Stan Nicholls - Quicksilver Rising

He moved through the village unfazed by the stares, appearing sure of his bearings.

The sun was climbing when he emerged from the settlement’s northern end and the street became a curving track. He took a left-hand trail, rougher and weedy. The indigo line lanced off into the countryside and faded back to dereliction.

At last he came to a house, practically hidden by untended trees. It was rambling and dilapidated. He went to the door and rapped on it. A second, louder round of knocking was necessary before he got a response.

The door was half opened by a bleary youth yet to come to terms with either the new day or manhood. He blinked at the stranger, eyes red-rimmed. ‘Yes?’

‘I’m looking for Grentor Domex.’ His voice was mild, but commanding all the same.

The youth stared at him. ‘Who’s asking?’

‘No one who means you harm. I’m not an official or a spy, just somebody who wants to consult the enchanter.’

‘I’m not Mage Domex,’ the youth confessed.

The stranger looked him up and down, noting his spotty complexion and the flaxen bumfluff on his chin. His solemn expression softened into a thin smile. ‘No offence, friend, but I think I’d already worked that out. This is the Mage’s house?’

There was a hesitation before the youth replied, ‘It is.’

‘Can I see him?’

He thought about it, then nodded and stood aside.

The door led directly into a large, gloomy room, redolent with the aromas of the sorcerer’s craft. As the stranger entered and his eyes adjusted he saw something looming ahead of him. He blinked and recognised it as a figure standing in the partial darkness. It moved forward into a bar of daylight and revealed itself.

A battle-hardened warrior, sword levelled, about to attack.

In one swift, fluid movement, the stranger’s hand darted to the back of his collar, plucked out a snub-nosed knife and hurled it. The blade pierced the warrior’s forehead. Then it travelled on, embedding itself in a wooden beam. The warrior melted into a honeyed fog that quickly vanished. A lingering smell of sulphur overlaid the other heady scents in the room.

The youth realised he was gaping and snapped shut his mouth. Falteringly, he said, ‘Good thing you were right.’

‘About what?’ the stranger asked.

‘About it being a glamour.’

‘I didn’t know.’

‘But –’

‘If he was real he would have meant a threat. As he was a glamour, it didn’t matter. An even bet either way. Look, I said you have nothing to fear. There’s no need for party tricks.’

‘Oh, that had nothing to do with me . It was one of the Mage’s protective measures.’

The stranger was at the beam, tugging his knife free. ‘Was?’

‘Yes.’ The youth sighed glumly. A world of worry settled on his naive features. ‘You’d better come.’

He took him to a much smaller side chamber. It contained little except a table, and on it a body, covered by a shabby blanket. The youth peeled it back with something like reverence, exposing the head and shoulders of an elderly, white-haired man.

‘So much for protective measures,’ the stranger remarked.

The youth looked pained at that, but held his tongue.

There were rope burns on the old man’s neck. The stranger indicated them.

‘Hanged,’ the youth supplied. ‘By paladins.’

The stranger’s eyes hardened. ‘Why?’

‘The Mage was unlicensed. Apparently that’s a capital offence now.’

‘Always was. They just don’t talk about it.’ He inspected the corpse again. ‘I don’t see any likeness, so I’m assuming you’re not his son.’

‘No. Apprentice.’

‘How are you known?’

‘Kutch Pirathon.’

‘Well met, Kutch, even if I’ve come at your time of trouble. I’m Reeth Caldason.’

Recognition dawned on the lad and he gawked at the stranger, saucer-eyed. ‘ The Reeth Caldason?’

‘Don’t worry,’ Caldason replied dryly, ‘I’m not dangerous.’

‘That’s not what I’ve heard.’

‘You shouldn’t believe everything you hear.’

‘Are you really Reeth Caldason?’

‘Why would I lie?’

‘Or dare if you weren’t, true.’ Kutch gazed at him with new interest. ‘I’ve never met a Qalochian before. Don’t think I’ve even seen one.’

‘Few have these days,’ Caldason returned, his manner turned frosty. He stirred and headed for the door. ‘Well, I’m sorry for your loss, but –’

‘Wait.’ Kutch managed to appear bashful and eager at the same time. ‘Perhaps I can help you.’

‘How?’

‘That depends on what you wanted to see my master about.’

‘Well, it wasn’t a love charm or poison for an enemy.’

‘No, I suppose not. You could get those anywhere.’

‘What I’m saying is that my needs might be beyond … an apprentice.’

‘How will you know unless you tell me?’

Caldason shook his head. ‘Thanks, but no.’ He started to leave again.

In the larger room, Kutch dogged him. ‘I have skills, you know. The Mage taught me many things. I’ve studied with him since I was a child.’

‘Not very long then.’

Kutch ignored the gibe. ‘What have you got to lose?’

‘My time.’

‘Would a few more minutes make that much difference?’

‘And maybe my patience.’ There was distinct menace in Caldason’s tone for all its apparent mellowness. Like finding a piece of glass in a milky pudding.

They were at the front door now. ‘At least let me show you,’ Kutch stammered. ‘Let me demonstrate what I can do. And we could break fast. I’m sure you could use food and drink.’

Caldason regarded the youth. ‘You’re persistent, I’ll give you that.’ He exhaled wearily. ‘All right. I’ll take bread with you, if you have it to spare.’

‘Plenty. And there’s fowl, cheese, some fish, I think, and –’

The Qalochian held up a hand to staunch Kutch’s flow. ‘But I won’t be staying long. I’ve other enchanters to find.’

‘Well, there you are; I can give you some names. Not that you’ll want them once you’ve seen what I can –’

‘All right !’ Caldason snapped, adding more gently, ‘All right.’

‘Magic now?’ Kutch inquired meekly.

‘Let’s eat first.’

Caldason’s reference to bread was literal; it was all he took, along with some water. He sat cross-legged on the floor, spine ramrod-straight, swords laid beside him. Deftly, he dissected the hunk of bread with a sharp knife, carrying small pieces to his mouth on the side of the blade.

Apparently grief hadn’t lessened Kutch’s appetite, and his repast was less frugal. He lounged opposite Caldason, back against the wall, legs stretched out, a wooden bowl in his lap.

Some of the shutters had been opened and dust motes floated in the shafts of light. Caldason surveyed a room stacked with books, floor-to-ceiling shelf-loads, many in ancient bindings, some near crumbling. A plain, sturdy bench, several chairs and a moth-ravaged hanging on the only unshelved portion of wall comprised the furnishings.

Kutch put down his spoon and, swallowing, said, ‘I’ve heard many stories about you.’

‘So have I.’

Silence descended.

At length, Kutch said, ‘Well?’

‘Well what?’

‘Are they true?’

Caldason took a drink from his cup. ‘How do you come to be here?’

‘You’re changing the subject,’ Kutch protested.

‘No, I’m interested.’

The youth looked cheated, but complied. ‘There’s not much to tell. My father got himself killed when I was a toddler. My mother struggled to keep me and my older brother. Eventually he went into the army. I was sold to Master Domex. I haven’t seen my mother or brother since.’