The Thirteenth Magician

by Patrick Welch

  Daasek nodded.

  He smiled and set his instrument down. “We'll be leaving early, I hear. Would you mind if I rode with you tomorrow? Perhaps you can tell me about those extra verses.”

  Daasek rode guard. It was very uncomfortable, and solitary. The latter suited him. He considered briefly. “You won't enjoy it but you are welcome to try. But I make no promises about the song.”

  “Fair enough.” The boy yawned expansively. “Tomorrow, then. By the way, my name is Alegro. A great name for a musician, is it not?”

  Daasek shook his offered hand. “Patch, Daasek,” he corrected quickly.

  “Stick with Patch,” Alegro whispered. “No one in this caravan uses their real names anyway.” Then he walked off toward his tent.

  * * * *

  Daasek took a small sip from his canteen, then urged his horse forward. He was at his accustomed spot, patrolling the outskirts of the caravan. Everyone in the caravan had an assigned task, except for the few rich merchants who paid their way. The minstrel entertained, cooks cooked, blacksmiths smithed and he, like so many others, guarded. It was, he admitted, the only task he was suited for and he didn't mind it except when the winds came up and sand cut into his face and arms. You can't get any uglier, Patch, the caravan master had argued reasonably, and Daasek had reluctantly agreed. There were dangers along the trail. The Garan desert was vast and unfriendly. No man called the wasteland home, no pleasant oases awaited to reward determined travelers. You survived with what you carried or you survived not at all.

  Yet the sands hid other dangers beyond heat and thirst. Great sand lizards, large as a steed, could hide in the dunes and explode on their quarry at any time. Natural disasters like sandstorms and sinkholes occurred occasionally. Roving bands of outlaws preyed upon the unwary. Yet it offered the fastest route between widely scattered inland cities and great profits for the merchants who dared it.

  A bow and arrow banged uncomfortably on Daasek's shoulder. They had naturally assumed he was expert with one and he had not told them otherwise. He just prayed he would never have to prove his lack of ability.

  “Patch, hold please.” Daasek turned. Someone was riding hard to reach him. It was the minstrel Alegro. “Good morning. Lovely day for admiring the view, isn't it?” he asked when he pulled up.

  Daasek had forgotten the end of their previous conversation and was startled to see him. “Since when have they posted you on guard duty? You have no weapons.” The handsome lad laughed. The wind blew through his uncovered head, tangling his thick hair more than normal. His silver mandolin was strapped to his back and the strings sang softly to the touch of the breeze. “If there is an attack by bandits or sand lizards, I will do what I always do when danger beckons. I'll run.”

  “A sensible response.”

  Alegro rode next to him. “You don't mind? You said I could ride with you last night.”

  Daasek thought back, then nodded reluctantly. “I don't object. But if you are seeking conversation, you may be disappointed.”

  The lad smiled. “I can talk enough for two, I assure you. I've never been across the Garan desert before. I hope to see a sand lizard before I'm through. I was taught a song about a sand lizard once. Would you like to hear it?”

  For the next several hours, Alegro proved the reality of his boast. “Have you remembered any of those verses yet? About the one-armed sailor or the boy who rode the warback?” he suddenly interrupted a lascivious tale—filled with countless variations—about the adventures of a traveling farmer and a merchant's daughter.

  “No. I slept the sleep of the rock last night.”

  “How unfortunate. Perhaps you will remember by the time we reach Brayf.” “Perhaps.”

  They rode in silence for several hundred kines before Alegro spoke again. “What happened to you? If you don't mind my asking,” he added hastily when Daasek glanced at him.

  Daasek considered, then decided that the information mattered little. “A magician. He played a cruel trick on me. I do not like magicians much.”

  Allegro shrugged. “And the magician?”

  “He is dead.”

  Alegro was silent another moment. “There is a song in your tale. Truly,” he offered finally. The minstrel draped the reins across his horse's neck and retrieved his mandolin. He struck a chord. “This is the tale of Patch the warrior, who crossed a magician and,” he stopped, then grinned. “And made him feel sorrier!” He strummed the instrument and laughed. “I can make you famous in every tavern and brothel along the Horean Sea. You must tell me the details!”

