Dissuasion. Small. Modest. Uncomfortable.
That explained my earlier urge to flee, though I couldn’t imagine Duzayan doing anything modestly. I turned my attention to my task, knowing the exploration was going to hurt. Steeling myself, I started with the maps and star charts stored in leather tubes. Blessedly not magic in nature, I had no difficulty opening them, and I searched as swiftly as I could through the collection, the witchlights illuminating my task. The little breezes indicating the Ancestors brushed across me now and then, ruffling papers, and I had the distinct impression that two or three of them looked over my shoulder. No astrologer, I was uncertain what I sought. A sense of movement accompanied the impression of a new presence beside me. Soft whispers banished questions and confusion, and I set aside charts without conscious decision.
“There.”
There.
The eerie echo made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up, but I could not let it distract me from my purpose. The diagram at which I gazed had notations in the borders that I could clearly understand, along with pictures and formulas I most assuredly could not. Their author was a wizard, after all, and well-educated. And I? An erstwhile street rat who had managed to find a way to steal his own rather limited tutelage. Knowing I faced a brilliant mind with the teachings of all sorts of scholars and magic at his fingertips gave me a moment’s deep and icy pause. But... Duzayan was not beloved of the gods.
Shrugging off the unwelcome sense of impending doom, I pointed at a figure depicting two narrow, vertical rectangles with another horizontal across their tops and faint lines extending from the bottom in a ray pattern. “This looks like the engraving on my pendant.” The pendant I wore even now.
A portal.
“What does it mean? A doorway… where? To what?”
The Ancestors did not know, though they recognized a few of the other symbols. The old seer, they murmured. Jelal fir Baris. A pathway. Power. Danger…
Putting the extra cases away, I pushed Duzayan’s things aside to spread my find out on the table, and kept it from curling up with carefully chosen weights. A look at the floor-to-ceiling, cram-packed shelves filled me with despair. “I don’t have time to look through all these. I’m not even certain what I’m looking for!” I moaned.
The chill, moist touch of the Ancestors brushed my cheek, then riffled papers and scrolls. In an instant they turned the room topsy-turvy. Books flew off the shelves, thumping and banging, pages flapping; small items crashed to the floor; herb bundles tied to the ceiling beams swayed and burst apart; a handful of feathers tipped out of a bowl and whirled in the sudden maelstrom.
“What are you doing?” I squawked, throwing my arms up to protect my face.
Searching. Reading. Looking! Finding!
One massive tome came barreling from behind me and landed atop the chart with a puff of dust and a panic of pages. Another skidded across the floor and crashed into my foot. One page turned, then another and another.
“Stop!” I hissed, horrified at the instant disaster. “How are we going to put all this back the way it was?”
Not, came a whispering chorus of refusal. Look. See. Learn.
“And then what?”
Run.
“Oh, very helpful!” I snapped, assaulted by nightmare images of my impending death. Flicking a feather off my chest, I glared at the open pages of the volume sitting atop the chart I’d pinned down. In the center of the page, very nicely decorated in a frame of curling vines, was an artful rendition of the portal. It almost made me jealous.
The Wycked Gate, Derivation of the Ancient Portals, I read. The discovery of these alternate passages came about as the result of experimentation and expansion upon an old work. The result is a gate or a doorway to an alternate plane. Thus far, it appears to be connected to a specific location. Repeated exercises result in a view of the same plant and animal life, though the latter departs extremely from the familiar. Hadelfia’s research on the demons inconclusive. Of the dozen demons drawn through to our side for study, four died of unknown causes, four were executed, three succumbed to common poisons, one escaped. A later, large-scale trial by Parabrach of Vadrima proves the beasts intelligent and quite hardy with exceptions as noted below. Conflict ended in disaster for both parties. Succeeding studies suggest the possibility of control by way of intimidation; most effective in the case of “Ragnus Cruendithar.” Use of the Wycked Gates was subsequently banned, various sources citing extreme hazard, lack of usable dragons, Gate instability, utilization of prohibited blood magicks. Ingredients for preparatory elixir as follows.
