Mythical Anna

Marya held her breath, waiting for a response. None came, except that after a few seconds, Cay’s jaw dropped. He’d connected the dots between her and the name of their pitiful group.
Marya pushed the button to speak again, but hesitated, not sure how to convince them.
“I want to say – and I know how it sounds and you’ve every right not to believe me – but I want to say I’m sorry. So sorry.”
Her voice rose a little in pitch, pinched by the tears threatening to choke her, but she forged on.
“I didn’t want to do this, I promise you that! But I did it, and that will never go away. The – the shame, and the guilt, of those…murders. I’m so sorry.”

Cay Vojen found himself leaning toward the orb, straining to hear the muffled last sentence.
Zinnia narrowed her eyes at him, her lips parting, but Cay couldn’t help himself.
“I think…I mean, since you didn’t want to hurt us. And it seems like you’re trying to help us now…I think we can work together. Or, er, are you trying to help us now? And also, uh, why?”
In the silence that followed, the occupants of the coach began to breathe again, and Cay waited patiently until the woman’s voice returned.
“Yes, Cay Vojen, I am trying to help you now. I’ve wanted…I was ordered to kill…” She trailed off for another few seconds.
“My, my sister’s name was Zinnia,” she said finally.
Cay sensed the other passengers shifting uncomfortably, saw Joran’s gaze flick to Zinnia, before he realized what the woman meant: she had been ordered to kill Zinnia next.

Joran Arundasi tried to push away the sudden wash of emotions. Relief, fear for Zinn, guilt, anger at the unknown woman, uncertainty…
Why had this woman chosen to speak to Cay? And why wasn’t Cay as discombobulated as he himself felt? Glancing again at Zinn’s shaken face, he realized he had the answer. Cay had always been the innocent one, in a way. His humble, apologetic ignorance was a funnel for anything new, whatever his uncle had taught him. He’d paid rapt attention to Okner’s ramblings, admired Friya’s skills, unashamedly expressed his confusion during Solldero’s training. This woman clearly knew them all, and had been watching them from the beginning. She must know that Jor was too self-conscious, too guilt-ridden to be open to the idea of her help. And Zinn had been next on the death list… Could he believe her? It seemed a little too clever for her to choose the one person who might be receptive to her overtures, but on the other hand, it made sense if her story were true. Conflicted, he looked to Zinn for a decision.

Zinnia Questel focused hard on a torn thread in her sleeve. She wasn’t about to die, or if she was, it wouldn’t be while she was frozen in panic, not even attempting to save herself. Anyway, it was possible she didn’t need to be saved.
Cay was actually engaging the orb in conversation, the passengers listening apprehensively. Looking up, she found Joran’s eyes anxiously on her and realized that she would have to make the final decision here. She breathed out slowly. Turning her attention to Cay, she caught him saying,
“But where would you go? Do you have a family?”
There was an agonized pause, then,
“I don’t know, Cay.”
Zinn had no idea what could lead to someone not knowing if her family lived – or had disowned her – but the whispers in her imagination made her eyes sting.
Where would the woman go? Where…
“Cay, ask her what they’ve been trying to do with us,” she blurted suddenly.
Cay interrupted himself to stare in surprise, but the edge of the orb floated into view.
“I can hear you, Zinnia Questel,” the woman said softly. Her voice was so sad.
“I want to understand,” Zinn began, frustrated at her own tumbling thoughts, “And know why we were told to do these things. Why us? And why what we did? And who wanted them done? And, what do you know about the king’s advisor Malcav?”

Marya swallowed. The name had brought her suddenly back to herself, half standing over her hasty pile of belongings, the door a slim defense against Malcav’s eventual return.
“Malcav.” The name even tasted ugly.
“He has been directing this, under the king’s…orders…”
A memory tugged away the rest of her sentence: “You spoke out against the king and his advisors! No punishment is bad enough for you…”
The king and his advisors. Every suspicion she’d had, and every cautious suggestion Okner and the others had made, came flooding back.
