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ASTOCATH AGREED THEY must ride the two hundred miles to Escavia City before the weather became much colder for comfort. More important still was to save Mordrak and King Tell’s sanity, and the preservation of Nan Enn and other cities beneath the spell. On whatever front, there was no time to lose.
Mordrak brought Tulan along with him in the hope that he would be the shield between himself and Jorlon’s attentions. Half a dozen armed and armoured men from Jorlon’s castle also followed. Mordrak wore his white armour that Tulan kept spotlessly clean. The days grew steadily colder as they rode, but all in all, Astocath predicted a relatively mild winter.
Jorlon decided he could learn much from Astocath to become a powerful wizard and contented himself with dreams towards appropriating his learning to quench Mordrak. He missed Ifhrd dearly, and although Astocath was open to teaching a surrogate, Jorlon did not really want a replacement.
Barely left long enough by the wraiths to enjoy prolonged peace of mind and assurance of hope, Mordrak was short tempered and moody in character.
***
THE WALLED CAPITAL, Escavia City, covered a single hill surrounded by flat-farmed plains. It stood aloof upon the horizon. The last step of the journey led them along a wide and busy avenue neatly lined with chestnut trees. Behind these were hedgerows and stone walls that marked the boundaries between open and strip fields. They were lavish fertile plots. The peoples’ dwellings were built of the dark grey stone prevalent in the area, making them markedly wealthier than most in the east.
As they travelled the road, passing large and small merchant caravans, groups of knights and shepherds leading their flocks, they came to the silvery waters of a wide and shallow river. Some drank from these waters, and beautiful as it was, others urinated in it; for most, the River Shining was appreciated as a practical asset rather than for the enrichment of beautiful surroundings. It was sustenance for the body, not the morning dew for the soul.
Jorlon was glad to have higher values than most common folk. Lords and ladies were to him little more than pretentious children that happened like accidents. He was not looking forward to being at the royal court with the fawning and feigning that was inevitable.
“Before we go striding up to King Tell, Mordrak,” Astocath said, “we’ll get rooms at an inn and await your arrangements for an audience.”
“Why don’t you just come along?” asked Mordrak a little impatiently.
“Because I want to be sure of what I’m letting myself in for.”
“Suit yourself. You can trust him, you know.”
“Aye, but what about his dukes and earls?”
“He handles them well enough.” Mordrak snorted.
“As may be. In the meantime, we’re finding a room at an inn.” Astocath’s insistence was sour and non-negotiable.
Mordrak looked at the henchmen. They were neat enough, travel-worn as they were, but he said, “They can stay behind. What with no heraldry and all, they’re not fit for the palace.”
“I saw to that, Mordrak. We leave no signs,” said Jorlon irately. “Why shouldn’t they come? They can’t stay in inns forever. Who foots the bill?”
“They’ve no place with palace guards,” replied Mordrak. “They’re unmarked. They’re staying behind.” Mordrak was adamant.
“With Tulan then?” demanded Jorlon.
Tulan was aghast.
Mordrak said, “No, Tulan’s with me.”
Astocath put a hand upon Tiser’s mane. “Do as the noble gentleman wants, eh?”
“Very well ... master.”
“Call me Astocath whilst we’re here. I want you as unfettered as possible for now.”
Jorlon smiled. “Very good, Astocath, venerable sage.”
“Don’t take advantage and don’t pretend to be obsequious. Is King Tell in residence, anyway?” Astocath turned his attention to Mordrak and asked with more patience than he had just shown Jorlon.
“The palace flag is flying, so I should think he is.”
They found The Blue Lantern a reasonable place to reside, and immediately Mordrak departed for the castle. The patronage was a mixed crowd, and Astocath slapped a handful of silver upon the thick, shiny bar. “Six ales, please, my good man. Two rooms and a common room for four.” He took his hand away to reveal the coin to the rotund landlord, who smiled pleasantly enough, and he began to pour ale into a huge metal jug.
