The Tiger's Eye (Book 1) (5 page)

9

A large bowl of stew was waiting for him when he limped
gingerly into the common room. He had decided to wear the robe without the
reinforced tunic and trousers, and was already regretting it. It chafed against
his skin. The stew was an odd mixture: potatoes, tomatoes, carrots, corn,
onions, meat—Nargeth called it a red quisling, a domesticated bird nearly as
large as a chicken—seasoned with salt, sage, basil, garlic. It was edible, but
the taste was far from desirable. Still, he was hungry, and he ate as much of
it as he could stomach before turning away. The ale helped.

He was still sitting at the table when a woodsman walked in.
He wore a light brown tunic, brown trousers, and dark brown leather boots. He
held a bow in his left hand, and his right hand rested lightly on the hilt of a
sword whose tip dangled below his knee. It wasn’t a threatening gesture, but
the woodsman was clearly ill at ease. A quiver of arrows hung easily over his
right shoulder, and he carried himself like a mountain cat entering another
male’s territory. His hair was a mass of brown with bits of leaves and twigs
tangled in it. His face was painted with two green finger-streaks from the left
brow to the right ear, and a third ran down the bridge of his nose. He scanned
the room quickly, nodding to the other customers, and moved rapidly to Angus’s
table. When Nargeth stepped out from behind the counter, he waved her off with
a glance.

“You are Angus,” he said, his voice clipped, harsh,
accusing. “Friend of Voltari.”

Angus studied the newcomer’s posture—A snake ready to
strike? A cat about to pounce?—and nodded slightly. “Ulrich,” he said. “Please
sit down.”

“Blackhaven Tower is a blight on the land,” Ulrich barked,
his voice sharp, as if he were stating an uneasy fact. “The dead must stay
dead.”

Angus did not respond. There was no need to; Ulrich
obviously had a firmly set opinion, and anything he said would be pointless.

Ulrich shifted his quiver and sat down across from Angus.
“Tell me, Angus,” Ulrich asked, each word sharply accented. “What business have
you in Woodwort?” he demanded.

“Woodwort?” Angus asked.

“Here,” Ulrich snapped. “This village.”

“Only rest and recuperation,” Angus answered. “I will be
leaving in a few days.”

“For Hellsbreath?”

Angus nodded.

“Business?”

Angus smiled. It wasn’t a friendly smile—at least he hoped
it wasn’t—nor an unfriendly one; rather, he was acknowledging the boundary they
were forming between them. “Perhaps,” he said. “What is it to you?”

Ulrich returned the smile easily, shrugged, and said, “Idle
curiosity.”

“Well then,” Angus said. “If that is all it is, you’ll be
disappointed. I have no idea what I’ll be doing there.”

“You should visit Ungred,” Ulrich said. “He will make you a
proper pair of boots.”

“My boots are fine,” Angus objected.

Ulrich shrugged. “His shop is on The Rim.”

“Well,” Angus said. “I’ll look in on him if I can find the
time.”

Ulrich nodded, rose from his chair.

“Ulrich,” Angus said. “You have something of mine. I would
like it back.”

Ulrich nodded again, and before Angus could complain, he
turned crisply and walked out of the common room, as if he were a cat that had
just made up its mind to leave.

The next morning, Nargeth brought the map up to his room. He
thanked her and, after she left, unrolled the scroll to see what damage Ulrich
had done to it. But it wasn’t damaged; Ulrich had added a considerable amount
of information to it. Woodwort was now marked, as were a dozen other villages
on the road between it and Hellsbreath. He had scrawled
BLIGHT
over
Blackhaven Tower. A short distance southwest of Woodwort, he wrote
FRIEND
,
and underneath the mountain dwarves he had crossed off
IMPASSABLE
and
replaced it with
TAKE WINE
. Finally, some distance northwest of
Hellsbreath, a considerable distance from the road and villages, Ulrich had
written
ELHOUIT ACHNUT
. Angus didn’t recognize the language, but it
didn’t matter; it was a long way from his destination.