The king was vain, cruel, selfish, yes, but she’d allowed that to blind her to the power Malcav had not only held but wielded, skillfully and gainfully and in large part through her. Her original protests had been against the advisors as a group, and she hadn’t hesitated then to call them voracious, power-stealers, leeches, even demi-kings. But it had been Malcav at the front all the time, or rather at the back – carrying orders ‘from the king’ that furthered the greediest plans and simultaneously undermined royal support.
Poor Friya’s death hadn’t been final proof of the king’s insanity, then, but a glaring error on Malcav’s part, a window into the truth that he’d smeared with her friend’s suffering! Blood and screams and death…

Cay Vojen leaned cautiously closer to the orb.
“Um, are you ok? Why are you crying?”
It was a deep, almost silent kind of sobbing; she seemed to have forgotten them entirely.
The university student, who had been as quiet as the other passengers until then, spoke up gently:
“I am studying politics; I know something about advisor Malcav. He gained a large following in Calcor’Bolad, where he grew up after his parents were banished. It’s not really clear how he managed to become one the king’s advisors, but he rose through the ranks surprisingly quickly and is one of the most powerful men in the kingdom. Some people, confidentially-”
The young man glanced around nervously before continuing,
“Some people have called him the mind behind the throne, although the king has shown himself to have some definitive opinions from the beginning of his reign, so most do not think Malcav is controlling a puppet king. But he certainly has a strong political influence.”
“And?”
Cay glanced at Zinn, surprised, but it was the cartographer who’d spoken.
“What part do you think he has played in all this?”
The student hesitated.
“Well, ma’am, everyone knows the king’s groups have been happening for a long time, in various forms, dating back to when it was a ritual for initiation as a citizen, I think. And the current king has used them to emphasize loyalty to the country, with the severe consequences of, er, failing to attend. But, I think, er…there haven’t been many deaths before, or not since this system was set up.”
He looked at the lady for confirmation; she nodded.
“And, er, opening the Doar Blockade doesn’t really align with the king’s past political actions. The national embargo hasn’t been lifted for anything since Calcor’Bolad resurrected slave trade.”
He paused again.
“I don’t know how the Skye gangs are connected to Calcor’Bolad, if they are; I remember hearing that the tunnels network used to be used for trade but only within our own country. So…”
The student frowned, trying to collect his thoughts, and the older gentleman interrupted:
“I know, believe me, a military assignment when I see one. Not every assignment uses soldiers or even anyone connected with the army,” he added, seeing Zinnia’s expression, then continued, “The mission is perfectly set up. A group with extraordinary potential, but with no consequences for its failure. By slowly eliminating each member of the group, these children would be motivated to succeed in the tasks and all evidence of the endeavor would be wiped out entirely and explained away as accidents resulting from failure or misunderstandings.”
“An apple and a stick,” mused the lady cartographer. “Both at once.”

Zinnia Questel cut herself off before she could fit together the stark description with her actual experience. Something else wasn’t going on, that should have been. The woman had been crying all that while as though she’d forgotten their existence. But now Zinnia heard an active silence from the hovering orb. What was her name again?
“Marya?”
The boys and the other passengers fell silent, and they could all hear her breathing carefully.
“He’s coming.”
She took another slow breath.
“And he has my sister.”
Zinnia felt a wave of panic, first on Marya’s behalf, and then in the aftermath for herself.
The cartographer leaned forward and placed her hand on Zinnia’s knee.
“It is clear…”
She paused for them all to lean in to hear her murmur.
“Whatever this man’s plan was, he wants you all dead. You all know that. The king will not save you. I can’t save you. You must all run. Run and hide, and I at least will do what I can here in the capital. Your lives may very well determine his success or defeat, which in turn could even mean laws for slavery or freedom in this country.”
She stopped; the older gentleman and the student had both reacted slightly in perturbed understanding, while the three teenagers were frozen, hunched, not knowing what to do.
In the heavy silence, the door opening next to Marya sounded loud.

Joran Arundasi’s whole body was tense, his teeth clenched, on the edge of his seat with one foot flat and the other bent, as though ready to run. But to where?
The silence in the coach pressed him down with a heavy hand.
Malcav’s voice felt so close, closer than when he’d first called them up onto the stage and formed them into their ill-fated group.
“…forgotten so soon?” he was saying, and the pure evil in his tone sickened Joran to his core.
