by Ron Root
Jarek patted Hagley’s knee. “Not all is lost yet. I’m guessing Kagen has the right of things. Have you memorized the Laws?”
“Yessir.”
“Recite them.”
“Well, the first is the Law of Knowledge.”
“What does it state?”
Gads, I’m being tested by a Royal Magus. He thanked the gods for his excellent memory. “That knowledge is power. With understanding comes control. The more that is known about a subject the easier it is to gain control over it.”
“Excellent. And the second?”
“That of Self-Knowledge. It means know thyself; that you need to know your own strengths and weaknesses in order to control your art.”
The Magus twisted to face him. “Do you know yourself, Hagley? This law is about believing in yourself. Kagen thinks that’s the crux of your issue. Remember, the moment you begin to doubt yourself, you’re doomed to fail. Isn’t that the essence of the seventh law?”
“I never thought of it that way.”
“State it.”
“The Law of Perversity says that if a spell goes awry, it will do so in a most calamitous fashion.”
“Precisely. The key here is not to allow something to go wrong. And isn’t that what’s happening to you? When your spells fail, what’s going through your mind at the time?”
“Mostly how foolish I’ll feel if they fail.”
“Tell me this, when you practice by yourself do your spells work?”
How did he know? “Mostly, except when I’m first learning them.”
“Next time you cast a spell in front of a gathering, imagine yourself practicing. Clear all else there from your mind.”
Thankfully, the Magus shifted his attentions to Goodricke, and their plans to go to some awful-sounding place called Foul Marsh, and Erth, or some name like that.
As they grew nearer to Portsmouth, travelers became commonplace again. Many were on foot, laden with heavy baskets. Hagley didn’t envy them.
Once inside Portsmouth, Goodricke directed him where to go. “The Sailor’s Guild is in Pirate’s Cove, south of the main docks.”
Pirate’s Cove was considered the most dangerous part of Portsmouth. It smelled of fish remains—and danger. Would-be cutpurses and wag-halters eyed them as they approached the wharf, but the sight of magus robes kept them at bay. The south pier had room for only one ship, and sailors and dockers were busily unloading it.
Goodricke pointed, “The sailor’s guild’s over there. We’ll need to go there to book passage.”
Hagley waited in the wagon while Jarek and Goodricke went inside. His heart nearly stopped when he spied a disheveled seaman, leaning against a nearby bale, staring right at him. Judging from the number of daggers dangling from his belt—he was some sort of brigand. Was he about to rob him? Or worse? Hagley looked away, praying no ill would come to him before his protectors returned.
Hagley nearly jumped out of his skin at the sound of a deep voice, “The captain won’t be able to take us aboard until the ship has unloaded.” It was Goodricke.
Doing his best to avoid the cutpurse, he didn’t notice his passengers’ return “The harbormaster says there’s an abandoned lodge not far from here where we can stow our things while you attend Master Kagen’s chores.” Left unsaid was that Hagley dare not leave a wagon unattended anywhere in this town.
They found the lodge a half-league or so up the bay. From the outside it looked ready to collapse, but inside it was quite serviceable. Gear unloaded, Hagley headed for Guild Street, trying to retrace Goodricke’s route. Pirate’s Cove was new territory for him. Dastardly looking scoundrels lurked everywhere, most staring, none looking friendly, and he no longer had a robed magus sitting beside him to discourage them.
Even after he’d cleared the docks, he kept peeking over his shoulder, expecting to find some ruffian ready to jump him. He didn’t relax until he’d made it to the guild.
He showed his letter of authorization and was granted entrance. Inside it was far smaller than he’d imagined, cramped even. It reeked of aethers, the pungent smell reminding him of the time Kagen had shown him the university’s relics room. Its walls were lined with shelves. Some held herbs and minerals or animal parts. Others held wands and staffs and various other apparatus used by the guild’s members. Although he could scarcely contain his joy at being alone inside the guild, another part of him was keenly aware that of the patrons present, he was the only one not wearing robes. He was certain the guild owners saw him for a charlatan and would deny selling him anything.
