“Moogad? Yes, Moogad, I have heard of you. That is why I am here.”
The man snorted and turned away, ready to dismiss him. “Stupid barbarian. I am not Moogad.” He pointed to the dung-covered statue. “That is Moogad. The great Moogad. The one and only true god of our world.”
The urge snapped at him like a whip, as if impatient at his mistake. Daasek pled his case quickly. “The tale-tellers were confused, as usual. But you are indeed the wise man they spoke of.” He walked forward as the monk eyed him with suspicion. “I am a pilgrim, searching for answers to what troubles my soul. I have visited others, but they have proven charlatans. I had hoped you could help me. Perhaps I was mistaken.” He made as if to leave.
“Halt, young wanderer. Halt I say.” Despite his frail appearance, the man's call was surprisingly strong. Daasek slowly turned. “The world is buried under the weight of heretics and heathens and pagans. It is not unexpected that they have treated ye so unkindly. Moogad, the great all-loving, all-knowing, forgives ye thy ignorance. Ye may approach.”
“I now know your master,” Daasek said casually as he walked. “But, master, what shall I call you?”
“My name is meaningless,” he snapped, once again angry. “Only the great Moogad,” he gestured at the statue, “matters. Only when we obey his will and his teachings doth our lives acquire meaning. Only then shall we enjoy the eternal rewards that be his promise and his blessing.”
Daasek gazed at the stone idol. Before he had viewed it in hiding or in darkness. Up close he could see how cruelly the elements had treated it. It was little more than a column, only a few kines taller than either of the men. Features of a face and body had once been intricately carved, but rain and cold had erased most detail. The face combined features of man and bird, but in what proportions was impossible to say. Daasek could tell that the god's arms were crossed, but what it held remained a mystery. There were no swellings in chest or waist to help identify its sex. Cracks and stains were everywhere and the statue rested at a severe angle. If the forest clearing didn't act as a shield, Daasek was certain that it would topple at a strong breeze. Or push. “It is a beautiful work,” Daasek offered at last.
“Beautiful? Yes, the love of Moogad is beautiful. And yet so many refuse his blessings.” He turned to Daasek hopefully. “Ye say ye are a traveler?”
“Yes.”
“And does the wisdom of Moogad yet guide the lives of common men?”
“Yes,” he lied.
“That is good,” he nodded to himself. “As ye see, the humble servants of Moogad must isolate themselves from the imperfections and imprecations of the outside world if the purity and sanctity of Moogad are to be maintained.” He gazed on the filthy stone pillar and tears of joy streamed down his face. He opened his robe and grasped the single black stone that hung on a leather thong around his neck. “Blessed are we for the benevolence of the great Moogad. Our prayers have been answered. A new disciple has fled the temptations of the sin beyond and sought sanctuary with us. Our love, our hopes, our destinies we place in thine hand, oh mighty Moogad.”
Then he turned and looked closely at Daasek. “I must pray to Moogad for guidance, for the purity of both our souls. You will remain here until He bids otherwise.”
Then he made a gesture and suddenly Daasek felt locked in stone. He could see, he could breathe, he could listen. But he could not move.
He could only watch as the monk prostrated himself before the idol. He watched as the monk began his supplications. He watched as the monk unknowingly tripped the wire to the deadfall. He watched as the log, so carefully, cunningly hidden among the trees, was released. He watched as it swung forward into the statue, the two ropes which held it propelling it like a scythe. He watched as the statue came crashing down, crushing its worshiper beneath it.
Then, suddenly, he could move. He had only seconds to leap out of the way of his own weapon and felt a breeze as the great log swung up and over his head. It returned and continued its pendulum motion several more times before finally hovering directly above the fallen idol. Only then did Daasek stand and approach his victim. The man's arms and legs were splayed, as if he had tried to catch his god. Wafts of red smoke rose from underneath. Daasek bent over to get a closer look at the curious cloud, then jumped back as it bit into his nostrils. He shook his head violently and sneezed, trying to free himself of the clinging, burning vapor. For a moment he thought he heard a voice within him call his name, cry for help. Then the voice died and he was again left with only the sounds of the forest.
