The Thirteenth Magician

by Patrick Welch

  The captain looked at Daasek. “Congratulations. Avania owes you a great boon.” He looked at Rugerigo. “The Pasheur owes you death.” So saying, he turned and knocked thrice on the great gold doors. A panel slid open and the officer held a muffled conversation with someone inside. The captain nodded and rejoined the defenders. “The rest of you may go. Daasek, you will stay with me to guard the prisoner. The Pasheur will join us anon.”

  The men saluted smartly. A few favored Daasek with envious glances as they left. Daasek ignored them. Instead he studied Rugerigo.

  The guard had not been gentle. His face was swollen and blood poured freely from his nose. He winced with every breath and Daasek guessed, correctly, that he had several broken ribs. Blood on his shoes told him that they had severed the tendons as well. Yet the look in his eyes was as much confusion as agony. Daasek expected that, too.

  After a few moments, the great doors creaked open and the Pasheur joined them. He was a very short, very fat man, with long greasy hair and gold rings on every finger, gold bracelets on arms and legs. Like his guard he was dressed all in white, although his robes were stained from careless dining and drinking. He looked at the captain, at Daasek, finally at the prisoner. “Is this the man who dared disturb my repose?” he demanded.

  “The only survivor,” the captain saluted smartly. “The others were slain during the attack.”

  “Very good,” he nodded. “Once again you have justified my boundless faith in you. Bring the prisoner to me.”

  The captain grabbed him by the hair and dragged him forward. The Pasheur studied Rugerigo like a man studying a butterfly under a looking glass. “What is your name?” he asked with surprising gentleness.

  Rugerigo looked at him, half-pleading, half-confused. He tried to answer but his jaw was broken. A few gurgling sounds were all he could manage.

  “Your men were very thorough,” the ruler said finally, disappointed. “We could wait until you recovered, of course, but the people must know that the justice and the retribution of the Pasheur are always swift. Captain, please attach the collar.”

  The officer took a thin metal band from the Pasheur and placed it carefully around Rugerigo's neck. He stepped a good distance away and beckoned Daasek to do the same. The Pasheur grasped the head of Rugerigo. “I am now about to grant you forgiveness from your sins. You love the Pasheur, do you not?” The ruler forced Rugerigo to nod. “The Pasheur loves you as well. And because of my great love, I will now give you the release you long for. No more will you suffer want or need or hunger or pain. Eternal ecstasy is yours. For that is the gift of the all-loving, all-forgiving Pasheur.” He bent down and tenderly kissed the soldier on the forehead. Daasek could see tears welling in Rugerigo's eyes.

  The Pasheur stepped back several paces. “Now shall you feel the power and love of your Pasheur.” He made a circle with the thumb and forefinger of his left hand and slowly brought the two together.

  It was the shriek of agony that took Daasek's attention from the Pasheur. Rugerigo was writhing on the floor, groping helplessly at the metal around his neck. Daasek looked closer. It was tighter than when the captain had placed it on him. And as he watched, he saw it tighten more. He glanced at the Pasheur. The short man stood there calmly, almost without expression. He continued to close the circle his fingers formed. As he did, the collar imitated his actions.

  Rugerigo let out a final yell, almost staggering to his feet, and then Daasek heard a loud crack. Rugerigo collapsed, his neck broken. Yet the Pasheur did not stop. The thin metal cut through the skin, sending blood across the floor. Muscles, blood vessels, cartilage; the steel band cut through everything. Until Rugerigo's head rolled free from his body.

  The Pasheur took a deep breath, then smiled. “Once again, the benevolence of the Pasheur is proven. Another soul has been released from the torment of this sinful world. The collar if you please.”

  The captain walked carefully to the body and picked up something within the growing pool of blood. He cleaned it on Rugerigo's shirt, then gave it to the Pasheur. The Pasheur calmly slipped the collar which was now a ring into his pocket. “You will have your men clean this up.”

  “At once.”

  The Pasheur finally looked at Daasek. “This is the man who warned you of their attack?”

  “Yes, your Excellency.”

  He studied Daasek. “I and Avania owe you much. I think perhaps we must talk, you and I. Captain, he will come with me.”

