Facing him, also seated in a lotus position, was his good friend and companion Rashad Ib'n El-Hijab, of late a priest of Hidor, Lord of Waters. The shaved head and depilated face as well as the glittering silver-blue robes marked him as a priest of the innermost circle, with access to powerful enchantments of his own. Rashad, too, had been many things, chief among them an advisor to Haram El Nessir, the blessed king of Rammas, this City of Wizards.
Had the stone coverings over the windows been raised, Derbas could have looked over the fabled magical city, seen her many towers rising into the brassy sky above the orderly streets below. Across the city to the south brooded the King's palace, with its shimmering white walls and mighty bastions. To the north lay the towers and academies of other schools of wizardry, the tallest of which, the necromancer's shining black-marbled pinnacle, was only a few spans shorter than Derbas' own.
The golden tower of the Academy of the Seen and Unseen was the tallest minaret in all of Rammas, a city that lay atop a honeycombed plateau some four hundred feet above the pitiless desert below. It was therefore the tallest tower in the world, unless one believed in the legends of the Dreamer's Tower. Derbas believed in the legend, true enough, but in his secret vanity he doubted that even that ancient dreamwoven pinnacle, if it yet existed, stood as high above the land as his own.
Derbas had long been the greatest of all illusionists, the master of this academy, and a past master of the Art of deception. He looked into the silvery mirror and saw something not to be feared, perhaps, but certainly something that must be dealt with.
"How many do they be?" Rashad asked him, his voice losing nothing of its solemnity. Many times in the past Derbas had seen his friend lose his priestly composure, for Rashad, even more than himself, was given to emotional excess. They were cousins, after the Araqueshi fashion, for they shared a common great grandfather. More than that, however, Derbas thought of Rashad Ibn Al-Hijab as a brother, a companion in arms, and a dear friend.
"Six." Derbas replied. "They come beneath the warded halls as we speak."
"Are they so arrogant that they think you keep no watch?"
"Not arrogant, but ignorant after their manner. The Brizaki have for so long been the sole masters of their particular Art that they think no other form of wizardry can best them." He indicated a portion of the mirror where two armored figures walked in front of the four others. "You see? The two in front carry staves of concealment, meant to thwart any art of scrying. They do not know that there are other realms to perception beyond simple Seeing."
"How do you see them, then?"
"Always there is the realm of Dreams and the realm of Thought. Alone or together those realms could give me only a guess at the identity of those who come below. But in their hearts they seek to deceive, and Deception is a realm of its own. It is the kindred realm of Illusion, of which my humble self am master. It is pitiable to aspire to enter the fortress of a deceiver by deception." Derbas shook his head and gave his friend a wry grin.
"So what can be done about them?"
"There are many things I could do." Derbas told his friend. "Most grossly, I could order twenty of my eunuchs to slay them as they walk there. I doubt even armored Brizaki could stand against a score of the zealots of the summer brotherhood. I could weave an illusion of terror that even their magic could not hope to counter and slay them in their hearts. I could simply shift their perception of the halls around them so that they wander fruitlessly for days beneath the city until they tire of their mission and leave. I could even lodge a complaint with the king that there are trespassers beneath the Academy and have them arrested."
"You have considered all of these things and yet you are not doing them."
"No." Derbas replied simply. "I am not."
"So what are you doing?" Rashad insisted.
"I am watching them and pondering the more important question. What is their purpose?"
"Have you reached a conclusion as to that purpose?"
"I have not, so I still watch." Derbas' eyes glittered beneath his thick, dark brows.
Chapter 29 : On Torth Island
"Luck," Levin's father had once said, "runs in streaks. The trick is knowing when luck is running with you and when it isn't. When you've got the luck, press it. If you don't, get out." Of course, Hambar D'root had been talking about battles during one of his ineffectual attempts to teach Levin something about the longsword, not dice or cards. Still, the lesson had been well received, if not for its intended purpose, and Hambar's youngest son had learned to apply this maxim in many different endeavors. This evening he'd been on a lucky streak, and he'd come to the conclusion that it was over. It was time to get out.