Daasek rested a few minutes before he made his way back through the woods, leaving the great log to hang as a monument over the magician and his fallen master. The sun was directly overhead when he finally reached the monk's hut and by now he was hungry. The offering before the smaller altar was still there. He bit into the fresh fruit and was startled at the sharp tang that bit back. He sat down and stared at the fruit. The last time he had eaten—all the last times he remembered eating—he had not experienced that sensation. He set the fruit down and sampled the fish. Salty, slightly burnt, with a seasoning of manwort and newmoss ... the strange tastes brought identifying names unbidden into his head.
And then he noticed something else. A different sensation, an essence of smoke and brine and fresh dew and lavender. He touched his nose tentatively, then he smiled. He identified the senses almost instinctively: taste and smell. He could not recall the last time he had enjoyed either pleasure.
He downed the rest of his meal with a hunger for the sensory experiences as well as for the food. He was still smiling as he made his way back down the forest trail. The urge was satisfied. He felt relief, almost satisfaction. He never thought once about the man crushed beneath the stone pillar.
Later that evening as he relaxed at the inn, the urge set in again.
* * * *
“And what brings you to Byrnhea?” asked the customs official.
From across the wide desk Daasek met his gaze steadily. “I hear there is work for mercenaries. I trust that is the case.”
“There is work,” the man nodded. “But to qualify you must be licensed by the Guild. That license must be purchased. With gold, not promises. We want no beggars, no outlaws, no idlers within the gates of Byrnhea.” He leaned forward. “Do you have money?”
Daasek set a dozen gold crous on the desk. “That, I trust, will take care of your paperwork?”
The man smiled at the sight. “Quite correct. I believe we can have your permits ready for you by the morrow.” He reached for the money.
Daasek was quicker. The coins disappeared beneath his large, muscular hand. “In that event I will pay tomorrow. Or perhaps I will return in the afternoon. Perhaps the official who works then will be more willing to assist an honest man who only seeks an honest day's work.”
The customs man shuddered noticeably and raised a cautionary hand. “Patience, dear traveler. I merely misunderstood your haste. If certain favors are asked, if extraordinary efforts are made, if certain,” he gazed at Daasek, “friends are treated properly, we may be able to have your permits and licenses within the hour.” His smile returned. “If that is satisfactory?”
Daasek nodded and returned the coins to the table. Then he removed two more from his purse and held them before the official. “The reward for extraordinary effort. If it is done within the hour.” He dropped them in his pocket. “I will see you then.” One hour later Daasek had the permits and licenses necessary to make him an approved and employable member of the Mercenaries Guild.
* * * *
The secretary of the Guild was not overwhelmed with joy to discover another new and surely transient member standing before him, no matter how physically qualified he appeared. He glanced at the forms before him, then tossed them aside. “You're wasting your time,” he said coldly.
Daasek smiled quizzically. “I do not understand. Are not my papers in order?” The Guild official laughed. “Of course. So what? How much did they cost?
Three crous? Five? Better you had saved your gold. Better you had gone elsewhere. There are no police actions demanding attention, except perhaps at Myniah. And that is still only conjecture. Byrnhea is the headquarters of our Guild. We have members idling throughout the city. If we cannot find them work, I shall certainly make no attempt to find such for one who merely presents a purchased piece of paper. Take my advice. Go elsewhere. There is nothing for you in Byrnhea.”
“What about,” he asked softly, “private employment?”
The man looked up, startled. “What are you talking about? The Guild makes its services available only to recognized royalty and other Guilds.”
Daasek paused. “I've heard that, occasionally, private citizens employ the services of the Guild for ... private causes. Within the gates of Byrnhea it is considered acceptable practice.”