“As follows” included items listed in an unrecognizable language. Little fits and spurts of wind continued to ruffle the disarray. Other than that it was silent as a wretched tomb. Did Duzayan plan to use Egg for control or an ingredient in the spell? I reread the words twice, then found an innocuous reed pen to mark my place so I could look at the cover. Compendium of Theurgic Formulae. “A what?”
Collection. Treasury.
“Yes, yes, a collection of formulas. What kind?”
Sorcerous. Wizardly. Dangerous arts.
I flipped the thing open again and took a step back, considering. Crouching, I had to squint to read in the shadow cast by the table.
“He’s… going to open a gate to another world and let monsters through. Is that even possible?” Unbelievable, certainly. This was the stuff of fable, and I was caught in a horrible dream. By the immediate reaction of my invisible companions, it was no joke.
Deceiver! Madman! Ruin in his hands! Loss! Loss, oh loss! they wailed, shrieking wildly around the room in such a frenzy that I fell to the floor, arms over my head to protect myself from injury. Images flashed through my mind’s eye, filled with promises of terror and devastation. I struggled to find my own voice, to shout at them to stop, stop! And they labeled Duzayan mad…
Even when they stilled, their agitation quivered through the air, weaving through me. I lay there trembling with distress.
I know not how long I lay on the floor before another book came fluttering across the room like an awkward, weighty bird. It landed in front of me, scant inches from my protective arms. A few pages turned, then it settled. I stared at it a moment in trepidation, then slowly sat up, wiping a hand over my face and then attempting to restore tidiness to my person and equilibrium to my senses.
Dragons possess a natural immunity to wizard’s magic. The contents of an unhatched dragon’s egg, combined with an as yet unknown ingredient of the Anneraen species of flowering plants, is used to create a magically enhanced concoction which it is said (in the tomes of Rothak Korsis the Great, which have been recently uncovered and translated) will make a wizard invincible.
Invincible? Wasn’t he formidable enough already?
Bracing myself against the sting of Duzayan’s magic, I tore the pertinent pages loose from the books and rolled them up with the chart. I stuffed them all into one of the map tubes and slung it by its strap over my shoulder. Why did I believe the sibilant, agitated voices whispering in my ears? I did not, entirely, but they had not yet lied to me. Duzayan, on the other hand, had done little else. Clearly, he would do anything at all to achieve the power he sought, no matter the innocents he destroyed along the way.
I looked about for some sort of sack, but nothing presented itself, so I went about the room touching various small chests until I found one that wasn’t too painful to bear. Emptying its contents on the floor, I transferred all the witchlights into it. “Is there anything else here I should take?”
The Ancestors rustled a bit, but offered nothing intelligible. Fastening the chest shut, I looked about for something to use as fuel. I spied an entire collection of bottles in which floated various nasty things: little eyeballs, bones and wings and leaves and berries (possibly) and all sorts of objects I could not even begin to identify. I didn’t want to. With a sense of extreme revulsion, I picked the emptiest and least noxious-looking jar I could find and carefully pried the stopper fre
e. The smell of the preserved berries (surely they were berries...) made me choke, but the preservative in which they floated was exactly what I needed: alcohol.
Grimacing eloquently, I emptied the contents over the books and papers. It was a gag-inducing, eye-watering experience. I followed that dispersal with another, generously—nay, gleefully—soaking all kinds of arcane parchments, charts, books and paraphernalia it must have taken a lifetime to collect. Maybe several if Duzayan was as profligate with other men’s lives as he was with ours. The alcohol ran into some other liquid from one of the broken bottles and produced a cloud of pink colored vapor that sparkled and snapped and twisted. Clearly, it was time to vacate the chamber.
I hurried to the door to peek out. The crackling of the sparks was noisy and made it difficult to listen for anyone on the stair. All seemed quiet, so I set the chest down near the door and returned to my task. Making use of a fire starter box on the baron’s table, I struck sparks over the alcohol-soaked papers—which went up in a flash that nearly scorched my eyebrows off. I stumbled backward.
