Turning Points (10 page)

The woman smiled across the counter at him. “Something else did happen just like you warned her it would, and she is marked— but neither she nor her husband my brother minds as much as they did that damned wart!”

Naturally Strick asked no questions, and nodded. Having paid for and accepted a small packet of vegetables, he turned to walk away. He was brought up short. The fellow who had spoken from behind him and been all but ignored moved swiftly to bar his way. “So you can’t do nothing that ain’t good, huh?” His chest was out and his hands were balled into fists the size of small loaves.

“Putting a wart on that snotty bully’s nose of yours,” the dark man just behind Strick’s shoulder said, bracing the considerably larger accoster with a very steady gaze, “would be no bad act.”

“Why, you little piece of cat sh—”

The bully was interrupted by a third male voice, from behind him. “Say, citizen, do you really think it’s smart to go messin’ around with a real live
wizard
?”

The bully wheeled on his accoster, who was a burly swordslinger hired by the market manager to police the place and protect its users. No longer a young man, he was intelligent enough to be standing about a yard back, holding a one-handed crossbow aimed at the bully’s middle. It was cocked.

“Huh!
Big man
! Tough when you’ve got that sticker aimed at my gut, arencha, old fart!”

Again Sirrah Hostility heard a hostile voice from behind: “Argalo, Would you have to arrest me if I was to crack the skull around this ugly little fellow’s big noise-hole with my little walking stick?”

The security man moved his head a little to look past the man he accosted. “Oh, hello there, Hanse—I mean Chance! Killed anybody so far this week?”

Hanse-I-mean-Chance laughed. The former bravo he called Ar-galo laughed. Strick laughed. Several others nearby laughed. The heavily intimidated bully proved that he retained a modicum of intelligence by suddenly remembering his urgent need to be somewhere else.

Thanks and good wishes were exchanged, and Strick bought some fish that smelled good enough to eat provided he didn’t put it off, and he and Chance made their way to the east entry to the marketplace. There, just inside, they had time to sit down and, without incident, knock back a small measure of wine. Then it was about time to step outside and look for transportation.

It had arrived: here was Strick’s man Samoff with the one-mule-cart which the Spellmaster chose over a carriage, in order not to look as well off as he was. It was in accord with Strick’s desire that Samoff of the thick, droopy, rust-colored moustache wore nothing that even approached livery. He who had named the mule “Killer” dressed as he wished and wore arms as he wished. In his case that meant he was well armed with sword and dagger and crossbow and back-up knife, and as mean-looking as he could look in mostly leathers with boots well up his thighs and his big wide-brimmed old desert hat with a sweat-stain about the size of some small animals. He was a much wrinkled man of one and fifty who had put in a lot of years traveling from town to town across the desert as a caravan scout. The job meant keeping to himself and riding ahead and on the flanks all along the way, on the alert for possible menace.

Samoff was a man of few words and considerable respect who knew how to use his weapons, although he was handicapped by an old leg injury.

He knew he was lucky to be employed by the Spellmaster, too, who also provided food and housing, and had spelled away the personal problem that Samoff called the worst: a pair of feet whose sweat had smelled worse than a hound-dog’s mouth. Samoff was also privy to the former life of his boss’s dark, unfriendly looking friend. One afternoon a couple of years back he had heard an old acquaintance of Chance ask him if the change of name really worked; what about people who had known him as Hanse the roach for many years?

“They are mostly all dead,” Chance replied, and no one could disbelieve that, for nearly everyone who had lived in Sanctuary a half-century ago no longer lived anywhere.

Today Samoff greeted that man, along with his employer, with respect. He was pleased to accept with a low nod of his head the half-measure of beer that Chance had been so thoughtful as to purchase for him, saw the two men seated in the cart, and mounted its forward seat to make the long drive to the much better area of town and the Spellmaster’s home. The drive was leisurely and without incident of any significance.

The door of that spacious dwelling was opened from within and they were greeted by a quite shapely, thin-faced woman in her late thirties or early forties. She was Linnana, who was as always rather garishly attired in several items of jewelry and at least as many colors, not all of which were compatible.

