EXILED Wizard of Tizare Page 10

  “And what am I to do?”

  “Why, look for the bandits, or my cape. I’ll try to find some other way in. When you find them, raise your hand, scratch your head. Just don’t do it unless you see them.”

  Caissir started to back away from the courtyard but Falon grabbed him firmly around his plump middle. “Just keep telling yourself you’re here to entertain them. I’m sure you’ve done it in other cities.”

  “Why, yes, but—”

  Then Falon gave him a push out into the light. Caissir froze for a second. A few of the drunken bandits looked over at him.

  “Better get a move on.” Falon spoke from the darkness.

  “They’ll start to wonder why you’re lurking so suspiciously by the shadows.”

  Caissir cleared his throat.

  “This clears it, highlander. All debts paid.”

  “To be sure.” And Falon watched Caissir walk towards the stone stairs leading up to the palace.

  Now, Falon thought, what other way in can there be? He doubled back along the alley, then moved in a direction that he hoped would lead him to the back of the palace. After a few wrong turns that brought him right back to the courtyard—and, once, bumping into two mrem groping in a doorway—he found a side street that seemed to lead away from the light and noise.

  In moments he was staring at the back of the palace.

  There were two heavy doors, both yawning wide open.

  After all ... why lock the doors when the place is filled with thieves?

  He scuttled up, looking left and right in case he should be seen by any bandits returning from some late-night frolic.

  The smell ... in the cool air ... it was more than just roasting meat and wine. It was the smell of she-mrem. This was obviously more than just a way station for the bands of thieves who plagued the main roads.

  He found himself stirring, responding to the pleasures he imagined could be found inside the doors.

  He ran up the back steps quickly, then past the doors. It was totally dark inside, with only the sound of music and laughter to guide him. He moved ahead slowly—and fell over two grunting mrem tangled on the floor.

  “Sorry,” he said. “Didn’t see you....”

  They took no notice of him. He went on, each step making the sound louder, the temptations of the party that much richer. He reached the kitchen, lit with a few scattered candles. There was no way anyone would question his being here. It was just too dark.

  Then, just ahead, he saw another pair of doors. The servants had probably used them to bring out trays of food to the now-departed lord and his guests. He walked over to them and gently pushed one open.

  It was a scene that he had only dreamed of, never imagining such things to be real. The walls, decorated with enormous murals of mrem in full armor, had been redecorated with slashes and marks. The new residents cared nothing for the glories of the old landlords.

  But the hall itself was one great serving room, filled with row after row of tables. Open fires burned on the stone floor, sending a dark, smudgy smoke spiraling up to the vaulted ceiling. The bandits went over to the roasting meat and cut off great chunks of it—cooked or raw—drunk from the casks of wine that lined the walls.

  And the females! No one that any mrem would want to claim as mother. But she-mrem, dozens of them moving from table to table, attacking the wine, the meat, and the bandits with equal abandon.

  It was all almost too much for him.

  Someone pushed into the open doors, unbuckling his kilt. He stepped off to the side of the half-lit kitchen, ignoring Falon and relieving himself with a great sigh. Then, with a satisfied grunt, he returned, once more, to the fray.

  Where was Caissir, Falon wondered.

  Then he saw him. He was making his way from table to table, a sick-looking grin on his face. He also wasn’t above grabbing a piece of meat or two from an unattended table.

  And he looked just disheveled enough to fit into the raucous crowd of thieves.

  Falon watched him closely, waiting for some sign that he had found the cape.

  Then what? Ah, that would be interesting to see. Of course, Falon had the advantage that he was sober. That, and his youth, were considerable advantages. But in a room filled with cutthroats and robbers, dozens of them, his chances of getting away seemed slim indeed.

  Caissir moved toward another table. A large group were sitting on chairs, and on the table itself, toasting each other. He saw Caissir try to be casual as he looked them over.

  He saw his eyes stop.

  Caissir raised his right hand to his head and scratched. He looked around, obviously searching for Falon. He scratched his head some more, his eyes glowing with fear even in the smoky light of the great hall.

  It’s now or never, Falon thought.

  And he pushed open the door leading to the hall.

  •

  Ashre had been watching them for a while now. The fat one ... he was so funny, so scared. But then he saw the other, over by the door that lead to the kitchen and the back of the palace.

  He was not one of them.

  His fur, lined with swirling stripes of brown and gold, was unlike any he had ever seen. And the way he stood at the door, watching the fat one ... No, these two did not belong to this town.

  Then he got the feeling.

  And it always made him feel a bit sick. It was as if he could see them just a few minutes later. Lying on the ground, the both of them, torn open by the heavy blades of the drunken robbers.

  He could see it ... and it made him feel sick.

  He crept closer to the edge of the platform, looking carefully now at the strangely colored mrem at the door.

  •

  For a moment Falon could do nothing. To do nothing was safe. No danger. Just the loud noise of the partying, the smell of the roasted meat, the very aroma of the rough rutting going on, some of it right on the tables as if it were just another item on the menu.

  The outcast waited.