  “I don't remember them. Not all of them,” he admitted.

  Alegro rested his instrument on the pommel of his mount and regarded Daasek. “You don't remember verses, you don't remember this great battle. What do you remember, Patch?”

  Daasek reined his horse and gazed across the desert. “Not as much as I would like,” he said softly.

  “Methinks you have been ensorcelled.”

  Daasek looked at him suspiciously. Krujj had told him as much. But no one else. “What do you mean?”

  “I apologize. I presume too much of our friendship.” Alegro's fingers flew across the fretboard, spinning out a melody that disappeared quickly in the wind. “But I have met men like yourself during my travels. Believe me, Patch, I have been all over this world and seen many things you can only guess at. When men lose their memories, they lose their souls. But I think I know someone in Brayf who can help you.”

  Lose their souls? The comment of Aletia came to mind, but before he could analyze it they heard a sudden uproar behind them. Both turned and saw the rear guard suddenly battling with a giant sand lizard.

  Without hesitation they charged towards it, but by the time they arrived, several well-placed arrows had already dispatched the creature. Yet it had not died alone. A shattered horse and mercenary lay beside it. “What happened?” Alegro asked one of the guardsmen.

  “It came out of the dune like lightning.” He shook his head. “Raouhdi was in the arms of Hys before he could defend himself.”

  Daasek glanced at the dead man. The lizard had nearly chewed off one arm and half his face, but still Daasek recognized him. It was the man who had threatened Alegro the previous evening.

  The caravan master rode up, irate at the delay. “What by the seven sisters of Iofhee has happened here?” He was more angry by the time the tale was finished. He looked down at the dead man and swore. “What type of fools are the Guild accepting now? I pay good wages for vigilance and they send me someone who trips over a sand lizard? Well, I won't hold our wagons to pay final respects to an idiot. Patch, you and,” he pointed to Alegro, “minstrel. I don't know why you're not in your wagon, but so be it. You two bury him. And watch yourselves. They usually live in pairs.”

  * * * *

  “Iofhee must be watching over us.”

  Daasek rose and brushed the dirt from his hands. “Why?”

  Alegro stepped back and studied the hole. “Looks deep enough.” He returned his attention to Daasek. “Because we rode right by it. It could have attacked us.”

  Daasek said nothing as he pulled the nude body to the grave, then unceremoniously deposited it. “The Lady has never been kind to me. We must make our own luck, the gods have nothing to do with it.”

  Alegro paused briefly with a handful of sand. “Perhaps.”

  After they finished the burial, Daasek removed the saddle from the dead horse and slung it angrily on the back of his own. “Can you carry his clothes?” Alegro nodded. “Go back to the caravan. I'll have to stand his watch now, and I won't have time to be bothered by you.”

  Alegro hesitated. “I'm sorry if I have offended you. Some people have said I have a mouth as big as a warback's.”

  Daasek forced an apologetic smile. “True, but that's not the reason. I have much to think about. I would rather be alone.”

  Alegro nodded. “Perhaps we can ride together again tomorrow. I still want the words to those verses!”
r />   “We can discuss that tonight.”

  * * * *

  But they did not. Daasek avoided Alegro for the remainder of the trip. Instead, he spent the time pondering the latter's remarks. Yes, he was sure he was ensorcelled. And Alegro said he knew someone in Brayf who could help him. To remember? To free him of the spell?

  And something else troubled him. As the caravan neared the port, he felt the urge rising again. His next victim, he was certain, had to live there.

  When they finally entered the great trading port of Brayf, the caravan had been on the desert three months. Theirs had been a fortunate journey. Save for the one slain by the sand lizard, there had been no attacks by man or beast and only one mild sandstorm. The Merchants, the Mercenaries, the Usurers and most notably the caravan master were in high spirits when they reached the marketplace.