Chance was one of the very few who knew that this S’danzo “housekeeper” was Strick’s woman. Since her people tended to shun liaisons with outsiders and frown upon those who broke that unwritten “rule,” she pretended to be no more than his housekeeper, and they maintained the fiction that she dwelled in the small building attached to his large home.

In fact, long ago a S’danzo had been the one true love of the hardly lovable thief named Hanse and called Shadowspawn, and he had lost her because he had persisted in being Hanse called Shadowspawn—and never ceased to blame himself. It was because of his lost Mignureal that he had long secretly channeled money to one Elemi, a widow, because she was S’danzo and he was sentimental—a fact that even now, so close to the end of his life, he would never admit, even to Strick.

Linnana was more than civil and showed no long face as she apprised them that while cleaning she had discovered that someone had broken in last night, without causing damage to door or window or—apparently—taking anything except the mostly purple raw gemstone that Strick kept lying on one end of the table in his divi-nery and office.

“But he left this,” she said, handing her lover a tiny tablet of hard clay and soft wax. It had been sealed with Strick’s wax and seal.

He gave Chance a look. “Want to risk a wager as to who left this?”

“I like him more and more,” Shadowspawn said. “It’s what I would have done!”

Smiling—rather tightly—Strick broke the seal and lifted the tablet’s cover.
Very
neatly scratched into the soft wax coating the inside of the tablet were the words “Why not just ask me stead of them uthers?”

Strick chuckled. “That would be Lone, all right. All is well, Lin-nie. We are in no danger from this intruder.”

While she showed visible relief, she also remained close to her man.

Chance added his assurance: “A certain youngster just wanted to show us he could do it.”

“Wants to be like his idol,” Strick appended, now with an arm about his woman. “You remember hearing about a certain Shadowspawn, don’t you Linnie?”

She heaved a sigh and showed the two men a wan smile. “Never heard of him,” she said. “But I do smell something that needs to be taken outside and cleaned.”

“Sorry,” Chance grinned. “Strick did do some sweating…”

With an indulgent smile she took over the fish. The Spellmaster headed for his private sanctuary, his home office-divinery, while Lin-nana took charge of the market purchases. She presented no real argument when Chance said it should be his job to clean the fish. Strick was still in his sanctuary when he finished, so Chance went out to visit with Samoff and “maybe lend a hand in tending to the mule and cart.”

He and the former caravan scout sat in the barn and reminisced, as they had on several other occasions. Most of what each told the other was true.

Over dinner, Strick surprised no one by advising that he had been at a little private divination, an ability enhanced by a few things he had learned not from his stepfather, but from a friend of his, a dauntingly large man named Ahdio.

“The lad who continues to cast bad spells over Sanctuary is named Komodoflorensal,” he told Chance and Linnana.

Chance paused over a slice of onion-rubbed bread the color of old leather. “Now that,” he said, “is a lot of name!”

Strick nodded, using his tongue to explore the morsel of fish in his mouth for bone. “He is apprentice to a master mage named Kusharlonikas, who is older than dirt. Do you know of him, Chance?”

“Why ask me? Because I am older than dirt?”

So
many years he has lived
, Strick thought,
and still so defensive and quick to take offense
! For him not to be happy, and so low of self-esteem as to feel it, especially for a man so very good at his life’s work, was to Strick one more miscarriage of justice—and proof once again that the whole “justice” concept came not from the gods but was solely a human invention, and did not exist in any natural state.

Or so believed Strick, Spellmaster.

“No,” he told Chance, “because I believe this Kusharlonikas to be old enough to have whelped you.”

Chance jerked erect in his chair. “All gods forbid!”

“No argument offered,” Strick said.

Linnana chuckled. “What an irony
that
would be!”

Strick went on, “I should not have much trouble learning where Kusharlonikas lives, since I have seen the neighborhood behind my eyes. I intend to have a talk with him. Sorcerers are wont to claim— even believe, in some cases—that any and every event that takes place—or fails to take place, as expected!—is demonstration of their magnificent ability. This one needs to accept responsibility for the bad, too. The incompetence of his apprentice is a danger to everyone. And certainly his master owes that couple in the market for the tent destroyed by that excrementitious spell.”

