As had become his habit, the old scrapper set their path without a backward glance. Waleck’s mind was fixed upon a course charted solely for his own purposes, and Mar had no doubt that the old man never considered but that he would meekly follow.
Waleck led them north from the gate of Chekvar's, then east at the next intersection down a dusty, unpaved freight alley toward the river. The back walls of foundries and storage yards defined the alley, with only an occasional barred gate letting from it. Though the alley appeared well used -- the dust held the imprints of many wagons and hooves and what weeds managed to exist grew only in sheltered nooks -- there was little traffic along it now. An empty wagon passing in the opposite direction was the only such they encountered.
Though he realized the alley was undoubtedly the most direct route to the river, Mar grew uneasy at his first sight of the snaking corridor. The cause of this feeling was not the obvious peril -- that the confining walls to either side seemed designed to funnel the unwary into an ambuscade, offering few, if any, boltholes. He knew he could get out of the alley, if he had to. Nor was it that alleys such as this were notorious in Khalar for attempted (the men of the foundries were, after all, a hard lot) robberies. Violent thefts, or, for that matter, unreasoned acts of violence, were not uncommon in the Imperial City. But he doubted that the pair of them would present a tempting target, plainly accoutered as they were, especially in daylight. Thugs were cowards, of necessity, preying on the weak. No, there was no one specific quality of the alley that warned him away from it.
It was simply that he was uneasy.
The young thief had always been particularly careful to give heed to this particular feeling. He gave it credit for keeping him alive and fit when others had suffered and perished. It was as if a vibration crawled outward from the center of this chest, with his nerves tingling and thrilling, so that his voice became unsteady. It was not fear. Not the sort that Mar was familiar with, anyway. This feeling was not at all like the fright that struck when a man slipped on rain slicked roof tiles, lost a hold, and plummeted into an open courtyard filled with armed men. Nor like the terror a man experienced while holding his breath and hiding in a rain barrel full of water, hoping the Guard would give up its search soon. It was more like the reflex of some forest beast, which instantly flees when confronted by danger, a basic, unreasoned reaction to an unclearly perceived threat that overpowers all other emotion, impulse, and thought.
At this moment and in this place, this feeling began to press upon him to rush from the alley, to flee that very instant, every forward step of his pony driving the warning upward in tempo.
Telling himself that Waleck would react harshly to a gainsaying of their route and proceed regardless, Mar kept silent, growing increasingly agitated as he resisted his inner alarm. Only half-aware of the movement, he hunkered down over the pony's mane, his gaze darting back and forth across the alley ahead of them, from stone wall to ship-lapped warehouse to sagging plank gate.
After his pony had taken a few more blissfully unconcerned, scuffing steps, Mar began to hum. As odd as it may have seemed, even to himself, this was not at all unusual. Though he had never had much interest in music of any sort, he did catch himself, in some tense circumstances, humming. The idiosyncrasy surfaced almost of its own accord, and as well as he could remember he had always done it, from his youngest recollection on. It had become so natural for him that often he was not actually aware he did it. Not actually aware that he hummed before he fought.
It was always the same irregular little tune, one he fancied he had authored himself, in a hushed, slow vibration deep in his throat that generally was not loud enough for anyone else to hear. Many times, as now, the words of a tavern favorite, The Knife Fighter's Dirge, trailed across his thoughts in accompaniment. The mournful ballad did not actually fit the tune, but enhanced it in an odd sort of way, and the easy repetition worked to calm him. At times, he thought that he actually made no sound at all -- that the tune played only in the murmuring of his own heartbeat.
The attack came at an intersection, almost as an anticlimax, where two smaller alleys crossed the main at oblique angles. The men who skulked there were hidden from the riders' view until they came abreast of them. Mar caught sight of the groups of rag-clothed, ill kept men clustered in the alley mouths to either side just as they fired their crossbows.
