The Wilder (The Trouble with Magic Book 1) (23 page)

The desert warrior turned his horse to face the sun setting behind them, painting the cloudless sky with vivid shades of vermilion, purple and gold. “I will leave you now. Remember what I have said. You must return here at sunrise on the third day.”

Somewhat recovered, Ghian leaned forward and thrust a pugnacious chin at Miqhal’s black-swathed face. “And if I don’t?”

The obsidian eyes went flat. As he kicked his mount into a canter, the Jadhrahin warrior called back over his shoulder. “Then we will kill you.”

Ghian watched until the lean dark rider had disappeared into the purples and gold-shot blacks of the distant shadows. His hand was stinging and burning, he still felt a little nauseous and he wanted nothing more than to put the dried out open spaces behind him, and wash away the dust and filth in a hot tub. Shrugging his shoulders, he nudged his mount into a trot. His loaned horse knew its own way back through the winding streets of the city to the stable. As the sturdy animal picked its way through the darkening streets, Ghian slumped in the saddle, feeling suddenly drained and defeated. His dismount at the stables was graceless and ungainly, and he stood leaning heavily against his horse’s flank.

A small, wiry dark-skinned boy of about twelve years old, dressed in grubby livery, ran out to take the reins ready to lead the animal into the torchlit stable yard. “Are you unwell, master?”

Ghian’s murky brain registered the look of genuine concern on the child’s face.

He reached down to place his hand on the tightly crinkled hair, and gave a chuckle. “No, boy. Too little water and too much sun.” he lied.

A broad, white-toothed grin bisected the boy’s face as he gave a vigorous nod. “I will take you to my grandfather. He has herbs and potions, knows many spells. Make you feel very good.”

Ghian was about to refuse out of hand, but there was something about the boy’s wide eyed sincerity which made him swallow his words. He could do with feeling very good just about now. He nodded his head in reply, the action sending a sharp stabbing pain shooting through his forehead, into his eyes and down to the bridge of his nose. He winced, squeezing his nose between forefinger and thumb, before following the still grinning boy who was leading the horse across the yard. Handing it over to an older boy, he whispered something in his ear before turning and beckoning Ghian to follow him back out into the darkened dusty street. There were a couple of uneasy moments for him as the boy scuttled ahead to disappear into the deep shadows of numerous side streets and noisome back alleys.

More than once he was forced to stop and wait for the return of his juvenile guide. “Must stay close master. Many bad people when it is dark.”

Scowling, Ghian loomed over the boy. “Is it much further, or are you leading me on a wild goose chase?”

The boy reached up to grasp the hem of Ghian’s sweat-stiffened linen tunic, the puzzled frown on his dark face barely discernible in the gloom. “Sorry master. I do not understand your saying. We are nearly there. All will soon be all right.”

Leaving the houses and larger buildings behind, his diminutive guide led him through a narrow winding alley, bounded on both sides by small mud-brick box-like structures, lights flickering dimly through small irregular openings which Ghian vaguely assumed were serving as windows. By now his patience was beginning to wear a bit thin. He wanted to grab the boy by his grubby collar and give him a good shaking for wasting his valuable time. Just then, the alley angled sharply to the right. A few paces further on it abruptly opened out into a small clearing bounded on three sides by thick shrubs and tall trees, their dark looming crowns silhouetted against the deep blue of the night sky.

The pale light of a newly risen full moon filled the clearing, illuminating white tree-trunks and the palm-thatched roof of a large roundhouse. The boy scampered towards it. With one quick glance to ensure that Ghian was still with him, the boy pulled aside a brightly coloured blanket serving as a door and ducked inside.

Dropping cross-legged to the beaten earth floor, he looked up at the lined and weathered face of an elderly man, his head crowned with a shock of white and crinkled hair. “Grandfather, I bring a pale man. He is not well. I said you would help him.” Edging closer to the old man, the boy lowered his voice. “Maybe he is the one you are waiting for. He is very tall and pale.”

The old man shifted on his bamboo log chair. Squinting down at his enthusiastic grandson, he puffed on a clay pipe, sending clouds of aromatic blue smoke wreathing up into the roof space. “You listen to too many stories Biki. The hope has almost died in me, and I am weary of this waiting. Bring in your lame dog and I will give him fresh water and a potion. If he is as pale as you say, then he is a stranger, not knowing the ways of this land. He has probably been too long without sustenance.”

