The Merchant Adventurer (18 page)

Boltac emerged from the darkness and stood over the tiny Flame. He removed the tattered, burned wool mitten from his hand. For a moment, he considered the struggling Flame. Then he beat it out with three swats.

“mmmmmMMMMMMMM!” protested Asarah. He rushed to her aid and loosened her gag.

“Are you all right?” asked Boltac

“Untie me!”

“En-henh, you’re all right. Thank the Gods you’re all right. You know, this is a good look for you. Tied up on the ground.”

“Boltac, don’t ruin this by being cute. Untie me.”

“Ruin what?” asked Boltac as he loosened her bonds. “It’s already wrecked. I mean seriously, have you looked around you?”

Boltac helped Asarah to her feet, and she threw her arms around him and kissed him. It was a kiss no money could buy, and a kiss that Boltac wouldn’t have traded for anything in the world.

“You can say whatever you want, Mr. Boltac, but you came back,” she said, kissing him on the nose, “You gave up everything you had to save
me
. That’s how I
know
. And that’s what makes you a Hero.”

“A what? Hero? Don’t be silly. I’m not a Hero. I’m just a guy trying to… to…” Boltac realized that he wasn’t quite sure who he was anymore, and he liked it that way. “Anyway, if you want a Hero, you should talk to the kid. That’s his department, after all. Oh, my Gods, the kid!”

Boltac tore himself from Asarah’s arms and rushed to where Relan was slumped against the wall. The Farm Boy still looked like hell, but now his eyes were open. “Did we win?” asked Relan.

“Whattaya mean, did we win?” said Boltac, confused by the question. Then he stood up and looked around. The Wizard was gone. All that remained of the Orcs were now greasy splotches, each with a pile of gold coins in the center. About a stomachful, Boltac thought, before he could banish the terrible thought from his mind. “Henh,” said Boltac, letting it really sink in. He walked to the place where Dimsbury had conjured a Magic door to a room full of Treasure. There, in the darkness, stood a perfectly ordinary and unremarkable wooden door.

Boltac pulled the door open. On the other side, Dimsbury’s hoard gleamed like a dream of avarice at the end of a cold, dark night.

“We won! We WON!” said Boltac.

“We won,” said Relan, as if he didn’t believe it. He struggled to get up, and then fell back on the floor with a gasp of pain.

Boltac rushed back to his side. “Easy, kid,” said Boltac, “Nobody is more surprised about this than me, but contain your enthusiasm. You’re pretty banged up.”

“I thought I was dead. I
was
dead. Wasn’t I dead? And you said you didn’t have any more Magic potions.”

“Dead? Kid, there’s dead and there’s
dead
. Besides, no matter what they tell you, there’s always room for negotiation. Even with death.”

“Can you stand?” asked Asarah.

“Maybe with some help.”

“Then let’s get the hell out of here,” said Asarah.

Relan grunted and cried out in pain, but eventually he made it to his feet.

“Gah, you’re a lug,” said Boltac as Relan settled his weight onto their shoulders. The three of them wheeled for the door. But before they could exit the room a dark shape blocked their way. Backlit by the last torch, the terrible form seemed to reach for them. Asarah shrieked. All three of them flinched. But when a second torch blazed to life they could see that it was a trick of the shadows. Samga stood before them, offering them the light.

“You will need it for your journey.”

Boltac looked at greasy remains of the other Orcs on the floor and then back to the Orc that stood before him. “Samga, how did you survive?”

“I do not know; I must go to ask the UnderKing.”

“Ah, that guy. He’ll have an answer, but it won’t help you.”

“He knows the hidden ways of things,” said Samga with a shrug. “He is the only one of my kind that I can speak to.”

Boltac took the fabled lamp of Lamptopolis from his belt. It did not light. “Hunh,” said Boltac. “Samga, I’m pretty sure this is just a lamp now, but I want you to have it. It’s a nice lamp, a quality article. Let it remind you, if you ever need my help, you come. You, I owe.”

“But I am a monster. A thing made, not born.”