  The captain was startled. “I cannot recommend that, your Excellency. He has been with my guard only a few weeks. He is much a barbarian, even if an observant one. It is not right that one of low birth should stand alone before the Pasheur.”

  “He is also a man of honor. And uncommon strength,” he added as an afterthought. “I salute the wisdom in your words. Yet there are moments when the judgment of your Pasheur should not be challenged.”

  The captain swallowed slowly. “At least, your Excellency, you could put to rest the fears of your humble servant by placing him in the collar.”

  The Pasheur considered. “An excellent suggestion, my captain. A suggestion that will put both our minds at ease.” He reached again in his pocket and withdrew the ring. He shook it and it suddenly grew into the collar Rugerigo had worn and died in. He handed it to the captain.

  The captain approached Daasek. “The Pasheur has given you a great honor by allowing you an audience. Act with proper deference. Or you may join Rugerigo.” Daasek said nothing as the captain placed the collar round him. Instead he nearly trembled in anticipation, anticipation that soon he could extinguish the urge within.

  “Are you satisfied for my safety, captain?” the fat man said with a hint of irony.

  “I should have his dagger.”

  The Pasheur waved his hand. “Leave it. A true soldier would feel naked without his weaponry. Besides,” he arced his eyebrows, “I hardly have to fear a dagger.” He addressed Daasek for the first time. “Come with me.”

  The richness of the golden portals belied the simplicity of the room within. From his brief look at the palace plans he had enjoyed earlier that evening, Daasek knew they were in the Pasheur's study. The single window looked down upon the small inner courtyard stories below. The room had two doors: the one to the left led to the sleeping rooms, the one to the right held a deadfall which was triggered when the door was shut. The room itself was empty save for a small desk and one row of brimming bookshelves.

  The Pasheur took his seat behind the desk. He did not offer Daasek similar consideration so Daasek stood. The Pasheur opened a drawer and removed some papers. He studied them for several minutes, then looked at his guest. “Your name is Daasek,” he began mildly.

  “Yes, your Excellency.”

  “It says here you were previously employed at Kyleine.”

  “Yes.”

  “Interesting.” He smiled. “We carry on much trade with Kyleine. We inquired about you. Your name was unfamiliar to them.”

  “I did not leave on the best of terms. And since the Guild disavowed my brotherhood, I cannot expect to receive an honest report on my qualifications.”

  “Yes, it says that here as well. An interesting story, Daasek. Interesting indeed. Tell me,” he leaned forward, “where did you get the soulklover?”

  “I'm sorry, I do not understand.”

  He shook his head and laughed. “The men were drugged, Daasek. It was clear to someone as experienced as I. They were fed soulklover. Obviously by you, since you are the only one who could benefit from this charade. You wanted to meet me. Why?”

  “To kill you,” he replied evenly, suddenly flicking his guard dagger at the Pasheur.

  The Pasheur calmly waved his hand and the dagger veered sharply away from his heart and buried itself harmlessly into the wall behind him. “Very rash, Daasek, very rash indeed. I will have to kill you for that affront. But first I need to know why. You are not from Avania, so it cannot be for some imagined slight upon your family. And you ar
e certainly no member of the Guild. It does not conduct nor condone private contracts against recognized governments. So tell me. Who sent you and why?”

  Daasek stood silent. Could he explain the urge? Why did he have the urge? If he was under hire, he had no idea by whom. Instead, he focused on the blade buried in the wall, the cold of the steel around his neck. He understood the Pasheur's power. And he knew how to defeat it.

  The Pasheur sighed. “You lack dearly as a conversationalist. Perhaps you are under soulklover as well. In any event, I see I shall have to grant you the forgiveness I recently gave your comrade. If nothing else, the pain may release your tongue.” He formed a circle with his fingers.

  Daasek didn't try to fight the tightening band around his neck. Instead he reached for his dagger, which he had hidden in his uniform.

  The Pasheur smiled when he saw Daasek pull it forth. “Excellent. I do so admire a man who is persistent. Even if he learns as quickly as a tree.”