Biki jumped to his feet, hurried to the doorway and poked his head round the blanket. Ghian was leaning wearily on a carved post which stood in the centre of the end of the alley. He pushed himself upright with a groan as the boy beckoned him towards the roundhouse.

His booted feet scuffing up little storms of dry heavy dust, he crossed the clearing and stopped by the doorway. “It took you long enough. I hope this’ll be worth it. I don’t think I’ve enough strength left to go back without a rest or something.”

Teeth and eyes shone in the moonlight as Biki pulled aside the blanket. The doorway was so low that Ghian had to either stoop over or bend his knees to enter. He chose the latter, and in an ungainly shuffle made his way into the dimly lit, close atmosphere of the native house. The naked flames of a pair of primitive oil lamps made shadows dance and jump on the reed thatched walls. Ghian squinted, trying to peer through the smoky gloom into the interior. Having satisfied himself they were alone, he looked around for somewhere to sit. Seeing no other seating apart from the old man’s bamboo chair, he flopped wearily down on a moth-eaten animal skin and looked sidelong at his wizened white-haired host.

His words came out in a dry husky croak. “Your boy says you can give me some kind of potion that will make me feel better.”

The old man said nothing. He reached out and took hold of one of the carved stone lamps. Holding it up in the air, he studied Ghian’s face.

Slowly he moved the lamp up and down and side to side, the better to get a good look at him. “I see great weariness. You are drained. Please, hold out your hands.”

Ghian flinched away, and thrust his hands under his armpits. “Not bloody likely. The last time I did that I…”

The old man’s mouth twitched in a half smile. “You need have no fear. I merely wish to look.”

Ghian thought about this for a moment, then held out his hands. The old man placed the lamp on the beaten earth floor beside him. Gently grasping Ghian’s wrists, he turned them palms upwards, studying them for a few moments.

Releasing one hand, he carefully stroked his middle finger over the angry looking raised mark in the centre of the other. “Why did you take the stone in your left hand?”

Ghian’s fury boiled to the surface. “I’m left-handed. What the blazes? How do you know what happened? You sent that black-eyed desert fox to inflict this on me, didn’t you?”

He snatched his hand away and lurched forward, arms outstretched, intending to put a stranglehold on the old man. Instead he let out a loud yelp of pain. His hands struck against a hard unyielding surface and he was knocked backwards to fall heavily on the beaten-earth floor.

He struggled unsteadily to his feet, and stared down at the old man, still sitting un-moving, in his bamboo chair. “What did you do? What’s going on? Tell me the truth you old bastard or I’ll split your gizzard and feed you to the vultures.”

He lunged forward again, anger and frustration seething inside him. Again he was repelled by some unseen force which sent him flying about ten feet backwards, leaving him sprawled in an ungainly heap against the wooden doorpost. Gasping for breath, he scrabbled about until he managed to get to his knees. Knuckles to the floor, he knelt, trying to clear the nausea and vertigo which threatened to topple him yet again.

When he finally looked up, the old man gave him a snaggle-toothed grin. “Why fight that which is your destiny? You have been given the mark. Now follow the course that has been set for you. To refuse is to die, and that would be such a waste. After all, would you throw away the chance to do such things as I have just done to you?”

Slumped against the doorpost, Ghian drew up his knees and dropped his head into his hands. The old man stood up from his chair and on skinny bowed legs hobbled over to a small wooden table. From an earthenware pitcher he half filled a horn beaker with a murky brown liquid. Holding it carefully in both hands, he made his way to where Ghian was huddled on the floor.

Crouching beside him, the old man took his now unresisting fingers and wrapped them around the beaker. “This is what you came for. Drink it slowly. It will restore you.”

Peering into the beaker, Ghian sniffed the contents and screwed up his face. “I can’t drink that. It smells bloody awful.”

The old man gave a mirthless cackle, and went back to sit in his bamboo chair. “Have no fear. It will not poison you. Some of the herbs used in its making have a rather unpleasant aroma. It tastes better than it smells.”

