The Thirteenth Magician Read online

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  Twilight Times Books

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  Copyright ©2002 by Patrick Welch

  First published by Twilight Times Books, February 2002

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  The Thirteenth Magician

  Patrick Welch

  No person, persons or places in this book are real. All situations, characters and concepts are the sole invention of the author.

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  Dedication

  Thanks to all who helped so much with this book. Bob B., Steve F., Tom G., Chris M., David and Marilyn R., Eric and Cindy W., and Steve L. who worked nearly as hard on it as I did. For my parents and, as always, Jessica.

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  CONTENTS

  Chapter One: The Seventh Magician

  Chapter Two: Prelude: The Great Sail

  Chapter Three: The Eighth Magician

  Chapter Four: The End of the Beginning

  Chapter Five: The First Magician

  Chapter Six: The Third Magician

  Chapter Seven: The Ninth Magician

  Chapter Eight: The Twelfth Magician

  Chapter Nine: To Myniah

  Chapter Ten: Preparations

  Chapter Eleven: The Thirteenth Magician

  Afterward

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  Chapter One: The Seventh Magician

  Daasek swirled the gritty wine in his goblet and stared darkly into it. If he divined his future in the dross, his expression gave no telling. His had been a hard three days’ journey, and he was grateful just to have a roof overhead and a wall behind. He fingered the solitary gold coin in his purse and sighed. It was all the satchel allowed this evening, sufficient for a room, a meal and little else. No wench to keep him company, and not enough to get him drunk. If such were possible.

  He was in Ta'Bel, a small port that offered little more than several taverns and brothels. He was here for the same reason he had previously visited Oio, Byrnhea, Phrion and several he would not remember. He was here to kill someone. Who, or why, he did not know. He knew only that the urge had set upon him ten days previous, an urge he could not ignore or control. So he was drawn to Ta'Bel. The answers he needed, or at least was permitted, he prayed would come in time. That was a hope Daasek clung to desperately. Because it was the only hope he had.

  It was the silence that attracted him. As in any tavern, there was a constant undertow of conversation, clinking goblets, the coarse laughter of the men and the feigned outrage of the women. Although Daasek took no part in the festivities, it was comforting to observe them. But suddenly nearly everyone stopped. He turned from his glass to discover why.

  A tall, very thin man had entered. He was clad in a velvet jerkin and breeches, both the color of blood. The man's skin was gray, more from dust perhaps than a lack of sunlight. Gray and stretched taut across protruding cheekbones and forehead. The urge, sometimes irritating like a stone in a shoe, others a force that struck with fire, squirmed within Daasek as he gazed upon the newcomer's face. There was no doubt. This was the man he was being driven to kill.

  The latter approached the bar, where a space was quickly made. He spoke briefly to the innkeeper, who returned immediately with a mug of wine. Daasek noted the man made no effort to pay. Instead, he leaned against the bar with an unhappy smile and studied the room.

  The stranger's attention was drawn to a game of dice at a far corner, where the participants, concentrating on the action, had ignored his entrance. Daasek had noted it earlier and regretted his forced austerity. Not that he would have won. He was a terrible gambler, but the camaraderie, even paid for, would have been enjoyable. What interested the stranger interested Daasek, so he decided to pay more attention to the game.

  Until then, the game had been reasonably friendly, with curses and threats immediately followed by laughter and calls for more wine. Within moments of the stranger's attention, the atmosphere changed. One player suddenly began enjoying a phenomenal run of luck. Four times in succession, he threw triple fives with the three dice. The first time he was greeted with cheers and congratulations, the second mere wonderment. By the fourth time, the competitors were no longer supportive.

  Daasek glanced over at the velvet man. His eyes were closed and he was crooning softly to himself. All the while, he caressed the solitary black stone within the single ring he wore.

  Another winning roll and one loser had had enough. A short, burly man in leather jerkin seized the dice and hurled them against the wall. Three fives came up again. Before the winner could protest, his arms were pinned by two of the gamblers. The short man drew his knife and calmly, expertly slashed the winner's throat. His comrades held the victim until there was no more movement, then they dropped him face down into his growing pool of blood. They divided the victim's purse among themselves, then stalked out of the bar. On the way one glared at Daasek, but Daasek offered no protest.

  While the innkeeper and his help hastened to clear away the damage, Daasek returned his attention to the stranger. The stranger was smiling sincerely now, and drinking deeply from his glass. It was clear he had an erection. From the fresh stain on the front of his breeches it appeared that he had also had an orgasm.

  Daasek understood what had happened. The man, clearly a magician, had controlled the dice—not the victim. Other patrons suspected the same, but no one would challenge him. Except himself, and the time was not right. He would know when that time was. The urge, and his dreams, would assure that.

  Unbidden, a goblet of wine was set before him. He looked up, startled. The man in velvet was standing next to him. “I do not wish to stand,” he said in a sandy voice. “The wine is payment for sharing your table.”

  Daasek nodded and pushed a chair forward with his foot.

