Robert Newcomb - The Scrolls of the Ancients

Tyranny nodded to Scars. The first mate reached for the leather cinch bag tied at his waist, counted out a down payment of one hundred kisa, and handed the coins over to Jonah. After slipping them into the pocket of his apron, the shopkeeper looked back at Tyranny with concerned eyes.

"If you suffered three maelstroms, you must also require sails, then."

"Yes."

"That may be a problem."

Tyranny's face fell. "Why?" she asked.

"Because a new arrival named Ichabod is now the only sailmaker on the island," Jonah told her. "He paid hired thugs to kill the other two, so as to have a little monopoly of his very own. Things have changed since you were last here, Tyranny. There used to be at least some honor among thieves. But ever since Rolf took over, all that has gone by the wayside. Rolf gets a cut not only of everything Ichabod sells, but from many of the other vendors here, as well. The likelihood of you getting your sails and leaving here without him knowing are slim, at best."

Tyranny's face hardened, and she took a deep breath. "I have no choice. Where will we find this Ichabod?"

"He's always at the Wing and Claw. It seems he has become so prosperous that he can now hire others to do all of his work for him, including watching over his shop."

Jonah placed a caring hand on one of Tyranny's cheeks. "Be careful, my child," he warned. "Ichabod is as slippery and devious as they come. He would love nothing more than to cheat you."

Tristan had a thought. "I think the two of you should stay here," he said to Tyranny and Scars. "This Ichabod doesn't know me. We will have a much better chance of being successful if I go alone." Hoping for support, he looked up at the shopkeeper.

Jonah looked at Tyranny. "Do you trust him?" he asked.

"Yes."

"Then I think you should do as he suggests. I know how much you like to handle your own affairs, but this time it seems the wisest course."

Tyranny turned to look Tristan in the eyes. As she did he gave her an encouraging look, telling her it would be all right. After a nod from his captain, Scars reluctantly handed Tristan the leather purse and the list of required sails. Tristan handed the list over to Jonah.

"How much should I expect these to cost?" he asked.

Jonah swiveled the single lens back down into place and perused the list. "Four hundred kisa would be fair," he mused. "But Ichabod is not known for being a fair man. Make it five hundred for a rush job, which this will have to be. But under no circumstances should you pay more than six, even to him." He handed the list back to the prince.

"Is there enough money here?" Tristan asked Tyranny.

"Barely," Tyranny answered. "It's all I have. You'd best leave half with me. If you come to any agreement with him, pay him a deposit only." Counting out three hundred, Tristan handed the rest back to her and tucked the purse into his vest.

"Stay here," he said. "I'll be back as soon as I can." He looked over at Jonah. "Where do I find this Wing and Claw?"

"Turn right on this street and keep on going," Jonah answered. Then his face puckered up with a look of distaste. "Trust me, you can't miss it."

Reaching behind him, Tristan grasped the hilt of his dreggan and gave it a quick tug, making sure its blade would not stick. Then he did the same with the first few of his throwing knives.

Saying nothing more, he turned and walked out of the shop. But the moment he set foot on the street he heard the door open again, and Tyranny appeared. She had a strange, searching look on her face. Quickly putting her arms around him, she gave him a surprising, soft kiss on the mouth.

"For luck," she said.

Tristan smiled back. "Don't worry," he said. "I want to get home too, remember?" Gently removing her hands from his shoulders, he gave them a final squeeze. Then he turned and headed up the street.

As he walked, he was increasingly hounded by whores, barkers, and thieves. Drunken men lay in the gutters, while others stopped to rifle through their pockets.

The Wing and Claw was a large, dilapidated building, constructed of the ubiquitous rose marble. The double doors in the front lay wide open. A black wing had been boldly painted on one of them, and a black claw on the other, as if daring passersby to enter. A rail stood just in front, with about a dozen horses tied to it. From inside came a combination of laughter, music, argument, and clinking glass.

After first looking around, he cautiously took the leather purse from his vest. Removing one hundred kisa, he placed them into his pocket so that if he was required to make a deposit on the sails, he could do so without revealing Tyranny's remaining cache of coins. With another quick look around, he replaced the purse beneath his vest.

Wasting no more time, he walked up the marble steps and went in.

The moment he passed through the doors, he knew he was in trouble.

Forty-one

F aegan, alone and desperately worried, sat in the small boat by the shore. The oppressive silence of the stone chamber only added to his anxiety. Ever since Wigg and the watchwoman had disappeared into the tunnel, Faegan had been overtaken by a nearly crippling sense of dread. A long time had passed since they had walked away and left him here-at least it felt like a long time. Here, alone in this tomb of rock, time had no meaning.

He looked back across the lake at the latticed floating gardens and the azure waters that flowed so peacefully down out of the wall above them. Such an amazing manifestation of the craft, he thought. But would Wigg survive his ordeal, so that they might finally go home and make use of the garden's secrets? Or would he never see his friend the lead wizard again?

Faegan turned back to face the tunnel entrance, and his sharp eyes finally caught some movement. He froze. It was the returning watchwoman. In her outstretched arms she carried the body of the lead wizard.

Faegan's breath caught in his throat. Wigg's face was blanched, and his arms dangled. His head hung to one side; his slack, open mouth was flecked with foam. Faegan immediately levitated his chair over the side of the boat and came to sit before the watchwoman. She laid Wigg down in the sand before him.

"Your friend lives," she said, "but barely. He is one of the very few to have ever survived the psychic price demanded. His regrets run deep, but his heart and blood are of great goodness. It was that goodness which sustained him through his travails."

Faegan reached down to touch his friend's cold forehead. Closing his eyes, he called on the craft. Wigg's heartbeat was faint, and his mind had gone deep. Faegan looked back up at the robed apparition.

"Will he recover?"

"His blood is strong," she answered. "In time, he should return to normalcy. But his soul will forever wear the imprint of what happened to him this day." Raising her hand, she indicated that Faegan should levitate the lead wizard back into the boat.

He did so, guiding Wigg's body to lie on one of the seats. Then, once Faegan also entered the boat, the watchwoman took up her place in the stern and used her staff to push the craft toward the opposite shore. She beached the vessel near the floating gardens and then turned to him.

"It is time to grant what you came for, wizard," she said calmly. "Leave your friend here, and follow me."

Levitating his chair, Faegan followed her as she slowly climbed one of the stone paths that wound its way up and around the latticed, glowing pools. He could hardly contain his excitement at the mesmerizing sight.

Every herb of the craft seemed to be represented here, plus a great many that he had never seen before. Looking closer at the surface of one of the pools, he saw such esoteric plants as muscle root, gingercrinkle, blossom of malcathion, and even a smattering of the very rare everscent. Finally the watchwoman stopped her climb beside one of the largest of the glowing ponds. Faegan lowered his chair.