Ghian took a tentative sip, holding the liquid in his mouth for a few seconds before finally swallowing. He waited, his eyes fixed on the old man. A smile began to curl the corners of his mouth. Giving a satisfied nod he tipped the beaker, taking a good swig and letting the dark liquid trickle down his throat.

Eyes closed he leaned back against the doorpost. “That
is
good. I feel better already.”

The old man watched him for a while, then chuckled as Ghian’s fingers relaxed and the beaker slipped from his grasp. With nimble steps, in complete contrast to his earlier hobbling gait, the old man fetched a brightly coloured woven blanket from the rear of the hut, and draped it over Ghian’s slumbering body. From a small decorated flask, he tipped a splash of a dark yellow liquid onto the palm of Ghian’s hand, massaging it gently into the blistered white skin. Sitting back on his heels, he watched with satisfaction as the water-filled blisters dried up and the seared mark gradually shrank into place. After a few moments there remained only a clean but definite outline of a strange symbol, covering Ghian’s palm from the base of his fingers to the fold of his thumb. After returning the flask of liquid to its place, the old man carefully washed his hands, then placed his fingers between his lips and gave a short shrill whistle. Seconds later Ghian’s escort and guide pulled aside the door blanket and peered in.

The old man nodded. “He is the one. Our task is done.”

With a wide grin, the boy turned and ran off into the night.

He swam with slow measured strokes, up through the darkness of his unconsciousness. His brain registered light on his eyelids and coaxed them open. He felt comfortable and rested. Turning his head towards the source of the light, he was surprised but gratified to discover he was lying on his own bed, in the town house where he had been accommodated for the past weeks. Familiar sounds and aromas of everyday activity drifted up to him from the street, one floor below. He lay still, relishing the comparative peace and comfort, until he realised with a start, that not only was he totally naked, he was also unable to remember how he had managed to get here. Propping himself up on his elbows, he craned his neck in an attempt to see over the windowsill, but his view was obscured by a row of bright red flowers blooming in pots on the wide ledge outside. He swung his feet over the edge of the bed, then stood up and looked around him. There was no sign of the clothes he had worn to the hunt, but a long robe of plain ecru linen was draped over the stool beside the open window. Beneath the stool he noticed a pair of soft sandals, on top of which was coiled a thick black cord of twisted silk. Rubbing his chin and feeling the rasp of stubble against his hand, he winced as his emerging whiskers elicited a stinging response from his palm. In an effort to recall what had happened to him, he stared at the strange symbol burnt into his skin, and frowned at the yellow colouring which covered it. The sight brought memories of the previous day’s events flooding back, but only as far as him reaching the stable-yard. After that, try as he might, he still found it impossible to recall anything. Only the desert man’s last words to him echoed in his mind. Suddenly his stomach lurched as he realised he didn’t know exactly how long he had been asleep, and this might not be the day he thought it was. In some haste, he threw the clean robe over his head.

As he tied the cord loosely around his waist, he could hear Miqhal’s calm indifferent voice saying over and over, “Then we will kill you.”

A cold, fear-induced perspiration breaking out on his unshaven face, he slipped his feet into the simple sandals, threw open the wooden door, and hurried down to the ground floor. He dashed through a small side door, and ducked into the tiny privy tucked away in a corner of the rear yard. As he was relieving himself he heard someone calling his name.

Checking to ensure he hadn’t sprinkled his new robe, he strode across the yard and back into the house. A face peered through the latticework which served as a window.

“Well, there you are!” exclaimed the face. “I was beginning to think you were going to sleep for ever!”

Ghian slid back the single bolt which served as a fastener, opened the door wide, and peered round the door-jamb at his visitor.

He grinned. “Well, you’re a sight for sore eyes and no mistake. I was beginning to think you’d abandoned me. Have you got any news?”

The Telorian ambassador frowned with irritation, and dabbed at his pudgy face with a large white kerchief. “Never mind news! I came to see if you were all right, but you don’t seem to have come to any harm.”

The grin fell off Ghian’s face, and he frowned back at his visitor. “What the blazes are you talking about?”

After looking about him, the dumpy overdressed ambassador dabbed furiously at his face once more and pushed his way past Ghian into the cool interior of the house. He flopped down onto a small, cushioned divan.

