The Western Wizard (60 page)

Colbey frowned, disliking the idea of wasting time in a city, yet understanding the need. He could see advantages to remaining in a densely populated area. Though it would raise their profile, it would also hinder open combat. Attacking one stranger in a dark alley in Porvada might have limited complications, but declaring open war on an entire group in a crowded trading city would prove difficult as well as dangerous. So long as the Renshai remained in the inn or on populous streets, the Northmen would not dare to break the laws or risk the lives of bystanders. For their part, the Renshai and their friends could not go much longer without rations. The rest and change promised by Wynix might do them good. “All right, then we go to the inn.”

Hunger kept contrary arguments at bay. Colbey and his companions spiraled into the valley, following the beaten track that led to Wynix. A cheap copy of Pudar’s, Wynix’s gate also apparently remained open until sundown, and no one challenged the group’s entrance. They padded down roadways lined with stands and wagons. Most of the tables lay empty in the waning light, as even the more persistent merchants packed the last of their wares until morning. When the Renshai wandered by, some of these looked up, but no one bothered with a sales pitch. Apparently something in the party’s manner told the merchants that they had little money or a purpose besides shopping, and Colbey crossed the market square unaccosted.

Tannin took the lead on the narrower streets beyond the market. Colbey tensed, alert to signs or sounds of movement. Occasionally, he heard the shuffle of a foot
against cobble, the sound of one man or woman gliding through the alley shadows. This did not bother Colbey. No lone person, whether Northman or footpad, could harm them. Rats scuttled through the alleyway ahead, their nails clicking against stone and their squeaks of protest feeble. Soon, Tannin brought his charges before a stone-fronted building lit by a row of lanterns hanging over its doors. A gaily painted sign proclaimed it as
The Merchant’s Haven
in Western trading tongue runes. A dense uproar of inseparable voices filtered through cracks in the doorway.

Colbey entered first. Yellow walls bore murals of farms, carts, and animals from different parts of the world. Dozens of artists had painted the pictures. The styles varied from talentlessly crude to professional, and some of the individual figures had clearly more than one craftsman. A quick search revealed few blonds, and none of those were obviously Northern. The tavern’s patrons formed a swarming, boisterous mass around some central entertainment that Colbey could not see. The tables on the periphery stood empty. Serving maids wound through the throng with drinks, returning to a fat, pink-cheeked bartender who clapped his hands with glee.

Colbey steered his charges to one of the empty tables on the fringes, and Secodon slipped beneath it. As they sat, the bartender came personally to their table. He looked over every member of the group interestedly. “Northmen, eh? Welcome. It’s a day for distant travelers.”

Alarmed, Colbey pressed. “You’ve seen other Northmen today?”

“Nay. And only once before. Years ago.” The bartender’s eyes strayed to the teeming mass of patrons at the center of the bar. “But I’ve got an Eastern merchant, the prince of Wynix and Ahktar, and a group from Pudar. Now that you’re here, I’ve got everything.”

Placed at ease by the bartender’s denial of Northmen, Colbey considered. He doubted the bartender would mislead. His childlike excitement reminded Colbey of Sterrane, and he could not imagine the Wynixan keeping a secret.

“What can I get for you?”

“Bread and cheese for everyone. And whatever is safe to drink in these parts.”

“I’ve got the best mead you’ve ever tasted. It’s going well tonight.” Again, the bartender’s attention shifted to the crowd.

Colbey had to ask. “What’s going on over there?” He inclined his head in the direction that the bartender was already looking.

The bartender glanced back at Colbey, then returned his attention to the masses. He beamed, taking a skipping step toward Colbey that made his fat bounce like water. His words seemed to tumble over one another. “Card game. Terrific, isn’t it? Brought me a week’s crowd in a night.”

“High stakes?” Colbey asked.

Catching a gesture from the crowd, the bartender waved over a serving maid. “Dayaan the goldsmith and Prince Oswald’s playing. Then there’s a merchant from the East called Shalan.” He pronounced it “
Shay
-lan,” though Colbey suspected the correct Eastern inflection would be “Shigh-
layn.
” “The fourth is Mirkae, a local. Calls himself king of cards and claims he’s never lost a game. I seen times when he didn’t win neither, but he’s certainly winning this one.”

The idea of large sums of money held Colbey’s attention neatly. “This an open game?”