Jorlon looked around nervously at all the people and sensed a certain resentment from them. The uncanny presence of wizards often upset ordinary folk, even though most of them would not know why they were unsettled as there was no reason to suppose they were wizards.
The landlord looked again at the silver, stopped pouring and inspected a coin. “Can’t accept this,” he said politely, holding the look of a disappointed vendor.
“Oh?”
Astocath was about to ask why when the landlord said, “Ain’t got the King’s head on it.”
“Oh. So what do I do about money, then?” Astocath had pilfered from Sylvendene’s coffers, but with that spent, he was reduced to spending from his own purse.
A drunkard at the bar looked around. “Work fer a livin’, as some do.” He laughed aloud at his jest, revealing a few unsightly yellow and black teeth in otherwise toothless gums.
Jorlon looked furiously at the man. The landlord reached forward and pointed a finger in the drunkard’s face. “Right you—out!”
“I paid for me room!” the man complained. “I’m not movin’!”
“Go find some company and come back when you’re sober!” the landlord ordered him.
“We’ll have his room then,” said Jorlon quickly.
“Not without money, you won’t.” The innkeeper scowled.
“I ain’t goin’ nowhere.” The drunkard was insistent and turned to face Jorlon. “Men have died for less cheek.”
Jorlon braced himself and made a grab for the drunkard's tankard.
“Let him be,” said the innkeeper. “Right—the lot of you, out!”
The company eased their way out of the inn and crowded onto the street.
“Well, I never!” Astocath’s exasperated face looked as if it were either about to break into tears or a hearty laugh. “A fine start. A fine start indeed!”
“We can get silver exchanged at the money-changers’,” suggested one of the henchmen, a lofty fellow.
“Can we now?” Astocath replied slowly. “I’ll be fleeced.”
“Aye, like enough,” he agreed, his lips pursed beneath a trim beard. His stare suggested no alternative.
“Ah well, let’s find the place before Jorlon gets us into more trouble.”
“Me?” Jorlon reacted.
Astocath had no sooner finished talking before the drunkard staggered towards them. Without wishing for trouble, they quickly moved on, but the streets were filled and progress was slow. The drunkard continued to follow them, waving his fist and shouting, “Leave my room alone, you boy! Just stay away!”
Heads were turning, and Astocath was souring. Finally, the henchman turned around and strode back towards the man. The drunkard drew his sword and stood wavering as if his weapon was overbalancing him. The henchman raised his fist as he unsheathed his own blade. People quickly moved away, and wagoneers shouted curses as pedestrians overflowed in panic onto the road.
The henchman raised his sword with a warning. “Clear off!”
The drunkard was not perturbed. He held out his fist in return, and with the motion of two fingers in the air, he taunted, “Come on, then! Come on!”
The henchman swung his sword and took the man’s fingers off. With a howl, the drunkard dropped his sword and sank to his knees, clutching his hand, trying to stem the spurting blood.
In alarm, Astocath hastened his group away as onlookers shouted and bawled, calling for the guard.
“I aimed for his sword!” The henchman cried out as he ran, trying to catch up with them as they sped around a corner.
Neither Mordrak or the mage was convinced of that, but now was not the time for fine points. “Look, let’s just get away from here,” said Astocath, “or we’ll be at the palace court afore we know it. ”
Soon they found directions to the money-changers, and having done better business than expected, Astocath hurried them to another inn, the Addled Dragon. “A fitting place by name if ever there was one, given our poor start,” he muttered. After ordering rooms for them all, he sent a guard with a message to Mordrak of their whereabouts.
Mordrak returned with a note to say General Ralphs was eager to meet Astocath, and that he had been disappointed the mage had not seen fit to come immediately. The hospitality of the palace was available to him.
“I hope Mordrak has detailed to Ralphs my requirements of the King,” said Astocath to Jorlon.
“Am I to come?” Jorlon asked more casually than he really felt, hoping for a positive answer.
“I think best not for the moment, dear boy. Sometimes we can have too many wizards together.” He gave Jorlon a paternal smile.
