Key to Magic 01 Orphan

by H. Jonas Rhynedahll

  Suddenly, Mar found his voice.

  “Belach curse you, Witch! What was that?” he raged at her.

  Marihe cringed and shuddered as if the sound of his words lashed her with physical force.

  When she made to flee, Mar reached quickly and snared her bony wrist. Not thinking, he shook her violently, meaning to wrench an answer from her. It was rather like shaking a bag of rotted branches. Fearful the ancient hag would fly apart beneath his hand, he released her and she collapsed to the floor.

  “Answer me!”

  Marihe raised a trembling arm to point an accusing finger at him. “Sage and thief, great mage he, beware him all, for world master he shall be!”

  Then, with a speed that astonished him, she scuttled on all fours through the entrance to the shop and was gone.

  ELEVEN

  Mar found himself back in the street. He was not quite sure how he had arrived there, whether he had staggered slowly in a daze or simply bolted headlong in a panic. Regardless, he had halted about midway of Bookbinder Street, his impetus spent.

  A man pushing a handcart filled with cabbages shot Mar an angry look, half-muttering curses under his breath as he swung his cart to miss the Gheddessii who had appeared in his path. Mar realized he was drawing other unwanted stares and jerked into motion, retying his jhuhngt and striding determinedly down Bookbinder to the west. Rather by default, he turned left at the next intersection, headed south on the Avenue of the Rising Moon, and then entered Founding Stone Plaza.

  Nine days shy of the spring equinox in the Imperial Year 892, Commander Rhwalck, thirteenth son of Lord Dhreckal, Viceroy of Sghel, and the fifty-seven surviving members of his 12th Legion of Engineers, had erected a boundary pylon on a hillock in the marshy ground west of the newly discovered Blue fork of the Ice River. Three years and some months previously, Commander Rhwalck and his expedition, consisting of a full compliment of ten troops of highly trained legionnaires, an extensive baggage train, a large contingent of eager camp followers, and miscellaneous hangers-on had departed the Imperial Seat. Rhwalck had been personally charged by Emperor Ihrexhs III, “...to extend the boundaries of the Empire into the hinterland, from the edges of the Silver Sea to the unknown reaches of the Purple Ocean, for the greater glory of the Emperor and the Gods.”

  Raised in a household where words like “glory”, “honor”, and “duty” were gods unto themselves, idealistic young Rhwalck had attacked his task with more than religious fervor. Rather than wait for the fair weather of the early year, he had sailed in the dead of winter, landing his command on a rocky coast three hundred and fifty odd leagues west of the mouth of the Ice River. Lashed by ice storms, he paused only to erect a boundary pylon and then immediately marched inland.

  Twenty-seven pylons, four major battles, innumerable skirmishes, uncounted streams, seven treacherous rivers, three deadly winters, and almost five hundred leagues of unyielding wilderness later, he had discovered the tributaries of the Ice River and ordered his men to hue and raise one last pylon. The inscription he ordered placed upon it included the date, as verified by the record of his daily journal and its litany of disaster, his blinded surveyor’s best calculation of their location, and the names of all the surviving officers and legionnaires of his command. Finally, inscribed by his own hand above all, he placed his public, and quite vitriolic, vow of revenge against the Emperor Ihrexhs III. A fortnight later, the survivors had loaded themselves onto large rafts and proceeded downriver to the fishing village of Mhajh. There they had turned the small garrison and began the series of campaigns that saw Rhwalck crowned as Emperor Rhwalkahn, the Revenged, in the year 898.

  One of his first official decrees had been that the use of the words “glory”, “honor”, and “duty” in his presence would be deemed a capital offense.

  Mar circled the crumbling pylon at a respectful -- some obscure but fanatical sect revered Rhwalkahn as a prophet and his pylon as a holy place -- distance, pretending curiosity. The inscription had long since weathered away, but a children’s rhyming song had preserved Rhwalck’s vow, and any resident of Khalar could quote the bloodthirsty stanzas in pentameter.

