The Last Enchanter (11 page)

Marcus turned to the window overlooking a grove of trees. From the open pane he could hear the sounds of construction hidden from view by a wide, stone parapet. Marcus leaned out the window, straining to catch a glimpse of the navy's new ships. He could just make out a few sails.

“Perhaps we could arrange a tour of the Fortress.” Zyll's voice was cheerful.

Marcus would have preferred that the old enchanter felt as resentful as he did—or at least a little annoyed.

“I doubt Kelvin will have the time,” he said. “Too busy with his royal duties, you know.”

“Now, Marcus, jealousy is unattractive and not at all suitable to you.”

“Me? Jealous of Kelvin? I don't think so.”

A sound came from Xerxes that Marcus could swear was a chuckle.

“Well, if you were jealous,” said Xerxes, “no one could blame you. He is not quite a year older than you, yet it was he whom Fredric invited to court and he who has inherited the throne.”

Marcus was about to offer a snide comeback when Zyll spoke up. “Kelvin bears a heavy burden for one so young. I would not envy him if I were you.”

Marcus stood back from the window and glanced at Zyll, who was unpacking Marcus's belongings into a cedar chest.

“I suppose you're right,” he said. “I shouldn't be jealous of Kelvin. He may have an entire kingdom, but thanks to you I've got everything I ever wanted.”

Zyll glanced up for only a moment before turning back to the chest, but in that moment Marcus saw a smile beneath the old man's whiskers.

“My room is across the hall,” said Zyll, folding Marcus's blanket and laying it inside the chest with the other items. He then went to the door. “I am a bit stiff after that long journey and am in need of a good night's sleep. If you need anything at all, just shout. Xerxes will be sure to hear you,” he added with a sly wink.

Once alone, Marcus sat down on the bed, bouncing a little. Then he lay down and rubbed his palms across the
smooth silk. The cot in his small cottage in Quendel was all he'd ever known and was comfortable enough for him, but now, cradled in luxury, he could hardly recall a single night he'd spent there.

Marcus closed his eyes and imagined himself drifting on a cloud across a clear, blue sky. It was as if the air itself held him aloft. It was the most pleasurable sensation he had ever felt. But then his thoughts turned to Kelvin, who surely had a bed like this one, maybe even bigger, and would never have to sleep on a cot again, or hunt for his own food, or sweep out the chimney, or slop the pigs. He tried to picture Kelvin dressed in his royal robes taking Agnes the goat for her morning walk across the pasture, mud and stickers clinging to his hem. Marcus stifled a laugh at the image, and as he drifted off to sleep, a smile remained on his lips.

Thirty-one

D
okur awoke with merchants' wagons rolling into town behind sluggish oxen. They came from all over the Isle of Imaness. Dokur, the island's only port city, was the hub of trade, where price of even the smallest piece of the precious Celestine crystal was high. At one time, the stones had become almost common, but since Fredric had shut down the mine and freed the Agoran slaves, the well of Celestine had dried up—and the demand for it had grown.

Lael stood outside the Seafarer Tavern and watched as the colorful tents of the marketplace were raised. By the time the sun had come into full view over the horizon, Dokur was wide-awake.

Lael stepped forward and was instantly swept into the crowd. She set her jaw and wore a serious expression. She had no intention of being taken for granted here. She meant business and hoped to get that point across to everyone she might meet.

She didn't have any specific destination in mind as she walked the narrow paths between the tents. Her goal was to find her mother, not that she expected the task to be as easy as stumbling on her by accident here (though perhaps she did entertain a childish wish that very thing might happen). No, she would first need to find out who had taken her and where his path might have led.

Lael paused beside a produce vendor selling vegetables from wide, shallow wooden boxes. It was possible that her mother was no longer on Imaness at all, but Lael had to start somewhere, and Dokur was as good a place as any.

“Pardon me,” said Lael to the man behind the display. He was counting out radishes for a woman with a baby in her arms.

“Tomatoes are in back,” the man barked, “so the children can't bruise them.”

Pouring the handful of little, red roots into the woman's basket, he accepted her coin and nodded a quick thanks before turning to Lael.

“I'm not here for tomatoes,” said Lael.

“No?” asked the man.

“I am looking for a woman. A slave.”

The man snickered, and his long, pointy nose and pinched cheeks reminded Lael of the rats that often raided
her fields back home. “You are awfully young to be a master of slaves,” he said. “What do you need one for, anyway? To be your nursemaid and tuck you into bed at night?”

His nose twitched when he talked, and Lael imagined a stone striking him between the eyes, a direct hit from her sling. No more difficult than hitting those rats.

Lael moved on, carefully observing each face that passed by as if one of them might reveal some hidden truth that would lead her to her mother. Maybe, too, she hoped she might recognize the man who had taken her those many years ago when Lael was a small girl—the man who came through Quendel looking for workers willing to sell their lives in exchange for enough gold to pay their debts.

Lael's memory of that day was rough at best. She was a girl of five years, still much in need of her mother's care. That afternoon her parents argued over supper. What the argument was about Lael didn't know, but it had ended when her father stormed out of their house. Lael's mother had held her and kissed her for a long, long time. Then, with tears streaming down her face (How many wasted hours had Lael spent trying to remember that face!), her mother placed ten gold coins on their table and walked out their front door. Lael had run to the back window and seen her mother join a man on the road behind their house. They walked away together. Her mother never looked back.

Lael had tried for years to understand why her mother left. The only explanation she had came later from her father: The man was a slave merchant from Dokur, and Lael's mother had sold herself to pay the mortgage on
their farm. That was all Lael would ever know about that day and about the man who took her mother away from her. Now, standing among hundreds of nameless faces, she realized any one of them could have been that merchant, and she would never be able to recognize him.

