The Wanderer's Tale (4 page)

A strange man, that one, he had been in Qaladmir for years now. Never could tell how he made a living, but he always had a stack of cash at hand, ready to buy funny items that no one else had any use for. Sometimes you’d bring him bits and bobs worth a gold piece or two and he’d just laugh in your face; other times he’d spot something you’d swear was useless and pay a fortune for it.

Odd, definitely not normal – but at least it meant money.

With great relief the carter at last beheld the unmistakable sight of the Qaladmir mountain looming up ahead, with its city of sparkling fountains, swaying palms and gleaming palaces of turquoise and gold, high up on its slopes. A most wonderful sight indeed after the long days of gruelling travel. And before long he was driving his dromedary-hauled cart triumphantly through the massive, arched gateway that breached the towering city wall. Here at last was succour from thirst, hunger and weariness, and a chance to indulge in those private pleasures that were so difficult when travelling with only three men, two camels and a goat.

But before any of that came the wearisome but exigent need to acquire some hard cash, the only key that opened any doors in
this
place. First he must negotiate streets ankle-deep in filth and lined with the worst cases of poverty, disease and corruption in the whole of the Qalad basin. To eventually reach the upper terraces where wealth, luxury and beauty resided, he had to push his way through this throng of beggars, drug-pedlars and assorted opportunistic ne’er-do-wells and get to the alchemist’s place.

‘Pashta? Good day to you!’ rasped the pedlar through the open doorway of the alchemist’s hovel.

Flicking away a large bluebottle that seemed determined to force its way in between his honey-smeared lips, Pashta-Maeva the alchemist looked up from his book and sighed.

‘Oh no . . .
please
not now,’ he muttered in a voice heavy with bored resignation. ‘Not that dusty-faced, red-eyed little nosebleed again! Right now, I think I’d rather push hatpins into my eyes than talk to him.’

Glancing at the figure silhouetted in the doorway against the searing white sunlight of the hot afternoon, Pashta reflected upon the luxurious coolness here inside his house. Though only on the second level of this five-tiered city, therefore still in the poorer quarters, his abode possessed the clean simplicity of a monastic temple, austere but comfortable, a refuge from the noise, heat and dust of the street outside. Here he could practise his arts, write his theses and dream his dreams, undisturbed by the smelly denizens of the streets outside. And thereby still retain the anonymity that protected him from the unwelcome attention of any of the powerful cults controlling this city. For his work was, to say the least, ‘uncommon’, and there were many out there who distrusted such deviance from the norm.

‘Ah well, business is business, and he may have something of vague use in his magpie’s hoard of trinkets this time. See to him will you, Nipah. Keep him talking while I finish this . . . sun-dried lizard slop you call dinner.’

He went back to picking distastefully at the meal before him, while the lanky youth sitting opposite him got sulkily to his feet and went to meet the pedlar, scuffing his sandalled feet noisily on the stone-tiled floor as he went.

‘Hello, I’m Nipah Glemp,’ the boy announced to the dust-caked stranger who stood before him, then he added politely, ‘Did you have a nice journey?’

A choking splutter of a laugh from Pashta behind him made Nipah realize that this probably wasn’t the best way to greet someone who has just spent the last few days toiling through one of the worst regions of the desert. Nipah Glemp was often described as being ‘alone with his thoughts’, conversation having never been one of his strong points.

‘Hello yourself, young sir,’ the pedlar replied with a fixed smile. ‘I’ve got a few little items in my cart which might interest your master. Perhaps you’d both like to take a gander, eh?’

Nipah smiled nervously, wondering just what to say next.

‘Look, just bloody ask him in, will you, and stop dithering,’ Pashta chided from within.

Nipah stepped back and bade their visitor enter.

‘Well, Xhasha,’ said Pashta, holding a jug of cool black beer to his lips, without offering any to his guest, ‘what valuable little gems to extend the frontiers of human knowledge do you have for me today? Something worthy, I trust? Scorpions’ legs, perhaps, or camels’ teeth? Maybe even (and let us not get our hopes up too high) some strangely coloured pebbles you found whilst rooting around in the latrine of High Priest Brethed’s Temple of Correction?’