***
WITH ASTOCATH GONE and having taken all but one henchman, Jorlon supposed he might just as well wander the city without him. He was already bored. There were few people in the tap-room holding conversations worth eavesdropping on, and he wanted to be away from the henchman who was lamenting the loss of Ifhrd, but importantly he was coming dangerously close to talking too much of wizards with familiar detail.
Pushing away his empty tankard, Jorlon stood and wrapped his cape about him. “I’m going out for some fresh air,” he said. As the henchman was about to rise to join him, he added, “Alone.”
He wondered how people put up with the filth that covered the streets. With the overcrowded walkways, the stench was minimised as the rot was trampled into the paving stones. Carts rolled past with one driver cursing another. Horse dung sprayed from the wheels and then got trampled into the cobbles. Although there seemed to be rules for the road, often a cart would pull up against the flow and create congestion, giving excuse for more curses and threats, which gave cause for wonderment.
Jorlon wandered along feeling vulnerable to the beggars squatting outside the shops, and to the urchins who hung around in gangs. He did not like the feel of this city at all.
There came a time when one of a number of henchmen rudely pushed him aside to make way for a particular lord and lady. Her features were strikingly beautiful, and her crystal eyes sparkled with knowledge of it, which he resented the more because of her pride and his sense of being degraded by her pomp. Jorlon fidgeted with his hands, and he struck her with warts. He walked on with mixed feelings over that reaction. There was no time to enjoy seeing her proud body marred; he had to make his presence scarce lest he be discovered and subsequently sogged for the fire.
He so wished he could see the warts ...
Before long, on the verge of the poor area which he had planned to avoid, a tall man approached him. The dandy wore a dark crimson tunic and sported a gold chain about his neck. His accent was elevated as he asked Jorlon, “Want a good time?”
“Doing what?” asked Jorlon in return. He had an immediate reaction of interest in this fellow. Although he did not seem to have the presence of a mage, there was something intriguing about him.
“Women, if you wish?”
“What about them?” Jorlon asked, feeling a little confused.
The man smiled, “Boys, if you’d rather. How about meeting some ...?”
Now Jorlon realised what the man was offering and felt a gentle hand upon his shoulder. “Don’t be shy,” encouraged the man. “No one will know.”
Jorlon swallowed. He felt himself guided along a couple of streets and up an alleyway, and heard his own voice whisper to the man, “A woman.” The words seemed to drift around his head, and he wondered if the man heard, who by now had introduced himself as Zed. He asked Jorlon what sort of favours he required. Jorlon could hardly believe the number of choices he was offered, though the majority of options revolted him: boys and girls included.
He found himself taken to a gentle woman in her early twenties. The room was small but delicately ornate. He suspected she spent most of her idle time here. It smelled ... lived in. He allowed her to guide him through the art of lovemaking. With a professional manner, she seemed keen to ease his virginity from him. Bewildered by her bare flesh, her body was more than he imagined a woman’s could ever be; and by the burning of his own lust, shaking and impatient, somehow he could not feel the joy that lovemaking was supposed to bring.
Dressed once more, the woman offered him a drink and rang a bell. The gentle tinkle drifted around his ears as he sipped from a pewter goblet and the memory of her body filled his mind. Soon a man entered, saying he would like to settle the account. His manner was abrupt and shook Jorlon from the idyll. Reluctantly reaching for his purse and finding it was not there, fear crept at Jorlon’s every pore. He had little power to protect himself here, though he could not think what would be appropriate. His mind was in a haze, and judging by the countenance of the man barking words at him that he could barely hear, trouble was all he could expect. He could use no spell, or he would be a captured mage—one for the sogging. He was trapped.
“Then you’ll be working for us,” the man scowled, “as from now. Get here!”
Jorlon was pulled out of the room by his hair and dragged into another chamber. There, once stripped naked, he was whipped with a broad leather belt by a madam until he could stand no more and cried out for mercy. It seemed strange to him that his mind could barely think for his malaise. “This is what you get,” the madam threatened with a callous tone, “unless you are obedient to me.”
