As the Crow Flies: An Epic Fantasy Adventure

by Robin Lythgoe

  That bit of description worked better than I had hoped it might. The housekeeper’s mouth struggled to contain a sneer. “Oh, him. I might have known.” She recovered her aggression swiftly. “Then why are you up here rather than on your way, boy?”

  Why indeed? “I came to get my cloak.”

  She walloped me again. “There are cloaks by the servant’s entrance for such things, you fool. Now be off with you before I take that mop handle to your thick head!”

  “Yes, mistress!” I fled down the hall as fast as I could whilst still toting the pouch, my mop, and the mostly-full bucket.

  Once clear of the housekeeping harridan, I made my way to the opposite side of the building. The windows there were nailed shut, too, and I spent precious time prying the nails out of another sash. Apparently the baron’s magical defenses didn’t extend this far, or he need not have wasted his time with anything so mundane as nails. Or maybe he’d tired of would-be escapees from his generous employ setting off his alarms. By way of reassurance, my earlier breaking and exiting had not raised a hue and cry, so I had no qualms about repeating the performance. I sailed my pouch with its precious tools and sundry other items out onto the rooftop next door, handily landing it against another convenient chimney.

  From there I descended to the third floor and made my way to one of the bedrooms I knew was in use. I knocked boldly, and when no one answered, I slipped inside. Going directly to the wardrobe, I rifled through the contents until I had assembled myself a new outfit, exchanging the servant garb for a white silk shirt, a finely worked navy tunic, fawn-colored trousers, and a pair of exquisite knee-high boots. They were a little big for me, but nothing an extra pair of stockings didn’t fix. They worked, too, to hide the parchments strapped to my leg, which I’d somehow neglected to add to the collection of wealth in the bag now resting on the roof of the adjacent mansion. I blamed it on the harridan housekeeper.

  I stashed the bucket and mop inside the wardrobe. Aside from the practical consideration of making it less obvious to anyone casually looking through the rooms, I treasured the imagined expression on the face of the room’s wealthy tenant.

  Availing myself of a lovely leather belt and sword, I stepped out of the room and nearly got myself run over as a detail of guards clattered past. “Whatever is that about?” I inquired of another of the hall’s occupants, a man well into his senior years. The two of us stared curiously after the soldiers.

  “I’ve no idea,” he confessed, “but it’s the second group in the last ten minutes. Did you not hear the first?”

  “Indeed,” I lied. I must have yet been on my way downstairs and managed to avoid the others, thanks be to the gods of evasion. “Do you suppose we’re under some sort of attack?”

  The old man turned to blink at me in dismay. “Goodness, I hope not. Perhaps we should consider… leaving. Just until the mischief-makers are rounded up, you know.”

  One could only imagine the sort of intrigue that had him wanting to make a dash for it at the first sign of trouble in the residence of his host. “Oh, I’m sure the baron and his men will have things sorted out in no time. He is a very competent man, and his guards are famous all up and down the country for their stellar efficiency.”

  “Well…” He took off his spectacles and polished them absently on one sleeve of his robe. Ettarian damask, unless I missed my very well educated guess, and worth a considerable amount of coin. The rings on his fingers boasted modest but handsome gems—amethyst, ruby, pearl, and—quite rare in this part of the world—lazurite. The gold-and-pearl pendant he wore around his neck would fetch a pretty penny, too, and make an attractive addition to any collection. Especially mine.

  I crossed the hall to stand next to him and peered after the disappeared guards. “I did hear tell of an attack upon Baron Mosson. Quite tragic. An entire troop of mercenaries launched an assault upon his home—right in broad daylight, mind!” The city of Marketh is littered with countless numbers of alleged nobility, and suffers a particular glut of barons—perhaps because they’re noble without being too noble, and can get away with their alleged nobility without anyone looking closely. I picked one of them out of thin air. I’d heard something about Mosson not too long ago, though the exact nature of it escaped me at the moment. The man had the worst luck, and it was entirely possible to believe nearly any story about him.

