B00B15Z1P2 EBOK (6 page)

The apprentices trudged up the muddy path, using their staffs to stay upright. Though they were eager to find shelter, they stopped to rest where they could stay out of the way. “Look at that!” Sura gasped during one of their rest breaks, pointing down. Close to the docks, they saw a net-like contraption rising up the side of the bluff, hauled by unseen hands at the top. Several people clung to the sides, like spiders on a web, as it rose.

“I wonder how much it costs to take that way up,” said Mik. “We should see about it for the return trip.”

“But we need to get our provisions down,” said Sura. “You’re strong enough to carry them down yourself, right?” She gave him a playful nudge with her free hand.

“Ha! Maybe this Enzid can help us negotiate the porters’ fees. I suspect hiring a mule would be cheaper than that ride anyway—there are people all up and down this path, and there’s only one of those things.” Mik paused a moment. “Sura? Why did the mentor send us? Sure, it’s our duty, but if this Enzid is such a friend that he would give us everything, why wouldn’t Bailar come himself? He could ride that basket up and not worry about the mud.”

“Something about Mosvil, I think. I’ve been with him on these trips before, and we never set foot off the barge here before. He never told me why, though.” She brightened. “But at least we’ll have a little time together!”

Mik grinned. He had no objection to
that
.

The taverner was a soft but quick man, dressed in a stained shift with a simple belt. He reminded Mik of Toisto, an innkeeper back in Lacota. “Hang your cloaks, wipe your feet,” he said, bustling by. The entryway was lined with pegs on both sides, and they found two adjacent pegs. A strange kind of straw on the floor—probably rice stalks and the like—caught the drips and clung to the mud on their boots. It gave a strange but not unpleasant smell as they wiped and stamped their feet. The floor inside the tavern proper had the same treatment.

“Thank you, traveling apprentices,” said the taverner, coming around again. “Are you come by the river or the road?”

Mik and Sura looked at each other. “River,” said Mik. “How did you know?”

He smiled. “You are not of Mosvil, so you are travelers. Youths always travel in the company of parents or ‘prentice-masters. Since you are not with your parents, I can safely assume that your master has sent you for provisions. Am I correct?”

Sura returned the smile. “It is said, a wise merchant knows even his newest customers. Would you be Enzid?”

The taverner gave the briefest pause. “That I am,” he said. “I surmise that your master has thus had dealings with me before. May I ask whom you represent?”

“The Sorcerer of Exidy, Bailar the Blue.”

Enzid gasped. “Then you are my honored guests! Come, sit at my table!” He led them to a table near the fire and beckoned a serving-woman. “What provisions does your master require?”

Sura produced the list as the serving-woman joined them. “Mem,” said Enzid, “give these honored guests the best of whatever they request.”

Mik looked at Sura, then at the woman. “Bread, cheese, and tea?” Sura nodded; the woman returned the nod and departed. “Finally,” he sighed. “Do you know how often I’ve wished for just a moment alone with you?”

She took his hand and smiled. “Me too.”

• • •

Enzid indeed arranged for a porter to carry their purchases down-bluff, on very favorable terms, and accepted Bailar’s money with some protest. With their provisions delivered and stowed away, and the captain occupied with his own cargo, Bailar invited his apprentices into the cabin he shared with the captain. He poured tea for them and smiled.

“You did well,” he said. “Mind you, though—many merchants will try to overcharge you, not give away their goods. Something to remember next time.”

“Enzid said you saved Mosvil,” said Mik, “but he was busy and I never had a chance to ask him about that. What did you do?”

“And he spoke so highly of you,” said Sura. “I can understand you not wanting to walk that muddy path, but why not ride up in that basket?”

Mik nodded. “Or—I don’t know—couldn’t you stop the rain? Isn’t that Water magic?”

To Mik’s surprise, Bailar gave him a horrified look. His mentor quickly recovered, sipping his tea. “I was expecting this. He gave us much better tea than I’d ordered.” The sorcerer sighed. “Mik, weather magic is—it’s one reason I’m not that fond of Mosvil. Especially in the rain. It happened when I was much younger, just out of my apprenticeship.” He drained his cup, sighed again, and began.