Angus memorized the changes and rolled the map up to put it
beside his backpack. Then he took out one of the scrolls. It was a spell he
knew well, and it didn’t take him long to prime himself for the sequence of
knots and reorient the threads of magic within himself to be receptive to those
around him. But the second spell was completely new, and he wasn’t at all sure
what it would do. He studied it for nearly an hour before setting it aside as
hopeless. He was tired, and his head was beginning to ache from the effort of
trying to imagine how the various knots fit together and how the threads of
magical energy would interact with one another. In the end, all he knew for
sure was that it was a powerful, complex spell involving both earth and flame,
and all spells involving the sphere of flame would burn things. The question
was always about
how
it burned them. Since it was mixed with earth
magic, it would probably use lava, but it wasn’t at all clear to him.

He turned to the next scroll….

10

Angus stayed at Nargeth’s inn for six days, spending almost
all of the time studying his new scrolls and organizing them into three
categories: those he understood well, those he thought he understood well
enough to risk casting, and those he didn’t understand beyond a superficial
level. He put the last ones on the bottom of his pack so he wouldn’t
accidentally grab one of them in the heat of battle. When he finally left, he set
the map on top of the scrolls with the pot of healing balm pressing down on top
of it.

The road to the south started out as two narrow ruts cut
between thick groves of maple trees, and by the third day it was a carved path
through the forest. Then it turned southeast, gradually leaving the densely forested
foothills and entering long, sloping, wooded hills. Most of the trees were
still maples, but there were also clumps of pine and oak. Beneath them, in the
undergrowth, were a myriad of flowers—pink, blue, yellow, white, large,
small—and thousands of tiny white butterflies, blue moths, and honeybees. He
thought about tracking down a beehive, but decided against it; there was no
sense wasting time only to end up stung to death. Still, his magic….

At the end of the first week, the nauseating stench of
stagnant, standing water drowned out the sweetness of the flowers, and
mosquitoes replaced the butterflies. Fortunately, the road only skirted the
edge of the swamp for two days, and the villages were close enough together for
him to find lodging and food at the end of each day’s walk. Then the road forked,
with one prong continuing to skirt the southern border of the swamp, and the
other heading due south. He took the south road, and by the end of the next
day, he had escaped the stench altogether. The villages were further apart, but
there were well-established campsites along the way. For four days, the road
lay between gradually steepening, rocky foothills heavy with brittle brown
grasses, berry bushes, and thorn-encrusted shrubs on one side and rolling,
grassy hills on the other. It was easy going; the road was well-traveled, and
there were wooden bridges over the rivers and streams that could not be easily
forded.

By the end of the second uneventful week, Angus was tired of
hills.

Low, rolling hills lined with tall brownish-green grass in
need of rain. Flowers reeking of powerful, sickly-sweet odors that overwhelmed
his sense of smell. Honeybees, butterflies, and moths fluttering all about like
massive tiny armies patrolling their kingdoms.

High hills dappled with a patchwork of trees—maple, pine,
oak—and a rich variegated undergrowth of tangled clumps of the same tall grass,
more brown than green. Long peals of shrill birdsong grated on his nerves and
gave him a steady throbbing at the base of his neck.

Steep foothills riddled with berry-bearing thorny thickets,
maple groves, and snakes. Lots of snakes. Thin little brown ones that lay in
wait on the thickets’ branches, occasionally striking out at a passing songbird
enticed by the berries. Gray-black ones large enough to swallow his hand
huddled on the ground. And the bright yellow ones that screamed poison.

Long, arduous climbs up the hill left him breathless, and
the quick, easy glide down the other side left his knees quivering. Then up the
next hill….

Little village after little village after little village
after little village.

There were brief moments between villages when he
encountered fellow travelers, but most of them had followed the same dull
pattern: greet each other, ask about the road ahead, and continue on. When
riders came up behind him, he had to step off the road to allow them to pass.
He was always wary during these encounters, but they had all proven to be
benign interludes. Occasionally, he shared a meal and pleasant conversation
with his fellow travelers, and once he had camped for the night with an
eccentric old dwarf who had been driven nearly mad from claustrophobia before
he’d finally fled topside and found peace.