  Mar could do better than that. He could quote word for word the original inscription -- which did not rhyme -- as recorded by the Emperor Rhwalkahn’s personal historian. He knew that the legions sent to construct Khalar had centered their camp on the pylon and that a paved parade ground, which survived as this self-same plaza, had been their first permanent construction. Their second had been a ten-manheight watchtower, which also survived as the oldest structure in Khalar.

  Mar turned to face that tower now, idly wondering what had become of the four-volume history of the Empire where he had first read Rhwalck’s story. He had stolen it from an apothecary’s study around six years ago and it had been the first set of books that he had not immediately pawned. He must have left it in one of his temporary abodes -- some sheltered nook of a building roof -- or traded it for food, he could not recall which.

  Rhwalkahn had instructed his stonemasons to insure that the tower withstood anything the Gods or man could hurl against it. Accordingly, the foundations of the tower had been laid on pilings driven down through uncounted armlengths of sediment to reach bedrock, a task that by itself had taken more than a year. Only the hardest granite, carted laboriously from the Mheckel quarries, had been used for the massive blocks that formed its outer walls. All the joints had been formed with interlocking bevels and each and every block had been weighed, and the entire structure balanced with meticulous calculations.

  And, indeed, for centuries the tower had prevailed against flood, tremor, siege, and mishap. Today, however, only the featureless upper ten armlengths and the flattened dome at its apex were visible. The rambling, three-storey edifice of an inn swallowed the lower portion. Over the years, the inn had been other things, including a smoking ruin, and much of it had been rebuilt, remodeled, and refurbished to suit the needs of the moment. The inn was not so much one building as a series of structures piled and leaned upon one another.

  Mar stopped and studied the scattering of people present. A pair of apprentices had paused to gab not far from the pylon, but most were simply passing through the plaza, bound between the half dozen narrow streets that met here. There were no other Gheddessii in evidence. There were two beggars soliciting near the inn, but one had no arms and the other was too thin to be the wasteminer.

  As he watched, the shops that ringed the plaza began to shutter, customers and proprietors alike departing for the midday meal. A good number of both groups found places at the open-air tables of the Tower Inn or passed through its wide doors into the smoky serving hall. The smell of fresh bread drifting from those doors tempted him, but he knew that a Gheddessii would be unwelcome.

  “Hungry, Mar?”

  Mar forcefully restrained an impulse to leap forward, refusing to be startled. He rotated slowly to face Waleck. The old scrapper remained in his Gheddessii disguise, but the clothing was scuffed and dusty. Had he been hiding, spying, or both?

  “So,” Mar prodded, not bothering to suppress a frown, “other than torturing my empty stomach, why are we here?”

  “Our refuge is there.”

  Mar did not have to turn to know that Waleck pointed to the Tower. “Inns and taverns in this part of the city don’t serve Gheddessii.”

  Waleck shook his head. “We need not be served. I would rather enter unannounced. Have you an idea how this might be accomplished?”

  Mar considered the problem. “We could get in through one of the upper windows, but we can’t scale the inn in broad daylight. There’s no blinded face and it’s certain that we’d be seen. Can we hide somewhere else until dark?”

  “No. We’ll be caught long before sunset. We have little time. There is word that the Phaelle’n monks have been moving about the Lower City in the company of a half troop of Imperials. We must secure ourselves and the text behind the walls of the Tower quickly.”

  “Then c
limbing isn’t an option. What’s at the back of the inn?”

  “The entrance to the kitchens.”

  “Show me.”

  “What do you have in mind?”

  “Very little, but something should turn up. It always does.” Mar gestured for the old man to lead the way.

  Waleck led Mar down a narrow winding alley to the fenced yard that clutched the rear of the inn. The large gate stood open and it was not unusual for such to be closed only at dusk. The yard, from the looks of it, served a dual function as laundry and bakery. Tubs, drying lines heavy with bed linen, and barrels clustered at one side. Large brick bread ovens, idle and cooling, occupied the opposite side. As Mar had expected, the yard was vacant. The bakers were no doubt now kitchen help, the launderers now scullions, and were both occupied serving lunch and bussing tables, respectively, in the hall.