  “This knife isn't steel,” Daasek gasped and threw.

  The short fat man grunted in surprise as the knife ignored his bid for control and drove itself deep into his chest. He stood awkwardly, staring at Daasek with wonder and condemnation. Then he collapsed forward onto his desk.

  The pressure around Daasek's neck relaxed immediately. The metal was thin and he easily ripped it away. He approached the Pasheur and retrieved his knife. Next he looked at the bracelets on the dead man's arms. All were richly adorned with precious gems and stones. He did not have time to find the black stone. Instead he removed them all and opened the door to the right. Once the door was closed, he knew heavy stone blocks would fall from the ceiling. He threw the jewelry on the floor and slammed the door. He felt the crash as much as heard it. He was certain the stone would be destroyed, but now he would only have a few minutes before the guards appeared.

  Daasek ripped off his uniform. Underneath he wore his regular clothing. He removed a few books and wrapped them inside the white linen, then he shattered the window and climbed onto the small balcony. Standing on the railing, he jumped and grabbed the edge of the roof. He pulled himself up, then turned and looked out into the garden. The light of Iofhee was too dim to reveal most details but enough to reveal anyone dressed in white. He heaved the linen bundle as far as he could into the garden and was satisfied when he saw where it landed. That lure wouldn't delay the guards for long, but he didn't need much time.

  He scuttled as silently as possible across the tiles. The palace was one great interlocking series of buildings, most of them on the same level. When they had discussed that evening's ambush, Daasek had studied the palace plans. The stables were far from the Pasheur's quarters, but now that was an advantage. He could travel faster on the roof than the news could spread inside the sprawling, often confusing structure.

  * * * *

  He studied the stable area for a few moments. He estimated it had taken him ten minutes to travel here. He was confident the alarm had not yet reached this far. With a deep breath, he let himself down slowly and calmly walked towards the stable.

  The young stablemaster groggily rose to his feet as Daasek entered. “You're up early this morning,” he greeted as he bent down to light a torch. “Early patrol or...” He stopped when he saw Daasek. “Where is your uniform?”

  “Right here,” Daasek said, stepping forward. He hit the lad once. The boy dropped like a dead calf, unconscious.

  One horse was already saddled, a precaution for emergency messengers. Daasek scampered aboard. There was a pouch attached to the saddle. Daasek wielded it with one hand, then urged his mount into the courtyard.

  Before him the only exit loomed. In the tower above, the gatekeeper would be watching. If he was not, Daasek would not escape. He took a deep breath.

  “Orders from the Pasheur. Make way! Make way!” he screamed and urged the horse into a gallop, all the while waving the empty satchel above his head.

  The gatekeeper was startled. But he had also been at his post for many years. It was not often, but it did happen that messengers left in the middle of the night. Moving by reflex, he pulled the lever that opened the great doors.

  Daasek was almost upon them when they finally widened. There was barely room to pass, but he never let his mount break stride. He flashed down the city streets, still waving the satchel and still screaming his warning. A few guardsmen turned in wonder, but no one had the courage or wits to try to stop him. He was already far beyond the city's walls when the news of the assassination first reached the gatekeeper.

  It was one moonphase later, in a stopover many kines beyond the arms of Avania. Daasek was seated alone at the dining table, ignoring his plate of mare's hocks. The inn was warm. It was to his liking to stay there, but he could not. His memories of Avania were beginning to dim even as he felt an urge rising slowly within him. He had felt it before, but he knew not where. In his dreams, a face kept recurring. A face he was beginning to hate, a face he wanted to destroy. He did not know where he was going, but he understood that the drive inside and the dreams without would lead him there. And they would lead him there soon.

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  Chapter Six: The Third Magician

  Daasek watched soundlessly from his perch in the trees as the monk made his solitary way up the twisting path towards the decrepit shrine. This was the seventh day Daasek had observed the holy man and the routine had yet to vary. The monk rose every morning with the new sun. First he would scourge himself across his arms, legs and chest with a metal-tipped leather whip. Next he would swim in the icy river that ran by his hut until his wounds had stopped bleeding. He would then fix a large breakfast of fruit and freshly caught fish, but this he would set before the miniature altar near his hut. Himself he permitted only a drink of water and the baked entrails of whatever he had caught. Only then would he begin the arduous climb to the true altar near the hilltop, where he would spend the day prostrate before the stone statue or scrubbing off the guano, leaves, dirt and other debris that had accumulated during the night. At dusk he returned and prepared his only real meal of the day. And so to bed.

