Robert Newcomb - The Scrolls of the Ancients

"Does the ladder go all the way to the roof?" Faegan asked.

"Yes."

"And does the roof appear to be flat?"

"From what I could see, yes."

"Good," Faegan answered. Tristan and Shailiha could see mischief coming to the ancient wizard's eyes as his plan continued to form.

"I want you and Shailiha to walk the three horses around back," he said. "Leave your two saddled. Unharness the cart and put it to one side. Take the extra saddle and bridle from the cart and put them on my horse. Tie all the horses to the wall. Then return. Do it quickly."

Tristan and Shailiha carried out the wizard's orders as swiftly as they could, then returned to the front of the inn.

"Is it done?" Faegan asked. Tristan nodded.

"Very well," the wizard said. "Follow me into the inn. Whatever you do, do not lower your hoods. Stay quiet, and follow my lead. Try to act as though you do not exist." He pointed to one of the loose boards of the inn steps. "Tristan, if you would?" he asked.

Understanding, the prince reached down to tear the wide, loose board away from its few remaining nails, then inclined it against the steps of the inn. It made a serviceable ramp. After briefly testing its strength, he wheeled Faegan's chair up and through the door into the lobby, Shailiha right behind.

Inside, the inn was dingy, dark, and unappealing. The large front room held several chairs, tables, and a long bar with a mirror behind it. Sullen-looking men, some obviously fishermen, sat hunched over the tables and bar, drinking quietly. Several scantily dressed women walked among the tables, flirting with the men. For hire, no doubt, Tristan thought with a slight shake of his head.

The thin, greasy-looking man Tristan took to be the innkeeper sat at a small desk in one corner, making notes in a bound ledger. A tankard sat before him. He did not look up. Indeed, no one took any great notice of the newcomers at all, save for a few furtive, curious glances at Faegan's chair. With a smile, the wizard calmly wheeled himself toward the proprietor.

"Three rooms, please," Faegan said politely.

The man looked up from his arithmetic. His eyes were dark and distrustful.

"The only rooms I have left are on the top floor," he said rudely, "but taking you up and down the stairs isn't included in the rent."

Some of the customers laughed aloud.

Faegan graciously ignored the insult. "Thank you for your worry, but my bodyguard will take care of that. He's quite used to it, in fact. Now then, how much?"

"How many nights?" the innkeeper asked. He took a sloppy gulp of stale-smelling ale, then set the tankard back down on the desk. Letting go a wet belch, he wiped his mouth with a stained, gartered shirtsleeve.

"Three rooms, one night each," Faegan answered.

"Twelve kisa," the man replied. "Fourth floor. The washing facilities are at the end of the hall. Take it or leave it."

Twelve kisa was a steep price for such a place, Tristan thought, but clearly Faegan thought it better not to bargain. Reaching into his robes, the wizard took out the necessary kisa and dropped them on the desk. After counting them, the innkeeper produced three keys, which he handed over to the wizard. Saying nothing more, Faegan turned his chair to the stairs, Tristan and Shailiha following behind.

At the foot of the steps, Tristan leaned in, putting his lips to the wizard's ear. "Are you joking?" he growled quietly. "Four flights of stairs?"

"No." Faegan smiled. "Actually, I'm hoping there will be five." Looking over to Shailiha, he gave her a wink. She smiled back quizzically.

"What do you mean five?" Tristan argued.

"We have no friends here, and this is no time for a debate," Faegan answered urgently. "Let's go."

Sighing, Tristan began pulling the wizard's chair backward up the steps. After what seemed an eternity, they finally reached the fourth floor. Tristan looked around cautiously. Nothing seemed amiss.

"What are our room numbers?" Shailiha asked Faegan as Tristan leaned over, breathing heavily from exhaustion.

"We won't be using the rooms." Faegan smiled and looked up at the ceiling. "That was just for show."

Before either of the Chosen Ones could ask the obvious question, the wizard found what he was looking for. In the middle of the ceiling was a wooden framework, from which hung a rope ending in a pull handle.

Faegan wheeled himself to the rope and gave it a tug. Stairs to the roof slowly descended on a pivot, revealing the first stars of the evening twinkling through the opening. Faegan grinned at the prince.

"As I told you, there are five," he said impishly. "But again you must pull me up without my using the craft. There might still be people about."

Tristan nodded. With a determined grip he pushed the chair to the stairs, and, with some help from Shailiha below, managed to pull it up and onto the roof. Shailiha scrambled up behind them, then pulled the duplicate rope on the other side, wisely lifting the pivoting stairway back into place.

The gray slate roof was large and flat. The wind had risen, and the smell of the sea came to them again. From here the prince could see much of the city, the flickering streetlamps casting macabre, dancing shadows along the sides of the buildings and down the cobblestoned thoroughfares.

"Quickly, Tristan," Faegan whispered. "Lift me from my chair and put me down by the east edge of the roof. Then both of you come and lie next to me, one on either side."

Tristan did as the wizard ordered, and Faegan lay on his stomach, peering over the edge toward the docks. Tristan and Shailiha lay down beside him.

Down on the stone piers that formed the breakwater to the sea, hundreds of people were milling anxiously about.Three large ships, their sails furled, lay tied up in docking berths, their white, salty waterlines riding well above the waves. Even Tristan's inexperienced eyes could guess that meant the ships were empty of cargo.

A raised wooden platform had been placed in a cleared area between the crowd and the water's edge. A short series of steps ran down from one of its sides to the ground. Alongside the platform a long, crude, rectangular table sat upon the pier. Seated behind it were at least a dozen men in dark robes. Consuls' robes, the prince thought. On the table before each man lay several objects, but Tristan could not identify them from this distance. The men behind the table sat patiently, as if waiting for something.

Before the table stood two large, black kettles with strange, curved iron handles. An orange-red glow emanated from each of their circular tops. Tristan assumed that the strange auras were being produced by glowing, red-hot coals deep within them. Black smoke rose lazily from the kettles' glowing embers, vanishing into the growing darkness of the evening sky.

Near the kettles, two pillories had been constructed. The orange glow from the black kettles mixed with the light from the dozens of oil lamps to cast strangely flickering shadows across the hulls of the silently waiting ships and the stark, empty pillories.

Then Tristan saw the white-skinned demonslavers lining the inner edges of the clearing, keeping the burgeoning crowd from approaching the raised platform by the constant threat of their nine-tails and tridents. Then Krassus came into view. The people in the crowd began to shout invectives and wave their arms in anger. Krassus didn't seem to care.

Slowly he walked to the platform in his blue-and-gray robe. An elderly woman with frizzled gray hair and dressed in a shopworn black robe followed along behind him. As they approached, the demonslavers kept the crowd back. Without fanfare Krassus and his unknown companion walked to the side of the platform and up the steps. They remained silent.

Tristan looked over at Faegan. "Is that woman the partial adept Krassus talked about that day in the palace?" he asked urgently. "Do you know her?"