Hamilton Swoop, Wizard of Green Ridge (2 page)

"I don't know. Fifty royals sounds like a lot."

"Yes, but less yer ten royal fee, it would only be forty, but then,” Hamilton paused, “Ah prob'ly shouldn't sell it for so little. No. Ah'd be lose'n too much money. How ‘bout this one?” He indicated the second table.

"You're not getting out of it. Deal's a deal. You said forty and forty it'll be,” Strongback bellowed. He extracted forty royals from his purse.

Hamilton did his best to look miserable and sold the table he had paid ten royals for. He accepted the two twenty royal bills. As the two men left the store with the table, he could hear Pigeon asking Strongback, “Hey, what about me?” The bell tinkled, and they left.

Whiskers came down the stairs.
Whatcha got, Old Man?

"This is the lot I bought yesterday. Archie-the-Pick's stuff."

The cat jumped up on the top of the pile a sniffed at it.
Something smells strange.

"How so?"

Don't know. There's a scent I've never smelled before. Definitely not local
.

Hamilton often relied on Whiskers’ senses. While not as good as a hound, she could smell things out better than any human could. “Any particular place?"

Somewhere at the bottom of the pile, in the center. Maybe in one of those big boxes.

"Well, first things first."

Whiskers jumped down from the heap of furniture and leaped onto the counter, where she made herself comfortable. Hamilton set about moving the furniture to strategic places in the shop. He threw out several pieces that were in such bad shape, not even Hamilton could sell them. Several other items went into another pile that he thought he could repair or refurbish. Usually, refurbishing meant removing blood stains or at least covering them over. With all of the furniture out of the way, he was left with three large crates, each four feet on a side.

He got a pry bar from his tools in the back and popped the lid off the first box. It contained mostly old clothes and unimportant stuff from Archie's. At the bottom of the crate he found a small box that contained some jewelry, but none of it of good quality. Still, he was surprised that Floss hadn't taken it. He must have been running late and missed it.

The second box contained books, tools, and kitchen items. None very valuable, but almost all could be resold.

There was only one crate left and it looked considerably older that the other two. He tried the pry bar on the lid, but it wouldn't budge. This box was not sealed with nails, but with screws.

Hamilton, tired from his exertions, sat down on a newly arrived chair that smelled of old cigars. Whiskers jumped down from the counter and then up on top of the crate.
This is the one.
She sniffed the air again.
Something definitely strange in there.

While Whiskers stood on top of the crate, Hamilton took a deep breath, got up and fetched a screwdriver. He set to work on the first screw. It took a few moments and Hamilton swore under his breath before he was able to apply enough force to get the first screw turning. When removed Hamilton saw that it was a full nine inches long. The other seven screws holding the lid in place were no easier. With the screws out, the lid still refused to open but the pry bar succeeded. The crate lid came off and clattered to the floor as Whiskers leapt to a bench.

Under the overhead light, Hamilton peered down into the crate. The first thing he saw, something that looked like a sorcerer's cloak. Dark green, which seemed strange to Hamilton who had only seen such cloaks in purple and black. He lifted the cloak out of the crate and examined it in the light. Stitched in silver thread over the left breast were runic symbols such as he had never seen. Unlike the well-worn clothing from the other box, this piece appeared new.

Try it on
.

Hamilton held up the cloak. “I think not. I don't want to have anything to do with wizards or their stuff. They're a detestable lot. Half of them try and pass off stupid little tricks for magic, and the ones that can do it ... Well, I just don't trust them."

Come on, Old Man. Aren't you just a bit curious? Besides, it probably isn't a real wizard's cloak. I've never seen a wizard wear a green cloak, and I've seen a bunch of wizards in my time. Doesn't it look nice ... and warm?
Whiskers twined between Hamilton's legs.
Of course, if you're afraid...

Hamilton wasn't afraid. Fear hadn't gotten him through 60 years of life. Caution and wisdom had. Still, it really was a top-notch cloak, and there was no one around to see him. He carried the garment over to a large mirror in the rear of the store and put it on.