The Royal Highway follows the Wide River, along its west bank, from Queensport to the Captain Rietha Bridge. That was the bridge we passed under yesterday. From there, it follows the east bank on past Exidy. Perhaps at one time it ended at the ruin that was once Vlis, but it still reaches the Deep Forest. There it leaves behind the headwaters of the Wide and fades away. Where the river bends away from the road, the road continues straightaway.

East bank or west, once away from Queensport, maintenance is haphazard at best. Each town keeps up its own stretch—or not. In those days, Mosvil left such matters to the Queen, which meant broken or stolen paving stones were not replaced quickly, if ever. If not for the monument markers along the way, the road’s very path might sometimes be in doubt.

Thus, when it rains, the way can soon become mud. And this particular rain was… unnatural. It had—well, I’m getting ahead of myself.

I left Queensport under somewhat of a cloud myself. Gilsen the White, the former Sorcerer of Exidy, was my mentor. He did the best he could with the poor student I was, and it was barely enough. We had traveled by road to the Gathering that year, the year of my testing. I earned my sash, but it was a close thing. Then Gilsen died before we had a chance to return home. Knowing his time had come, his last act was to write two letters, one to me and one to the Conclave. Among other things, he left me excellent advice along with all his worldly goods, and specifically requested that I be installed as Sorcerer of Exidy in his place.

The Protectors were reluctant—one openly questioned whether I’d poisoned my own mentor—but the only way they could deny such a request was either by my failing the test, or their proving foul play on my part. While my passing score was the lowest possible, I had indeed passed, and it was soon established that Gilsen had died of old age. Natural causes, as the Healers say. To be honest, I shared their reluctance about my taking the position so quickly, but like them I would not deny my mentor’s last request.

A proper funeral for a sorcerer takes time, as do the arrangements for installing a successor. Thus, it was several more weeks before I took up the reins of what was now my wagon and set my face north for home. Things began to go badly soon after: bandits stole my ox and wagon one night, so I continued on foot. Travelers coming south began to warn of incessant rains around Mosvil, and how the road was near impassable.

I found the rain—or it found me—a day’s walk from Mosvil. Of course, conditions being what they were, that day’s walk took three days. Meals were cold, when I ate at all. My cloak stopped shedding rain, so I left it behind. Soon, I rolled up my clothes and walked in a loincloth, as mobility was more important than modesty. No one else was about anyway. It was summer, and the rain was warm.

So imagine this: incessant rain above, incessant mud beneath. The bandits had only done sooner what the mud would have done later. Other wagons stood abandoned along the way, and I took shelter beneath them to rest. And just as I thought how lucky I’d been to not fall in the mud…

Sura clapped her hand over her mouth. “You tripped.”

“I did. And after I spit out a mouthful of mud, I lifted my face and fist to the sky and swore an
 
oath that even Captain Chelinn might have been proud of. I cursed the mud, and those who shirked their responsibility to keep up the road. I cursed the rain, and the sky that dropped it. And the rain stopped. Only then did I realize I stood inside the Mosvil gates, near-naked and covered in mud.”

Bailar gave a deep sigh and emptied his cup. Sura poured more, and he continued:

I entered the nearest tavern, expecting to be thrown out until I could clean up, but Enzid had heard me as well as Heaven. He hailed me as the savior of Mosvil, even as the rain began anew. Still, he was helpful. What few clothes I had were washed and dried by a fire. I got a hot bath, a hot meal, and a very good bed. He has seen to my needs as I travel by or through Mosvil, ever since.

Enzid believed that Mosvil was under a curse. He may well have some Talent, because when I read the ashes that night I saw both Moon and Fate. In such readings, the Moon indicates a curse, and Fate a purpose. The two appear together often; it means an unrelated occurrence has become the agent of the curse. To lift such a curse, you must remove both the cause and the agent. Only one is not sufficient. I agreed to help, more because I had no wish to continue walking in that rain than out of any duty I felt.

