The Obsidian Oracle Read online

  “I’m no oaf.” Tithian’s voice remained calm.

  “You are if you believe the Dragon can make a sorcerer-king of you,” said Andropinis. He lifted a long necklace of diamonds from the basket held by the stumpy hands of a dwarven patrician.

  “I think he is more than capable of bestowing the necessary powers on me—once I supply him with the Dark Lens,” Tithian replied.

  The Dark Lens was the ancient artifact which Rajaat’s rebellious champions had used to imprison their master, and to transform Borys of Ebe into the Dragon. Shortly afterward, a pair of dwarves had stolen the lens from the Pristine Tower, and it had been missing ever since.

  Andropinis dropped the necklace in his hand back into the basket from which it had come, then narrowed his eyes at Tithian. “So, I am to assume that you have discovered the location of the lens, and the Dragon has sent you to find it for him?” he asked.

  “Yes,” Tithian replied. He had hoped to avoid revealing so much to Andropinis, but it had become clear that the sorcerer-king would risk trouble with the giants for nothing but the most important of reasons. “Borys said you would cooperate by giving me the ships and men I need.”

  The Balican studied his guest for a moment, then said, “If you are truly attempting to recover the lens on the Dragon’s behalf, then tell me where it is—so we’ll know where to look if you fail.”

  Tithian gave Andropinis a wry smile. “Do you really want me to do that?”

  The Dragon had warned him never to reveal the Dark Lens’s location, for the artifact’s ancient thieves had placed a powerful enchantment on it to prevent Borys and his sorcerer-kings from discovering its location.

  Andropinis returned his guest’s smile, revealing a long row of sharp teeth. “Perhaps the Dragon did send you,” he said. “It took him many centuries to understand the magic protecting the lens. Certainly, without his help, you would not have learned its nature in a single lifetime.”

  “Borys warned me of the enchantment,” Tithian confirmed. “From what I understand, it accompanies the knowledge as a stomach worm accompanies a slave. You cannot own one without owning the other.”

  Andropinis nodded. “Before we understood how powerful it was, I watched the brains of a hundred agents run out their ears when they tried to tell me what they had learned.”

  Tithian swallowed, glad that he had followed his instructions carefully. Borys had warned him that describing the location of the lens would be fatal, but had not elaborated on the gruesome details. Suppressing a shudder, he turned his thoughts back to the purpose of this meeting.

  “So, you’ll give me the fleet?”

  “I’ll give you the men and ships you seek,” Andropinis said. “But don’t return to Balic, or you’ll wish that I had killed you today. My city won’t be the one that suffers when Borys destroys the lens.”

  “Agreed.”

  Andropinis glanced at his chamberlain and nodded. Maurus stepped to the Tyrian’s side. “A guard will escort you to a guesthouse. I’ll have a messenger contact you as soon as the necessary arrangements have been made.” When Tithian made no move to leave, the chamberlain waved a hand toward the exit. “This way out,” he said.

  Tithian ignored him and kept his attention focused on Andropinis.

  “Yes?” asked the Balican. “Is there something else?”

  Tithian sneered at the chamberlain, then said, “It would be best if what passed between us could not be repeated, King Andropinis. My task will be difficult enough without the Veiled Alliance interfering.”

  “Maurus is trustworthy,” replied the sorcerer-king.

  “To you, perhaps,” said Tithian. “But he has shown me no respect, and I’m the one who’s sailing into giant territory—where it would be an easy matter to arrange an ambush. In Borys’s name, I must insist that your chamberlain’s tongue be silenced.”

  Andropinis shook his head at Tithian’s boldness, then said, “Perhaps you will become a sorcerer-king after all, Tithian.” He motioned for the chamberlain to step toward him.

  Maurus dropped the wooden treasure basin he had been holding and turned to flee. “Please, my king!”

  Andropinis slipped past Tithian to clamp a huge hand over the templar’s shoulder. Long claws sprouted from the sorcerer-king’s fingertips, then he used the Way to address the entire Chamber of Patricians.

  Young Maurus, my chamberlain, is to be congratulated, he said. I am bestowing the title of Patrician upon him.