He was hunkered down behind a wall of pasteboards, his sole armament against the assaults of four similarly situated opponents a single King of Cups. The rest of his four cards were shit, and he'd already discarded and drawn twice. No one was going to come to his rescue. The battlefield was a green and red plaid cloth set over a low wooden table, and there were fifteen gold coins, three of them his, laid out on the field of contest as spoils to the victor of this hand. He might be able to bluff his way clear on this pot, but after that he would call it quits.
The tavern was the Grimacing Harlequin, a cosmopolitan sort of place, with a roughly even mixture of soldiers, sailors, merchants and the chance nobleman. Good food, better wine and scantily clad serving wenches served to enliven what would otherwise have been a rather drab building, set a few blocks in from the waterfront. The front of the tavern was on a side street, and its out of the way location meant that few patrols ever came to see what was happening here, at least not while on duty.
To Levin’s left sat a brooding Mortentian soldier, blond hair cropped short, wearing the livery of a customs inspector. A forgotten sword sat in a well-worn scabbard at his hip. Across from him sat Jack and Jacko, two richly dressed merchants with thick purses he'd trimmed already to the tune of three Mortentian gilders. He could scarcely tell them apart in their obese, dark-bearded sameness. Jack had two bodyguards while Jacko only had one, or maybe it was the other way around. They might have been brothers to look at them, although they claimed to be unrelated. To his right sat a priest of Lio, although only by the sad patience in the way he sat and the mellifluous sound of his voice would you have known it. Priests were forbidden to gamble, and the thin ascetic man had shed his robes and donned a simple, obviously new blue tunic for his night in West Torth. His carefully manicured hands belied his profession, as did the bowl cut hair and the meticulous cleanliness of his face.
Thus were arrayed the lines of his opponents, but it was not from them that he sensed it was time to leave. It was the man who was not playing, a broad-shouldered man with waspish hips and a slightly effeminate face who had walked in moments earlier. Levin recognized the man from his days in the King's Town, as Mortentia City was called, and Levin knew his name as well as that of his father and grandfather.
Beall Whittheath was not a nobleman himself, not by birth anyway, but his father was Dennikem Whittheath, a vastly wealthy merchant who sold furniture in the Suzerainty, the noble quarter of the King's Town. Beall's grandfather was also a furniture seller, as well as once a good friend of Hambar D'root, Levin's father. As a young nobleman, Levin had accompanied Beall Whittheath on many excursions into the gambling dens and vicehalls of the King's Town, and the rich merchant's son had freely joined Levin in throwing money away in their adventures. When Levin's money had run out, so had Beall.
Beall knew Levin well, and Levin knew it wouldn't be long before he recognized him, despite his adopted disguise of a close cropped and almost shaved head, tan skin and beard. Once Beall saw it was Levin, he would inevitably want to talk about it, and word would rapidly spread.
The last thing Levin needed was to be recognized here, in Torth, when he had spent so much time trying to get away from all of the troubles of the King's Town. Despite the fact that nearly half of the money he'd won so far tonight lay on the table
in front of him, Levin knew he could risk no more time at the gambling table.
"I fold." Levin announced in a near whisper to his companions.
"It's not your turn." Jack or Jacko, one of them, protested.
"Shut up." The Mortentian soldier said loudly. "Light! If he wants to fold, let him!"
"Aye, so long as he leaves the pot alone." Added the priest humbly.
"Take it, fellows." Levin replied, backing into the shadows of the dimly lit tavern. "And good evening to you all."
Levin's attempt to escape into anonymity was foiled, however, by the sudden appearance of none other than Shelderim D'Cadmouth, third son of the Duke of Elderest. In backing away from Beall, Levin had stepped onto his lordship's right foot, protected only by a light silken shoe. Shelderim was dressed in a red wool tabard and tights, and armed with a long sword. He was not used to being stepped on by sailors, and his dark features tightened in anger.
"You unwashed filth!" Shelderim yelled as Levin turned. The nobleman raised his fist. "Get your stinking beard out of my face!"
The shock of recognition temporarily stunned Levin, and all he could do for the moment was stare.
