As the Crow Flies: An Epic Fantasy Adventure

by Robin Lythgoe

  “Yes, I have the antidote. You are welcome. Am I hurt? Well, just a bit, but I hope to recover. All in a day’s work, but this day is starting to feel extraordinarily long. You wouldn’t—”

  Girl put her hand over my mouth, and when I tried to continue, she gave me a threatening look. Just a look! Luckily Tanris had taken the vial and gone already and did not witness the deterioration of my previously unshakable character. It would not do at all to have it get out that I could be silenced with a mere look by a mere girl.

  “Do you—”

  She shook her head and went to set a lantern on the table nearby.

  “I was just going to ask if you have the casing.”

  She nodded and pointed to the corner, where Not-An-Egg had incongruously curled up with the thing as though guarding it—and him hardly any larger. The little dragon watched me so intently I wondered if there was something wrong and how I might go about asking him, or interpreting if he happened to respond.

  The cutting away of the remains of my shirt sleeve brought a gasp, and I winced when I beheld the damage. Girl gave me a slightly terrified look. Wriggling my fingers proved difficult and painful, and I was suddenly more terrified than she. I needed that hand! Those fingers! What if nerves had been damaged? And—other parts critical to my profession?

  For a moment we all just stared. Then Girl wrapped my arm tightly in a cloth and pulled me to my feet. I didn’t need for her to tell me we were going to visit the Priests of Ishram. I had long suspected they were magic users in disguise, which bothered me deeply. Priests should be priests and wizards should be wizards, but... these particular priests served the god Ishram, the deity of health and healing. They have done much good in the world and are disinclined to political power or riches. More often than not they will cure wounds and sickness with practical sense and herbal remedies, but there are times when those cannot suffice. Such a patient is always heavily sedated, and who can say whether magic is used or if Ishram happens to be particularly benevolent to his devoted followers?

  Alas, I have never managed to discover the truth and this time proved no exception. The good brothers tranquilized me, skillfully tended my wounds, and then tucked me into bed to sleep the night away under their protection—a thought that makes my skin crawl, even now. If some scoundrel bent on murder should happen to breach their walls, what exactly would the kind, gentle brothers do to stop him? Love him into a coma?

  As I have previously mentioned, I try to avoid such exposure. I may not have mentioned that I occasionally make donations to their cause. It strikes me as a good practice. Precautionary. They did not decline the gold coins I offered them, and they have never asked for more. A curious lot…

  Upon leaving the hospice, I ventured into the Sunhar Market and purchased myself a new shirt. A lovely shade of emerald, the sleeves were loose enough to fit over my bandages. Naturally, I ventured a look beneath. The marks were pink and puckered and would no doubt leave scars. I disliked having such an obvious mark on me, but at least I could conceal it beneath my clothing. I was not just lucky, and I knew it as sure as I knew the sun rises every morning in the east. I made my way to several of the local temples, taking time to offer the appropriate gifts and gratitudes. One must never forget where their blessings come from, lest he find himself suddenly left alone in a brutally vicious world.

  At the market I picked up some fruit, some fresh-baked bread filled with lovely sweetened cheese, and a jug of kaffa, then made my way home. The scene that greeted my arrival was in direct opposition to the sunny, ebullient mood I harbored. In spite of the parlor’s open draperies, I was met with a distinct and overwhelming impression of sorrow.

  “Tanris? Girl?”

  Not-An-Egg lurched up to me, wings and expression drooping. He wrapped his arms (or are they called legs since he generally walks upon them?) and his wings around my leg and cried.

  “What is it?” I asked, setting down my things and coaxing him from my legs into my arms. I could not help grimacing as sharp claws bit into my skin. He was like a cat except with bigger hole-pokers. I contemplated outfitting him with boots and he pressed his teary, knobby face into my neck.

