In Pursuit Of Wisdom (Book 1) (50 page)

“Aye” came a voice from behind, as a man reached up and put his hand on her shoulder.  “I know how to cook.  You new here?”  The man smiled up at Veronica, happy to display the splendid gaps in his yellow teeth.

Veronica resisted the urge to kill the man right there in the kitchen and run. 
The potatoes must get plated and served!
  “Yes, I am new here, but I must say it’s far nicer than my previous job.”  She stepped a little closer to the man, whose smudged face was at least half a foot below hers.  She smiled wickedly.  “Do you do everything as well as you make potatoes?”  She began to lead him out the side door toward the stables.

“Aye!” he grunted; it was the last thing he ever said.  A minute later he was buried in a mountain of hay, which
soaked up the blood pouring from his neck quite nicely.  Veronica continued out back behind the tavern, again being careful no one was around, and climbed back up her thin rope and back into her room.

As she changed back into her wealthy traveler garb, she first heard the commotion about fifteen minutes later.  She left her room and headed back downstairs, making her way into a small hallway leading out back to the waste ditch.  Veronica found a small alcove and blended into the shadows, listening.

She heard a woman’s voice, “He’s dead, Sir.  The man is dead.”

“I can see that, you fool.  Keep your voice down!” 
Silas.
  “What was he tasting for the General?”

“He took a sip of water, and then he ate some potatoes.”  The woman’s voice was shaky.

“Crystal, get your act together.  This is the largest crowd we’ve had in a year with the General here.  No reason to start a panic, now is there?  Just a bad batch, that’s all.  Just a bad batch.”

“Sir, he’s not sick.  He’s dead!  You can’t be servin’ this food to the General, and who’s going to taste anything else?  You have to tell him.”  Crystal was becoming hysterical.

Silas sighed.  “Yes, of course we’ll tell him—just not this night.  Some other day when he’s in town and the crowds are less spendy.  I’ll say we needed to make a new batch cause they fell on the floor or something.”

Crystal’s voice seemed to be calming down.  “And what of the food tester?  What will you tell him about Aaron?”

There was a pause in the voices, then the sound of a knife being drawn, then gasps.  “We’ll say was stabbed in a gambling dispute that spilled into the kitchen, apologize profusely, and I will personally guarantee the safety of the food when I bring it out.  It is such a Dark World, after all.  What we will
not
be saying is that the food was poisoned.  Are we clear on that?”

There were voices all talking at once, mumbling.  The woman he called Crystal said, “Ok, Silas.  Whatever you say.”

“Just have Vartan make a new batch of potatoes.  There’s a young lady that wants to speak with the General.  I’m
sure
she can keep him entertained while we make some more food.  We’ll tell him about the
knife fight
later—we can’t have everyone leaving here in a panic!  The reputation of the
Steed
…no no no—that won’t do.  I’ll watch that worthless cook prepare them and taste the potatoes myself!  Hell I might just cook them myself.  Crystal, go find Vartan, and whatever you do—if you value your silver—
not a word of this in the common room.
”  He raised his voice to a loud whisper to address his entire staff.  “
Not none of you!
  Now help me move our victim of this terrible gambling dispute over here to one side, ladies, and go fetch that wretch of a cook Vartan—I want a word with him.  If I find out he’s done this…I’ll shove the entire batch down his own throat!  I’ll go find that pretty young thing for the General—Sarah, she said her name was.  Crystal—Go find Vartan!”

Damn.
 
Food tasters for the General’s party, of course.
  Veronica resigned herself to push forward with her original—and painfully slow—plan for getting close to Strongiron.  She stepped out of the shadows and made her way back to common room, taking a small table by the roaring fire. 
I’ll just have to be my normal, charming self
, she thought wistfully.

But I can’t stop looking for alternative methods to speed this contract up along the way, either. 
She allowed herself a modest grin when she thought of the look on poor Crystal’s face when she found that Vartan wasn’t going to be cooking potatoes—or anything else, for that matter—any longer.

Her grin only widened, turning into a rather pleasant smile, when she saw the sweaty innkeeper barreling toward her from across the room, flagging her down.

