The Wizard King (2 page)

Rob lifted his chin an inch, revealing a pair of morose blue eyes framed by a mass of black curls. “We don’t have enough money to play cards, if that’s what you’re wanting. Try one o’ the others.” Rob sniffed at his wine and took a sip, bloodshot eyes widening in response. “But if you’ve got the coin for stuff like this, ain’t nobody here with the money to take a game with you.”

Couric smiled indulgently. “I’m not looking for a card game, Rob. Yes, the barmaid told me your name. Yours, too, Dickon.” He leaned forward, forearms resting on his thighs, and lowered his voice markedly. “I’m looking for something far more interesting than a card game.” He took a thoughtful taste of wine and rolled it around his tongue for a moment, swallowing leisurely before dropping his voice down to a whisper. “I’m looking for wizards.”

Couric’s disclosure sobered his companion quicker than if he had lit the boy’s trews on fire. Rob’s face was utterly guileless; had anyone not suspected what he was, his reaction to the accusation brandished it for all the world to see. Dickon lurched protectively in front of his young brother, eyes blazing with indignation, while Rob jerked to his feet, ready to bolt for his life. Unfortunately, Rob moved more quickly than the beer he’d drunk would allow; a wave of nausea overtook him and he crumpled into a puddle of stale beer on the floor, his eyes squeezed tightly closed as he clutched his head in abject misery.

Dickon gave Couric a rude shove backward. “I don’t know what you’re up to, friend, but I’ll be damned if I’ll let you go about insultin’ my brother like that.” His voice was barely above a whisper, but it shook with fear-induced rage.

“What’s the trouble there, Dickon?” a man at the next table called out. He scanned the subtle embroidery edging the collar of Couric’s rust-colored tunic and belched his opinion of it. “This peacock ‘ere botherin’ you?”

Couric refrained from rolling his eyes at the absurdity of the insult; he was only thought a peacock because his clothes were not soiled and riddled with holes, his face was reasonably clean-shaven, and his nails were not crusted with a half-year’s worth of grime. But the man’s pointed words did not go unnoticed by his companions at the gaming table; all five laid down their cards and turned to stare, sensing that the tension between Dickon and his well-dressed friend was the harbinger of an eagerly awaited skirmish. Couric didn’t think the men had heard anything of importance, but the last thing he wanted right now was to draw undue attention to himself. Fortunately, it was the last thing Dickon wanted, too.

“N-no, no. He’s… I know him,” Dickon stammered. “Go on back to your game.”

“And pay closer attention to it if you don’t want to lose every coin you’ve got,” Couric advised, gesturing indistinctly to the other men seated at the pockmarked table. “Somebody just tried to slip you a deuce instead of a knave.”

Whipping his eyes back to the table, the man snatched up his cards and howled in drunken indignation at the crime. In the space of a single heartbeat, Couric and his offending tunic were forgotten and a bloody six-man fistfight was well under way. Couric’s thin lips curved up in satisfaction as he turned his back to the brawl.
Remarkable how easily these Caithans are duped by a simple spell of illusion…

Dickon, however, was not so easily diverted and gave Couric another shove toward the door. “Now get your arse out of here before I—”

“Leave him be, Dickon,” Rob murmured from behind him. He struggled back onto his stool, rubbing dejectedly at a foul-smelling blotch of grime on the knee of his trews.

“Why should I? Hell, Rob, the man’s a damned liar!”

Rob’s only reply was a lengthy stretch of eloquent silence.

As Dickon slowly turned to face his brother, the outrage on his face was transformed to barely concealed terror. “But you told me it was all because Belle married the saddler’s son. You said—”

“It was for your own good, idiot,” Rob snapped as he massaged his throbbing temples. “What was I supposed to say? That I thought I was a—” He broke off just before uttering the damning word, then continued more softly. “Thought I was one of them? That could’ve gotten the whole family killed. At best we would have lost what little land we’ve got. And at worst…”

The mere mention of such a fate sent Dickon’s eyes darting rapidly around the common room in search of black-robed priests. “God’s grace, man, don’t look so confounded guilty!” Couric roughly turned him around and prodded him back into the darkened alcove under the stairs. “Just sit down and hear me out. I’m sure you’ll both be very interested in what I have to offer.”