The official swore to himself. All Daasek said was indeed true, but how did he know? He decided to call the stranger's bluff. “Byrnhea is a peaceful town. We demand that it be so. Where did you hear such an ugly slander?”
Daasek smiled. “I do not mean to denigrate your fair city. If that is not the case, then I apologize. But then how you explain the Hangman's Charter?”
“I ... don't know what you mean.”
“The one I saw was a red slip of paper,” Daasek continued. “There were some lines of type, some language about parties and responsibilities and so forth. And there were three names. The name of the patron. The name of the agent. And the name of the accused. Interesting concept, is it not?”
Suddenly the Guild official was holding a knife. It, and the large signet ring he wore, were inches from Daasek's throat. “Where did you hear of this?”
Daasek moved the blade away with a fingertip. “Kyleine. I was a guardsman there. One of my fellow officers had come from here. One night he drank more than his share of wine and he began talking about the Hangman's Charter. No one else believed him. I didn't either, even when he showed us a contract. Not until I mentioned it later, when he was as sober as a stone. His reaction convinced me his besotted ramblings hid the truth.” He touched the knife lightly. “This only confirms it.”
The official sighed, then withdrew the weapon. He sat down slowly even as he planned rapidly. “By rights you have no rights. Your Guildsman license really means nothing, especially for the right you seek. Only those of Guild birthright know of, and can practice, the Hangman's Contract. But then,” he smiled agreeably, “you are not of Byrnhea. No private citizen would think of entrusting you with such a contract. No Guild official will honor it with his signet. The knowledge will do you no good.” He opened a drawer and pulled out several sheets of red paper. “So I will give you the Hangman's Charter. Read it, if you can. It explains all the details and the responsibilities of the client, the agent and the accused.” He handed them to Daasek. “Don't try to leave Byrnhea with them.” You are never going to leave Byrnhea.
Daasek accepted them with a nod. “Of course. They are completely worthless otherwise. I thank you for your kind assistance and advice.”
The Guild secretary waited until Daasek had left, then rang a bell. A young junior officer entered. “Sir?”
“Bring me,” the man paused and considered, “Partuk. I have a private matter I want to take care of.”
While the junior officer went upon his duties, the secretary dutifully filled out his own Hangman's Charter. Patron: Chandoul, Guild Secretary. Agent: Partuk, Guild sergeant. Accused: Daasek of Kyleine. He read it twice. Satisfied, he lit a candle and dripped bright red sealing wax on the lower left corner. Then he removed his ring and imprinted his signet, three crossed swords below a crown, firmly in the wax. Chandoul crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair. Daasek was lying. Only a few trusted Guild families had access to the Hangman's Charter. Only the royal families, highest officials and richest merchants were allowed to use it. It was a trust not given lightly, one whose sanctity was instilled in all involved at a very young age. It was not one that would be carelessly revealed by a drunken tongue or telltale sheet of paper. He would like to know the truth, but eliminating the problem was more important. He smiled to himself. Partuk is very good at eliminating problems.
* * * *
“You can make me a ring with this design?” Daasek handed the silversmith a drawing: three crossed swords with a crown above.
The artisan nodded. “Would you prefer solid silver or my finest gold? This attractive design deserves to be set in only the highest quality metal.”
“Copper will do. Steel.”
The artisan frowned. There would be little profit in this venture.
Daasek noted the reaction. “I need it soon. I wish to wear it to a meeting with a very important merchant.” He opened his purse and removed several coins. “I will pay handsomely if you can have it for me today.”
The man's smile returned. “Of course, my dear sir! This afternoon it shall be.” He dropped the coins in his pocket. “I will keep these as a deposit. You can pay the remainder this afternoon.” He was already beginning to mix the lead and tin as his customer made his exit. The man whistled a light air as he worked. A profitable day indeed! He could mold the ring of pewter quickly. And cheaply. A stupid barbarian deserved no better.
It was fortunate, Daasek mused as he left, that his purse provided seemingly limitless resources. He had thus far bought a worthless piece of paper and an equally worthless ring. His stay in Byrnhea was sure to be very costly.