He fished in the evenings when the river was near enough to
his camp, but mostly all he did was walk. Then, early in the evening of the
fifteenth day from Woodwort, the well-traveled ruts turned into mortared
cobblestones fitted neatly together. The cobblestones were alternating two-foot
square slabs hewn from gray-green and reddish-brown granite. He had been told
to expect them, and he knew what they meant: Wyrmwood, a major crossroads where
the east-west road from Tyrag intersected the north-south road going through
Hellsbreath.

Wyrmwood was a thriving town with hundreds living there, and
even though he couldn’t remember having been there before, he navigated through
the streets as if he had been. The town was constructed in a pattern of
concentric rings. Beyond the outer wall were the farmers and cropland. The
outer wall was a low, three-foot high stone barrier constructed of granite
blocks held together with mortar. It was fairly new, judging by the rough
granite surface and slightly weather-stained mortar. Just inside the wall was a
ring of one-floor, thatch-roofed hovels and single-room shanties. Figures moved
furtively among the mud streets like small packs of dogs prowling in the
shadows, yipping and laughing as they nipped at each other.
Ruffians?
Workers heading home?
He brought his robe a little closer about him and
dropped his consciousness to a slightly deeper level, bringing the magical
energy into the periphery of his awareness.
No. Miners. Coal mines to the
west.

A second wall like the first, but five feet high,
discolored, and smoothed by weathering, separated the miners’ dwellings from
the rest of the town. Unlike the first wall, it had a guard waiting at the
gate, and a line of people waiting to enter. The guard barely glanced at most
of them before gesturing them inside, but once in a while he would study a face
closely and ask questions before finally letting them enter. He refused passage
only once, and the man protested—until the guard barked a sharp command and
three other guards hurried into the gap in the wall made by the gate. The man
gave up and, hurling curses back at the guards, pushed his way through the line
behind him. Angus frowned as the man grew nearer; the people were stepping
aside to give him plenty of room to pass, but he adjusted his own path and kept
bumping into them.

Angus stood his ground, drew his dagger, and let the rest of
the gathering step aside. The man followed the throng, made a staggered lunge
toward Angus, saw the dagger, and stopped. He stood still for a long moment,
perfectly poised with his weight on one foot. “I suggest,” Angus hissed, “you
find another mark.” The man pivoted easily away from him and promptly bumped
into the next small group, his fingers sifting through folds of their clothes,
deftly searching for coin purses and other valuable items. Angus watched him
until he was far enough away before returning his dagger to his sheath. He
looked back to the gate and took several steps forward, catching up with the
rest of the line.

Someone finally shouted, “Thief!” and Angus sighed.
Not
my business,
he thought as others joined the cry of “Thief! Thief!” Those
around Angus turned, and some of them reached for their pockets. Two hands fell
on nothing, and they took up the shout of “Thief” and ran after him. Angus
stepped forward into the vacuum they left behind.

The victims of the thief continued shouting.

The guards pretended not to notice.

Angus stepped forward, a pace at a time.

He was behind only three people when the first victim barged
past him, panting heavily and demanding that the guard catch the thief.

The guard shook his head. “Not my job,” he said. “My post is
here. You’ll have to take it up with the magistrate.”

“The magistrate!” the man bellowed. “He doesn’t care about
what happens out here!”

Four more victims joined him, and the guard looked them
over. “Sure he does,” he said. “I’m sure if you take it up with him, he’ll do
his best to catch the thief.” He half-turned and called, “Isn’t that right,
Norby?”

Three guards came into view, and one of them—the largest
one, easily a head taller than the others and nearly neckless, with shoulders
twice as wide as a normal man’s—grunted in agreement.

The group of victims fumed, and the first one demanded,
“Then take us to him!”

The gate guard smiled and repeated, “Not my job.” He paused
to study their faces, shrugged, and gestured them through the gate. “Second
street on the left,” he said. “You can’t miss it.”

The victims of the thief mulled around for a few seconds
before one of them finally half-screamed and stormed through the gate. He
walked rapidly down the street, and the others hurried to catch up with him.
The three guards stepped back to their posts around the corner.

“Sorry folks,” the guard said. “It happens sometimes.
Nothing to worry about. The magistrate will take care of it.”

