The Wilder (The Trouble with Magic Book 1) (24 page)

The small amount of currency initially provided by the Embassy when he first arrived in Naboria, hadn’t bought Ghian very much apart from a few basic essentials. Some successful evenings at the gaming tables had provided the rest. He had paid off the couple of loans he had managed to wheedle and was now carefully packing the few things he wanted to keep. He would miss the parties, the invitations and the outings, but he felt it was all beginning to turn rather sour. Now the opportunity was within his grasp, he was eager to get away.

Night had fallen swiftly, and a tendril of chilled air insinuated itself through the open window, pushing aside the oppressive heat of the day. Reaching across the wide windowsill, Ghian pulled the lattice towards him, and fastened it. Although it held no glass, its open mesh still served to keep out the worst of the chill, and also any of the huge moths and winged beetles which would otherwise be drawn inexorably to the light of his lamp.

He had just bent once more to his packing, when a faint sound from the floor below reached his ears. Standing on one leg, he reached down and drew off one soft leather boot. Quietly changing feet, he drew off the other. Barefoot, he padded across the room and pressed his ear against the door. All was quiet. Slowly lifting the iron finger-latch, he eased the door open, praying fervently that it wouldn’t creak. His prayer was answered.

The door swung back, and he peered down the stairs. Shining through the downstairs lattice, moonlight painted a chequerboard pattern on the floor below the window. A cold frisson went through to his bones as a larger shadow briefly fell across the pattern. Then came a knock on the door.

He pulled the door of his room closed, shutting away the light of the lamp, and crept halfway down the stairs. One of the wooden treads gave an air-shattering groan, and he cursed inwardly. Whoever was outside knocked again, this time more persistently. Ghian stared at the door, as if in some way he might be able to see through it. Finally he made his way, one slow step at a time, to the bottom of the stairs. He crossed the room, stopping a couple of paces from the door, and stood still. Fists clenched against his thighs, he held quiet and unmoving for a few moments, hearing nothing. Deciding that whoever it was had gone away, he turned back towards the stairs. The knocking came again, as persistent as before and louder.

Winding up his courage into a tight knot, Ghian called out. “Who is it?”

His query was answered by a soft thud and a shuffling scraping noise. A harsh, heavily accented voice replied. “I bring message.”

Ghian stepped towards the door, and reached out. His hand trembling, he slid back the bolt. Freed of its restraint, the door swung inwards for a few inches and a bright shaft of moonlight swept across the dark floor. Grasping the edge of the door, he pulled it further open and cautiously looked out. His gaze fell on the rough-set cobbles of an empty moonlit street. No longer feeling threatened, he stepped forward onto the shallow stone doorstep, and looked left and right. The windows of a few of the nearby houses were bright with lamplight. Further up the street, a scrawny dog scampered into one of the many side alleys. Apart from that, all was quiet and he could see no signs of life. He looked up and down once more, then with a shrug of his shoulders, turned to go back inside. That was when he saw it. A small pale irregular rectangle stuck to the middle of the door, catching the moonlight.

Reaching out, Ghian grasped the object with his thumb and forefinger and gingerly pulled. Soft and pliable, the rectangle came away from the door as something fell with a soft squelching thud onto the doorstep. Bending down to investigate, Ghian felt his lip curl in disgust as a familiar odour struck his nostrils. The message had been fixed to the door’s rough surface with a dark dollop of fresh horse manure. Unsure whether to be outraged or amused by the messenger’s ingenuity, Ghian carefully stepped over the offending lump. After closing the door firmly behind him he went back upstairs, holding the malodorous message at arm’s length.

His eyes once more accustomed to the brightness of his lamplit room, he began to look more closely at the scrap of stuff in his hand. There was no manure adhering to the back of it, merely a small brown stain. Its texture between his fingers told him he was holding a thin piece of some kind of cured skin. Supple for the most part, it was turning slightly brittle at the edges. He held it closer to the light. His whole body tensed, his mouth and throat suddenly feeling uncomfortably dry. Burned into the yellowing piece of skin was a symbol he immediately recognised. That same symbol was burned indelibly into the palm of his hand. Eyes wide with horror he threw the thing down onto the floor, staggered across to his wash-stand, and vomited violently into the bowl. The piece of skin was human.

