The Sorcerer's Legacy (37 page)

Allister shook his head and mumbled something that the sorcerer could not quite make out. “Does the name Lord Ebenezer Crowley ring any bells?” Allister paused a moment. “Isn’t that the dog’s name?”

“Yes, but he was not the original. The original Lord Crowley is a much more repulsive a creature.”

“Son, you cannot go and fight every lord that looks at you wrong. You need to go clear this up with the duchess. I just hope she does not have you locked up,” Allister told him in exasperation.

“I don’t think so, magus, I was in the right this time,” Azerick assured him.

“You always think you are in the right!”

“Yeah, but this time he really deserved what he got. I guess I may as well go now,” Azerick told Allister.

Lord Crowley, the cur, rested by the fire and was loath to move, but Azerick insisted that he was a material witness and made him get up and follow him into North Haven. Azerick and the mangy mutt, who still smelled but not nearly as foul, entered the castle and was escorted to the duchess’s audience chamber. The guards tried to insist that the dog stay outside but Azerick insisted that he was necessary for his defense.

“Good gods, what is that thing?” Duchess Mellina asked as Azerick and the dog walked down the green and gold strip of carpet that led to the base of the dais.

“It is a dog, Your Grace,” Azerick answered.

“I see that, magus. What is it doing here?”

“He is part of the reason I am here so I thought it prudent to bring him.”

“That is the one! That is the man that cast his foul sorceries upon me and caused my own men to bludgeon me nearly to death!” Lord Crowley shrilly declared as he entered the audience chamber and stood next to Azerick and the four-legged Lord Crowley.

The lord’s head was wrapped in heavy gauss and one arm was in a sling.

“Did you use you magic on Lord Crowley?” the duchess asked.

“Yes, Your Grace,” Azerick answered.

“Did we not have a similar discussion a few weeks ago regarding your using magic against my people?”

“Yes, Your Grace,” Azerick again answered.

“Then why are we having this discussion again?”

“His men, upon his order, threatened me with bodily harm and I defended myself,” Azerick calmly explained.

“Is this true, Lord Crowley?” the duchess asked.

“He insulted me and my family name, Your Grace! I simply instructed my men to teach him respect for his betters,” the nobleman defended.

“How is it that the magus insulted you?”

“He named that miserable beast after me!” he accused, pointing at the dog.

The duchess looked from Lord Crowley to the dog and then at Azerick. “What is the dog’s name, magus?”

“Lord Ebenezer Crowley, Your Grace,” Azerick replied with smile.

Miranda covered her mouth with her hand to hide the smile that crept upon her face.

“You see, he even admits it!” Crowley cried.

“Why did you name the dog after Lord Crowley?”

“He nearly ran me down with his coach, endangering everyone on the streets, and when his driver crashed the coach into a fountain, cursed and insulted me. I felt the name appropriate given his unpleasant disposition,” Azerick explained.”

The duchess gave the sorcerer a withering look. “Magus, Ebenezer Crowley is a horrible name for that disgusting beast. It is rude and completely unacceptable and you should be ashamed of yourself.”

“I completely agree, Your Grace but I fail to see how I can be held responsible. Should his parents not be the one’s held accountable?” Azerick asked straight-faced.

“I am talking about the dog!” Duchess Mellina forced through clenched teeth.

Miranda had to press her hand firmly against her lips to keep from laughing aloud.

Captain Brague stepped forward from the side of the dais with a loud screech. “Your Grace, he is making a mockery of you and your court. Allow me to show him to the dungeons.”

“Stand down, Captain, I am perfectly capable of maintaining order in my hall. Magus Azerick, you will apologize to Lord Crowley at once. Do you I make myself clear?”

“Certainly, Your Grace but do you think such an ugly, stupid, and disgusting creature would even understand, much less appreciate, such a gesture?” Azerick asked in all seriousness.

The duchess’s face colored and her voice strained. “I am talking about that Lord Crowley,” she seethed, jabbing a finger at the nobleman, “not the dog.”

Azerick held his arms slightly out with the palms facing forward. “As was I, Your Grace,” Azerick said innocently with a wink at Miranda.

Lady Miranda lost her battle and retreated behind the thrones, wrapped herself up in the heavy blue drapes covering the wall, and laughed hysterically.

“How dare you mock the duchess?” Captain Brague shouted, his armor squealing its own protest.

“You see, Your Grace, even now he insults me before your august presence!” Lord Crowley cried shrilly.

“Enough!” the duchess screamed in outrage. “Magus Azerick, if you wink at my daughter while in my hall again I will remove the offending eye! Lord Crowley I have received numerous complaints from my citizens regarding your mistreatment and dangerous driving. Those shall both cease or I will have your coach and every horse you own confiscated so you will have to walk like everyone else!”

The infuriated duchess turned almost sideways on her throne and glared at Captain Brague. “And you, Captain, will repair that gods-awful armor or I will have you dressed in motley! It sounds like a wild hog being impaled up its backside by a boar spear! Magus, you will stop magicking my citizens whenever you find them unpleasant! Now everyone get out of my hall!”