“I haven’t forgotten,” Marya was saying, but she sounded unfocused even past the intensity of her words, as though her gaze and heart were elsewhere.
“I haven’t forgotten anything I said, especially now that I know it is all true. You have been-”
“DO YOU forget!” His anger was so quickly controlled, or least his voice. He’d had them all under his control, and still did – their deaths at his fingertips, a flick of a switch away.
“I have the power here, woman. You will pay for your lies and rebellion…”
Joran closed his eyes. In his mind he saw his father, sitting almost proudly at his desk, holding up a silver-rimmed controller for Joran’s unwilling inspection. Jor had ripped his gaze from it, staring through welling tears at the twisted wiring that wound around and under the desk to mysterious connections.
“I wanted to rip it out,” he breathed. The others shifted noiselessly to stare at him. His father had explained it to him in painful detail. “The navigational systems. They are needed to orient the Device in the air…”
Malcav was still talking to Marya – shouting at her over a stumbling crash that must not have been Marya; they could still hear her uneven breathing.
“It can’t track movement without them, or fully cloak itself, or ignite flames…” Why had his father thought he’d want to know? His father’s obsession fit perfectly into the blankness he wanted to spread over his memories: when the Device had materialized out of nothing, how it had moved and tracked them, and why his mother had disappeared. His father wanted to understand, but Jor only wanted to run away.
“All those wires, strung with drops of blood…”
They just stared at him, and the cartographer gently motioned with her hand for him to hush, but that was how Jor had seen the little red connectors that his father produced, painstakingly tying the black strands in bitter patterns.
He’d just wanted it all to stop.

Marya didn’t think Malcav could hear Joran’s voice, even though it was getting louder. Her sister, though – Marya was still recovering from the awful shock of seeing her precious sister in Malcav’s grasp – Zinnia was clinging to the edge of the desk where Malcav had pushed her, staring wide-eyed at Marya. She didn’t deserve to be treated like this, but neither did Zinnia Questel, or Joran, or Cay. She couldn’t control Malcav’s injustices, but she could refuse to commit them for him.
…Could she?
Malcav was in her face now, lowering his tone to a harsh whisper, warning her of everything he could and would do, and she knew it was all true.
She’d seen it, felt it…dreaded it. And she’d allowed it control her – no. She wouldn’t hide from the blame. She had given in to fear, and given in to Malcav, but not anymore. No cost was higher than the price of her allegiance to Right.
“…but your sister!”
She hadn’t been listening, but Malcav’s now-calm words aligned so perfectly with her train of thought that they almost seemed her own.
“I know,” he continued smoothly, maliciously, aware of her surging emotions. “I know you would do anything for her. Anything at all. There are so many things I could ask you to do.” He smiled, reveling in his power.
By her ear, she caught a murmur from one of the boys – Cay, she thought. Already their lives had been changed so much because of her actions, and no matter her choice, they would be changed further. The three of them, and probably her sister Zinnia too, wouldn’t be able to go back to their families after this; they would always be in danger.
She knew what mattered here, and her fear bubbled up in a last stand against that knowledge.
No one will know what happened to you…
You should protect your sister first…
What will happen to me?
But the part of her that knew what was right only listened calmly and sadly, and her thoughts changed to imagination.
Cay, Zinnia, Joran – the three of them would think of the one relative no one even knew existed. The kind driver would help them find her, maybe the student too, and the three passengers wouldn’t sit quietly and wait. They would do something, and even if Marya didn’t live to see it…or even if the teens didn’t…change would come. Malcav would not win.
She looked up, meeting his eyes and his arrogant smile, and looked at her sister.
Zinnia looked back at her and nodded, and whatever that meant, however much she’d understood, it was enough to give Marya the strength to lunge forward and rip out the complicated wiring Joran had painfully described.

The passengers in the coach sat stunned for a moment. The audio had crackled to silence, drawing their gazes almost at the same moment that the Device began to spin crazily in the air, halting only to drip a clear fluid into the dust.
A new quest had just begun.

Azahl’s steps slowed as he approached the low cave mouth. The gold coin clutched in his sweaty hand was far too little; he knew that already.
Can snakes smell gold?