Without thought, Mar dropped sideways to hang beside the pony's withers. Two bolts sliced through the space above his saddle, barely missing his leg, and clanked tinily off the stone lintel of a sealed doorway. He had time only to suck one hissing breath before the gray bucked beneath him, screaming as only a horse can scream. As the pony leaped, stiff-legged in pain, he was thrown free and fell to the ground on his side. Spinning wildly, the pony kicked at the bolt lodged in its flank, its iron shod hoof whipping out to strike Mar’s left arm just below the elbow. He felt rather than heard the terrible snap! as both bones in his forearm broke.
In a spasm of reaction, Mar recoiled, trying irrationally to escape the excruciating fire emanating from his unnaturally bent arm. He fell onto his back, screaming. The fingers of his right hand clamped themselves about his left elbow in a primitive-minded attempt to crush the hurt from his mangled limb. The pain consumed his mind, driving out all thought, all knowledge, all other awareness. His half-gasped grunts mirrored the drumbeat of his heart as every pulse of blood through his veins sent a surge of lightning up his arm and into his shoulder.
The hardened core of Mar's self screamed at him, demanding that he act and not simply sprawl as easy prey for the murderer's knife. After what seemed an eternity, but could only have been the smallest fraction of a moment, he responded to this call. Finding his will, he pulled it from its bolthole, corralled the whimpering fragments and drove it to its task. Making his protesting body bend, he struggled to draw himself up into a shaking crouch, rolling at last to the balls of his feet. Tilting unsteadily, he thrust out his good arm to brace himself against the ground and grimaced as the jar ignited the pain anew. Drawing long, ragged breaths, he raised his head to look.
The knife flew at him from the hand of an oddly blurred man, unaccountably indistinct in the clear sunlight, a dozen steps distant. Mar saw the knife coming, recognized the smooth sweep of an experienced throw, and knew the blade would strike its target. But he could make no move to avoid it; his strength and his will fled once more as the torment in his arm redoubled its intensity.
Dully, Mar watched the knife fly toward him. By some strange mechanism of his mind, time seemed to slow, so that he could follow the flight of the blade in minute detail. It came true from the villain's hand, promising more pain before death. He found himself viewing the projectile calmly in a detached mood, concerned in an intellectual fashion to the danger it represented yet resigned to it. He studied the flattened arc of its path, noting with approval that the blade rotated smoothly about a single axis, a tangible sign of the skill of his assailant. During one of the eons between the thumps of his own heart, he became aware of his tune playing softly in the background of his mind. Idly, he followed it for a subjective moment or two, as tendrils of black light shifted in and out of focus about the approaching blade. Unbidden, the so very familiar words of The Knife Fighter's Dirge whispered from his dry lips.
"...No blade can strike me,"
"Widows in hundreds I make,"
"Death to thousands I deal,"
"Only my life at stake,"
"Endless my zeal,"
"No blade can strike me..."
Mar's vision blurred again, filled with swirling black singing streamers. As it cleared, he observed the knife shift, as if an errant gust of wind brushed against it. Then it was gone, tugging at his sleeve as it skimmed his shoulder, and time resumed its normal hurried pace.
The blurred man's eyes widened, then narrowed. Then for no apparent reason, he began backing away.
Half-blinded by pain, Mar rocked to his knees and then stood, tottering on unsteady le
gs. A hulkish brute with a rusting Imperial Army short sword appeared to thrust at him, and Mar dropped awkwardly. He spun gracelessly as he fell, desperately shielding his mangled limb, and hooked his whiplashing heel behind the man's leading leg. The blow swept the man's foot from under him and he flipped backwards, arms flailing desperately, to land with crushing force on his head and neck. The man quivered once, drool spilling from his listless mouth, then again as the light in his eyes darkened, and finally lay still.
As the man fell, the sword bounced from his hand, pinwheeled, and, amazingly, skidded to a stop against the toe of Mar's boot. His fingers curled reflexively around the unbound hilt.