  Hearing a noise behind me, I turned about, completely ready to fling Not-An-Egg at my attacker, but it was just Girl. Tears reddened her eyes and nose, made her face puffy, and her hair was a mess. She waved for me to follow and took me to Tanris’s room, where he sat in a chair beside the bed. His face looked like Girl’s only worse, though he’d stopped crying and just stared across the room.

  A chill struck my bones. “Tanris?” I whispered.

  “You said you gave her the antidote,” he said, his voice toneless.

  “It was. It’s what Duzayan gave me last night.”

  He swallowed two or three times. “She’s dead.”

  “What?” The fears I’d entertained on our journey came rushing back to jab us all viciously in the gut. Tanris didn’t answer; he didn’t need to. Aehana lay still and silent upon the bed, her ashen features so bony and ravaged that it looked like she still must hurt, though not a breath disturbed her form.

  “He tricked me,” I breathed. “Again.” I almost laughed. Hysterically. “He meant it for me, Tanris. He’ll kill us both if he has his way.”

  I sensed a hardening in him. A fierce resolution. “He can’t have his way.”

  “No,” I agreed.

  Girl stood at the end of the bed, crying all over again. This time I could not be annoyed with her. Gently prying Not-An-Egg from my shirt front, I set him on the bed and went to Tanris. He turned his face away. I wondered what people said in a time like this, and I had not a single word of comfort or condolence to offer him. Drawing my lower lip between my teeth, I watched his profile for a moment or two, then put my hand on his shoulder. Much to my surprise, his own lifted to cover it and he squeezed tightly. I hoped it helped him feel better. My “better” had fled the moment I walked through the door, and in its place grew a steady, resolute anger.

  “This ends now.”

  :-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:

  I went to Duzayan’s mansion.

  For a long time I crouched on a nearby rooftop, watching the comings and goings—and there were enough of those to conclude he was looking for me and his precious egg. It takes a particular breed of man to plan physical or spiritual damage to another, to set such things in motion, to take pleasure in the pain he causes. How it must wither and blacken a soul, until nothing remains to be redeemed. How blind are they who trade their eternal spirit for a few short years of miserable, petty mischief.

  Duzayan had tricked me, stolen from me, hurt me. He’d humiliated and used me. He’d desperately wounded Tanris, a man who had patiently toiled at my side and given his best to keep me alive in spite of the odds and my own independent nature. No doubt Duzayan still meant to kill me—to kill us both—and then forget us like yesterday’s bath water. If I did not want us to die I must kill him first, and pray to the gods to preserve my soul.

  But what of the law? you ask. Men like Duzayan make and own the law, I tell you. Let me pose you another question: While Duzayan bribed and threatened his way to power, what of the Tanrises and Aehanas of the world? Duzayan wants a bauble? Well, then, by all the powers Duzayan gets his bauble, and what matter the backs and spirits crushed beneath his careless feet? I am neither hero nor champion. I have no such aspirations, but if I know the disease and if I have a chance—better than just a chance—of eradicating the problem, is it not my responsibility?

  For a truth, I resented every pain and every indignity suffered at Duzayan’s hands. By my own choice I would have had my vengeance on him, oh yes, but until I stood in the hall with Tanris and had to tell him his wife had been poisoned, and then I had to hear those dreadful, needless words that she had died, I did not fully comprehend the meaning of hatred, and that education birthed further resentment. I have never hated anyone, never felt the need for such extremity. I will not be made over in such a way
. I will not...

  Something about the whole situation continued to gnaw at me, but I could not grasp the problem. I needed to separate myself from the issue at hand, as I had always done with the jobs I took. Never get personally involved. It was one of the cardinal rules, but I was involved right up to the eyeballs. It had started with Duzayan’s wretched plan to catch me and force me to do his bidding.

  No… I shook my head slowly, it had begun before that and its beginning had nothing to do with me. I was merely a tool used to gain a particular prize—and a disposable tool into the bargain. Such a thing could rankle, for I had some pride and disliked the notion of being incidental, but there was something more here. What was the prize? A dragon’s egg. What did one do with a dragon’s egg? The common man might destroy it, cook it, preserve and mount it, sell it to... a wizard, of course, and what would a wizard do with such a thing? Not being a wizard, I had no idea. I recalled that the letters I’d taken had made mention of a particular “Blessing” (with a capital B), and how “the time” was drawing near. Four months, Duzayan had given me, but he would not have created a schedule so tight he had no room to maneuver, especially when it came to preparations for something momentous.

