Winter Witch (8 page)

Chapter Five

The Unexpected Treasure

When he emerged from Geezlebottle Hall, Declan saw no sign of the impulsive Skywing. Probably the little drake was chasing imps again, or—considering the excitement of recent events—more likely he was curled up in a morning sunbeam, dreaming of hordes of field mice fleeing from his shadow as he swooped down out of the sun.

The market bustled with activity by the time Declan made his way back to Midland, the section of Korvosa where much of the city’s business took place. His weary horse pressed through the crowded streets, the slow clop of hooves a counterpoint to Declan’s troubled thoughts.

Silvana was in danger, and he was determined to rescue her. That part was simple. But how did an apprentice mapmaker launch a rescue expedition? If he could persuade Basha to settle their account—and that was a very large “if”—he might have enough to cover his travel expenses to Irrisen, assuming he continued to borrow Majeed’s horse rather than purchase one of his own. Raising a ransom was another matter.

Gambling was a possibility. He played a decent game of cards, and his dice seldom took a dislike to him. In theory, his chances stood as high anyone’s, but he was beginning to wonder whether he cast spells subconsciously somehow. Jamang’s reminder of his animated caricatures and Zimidge’s insistence that Declan had cast some sort of ward against enchantment had him wondering what was wrong with him. Whatever it was, if it happened at the gaming table, it would mean big trouble.

High-stakes games generally had a wizard present to ensure that no magic was cast to influence the game. Laws against magical cheating were strict, and violators paid fines far heavier than their prospective winnings. But not, Declan noted glumly, heavy enough to deter people from trying. He suspected the laws were designed to allow certain people to cheat and still make a small profit, the better to fill the city coffers. On the other hand, Declan couldn’t be certain that he
wouldn’t end up owing a cheater’s tax, which he couldn’t possibly pay.

He wouldn’t try to influence the game, but he hadn’t set out to create the spell Jamang had valued so highly, either. His goal had been a flipbook, a popular trifle with pictures drawn in small stages of movement, so that when the pages were swiftly riffled the drawing seemed to move. But when he’d stacked the completed drawings, they’d melted together into a single page. If he could create a magical animation without meaning to, who knew what might happen in a game of chance?

And of course he could always lose the game outright.

Putting gambling aside, his options were few. He owned nothing of value to sell. Borrowing money was out of the question, for he had nothing to put up as collateral for the moneylenders. His friends would help him if they could, but their circumstances were similar to his own—they were students and artists, earning their way, but only just. After paying for their training, their room and board, their books and paint and brushes and so forth, they were lucky to hoard enough coins for an occasional evening at a tavern or theater.

In the tales Declan had read as a boy, the hero would simply set out on his journey. He’d find a sword along the way, win a wild hippogriff’s trust by removing a caltrop from its hoof, maybe slay a dragon or two to finance the venture.

In real life, he noted glumly, things were seldom so easy.

The deeper Declan rode into the marketplace, the slower his progress. Finally he decided he could move faster on foot. He left the stallion at one of the tent stables and pushed into the crowd thronging the heart of the market.

Booths and tents lined both sides of the street. Declan edged past a stout woman who was eyeing a gray-and-white rabbit in the pen outside a curtained butcher’s shop. Just beyond, a flock of hens scratched outside their movable coop, a brightly painted miniature wagon that reflected the common image of a Varisian vagabond caravan. Declan waded through the flock and waved away the enterprising merchant who was handing out slices of fragrant pink melon.

An overturned fruit cart blocked the street ahead, and the argument between the vendor and his apparent competitor was swiftly moving toward a brawl. Declan ducked through the makeshift grape arbor one of the merchants had set up to showcase enormous bunches of scarlet grapes. In the alley just behind, a stained wooden press stood nearby to crush the grapes for fresh juice. Declan wiped the back of his hand across his damp forehead. If the day proved as warm as it promised to be, the juice would be vinegar by sunset.

The sun was nearing its zenith when he finally came to Eodred’s Walk, a dozen or so permanent structures arranged in a semicircle. The shops were constructed of whitewashed wood, with upper floors that overhung the street and provided some protection from the sun. The scent of smoked meat filled the air, reminding Declan that he hadn’t eaten since the previous afternoon.

