by Dan McGirt
Whiteswab stays clean because the city fathers strictly enforce ordinances against littering, noise, profanity, untucked shirts, and a host of other practices. The penalty for most infractions is swift death by hanging. Whiteswabbers think themselves better than other Darnkites because they bathe daily rather than biannually, as is the normal custom. Other Darnkites think Whiteswabbers are uptight and waste too much water.
In Whiteswab I hoped to learn more about this supposed ten million crown price on my head. Inhospitable as it was, the town was a way station for the trickle of travelers making the trip between Darnk’s eastern capital of Ordure and the kingdom’s other city of Offal. If the answers were to be found in Darnk, they would be found here.
I was halted at the edge of town by a smiling Sanitary Police officer. He wore a white tunic and was armed with a clipboard and an iron mace.
“Where are you from?” he said insolently. He had to know there was only one possible point of origin for a traveler approaching from the north, but I went along with the charade.
“Lower Hicksnittle.”
His smile grew strained right on cue. “What business do you have here?”
“I’m just passing through.” Everyone was just passing through Whiteswab. Who would want to stay in such a place?
“Why don’t you go around? We don’t want your kind here.”
“I want to get a room for the night and a stable for my horse.”
The guard scoffed. “A stable for both of you, you mean. Got any money?”
My purse was filled with Lombardo’s silver. I jingled the bag, then flipped the officer a coin. He bit it to test its authenticity and pocketed it, shaking his head. “A Hicksnittler with silver—that’s a rare sight. Probably got by thievery, but no matter.” He grinned evilly. “Still, you’ll have to bathe before I let you pass.”
Two large bald men with smiley-face tattoos on their heads emerged from the guardhouse, yanked me from the saddle, and tossed me into the small pond by the road. Grinning, they leapt in after me with steel brushes and cakes of lye soap. In a few minutes I was as clean as anyone in Whiteswab. The guard sold me freshly pressed pants and a shirt of cheerful yellow while the bath boys burned my old attire, gleefully stomping the vermin that ran out of it to escape the flames. When I had dressed and combed my hair, use of the comb costing me another silver coin, the guard opened a gate in the white picket fence that surrounded the town.
Whiteswab had perhaps four hundred inhabitants. Their shops and houses, all whitewashed wooden buildings, were arranged in neat rows along freshly swept cobblestoned streets lined with precisely trimmed hedges and plots of bright flowers. Every pedestrian was properly dressed and pleasantly smiling. I left Lombardo’s horse at the public stable, took a room at the Whisk Broom Inn, and headed for the main tavern, the Spruce and Span.
I scanned the crowd as I entered. The common room bustled with efficient activity as pretty serving maids in demure green dresses brought steaming platters of roast veal, venison, and other viands to the tables along with large mugs of tomato juice and mineral water. Alcohol was outlawed in Whiteswab. There were some twenty patrons present, dining and drinking sullenly despite their legally mandated smiles. I knew they were all wishing for a good jack of stale rutabaga beer like I was. A pair of Sanitary Police sipped buttermilk at the bar and kept an eye on the proceedings.
I spotted a prospective informant drinking alone at a table on the far wall. Olive-skinned and small-framed, he had long hair and a neatly trimmed beard, both the color of coal. His eyes were hidden by odd mirrored spectacles that reflected the light of the lanterns hanging from the ceiling. He wore a gold leather jerkin over a suit of purple. A high-collared scarlet cloak clung to his shoulders. He looked like a man who had been many places and knew many things. I approached his table.
“May I join you, stranger?” I said with a friendly smile. He tilted his head so that the glasses slid down his nose and studied me with dark green eyes. The intensity of his scrutiny made me uncomfortable and I wanted to glance away, but couldn’t. He lifted his bushy eyebrows and frowned thoughtfully, as if seeing something he didn’t understand, then shrugged and gestured for me to sit.
I beckoned the nearest serving maid as I settled into my chair. “What are you having? I’ll buy you another.”
He smiled and swirled the light amber liquid in his thin crystal wine glass. “I brought my own. Cyrillan Goddess.”