  “I had not heard!” the old man gasped.

  “Oh, yes,” I nodded. “The whole thing—well, after the assault itself—was kept very hush-hush, but apparently two of Mosson’s cousins and several of his guests were murdered in cold blood. One of his daughters was kidnapped, as well.”

  “Oh, dear, dear…” he murmured, twisting his hands at his waist. “How terrible. How terrible…”

  “It is. I don’t know whether the daughter was ever recovered. Her father must be distraught.”

  There followed a small, uncomfortable silence. “Perhaps I should go. I’m sure my wife would not be opposed to an early return from my travels.”

  “Do you travel often?”

  “Yes,” he nodded. “Oh, yes. Business and all.”

  “Your wife must miss you awfully.”

  “She has never truly been fond of all the trips I must take."

  I patted the old fellow on the back, loosed the catch on the chain that held his marvelous pendant, and smiled at him brilliantly. “There you go, then. Go home and see your lovely wife, and I shall make your excuses to the baron myself.”

  “You would do that?” he asked, blinking at me owlishly. He had forgotten to put his spectacles back on.

  “It would be my pleasure.” Smoothly pocketing the pendant, I offered him my hand. “Stenlis Throckbottom,” I announced, attaching myself to a wealthy and numerous family of merchants.

  “Of the Marimore Throckbottoms?” he asked. He had an admirable grip.

  “The very same! Do you know us?”

  “Who does not?” he smiled. “I am Tarold Rebster. You must give Denil my greetings. Are you one of his sons?”

  “Nephew,” I laughed.

  “Oh, I do apologize.”

  “Not to worry,” I patted his gnarled hand. “There are so many of us that even we have trouble keeping track.”

  “Yes, well.” He nodded. Twice. “I had best tend to my packing.”

  “Shall I find someone to help you with your things?” I inquired solicitously.

  “That would be most helpful. You are a dear boy.”

  It had been some time since I’d been a boy, but I supposed it was all a matter of perspective. Lord Rebster and the housekeeping harridan both had several decades on me. “It is my pleasure.” And so we said our goodbyes and thank-yous and well-wishes for the future, and I went to snag someone to go help Rebster hurry home before he missed his pendant.

  In spite of the dismaying crowd gathered downstairs in the hall that housed Duzayan’s business office, I had no trouble insinuating myself into his private domain. Easing through the assembly, I availed myself of several particularly captivating bits of jewelry and a tiny knife with a gem-encrusted hilt. A clerkly-looking man guarded the door, peering anxiously down the hall with the rest of the sheep—er… guests and associates of the baron. I bumped into him rather hard, which dislodged him from his post, and turned to scowl at a large man in a crimson coat.

  “Some people,” I muttered under my breath, then turned to the startled clerk. “So sorry, I didn’t mean to run into you. What’s going on, do you know?”

  “I—really can’t say,” the clerk murmured, looking suspiciously at the red-coated fellow.

  “We’re not under attack, are we?” I asked in a voice that wasn’t quite quiet. It had the desired effect of startling nearby gawkers, and the information quickly spread through the crowd.

  “Oh. Oh, no!” the clerk exclaimed. “No, not at all.”

  “Under attack?” someone inquired. “Are we?”

  “What’s happened?”

  “Is there fighting? I�
�m sure I heard fighting…“

  “Entirely possible,” I put in, adopting an anxious look. “It wouldn’t be the first such thing. Did you hear about Mosson?”

  “Mosson!” someone exclaimed, and just like that, rumor and speculation came to my rescue. The gods truly do watch out for me. While the clerk frantically tried to calm people, I slipped into the baron’s office and closed the door.

  Taking in a deep breath, I puffed out my cheeks and let out a noisy sigh as I glanced about the inner sanctum. Or maybe it would be more correctly labeled as his “outer sanctum,” as the hidden room was much more “inner” than this. While I had admired the room and its contents on my previous visit, circumstances had altered my perspective. More bookshelves decorated the space as well as a desk fronted by two exquisitely crafted chairs of the Kegharti Dynasty, a sideboard with several expensively crafted wine decanters, the globe I had previously noted, and many other valuable items that simply begged adoration and relocation.

