Ink Mage (24 page)
Authors: Victor Gischler
They shouted after him.
“Grab him!”
“Get the son of a bitch!”
“Call for the watch!”
Brasely burst out of the pub. He’d had the foresight to tie up his horse just outside. He mounted just as a number of angry patrons burst from the pub, some waving cudgels.
“Thief!”
“Cheat!”
The brewer grabbed for him, trying to pull him out of the saddle, but Brasley kicked him in the face, spinning him away spitting blood. He spurred his horse away from the crowd. He heard somebody call again for the watch and glanced over his shoulders.
Four men in bowl helms and the livery of the town ran after him. Brasley thanked Dumo they weren’t mounted, but two of them lifted crossbows.
Shit shit shit
.
He ducked low in the saddle, urging his steed faster. A crossbow bolt whizzed by overhead. Crossbows reloaded slowly. If he could just avoid the second crossbowman’s shot, he should be free and clear to—
A hot, fierce pain bloomed in his side, almost knocking him out of the saddle.
Oh no. No no no.
Brasley spurred the horse faster, each bump in the saddle sending shocks of pain through his body. If he could get well away, he’d stop and examine the wound. He crossed a stone bridge over a wide stream, marking the edge of town. He glanced again over his shoulder. No pursuit.
But he couldn’t stop yet. Just a little further and he could turn off into the woods.
He felt warm blood trickle down his side. His head went dizzy. As blackness crowded the edge of his vision, all he could think was that he was now penniless, his winnings scattered in puddles of ale across the floor of the pub behind him.
Brasley crossed into one of Merridan’s poor southern neighborhoods at dawn, walking his horse and limping, the pain in his side flaring and throbbing with every step.
The good news was that the crossbow bolt that had pierced his side hadn’t hit any vital organs; moreover, the wound would likely not fester although it had cost him the last of the good brandy in his flask to clean the new hole between his ribs. He’d ripped his last spare shirt into strips for a makeshift bandage. It was already scabbing and would heal properly.
After being struck by the crossbow bolt, Brasley had swooned in the saddle. He’d woken a few moments later, shoulders slumped, head down, his horse nibbling grass on the side of the road. He’d found a stand of trees with low hanging branches and hidden himself while he tended his wound. He hadn’t really lost too much blood, but the bolt must have been a shock to the system because he’d slept the rest of the day away. It occurred to him, not for the first time, that if he ever made a name for himself, it would
not
be as a great warrior.
Brasley had felt some vague mix of relief and apprehension when the great mass of Merridan had risen up ahead of him. A permanent brown haze hovered over the city, the result of tens of thousands of cook fires constantly pouring smoke into the sky. Some claimed a million souls dwelt within the city walls and outlying suburbs. Brasley couldn’t quite believe that. On the other hand, why not? Merridan was the capitol city of a vast, sprawling kingdom, the center of religion, culture, and power for a continent.
This part of the city reeked of livestock. It was a place where all the outlying districts brought animals and produce to market. Farmers, not nobility, came through the drab southern gate but Brasley was too weary to circle the enormous city to the grander eastern or western gates.
Brasley remembered the brass-hinged eastern gate with the three-story fluted columns on either side from his visits to the city with his father and uncle—General Aujusto’s Gate they called it, named for one of the many heroes of the ancient Mage Wars. To the right of the gate a twenty-foot bronze sculpture depicted the general on a throne atop a pile of skulls. The statue was a brief history lesson, the skulls representing Aujusto’s vanquished foes and the throne a gesture to the general’s ambition for the crown, an ambition that would eventually bring about his assassination. Brasley’s family had brought him to Merridan as a teen to gawk at the grandeur of Helva’s capitol. And gawk he had. The city could swallow Klaar ten times over.
But there was nothing grand about the squalid square he found himself in now, a wide expanse of gray stones covered with the shit of goats and cattle and horse and sheep. The wide-mouthed stone well in the center of the square explained everything. Sellers brought their animals here to be watered before the auctions began. Cattle and swine sold in mass for meat were penned in the large corrals outside the city gates. The animals being watered in the square were prize breeders and show animals, but there were still so many that their stench was nearly overwhelming.
