Troy Denning - The Obsidian Oracle

“You are if you believe the Dragon can make a sorcerer-king of you,” said Andropinis. He lifted a long necklace of diamonds from the basket held by the stumpy hands of a dwarven patrician.

“I think he is more than capable of bestowing the necessary powers on me-once I supply him with the Dark Lens,” Tithian replied.

The Dark Lens was the ancient artifact which Rajaat’s rebellious champions had used to imprison their master, and to transform Borys of Ebe into the Dragon. Shortly afterward, a pair of dwarves had stolen the lens from the Pristine Tower, and it had been missing ever since.

Andropinis dropped the necklace in his hand back into the basket from which it had come, then narrowed his eyes at Tithian. “So, I am to assume that you have discovered the location of the lens, and the Dragon has sent you to find it for him?” he asked.

“Yes,” Tithian replied. He had hoped to avoid revealing so much to Andropinis, but it had become clear that the sorcerer-king would risk trouble with the giants for nothing but the most important of reasons. “Borys said you would cooperate by giving me the ships and men I need.”

The Balican studied his guest for a moment, then said, “If you are truly attempting to recover the lens on the Dragon’s behalf, then tell me where it is-so we’ll know where to look if you fail.”

Tithian gave Andropinis a wry smile. “Do you really want me to do that?”

The Dragon had warned him never to reveal the Dark Lens’s location, for the artifact’s ancient thieves had placed a powerful enchantment on it to prevent Borys and his sorcerer-kings from discovering its location.

Andropinis returned his guest’s smile, revealing a long row of sharp teeth. “Perhaps the Dragon did send you,” he said. “It took him many centuries to understand the magic protecting the lens. Certainly, without his help, you would not have learned its nature in a single lifetime.”

“Borys warned me of the enchantment,” Tithian confirmed. “From what I understand, it accompanies the knowledge as a stomach worm accompanies a slave. You cannot own one without owning the other.”

Andropinis nodded. “Before we understood how powerful it was, I watched the brains of a hundred agents run out their ears when they tried to tell me what they had learned.”

Tithian swallowed, glad that he had followed his instructions carefully. Borys had warned him that describing the location of the lens would be fatal, but had not elaborated on the gruesome details. Suppressing a shudder, he turned his thoughts back to the purpose of this meeting.

“So, you’ll give me the fleet?”

“I’ll give you the men and ships you seek,” Andropinis said. “But don’t return to Balic, or you’ll wish that I had killed you today. My city won’t be the one that suffers when Borys destroys the lens.”

“Agreed.”

Andropinis glanced at his chamberlain and nodded. Maurus stepped to the Tyrian’s side. “A guard will escort you to a guesthouse. I’ll have a messenger contact you as soon as the necessary arrangements have been made.” When Tithian made no move to leave, the chamberlain waved a hand toward the exit. “This way out,” he said.

Tithian ignored him and kept his attention focused on Andropinis.

“Yes?” asked the Balican. “Is there something else?”

Tithian sneered at the chamberlain, then said, “It would be best if what passed between us could not be repeated, King Andropinis. My task will be difficult enough without the Veiled Alliance interfering.”

“Maurus is trustworthy,” replied the sorcerer-king.

“To you, perhaps,” said Tithian. “But he has shown me no respect, and I’m the one who’s sailing into giant territory-where it would be an easy matter to arrange an ambush. In Borys’s name, I must insist that your chamberlain’s tongue be silenced.”

Andropinis shook his head at Tithian’s boldness, then said, “Perhaps you will become a sorcerer-king after all, Tithian.” He motioned for the chamberlain to step toward him.

Maurus dropped the wooden treasure basin he had been holding and turned to flee. “Please, my king!”

Andropinis slipped past Tithian to clamp a huge hand over the templar’s shoulder. Long claws sprouted from the sorcerer-king’s fingertips, then he used the Way to address the entire Chamber of Patricians.

Young Maurus, my chamberlain, is to be congratulated , he said. I am bestowing the title of Patrician upon him .

The applause was so thunderous that it shook the building.

Agis stood at the quay’s end, squinting out at the harbor. There, a ghostly thicket of white sails was just fading from sight, shrouded by the distance and a murky pall of dust that cleaved to the bay’s surface like a ground fog. The sun had barely risen, shooting tendrils of blood-colored light across the emerald haze of the morning sky, and already the flotilla had reached the far side of the cove. On one of those ships, the noble felt certain, sailed the fugitive king of Tyr.

Agis had entered Balic the previous night, leaving Fylo several miles outside the city. He had begun searching for Tithian immediately. Bribing dozens of street paupers to answer his questions, he had traced his quarry first to the sorcerer-king’s citadel, then to the harbor district. The trail had ended there, and the noble had spent more than an hour trying to find it again. Finally he had learned that, for the first time in a year, a Balican military fleet had sortied earlier that night. Given that Tithian had been seen traveling from the White Palace to the harbor, the departure had seemed more than a coincidence. Agis had concluded that the king of Tyr was sailing with the flotilla.

The noble started back down the quay. Pearl-colored loess lay heaped against the western side of the pier in great mounds, spilling over the stone walkway and making it difficult to tell the wharf from the silty depths it traversed. At the end of the dock, a chest-high hedge of yellow ratany ran along the edge of the harbor, its spindly boughs serving as a crude dust-break.

As Agis approached the end of the pier, he came upon a group of rugged men seated on crates. They were talking quietly among themselves, twining rope and repairing sailing tackle. They had tied scarves around their mouths and noses to keep out blowing dust, and their eyes seemed pinched into permanent squints.

“Hail, stranger,” said one, speaking the trade tongue with the thick Balican accent. Although he looked at Agis as he spoke, his thick fingers continued to dance, twisting three yarns of black cord into a rope. “Are you looking to hire a craft?”

“Perhaps,” Agis said.

“Before you hire Salust, take a look at his boat,” said another, with broad red cheeks peeking over the top of his dusty face-mask. “My own bark is two craft down. She’s as dust-worthy a vessel as you’ll find in this harbor.”

The man gestured to the left side of the pier. There, dozens of boats lay scattered along the edge of the bay, sails furled and centerboards raised so the hulls could rest flat in the dust. All were half-buried, with mountainous heaps of silt piled against their high-sided gunnels. In many cases, the loess had spilled over the tops, completely filling the passenger compartments and giving the craft the distinct impression of derelicts.

“I’m not sure I want to hire any of those boats,” Agis commented.

“If you’re going to steal one, take Marda’s,” commented Salust, staring at the red-cheeked man.

“You’d be doing us all a favor, especially his family. That way, they won’t lose their father when he drops his dingy into a sinkhole.”

This elicited a round of laughter from the other men, who encouraged Salust and Marda as they continued to trade insults. Agis paid them little attention, for his thoughts were on more important matters.