Authors: Mark Acres
Instinctively, Bagsby’s eyes darted about the room, seeking exits. Save for the double doors, against which the high priest leaned, grinning, there were none. Nor, aside from the torches and the incense burners, were there any items that might be useful as weapons in a brawl. Bagsby wondered if he dared draw sword against a king.
“There’s no escape from this room, thief, if that’s what you’re wondering while your skin grows so pale,” the high priest boomed. Bagsby noticed that his voice, though deep and somewhat somber, was edged with humor.
“He’s right,” the king said, approaching Bagsby with his hand outstretched. “Nonetheless, before we talk more, I’ll have that sword and dagger, if you don’t mind. It wouldn’t do for a successful monarch to be murdered by his most successful general, would it?”
Bagsby kept his silence. He drew his sword and handed it, hilt first, to the king. He did the same with his dagger. Best not to say anything until he knew which way the wind was blowing, Bagsby decided.
“Thank you,” the king said, handing the weapons to the priest, who hid them quickly in his white tunic. This surprised Bagsby, for the tunic seemed to have no folds and no openings.
“Priestly magic,” the priest said, acknowledging Bagsby’s wondering stare.
“Now,” King Harold continued, “what are we to do with you, Bagsby? You have cost me a great deal already. In your absence we learned who you truly are—how does not matter—and of the frauds you have already perpetrated against our subjects. Young Pendargon will doubtless never forget how you parted him from four hundred crowns. No doubt his father will be in my law courts by the morrow, clamoring for justice.”
“Ah, that matter,” Bagsby replied. “There really is no reason to believe that Pendargon even knows who I am. However, I will gladly make restitution if Your Majesty desires,” Bagsby began.
“Do you think old Pendargon blind?” the king demanded sternly. “The entire city witnessed your triumph. It will cost me a great deal more than four hundred crowns to ensure the silence of the Pendargons.”
“Silence?” Bagsby asked, hope rising.
“Don’t play the fool with me, thief,” King Harold snarled. “You know as well as I that I can ill afford to publicly proclaim that my great general, the bringer of the first victory against Heilesheim, is a thief and a fraud.”
“Oh, my,” Bagsby replied. “Oh, my, indeed, that would be somewhat embarrassing. Well, then, perhaps it would be best if I simply disappeared from Your Majesty’s realm.”
“No doubt it would be best were it not for one thing,” the king answered. “You are a war hero. Genuine war heroes are hard to come by. You are useful politically. Otherwise, I assure you Bagsby, you would have already disappeared from our realm. If not by my own hand, then by the hands of the assassins that our spies tell us roam the streets seeking you.”
“Certainly, I may be of further service to Your Majesty,” Bagsby began broadly, “I would only be too happy—”
“Silence!” the king commanded. “You have two options. Death and disappearance, which we could tolerate but which would not serve our greater end, or military service to us for the duration of this war in return for a pardon for your previous frauds against our person and our kingdom.”
“I’ll take the pardon,” Bagsby said flatly.
“All in due time. First, you will kneel before this altar and place both hands upon it,” the king commanded.
“What is this?” Bagsby said, allowing his natural disrespect for authority to show through. After all, he reasoned, he had little to lose at this point. “Some kind of religious initiation?”
“Not exactly,” the priest interjected. The large man walked up to the altar and extended his hands, palms down, over the flat, plain stone.
“Gods of Argolia, seen and unseen, grant us now the use of this truth stone,” the priest intoned. “Let the lips of him who touches this, thy sacred altar, speak only the truth. Let all ability to dissemble flee his soul. Make pure the words of his mouth.” His incantation completed, the priest turned to Bagsby. “Kneel and place your hands on the altar,” he said.
“Now, just a minute,” Bagsby objected. “There really isn’t any need for all this religious—”
The priest, who despite his age was a man of immense physical strength, grabbed Bagsby around the neck and clanged his helmeted head down upon the stone. Without thinking Bagsby placed his hands on the stone in order to push himself up. But no sooner had he touched the stone than a strange kind of dizziness overcame him, and a nausea made him sink to the floor. Vainly he ordered his arms to raise his hands from the slab of granite, but to no avail; the muscles of his arms would not obey.
“Now, Bagsby,” said the king, “tell me this. If I spare your life, will you give me loyal service as befits a pure knight? Or will you betray me to the vile forces of Heilesheim?”