That was the rarest and most expensive wine produced in the Eleven Kingdoms, legendary for its intoxicating powers and supposedly made by magic from grapes of divine origin which grew only in the sun-drenched, southernmost kingdom of Cyrilla. I glanced nervously at the two Sanitary Police officers and ordered a large carrot juice.
“I’m Burlo Stumproot,” I said, just to be safe.
“I’m Mercury Boltblaster, of Caratha.”
Caratha was known as the City at the Center of the World. Geographically speaking, this was true. Our world of Arden was a great disk floating in an infinite void of space; Caratha, built beside the fair waters of the Indigo Sea, was at the center of the disk. But the appellation was also accurate whether one referred to the city as a political, commercial, military, or cultural center. The world revolved around Caratha in more ways than one, and a Carathan should be able to tell me much.
“What brings you to Darnk?” I asked.
“I’m avoiding powerful enemies whom I hope won’t follow me here to the armpit of the world. I’ve been pursued through the rest of the Eleven Kingdoms; I figured I might as well finish out the tour.”
“I see.”
“Did you know that only seven of the Eleven Kingdoms are actually kingdoms?”
“No, I didn’t realize that.”
“It’s true. Zastria is a republic, Stive a theocracy, Xornos an oligarchy, and Ganth is ruled by a military dictator. Why then, do we call them the Eleven Kingdoms?”
“I suppose it would be inconvenient to speak of the Seven Kingdoms and Four Other Assorted Nation Forms.”
“I suppose it would.”
Enough small talk. It was time to get some information. “Perhaps a man so widely traveled as you has heard something of the great reward for this Jason Cosmo,” I said, trying to sound casual.
“What of it?” he said, sipping his wine.
I was momentarily stunned, not expecting such a casual response to my casual question. I’d hoped the name would mean nothing to him, proving Lombardo to be deranged. “News here is often incomplete,” I said quickly. “Who is this Cosmo? Who posted the bounty?”
“They say he’s sought by a consortium of merchants who have pooled their resources to offer the reward. Their agents wait in every significant city, authorized to grant a letter of credit for ten million crowns to whomsoever brings him in, dead or alive. It’s set off the largest manhunt in history.”
The serving girl brought my juice and I took a deep draft while I thought the matter over. Obviously, I was not the Jason Cosmo this consortium wanted, but with ten million crowns at stake I could expect frequent trouble from greedy bounty hunters confusing me with my mysterious namesake. It might be expedient to change my name, though I’d have to come up with a better alias than Burlo Stumproot. “They want him badly,” I observed. “What has he done?”
“I don’t know,” said Mercury. “I hear he’s a fearsome warrior who eats babies for breakfast, drinks blood like wine, and has a harem of she-demon lovers. Tall tales, no doubt. He’s either the most terrible rogue ever to walk the earth or he doesn’t exist at all.”
“How could he not exist?”
“It doesn’t take much effort. Suppose this whole business is an elaborate charade designed to distract attention from some dark plotting. Post a reward, spread rumors, and human nature does the rest. The legend grows. That’s what I think—I mean, you never even heard the name Jason Cosmo until this past year, did you?”
“Ah… no.”
“A strong hint that the man is a f
able. But an attractive fable. The best in the bounty hunting profession hunt this phantom.”
“Like who?” I felt a leaden ball of dread forming in the pit of my stomach.
“Like BlackMoon and the Red Huntsman. They are both rumored to be in Brythalia now. They’ll sweep Darnk next, I suppose, though this is the last place I’d expect to find anyone of importance—including myself.”
I nearly choked on my juice. I had heard of BlackMoon and the Red Huntsman. Arch-rivals, they had reputations for utter ruthlessness. Each would do anything to bring in his man before the other. BlackMoon, according to the stories, could see in the dark and hear a whisper a mile away, while the Red Huntsman used a pack of huge wolves for hunting dogs. If Lombardo had found me, they would.
They were not the sort of men I could easily toss down a well. I was definitely going to change my name.
“But enough of that,” said Mercury. “Are you a farmer hereabouts?”
“Yes. Turnips.”
“I see.” He smiled sarcastically. “And how is this year’s crop looking?”