When it was Angus’s turn, the guard looked him over,
squinted in the twilight, stepped a bit closer, and looked again. “Have you
been here before?” he asked.

“Not as I recall,” Angus said.

“Business?”

“None,” Angus said. “I seek only a night’s refuge and a warm
meal.”

The guard looked at him a bit longer and muttered, “A bit
taller, longer hair….” He shook his head. “All right,” he said, nodding him
past and turning to the next in line.

“Thank you,” Angus said. He stepped through the gate,
paused, and turned back. “If it is of any help,” he offered, “the man you
denied entrance was the thief.”

The gate guard frowned, glanced at him, and waved him away.

Angus turned, took a few steps, and smiled.
So
, he
wondered,
What’s your cut?

Inside this ring of the city were inns, taverns, stables,
shops—everything a traveler might find useful in his journeys. It was the
largest part of the city, with many cobbled streets branching off from the main
road. The side streets were well lit by oil lamps spaced strategically along
them. At the peak of the caravan season, Wyrmwood could easily provide lodging,
food, shelter, and entertainment for nearly two thousand guests, but this
wasn’t the caravan season; many of the shops were closed and the few people who
were there were nearly dwarfed by the wide streets. Angus ignored most of those
and headed south until he came up against the last, oldest, innermost wall and
the cobbled road wrapped around it. That was where the north road ended.

The wall was a high barrier that appeared to have been built
in layers. The bottom ten feet were ancient, crumbling stone that had been
patched many times. Even in the encroaching darkness, there was a small group
of workmen scraping out mortar in one section and replacing it with fresh
cement. The second layer reached up nearly fifteen feet above the first and was
made from newer stone; its weathered surface resembled that of the walls
separating the workers and shops. It was probably constructed at the same time,
with the last layer—wood capped with a walkway and guard posts spaced within
easy earshot of each other—added sometime later, perhaps when they had built
the outermost wall?

Angus paused to study the wall for several minutes,
wondering what was beyond it and somehow knowing it was the wealthy merchant
families who owned most of the town, the mines, the farmers’ lands, and the
lumber sent downriver by the woodsmen. There were vast fortunes within that
little enclave, and it was sorely tempting to find a way inside, sneak
through—but the guards on top of the wall patrolled at irregular intervals,
never less than a few minutes apart. Still, with a rope and grapple, muzzled
with cloth to avoid the clatter…. It would have to be painted with a pattern
that would blend in with the stone, since there wouldn’t be time to haul it up;
without the camouflage, the guards would see it dangling there. Then what? Once
he was
inside
the wall, the guards on it would be easy to avoid; they
were looking
out
for trouble, not
in
. But what if there were more
guards inside? He would have to bribe some of them, find out the schedule,
learn more—but that would be risky. He didn’t have near enough money to match
what the merchants could offer, and he would have to kill the guard after he
talked with him. But that would alert the merchants….

He frowned, puzzling over the problem.
Maybe
—

“Move on, wizard,” a guardsman said from beside him,
startling Angus from his reverie.

Angus turned and smiled. “Sorry,” he said. “I was lost in
thought.”

The guard looked like he wanted to give him a shove to move
him along his way but was too hesitant to risk it. “This is no place for
gawking.”

“Oh?” Angus asked glancing past the guard to see three more
standing nearby. But this one was clearly their superior; he had a long sword
in a sharp-looking black leather sheath, his leather armor was reinforced with
iron bands, and there was an epaulet—dark blue? gray? It was difficult to tell
in the fading light—on his left shoulder. He stood with his hands on his belt,
near enough to draw his sword if need be but far enough away so as not to
appear threatening, and his back was braced and fluid at the same time. He had
the air of a well-seasoned, confident fighter ready to do battle but not
seeking it out. His leather-clad companions, on the other hand, milled around
uncertainly, shuffling from foot to foot with their hands gripping their short
swords a bit too tightly.

“I was admiring the construction of the wall,” Angus
offered. “History is a bit of a hobby of mine, and I am curious about its
construction. The lower portion,” he pointed at it, “is no doubt from the
founding of Wyrmwood, and the higher levels are reminiscent of the town’s
expansion. That second layer in particular must have been built before the coal
mines, and—”