The Brotherhood of the Twisted Iron: A Case of Whims, a Sack of Wisps - Chapter 9

[seymoure]

The Wizard Thwan-Tang 

Almost as soon as it had begun the laugh cut off.

The figure at the door vanished, to be replaced by that of a frail man in a floor length tunic.

With a single wave of his hand the ability to move returned to all present.

Grath did what came most naturally. He emitted a growl and stepped forward with the intent to do violence.

Meri-am touched his shoulder and all his attention turned to protection. This was not a spell; it was balm of family and the role of defender easing the wounds that first called to his aggrieved mind and sinew.

Bizjon was in the door like a flash. He was at once a puppy sniffing out any treasure that might be found.

Antac’s hand shifted from the hilt of his sword to grasp his nose, as he said, “What, in the name of the Dead God Shistal is that smell?”

The Wizard was instantly taken aback. “Why call you Shistal dead? Many worship the Great Serpent, and call for her blessing for many sorcerous creations,” the magician asked.

“Won’t help,” Bizjon muttered absently, “We killed her some time ago.”

“Or . . .,” Meri-am said, with an unspoken apology, “We killed a monster who claimed to give effigy to that Deity.”

Trying to be stealthy, Thwan-Tang slipped the figure of a jeweled snake off the table and secret behind his back.

“What have you there?” Antac said bemusedly, as he stepped around the aged Mage, “An Idol, fallen out of favor?”

“Why, no,” the sorcerer said, but stopped and looked into the dead eyes of the handsome young swordsman. He passed a hand before the face, but Antac caught it in his own hand and changed it into a handshake.

“You have ‘the sight?’” Thwan-Tang blurted.

“I have the ears,” Antac said, with a smile that lacked all malice.

“We need to talk about why we are here,” Grath said as he finally ended his skulking without in the hall and entered the room. He then drew the massive door closed behind him.

“We must stop this invention from falling into the hands of any who might use it,” the Wizard said, “Any man with this weapon could make it the cornerstone of an empire, just as Sinang would.”

“My employer,” the Wizard pointedly refused to consider Sinang his Master, his voice held little respect for the liege, “Is not a bad man, but he is not a king. He is a businessman. His thought is not to make the kingdom a better place for those he rules, instead he wants tax revenue that flows like a rushing torrent to him, and is always increasing. Power is not what he craves, just income. He wouldn’t hurt anyone, unless they stepped between him and profit.”

Meri-am had heard of people like this, but had always been distanced from them by those who had mentored her.

Grath just silently snarled. He knew what people who saw gold as more important than humans who were not people to them. He had been bought and sold and knew what a hell that was.

Bizjon was, likewise, aware of how the withering soul felt the back of the hand administered by one who held the reins that bit into your jaws and forced them to dance against your will.

Antac had disgust for one who was born Royalty and then acted as a mere merchant. Those who inherited a place upon the silks had a duty to see beyond themselves. What use to wear a crown if you had ever considered how much the worth of that headpiece would be were you to melt it down and sell it along and its jewels?

“We know what you want, what is your offer to us?” no one was surprised that the first to speak was Bizjon. They might have starved many times without his acumen in the arena of economic reality.

The old man withdrew a small pouch from the sleeve of his garment. He pulled the leather string that held the bundle closed.

He held his palm forward to display a pile of perfect gems that caught the light like hungry moths. He also pointed at a pile of golden coins on the table before him.

“This is not enough for the good you would, but I do not take any payment for my job here, and this is my personal fortune,” Thwan-Tang confessed with more than a bit of shame. Wizards were often judged by not just their magical acumen, but by the fortune their employment had accumulated.

“You may keep your fortune, Magician,” Meri-am asserted, “You will need it to retire. And, if we are unsuccessful you will need it to finance your escape from the kingdom.”

Bizjon’s eyes showed a betrayal, not a great one, but, neither, one that could be understood.

“But,” the flabbergasted Mage said, “You must take something. I would feel humiliation should I have nothing to give you.”

“I see something that would be worth more than a thousand such baubles,” the beautiful sorceress smiled.

She was standing at the door of a small closet peering in. They all joined her, but only the wizard knew what they were looking at.

 

© C. Wayne Owens
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