“Ennh, there are monsters and then there are
monsters
,” Boltac said with a shrug. “No matter what life hands you, there’s always room to negotiate, is what I’m saying.”

Boltac took the torch from Samga and they watched as he climbed down into the pit.

They found the main passage and ascended. They stopped to rest several times, but saw and heard nothing in the great expanse of the Wizard’s lair. A great underground emptiness surrounded them. The Wizard and his creations were gone.

Near the exit, they came to a room that was at once familiar and strange. The ceiling had cracked open and now sunlight filled the once-dark room. Here and there around the edge of the room were bones. But the sunlight, the sight of leaves and sky through the ceiling and distant birdsong gave the place a feeling more peaceful than terrible.

In the center of the room there was a dark spot, more dust than anything; in it lay the ornate, jeweled, and cursed mace Boltac had used to trick the Troll what seemed like a lifetime ago.

As Relan and Asarah both gazed at the sunlight and fresh air, Boltac slipped out from underneath Relan’s arm and walked to the mace. “Henh,” he said. Then he bent down to pick up the cursed mace.

“Don’t!” cried Relan weakly, “It’s…”

Boltac hefted the mace and turned to Relan. No sinister forces crushed him to the earth. If anything, the mace felt somewhat lighter than before. Boltac said, “Now it’s just a blunt instrument.” He considered the jewels and ornate carvings that decorated the weapon in his hand. “A faaaancy blunt instrument, but still.”

“It’s not Magic anymore?” asked Relan.

“Nope. I’m pretty sure not even Magic is Magic anymore,” answered Boltac.

“What does that mean?” asked Asarah.

“I dunno,” said Boltac, “but I like it.”

Boltac lifted Relan, and the three made their awkward way from the dungeon. As they walked into the sunlight of a new day, Boltac thought about all that gold, buried far, far beneath them. “So, uh, kid, you’re from a village not far from here, right?”

Relan pointed west with a dejected air, “That way, half a day’s walk. Do you know how hard it was for me to get away from there? You’re not going to leave me there, are you?”

“No. No?” said Boltac. He looked to Asarah, and she shook her head no. “No. You’re with us now. But these villagers, are they uh, big and strong and stupid–I’m sorry, I mean
honest
–like you?”

“Everyone there is the same,” Relan sighed, “It is very dull. Why do you want to know?”

“I think I know how to liven it up a bit.”

“They don’t like outsiders very much.”

“Do they like gold? ‘Cause if they do, I’ve got some mining work for them.”

“I
really
don’t want to go back there.”

“Cheer up, it’s about to be a very rich village. And you are about to become the Hero you’ve always wanted to be.”

They loaded Relan in the back of the Ducal Coach. Boltac closed the door and stared at the seal of Weeveston Prestidigitous RampartLion Toroble the 15th. “Henh…” he said.

“What?” asked Asarah.

“That’s gonna have to change.”

When he’d seen the large Orc fall to the floor in agony, Rattick had decided it was time to go. Concealed in his cape of fading black, he slunk from the chamber. As he started up the main passageway, he could see flashes and hear crashing noises behind him. He quickened his step and said, “Don’t know, don’t want to know.”

Good thief that he was, it pained Rattick to leave so much gold behind. He was good at taking things, and he enjoyed it. But Rattick was even better at surviving.

By the time the Wizard had started throwing lightning bolts around like they were party favors, Rattick was halfway up the main passage. And just as the walls started shaking, he stepped out into the forest and ran for all he was worth, never looking back.

Rattick couldn’t imagine that the Merchant stood a chance against the Wizard, but he couldn’t see a percentage in sticking around either way. Rattick had seen Dimsbury lose his temper too often. At the very least, Rattick was certain the guy would unleash his considerable powers to see Robrecht burned to the ground. No, that wouldn’t be enough for Dimsbury. He would want to see Robrecht burned to the ground and then its ashes shoveled into the river.

