Robert Newcomb - The Scrolls of the Ancients

Kneeling down before her, he pointed to the store. "That's it," he whispered. "I'll go inside first, while you wait here. After a few moments, if you don't see me come back out, walk in and begin doing as I instructed you. Keep one eye on me. When you see that I have gone, make your way out and meet me where I told you to, all right?"

Trying to be brave, Rebecca nodded. Giving her a final, encouraging smile, Marcus started across the street.

He approached the shop casually, and entered as nonchalantly as he could. Inside, the proprietor was going from one patron to another, eagerly explaining to them why he or she simply could not live another moment without one of his beautiful, most certainly inexpensive rugs. He was a stout man whom Marcus was sure wouldn't be able to run very well-yet another plus for choosing this place.

Marcus ambled over to a pile of rugs in one corner, his eyes going to the back of the shop. There was a short counter that ran partway across the back, leaving a space for access to the rear door. A brief smile crossed his lips: everything was in perfect order.

The rear door of the shop was wide open to allow a cooling morning draft for the heavy, already sweating proprietor, just as it had been the last time Marcus had visited here. The owner, it seemed, was nothing if not a creature of habit. Feeling the weight of the bag across his shoulder, Marcus thought of its contents and smiled again. Then, turning his head toward the door, he saw 'Becca enter the shop. She looked scared to death.

As her brown eyes finally found him, he winked at her, letting her know that he was about to proceed. Biting her lip again, she nodded back and walked near the proprietor, just as her brother had told her to do. Marcus then walked to one side a bit, to a little oasis of bare floor.

Slowly, carefully, he took the canvas bag from his shoulder. Making sure his back was to the others, he untied the top of the bag and turned it over. As the contents came falling out to the floor, he tossed the bag aside and quickly looked over at 'Becca. Then he winked again, telling her to start.

It has often been said that the high-pitched, earsplitting scream coming from a young girl is unequaled, and Rebecca's proved no exception. Taking great lungfuls of air, she screamed for all she was worth, sending shock waves through the little shop. The outcry was so piercing that at first Marcus thought the glass panes in the double doors might burst.

"Snakes!" Rebecca shrieked, pointing frantically across the room and jumping up onto one of the piles of rugs. She pointed again. "Big snakes!" Then, her eyes wide with false terror, she put her hands up to the sides of her head, jumped frantically up and down atop the pile of rugs, and let go another insane scream.

Pandemonium immediately engulfed the shop. A woman screamed and clambered onto the pile of rugs with Rebecca; then another joined them. Just as Marcus had hoped, the snakes quickly separated and began slithering across the floor, trying to find refuge among the piles of rugs or make for the freedom of the open doors. The startled patrons scattered. Women screamed; men simply stood there, frozen in horror.

The snakes Marcus had freed from the canvas bag were especially large, hungry, and highly agitated.

Long, thick, and brightly patterned, these snakes were known as slickribbons, and they were very quick. Marcus had boldly stolen an entire wire cage full of them from the front shelf of one of the exotic animal vendors in the square, and then had run for his life, narrowly avoiding being caught. Black, shiny, and menacing-looking, slickribbons had triangular yellow markings on their backs, making them highly prized for their skins. They were not venomous or harmful to humans in any way, but right now the terrified people in the shop didn't care about that. All they wanted to do-the proprietor included-was get out.

As the customers swarmed toward the front door, Marcus calmly picked up the rug he wanted. It was rolled up and secured by twine, but he guessed by its thickness and the length of the roll that its size would do for what he had planned. Hoisting it over one shoulder, he sauntered through the open back door and went out into the alley.

Walk, he reminded himself. Walk as if you own this rug. Whatever you do, don't run.

Suddenly enjoying herself immensely, Rebecca let out another earsplitting scream just for fun, jumped down off the pile of rugs, and joined the rush for the open doors.

Twenty-eight

S eated at the ancient, ornate desk in the Scriptorium of the Citadel, Krassus took a moment from his labors to enjoy the feeling of success. Four uneventful days of sailing had passed since he had cleverly avoided the unidentified frigates bearing down on him on the Sea of Whispers. Only an hour earlier he had descended the gangway of the Sojourner and been told by Janus that his consuls believed they had finally identified the bastard son of the late Queen Morganna. Overjoyed, Krassus had immediately come to the Scriptorium to examine the supposed authenticity of the blood signature for himself before going to view the prize from which it had come.

He carefully drew the tripod toward him yet again, then adjusted the parchment squarely under the crosshairs of the lens. This was the fourth time he had done so, as if with each new attempt the results would somehow change. But of course they hadn't. Having already compared the upper and lower shapes of the signature to those of Queen Morganna and Eric, her onetime lover, he looked down through the lens, no less stunned at what he saw this time than the times before.

Nicholas had told him that Wulfgar's signature would be a thing of wonder. But nothing had prepared Krassus for the likes of what now lay before him.

Never before had he seen such a left-leaning signature. Only two others were known to deviate so widely from the vertical axis. Those belonged to the Chosen Ones themselves, and they both leaned to the right.

Taking his eye from the lens, he looked at the assay mark written on the corner of the parchment: 11?2. The blood quality was equal to that of Princess Shailiha, and second only to that of Tristan himself.

Krassus smiled. Janus and his consuls had been right. The slave this signature came from was indeed Wulfgar, the bastard son of Morganna.

Krassus now possessed not only the half sibling of the Chosen Ones, but also the Scroll of the Vagaries. Much of his work could finally go forward. If and when he got hold of the Scroll of the Vigors, he would be unstoppable.

He looked around this part of the Scriptorium. Built of the palest tan marble, the room was light and airy, and its floor was partially covered with highly patterned rugs. The stained-glass windows-now open to let in the sun and the salt air-were numerous. Bookcase after bookcase lined the walls. The texts and scrolls on their shelves were dusty from long neglect, but they would not remain that way much longer. The Scroll of the Vagaries lay nearby on another desk, the engraved gold band around its middle still tightly imprisoning the knowledge contained within.

Smiling, Krassus rose and walked out to the spacious balcony that overlooked the ocean. Standing there feeling the wind on his face, he thought of how honored he had been when Nicholas had told him of this place and what his mission would be. It had been eons since the Citadel had been inhabited and used for purposes of the craft. His endowed blood sang with the excitement that was soon to follow, and his pride at having been chosen as the new master of this fortress isle knew no bounds. For a moment, his mind turned back to the circumstances that had made it so.

He had been captured one day by Nicholas' great birds of prey, and then taken to the Caves of the Paragon, along with other consuls of the Redoubt. But as sole first alternate to the late Directorate of Wizards, Krassus had been kept isolated from Nicholas' other servants, and his blood imbued with the Forestallments required to turn him to the Vagaries.