Fool's Errand (40 page)

The mage peered at the notebook drawing of Thatcher’s stillborn idea. Thatcher’s stomach twisted itself into a knot, his heart sinking deep within his chest as he gave utterance to his next words.

“I am glad you came by, Melizar. We need to talk.”

Melizar fought to contain his elation. It seemed the rogue may already be wrestling with the very question Melizar hoped to raise with him.

W
ho else had seen?

He patiently waited while Thatcher gathered his thoughts. There was something weighing heavy on the young thief’s mind. It was something far beyond the scribbled ideas in his notebook.

“This is the hardest thing I have ever done,” Thatcher began, “but I feel I will have no rest until I do it.”

The young thief reached into his vest pocket and withdrew a tiny piece of black leather and extended it toward the mage.

“I feel I must return this to you.”

Melizar gazed at the magical eye patch he had given to the young rogue. His mind raced through the possible meanings of the youth returning it to him.

Did the boy not understand the value of this gift would bring a king’s ransom at any magical auction?

Was the young thief intending to betray the secret he inferred that he would keep?

Melizar allocated a portion of his mind to run through possible responses while continuing patiently allow the thief work through what he had to say. When the continued pause became intolerably long, he prompted the young rogue to continue.

“You don’t like my gift?”

The surprise that invaded Thatcher’s face showed clearly that he greatly feared being misunderstood.

“No,” the boy quickly corrected. “That is not it at all. This is the most amazing gift anyone has ever given me. Believe me, it is taking every ounce of willpower I have to bring myself to return it to you. The problem is not with the gift, it is with the promise that accompanied it.”

Melizar now reallocated a large portion of his mind to working through how he would go about killing his companions once Thatcher decided to reveal his secret to the others. While working through those scenarios, the small portion of his mind still engaged in conversation with Thatcher nonchalantly continued it.

“What promise is that, my young friend?”

Thatcher’s surprised look transformed into semi-confusion as if somehow there was a misunderstanding about the implied promise of secrecy they both so clearly understood in the heat of battle.

“Uh, I expect,” Thatcher cautiously continued, “unless I misread your intent, that the gift was more about keeping secret of your skin color than a thanks for saving your life.”

“And you feel a need to discuss this with the others?” Melizar inquired as he subtly moved his hand near the mouth of his spell component pouch.

“As for my part, I have no problem taking your secret to my grave, although I am at somewhat of a loss why you choose to guard it so closely. I can keep my promise, but the issue is you have paid for a useless service in buying my silence. I was not the only one who saw.”

Melizar again reallocated his mental resources. The part that had been engaged in plotting how to eliminate his companions returned mostly to the conversation at hand.

Perhaps things are not as far out of control as he imagined. If others beyond the rogue had seen and yet Melizar lived through the night, he might not have to kill all of them after all. He once again nodded encouragingly toward Thatcher.

“Go on.”

“Gideon, Goldain, and I all saw your hands.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, really. Let me be honest with you, Melizar. You may not realize this, but I don’t care one whit what someone looks like or what race they are on the outside. My best friend in the world is a green-skinned Hobgoblin
chats-enash
, and let me tell you there have been many times on the streets of Aton-Ri where I have fought side by side with Ebon against those who couldn’t see past his skin.”

“Your best friend is a Hobgoblin
chats-enash
? That would be something new to see.”

Melizar’s mind whirled with the possibilities. Adami and Hobgoblins were mortal enemies. He couldn’t recall a situation where he had seen them not mutually hostile. Everyone knew
chats-enash,
like himself, were not will-bound to their Malakim or Ayabim patrons, but more often than not, the mixes tended to follow the lead of their non-Adami parent.

“Look,” Thatcher continued. “I don’t know what race you are, but I know
who
you are. You are my friend, a valued companion, and I would give my life standing shoulder to shoulder with you against anyone who sought your harm. I probably understand better than most why you might want to hide your identity, but I would be willing to bet my life that if you gave Captain Gideon and Prince Goldain and even Duncan the same chance, they would do the same. Know this: If I am wrong, they will have to kill me to get to you.”

Melizar struggled to find his voice. Any part of his mind plotting how to survive by killing his companions ceased its contemplations. He reached a gloved hand out and closed the young rogue’s hand still holding the eye patch.

“You keep this gift, my friend. I gave it to you for saving my life. The fact that you would tell me about the worthlessness of our secret, and your commitment to stand with me based on our friendship, is worth more to me than a thousand magical items. Once the whole truth is out, I am not sure you may not get the chance to give your life on your word. Your actions just now give me hope that you would truly keep it. I will not ask it of you though. If things go differently than you expect, I want you to know that I truly am your friend, and I want you to stand aside and keep yourself safe whatever happens.”

Thatcher gratefully returned the eye patch to his vest pocket.

“So what race are you that you feel would cause those of us who have fought and bled beside you to toss away our history and seek your life? From seeing my friend Ebon and his brother Garrack, and I can say for certain you are no half-Hobgoblin. What other race could inspire the hatred you to fear?”

Melizar lowered his voice to a whisper.

