The Tiger's Eye (Book 1) (35 page)

24

The next day, when they prepared to leave, the cat-things
returned. There were dozens of them, and they sat at the edge of the grain
field as if they expected something from them. When the Banner of the Wounded
Hand urged their horses into the grain, the cat-things parted to let them
through. Once they had passed, the cat-things closed in again behind them. When
Angus turned to look back, they were already moving into the temple grounds.

A chill breeze rustled through the grain, and a sputtering
of rain began to fall.

1

As they neared the lift area, Hobart spurred his horse ahead
of his companions and brought it to an abrupt stop directly in front of the
scribe’s station. “We are the Banner of the Wounded Hand,” he announced. Then,
without waiting for the scribe to respond, he turned to the nearest guardsman.

“Which one of you is in charge down here?”

The scribe frowned and opened his book, turning swiftly
through the pages.

“I am,” one of the soldiers said. “Call me Alfred.”

As the others approached, the scribe looked up and saw
Angus. He pointed at him and said, “You are banned from Hellsbreath. Unless you
have 2,500 in gold?”

Hobart untied the straps securing a bag to his saddle. He
tossed it to Alfred and said, “The king’s shield is dented.”

The soldier almost dropped the bag as he said, “What?”

“If you don’t have the gold,” the scribe said, “I will have
them arrest you. Alfred?”

“You heard me,” Hobart said. “I must see Commander Garret at
once.”

Alfred hesitated, opened the bag, and paled. Without looking
up, he said, “Bring down the lift.” He looked up from the bag and asked Hobart,
“How urgent is it?”

The scribe pointed at Angus and said, “There is an
injunction forbidding him entry.”

“The danger is not immediate,” Hobart said, “but it is of
grave importance.”

The solder nodded curtly and turned to the scribe. “His
injunction is temporarily lifted,” he said. “By the order of the king.” He
turned to his men and barked, “Why haven’t you signaled for the lift!”

One of them turned, hurried in behind the scribe and grabbed
a red flag. Then he ran out far enough away from the wall to be seen by those
on top of it. He began waving the flag, and within a minute, the lift was
rapidly descending.

“You will not need your horses,” Alfred said. “Would you
like to have them stabled for you?”

“That won’t be necessary,” Hobart said. “We plan to go south
after we make our report. We’ll take them with us.”

“How long will you be staying?” the scribe asked. “I must
make note of it.”

“Two days,” he said. “Unless Commander Garret requires more
of us.”

The soldier looked at the bag in his hands and said, “He
will.” He turned to the scribe and said, “Plan for an indefinite stay.”

“Indefinite?” Hobart repeated, frowning.

The soldier nodded and said, “Commander Garret will not be
satisfied with this,” he held up the bag. “He will want you to show him where
it came from.”

“We have a map,” Hobart said. “There is a road.”

The soldier shrugged and turned to the lift platform. “The
lift will be here momentarily,” he said. “You are familiar with the loading
procedures?”

Hobart nodded and kneed his horse forward. The rest of his
group followed.

“The fee!” The scribe called.

“Is waived,” the soldier said without turning. “Official
business of the king.”

The scribe began writing in his book as they rode passed.
Fierce, angry,
precise
strokes.

The lift settled into place, and the doors were opened.
Several people were inside, and they were ushered quickly off. Then the members
of the Banner of the Wounded Hand entered and the lift doors were locked.

Alfred took a deep breath as they began rising at a steady
pace, exhaled it, and asked, “How many are there?”

“We killed about two dozen,” Hobart asked. “There may have
been more.”

The soldier exhaled loudly, chuckled, and shook his head.
“Two dozen?” he repeated. “That’s all? Not thousands?”

Hobart frowned. “Why would you think that?”

The soldier shrugged. “The last southbound caravan that went
through told us the crops were all harvested, and there had been no sign of the
fishmen. None. They didn’t even come out of the Death Swamps this year.”

Hobart frowned. “They didn’t attack?”

“That’s what the caravan said.”

Hobart’s frown deepened, but he didn’t say anything.

When they reached the top, he asked, “Commander Garret is in
the southwest tower, isn’t he?”

“Yes,” the soldier said.

“Good,” Hobart said. “We’ll be heading south after we give
him our report.” He didn’t seem to be very confident of it, though….

2

Fanzool shuddered as he reached for the knocker and drew his
hand back again. It was a dreadful thing, a serpent’s head poised to strike.
The forked tongue was the lever, and he had to reach inside the serpent’s mouth
to make it clang. His hesitancy was understandable; he had seen others use it
many times with the same reluctance. Three times he had seen the snake’s jaws
clamp down on the hand within its mouth, and then the fangs extended deep into
the forearm, releasing their poison….