Another man immediately rushed him, swinging down with an iron wrapped stave. Mar ducked low, caught just a glimpse of the man's face -- unwashed, ragged beard, rotted teeth -- and then straight-armed the sword toward his opponent’s belly. Ragged Beard nearly impaled himself, but dodged wide-eyed at the last instant. Someone had made a half-hearted attempt to sharpen the pitted blade, but had not spent long with it; Ragged Beard received only a shallow gash across his abdomen. Even so, the man danced away, screaming and clutching at his wound as if he were dying.
Mar drew a deep breath, looked about. There were no other attackers near him. The blurred man had vanished, and Ragged Beard was soon fled, still screaming. The gray had bolted back up the alley and was gone. Waleck was still mounted, twenty armlengths away down the alley, ringed by at least three. One man in mottled gray had managed to snag Rhomva's bridle, but could not hold the pony, which spun in circles kicking wildly. Two others, twins to Mar's last attacker, flailed desperately at the old man with staves. Waleck, for his part, seemed content to do his best to prevent the staves from impacting his skull; unarmed, there was little else the old man could do.
Mar looked at the sword in his hand. No good against staves -- at least, not in his hand. He turned and threw it back up the alley with all his remaining strength. Clutching his injured limb against his side with his good hand, he moved toward the fray.
He made ten steps before Waleck's attackers saw him.
Mottled Gray pointed an arm desperately. "Get'm! Rhoog! Sxerghi!"
Rhoog, filthy clothes, eye patch, and all, whirled and started toward Mar. Then he broke into a run, swinging his staff in a double-handed roundhouse. "Arrrrrhhhhhhh!!!!!!:
Mar dropped, heard the staff whoosh above his head, then launched himself upward, aiming the doubled fist of his good hand at the meaty part of Rhoog's outstretched forearm.
Rhoog's staff clattered to the ground and Rhoog departed, bellowing.
Sxerghi knew when to run. All Mar saw when he looked toward him was his retreating back and the dust kicked up by his flapping sandals.
Mottled Gray cursed fiercely, leaped back barely in time to avoid Rhomva’s whirling hooves, and sped off in chase of Sxerghi.
Relieved, Mar staggered, collapsed to his knees, then keeled over onto his back.
Waleck leapt from Rhomva’s back, stern faced. The horse danced skittishly to the end of its reins and whinnied, on the verge of bolting. “Did I not tell you?” he demanded, waving his free hand violently, causing Rhovma to shy, jerking his head. “They know! Somehow, I don’t know, but somehow they have found out about the Text!”
Waleck’s eyes gleamed fanatically. “We are now in great peril!”
The old man stopped a moment in thought, seemed to take note of Mar writhing on the ground for the first time, then of the odd angle of his forearm. “Eh...your arm is broken....”
Mar grimaced, managed an affirmative grunt, then resumed gasping.
Waleck frowned, wrinkling his tired face. He looped the horse’s reins through his belt, then reached down carefully to circle Mar’s left wrist with both of his large, meaty hands.
“Wait...” Mar gasped, suddenly fearful.
“Well, this may hurt a bit,” the old scrapper murmured, more to himself than to Mar, and gently placed the sole of his boot in Mar’s left armpit. He took a preparatory breath, and then, without further ceremony, gave a mighty heave.
Mercifully, Mar fainted.
NINE
Mar woke in a room suffused with light.
The white-gold haze bounced from surface to surface and filled every space accustomed to shadow, boldly invading the refuges of spiders and crickets and disturbing the latter into an impromptu serenade. Dust motes flared through the deluge, dancing in unrestrained glee as they pirouetted slowly on indecisive currents of air. The flood gave a golden edge to every line and corner, every boundary and joint, and made the dust-colored bricks of the walls glow with a bright, clean radiance.
Birds of all sorts and some small animals had built nests in the numerous crannies formed by the cross-layered timber ceiling. The ceiling and the space immediately below it were alive with movement, mice scampering about, birds celebrating the day with energetic flight and song. These singers were of all colors and breeds, and their chorus followed a random theme, with variations developing moment by moment as members winged out into the morning and others glided in to take their place.