But where there was chaos, thought Rattick, there was opportunity. So when he had escaped the depths, Rattick hid himself away in his favorite tree to see what happened next. What happened next was nothing. Clouds drifted across the sky, and a gentle breeze caused the tree to sway so gently that Rattick fell asleep. As he drifted off, he thought to himself, “No worries, you’ll never sleep through the sound of a howling mass of Orcs unleashed on the countryside.”

But Rattick awoke to something very, very different. It was the sound of a horse being harnessed. The jingle of metal on metal, the clop of hooves, and the slap of leather. He opened his eyes and realized it was night. The clouds had cleared, and a bright, waxing moon hung in the sky. By its light, he saw Boltac and Asarah help Relan into the Duke’s carriage. They had survived? But how?

He watched Boltac and Asarah climb onto the front of the carriage and drive away. Rattick waited many minutes, expecting to hear the howl of bloodthirsty Orcs hurrying in pursuit, or to see fireballs raining down from the heavens upon them. But there was nothing. Nothing at all. Was he dreaming? What was going on?

He descended from the tree and followed them. Of course, he couldn’t keep up with a horse-drawn carriage, but the track it left was distinctive enough, and it led back to Robrecht.

He walked through the night, recognizing darkness for the old friend it was. And he had all the small hours of the night to wonder why the cries of Orcs weren’t burning up the road behind him.

In the morning, he came upon a small cottage in a clearing. There was smoke rising from the fieldstone chimney. And behind the cottage, in space that was hard-won from the thick, primeval forest, were a garden and a pen with three pigs. Hungry, Rattick made for the garden. As he was rooting around the leafy plants, he heard the door to the cottage open behind him.

In one motion, he swirled his cape of concealment around him and stood stock still in the middle of the garden. He would fool the peasant, he thought, and then resume his free breakfast. What a fine thing to be a thief, and free at the start of a new day.

Peering through a fold in his remarkable cloak, Rattick watched an old man carry the remnants of breakfast to the hogs. The pigs squealed greedily as he filled their trough. The peasant turned and, seeing his garden, he froze.

Rattick remained motionless, wondering what the peasant might be looking at behind him. Then the Peasant asked, “Whattaya doing standing out there in the field? Are ye daft, man? Are ye hurt?”

After a long moment, Rattick unwrapped his cloak and asked, “You can see me?”

“Of course, I can see ya. I may be old and poor, but I’m not blind, am I?”

Rattick stammered. How had the farmer seen him? A master sneak-thief like Rattick, espied by this pie-faced rube?

“If yer simple,” the Farmer continued, very slowly, “Follow the road down to Robrecht. There’s them that can look after you there.” Then the Farmer had a thought, “Or you can stay here and I can hire you as a scarecrow.” The Farmer cackled at his own joke as if it was the funniest thing that had ever been said. Rattick hurried away to escape the mocking noise of it.

When Rattick reached Robrecht, it felt strangely empty. But as he entered through the north gate, the noise of many people gathered drifted to him from the south. At any other time, Rattick would have used a major gathering as a chance to burgle few houses.

Right now, he just had to know what was going on.

Rattick slipped into the back of the crowd that was gathered in the courtyard of the old keep. At the center of them all, Boltac stood on a low table, waving his hands for quiet. “C’mon. C’mon, shut up already,” he cried.

“Why do you get to be King?” someone demanded. A fine question, thought Rattick: Boltac, King?! How ridiculous would
that
be! Still, he had apparently defeated the Wizard somehow. Rattick had lived so long for two reasons. One, he had no compunctions about killing; two, he was cautious, cautious, cautious. If he didn’t understand it, he avoided it. And as he stood there watching a greedy fat man make his appeal, he realized that there was something here he just didn’t understand.

It was not a feeling he was comfortable with, by any stretch of his dark and twisted imagination.

Boltac smiled at the man who had questioned his divine right to Kinghood, “I’m glad you asked that question. And there are three reasons. One, ‘cause the treasury is bare. That sneaky bastard Weeveston either spent it all or took it with him when he left like a thief in the night.” Of course, Boltac meant this as an insult, but Rattick found himself hoping that the former Duke really had been shrewd enough to heist his own Kingdom. That would have been well-played and Rattick would have to remember that trick, if ever he found himself in a similar position.

