A Magic Broken (2 page)

The older man didn’t look like anything but an aged peasant, but the power emanating from him took Nicolas by surprise and he was forced to feign a fit of coughing to cover his instinctive reaction. As he wiped his eyes, he watched the old wizard carefully examining the sword. Nicolas held his breath as the man ran his thick, puffy fingers lightly over the blade. The fingers stopped when they reached the hilt. For a frighteningly long moment, the man’s hands lingered there as if reading its secrets through his fingertips, but then he shrugged and glanced back at the younger mage.

“There’s a spell there, to be sure, but nothing of any import.” He looked at Nicolas with a curious expression on his face. “You’re Savondese. Your name?”

“Nicolas du Mere. I served the Duc de Montrove as captain of his horse.”

“I see. A fortunate man, it seems, to escape the wrath of the vengeful Charles-Phillipe. Do you know the nature of the spell on your sword, captain? And what is the purpose of your visit to Malkan, sir?”

Nicolas grinned wryly and spread his hands. “To live another day, sir magus, nothing more than that. I could not stay in Savondir, not if I hoped to keep my head. They say the Red Prince hanged all the duc’s officers after the city fell, and I would have been among them had I stayed. And wherever there is gold, there is always need for a man who knows what to do with a blade. I thought to join the Mercenaries Guild here. As for my sword, I don’t know much about magick, but I believe the hilt is ensorcelled. It has never fallen from my hand in battle, not even when it should have. Twice, it saved my life where another blade would have failed me.”

He had another lie about the sword prepared, but since the wizard’s acute perception had already detected the weapon’s aura, he was forced to improvise. The unlikely claim would never stand up to rigorous examination, but fortunately, the old man appeared to lose interest in him upon hearing his declaration of his mercenary intentions and was already gesturing to the guards.

Nicolas bowed deeply and without irony to the wizard, whose unexpected power was as formidable as his apparent disdain for its trappings. He would have made for a dangerous foe, and Nicolas was glad that the old man was too distracted to pay him much attention, otherwise, he would certainly have been stripped of his secrets.

“If you would be so kind, sir magus, might you point me to a inn with reasonable prices, preferably one where I’m not likely to mistake the serving girls for swamp goblins?” he asked as he returned his sword to his scabbard.

The young red robe glanced back at him and grinned. “That depends, captain. Is it girls you seek or goblins?”

• • •

The Cock and Rose was far from the worst place he’d ever stayed, he decided the following night, and one of the women wasn’t halfway unattractive, not if you caught her in the right light and from a safe distance.

He’d spent his first day in Malkan getting acquainted with the city. He learned that it had largely been constructed by dwarves. It was laid out on a circular pattern with which he was previously unfamiliar. It was a huge city, almost three times the size of Montrove, and significantly richer. Several of the mansions belonging to the great merchant houses dwarfed the splendor of even the king’s royal palace in Lutèce, and he found himself gawping in wordless astonishment at the gilded roof and columns of the merchants guild hall as if he were no more than a yokel fresh off the farm.

The building that housed the mercenaries guild was neither so large nor so lavish. The sword, shield, and coin that advertised its location to its mostly illiterate membership was a low-ceilinged structure attached to what appeared to be a tavern on one side and a brothel on the other.

A slatternly girl wearing one shoe was slumped against a wall less than ten feet from the entrance. As he entered, Nicolas couldn’t tell if she were dead or merely passed out, and judging by the quality of the men he discovered inside, he suspected she would find customers either way. An uglier, more ill-favored group of men he’d seldom seen gathered in one place before. But he quelled that unhelpful thought and did his best to look slightly uncertain as he bobbed his head at the fat, one-armed guard standing near the doorway.

“I need… that is, I want to join the Guild,” he told the grossly overweight man.

The guard snorted, swallowed, and glanced at a thin-faced old man sitting at the end of one of the benches nearby. “Talk t’him. Him’s th’ reg’ster.”

The thin-faced man glanced up indifferently at first, but when he took in the quality of Nicolas’s tunic, he cleared his throat and addressed him politely. He was missing his left leg below the knee, Nicolas noted.