He permitted his sleep-dulled eyes to endure the pageant for some length of time. When he felt sufficiently alert to ponder his situation, he raised his head and looked about.
He lay on a pallet of straw, leaves, rags, and other bits of soft debris tossed together in the most sheltered corner of the room. The shattered fracture that named the place a ruin was just opposite him in his direct line of sight. This gaping hole, through which the surfeit of morning light intruded, encompassed a good quarter of the ceiling of the rather large chamber and nearly the whole of the north wall. From the looks of it, the break was an old one. The bricks that edged it had crumbled beneath the onslaught of the weather, and thick-fleshed vines snaked in here and there, their dark, rough roots plunging determinedly into crevices to further weaken and loosen.
The hole’s backdrop was naught but an empty sky. He could see no other buildings from his position. That fact and the crispness of the breeze wafting through the hole suggested that he was several storeys up. The air of Khalar had a different feel when one was away from the ground. The miasma of people and metalworking was thinner, breathing seemingly easier, and the common stench less obvious.
Otherwise, the room had no character, no clues in design or construction to suggest what its original purpose had been, and was on the whole rather unremarkable. There were a couple of small windows stripped of both casings and shutters, a darkened inset spiral stairway to his left, and little else, save dust and bird droppings.
He stirred to roll his head for a better view out one of the windows and felt a hampering weight tugging down on his left shoulder. Blankly, he examined his arm.
The weight was a complicated apparatus consisting of wooden splints, copper wire, and plaster that engulfed his arm from mid-biceps to fingertip. This discovery caused memories of the fight and of his fractured arm to surface and he abruptly realized that the agony of the injury was also no more than a memory. He wondered at this absence until he realized that he had no feeling in his arm whatsoever. It was completely numb from the joint of his shoulder down.
Someone -- surely Waleck -- had ministered to him, set his arm, and evidently applied some salve or potion to ease the pain. If set well, and it did seem that it was, the break would require more than a month and a half to mend. The flesh had not burst around the break, so hopefully no chancre would set in.
He had seen that once. A man had fallen when overcome with drink, rolled out a balcony, and smashed both legs in a single storey fall to the street. A washerwoman with arms and wrists a blacksmith would envy had put his legs back straight while three of his friends had pinned the unfortunate soul to a tavern table. She sewed the wounds closed, and then came back every few days to open the stitches and flush the pus with a mixture of boiling water and strong ale. The man had kept his legs, but had walked with a pronounced limp from that day forward, and the screams he emitted during these ministra
tions could have been heard over half the city.
At least the old man had not dumped him in a gutter somewhere. When his strength returned, he could flee the city and shelter in a farm village until the Imperials forgot he existed. He could stretch his score gold for several years if he was careful. An anxious thought made him clutch at his waist, searching for the flattened shape of the coin purse, and then relaxed with a relieved sigh again when he found the gold still tucked beneath his belt in a folded piece of cloth.
Waleck had left him the money, at least.
Mar took it for granted that the wasteminer had abandoned him. With his arm broken, his potential usefulness in the old man’s search for the trove had all but vanished.
Faint sounds stole from the stairwell then, interrupting Mar’s brooding. They were the sounds of movement -- weight bearing leather scuffing dryly against gritty stone, thick cloth scratching along a wall for the barest breath of an instant, the regular hush of lungs drawing air, the just audible rustle of a burden being shifted from one hand to the other. There was just the one, a man of some size, and he came slowly with care.
Mar attempted to rise quickly and succeeded, save that he did so with no speed whatsoever. The mass of the bracing splints on his arm acted as an anchor to restrain him, burdening his unexpectedly weak muscles as he stood. His legs shook impotently beneath him and he wavered like a drunkard as he crept to the near side of the stairwell. There he slumped against the wall, his back pressed against the cool brick for support, and grew still.
Key to Magic 01 Orphan Page 8