The strange pink cloud billowed overhead and slammed against the ceiling. Dust fell. The Ancestors literally picked me up and shoved me toward the door, and I hit the ground running. Grabbing up the box of witchlights, down the stairs I galloped, careened around the corner and—nearly ran smack dab into his Royal Pain in the Backside, the Baron himself. My heart hurtled up my throat and straight back down again.
Duzayan’s eyes widened. “Crow!” he gasped, displaying fine observation skills as well as a talent for coordinating surprise and speech.
The first of my list of rules was to avoid direct confrontation. The second, when the first could not be helped, was to evade capture, and the third advised setting the opponent off balance. That was easy. On the stairs I had the advantage of elevation. Of course he reached for me, as any opponent worth his salt ought to do. Years of training and practice came to my rescue. I ducked instinctively and twisted aside, slamming the chest at his groin as hard as I could.
Pain and shock made me stumble, and my own surprise nearly undid me until I recalled that neither feeling belonged to me.
Duzayan gasped and doubled over, his fingers catching in the tabard I wore and dragging me down. Were I a bigger man, and had I remained inside the loose cloth, my story would likely have ended in an instant. The chest tumbled out of my arms and crashed against the wall. I crashed against the hard stone of the landing, wriggling out of the tabard and nearly losing an ear in the process. The strap from the tube didn’t make things any easier. I kicked out violently. Something crunched. A strong desire to survive kept me in motion. I clambered to my feet, grabbed the chest, and pelted up the stairs through the strangely tinged and horrendously malodorous smoke pouring out the door that was no longer hidden.
“Fire!” I screamed when I rounded the corner and encountered someone else coming down. A clerk of some sort, perhaps. I did not stop to ask, but sprinted right past him and kept running.
:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:
“Do you know these symbols?” I asked, laying out on the table the fresh parchments upon which I had copied Duzayan’s charts.
“No,” Brother Ozan lied, looking them over swiftly and shaking his head.
He’d been one of those who’d worked to heal my arm. An evasive lot in general, I’d still hoped they could accomplish a simple translation without me having to resort to threats of violence. I heaved a sigh of disappointment and glanced down the length of the refectory. It was empty but for a few workers at the other end, one mopping the floor and the other scrubbing a table. Evening meal had ended and the good priests of Ishram had already gone back to their business. The sick kept notoriously bad hours.
“It is probably idealistic of me, but I had hoped that members of your house were actually honest,” I murmured.
“I beg your pardon? Are you accusing me of lying?” Of all the nerve!
“Yes.”
He got abruptly to his feet and stepped over the bench, long robes artfully managed. “I’ll have to ask you to leave.”
“You can ask. You can even insist.” I did not move, but watched him most seriously. “I might respond by loudly proclaiming your dishonesty and, by association, the dishonesty of your peers.” Doing so would help the Ishramites not at all, for the prosperity of their healing centers depended not only on their talents, but on their reputation for modest living—and honesty.
“You would not be the first to insult us. We have survived the injury of vindictive tongues before.”
“Yes, I suppose you have.” I mused for a little space on how the relatives of those whom the brothers tended might dislike occasional unfavorable results. “Let us dispense with this ridiculous game, Brother Ozan. You and I both know what the Order of Ishram is and it is pointless to argue.”
“We are healers,” he said with utter conviction.
“I know. Have you and your brethren also survived accusations of wizardry?”
His hesitation was so brief I nearly missed it. “Of course not. Who would believe such things?”
I shrugged. “People who dislike wizards, and there’s an awful lot of them. Why else hide what you do?”
The muscles around Ozan’s mouth tightened, angry and uncertain. “You have no proof of any such activity.”
“Do I not?” I pushed up the sleeve of my shirt, revealing the scars the demon had given me. “Wounds like these do not heal overnight on their own, nor with the help of salves or physics, no matter how rare and wonderful they may be. You recall treating me, I hope?” It had been only a day, and I knew he had not forgotten me any more than I had forgotten him.
