Dave Smeds - The Sorcery Within

Alemar shrugged and sat cross-legged on the top of the dune. Gast said, "When I reach the outcropping ahead, put yourself into the Trance of the Listener, and wait for my instructions."

Gast trotted off quickly, taking the animals with him. Alemar watched him descend the slope, cross another dune, and finally settle on top of the jumble of rocks. Then the apprentice did as he was bid. Eyes closed, breathing deeply, he easily slipped into the first-level trance.

"Good,"Gast bespoke. The healer had entered the Trance of the Speaker. "Now – listen. Seek no farther than the mound upon which you sit. A voice is crying out to you."

Gast withdrew. Alemar could sense him observing, but nothing more. What could he mean? Alemar began to listen, this time not just with his ears.

He heard grains of sand tumbling endlessly down the lee side of the dune, propelled by the breeze. He heard a lizard sigh. There were roots deep under the dune – he could smell the water they brought up from below, feel the surge of the sap.

And he heard pain.

There was no cry or moan, not even strained breathing. But it was pain nonetheless. Someone was hurt. No, something. There was no human intellect involved. Alemar concentrated, but he could not recognize the pattern of the creature's thoughts. Its agony drowned out any other impressions.

Location, then. Alemar sent his awareness in widening arcs. He made contact again. The thing was behind him, to the right, about twenty paces distant.

"Good,"Gast said. "Awaken. Tend the injured."

Alemar opened his eyes. He walked slowly in the direction he had sensed. Only when he was quite near did he see it.

It was a tortoise.

He knelt down beside it. He had seldom seen the tortoises of the desert. They hibernated ten months out of the year, buried deep in the sand. Even during the few weeks when they were active, they were hard to find, for they likewise burrowed in order to escape the heat of the day. This specimen, a mottled grey individual only as long as Alemar's outstretched hand, was out much later than he should have been.

The reason was apparent. A small, thorny twig was caught in its collar. It could not dislodge the item, nor even withdraw its head into its shell. The barbs had dug into its flesh, and movement only caused it to be skewered more deeply. Drops of ichor had stained the sand beneath its neck.

The tortoise was aware of Alemar. It tried to retreat into its shell. The thorn prevented it. It glared at the man defiantly, opening its formidable beak. Small as it was, Alemar took no chances. He walked over to the nearest stand of brush, broke off a piece, and when he had returned to the tortoise, inserted the stick between its jaws.

It clamped down and wouldn't let go. Alemar tugged and, while the creature's neck was stretched, pulled out the thorn. The wound was superficial and would heal unattended. He left his patient to its own resources, its mouth still full of wood.

He was halfway over to Gast before he realized that this had been the first healing of his apprenticeship.

"Don't belittle it," Gast warned. "You have to start small and work up. To stop pain, you must be able to find it."

"I hope my next patient is more cooperative."

"Possibly. Now that you've healed a tortoise, you can move on to vipers."

"TWELVE SILVER CROWNS,"the caravan master insisted.

"Very well," Shigmur grumbled. It was, in fact, the current market value, but bargaining etiquette required Shigmur to act as if he had been cheated. He reached for his purse and grudgingly counted out the coins.

"A wise investment," assured the master, watching the money drop into his palm. "A man isn't safe out in that desert, travelling with just a wife and slave girl. The barbarians might've had you for lunch."

Shigmur nodded. "I heard they burned a whole caravan not six months ago."

"Nearly. But don't worry. They won't bother us. We're too large, and we pay their tithe, anyway." The man tucked away the payment. "Be ready at dawn. We don't tarry for stragglers."

Shigmur assured him they would be prompt, and the man reentered his gate, disappearing behind the whitewashed adobe walls of his estate. The master of the caravan was also the mayor of Thiebef, the last village on the road out of the city-state of Surudain. This was the departure point for caravans heading to the Sea of Azu region – chiefly to Azurajen, but also to Shol, Palura, and the minor communities adjacent to the inland sea. East of the village lay the beginnings of Zyraii land.

He began walking back to one of the village's many inns. He was nervous, but none would have guessed it. His walk seemed smooth and unconcerned. Passersby would see him as a moderately well-to-do Shol leather-maker, identifiable by the style, workmanship, and predominant material of his clothing. The only weapon visible was a scimitar, a common article for any head of household in these lands.

He resisted the impulse to draw up his nonexistent veil each time a stranger passed.

He entered the inn and knocked at a door on the second floor. "Who is it?" demanded a female voice in badly fractured Azuraji, the trade language.

He answered, then heard the bar lifted inside. "You'll have to learn to speak it better than that," he chided as he stepped in.

And then he burst into laughter.

Yetem controlled her grin by the barest margin and quickly shut the door.

"It isn't funny," Lonal said.

The war-leader stood at the far side of the room, adorned in the traditional garb of a pregnant Shol wife: floor-length skirts, loose blouse, full sleeves, shawl draped over the shoulders, complete with an extremely prominent abdomen. Shigmur couldn't help but think of his wife when she had been eight months along. He examined the effect from several angles.

"The shoulders are still a bit wide for a woman," he decided. "But we can't do much about that. The padding looks good."

Yetem stroked Lonal's bare chin. "He looks young, no?"

Lonal slapped her hand away. His face was pale where the beard had been. He did indeed look years younger.

"I've heard all grown men shave in Ijitia," Shigmur said diplomatically.

"I should move there," Lonal said flatly.

"Here," Shigmur said, picking up the final portion of the disguise. "No woman of Shol would be without her veils – some stranger might see her shame." He draped the multiple layers of gauze over Lonal's head and secured them with a braid around the temples.

Lonal now was utterly covered, save the hands, which he had shaved as well. Yetem had painted his nails. Few would guess that the person in the gown were anything other than a rather large, expectant Shol mother. One had to be very close to make out the outline of the face at all. This, of course, did little for Lonal's vision.

"How I wish I could bring myself to ask another man to do this," the war-leader said passionately.

"It will only be for a few weeks," Yetem said cheerfully.

"I know," Lonal said.

Yetem's disguise was much simpler – nothing more than a calf-length skirt split up the sides all the way to the belt. She was naked above the waist. Although an upright woman of Shol was expected to sequester herself from the eyes of unknown men, it would be presumptuous for a slave girl to think of doing the same.

"I'm ready," she told Shigmur.

The war-second glanced inquisitively at Lonal. "Go," the latter urged. "I will stay here like a good wife."

They filed out the door and didn't speak until they were well out of Lonal's hearing.

"He'll go crazy, having to just sit and do nothing until we get to Xurosh," Yetem said.

"His hate for the traders will sustain him. Lonal always chooses the hardest roles…though this time I think you may have him beaten."