Hamilton Swoop, Wizard of Green Ridge (3 page)

No. I don't want to live outside, and you've been paid for my room and board. But, seriously, why don't you use a little magic to fix this place up?

"I can't do magic anymore."

Why not? You must have learned something.

"Damn it, cat. Shut up about me doing magic. Not one more word about it. It's a closed subject.” Hamilton growled at the cat.

Whiskers’ ears and tail went up.
Fine.

Hamilton took a few deep breaths and then, as his furies subsided, turned his attention back to the trunk. It sat on the floor mocking him, spewing unpleasant memories.

He looked down at the old wizard's desiccated face. The skin had flaked off in places revealing the brownish skull beneath. Hamilton reached into the trunk and removed the mummified remains. He noticed that the pile of bones, dried skin, and old purple cloth weighed little as he placed them beside the trunk. A last flare of hatred arose within him. It passed in a moment and he looked within the trunk again. Inside there remained Obsidian's old wand and a black cloth bag. He removed them both, shuddering. He could still feel the sting of the wand on his bare arms from so long ago. The sack contained a silvered ball about six inches in diameter. It looked like a gazing ball, but weighed far too much to be one.

What's that?

Hamilton lifted the six-inch sphere, holding it up in one hand with his elbow braced against his body for support. He scratched his head with his other hand. There were some more runic markings inscribed on its mirrored surface. “I'm not certain, but I think it's a Sorenson Orb. I heard about them a long time ago, but never believed they existed. If it is a real Orb, it's like a magic capacitor."

A what?

"It absorbs significant amounts of astral power and stores it. When it reaches its capacity, it can be forced to release all of that energy in a single pulse."

Then what?
She looked at her reflection in the Orb.

"I don't know.” Hamilton returned the orb to its sack and placed the bag on the floor. Then he flexed the arm that had been supporting it. “The Orbs were each designed for a specific purpose. Legend says that one Sorenson Orb caused a desert outside West Edge to bloom. Another legend says that one of the Orbs was responsible for the destruction of Heron Port, but both of these occurrences happened hundreds of years ago—if they happened at all. What this one was designed for, if it
is
a Sorenson Orb, I have no idea."

"So what are you going to do?"

Hamilton shook his head. “I don't know. My first inclination is to dump it in the ocean and be done with it. But, not knowing what it was made for, that could precipitate a disaster. In fact, doing anything with it could prove disastrous."

So? Liked I asked before, what are you going to do?
Whiskers walked over and sniffed at the bag.

"All I can think of is to take the cloak, the trunk plate and the orb, and get the symbols on them translated. It's unfortunate that the only man I know who can do that lives in Central City. We weren't on a very friendly basis the last time I saw him."

When was that?

"Thirty some years ago."

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Preparations for the trip took a day. Hamilton packed the orb, cloak, wand and a rubbing from the trunk's plate in a walnut box. Obsidian's remains went into a burlap sack which, along with the box, Hamilton packed into his long, narrow horse cart. He also packed some staples for himself along with two cases of cat food.

When he was ready to leave, he locked up the shop and, with Whiskers riding on his shoulder, climbed up onto his cart. The morning sun was hidden by dark clouds. An hour before, it had started snowing. Hamilton hoped that it would pass but instead it had gotten heavier.

The wind whipped about the exposed bench seat as Bethesda, Hamilton's horse, dragged the cart through three inches of slush covering Dissention Boulevard. Whiskers refused to ride on Hamilton's shoulder in the face of the dense, wet, wind-driven snow. She snuggled under a flap of his heavy woolen coat.

The first leg of the trip ended after only fifteen minutes when the cart arrived at the Green Ridge Police Garrison. Hamilton slipped Whiskers into her basket, covered it with a cloth, and then entered the dark brick one-story building. Sergeant Gruff, large, but hardly fat, and wearing a heavy coat, was on duty at the desk. Hamilton shook the accumulated snow from his wide-brimmed hat and coat. The room was almost as cold as it was outside.

Gruff looked up. “What are you doing out on a day like this, peddler? Ain't fit out there for man ner beast."

