Shadowrun - Earthdawn - Prophecy, page 4
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Cymric slumped happily against the padding of a high-backed chair, his left arm dangling off the chair arm, the fingers of his right tracing circles around the rim of a drained beer mug. The light spell he’d cast inside the mug dimmed and brightened in accordance with his concentration, which made his face tingle pleasantly. Cymric experimented with the touch of his right hand, trying to produce a matching tingle in his fingers. Just then an ork with a leather collar, probably a tanner, shouted his name and pointed to a mug with a full head of foam. Cymric bent from the waist, sweeping his left hand back in mockery of a courtier’s bow.
A serving girl grabbed the mug, clacked it onto a tray already laden with a loaf of bread, and delivered both to his table. While serving, she showed a bit more shoulder, a little more movement of her hair, than before. Cymric’s smile grew to a full grin to see that she’d certainly cleaned up well from the river-mud. Just practicing her wiles on some new blood. She turned away, but first gave him a quick over-the-shoulder smile. Her glance met his for perhaps half a heartbeat, then slid away as her smile grew; the move ended with a head-tum and a spirited toss of her hair. Cymric felt a few tingles not inspired by the beer; it looked like she’d soon be giving the boys of Twin Chin a bit of trouble. A few more beers and I could be in trouble too, he thought, still watching the girl as she reached forward for the bread.
But as quickly as he picked up the bread, he dropped it again, flinching at the three rapid stabs of pain penetrating points in his upper chest and back. Changing hands, he carefully hooked his beer mug with his right thumb, then slid it across the table toward him. Lowering his head to drink, he slurped noisily at the foamy head. It was ail a show while he tried to calm his ragged breathing, give his eyes time to stop watering from pain. The spiritcatcher had injured him far beyond what a few good beers could numb, but with his room and board here at the Greens, a few days’ rest should take care of everything.
Cymric looked again at the serving girl. A few days should be enough as long as he did nothing to make things worse. Probably best to slow down on the beer, too. He silently recited one of his teacher’s most frequent proverbs: Tattered judgement causes more hurt than a battered body. His body hurt enough.
Shifting his weight as he reached with his left arm got Cymric the bread. He held it in his right hand, tore a piece free with his left. The bread was warm, a little doughy and underdone, the taste good, familiar. As a young apprentice, how often Cymric had braved a hot oven to carve out a hunk of loaf even before Master Iveston had pronounced it ready. He’d prided himself that the holes he made would not be visible to the baker simply by looking into the oven; Cymric had considered it a special talent. Apparently Master Iveston did not, for he sold Cymric’s apprenticeship to the troll-wizard Brathaks.
Cymric sipped his beer, contemplating his next stop. The jowly dwarven merchant had told him of Theran trouble upriver near Hadis Town, although tavern regulars disagreed as to how far south the trouble went. Ogres had been seen moving across river to Corthy. Leather-ork had mentioned scorchers roaming the eastern road. Havel was already out because of the oft-mentioned evil-magician rumors. Downriver lay Marrek, a city-state nominally allied with Throal, but open-minded enough to trade with everyone. That sounded like a promising destination, but Cymric lacked coin for the boat downriver. He sighed. Walking seemed an unwizardly way to travel.
“May I join you?” Cymric’s eyes flicked up to meet the steady gaze of the woman in crystal chainmail, the one he’d earlier thought was sheriff of Twin Chin. Her expression was stolid, too neutral for him to read. Her brown hair was tied back from her face with a silver ring, her sword tied to its sheath with a peace bond. Cymric put on a mock frown.
“I believe the owner has reserved this table for solitary spellcasters,” he said, leaning forward while trying to favor his left side to avoid pain. In his best conspiratorial manner, he whispered, “But I think we can break the rules, just this once.”
The woman’s mouth twitched upward only on its right side, and only for an instant. If that’s a smile, Cymric thought, this could be a long conversation. The woman nodded, then took a seat opposite him. Opening her eyes wide and arching her brows, she gestured to the bread with her left hand, palm up and out. At Cymric’s nod of permission, she broke off a big piece, then swallowed a third of it in one bite.