He bobbed his head respectfully to the guards, impassive under the relentless orange sun, but his eyes were fixed on the abandoned basket just to the right of the entrance. The charmer was missing, and without the flute or humming or plucked lira or whatever music the man used, the snake inside would be restless. Unless it wasn’t in the basket.
Zahl couldn’t stop the fearful jolt in his legs that broke his stride for a moment, and his treacherous eyes slid up towards the carvings above the entrance before he could duck his head low enough that all he could see was the dust already thick on his new shoes.
There was the faintest of noises above him as he passed under the arch, and Zahl had to empty his mind to avoid interpreting anything except the lush, red carpet where he regretfully left his dusty shoes, worn only once before. Continuing barefoot through the cave, Zahl carefully did not notice the uneven ceiling grazing his bent head, nor the hundreds of gilded grates along the low walls.
Then he was in the first chamber, and a middle-aged man held out to him a large wicker basket. Zahl reached with his right hand and the man lifted off the lid. Put the coin in now and lose before he started? Everything in him was warning of a quick death, but the boy closed his eyes to slits and whispered:
“Jewel of the desert, king of paradises, holder of life power, thy command directs me…”
And he trailed off, hope and fear viscous in his throat.
Can snakes smell compliments?
What compliment could rival the gold coin, thick and shiny, here in his palm? No one in his right mind would enter here without the needed gifts. But Zahl had come partway between lordliness and begging, and each of the single coin’s possibilities were desperate. A hiss would decide his fate.
Passs.
Zahl couldn’t tell whether the sound came from the basket or from the man holding it, but he bowed his head briefly and shuffled on.
He was too young to be looking for work as a charmer, too poor to be buying a snake of his own. A servant, his brother-in-law had said. Wear your good shoes.
Snobbish, for a rich master. Humble, to the seller’s men.
The coin was too little. Six months of charmer’s pay, tossed back into the lap of…the Snake Seller.
Azahl’s head scraped the cave roof, and he stooped, then crawled. You were meant to crawl, so that the first you saw of the snake seller was his snake-skin shoes. Zahl’s stomach turned. Those shoes could be made from his brother-in-law’s snake. No one lived, they said, who parted paths from the seller. Not the snakes, not even the men themselves, they whispered. And hushed the whispers into silence when they saw Zahl’s brother-in-law.
Zahl’s knees refused to move. The hiss around him – air, just air – asked him why he tried. Mistakesss.
Mistake for Jade’s husband to fake his death. Mistake for him to flee the city alone, kind though their neighbors were. Mistake for Jade to return to collect a few belongings.
They had taken his sister and the snake, Zila, in the same breath.
Mistake for Zahl to name a snake that would never again rise, swaying gracefully, in one of Jade’s baskets, nor twine her cold body around Zahl’s forearm, tongue flicking.
Mistakes.
The man who did not make mistakes was ahead of him.  
Can snakes smell evil?
“Approach, boy.” The faintly amused voice was not raspy or sibilant like he’d expected. How did a man so ordinary hold so much power?
Zahl crawled forward, slowly, forcing his thoughts away from the coiled bodies resting around him.
“Snake Seller.” He kept his eyes trained on the floor, stretched out his s’s to emphasize the respect he meant to show. “My master seeks a snake.”
The pause was almost too long; Zahl leaned onto the curled hand holding the coin so that the pain would focus him. He tried to babble.
“He said it must be a beautiful snake, with a vibrant color. And not too young, and well-trained, he said.” He risked a glance toward the snake seller’s face to see if the story had caught.
He must try everything now. If he failed…there would be no second chance.
Can snakes smell death?
The boy crawled forward on his elbows. The coin made a heavy chink when he set it down by the snake seller’s slippered foot.
“A gesture of good-will, Snake Seller.” He hesitated. “My master said I must make certain it’s beautiful, and well-trained.” He lowered his voice, not sure how far the tale could stretch. “Or he’ll take the difference from my own pocket.”
Zahl did not dare lift his eyes, but the snake seller must have made a gesture because a door to the left opened and girls began to walk through. Or no, mostly women, because Zahl’s ‘master’ wanted a snake not too young, and well-trained.
Zahl rose to his knees, his curiosity unfeigned.