"Say!" D'Cadmouth announced suddenly, his face altering suddenly from anger to a sort of knowing arrogance as he peered intently into Levin's face. "I know you! You're the spawn of that worthless lord D'root! We've a warrant for you!"
Levin, hearing his father insulted by the son of his enemy, reacted in the manner that the young nobleman, used to deference, least expected. Rather than attempting to protest his identity or flee, he simply drew back his work-hardened right fist and punched Shelderim D'Cadmouth squarely on the point of his chin. The months spent manning the salt-soaked ropes of the Sally's High Touch had put strength in Levin's shoulders and stretched the hide over his knuckles like well-tanned leather, and the blow sent the pompous lordling flying into the table.
Pieces of gold and silver flew across the floor, and in the midst of shouts of protest the lamp was blown out. In the milling confusion of bodies sprawling on the floor and hands scrabbling the dark for loose coin, Levin fought his way to the door and out into the busy streets of West Torth. A cacophony of harsh curses followed his fleeing form into the reveling crowd, but no pursuers, thanks be to Lio.
In his haste to leave the tavern, and with a thought that he might have to defend himself, Levin grabbed the long, thick neck of a wine bottle as he staggered out into the street. Fortunately the sudden darkness and the noise seemed to confuse the normally reticent patrons sufficient that no one attempted to bar his way or even question his hasty departure. Not that anyone asked questions along the West Torth waterfont anyway. Purloined bottle in hand, he ran out of the side street and in the direction he vaguely remembered the waterfront to lie.
The moment’s panic over, Levin reasoned that running into Shelderim D’Cadmouth and Beall Whittheath had most likely been a matter of chance, not intent. Certainly Shelderim had seemed as shocked to encounter Levin as he had been. The likelihood of Shelderim’s hirelings finding a simple, nondescript seaman among the throngs that would rise in the morning along the sea side was small, especially if Levin made an effort to lay low.
With a sigh of relief he pulled the stopper on the wine jug with his teeth and took much needed refreshment. Then he began walking toward the waterfront, seeking the Sally’s High Touch.
It took him nearly an hour to find her, as he purposefully avoided asking anyone for help. The streets of West Torth away from the taverns were nearly deserted anyway, this late in the evening, so it was easy to avoid being seen. When he finally found the Sally’s High Touch the eastern sky was faintly tinged with blue, and the stars were fading.
The night watch had gone below decks to sleep, and Levin made ready to board, intending on sleeping away what was left of the night and the better part of the next day. The presence of D’Cadmouth in the city meant he would have to avoid leaving the ship, even though it likely meant missing a chance to see the city with Coril Jemms as he’d promised.
He cursed bitterly, a dark and unbidden rage welling up within his soul at the injuries done him by the damnable Duke and his spawn. He was more than a little drunk, for he’d made liberal use of the bottle he’d taken from the Grimacing Harlequin, and it was nearly empty.
As he stumbled onto the Touch he saw a black profile lying just to the east, a bulky silhouette against the coming morning. He recognized her immediately as the Wanderer, Duke D’Cadmouth’s favorite ship and the largest in his merchant fleet. Undoubtedly Shelderim had come on the Wanderer to Torth, and likely Beall as well.
Now even staying above decks on the Touch would be unsafe, he realized, for the Wanderer had a higher foredeck than the Sally’s High Touch, and from there any watcher could easily look over her decks.
A rage and a sense of deepest injustice, heightened by his drunkenness, assailed Levin. Then his teeth clacked numbly together in a drunken grimace of such wicked purpose that he surprised even himself, for he had an idea.
An idea of revenge well suited to a son of Hambar D’root.
Ownership of a merchant vessel was as good as owning a province, wasn’t it? The owner of a vessel held the ability to issue commands to its crew, to exact a profit like a tax, and was in all ways the lord of it. Many merchant ships could make more money in a few trips to Torth than the owner could expect from a fine dominion. By the Abyss, Levin thought, the Wanderer undoubtedly brought the Duke of Elderest more income annually than he could expect from an unprofitable holding like Root’s Bridge.