His tone was petulant as he flapped the kerchief in front of his round shining face. “I was roused from my bed in the early hours of yesterday morning by an officer of the Imperial Guard, who informed me that you had been found lying in the street. I then had to wake some of my household staff to gather you up and bring you back here. We assumed you had been attacked and robbed. Were you?”

Ghian’s mind raced in an effort to find an explanation that the stuffy little ambassador would accept without throwing an apopleptic fit. “How the blazes should I know? I can’t remember a damned thing except going out with that hunting party. What day is it?”

The ambassador narrowed his eyes, so they almost disappeared into his plump red cheeks. “The hunt was two days ago. Do you really expect me to believe that you’ve been sleeping since then?”

Ghian whirled round, his face a mask of fury. “I don’t care what you believe. I want to know what happened to me that night, and it’s your job to find out. Get around a bit. Ask some questions. The exercise will do you good.”

The ambassador’s pained expression struck a chord with Ghian. A coalition of frustration and fear ran roughshod through his veins as he combed long fingers through his dark hair. As if regretting his outburst, he threw his arms out to his sides. “I’m sorry. It’s just that finding out you’ve lost nearly two days and can’t remember why… well, wouldn’t you get mad?”

“I probably would, but fortunately I’ve never been in that position, so I can only imagine. Anyway, I suggest you put it behind you. It’s of little consequence in the light of what I have to tell you.”

With some effort, the portly little man pushed himself to his feet and stood looking up into Ghian’s pale and stubbled face. As if imparting some great secret, the ambassador tapped the side of his bulbous nose and gave a little smirk, his pale blue eyes glinting. “Your ship sails on the evening tide tomorrow. Now, isn’t that just what you’ve been waiting to hear?”

Releasing a great sigh of relief, Ghian grinned. Clapping the ambassador on the shoulder, he looked upwards, as if he could see through the ceiling to whatever gods were obviously smiling on him. Fervently and silently, he thanked them for this unexpected reprieve, and the ambassador’s apparent acceptance of his little act. Now he wouldn’t have to run the risk of being killed by some strange desert man when he failed to turn up at the meeting place tomorrow morning. He could board the ship, tuck himself away below decks for the day, and be gone on the evening tide. Feeling already easier in his mind, he suddenly discovered he was the possessor of a ravenous appetite.

He threw his long arm around the obviously much surprised and relieved ambassador. “You don’t know just how good that makes me feel. Will you join me for breakfast? There’s a little place not far from here that I go to quite often.”

The ambassador raised his narrow eyebrows and chuckled. “Breakfast! My dear fellow, it’s nearly past lunchtime! Can’t you tell by the sun? Anyway, if you would be so good as to accompany me to the Embassy, we can have a civilised lunch there. I will then provide you with the necessary papers for your voyage home.”

Ghian tugged at the front of his robe, and flicked the tassels of the cord around his waist. “Give me a few minutes to get changed then. I’m damned if I’m going to be seen at the embassy, dressed like a native. Where did this thing come from anyway? Did you bring it in?”

Looking somewhat offended, the stuffy little ambassador mopped at his face again. “Indeed, I did not. You were brought here wrapped in some garish blanket, in which, by the way, you were found. No, the woman who owns this house provided you with those things you have on. Now, will you please hurry. I have other business to attend to after we have eaten.”

Ghian frowned, and was about to open his mouth to ask another question. Noticing the expression on the ambassador’s face, he thought better of it and bounded up the stairs to his sleeping quarters and some fresh clothes. He considered having a quick shave, but there was only cold water and he didn’t relish the prospect, so he dressed quickly and combed his hair. After studying his reflection in the polished metal disc which served as a mirror, he decided he rather liked the raffish look which three days worth of dark stubble gave him.

Back to his old self, he grinned into the mirror, then hurried back down to join the ambassador, already waiting impatiently out in the street. “Are we walking?”

The perspiring ambassador looked at him as if he had made an improper suggestion. “Indeed we are not. I have a carriage waiting in your side alley. Walking indeed!”

He strode off, his short chubby legs carrying him at a surprisingly brisk pace, and disappeared round the corner into the shade of the alley. Ghian ambled along behind him, trying desperately not to laugh.