Bagsby’s head swam. He understood the king’s words. In normal circumstances, he would have eloquently sworn loyalty to the death to Argolia and the king, and not thought twice about breaking such an oath when the occasion demanded. But now he found he could not glibly lie—only the truth would come from his lips. And Bagsby found, as he searched inside his nauseated, dizzy soul, that he did not even know what that truth really was.
“I don’t know,” he replied, the words coming slowly, as though he might gag on each syllable.
“Explain yourself,” the king demanded.
“I—I wish no harm to Argolia,” Bagsby stammered slowly. “I wish harm to Valdaimon, the royal wizard of Heilesheim. If I could harm him by betraying you, I would. If betraying you was necessary to preserve my life so that I might harm him, I would.”
“What enmity have you for Valdaimon?” the king asked.
“He killed my father!” Bagsby screamed. Hot tears poured down the little man’s cheeks. “He killed the only person I ever truly loved. And I have never had a chance for revenge until now.”
The king ignored the misery of the thief and pressed for more. “Tell me, Bagsby, what chance for revenge have you now?”
“I can steal the Golden Eggs of Parona,” the thief wailed.
“How will that harm Valdaimon?” the king demanded.
“I don’t truly know, but it will deprive him, somehow, of some great power he seeks. It will spoil his plan and bring his efforts to dominate the Land Between the Rivers to nothing,” Bagsby screamed. “At least,” he added, beginning to gasp for breath, “that is what I believe.”
“And why do you believe this?” the king asked quietly.
“The elf told me,” Bagsby whispered. He collapsed with a clatter on the floor, his hands above his head, still glued to the truth stone.
“What is the relationship between you and this elf,” the king pressed.
“I don’t know. I may be falling in love with her, even though she is an elf. How she feels about me, I do not know,” Bagsby muttered, his voice barely audible.
The king stared long at Bagsby’s body as it lay on the floor. He neither smiled nor frowned; he simply stared and pondered. At length, he raised his gaze to meet the questioning eyes of the high priest. The king cocked his head, as if asking a question of his own, and the priest, pursing his lips, slowly nodded his head. Then the big man extended his right arm and passed his hand, palm down, over the altar stone. Bagsby’s hands slid off the chunk of rock onto the floor.
“Help him to his knees,” the king ordered. The burly priest slipped his arms beneath Bagsby’s shoulders and hefted the bulk of the little man up. Bagsby felt strength slowly returning to his body at the cleric’s touch. Still, he burned with shame, as his deepest feelings had been revealed, not only to himself but also to these strangers. He raised angry eyes to the king, whose back was to him, and saw the monarch draw his great sword.
No matter, then, my embarrassment, Bagsby thought. I am to die.
The king turned and faced the kneeling thief. “The use of the truth stone is distasteful to us,” King Harold said. “It engenders hatred, if the one it is used on is allowed to live. We ask your forgiveness for so prying into your very soul. It was necessary.”
Bagsby stared back at the king silently.
“Bagsby, thief, you have served us well. Therefore,” the king said, raising his great sword above his head and lowering it toward the thief, “we dub you a knight of realm of Argolia.”
Bagsby was already cringing in anticipation of the death blow. The words of the king stunned his already numb mind. He felt the flat of the blade slam against first his right shoulder, then his left, as the king continued to speak. “We award you certain estates in the north of our kingdom,” King Harold said, “which you may claim at the conclusion of the current war. We name you, henceforth, John Wolfe. Whereupon, rise, Sir John Wolfe, knight of Argolia.”
The unbelieving Bagsby clawed the air, as though an invisible arm would be extended to help him to his feet. The priest came to his assistance, and the now-noble Bagsby stood before the King of Argolia.
“I know not what to say, Your Majesty,” Bagsby humbly confessed.
“Then say nothing. You will command our entire Royal Guard in the forthcoming battle. And see to one thing: should your elf use magic again in our cause, be certain its use is imputed to you.” The king winked at Bagsby and smiled, the smile of one thief to another.
“Your Majesty can make light of such an important matter?” Bagsby asked.
“I do not make light of it. Neither do I refuse aid against so powerful a foe as Ruprecht, even if that aid comes from the elves.”
