Ink Mage (27 page)
Authors: Victor Gischler
Rina frowned. “I didn’t come all this way
not
to see the wizard.”
“You don’t even know it’s the same wizard.”
“How many could there be on the edge of the Nomad Lands?” Alem said. “It has to be the same wizard.”
No, it doesn’t
, thought Rina. There were other wizards in the world. “Even if it’s not, maybe this wizard can give me directions. I’m sure all these mages run in the same social circles.”
A pause.
Maurizan said, “Is that a joke?”
Another pause.
“I don’t know,” Rina said.
“They might have a guild,” Alem suggested. “You know, like glass blowers or cobblers.”
“Or assassins,” Maurizan said.
“Assassins have a guild?” Alem asked.
“Mother says so. Do stable boys have a guild? You know, to address pressing concerns about hay and oats.”
“I was
head
stable boy,” Alem said.
Rina heard them attempt to suppress their laughter in the darkness.
“Okay, enough,” she said. “I’m tired of waiting.”
She heard them shuffling around, pulling on boots.
“I still say this is a terrible idea,” Maurizan said.
Rina sighed. “Fine. If we’re all killed, I promise not to blame
you
.”
They went to the hut’s entrance. There was no door, just a canvas flap which Rina swept aside. The moon had already crossed the sky and vanished, but starlight blazed brilliantly overhead. She paused in the doorway a moment and tapped into the spirit. Her eyes made use of the starlight more efficiently this way, soaked it in, and she could easily see the empty square, the other darkened huts.
She strained to listen. Nothing.
She closed her eyes. The falcon made a wide circle above the village. Nothing stirred.
Rina couldn’t quite trust that the old priest hadn’t set a pair of eyes to keep watch on them, but apparently he was as good as his word.
More likely he just doesn’t care. He did his duty and warned us off, didn’t he? If we want to risk the wizard, then that’s our stupid necks on the line, not his
.
She reached back and tugged on Alem’s sleeve; he, in turn, did the same for Maurizan, the signal they were heading out. They’d agreed beforehand there would be no talking. They padded single file across the square. The crisp night air felt good after the stifling hut.
They reached the back of the box wagon without incident. The wagon’s thick double doors were secured with a bulky iron padlock. Rina took Maurizan by the hands and guided her to the padlock. The gypsy girl ran deft fingers over it, taking extra care to trace the edges of the keyhole. She reached back to the pouch on her belt, opened it, and fished out two lengths of metal, shorter and thinner than knitting needles. She inserted them into the keyhole and began to work the lock. Rina recalled Brasley’s warning to watch their coin purses upon entering the gypsy camp. They had a reputation as thieves. Maybe there was something to the stories after all.
The lock popped open. Rina remembered the girl was working with almost no light. She couldn’t see nearly as well as Rina. Her respect for the gypsy’s skills ticked up a notch, and she realized she really knew nothing of this young girl, skilled with a dagger, able to pick a lock. What other secrets hid behind that bright, youthful face?
Youthful? She’s two years younger than I am. Who am I kidding, acting like some gritty veteran?
And yet Rina had come through so much in such a short time. If she didn’t think about it too much, the death of her parents was like some distant ache.
And she never let herself think about it.
They pulled the wagon doors open, freezing momentarily as the hinges creaked.
Nothing happened.
Rina patted each of them on the shoulder. A farewell. Just a temporary one, she hoped.
She crawled into the back of the wagon and heard the doors close behind her, the click of the padlock being set back into place. She hid as best she could between two barrels, pulling a sack of flour in front of her.
If the plan went as hoped, Alem and Maurizan would take the horses and circle around to meet her beyond sight of the village. Although exactly when they would meet again was still a question.
As for Rina, the servants of Kashar would unwittingly take her with the provisions to the tower of the mountain’s guardians.
And into the clutches of the wizard.
The gardens and courtyards of the king’s palace had long been the meeting place of Merridan’s nobility. Ostensibly the center of social activity, it was also a place where deals were struck and fortunes were made. Intrigues abounded. Gossip proliferated. Alliances were forged or betrayed, and dalliances initiated in shadowed alcoves or remote groves.
