Rise of the Mages (Rise of the Mages 2)

by Foster, Brian W.

  A cross look passed over the master’s face before he sighed. “As usual, he thought my idea would be too expensive. Damn it, we need more farmland!”

  “You’d think the additional taxes would pay back the investment,” Xan said.

  The apothecary’s face darkened. “Forty years. Too long is what he said.”

  Xan’s gaze searched the room. “What if you came up with a different route that didn’t require tunneling through the mountain?”

  “Tarnation, lad, I’ve already discarded using an aqueduct. The geometry doesn’t work.”

  Xan looked down at his table. “What if you could get the water to the top of the slope another way?”

  “How do you presume to do that? Magic?”

  Xan’s mouth gaped. Their experiments with electricity and explosives were already feared by the townspeople. A mere mention of forbidden practices overheard by the wrong person could lead to disaster.

  “It’s just a joke, lad. Though, perhaps, ill-conceived.” The words came out soft. “I still want to know how you’re planning to get water to run uphill.”

  Xan had been turning an idea over in his mind for a while, but if it were a good one, Master Rae surely would have already thought of it. He hunched his shoulders. “A water-powered conveyor.” Doodling with his finger on the worktable, he described placing a wheel with flat paddles at the bottom of the falls and using the motion created to carry water to the top. “I’m sure there must be something I’m missing, but couldn’t we dump tub after tub down the north face?”

  “Actually, that might—might—function, lad, but that’s a lot of wood. It will be expensive.”

  “Will it?” Xan stared at the table. “The lumber industry goes dead during the winter since the timber can’t be floated down the river. We have all the materials and expertise we need locally, and Master Willow would be glad for the work during the lean months. He can prefabricate it, and assembly will take no time in the spring.”

  “Tarnation, boy, look at me when we’re speaking.”

  Xan had to obey the direct command. He met Master Rae’s eyes.

  “Take it to the mayor.”

  “What?”

  Master Rae retrieved a sheet of paper along with quill and ink. “Draw up your idea and present it to the mayor.”

  Xan’s pleasure at his mentor’s approval didn’t last long. He didn’t count penmanship or drawing among his best abilities, and the work made for a long morning. It took numerous revisions until they were judged “passable.” The only bright spot was the cessation of the interrogation.

  As Xan grabbed his lunch pail and satchel, Master Rae looked up. “Is there anything you want to tell me?”

  Caught off guard, Xan could only stammer, “No.”

  What, exactly, did Master Rae suspect?

  6.

  Xan dodged carts and horses as he dashed through the streets, his satchel and pail bouncing from straps. He’d have to hurry if he wanted to eat lunch with his friends before seeing the mayor.

  Brant, Dylan, and Lainey sat on the grass in the middle of the town square. Crap. Why hadn’t they started eating without him? They were all going to be late. He sped his pace.

  Dylan showed something to Lainey, probably a trinket he’d purchased on his recent trip, but Xan couldn’t make out what it was. He squinted, trying to figure it out. A quill. Dylan got excited over the weirdest things.

  A shape came out of nowhere, and Xan looked to see who it was. Corina Pacheco. He skidded to a stop to avoid plowing into her.

  She sniffed, holding her nose high, and pointedly ignored him as she passed.

  What the blast was her problem? It had been weeks since he’d even laid eyes on her, and it struck him that her thin face gave her profile a hawkish appearance and that her dull brown hair seemed stringy.

  She was so full of herself. Oh well. He shook his head. None of his concern, anyway.

  As he approached his friends, Brant gawked at him.

  “What?” Xan gave his outfit a once over. Did he have a stain or tear or something?

  “Who’s the new girl?” Brant said.

  Xan glanced around. It was just the four of them. “Huh?”

  “Oh come on,” Brant said. “You’ve been crushing on Corina for the last year. How many times have you seized the lamest reason to pass her house just for the off chance you might catch a glimpse of her?”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  Brant snorted. “And, now, you barely even notice her? There’s only one thing that could cause you to do that.”