“I will keep it secret, be well assured,” Bagsby said. “The elf fears the revelation as much as we do.”
“No doubt. Well, Sir John, honor among thieves, eh?” the king said, jesting.
“Your Majesty is no thief,” Bagsby said solemnly.
“All rulers are thieves,” the king replied. “We simply legalize our thefts and call them taxes.”
The sputtering flame of a single oil lamp threw occasional illumination on the yellowed, wrinkled face of Valdaimon as the old wizard stared into the dark, hard eyes of Nebuchar, the leader of all thieves and assassins in the land of Kala. This Nebuchar, Valdaimon decided, does not scare easily.
“You have not explained to my satisfaction why four professional assassins cannot accomplish the death of one insignificant man in the middle of a minor kingdom undergoing all the confusions of war,” Valdaimon hissed.
Nebuchar leaned forward across the plain wooden table and stared back into Valdaimon’s rheumy eyes. “I owe no explanations to you, wizard,” he replied. “Take care. Your king may rule here now, but no king truly rules the streets of Kala. There I alone am king.”
Valdaimon studied this man carefully. He was arrogant and stupid, like all humans, but with more reason than most. His power could not be disputed. Even in far-off Parona, Nebuchar was famous as the one man who could cause anything to be done, regardless of law and custom, and the one man who could supply anything, regardless of its rarity. The only thing Nebuchar was said to care about was money. But, to maintain his ability to make money, Valdaimon reasoned, Nebuchar must also care about his reputation. It was clear enough he did not care about his appearance: he was fat, with short greasy black hair, flabby jowls, and a scar across his forehead which he made no effort to hide.
“That is why I engaged you in the first place,” Valdaimon replied. “You are the king of assassinations. I paid my money. I want results. If you cannot deliver, no matter. I will not even ask for my money back. I will simply pass the word that you have become... unreliable.”
“I am reliable,” Nebuchar snapped. “I want Bagsby dead as much as you do—whatever your reasons may be. He’s the only man who ever crossed me and lived to talk of it. Taking your money only assured me of a profit for a job that was going to be done anyway.”
“Yes, but when?” Valdaimon goaded.
“You could help, wizard,” Nebuchar said. “You are supposed to be so powerful that no human can resist your spells. Do him in with your magic, and I will pay you.” Nebuchar stabbed his dagger into the wood table top to emphasize his point.
“Those who do not practice magic can hardly appreciate its limitations,” Valdaimon answered. “My powers are needed for the support of the war effort now.”
“You lie,” Nebuchar stated.
“I cannot get at him at long range. He has protections against magical attacks of certain types,” Valdaimon admitted.
“Then use another type,” Nebuchar said, shrugging.
“Then you use another type of assassin,” Valdaimon snapped back.
Nebuchar grunted. “I don’t want unhappy customers. Let’s work together. I’ll return your money, but let’s work together to see that little monster dead.”
“I could provide information about his whereabouts. Do you get along well with animals?” Valdaimon asked, grinning.
“What kind of animals?” Nebuchar asked. “I’ve got a lot of the human kind working for me now.”
Valdaimon reached into the folds of his tattered robe and produced a vial of clear, blue fluid. He set it carefully on the table and smiled. “A crow will come calling on you. When he does, drink this,” the wizard said.
“How do I know it’s not poison?” Nebuchar asked, looking skeptically at the wizard.
“You don’t. Welcome to the new regime in Kala. There will be other changes in your business operations in the future—but for now, we’ll work together for our common good.” Valdaimon wheezed. The wizard pushed back his chair and rose. “Our business is done. We will speak again when Bagsby is dead.” Using his great staff for support, the old mage trudged toward the door of the small, dark room.
“Where will you be if I need to speak to you?” Nebuchar asked.
“I will be at Lundlow Keep—my new personal estate here. But you will not need to speak to me. I will know when the deed is done, and if it is not, you will not want to speak to me.” The wizard made his exit.
“Valdaimon,” Nebuchar called after him, “you stink. Don’t come again yourself—send your damned crow instead!” The fat man broke into laughter at his own taunt.
Valdaimon merely shrugged and made an indistinct gesture with one hand. He didn’t smile until he was making his way out through the dimly lit main room of the cheap dive that served the powerful, wealthy Nebuchar as his headquarters.