The thought of being enslaved to a mistress in a whorehouse—and this mistress specifically—terrified him, was heart-wrenching.
“You’ll pay for your punishments like any other client,” she continued, “and debt accrues here and now.”
“I have powerful friends,” Jorlon stuttered.
The man laughed and tugged at Jorlon’s genitals. “Don’t matter none. Their kind visit often.”
The madam smiled. “Would you like someone to make you feel better again?”
Jorlon’s heart sank. Another debt.
“You got two choices, between good times or bad times,” the man said roughly, emphasising regular occasions. “Up to you. Now I know of some who won’t mind startin’ you off.”
A vision of a serving wench confronted him as she wept. “Now I have no body for it, I’m a slave and scullion here.”
Jorlon swallowed. He was not yet devoid of the arcane, though was this not also the magic of another?
“Well, tell old Zed here, what you fancy?” asked the man with the medallion and a broad smile.
Jorlon shook his head, surprised to awaken to the fact that they were still on the street, still amidst the bustle of town. Nothing had happened, nothing at all.
“No,” he said, stepping away. “Not today.” His voice was firm, and he felt certain the vision had been a stark warning. He walked on, relieved for the sudden premonition, and was very glad that Zed chose not to follow him. This was the first premonition he had ever had, and it seemed so real: like living in a dream whilst sleeping. Trying to work out how it had come upon him, he reasoned that he had had no control of its inspiration whatsoever. This was something to discuss with Astocath.
Heading for the Addled Dragon, his heart was gladdened, for it was clear to him that his power was now to flourish; his years of training were beginning to harvest. He considered the vision. It had been the most impressive, spontaneous reaction to date. He really was to grow!
“A small beer, landlord!” he cried cheerfully.
“Small?” the fat man looked doubtful and sized Jorlon up.
A little deflated now, Jorlon asked for a full ale instead. “And full-bodied at that!” He smiled.
A little happier, the man poured him a pint and set it upon the bar. “A penny, please,” he said begrudgingly and took a hard look at the apprentice.
Jorlon felt for his purse and found it gone after all.
The innkeeper saw his look of distress. “What?”
“It’s gone.” Jorlon felt like sinking into the floor on the one hand, and on the other blazing every rooftop until his purse was found.
The innkeeper shook his head.
Jorlon turned to see if his henchman was about. No such luck. Then a thought struck him. “Can you put it on the bill?”
“If the bill don’t get paid ...” the man stabbed his finger in warning.
Jorlon’s insides bristled. He was about to say, “I know about debts,” but the feeling of sheer dread of his vision was too close for comfort. He said simply, “It’ll be paid. My master has money.”
The landlord turned away, leaving Jorlon to take his ale. Jorlon sat at the bar, thinking over his close encounter, and had another couple of ales. He slowed down at the third, for he felt the effects and could not think clearly. His desire was to work out if he could control this newfound gift at all, and if he could, how?
As he fought the temptation for yet another ale, a man dressed in the colours of King Tell’s soldiers approached the bar. Jorlon watched him and heard him ask the keeper, “Is there a Master Jorlon hereabouts?”
Thinking fearfully of the drunkard who had lost his fingers, Jorlon began to rise to his feet and leave as surreptitiously as he might, but the barman pointed him out. “Except he owes me a bill.”
“The palace will settle up with you.”
“It’s fifteen pennies.”
Jorlon reckoned that was about right as he unsteadily wondered if he could have crept away from the guard for fear he was about to be arrested. But if he were to be arrested, the palace would hardly offer to settle his bill.
“You have been requested to stay with your master at the palace.” The guard faced him, his voice firm and giving no hint of emotion, his face non-committal.
“Thank you,” said Jorlon, and excused himself to relieve his bladder and collect his belongings. Feeling more confident as he was obviously not under arrest, he haughtily left a message with the innkeeper to tell the henchman his whereabouts.