  “Again, I have no remote idea what you’re talking about,” Xan said. “If I’ve been near her house, it’s just because delivering potions takes me all over the place.”

  Both Lainey and Dylan gave him disbelieving looks.

  “It’s true. I swear.”

  Brant grinned. “Does this means she’s fair game?”

  Lainey popped him on the shoulder. “Brant! You don’t treat friends that way. She’s off limits.”

  “Why? If he doesn’t want her …”

  Xan plopped onto the grass several yards from the other three. “I don’t care either way.”

  Brant gulped down half his sandwich while examining Xan’s face. “What’s with you, anyway? You look terrible.”

  “Thanks.” Xan smiled. “Speak for yourself. Ever win any of those sparring matches?”

  Brant rubbed at a bruise on his cheek. “Becca Smith didn’t complain last night.”

  “You didn’t,” Xan said. “She’s five years older than you and a widow besides.”

  Brant’s grin threatened to bust his face. “Fetching, though. Isn’t she?”

  He was two years younger and a couple of inches shorter than Xan. How could Brant have so much success with girls?

  Xan groaned internally, remembering Lainey’s response to a similar question. She’d droned on about “sandy hair that always appeared rumpled, deep brown eyes twinkling with mischief, well-defined muscles, and ever-present sword.” Gross.

  “Scars add character,” Brant said. “You, on the other hand, just look like you haven’t slept in a month.”

  “He’s dreaming—”

  Xan cut Lainey off with a scowl. “I’ve been having a little trouble sleeping lately. That’s all.”

  Silence fell over the group as Dylan and Brant exchanged a puzzled look. Xan used the opportunity to grab his apple.

  “Remember when I left you earlier on my way to the Angry Egg?” Dylan said. “There’s a catcher there.”

  “I’m sure Brant’s dad will run him off right quick,” Xan said.

  “No,” Brant said, “a real, honest-to-goodness catcher. He’s got twenty guardsmen with him.”

  “Not only that,” Dylan said, “they rode into town at daybreak this morning looking like they had pushed hard all night. According to Wen, their horses were near exhausted.”

  Brant got that glint in his eyes that usually led to them all getting into trouble. “They must be after someone.”

  Xan frowned. “I haven’t heard any rumors of a mage, so how would the catcher know? Someone would have to make a report, and I can’t imagine it remaining secret.”

  “Maybe they’re just passing through,” Lainey said.

  “To go where?” Dylan said. “The tribes don’t have mages.”

  Speculation continued without any resolution other than it was best if they all stayed clear of the inn, and, anxious to complete his task for Master Rae, Xan took his leave as soon as he swallowed the last bite of his lunch.

  His path from the square to the mayor’s office led him by the Angry Egg, so walking on the opposite side of the street was the best he could do to fulfill his agreement. Ropes tied a line of horses to the railing outside the inn, and a guardsman covered neck to foot in dark-brown leather armor with simple black cloth draped over his torso tended them. While Xan was no judge of horseflesh, the wide-chested, muscular animals outclassed most mounts he’d
seen around Eagleton.

  Three more guardsmen talked at the end of the block. They looked nothing like the clean and sharp militiamen under Captain Reed’s command. Instead, they wore their beards wild and unkempt and their clothes rumpled and dirty.

  The set of the largest one’s jaw reminded Xan of Dirc Layman. Angry. Ready to talk with his fists at the slightest excuse.

  The name made Xan grimace. Too many bad memories. How could someone twice his weight run so fast? The pounding. The punches. A blur of red and pain.

  If Brant hadn’t happened by …

  Xan shut his eyes at the recollection of having to be rescued by a ten-year-old. But he wasn’t that scared kid any longer. He forced himself to look at the guardsman.

  Lewis Thern, mumbling and swatting at non-existent insects, staggered toward the soldier from the opposite direction. Poor man hadn’t been right in the head since his entire family perished in the same plague that took Xan’s mother and father.

  Thern slowed and, finally, halted. He stared at the side of the inn.

  The mixture of a crazy old man and the rough-looking guardsmen was so not a good combination. Xan had to do something, but, before he made it even to the middle of the road, Thern lurched forward again.