  The applause was so thunderous that it shook the building.

  THREE

  NYMOS

  AGIS STOOD AT THE QUAY’S END, SQUINTING OUT AT the harbor. There, a ghostly thicket of white sails was just fading from sight, shrouded by the distance and a murky pall of dust that cleaved to the bay’s surface like a ground fog. The sun had barely risen, shooting tendrils of blood-colored light across the emerald haze of the morning sky, and already the flotilla had reached the far side of the cove. On one of those ships, the noble felt certain, sailed the fugitive king of Tyr.

  Agis had entered Balic the previous night, leaving Fylo several miles outside the city. He had begun searching for Tithian immediately. Bribing dozens of street paupers to answer his questions, he had traced his quarry first to the sorcerer-king’s citadel, then to the harbor district. The trail had ended there, and the noble had spent more than an hour trying to find it again. Finally he had learned that, for the first time in a year, a Balican military fleet had sortied earlier that night. Given that Tithian had been seen traveling from the White Palace to the harbor, the departure had seemed more than a coincidence. Agis had concluded that the king of Tyr was sailing with the flotilla.

  The noble started back down the quay. Pearl-colored loess lay heaped against the western side of the pier in great mounds, spilling over the stone walkway and making it difficult to tell the wharf from the silty depths it traversed. At the end of the dock, a chest-high hedge of yellow ratany ran along the edge of the harbor, its spindly boughs serving as a crude dust-break.

  As Agis approached the end of the pier, he came upon a group of rugged men seated on crates. They were talking quietly among themselves, twining rope and repairing sailing tackle. They had tied scarves around their mouths and noses to keep out blowing dust, and their eyes seemed pinched into permanent squints.

  “Hail, stranger,” said one, speaking the trade tongue with the thick Balican accent. Although he looked at Agis as he spoke, his thick fingers continued to dance, twisting three yarns of black cord into a rope. “Are you looking to hire a craft?”

  “Perhaps,” Agis said.

  “Before you hire Salust, take a look at his boat,” said another, with broad red cheeks peeking over the top of his dusty face-mask. “My own bark is two craft down. She’s as dust-worthy a vessel as you’ll find in this harbor.”

  The man gestured to the left side of the pier. There, dozens of boats lay scattered along the edge of the bay, sails furled and centerboards raised so the hulls could rest flat in the dust. All were half-buried, with mountainous heaps of silt piled against their high-sided gunnels. In many cases, the loess had spilled over the tops, completely filling the passenger compartments and giving the craft the distinct impression of derelicts.

  “I’m not sure I want to hire any of those boats,” Agis commented.

  “If you’re going to steal one, take Marda’s,” commented Salust, staring at the red-cheeked man.

  “You’d be doing us all a favor, especially his family. That way, they won’t lose their father when he drops his dingy into a sinkhole.”

  This elicited a round of laughter from the other men, who encouraged Salust and Marda as they continued to trade insults. Agis paid them little attention, for his thoughts were on more important matters.

  “Can any of your boats catch the fleet that left this morning?” he interrupted.

  This silenced the small crowd. “Why would you want to?” asked Marda.

  “A criminal from my city sailed on one of tho
se ships,” explained Agis. “I must take him back to Tyr to answer for his crimes.”

  “Let him go,” said Salust. “I promise you, he’ll find punishment enough with the fleet.”

  “What do you mean?” Agis asked.

  “The giants—”

  Before Marda could explain further, a pair of Balican templars stepped onto the quay, leaving an escort of six half-giants behind at the ratany hedge. The sailors fell immediately silent, each man fixing his eyes on his work.

  When the templars reached the group, one of them pointed at Agis. “You. How long have you been in Balic?” She was a hard-eyed woman with sour, harsh looking features.

  “Let me think,” the noble replied. “How long has it been now?” He rubbed his chin, stalling for time as he prepared to use the Way. The energy flowed from his nexus slowly, for he still felt weak from the loss he had suffered in his thought-battle against Fylo.

  “If you’ve been here longer than you can remember, then certainly you can tell us where you’re staying,” suggested the second templar, a blue-eyed man with curly yellow hair.