I was summoned,
he thought,
surely he does not
wish me dead?
He gritted his teeth and, his fingers shaking, reached into
the gaping maw, twisting his forearm away from the fangs as best he could. He
touched the tongue, and the eyes—beady little rubies worth a fortune—pierced
through him, their sinister glow a casual warning of the power held by its owner.
No one would dare steal them, not from Argyle.

The tongue was rough, like a dog’s, and dry as the stone it
was carved from. He gripped it tightly—too tightly—closed his eyes and pressed
down. The mouth slowly closed in upon his arm, tickled his skin, and clamped
down. The lips were a smooth ridge biting into his skin without breaking
through. The grip was firm and unyielding, but the fangs held their place.

“Who calls upon me?”

Fanzool opened his eyes and let out his breath. Sweat began
to swell up at the roots of the hairs on his temples, and he tried to speak.
“F-F-F—” He tried to swallow, but his mouth was dry. He tried to clear his
throat, but there was nothing blocking it but his tongue.

“Who calls upon me?”

The voice was more insistent, and the lips tightened
slightly. Blood trickled from a tiny pinprick as the fangs lowered. It was a
strange voice, dark and hollow like the corridor, a sepulchral echo of life
filtered through stagnant air. It didn’t come from the snake; it was just
there, all around him, pressing in….

“Fanzool!” he gasped, staring wide-eyed at the fangs. If
they lowered much more….

The blade was cold and sharp at his elbow. It felt heavy in
his white-knuckled grip, and he gritted his teeth from the effort to keep it in
place. He wanted desperately to pull it back, but if the snake bit down….

The eyes flashed, and a pair of brilliant red lights bore
into him for a brief moment. Then the snake’s mouth opened. It was a full
second before he jerked his arm out and a few more before he put his dagger
back into the sheath tied to the sash of his robe.

“Enter.”

Had the voice changed? Was it…
friendly
?

Fanzool shook his head. He was imagining things. The voice
was never friendly.
Argyle
was never friendly. Except when he planned to
do something particularly nasty….

The catch on the door released, and it slid silently aside.

Light burst into the corridor, and Fanzool shielded his eyes
until they adjusted to it. When they had, he stepped forward and the door slid
shut behind him.

“Fanzool,” Argyle purred. “I have been waiting for you.”

Fanzool gulped, lowered his eyes, and let his arm fall to
his side. He said nothing; there was no need. Argyle would make it clear when
he was to speak and what he was to say.

“Come,” Argyle said.

Fanzool took several steps forward, stopping only when he
saw Argyle’s feet. They were huge feet, each one at least as long as Fanzool’s
forearm, and the boots were deadly. They were braced with iron straps, and
short, flat, jagged barbs jutted out all around their edges. One kick to the
neck….

He had seen that once…. But he wasn’t worried about the
feet; Argyle preferred to use his hands—or his dog. The paws—black ones as
large as Fanzool’s head, tipped with four long, curved claws that resembled a
cat’s more than a dog’s—were at the edge of his vision, quivering in
anticipation.

Fanzool waited. He still did not look up; Argyle hadn’t
given him permission to do so. His fate—like so many others—was held in
Argyle’s vice-like grip, and there was nothing he could do about it. He was but
a small cog in the giant’s carefully constructed machine. He did his job, and
was generally rewarded with a few coins and Argyle’s quick dismissal….

“You said he was dead,” Argyle accused, his voice careless,
dispassionate.

Fanzool flinched. He didn’t need to be reminded of whom
Argyle spoke; there could be only one such person: Typhus. “Yes, Argyle,” he
said, his mind racing. “All indications were—and still are—that he is.”
If
only the augury had been clearer
….

Argyle flipped a coin several times, and then said, “Take a
look at this.”

Fanzool lifted his gaze up past the sitting giant’s knees,
and craned his neck until he saw the huge hand. Argyle was wearing a vibrant
blue pantaloon and a frilly green silk blouse. It was his favorite outfit!
He
isn’t going to kill me! The blood
…. Argyle tossed a coin toward him, and
Fanzool hastily reached out to catch it. Once he had it in his hand, he looked
at it. It was a simple gold coin. He frowned.

“Tell me,” Argyle said. “What do you see?”

Fanzool frowned. “A gold coin,” he suggested.