  Xan froze. Years of wind and water had formed a pothole in the dirt. Right in Thern’s path.

  Surely, he’d see it and step over it.

  Nope. Plop went his foot. He pitched forward and fell right onto the largest guardsman.

  The armored behemoth backhanded Thern. His head snapped back, and his body followed. He sprawled onto the ground with a thud. The guardsman clenched his fists and advanced with a murderous glare.

  He was going to kill Thern!

  “Don’t hurt him!” Xan sprinted toward the men.

  The guardsman snarled. “Get lost, boy.”

  The thought of a confrontation scared Xan spitless, but he had to do something. He moved in front of Thern.

  “Get out of my way or you’ll get the same as him,” the guardsman said.

  Thern staggered to his feet and cowered from them.

  “What’s this man done to you? Wait, let me guess. He’s an evil magic user.” The words felt good. Xan wished he’d said similar ones to Dirc.

  “He attacked me.”

  Xan rolled his eyes. “Yeah. Right. An unarmed seventy-year-old randomly decided to lay into you.”

  A blow whipped Xan’s head around, and he sprawled face first into the dirt. Dust and grit coated his mouth and nostrils, and his cheek throbbed. Tears leaked shamefully from his eyes.

  Xan clenched his fists. His tormentor would pay.

  The guardsman kicked him in the stomach.

  Xan slid back a foot. Air fled his lungs. As he struggled to take a breath, the pain hit. He curled into a ball.

  People poured from surrounding buildings. Maybe they’d stop the beating.

  But they’d also see him lying on the ground and crying like a baby. He wanted to slink off and die.

  The guardsman reared back his leg for another kick. Xan whimpered. He couldn’t take more pain.

  “What’s going on there?” Mayor Williamson shouted from down the street.

  Rage radiated from the guardsman’s face, but he stopped his attack. As the mayor approached and a crowd gathered, Xan shakily gained his feet.

  Williamson, his face red and sweaty, pushed through the onlookers. “What’s the meaning of this?”

  “I was attacked,” the guardsman said, “and any attack on me is an attack on the king.”

  Xan knew he should keep his mouth shut. “We don’t have a king, you sack of shit. We have a queen.”

  The big guardsman’s face reddened. He clenched his hand around the hilt of his sword. “Boy, I’m about to—”

  “Keller! Hold!” A man in a bright feathered cap and a gold uniform with purple trim emerged from the crowd.

  The man’s pink hands had perfectly manicured nails and no calluses. His eyes held intelligence, and his bearing bespoke an expectation of being obeyed. Never done an honest day’s work in his life and thought he was better than everyone. Blasted nobles.

  The fop met Williamson’s eyes. “Justav the Bold, Grand Marshall Catcher duly appointed by King Barius of Dastanar and recognized by treaty to pursue my bounty in any of the Three Kingdoms.”

  Xan tentatively touched his cheek and winced. “More like Justav the Peacock.”

  “Shut your mouth, lad!” Williamson defused the situation by introducing himself to the catcher. “Now, for the third time, what is going on here?”

  “Keller, report,” Justav said.

  The big guardsman pointed at Master Thern. “That man threw himself at me—”

  Xan surged forward. “He tripped and fell!”

  Williamson tugged Xan’s arm.

  “And,” Keller said, “as I was dealing with the attacker, this fool tried to stop me.”

  Xan opened his mouth but was silenced by Williamson tightening his grip.

  “I see,” Williamson said. “Marshall Justav, there appears to be a misunderstanding of jurisdiction. Any assault on a catcher’s guard in Eagleton clearly falls to the militia acting under the auspices of the civil authority.” His voice couldn’t have been calmer if he were discussing what the weather might do on the morrow. “Do you or your men wish to file a complaint?”

  Justav gave his head a curt shake. Keller glared at Xan.

  “Very well,” the mayor said. “I must insist that, in the future, you and your men attend only to matters falling within your purview.”

  The catcher bowed his assent and gathered his men. Before turning back toward the inn, Justav glowered briefly at Xan.

