The Western Wizard (61 page)

Colbey paused, knowing how much rested upon his incomplete understanding of Mirkae’s code. Though he felt certain he could win Mitrian back by violence, the idea of making more enemies of high exposure and political stature bothered him. Once having made his selection, he saw no reason to delay the inevitable. His hand snaked forward and flipped a card in one motion. The blue queen joined the red knight.

The crowd fell silent. The prince sighed, pushing a pile of gold to Colbey, who had officially joined the game. And now it was a game, where before it had been a killing. Slowly, the gold became rearranged in unequal piles. Circumstances drove the prince from the game, but he remained in his seat to watch. No one tried to take his place. Mirkae kept his lead; but Colbey’s winnings continued to grow, mostly at Shalan’s expense.

The evening wore on. The spectators grew restless. They wandered off to their own entertainments, and others replaced them as quickly. Mitrian ran between the gaming table and her companions with food, bought by Colbey, and reports of the elder’s progress. When Garn returned to the inn, but did not show up to kill him, Colbey guessed that Mitrian had not told her husband the details of how the old Renshai had joined the game.

“I’m out.” Shalan hurled his last hand to the table.

Every eye strayed to the piled gold. Colbey’s winnings nearly mirrored Mirkae’s. The card shark gathered his coins, but Colbey’s cold stare and weathered hand on the deck stopped him. Mirkae met Colbey’s gaze like an equal, and that infuriated the Renshai. “No,” Colbey
said sharply. “Where I come from, there is only one winner.”

Mirkae hesitated. His attention ran from Colbey’s stack of gold to his own. Colbey waited patiently while Mirkae wrestled common sense and greed, obviously not convinced by play that his adversary knew the code fully nor that he could match him in skill. The cards and the marks were Mirkae’s. At worst, the odds were equal.

Colbey passed the deck to Prince Oswald. “Shuffle, please.”

The prince complied.

Colbey leaned across the table, and his eyes engaged in a war with Mirkae’s. “We’ll cut cards from the deck. Highest takes all.”

Mirkae’s mouth twitched like a cut tendon. Since neither man would see his card, front or reverse, until chosen, their chances could only be even.

Mitrian jabbed an elbow in Colbey’s ribs. “What are you doing?” she whispered in Renshai.

Colbey continued to stare at Mirkae, directly and with dignity. “Exposing a thief,” he replied in the same language. “All the money in the world isn’t worth cheating over. Even in this, there must be honor.”

Prince Oswald set the deck in front of Colbey, and the Renshai made one last excursion into the gutter of Mirkae’s mind. He caught the Wynixan’s thoughts verbatim:
So what if the old Northie wins. Let’s see him enjoy his gold with a dagger in his spine.
The thought amused as much as sickened Colbey.

Angered by Mirkae’s depravity, Colbey muttered a brief prayer, then cut the deck randomly and slipped the card free. He pushed the rest of the deck toward Mirkae.

The gamblers stared at one another. Neither dared to look at the card that lay, facedown, beneath Colbey’s relaxed fingers. Mirkae broke first. His gaze dropped to the card and remained there. Sweat beaded his forehead, and his breathing quickened. “I don’t want to play. I’m finished.” He gathered gold hurriedly.

Colbey raised his brows questioningly. “You seemed ready enough to play before. I haven’t even turned my card yet. Why would you fear it unless. . . ?” He trailed off with a hiss of suspicion.

Mirkae cleared his throat, his hatred for Colbey tangible. “I don’t want to risk my winnings. Let’s quit now, before I touch the deck or you turn your card, while it’s still fair.” He half rose. “There’s plenty of gold for both of us.” His tone promised a private settlement.

Colbey examined the back of the card for the first time. “Why would my draw frighten you?” he asked, his voice modulated to make the whole room curious. “Unless maybe you can read it from the back.” He studied the pattern. “Is it a king, Mirkae?”

“How could I possibly know?” Mirkae dismissed the claim as ludicrous, well versed at looking innocent. “If you’ll excuse me. . . .”

The prince stood, taking a position at Mirkae’s right hand. The crowd closed off his escape. “Draw!” Oswald said.

Mirkae reached for the deck. The stakes had risen from gold to life, and Mirkae lost his practiced composure.

“Yes,” Colbey said, loud enough for his audience. “I believe it
is
a king.” He traced an obscure curl in the intricate pattern of the card back.