“Are you lost, child?”

The voice was familiar, and Lael glanced up. The merchant woman whose tent had collapsed the day before stood in front of her, dozens of amulets dangling from her arm. The gems were dazzling in the sunlight, and their beauty set Lael at ease.

“I'm searching for someone, actually,” Lael replied. “I'm trying to locate a slave collector.”

“Ah,” said the woman, nodding. “There is someone who might be able to help you. Brommel is an old friend of mine. He knows much about those things.”

“Brommel? Could you tell me where to find him?”

“He isn't here,” the woman said. Lael felt disappointed, but the woman continued. “You'll find him in the shadows.”

“The shadows? What do you mean?”

The woman gently grasped Lael's arm and turned her. “There, in the darkness,” she said, pointing toward the older, battle-scarred part of the city.

“But how will I know him?”

The woman smiled, her expression surprisingly tender. Lael couldn't help but smile back.

“How will you know Brommel?” the woman said with a gentle laugh. “Trust me. You can't
not
know him.”

The woman turned away and was quickly swallowed up in the mass of people. Lael rubbed her arm where the woman had held her. The spot was warm. Finding someone in the shadows, in the darkness. How absurd! But as she let her eyes wander through the crowd, Lael saw something that made her pause.

Across the town square, Lael noticed a narrow strip between two rows of buildings. The roofs were too close together for the sunlight to penetrate. It must be the darkness, the shadows the woman spoke of.

Lael started forward through the crowd, intent on reaching that dark place as soon as possible. She did not notice the stranger following close behind her.

Thirty-two

M
arcus was up before dawn, his stomach grumbling too much to sleep anymore. The night before, he and Zyll had been ushered into a great hall with a long dining table laid with gold utensils and crystal plates. The linens were fine silk, and gold candlesticks adorned each end of the table. At first, Marcus was impressed by all the finery, but when they were told they would be dining alone, Marcus lost his appetite. He had hoped to spend the evening with Kelvin, but apparently the new king was still too busy.

There was a loud rap at his door. “Sir, I have been sent to bring you and your grandfather to the kitchen,” said the voice from the other side.

Marcus dressed quickly and stepped into the hall where Zyll and the attendant were already waiting. The rumbling in Marcus's stomach was loud enough to be heard. Then he realized he could hear Zyll's stomach as well.

“Breakfast,” said Marcus, rubbing his hands together. “I could eat a whole rack of bacon and a dozen eggs all by myself.”

Xerxes clicked his beak. “Gluttony becomes no man,” he said. Though no one but Marcus and Zyll could hear Xerxes, the walking stick's remark was still irritating. Marcus chose to ignore him.

The royal kitchen was larger than Marcus could ever have imagined. His entire cottage in Quendel could fit easily inside. A large man with a plump, pink face met them at the door.

“Ah, you have arrived just in time for breakfast,” said the man whose chins jiggled as he spoke. “Come with me.”

“Finally,” Marcus whispered to Zyll. “I'm starving.”

“Can you think of nothing but your stomach?” chided Xerxes.

Zyll leaned close to Xerxes and whispered, “I think this would be a good time for you to sleep.”

“And if I choose not to?” asked Xerxes.

“Then I will take you back to our room and leave you there for the remainder of the day.”

After that, Xerxes remained silent.

The man led Marcus and Zyll to a wide, iron stove on which sat a kettle of simmering liquid.

“You, Zip,” he said, indicating Zyll, “shall prepare his
majesty's morning tea. And you, Martin,” he added, pointing a sausage-like finger at Marcus, “will bake the biscuits.”

Marcus scowled, but the chef ignored him.

“I, Val, the island's most talented chef, will make a most delectable cream gravy for His Majesty's meal.”

Marcus stared at the man, his mouth agape. “You mean we're here to
make
breakfast?”

Val the chef opened a nearby drawer and tossed two cotton aprons to Marcus and Zyll.

“Chancellor Prost told me last night I would have two new assistants. I expect you here each morning an hour before His Majesty's breakfast and again an hour before dinner. You will have each afternoon off as I prepare His Majesty's lunch myself. If you are late or fail to obey my orders, you will be imprisoned. Have I made myself clear?”

Marcus and Zyll exchanged glances.

“Very clear,” said Zyll.

“Couldn't be more clear,” said Marcus.

“Now,” continued Val, “I must collect the ingredients for the gravy. I will return shortly.”

Val whirled on his heels and trotted off toward the pantry. After finding a safe place for Xerxes in the corner, Zyll pulled the apron over his head and tied it in back. On the counter beside Marcus sat a lump of dough on a floured board. Marcus poked it with the tip of his finger, leaving a dent in its side.

“‘I will offer my services to your brother.' Is this what you had in mind when you said that?” Marcus asked angrily.

“We are here in the Fortress and are near Kelvin,” replied Zyll, taking a ladle from a rack and dipping it into the kettle. “That was our plan.”

“Our plan was to protect him from whoever murdered Fredric. So explain to me how answering to Val is going to help us do that.”

Zyll lifted the ladle to his lips and took a sip of the tea. Then he took a canister from a nearby shelf and sprinkled some of its contents into the kettle.

“Patience, my boy. Patience,” he said, adding one last dash from the canister before replacing it on the shelf. Then he gave a sly smile and winked at Marcus. Marcus rolled his eyes and groaned as he yanked his apron over his head. He pulled back his elbow as far as he could and rolled his fingers into a tight fist. Then, using every ounce of strength he could muster, he plowed his fist into the lump of dough.

Thirty-three

L
ael slipped into the narrow path between the two rows of buildings. It reminded her of the narrowest passages of Vrystal Canyon, except here the sunlight did not penetrate at all. She held out her arms and touched both walls. The wood was spongy with moisture.