"Ah'm shir m’ horse and cat would agree wit ya there, Capt'n, but ah've gotta make me a run ta Central City. Sides, this kind of snow cain't last. Anyways, ah'm here tah request extra eyes on m'shop whilst ah be away."

"How long are you going to be gone?"

"Figure it'll be at least a week er two, mubby more."

"Well,” began Gruff after examining the rate card on his desk, “Two weeks is 50. A third week ‘ill cost ya another 25. In addition, there's a 10% inclement weather surcharge. What'll it be?"

Hamilton grimaced at the fee. He wasn't thrilled about paying the police to do what they were already paid to do by the State, but at least the corruption was ethical. He knew that once paid, the garrison would stand by the agreement. An officer would post a Notification of Police Surveillance on the door of his shop. Once posted, even the Thieves Guild would pass it by, for a portion of the bribe went to them as well. And should anyone be foolish enough to ignore the notice, well, officially, the notice was just that, but in reality, it was a death sentence to anyone who violated it. Hamilton paid the Sergeant
R
82.50.

Gruff put the money in a lower desk drawer, scribbled out a receipt and handed it over.

Hamilton examined the piece of paper, noting the amount, the date, and the expiration date. Then he noticed something at the bottom of the paper and exclaimed, “What be this? No refunds? Does this mean if in ah come back in two weeks, you keeps all ma money? Ah h'aint daft.” He waved the receipt in the air.

"Sorry, peddler. Forgot you could read. Give it here.” Gruff took the receipt, crossed out the line, initialed above it, and then handed it back. “You come back early, you'll get a partial refund. Course, if you don't come back in four weeks, well, you know."

"Yeah, ya sells m’ stuff. Ah'll be back."

"If you'll be carrying much money, you might want to get some trip insurance,” suggested the sergeant.

"Don’ you be gettin’ greedy, Captain. Ah ain't carryin’ nothin’ worth a thief's damn. If'in ah was, ah'd be rentin’ me a bodyguard ‘r two."

"Well then, safe trip to you, peddler."

"Thank ya, Captain."

Hamilton resumed his journey, this time heading east along the Coast Road. Had this been summer, he would have taken the boat, but in winter, when the harbor froze over, that option was closed. Whiskers, who had shimmied back under Hamilton's coat as soon as they re-boarded his cart, climbed up onto Hamilton's lap, still under his coat, and asked,
Why didn't you wait until the weather got better?

"Because of Obsidian. I want him out of my shop and out of my life."

So why not just dump the body? Who'd know?

"I'd know. Let the Wizards Guild deal with his corpse. Besides, they'll owe me a favor, and I need Sapphire's help translating these runes."

Whiskers repositioned herself again.
Who's Sapphire?

"Obsidian's brother, and the only one I know that can help. A few of the members of the Guild are just a bunch of tricksters. They have no idea what true magic is, but Obsidian did and so did his brother. They were both very powerful. Sapphire runs the Guild now."

The wind abated. The temperature dropped. The snow continued to fall, swallowing every sound except for the clip-clop of Bethesda's hooves on the road. The flakes no longer felt wet. Hamilton looked around behind the wagon. The wagon's four large, iron-spoked wheels left two gray lines in the snow behind them. He sighed and faced front again. No wheel marks lie ahead. “I would have expected more traffic. Don't seem natural."

In case you haven't noticed, it appears to be snowing. Some people don't like traveling in the snow. Some cats, too.

"Ridiculous. A little snow shouldn't impede commerce.” He glanced at his pocket watch. Just shy of midday and the sky had not brightened since they left. If anything, it was a shade darker. “In any case, we should reach the Mid-Post by dark. We can spend the night there. This storm will have blown over by tomorrow dawn."

I hope you're right.

"Of course I'm right,” Hamilton said, but conviction was missing from his voice.

For the next several hours they rode in a silent world. Although this was the coast road, Hamilton could not see the any part of the sea through the falling snow. On two occasions, he thought he heard the sound of surf, and once, he thought he heard a sea bird's call.

Whiskers awoke and stretched under his coat. Her claws ground into his chest. “Watch it, cat, or I'll stop providing a warm body for you to lie against."

Listen, Old Man. I'm warmer than you are, so I'm the one that's providing the heat.