One-by-one he loaded list items into his knapsack. It took him a while, but he eventually found every item Kagen had requested—as well as those he needed for practicing his spells. To his delight, no one challenged his purchase. He could finally attempt his newest spells. Best of all, after paying the reckoner, he had a few leftover chinkers.
As he approached the docks, weapon-wielding ruffians could be seen lurking everywhere, many eyeing his approach. Would one rob him? His delight over his newly gained wealth faded.
The roadway branched. Which direction had he come from? He made a guess. The street soon narrowed so much that his wagon barely fit, bringing the buildings on either side far too close for his liking. Anyone of ill intent could drop into his wagon and slit his throat before he could react. His palms grew sweaty as he scoured the road ahead. Concern turned to panic when a group of foul-looking ruffians emerged from out of nowhere, blocking his path. He counted five in all, each armed with a cudgel, all eyeing him. Why hadn’t he stayed with the Magus and Goodricke?
Their leader offered up a toothless grin. “Look what we ‘as ‘ere boys. This laddie done brought us a wagon. Right friendly of him, eh?” Encouraged by his comrades’ cackles, the man continued. “Climb off lad, ‘n live to breathe another day.”
Should he surrender the wagon and avoid harm, or try to make good his boast that the ungifted feared the arts. If he lost the wagon, he’d also lose any lingering confidence the Masters had in him. He’d never earn his robes—he’d be sent home to face his father. He inhaled and sat up straight. “Beware sirs, a formidable sorcerer sits before you. Be gone and I shall not harm you.” He gripped the reins tighter, hoping his trembling hands wouldn’t give him away.
“Har! Boys, we gots us a wizard afore us. Best run for your lives.” His remark brought the anticipated howls. He flipped his cudgel to one of the other men and unsheathed a saber. “Now boy, off the wagon I says, lest I use this on ya.”
Hagley flashed back to the Magus’s advice. You need to believe something is possible for it to happen. Closing his eyes, he mentally recited the spell, one he’d never tried before. Put your mind in the right place, he reminded himself. This is just practice; a chance to successfully cast a new spell on the first try.
He started weaving his fingers in the intricate pattern described in the book. Standing on shaking legs, he offered up his friendliest, most confident look. “Fellows, why waste your time and considerable fighting skills over the likes of this old wagon when there’s a soldier’s hall just up the way? One full of purses and fine weapons of all sorts, just lying there for the taking. Think of what you could do with them.”
His fingers continued their pattern, spinning faster now. “I demand no share. But my wagon blocks your path; let me pass and I’ll leave the spoils to you.”
The leader’s eyes glossed over, and he smiled, until his men’s shouts disrupted Hagley’s charm. Shaking his head, the man blinked. Just as Hagley was convinced he was about to die, the man turned to his men. “Step aside, boys! This wagon be’s in the way of soldiers sittin’ on a king’s ransom. It be there for the takin’ for lads as brave as we.”
Weapons high and cheering, the men looped around his wagon and set off down the road, raucously bragging of the plunder they’d soon own. Miraculously, Hagley held his spell long enough for it to serve its purpose. Apparently, greed won out after his charm no lon
ger held sway.
Fearing to remain any longer, Hagley yanked on the reins and let out a loud, “Heeyahh!” The horses bolted, tumbling him backwards, and raced hell-bent up the road. Had he escaped one fate only to suffer a worse one under hooves or wagon wheels? He clung to the reins, heart hammering as they raced from the wharf, sure he was about to die.
Master Verity and Goodricke must have heard the galloping hooves, for both were outside staring down the road, watching him approach. Fortunately, Hagley had finally calmed the excited animals.
“Trouble, Hagley?” Jarek asked.
Hagley exhaled. “Nothing I wasn’t up to.”
Jarek shook his head. “And Kagen says the boy lacks confidence. I daresay he’s brimming with it right now. Good job lad. Now, let’s be about loading this gear, we’ve a ship to board.”
The trip to the docks was short. Hagley wished them luck and goodbye, and hurried back to Kinsmen’s Highway, anxious to distance himself from the dangers of the wharf.
