and latched onto one of Brasley’s wrists with a meaty hand. Brasley imagined that this was what it felt like to be grabbed by a troll.

  The tailor scooted his chair back and left the table.

  “The Titan was already played,” the jailer said.

  “You’re mistaken, sir,” Brasley said. “We’ve shuffled since The Titan was played.” They’d been there six hours. He was counting on nobody remembering that far back.

  “My ass,” the jailer said. “The Titan was played the first hand after the shuffle.”

  “It was the last hand before the shuffle.” Brasley spoke slowly as if tolerating someone with a mental deficiency.

  In fact, the oafish jailer was right. It was a trick that had always worked until now. A second deck of Kingdom Cards was in his horse’s saddle bags—minus The Titan. The second deck was made by the same artisan and nearly identical. If they checked his saddlebags and found the other deck, or went through the cards on the table and discovered the second Titan card …

  Brasley looked up and caught the barkeep’s attention with his eyes. “Is this how you let good customers be treated in your establishment? Manhandled by thugs?” Brasley was minor nobility and the jailer was a common lowlife. Hopefully the barkeep would recognize that and act appropriately.

  “These men are my regulars.” The barkeep stabbed a finger at Brasley. “You I don’t know.”

  Okay, that backfired.

  Brasley let one hand drop to his side. “Gentleman, this is ridiculous.” A small gentleman’s knife slid out of his sleeve and into his hand. He flicked it open, keeping it out of sight below the table. “Now, come on. Nobody likes a sore loser.”

  “I say we look at the cards,” the brewer said. “And if he is a cheat, I’ll help you take him out back and paste him.”

  Brasley tensed. Shit.

  Brasley said, “Gentleman, before you do anything rash I must point out that—”

  He stood abruptly, sweeping the small blade of the gentleman’s knife across the jailer’s knuckles.

  The jailer screeched, high-pitched and alarmed, letting go of Brasley’s wrist.

  “Bastard!” The brewer reached for him, murder in his eyes.

  Brasley upended the table at the brewer, coins and cards and tankards flying, ale splashing and patrons at nearby tables backing away from the altercation. He didn’t wait to see the result; he turned and ran for the front door.

  They shouted after him.

  “Grab him!”

  “Get the son of a bitch!”

  “Call for the watch!”

  Brasely burst out of the pub. He’d had the foresight to tie up his horse just outside. He mounted just as a number of angry patrons burst from the pub, some waving cudgels.

  “Thief!”

  “Cheat!”

  The brewer grabbed for him, trying to pull him out of the saddle, but Brasley
kicked him in the face, spinning him away spitting blood. He spurred his horse away from the crowd. He heard somebody call again for the watch and glanced over his shoulders.

  Four men in bowl helms and the livery of the town ran after him. Brasley thanked Dumo they weren’t mounted, but two of them lifted crossbows.

  Shit shit shit.

  He ducked low in the saddle, urging his steed faster. A crossbow bolt whizzed by overhead. Crossbows reloaded slowly. If he could just avoid the second crossbowman’s shot, he should be free and clear to—

  A hot, fierce pain bloomed in his side, almost knocking him out of the saddle.

  Oh no. No no no.

  Brasley spurred the horse faster, each bump in the saddle sending shocks of pain through his body. If he could get well away, he’d stop and examine the wound. He crossed a stone bridge over a wide stream, marking the edge of town. He glanced again over his shoulder. No pursuit.

  But he couldn’t stop yet. Just a little further and he could turn off into the woods.

  He felt warm blood trickle down his side. His head went dizzy. As blackness crowded the edge of his vision, all he could think was that he was now penniless, his winnings scattered in puddles of ale across the floor of the pub behind him.

  EPISODE SIX

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  Brasley crossed into one of Merridan’s poor southern neighborhoods at dawn, walking his horse and limping, the pain in his side flaring and throbbing with every step.

  The good news was that the crossbow bolt that had pierced his side hadn’t hit any vital organs; moreover, the wound would likely not fester although it had cost him the last of the good brandy in his flask to clean the new hole between his ribs. He’d ripped his last spare shirt into strips for a makeshift bandage. It was already scabbing and would heal properly.

  After being struck by the crossbow bolt, Brasley had swooned in the saddle. He’d woken a few moments later, shoulders slumped, head down, his horse nibbling grass on the side of the road. He’d found a stand of trees with low hanging branches and hidden himself while he tended his wound. He hadn’t really lost too much blood, but the bolt must have been a shock to the system because he’d slept the rest of the day away. It occurred to him, not for the first time, that if he ever made a name for himself, it would not be as a great warrior.