  Until he knew he could wait no more.

  Now! He went through the open door, and he saw poor Caissir, searching around, looking totally abandoned. The young mrem walked, slowly, but steadily, making as direct a line as possible to Caissir.

  Caissir saw him now, and for a moment Falon was worried that he would start raising his arms, or give out some call, bringing attention to him.

  But he stood there, a grim, glum look on his face, waiting for whatever might develop.

  Falon was tempted to reach out and grab a chunk of meat. Perhaps he’d fit in better with a tasty morsel of roast uxan in his mouth. But he just moved forward in a daze, unable to do anything for fear that someone would take notice of him ... and wonder ... just who are you?

  Someone bumped into his back, and he turned around.

  A drunken, smiling face, all greasy and wine-stained, bobbed in front of him.

  “Hey,” the weaving head said. “Wash where you’re goin’ ....”

  Falon smiled and nodded. The drunken robber nodded back, and then tilted away, ready to careen into someone else.

  Caissir’s table was just a few steps away.

  Falon saw him lick his lips.

  Caissir was eager to get out of there, Falon thought. Not without reason.

  The highlander recognized the robbers. They were, indeed, the very same ones who had stopped them near the river. He moved close to Caissir.

  And stood close to the bandit wearing the fine cape given to Falon by Plano.

  “When I move,” he hissed at Caissir, “start running towards the back, to the kitchen door. It’s dark there, and it leads outside.”

  “If we get that far ...” Caissir mumbled.

  Falon moved from Caissir, smiling broadly, joining the party. He slid next to the bandit. The cape was draped loosely over the bandit’s shoulders.
He saw a few of the bandits give him quick glances ... a moment’s recognition, perhaps.

  He brought his hand close to the bandit’s shoulder. Then he swiped at the cape, catching it in his claws. Then he snatched the bandit’s sword.

  “Now!” he yelled at Caissir.

  Who promptly slipped on some spilled wine. Falon reached down and jerked him to his feet.

  The cape trailed behind him, a brilliant flag drawing the unwanted attention of whole tables of bandits.

  Some of them started stumbling to their feet.

  “Move, Caissir! Get your fat mrem tail moving.”

  The door was not far, but already Falon felt that they weren’t going to make it. He should have had Caissir get out first. The lumbering oaf was slowing him up and—drunk or not—the bandits could probably make quick work of him.

  And was he really sure that the meat they were all munching so gleefully was uxan? Maybe they had a taste for young mrem interlopers.

  Caissir reached the door, and fidgeted—too long!—with the handle.

  “C’mon, please, Cais—”

  Falon looked over his shoulder.

  A blade was flying at him, a long heavy blade thrown with the deadly expertise of a practiced brigand. No more than an arm’s length away, and aimed perfectly at the center of his chest.

  He tried to duck. But his reflexes, good as they were, were not fast enough to get his body out of the way.

  He didn’t see the quick-moving blur crashing into his legs.

  “What the—”

  One second he was standing, the next he was flat on the sticky floor. He heard the blade crash into the door with a tremendous thud that sent splinters flaking down upon him.

  He had landed on the blur.

  It was a young mrem, no more than a kit, but not by much. He crawled out from under Falon, looked at him and said, “You’d better get going.”

  “Right,” Falon agreed, and he popped to his feet and followed the youngster out the door.

  Where was Caissir? Falon wondered. Already out, on the dark streets of Fahl?

  The bandits were just on his heels. But the young mrem was leaving a trail of tumbled pots and pans as they scrambled through the kitchen. Falon heard some of the bandits stumble over them as they followed them into the dark kitchen.

  “Where’s the door?” he asked, suddenly losing his bearings.

  “There, follow me now ...” the young mrem said, almost calmly.

  Amazing! Falon thought. Here we have half a dozen thugs chasing us, and this little one is as calm as can be.

  The door had become lost in the darkness.

  “Falon ... Falon! Are you here?”

  It was Caissir.

  “Yes, this way, my friend.” Falon heard the door being opened, and then he saw the faint light from the night sky.

  “Stay with me!” the young one said. “I can get us away from the others.”

  And, at that point, Falon didn’t doubt it at all.

  •

  Their guide led them on a nightmarish journey, up and down the dark streets of Fahl. They passed burned buildings that looked like dead animals. The smell of the burnt wood was still strong. They crept through narrow alleyways where guards once had their apartments. Around and around the deserted city, until finally they came to a small building, all by itself. Beyond it there was nothing but darkness.

  “We are safe here,” the small one said.

  Caissir was panting too heavily to say anything.

  “Safe?”

  The small one looked up at Falon. “It is my home, and it’s much too close to the desert for the others to come out here.” He grinned, then scuttled into the house. When Falon didn’t immediately follow, the young mrem popped his head out.

  “Come in ... you’re welcome to stay ...”

  Caissir touched Falon’s arm. “I could use the rest.”

  “Let’s enjoy his hospitality then.”