Cymric took an exaggerated swig of his beer, watching her chew hungrily and noticing a small brass medallion worked into the left shoulder of her armor. Some Throalic noble must have thought highly enough of her to buy her that crystal chain. He observed that her lean face was tanned and weathered; she migjxi be seven or eight years his senior. A white scar curved from her upper right lip to her nose. Sinewy hands tore off another piece of bread. She regarded Cymric intently while taking another bite. Of course, he thought. A long conversation required someone to start talking.
“I don’t believe we’ve been introduced. I am Cymric, the wizard who just today destroyed a fell creature infesting the well of this fair village.”
The woman hurried to wipe the crumbs from her mouth, perhaps to conceal a sudden smile. She turned toward the serving girl, snapping her fingers loudly enough to attract the girl’s attention and startle Cymric. The girl hurried over, her smile now neutral as her eyes shifted back and forth from Cymric to the woman. The girl’s attention finally settled on the woman.
“Bring two whitewaters for the wizard and myself.” The serving girl’s smile brightened. Whitewaters were expensive drinks, implying the possibility of a decent tip. The words piqued Cymric’s interest as well. This conversation might turn out to be worthwhile after all. If nothing else, he’d never tried a whitewater, and someone else would be paying for his new experience.
The woman turned back to Cymric. “I am Leandra. I am interested in hiring a wizard.” She stood and extended her hand. Cymric half-rose to shake it, noting that the muscles of her arm were well-defined from what must be an indecent amount of work. Calluses protected her sword hand as armor protected the rest of her.
Aggravating injury as little as possible, he pulled his hand away slowly. “Are you a swordmaster?”
Leandra sat back down and nodded. The serving girl returned with two tall, partially filled glasses, a bowl of whitewater crystals, and a decanter. She took the empty mug, and placed the new items on the table. Leandra three-fingered some silver pieces from her money pouch, then dropped seven of them onto the table. Several of the coins rang out as they bounced against the mug. The girl curtsied to Leandra, and bounced happily away.
“I need a wizard who can read, a wizard who can decipher ancient texts.” Leandra split the whitewater crystals into two even piles. “I need a wizard who can stand a little taste of danger,” she said, plopping the crystals into the liquor in the two mugs, then adding fluid from the decanter. The drinks began to fizz and bubble, foam spilling over the rims. Leandra pushed one toward Cymric. “Think you’re qualified?”
Cymric touched his left hand to his forehead in salute, taking the glass with his other hand. Whitewater had a mysterious reputation; everyone said you had to understand it rather than merely drink it. He resolved to try it slowly. “More detail about your needs would help me decide whether I am qualified for your task,” he said.
Leandra nodded, then took a solid swig from her mug while Cymric took a less ambitious swallow. When she had taken her big drink, Leandra laid her hands on the table, the fingers cupping, but not really touching, the glass.
Cymric thought the intensity of the energy in those hands could shatter the glass with one finger if she happened to brush it. “I’m after a calendar, a ritual calendar. The writings on that calendar contain a history that is very important to me. I need a wizard to decode that history.” Cymric tilted his whitewater back some more. There were the standard questions he should ask, but they dissipated in the bubbles of his drink. He looked down at the glass and back up at Leandra, then nodded sagely to cover his confusion. “Anything you wish to ask of me? About my qualifications?”
“Perhaps a little something about your travels.”
Cymric hesitated the merest fraction of a second. What was it he’d said during his spiel by the well? It would be best not to contradict earlier claims. A look at Leandra’s eyes convinced him that she would tolerate less embellishment of his past than the townsfolk had.
“I solved the riddle of Chandler’s Cross when I was but an apprentice.”
“Wizards’ puzzles mean nothing to me.”
Great, Cymric thought. So much for my most legitimate achievement.
“I descended into Kaer Irsoi and returned. Of the six in my party, I was one of only three survivors.”
“Did you learn anything from the kaer? Secure any treasure?”
Yes, I learned that shadowmants move too fast to let you carry much treasure out of a kaer. I was happy to get out alive. Cymric gave Leandra his best cryptic-wizard’s smile, “I secured enough to content me.”
Leandra finished her drink. “Kaer Irsoi is just on the other side of the Throal Mountains. Travel much outside of this area?”
