The Tiger's Eye (Book 1) (6 page)

“Yes, yes,” the guard interrupted, his disinterest readily
apparent. “You’ve had your look-see, now move on. It is not wise to hover near
the inner wall.”

“Really?” Angus asked. “Then perhaps you can direct me to
someone who has knowledge of its construction? I may wish to visit with him
about it tomorrow.”

The guardsman shrugged. “The stone mason’s guild might know
something,” he said. “They’re in the southern quarter.”

“Surely there is a library?”

“What’s a library?” one of the other guards asked his
companion. “Is it dangerous?”

The second guard nodded, “Very,” he said. “I hear it’s a place
where dragons sleep.”

Their leader half-turned and snapped, “Quiet!”

As one, their hands went to their sword hilts, their feet
came together, their backs straightened, and their jaws clenched.

“A library is only dangerous to those who fear it,” Angus said
to the guard who had posed the question. “It is a source of knowledge. Books,
scrolls, maps—”

“Never mind that,” their leader interrupted. “You won’t be
able to gain access to the library. It’s in there,” he nodded through the wall,
“and no one is allowed into The Sanctum without invitation.”

“Ah,” Angus said. “That is unfortunate. Perhaps you could
arrange such an invitation for me?”

“No,” he said. “We have tarried too long, here. We must
continue our patrol, and you—” he paused. “Where is your destination?” he
asked.

“Fenbrooke’s Inn,” Angus said without thought.

“Fenbrooke’s?” The guardsman’s eyes narrowed and his hand
inched toward his sword hilt. He looked closely at Angus for the first time,
and asked, “What business do you have there?”

“Food and lodging,” Angus said without hesitation.

The guardsman continued studying him for a few more seconds,
and then relaxed a bit. “Have you been to Wyrmwood before?” he asked. “I feel
as though we’ve met.”

“Doubtful,” Angus replied. “This is my first visit to Wyrmwood.”

“Hey Jasper!” a shadowy figure shouted down from the top of
the wall. “Is there a problem?”

The guardsman looked up and shouted, “No problems, Landon.
He was just leaving.” Then he turned to Angus and said, “Weren’t you?”

“Yes,” Angus said. “I suppose I was. It’s too dark to
inspect the wall more carefully, anyway. Perhaps tomorrow it will reveal its
secrets to me?”

The guardsman lingered for a long moment, nodded toward the
south, and said, “Fenbrooke’s is that way.”

Angus smiled, nodded, and said, “Thank you—Jasper is it?”

Jasper nodded.

“I’ll be on my way, then, Jasper.” Angus turned and made his
way around the wall until he was almost to the southern quarter. But instead of
entering it, he turned west and worked his way through a tangle of lamplit
streets and shadow-encrusted alleys until he was standing across from
Fenbrooke’s Inn. It was a three story building built from whitewashed block and
mortar. A sign—a beer stein dripping on a pillow—jutted out over the front
door. Music—the strident strains of a playful jaunt being strummed on a harp
and accompanied by the lilting whistles of a flute and the steady thumping beat
of a drum—escaped through the front door and flung itself toward him, as if it
were trying to charm him into submission.

Angus frowned. Bards were known to use magic…. He
concentrated for a few seconds before dismissing his concern. None of the
nearby strands of magic were acting as if they were being manipulated. The
music may be entrancing, but it wasn’t the result of magic; it was just a
vibrant, lively tune to lure in customers. He half-smiled, left the shadows of
the alley—ignoring the other two shadows still lurking there—and made his way
across the street and into the front door. He stopped and surveyed the room
before him.

Twelve tables. The flautist, harpist, and drummer were on a
raised platform in the far corner. Three barmaids bustled among the patrons
with platters full of food and drink. Thirty-two patrons, six of whom were
clearly disreputable—bandits? ruffians? thieves? Nine more were suspicious;
they sat with their backs to the wall and were only pretending to enjoy the
music while their eyes roamed the crowd. Three of them studied him closely
without appearing to do so, and he smiled, nodded slightly to each one—an
almost imperceptible tilt of his head to the right. Then he purposefully moved
up to the bar and sat down with his back to them all, knowing there was no more
serious insult he could make. He ordered food and wine, and requested a room
for the night. When he finished his meal, he got up and made his way to his
room.

