Castle Perilous

Elsewhere

The bazaar was near deserted that day. A few street urchins chased each other up and down the aisles between the stalls. Here and there a prospective buyer haggled with a vendor. In a nearby stockade shaggy, thick-legged pack animals brayed complainingly, tails swishing at biting insects. The sun was high and the day was hot.

The book vendor awoke from his nap and cast a mercenary eye on the tall, well-dressed man who approached his stall. He liked what he saw. “Books, honored sir?”

The man nodded and picked up a parchment scroll. He read the title and put the scroll aside.

The book vendor smiled. “I took the honored sir for a man of culture and learning the moment I saw him.”

“Indeed? I thank you.”

The book vendor moved closer, eyeing the man’s choices.

“That’s an especially interesting volume. Rare.”

The stranger laid it aside and examined another, then another.

Presently the book vendor said, “Is there anything in particular …?”

“Yes. I am in search of a book of some repute, a work dealing with a certain aspect of the Recondite Arts.”

“Magic, is it?”

“More or less. Demonology.”

The book vendor looked thoughtful. “Ah.”

“Be you Durstin, the book vendor?”

“His honor knows of me? I am he.”

“I was told you possessed a copy of this particular work.”

“Does the honored sir know its title?”

“It is simply called The Book of Demons.”

The book vendor’s eyes did not betray his surprise. “I have … heard of it. It is a rare item indeed. Very old.”

“Then you have a copy?”

“Regrettably, no. A thousand pardons.”

“A pity.” The man turned to go.

“I …”

“Yes?”

Durstin looked away. “I am curious as to who told the honored sir that I possess a copy of a banned work … an allegation which I most emphatically deny.”

“I was unaware that the book was proscribed.”

“It is indeed, and has been for centuries on the List of Forbidden Works. As I said, I am curious —”

“Khaalim sent me.”

The book vendor nodded. “There is an inn near the stockyards called the Pale Eye. Be there at sunset.”

“I have little time.”

“We can’t do business in broad daylight. Not this sort of business.”

“I will pay you double what the book would ordinarily fetch. Do you have it here in your stall?”

Durstin cast his eyes from one end of the bazaar to the other. “I have been hauled before the Suzerain’s magistrate on one previous occasion. The charge was selling vulgar and immoral literature. The scars still twinge when the weather turns. For a work on the List —”

“I will pay you handsomely. I need it now.”

The book vendor was silent, still nervously looking about.

“Name your price.”

Durstin’s gaze swung round. He shrugged. “Say, fifty gold pieces?”

“I said I would pay you handsomely. I did not say I would deliver over the fortune of a king.”

“Forty, then.”

“I will pay thirty. Copies of this book are rare, but they do exist, and can be had elsewhere.”

Durstin smiled crookedly. “His honor said something about having little time.”

The stranger’s lips curled slightly. Then he said, “I will pay thirty-five, or I will make time.”

“Done. Pick up a book, any book, and ask the price.”

“Hm? Very well. How much for this?”

Raising his voice the book vendor answered, “Two silver, three brass, good sir.”

“That is all I have in my purse. Take it.”

Durstin caught the leather purse, hefted it, opened it and looked inside. Fingering the contents, he smiled and nodded. “And so you have. A protective sheath for the book, good sir? No charge.”

“Please.”

The book vendor retreated into the stall and slipped behind a flap of brightly colored cloth. Shortly he returned bearing a cheap cloth scroll sheath.

“Here you are, good sir. Blessings of the gods be with you.”

The stranger took the bundle and opened it, looked inside. He nodded and slipped it inside his tunic. “Good day.”

The book vendor watched him go. The stranger left the bazaar area directly, not stopping at any other stalls. Durstin sighed. He then reseated himself, leaned his head against the post and went back to sleep.

Eating a hurried lunch in an outdoor cafe, he felt the pressure of observing eyes. He made no effort to look about and find who was watching him. He paid the bill and left, returning to the stable where he had left his mount. He knew he was being followed.

He passed through the city gate in the middle of the afternoon and headed out into the desert, making straight for the mountains to the north. The sun was fierce but bearable this time of year, dun-colored rocks baking in its glare.