No, but I’ve probably read more than you have traveled. “I have traveled over much of Barsaive, from Parlainth to Jerris, even south as far as Skypoint.”
“Skypoint? Tell me about it.”
Cymric took the bare threads of his knowledge and started to weave a bold fabrication. “The Theran outpost is a monstrous city suspended above the ground on three colossal metal legs. The city is limited to Therans, their slaves, and a few chosen representatives from the people living below. All the tribes and other peoples who ally with the Therans live in a ramshackle city built underneath the sky city. Theran skyships dock at all hours of the day and night. Elemental magicians scour the ships clean of impurities, dumping the residue overboard onto the undercity. Only the rich can afford to keep their buildings free of the fine ash from the ships, but very few of them live in the undercity.”
Leandra’s eyes hooded and fluttered. Cymric halted his tale. Was she envisioning the scene? Her face tweaked into a smile, which then widened to become a sharp gasp. Her armor jangled from a jerk of her body. Then her eyes snapped open. She stared hard at Cymric, closing her mouth into a rueful smile.
“Sorry,” she said. “I’m back ... You were saying? The undercity?”
... is not nearly so interesting as whatever you just saw.
“The most fascinating part of the city is the dark market, which is held in a spot constantly shadowed by the sky city overhead. There are the usual slaves, gaudy wares, and opiates. Swarthy dwarfs sell basilisk organs, some of which are genuine.” Cymric fell into form, hunching to play the part of a dwarf merchant, miming the transaction.
“Tattooed Uzhbek shamans hawk summoning tomes from before the Scourge, with blood magic contracts to assure proper use. Troll-crones urge you to take a look at recently acquired ‘heirlooms.’ Your eyes behold silver braids silver gleaming with enchanted crystals in the elven style, your ears fill with ork entreaties to buy, while the basil and cumin of the Azvan cooking fires carry on the breeze.”
Cymric stopped. A moment ago, he had felt a fresh breeze on his face. He looked at Leandra. She was speaking, but the words were lost in a sudden roar coming from all around him. He blinked, then opened his eyes just as he hit the water face-first. The bracing chill sent a jolt along his limbs and spine. Where did the tavern go? The wizard bobbed to the surface, sputtered, tried to get his bearings.
The rapidly moving water carried him along, bouncing him from rock to rock, spinning him in the current. The roar thrummed in his head. The current kept him whirling. Not five body-lengths away, a huge fall of water was pouring over the edge of a precipice. Cymric knew that he screamed, but couldn’t hear the sound over the water’s thunder. He windmilled desperately as he plunged down with the water, then hit the pool under the waterfall.
Bubbles tingled off Cymric’s skin as he sluiced along the bottom. Finally the roar of the waterfall dulled, and he found himself in quieter water. Light rippled across the surface a few feet above him, and he swam toward it, not so much moving through the water as the water sliding over his skin. It seemed to carry away his fatigue and much of the pain from his injury. Breaking the surface, Cymric took a deep breath of the freshest air he had ever inhaled. He splashed both arms out of the water, and let out a joyful whoop.
He blinked water from his eyes and when he opened them again, he was braced against the back of his chair, arms raised over his head. Leandra was sitting with her head down, eyes studying the hawk’s-head pommel of her sword. Every one of the patrons in the place was staring at Cymric when suddenly the leather-ork began to applaud loudly. Others joined him. Cymric lowered his arms, and shrank into his seat at the hooting that accompanied the applause. He glanced over at Leandra. Damn. Her expression looked one part angry and two parts ugly. The prospect of walking to Marrek suddenly looked more likely. As the crowd quieted down, Leandra exhaled, long and slow. Cymric cleared his throat, swallowed, and tried to salvage the situation.
“My sword lady, I congratulate you on your good fortune. Embarrassed wizards have been known to work for reduced rates.”
Leandra’s face locked into an expression that instilled quiet terror in Cymric. Sorry, sword lady. Thanks for the drink, but how about you just let me slink away with all my fingers still attached? That Leandra’s left hand was tapping the pommel of her sword didn’t make Cymric feel any better.
“You could have told me you’d never tried whitewater before.”
The wizard’s glib response died on his lips, impaled on Leandra’s gaze.