It was a small room, the standard fare of the inns he had
visited on his way to Hellsbreath. Mattress—straw, grass, feathers; they were
all the same and much too soft—small table, candle or lamp, water pitcher,
basin, chamber pot, coverlet (always warm, sometimes infested with lice or
bedbugs), and a lock that could be set from the inside. Some of the rooms, like
this one, had a window with shutters; others did not. Some had a chair or two,
but others, like this one, did not. Usually the innkeeper brought in a
half-loaf of bread, cheese, dried meat, or something else to snack on in the
morning, emptied the chamber pot, and made sure he was out of the room early
enough to pretend to clean it for the next customer. Sometimes, like this one,
the inn had thieves who tried to rob him.

He would be ready for them when they came.

They knew he would be ready, but they would come anyway.

Just before Angus went to bed, he brought the magic around
him into focus, aligned it with the magic within him, and selected a light,
airy thread with a faint-but-noticeable red tint. It was a weak thread, perhaps
near the end of its influence, but it would still serve his purpose. He wove it
into a quick series of simple knots, and a small, yellowish, glowing orb
appeared in his palm, not quite bright enough to overwhelm the candle. He
guided it with his hand until it slipped under the dull, gray, wool coverlet
and then intensified it. He left it beside his backpack—no sense making it easy
for them to take his spells—and walked to the table to extinguish the candle.
The room was dark; not even a wisp of light bled through the coverlet. He made
his way back to the mattress and slid under the coverlet. For a brief moment, a
dazzling light lit up the room, but it only lasted long enough for him to crawl
beneath the coverlet. The orb was warm, which surprised him, even though it
shouldn’t have been surprising at all: flame magic always generated heat, even
with the simple Lamplight spell. But he had never noticed it before because he
was always too focused on reading Voltari’s books or scrolls to pay attention
to the little globe of energy floating over his left shoulder, and he had
always kept the light diffuse. But this time, he needed it to be as bright as
the sun on a clear day, and that meant concentrating the power into a smaller
orb—and more heat in a smaller space.

He used his hand to nudge the Lamplight into a more
comfortable position and rested.

Still the body.

Still the mind.

Still the body.

Still the mind.

His muscles relaxed and his mind became acutely focused.

Still the body.

His senses screamed at him, detecting every minor
disturbance within range.

Still the mind.

His awareness narrowed, cordoning off the faint music,
laughter, and merriment rising up from the common room and sending it away.

Still the body.

His breathing subsided to soft, slow, long draughts, and his
heartbeat fluttered softly in his chest.

Still the mind.

He sent them out of his awareness, flinging the little
scraping sounds of the rodent scurrying in the wall with it.

Still the body.

He tasted the faint, pungency sneaking out through a crack
in the chamber pot lid and rid himself of it.

Still the mind.

The coverlet was rough, its tiny, hair-like fuzz crawling
along the bare skin of his wrist, his hand, his neck. He shifted his position
slightly and sent it away.

Still the body.

He catalogued and dismissed all of the normal sounds and
smells, and focused his attention on what remained.

Silence.

Emptiness.

He had no idea how long he waited in the trancelike state
before he heard it, the nearly silent scrape of a blade lifting the window
shutter’s latch. It was a daring maneuver; Angus’s room was on the second
floor, and there weren’t any ledges beneath the window; there was only the thin
indentation left behind when the mortar between the stone blocks had shrunk as
it dried. He half-smiled—and quickly dismissed the intrusion.

Still the mind.

Prepare the body.

The shutter slid softly outward and settled quietly against
the outer wall. A blade slid under the window, pried it from the sill….

Prepare the mind.

A muffled thud as a soft-soled boot lightly touched the
floor.

Prepare the body.

A near-silent footfall.

Patience….

Another.

Now!

Angus closed his eyes and threw the coverlet off him.

