RS01. The Reluctant Sorcerer (20 page)

He was an accomplished swordsman and had yet to meet his match, but as good a swordsman as he was, he was even better with a knife. His prowess with knives of all shapes and sizes was legendary. It was said that he could trim the wings of a fairy in flight, which was actually an exaggeration, because fairies could outfly just about anything, from hummingbirds to bees, and Mac had never even attempted the feat. He could, however, draw one of the many knives he wore in his crossed leather bandoliers and hurl it with such lightning speed that the eye could hardly follow it. He unfailingly hit wherever he aimed it, nor was he particular about whether he hit it from the front or from behind. Assassination was assassination, and Mac didn’t allow any sporting sensibilities to interfere with his job. He was, after all, a professional.

Unlike many cheap, lower grade, nonguild assassins, who were often very good at skulking and being generally sneaky, but whose fighting prowess varied widely, Macgregor proudly wore the guild badge of his profession on his brown, rough-cut leather tunic. The badge was a tasteful silver dagger pin, four inches long, two inches wide at the crossguard, with an inch wide blade tapering to a sharp point. He wore it pinned to his breast, over his heart, and it identified him as a member in good standing of the Footpads and Assassins Guild, and anyone who valued their life knew better than to abbreviate that into an acronym.

For a long time, there had been a movement in the Guild to shorten the name simply to Assassins Guild, but many of the old guard professional assassins did not wish to have their occupation demeaned by having a guild called the Assassins Guild that also admitted footpads, however necessary they might be to the profession as auxiliaries. An alternate proposal had been made to reverse the order of the names, and have it be known as the Assassins and Footpads Guild, but the footpads liked having top billing, and since there were many more footpads than assassins, they kept voting it down at the annual meetings. It was a problem. Assassins who were members of the guild usually circumvented it by referring to themselves as pros, and everyone else, regardless of how gifted they might be, as amateurs.

MacGregor was one of the top pros in his profession. In fact, he was the top pro, having succeeded in assassinating the former top pro, which entitled him to command the highest fees in the guild. However, since Mac was an equal opportunity assassin, he often used a sliding scale, for the benefit of those who couldn’t afford his regular rates. Every now and then, someone came along who really needed killing, and Mac figured it would be a shame to let people like that live simply because their victims could not afford his rates.

In this particular case, though, he was getting his top rate, plus an attractive bonus, and he didn’t even have to kill anyone. All he had to do was find three individuals and deliver them to Warrick the White. The problem was, he didn’t really know who these individuals were. All he had was a general description. One was tall and lean, with brown hair and a long face. One was short and stocky, balding, with a long fringe of light brown hair. And one was of medium height, slim, with red hair and a beard, and he never spoke. Or, perhaps, he very seldom spoke. Granted, this wasn’t much to go on, but Mac knew that the three of them had been together, and were possibly thieves, and they had last been seen at this cottage, where they had delivered a certain apparatus of unknown and possibly magical properties, which they had brought here in a horse-drawn cart and sold to Blackrune 4.

This still wasn’t much in the way of information, but then that was the reason for the attractive bonus. If these three had been easy to find, anyone could have done it. Then there was the fact of Blackrune 4’s mysterious disappearance, and that of his apprentice, as well. MacGregor did not know the reason for these disappearances, but the fact that a sorcerer and his apprentice had vanished without trace shortly after encountering these three suggested that there might be a certain element of danger involved in this assignment. However, Mac liked danger. Almost as much as he liked attractive bonuses.

