Trail Of The Torean (Book 2) (2 page)

It was morning time in early spring. Garrick had travelled a day and a night on foot to come to this place. Now he stood on the southernmost hillside that looked down on the city of Caledena, feeling life force welling up inside him, and feeling the full weight of what it meant to be a man alone.

Garrick had grown up in the streets. He had been used and trod over often enough that he once considered it a basic state of life. He thought he had been alone before. But this sensation was new to him. It was an encompassing fear of failure that ate at his confidence. He needed this job. He needed the money so he could free himself of the curse that Braxidane, the planewalker who claimed to be his new superior, had burdened him with. In many ways that fear was no different from the wild and terrifying magic he carried inside him. So, yes, he was alone now. Alistair, his mage superior for so many years, was no longer here to set any errors right, all of Alistair's other apprentices had been stolen away, and Braxidane was nowhere to be found.

Not that Garrick wanted to speak with him.

Yet, inside his fear was also a sense of righteousness, a feeling of certainty that was in no way made of logic or wisdom, but was a feeling of worthiness or a sense of accomplishment yet to come. He was here to do the job his superior would have done—if, that is, Alistair was still alive. And he could do it, too. Perhaps it was just the life force speaking for him now, but for the first time in his life Garrick felt like he could handle anything.

His shirt fluttered in a crosswind that smelled of the grasslands behind him. His dirty blond hair blew against his cheek.

Calendena sprawled in the haphazard fashion of an independent trading town. It taunted him, cackled at him as an old street woman might. Alistair had called this place a weed, and that seemed an apt comparison now that Garrick saw it for what it was. Caledena was born at the fork of a river and had grown from shallow roots to become this sprawling mess, this misshapen collection of buildings arranged as if they had been tossed like dice. Its dwellings were of mud brick and weather-faded wood. Its maze of streets and angled alleys were filled with farmers, merchants, and trappers who came from as far away as Farvane or the Badwall Canyons.

And others came to Caledena, too—thieves and cutthroats, men and women who preyed upon those who weren’t inclined to look after themselves.

Alistair had brought Garrick to Caledena before, and Garrick had felt its dangerous edge even then. But he had not seen the depths of the city as a youth, and that his earlier fears had been nothing more than the excitement that came of adventure.

This was different.

If he was ever going to be rid of Braxidane’s curse, he had to succeed here. He would do Alistair’s job, take the money, and go south to call upon the Torean mage known as Dontaria Pel-an, asking him to remove the dark magic that was so horrifying in its ability to give life, as well as take it.

He did not know what would happen to him after this power had been removed.

Braxidane’s magic was probably all that kept him from dwelling on the ugly memories of nights when he had stolen lives from Dorfort and, of course, from Sjesko. And it was certainly the surging life forces of his victims that kept him from needing food or sleep as he traveled, and that kept him warm despite the chill of the morning.

What would happen when this crutch was removed?

He would deal with the answer to that question when the time came.

Actions and consequences,
he thought, spitting as he recalled the words rolling from the planewalker’s lips.

Garrick would show Braxidane
actions and consequences.

If removing the curse killed him, so be it. He had already destroyed too many people with this magic of his. He deserved it. He just hoped he was there to see Braxidane's face when it happened.

But that was for a future time.

Now Garrick's blood pumped as he gazed upon the city. It was time to be a real mage, he thought as he strode down the hill. Time to find real work.

He entered Caledena, and continued toward the manor of Hersha Padiglio, Viceroy of the city. As he walked, Garrick sensed the raw
placeness
of the town in a deeper fashion than he could remember feeling—he smelled the streets and the fresh sheen of slippery mud that covered them. The shops were full of clamor that echoed with distant harmonics He tasted baking bread, felt the rasp of leather as a tanner made harnesses for horse teams and plow mules. A blacksmith’s fire burned from somewhere below Garrick’s sternum.

And the people, they moved in ways that seemed so close to him, as if, for example, he could reach out and touch the woman sweeping the porch of her dress shop, even though she was all the way across a wheel-rutted street of that same muddy dirt.

He felt fatigue from two mercenaries serving as Caledena’s guard as they rested against a fence post.

A man slept in the gutter against the wall of a gambling house, an empty clay jug beside him. Garrick felt the sharpness of the baseboard pressed against the small of the man’s back.

An old woman stepped from her dwelling to rinse a ceramic bowl. She cast a suspicious gaze at Garrick, drained darkened water into the street, then turned and left him alone.

“Fresh apples?”

The nearby voice startled him.

It was a weather-beaten man sitting on a doorstep. He wore a stained hat with a wide brim. His face was dried by the sun and peppered with whiskers that grew at all angles. A frayed blanket lay trussed-up beside him, a bucket of fruit next to it. The apples were from the eastern regions. They were hard and had obviously been picked well before having come ripe.

Garrick nearly lurched forward as Sjesko’s energy rose to pool like rainwater in his fingertips. This magic was so different from the structured sorcery Alistair had taught him. It was a simple, free sorcery that flowed as a thing of itself. It wanted to help this man. It wanted to fill his hollow existence.

“Two copper each,” the man said, though his eyes told Garrick he knew the apples would never sell for that price.

“I’ll take one,” he said, reaching into his knapsack to drag out coins.

The man fumbled, but still managed to lift the bucket.

Garrick reached inside, and as he made his selection he let life force seep into the rest. The power of Sjesko’s life force flowed with barely a thought. When he was finished, each fruit was large and ripe.

The man would sleep indoors tonight.