“What can I do for ye, sir? Are ye looking for some good fighting men to fill yez command? Pay no mind to these scum. I can find ye good mountain fighters, men with twenty years experience warrin’ upon the borders, p’raps even a city ranger if ye don’t mind a man with considerable experience. Course by which I mean he’s got less gray hair than white.”

Nicolas smiled thinly. “I fear I’m not an employer. I’m looking for work myself. I am called Nicolas du Mere, and I want to join your Guild.”

The registrar didn’t bother to hide his disappointment, but he looked Nicolas up and down with a speculative eye. “Ye’ve commanded men, I should say. In Savondir, I takes it.”

“Precisely. I once had the honor to command two hundred horse, sir.”

“Don’t ye call me sir. I’m just Old Sammy. Two hunnert? A high-and-mighty captain of cavalry, is ye? What did ye do, man, seduce yer lord’s wife?”

“No, I was always true to my lord. My misfortune is that my erstwhile lord happened to be the Duc de Montrove.”

The other man was silent for a moment, then he frowned and nodded. “So, I suppose ye can fight, then, if ye got yeself outer that mess withouts getting yer neck stretched. D’ye have a command with ye? I expect we’ll be seeing more of yern sort soon.”

“That’s unlikely, sir. Or rather, Sammy.” It was, in fact, not so much unlikely as impossible, Nicolas knew. None of the knights hung from the city’s remaining walls would follow in his footsteps. “Only fifteen of us broke through the lines. We sallied out the gate when their mages broke our walls. The others went east, to the Seats. I thought I’d try my luck south instead.”

“Didn’t want to stick with yer men?” Old Sammy didn’t appear to like what he was hearing. “Or mebbe they didn’t wanter stick with ye?”

Nicolas shook his head. “They weren’t my men, as it happens. More importantly, they say the Red Prince is a right vindictive bastard, and it’s harder to track one man than fifteen. I thought it would be safer south, where there is little love for him or his father.”

“Ah, it’s a careful one ye are, then. Good. I likes me a careful man. They stays alive, they do. Well, if ye’ve got the silver, we’ll take ye. Two silvers today if ye got it, or ye can pay three on installment if ye don’t. Five pennies from every week on a job, even if ye find it yeself.”

“Five pennies! That’s half a day’s wage!” Nicolas did his best to sound outraged. “Even if I find the hire myself?”

Old Sammy rubbed at his chin and shrugged. “Ye’ll pay it if’n ye ever want to work agin in these parts. And if’n yer employer ever wants to hire a wardog again, he’ll make damn sure ye paid it too.”

The one-legged man jumped suddenly as Nicolas slammed the required two silver coins down on the table in front of him.

“There’s your cursed silver, Sammy. But you bloody well better find me something soon! And not mindless bravo work like walking mules back and forth through the blasted pass either!”

“No need to cuss at Old Sammy, captain. There ain’t but what there is. T’aint a lot o’ demand this time of year. No one with any sense has the stomach fer blood once the snows start fallin’. Too hard to get about. Come spring, ye can probably hire out as the head of a company, since ye look like ye knows yez business, and some fool nobles’re always looking to grab lands that belong to someone else. But it’s too late in the season for any new campaignin’. If there’s a merchant looking for a bodyguard or an escort, I’d advise ye to take it. But do what ye like, t’aint my belly that’ll be yowling when ye run out of coin.”

Old Sammy pushed himself up from the bench and stumped over to a small room without a door, indicating that Nicolas should follow. He unlocked a rusty strongbox, dropped in the two silvers, and withdrew a stamped brass slug, which he handed to Nicolas. On one side was the guild’s insignia, on the other was the bear of Malkan. Nicolas examined it and raised an eyebrow.

“Don’t lose it,” Old Sammy warned him as he dipped his pen in the inkwell. “Cost ye a silver to get another. Now, what’s yer name again? Nico d’Mare?”

And so with little ado, Nicolas established himself as a mercenary in good standing with that fine, upstanding organization, the Mercenaries Guild of Malkan. When he left, not bothering to partake in what Sammy informed him was the customary celebratory cup of ale, he saw the girl outside was still there, but she had fallen over on her side and was now snoring softly.

An old friar wearing the brown robes of one of the mendicant orders was kneeling down beside her, attempting to wake her. Nicolas nodded approvingly to the clergyman as he passed them by. It might be a small mercy, but it was one that cheered him all the same.

