I couldn’t sleep, as much as I wanted to, needed to. Jaid slept – even Jaroan slept, after grumbling to himself for ten minutes straight, trying to read a book on his side. I lay there, listening to their snoring, wishing it was everything I’d hoped it would be. Escape. Reunion. Exodus. None of it had the charm I’d thought it would’ve. Sure, it felt good to get out of Zyger. Just being able to look at the twins, watch them sleep, was a wonder. And the vast openness of the world was at our feet. But what was it all, really? In escaping Zyger, I proved I deserved it. It didn’t matter that I returned to the twins, because even being away, being dead for all this time, had already broken my brother. Maybe my sister too. What was a beautiful, bountiful world, if I was running away from the birthplace of the dragons that would consume it all in fire and ice and acid?
After another twenty minutes the sounds coming up from the bar-area drew my attention.
A drink will calm my nerves.
I locked the door behind me and headed down the stairs, then turned left past Arch-Moustache at the desk, entering the drinking area, a long, thin room that wrapped around the bar in an ‘L’-shape. Almost everything in the place was black or painted black – shelves, tables, chairs, cushions. I smiled at the serving-boy behind the bar then glanced over his shoulder at the ale casks, trying to ignore his stare. By the looks of things, they served nothing but beer here – I didn’t recognise any of the brand-names, but when I realised half of them had some reference to ‘iron’, ‘tooth’ or ‘gates’ in their names I understood; they were all from local breweries in this particular tavern.
Interesting choice, Rath, I admitted.
Arch-Moustache entered behind me.
“Is there a problem?” he asked in his querulous voice. He seemed to be directing the question at me.
If he were bald, he would’ve reminded me of Zakimel.
“No, no problem.” I gestured at the barrels. “Just trying to decide what to have. Ah… a pint of your… Rustyrube, please.”
Seven copper seemed really steep, for a place as dingy as this, but I dutifully paid the price. While I cast about for somewhere to sit, Arch-Moustache went behind the bar, shooed the girl back into the kitchens, and stood with his hands on the smooth wooden surface, his eyes on me.
Half the chairs were occupied, and my presence disturbed the current patrons. A dozen heads bobbed about on their necks, craning to allow a better look at me.
“No airs and graces,” I said, sitting down. There was nowhere to sit that didn’t put me in their midst. “I’m just a bloke. Mund born and raised.” I took a swig of the beer, glancing around at the neutral gazes of the resident lunchtime drinkers. “Not a bad tipple,” I lied. It tasted like some of the black paint had got into it.
But that seemed to mollify them. A few grunted, then they went back to their conversations.
It might not have tasted great, but my head really seemed to enjoy the sensation, or lack thereof, brought about by the booze. I was back at the bar within fifteen minutes, getting a refill.
That clinched it. I wasn’t more than three long sips into the second when they started including me in their chatter.
“Yeah, from Mund,” I replied to their questions with a wistful sigh. “I didn’t realise till I started travelling just how much of the world is green.”
“Must be weird,” a big, long-bearded man said. “How many times you left the city, then?”
“First time.” I took another swig of the beer.
“And you been where, exactly?”
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I looked around pointedly then returned my gaze to his face, smiling.
“Two days’ hard ride, and you think you’ve seen how green the world is? Boy, you’re still in Mund! This is the ‘ancient domain’ of House Sentelemeth. You haven’t even got to the lands of its vassals.”
“Vassals,” someone snorted; I turned to regard the speaker, an older man with cracked white skin all over his face, eyes raw-looking, so red they almost glowed. “I wouldn’t call ’em vassals. That’s just what they’re called in the ‘istory books. It’s been a long time since any of that meant anything round ‘ere. Noble ‘ouses ain’t changed ‘ands much in ‘undreds of years. When was the last Mage Wars? When was the last battle, like in the stories?”
He was asking the room, but it might’ve been that he was expecting the magic-user to pipe up. “I’ve read a few books on the topic,” I said. “The Eleventh Mage War was in seven-seventy-one. That was before the Maginox was built, before the Arrealbord fell in with the Magisterium to such a degree. The Magisterium used to just be the magic guild of the city… then it became the magic guild of the Realm.”