He pulled up short near the fortune-teller’s door, just missing a collision with the well-dressed man leaving. Behind him, a plump, white-haired woman smirked as she counted a handful of silver coins. She caught sight of Declan and slipped the money into her pocket. Planting her hands on her ample hips, she stepped into his path. “Back so soon?”

“Don’t sound so surprised, Bettina,” he said as he sidestepped her. “Surely you knew I’d be coming this way.”

A quick grin twitched Bettina’s lips, and she adjusted her stance to match his. She did not act too proud with Declan, who had always treated the theatrical fortune-teller with teasing affection. Bettina was not a true Harrower, nor even a Varisian, but one of the many native Korvosans whose forebears had immigrated from Cheliax generations earlier. “I see plague and pestilence, gloom and doom. You are too young for such fates as I dispense.”

Declan suppressed a sigh and resigned himself to an exchange of pleasantries. He inclined his head toward the departing client. “That gentleman looked happy enough.”

“He should,” she said complacently. “His future shines like the stars on a moonless night.”

“If I were a cynical man, I’d suggest you reward those who are in a position to return the favor.”

“Ha! True enough,” she said. “And in that spirit, if you can get Basha to repay me for his share of the street sweeper’s fee, I’ll tell you what tomorrow has in store for you.”

He shook his head. “I thank you, but I’ve had enough bad news for one day.”

The fortune-teller cackled appreciatively and waved him on his way.

Basha’s Maps stood at the end of the crescent. A massive door of dark wood with many small panels heralded an interior that resembled a gentleman’s library. Basha claimed to be a retired adventurer who’d walked the world enough to judge the value of his wares. In truth, most of his maps were works of fiction. He sold enough real maps, however, to interest serious travelers, and to keep those with stars in their eyes coming back when the “ancient treasure maps” they purchased didn’t quite pay out.

The proprietor stood on a ladder propped against a tall shelf, staring into an old and dusty tome. He jolted and looked up when the shop bell jangled. His mustache lifted in a disturbingly wide grin.

“Well now, look who’s come!” he said heartily. “I was hoping you’d visit today.”

Declan huffed with surprise. “You weren’t happy to see me two days ago when I stopped by for my fee. Speaking of which—”

“Say no more, my dear lad. Say no more!”

Basha scampered down the ladder, nimble as a ferret, and bustled over to the strongbox. He unlocked the latch and rummaged inside.

Coins clinked for longer than Declan would have thought necessary. He was nearing the end of his patience when Basha slammed the strongbox and held up a leather coin sack of substantial size.

“You may keep the purse,” he said munificently.

Declan regarded the old bag. The leather was worn shiny in spots and smelled faintly of old sweat.

“At the risk of sounding ungracious, I’d rather have the full payment.”

“It’s all in here,” Basha said, soundly affronted. “Full payment for every map you’ve ever drawn for me, those that have sold and those still in inventory. There’s also an advance for your next job. It’s a real map, so you’ll need to travel.”

Declan studied him for a moment. The merchant seemed to be serious. “You know I’ve never left Korvosa, much less mapped unfamiliar terrain. I’m not sure anything I’d draw on this trip would reflect reality.”

The merchant snorted. “You’re worried about this now? The last map you drew for me, the one that was supposed to be the interior of a Katapeshi harem? Funny how the layout resembled the floor plan of the Jeggare Museum.”

Declan shrugged. After all, the man had a point. “What do you want me to map?”

“An inland route through the Sanos Forest.” Basha rubbed his hands together in unabashed greed. “Merchants will gladly pay good money for such a map. The Varisian caravans travel through it all the time.”

“And they’re notoriously secretive about their paths.”

“That’s why you’re perfect for the job!” Basha said triumphantly. “You’re not a known mapmaker. You’re not a wizard. You certainly don’t fit anyone’s idea of an explorer. No one will suspect you.”

“They might, when they see me taking measurements and making drawings.”

“Let them see you drawing other things,” the merchant persisted. “They’ll take you for a naturalist or—Abadar forgive you—an artist.”