“Sir!”
Daasek turned. A young boy, no more than eight, came running up to him. “What?”
The boy stopped running and paused to catch his breath. Then he bowed. “You are a stranger in Byrnhea. I can see by your clothing. In that case you will need a guide. Someone who knows the best inns, the finest pleasure houses. I would feel most privileged to serve you in that matter.”
“I don't believe that will be necessary. I doubt I can afford you.” Daasek made to leave.
The boy grabbed his arm anxiously. “But sir, I can save you money.” He beamed. “Trust me, a guide is necessary here. Byrnhea merchants have been known to take advantage of the unwary.”
“I have noticed that.” He studied the boy. Scrubby black hair fell across his forehead. His clothes were barely rags and no cleaner than the rest of him. “You will offer me those services? At an agreeable price?”
“Yes, master,” he smiled, revealing surprisingly white teeth. “At a mere crous a day I can make your stay here more enjoyable and far less costly. I know the best brothels, the best taverns...”
“I am more interested in finding a room.”
“I know the best inns as well!”
Daasek considered. “We shall see. Take me to one. If I feel you have earned it, I will pay you one half crous for your trouble.”
The boy frowned. “You drive a hard bargain, master.” He brightened. “A half crous it is. You see,” he continued, walking next to Daasek, “I have already saved you money. With my assistance you are learning already to negotiate like a true Byrnhean! This way.”
* * * *
A short walk later and they were standing before an innkeeper. “I would like a room for the day,” Daasek said.
The man looked up, bored. “That will be two crous, paid now.”
“The normal rate is one crous, three days,” the boy spoke.
The innkeeper looked down and noticed the scruffy lad for the first time. “What is that dirty waif doing in here? Get him out, now.”
“I suspect the boy tells the truth,” Daasek said softly. “One crous, three days. Or I go elsewhere.”
“The boy is extra.”
“The boy is not staying with me. One crous, three days. Or I go elsewhere.” The innkeeper favored the youth with a withering glare, but whatever he was tempted to say was bitten back when he studied anew the muscular frame of Daasek. He sighed. “One crous, three days. But you pay now. And no refunds.”
Daasek handed him a coin. “Agreed.” Then he turned and ha
nded another to the youth. “For your troubles. You have earned your keep this day.”
The lad beamed and placed it carefully in his vest pocket. “Now that we have you roomed, master, where shall I lead you next? A most delightful tavern is just down the street.”
“One small service, and then I bid you leave. I am here on business and I wish to meet the most influential merchants in this city. Could you tell me their names?”
“Of course.” He rattled off a half dozen.
Daasek patted the boy on the head. “Thank you. Now, be off. I have work to do. Perhaps tomorrow morning you can help me again.”
“Yes, master, and may Phann and Iofhee both smile on you.” He turned to leave. “One moment, lad.” The boy stopped. “What shall I call you?”
“Partuk,” the boy called, then ran into the teeming streets.
* * * *
Daasek dipped the quill into the ink once again and continued his laborious writing. The shopkeeper had been quite surprised at his request. It was only after Daasek patiently explained that the wares were for his master, a visiting member of the Philosophers Guild, that he condescended to sell. Now Daasek was completing the Hangman's Charter, first committing the name of a rich merchant to the red contract, then his own. Several more refills and that task was over. Hot sealing wax was dripped carefully onto the lower right corner. Then he took the new ring and impressed it firmly. The image of three crossed swords and a crown appeared. All that remained was the name of the accused.
Daasek sat back and looked at the results, satisfied. He wondered briefly why the shopkeeper had been so surprised. Surely reading and writing were not talents assumed to be the province only of the Guilds. He thought back to the meeting with the Guild officer. Even he had been contemptuous. “Read them, if you can,” he had said. Where did I learn to read and write? He suddenly realized that if he found that answer, he would find many more.
The Thirteenth Magician Page 11