  Agis pointed in the general direction of the harbor’s entrance, where he had seen a single large inn stretching along an entire block. He did not speak, however, knowing that the name he gave for the building would probably be incorrect. As in most cities of Athas, Balic’s sorcerer-king forbade common citizens the right to read. Consequently, the city’s trade signs depicted pictures or symbols suggesting the establishment’s name without actually providing it. So, while Agis remembered that the carving of a lion lying on its back hung on the inn’s wall, he had no way of knowing whether the name was the Dead Lion, the Sleeping Cat, or something entirely different.

  When Agis did not volunteer the name, the female templar said, “There must be two dozen inns in that direction. Which one?”

  “I’m thinking of the Lion,” Agis said, hoping an abbreviated name would suffice.

  The woman’s eyes narrowed, but before she could press for more detail, Marda said, “He means the Lion’s Back, ma’am.”

  “We didn’t ask you,” snapped the woman’s companion.

  Marda lowered his gaze. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I was just trying to help. I’ve met milord there many a morning.”

  The posture of both templars grew less tense, and they shrugged at each other. To Marda the woman said, “I’ll let your mistake pass this time, but let us know if you see any other strangers in the quarter. A Tyrian left his giant in the fields of House Balba, and the oaf refuses to leave. Lord Balba is offering five silvers to anyone who delivers the scoundrel to his mansion.”

  With that, the two templars returned to their escort. As soon as they left the quay, every sailor in the group spat into the bay.

  “My thanks for protecting me,” Agis said, secretly amused by the image of a Balican lord attempting to persuade the stubborn Fylo to leave his lands.

  “We weren’t protecting you,” said Marda. “We were repaying the king for his ill treatment of us.”

  “Andropinis won’t let more than five of us leave port in a day,” added Salust. “And when we get back, his templars confiscate half our cargo.” He nodded toward the shore, where the templars’ heads and shoulders protruded above the ratany hedge as they moved down the street.

  “Tariffs,” growled another sailor. Again, they all spat into the bay.

  Agis nodded in sympathy, then looked to Marda. “Could your bark catch the fleet carrying my criminal?”

  The sailor shook his head. “Not mine, or the ship of any man here,” he answered. “But rest assured, no one on that fleet, including the man you seek, will live to set foot on solid land again. The giants’ll see to that.”

  “Perhaps, but that won’t satisfy the people he’s wronged,” Agis said. “I must return him to stand before those whose laws he has broken.”

  “Then you’ll have to hire a smuggler,” said Salust. “That’ll be no easy task for a stranger.”

  Agis reached into the purse beneath his cloak, withdrawing a silver coin. “Perhaps you could help me?”

  “I might show you where to look,” said Salust, reaching out to take the coin.

  Marda slapped the hand down. “Don’t waste your silver, stranger. You can’t trust any smuggler who consorts with the likes of Salust.” He pointed toward one of the many buildings on the close-packed harbor front. “If you want to find one who won’t slit your throat for the coins in your purse, go to the Furled Sail tavern and ask for Nymos. He knows that side of the harbor better than most.”

  “Many thanks.”

  Agis started to hand the coin to Marda, but the sailor shook his head. “Save it for Nymos,” he said, smirking at Salust. “You’ll need it.”

  The noble slipped his silver back into his purse, then stepped off the quay into the crowded harborside lane. Despite the ratany silt-break, several inches of pearly loess covered the walkways, and so much dust clung to the building placards that Agis could barely make out the pictures engraved on their surfaces. Nevertheless, he could usually tell the nature of the business he passed by peering inside. In the tackle shops, ropes, sails, oars, pulleys, and a thousand similar articles hung suspended from the ceiling, so that the patrons had to stoop over or push merchandise aside as they moved around. The warehouses contained huge bundles of untwined giant hair, stacks of rough-cut lumber, mounds of freshly shorn wool, and almost any product that could be traded for a profit. Only the taverns did not seem busy, with closed doors and window shutters fastened tight against blowing dust.

