Renegade Wizards

CHAPTER 9

It was hard to breathe. Her lungs contracted in a sudden and constant gasping for air. Her thoughts raced and surged like a wild ocean, each wave threatening to overwhelm the last, to overwhelm her. She fought the panic and wondered distantly if this was what the test was like, an unvarying state of panic.

No, she amended to no one but herself, terror.

Her spells were limited, but her master always told her a handful of spells prepared for the moment were better than any random volume of magic. Well, former master after that night, she realized. And for all her misgivings about the test and the Wizards of High Sorcery, her master was still right in that regard. Preparation was the best weapon.

Mariyah was a slip of a girl, frail in every way except in the qualities that truly mattered. She was mousy in appearance and outgoing in spirit; she was timid in laugh and gaze, but fierce in conviction. She hated her fish lips and the way the bottom lip always seemed to droop, and yet people could never look away from her soulful, doe-brown eyes. She was kind, giving, and until recently, undoubtedly going to enter the Black Robes should she pass the Test of High Sorcery. She would need all her qualities to survive, to break away from the Black Robes, whom she served as acolyte.

“Ufta,” she whispered and relished the way the word seemed to tickle her tongue. The small chest opened, its click echoing in her master’s study. Mariyah waited for some sound to mark the discovery of her presence; waited for her master to stir from unconsciousness. Nothing happened. The books lining the inset shelves along the wall stared back at her. No eyes appeared in the crystal ball on the divining table, no mouths on any of the dark oil paintings overlooking the oak desk.

Mariyah gently opened the small, wooden box inlaid with silver-blue mother-of-pearl. She gasped. The velvet lined interior was larger than the exterior. Mariyah studied the scrolls of paper, the trinkets, the baubles, the handful of flasks all waiting for her eager fingers. For her to steal them, however, seemed like petty theft.

No. She served a higher purpose than to line her own pockets.

Strengthened by that thought, Mariyah was about to close the box when something caught her eye: beneath the scrolls, a flash of white. Mariyah pulled out an object; it was a bone key so fine and lacy that she thought it might snap between her fingers. But whoever fashioned this key made it for no ordinary lock. She looked around, hoping to see where it belonged, but there was no lock in sight … or at least none she was willing to try for fear of breaking the key. It was a prize but for what? Well, that was a question reserved for magicians better than she.

Mariyah gently closed the small wooden box and tucked it under her arm. She pulled her black cloak over her shoulder, shielding the box from sight, and walked to the chamber door. She cast one final look back into the study, back at her black-robed master who lay unconscious at his desk. His tea cup was tipped, the drink spilt, and with it the drug that had rendered him senseless. Mariyah was about to apologize but did not. He could not hear her and the box was too important to Berthal. It could help the renegade movement as a whole; apologizing for her actions would disgrace her belief in them and their struggle. And, frankly, that lecherous old thing deserved no words of apology. She’d put up with his advances for years. This little debt was owed her.

At the very least, Mariyah thought, I’ll soon be fighting at Berthal’s side.

The caravan traveled along the Knight’s High Road, past the gentle, sloping hills dotted with small farms and white patches of sheep and goat herds that grazed upon the green slopes. After the cork of the Westgate Pass at the High Clerist’s Tower, the corridor carved into the rock had slowly widened until, finally, it became a steep and surprisingly fertile valley near the town of Yarus. The stream that flowed from the Wings of Habbakuk and the Plains of Solamnia vanished beneath the surface; some surmised it became part of a larger, underground river that allowed farmers to drive shallow wells.

As the caravan of bow top and box top wagons wound its ways through the valley, farmers and their families quietly watched them pass with distrust. The farmers continued watching until the wagons were out of eyeshot. The suspicion being heaped on the Vagros procession, however, seemed lost on the kender traveling with them. The kender ran alongside the wagons or sat next to the drivers, waving at anyone they saw as though they were the centerpiece of some well-attended parade thrown in their honor. That confused more than a few humans and a handful of cows that received a wave, a smile, and on the rare occasion, a blown kiss. The blond-haired kender went so far as to run up to a couple of bewildered farmers, shake their hands, and thank them for being “the salt of the earth” before attempting to kiss one farmer’s baby. He enthusiastically settled for kissing the family dog before rejoining the caravan.

What was more frightening to the “salt of the earth,” perhaps, was that the kender promised the farmers to come back and visit, which was, by their expression, akin to telling them a tornado was coming and that it expected dinner.