  “You have all done an excellent job,” their leader began, calling his men around him. “You of the Mercenaries Guild will find your wages waiting for you at the hall. Other guards can get theirs at the paymaster's wagon. Now listen,” he yelled before the men disappeared into nearby taverns and brothels. “We will be forming another train with a load of salt and rare linens to be taken up to Orna. I will be pleased to have any of you join us. We will be leaving within the week. Report here if you are interested.” He smiled as the party disintegrated. Despite their protestations, more than one, he knew, would have wasted their wages by then and be in want of work.

  * * * *

  Daasek waited patiently while the paymaster counted out his funds. “Twenty, thirty, forty crous,” the member of the Usurers Guild said, setting each carefully on the table between them. He smiled sagely. “Not bad wages for such an uneventful trip.” “Thank you.” Daasek stuck them in his purse.

  “We'll be leaving for Orna soon. Perhaps you will join us?”

  “I suspect not, but I appreciate the offer.”

  “We are also accepting investors. If our next trip is half as profitable as this, you could earn a handsome return by helping to underwrite it.”

  “I don't expect to remain in Brayf that long.”

  The man remained nonplused. “You can receive your profits through any Usurers Guild office.”

  “Thank you, no.”

  The old man sighed. “Keep us in mind if your fortunes change.”

  Daasek nodded and walked away. Most of his erstwhile comrades were discussing which tavern they would invest their wages in. He had more pressing concerns. “Do you know where the minstrel went?” he asked one.

  “Who? Oh, the singer boy.” The man was already half into his cups. “He's probably somewhere pretending to work for his supper now.” He cackled. “Why, do you miss him?”

  “He owes me money. If you see him, tell me.”

  “Next time make sure he pays before he beds you,” another called as he walked away. Daasek ignored the gibe. He had to find the musician. Alegro might be the only man who could help him.

  He spent the afternoon visiting the many taverns and wineshops that littered the market area. His appearance aroused comment often but Daasek refused to retaliate. Emotions meant nothing to him, so why should mere words? And he didn't want to waste the time to buy more concealing clothing since he did not know how long Alegro would linger in Brayf. So he remained dogged in pursuit of the musician.

  Phann was already rising when he suddenly heard a familiar melody. It was the song of the warbacks Alegro had played at the campfire. He followed it and found himself in a small square. A handful of people were standing and watching as a ridiculous character dressed in a patchwork outfit made from various shades of orange cloth danced and strummed and sang. A hat sat on the ground before him, but as of yet it held few coins.

  Alegro flashed a smile when he recognized Daasek but quickly returned his attention to the crowd. Daasek opened his purse and removed the crous he had received that morning. He walked up and dropped them all into the collection cap.

  Alegro looked at Daasek, startled, and the verse he was singing ceased abruptly. He turned to his audience. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he improvised grandly, “I thank you so much for your bountiful kindness. Yet my patron has just arrived with a request from the palace, so I must bid you my leave.” The crowd, unimpressed, quickly made their way from the courtyard. Alegro counted the coins slowly, then stared at Daasek. “I never knew you were such a music lover, Patch. I thank you.”

  “Do not call me Patch,” he replied. “My name is Daasek. I want your help.” “Of course, most generous patron.” He bowed deeply. “How can this humble servant honor your largesse?”

  “You said you knew someone here who could help me. Take me to him.”

  “To him? Hmmm. To him I can take you not, but to help I can naught but take you.” He put the coins in his purse and donned his cap. “This way, master.” He strode purposely down the street, nearly forcing Daasek to run to keep pace.

  They half walked, half ran through crowded streets for the next half hour. Alegro said nothing and Daasek had nothing to say. Passers-by commented on the minstrel's clothing and Daasek's scarred body, but all were ignored. Lamps were lit and the streets had changed from mud and stick to stone and brick when Alegro finally stopped. “Wait here. I will see if I can arrange an audience.” He opened the gate and strode into the courtyard of an imposing old house.