Mirkae made a pained noise, that would have been lost if not for the throng’s sudden silence.

“The black king,” said Colbey definitively. He tossed the card over to display the silhouette of the king.

The crowd erupted in chaos. Mirkae moved like an eel. His hand closed on Oswald’s wrists, twisting. Bone snapped, wrenching a scream from Oswald. A dagger in Mirkae’s fist sped for the prince’s throat.

Colbey sprang forward. His sword sheared free and struck at once, shattering Mirkae’s skull. The dagger clattered to the floor. The card shark collapsed, dead before he struck the boards.

Prince Oswald’s eyes bulged. A cracked wrist seemed small payment when, without Colbey’s interference, he might have been the corpse on the barroom floor.

*  *  *

Colbey and his companions spent a restful night in the inn, though they were the only ones calm enough to sleep. The innkeeper gave them a respect that bordered on servility, and Colbey’s negotiations with Oswald had yielded a hundred gold pieces. Though a pittance compared with
the winnings that had once sat before him and Mirkae in the card game, the amount more than satisfied Colbey. He could buy whatever the party needed and still have money left for food in the future. He felt far more comfortable restoring an honesty that had, not too long ago, been a certainty for all mankind.

In the morning, Colbey, Mitrian, Garn, Tannin, and Rache headed for the market square. Shadimar remained behind, with Korgar and Secodon, under the pretext of guarding the few valuables they had. As Colbey threaded through the vast sea of noise and people, he guessed that it was simply the Eastern Wizard’s excuse for avoiding the crowds. It seemed just as well. A decade at war and weeks of running, constantly looking back, had left the Renshai wearied and in bad humor. Even Colbey recognized the need for some frolic. Apparently, the Northmen had not tracked the group to Wynix. Until the enemy again picked up their trail, a market town seemed like a good place to play.

Though far smaller than the bazaars in Pudar, the Wynixan marketplace was more tastefully decorated, without the gaudy signs and ceaselessly beckoning merchants. It seemed more pleasant for this difference. Garn became a magnet, attracted to all steel. No weapon or shred of armor escaped his scrutiny. Mitrian seemed more interested in the odd shapes and colors of southwestern fruit, having been delegated the job of selecting travel rations and given nearly half of the money. Tannin would select the horses. He guided Rache, showing the youngster the many wonders of a market town.

Crowds made Colbey feel battle-pressed. He remained intent on his purpose, weaponry, noticing only the stands of armorers. Sword after sword fell into Colbey’s hand and was rejected. Many failed before they met his grip, merely for the color of their steel. By his seventh stand, frustration plied him. He stared at the merchant, voice loud with scorn. “Find yourself a blacksmith who can do more than shoe horses. These blades would break in battle, and a rawhide grip will become slippery as a fish when coated in sweat or blood. A fine sword is no more difficult to make than a poor one. These are poor indeed.”

The merchant flushed, not bothering to contradict. Colbey’s statements contained too much knowledge to pass for the ramblings of an old man.

Colbey turned away in disgust.

“Over here!” Garn’s voice scarcely penetrated the din of the passing crowds, but Colbey managed to follow it. At Garn’s side, Mitrian laughed so hard she bent double, nearly incapacitated. Grinning, Garn indicated a sign that spelled out, in the trading runes:
Genuine Renshai Swords.

Colbey grimaced, anger flashing through him. Then, Mitrian’s mirth touched even the Golden Prince of Demons. He smiled, considering a means to vent the harried frustration of what had become constant alertness and paranoia.

Despite Mitrian’s laughter, the obvious interest of her companions sparked the mind and tongue of the seller. “Yes, friends,” he shouted enthusiastically. “The man who forged these blades . . .” He placed a hand on a row of longswords, slightly shorter and broader than most. “. . . learned his skill from his father. His father took the secret right from the golden-haired devils.” His pause was well-rehearsed and lasted just long enough for the gathering audience to digest his words. “Before the Renshai were slain, my craftsman’s father learned their magic. Anyone who wields these few precious swords will have all the skill of Renshai.”