Insulting simple folk like Xhasha the pedlar, who came from a part of the country where irony was not readily grasped, was one of Pashta’s less endearing pleasures in life. Xhasha replied: ‘Well, I did have a box of dried fragrant weasel, but I lost that when I threw it after some passenger who ran off without paying me.’

‘A box of dried fragrant weasel!’ exclaimed the alchemist, clasping his hands to his face in simulated delight. ‘What a boon! What a treasure! What a veritable catalytic cornerstone in the development of alchemical science! My heart has not soared so since the time you brought me some powdered seaweed!’

‘What’s seaweed?’ Nipah interposed unguardedly.

‘Weed that comes from the sea, dear boy. Hence: “sea”, “weed”. It looks uncannily like the stuff you served up for dinner.’

‘I’m here as an apprentice alchemist,’ he retorted, ‘not a scullion!’

‘I’m glad you’re aware of that fact,’ Pashta replied, ‘though I’ve seen precious little evidence of your development under my tutelage. Fifteen years old and still can’t translate Quiravian! Anyway, Xhasha, let’s have a look at your hoard of treasures, shall we?’

They all moved from the cool, dark room and out into the fierce heat of the day. There the pedlar dragged the heavy chest to the rear edge of the cart, unlocked it, and threw open the lid. Pashta was already feigning lack of interest before even beginning to peruse its contents.

‘Hmm, not much here, I’m afraid . . . No, got that already, and one of those . . . and I wouldn’t touch
that
with a billhook. Nothing here I could use, really, unless . . .’

And so the well-practised warm-up to their haggling began.

Nipah Glemp, tall for his age and strikingly handsome, did not at first sight appear to be the obvious candidate for the role of alchemist’s apprentice. The science of alchemy was still very new to this part of the world, and most people (at least those who had any idea that it existed at all) regarded it with extreme suspicion. Educated and uneducated parents alike forbade their children to go anywhere near Pashta’s house after nightfall. Thus the only folk who had any dealings at all with this strange man tended to be rather strange themselves: oddballs, underworld-dwellers and nocturnal wanderers. The ideal apprentice, in most people’s eyes, should have been a slightly hunched, saucer-eyed, bandy-legged youth who mumbled to himself and twitched a lot.

So it was met with much interest when Pashta decided to accept the comely presence of Nipah Glemp into his practice. The boy’s mother, for one, had been surprised and disappointed by his choice of career. But now, five months into his apprenticeship, he was already showing signs of becoming a success at his trade; he was becoming increasingly withdrawn, his face was acquiring a disturbingly wan pallor, and his grooming had taken a sharp turn downhill. Nevertheless he remained highly intelligent, studious, and above all
absorbed
in his work.

Totally so. He would spend hours poring over the strange leather-bound librams in Pashta’s study, learning the history of far-off lands as well as more relevant subjects. He had assembled his own collection of ancient relics, which he liked to rummage through, trying to imagine what kind of people their previous owners had been. Inevitably he would see them as heroes, and assumed he could become just like them if he honoured the possessions that had once been theirs.

Already he had acquired a great knowledge of how substances worked. At a surprisingly early stage in his schooling he had learnt, and been impressed by, the energy and strange powers that could be unleashed when certain combinations of elements reacted together. A bit like people, he mused. And he was ever keen to try out different substances and experiment with new magicks.

Thus it was always with great interest that he would examine the wares offered by pedlars from afar. Today, however, there did indeed appear to be nothing in Xhasha’s trunks that Nipah wanted to get his hands on; just the standard items that any self-respecting alchemist would already possess. Most disappointing.

The two men were by now arguing quite vehemently; it was mid-afternoon and the blistering heat was doing nothing to cool their tempers. Pashta was as disappointed as his assistant, but Xhasha was livid. His one chance of making this trip worthwhile was unavoidably slipping out of his grasp with every dismissive gesture of the alchemist’s hand. Nipah looked longingly over his shoulder at the welcoming sight of the shady doorway that promised relief from the heat.

As he did so, his gaze fell upon the strange bundle of oily rags perched atop the millet sacks on the cart. Immediately an odd sensation came over him, flashing into his mind and then out again so quickly that it was almost imperceptible. As his regard lingered upon the bundle, the noises of the street faded. He suddenly felt alone in the world, just himself and that oily bundle, and he did not like this sensation at all. A soft, persuasive voice, compelling yet sinister, seemed to call out to him, not from the cart but from far, far beneath the ground. He wanted to cry out, but something in his mind told him to wait and see what would happen.