***
JORLON FELT THE BED. It was soft, and he realised he could bounce upon it. It was novel, for he had only ever known pallet beds with straw and feathers, rough blankets and occasional sheet—not this silk and wool. Amidst the finery of this chamber—its nut wood-panelled walls, oil paintings and gilt—he felt overawed and wondered if this experience was as unique to Astocath. He doubted it.
Jorlon looked through the window that gave view to the busy courtyard below and across the city. He wished he were of sufficient merit to command a better guest room, though this was fine, but perhaps it would be preferable to overlook a rural landscape. After all, the castle was upon the edges of the city. He told himself that one day important magi would await his coming with bated breath, and servants would scurry about him to please his every need.
As he went to Astocath’s room next door, he sighed, wondering at how little he knew of the world.
“Isn’t it good?” asked the mage happily. “But I’m glad I don’t live like this. Given all this comfort can make a man soft in soul, body and mind. Rare, ‘tis a treat, and rare best kept.”
Jorlon didn’t reply and compared the view from this window to his own. It was much the same. He wondered if the King really appreciated the danger they, as outcasts, were putting themselves in for his sake. He supposed not.
“We’d best not be kept from starting our quest in earnest for too long,” Astocath continued. “I’m wanting to get things over with, and this business especially quickly.”
“What needs to be done here?”
Astocath poured out two goblets of wine and ignored the question. “You’ll be going on another journey.” He offered Jorlon a cup. “There’s only one way to end all this. But be prepared if things are left up to you and Mordrak. Perhaps Tulan will be with you, and maybe a couple of others.”
“What do you mean?”
“There’s no guarantee I’ll survive or not be diverted along the way. We—and you—have to be ready for anything.”
"Oh no!” Jorlon’s mind reeled at the thought of being left alone with Mordrak, and he put his cup down, unable to face drinking the wine.
“It will make a mage of you,” Astocath said with an encouraging tone and considered the apprentice through narrowed eyes. “You’ll learn more, more quickly than I could teach you.”
“Why? Don’t you intend to finish the job with us?” Jorlon felt great resentment that he would be left to his own inexperienced devices in the face of danger, and danger was surely to come. No doubt too, that Mordrak would enforce leadership.
“I may well not. I intend to! But might not be able to. There’s so much to do!”
“Why?”
“Enough.” Astocath sounded agitated with all the questions. He relaxed as he sipped his wine. “Clear as crystal, smooth as honey and taste the grapes, hmm? Excellent. It is like elven stuff. Excellent.” And he promptly filled his cup full again. “We’re to go to ... another world. Faerie.”
Jorlon was lost for words.Then he said, “But years will pass... And... and the wizards fled there too!”
With a wry smile Astocath replied, “There are ways for the learned to ease the time dilemma and as you say, and, as you correctly point out, there are our wizards too who might prove to be very helpful.” He touched his nose and gave a wink.
Jorlon frowned. “Could be quite a party?”
Astocath grinned broadly. “Of course! Of Course! Just prepare for the unexpected is all I’m saying.”
Jorlon’s frown remained as he wondered if he would get a chance to kill Mordrak. To do so might well mean the necessary death of Tulan also. It must best be done when Astocath was not around. Pah! He might have to wait for years. He was about to say, ‘I miss Ifhrd.’ But as a knock struck at the door, he thought better of it.
“That’ll be Mordrak,” Astocath anticipated and motioned Jorlon to go answer the door. He opened it, and expecting to see Mordrak, he was surprised to see a courtier about to knock again. “Yes?” Jorlon asked.
“Is Mage Astocath here?” He looked past him, appearing to be awaiting a response.
“Yes, he is.”
“Come in, come in,” called the mage. “Let the man in, Jorlon.”
The courtier swept past the apprentice and asked, “Are you comfortable? Is the wine sufficient?”
“Yes, indeed, couldn’t be better.” He brushed down his hair with his hand and quickly tried to arrange his beard.