Finally, the caravan wended its way along the Knight’s High Road, through another narrowing of the valley into a tight pass, up to the city’s South Gate. The South Gate was an archway shaped like a giant horseshoe driven into the ground. Around it was a gatehouse, with the road leading straight through the building’s open courtyard. It appeared an inferior structure compared to the larger gatehouses guarding the Old City Wall inside Palanthas, far more feeble since dwarf hands had no part in its construction. The archway and courtyard were open to travelers day or night.

Palanthas was the preeminent port city of the continent, and her docks were always open to all manner of ship. Cattle drives and merchant convoys constantly trickled through the gates. Keeping it open through the night saved the day hours from constant congestion.

Again, the caravan met with suspicion as it passed into the courtyard, and some of the city knights and bonded mercenary soldiers protecting the gatehouse glared openly. But no one moved to stop the caravan, which did not hesitate in the slightest in its progress until stopped at the tollhouse under the archway. The Vagros paid for the right to enter and trade within the city and were given papers that said as much.

Once through the South Gate, the city of Palanthas seemed to explode outward. Although hemmed in by the bowl of the mountain range, the city overlooked a sparkling green ocean to the north that was emerald in its radiance.

Two great sections divided the city of Palanthas; the Old City Wall protected the hub, wherein lay, among other things, the imposing, magical, and abandoned Tower of High Sorcery, the Palace, the Great Library, and the various nobles’ estates. Like a cup about to drink from the ocean, the Old City Wall lay open to the docks. The spokes of roads spread out from the wheel of the Old City and into the surrounding New City, which bore that title only because it was the younger of the two sections at two millennia in age.

All of Palanthas was ancient; it was the only city, in fact, that had escaped the Cataclysm that shattered the continent and gnashed cities down to their bones. Its very buildings were works of history, its air distinguished. The citizens knew it with a pride that bordered on arrogance. The Vagros knew all this too. They may have entered Palanthas unchallenged, but they knew they would never be allowed into the Old City. Instead, they diverged from the Knight’s High Road and entered the more tightly packed streets of the Merchandising District. The wagons barely fit through the narrow avenues; they almost brushed the awnings and display bins of the many shops and stores. Nobody complained, however. The citizens merely stepped to the side or squeezed past the procession in the single-minded pursuit of their daily affairs.

After an hour of that slow pace through the narrow streets, the caravan finally pulled into the enclosed courtyard of an inn called Wanderer’s Welcome. Stable boys immediately tended to the horses without question, and the proprietors emerged to embrace the Vagros one at a time. It was the embrace of family, and even the kender were given a hug and a kiss by the inn owner’s wife, a woman of ample frame and fiery red hair that matched her matronly grin.

With a groan, Ladonna and Par-Salian descended from the green bow top wagon. Tythonnia emerged from another box top wagon with spiraled fluting. They were glad to finally stretch out their backs and legs.

Tythonnia immediately walked to the head of the Vagros caravan, to find Sebastian. The man’s peppered stubble had grown darker, and he played with the hoop dangling from his ear.

“Sebastian,” Tythonnia said. “Thank you for smuggling us into the city. If it wasn’t for you-”

Sebastian waved off her concern impatiently. “You’re lucky you found us,” he said. “Besides, Grandmother Yassa says you are a sister. Even if you don’t admit it yet,” he added with a grin.

Tythonnia smiled and tried not to appear surprised. That drew a wider smile from Sebastian.

“Come,” Sebastian said. He rested his hand on her shoulder and guided her toward the innkeeper’s wife. “This is Bess. She’ll find you and your friends a room.”

“And hot water,” Bess said, laughing. She motioned Par-Salian and Ladonna over. “You three look like you could use a bath, a pint, a warm meal, and a bed. In that order.”

Tythonnia smiled gratefully, and Ladonna and Par-Salian grinned widely in anticipation.

Dumas fumed silently. Anger was plain in her eyes, in the scowl on her lips, and in the slight knot between her eyebrows. The guards of the South Gate seemed worried. Any appreciative glances they might have had, the catcalls that they’d shouted to the women on the last wagon a mere second before were absent now. Men found their courage lacking in Dumas’s presence, especially when she looked so furious. Her expression carried the promise of murder, and nobody wanted to attract her attention.

She dismounted her Blödegeld, and after casting a last venomous look at Thoma, she headed for the officer on watch. She wouldn’t find out anything much from him, however. That much Thoma knew in advance.

After she’d gone, Thoma glanced at Hort before motioning one of the soldiers over. The black-haired, pimply-faced young man approached cautiously. He had yet to fill out his uniform with any measure of confidence.

“Did a Vagros caravan come through here?” Thoma asked, almost whispering.