  What was it? I got up to pace back and forth, then promptly ducked down again before someone spotted me. Thank the gods of thieves and avengers, no outcry arose. Settling with my back to a convenient chimney, I returned to my rumination. What heavenly or earthly elements were especially significant within the next week or so? Never one to put much stock in astrology, I had no idea, and the clues included in the letters were not of much help to one as ignorant as I on the subject. Duzayan’s hidden chamber had held star charts; did they contain notations detailing the event? Clearly, I would have to go back and see for myself. What other treasures might the room reveal now that I knew—more or less—what to look for?

  Another incongruous detail bothered me. Duzayan had killed Aehana, would most likely kill Tanris, and had already killed me, at least for all practical purposes, for the poison in the vial had been meant for me. If not for the magic of the Ancestors I would be dead. Once the pawn was no longer useful, it was discarded. With extreme prejudice. But what of Tarsha? She was a puzzle. Her role had thus far been minor: seduce and deliver me. She still lived, and Aehana, who only happened to be married to one of the key players, had perished. She had, in fact, been punished far in excess of what her circumstantial role deserved. Clearly, Tarsha’s part in this play was not yet finished.

  Abruptly, I got to my feet and made my way down to the street, going into the building through a window and then taking the conventional path down the stairs. From there I went directly to the nearest temple, where I spent the remaining hours until dusk making my devotions—and never had I been more serious, more committed to the path I would take. If there had ever been a time in my life when I needed the blessings of the gods, it was now.

  And… well, possibly when I was being chased by the dragon. Twice.

  I returned to my apartment to collect my gear and to change clothes, and did not seek out Tanris or Girl. Not-An-Egg followed me about, taking occasional short, hopping flights with wings outstretched. I needed to pass undetected, which is trickier in the light of day, and so I assumed the guise of common laborer, which required another stop or three in Marketh’s magnificent markets where a man can find anything he needs at any hour of any day. The judicious application of a few rips and smears of dirt had me looking as common as a brick, and the city was full of those. My leather tool bag went into an unimaginative canvas sack, and off I went.

  I made my way again into the Litares District without incident. Several houses away from the baron’s I ascended to the rooftops, which allowed a speedier journey, though I had to be careful when I crossed the narrow garden areas between the stately homes. My arm still ached. I worked it for a few minutes, mostly to convince myself that it still functioned properly and I would be fine, just fine.

  Finally, I cast a grapnel out to hook one of the many decorative gargoyles standing watch on Duzayan’s roof. When none of them came alive, and nothing untoward happened, I fastened my end of the rope to a distinctive ornament, then checked the traffic below. I’d chosen the side of the building cast in shade this time of day, and when all was clear, I shinnied across the space, thankful to the god of crows that I was quick and agile and not afraid of heights.

  I did not immediately climb to the rooftop but, holding my breath, I reached out cautiously to touch the building itself, testing whether a magical barrier protected it. The shock when my fingers made contact nearly sent me tumbling to the ground. Green pain shot through my arm and set me to flailing. Thank the long list of gods watching over me, my legs tightened instinctively and I was merely left dangling upside down, swinging back and forth and casting savage aspersions upon Duzayan’s parentage. Whispering, of course, lest I draw unnecessary attention.

  Evidently he had taken extra precautions. Fine. I couldn’t go in that way, but plenty of people went in and out on the ground floor; guards and servants and guests—who also had servants aplenty, as I’d observed from the rooftops. One more servant equalled one perfect disguise.