“Look about the grounds,” hesaid to the brothers. “And inspect the area nearby.” “What are we seeking?” one of them asked. “Anything out of the ordinary,” Mac replied. “ ‘Tis an isolated place, this. It does not have the look of a place that gets many visitors. See what you can find.” “This is no work for assassins,” the youngest of the three brothers said irritably. “Skulking about and seeking things, ‘tis work for footpads!” “You are not assassins yet, Hugh,” Mac reminded them, “but merely apprentice henchmen. If you wish to be professional assassins, you must learn your trade from the ground up. There is more to assassination than simply coming up to somebody and killing them. You must first learn to stalk your target, and to stalk him, you must first find him. So, go and start looking. See if our targets have left any traces of their visit.” “Suppose we find no traces?” the middle brother asked. “Well, now, suppose you don’t, Dugh,” Mac said. “What would be your next step, do you think?” Dugh frowned in concentration. “Lugh?” said Mac, turning to the oldest brother. “Follow that road there and attempt to retrace their route,” said Lugh. “Perhaps we may find some local people on the way who might have seen them.” “Very good, Lugh,” Mac said. “You’re coming along nicely. Now, why couldn’t you have thought of that, Dugh?” “I’m sorry, Mac,” said Dugh, shuffling his foot on the ground.

“Aye, well, next time, you’ll know better,” Mac said. “Now go and have a look around.” As the three brothers split up to look around the area, Mac sat down on a tree stump and idly flipped one of his knives. Hugh, Dugh, and Lugh were actually pretty decent henchmen, he thought, fierce and deadly fighters, if a trifle overeager. A little bit of seasoning and they’d make excellent assassins.

He had found them in a Pittsburgh tavern called The Stealers, a popular gathering spot for pickpockets, cutpurses, and alleymen (the term “muggers” not having been coined yet). They were the only ones left standing after a brawl that had involved most of the patrons. It was a brawl that had started when the ticklish Dugh had discovered a stealthy hand in each of his pockets and realized that he was being simultaneously dipped by two different thieves. One was bad enough, but two was simply intolerable and Dugh had taken serious exception to this rudeness. His two brothers had joined him in the ensuing fight, while all the other patrons of the tavern, save for a wench or two, had joined the opposition.

It had been no contest. Mac had dropped in for a drink, mere moments after it was over, and was confronted by the sight of limp bodies lying all about the room, under overturned tables and draped over the bar, and in the middle of it all stood the three strapping, bruised and bloody brothers with great big grins on their simple peasant faces.

“You three did all this by yourselves?” he’d asked, and when they’d started for him, Mac had raised his hands and said, “Nay, not me, lads. I just came in for a drink and I’d be honored if you’d join me. Though it appears we shall have to pour our own.” He’d recruited them right then and there. Mac enjoyed helping out talented young people and giving them a leg up. He had been fortunate in his own career and this was merely his way of giving something back.

“Mac! Over here! I think I’ve found something!” It was Dugh. Mac hurried toward the sound of his voice. By the time he got there, Dugh’s two brothers had already joined him. Dugh was standing underneath some trees behind a hedgerow at the edge of the meadow.

“What have you found?” asked Mac.

“A wee wooden horse,” said Dugh in a puzzled tone, staring at something he was clutching in his hand.

Mac held his hand out and Dugh dropped a handmade wooden chesspiece into his palm. “ Tis a knight,” said Mac.

“Don’t look nothing like a knight,” said Hugh. “Looks like a horse, to me.” “Nay, ‘tis called a knight, I tell you,” Mac replied.

“ ‘Tis a chesspiece.” “A what?” said Lugh.

“A chesspiece. ‘Tis a game one plays with a checkered board and little wooden figures carved in different shapes. Kings, queens, bishops... this one is called a knight.” “Why is it called a knight if it looks like a horse?” asked Dugh.

“Because a knight rides upon a horse, I suppose,” said Mac.

“Why not carve a knight, then?” Hugh asked. “Because a horse is merely used to represent the knight,” Mac explained.

“Do they carve a throne to represent the king?” asked Lugh.

“Nay, they carve a king.” “Then why not carve a knight, then? I don’t see the point.” Mac rolled his eyes. “Never mind. ‘Tis not important.” He glanced around. “Tell me what else you can see here.” The brothers looked around.

“Wagon tracks,” said Hugh.

“Very good,” Mac replied. “And what can we discern about these wagon tracks? Look closely, now.” “They’re deep,” said Lugh.

“And what does this tell us?” “ ‘Twas something heavy in the wagon.” “Good. Very good. What else?” “Footprints,” Dugh said, pointing.

“Aye. What about them?” “Ground must’ve been damp when they was made,” said Hugh.

“Aside from that.” “They’re different sizes,” Lugh said, bending down to examine them more closely.