“Perhaps he would like a yellow one,” he whispered to himself carefully.
The snake seller laughed sneeringly.
“Foolish child. The best snakes are green, emerald green, like a flower’s cushion or a polished jewel.”
Best and most expensive. Zahl’s palm felt empty without the coin he’d clasped so tightly.
Where would they go? Where could they hide that he would not find them and exact an unimaginable revenge?
Can snakes smell fear?
Zahl shuffled closer to the nearest girl. She held her charge calmly for his inspection, but her jaw was clenched.
Caretakers were sold with their snakes. What did laws matter in the realm of snakes? This was the Seller’s kingdom.
None of the snakes were of the best strains; their colors lacked vibrancy and their patterned bodies looked limp and thin.
Zahl turned back to the seller, this time raising his eyes to the man’s chest. He was wearing six chains, mostly gold…Zahl dragged his mind away from the curved pendants.
“Snake Seller…” He’d thought to snivel, even cry, but immediately he knew that wouldn’t work. “My master won’t be happy if I come back without the perfect…one.” He allowed the catch in his voice, showing part of his fear and uncertainty.
Trade was an odd thing, part living creature and part mapped land. The seller waved his hand.
Zahl dropped his eyes to the floor and watched the bare feet padding evenly out. More entered.
There was no gasp, no stifled cry. Zahl lifted his head, but there was Jade. Her face was so normal that Zahl’s eyes easily moved to the next woman, and the next, but his heart was pounding. He’d pictured her…trapped. And she was. But she was still herself, and without being able to describe her face it was so familiar to him that he knew it in all its possibilities, from scolding when he’d fed Zila an extra meal, to joyous when birds called overhead, to mournful when she’d let the fire go out again.
Almost as familiar was Zila, her fern-colored scales winking in the light as she curled around Jade’s neck…alive.
The Snake Seller knew. He somehow knew. Zahl had failed before he’d started…
His heart was thumping hard enough to hear.
One snake was a firm yellow, beautiful in a cold way. Its pale brown eyes fixed on Zahl when he worked his way over, still on his knees. A pink tongue flicked.
Zahl pretended to examine the snake, but he saw only a blur. There were two emerald-green snakes somewhere to his left. How to convince the Seller…? He couldn’t give up, but the hopelessness of knowing the snake he ought to pick was not the one he would, and that it wouldn’t work, any of it, and they would all be killed or worse, and the wagon waiting outside the city would wait until the man inside was killed, too — a movement behind him knocked his thoughts out of the spiral making him tremble.
“This one is very good,” Zahl whispered doubtfully. “But perhaps he would like green best.”
He turned then, and his heart sank.
The Snake Seller gave him a flat smile, not bothering to hide his impatience.
“Green is best, boy,” he said. He gestured to the snake he’d just placed over Jade’s arm.
There was an awful feeling rising in the pit of Zahl’s stomach, the more acidic for lacking doubt. He made his way over to Jade, examined the snake. It was beautiful, a silver pattern decorating its back.
Mistake. All mistakes up to now, the Seller knowing everything beforehand, and sealed soon with a mistake that he would make, would make a hundred times over until the bite in his gut ate right through his heart.
The boy lurched on. Paused by a pale green snake. Then by Zila. Her black eyes called to him.
Azahl put out one finger and touched it to the top of her head. So many mistakes. Where were the smooth paths, the happy ending? He could not see the way, and it was too late. So many mistakes. So much love.
The moment dragged out forever as he lifted his finger from her head, the feel of her scales clinging to his skin.
The other emerald-green snake. It was smaller, younger, so that much was easy. Easy?
Zahl felt like he moved through thick liquid; he almost fell forward when the air provided little resistance.
He moved back and forth between the two emerald-green snakes, trying to keep his pace measured and worried, but the hot tears were rising to his eyes now. He blinked hard and squinted to cover it.
The Snake Seller’s snakeskin slippers tapped impatiently.
“He wanted older,” Zahl murmured. He paused in front of Jade. Her long hair partly covered her face, hiding her expression. Good, Zahl noted distantly.
“Is this one well trained?” The boy lifted his face to the snake seller, the real need for the answer adding exigency to his voice.