Brasley arrived mid-afternoon swathed in deep purple.
He’d stretched his money from the sale of his horse magnificently. He’d purchased a variety of fabric from a reputable cloth merchant but had taken it to a tailor in an unfashionable part of the city. He’d hovered over the poor man as the tailor had made Brasley half a dozen outfits in the current style. It had been half the cost of a tailor frequented by the popular lords and ladies at court.
He’d taken a room at an inn on the border of the Palace and Merchant districts. The location wasn’t quite good enough to elevate his standing, but neither was it poor enough to detract. He’d bathed and shaved. He was a new man.
The stone archway along the south end of the king’s palace stretched the entire length of the structure. Brasley walked slowly, chin up, eyelids heavy as if slightly bored. His confidence stemmed, in part, from knowing he looked right. The outfit wasn’t formal enough for evening, but for an afternoon, the leather pants and high boots and dark purple doublet were perfect. The cloak, of a lighter, contrasting shade affixed with a silver chain, added a bit of dash.
He looked good, and that was important since he thought his best chance was through one of the young ladies. He’d spent an hour smiling and nodding at various beauties before spotting a familiar face, the very pretty young thing he’d been searching for.
Elise Quence was a stunning young brunette Brasley had met two summers ago at a coming out ball in Sherrik on the southern coast. The Marquis of Sherrik’s seaside palace was an open, sprawling affair, and Elise had cornered Brasley on a secluded veranda at sunset. At the time, it hadn’t mattered to him that she was the daughter of a prominent baron popular at court in Merridan. Brasley’s only concern had been how she’d shoved him into a corner, hidden behind two potted plants, mashing her mouth against his, her tongue snaking inside. When he’d put a hand down the front of her blouse, she hadn’t objected.
I just hope she remembers me
.
She stood with a two other gentleman and another lady all about Brasley’s age, laughing at some private joke. Brasley noticed the men wore clothing just a half cut better than his, but likely he was just being self conscious. He hovered some distance away, waiting to catch her eye.
Elise’s gaze finally drifted to his. A moment of surprise and then the hint of a smile. A slight nod before she returned to her conversation.
It was accomplished. Brasley removed himself, sauntering past a fountain to a secluded spot surrounded by high hedges where he sat himself on a stone bench. He sat quietly, listening to the trickle of water in the fountain.
He let his thoughts drift south to Rina and the others.
Brasley hoped they were faring well and felt a brief pang of guilt for leaving them. The thing was, Brasley simply
despised
being dirty. The stable boy Alem was used to living in filth, and as for Maurizan, well, who could say what gypsies were accustomed to? But they were wanderers, so she was probably comfortable with life on the road. It had been Rina who’d surprised him. She was high nobility and had always enjoyed every comfort. Brasley figured a week sleeping outdoors with campfire smoke in her hair would send her scampering to the nearest friendly baron for sanctuary.
It hadn’t quite happened that way. The girl had proved to be made of sterner stuff.
Woman
, Brasley thought.
She’s no longer a girl, not really
.
And the woman was driven by something. Revenge? Certainly, but something more, something Brasley might never understand. But he could still help. He was doing it now. Brasley Hammish might be a less-than-perfect companion in the wilderness, but among the nobility, it was he who was best equipped to negotiate the intrigues and subtleties at court. The first thing he needed to do was penetrate as deeply as possible into one of the most prestigious inner circles he could manage.
That’s where Elise came in.
Except she hadn’t come to meet him quite as quickly as he’d hoped. Maybe she wasn’t coming at all. Had Brasley lost his charm? The notion washed over him like a sudden splash of ice water, but he warmed again when he saw her come around the hedge, an impish smile playing across her face.
Elise was every bit as attractive as he remembered. The bust line of her deep burgundy dress flirted with impropriety, her bodice pushing up the shocking white globes of her breasts to the point where they nearly escaped. Her dark hair flowed down over white shoulders. She wore a cloak that should have been fastened in front against the winter chill, but at court, fashion generally triumphed over comfort.