“No,” Argyle said. “That is one of the coins
he
took
from me.”

“Are you sure?” Fanzool said before realizing what he was
saying. “There are other coins like this one.”

Argyle dismissed his question with a casual wave, the breeze
from which caused Fanzool’s hair to flutter. “Perhaps,” he said. “I want you to
tell me where this coin has been and who has had possession of it.”

Fanzool nodded. “I shall do so at once,” he said. “The
augury—”

Argyle put his hand on the armrest of his makeshift throne.
It was built from bones, and the armrest ended with a cluster of skulls
mortared together, each seeming to be eating the one in front of it. He began
thrumming his fingers on the skulls, the sound of the hollow tapping echoing
through the chamber. He leaned forward, sneered, and repeated. “You
said
he was dead.”

Fanzool gulped, feeling sweat funneling down his backbone.
“Yes,” he agreed. “He is.”

“Perhaps,” Argyle said, letting his other hand come to rest
on his dog’s head. He patted it gently, stroked it behind the ears, and his
other hand mimicked the motion on the skulls. “You must find out.”

“Of course,” Fanzool said, excited by the implication that
he would still be alive when he left. “I shall consult the spirits—”

“No,” Argyle said.

Fanzool’s tongue tried to swallow his teeth, and he gurgled
with the abruptness of his silence.

“That coin,” Argyle continued, “was brought to my attention
by an associate in Hellsbreath. It is but one of several that were sold there
by an enterprising young upstart named Giorge. My associate knew of my interest
in such coins, and pursued the matter to his satisfaction. He sent a
Truthseer—” Argyle looked meaningfully at Fanzool “—to discuss the matter with
this Giorge fellow, and she was satisfied with the truthfulness of his answers.
The coins came from a wizard named Angus. That wizard was also questioned, and
the trail ended at Blackhaven Tower. I want to know where the coins were prior
to that time.”

Fanzool’s heart slowed, and he felt the blood fleeing from
his skin to hide deep within his chest, where it burbled furiously.
Voltari
….

“The Truthseer did not return,” Argyle said. “And my
associate was reluctant to send another.” Argyle paused to study Fanzool for a
long moment before continuing. “I understand you know the mage who dwells
there?”

Fanzool licked his lips and nodded. He couldn’t speak the
name….

“Good,” Argyle said, smiling happily. “I want you to pay him
a visit.”

“Me?” Fanzool gulped.

“Yes,” Argyle said, leaning forward and clasping his hands
together before him. “Speak with this mage. Find out what he knows about
him
.
If this is one of the coins
he
took from me, I want to know where
he
was
when
he
had it last. Then I want you to go there and find
his
body.” He leaned back, shook his clenched hands and let them fall easily to his
lap.

“I,” Fanzool began, paused, licked his lips with a dry
tongue. “My lord Argyle,” he said, hoping the formality would ease what he had
to say. “He will not see me.”

“Who will not see you?” Argyle said, separating his hands
and putting them on the skulls of his throne.

“The mage,” Fanzool said, his fear torn between the one
before him and the one from his past. “He does not receive visitors.”

“Ha!” Argyle laughed. “You must convince him to see you.”

“I—” how could he explain it? What part of the truth could
he offer that Argyle would accept? “He will kill me on sight.”

Argyle smiled, the wicked, indifferent smile of a man who
knows the power he has and how to wield it to achieve his goals. “And I will
kill you if you fail.”

Fanzool shuddered, blinking back the tears threatening to
overwhelm his composure.
Voltari….

“You will speak to this mage, and you will find out what he
knows of the coins. And you will bring Typhus or his body back to me.” The
smile broadened, and he leaned forward until his gigantic head hovered only a
foot from Fanzool’s. “Take Sardach with you. Surely this mage won’t refuse a
visit from him.”

Not Sardach!
Fanzool’s knees buckled and the tears
began to fall.

Argyle leaned back and began to laugh. They were deep,
resounding laughs that bounced around the room and joined together to form a
chaotic melody of sadistic glee.

Fanzool dropped his head in his hands, the gold coin
pressing against his cheek. He sobbed uncontrollably, the fear pounding through
him.

A nearby shadow separated itself from the wall and floated
quietly toward him….

###

Thank you very much for reading
The Tiger’s Eye
! I
hope you liked it, and if you did, a review would be much appreciated. Also,
the second book in the series (
The Viper’s Fangs
) should be finished
near the end of the summer in 2014. In the meantime, you might want to consider
purchasing one or more of my other works.

Thanks again!

Robert