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PART THREE:
The Middle Lands

CHAPTER EIGHT

Ahrmin

Revenge is a dish that tastes best when eaten cold.  

—Sicilian proverb

The windowless room was dark and musty, redolent with the smells of aging paper and parchment; the only illumination was a single overhead lamp. In a dark corner, a tall brass censer burned, sending vague fingers of smoke feeling their way into the air. His eyes stung.

Ahrmin repressed a shudder. He never liked being near wizards at all, but it was even worse to confront one on the wizard's own territory. That was one thing his father had always said: "Stay away from the wizards, son, whenever you can." In Ahrmin's nineteen years, he had never seen a reason to doubt that advice.

He stood motionless in the middle of the blood-red carpet, not daring to interrupt Wenthall's unblinking study of the crystal ball.

Though why the thing was called a ball was something Ahrmin couldn't understand. The "ball" was a head-sized crystal model of a human eye, the iris and pupil etched on its front, complete down to a spoke that projected from the back, to symbolize the cords that connected the eye to the brain.

The fat wizard gripped the spoke as he held the crystal before him, staring at the back side of the ball as if he were sitting behind a giant's eye, looking out through it.

Finally, he shook his head, sighed deeply, then carefully set the ball down on a wooden stand before turning to Ahrmin. "Good. I see you received my summons."

"Yes, sir." Why me? I'm just barely a journeyman. If you have a need for my guild, why not send for a master? 

He didn't say that; Slavers' Guildmaster Yryn had spent most of his tenure trying to improve the often uneasy relations between the Slavers' Guild and the Wizards' Guild, and was known to have little patience with any apprentice or journeyman who did anything to offend wizards—if the apprentice or journeyman survived. The rapprochement between the slavers and the wizards, while tentative, had paid well; it had opened up both Therranj and Melawei for frequent slaving raids. The Wizards' Guildmaster was thought to be lukewarm about the loose alliance; Yryn tolerated no action that might change that indifference to opposition.

Wenthall walked to a water bowl and splashed water on his face, drying his black beard with his gray robes. "You recall that there is a reward out for the one who stole our sewer dragon," he said, seating himself on a stool, his hands folded over his bulging belly.

"Of course." Despite himself, Ahrmin voiced it almost as a question. After all, the reward had gone unclaimed for more than a year. Undoubtedly, the culprit was dead somewhere, or had fled the Eren regions, past the range of even Wizards' Guildmaster Lucius' location spells. "But hunting dragons isn't something I can do, Master Wenthall; I don't have that kind of experience. Even if there are any small ones left."

The wizard's eyes flashed. "Just listen, fool. I do not want you to hunt a dragon—you and I have further grievances against the one who freed our sewer dragon. The same one believed responsible for the deaths of both Blenryth, of my order, and Ohlmin, of yours."

Ohlmin? That had to mean—no; it was impossible. "But Karl Cullinane has to be dead, or must have fled the region, at least, sir. None of you wizards has been able to locate him."

Wenthall rose to his feet, sighing. He walked over to a scrollrack set into the nearest wall.

"There is another possibility," the wizard said, rummaging through the scrolls, finally selecting one.

He unrolled it; it was a well-worn map of the entire Eren region. "He could have been in the one place in the region that is protected from both the erratic sight of my crystal ball and my more reliable spells of direction. And a message I've received from Lord Mehlên of Metreyll suggests that that must be the case. He was . . ." The wizard tapped at a spot on the map. "There. The home tabernacle of the Healing Hand Society. That is where Cullinane hid. He is not there right now. But he has been. Protected by the Hand."

"You're certain?"

"Yes," Wenthall hissed, "I am certain. I haven't been able to see him with the ball, but there is no doubt that Karl Cullinane is alive, boy. He is alive. Look."

Puffing from the exertion, the wizard reached up to a high shelf and brought down a chamois-wrapped parcel, almost a foot high. He unwrapped it carefully before gently setting it down on a table, a baked-clay statue of a bearded man, holding a long sword.

Ahrmin looked closer. The statue was incredibly detailed, down to individual hairs carved into the head. "Karl Cullinane?"

"Karl Cullinane." Wenthall rewrapped the statue and put it away. Then, from the folds of his robe, he produced a strange device: a hollow glass sphere the size of his fist, containing a murky yellow oil. "Look here."

Reluctantly moving closer, Ahrmin peered into it.

A mummified finger floated in the sphere's center. The finger had been messily severed from its owner's hand; a shard of bone projected from its hacked-off end, and shreds of skin and tendon waved slowly as it floated.

"Hmmm." Walking quickly to a compass on its stand in the corner of the room, the wizard took a sighting. "He's moved again. Not far—but south and west. Still south and west. . . ."

