The Wilder (The Trouble with Magic Book 1) (6 page)

Once among the streets of neat terraced houses which overlooked the docks, Karryl slowed his pace to a walk. No longer recognisable as a street-boy, his passing went unremarked as he headed for Great Market. A sprawling permanent encampment at the foot of Broad Street, the market guarded both sides of the wide thoroughfare which led up the long hill towards the palace, and on out of the city. His keen eyes missing nothing, Karryl stood in the shadow of a large striped awning and watched. Everything was there, spread out beneath a veritable ocean of gaily striped canvas. From one end of the market to the other, his eyes fell on brightly coloured and beautifully woven fabrics from all over the world. Jewellery and trinkets, glassware, leather goods, metalware and pottery were all displayed to catch the eye.

His ears were assailed by a discordant chorus of bleating, mooing and cackling while his nostrils were tickled by the sweet, heady aromas of spices, perfumes, and exotic fruits and vegetables. Interspersed with the miasma of the livestock market, aromatic emanations from the stalls of the hot food vendors filled the cool autumn air. Karryl had only been standing there a few minutes when a shuffle and a snigger from behind put him on his guard. Slowly, he looked over his shoulder.

He knew only too well the narrowed eyes and full lipped mouth that twisted at him in a sneer. “Well, look who’s ‘ere, all dressed up and tidy.”

The rest of the gang edged forward, a ragged crew of a dozen or so slightly grubby boys, the youngest about eight, the eldest a swarthy youth of about eighteen. The youth leaned closer towards Karryl.

Muscles and nerves poised for a quick getaway, Karryl smiled and nodded. “Big Tyke. I was hoping to find you.”

The answering grin held no warmth. “Yeah. We ‘eard you was prowlin’ the old camp. Well, Grub, now we’ve found yer, so you can clear off. You ain’t one of us no more.”

Hurt to the core but determined not to let it show, Karryl shrugged. “No matter. I just wanted to find out if Legs was alright.”

The rest of the gang looked at each other askance before lowering their eyes. Tyke’s expression tightened. “‘E’s dead. Snuffed it with blood comin’ out ‘is nose and ears. Cryin’ for you, ‘e was.”

Karryl choked back a sob, and swallowed hard. “Did you…did you…?

Shoulders hunched, Tyke glanced behind him then back at Karryl. “We pitched ‘is corpse in the river, a half-month or more gone. ‘E was never the same after that do o’ your’n at the market.”

A sensation he’d felt only too recently began to surge through Karryl’s body. Heart pounding, fists and teeth clenched, he fought for control. A red haze flickered behind eyes stinging with the heat of unshed tears.

Tightening stomach muscles against the urge to vomit, he dropped his gaze, his voice a strained hoarse whisper. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

A silent and uncomfortable pause followed, broken by a firm grip on his shoulder making him wince.

He heard Tyke release a deep regretful sigh. “Reckon you didn’t. We all took it bad.”

An inappropriate and misplaced feeling of elation briefly overcame Karryl as the threatened surge of wild magic failed to manifest itself. He forced a weak smile as Tyke’s hand remained on shoulder.

The older boy kept his voice low. “We ‘eard you’d fell on yer feet.” His quick grin took a wry twist. “It’s about time one of us ‘ad some luck. Now, like I said, clear off. We got work to do.”

With a jerk of his head Tyke started his little gang moving. Slowly he slid his hand away from Karryl’s shoulder and started to follow after them, turning as he reached the far end of the long market stall.

He raised a cocked thumb in brief salute. “See ya.”

Then he and the gang of street-boys were gone, leaving Karryl standing alone. A chapter of his life discarded in a few short minutes, he stumbled to a nearby packing case. Dropping heavily onto it, and not giving a tinker’s cuss who saw him, he covered his face with his hands and cried bitter tears.

* * *

When he could cry no more, he took a few deep breaths and sat gazing into the middle distance, elbows on knees, as he gave his thoughts free rein. Persistently intruding, eventually to the exclusion of all else, was the realisation that he had been able to overcome the wilder magic which had once again threatened to engulf him. The spark of elation which had earlier glimmered only briefly, now re-ignited, growing steadily until his chest felt full to bursting with the strength of it. Overturning the packing case in his haste he set off, determined to cover the long incline towards the palace precincts and on to Symon’s tower as quickly as possible.