A gasp, but no scream.

Discipline!
Angus felt for the heat of the orb and
lifted it from the mattress, guiding it toward the muffled noises as the thief
hastily backtracked. He squinted, tried to ignore the glare, and rolled off the
mattress into a crouch. The orb followed his hand as if the two had been glued
together.

The thief had his left arm over his eyes and thrust a knife
out with his right hand, slashing back and forth in wide defensive arcs as he
quickly backed up.

Angus slid to his right, watching the rhythmic slashing of
the knife. He waited until it was the furthest away from him, and then leapt
toward the thief, rising sharply as his momentum propelled him forward. As he
passed the thief, he attached the Lamplight to the thief’s left temple, just
above the eyes.

The thief turned toward him, the knife jabbing out—

Angus dropped to the floor and rolled beneath the wild
flailing.

The thief backed into the wall, grabbing at his eyes and
waving his knife.

“I suggest,” Angus said from where he squatted near a
corner, “you drop that knife. Unless you want the blindness to become
permanent?”

When he heard Angus’s voice, the thief turned and the wild
slashes melted into half-offensive, probing ones. He remained that way for
several seconds before finally dropping the knife.

“Stand with your legs and arms spread wide against the
wall,” Angus said. He brought the magical energy into focus and prepared to
grab a deep, brick-red strand—a powerful one with a great deal of flame held
within it.

The thief complied slowly, keeping his eyes crammed shut and
his fists clenched. He was very young, with only the barest whisper of a black
moustache tickling his upper lip and a few hairs dabbled on his chin. His hair
was short, little more than half-inch-long black stubble barely visible against
the black lining of his light gray cloak and the soft brown of his smooth skin.
He was scrawny—a fine quality for a thief—thin and gangly, well-muscled, wiry.
Along with the reversible cloak, he had on supple light brown leather
garments—tunic, trousers, boots, belt—that no doubt twisted and bent with him
when he was contorting his body into different positions. There were several
small pouches hanging from the interior of his cloak, probably containing
picks, wires, string—anything that might come in handy while he was practicing
his trade.

Angus stood up and took a step forward. “If you resist,” he
said, approaching the thief with caution, “I will increase the intensity of the
spell.” He half-smiled at the half-truth, and then finished, his voice soft,
unforgiving. “It will get
much
warmer, and the blindness will become
permanent—
If
you survive.”

“Please don’t,” the thief said, his voice a low, steady
tenor. “I won’t resist.”

“What shall I call you?” Angus asked from a few feet in
front of him. “Your real name,” he added, “not an alias.”

The thief frowned for a long moment, and then said,
“Giorge.”

“Well, Giorge,” he said. “I am going to search you. Don’t
worry,” he added, smiling. “I’m not going to take anything.” He paused and
said, meaningfully, “I am not a thief.”

Angus did a thorough job of checking Giorge for hidden
weapons, mentally inventorying the thief’s gear without removing any of it.
When he was satisfied he didn’t have anything to worry about, he walked over to
the window. A rope was dangling from the roof, and he snapped it sharply,
sending ripples upward until the grapple broke free. He pulled the rope and
grapple into his room, closed the window, and latched the shutters. When he was
finished, he returned to the thief, leaned in close to his ear, and purred,
“Are you alone?”

The thief gulped and nodded.

“Good,” Angus said, detaching the Lamplight spell from
Giorge’s forehead and guiding it to the center of the room. He expanded it,
reducing its intensity so that it cast a soft glow around the room, and left it
hovering there. “Your eyes,” he told Giorge, “will begin to recover in about an
hour, but you will have difficulty seeing for the next few days.”

The thief didn’t respond or move.

“You have friends here,” Angus continued. “I saw them when I
arrived.”

Still no response.

“I assume they know you are here,” Angus continued. When
Giorge said nothing, he asked, “Do you have a room in this inn?”

The thief hesitated, decided not to respond.

“Now, now, Giorge. I could always reattach the Lamplight
spell. It is of little consequence to me one way or the other.”

“Yes,” Giorge said. “I have a room.”