The Written (45 page)

The warm wine came in a wooden
cup. The smell of spices and nutmeg in the wine smelled good.
Farden sipped the hot liquid carefully and savoured the hot steam
on his face. Seeing as he had left most of his supplies at the
Arkabbey he decided he would order some food later. The only things
in his pockets were the Weight, the fjortla, and the daemonstone.
He found himself chuckling grimly as he thought how pointless the
present was. Farden sighed.

The mage looked to the other
figure sat in the corner at the back of the inn and met a pair of
beady eyes looking back at him, a pair of very familiar rodent
eyes. The old beggar tugged on his hair and nodded slowly. Farden
hesitated by the bar, and just looked at the old man. He wore the
same patchwork getup as before, his dirty wet cloak was pulled
tightly around him like a filthy blanket. Bits of snow clung to his
long greasy hair He looked even more haggard than he remembered,
like a drowned rat. A yellow smile curled at the corner of his lip.
Farden looked away and tasted the hot wine again. He waited
patiently by the bar and thought about the sudden strange
excitement that stirred in his chest. Farden hadn’t even thought of
nevermar since that night in the forest with Elessi. But now it was
all he could think of. He made his way past the warm fire and the
men at the bar and meandered through a copse of stools and tables.
He sat down beside the old man without a word.

A moment passed. ‘It’s a cold
night,’ said the beggar with a cough.

Farden nodded, keeping his eyes
on the fireplace ahead. ‘Mm it is, storm’s coming.’

‘A storm ‘e says, hmm.’ He
clacked the mouthpiece of the pipe against his teeth thoughtfully
and then began to chuckle. ‘Keep and eye on the weather it’ll be
comin’ sooner than ye think, fine mage, sooner than ye think,’ His
laugh was a weird hissing sound. The grimy man grinned, flashing
blackened gums. Smoke streamed from his nostrils. It made him look
like an old dragon, Farden thought.

The mage merely nodded once
more and sat in silence, sipping his wine again. The beggar stared
at him with a glint in his eye. ‘What brings yew t’ my table
tonight then?’

Farden shrugged. ‘Nothing in
particular, familiar face and all that.’ The excuse sounded stupid.
The beggar tapped his nose with a mucky finger. ‘Strange that,
‘aven’t seen yew in a couple o’ weeks, mage.’

‘I’ve asked you not to call me
that before,’ said Farden in a dangerous tone. He sipped his wine
again. ‘Been busy,’ he added.

‘Hmm, so I ‘ear,’ the man
chuckled again. The sound made Farden feel uncomfortable. ‘What’s
the matter?’ he grinned. ‘Nevermar’s got yer tongue?’ The beggar
laughed his little snake laugh and shuffled out of his seat
shakily. ‘I seen your room already, I’ll be in number nine, if ye
fancy tryin’ some more.’ He tottered his way to the stairs and
disappeared into the shadows of the upstairs corridor. Farden
sighed. His thoughts spoke all at once, clamouring somewhere
between his ears. The mage sipped at his wine, feigning calm, and
simply stared into the crackling fire.

Half an hour later, when the
warmth of the wine had worked its way to his head, Farden found
himself striding eagerly up the well-trodden stairs of the
Bearded Goat
and looking at the ascending
numbers of the doors. In the dim candlelight he found the room and
knocked quietly, looking down the hallway for any onlookers. The
corridor was silent and empty

There was a sound from behind
the door and the click of a cheap-sounding lock. An ugly face
peered from behind the door and grinned. Farden nodded silently and
followed the beggar into the room. Strange that a beggar could
afford to stay at the inn, he thought. Maybe he got lucky with a
drunk noble. Farden shrugged. He tried not to think of the last
night he had spent in a room like this.

The room in question smelled
stale, like old shoes mixed with damp, or that earthy smell of
dirt. Farden watched the snowflakes outside slip-sliding down the
windowpane to join their friends in the street. The city was slowly
being covered in a white blanket. Maybe it was a new beginning, he
thought, a blank canvas for tomorrow.

The man toyed with a big bag of
something on the bed, coughing and murmuring to himself as he
rummaged. Gods the man was ugly, thought Farden. In the orange glow
from outside he looked like a scrawny rat, bereft of whiskers or
tail but just as twitchy. After a short while he cackled softly and
produced a long pipe from the folds of his bags. Farden
fidgeted.