  Unfortunately, I had no feasible way of transporting them, so I settled for helping myself to some of the wine, drinking straight out of the decanter rather than risking further poisoning from the goblets set on an engraved tray nearby. Who knew what preparations a wizard made for unwanted guests and enemies? I dragged the globe over to the desk to examine at my leisure. It was a beautiful thing, cleverly pieced together with seams too well joined to discern. Perfect scrimshaw delineated all the countries of the known world, outlined mountain ranges and described bodies of water. Brown dye worked into the scores defined the delicate grooves. Tiny, flawless gems marked the seats of power. It was perfect, it was unique, and I wanted it.

  As wondrous as the thing was, it couldn’t occupy my attention forever, and I eventually went to fetch a book from the baron’s well-stocked shelves. Seated in his chair, which was delightfully carved with all manner of birds and would have looked quite impressive in my own study, I propped my feet up on the desk and settled to reading “The Compleat Adventures of Iastysuir Knirinarn, King of Namende”—wherever Namende was. I couldn’t find it on the globe, and thankfully didn’t have to pronounce the count’s name aloud. In any case, the book held my rapt attention for three entire chapters and part of a fourth before the door to the office opened.

  I marked my place with one finger and looked up to give Duzayan a winning smile. “Busy day?” I asked.

  A muscle in his cheek twitched as he closed the door behind him. “I might have known you had something to do with it.”

  “I can’t imagine why. I’m supposed to be long gone.”

  “And yet, here you are.” The decanter I’d set near to me on the desk received a considering look, then he went to the sideboard to pour himself a drink. He had no qualms about using the goblets.

  “Where are they?” I asked, referring to the ladies I had spent so much time and effort looking for.

  “Not here,” the baron returned, and whatever seething thoughts he’d been entertaining disappeared behind a knowing smile. “As I’m sure you’re well aware by now. And your misplaced heroic delay could prove to be—shall we say “painful”?”

  I should like to have leaped up and beat him about the head with one or two of his perfect decanters. As it was, a knot clogged my throat. What if Duzayan punished Tarsha for what I’d done? Suddenly, the jewelry secreted about my person seemed foolhardy in the extreme. Still, giving him the slightest inkling what I might think or feel would be poor strategy on my part. I lifted the decanter and took a swig of wine too exceptional to treat so casually. Setting it down, I reached for a daintily carved reed pen. Only someone as rich as Duzayan would spend his coin decorating something so disposable. I turned it around in my fingers, then tapped it with apparent absence on the edge of the desk. “Neglecting this little visit would have proved more so.”

  “Oh?”

  I nodded. “You gave us money and a map, but no antidote for your clever little poison.”

  He appeared pleased. “You do not disappoint me.” Going to a cabinet behind his desk, he removed a small vial. How utterly vexing to discover it was so close. “I am glad sentiment hasn’t clouded your good sense.” Remaining on the opposite side of the desk, he set the container down and slid it across to me.

  I held it up to the light. A silver-colored cylinder, it was decorated with miniature leaves around both top and bottom. The cap, which screwed on, provided a loop through which to pass a chain or cord. “How does the poison work?”

  “Very simple really. With the aid of a small spell, it will remain in your system until your scheduled return. Two tiny drops of the antidote per day will keep the poison from growing and spreading throughout your body. There is, by the by, enough of the antidote to last four months exactly. When it is gone and there is nothing to retard the growth of the toxin, it will spread quickly. You will be nauseous at first. The nausea will become progressively worse and more painful. Then your muscles will begin to disintegrate. Your death will be fairly slow and wildly excruciating.” He smiled, delighting in his sense of theatrics and horror. He was exceedingly enamored of himself.

  “So it has been growing all through the day.”

  “Indeed.”

  “And what if I had not come back for the potion?”