  Agis came to a sign bearing the image of a sail furled over a yardarm. Like the other taverns, this one appeared closed, but the noble heard chairs scraping against stone as someone cleaned the floor. He knocked on the door, then stepped back to wait.

  A moment later, an unshaven man with a round stomach and red nose peered out the half-opened door. In one hand he held a broom, in the other a sword of sharpened bone. “What?”

  “I was told to ask for Nymos,” Agis replied.

  “So?”

  “I have something for him,” the noble said, withdrawing a silver coin from his purse.

  The innkeeper’s face lit up. “Good,” he said, snatching the coin from Agis’s hand. “I’ll put this toward his bill.”

  With that, the man pulled the door open and stepped aside, then waved the noble toward a ladder in the back of the inn. “I let him stay on the roof. Keeps the birds off.”

  Agis climbed the stairs and stepped onto the inn’s roof. It was a relatively flat surface of baked clay, enclosed by a waist-high wall and littered with shattered broy mugs. In one corner, the sun-bleached bones of hundreds of dustgulls lay heaped around the blackened scar of a small cooking fire, with a water jug and a few pieces of chipped crockery sitting nearby. A short distance away, a canopy of untanned hide hung over a nest of gray straw.

  At the front wall stood a jozhal. The short, two-legged reptile had cocked his slender head to one side, and he held a three-fingered hand cupped to his ear slit as though listening to something in the street below. He had an elongated snout full of needle-sharp teeth, a serpentine neck topped by a jagged crest of hide, and a long, skinny tail. In contrast to his bony arms, he had huge, powerful legs, each ending in a three-clawed foot. His eyes were covered with the milky film of blindness, and his free hand rested atop a slender walking stick.

  “The innkeeper said I’d find Nymos up here,” Agis said, walking to the reptile’s side.

  The jozhal jumped as if someone had shouted into his ear, bringing his walking stick around to defend himself. Agis blocked the swing, then grabbed the cane to prevent the creature from making another attack. As the noble did so, he glimpsed the reptile slipping a small, spiral-shaped shell into a skin pouch on his belly.

  The jozhal disengaged his walking stick from Agis’s grasp. “I’m Nymos,” he grumbled. “What do you want, Tyrian?”

  The noble drew a second silver coin from his purse and placed it in Nym
os’s small hand. “Marda said you could use this,” he said, guessing the jozhal had identified him by his accent. “I’m looking for a smuggler with a fast ship who can follow the fleet that left last night.”

  Nymos rubbed the coin between the three fingers of his hand. “It’ll cost you more than a silver.”

  “I’ll give you another when I find a captain I like,” Agis countered, wondering how the blind reptile could tell that he held silver instead of gold or lead.

  Nymos slipped the coin into his stomach pouch. “I’m more interested in magic,” he said. “You wouldn’t have anything enchanted, would you?”

  “I have nothing like that,” Agis replied. “I’m no sorcerer.”

  The jozhal sniffed Agis’s satchel and belt purse, then shook his head in disgust. “Like trying to squeeze water from a stone,” he snorted. “I’d expect someone of your reputation to have an enchanted dagger or something.”

  “My reputation?”

  “Of course,” Nymos said. “Even in Balic, the bards sing of the noble who fought to free the slaves of Tyr—Agis of Asticles.”

  The noble’s jaw fell slack in surprise. “What makes you think that’s me?”

  The jozhal held out his bony hand. “Answers cost.”

  Scowling, Agis gave him another coin.

  “The streets are full of templars looking for the Tyrian who left his giant in Lord Balba’s field,” said the jozhal.

  “So I’ve heard, but that isn’t the answer I paid for.”

  “Your giant is less discreet with names than he ought to be,” replied Nymos. “Especially considering who you are.”

  “I’m Tyrian, but that doesn’t mean I’m that one,” he said. “There must be a hundred men from Tyr in this city. Any of them could be Agis of Asticles.”

  “True,” replied the jozhal. “But I suspect Agis is the only one with reason to follow Tithian.” At the mention of the king’s name, Nymos extended his hand for another coin.

  “For one who charges so much, you certainly live in squalor,” observed Agis, handing over another silver.