And if Brasley hadn’t lost all of his money on a stupid card cheating scheme, he would have been able to find a clean inn and take a hot bath. He liked the aroma of roast pork much more that the stench of the live pigs scrambling past him now. He sat on a stone bench at the edge of the square, enduring the stink, trying to ignore the squealing din of the livestock so that he could figure just what in blazes he would do next. He was penniless, and that limited his options down to almost nothing.
I’m a tired, dirty, wounded failure, and I have no idea how to turn things around
. He chuckled mirthlessly at his own dilemma.
Perhaps a solution will fall out of the sky
.
“You, sir! You there on the bench.”
Brasley didn’t look up at first.
“My good man, your attention please.”
Brasley frowned and turned.
Two men occupied a carriage at the mouth of the square. One was old, bright white hair pulled back into a tight ponytail. The other stood up in the open carriage, waving for Brasley’s attention with a walking stick. Both men were well appointed, long velvet coats and silk shirt fastened at the throat with colorful bows. The standing man looked young, probably only just of age, a spoiled lordling out with his father, perhaps. He had the pale, soft look of a man who had been waited on hand and foot all of his life.
Brasley would have
loved
the chance to cultivate a similar look.
“Is that your horse?” the lordling asked.
Brasley looked back at his horse, then back to the noble. “Yes.”
The lordling waved him over with the walking stick. “Let’s have a look, then.”
Have a look …?
Of course!
Brasley had taken his saddle off the horse to give the animal a rest, and he realized how it must seem. He looked like the rest of the men in the square who’d brought their animals to auction. They thought his horse was for sale.
Brasley leapt to his feet immediately, smiled. “Of course, sir. Only happy to oblige.”
He led his horse toward the two nobles, realizing why they were reluctant to step down from the carriage. He looked at his boots. They were splattered halfway up the shins with animal shit.
Brasley tried to recall what he knew of the horse. He’d borrowed it from his father’s stables six months ago, so it wasn’t technically his. He wasn’t much for animal husbandry, but he knew enough to understand it was a good animal, strong and young, a tall stallion the deep color of midnight. The sort of animal a young knight might take to war or that a spoiled noble could take on a hunt.
He brought the horse close enough to the carriage for the lordling to reach out and stroke its nose.
“What’s his name?”
Brasley had no idea. He knew men who’d loved their horses, but to Brasley the beast was simply transportation.
“Titan,” he said, remembering the game of Kingdom Cards.
“A magnificent name.”
“For a magnificent steed,” Brasley said. “Bred from the finest stock.”
“He’s just what I’m looking for.” The lordling turned to the old man. “Father, what do you think?”
The old man sat forward, looked the animal up and down with a squint. “Let’s see the teeth.”
Brasley pried the horse’s lips apart, gestured to the teeth with a flourish.
“A decent animal,” the old man admitted reluctantly.
“I want him,” the lordling said. “He’s big and black just like I imagined. I’ll look fearsome astride Titan, won’t I, father?”
The old man frowned, waved the boy to silence and turned back to Brasley. “We’d like to purchase him.”
“Excellent.” Brasley’s smile oozed sincerity. “I wish you luck at the auction.”
That got the old man’s attention. “Don’t be ridiculous. The horse auction is last after the pigs and goats and chickens. I’m not waiting around in this shithole until then.”
The lordling looked stricken. “But father, you said if we came down
before
the auctions started, we could make a better bargain.”
“No,” the old man corrected. “I said I would send one of my
huntsmen
down to pick one out for you.”
The lordling stomped his foot. “But I want to pick out my
own
horse.”
He stomped his foot. The spoiled bastard actually stomped his foot.
“Mylkin, will you please
shut up
.”
