The Last Enchanter (26 page)

Marcus sat up and stared at Krak. The Pey Wey was not laughing now. He wore a very solemn expression and gazed at Marcus with intense focus.

“Why you come here?” asked Krak. “Zyll send you?”

“You knew my grandfather?”

“
Knew
? Zyll gone?”

“He was killed several days ago in Dokur. And he did send me.”

“Why?”

“I'm supposed to find the maker of this key.”

Marcus reached for the key and held it out in his palm to Krak. When he saw it, Krak gave a knowing nod of his head.

“You have Zyll's chest?”

“Not with me,” Marcus replied, surprised. How had Krak known about the chest that held so many of Zyll's trinkets? “But I do have it back home.”

Krak leaned back on his tail and rocked gently from side to side for a few moments. Beyond the prison door, muffled voices were speaking.

“Krak have little time,” said the Pey Wey prisoner. “Marcus listen well. Not forget. This is Krak's secret. Key opens two identical chests made from wood of same tree. One for Zyll. One for her. She said she come back, but never came. You have key, Marcus Frye. Chest now yours.”

The prison door opened, and the Pey Wey guard came in. Behind him was the administrator, obviously displeased. “You talk to key maker like you wanted?” he asked.

So Krak was the maker of the key, the one Ivanore had sent Marcus to find. Marcus looked at Krak, who met his glance with a shrug and a sly grin. “Yes,” Marcus said, nodding a quiet thanks to the crippled Pey Wey. “I talked to him.”

“Good. You and the boy can go,” the administrator said, unlocking the gate. The guard cut Marcus's bonds with a stone knife and did the same for Bryn's. Marcus stood and scooped the still-sleeping Bryn into his arms. Then he nodded toward Krak.

“What about him?”

“You talk to him,” said the administrator, “what happen to Krak now not your concern.” Then he strode briskly out of the jail.

Marcus started to follow the administrator but turned back. “The chest,” he said, making certain the administrator was far enough ahead that he could not overhear. “Where do I find it?”

Krak had already dragged his broken body back into the shadows, but his voice was clear. “My shop near trading post. But be discreet. Crime to take condemned man's property. Everything evidence.”

“Condemned? For what?”

Krak did not answer.

“And if I get caught?” continued Marcus.

That shrill laugh sounded again through the darkness.

“Then tomorrow Marcus hang with Krak!”

Seventy

K
rak's parting words and strange, nervous laughter remained with Marcus as he stepped out into the early morning light. The brightness hurt his eyes and he squinted, wishing he could shield his face. Bryn blinked awake and, on seeing Lael standing nearby, gasped in surprise. He wriggled free from Marcus's arms and ran to her.

“Whoa, little guy,” she said, giggling. “I guess that means you're glad to see me?”

Marcus stepped away from the guard. He approached Rylan, who spoke with the administrator in hushed tones, glancing every so often at the now-free prisoners. As he neared, Rylan extended his hand to him. Marcus shoved it away. “You let these things take me and Bryn prisoner!”
“I didn't
let
them take you,” Rylan replied. “What was I supposed to do?”

“Lael tried to help us, but you held her back.”

“I had to! If she had fought them, she would have gotten hurt. As it was, it took a lot of effort to convince them she wasn't for sale.”

“For sale?”

“Like I said before, my father trades in contracts.
Human
contracts. He often delivers indentured servants—
dents
—to Voltana to excavate ore. When you asked for the key maker—well, they made arrangements for you to see him.”

“Is that what they told you?”

“You spoke with him, didn't you?”

“Yes,” replied Marcus, “but only after they tried to feed me and Bryn to the Rok.”

Rylan turned a sharp eye on the administrator, whose face was pinched with irritation. “You took them to the Rok?”

“No, I—” the administrator stammered.

“My father's contracts expressly state that his goods are to be used solely in the extraction and production of ore. My father will hear about this.”

“Now, Master Rylan, Voltana honors all contracts with Brommel,” answered the administrator, his voice oozing with charm. “But we have no contract on these two.”

“That's no reason to sacrifice them!”

“Is common to execute criminals.”

“You know full well they're not criminals.”

“So sorry for mistake. But even so, no telling what can happen to humans here. You leave Voltana, no more problems.”

The administrator motioned for the guard to come with him, but as he left, he gave Marcus a warning glance, as if Marcus ought to watch his back.

Marcus watched Lael lift Bryn by his arms and swing him in a circle. Bryn laughed happily, begging her to do it again. Marcus couldn't help but smile at the happy pair. It was hard to imagine them now the way he once had. Perhaps Lael had been right about Bryn, after all. Maybe what he had been did not matter as much as what he was now.

But with Lael it was different. Marcus had known her for too many years to so easily forget all the pranks she'd pulled on him. She had been nothing but a nuisance, like a speck of dust in his eye. It irritated him even now just thinking about it.

He turned to Rylan. “Can you show me where the trading post is?”

Lael set down Bryn and took Marcus by the shoulder. “What are you doing?” she demanded. “You heard the administrator. The Pey Weys want us out of Voltana.”

“The key unlocks a wooden chest that belonged to Ivanore,” said Marcus. “I have to get it.”

“But you'll get arrested again, and getting you out a second time won't be an option.”

A light breeze lifted a fine spray of dust into the air. It whirled for a few seconds before settling back down. The
jail was situated several yards from the outskirts of the town, where a few dozen Pey Weys lingered lazily in the scant shady spots between the buildings.

“Rylan?” said Marcus.

Rylan glanced cautiously at Lael, then at Marcus. Lael cast Rylan a look that could kill, but both boys ignored it.