  “I would have been grossly disillusioned, and you would die.”

  “And you would have had to engage the services of someone else, thus wasting a valuable commodity. And here I thought you were efficient. Smart, even.” Uncapping the vial, I took a sniff. It smelled strangely like mushrooms. Dubiously, I tipped it up to allow one drop to roll out onto my fingertip. It looked like muddy water and tasted horrendously bitter.

  The baron watched with patent amusement. No doubt he’d planned the flavor carefully. “If you were too stupid to request the antidote—or even the nature of the poison—you are too stupid to be in my employ.”

  Capping the vial and tucking it away, I snorted a small, indelicate laugh, though I felt not even one iota of humor. “A test, then.”

  Duzayan shrugged, and I closed the distance between us, hiding my horror in a careful examination of the wizard’s elegant clothing. I rested one finger on a lacquered and gold button, automatically calculating its worth. It would feed me—comfortably—for at least a week, and seven more of them paraded down the front of his velvet tunic. “Very nice,” I murmured.

  He moved around the desk and took his seat, his expression ever-so-faintly smug. “You really should be going,” he reminded gently, setting his elbows on the desk top and steepling his fingers.

  I nodded, wondering if he could read or sense in any way the sheer hatred directed his way. If not for Tarsha and the need for the cure for the poison, I would dearly love to see him burst into flames on the spot. “Supposing I actually return with this mythical dragon’s egg, do you plan to cure me or kill me?”

  One elegant brow lifted as he considered, then he shrugged. “That rather depends on you. Your talents have a great deal of potential.”

  I couldn’t help but bristle at the insult. I would not stand for it. Except… I didn’t have much choice. “You are offering me a partnership?”

  He laughed. “Careful, Crow. You fly a very fine line.”

  “I don’t work for anyone,” I pointed out, bridling my indignation.

  “On the contrary, you work for the highest bidder.”

  “As an independent contractor, not a common laborer.”

  “You would do well working for me,” the baron said, a musing look on his features.

  “Or, on the other hand, you would do well working for me.”

  He waved a dismissive hand. “You couldn’t afford me.”

  “No?”

  “If you had that kind of coin, you wouldn’t need to be… contracting.”

  I offered him my best, most charming smile. “On the contrary,” I mimicked. “I have been doing this for a long time. If the highest bidders are paying me, I won’t be running out of coin soon. And if I am collecting for
them, why not for myself as well?”

  Duzayan’s eyes narrowed, and a sliver of fear stabbed through me. Foolish Crow, taunting a wizard.

  “And what items of mine have you collected whilst scampering about beneath the very noses of my guards?”

  I held out my hands. “I haven’t got one single item from your truly magnificent collection of rare and precious things, although,” I pointed to the globe near his chair, “I would really like to have that.” I did not lie. My new collection resided safely on a neighboring rooftop, not on my person.

  “Empty your pockets,” he said.

  I made a show of rolling my eyes, and upon the desk I set an emerald ring and two small but precious bracelets. Then I turned my pockets inside out to show there was nothing more.

  He looked at the jewelry for a long moment. “Do you know who these belong to?”

  “Not a clue.”

  “I think you should leave before you get into any more trouble.”

  “I don’t suppose you’ll tell me the components of the poison in return for those?” I asked, nodding at the jewelry.

  “In return for those, no. In return for the egg, possibly.”

  “Ah.” I wondered if my smile was as faint and lackluster as I imagined. “And Tarsha?”

  “Bring the egg,” he shrugged carelessly and took a sip of his wine.

  “You are not very easy to bargain with.”

  “I don’t have to be.”

  “True enough,” I sighed, and turned to go. My hand was on the door latch when Duzayan spoke again.

  “One more thing,” he said, and got to his feet to return to the small cabinet from which he’d retrieved the antidote. He held out a small, black leather bag.

  I looked at it suspiciously. “What is this?”

  “Consider it a gift.”

  “Ah, yes, because you are so kind and generous, gifting me with beatings, prisons, poison, kidnapping, insults…”