“But why do you get to be King just because he took the money?” asked another in the crowd.

Rattick didn’t like to see what should be a typically surly crowd treating Boltac with anything resembling deference. It disturbed the order of things. Still, that tingle of fear said, you never know who could wind up being a King in these strange days. Always best to err on the side of caution.

“Why? ‘Cause I’m going to refill the treasury with my own money. Anybody else want to do that?” The silence was deafening. “Okay, reason #2 why I should be your King is that, effective immediately, I’m cutting taxes,” Boltac shook his head. It hurt him to say the next words, but desperate times called for desperate measures, “in half.”

A cheer went up, but the naturally skeptical Robrecht crowd still wasn’t totally with him. They had heard too many lies about taxes in their days. Boltac didn’t hesitate.

“And reason number three. At this very moment, the forces of the Mercian Empire–of which we were so recently a protectorate–are on their way to reclaim us. By force, even if that’s not even a little bit necessary. Because that’s the way people think when they are part of an Empire.”

“That’s not a reason to make you King. That’s a reason to surrender!” said a fat man in the front.

“En-henh. I’m not too sure they’re gonna take ‘uncle’ for an answer, if you know what I’m saying. No, they’re gonna be plenty pissed and looking for someone to blame. And if I know my Mercian tactics, they are going to come stomping in here looking for someone to make an example of.”

“Well, then the Horks, surely. They’ll take it out on the Horks.”

“Yeah, but I told you: no more Horks. Orcs. Whatever. I took care of them.”

Relan jumped up on the table next to Boltac. Rattick could see, before the lad even opened his mouth, that the crowd was ready to believe him. The thief shook his head. You just couldn’t fake that kind of innocence and naiveté. If Rattick could fake
that
, he’d be a much wealthier man by now. “I can vouch for his story,” said Relan, “I was there. And what’s more, this man saved my life.”

Boltac didn’t waste the opportunity. “Anyone woulda done the same,” said Boltac, playing to the crowd. “But the thing is, not finding any Orcs, the Mercians are gonna say it was a hoax. A revolt of some kind. And they will want to take out their frustration by cracking some heads open. And since the only heads here are ours, well, friends, something should be done.”

Affirmative cries rose from the crowd. Yeah! Something should be done!

“Anybody got a plan?” Boltac asked, dead earnest.

“But
you’re
supposed to have a plan. You’re the King!”

“Oh, am I?”

There was a grumbling in the crowd. Rattick thought Boltac was going to falter. But he saw Boltac look to a balcony high on the keep behind him. There, in the sunlight and clean air, was Asarah, as radiant as spring. She smiled and waved her palms in a motion that said ‘keep calm.’

Boltac turned back and smiled at the crowd, armed with new confidence. “So, here’s the deal. I have a plan, and if I’m your King, I’ll use it. If any of
you
have a plan, well then, you can put your own money in the treasury, face not only the wrath of the most powerful Empire in the Four Kingdoms but also the ire of your fellow citizens… you know, come to think of it, I don’t want this after all.” In a display of master showmanship, Boltac jumped off the table. “Nah, I’m taking my plan and going home.”

“No, no, no!” rose the cries around him. The negotiation successfully concluded; Boltac climbed back onto the table and smiled.

“Okay, here’s what we are going to do…” And Boltac told them the plan.

And through all of it, Asarah beamed down on him like an angel.

“Wait just a minute,” said an old man, missing a few teeth said slowly. “If you’re to be King, don’t you need a coronation first?”

“Ahh. Maybe it’d be best to wait until after I’ve saved my new Kingdom, hunh?”

Nobody argued.

And with that, Rattick decided that the jig was up. He spent the night in a house of questionable virtue and reasonable rates. And when he cinched up his pants the next morning, he was certain it was the last time he would ever see Robrecht.

Later, as he drifted down the river Swift in a stolen boat, he was also certain Robrecht would never see Boltac’s coronation either. Doubted the dismal, foggy burg would last much longer. And he couldn’t say that he was going to miss it.