He had half expected something dramatic to happen. A crack of thunder? A flash of light? Even a change in Hamilton, himself? But nothing appeared to happen. In a small way, Hamilton was glad, as the thought of crotchety old wizards made him uncomfortable. “Like you said...” Hamilton looked down at the cat. “It's just a cloak."

He examined himself in the mirror, and a small smile crept across his face. He did look good in green. And the cloak imbued his vestige with power and mystery. He re-examined the runic symbols reflected in the mirror. Backward, they made even less sense. Still, he did look good. And it fit even better than the black one he wore over 40 years ago. He pushed that thought from his mind. As he started to remove the green cloak, the shop's lights flickered and went out again. With his back blocking the daylight attempting entry through the dirty glass window, he again caught his reflection in the mirror. The runic symbols on the cloak glowed with a pale green light. He shed the cloak. The symbols ceased to glow.

Whiskers had observed everything.
Guess I was wrong.

"Right!” he dropped the green cloak in a heap on a table. “So this is what smelled strange, huh?"

Whiskers jumped back up to the top edge of the crate. Balancing precariously, she stuck her head over the side and looked within. She sniffed the air.
It wasn't the cloak.

A few seconds later the lights flickered and the power came back on. Hamilton once more looked into the crate. An old blanket covered something large within. He pulled out the blanket, which revealed a rather old, but solid-looking trunk. Two iron bands reinforced its structure. The hairs on Hamilton's arm rose as he remembered the dark stranger.

Whiskers sniffed again,
Maybe you should just leave it where it is.

"I thought cats were supposed to be curious."

Curious, yes. Stupid, no. That box is older than anything I've ever smelled. Much older. It doesn't smell evil, but there's something ... something.

"You're a big help. So now you can smell age, huh? Maybe I should just leave it sealed and sell it to that stranger. This thing is probably what he searched for."

Whiskers jumped down from the crate and swished her tail.
Do as you will, but I wouldn't sell anything to that man who left before the deliverers showed up. The smell about him wasn't strange. His smell is quite common in Green Ridge. It's the smell of death.

For the next hour, Hamilton arranged Archibald's furniture around the shop, all the while thinking about the trunk. Archie-the-Pick was known to have participated in some shady doings—no crime major enough that the police had bothered with, but it just added to the mystery of the trunk.

Two customers, locals, came and went. Each left with a purchase.

Whiskers watched from a cushion in the corner of the room.
Well, are you going to open it or do I go back to sleep?

The trunk beckoned, and Hamilton had run out of excuses to leave it be. “Yes.” He reached into the crate, grabbed the trunk by the leather handles on either end, and then almost threw out his back as he tried to lift it. After managing to lift it only an inch, he dropped it.

Getting old? Not as strong as you used to be?

Hamilton scowled. “Thanks for the support, cat. Maybe you'd like to sleep outside tonight."

Aw. You know I was kidding. What's the problem?

"This thing is heavy.” Hamilton retrieved his screwdriver from the floor. Within a few minutes, he had removed the screws from the top of one side of the crate. He took a deep breath and pulled the loose side down, bending the two screws in the base. Finally, one side of the trunk was exposed. Hamilton managed to drag it out of the crate's remains.

"Well, here goes.” He tried the latch on the trunk. Locked. He got out his set of picks and worked on the lock for ten minutes. “Why should this be easy?” Hamilton mumbled to himself. He put away the picks and got his pry bar from where he had dropped it. Then he sat down and examined the trunk. It was two feet wide, three feet long, and about two and a half feet deep. The lid was rounded. It was constructed from some dark wood, and two heavy wrought-iron bands reinforced its body. He looked at the plate surrounding the keyhole and saw runic symbols similar to the ones on the cloak.

Whiskers came over for a closer look.
Well, if you're going to open it, do it.
She moved closer to the crate and sniffed at it, then backed off as if she had smelled something unpleasant.

"Well, cat, any revelations?"

I think you should put this thing back in the crate and sink it in the Oscan Swamp.
She strolled back to her cushion, made a small show of curling up and the lay down with her back to Hamilton.

