City of Demons (20 page)

Salick stood up resignedly and helped him to his feet. Marick was already ten feet away, turning back anxiously towards them and waving them on. “No need for that, Garet,” she said. “As long as our requests are reasonable, no merchant in the city would turn us away.” She looked at the disappearing form of the young Bane, as he wove his way through the crowd towards the stalls filling the east end of the plaza. She sighed again. “The trick is to keep the requests reasonable.”

By the time they caught up with Marick, he was pleading with a beefy man presiding over a table filled with large glass bottles, each protected by a basket covering. The man, his thick mustache bristling and his eyebrows raised in surprise so high that they almost touched his short grey hair, shook his head.

“No, little Blue,” he said firmly. “That is too much to ask, even for a Bane. Do you know how much the syrup to make a full bottle costs?”

Marick, catching sight of Salick coming into the range of hearing, interrupted the man. “A bottle? I think you misunderstood me, friend,” he said, shaking his head vigorously. “I only asked for a drink for myself and my friends, apprentices of Master Mandarack!” He turned to smile and wave over Salick and Garet.

“Apprentices, eh?” asked the merchant. He eyed Garet's and Marick's sashes.

Salick reluctantly stepped forward. “Master, I am an apprentice of Master Mandarack, and these two have, uh, recently journeyed with him to the Midlands and back.” She gave a little bow of her head. “If you could give these two a small taste of your wares, I would offer the thanks of the Banehall in return.”

The man laughed. “It's a good thing the little one has you here to keep him honest!” He poured a sweet smelling, orange liquid into three rough clay cups. “Bring back the cups before you leave the plaza, please.”

Salick thanked him warmly. After a small sip of her drink, which she said she found too sweet, she gave the rest to Marick, who had already gulped down his own.

Garet took his time, savouring the heavy sweetness of the liquid. His mother had sometimes found bee hives on their trips into the hills, and they would raid them by lighting small fires of moss and birch bark to blow the smoke into the hives and quiet the bees. But even the stolen honey combs lacked the sharp sweetness of this drink. Feeling the last drop slide down his throat, he wondered that the traders who came to Three Roads had never sung its praises, instead of going on about mere jewels and gold.

Salick collected his cup and put it back on the merchant's table. She looked for Marick, but he had wandered over to another stall, this one decorated with colourful drawings of the sun and moon. The young Bane was chatting with the woman behind a paper-laden table. He waved over his friends as the woman paused in a long and impassioned flow of words.

“Salick, Garet,” he called, “this is Alanick: the Sage of the Shirath Market!”

Garet looked above the old woman to the painted sign tied above the stall. Two symbols were roughly written in a fiery red paint: the full bowl symbol for ‘all' and the doubled eye of ‘seeing.' The ‘all-seeing' woman looked him over, shifting her large bottom on a small stool. With great drama, she pointed a finger at him and intoned, “You're a stranger in this city, aren't you?”

“Come on, Alanick!” Marick teased. “The black hair alone would tell you that.” He leaned on the high table. “Why don't you give us a good show?”

The woman shifted again and swept a pudgy hand through her loose, grey hair. “A show, hmm? And what do I get in return?” The all-seeing eyes narrowed.

“All I can offer is the thanks of the Banehall,” Marick replied, sounding suspiciously like Salick.

Garet looked at his companion, expecting an explosion, but Salick hid a smile under her hand.

The old woman was smiling as well. “If you'll pass my name around to your acquaintances, I'll take that along with your thanks.”

Marick grinned and dragged Garet closer to the table. It was covered with charts of the stars, each constellation joined by inked lines to make the pictures people saw in the sky.

“What was the day and year of your birth, dearie?” she asked, pen paused above a blank scrap of paper.

“I don't know,” Garet was forced to reply. “I know I was born in the fire year, but we didn't keep track of birthdays in my family.” He blushed as he felt Salick's eyes on him.

The old woman seemed nonplussed for a moment but soon rallied. “Well dearie, that's a shame, but there are other ways.” She heaved herself off the stool and maneuvered around the table. Instead of the colourful tunics of most of Shirath's citizens, she wore a red robe of some soft, shiny material. Her feet were bare.