Suddenly he snapped out of his reverie as Pashta began yelling at the traveller. Taking a deep breath, the youth gazed around at the comfortable familiarity of the street, relieved that his daydream was over but still feeling puzzled. The bargaining seemed to be over, and his master was striding indoors, leaving the frustrated Xhasha, penniless still, glaring at the alchemist’s back as he disappeared into the dark.

‘I came all the way from Ben-Attan for you, mister! Why don’t you buy something?’

Nipah smirked. This had happened before with other pedlars, but such incidents never seemed to bother Pashta. One day, the boy mused, his master’s blunt and mocking dismissiveness would work against him, and his eloquence would not then be able to save him. Still, the wily old goat had managed his affairs shrewdly up till now; he knew what he wanted, and what he did not.

But Nipah was not sure this time. These pedlars travelled all over, acquiring goods that had been transported along trade routes extending right across the world. They often got hold of items that interested the impressionable youth greatly. So what
was
wrapped up in that bundle of rags that had drawn his attention so strangely?

Glancing around to see if anyone was watching, he quietly lifted himself onto the back of the cart, picked his way through the millet sacks and, still without thinking, grasped hold of the greasy bundle. The sackcloth felt gritty, the oil having become encrusted with a layer of wind-blown sand, and whatever it contained was surprisingly heavy. Almost certainly metal, Nipah decided, and wondered excitedly what could be inside. Fumbling in his haste, and hoping that Xhasha would continue to be distracted by his ranting for a little longer, he unpeeled the mysterious object from its crude coverings, layer by layer, until its shape became more clearly defined. Surely it must be a weapon, maybe even a sword?

Just then, the sound of the pedlar’s voice drew nearer, still spewing oaths. Within seconds now, Nipah realized, he would be discovered. Why had he not simply asked what the object was, without all this furtiveness? But he
had
to find out now, so without further thought he leapt over the side of the cart, landed lightly on the dusty earth and stole away out of sight.

Breathing heavily from sheer nervousness, for he was unused to thieving, he rounded the corner of the house, leapt up the notched log leaning against the wall which served as a ladder, and gained the sanctuary of the flat roof above. A trapdoor led down to his room below, and now he could examine his prize undisturbed, secure in his little bedchamber and surrounded by his collection of other relics. His heart was pounding like an engine, not from physical exertion but from the anticipation of discovering just what it was he had purloined. He tore away the last remaining rag as if it were wrapping paper and stared wide-eyed at his latest acquisition.

He had handled swords before, but nothing like the one that lay before him now. Long and curiously fashioned, it possessed a distinct aura of antiquity. There was something rather ominous about it, in the shape, the smell, the feel of it . . . Nipah did not know for sure, but . . .

Actually he did not know anything, where it came from, how old it was, and its shape was totally unfamiliar to him. But he sensed that it was worth more than all his other relics put together. Staring uncomprehendingly at this magnificent blade, a thousand thoughts raced through his mind, while the sweat dripped from his body onto the grubby blanket he perched upon.

‘Nipah, where are you?’ came the irate tones of his teacher from below. The youth only vaguely heard his master complaining, but half-consciously thought:
Old fool, see what you missed . . .

And the heavy length of steel, lying across his knees, seemed almost to laugh with him.

‘We’re going to have to find out a little bit about you, aren’t we, sword?’ the boy whispered, and placed it carefully in the storage box beneath his bed.

Fifteen years later, on a high, lonely hilltop, thousands of miles to the north, in the deadest part of the night, a small man knelt in prayer. It was a strange place to be praying, so lonesome and desolate, illumined only by the pale gleam of a half-moon. The town of Nordwas lay at the foot of the hill some way off, too remote to be of any comfort to this solitary figure. The only company he had – or knew of – were the rustling gorse bushes all around, draped in a ghostly, moon-silvered mantle of wind-blown loosestrife-beard, whistling in time with the sudden, irregular gusts of wind that spiralled over the bleak hilltop and cascaded down the other side, then over the moaning pine forest below. A strange place to be praying indeed.