He reached the foothills by mealtime but did not stop, heading upward, his animal’s sure-footed gait slackening only a little on the steadily inclining terrain. He surveyed the parched land around him as it gave way to grassland, then stunted evergreen, then alpine meadow. He was aware that two riders had followed him and were now closing the gap.

They passed him an hour later, smiling and waving as they urged their mounts up the twisting trail.

When they disappeared into the pass, he stopped. He traced patterns in the air with his fingers and looked thoughtful, as if testing the wind. Presently he gently kneed his mount in the ribs. The animal brayed, broke wind, and continued up the trail.

In the narrow pass two riders blocked his way, while the two who had followed him came out of a side canyon to close off his only avenue of retreat.

The leader was young and had a pointy, rodentlike face and a sneering smile.

“Greetings, honored sir!” he called. “And what is a finely dressed man of distinction such as yourself doing on this lonely trail?”

“Be you Vorn’s men?” the stranger asked.

“Eh?”

He looked at each man in turn. “No, I think not. Common highwaymen.”

“A pox on you,” the leader sneered. “We’re not common. You’ll not find our like in a thousand leagues of road. But enough of that — deliver your purse, or it will go badly for you.”

“I left it in the city, along with its contents.”

“Then give us what you bought.”

“It is a mere book, of no use to you.”

“You insult me!”

“How so?”

“You imply I’m unlettered!” The others laughed.

“You are,” the stranger answered, “and a scoundrel to boot.” He traced a quick pattern in the air.

Shrugging, the leader drew his shortsword. “Enough of this pleasant banter. Throw all your valuables over here now, or — “ He suddenly developed a pained expression, dropping his sword and clutching at his chest. Alarmed, his companion reached out and grasped his arm to steady him. The leader’s eyes bulged; then blood exploded from his mouth. His mount reared, throwing him off.

The other three regarded the still form of their leader, then looked fearfully at the stranger, who had ceased his hand passes and finger waving.

“A sorcerer!” one of them gasped.

The stranger raised a hand, one finger pointing. “Begone,” he said. “That way. Or your heart, too, shall burst like an overripe melon.” He pointed in the direction from which he had come.

They left very quickly, not bothering to take their leader’s body or his mount.

He breathed deeply, tasting the mountain air. Then he resumed his Journey.

The cave was high on the descending slope, its entrance hidden by gnarled brush. He unsaddled his mount, set the beast free, and entered the cave mouth. The way was narrow at first and he had to stoop, but soon there was ample head room, though not much light. He walked in darkness awhile, finding his way from memory, his fingers lightly brushing the smooth rock walls. At length he saw light ahead, coming from a side passage. He turned the corner and beheld cut-stone walls, jewel-torches lighting a way into the castle.

After taking shortcuts which only he knew, he arrived at his chambers. He went inside, locked the door, shed his costume and donned another, that of a castle functionary.

The voice spoke to him again.

You have returned.

“Yes. Are there any further developments?”

I feel there must be. I sense an impending end to my bondage. Someone calls to me, I know not who.

“Have more memories returned to you?”

Not many. I feel, though,that it is only a matter of time.

“Do you know your name?”

There was silence, then: No.Will you tell me?

“No, but there are those who will.”

He left by a secret panel, threading his way through narrow passages until he came to a dead end. He shoved against a large stone block and it moved, swiveling on a central fulcrum. He pushed it open a crack and paused, looking out, then stepped into the hallway. The stone swung back and became a blank wall again.

A door lay to the left. He opened it and went inside.

The library was vast and many-volumned, shelves rising several stories to the corbeled ceiling. He strode across the main floor and entered an area where free-standing stacks stood in rows. He walked down the central aisle, turned left at the thirty-fourth row, and followed the shelf to its end, coming out into an aisle running along the wall, against which was set a row of carrels. He chose one and seated himself. He withdrew the scroll from his tunic, took it out of its sheath, undid the ties and opened it.

He took a deep breath, scanning the first few lines. It was written in a script he couldn’t immediately decipher, but a translation spell would take care of that.

Wearily, he rubbed his eyes. He had only an inkling of what he was after. A key; he needed a key to unlock a mystery — then to close it up again, once and for all.

Perhaps the answer lay in this ancient book. Perhaps not. Time would tell, and he had so very, very little of it.