While Chance was wondering what the grundoon that meant, Linnana was aborting the lifting of nicely peppered fish to her mouth. Strick and Chance had given the shapely woman a brief description of the outre mis-happening in the open market. Now she said, “And that poor woman’s cat?”

“Cats,” Strick announced with uncharacteristic portentousness, “are plentiful and not at all expensive.”

But the man called Chance was staring at a blank wall blankly, remembering, and he said nothing.

The quite spartan apartment that Chance kept was not at all far from the considerably nobler estate of his friend, but as sometimes happened, the retired Shadowspawn spent the night at Strick’s. When he entered his two rented rooms next morning, he discovered that he had been visited. Someone had neatly arranged on his bedspread the amethyst off Strick’s desk and another little clay tablet.

“While yur frend was trying to learn about me,” the note said, “I was learning about you, Shadospawn. Sign me if yu hap to be at same table at Bottomless Well this night.”

He who had been the ultra-cocky Shadowspawn, invader of so many dwellings not his own, felt violated and was righteously outraged, but that night he was at the table he had shared with Strick the night the spider sprouted wings and the “professional barker” outside became a “good dog.”

The boy, as Chance thought of Lone, was not present, and Ar-istokrates understood the reason of this influential patron for drinking “wine” that contained more of the well than the grape.

The ever-patriot and former professional thief had lived a long time, and played many games, mind and otherwise, and so was not surprised when after the turn of the hourglass on the counter
the boy
had still made no appearance. Neither had he sent a message, which admittedly Chance had half-expected. He rose, step-thudded to the counter, paid, and leaned close to the host to murmur a number of words for his ears only. Aristokrates agreed, and Chance departed the establishment.

Time passed. Aristokrates and his modestly dressed daughter Es-miria stayed busy serving beer and wine and food. The wife of the proprietor and supposed owner of The Bottomless Well, a woman meatier and thicker-set than he was, emerged from the kitchen in response to a customer’s special request. She listened, and nodded her agreement, and responded with a few words; why mention that one of the spices the interfering ass requested was already in the stew, and his other suggestion would spoil it? On her way back out of sight—where Falmiria repeatedly made it clear that she preferred to be—she paused, watched the last grain of sand disappear from the top of the hourglass, and turned it.

And time passed in The Bottomless Well. At last through the arched doorway he came, in his gliding gait called catlike, a lean young man of no great height but at least five lengths of sharp steel that showed. He wore black, black, and black, tonight unalleviated even by the red sash, and the soles of his soft buskins made not a sound on the hardwood floor. From arrestingly dark eyes beneath rather thick, black brows he scanned the place as if in a casual way, but which his host knew was quite purposeful indeed.

The catwalker wore no happy look when he turned to the counter and those nearly black eyes bored into the mild, medium brown ones of his host.

“I was to meet the man who calls himself Chance here,” he said. “I don’t see him…”

Aristokrates bobbed his head in such a way as to make it obvious that he was attempting to be ingratiating. “Yes. He was here, Lone. Alone. He sat at the back wall, and sipped a mug very slowly like a man waiting for someone to join him. After more than an hour he had still not bought another cup and I despaired of ever selling him one. Then he came up here on that cane of his, and paid, and looking not at all pleased, told me that if you came in I was to say these words, and I repeat them exactly, Lone: ‘I waited a long time; too long for a boy so young and inexperienced.’ ”

Immediately he had spoken, the balding man from Mrsevada took a step back from the counter and the stormy face on its other side. That face had darkened, and its features were writhing, and the eyes seemed ready to emit flashes of fire.

“That bastard!” Lone blazed, and louder than Aristokrates had ever heard him speak.

“I… think you are right,” the bigger man said mildly, while judiciously reserving all comment on Lone’s lack of parentage.

Lone slammed a fist down on the counter. “That blag-dagged blaggard! This is—this is—you said his words
exactly
, Aris?”