Garrick bit into the fruit as he walked away. He looked at the apple, and used his sleeve to clean sweet juice that ran from his chin. He wasn’t actually hungry, but it tasted fresh and made him feel good.

If, at that moment, he had raised his gaze to look across the open market, Garrick would have seen two mages in flowing robes pounding a notice into the wooden message post that stood at an intersection of several winding alleyways. If he had seen the two men, he might have read that notice, and if he had read that notice, he would have seen:

Wanted: Information pertaining to the whereabouts of Torean wizards.

Payment rendered.

And if he had seen the notice, and the directions that described how to gather this bounty, he may have thought about things in a different fashion. He might have done things differently.

But instead of raising his gaze, Garrick simply chewed his apple and disappeared into the crowd.

Chapter 2

The viceroy’s residence loomed over the city. It was built on a rising knoll at the northern edge of town, six stories tall, and made of stone, which—given the ramshackle nature of the buildings around it—gave the manor an air of permanence and power despite the fact that its shutters were perpetually locked, and the cracks in its ivy-covered walls had been repaired many times over.

A guard wearing plates of tarnished brown armor blocked Garrick’s path, his breath reeking of stale cigar.

“The viceroy don’t see to no business till later,” The guard said.

Garrick stood his ground. “Just tell him Alistair’s representative is here.”

The man regarded him with nothing short of disbelief.

“You’s a mage?”

“At your service.”

“You’s still a kid.”

Garrick, remembering how Alistair reacted to such slights, made himself stand taller. “If you’re asking for my credentials I’ll be happy to make you very uncomfortable. I’m sure you’ll be the talk of the town.”

The guard weighed his options. “Keep an eye on the boy,” he said to a compatriot, then turned and walked into the manor.

A butler appeared shortly thereafter, and escorted Garrick to a moderately sized receiving room that was darkly decorated, and smelled of stale incense.

“The viceroy will be here momentarily,” he said before leaving Garrick to his own devices.

A solid table of polished cherry dominated the area. It was covered with scrolls, loose papers, and books. A silver tray filled with the prior evening's bread and goat cheese sat nestled inside the mounds of paper. An immense chair was positioned behind the table, pushed away at an angle. The rugs were more than a bit threadbare in places, and stained in several others.

Garrick stared at one of the paintings many paintings that lined the walls.

He did not think it very good.

His mind wandered a bit before focusing on his posture.

It was important that Hersha Padiglio see him as a competent wizard, and Alistair taught that half the battle was in how a mage carried himself. If Garrick behaved like a full mage to the viceroy, he would be a full mage.

He drew his shoulders back just as the viceroy entered from a door behind the desk.

Hersha Padiglio was a huge man, dressed in flowing robes of black and gold silk that gave him the appearance of a massive bumblebee. His hair was dark and short, and stuck out in stiff rushes and patches of gray that angled upward and sideways like horns. He gave a phlegmy cough and struggled to sit at the table.

Even from a distance, the viceroy’s odor was rancid.

The energy inside Garrick bristled. He took a moment to quell it, pleased at the ease with which he was able to control himself here.

“Beautiful work, eh?” Padiglio said in a voice that sounded like a grinding wheel. He rubbed his fleshy cheeks and indicated the painting Garrick had been studying.

“Indeed,” Garrick answered.

“It’s a Haffee.”

“Of course it is.” Garrick nodded as if he knew who Haffee was.

“Have a seat, boy.”

Garrick took a hard chair. “I’m sorry to wake you,” he said.

“I recognize you.”

“I was with Alistair some years back.”

The viceroy waved his hand and tilted his head.

“Yes. That’s right. So, where is the old spell chucker now?”

“He ran into an unfortunate incident.”

“Yes,” Padiglio said. “I think I heard something like that.” He grabbed a handful of cheese squares, and tossed one that looked overly moldy to the side. The rest he shoved into his mouth. “What’s your name, son?”

“Garrick.”

“Well, Garrick. Let me ask—what makes you think my job is so trivial that an apprentice can do it?”

“I am no longer an apprentice.” He hesitated for what he hoped was the proper effect. “And while your job requires a skilled mage, I surmise it also requires trust and the ability to stay quiet after the fact.”

The viceroy grunted. “Suppose you tell me why you would say that?”

Garrick steeled his nerves, hoping what he was about to say wouldn’t get him killed. His energy stirred with self-righteous fervor, but he managed to keep it at bay.

“You used to run games,” Garrick said.

“So?”

“A while ago a lot of
other
people in Caledena ran games, too. But you sent men to your competitors’ tables, and Alistair’s magic provided a little … luck. Before long, your competitors owed these men more gold than they could gather. You swooped in and paid their losses in return for stakes in their businesses.”

“I am a kind soul, aren’t I?” the viceroy said with a grin that exposed a brown tooth. “I
could
have driven them out of business completely, couldn’t I?”

“Of course, your payments went directly back to your own pocket.”

The viceroy’s grin expanded. “A stunning ploy, eh?”

“And well executed.”

“Kind of you to say so.” Padiglio ate another fist-sized collection of cheese. “So, what do you really think about my little coup?”

“Cities have been taken at greater cost.”

“You do not disapprove?”

Garrick had come to loathe the callous way those with power wielded it, but he needed this job and now was not the time to let something as insignificant as a conscience get in the way of success.

“I don’t have an opinion,” Garrick lied.

The viceroy sat back and sized Garrick up. “Is it possible that you destroyed Alistair’s manor to take over his clientele?”

“No,” Garrick laughed, actually surprised at the idea. “Even if that had ever been my desire—which it most definitely was not—Alistair’s experience is not something I would have cared to test.”