“Mmm hmm … a couple hours ago, I reckon. Queer sight, them, eh?”

“Yes,” Thoma agreed absently and tossed the boy a couple of coppers for the bother.

Hort, who’d been eyeing the exchange suspiciously, nudged his horse closer to Thoma. “What are you on about?” he asked with a whisper.

Thoma looked around to make sure Dumas was not watching them. “I didn’t lose the renegades,” he whispered back.

“What?” Hort said with a hiss. His features darkened. “You said-”

“It’s called a lie, you oaf,” Thoma said. He patted his friend on the shoulder. “I had to. This entire business with Dumas and the renegades smells peculiar.”

“Dumas doesn’t lie.”

“I know,” Thoma said. “But you must admit something is strange. Since when do we execute renegades?”

“We’ve killed,” Hort said, shrugging.

“But we don’t execute,” Thoma stressed. He looked over at Dumas, who seemed to be concluding her business with the officer on watch. “We’ll discuss this later. Say nothing to her for now.”

“So … the renegades. They’re with the Vagros caravan, aren’t they?” Hort asked.

“Yes,” Thoma said as Dumas walked back. She was staring at the ground, scowling. “We’ll discuss this later.”

Hort grunted, but Thoma knew his friend well enough to know the big man would stay quiet … for the time being.

Ladonna quietly closed the door to her room on the landing and tiptoed past the rooms of the others. From Par-Salian’s door came the contented rumbling of a deep sleeper. Ladonna didn’t blame him. Her body ached for the touch of comfortable sleep, for a night spent in a bed and not on a patch of hard earth. But a ball of energy filled her chest, dulling the exhaustion and exciting her. She couldn’t sleep even if she wanted to.

After the wizard recruited her and took her from the city to learn under Arianna, Ladonna had never again set foot in Palanthas until now. This was her homecoming, a moment filled with anticipation and trepidation, dread and excitement all in one terrible ball that sat in her stomach. She was desperate to walk the streets as a confident woman, no longer afraid of the shopkeepers and city militia that had chased her for much of her youth. And yet she still felt like the small child, afraid and alone except for her family of urchins and the woman who sometimes cared for her-when Ladonna would let her.

She continued past Tythonnia’s quiet door. Tythonnia wasn’t there; she knew as much. She was in the bathing chamber downstairs, the last of them to enjoy a long, hot bath. Ladonna chose that moment to leave, while her two compatriots were busy and likely not to miss her for a few hours.

Ladonna went downstairs and paused long enough to take stock of the adjoining tavern of the Wanderer’s Welcome, where the Vagros laughed loudly, drank, and enjoyed a warm meal served in their honor. She was hungry for a hot plate of whatever they were eating, but neither she nor the Vagros were comfortable around each other. She left them to their celebration and walked out the door into the courtyard and from there into the Merchandising District.

The streets and the shops filled with noise played a familiar refrain, and yet it all seemed so different. She kept expecting to see familiar faces look back at her, perhaps even welcome her as a long-lost daughter of Palanthas. It was a foolish thought, she knew, but for all the trials she had faced here, it was still home. Perhaps it was home especially because she’d struggled so hard to carve out a place for herself. Perhaps that was why it stung a little that life continued on without her. Her return caused not so much as a stir, a ripple.

They’d probably remember me at Smiths’ Alley, she thought then chased that thought away. She wasn’t ready for that reunion yet.

Once she reached the Knight’s High Road, she walked down the slope of the street, toward the Old City Wall. Palanthas was mostly bowl shaped, the Old City at its pit and the New City rising up to the foot of the mountains. The rise and dip of hills prevented the bowl from ever being a perfect crater, but it gave Palanthas character.

From there, Ladonna’s gaze stretched out across the city, down to the green waters of the Bay of Branchala. A hundred ships of a hundred makes docked at her piers or floated languidly in her port. The city itself was tightly packed with homes and buildings. In the New City, trees dominated a modest number of blocks, while the interior of the Old City seemed like a forest. A few buildings and towers cleared the vegetation, but it was a marvel of planning that allowed the manicured forests and the clutter of structures to exist seamlessly.

The densest collection of buildings lay between the Old City Wall and the foothills that would eventually grow into the mountains. Atop the foothills lay the rich estates of mercantile and guild leaders, men and women not rich enough to live in the Old City on Nobles Hill but rich enough to dominate districts such as the Golden Estates and Purple Ridge.

The familiarity of it all invigorated Ladonna.