Colbey scratched his head thoughtfully. Béarn’s rule covered a smaller, direct area in the southern part of the Westlands as well as serving as the West’s high kingdom. In the years when the Renshai had devastated the West, they had spared Béarn in exchange for hospitality. Apparently, either Wynix fell under Béarn’s direct rule or the laws had relaxed. In some towns, it was still a capital offense to speak the tribal name, but this merchant had mentioned them twice. His sign flaunted custom, propriety and, in some places, law. “I had thought the Renshai gained their skill through practice and war. Because of magic? Bah! I’m an old man if one of those blades can give me the skill of a Renshai.”

Mitrian caught her breath, watching curiously.

Colbey took a sword from the stand and tested the split
leather hilt. The balance lay within a hand’s breadth of the crosspiece, and the steel appeared the right color. The S-shaped crossguard seemed sturdy, built for stability rather than decoration. A metal finger piece jutted from the wrappings, allowing finer control than the standard grip. Pleased, he picked up a second sword and handed it to Garn. “Hold this. Flat of the blade up.”

Garn obeyed.

Colbey took a step back. With a brisk snap, he crashed his blade against Garn’s.

The sword tumbled from the ex-gladiator’s hands, and he rubbed his stinging palms together. “Why’d you do that?”

The crowd howled with laughter, drawn by the game, but Colbey ignored them. Instead, he examined the edge of the blade. The notch was small but regular, without chips or cracks. The steel seemed hard, yet soft enough that it would not easily break in battle. “A good sword,” Colbey admitted, wanting to encourage any man who sold quality, no matter his methods. “But fight like a Renshai?”

Without awaiting a reply or cue, Colbey spun the blade and began a kata as beautiful as life. His dance was a whirl of wind and passion, like the transient flicker of a candle flame. The sword skipped through the air. At times, it moved so swiftly it disappeared. When it came into view again, it never reappeared quite where the crowd expected.

Mitrian tossed a fist-sized fruit toward Colbey, and the elder accepted the challenge. As it fell, his blade darted. The sword halved the fruit, revealing its salmon-colored center. Neither half found the ground unmolested. Four even pieces of scarlet-skinned fruit settled in the dusty street.

When Colbey’s last sweep split the air, many men pressed toward the stand to buy their own skill.

Fools who believe any prowess can be bought without pain.
Despite his hatred for deception, Colbey knew that the buyers expected merchants to use exaggeration and wild claims to sell their wares. Hawking had become as much entertainment as sales tactics, and assessing the quality of products fell on the patron.
Even if there was
a magic powerful enough to make warriors of fat dolts, only the Wizard who cast the spell would benefit, for the blades would wield the men.

The smile on the merchant’s face became a priceless memory. His swords were not priceless, though their cost had tripled in the last few moments. His salesmen busied themselves collecting money, and the merchant did not forget his benefactor. He approached Colbey. “Sir, keep the swords. No cost.” A broad grin spread across his face. “I am Kerska.” He bowed.

Colbey returned the smile, not wholly with kindness. Had the swords been less finely crafted or his mood been less benign, he might have met this merchant with violence instead of indulgence. “Colbey Calistinsson. Of the Renshai tribe.”

The merchant’s grin wilted slightly, and he studied Colbey as if trying to guess whether the Northman played him.

The party picked up its
Genuine Renshai Swords
and continued on its way, leaving Kerska to wonder while he wallowed in his newfound riches.

The pleasures of the Renshai’s journey westward included the warmth of summer and the green glow it gave the deep forest, full bellies, and more than enough gold to secure provisions in the tiny farm towns they entered. By day, they rode through woodlands, plains, and farm fields. Every evening, they stopped to train and practice before settling for the night.

Colbey enjoyed the seemingly endless cycle of travel and teaching. Since Tannin and Mitrian had bested Valr Kirin in a nameless alley in Porvada, Colbey had seen no sign of Northmen, not even another trap like the one Mitrian had triggered. Though unexplained, the change was welcome.

Still, a day did not pass without one of the group trying to understand Valr Kirin’s motives. “Maybe they gave up and went back to the North,” Mitrian suggested one morning.

It seemed plausible. The Northmen’s xenophobia had not endeared them to the West, and they had to have encountered hostility in the myriad towns scattered throughout the Westlands. Also, the Northmen had crops and families of their own to tend. Surely most had returned to their homes, but Colbey dared not underestimate Valr Kirin or the Nordmirian’s need to slaughter the last Renshai. “Maybe,” Colbey conceded without enthusiasm. “But we can’t afford to relax our guard.”