“Centralisin’ power,” he said in a musing tone. I admired the depth of his intellect. “Well, seems like it worked, don’t it? No more war. No more backstabbin’s and betrayals. Not ‘ere. No more vassal nonsense.”
I smiled. “Well, I wouldn’t say that. War’s just on a smaller scale now. I don’t know where I’m going to end up, but I’ve had my fill of intrigue in Mund. I’m looking for someplace quiet to settle down.”
“Seriously? How old are you, fella? You don’t look a day past twenny-five.”
I laughed, trying to keep my voice in a low register. I’d been aiming for mid-twenties when I crafted the illusion. “When you’re a magician, time goes slow. A lot happens in a short time. Things don’t stay still for long. I just… I need a bit of peace.”
Somewhere I can kick back and relax. Somewhere I might actually be able to enjoy my powers…
Even as I thought it, I knew – I could never enjoy them. Not even if the champions or the heretics saved the world from the dragons and barely a peep escaped the Realm about the battle. Not even if everyone I knew back there lived through the ordeal, the ‘Crucible’ of which Everseer spoke.
I was leaving them with no experienced sorcerers. I was running. Fleeing.
Craven.
One of the outlanders spoke up. She was a tall, peachy-skinned Northman, red-maned and big-shouldered with a bulbous nose almost the same shade as her hair. “Where I come from, there ain’ herdly neh mages. Vassal goes wi’ thane, an’ means yer figh’ fer th’ man. Neh wi’ yer fancy magic, oh no, wi’ yer sword an’ shield – an’ if yer ain’ got one, yer axe, yer bow, yer bare hands if it come t’ it! An’ th’ thane, he’s a vassal t’ his own liege… When we go t’ war, we send an army o’ men, neh some gang o’ snotty teenagers wi’ wands up their sleeves.”
“Sounds exciting,” I said. To think, what a single archmage could do to such a conflict…
End it. Immediately. You could create peace with a few words and gestures.
The temptation, to commodify peace –
“Not that yeh’d neh be welcome.” She flicked her eyes over my robe. “We ain’ stupid. Be money in it, fer a man like yerself. Head north to the marshes, then foller th’ branch up into th’ hells, north-east through Daggerwood. When yer getten too deep in th’ bog jus’ head east till yer clear, then strike straigh’ north agen on th’ flat. When yer see the Din Dalor, the Mountains of the North – yer’ll know yer there. Make th’ Brittlespurs look like mole-hells.”
“I’ll… take it under advisement.” I took another few mouthfuls of beer, trying not to think of Emrelet.
“It’s not so green up there, mind,” the cracked-skin man said, “and they might as like whiz in their beer for all it’d affect the taste.”
That started something of an argument. I hid my smile behind the rim of my tankard (and behind a twenty-five-year-old’s visage, I supposed), glad to not be the focus of attention despite my unusual status.
Conversation moved on, and I took my time finishing the second beer, knowing that if I started a third I’d be running too much of a risk.
Can’t let my hair down. Not till after Blackice.
Someone asked me for my assistance clearing a family of trolls out of a cave on the edge of their territory. I suggested blocking up the cave and flooding it – the bogginess of the land around here made it sound reasonable in my head – but their denial didn’t come for logistical reasons: they were a hundred percent certain trolls couldn’t be drowned, only put into a form of stasis. That in particular made it hard to put Em out of my mind. Someone else was about to sign on for a dragon-bone excavation operation and invited me along – apparently there was a lot of money in digging up the cursed things as collector’s items since Vardae’s little announcement. Yet someone else knew of a bandit camp they’d be happy to ‘guide’ me to – apparently legally-speaking, bandits were fair game for someone like me to do over.
Swaying a little and doing my best to keep the illusion from slipping, I shook my head politely to their various offers and requests – probably thinking I was on a quest of grave importance, they let me be after a while. When I drained my tankard, I retired back up the stairs to my room, receiving a few nods of farewell from the patrons.
* * *