The bartender laughed, and his body shook in rhythmical waves. “Open to anyone with the twenty gold stake. So far, that ain’t been no one.” He leaned uncomfortably close, speaking in a loud whisper, though the noises of the crowd drowned even normal speech. “Rumor is Mirkae cheats.” With a guffaw that left the odor of garlic breath, the bartender wandered away to fill the order.

Colbey guessed that any rumor the bartender knew would not remain a well-kept secret. Still, if the local was sharking cards, he must be doing so competently enough to fool the other players, despite suspicion. The scam intrigued Colbey.

Rache caught Colbey’s arm. “Are you thinking of playing?”

“We need the money.” Colbey rolled his gaze to
Shadimar, knowing the Eastern Wizard would not care for the request Colbey felt obligated to make. “Shadimar, lend me the sapphire.”

“No!” Shadimar’s rage gave volume to his reply, and it cut over the hubbub. As a few eyes swiveled toward them, the Wizard lowered his voice. “We had an agreement. I keep the Pica Stone so long as we have a vow of brotherhood. I’m not going to let you risk it in some card game.”

A grimace of annoyance replaced Colbey’s grin. “I’m not going to lose it. I’m a damned good card player. And even if I lose it, and I won’t, I can get it back.” He patted Harval’s hilt.

“No.” Shadimar’s face assumed sharp lines. Colbey could feel Secodon’s warm breath on his knee. “The Pica is a magical object, by the gods. One of only two in Odin’s world. I won’t have people handling it. It’s too precious and too dangerous.”

Bothered despite the Wizard’s right to deny him, Colbey let his chin droop to his hands, where it remained until the food arrived. While he and his companions ate, Colbey worked on another plan. He took a few bites of cheese-topped bread as he mulled the problem. “Garn. Go outside and see what you can . . . um . . . find worth twenty gold.”

Mitrian glowered.

“Now?” Garn asked, his mouth full of bread.

“If we wait until the card game is over, I can’t win it. But if I do win, we’ll have more food than you and twenty like you could ever eat.” Colbey waited while Garn weighed the value of a full plate against the promise of more in the future.

Mitrian’s face reddened with rising anger.

Tannin cut a wedge of cheese, balanced it on a slice of bread, and handed it to Garn. The ex-gladiator sighed. He gulped down half his mug of mead, took the proffered food, and left the tavern.

Mitrian opened her mouth to protest, but Colbey caught her arm and dragged her toward the crowd. Just out of earshot of their companions, Mitrian jerked free and turned on him. “Rache knows his father was a slave. Does he have to think of Garn as a thief as well?” She
stormed back toward the table, stumbled over a misplaced floorboard, and caught a chair for balance.

Colbey suppressed an urge to laugh with difficulty. The din swallowed their conversation, but Colbey spoke in Renshai to make certain no one who overheard would understand. “That’s ludicrous, Mitrian. Rache is Renshai. He’s dedicated his life to killing. He’s slaughtered the sons of mothers and the mothers of innocent sons. Do you suppose he finds it horrible when his father steals so we can eat?”

Mitrian scowled but made no reply.

Colbey took her wrist and again maneuvered her toward the throng. “Actually, I didn’t send Garn away to steal. I got rid of him because he wouldn’t approve of what I’m about to do.” Colbey knew no one else would approve of his idea either, including Mitrian, but only Garn would resort to violence. Or so he hoped. “Do as I say. Please.”

“What about Northmen? You just sent Garn out there to face them alone.”

Colbey denied the possibility. “Garn’s smart enough to be careful and quiet enough to scout. If Northmen had come, I believe the bartender would have known it.” He steered Mitrian into the crowd. Effort, force, and more than a little finesse brought them through the press to a position behind Dayaan, the goldsmith, that gave them a reasonable view of the game.

Colbey scrutinized the players. Shalan sat to Dayaan’s right, the standard coarse-featured, swarthy Easterner. He wore tan leather leggings and a red silk shirt. His expression seemed grave, though friendly, haloed by thick eyelashes and a broad, black mustache. A crooked stack of gold lay at his elbow.