‘ ‘Ere it is, knew I ‘ad it
somewhere. Light the fire would yew boy?’ said the beggar with a
cheeky grin. Farden bit his tongue and went to the fireplace. He
crouched low and hunched over so the man couldn’t get the
gratification of watching the spell. Flame trickled from his
fingers and licked at the pile of dry wood. The orange flames
hopped from one log to the other like a disease and slowly the
fireplace began to smoke and crackle.

The old beggar stooped beside
the mage and held the end of the long leaf in the flames until it
started to smoke and glow. ‘Take a seat,’ he said. Farden could
smell his rotten breath. He stood up and pulled a threadbare
armchair closer to the fire as the old man took a short stool. He
grinned his little rodent smile as his seat wobbled unsteadily
beneath him. He puffed on the pipe and the sickly-sweet smell began
to tickle Farden’s nostrils.

‘I ‘ear yew were in Nelska,
with them dragon-riders,’ said the beggar. The mage shuffled around
uncomfortably in his chair. This old man knew entirely too much
about his business. ‘You hear a lot, old man,’ he said.

‘That I do, when my ears still
work, heh. Not dead yet then I see?’

The mage gave the man a stony
look. ‘No apparently not.’ This old beggar was starting to worry
him a little. Farden didn’t trust him one bit, but he couldn’t help
eying the pipe in the man’s claw-like hand. At that moment he
shuffled forward on his little stool and pulled his patchwork cloak
around his shoulders. Jabbing the air with the bowl of the pipe he
pointed to Farden’s side, where something strange was happening in
his pocket. ‘What’s that?’ he asked.

Farden looked down, confused,
and saw a dim glow coming from the inside pocket of his black
cloak. ‘I don’t know,’ he replied, and reached to fish out whatever
it was. It was the daemonstone and even though it was still wrapped
in the thin paper it shone and sparkled with a whitish yellow glow.
Farden held it in the palm of his hand and blinked slowly. It felt
cold in his hand. ‘That’s odd.’

The old beggar shook his head
and sniffed loudly. ‘Don’t look safe t’ me. Put it away,’ he said
with narrowed eyes. Farden pretended not to hear him and unwrapped
the corner of the paper. The brassy gold rock was definitely
glowing. He leaned forward and it got brighter still and each of
its metallic facets sparkled with pinpricks of white light. Farden
wrapped it back up again and held it tightly in his hand. The light
shone from between his fingers like one of his light spells.

The beggar sucked his teeth and
leaned back on his stool. ‘Put it away mage. Ain’t natural I say.
Glowin’ rocks.’

‘It’s fine,’ he said, and he
couldn’t help but think how much Cheska would have liked her
present. He sighed and stuffed the daemonstone back in his pocket.
He kept his hand on it. Smoke curled up from the pipe as the beggar
puffed on it once again. The fire crackled quietly next to them and
Farden found himself staring at the smouldering nevermar. The
beggar watched the mage’s eyes and smiled knowingly. He held out
his hand. ‘Try some, it’s different to the last lot,’ he
offered.

Farden took the pipe in his
hand and watched it burn for a little bit. Grim thoughts shouted
loudly in his head. ‘You know what happens if you tell anyone about
this don’t you?’ he warned the beggar. He shook his head and waved
his hand dismissively. ‘I know I know for gods’ sake, won’t tell a
soul.’

The mage watched the thing
hovering between his fingers. Trying to justify it was like trying
to wrestle a troll. Farden sighed.

‘Are yew goin’ t’ smoke it or
kiss it mage?’ hissed the beggar, a little impatiently.

Farden glared at him. ‘I said
don’t call me that.’

‘Well we ain’t got all night
boy! Yew goin’ to smoke it or not?’

‘Fine.’ said Farden. He handed
him back the pipe and eyed the man with a defiant look. With a
grunt he stood up and pulled his hood over his head. ‘I think it’s
time I left.’

The beggar scowled. ‘Smoke it,’
his eyes flashed with anger.

‘Forget it old man,’ said
Farden, he shoved the armchair out of his way and marched for the
door. And then a shout stopped him dead. A shout in a voice he knew
very well indeed.

‘Farden!’