Basha took from the shelf a slim volume bound in blue leather and opened it to display the moving ink on the book’s single page.

“Make another of these. That should distract them.”

Declan’s jaw dropped. “Where did you get that?”

Basha splayed one hand over the place his heart would reside, assuming he possessed one. “My dear boy, surely you don’t think I would betray a confidential client. My impeccable sense of propriety forbids it.”

“I’ve seen no evidence that you possess any such scruples.”

The merchant pointed to a basket holding several battered scrolls. A small handwritten sign proclaimed them to be
Rare Maps—Recovered from a crypt deep below the Mindspin Mountains
.

“Now suppose I told prospective buyers, ‘Those are just some sketches Declan Avari worked up in his free time.’ Where would we both be then, hmm?”

“That’s different.”

“Different how?”

“Well, to start with, I’m fairly certain that the last person to own that book was murdered last night.”

The color drained from Basha’s face. “That is a significant difference,” he admitted. “But wherein lies the degree of uncertainty? That there was a murder or that the murdered person owned this book?”

This struck Declan as a reasonable question. Jamang had implied that he owned the other two “living” books, but Jamang had never been celebrated for his honesty. For that matter, Declan couldn’t be certain that Jamang was dead. He had no reason to believe that Skywing would lie to him, but it was possible that the dragon’s assessment of the situation was optimistic. Necromancers were supposed to be difficult to kill.

After a moment, Declan said, “If you won’t tell me who sold you the book, perhaps you’ll tell me whether anyone else came looking for one like it?”

“Perhaps,” Basha said cautiously.

“A man of my years, about this tall.” Declan held out one hand, palm down, to measure Jamang Kira’s height. “Black hair, fine clothes. He was thin and wore a necromancer’s amulet from the Acadamae.”

“No such person has entered this shop.” The map merchant again placed one hand over his heart. “You may believe me, my boy.”

“So you were outside the shop when you spoke to him?”

Basha burst out laughing. “Oh, very good! As the saying goes, a keen ear is better than a quick tongue.”

“Thank you. You know the curious thing about compliments? They’re frequently employed as evasions.”

The merchant sobered. “True, but that was not my intent. I have never laid eyes on the man you described. Is he the one you fear is dead?”

Declan nodded. “If I knew who sold you the book, I’d have a better idea who else might be looking for it.”

“That I doubt,” the merchant said. He went to a table and showed Declan a small, dusty satchel. “A street urchin found this and brought it in early this morning, hoping to sell me the book. I recognized it as your work.”

Declan froze in the act of reaching for Jamang’s satchel. “You did? How?”

Basha sent him a long-suffering look. “You signed your artist’s mark to it. The same mark, I might add, that I have to scrape off your maps whenever you forgetfully inscribe it in the compass rose.”

“Sorry,” said Declan, genuinely contrite. It was his one concession to vanity in his artwork, although he tried to remember not to include it on his fanciful treasure maps.

The merchant waved this away. “So, will you take the job?”

“Let’s start with the book.”

Basha handed it over without comment. “It will help convince the Varisian merchants that you’re a traveling artist.” He grimaced. “And if you are right about the short man’s fate, I’ve no desire to keep such a book in my shop.”

“So where do I find these merchants?”

“Just outside of the city, in the meadows beyond the north gate. The captain’s name is Viland Balev. He travels the length of Varisia, all the way to Jol in the Lands of the Linnorm Kings. Tell him you’re a bored student in search of novelty, or an artist in search of inspiration. Offer him money for passage and protection.”

It did not escape Declan’s notice that the merchant was talking a little faster than usual, as if he was uneasy. And when he spoke of the merchant caravan, his hand went to his throat. Most likely, Declan reasoned, Basha wanted him and the troublesome book out of his shop as soon as possible. Under the circumstances, that was prudent.

The job offer, on the other hand, was downright peculiar. It was too good to be true, sending him exactly in the direction he wanted to go mere hours after he’d realized he wanted to go there. Still, Declan didn’t see how he could turn it down. He needed to get to Irrisen, and a job that would move him closer to his goal suited his needs.

“Anything I should know about this Viland Balev?”