Then, moving his lips only slightly, Couric laid a light spell of sobriety over the hapless Rob. It was only a temporary solution—the boy would simply feel the effects of his beer later rather than now—but at least he would remember the rest of the night’s conversation. When Rob’s nausea mysteriously passed, he refocused his artless blue eyes and studied Couric again. His fear wasn’t gone, but it was subdued. Dickon, however, remained wary and kept his eyes securely locked on Couric as if expecting that the wizard might change himself into a flesh-eating demon at the slightest opportunity.

“How did you know?” Rob asked simply. “About me, that is.”

“Your symptoms aren’t very advanced, but they’re far enough along so that I can tell what you are,” Couric replied. The dispute at the next table had escalated, and he swiftly ducked a dented tin cup that whizzed past his ear and crashed into the wooden slats behind him. He had to speak louder than he liked to make himself heard over the shouts and curses of the combatants. “There’s nothing for you to fear from me. Why would I turn you in to the Tribunal when I’m a wizard myself?”

“You—?” Rob’s brows arched their surprise for a moment, then knitted themselves tightly together. “Well, I can’t say as you look much like a Justice.”

Couric’s nostrils flared in abhorrence. “I most certainly am not.”

“Justices are the only ones who come looking for wizards on purpose,” Dickon pointed out. “To kill them.” Every muscle in his limbs was taut as a bowstring, his whole body poised to bolt at the slightest whiff of danger.

“Oh, I don’t want to kill them,” Couric assured the two brothers, shaking his head. He settled back against the wall and his eyes glittered like stars in the shadows beneath the stairs. “I want to hire them.”

The brothers both blinked in perfect unison, unable to believe that they had heard him correctly. Then Dickon’s blank stare shifted to overt suspicion. “You one o’ the princess’ men?” he challenged brusquely. “Folks in the city don’t hold kindly to her these days. Word is she tried to kill the king. Done it by witchin’ her other brother, Prince Nicolas.”

Couric fought to suppress a bubble of contented laughter. The Sage had accomplished many things during his eight-year rule on the Isle of Sare, but
that
turn of events had been a stroke of genius. Over the past year, Athaya Trelane had emerged as the undisputed leader of the Lorngeld on mainland Caithe, beseeching them to defy the laws forbidding the practice of magic and to turn their backs on the Church-sanctioned rite of absolution. But since she proved unwilling to extend her influence into backing a rebellion against Caithe’s king—professing that it was only the laws she wanted to eliminate and not the king himself—the Sage of Sare sought to discredit her among her own people. Granted, the spell he placed upon Nicolas had failed—Durek had not taken a single sip of the poison the prince had offered him—but the damage was done just the same. Athaya had been blamed, thus paving the way for the Sage to replace her in the hearts of Caithe’s disaffected masses when the time came.

If he doesn’t destroy himself before he gets here
. The unwanted thought slithered into Couric’s mind and lingered there as he remembered his master’s condition on the day he sailed for Caithe. The Sage had assured his people that he had studied the dangers of the sealing spell quite thoroughly and that a certain amount of sickness—and yes, insanity—was to be expected. But if Couric was any judge, Brandegarth was suffering the imprisonment of his magic far more than he ever intended, and the spell could very well kill him before the prearranged date for his release. Whatever additional spells his master sought to obtain by the ordeal, Couric seriously doubted they were worth such awful risk.

“Yes, I’ve heard of the princess’ escapades,” Couric replied evenly, careful not to betray any of his own misgivings. “But in truth, I’ve never laid eyes on Athaya Trelane in my life. I obey another master—a wizard of far greater power and loftier vision than your renegade princess.” Couric shifted his gaze to Rob. “He can do great things for you—for all of us—if you and others like you will help him.”

“Help him how? My family’s farm… it’s all I know.”

Just as Couric started to answer, the barmaid was at his side, bending low to refill his cup—and to provide a generous view of her breasts. Couric jumped when she spoke; he hadn’t realized she was so close.

“Anything else I can get for you?” she asked, her eyes silently informing him that far more was available for his purchase than simple food and wine. This time, however, Couric sensed that she was looking for something more—that she was probing him for an answer to some unspoken question. Though feigning the same breezy wantonness, her manner had an edge of coolness to it… and an imperceptible measure of fear.

“No, not just yet, thank you.”

She shrugged and sauntered away without further argument, her gaze brushing lightly over Dickon and Rob. As she left, two of the men involved in the fistfight, now busily wrestling on the floor, rolled into her and sent her spiraling into an empty table. Mouthing a curse, she tipped the dregs from her flagon onto their heads.