In such matters, it can often be helpful to visit both temporal and spiritual powers of the area. But Willetoi the priest was unhelpful, and the mayor—whose name escapes me—would not even grant me an audience. It was thus natural to suspect that the deeds of both men, separately or together, brought down the curse.

Again, Enzid was a great help. He was outraged at the news, and spread word to his fellow townsmen. Within a day, I was invited to be an honored guest at the mayor’s house. After introductions, the tea and cakes, all the trappings of politesse, at long last we began to discuss the matter at hand.

“You have come to help us?” Strass—that was the mayor’s name—asked me.

“I was not sent to help, I have only been caught up in the matter,” said I. “But since I am here? I will do what I can. My augury suggests a curse has been laid upon the entire town. That would happen only if a great injustice were caused by a mob, or the folk turned away from your local deity, or if the local powers were especially corrupt.” Being young, my diplomacy was as clumsy as my footing, but I saw that I had offended them. “Or one near to the local powers, of course, acting in their name.”

They looked at each other. I don’t think it had occurred to them that they could have thrown an underling on the dung-cart. Many more words were spoken, but very little was said beyond ruling out any general sin of the folk.

“Very well,” Willetoi said at last. “Perhaps you can join us at this time tomorrow. I shall make the necessary preparations, and we will join together in a Call to Prophecy. With the help of Cohodas, we may learn what or who is behind this, and what must be done.”

I agreed, wondering if he had in mind to falsify the prophecy and sacrifice an underling—or me. The thought that he was truly sincere and innocent did not inspire much confidence. But a Call to Prophecy requires one to focus, to put doubts of all kinds out of mind beforehand.

And so I returned at the appointed time, ready to hear. It was… very strange. The power came down, and the three of us spoke as one. They struggled—you could see it on their faces—but Cohodas the local deity had his say:

“You are the men, Strass and Willetoi, who have brought the curse on your people. For you have stolen that which the people give for the benefit of all, to enrich yourselves. You have curried favor with those who might enrich you further, and ignored the pleas of the poor. Your positions are forfeit, and you shall return all you have stolen. Upon pain of the Nine Plagues, you shall begin your work of recompense by sunset tomorrow and finish before the next full moon.”

Willetoi tried to bluff his way out. “You!” he pointed at me. “You controlled us, put those words in our mouths!”

“Do you truly believe that?” I answered. “Only the most powerful sorcerer can compel a man to speak falsehood, and I am but days out of apprenticeship. And raw and young as I am, I do know that only a deity may bring down the Nine Plagues.”

“That is true,” said Strass, looking back and forth like a trapped animal. “But there is responsibility, and there is responsibility, no? I am but a government official. Willetoi is a servant of the deity. And thus, if it is the deity who spoke, is not the greater blame upon that deity’s servant?”

“What—you are as culpable as I!” Willetoi shouted. “Whose name was spoken first? Who was it that arranged—and we are speaking of a wandering sorcerer’s falsehood—”

“He speaks true, and we all know it,” said Strass. “I will not risk the Nine Plagues to preserve either your position or dignity. Nor my own, for that matter. I will begin to make an account of myself at once. But I am sure my burden is the lighter one.”

The two continued to bicker among themselves, attempting to shift or re-proportion the blame, and I departed. The Moon was now satisfied, and Cohodas had told me where to find Fate. I walked through the pouring rain, and barely felt it. In those few minutes, I was more sure of foot then than I have been before or since. Finally, I arrived at a boarding house overlooking the river. I entered, climbed a stair, walked to a certain door, and opened it. Behind it, a man stood watching the rain, open book in hand. He turned to face me.

“Bailar!” he tossed the book aside to greet me. “A blue sash? You passed, then! What brings you here?”

“Storm Cloud. I should have known. As to what brings me, it was you—or rather, what you wrought.”

Bailar looked into his empty cup, then gave his apprentices a wan smile. “Telling this story has been thirsty work. Pour me one more.”