The Spymaster
Sully drew a long, slow breath and tightened his grip on the sword—the one the king had given him. He tiptoed along the cave’s wall, staying in its shadows, sneaking closer to the sleeping dragon. Keeping close to the wall, he timed his footsteps to the beast’s snores. He dare not wake it. He shivered—the place be terrible cold. He peeked ahead, finally able to see into the cavern. The beast lay sleeping atop a gigantic pile of glistening gold and sparkling jewels—all soon to be his. Just one fast stab with his sword through its heart and he’d save the princess. He supposed she’d mostly want to marry him then. It’d probably be the will of the people, anyways.
“Sully! You out here?”
Sully lowered his stick; it was Zele, screeching at him again. What’d she want now? Why did Keep have someone as noisy as her in a place called the Sleeping Dragon? No one could sleep through her yelling.
“I be down in the cellar working the barrels like Keep said.” Stepping away from the wall, he zigzagged his way past the ale barrels. Stepping in something wet, he cursed. A keg was leaking. Moaning at the prospect of patching another barrel, he made his way up the steps to where Zele stood waiting.
“Working the barrels? More likely you be play acting again—as always. Come boy, Keep be calling for you.”
“Don’t call me boy!”
“Oh! I forget, you be nine winters old now. That be a man by any reckoning,” she said, ruffling his hair as he stomped past her. “Hurry along now, he’s in the saloon with some highborn soldier.” She was looking toward their table with that look a woman has when she fancies some man. As if a highborn would even notice the likes of a tavern wench. A soldier, and highborn. Thinking this interesting, he scurried into the saloon.
The tables was mostly empty. Keep be serving the soldier ale. The soldier be kind of old. Well, not so much as Keep. Maybe Zele fancied him because he was as old as her. Sully judged his looks were all right except for a crooked nose. But she was right about one thing, he had the look of a highborn; likely an officer with all them buttons and badges on his uniform.
The soldier was talking to Keep. “What did he look like?”
“Big fella. Had on robes like them sorcerers at the university wear, ‘ceptin’ his was black, not grey.”
“That’s the man.”
“Odd thing is, he paid for a week’s lodging, but only spent one night here. Ain’t seen him since.”
Sully cleared his throat, drawing their attention. “Zele says you be looking for me. I been busy stacking the kegs like you said. One be leaking.”
“Ah, there you are, laddie,” Keep said, fingering his beard like he always did when was nervous. “Forget the kegs for now. This here is Marshal Booker, the garrison’s new commander, come here all the way from Suzerain.”
“Suzerain? Wow! Do you know the king?”
“Sully!” Keep warned. “Don’t be speaking unbidden!”
The Marshal laughed. “It’s all right. I don’t exactly know him, but I serve him.”
“Beauteous!”
“Marshal Booker be asking after that man your friend took someplace the other day. He’s wanting to know what he’s up to.”
“Hagley said the man had visited Prior Rigby about some lost kinsman.”
The soldier nodded. “Yes, that’s why he came here. Is there a chance I could speak with this Prior Rigby regarding his whereabouts?”
“I could send someone to fetch him if you wish,” Keep answered.
“Yes, I would. Much obliged.”
“In the meanwhile, laddie,” Keep said, looking at him, “you go up and ready the highborn tables so the Marshal can have a bit o’ privacy.”
“Aw, Keep,” he moaned.
“Sully!” Keep said, giving him that look that meant he was near to getting swatted. “Get along and do as told. And don’t let me catch you pestering the Marshal here with a bunch of silly questions.”
“Yessir.”
The highborn tables were upstairs. Whenever they supped or stayed at the inn, Keep made sure they didn’t have to sit with the commoners. The balcony circled the commons. You could watch the goings on from up there. He supposed highborns must like that.
Sully trudged up the stairs and started arranging chairs and wiping off tables. Just seven of ‘em, so it wouldn’t take hardly no time. He even replaced the burned-out candles.
He was setting the last table when he heard boots on the stairs. It was the soldier. “No need to do anything more, son. It’s already tidier than the quarters I shared with the gabbling old friar I came here with.” The soldier plopped into one of the chairs. “What’s your name again?”