“Now give me your hands, dearie.” She took Garet's hands and examined the length of his fingers, the state of his nails, and then looked long and hard at the lines on his palms. Finally, she took his face between her soft hands and looked methodically at each part, to Garet's extreme embarrassment. He couldn't help but notice that several passers by had stopped and were chatting to each other about this performance. Their comments indicated that they appreciated the thoroughness of Alanick's method. After many minutes punctuated by her nods, sighs, grumbles, and one startling ‘aha' when she found a tiny mole on his neck, the sage walked back behind the table and planted herself again on the stool.

“You were born under the pole star, dearie, which is also called the Shepherd because it guides all the other stars.” She broke off her lecture to glare at Marick.

The young Bane was sputtering and choking out sprays of the sweet drink he had been sipping. Hand and cup were both dripping with the overflow of his fit. Salick pounded his back until he stopped coughing.

“Do you question my abilities, Marick?” Alanick asked. She drew herself up to her full height, and looked the young Bane straight in the eye. “You, who know them so well?”

“No, Alanick!” Marick said, one hand patting the air in front of him to calm the outraged astrologer, the other swivelling the clay cup to slow the drops that threatened to fall untasted to the ground below. “It's just that you really hit the mark this time.” He gave one last cough and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “Garet knew nothing of demons and everything of sheep before we rescued him from the Midlands.”

At the word “demon,” Alanick had quickly touched one finger to her ear and then flicked her hand to the side as if to throw away the word.

“Hush, Marick! The name makes or breaks the luck.” Her eyes suddenly narrowed again, and she stuck her fists deep into the flesh of her broad hips. “And what do you mean by ‘this time'?”

Salick rolled her eyes at Garet.

Marick was caught still trying to lick the rim of the cup clean of the sweet drops before they fell to the ground. From this awkward position, he looked sideways at Alanick and grinned. “Well, ‘all-seeing one,' didn't you tell me before I left for the Midlands that I would soon die a horrible death far from home?” The cup more or less clean, he transferred it to his other hand so that he could lick his fingers. “I remember that you were very enthusiastic about it.”

Alanick sat back down on her stool, one hand tapping the pile of star charts in front of her. “As the stars are often hidden from us by clouds, so are the true meanings of a horoscope often hidden behind its words.” She leafed quickly through the pile and pulled out a sheet from near the bottom. “See here?” One pudgy finger pointed to a group of five stars joined by spindly lines into a picture of a fox with a crooked tale. “Your stars were moving through a zone of disaster. That usually means death, but it could also signify taking part in a some great upheaval or chaotic event.”

“With Marick, that's a safe prediction,” Salick whispered to Garet, who immediately had a coughing fit of his own.

“Now don't worry, dearie,” Alanick said, turning towards Garet. “The Shepherd is in a good position right now.” She pointed to a large chart pinned on the canvas wall. “I'll have to make a full chart for you, dearie. You're passing through a time of change. There's danger, but opportunity too, if you're brave enough to grab it with both hands.” She winked at him and grinned, revealing many gaps between her remaining teeth. “But all Banes are brave, eh young Master?”

Embarrassed by this bare-faced flattery, he fumbled for a reply, but Salick saved him before he could offer words or money in thanks.

“Thank you, Mistress Alanick,” she said in her most formal tone, “but Garet's Master forbids her students to consult astrologers. She says she doesn't believe in them.”

Alanick came huffing around the table again. “And just who is this woman?” she said in a voice that rose over the noise of the surrounding stalls. Her nearest neighbours paused in their commerce to enjoy the spectacle.

“Master Tanock,” Salick replied. She grabbed Garet by the shoulder and dragged him back towards the gate, calling back over her shoulder, “I'm sorry, Mistress, but there's nothing to be done.” The sage's aggrieved voice followed them for some time.

“Perhaps,” Marick intoned, his voice deep in his chest, “Mistress Alanick's star is passing through a zone of irritation.”

“No doubt,” Salick laughed. “I'm sure that zone follows you around like a puppy!”