  “I appreciate your interceding for Lewis,” Williamson said, “but don’t you have pressing issues to attend to at your shop?”

  Xan thrust his satchel at the rotund man. “Actually, I was on my way to see you.” After an expectant look, he added a belated, “Your Honor.”

  Williamson thumbed through the papers “Is this Rae’s new proposal?”

  “No sir, it’s mine.” Xan stared at the ground.

  “Hm. I see.”

  As Williamson studied the plans, Xan waited in silence, but, after several minutes, dizziness overcame him. He swayed on his feet, stumbled, and grabbed Williamson’s arm for support.

  “Son, are you okay?”

  Unable to find words, Xan shrugged.

  “Get some sleep. I’ll tell Rae what happened with the guardsman.”

  Grateful both for the reprieve and the chance to rest, Xan took his leave. While walking home, he barely kept his eyes open as even the cool mountain air failed to clear his head. All he wanted was bed.

  Xan fingered his aching jaw. A night spent with Ashley would soothe his wounds.

  7.

  Xan staggered upstairs to his room in the Diwens’ house and collapsed onto the bed, not even sparing effort to kick off his boots. He fell asleep instantly.

  When he arrived in the meadow, vague recollections of regular dreams clouded his mind, but he shook them off. Ashley filled his vision.

  He wasn’t going to make a fool of himself again. What kind of doofus kneels and kisses a girl’s hand?

  Slow and thoughtful. Consider each action and word.

  Still, things had turned out pretty well the previous night. He’d put his arm around her. She’d laid her head on his shoulder.

  His heart hammered. Would she want to take up where they left off? He wanted to run to her to find out, but he’d probably trip and fall. Instead, he paused after each disorienting step. Better to play it cool anyway.

  What if she wanted him to kiss her?

  Blood rushed to his cheeks at the thought, and he slowed more to give the blush time to fade. When he finally reached her, he met her eyes. “My fair maiden Ashley.”

  “My fair prince Xan.” She smiled and extended her hand.

  He bowed, arm at his waist and left leg extended behind him just like books he�
��d read, and lightly brushed the back of her fingers with his lips.

  So far, so good.

  “Sit with me?” Ashley glided to a nearby oak and gracefully floated to the ground.

  She’d practically bolted to the tree. Was she as eager to resume their snuggling as he was? No. Her haste had to have some explanation that fell within the realm of possibility.

  Ashley glanced at him, her face tilted.

  What? Blast. He was just standing there staring at her like an idiot. What must she think of him?

  Xan scurried after her. Time and distance warped. He lurched across the space separating them. His foot connected with her leg, and he stumbled face first into the grass. She cried out.

  He’d kicked her. Caused her actual pain. Tripped. Fallen to the ground in a heap.

  Better that the tumble had caused his death. Better to die ingloriously than to suffer such embarrassment.

  He scrambled to his feet. “Are you hurt?”

  Ashley flexed her leg. “I don’t think so. You just startled me, I guess.”

  Such a blasted clumsy oaf! How could such calamity have befallen him? All prospects of kissing her, or even cuddling, vanished. Surely, she’d never speak to him again, much less continue with their—association? courtship?—relationship.

  “I am so, so sorry,” he said.

  She shrugged as if it were of no matter but offered no invitation to sit with her. He plopped down with his back against a nearby tree and drew his knees to his chest.

  Every time he looked up, she glanced away as if fascinated by the grass.

  Xan finally sighed. “Ashley, I’m not the most graceful of suitors, but …”

  Where exactly had he been going with that heart-felt declaration? Probably somewhere along the horrifying lines of using the L-word way too early. There had to be some way to salvage the situation.

  Think. What would Brant say? Praise her. Tell her how beautiful and smart and graceful she was.

  He opened his mouth—

  A vicious yank tugged at him. A rope strung to a team of horses at full gallop would have had less impact on his midsection.

  The world swirled around him. Colors blurred into blackness.

  When he came to, nausea roiled his stomach, and his head pounded. His eyes darted open to stare at the harsh glare of an oil lantern. He squinted to make out the person holding the light.