“Sully, Sir. I’m going to go adventuring on a ship someday.”
“I fear you’ll find adventuring is far less exciting than you think. So, Sully, I’ve a copper for you if you’ll tell your innkeeper I’ll have some of that stew he bragged about.”
“A copper! Yes, Sir!” he said, skipping his way down the stairs.
Sully started when the door suddenly flew open. In walked another soldier. “I’m here to see a Marshal Booker.”
“He be upstairs. I’ll take you to him.”
They found the Marshal leaning back in one chair, his feet resting on another. “Yes?” he asked.
The new soldier saluted. “Sir! Cadet Gresham Smithy here. Prior Rigby said you were asking about my uncle.”
“Well I’ll be… so Jarek did have kin here.” The Marshal sat up, his chair legs clanking to the floor. “Pleased, Cadet. I’m Marshal Booker. Your uncle was to have met me here by now. Do you know his whereabouts?”
“No sir. Truth is sir, I know little of him. I only just met him days ago. He did say he’d contact me after attending to some business, that we’d dine together, but I haven’t heard from him yet.”
“Well, when you do, please send him to me—here at this inn.”
“Of course, sir,” Gresham said, turning to leave.
“Don’t go yet!” Gresham turned back around. “Are you familiar with a Captain Dyson?”
“He’s Captain of the Guard and commander of our cadet school. I don’t know him, but I do know his son Quinn. He’s favored to win our upcoming tourney. I hope to best him.”
The Marshal smiled. “Do more than hope; surpass him. I persevered to beat what I thought were long odds in my own tourney. A good soldier never sells himself short. Remember that.”
“Yessir.”
“Well, I wish you well, but I now command your garrison, not the good Captain. Once I finish my meal, perhaps you could show me to his headquarters.”
“Yessir.”
“Good.” The Marshal leaned back in his chair again. “Sit a spell Cadet,” he said, gesturing to a nearby chair. “I have a few questions you might be able to answer.” He waited for Gresham to sit. “I’ve only just arrived here and have little knowledge of this place. Tell me about Stalwart and the island’s other cities, like w
ho is in charge. And I’d know more of this Prior Rigby fellow.”
“Stalwart was founded by Baron Stalwart, who passed long before I was born. The island has five other villages, but none as large as Stalwart. I was raised in Prior Rigby’s priory, so know him well. I find him a good man. He’s as much a king’s man as a church man. I know he dislikes the Chevaliers persecution of the heretics. He feels that’s the One God’s duty.”
“I agree. Such matters should be left to the gods.” The Marshal sipped his ale. “I hope I don’t offend your religious beliefs young man, but the Chevaliers go too far. They’re zealots who punish any who worship other than they do. They seize the King’s citizens, and seizure violates King’s Law. One of my duties here is to assure that doesn’t happen in Stalwart.”
He took another swig of ale. “As I was telling the serving boy earlier,” he said, smacking his lips, “I’ve just arrived here from the mainland. I paid the ship’s captain extra to assure I arrived ahead of the Chevaliers’ new Inquisitor. Rumor has it he may try to arrest a few of the island’s good citizens. My advice is to give him and his people a wide berth, and whatever you do, do NOT let on you’re the nephew of a Court Magus—ever have those two factions been at odds.”
He hoisted his empty mug. “Boy! My mouth is parched. Have your innkeeper bring me another ale—and one for this lad too. Oh! Here’s your copper.” He flipped Sully a coin. “Well done.”
“Yessir. Many thanks, sir.”
Sully skipped down the stairs, leaving the soldiers to their conversation, grinning and squeezing his coin the whole way. He found Keep in the kitchen badgering Cook about the stew meat. Hearing the Marshal’s demand, they left to fetch the ale. Soon the two of them were tramping back upstairs.
The Marshal and Gresham were still talking. “What do you know of your island’s magi and their university?”
“Nigh onto nothing. In fact, before my uncle arrived, I would have said nothing.”
“Good. The less you appear to know of them if you’re questioned, the better.”