“Clearly they have.” He assumed a stubborn demeanor to keep his growing fear at bay. An admirable stance, but I was determined. There was a great deal at stake for both of us, whether he knew it yet or not.
“You gave me an elixir—”
“You can hardly call that magic.”
“No,” I gave him a smile of understanding and patience, the latter of which was fast waning. “But the following morning when you brought me food to break my fast and checked my bandages, you used a small spell.”
“Ridiculous.” He did a fine job of hiding a stab of fear. “I recall quite clearly that you had some sort of muscle spasm when I checked your wounds. No doubt a result of the elixir. It happens sometimes.” Another lie.
“You wanted me to forget what happened during my stay, and you wanted me to resist the temptation to look under my bandages and see what you’d truly done.”
“Supposing what you say is true, you are remarkably ungrateful.”
“No.” I shook my head. “I left a very generous donation for your help then, as well as my silence, and I’ll do it again today—if you help me.”
Ozan looked at me as though I had recently come from a cesspool. “I can be of no assistance to you, sir,” he informed me stiffly.
Who could have guessed that biddable and humble Ozan could be so obstinate?
I collected my parchments and pushed myself up from my seat. “Walk with me.”
“I would rather not.”
“I want to show you something, just outside. I have no wish at all to hurt you, Brother Ozan, nor your good name, nor the character of your order. I also have no wish to waste valuable time, which we are doing with every passing moment. Just come and look out the door.”
Reluctantly, he inclined his head in agreement, and the pair of us made our way to the door and thence through the garden a little way. He kept his distance.
“Look,” I said, pointing northwest to a distinctive glow of pink-stained amber in the night sky. The blaze still burned, and I could only imagine how the fire had spread with unnatural swiftness and to extensive proportions. It really was a shame that the neighbor’s houses burned, too, but I suspected that they had suspected Duzayan was a wizard, and I had come to the conclusion that it served them right. “Do you know what is burning?”
/> He did not answer me, but shaded his eyes from the light of surrounding torches with one hand and peered in the direction of the conflagration.
“That is the residence of a wizard,” I informed him, and decided to make use of my recent history in the north. “Two of his associates, also wizards, are dead.”
“You—” Ozan flinched, then swallowed and licked his lips before he tried again. “You are from the Star Tower?”
I crooked a brow, neither admitting nor denying anything, although it was a severe temptation to ask what the Star Tower was.
“Come inside,” he said tersely. My uncanny ability to read people had not failed me; I had chosen the appropriate response.
Thank the god of—well, perhaps the one of healing and health would be appropriate, as Ozan served that deity. I would have hated to drag him into an alley and beat him up. The order’s benevolence was the reason I had chosen it—and him in particular—over any of the known wizards in the city. Ozan led me through the hospice and down a hall off of which lay several small rooms. Those on the left were used for storage and those on the right had their doors closed, except for a small library. The few brothers we passed looked at us curiously, but did not venture to engage us in conversation. Ozan opened the door to one of the rooms and I followed him into a chamber with one high, wide window, a cot, and a table that took up the entire wall opposite. The surface was crowded with parchments, books, and containers of herbs and other medicaments. He flicked the draperies closed.
“You understand the position you’re putting me in,” he said, turning up the wick of a low-burning lamp.
“Yes, I’m giving you an opportunity to help countless people. Save lives, even.”
He gestured me to one of two chairs and took up the other next to the table. “What do you want from me?”
I laid the parchments down before him again. “I want you to translate these for me and help me make sense of them.”
“And then what?”
His question gave me pause. What might someone from the Star Tower actually do to him or with him? Something fairly awful, apparently, at least in his opinion. “I already told you I have no wish to harm you, Brother Ozan. Please, look at the papers and tell me what you make of them.”
As the Crow Flies: An Epic Fantasy Adventure Page 43