I started to reply, but noticed my companion was no longer paying attention. He was staring intently at the entrance with his mouth drawn taut. He pushed his spectacles back in place and I turned to see what had caught his eye.
Three soldiers wearing black tunics had entered the tavern. They weren’t Sanitary Police, and didn’t look like regular army. I wasn’t sure Darnk even had a regular army. The emblem on their bucklers was of crossed black lightning bolts, a sign I didn’t recognize. They fanned out as they crossed the room, hands on the hilts of their swords. The Sanitary Police at the bar went for their maces, but froze at a sharp glance from one of the trio, not knowing what authority the newcomers represented.
Mercury sprang to his feet and spread his arms wide.
“Take him!” barked the leader. “And his contact too!”
I realized he meant me and tried to get up, but Mercury’s outstretched arm prevented me. The soldiers drew their broadswords and charged across the room. A serving girl screamed as she was knocked to the floor, spilling a tray of full mugs. Patrons whipped their heads around in confusion. The Sanitary Police lifted their maces, but still weren’t sure who to attack.
“Shield your eyes!” hissed Mercury. I obeyed as the room was filled with a flash of intense white light from my companion’s face. Shouts of dismay went up as everyone else in the room was struck blind. My own vision was filled with hazy colored spots, as if I had just looked directly at the noonday sun.
“What happened?” I asked, speaking loudly to be heard over the outraged shouts of the patrons. The owner was shushing urgently, not wanting to lose his business license on a noise violation.
“Sunshades,” said a blurry image of Mercury. “The sunlight which the lenses absorb by day can be released in several different ways at my command. But the effect is only temporary. You should recover in a few minutes.” He tucked the sunshades under his cloak.
“Are you a wizard?” I asked, utterly amazed by what I had just seen. I had never witnessed an act of magic, never met anyone who practiced that art. Darnk had rather unprogressive views on things arcane.
“Good guess, Burlo. What gave it away?” Mercury’s clothing seemed to have turned uniformly black. This worried me, but I didn’t mention it, hoping my eyes would clear up soon. He grabbed my arm. “We’d better go—they’ll want you too.”
“Who will? What’s going on?”
“I’ll show you.” We crossed to the door in quick strides, threading our way carefully between the blinded soldiers, who swung their swords wildly in an effort to strike us. We stepped outside together and were met by seven swordsmen dressed like the ones inside, their weapons gleaming in the light of the street lanterns. The leader was a swarthy, heavy-set man with gold braid on his shoulder.
“I think we went the wrong way,” I said, blinking.
“Not at all.”
The leader laughed arrogantly. “Mercury Boltblaster, it looks like I’ve got you this time—and a League lackey to boot. Isogoras will be pleased.” Two more soldiers emerged from the tavern behind us, having entered from the back to seal the trap. We were surrounded.
“This is Dylan of Ganth,” said Mercury, as if describing an odd specimen in a zoo. “He’s an idiot hired by Isogoras the Xornite to capture me, a task hopelessly beyond his competence.”
“Who’s Isogoras the Xornite?”
“A member of the Dark Magic Society, of course.”
A chill ran down my spine at his mention of the dreaded Society. The Dark Magic Society was an ancient, secret order of evil wizards who plotted to conquer all the Eleven Kingdoms, unleash the demons of the Assorted Hells to walk the world of men, and probably raise taxes as well.
Granted, we didn’t see much direct evidence of the Society’s activities in Darnk, but we knew they were out there, eternally scheming. What had I blundered into?
A heavy net with barbed weights enveloped us from above and two more men leaped down from the roof of the Spruce and Span to shove us to the ground. “Your insults are empty bluster now, wizard!” said Dylan.
“The sad thing,” said Mercury, “is that he probably thinks this is clever, just like he thought all his other plans were so clever.”
“Clever enough to net you!” Dylan was getting red in the face.
“This is the most weak-minded excuse for a capture I’ve ever encountered,” said Mercury.
“Shut up, wizard! Shut up! I’ve had enough of your needling!” Dylan aimed a sharp kick at the kneeling wizard, but it failed to connect as the net flew off of us and wrapped itself tightly around the mercenary, the momentum throwing him to the street.
“Kill the bastard!” screamed Dylan, flopping on the pavement. “Kill them both!”