It struck Jorlon that Astocath had already had quite sufficient to drink, judging by his slurred speech, as he closed the door behind the servant.
The servant said, “His Majesty wishes to speak with you on your terms of contract this evening, after dinner.”
“Good. Indeed.” Astocath raised his goblet. “May my friend and I walk in the gardens in the meantime?”
“Of course you may.”
Jorlon opened the door again to let the man pass, who said, “Three bells calls dinner. Feel free to take a bath. In fact, it is customary to do so before engaging with royalty.”
Once he had gone, Astocath said, “I’m getting quite drunk.” He waved his hands, closed his eyes, wobbled a little; and then, opening his eyes, said, “That’s better. Now for a walk!” Taking his goblet, Astocath allowed Jorlon to open the door and follow without revealing the secret of the spell. “It makes any hangover much the worse for it.”
Hedges and walls, manicured lawns, cloistered gardens, and flowers in a rich array of colours. Astocath stole a few clippings of herbs and rare flowers as they spoke. “Little things like this are often helpful to magic casting.” There was a short silence, then the mage continued, “So you’ve been pick-pocketed, eh?” said Astocath coolly. “‘Tis as well I never entrusted you with my hard salvaged money, eh?”
Although Jorlon shrugged with nonchalance, he felt miserable that he would now have to rely on Astocath for his every need. It really was a terrible blow. He had already learned how pleasant being master of his own destiny could be following Ifhrd’s passing, and now he had chosen servitude again. Well, he had, but had he chosen well?
“This is what we do.” Astocath put out his hands and told Jorlon to reflect on his purse. Showing him the gesticulations, he said, “And this is what you say.”
Jorlon copied the ritual. They waited for a few moments, but nothing happened.
Astocath asked, “Do you have the purse strings?”
“No. I, er, threw them away ...”
“Then it will not work. You need a connection, boy. You need connections!”
“I can visualise it, though.”
“Not good enough,” said Astocath, and took Jorlon’s dagger from its sheath. “Now do it again,” he instructed as he slipped the blade within his belt.
Jorlon had understood the spell—why certain words were used and the symbolism behind the gestures. The spell worked without any signs and wonders, which was typical, as the dagger fell into his hand. He sighed with relief: he had chosen well to serve Astocath.
Then he boasted to Astocath the likely success of the warts he had cast on the noblewoman. “And one other thing,” he said. “I had a strong premonition that I would have been kept as a slave in a whorehouse.”
“Could be worse.” Astocath grinned. “But as I told you before, using magic isn’t for amusement or games. But you are not the only one who has been robbed. I hired some sellswords to bring me some equipment for my studies and a wizard robbed it. They were very unhappy about it. I would love to know who it was, but I don’t suppose I ever will!”
“But what of the equipment that was stolen from you?” Jorlon asked. “Will you ever get that back?”
“Different matter entirely,” said Astocath. “I had neither seen nor personally come by the stuff. Besides ‘twould all be too much for such a spell. It is a matter I will otherwise get to one day, but not for now.”
“Then why did you tell me your equipment was stolen?”
Astocath shrugged. “I suppose to let you know that we are not invincible or above the things that go on every day in the world.”
“How’s the King?” asked Jorlon, wishing to change the subject.
Astocath waved his goblet above his head. “Mordrak says ‘not himself’. He did not carry audience well, apparently. Also, I think it partially for our protection that we have been invited to remain here. I suppose, left in the city, we could be in danger. Have you any premonitions on this front?” Astocath smiled and took a deep gulp of wine. Then his face turned serious, anxious perhaps, or more sombre. “Or aren’t you frightened enough yet?” The wizard looked intently into Jorlon’s brown eyes.
“What do you mean?”
“I wonder if you will learn how to control your premonitions, or if they are merely going to be the product of fear.”
“Then I’ll work on it.”
“Very wise. In the meantime, let’s find a way to clean ourselves up!”
Jorlon nodded in appreciation of Astocath’s expectations and looked forward to the events that were to come.