“Brasley Hammish,” she said. “Where
have
you been keeping yourself, young man?”
He rose from the bench, not too quickly, smiling and taking the offered hand, kissing her lightly on the knuckles.
“If I regaled you with tales of all my recent adventures, we’d surely fritter away the rest of the day,” he said. “So instead, I’ll simply declare that you look as lovely as ever.”
She stepped closer, her thigh touching his. Nobody could see them in the enclave of hedges. “And you’re as bold as ever. Imagine coming all this way to see me after hearing I’d been married.” She pressed closer, her breasts mashing against him. “So impetuous.”
Brasley had heard no such thing, but it made his task easier to pretend he had. “It’s only knowing you’re married that’s restraining me. I respect your recent nuptials too much to attempt anything you might consider … compromising.”
Her hand moved up his inner thigh, and Brasley felt himself go stiff.
“Restraint is
so
overrated.” She beamed a predatory grin at him. “Don’t you think?”
Focus, man. Don’t let her distract you
.
But he couldn’t stop looking straight down at her cleavage.
Brasley cleared his throat. “You still keep in contact with your cousin Fregga, don’t you?”
Elisa’s grin dropped, and her hand halted its progress up his leg. “What?”
“I was hoping you could arrange an introduction,” Brasley said. “We met briefly a couple of years ago, but I’m afraid I didn’t take the time to make the proper impression.”
Elise blinked.
Her confusion was understandable. Why would any man alive reject the gorgeous Elise in favor of the horse-faced Fregga?
“Fregga’s father Count Becham is still Minister of Trade for his majesty, yes?”
Comprehension dawned slowly in Elise’s face, the smile sneaking back to her lips. “Why, Brasley Hammish, you’ve become an ambitious lad, haven’t you? On the hunt for a good match are we? Finally thinking ahead.”
This was the exact meaning he’d hoped to imply, a young rake looking to marry into money and power. It was the sort of motivation someone like Elise would understand, even approve of. He shrugged and smiled as if slightly embarrassed, not
quite
an admission.
Let her think what she needs to think
.
“I’m throwing a garden tea at my estate tomorrow afternoon to show off my new husband to acquaintances and distant relations who’d been unable to attend the wedding. Fregga is invited.” Her hand resumed its exploration of Brasley’s thigh. “I could invite you too, I suppose.”
“That would be most gracious.”
Her hand found what it was looking for and squeezed. “And now what are you going to do for
me
, naughty boy?”
Rina had dozed, woke suddenly as the box wagon swayed and jostled. Dusty sunlight spilled in through the wagon’s arrow slits. The wagon hadn’t set out as early as she’d predicted and seemed to be taking too long to reach the tower. She shifted, stretched her legs. The cramped space had quickly grown uncomfortable.
She closed her eyes and tapped into the spirit.
The falcon flew high above the wagon. The mountain loomed ahead very close, so they’d made better progress than she’d thought. The wagon appeared to be heading for an ugly, jagged scar at the foot of the mountain which soon revealed itself to be a narrow ravine.
She released the spirit. She didn’t want to drain herself. Rina had found that, in some respects, tapping into the spirit was like exercising a muscle. After so many weeks, she could now do more with less, but it was still wise to conserve herself. Even when embracing the spirit only briefly, there was still a letdown once she let it go again.
Some time passed, and she tapped in again, seeing the world through the falcon’s eyes.
The ravine opened wider beyond the narrow entrance, rocky slopes rising steeply on both sides, the dusty road twisting around until the tower hove into view. It was wide at the base, narrowing as it went up, maybe sixty feet high, and built of large blocks of the native stone, a faded orange color liked the cracked desert. A ten-foot wall with an iron gate spanned the mouth of the ravine in front of the tower, and men in full armor and the livery of Kashar—green with the image of the snake circling the eye—swung the gates inward to allow the wagon to enter.
Before releasing the spirit, she told the falcon, in the vague wordless way they communicated, to circle back and find Alem and Maurizan. She’d want to check in on them later.
Unless she was killed.