His heaving and dry retching finished, he threw himself onto his bed and lay with his arm over his face, waiting for his stomach to settle and his heart to stop pounding. His rest was short-lived. For the second time in as many days, he was forced into action by the smell of his own vomit. He scrambled to his feet, threw a cloth over the bowl, then stumbled blindly down the stairs to empty its noxious contents into the privy.

Leaving the bowl in the tiny, stuffy enclosed yard, he returned to the ground floor room. With what amounted almost to a death wish, he shot back the bolt and threw the front door wide open. Sucking in great gasps of the near freezing night air, he shivered thankfully, as his sweaty skin cooled and his head cleared. The lump of manure still lay where it had fallen. Realising he was still bare-footed, Ghian decided in a sudden fit of pique to leave it where it was. The sting of the cold air was helping him to think more clearly. He realised the foul message was a reminder and a warning, and he was no doubt being watched. He knew now, with dreadful certainty, that the appointment forced upon him was going to be impossible to avoid.

Resigning himself to the inevitable, he closed the door and crossed to the far corner of the room, where he lifted the edge of a large, fringed wall-hanging. With his fingertips he felt along the mud brick wall beneath it. Finding what he was searching for, he pulled out the loose brick and from the small cavity behind it, removed a cork-stoppered earthenware bottle. He tucked it into the front of his waistband, replaced the brick, and made his way upstairs. He was determined that, if flight was not an option, then at least he could have some last moments of illicit pleasure before what he was certain would be an ordeal began. Sitting on the edge of his bed, he took a long swig from the bottle, savouring the moment as the fiery liquid coursed down his throat and spread its warm soothing fingers into his chest. Lying back, he consoled himself with the thought that whatever was ahead might not take too long. He could still be back in time to sail on the evening tide.

* * *

Still fully clothed, he woke to the smoky stench of the almost empty oil lamp. The bleak light of false dawn cast the window lattice in dark silhouette. Rubbing sleep from his eyes, he shuffled over to the washstand, his shadow looming and lurching on the wall as the lamp flared and guttered. The glaring absence of the bowl brought a sharp reminder of the night’s events. An attempt to reach his ship foremost in his mind, he stood with his hands over his face. Something deep inside told him his chances were anywhere from slim to non-existent. Dismissing the thought, he grudgingly accepted the inevitability of his situation and set about the routine tasks which were the beginning of his day.

Regretting having left the bowl in the yard, he leaned over the water jug and splashed the night-chilled water onto his face and arms, washing with the strong soap purchased for an extortionate price in a local bazaar. By the time he had finished his ablutions, found some clean clothes and dressed, the false dawn had given way to the deep pre-dawn darkness. With a brief flutter of trepidation he pulled on his boots. It was a good two miles to the place where the desert man had said they should meet. If he was to get there on foot by sunrise it was time to leave. The walk would not be easy, and he wasn’t even sure of the way, but at least he knew which direction to head in.

He reached up to a shelf and took down a tooled leather scabbard, holding a broad-bladed but sharp, ivory-hilted knife. Slipping it onto his belt, he silently congratulated himself for accepting it in part payment of a gambling debt. With a last brief glance around the room, he turned out the heavily smoking lamp, shrugged into his woollen jacket and headed off out into the cold and still dark street.

* * *

The rising sun had just cleared the peaks of the distant mountains, its heat, even at this early hour, creating water mirages which shimmered above the parched ground. Already there, Miqhal crouched one foot in front of the other, his back to the sun, as Ghian approached from behind him. Beside the Jadhra warrior two horses patiently stood, tails swishing at the tiny biting flies already rising in small, furiously humming clouds from the sandy arid soil.

Ghian hesitated, his heart in his mouth. Deep down he had been hoping Miqhal would not turn up. Then he could leave again as fast as possible, his conscience clear. He almost heard his hopes shatter into tiny shards around him as Miqhal rose fluidly to his feet and turned around.