The mage whirled around to see
a different man in the room. The beggar rose slowly from his stool,
shaking and groaning as he did so as if he were fighting to keep
his limbs still. The man seemed to stretch before Farden’s eyes and
his black clicked and groaned audibly. His skin shimmered and
warped. Years and lines fell from his face like leaves from a tree
and his eyes glowed with a sudden dangerous fire. The man threw off
his dirty cloak and flexed his arms and fingers. His yellow and
black teeth gradually slipped to a whiter shade and they flashed
with a snake’s grin. The daemonstone glowed brightly in Farden’s
pocket.

Vice threw the pipe into the
fire with a contemptuous snort and watched Farden back up against
the door. The mage was aghast, mouth wide open and gaping in
disbelief. He stared wide-eyed at his friend of many years, the
Vice he had known since his first day at the School, when he had
been twelve years old. He wanted to laugh as if it were some sort
of sick joke, but the humour was lost somewhere behind that lump in
his throat. ‘You?’ It was all Farden could manage. His world
shattered in front of him.

The Undermage picked at
something under his nails and chuckled. ‘That’s what Helyard said.
You should think yourself lucky I didn’t come while you were
sleeping,’ he said.

Rage began to boil in the
mage’s heart and he could feel the white heat along his spine and
shoulders. ‘After all this time, you were right here under my
nose?’ Farden clenched his fists until his hands went pale. His
stomach churned sickeningly and realisation slowly became a knot in
his heart.

Vice clicked his fingers
together. ‘I’m not here to talk Farden. But as usual you take a
while to grasp the obvious.’ The smile had disappeared from Vice’s
face and had been replaced by thin lips and a fiery look in his
hazel eyes. ‘I suppose your stupidity knows no bounds.’

The mage blinked, unused to the
tears that had suddenly gathered beneath his wide eyes. ‘Neither
does your treachery!’ shouted Farden and he slammed his wrists
together with a loud clang. Fire swirled around his fists like a
yellow hurricane, burning and hissing with a dragon’s roar. Farden
cried out, all words forgotten, just pure anger and vengeance came
from his throat. He lunged and opened his hands and the fireball
leapt across the room. But Vice was ready for it. He threw his
hands up in front of him, blade-like, and the fireball slammed into
an invisible shield inches before it threatened to consumed him.
The flames exploded against the Undermage’s spell with a blinding
flash and a roar. The yellow fire billowed around him. Still Vice
smiled confidently with his sneering grin. Farden shook with anger.
He stormed across the room with his hands held high. Lightning
flickered and crackled between his fingers.

But Vice was still ready. He
spun and dropped to his knees, and jabbed the air. Farden collapsed
in abrupt pain and completely doubled over. He had never felt a
spell like it. He stumbled against the bed and threw out a hand to
steady himself, trying to find breath. The arrow wound between his
ribs burned with agony and he looked up to find the Undermage
towering over him. Green light shimmered over his knuckles. Farden
saw what was about to happen and dove to the side just as Vice
dropped his fist like a hammer. Fortunately he struck empty floor
but the shockwave cracked the floorboards and the fireplace split
in two.

The brave mage was already on
his feet and standing behind the Undermage. He seized his narrow
opportunity and brought his knee straight up into Vice ribs, and
then he grabbed him roughly by the neck. Sparks coursed along the
Undermage’s body and he went rigid, crying out suddenly. Lightning
shivering over his skin.

‘Taste of your own medicine,
Vice? Like the scholars at Arfell?!’ shouted Farden.

Vice threw an elbow in Farden’s
face, forcing the mage to break his hold and stumbled backwards. He
laughed, and a curved knife appeared in his hands, glinting evilly
in the firelight. Farden wiped blood from his lip and backed off.
He watched his opponent’s hands warily as they moved through the
air. The dirty silver blade waved back and forth slowly,
calculatedly. That familiar grin curled at the corner of his mouth
again, the one Farden had known for over half his life. Vice spat.
‘You think you’re any different, Farden? Any better than the old
men who died at my hand, better than those Siren soldiers or that
old fool the Arkmage? I can dispatch you all as easily as insects.’
The two of them circled warily, each trying to force the other into
a corner. ‘I have watched you systematically ruin your life ever
since you uncle died. And let me tell you one thing Farden, you are
no different from him whatsoever. The temper, the nevermar, the
voices in your head, you’re both as bad and as useless as eachother
And what about that pretty girl in the Spire? That Skölgard girl.
What was she called again?’ laughed Vice.

‘Don’t you fucking dare speak
her name!’ bellowed Farden.