“Which means how many men?” Mac prompted him.

“Two,” said Dugh.

“Nay, three,” his brother Hugh corrected him.

“Excellent,” said Mac, clapping them each on the shoulder. “We know that they were here, then.” “Well, we already knew that,” said Lugh.

“Nay, we had merely been told that,” Mac said. “Now we know for certain. One must never take such things for granted. Remember, when you stalk someone, you must make certain of all your information for yourself. That way, you know you have the correct information. So now we know that three men with a loaded wagon were here, and that at least two of them play chess, for it takes two to play the game and one would not likely bring it along if he was the only one of the three who played.” “Is it important, about the chess?” asked Dugh. “ ‘Tis one more thing we know about those whom we seek,” said Mac. “Each thing we learn shall make finding them a little easier.” “S’trewth, you sure are clever, Mac,” Hugh said with admiration.

“ ‘Tis merely experience, lads.” “I wish we could have experience, too!” said Dugh.

Mac sighed. “We’re working on it, lads. We’re working on it.” “... so, there you have it,” Brewster said. “Unless I can find that missing time machine, I’ll never be able to get home. The trouble is, I have no way of knowing if it’s here. It was programmed the same way the second one was, the one that brought me here, but there’s been no sign of it and no one around here seems to know anything about it. I have to proceed on the assumption that it’s here somewhere, for the alternative is simply too unnerving to contemplate. Perhaps the emergency chute opened and it was carried farther by the wind. Maybe it came down in the forest somewhere and no one’s spotted it yet. But one way or another, somehow I have to find it. Otherwise...” Brewster’s voice trailed off.

“Well, that certainly is quite a story,” said the dragon. “It seems you have quite a problem on your hands. Perhaps there is something I can do to help.” “You think so?” said Brewster.

“I could keep an eye out for this machine of yours,” said Rory. “Perhaps I will be able to spot it from the sky. Dragons have remarkable vision, you know.” “Oh, if you only could,” said Brewster. “I would be very grateful.” “I shall expect something in return,” said Rory.

“Whatever I can do,” said Brewster.

“You can tell me more stories,” said the dragon.

“Stories?” “About your dimension, the world you came from,” Rory said. “There are some things I have seen in dreams that I do not completely understand. Perhaps you could explain them to me.” “That’s all?” asked Brewster.

“To a dragon, a good tale is more precious than any treasure,” Rory said. “A tale is like a waking dream, and dreams are the roots of hope and wisdom. I will fly over the forest and search for your machine. And in return, you shall tell me tales of your world. Is it a bargain?” “It’s a deal,” said Brewster, holding out his hand without thinking.

Rory reached out with a huge, curved talon and gently touched his hand. Brewster stared at it and swallowed hard.

“I shall speak with the fairies, too,” said Rory, “and ask them to help me look. If your machine is out there, we shall find it. But you must promise not to leave till I have had my fill of stories.” “I promise,” Brewster said.

“Excellent,” the dragon said. “Excellent, indeed. I will look forward to it. We can begin tomorrow night.” And with that, the dragon spread its wings and plummeted off the tower. It came up again in a large and graceful arc, beat its wings, and soared up into the sky, receding rapidly into the distance until it was no more than a faint dot high up in the clouds.

“Amazing,” Brewster said with awe. “Truly amazing! I can hardly believe it. I’ve actually met a dragon, and spoken with it! Isn’t it wonderful, Mick?” “Perhaps ‘tis not so wonderful,” said Mick.

“What, are you kidding? Why?” “You made a promise to the dragon,” Mick replied.

“You made a bargain with it.” “So? What’s wrong with that? I fully intend to live up to it. All I have to do is answer some questions and tell some stories. What’s so hard about that?” “You promised not to leave until it’s had its fill of tales,” Mick replied. “Dragons dearly do love tales, y’know. They can never get enough o’ them.” “Well, so I’ll stay a little longer,” Brewster said. “This is an incredible world, Mick, and I’ve barely even scratched the surface of it! There’s so much to discover, so much to ,learn... it could take years!” “It could take forever,” Mick replied.