Deep-set basalt-black eyes flashed from beneath narrow slanting eyebrows . “I smell your fear, Telorian. It is not necessary. Everything you have ever desired will soon be within your grasp. All that is required is the courage to learn how to take it.”

Ghian felt his shattered hope beginning to repair itself. He moved up close to the hawk faced man. “Why? Why are you doing this?”

Glancing into Ghian’s eyes, Miqhal gave a short contemptuous bark of a laugh. “Like all of your race, you are full of questions.”

Straightening the fringed, thick woven blanket which served him as a saddle, Miqhal sprang effortlessly to horseback. Turning his mount, he manoeuvred a sidestep, effectively trapping the unsuspecting Ghian between the two animals.

The Jadhra looked down at him as if he had just crawled from under a stone. “As you do not have the skills of the Jadhrahin, we have provided you with one of the riding seats of which you are so fond. The mare is a gentle creature and suffers much indignity for your sake. As we expected, you have come ill-prepared. You will find all you need in the leather bags. Do not think to run away or turn back. Your horse has been trained to follow only mine, its mother. Now, we must begin our journey.”

With the lightest of touches, Miqhal turned his horse again. Covering his lower face with a loose fold of the black fabric which made up his head-dress, he headed out across the shimmering plain at a steady but rapid walk, leaving Ghian to get himself mounted up and follow in his dusty wake.

The Jadhra had covered a good half mile before Ghian managed to draw up beside him.”How far are we going?”

“Until the sun rises twice more.”

“What? I can’t be away that long! I have …I have business to attend to!”

His indignant outburst met with stony silence. Ghian reined in his horse and glared at the black-clad warrior’s straight back. His furious bellow turned to impotent specks in the rapidly heating morning air. “I refuse to go any further!”

The Jadhra rode on. Cold and emotionless his reply carried across the desert’s stillness. “Then you will die.”

In a fit of defiant bravado, Ghian yelled after him. “Damn you!”

The Jadhra rode on.

Kicking viciously at the sides of his mare, Ghian hauled on the reins in an attempt to turn back the way he had come. His sturdy mount was having none of it. She continued to walk forward, defying all Ghian’s desperate attempts to turn her.

The Jadhra rode on, an indistinct blue-black shape shimmering and distorted in the far distance. Releasing a string of vituperous curses, Ghian allowed the horse to keep walking while he pulled off his woollen jacket and draped it across the front of his saddle. Instantly, the heat of the sun seared through his linen shirt. The next hour he spent riding with the waterskin close to hand, taking long and frequent swigs in an attempt to keep himself cool.

There was no sign of Miqhal ahead of him, merely a few scuffed hoof prints in the shale-strewn sand. The horse plodded stolidly onward while rebellious thoughts began to fester in Ghian’s heating brain. He reined in and dismounted. Muttering to himself, he unfastened the straps of the saddlebags and rummaged through them. His search produced a long length of finely woven fabric the colour of sand, which he hastily wound around his head and shoulders in an ill-fashioned head-dress.

From the pommel of his saddle hung another waterskin fashioned from some kind of animal’s hide. He snatched it up, slinging the narrow leather strap over his shoulder. His anger rising with his temperature he turned on his heel and began to stamp back along the trail of hoof prints, leaving his horse standing patiently under the merciless desert sun. The Jadhra rode on.

After about ten minutes Ghian felt a sudden flush of panic. The hoof prints he had been following had disappeared. Raising his eyes, all he could see ahead of him was a featureless horizon which trembled in the intensifying heat. He stopped and turned to look behind him. His horse was out of sight, and Miqhal was nowhere to be seen.

“Damn you!” His hoarse shout of defiance faded to insignificance in the dry vastness. He unstoppered the waterskin and drank deeply, then wiped some of the water over his dusty face. It dried instantly, making his skin feel taut and itchy. Replacing the stopper, he glanced towards the incandescent disc of the sun. Confident he had judged his direction correctly, he began to stride forward once more. Another ten minutes and his confidence had begun to flag. The scene before him remained featureless and unchanging. He stopped again to look about him.