The old man composed himself and turned a haughty eye on Brasley. “Thirty silver. That’s fair. It’s a good animal, but you might wait all day for the horse auction and still not get that.”
“Perhaps,” Brasley said. “But as you observe, I’ve resigned myself to being here all day.” He gestured at his own disheveled appearance and shitty boots. “Your lordship must determine exactly what it’s worth to you to speed your person back to a more hospitable environment.”
As if to punctuate Brasley’s assertion, a bull in a passing cart pissed a hot yellow stream which splattered on the paving stones.
The old man sighed.
Brasley left ten minutes later with a hundred and fifty silver coins and his saddle thrown over his shoulder.
Rina had turned south after parting with Brasley, heading overland, villages and other settlements, even the odd farmhouse, growing scarce and finally vanishing all together. The wilderness had swallowed them utterly. Over the course of a week, the green lands had turned brown and dry, and then the earth had grown cracked and hard. Nights were still cold, but they now shed their cloaks in the daylight as it was warm enough for shirtsleeves, even hot enough to be uncomfortable in the midday sun.
Two months behind them, Klaar was just now being chewed by the teeth of winter. Two weeks ago, Brasley had headed north to Merridan where the ladies at court would still be wearing winter fashions and yet already eyeing fabrics and patterns for their spring wardrobes.
All Rina could think as she sat astride her horse on the crest of the low ridge was how many layers of clothes she could shed and still remain decent when the southern heat really began in the coming months. Already the hottest part of the day made her tug at her clothing, wishing for a cool breeze, and technically it was still winter. She was a woman of the north and her blood wasn’t made for this.
She puffed the stub of a chuma stick, inhaling the smoke, which eased the tension in her shoulders and neck. It seemed like she’d been riding all her life.
Heat and discomfort vanished when she tapped into the spirit.
As always, her environment became something of an abstract concept as she closed her eyes, opening herself to a view of the world through the senses of the falcon. It took off from its perch on her outstretched arm and flapped for altitude before gliding gently toward the village below them.
They’d reached the edge of the Nomad Lands, the vast desert which stretched south and west until it became the land of Fyria, Kork’s homeland. One day, out of respect for her former bodyguard and mentor, she hoped to visit the place, but for now, her destination was at hand.
The village in front of them was a drab, brown, ramshackle affair, a dirty, dusty smudge on a wide, bland, baked landscape.
Bigger than Hammish
, Rina thought,
but smaller than the village of Crossroads back home
. Not that the sad village was really enough to hold anyone’s attention, with the great mountain of orange stone rising beyond it. Two thousand feet high, it rose inexplicably from the flat land all around it. They’d been walking toward it for two days before reaching the top of the ridge and spotting the village.
And the village, at the moment, was everything.
Rina, Alem, and Maurizan were down to half a skin of water and food for one more meal. If they couldn’t get what they needed from the village, they would die.
The falcon came in low over the village. Through the bird, Rina smelled the cook fires, a heady mix of sharp, exotic spices and smoky meat. There was a well of fresh water in the center of the village. The falcon circled lower and screeched, drawing the attention of one of the villagers who looked up suddenly. He was dark eyed, and olive skinned, and looked up with a frightened scowl, part apprehension and part defiance.
The falcon perched on the roof peak of a shabby hut and scanned the main street of the village. Men and women scurried from building to building like they were afraid to be caught in the open. All had the same loose-fitting, draped robes and olive complexions. They seemed strange and foreign.
Because they are. You’re a long way from home, duchess
. Rina had sent the falcon to see if it was safe, to find out if strangers might be welcome to come down into the village and haggle for food and water.
But the faces were all mysterious and unreadable, some hidden behind veils.
If she hadn’t been tapped into the spirit, she would have been struck sharply with a feeling of homesickness and discouragement. She wasn’t prepared for the world beyond Klaar, filled with its perilous oddities, its unfamiliar people and places. She might have been nervous under other circumstances, but her predicament was simply information to be analyzed and categorized and either put to use or discarded.