  Mar gravitated toward the laundry side. The tables near the ovens held only empty baking tins. The barrels held clean water, and several buckets squatted next to them.

  “Fill the buckets.”

  “Yes,” the old man concurred, “That may work. But, first, give me your sleeve.”

  Waleck produced a small knife and advanced toward the younger man.

  Mar started backing up. “What are you going to do?”

  “Quickly, now, before someone comes. Your sleeve! No! The empty one!”

  Mar became still, eyeing the old man carefully. Waleck straightened his folded left sleeve and flipped it up out of the way. Deftly, he split the stitches of the lateral seam of Mar’s robe.

  “Ease your arm out.”

  Wincing in anticipation, Mar moved his arm slightly.

  Waleck made an impatient sound and took hold of the younger man’s arm. As he drew it forth from the cloth, bits of plaster and splinters of wood fell free. As the scrapper slowly elevated the limb, it became apparent that the splints had been shattered and the binding plaster smashed. Most of the remainder broke easily away from Mar’s skin as Waleck applied his strong fingers to the task.

  “How did that happen?” Mar demanded confoundedly.

  “Marihe healed you,” Waleck stated curtly and then added, “As I paid her to do.” The old man finished stripping a muslin bandage from Mar’s elbow and then carefully straightened the arm.

  “Flex your fingers! Now, bend your elbow. Any pain?”

  Mar shook his head, no less than amazed.

  Waleck released him. “Now, to the buckets.”

  Mar twisted his arm this way and that, bending the wrist back and forth and balling his fingers into a fist, marveling at the change. There was no stiffness or discomfort whatsoever. He gently squeezed his forearm, but the muscles were as hard as they had ever been and the bones felt solid.

  “We have no time to dally, Mar.”

  Nodding, Mar slid his arm into his freed sleeve and arranged his robes to try to hide the rent.

  The old man dipped two buckets into a barrel to fill them and then thrust them upon his companion. Grabbing two of his own, the wasteminer whirled without a further word and marched toward the entryway, a high, vaulted hall that led deep into the building. There was no door, but a large, iron barred gate, which had been propped fully open against the vine-covered brick of the outer wall of the inn.

  Almost at the same moment as Waleck crossed the threshold, a rotund, florid-faced man with a thinning fringe of gray hair surrounding his bald pate stepped from a side door. The sounds and smells following him identified the side door as the kitchen. Advancing immediately to block Waleck’s path, this fellow planted his fists on his hips above a stained butcher’s apron and glared. His every gesture proclaimed “harried.”

  “Here!” he brayed agitatedly. “What’s this? What are you two doing here?”

  Waleck immediately dropped his buckets, sloshing water, which caused the florid man to step back with a curse, and stuck out his hand, displaying a worn silver half-thal in his palm.

  “The man...he pay...water, he said,” Waleck announced, with as thick and as genuine a Gheddessii’n accent as Mar had ever heard.

  “Who? What man are you talking about? A guest? To bathe? I am the senior steward of this inn and such arrangements are customarily made through me!”

  Waleck stared at the man uncomprehendingly and then looked back at Mar. “Ghe’ne shagghess ka’ neh’sstasc? M’enhsh ghas bhen. T’egh e’?”

  Mar recognized the language of the tribes, but understood not a word. “Phu’dehsh cannah’e,” he responded, growling to mask his garbled pronunciation and dropped his own buckets to the tile floor. That was the only Gheddessii’n phrase he knew, and while he had no precise understanding of its meaning, he did know that its very utterance guaranteed the ignitions of a brawl in any tavern in the city.

  Waleck looked back at the steward. “We...leave... now,” he said slowly and turned to depart.

  “Stop! You’ve already been paid! You can’t leave these buckets here!”

  Waleck gave the man a hard look. “We keep...silver.”

  The steward threw up his hands. “I’ve no time for this! Be about it then and get out of my inn! And make sure you use the scullery stair!”

  Waleck retrieved his buckets, slopping more water, and Mar did likewise, trying to match the old man’s careless attitude.

  “What is...scul’ri?” Waleck asked thickly.