"So much for the ‘do it', huh?"

The cat remained silent.

"What do you know, anyway?” Hamilton took another deep breath and then, with the pry bar, tried to get a purchase between the trunk's lid and its base. The space was so small that that the bar kept slipping. Frustrated, he put the bar down and got out a hammer and a chisel. Even the chisel, whose edge was far from new, skittered from the tiny indentation between the lid and the base.

You don't really want to open it, do you?

"I wasn't sure when I started, but now I'm vexed.” Hamilton tapped on the plate around the keyhole and asked, “What do you make of these?” He pointed to the runic symbols.

At what?
The cat got up, returned to where Hamilton crouched by the trunk and looked at the plate.
Haven't a clue, but then you never taught me to read, did you? Are they the same ones as on the cloak?

"I don't know. Let's see.” Hamilton got up and fetched the cloak. He dropped the cloak on the concrete floor and heard a distinct “clink” when it hit the floor. Hamilton looked at the cat.

The cat looked back at Hamilton and then both stared at the cloak.

He picked it up and ran his fingers through its lining. Near the bottom, he found a tiny pocket. In the pocket, he found a small strangely shaped iron key.

Whiskers looked at the key and then at Hamilton.
Last chance to give it up, Old Man.

Hamilton was of two minds, but curiosity won out. He couldn't see wasting the effort he had expended. He put the key in the lock and turned it. As the key rotated, he heard three separate clicks. The lid popped up a quarter of an inch from the base.

He lifted the lid and looked within and then immediately backed from the trunk. The smell that wafted out of the box was old and yet somewhat familiar.

Well, what's in it?
asked Whiskers sniffing the air.

"It's a corpse."

I can tell that from here. Funny that I couldn't smell it before. Whose is it? The locksmith's?

Hamilton moved back to the trunk and looked again. “No. This body's been dead a lot longer than four weeks, and, judging from appearances, it was dead a long time before it was put in the trunk. It's mummified.” He saw that the folded body was clothed in a dark purple cloak. The face was turned away from the light.

The sight of death, for anyone living in Green Ridge, was neither revolting nor even unusual, but there was something about this corpse that bothered Hamilton. He turned the mummy to face him. Long white hair obscured the face. He brushed it aside and then dropped the corpse like it was made of magma.

"Obsidian!” His pulse shot up and he stumbled away from the trunk.

What?

"No. Who.” Hamilton took a deep breath in an attempt to regain control of his emotions.

Who's Obsidian?

Hamilton dragged himself back to the trunk. His voice sounding like a frightened child's, he stuttered, “M-Master Obsidian. He was a wizard."

You knew him?

"Far too well. When I was ten years old, my father apprenticed me to him. Obsidian was the most mean-spirited, self-centered man I have ever known. I studied magic and worked as his servant eighteen hours a day. I can still hear his words, ‘You're a natural, boy. When are you going to show it? An idiot could learn this spell. You're lazy. Why can't you apply yourself? You need some encouragement.’ Then he would hit me over and over. Nothing I ever did was good enough for that old bastard. I was sixteen and at the healer's recovering from one of his encouragements when a water wagon ran him down in the street. They said it was an accident, but I always believed that it was divine retribution. For years afterwards, I fantasized about driving that wagon and seeing him being crushed under the wheels. It brought me a modicum of solace, but nothing could make up for those six years."

Sounds a bit sick to me.

Hamilton looked over at the cat. “Maybe you're right, but you didn't know him. I'm not a violent man and generally not prone to strong emotions, but I hated that man more than I have hated anyone in my entire life."

So what happened to you after he died?

"The old bastard left me nothing, so I went back to my father. I hoped he would take me back. He refused. He said that I was old enough to make it on my own. Gave me 20 royals and told me to get out.

I bought a horse with the money and intended to get as far away from Green Ridge as possible, but then I lost my nerve. I sold the horse a week later for 30 royals. Been buying and selling ever since."

Whiskers looked about the room.
And this is where it all led to? A dirty little shop in Green Ridge? You should have stuck with wizardry.

"You
do
want to live outside, don't you?"