Dylan’s men closed ranks as Mercury and I got to our feet. We stood back to back and waited for one of the Black Bolts to make a move. Ten against two were not promising odds. I assumed Mercury would use more magical power to extricate us from the situation, preferably by turning all the Black Bolts into frogs. I understood wizards to be good at that sort of thing.
“I can’t afford to use more magic right now,” whispered Mercury. “It might attract unwanted attention.”
“We have plenty of unwanted attention anyway.”
“Trust me. We’ll just have to hold them off until the local authorities arrive.”
“They won’t help. We’re disturbing the peace. They hang you for that here.”
“They do?”
My eyesight was back to normal, but I didn’t like what I was seeing. The mercenaries were toying with us, shifting position to keep us guessing where the attack would come from. Dylan continued to roll about and scream insults at Mercury.
“Yes. They do. Of course they’d probably burn you, you being a wizard.”
“They still burn wizards here?” He seemed amazed.
“Yes.”
“How quaint. That changes things, of course.” He weaved past the nearest man’s guard and dropped him with an upthrust hand that shattered the soldier’s nose and knocked him senseless. Spinning in place, the wizard brought down a second mercenary with a rib-crushing kick, ducked under a flashing blade, and broke a third man’s sword arm while snatching the sword from his grasp. It was an incredible display of speed and skill.
As Mercury disemboweled a fourth man and half-severed the arm of a fifth, a trio of Black Bolts came at me. I scrambled away from them and found myself backed against the wall of the Spruce and Span, dodging the deadly swings of three swords. “You’ve got to do better than that!” said the wizard. A fallen soldier’s sword and shield flew into my hands.
“Wasn’t that magic?” I said, clumsily blocking a blow.
Mercury ran a soldier through and engaged another as he said, “Yes. You looked like you needed help.”
“Use more!”
“Sorry.”
A Black Bolt grazed my arm, drawing blood. I swu
ng my sword, threw myself off balance, and barely recovered in time to avoid being beheaded.
“I don’t know how to use these things!”
“Learn fast.”
I would never have learned fast enough to save myself. A squad of Sanitary Police charged into the fray, swinging their heavy maces and forcing my attackers back. I dropped the sword and shield and tried to look peaceful.
“Let’s go!” said Mercury, finishing his opponent and grabbing my arm. He pulled me around the corner into an alley, where we found fourteen saddled black horses.
“I figured Dylan’s men would leave their mounts nearby,” said Mercury. He quickly selected the two strongest looking.
“My belongings are still…”
“Forget them.” The Sanitary Police were coming our way. I saw the wisdom of his suggestion. We mounted and rode out the other end of the alley at a full gallop, jumping the picket fence and heading west into the forest. I was full of questions, but it seemed best to hold them until we made good our escape.
* * *
3
We rode hard for twenty minutes down the dark forest road, finally slowing our pace when we realized there was no immediate pursuit. The Sanitary Police and the Black Bolts were evidently too busy with each other to worry about us.
“I think we’re clear,” I said, looking back.
“Excellent,” said Mercury. “Now you can tell me who you really are.”
“What do you mean?” I asked, afraid the wizard was reading my mind. “I’m Burlo Stumproot, humble and confused turnip farmer.”
“Nonsense. I’ll grant your peasant disguise is a good one, but you must be from the League.”
“What league is that?”
“The League of Benevolent Magic, of course, though we both know your vaunted benevolence is but a sham.”
“I don’t even know what you’re talking about.” Actually I had heard of the League of Benevolent Magic, an organization of good wizards dedicated to combatting the evil Society and working to make the world a better place through the power of magic, but I knew very little about them. All magic was considered bad in Darnk and had been ever since the wizard Gorgibund the Ghastly had laid waste to the whole kingdom after being insulted by King Septic I two hundred years ago. Until that time, Darnk had been a scenic, if rough-hewn, little kingdom popular with wealthy vacationers from the south. But the land had never recovered from Gorgibund’s devastation and its permanent ugliness was a constant reminder of the awful destructive power wizards could wield. So was the massacre of Black Bolts I had witnessed in Whiteswab. I would have to speak carefully.