  Daasek had arrived in Lystra two months after leaving Avania. Part of that time he had spent in the mountains, hiding from the late Pasheur's men. Their efforts had not been diligent. A power struggle had quickly arisen between several factions of the guard and a group of rich but overtaxed merchants. Without the Pasheur to protect them, the guard could not prevail against the Mercenaries the merchants quickly hired. Daasek could not know this, but if he returned to Avania now, he would be greeted and treated as a hero.

  Instead Daasek followed another agenda. The urge had set in quickly. From Avania he had been led here. To a small village surrounded by rolling hills and a solitary, insane monk catering to a god no one else worshipped, let alone remembered.

  The innkeeper had laughed when he had inquired about the holy man. “Have you come all this way to talk to that idiot? His mind is shut as tight as a virgin's knees. Spends all his days tending some ugly carved rock up on the hillside.” His cheerful bantering ceased abruptly. His gaze darkened. “It is naught of my concern, of course, but if you are planning something untoward, I must caution you. He owns nothing of value. His ‘shrine’ is worth nothing. He has no gold, no jewels. But I can tell you this. Ten phases of Phann past, several young men became besotted at one of our taverns and for some reason known only to them and the grape they decided to visit him. To enjoy themselves in some boorish fashion, I wager. No one knows what happened, but when they returned the following morning their eyes and minds were as still as a frozen river.” He paused. “They have yet to thaw.”

  Daasek shook his head. The words given him in sleep the previous evening flowed easily. “I am merely a traveling scholar. I have heard that a wise man lived near here. If that is true then I want to talk with him, perhaps learn from him. That is all.”

  The innkeeper looked at Daasek's strong chest and arms, his ragged leather clothing, and the swor
d that dangled at his side. “How long may I enjoy entertaining you?” he asked after a long pause.

  “A week. Perhaps more. It depends on how willing the monk is to instruct me.” Daasek handed over six crous. “I will pay for my entire visit now, if you wish.”

  “Yes,” the innkeeper smiled suddenly. “It is best this way, so we can guarantee you a room. Lystra is a favorite among travelers this time of year, you understand.” Daasek glanced out the window. The seasons were changing as Iofhee rose higher to rule the nights. Few would be coming north to Lystra when the only entertainment would be the forests losing their summer wear. “I understand. Now if you will tell me what I need to know, I will be on my way.”

  “Of course. How may I help you?”

  “Where can I find the holy man? And where can I get an ax?”

  * * * *

  Daasek waited until the monk was far past before climbing down from his perch. Each day since he had reached Lystra the urge had grown. Now it was almost made him quiver when he saw, or even thought of, the monk. Today he would have to complete his task. Else the urge would drive him as mad as the monk he pursued. Daasek started up the trail.

  It was near mid-morning before he finally reached the altar in the small clearing. As he expected, the monk was already at work. The birds did not share his affection for whatever it was he worshipped and he was busy scrubbing their reminders from the feet and arms of the graven image.

  “Ho, master, hello I say,” Daasek called out. “I am here to seek your audience.” The man turned and rose awkwardly on skinny scraggly legs. He shielded his eyes and searched for the voice. “What? Who be ye? Where be ye? What ye want?”

  “Your knowledge, master.” Daasek stepped out of the shadows and smiled. “I have heard that a very wise man lives in these hills. I have traveled far to see if those tales were true. By the sight of you, I can see they are.”

  What Daasek saw was an undernourished man sporting a graying beard and hundreds of scars. His face was as weather-beaten as the statue he protected and when he opened his mouth, Daasek saw only a few rotting teeth. And yet there was a lively fire in his eyes, although Daasek wasn't sure it rose from the furnace of sanity. “Ye have heard of Moogad?” he asked in wonder and suspicion.