  Daasek looked around the streets. The aristocratic section of Brayf to be sure. He suspected that every house held its own Mercenary guards, and there were probably patrols as well. He hoped Alegro hurried. He did not want to discuss his presence with inquisitive police this evening.

  Alegro reappeared shortly. It looked as though he had gone through much on Daasek's behalf because his face was ashen and he was panting. He leaned against the gate as if recovering from a long foot race. “You may enter,” he gasped after a long moment. “I must wait for you here.”

  Daasek nodded and walked up to the door.

  “Just go on in. You are expected.”

  Daasek shrugged and opened the door. The interior was well-lit, surprisingly so since so little light shone through the windows.

  “Enter the room on the left,” a hoarse voice called. “I will be with you shortly.” Daasek felt the urge suddenly flare within him, causing him to shake violently. He had found the next magician. He took a deep breath, then withdrew his knife and did what he was ordered.

  The room was furnished all in maroon, from the curtains to the carpet to the furniture. It brought back memories of Krujj and he shuddered involuntarily. He took a seat on a large stuffed chair by the back window and waited, cradling his knife in his hand.

  A figure clad in a purple robe entered. Daasek nearly jumped as the urge flared again. There was no doubt. This was the magician he would be forced to slay.

  “You are Daasek,” the hoarse voice said.

  “Yes.”

  “I am Roaine. I have heard much about you. Would you like some tea?” His host threw back the cowl and that was when Daasek first realized he was not facing a man at all, but a very old, very frail woman. She studied him with interest and bemusement. “You do not need the knife,” she nodded at the weapon in his hands. “I cannot harm you. Would you like some tea?”

  “No thank you, madam,” he said when he finally regained control over his tingling nerves enough to speak.

  “How uncivilized.” She bent over a tray and poured herself a cup. She stirred it thoughtfully, still standing. “But then, you are an uncivilized man.” She waved her hand. “But it is not your fault.” She sat down carefully. “Alegro told me some sorcerer had you under his spell. Is that true?”

  “I don't know,” he said, trying to ignore the drive within. It was important he learn as much as possible before the urge forced him to murder. “I was hoping you could tell me.”

  She blew on her tea. “You are.”

  Daasek stirred, both from the urge and sudden hope. “Then you can remove it?” She laughed. “Oh my heavens, dear Daasek, no. Y
ou are ensorcelled by the most powerful mage on this planet. Only he can remove the spell.” Her humor vanished. “And I rather doubt he would.”

  “Then you can't help me.” He began to rise.

  “I didn't say that.” She noted his discomfort caused by the rage within. “Sit and relax. You're as excitable as a farmboy visiting his first brothel. Are you sure you wouldn't like some tea?”

  Daasek shook his head.

  “Where do I start, where do I start?” she mumbled to herself. Finally, she snorted. “From the beginning, I suppose. Tell me ... what do you know of the Thirteen Spheres?”

  Krujj had referred to thirteen spheres, Daasek remembered. “They supposedly are in control of our world.”

  “Not supposedly; they are. There are thirteen Spheres of Power that rule our universe. A committee, if you will. Each has a representative on this world. Representatives are granted powers, magical powers, to help them carry out the tasks assigned by their particular master. Or god. Or Sphere of Power. Whatever concept you feel most comfortable with. The magician who controls you represents one of these ‘gods.’ As you have imagined, I represent another.

  “For the most part, the Thirteen balance each other. For the most part, they are not in conflict. It was not always this way, as our own history demonstrates.” She flashed a smile, then grew serious once more. “Ours is considered one of the lesser worlds. Most of the ‘gods’ pay little attention to us.

  “One, unfortunately, has. The one that controls the man who controls you.” “Agent and tool,” Daasek said softly.

  “What was that? You'll have to speak up. I'm getting old and hard of hearing.” “Nothing,” he replied loudly. “How does he control me?”

  “It's quite simple,” she said, blowing on her tea. “He stole your soul.”

  * * * *

  Daasek sat back and closed his eyes. The memories of Aletia, clasping him with icy fingers, then falling away from him, screaming, came unbidden. You have no soul. “My soul,” he said finally.