“It's not far from here,” Rylan said. “But Lael's right. If you get caught—”

“I have to get to Krak's shop,” Marcus said. “What's the best way to get there?”

Rylan grinned. “Well, if I were you,” he said, “I'd wait until dark.”

Seventy-one

M
arcus and the others spent the day hiding behind some rocky dunes outside of town. Xerxes kept watch overhead, while everyone else took turns sleeping. Bryn, as it turned out, was the only one of them who had gotten any sleep the night before.

Voltana grew eerily silent once the sun had set. Rylan explained that with the exception of the sort of sacrifices Marcus and Bryn had almost become, Pey Weys did not like being out at night. As cold-blooded animals, they were dependent on the sun and the area's volcanic activity to warm their bodies. As soon as the last Pey Wey was out of sight, they made their move.

Rylan was right about the trading post. It wasn't far from the jail, and the open, barn-like structure was easy to
distinguish from the smaller enclosures. Marcus and Rylan crouched behind a flat, stone platform and motioned for Lael and Bryn to hide behind a nearby podium. Xerxes perched on a rock pillar overlooking the entire area, which was illuminated by torches attached to the outsides of the buildings.

“This is a trading post?” asked Marcus, keeping his voice just above a whisper. “It looks more like the auction blocks back home where we sell our livestock.”

“The Pey Weys conduct business very much the way the rest of us do,” said Rylan.

“But the rest of us auction animals,” answered Lael, “not humans.”

Above them, Xerxes let out a very soft caw.

“Everything's clear,” said Marcus. “That must be Krak's shop across the way, the one with the chains across the door.”

Staying low to the ground, Marcus got to his feet and stepped away from the platform. Rylan caught him by his shirt sleeve.

“Careful! The Pey Weys do keep watch. The fact that we can't see them makes me nervous.”

Marcus nodded to show he understood. Then he motioned for Lael and Bryn to stay put. He glanced up and down the deserted street and dashed across it to Krak's. Once there, he scanned the front of the building for some way in. A moment later, he heard a noise behind him. He turned and found Lael squatting behind him, a torch in her hand.

“I told you to stay put!” he whispered.

“Oh, is that what you meant by—” Lael pointed her finger, wiggling it in a comical fashion.

Marcus fumed. “You know what I meant. You should have done what you were told.”

“When have I ever done what I was told?”

Marcus grunted continued trying to find a way inside that wouldn't draw unwanted attention. He couldn't worry about Lael now. If she wanted to put herself in danger, that was her problem. From the looks of it, though, the front entrance was chained up tight.

“So what's your plan?” asked Lael.

“Magic,” he replied, though he did not sound as confident as he had hoped.

“What do you mean, magic? This is not a good time to get hit with one of your episodes, Marcus.”

“I won't,” he answered. “At least, I don't think so. I used magic last night and nothing happened—to me, I mean. No pain. No fatigue.”

“Why not?”

“I'm not sure exactly, but I think things changed when Zyll healed me in Dokur. Maybe he healed not only the knife wound but also the effects from when I healed Kelvin months ago. In any case, I want to try it again, just to be sure.”

Glancing around to make certain no one was watching, Marcus focused on a single link of iron. A ripple of power flowed out of him. A moment later, the link glowed white with heat and began to melt.

“Marcus,” Lael whispered, tapping on his shoulder.

He ignored her, intensifying his focus on the heavy chain.

“Marcus, don't you think—”

“Shhh!” he responded harshly.

Suddenly the chain link melted through and fell to the ground in a loud, long clatter of metal. The sound echoed against the stone buildings all the way down the deserted street. Marcus cringed and waited for Lael's inevitable snide remark. But none came. Instead, she quickly slipped inside the door. When he didn't follow, she reached through, grabbed his arm, and yanked him inside.

Seventy-two

O
nce inside Krak's shop, Marcus let his eyes adjust to the dim light. He took in his surroundings. They stood at the front of a small shop with floor-to-ceiling shelves full of items a metalsmith would make: plates, eating utensils, tools, locks and fasteners, jewelry, and an array of decorative items.

Lael set the torch into an iron sconce on the wall.

“Look for a wooden chest,” Marcus instructed her. He ran his hands over the surface of the nearest wall. “It's very special so I doubt we'll find it out in the open. He probably has it hidden somewhere, behind a wall panel or in a secret compartment.”

“Do you mean a chest like this one?” asked Lael, pointing to a wooden box displayed prominently on a
table, a green silk cloth and several silver necklaces draped over its top.

Marcus grunted with irritation. It seemed the humiliation would never end. He strode to the chest and brushed the silk and silver to the floor with an angry sweep of his hand. The chest itself was made of a pale, yellow wood, simply constructed without any decoration at all. The only thing special about it was the brass lock, though it, too, was nothing remarkable. It did, however, bear a striking resemblance to the lock on Zyll's chest back in Quendel.

Marcus retrieved Zyll's key from his pouch. “Here we go,” he said and then turned the key. The lock clicked and popped open. Marcus and Lael glanced at each other. Marcus noticed the firelight dancing in Lael's eyes. He looked back at the chest. The hinges creaked a little as he lifted the lid, as a fair amount of rust had accumulated on them. Zyll's chest was full of an assortment of trinkets ranging from broken teacups and locks of Marcus's hair saved from his childhood to pages torn from old books; there were so many other knickknacks, Marcus was not even familiar with them all. He had never been allowed to rummage through the chest but had looked over Zyll's shoulder many times while he dug around for whatever item he needed. But this chest, lined in black velvet, held one item and nothing more: a book, though not a bound book, but a small stack of pages tied together with a red ribbon. Marcus reached in and carefully lifted it out. He guessed there were a little more than a dozen pages, marked with someone's graceful writing.