  Still smarting, I hooked my arm over the rope and hitched back until I regained the opposite rooftop just in time to witness a pair of guards entering the garden. They took their sweet time meandering through, poking dutifully at the shrubberies with the ends of their weapons and stopping several times to chat. It was hard to believe the Baron’s Best didn’t look up and check windows, but their apparent security in the wizard’s spell was telling. They knew perfectly well a wizard employed them. The pay must be incredible. If not for a certain difference of opinion and a string of vile insults to my person and my intelligence, I might have reconsidered my choice to remain self-employed.

  When the Baron’s Sluggards disappeared around a corner, I reclaimed my grapnel and hung my gear down a chimney. Thank the god of spring, warm weather put all but the kitchen chimneys out of use until evening at the earliest. The situation called for an alteration to my plans, and I wasted no time contriving and executing one. As it turned out, I didn’t masquerade as one of the visitor’s menials after all, but one of the baron’s own servants. Their numbers made it easy to purloin the required livery, and they kept quite busy running back and forth and, in some cases, apparently in circles as well. I joined a modest throng of my new associates unloading baggage from a recently arrived carriage, taking a load that mostly blocked my view and therefore everyone’s view of me—and also nearly capsized me with its sheer weight. Someone relieved me of the topmost chest and we made our way up the grand staircase and through several halls. A vigorous valet issued directions and clapped his hands to encourage haste. I contrived to be the last one out the door, and took the first opportunity to fall in with another knot of servants going down another hall. I’d spent considerable time traversing the baron’s residence when I’d searched for the women, and I made my way to the stairwell with the hidden door without any trouble at all, though a few housekeeping tasks briefly diverted me.

  All those riches lying about—and I forced myself to resist them in spite of itching fingers, fantastic finds, and the ridiculous ease of acquiring them. I had a task to accomplish, and it would do me no good whatsoever to raise suspicions. With the business of the manor in full swing, the stairs were not as busy as they had been that fateful morning. I didn’t even need to create a diversion to give myself time to clamber up behind the familiar suit of armor, run my fingers over the dimly lit wall behind it, and find the catch to open the door. Chills ran over my skin. Evidently the spiders occupying that particular nook still reigned unchallenged. Such sloppy housekeepers the great baron employed! I waved my hand back and forth through the air, but it didn’t do any good. A strong desire to leave at once nearly overcame me, but I resisted. I had a mission to complete. I looked about but didn’t see a single spider. No rats, either, thankfully. Invisible, web-spinning rats would have b
een more than I could handle.

  — 34 —

  A Little Help From My Friends

  The door sprang open only a fraction, just as it had previously. I glanced up and down the stairs, then pushed into the little corridor and thus to the faintly lit interior. The witchlights still hung upon hooks fastened to the bookshelves, but this time I had to stop and press my hand against my chest as a strange knot formed there.

  Ours... Ours... the Ancestors breathed. We must free them! Let them go. Release... Release...

  “How are they ours?” I whispered, as if anyone could hear me in this vault of stone. Everything about the room held magic, a natural result of what Duzayan practiced there. Predictably, it made my skin prickle and itch worse than if a score of spiders skittered over me. I scratched. I shook out my arms. I looked down my tunic. Still no spiders.

  Old magic. Magic of the Mazhar. Not his.

  “It’s his now,” I pointed out drily, scratching my head with vigor.

  Not his! they repeated. Stolen. Acquired. Strategically relocated…

  So odd to hear them use my own words and phrases. “How do you know?”

  Patterns. Influence. Origin.

  My following had grown, I could tell by the weight of them, which seems a silly thing to say about either voices or spirits. “What do you suppose he uses them for?”

  They didn’t answer, and I doubted Duzayan used witchlights solely for illumination. Nothing was ever straightforward with him. And speaking of him, I knew I had best hurry to find what I had come for before he paid a visit to his cozy little library. Taking one of the witchlights, I went to the door in hopes of locking it. The latching mechanism was quite simple, which begged a question. “Why isn’t this room guarded or even locked?” I asked.

  Warded. Yes.

  “It is?” If that so, what was I doing inside it?