~Magi~

Magi wished, not for the first time this evening, that they were somewhere with clean wine or fresh ale.  Or even clear water.  He absently swished his flask around again inside his cloak.  Still empty.  He yawned again and drew his cloak around him, sitting on the frozen dirt next to the fire.

“So.  The ring.  I imagine there are few people in all of Tenebrae who would have recognized that ring, Magi.  It was created hundreds of years ago.  Are you familiar with the Dwarven warlord Karwin the Short?”

“No.  Not really.  He lived and ruled long ago.  That’s about all I know,” Magi said.

“Yes, few people study history, and fewer still study the period of the warlords.  But surely you have heard of Quixatalor?”

“Of course.” 
But only recently.

Tomas continued.  “Of course.  All mages have heard of Quixatalor.  But did you know that he made a ring—a ring of magical protection—for Karwin?  He did; Karwin demanded one when he overthrew Absynthe, who we remember as The Weak.  He wanted Quixatalor to continue in his role as an advisor, but he didn’t trust him or any True Mage, especially one as powerful as him.  His solution?  He had a ring made that would stop harmful spells from working against him.  He would have made Quixatalor prove its effectiveness on his friends, no doubt.”

“How did you come to learn this?” Magi asked.

“Ah.  Remember son, I made a living working with inanimate objects, learning how different metals, wood, jewels, and other objects reacted to different types of spells.  I researched the ancient art of alchemy.  I suspect that is the grain of truth that inspired Marik’s fiendish lie about me.  I travelled to the libraries in Rookwood to see how other mages worked with objects in the past, and I came across an old book, entitled
Ancient Artifacts.
  I presumed the author to be Quixatalor himself, since it read more like a list of his experiments than a compilation of famous artifacts.  One of the objects discussed in that book was the ring—the one I gave you.”

“I have seen other magical rings before with claims of protection.  What made this one so different, old man?”

“True, lesser mages have made rings.  But not like this.  They have three or four charges, or might protect you from a simple magic projectile or a fairly straightforward spell.  This ring was meant to protect a warlord from the greatest Archmage of all time.  He found a way to embed the depth of his own power in the stone of that ring.  A powerful mage casting a purposeful spell would crush a person wearing some two-bit ring bought at a travelling fair.  But if the victim was wearing Karwin’s ring?  Nothing.  It is a unique item—it had been my most prized possession.  It would have been yours anyhow…I just decided to give it to you early, and used what little skill I had to keep it hidden from others until it would be nothing more than a young man with a ring, certainly unremarkable.

“Karwin wanted it to be unremarkable as well, which is why it’s silver, not gold, and why it’s an emerald, not a diamond.  But I read about it, and remembered a crude drawing of it that Quixatalor included in his notes.  He obviously succeeded in making a ring powerful enough to blunt even his own magical attacks against Karwin, should he have been
inclined to challenge Karwin and try to take power himself.”

“I heard he served the warlord for more than 100 years.”  Magi said, stifling a yawn.  “But regardless, how did
you
get it?”

“He did serve him for a century or more.  Perhaps willingly, perhaps not.  But he served faithfully, as evidenced by the fact that a Dwarf ruled all of Elvidor that long.  But it was Karwin’s paranoia of mages that led to the creation of that ring.  When he died, the ring was buried with him.  That was the last entry in that section of the book.  Curious that Quixatalor didn’t try
and keep the ring for himself when Roc-San defeated Karwin.  But that’s not the point.”

He slowly eased his hands toward the fire, stopping just short of burning himself.  Magi just listened patiently.  “About the time you were born, there was quite an earthquake on this side of Elvidor.  It’s said that even the waters of Lake Calm rippled that day.  People’s homes were destroyed, and the King at that time, Raza, who is the father of the late King Alomar, was besieged with requests for help.  Not from me.  I had another plan.  I survived the quake on my own.  I went to the black market, looking for amethyst, because I believed—and still do—that it contains the secret for turning iron to gold.  The black market was thriving as thieves sought to make a killing in the chaos following the earthquake, when other shops were destroyed.  Buyers and sellers and every charlatan and cutpurse in Paragatha swarmed to the black market bazaars that popped up.