  The steward made as if to grab Waleck by the shoulder but drew back his hand with a sudden look of fright. One did not grab Gheddessii, even the dregs who occasionally did menial tasks about the city, unless one wanted to draw back a stump. Instead, blustering, the steward thrust out his arm to point to a darkened stair opposite. He scowled at the pair till they had started up the narrow stairs, then, responding to a call, vanished back into the kitchen.

  “Where now?” Mar whispered as they trouped upward.

  “Follow.”

  The stair ended at the third floor of the inn, letting on a deserted hallway lined on both sides with closed doors. While the exterior walls of the inn and the stair they emerged from were red brick, the facing of the hallway was paneled bronze-stained poplar. All the sconces were dark, but enough sunlight reflected from both ends of the hall to illuminate it adequately. Making a quick choice, the old man turned right, stopped to deposit his buckets beside a likely looking door, gestured for Mar to do likewise, and then followed the hall to its first left turn. The cross hallway was short with the wide opening of a stairwell at its center. Large casements pierced the exterior wall of the stairwell and these spilled the afternoon sunlight into the building. Waleck marched by the carved banister guarding the stairs and proceeded around the next left into another long hall that only had doors on its right side.

  “The tower will be in the center,” Waleck guessed softly, gesturing pointedly at the left wall. He strode hurriedly to the opposite end, took another short hall to pass a matching stairwell, and finally circled back to where they had begun.

  “One of these doors may lead to it.

  Mar walked to a door more or less centered in the hall and examined it. This door, like all the others, was a thin panel of fitted planks braced with countersunk battens. It had a plain iron mortise and a rectangular escutcheon. The keyhole was small and irregularly shaped, of a type that he knew most locksmiths used for warded tumbler locks. A knife blade could not open a warded lock. He had once owned a special set of modified awls just for such locks, but they were now in the possession of the bottom of the Ice. He traced the door with his eyes and noted that it fit in the frame poorly, with a gap as wide the end of his smallest finger on the handle side. He leaned back and sighted through the gap, seeing the dark shape of the thick rectangular bolt where it entered the strike plate. Taking care to avoid inadvertent noise, he placed his hand to the handle and found it locked, as expected.

  He turned his head questioningly. “Quiet or quick?”

  “Quick!”

  “Your knife.”

  Waleck quickly pulled the knife fro
m his robe and tossed it toward the younger man.

  Mar caught the handle of the blade easily and then forced it into the gap between the frame and lock. When he pried on it, the tip broke off instantly, ringing sharply. Undaunted, he wedged the broken end into the gap and tried again. After a moment, the bolt levered free of the strike plate and the door leaned partly open. He caught the edge of the door with his free hand before it could swing far and eased it outward experimentally. When it was clear that the hinges would make no sound, he pulled it fully open. Revealed beyond was a narrow hall that ended in a nearly identical door.

  “This must be it,” Waleck judged, sliding through and approaching the second door.

  Turning the latch to retract the bolt, Mar swung the outer door closed behind them and, as he was habitually cautious, relocked the door. Darkness, interrupted only by gray light scattering from beneath the hallway door, settled about them.

  A scratch sounded and then the tiny yellow light flared. Waleck took an oil lamp from a sconce and lit it.

  “Will this suit you old man? Or must we go further?”

  “No, this hall has no protection. We are not yet within the tower. What we seek is...” Waleck paused as if concentrating. “...above us.”

  Mar stepped quietly to the far door and placed his ear against it. He heard no sound from within. After a moment, he tried the handle.

  “This one isn’t locked,” he announced, pleased, and then, without waiting for word from the old man, opened the door and stepped through.

  The door let upon an alcove, an entryway cut through stone walls nearly a manheight thick. Beyond was an office or study, of sorts. The room was large, perhaps 12 paces to a side, and the walls were finished stone. To the left sat a large oak desk with several ledger books, some stacks of paper that might be receipts, and a pen and an inkwell. An old and much battered padded-leather armchair sat behind the desk and behind that, a bricked-up embrasure centered the wall. In front of the desk, a colorful rug woven with intricate designs covered much of the floor. There was also a large bookcase against the facing wall and a battered settee to its right.