Lord Crowley departed with the help of a servant as Captain Brague came and took Azerick by the elbow to personally escort him out, his armor screeching painfully with every step. Miranda unrolled herself from the curtain and dabbed her tearing eyes with a kerchief.

“Quite frankly, Miranda, I fail to understand what you see in that infuriating young man. I swear he will drive me to an early grave,” the duchess said to her daughter, trying to massage out her headache.

“Oh come now, Mother, everyone is gone now. You cannot tell me that you did not find at least a small amount of amusement in that discourse.”

A slight smile spread across Mellina’s stony face. “Well, perhaps a little, but don’t you dare tell anyone.”

Captain Brague escorted the infuriating sorcerer down the halls toward the exit. “You may think you are above the laws of this city, but let me assure you that you are not. Take justice into your own hands again and I will have you brought up on charges. How dare you mock the duchess and her court?”

The pair stopped in the anteroom just inside the large double doors leading out. “I am on to you, wizard. You may have everyone else fooled with your
acts of kindness,
but I know a power play when I see one and I will not let you get away with it. Cross me or the duchess and I will see you pay dearly for it!”

“Well, nice talking to you again, Captain. Good luck with that armor,” Azerick said with a finger-twittering wave of farewell.

The captain stared with hatred in his eyes at Azerick’s retreating form. He turned around just in time to see Lady Miranda step into the anteroom.

“Captain Brague, has the magus left already?” she asked.

“Thankfully yes, My Lady,” Brague answered.

Miranda gave a small sniff in the air and hastily covered her nose with the kerchief. “Captain Brague, at least have the decency to step outside to do that!” Miranda castigated.

Captain Brague’s face flushed scarlet as the foul smell reached his nose as well. “My Lady, I assure you it was not me,” the captain insisted. “It must have been that wretched mongrel the magus had with him.”

“Really, Captain, the dog? I would expect better than excuses from you,” Miranda told him and walked away, hiding her smile with her handkerchief.

Great acts of violence passed through the captain’s head about what he would like to do to that wizard and his dog. He took a step forward and suddenly realized his armor was no longer making that horrid din. Captain Brague smiled in relief and began walking out of the anteroom when he heard the sound of tiny bells and stopped to listen.

A great feeling of trepidation stole over him as he took another step and heard the tinkling of small bells that sounded a great deal like the bells of a jester. Brague stomped angrily down the hall, the jingling of tiny bells marking every step.

***

After several days of hard riding, the assassin reached the walls of Brightridge. The Rook did not go through the main gates; he never did. He tied his exhausted horse in a thicket about a mile from the gates. He would pay a stableboy to retrieve it once he was inside the city just as he had paid one to take the horse out of Southport to await his departure.

The assassin timed his arrival so he would reach the city well after dark. He stayed within the stands of scattered trees as he made his way around to the least trafficked side of the city walls with the smallest amount of open ground he had to cross.

The Rook was soon standing in the shadow of the eastern wall. He waited with the patience of a master hunter, learning the schedule of the roving patrols atop the high walls. After nearly two hours sitting perfectly still, he embraced the base of the sixty-foot high wall and began climbing as easily as if he were using a ladder.

Once he reached the top, the assassin peered between the crenellations and listened for any sounds of approach before stepping between the protrusions, crossing the wide walkway, and slipping over the far side. He climbed down the inside of the wall every bit as easily as he had scaled the outside and was soon crouching at the wall’s base. Once more, the Rook waited for any signs of roving patrols before darting from shadow to shadow and quickly making his way down the streets of the city.

The Rook headed for one of his many hideouts. He maintained small retreats in all of the kingdom’s major cities as well as some of the larger towns. They were always simple and unobtrusive dwellings, ranging from an abandoned building, a small room above a local shop, to a modest home where he paid someone to keep it clean and maintained.

This particular bolthole was a single room atop a cobblers shop. The Rook employed an accountant to pay the rent for a year at a time to ensure the room was always there for his use. The assassin scaled the wall of the cobbler’s shop, lifted the latch on the shutters, and slid a slim blade under the bottom of the window.

He pulled what appeared to be an ice pick from a pocket of his robes and pressed the tip firmly through the eyelet of a thin cable that ran through a pulley and was looped around the trigger of a crossbow mounted right behind the painted glass window. Having successfully disarmed his intrusion deterrent device, he lifted the window open and gracefully crawled inside the small dark room.

Had he not immobilized the trip wire, the crossbow bolt would have taken him in the gut where the lethal poison that coated the tip would ensure a swift but excruciatingly painful death.

The Rook did not bother lighting the lamp he knew was sitting on the small table, his vision was excellent even in the dark. He could tell that someone had been in and kept the room clean just by the smell. The assassin stepped over to the bed, which was turned regularly and the sheets washed at least monthly even though no one had slept in the bed for nearly six months, removed his boots and travel-stained clothing, and crawled into bed.

The Rook woke in the morning just long enough to send the cobbler’s son to fetch his horse or get someone else to do it. He did not wake again until after the sun set. The assassin slipped out the window and traveled the rooftops as much as possible. He soon hid within the shadow of the castle wall studying the guards and patrol times.