"Your pardon, Master Wenthall, but I don't understand."

For a moment, the wizard's nostrils flared. "Stupid little—" he stopped himself. "Never mind. Listen closely.

"This device works like a location spell. After much effort, I have managed to attune it to the body of Karl Cullinane." As the wizard slowly spun the sphere in the palm of his age-withered hand, the dismembered finger maintained its position, pointing unerringly to the southeast. "Too much effort; getting that statue accurate enough for the spell to work was the most precise, most finicky work I've had to do in ten years. But never mind that.

"As long as Cullinane remains within range, this will show you in which direction he is. If, as you turn the ball, the finger fails to point consistently in one direction, there are four possible explanations. First, he has fled the Eren regions. Second, he is inside the Hand sanctuary." Wenthall grimaced. "Third, he is otherwise magically protected. Or, last," the wizard said, smiling thinly, "he is dead."

"Will it tell me where he is? Not just the direction, but how far?"

"Yes." Wenthall nodded. "But only indirectly." The sphere disappeared in the folds of his cloak. Two quick strides brought the wizard across the room. He shuffled through a pile of papers and parchment on his desk and produced a map of the Eren regions, spreading it out on a low table.

"We know," he said, picking up a charstick, "that he is in this direction. But where on this line?" Wenthall shrugged, then drew a solid line that stretched from Pandathaway into the Middle Lands, through Holtun and Bieme into Nyphien and beyond. "We can't be certain. And there is no way of knowing, at any given moment, whether he is moving or stationary; the device is not as precise as we would wish. That could be critical. Were he on his way to Aeryk, your task would be easy; were he traveling to Therranj, it would be more difficult. Your guild is not in the good graces of the western Therranji these days."

"True." Ahrmin smiled; slave-taking raids did have a way of making one's guild unpopular with the locals.

"But I have been tracking his progress for the past tenday. It seems that he is traveling through the Middle Lands, possibly bound for Ehvenor."

"Ehvenor, Master Wenthall? Could he have dealings in Faerie?"

"That seems unlikely," the wizard said, scowling. "It's too risky for humans. Particularly normals. But there are other reasons for going to Ehvenor besides trying to beg passage into Faerie. As you should know, slaver."

"Melawei. He's bound for Melawei."

But why? There were only two reasons for traveling to Melawei: copra and slaves. Neither seemed to apply to Karl Cullinane.

"Quite possibly," Wenthall said. "But possibly not; it's conceivable he has dealings in the Middle Lands. I suggest you begin by taking passage to Lundeyll—here." He tapped the map. "Take another sighting, with both ball and compass. If Cullinane hasn't moved, the two lines will intersect at his location.

"Now"—the wizard raised his finger—"if ever you do lose him, you can use that technique to locate him precisely.

"In any case, from Lundeyll you can take the southern route through the Aershtyls, if he is still in the Middle Lands. There is a land route to Melawei; that could be his intention. If so, you should be able to beat him there by ship, no?"

"Certainly, Master Wenthall. The overland route is said to be very difficult."

"Fine. I will speak to your guildmaster later today. See him before you leave Pandathaway; he will give you a writing that will allow you to commandeer a raiding ship. If, that is, Cullinane is bound for Melawei."

"Perhaps he'll take ship to Melawei." I could catch him at sea. If the Flail or Scourge are in Lundeport . . . 

"Perhaps." The wizard extended his hand, the sphere cradled in his palm. "Treat this device carefully; it is the product of far more time and effort than I would like to recall. A finger from a freshly killed maiden elf is difficult to obtain these days."

Accepting the proffered sphere, Ahrmin nodded grimly. "I'll find him, sir, and bring him back to you," he said. He started to turn away, but caught himself.

No. His father wouldn't have wanted him to leave it just at that; by profession, slavers were supposed to be cold and bloodless. "The reward still stands? There will be expenses in this, Master Wenthall. I'll have to hire a team. And if I commandeer a ship in Lundeyll, I'll have to pay the seamen's wages. That is the law, master."

The wizard chuckled thinly. "Quite your father's son, eh? Very well, the reward is doubled. Trebled, if you bring him back alive." The wizard smiled. "I have a use for his skin, but it must be taken while he lives."

Despite himself, Ahrmin shuddered. But he forced a smile and a nod. "You will have it, sir. I swear." With a deep bow, he turned and left the wizard's room.

So Karl Cullinane was alive and well. Probably, Cullinane often snickered over killing Ohlmin. He wouldn't be snickering soon.

You killed Ohlmin, Karl Cullinane. You shouldn't have killed my father. 