Prompted by the tempting aromas drifting from a nearby hot pie stall, he paused, turning Symon’s silver coin over and over in his pocket, until an insistent growl from his stomach urged him forward. A couple of minutes later, a cluster of small change now jingling in his pocket, he was shifting a large and very hot meat and potato pie from hand to hand. Looking around for somewhere to sit and devour his feast, his glance fell on the broad steps of the city museum and its sheltering portico. A few tense moments of weaving through the jostling market throng brought him and his pie safely to the other side. With a sigh of relief he dashed up the half dozen steps and carefully sat down, leaning back against one of the portico’s tall pillars.

He was just licking the last crumbs and traces of gravy from his fingers when the first large spots of rain began to fall from a sky which had been getting progressively darker, and was now a deep and ominous blackish purple. The distant rumble of thunder was enough to bring him to his feet. Not seeing any point in getting wet when he didn’t have to, he brushed pastry crumbs off his clothes and turned round. For the first time in his life he pushed open the wide, brass-embellished doors and entered the museum.

The entrance foyer was, to say the least, impressive, and Karryl stood gazing up and around, open-mouthed. The museum’s massive grandeur coupled with a sense of a history poised on the threshold of discovery, wrapped itself around him like a warm but light cloak on a cool spring day. His appreciation of the silence and majesty of his surroundings came as something of a surprise to him. Now it seemed as though he was viewing things through different eyes, his agile mind taking in the great domed ceiling, decorative plasterwork, bas-reliefs and works of art placed at aesthetically selected intervals on the polished blue flagstones. The atmosphere seemed to Karryl almost holy, and he was stunned into silent contemplation, his hands clasped in front of his face as if awaiting a benediction.

His peaceful reverie was destined to be short-lived. Unnecessarily resplendent in a blue uniform with an excess of gold braid and shiny buttons, an attendant stepped quietly up behind him, announcing his presence with a somewhat officious clearing of the throat. Startled, Karryl quickly turned to see who had disturbed his moment.

The attendant gestured towards the massive double doors, indicating that he should leave. “You don’t use this establishment to shelter from the rain.”

Thinking on his feet, Karryl gave the stern-faced man what he hoped was a disarming smile. “Oh, I’m not sheltering. My master sent me to find out something about the history of the city. Could you show me where I would find that please?”

It worked. The attendant’s grim expression softened. “And who might your master be?”

Starting to pat his pockets, Karryl affected a look of apologetic confusion. “Oh, it’s Master Symon. I’m Karryl. I have my paper here somewhere.”

The attendant’s stiff bearing relaxed as he started to walk forward towards the softly lit interior. “Of course. Not to worry lad. This way. Just don’t touch anything, please.”

Karryl experienced a little flush of triumph as he dutifully followed the attendant down long wide corridors with gleaming parquet floors along which, at regular intervals were placed equally gleaming glass topped display cabinets containing everything from coins, to geological samples, to ancient weapons.

He managed to sneak glimpses as he hurried to keep up with the long-legged attendant, but the man eventually stopped and pointed to a heavy wooden door embellished with a polished brass plate. “Here you are lad. Local History.”

Grasping the doorknob, he swung the door inwards for Karryl to enter. Leaving him gazing intently into the first display cabinet he came to, the attendant sauntered off down the corridor, softly whistling a popular tune.

After a few minutes of looking briefly into each cabinet in turn, and gazing up at paintings of local landscapes, portraits of long departed dignitaries, and watercolour maps and sketches of a city he hardly recognised, Karryl’s attention was drawn to a wide, shallow, glass-topped case standing alone on the far side of the room. He wandered across and peered in.

On display was a large open book. The left hand page and half of the right were covered in a neat, close written script, the remaining half page taken up with a well executed sketch of some ruined buildings, into which was inset a small map. Further inset into this was another small circular drawing, seeming rather vague and indistinct when compared with the surrounding artwork.