To Hambar D’root and his small family Root’s Bridge had been everything, but to the Duke of Elderest it was just another small holding to be taken in a long list of acquisitions. The bastard duke had stolen Root’s Bridge, leaving Levin and his brother fugitives, and he plotted to kill the brothers to put his claim beyond dispute.
Let him feel what it meant to lose something.
Despite his drunkenness, Levin retained his basic stealth, so it was a small matter to ease his way into Parry Meade’s quarters. Lifting the mate’s keys from their place on the floor took a little more clever stealth, but Levin was equal to the task.
Opening the hidden compartment where the missiles of fire were kept was no challenge, nor was removing a single cloth wrapped bundle, which Levin cradled delicately so as not to spill its contents prematurely.
Before he could think the act through, before he allowed himself time for reflection, he found himself in possession of one of the clay jars of fire. He had the good sense to return the mate’s keys before he hurled the missile high into the rigging of the Wanderer, and he watched it only long enough to see it explode, raining fire upon the deck of the sitting ship, before he returned stealthily to his hammock below decks.
The brilliant white burning of Duke Elderest’s prize ship lit the night like an untimely sun, and did not stop until the water took her down. The panicked shouts of Elderest’s men as they vainly tried to stop the burning lulled Levin into sleep. A sleep blackly peaceful with the satisfaction of having taken back some of his own.
Chapter 30: Eastern Muharl Ogre Territory
Beneath the thick canopy the forest was as dark as a tomb under a leaden sky that spoke an as yet unfulfilled promise of rain. The winter deer had stripped the leaves and smaller limbs from the trees to a height equal to the tallest buck standing on hind legs, leaving an open hall beneath. There was no underbrush, and the floor of the forest lay beneath a thick, soft carpet of leaf, needle and bits of rotting bark. So it was that even from a short distance only the deep-throated panting of the ogres could be heard as they raced, a pell-mell gallop on huge pumping legs that carried the promise of death if they slowed, even a bit.
Of Gutcrusher’s band, only four remained. Gutcrusher himself, running in the lead position and cursing his followers to keep up or die, Balls, Wolf and One-eye. They were running from Skullbuster’s nine, now ten with the addition of the faithless Fleshripper. Gutcrusher might have sto
od and fought, despite the numbers, but behind Skullbuster’s band followed the Hounds, five hands of veteran ogres intent on the destruction of Gutcrusher and his boyos.
Here’s what happened: After the raid on the Auligs, Gutcrusher and the other four had returned to the territories intent on riding Gutcrusher’s luck. Word traveled fast to the other bands that Balls had stuck a zeek, and such a thing hadn’t happened in living memory; or even in legend, for that matter.
Rather than earning the admiration of his kind, or praise for his luck, Gutcrusher was disappointed to find that envy was the prevailing reaction. Envy and a determination to take his luck by taking his head. Fleshripper, miserable creature of thwarted ambition and malice that he was, went and told Skullbuster where the Crusher was to be found, and agreed to join in the hunt for his rival. The pursuit began around sunrise, and had led over stony brook and thorny heather, across early summer pastures and now into this deep forest.
Around midmorning the hunt had cut the path of a roaming pack of the Hounds, and upon a quick and expletive laden explanation of their intentions from Fleshripper or Skullbuster or one of those bastards, the Hounds had decided to join in the fun, if in a bit more leisurely fashion. They strung out far behind Skullbuster’s nine in a loose skirmish line that prevented Gutcrusher from doing any backtracking.
This was how the Hounds hunted, and thus their name, for once on the trail of prey they could hardly be shaken. It was a matter of reputation.
Balls was having trouble keeping up. Grey-haired and toothless, stooped and worn, the old ogre had been raggedly panting after only an hour of hard running. Four hours later and his tongue was lolling, his eyes rolling up in his head, and his lungs had a wheezing rattle in them reminiscent of strangulation. Wolf and One-eye were, like Gutcrusher, prepared to run until dark if need be, and they were for leaving Balls behind, although Wolf wanted the blacksteel spear the old ogre carried.
War of the Misread Augury: Book One of the Black Griffin Rising Trilogy Page 28