Back | Next
Contents
Framed

Back | Next
Contents

PART THREE:
The Middle Lands

CHAPTER EIGHT

Ahrmin

Revenge is a dish that tastes best when eaten cold.  

—Sicilian proverb

The windowless room was dark and musty, redolent with the smells of aging paper and parchment; the only illumination was a single overhead lamp. In a dark corner, a tall brass censer burned, sending vague fingers of smoke feeling their way into the air. His eyes stung.

Ahrmin repressed a shudder. He never liked being near wizards at all, but it was even worse to confront one on the wizard's own territory. That was one thing his father had always said: "Stay away from the wizards, son, whenever you can." In Ahrmin's nineteen years, he had never seen a reason to doubt that advice.

He stood motionless in the middle of the blood-red carpet, not daring to interrupt Wenthall's unblinking study of the crystal ball.

Though why the thing was called a ball was something Ahrmin couldn't understand. The "ball" was a head-sized crystal model of a human eye, the iris and pupil etched on its front, complete down to a spoke that projected from the back, to symbolize the cords that connected the eye to the brain.

The fat wizard gripped the spoke as he held the crystal before him, staring at the back side of the ball as if he were sitting behind a giant's eye, looking out through it.

Finally, he shook his head, sighed deeply, then carefully set the ball down on a wooden stand before turning to Ahrmin. "Good. I see you received my summons."

"Yes, sir." Why me? I'm just barely a journeyman. If you have a need for my guild, why not send for a master? 

He didn't say that; Slavers' Guildmaster Yryn had spent most of his tenure trying to improve the often uneasy relations between the Slavers' Guild and the Wizards' Guild, and was known to have little patience with any apprentice or journeyman who did anything to offend wizards—if the apprentice or journeyman survived. The rapprochement between the slavers and the wizards, while tentative, had paid well; it had opened up both Therranj and Melawei for frequent slaving raids. The Wizards' Guildmaster was thought to be lukewarm about the loose alliance; Yryn tolerated no action that might change that indifference to opposition.

Wenthall walked to a water bowl and splashed water on his face, drying his black beard with his gray robes. "You recall that there is a reward out for the one who stole our sewer dragon," he said, seating himself on a stool, his hands folded over his bulging belly.

"Of course." Despite himself, Ahrmin voiced it almost as a question. After all, the reward had gone unclaimed for more than a year. Undoubtedly, the culprit was dead somewhere, or had fled the Eren regions, past the range of even Wizards' Guildmaster Lucius' location spells. "But hunting dragons isn't something I can do, Master Wenthall; I don't have that kind of experience. Even if there are any small ones left."

The wizard's eyes flashed. "Just listen, fool. I do not want you to hunt a dragon—you and I have further grievances against the one who freed our sewer dragon. The same one believed responsible for the deaths of both Blenryth, of my order, and Ohlmin, of yours."

Ohlmin? That had to mean—no; it was impossible. "But Karl Cullinane has to be dead, or must have fled the region, at least, sir. None of you wizards has been able to locate him."

Wenthall rose to his feet, sighing. He walked over to a scrollrack set into the nearest wall.

"There is another possibility," the wizard said, rummaging through the scrolls, finally selecting one.

He unrolled it; it was a well-worn map of the entire Eren region. "He could have been in the one place in the region that is protected from both the erratic sight of my crystal ball and my more reliable spells of direction. And a message I've received from Lord Mehlên of Metreyll suggests that that must be the case. He was . . ." The wizard tapped at a spot on the map. "There. The home tabernacle of the Healing Hand Society. That is where Cullinane hid. He is not there right now. But he has been. Protected by the Hand."

"You're certain?"

"Yes," Wenthall hissed, "I am certain. I haven't been able to see him with the ball, but there is no doubt that Karl Cullinane is alive, boy. He is alive. Look."

Puffing from the exertion, the wizard reached up to a high shelf and brought down a chamois-wrapped parcel, almost a foot high. He unwrapped it carefully before gently setting it down on a table, a baked-clay statue of a bearded man, holding a long sword.

Ahrmin looked closer. The statue was incredibly detailed, down to individual hairs carved into the head. "Karl Cullinane?"

"Karl Cullinane." Wenthall rewrapped the statue and put it away. Then, from the folds of his robe, he produced a strange device: a hollow glass sphere the size of his fist, containing a murky yellow oil. "Look here."

Reluctantly moving closer, Ahrmin peered into it.

A mummified finger floated in the sphere's center. The finger had been messily severed from its owner's hand; a shard of bone projected from its hacked-off end, and shreds of skin and tendon waved slowly as it floated.

"Hmmm." Walking quickly to a compass on its stand in the corner of the room, the wizard took a sighting. "He's moved again. Not far—but south and west. Still south and west. . . ."