“I did not find an amethyst.  The chance of finding the right one was a long shot anyhow, but I thought maybe a substitute…it doesn’t matter.  I gave up on riches long ago.  Regardless, there was a certain little gypsy man who made a living challenging people with a simple shell game.  I won’t forget his name—it was Tinkle.  ‘Like the bell on my hat’ he would say with a wink.

“Tinkle pulled me aside as I was leaving, like he normally did, only he wasn’t interested in challenging me to a wager.  Instead he said ‘Tomas, have a look at this.’  He showed me the ring.  ‘Thirty gold pieces and it’s yours.  I know you’ve an eye for jewelry and pretty stuff.  You know whose this was?’

“Of course I didn’t have thirty gold pieces, but as I looked at it, I recalled the picture and the description.   ‘I believe I do.  That ring once belonged to Karwin, who some called The Short.’

“Well, Tinkle just looked at me with wide eyes.  ‘Not many would know that, Tomas.  I knew
you
would appreciate this ring.  Like I said, thirty pieces of gold, and you can claim it for yourself.’”

Magi found a second wind, engrossed by the story.  “How did some gypsy in a black market get the ring, old man?”

“Grave robbers, crypt thieves.  A lot of rocks that blocked tombs were moved and broken during the quake, and opportunists abound in such an environment.  We live in a Dark World, my son.  Your own father frequented black markets looking for stolen goods, so I’m not holding myself out.  I’m no saint.  I handed you over to be raised by strangers to try and save my wife’s and my own life.  And even there, I failed.”  He broke down, sobbing.

Magi didn’t move, he just stared at his old man in silence, listening to soft cries and some mumbling.  He finally cleared his throat after a minute.  “Magi, I’m sorry.  So much to tell you.  But to finish the story of the ring…I don’t know whether Tinkle robbed the grave or bought it from someone else who robbed it, but I cast a spell to knock a vase above his head onto him while he was wearing it, and the vase wouldn’t fall on him.  That was good enough for me.

“If it was really Karwin’s ring of magical protection, it was worth a hundred times more than his price.  The gypsy had no idea what the ring did; he was trading on its value as a warlord’s ring, hoping to impress some fool, which he took me for.  I made him a counter-offer.  ‘Instead of thirty gold pieces, how about an unlimited amount of gold?’ I said.  I offered to rig his shell game so that the tiny ball would become invisible if he tapped twice on the cup it was really underneath.  He could tap on all the cups for all I care, but the tapping would activate a short illusion that would make the ball underneath invisible.  It was a bit tricky, and he had to use the same cup, ball, and table every time to get the concealment to work, but it did.  He agreed to trade the ring for the bit of magic, believing it would always allow him to win.”

Tomas began to shake his head.  “It was a death sentence I gave him, but he was too dim to realize it.  When I visited the
market a month later, someone told me he had been killed by a mercenary.  Run through with a sword, accused of cheating.  I had effectively killed him, son.  My first murder.”

Magi shrugged his shoulders, again out of habit, forgetting the pointlessness of non-verbal communication with
his father.  He then added, “Your first murder.  I can’t wait to hear about the next.  But you had the ring.”

Tomas sighed again.  “But I had the ring.  When I came home and showed it to Jaz, I tested it further and knew it was Karwin’s.  For one, it was huge—the old dwarf must have had thick, meaty little fingers.”  He smiled at the recollection.  “Like I mentioned, that was when I added my own little bit of magic to the object: I created a spell that would resize it to fit the wearer’s finger.  I felt better about adding a little magic to the ring th
an I did taking it to a common smitty to rework the silver band, that’s for sure.  That was how I knew it wouldn’t fall off your hand when I slipped it on to you, provided you couldn’t feel it and take it off yourself as a babe.  Just a tiny bit of my magic embedded in the band to go with Quixatalor’s powerful magic in the stone.  I was so proud of that ring, son.  As I said…it was my most prized possession.  And now it’s gone.”  He sighed mournfully and held up his empty cup.  “Just one more, son?”