But it was not the Palanthas most familiar to her. Despite surviving her youth here, there were parts of the city she never visited for fear of the city guards. No, Ladonna was more at home elsewhere. She headed toward the Old City Wall.

The poorer districts lay in the shadow of the Old City Wall, a double-battlement partition between new and venerable. The homes were more compact and closer together, creating alleys barely wide enough for one man and rooftops whose eaves almost overlapped. Along those roads, it was easy to travel by roof and never once set foot on the ground. That was why the Thieves Guild made its home there; they could travel above the city patrols and above observation.

As Ladonna approached the Old City Wall, she could see the unemployed men and women and the aimless children, sitting along the roofs, watching the traffic below them. The double minaret gate of the Old City came into view, as did the wall blackened by the soot of the chimneys at its feet. Ladonna continued forward, her eyes darting to dark alleys and building corners. Here and there, she spotted a red handkerchief tied to a post or the hanging sign of a business; or the faded mark of chalk on wood, a simple scribble that could have been mistaken for graffiti. In fact, she knew she was looking at thief marks, indicators that certain stores had paid the Thieves Guild for protection against robbery and harassment. Ladonna continued looking, taking in as much as she could. She was on a scouting foray. Tythonnia and Par-Salian stuck out like sore thumbs; they could never hope to blend in the way she could.

Shouts and squeals caught Ladonna’s attention. A pack of children were running through the crowd, half in play as they darted underfoot and half in work as they begged for steel or skillfully nicked something from one of the bins. Ladonna gasped at the children, at the reminder of her own past that seemed to return to her with the strength of a sharp slap. How much like her they were, wild and hungry, carefree yet crippled by the understanding of their own mortality. That was perhaps the lesson that most urchins learned the quickest. Death and misery came to everyone, to them earlier than most.

Ladonna searched for someone specific to her needs. And there she found him, a young boy of perhaps six. Black hair, wild and unruly like a kender’s, and eyes like green fire. He was the age she had been when she lost her world. He ran and whooped with his friends, eager in spirit and hiding in the forest of adults and horses.

“Boy!” Ladonna said as he ran close by.

He stopped and eyed her suspiciously. “What?” he demanded, full of six-year-old defiance and unafraid of anyone.

Yes, Ladonna thought with a smile. He’ll do. She held out her hand; in it was the toy soldier that she’d purchased from the old woman at the High Clerist’s Tower as well as two copper bits. His eyes widened at the prize, but he did not approach … not yet.

“What’s that for?” he asked suspiciously.

Ladonna smiled. He was a tough little thing, already disciplined from life’s lessons.

“The soldier? Why, it’s your luck charm,” she said. She tossed him the figurine. He fumbled for it and dropped it. Quick as a mouse, he scooped it up with both hands. He eyed the coins.

“And that?” he said.

“Edoha,” she whispered. “Know where I might find it?”

The boy’s eyes widened; she knew Thieves’ Cant, the secret tongue that allowed members of the guild to converse openly without fear of being overheard. Edoha was the first word anyone learned.

“Coins first,” the boy said nervously.

“No, no. Half now,” Ladonna replied, tossing him one coin. She showed him the second coin. “Where?”

The boy darted and vanished into the crowd.

Ladonna smiled. She didn’t expect to get an answer, but the boy would mention the strange woman who knew Thieves’ Cant and had asked for sanctuary. She hoped that would be enough to start the ball rolling. As for the toy soldier …

Let’s hope it brings you the luck I never had, Ladonna thought. She continued moving through the crowd, relishing each memory and savoring the painful ones with an eager eye toward vengeance.

“But how can you be sure?” Tythonnia asked. She turned in her chair to look at Kandri, but the woman laughed and pushed her head forward again before continuing to braid her damp locks.

“I just know,” Kandri said. She was a dark-skinned woman in her forties, her face and hairline marked with a distinct scroll of tribal scars and dots. Her black eyes looked like they could drink in the world or offer it all the hope for which it could ever thirst.

The bow top wagon was small. Yassa slept in the bed at the front of the wagon, her alcove covered with lace cloth. She preferred the darkness, and whatever condition made such a young woman look so old also took its toll on her strength.

Still, Kandri was a patient and attentive partner. She took care of Yassa whenever her condition flared, and nothing seemed to diminish her white, polished smile. And for the past few days, she had been Tythonnia’s confidante.

“But how?” Tythonnia insisted.

Kandri pulled Tythonnia around in her stool and brought her face-to-face. “You,” she said. “You think your thoughts are evil?”

“I don’t know,” Tythonnia admitted.

“But you had them as a little girl?”

Tythonnia nodded.