His morning task complete, it was now time for an unexpectedly fortuitous meeting with his first employer.

It did not take long to find the man he sought. The tavern where the meeting was arranged was only five streets away from the guild hall, and no sooner had his eyes adjusted to the darkness within than he spotted his contact. A short, rotund fellow with a well-trimmed beard, the man, obviously a merchant of minor standing, was visibly ill at ease even though the shabby lot in the room were already too deep into their cups to pay him any notice. One rough-looking man in the far corner appeared as if he might at least be capable of posing a threat, but he was deep in conversation with a short-bearded dwarf.

“Relax, friend,” Nicolas told him as the man whirled around fearfully at his approach. “Monsieur Jean-Baptiste sends his regards from Lutèce.”

“You’re…” The man swallowed hard, then tried again. “You’re the one they’re sending?”

“Sent, rather. If you can confirm for me that you’re the man I’ve been seeking.”

The little merchant nodded quickly. “Yes, yes. Um, Mademoiselle Verdun sends her regards, as well. I’m Jervais.”

Nicolas snorted, wondering who had chosen this ridiculous place for their meeting. It had been someone who didn’t understand the first thing about remaining inconspicuous, that much was certain. Jervais was probably the first merchant to set foot in this stinking rathole in years. True, neither the dwarves nor the bored serving girl looked to have even the slightest interest in either Jervais or Nicolas himself, but there was no knowing who might be a spy in a city where gold flowed as freely as it did here.

However, he’d seen no signs of anyone following him since his arrival in the city, so he assumed his worries were little more than habit. He sat down, fished in his coin purse for the brass slug, and placed it on the table before Jervais. “As you can see, I’m in official standing with the merc’s guild here. I assume I’m hired as your bodyguard?”

“My what? Oh, ah, yes, of course!”

“Be sure to spread the word around. I’ll need to be seen out in public with you for two weeks or so before I make my move. How many days have you been coming here?”

“This is the fourth. The mademoiselle told me to start coming here six Starsdays after the autumn equinox, but I missed two days last week.”

“Never mind that. I just arrived yesterday. And the girl? Have you found her?”

“Not yet, but I’ve narrowed the possibilities down to three locations. The first brothel, you can have a look for yourself. The other two… There is a problem. They’re not open for business, at least not to the public. They’re more like private clubs. You have to be an invited member to enter. You can’t simply walk into them.”

“So, buy yourself a membership. Or get a member to invite you.”

“It’s not that easy. I don’t do business with the sort of men who belong to these clubs. I don’t even have any real contact with them. I’m not rich enough. It’s a very small group. Mostly old money. Only the great houses and a few of the more powerful nobles belong. A few poets and bards make their way in from time to time, I suppose, and some charioteers, of course. Perhaps a gladiator or two.”

Nicolas sighed. They should have sent an athlete or a songbird here, not him. If he could win a few races or sing a few songs, they were so desperate for entertainment here in this godforsaken mountain wilderness that he’d be given the run of the damn place within a month. As usual, the fools in the royal intelligence corps had arranged to put the wrong man in the wrong place at the right time, but Nicolas knew very well that the shadowy men who served the king’s interests with ruthless devotion were not interested in excuses. They expected results. A thought struck him.

“Why haven’t you visited the first brothel you mentioned? If it happens she’s there, then we needn’t bother with the other two.”

Jervais blushed. “I couldn’t. My wife, you see. If she heard? No, I wouldn’t dare!”

Nicolas stared at the merchant in disbelief. There were more than three hundred thousand men living in Malkan and this soft little pudding was the man that damned du Moulin had chosen for such an extraordinarily delicate operation? He reminded himself to arrange some appropriately choice words for the king’s chancellor upon his return to Lutèce.

• • •

Lodi didn’t think much of the man sitting across the table from him. But then, he didn’t think much of anyone who happened to be situated in this building that now proclaimed itself an inn, although its low ceiling was only one of the many indications of the animal barn it had once been. No doubt the mules and pigs that previously inhabited the structure had been in better condition than some of the sad specimens of Man now hunched over the crudely constructed tables, sitting upon narrow benches that wobbled loosely as if they had been broken apart and ineptly reassembled with some degree of regularity.