Robert Newcomb - The Scrolls of the Ancients

"What is happening?" he asked nervously.

"You are departing the Chamber of Penitence," she answered. "Farewell, wizard."

The chair revolved faster, then rose into the air. As it increased in speed, Faegan feared he would not be able to continue holding onto Wigg. Using magic to augment his strength, he held on as best he could as Wigg's legs, arms, and robe went flying in circles with the dizzying, disorienting revolutions of the chair.

Looking up into the shaft of azure light, Faegan realized that it led all the way to the top, to the fresh air and sunlight of the world above.

Then the watchwoman raised her arms. "Do not forget what I told you of the River of Thought, wizard!" she shouted from far below. "Farewell!"

Faegan desperately wanted to ask her more, but before he could the two wizards soared into the gleaming, azure bolt of light, and were gone.

Rebirth

Forty-two

In a sense, time has no place in the practice of the craft. For to those who shall grant themselves the time enchantments, sometimes a year shall seem as a day, and a day as a mere moment. And the Forestallments granted into their blood shall give rise to great gifts, some wondrous, and some terrible in their applications.

– from the Scroll of the Vigors

A s Tristan walked through the double doors of the Wing and Claw he stopped for a moment, taking in the scene.

The room before him was very large and very dark, lit only by several dim, oil lamp chandeliers. Tables filled the room, and a long bar sat before the wall to his right. In one corner a stairway could be seen leading to the second floor-to the bedrooms, he assumed. Men and women were cavorting loudly. Some, already in varying stages of undress, were locked in passionate embraces. Others were busy drinking and playing at dice or cards, the losers shouting out obscenities and invectives at the Afterlife. One man sat on a chair in the corner, a pipe held between his teeth as he happily ground out ditties from an ancient-looking squeezebox. The entire place smelled of sweat and stale liquor.

No one seemed to take any particular notice of Tristan, and for that he was grateful. As casually as he could, he walked up to the bar. The one-eyed barkeep was a thin, greasy-looking creature who walked with a decisive limp. Where his other eye should have been there was only an empty hole, crudely sewn shut with bits of leather. The stitches looked as if they had been there for a long time.

Forcing down his revulsion, the prince looked steadily into the man's good, blue eye. "Ale," he said simply.

"Don't got none," the fellow said, almost proudly.

"Why not?" Tristan asked skeptically. "They're drinking it on the street."

"Like I said, don't got none," the man repeated. He smiled, revealing the absence of two front teeth. The same man who had taken the bartender's eye had probably gotten the teeth as well, Tristan thought.

"Then what do you have?" he asked.

"Mead," the fellow answered simply, as if it was something the prince should know simply because he was standing in the Wing and Claw. "Produced special on the island, and it's all we sell here."

"Very well," Tristan said. "Mead it is."

"Do you want the cheap stuff, or the good stuff?" the bartender asked.

Tristan reached into his pocket, produced a single kisa, and dropped it on top of the bar. "Cheap," he answered, almost immediately questioning his decision.

Greedily picking up the coin, the bartender bit into it, testing its worth. Apparently satisfied, he walked down the length of the bar a bit and stopped before a great keg that sat atop it. Turning the spigot, he released a dark, amber substance into a tankard that looked as if it had just been dredged up off the floor of the Sea of Whispers. He walked back and unceremoniously deposited the pungent concoction before the prince.

Tristan took a swallow.

Gagging, he immediately spat it back out, sure he was about to vomit. He had had mead before, but never any so vile as this. After a fit of coughing, he glared back up at the man behind the bar. The fellow once again smiled, displaying the dark vacancies between his remaining teeth.

"Takes a bit of gettin' used to, don't it?" he asked happily.

As the prince wiped his mouth, he sensed someone beside him. Turning, he found himself looking directly into the bloodshot blue eyes of a blond woman about his own age. She wore a tattered dress and long earrings, and smelled something like a musty, abandoned candy shop. Smiling, she inched a bit closer, at the same time reaching down to touch his groin.

"You're new here, aren'tcha, love?" she asked. Her hungry, greedy eyes looked him up and down. "Believe me, if I'd been with you before, I'd remember." Brazenly leaving her hand where it was, she looked at Tristan's tankard, then over at the bartender.

"Now, Caleb!" she admonished him, still smiling. "Don't tell me you served this fellow from the community keg!"

The bartender's greasy, perforated grin returned.

Reaching down, Tristan moved her hand away. He was almost afraid to ask. "The community keg?" he inquired, amidst another short cough.

The blond pointed down the bar, to the keg Tristan's drink had come from. "All of the mead from every partially drank tankard is saved, and poured back into that barrel," she explained. "Then it's aged good 'n' proper, and served as the cheaper stuff. Rolf-he's the owner, see-he doesn't let a drop go to waste, ya see. Waste none, want none."

Nauseated, Tristan looked back into her eyes. "I'm not interested," he said simply. "I'm looking for a man."

"Well why didn'tcha say so, love?" she answered. "I can arrange that, too. But such a waste that is, a fellow the likes of you."

"Not that kind of a man," Tristan answered. "I'm looking for Ichabod, the sailmaker. I was told that he might be here."

The whore raised a tattooed arm. "He's sitting right over there," she answered. "Practically lives here now, he does. Loves to play at cards, and always seems to win. You can't miss him. Handlebar mustache and expensive black clothes."

Then she came closer-so close that Tristan could smell the stale mead on her breath. "And if you change your mind, handsome, I'll be waiting."

Quickly nodding his thanks, Tristan left both her and his tankard of mead and sauntered across the room. He stopped short of reaching Ichabod, and sat down at an empty table nearby. He wanted to watch and listen first, hoping to form some idea of what the sailmaker might be like before trying to bargain with him.

Ichabod was seated at a table with three other men, playing a game of dreng. A large pile of coins sat in the center, and the game was very animated. Of the four players, the biggest winner so far looked to be the sailmaker.

He was tall, and dressed in black breeches, jacket, ruffled white shirt, and vest. Rings adorned nearly every finger. Shiny black knee boots were on his feet, and he sported an equally dark mustache that he worried almost constantly by twisting its curled, waxed ends. Unlike the other men at the table, Ichabod looked very prosperous. He also seemed to be unarmed, but the prince knew that in a place like this, that meant nothing. Tristan smiled to himself, realizing that the sailmaker reminded him of a particularly unctuous Eutracian undertaker he had once had the displeasure to know.

Watching the game for a few moments, Tristan could see that Ichabod was indeed a very accomplished player. Almost too good, in fact. Then his eyes caught something else, and he smiled to himself.

Certain he had found his edge, Tristan walked casually over to the table to stand directly behind Ichabod. He looked down at the sailmaker's hand, then over at the values on the front sides of the cards being held by the others.