"Your pardon, Master Wenthall, but I don't understand."

For a moment, the wizard's nostrils flared. "Stupid little—" he stopped himself. "Never mind. Listen closely.

"This device works like a location spell. After much effort, I have managed to attune it to the body of Karl Cullinane." As the wizard slowly spun the sphere in the palm of his age-withered hand, the dismembered finger maintained its position, pointing unerringly to the southeast. "Too much effort; getting that statue accurate enough for the spell to work was the most precise, most finicky work I've had to do in ten years. But never mind that.

"As long as Cullinane remains within range, this will show you in which direction he is. If, as you turn the ball, the finger fails to point consistently in one direction, there are four possible explanations. First, he has fled the Eren regions. Second, he is inside the Hand sanctuary." Wenthall grimaced. "Third, he is otherwise magically protected. Or, last," the wizard said, smiling thinly, "he is dead."

"Will it tell me where he is? Not just the direction, but how far?"

"Yes." Wenthall nodded. "But only indirectly." The sphere disappeared in the folds of his cloak. Two quick strides brought the wizard across the room. He shuffled through a pile of papers and parchment on his desk and produced a map of the Eren regions, spreading it out on a low table.

"We know," he said, picking up a charstick, "that he is in this direction. But where on this line?" Wenthall shrugged, then drew a solid line that stretched from Pandathaway into the Middle Lands, through Holtun and Bieme into Nyphien and beyond. "We can't be certain. And there is no way of knowing, at any given moment, whether he is moving or stationary; the device is not as precise as we would wish. That could be critical. Were he on his way to Aeryk, your task would be easy; were he traveling to Therranj, it would be more difficult. Your guild is not in the good graces of the western Therranji these days."

"True." Ahrmin smiled; slave-taking raids did have a way of making one's guild unpopular with the locals.

"But I have been tracking his progress for the past tenday. It seems that he is traveling through the Middle Lands, possibly bound for Ehvenor."

"Ehvenor, Master Wenthall? Could he have dealings in Faerie?"

"That seems unlikely," the wizard said, scowling. "It's too risky for humans. Particularly normals. But there are other reasons for going to Ehvenor besides trying to beg passage into Faerie. As you should know, slaver."

"Melawei. He's bound for Melawei."

But why? There were only two reasons for traveling to Melawei: copra and slaves. Neither seemed to apply to Karl Cullinane.

"Quite possibly," Wenthall said. "But possibly not; it's conceivable he has dealings in the Middle Lands. I suggest you begin by taking passage to Lundeyll—here." He tapped the map. "Take another sighting, with both ball and compass. If Cullinane hasn't moved, the two lines will intersect at his location.

"Now"—the wizard raised his finger—"if ever you do lose him, you can use that technique to locate him precisely.

"In any case, from Lundeyll you can take the southern route through the Aershtyls, if he is still in the Middle Lands. There is a land route to Melawei; that could be his intention. If so, you should be able to beat him there by ship, no?"

"Certainly, Master Wenthall. The overland route is said to be very difficult."

"Fine. I will speak to your guildmaster later today. See him before you leave Pandathaway; he will give you a writing that will allow you to commandeer a raiding ship. If, that is, Cullinane is bound for Melawei."

"Perhaps he'll take ship to Melawei." I could catch him at sea. If the Flail or Scourge are in Lundeport . . . 

"Perhaps." The wizard extended his hand, the sphere cradled in his palm. "Treat this device carefully; it is the product of far more time and effort than I would like to recall. A finger from a freshly killed maiden elf is difficult to obtain these days."

Accepting the proffered sphere, Ahrmin nodded grimly. "I'll find him, sir, and bring him back to you," he said. He started to turn away, but caught himself.

No. His father wouldn't have wanted him to leave it just at that; by profession, slavers were supposed to be cold and bloodless. "The reward still stands? There will be expenses in this, Master Wenthall. I'll have to hire a team. And if I commandeer a ship in Lundeyll, I'll have to pay the seamen's wages. That is the law, master."

The wizard chuckled thinly. "Quite your father's son, eh? Very well, the reward is doubled. Trebled, if you bring him back alive." The wizard smiled. "I have a use for his skin, but it must be taken while he lives."

Despite himself, Ahrmin shuddered. But he forced a smile and a nod. "You will have it, sir. I swear." With a deep bow, he turned and left the wizard's room.

So Karl Cullinane was alive and well. Probably, Cullinane often snickered over killing Ohlmin. He wouldn't be snickering soon.

You killed Ohlmin, Karl Cullinane. You shouldn't have killed my father. 

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Framed