“Salick?” Garet asked worriedly, “Isn't Mandarack my Master?” The thought of losing Mandarack's steady leadership and guidance, just when he felt he would need them most, made him panic. “I've never heard of this Master Tanock!” he wailed.

“Neither have I,” Marick observed.

Salick smiled. “Let's just say that she is a very convenient Master for young Banes to pull out in difficult situations.”

“Salick,” Marick asked, his eyes opening wide, “didn't you tell me that you had a cat named Tanock when you were little?”

Salick ignored the young Bane and said, “Garet, no Black or Blue looks to any one Master as his own. When you become a Green, a Master will choose you to be their apprentice. That Master will train you until you become a Red yourself.”

“But who will help me until then?” Garet asked frantically. He grabbed Salick's hand and pleaded, “Who will tell me what I have to do?”

“Everyone!” Marick yelled, startling Garet out of his fears. “Don't worry, Garet. Blacks never lack for supervision.” He put his arm on Garet's shoulder. “And I'll always be around to let you know how to act.”

“That's comforting,” Salick said. She put her own hand on Garet's other shoulder. “I'll be there too. And even if Mandarack isn't your Master, I know he feels responsible for you.” She gave him a little shake. “I know how far you've come, and how strange this is for you. But you have to keep going.”

Garet took several deep breaths and then nodded at his friends. He followed Salick towards the gate.

But he came up short against Salick's back and saw that she had been stopped by the ring of an inward-facing crowd. Salick pushed ahead until the crowd parted slightly to let them see inside. Two men, armed with light swords, faced each other in the middle of the circle. The nearest, a tall man in his twenties with short cropped hair, caught sight of Salick and waved at her.

“Salick!” he called, “come over and judge this match.” He swung the thin blade vigorously in front of him, making impressive noises as he cut the air.

Before Salick could answer, and Garet could see from the dark look on her face that that answer would have been no, the other young man stepped forward to intervene.

“Not a Bane,” he drawled. “They can't stand the sight of any blood besides their own.” He stopped, the point of the sword on the ground, and twirled the hilt back and forth between his long fingers. “Fetch a guard, Draneck.” He carefully brushed a strand of long hair behind his ear. “They don't begrudge a drop of glory to the rest of us poor, ordinary folk.”

There was no need to go to the gate, for the guards, curious as to what had drawn a crowd, had left their posts to join the ring of spectators. One handed his spear to his companion and stepped in between the duelists.

“First blood?” he asked. The sun glinted off his armour and sword, but Garet thought that the two men he faced might be more dangerous. Draneck nodded at the guard. He sidestepped to a position directly across from his opponent, thin sword held out at chest level and rear hand curled up and hanging slackly above the shoulder of his green tunic. Weight on his leading foot, he ground his toes into the paving stones to ensure proper traction.

“Not if it's just a scratch,” the long-haired swordsman said, and raised his sword lazily til its tip pointed directly at Draneck's eyes. His nonchalant tone was betrayed by the flaring of his nostrils and a quick shift of his hips to set himself for the match.

The guardsman raised his hand between them then jumped back as he slashed down. “Begin!”

Garet could barely see the swords move, they flashed back and forth so quickly. Steel rasped and rang as the two young men jumped about the ring, each trying to drive the other back against the spectators. The speed at which they attacked and avoided each other reminded Garet of Mandarack's quickness in battle. These two men had the speed of a Shrieker! The crowd cheered each attack and gasped at close escapes.

Draneck slipped, his foot catching on a crack between the stones, and the other man lunged at him. Draneck desperately twisted his body so that the tip of the sword lanced past his head. He slammed his own sword's bell-shaped guard into his opponent's blade, forcing him back. Even in the back of the crowd, Garet could hear their breath coming like bellows as they kept up a continual exchange of thrusts and blows. Draneck had recovered his balance and now the two men slowed their pace. They circled each other, sidling cross-legged, looking for an opportunity to dart in under the other's sword. The young man who had mocked Salick took one such opportunity, trying to reach around Draneck's blade and stab him in the side, but he paid for it when Draneck circled the blade tightly, flung it to the side and then, with a twitch of his wrist, sliced back across the man's forearm.