“Yes, yes, well-trained,” the Seller scowled. His impatience was obvious now, and Zahl quickly looked at the floor.
“Then…I’ll take this one. How much?”
“Sixteen gold, to be delivered within the hour, or I’ll have more from you than your pocket-lining, boy.” His voice grated on Zahl’s ears, but new urgency overrode his limbs. One hour.
He ducked his head, letting the threat take hold.
“Yes, Snake Seller. I understand. Within the hour.”
Without looking behind him, he dropped to the ground and crawled his way back through the tunnel. Don’t think. Don’t look. Move.
Rustling behind him reassured him that Jade followed, with the beautiful, wrong, emerald-green snake on her shoulders.
They were out in the antechamber, the man holding out the wicker basket to Zahl. He raised his hand over it, opened his mouth, but suddenly the heavy ache burned in the top of his chest and his throat, and nothing came out.
A moment of silence, and then a sound came from the basket: Passs.
He lowered his hand and hurried on, but not through the main entrance, where his new shoes lay. He had no regret left for them. The fissure in the rock was a narrow fit at the end, Jade wincing as the rough walls scraped her skin, but then they were out in the city. Zahl grabbed Jade’s arm, pulling her through the crowds, but the people around them melted out of their way, letting them run.
The city gates were in front of them, then behind, and then they were at the already-moving wagon, a pair of strong hands swinging up first Zahl and then Jade.
A jolt sent them tumbling to the wagon bed, Jade both laughing and crying and her husband straining her close, his lips pressed to her head.
Zahl lifted the emerald-green snake and lowered it into the waiting basket, and then he began to weep. Jade put out an arm for him, his brother-in-law too, and he hugged them tightly, tears running down his face. All their faces.
He had made the right choice, he knew it as fiercely as he felt the pain of it, but now the Snake Seller had Zila and Zahl would never see her again.
The Snake Seller, who knew so little of value that he weighed a sister and wife against a livelihood. His mistake.
Precious Zila. Azahl’s mistake.
Zila.  
His shaking hand over the basket, the heartache smothering the compliment he’d meant to pay…
Can snakes smell love?

            Mitra stood beside her aunt, waiting with the women and children for the men to get into position. The entire tribe of warrior nomads was alert and moving, like an army preparing for an inspection. Mitra watched as Lavin unsuccessfully wheedled his father for a place with the warriors. She had tried the same thing with her own father, just hours before. The answer had been a firm NO, of course. Ever since her mother had been killed in battle, four years ago when Mitra was barely ten, Rudur had been overly protective. Fortunately, Mitra’s aunt had convinced her brother to get Mitra armor and let her train for battle with the boys. Most girls didn’t fight, not even Lavin’s older sister, also the daughter of a chief, but Mitra found it exciting. It was so boring to stay in camp all the time. Besides, she wanted to feel needed, to be able to help the Warsong tribe in some way. What else could she do?
Lavin came stomping grumpily over to her.
“Aw, why won’t they let us march with the men? It’s not like we’re going to fight.”
Mitra shrugged.
“They think we don’t look impressive enough. And maybe we’ll fight, if the city sends out their army.”
Lavin scoffed.
“There’s no city army that can beat us!”
Mitra shrugged again.
“They might not want to risk it.”
Rudur and the other two chiefs began shouting orders, and the bristling ranks of warrior nomads moved forward at a trot. The women and children were supposed to stay under the cover of the trees while the rest of the tribe marched up to the city walls.
Lavin stared bitterly after the disappearing warriors.
“Can’t we at least go and watch?” he asked Mitra’s aunt.
Mitra added her pleading gaze to his, and after a moment her aunt softened.
“All right. But stay out of danger.”
“Yes!”
The two started running, circling to the right to get close enough to the city wall to hear. They ended up on a hill, close enough to hear the shouting and high enough to see over the city wall. It was a large city, and seemed to be well armed.
Lavin paled.
“Uh, Mitra, maybe we should head back. Th-that army’s a lot bigger than I thought.”
“They’re not coming out. They’re just assembled in case we try something, and we won’t.” Mitra replied impatiently. Sometimes Lavin got scared about the silliest things.
“Still…”
“Oh, don’t be a coward. Don’t you trust your father?”