  They went inside the small house, almost like the huts that dotted the hillside of Falon’s homeland. But once inside, he saw that it wasn’t at all like the cheery homes that he and his friends grew up in. The floor was strewn with a strange assortment of clothes, bits of leathery armor, kilts, and scabbards. The wall was filled with weapons, most of them clearly much too heavy for the small mrem to wield. There was a foul, close smell that suggested that the young one didn’t know too much about cleaning. Bits of food lay on top of the clothes, and small pairs of glowing eyes in the dark corners told him that their host didn’t live alone.

  “Ar-ggh! The smell, Falon, really.”

  “Be polite, my friend, I believe that both of us are in his debt,”

  Their host had dashed around the room, lighting more candles, which only made the room look stranger.

  Falon could finally get a good look at the young mrem. He was small, looking no older than a kit of eight years. But the way he talked and acted spoke of a mrem with much experience.

  He wore just a thin sash for a kilt, and he had a small blade strapped to his waist. His body was covered with the most delicate gray fur. It glistened sleekly in the soft light.

  When every candle that could be lit was burning, he turned to his guests.

  “I’m called Ashre.”

  “Well, Ashre, I’m Falon, and this is Caissir. And I want to thank you for saving us.”

  “That’s all right.” He smiled. “Because you’re going to take me out of here.”

  Falon smiled back. “What about your father, your mother—who takes care of you now?”

  “No one,” Ashre said proudly. “I take care of myself, taking from the others what I need to live. But,” he said, his face turning serious, “I can’t stay here much longer. They know about me and I think that they want to find me. And when they do,” he said with a grin, “ka-a-a-a-a!” He made a slitting motion across his throat.

  So young, Falon thought. Yet he spoke like a seasoned warrior. Where were his toys, his playmates...?

  “Your parents?”

  Ashre told him, so matter-of-factly, of the last day he saw his mother alive. Quickly, with no apparent feeling. Except Falon saw him look away, to a small box beside his bed. And he could imagine what was there. A lock of her fur, some other cherished item that she gave Ashre when he was still suckling.

  But there was probably nothing in that box as vivid as those last few moments before his mother was killed.

  Caissir was grunting as he prowled the room. “No decent place to lie down,” he muttered.

  “You may take my bed,” Ashre offered.

  Caissir looked at it. It too was filled with bits and pieces scavenged from the abandoned city.

  “No, thank you,” Caissir said. “I’ll move some of ... this ... on the floor.”

  Ashre shrugged.

  “Tell me,” Falon said, leaning close to Ashre. “Why did you help us? And how did you know we were in danger?”

  Ashre turned away from him. “I go there, to the great hall, to spy, and watch for food and things I might steal. I saw you ....”

  And more, Falon thought. He was holding something back. Ashre’s eyes kept scanning the wall. “Yes, my friend here was certainly easy to spot. But tell me, how did you happen to be at the right spot, just in time to knock me down and save my life?”

  “Disgusting!” Caissir moaned, finally lying down.

  Ashre stood up. “I ... I just knew, that’s all.” He jumped atop his bed. “I’m fast, and l—saw the blade coming.”

  No one was that fast. No. And suddenly Falon saw more in front of him than just a resourceful young orphan.

  Ashre might not be able to tell him all his secrets yet, but; with trust, he would tell him.

  And those secrets might prove helpful indeed when they got to the great city of Tizare.

 
For now, some rest would be welcome.

  “Thank you, Ashre. I owe my life to you.”

  “Then you’ll take me away with you ... out of the city.” It was said flatly, a statement, not a question.

  Falon grinned. Already Caissir’s loud snoring rattled the walls.

  “We’ll talk of that in the morning. For now,” he said, pulling the retrieved cape around him tightly, “I really must sleep....”

  He felt the young mrem watching. And then he was lost to his dreams.

  ASHRE WOKE them before first light, a happy smile on his face.

  “What’s wrong?” Falon asked, wanting nothing more than to curl up on the floor and go back to sleep.

  “We must leave before the others awake. It will be day very soon.”

  Falon had already decided to take the young mrem. However Ashre had kept himself alive so far, this was no way for him to grow up.

  Though he certainly seemed able to take care of himself.

  When they got to Tizare Falon would find someone to look after the kit.

  And wouldn’t they have their hands full! He smiled at that thought.

  Ashre was beside Caissir, shaking him hard.

  “Wake up, wake up!”

  Caissir grunted and then, when Ashre kept up his shaking, he let fly a string of curses. When he finally blinked awake, a most foul look on his face, Falon was already standing and looking out the open door.

  It was beautiful out there. The great desert was picking up just a hint of color and light from the brightening sky. The lesser stars had faded leaving only the very brightest sparkling in a deep blue sky.

  “It’s cold, Falon. Shut the door!” Caissir barked.

  The highlander turned around. The wizard was still on he ground, pulling the smelly piles of material close to him. He didn’t seem to mind their strong odor in this chilly air.

  “Come, Caissir ... Ashre says we should be off before daybreak.”

  Ashre was crouched by a small chest, picking through it ... selecting the treasures that he’d bring ... and those he’d leave behind. Caissir saw him staring.