“Have you heard of the D’zarik?”

The unchanged expression on Thatcher’s face said as plainly as any words that the young rouge did not know of the race.

“We are a servant race of the Ayabim, who live below the surface of your world, in a place called Shadowdeep. There is an entire world below Ya-Erets that lies in darkness and exists only in the knowledge of the wise and learned or those whose memories are long. We are like the V’rassi in both physical appearance and longevity, save for the color of our skin. In other ways, our culture, society, and mining abilities, much more closely resemble the Durgak.”

“So you are a full-blood servant of the Ayabim?” Thatcher asked, an incredulous look overtaking his youthful features. “I find that hard to believe.”

“My younger brother and I are
chats-enash
of a D’zarik father and an Adami slave-girl who was our mother.”

“So you are
chats-enash
. That makes you free-willed, so why do you fear?”

“I have been told from childhood that those who serve the Malakim will kill a D’zarik on sight, even a half-blood one.”

“I think you fear unnecessarily, Melizar. If there is one race hated and feared almost as much at the goblinoids here in the northwest it is the Fenriri, but Sable is a Fenratu, a Fenriri
chats-enash,
and nobody so much as batted an eye when she joined our group, except maybe Arreya.”

They both shared a brief smile as they remembered the tension in the air when their feline scout first met her new canine counterpart.

“But,” Thatcher continued. “You saw yourself even they were like long-lost sisters after shedding blood in battle together. I think you may have heard tales designed to scare D’zarik children, but give us Adami some credit. The One Lord wouldn’t have made
chats-enash
possible if we were going to kill on sight every member of an Ayabim race we came across.”

Melizar’s mind swam. The very fact he lived through the night with two of the greatest warriors in their company aware of his difference certainly pointed to some truth in the boy’s words. Perhaps, though, they just had not put the pieces together, or could not imagine in their wildest dreams ever meeting a real D’zarik.

Even more likely, perhaps none of them had ever seen or heard of his race. The issue might not even come out until they met someone who had. No matter which explanation was responsible for the fact that Goldain and Gideon had not already moved against him, it was apparent that his worst fears were far beyond the truth of the situation. This was not the first time he had reason to doubt what he had been taught about the surface races. It likely would not be the last.

“Well, young Thatcher,” Melizar said, standing up and lightly brushing the dust from his robes. “The sun is up and so are most of our companions. Before they bring down the main meeting tent, let us put your theory to the test. Before we do, however, if you are wrong and this little revelation ends in bloodshed, I want you to have one more gift.”

“What gift?” Thatcher’s voice trembled with barely contained excitement.

“I could not help but notice your drawings. A hand crossbow is a great concept, but you are probably wondering how to solve the issue with the tensile strength of the small, wooden cross arms, right?”

Thatcher’s jaw dropped.

“Uh, yeah. That is pretty much where my idea hit the wall. Do you know much about weapons? I thought mages had little time for such mundane things.”

Melizar laughed.

“Boy, my people are the greatest weaponsmiths on all of Chadash. Our patron, the Ayabim
,
Husam, was purported to once have been the weaponsmith of heaven. Now I don’t believe in all those fairy tales, but it is no fairy tale that the D’zarik weapons are as sought after as Durgak armor.”

“So,” Thatcher asked. “My idea has merit?”

“The idea you have been toying with has been a standard in D’zarik warfare for centuries. I come from a long line of military men.”

“I thought you were a mage, not a soldier.”

“Much to my father’s chagrin, I deviated from our family legacy and followed the pursuit of
kashaph
. Being the oldest son certain things were passed down to me, like that eye patch, the likes of which have little use in my current profession. I have a toy from my grandfather, which fell to me when my father sent me away from our home city. I will never use it, so I want you to have it.”

“But someday you may have a family, a son of your own to pass it on to.”

“Living away from other D’zarik, the prospects of me ever having a son to pass it on to aren’t promising. Quickly, come with me before we meet with the others.”

They approached Melizar’s campsite. Thatcher watched as the mage pulled the now-familiar dimensional pocket from his pack. As he unfolded it on the ground and spoke the words of unlocking, it performed just as it had in the raider lair.

Thatcher was practically salivating as Melizar reached deep within the magical pocket and pulled forth a large leather-bound box and an even larger leather bag. He spoke the closing word and refolded the dimensional pocket, setting the items he had retrieved beside him as he worked.

Thatcher surreptitiously slipping the eye patch over his eye. His face showed his realization of what Melizar must already know. Thatcher saw a shimmering blue glow coming from the box.

“Yes, my friend,” Melizar said in reaction to the excitement filling Thatcher face. “There is some magic about this, but not nearly as strong as that contained in your eye patch.”

Melizar replaced the dimensional pocket in his pack. He then turned toward Thatcher and opened the beautifully embossed leather-bound box. The inside was lined with black velvet. It held, in a perfectly formed mold, the embodiment of Thatcher’s thoughts from the page of his notebook.

“It is like seeing my idea leap to life before my eyes.”

There, in the box, was a beautifully crafted handheld, repeating crossbow formed of grayish-black metal.