“As I was saying,” Couric continued, “my master means to rule in Caithe and we need to gather an army to take it. He is coming, friends. Soon. Those who support him in his task will be richly rewarded; those who do not will perish.”

“A-are you asking me to turn against the king?” Rob asked, mouthing the words rather than daring even to whisper them.

“The king and his laws will kill you for being a wizard,” Couric replied matter-of-factly. “Is that the sort of man you owe allegiance to? Stay loyal to him and the best you’ll get out of it is a hasty absolution service.”

Fear flared anew in Rob’s eyes, and Couric quickly used it to his advantage. “Is that what you want? Your friends and family gathered in church to watch you drink a cup of poison, the lot of you convinced that it’s some sort of sacrament? Yes, I know, I’ve heard the whole speech—your priests say that our powers come from the Devil and that we can’t defeat him except by giving our lives back to God.” Couric snorted indelicately. “Your priests also say that a man can’t lead a pious life unless he keeps his breeches on day and night, and I’ve never seen the sense in that, either.

“Athaya Trelane promises what? Life—a thing you have already! My master promises wealth and power and the homage owed to us as stewards of this world.” As one of the Sage’s most trusted servants, Couric’s eyes gleamed with the knowledge that his share in this glorious future would not be small. “And if you want to turn your back on absolution and accept what you are, why should you join Athaya? Her people almost starved to death this past winter, and I doubt they’re much better off now. And since they refuse to fight for what they want, they’re all but asking the Tribunal to come and slaughter them! But the Sage can offer you food and money and a warm bed to sleep in—not a tent in the woods and a ball of pemmican for your dinner.”

Couric knew Rob was interested, judging by how silent and attentive he’d become. Lofty concepts were all well and good, but it was the simple things like food and shelter that would win the masses to the Sage’s side.

“The Sage’s people won’t sit back and do nothing,” he went on, luring Rob into a web of glory. “Our army will take what we deserve. The Sage has hundreds of well-trained wizards at his command—wizards who have been working their spells since before Athaya Trelane was ever born! Our powers make us special, Rob—not cursed. We’re better than other men and our place is to rule over them. It is God’s will. It is the reason our magic was given to us.”

Dickon made a rumbling sound in the back of his throat. “Now wait just one minute—”

“Perhaps ‘better’ isn’t the right term,” Couric added quickly, aware that he had waxed a bit too poetic in the presence of an unblessed man. And he had no wish to lose Rob by casting indirect aspersions upon his brother. “But we
are
different. The Lorngeld are graced with a special gift—a gift that is also found among the saints and angels… and to a far greater extent, in the good Lord Himself. Princess Athaya may be a wizard, but she refuses to believe in the sanctity of her own people. She is not worthy to lead us, Rob. The Sage
is.
”

Couric ended his sermon then, aware that Rob would need time to chew on everything he’d been told. Beside him, Dickon scowled in profound confusion. Princess Athaya had preached the sanctity of magic all along, but Couric suspected that Dickon was having trouble putting theory into practice. Believing that magic comes from God is one thing, but seeing his younger brother as some sort of heavenly incarnation was something else again.

Rob opened his mouth to ask something when Couric realized that the tavern had fallen eerily silent; so silent that he heard the rumble of a man’s stomach from the opposite side of the room. The bloodied brawlers halted their fistfight in mid-blow, and even the woodsmoke stopped swirling in the air above their heads. Warily, Couric glanced over his shoulder. Each man and woman in the common room had gone rigid as a stone gargoyle, as if it were the king and his full entourage rather than a slender priest and two armed bodyguards that stood silhouetted in the doorway in silent tableau. One of the guards licked his lips hungrily, as if he were planning to devour his prey rather than merely arrest it.

The priest’s eyes scanned the room, scraping an unforgiving gaze over it like a dull razor. The black surcoat emblazoned with the blood-red chalice of absolution clearly marked him as a Justice of the Tribunal. Spotting Couric and his two companions, he slowly inched his way toward them, stepping cautiously over globs of wax, puddles of spilled beer, and chunks of moldy food. The others mouthed prayers of relief as this angel of death passed by, and after an encompassing glare from the priest that bade them all attend to their own business, they went nervously back to their drinks and games, though in a far more subdued fashion than before.