The wheels of the cart now made a crunching sound as they rolled through the snow. The snow on top had frozen into a hard crust. Hamilton pulled back the reins and slowed Bethesda's pace. Whiskers, sensing the change, poked her head out from under the coat.
Why are we slowing down?

"Ground's covered with ice. I don't want Bethesda to slip.

Mind pulling up for a minute?

"Why?"

'Cause I gotta go.

It was well after sunset when the man, the cat and the horse arrived at Mid-Post Station. Hamilton steered the wagon to the livery and released Bethesda from his harness. There was no livery man about so he fed and watered his horse, and brushed him down. Whiskers, now back in her basket, watched Hamilton as he spread a blanket over Bethesda's back and led him into a stall.

When he finished, he looked around the large stable. Only one other horse was there in a stall 30 feet away. It didn't look well and its water trough was empty. Hamilton added a small amount of water to its trough and the horse drank. Then he threw a pile of hay into the stall in the cleanest spot he could find. Satisfied that all was well with both Bethesda and his stable mate, he collected his pack and Whiskers from the back of the wagon, and headed up the dark path to the main building. Movement was awkward with his pack under one arm, and Whiskers, in her basket, in the other.

Half way to Mid-Post's entrance, Hamilton tripped over something buried in the snow. He dropped the basket and pack while trying to break his fall.

Ow!
Whiskers complained as her basket thumped into the snow.

Hamilton landed hard. He looked about in the darkness. “Who the hell would leave a log across a path? Man could break his ass in the dark!” He regained his feet and composure, and then glanced down at the log accusingly. Upon closer examination, he realized that the snow covered log was a dead man.

Whiskers leapt from where she had fallen to the dead man's back. Hamilton knelt down by the corpse. He strained to see the man's face as he uncovered it in the darkness.

Anyone we know?
Whiskers jumped down and circled the body.

After brushing the snow off the face, Hamilton strained to see it in the darkness. He shook his head. “Can't say as I've ever seen this one before. Maybe he's the station keeper.” Hamilton put his hand on the body and shook it. “Judging from the condition of the mystery horse in the stable, I'd say he's been dead at least three days. It's too late to bury him proper."

Just leave him there. He'll keep overnight. Right now, I could do with some warmth. I'm freezing.
Whiskers ran back to her basket.

"Quit complaining. At least you have a fur coat.” Hamilton retrieved his pack and Whiskers’ basket and then continued up the evergreen lined path to the main building. The interior lights shimmered through the windows. Hamilton tried the handle at the main entrance and the door opened.

The Mid-Post Station was a two-story building with a single large room encompassing the entire the ground floor. On one side of the room were dining tables and chairs. On the other side, there stood the main desk next to an open-air kitchen. The walls and floor were polished wood. Several overhead lights lit the room, but they added no heat and the room was cold. The immense, slate hearth in the dining section held only ashes. Hamilton closed the door, dropped his pack and lowered Whiskers’ basket to the floor. “I don't suppose there's anyone here. There was only one other horse in the stable. Still. Hello!"

That wasn't too bright. Maybe the killers are still here.

"Unlikely. There was just the one horse and no tracks in the snow that I saw. Anyway, we don't know that the person was killed. Maybe he just died. It happens."

Not in Green Ridge, as I recall, but then this isn't Green Ridge, is it? As far as the body goes, he was killed. Didn't you see his back? Covered with blood.

"No. It was too dark. Covered in blood, huh?"

Lots of it. Anyway, seeing as how no one seems to have answered your hello, perhaps a bit of food and some heat are in order.

Hamilton built a fire in the hearth and got out one of the cat food tins. He opened it and put it on the floor. Whiskers looked up at him. “What, no bowl?"

"You're too damn picky, cat.” He retrieved a glass bowl from the kitchen then dumped the tin's contents into the bowl. “Satisfied now?"

Whiskers sniffed the cat food. She flicked her tail, irritated.

"What the matter now?"

Stuff's frozen solid. I guess it may warm up in a while. I think I'll do the same.
She moved over by the fireplace, stretched, and curled up on the floor in front of it.

"Better move back a bit, cat. One pop from that fire and you'll be aflame."