“So you were an evil little girl?”

“No, of course not,” Tythonnia said.

Kandri smiled and urged her forward again. “A lot of people are eager to tell you who they think you are,” she said, “especially if you are a woman, but it’s none of their business. They see evil where there is none. They fear what is different from them. And then they’ll use the gods to attack you.”

Tythonnia shrugged. “I suppose.”

“When you pray to the gods, who else is there with your prayers?”

“What do you mean?” Tythonnia asked.

“When you pray. Who speaks for your prayers? Who delivers them to the gods?”

“No one, I guess,” Tythonnia said. “Just my own voice.”

“So why are you letting others decide your relationship to the gods? It’s not their concern.”

“But the priest of my village-”

“Fah!” Kandri said. “My marriage to Yassa was ordained by a priest of Mishakal. The priest of your village was blind … not his god, but him. Men are eager to ascribe their weaknesses to their gods. That way they don’t have to better themselves. They can wallow in their ignorance, turn it into arrogance, and then call it faith.”

Tythonnia was quiet a moment as Kandri pulled and weaved her hair into a tight braid. Yassa’s soft snoring filled the wagon, but it was soothing. It was the sleep of untroubled dreams.

The tavern was quiet; the Vagros had left in the late night and staggered back into the courtyard and their own wagons. A few slept upstairs, but for the coming few days, the Wanderer’s Welcome was closed to other business. It was a Vagros reunion, and even those growing number of Vagros who sold their wagons to live in cities such as Palanthas were welcome as cousins, as were kender. While the three kender accompanying the caravan had vanished into the streets with promises of “I’ll be right back,” it was understood they wouldn’t be. There was no malice in their departure. Only an understanding and appreciation of the wanderlust in them all.

In their place came a half dozen other kender who turned up to visit with the Vagros. They, too, were welcome cousins, and a great game was made of “borrowing back” what the kender’s light fingers happened to take “unintentionally.” Tythonnia, Ladonna, and Par-Salian gripped their pouches like a drowning man might hold on to flotsam, and still, reagents and some copper managed to slip through their white-knuckled fingers.

It was for that reason, among several, that the three wizards sat alone in the empty tavern. They spoke lightly, their voices dimmed against any listeners, though they had to constantly remind Par-Salian of that precaution. He was growing upset.

“There has to be another way!” he said.

“Maybe there is,” Ladonna said, “but this is the quickest way I know of.”

“You’re talking about-”

“Shh,” Tythonnia said. “Lower your voice.” She looked around, but the serving girl was in the kitchen with the cook.

“You’re talking about stealing. Breaking laws.” His voice had dropped back down to a whisper.

“We are renegades,” Ladonna said. “I believe that makes us outlaws.”

“Yes, outlaws with sanction of the Wizards of High Sorcery,” he replied.

“Then why were those renegade hunters after us?” Tythonnia whispered, to which Ladonna nodded. “Why was Dumas chasing us?”

“I don’t know,” Par-Salian said. By his expression, that was bothering him as well. “But you’re talking about robbing the local merchants-breaking Palanthas law. Actually breaking it.”

“And how do you propose attracting Berthal’s lieutenant? Par-Salian, we don’t know who he is,” Ladonna said.

Par-Salian opened his mouth to argue, but Tythonnia knew Ladonna’s reasoning made sense. She interrupted him.

“Par-Salian, she’s right. Say we find the lieutenant. Then what? He won’t trust us, and we’ll have to try even harder to convince him. What happens if he tests us? Tells us to kill or hurt someone to prove ourselves?”

“You don’t know any of that,” Par-Salian replied.

“No, I don’t,” Tythonnia admitted, “but!” she added, stopping her compatriots from interrupting her, “but if we do things he might approve of, things to encourage him to contact us, then he’ll be less suspicions. We make him feel in control, and there’s less chance of a test.”

Par-Salian sighed. “I don’t like this. This goes against everything I believe in.”

“Not everything,” Ladonna corrected, her voice dropping. She looked away from their eyes. “You believe in the Wizards of High Sorcery and in Highmage Astathan, don’t you? And sometimes that means sacrificing your lesser beliefs on the altar of your greater ones.”

Both Tythonnia and Par-Salian were silent a moment, stunned by Ladonna’s heartfelt admission-she’d sacrificed some beliefs of her own. After a moment of being stared at, Ladonna shot them back a look of annoyance.

“What?” she demanded.

Tythonnia and Par-Salian shook their heads. There was no reason to embarrass her further.

“Nothing. Sorry,” Par-Salian said. “So … what’s the plan?”