Lavin still looked unconvinced. Actually, although he was one of the three chieftains, Mitra didn’t particularly trust Lavin’s father. The tribe relied mainly on the shortest and smartest chief, Vangor, to make the decisions, while Rudur, being the biggest, enforced them. Lavin’s father was mostly there to carry on the tradition of having three chiefs, Mitra thought, but she didn’t say this to Lavin.
“Look, if the army starts to come out, we’ll run back to the trees, okay?”
“Agreed.” Lavin regained some of his color and leaned forward, pointing.
“Look! There are our fathers and Vangor. They’re going toward the city gates.”
Mitra had already noticed them. She was watching a blue-robed official waiting on the city wall.
“Hail, strangers.” The official shouted as soon as the three nomad chiefs were close enough. “Welcome to the city of Eller. Please state your business.”
Vangor spread his hands amiably.
“Thank you, good sir. Our business is very simple. We are the Warsong tribe, warrior nomads who travel about the country from spot to spot. Recently, smaller, weaker tribes which have never posed a threat to us before have been routing us in battle. We believe someone has been providing them with magicians.”
He dropped his hands and hung his head, cleverly portraying both sadness and vulnerability.
“We have been forced out of our usual camping grounds, and we cannot regain them unless we have a magician of our own. Surely such a huge and great city as Eller has more than one magician to protect it?”
The official in blue hesitated. Finally, he gestured to a servant behind him and said,
“We have two magicians. You may ask them if one of them is willing to go with you.”
The young man who stepped up beside the official had dark hair and an arrogant bearing. He looked coldly down his nose at Mitra’s father and the other two chiefs.
Vangor bowed.
“Good magician, if you will agree to come with us and set up your illusions for us, we will pay you well.”
“With what?”
Mitra wondered if he was really considering the offer. He was richly dressed, and even the official in blue treated him with respect.
“With gold.”
“How much?”
Vangor didn’t blink an eye at the magician’s uncivil questions.
He named the amount, and the young magician laughed.
“That wouldn’t be enough for a year.”
“We had hoped for a five-year contract,” Vangor said. “If you agree, any gold we acquire will be given directly to you.”
The magician only sneered and turned away.
“Ah,” said the blue-robed official. “What a pity. Well, there is still old Argval.”
An old man shuffled up to stand next to the official.
“Aw right, den, what’s happenin’?”
“Good magician, we would like to hire you to travel with us.”
“Mire me in an abacus? Well, well, dat’s not very polite. In fact, I don’t see ‘ow it’s possible.”
“No, sir, we wish to invite you-”
“You want ter be polite too? A good thought, a good thought. But-”
Vangor visibly controlled himself.
“Good sir-”
“I’d say you’re not getting a very good start on bein’ polite, young man. Callin’ me a loser won’t get you anywhere.”
Exasperated, Vangor motioned to Rudur, who took a step closer to the wall.
“Venerable magician!” He shouted. The old man cupped a hand to his ear.
“What’s dat? You want a physician?”
“We will give you much gold. . .”
“A cold, you say? No-no, no, I don’t want one, though you meant it kindly, I’m sure. Hm, it is getting a bit chilly out here.”
Rudur’s chest swelled, and he roared at the top of his lungs,
“Will you come with us?”
“Eh, eh, whassat? I can’t stand out here in the cold talking to you much longer, young man. It’s been a pleasure, a pleasure. . .”
“We will pay you well!” Rudur bellowed despairingly.
The old man had already started down from the wall. He waved a hand vaguely.
“Aye, farewell to you too.”
Rudur’s fists clenched. Striding forward, he bawled up to the official,
“If you will not give us a magician, perhaps we will take one!”
“Perhaps, my friend.” The official said calmly. He motioned to the gatekeepers, and the gate swung open, pouring out the city army like water from the mouth of a spring.
“And then, perhaps not.”
Vangor signaled the warrior nomads’ retreat, and they moved defiantly off while the city army glared after them.
Mitra realized with a start that Lavin was pulling at her arm.
“M-Mitra! Let’s go, let’s go. C-come on, they’ve come out!”
She scrambled to her feet and followed him down the hill and back to the trees.
The mission had failed. What could the Warsong tribe do now?