Placing his hands on the sides of the display case, Karryl leaned further forward until his nose was almost touching the glass. Eventually, after a few moments of frowning and peering, he stepped away, a deeply thoughtful expression on his face. The text seemed to be describing an archaeological dig that took place in the ruins of the ancient city, some years in the past. Unable to make out a few of the words, which seemed to be in a strange dialect, he was surprised to see Symon’s name twice amongst the closely written script. He returned to the case and peered in again, slowly re-reading the account of an event which had apparently taken place long before even his grand-parents were born, and of what had been discovered. He puzzled for a while longer over the small drawing which accompanied the text, before turning reluctantly away and heading for the door, stopping at intervals to examine cases of artefacts and read the detailed descriptions.

Before leaving the room Karryl turned. A pensive expression on his face, he took one more long look down the hall to the cabinet containing the mysterious book. Deep in thought, his mind filled with imaginings of buried treasure and ancient cities, he left the building. Once down the museum’s broad steps however, the heady bustling environs of Great Market quickly returned him to the present. Threading his way through the crowded aisles, he was hardly aware of the people he jostled and bumped, or the colourful and tempting displays of the busy stalls. Ideas and notions, unlike any he’d had before, swarmed in his agile mind, and he knew Symon was the only person in the world who would understand what, for the present, he couldn’t.

At the edge of the market, where the crowds were thinner and the stalls fewer, Karryl stopped to admire a deep red embroidered neckerchief which had caught his eye. Regretting the impulse which had led him to part with most of the money Symon had given him, he was about to move on when a commotion behind him made him turn swiftly round. Unable to stop himself, he burst out laughing. A hairy, long-legged, scrawny dirty-white dog was hurtling through the thinning crowd, a loudly squawking, furiously flapping chicken held firmly in its jaws. Close on its heels, but losing ground as onlookers impeded his progress, the puffing, red-faced figure of the poulterer waved his arms and shouted, his long, blood-spattered white apron flapping around his ankles.

Quickly assessing the situation, Karryl threw caution to the wind and gave chase, the dog with its hapless victim having drawn almost level with the spot where he had been standing. Catching sight of its new pursuer, the dog suddenly jinked to its right and lengthened its stride. Karryl made a flying tackle to the dog’s left flank, and the now silent chicken dropped from its jaws. Chicken and Karryl landed together. For a few seconds both lay gasping on the cobbled street, gazing into each other’s eyes.

Karryl pushed himself to his knees and found he was surrounded by a small crowd of people all laughing and cheering, applauding his efforts. With a firm grip on the limp chicken, he scrambled to his feet and began to brush himself down with his free hand. He looked up to see the poulterer puffing up to elbow his way through the crowd.

Stopping in front of Karryl, he leaned forward with his hands on his knees, gasping for breath. “Thank you Grub” he wheezed as he finally straightened himself up.

Trying desperately not to collapse in fits of laughter, Karryl wordlessly proffered the chicken, which now showed every indication of being quite dead, most probably from fright. The small crowd who had gathered round started to drift away until only the flustered poulterer and a somewhat dishevelled Karryl were left standing in the middle of the street.

The man held out a thin, blood-smeared hand. “I’m Gosling the poulterer, but you probably know that anyway.”

Failing to conceal a grin, Karryl nodded as he briefly grasped the man’s slightly greasy fingers.

The owner of the chicken nodded ruefully.” Yes, it’s a silly name, but its been the family trade for generations and I’m stuck with it. Anyway, I do appreciate your efforts. We’ve been trying to catch that blasted dog for weeks. It’s not only my stall he’s been pinching off.”

Karryl gave the man a sympathetic nod. “It looks as though it’s a stray. I do hope you get him soon. Look, I really have to be off now.”

He held up the dead bird in silent query. The poulterer waved a dismissive hand. “Take it with my compliments. That bird should feed your little gang like kings for a day or two.”

About to enlighten the man as to how things stood, Karryl thought better of it, swallowing his words as the poulterer hurried back into the market. Firmly clutching his prize he had just set off again when he noticed a tall figure, dressed in a long dark blue robe and round embroidered cap, striding purposefully away from the scene. Watching the man out of sight, Karryl puzzled over what reason Andir the Scrollmaster might have for being there at that particular moment. Deciding it was probably coincidence, he put the matter from his mind. At the top of Broad Street he turned and looked down the long incline, a lump coming to his throat as he remembered how he and Legs had worked side by side in the market. Silently vowing that one day he would somehow make recompense for the death of his swift footed little friend, Karryl crossed the street, strode up into Stony Lane and on towards Symon’s tower.