To Dayaan’s left sat Prince Oswald, a homely youngster with dimples in his cheeks and wrinkles at the corners of his eyes. His teeth jutted at angles when he smiled, which was often, but his dignified manner and rich dress precluded laughter. Colbey studied Mirkae longest. Thin as a rag, the Wynixan moved with the confident ease of a master. His eyes looked dead, dark except for a faint glimmer that Colbey read as avarice. Disliking the card shark, Colbey required no effort to
consider the man an enemy and to choose to probe his mind. The Renshai’s mental tendril fought through a net of emotion: arrogance, joy, and faint undertones of fear. He recognized no guilt or remorse, and those seemed conspicuously absent. A responding hatred rose within Colbey. He hoped he would find a means to expose the rat-faced card cheat.

“What. . . ?” Mitrian started, but Colbey waved her silent.

The Renshai plunged deeper into Mirkae’s thoughts, worming gently into the recesses of the Wynixan’s deception. He discovered the answer to Mirkae’s success involved the patterns on the card backs, but weariness touched him before he could elicit more than the basics of the technique. Afraid to tap his strength too completely, Colbey withdrew, turning his attention to the cards. Just that short journey made him feel wobbly, but it had given him enough information to begin his own investigation. He watched the game for several hands, occasionally making brief prods into Mirkae’s mind for details.

Time ran short. Dayaan lost the last of his coins to Prince Oswald’s lucky draw. The goldsmith rose, grumbled something about next year, and forced his way through the crowd.

Though he still had not grasped the complexities of Mirkae’s code, Colbey knew Dayaan’s opening might be his only chance. “You seem to have an extra chair. Might I join?” Without waiting for an answer, Colbey sat in the recently vacated seat. He grasped Mitrian’s wrist briefly to indicate that she should stay.

Mirkae regarded Colbey coldly, apparently measuring his competence by size and age. “Any man with gold to lose may join.” His eyes met Colbey’s, hovered a moment, and skittered away little insects. “A Northman.” The thickness of his tone made it sound like an insult. “You’ll have plunder to stake, not coinage, I’d wager. It’ll need to have a twenty gold piece value. And someone will have to be willing to cover it.”

Colbey nodded. He laced an arm around Mitrian’s waist, and drew her toward the table. “This is my stake.”

Mitrian stiffened beneath Colbey’s grip, and he thought it safer not to meet her gaze.

Mirkae studied Mitrian with the same icy thoroughness, his eyes roving up and down and his mouth leering. At length, he spoke. “Tempting, old man, but I’m not interested.”

Colbey turned his attention to the other players, maintaining an air of confidence that told the crowd that he knew his offer was worth far more than the requested stake. He hoped his certainty would convince the players.

Shalan examined Mitrian cautiously, with a merchant’s eye. The prince’s teeth jutted from a lopsided grin. “I’ll play for your stake,” he said before Shalan could offer. “My father has paid as much for less hardy-looking slaves, and I don’t mind losing gold to someone other than Mirkae for a change.”

When Colbey did not meet her glare, Mitrian expressed her dissatisfaction and warning by pinching his arm until it bruised. Colbey released her, trusting her to recognize the importance of playing along. No matter the situation, he would allow no one to take her.

Mirkae passed Colbey the cards. His previous observation told him that the deck had peasant cards numbered one through ten, knights, princes, queens, and kings in each of five colors. It also contained three wild jesters. Colbey took the cards, but he neither glanced through nor shuffled them. Instead, he set them on the table and watched Prince Oswald gather twenty gold to wager against Mitrian.

The click of coins disappeared beneath the whispered speculation of the crowd.

Colbey caught Mitrian’s hand and squeezed reassuringly. With her as his stake, he could not drop out of the hand in the event of an unlucky deal. It appeared that he had as much chance to lose as to win, but Colbey found a means to tip those odds as well as to gain the information he needed. “Since this match is at the whim of the Norns, let’s have it swiftly done. We’ll each choose a card at random. The highest wins.” With a deft sweep of his hand, Colbey spread the deck, facedown, across the table.

Mirkae’s eyes came suddenly to life. Displaying all of the card backs simultaneously trebled the risk of someone recognizing their differences. Surely, the card cheat realized that Colbey could have only one motive for exposing the back of every card, but the Wynixan said nothing. Only the sudden alertness and the tensing of Mirkae’s fingers on the table revealed his concern.

Oswald’s hand floated uncertainly above the deck. He seized a card and flipped it over. It was the red knight.

The audience applauded their prince’s draw politely, but the claps remained scattered. Clearly, many Wynixans wanted to see how a Northman would play.