“Cymric, I need a wizard. The wizard I need will not tell me what he thinks I want to hear. He will not tell me what he feels like saying. He will tell me the truth.”
Cymric’s head buzzed. Apparently whitewater had some aftereffects. Perhaps it was the alcohol and the injuries. His embarrassment faded, replaced by dull anger. Emotion added an edge to his voice.
“The truth is I sell knowledge,” he said. “When negotiating a deal, it’s stupid to open with an admission of ignorance. When making your sellsword pitch, do you begin with a confession of all the strokes and moves you cannot do?”
Leandra considered for a moment. “It’s not the same thing, wizard.” She raised a hand to cut off his reply. “But I see your point. Perhaps we should just start over from the beginning.”
Leandra turned and snapped her fingers at the serving girl. “Two tall ales for the wizard and myself.” She turned back to Cymric.
“I am the swordmaster Leandra. I am looking for a wizard who can read an ancient calendar. A knack for killing well-dwellers would be a plus.”
Cymric bowed, a move that made his head swim. “You are in luck, swordmaster. I am just such a wizard.” The serving girl replaced the whitewater glasses with tankards of dark ale. Leandra hoisted hers, clanked it against the unsteady one in Cymric’s hand. She drained half her mug. Cymric did the same, realizing only several swallows too late that it was the wrong tiling to do.
“I can pay well.”
Ah oh, thought Cymric. Another one of those questions I forgot to ask. Your brain must be really addled, wizard, he scolded himself. The smile on his face felt lopsided. “I would be most interested in knowing the amount of that payment.”
Leandra pulled a necklace from her pouch. The silvery chain gleamed, reflecting light from unseen sources. Hanging from the chain was a gold and silver hand grasping a crystal sphere. He leaned forward, ignoring the pain in his side. Inside the sphere was a rune, green as the shallow sea. As he watched, the rune slowly changed shape, a rhythmic motion that fascinated him. The necklace was not flash-and-spell magic. It was deep magic, and it stirred an equally deep hunger within Cymric. The sphere wavered, and Cymric realized his vision was losing focus. He forced his eyes to work again, but his efforts to sit back up were unsuccessful.
He heard the scrape of a chair, felt Leandra’s grip steady and lift him. She continued to hold the necklace in her other hand. Cymric found his feet.
“Cymric, you find out what I need, you bring me to the fulfillment of this mission, and the necklace is yours. But you must see me through to the end. Do you understand?” Cymric nodded vaguely. Leandra shook her head and slipped the necklace back into her pouch. Cymric was still leaning against her, his cheek mashed up against the crystal links covering her shoulder. The armor was cold and sharp, indenting and scraping his face.
“Luwen, have you the key for the wizard’s room?” The innkeeper tossed a key to Leandra. She caught it with her left while using her right to guide Cymric toward the stairs. He straightened a bit, then stumbled on the first step.
“Where did the necklace come from?”
Leandra’s grip tightened. “I don’t know,” she said. “I’ve had it for as long as I can remember.”
Cymric slid the chamber pot into the comer of the room near the foot of his bed, then looked about for the pitcher of water to rinse out his mouth. He looked past his wizard’s robe draped over his backpack and staff near the head of his bed, then glanced too quickly over his shoulder. Swiveling his head so abruptly brought the dizziness back, but Cymric spotted his quarry on a small table near the door. The pitcher shone brightly in the morning sun streaming through the bedside window. Cymric couldn’t remember anyone entering the room to bring him the pitcher, but then he didn’t remember taking off his robe either. The young wizard thanked his unseen benefactor, then plotted his approach to the pitcher.
Sliding his fingers along the rough plaster wall, Cymric covered the distance in four unsteady steps. Then he grabbed the pitcher with both hands and held the cool metal to his forehead. That dulled the ache, but didn’t cure it. Thinking more coolness would help, he leaned his back against the wall and poured some water over his head. All that did was drive a wedge of pain from his temple to his jaw, forcing a short, sputtering cry from Cymric that was as much indignation as pain. Water dripped from his black hair and trickled down his bare chest, warming a little by the time it soaked into his codpiece. Not the best start he’d ever had to a morning.