  The man sat with some difficulty, as if physical movement was foreign. There was a dusky odor about him, but one due to time, not carelessness. “I must apologize for my people. As a stranger here, I would not want you to get the wrong impression about the hospitality of Ta'Bel.”

  Daasek shrugged. “A man who cheats at dice deserves such rewards.”

  “A harsh code of behavior you proffer. One, I gather, you have learned in the wilderness?”

  “Many places.”

  “Tell me.”

  Daasek stared at him through half-closed eyes. The closeness of the man made his nerves quiver. He h
ad been this close to magicians before. How many times he knew not, but he suspected the result. “The glass of wine bought you a seat. Nothing more.”

  “On the contrary. It bought me your life.” The man finished his glass, then stared at Daasek. “You are fortunate. I'm going to give you a choice. With most men, believe me, my offer is not as generous. The soldiers will be here soon. If you remain, you will be blamed for the murder. Everyone here saw you switch the dice with your partner, clumsy fool. Or you can come with me and share my hospitality.”

  Daasek sipped the wine slowly. It tasted much better than the vintage he had been enduring. It was unfortunate he could not enjoy the physical benefits of alcohol as well. But he had ceased wondering why he was impervious to poisons, including the most benign. He had ceased wondering about most of his life, because the answers never came. It was the urge that mattered now, and the urge was to kill this man. “A most convincing argument,” he replied. “Please lead the way.”

  “You will find this superior to the sewage we were accosted with at that inn.” His host handed Daasek a silver goblet filled with amber liquid. Daasek had finished his bath—the magician had insisted upon it and Daasek saw no reason to refuse—and was now clad in the same red velvet as his host. This room, as the others he had seen, featured red curtains and carpet, furnishings of exotic woods, objets d'art of marble and gold. Yet there was no sense of comfort or hospitality, and the fireplace offered light, not warmth. Daasek made himself as comfortable as the tight clothing would allow and waited for the man to continue.

  The man lit a silver pipe, exhaled extravagantly. “Travelers are either seeking or fleeing. Which are you, whoever you are?”

  “You are my host, not my brother. Information should be shared, not demanded.”

  “Please do not tire me. If you did not know who I was, you would not be here to kill me.”

  The cool of the wine did not quell the fire in Daasek's heart. “I was not aware I wanted to kill you,” he lied.

  The man fondled the ring he wore. In the light Daasek noted the single black stone in a silver setting inlaid with arcane symbols. The stone was familiar. It had something to do with the power of the magicians. He knew not why, but he would have to destroy the stone as well as the magician.

  “Perhaps you are right. My name is Krujj. Now you shall tell me yours.”

  “Daasek.”

  “Your birthplace.”

  “I must claim ignorance.”

  “Of your birthright?”

  “Yes.” Daasek casually let his hand fall to his side. His dagger nestled snugly in the too-tight jerkin. It could be in his hand at the speed of a thought. Meanwhile the urge throbbed, but it was not yet overwhelming. He could parley with the magician if that was what the latter wanted. And enjoy the wine. There was plenty of time to kill him. So Daasek pondered the question, and decided to respond further. “There are areas in my past that are lost to me. If I am truly seeking something, then that is my goal. If you can help me, then, yes, you are the one I seek.”

  Krujj laughed. “Yes, I can help you. If I care to. You look like a barbarian, fresh from the wastelands of the west. Yet you lack their poor manners or tongue. Noble breeding must lurk in your background.”

  “A pleasant thought if true. Perhaps I am claimant to a usurper's throne. Or heir to a merchant's fortune.” Even as he said it casually, Daasek wondered, hoped that perhaps it was true. “If that is the case, I will reward you handsomely for your assistance.”

  “Give assistance?” he roared. “I give nothing! From you I will only take ... everything.”

  “Such as that unfortunate's life in the tavern?”

  Krujj gestured grandly. “Amusing, was it not? It was for your benefit, of course. And his.”

  “His?” Daasek started. The conversation was taking a direction he had not anticipated, but one he wanted to follow.

  Krujj laughed cruelly. “I pity you, Daasek. Truly. You have no life, you have nothing. You can only do what you are told. Tell me, where were you last?”

  “Panot.”

  “Previous?”

  “BaniFel.”

  “Two lies. Before that?”

  “I don't know.” This time he told the truth.

  Krujj nodded. “You shouldn't try to mislead me, Daasek. You can't deceive a man with my talents. Not here.”

  “If you think you can control me as easily as a set of dice, you are mistaken.”

  “That is true. You I cannot control. Because you are already controlled. But I control everything and everyone in Ta'Bel. That is why you shall fail.”

  Daasek poured himself more wine. He couldn't be poisoned, he couldn't become inebriated. One of the boons of being controlled, he was sure Krujj would say. The mage was right, terrifyingly so. Of that he was certain. If he could learn more, perhaps he could escape, perhaps he could regain possession of himself. If the magician would tell him. He had to prolong the conversation, at least until the urge became overwhelming. Already he felt it rising inside him like bile, ready to spew forth. He took a deep breath to regain some control. “If you are so secure, why did you seek me out? Why bring me here to tell me this?”

  Krujj took a seat closer to the fire. He fed the flames for a moment, his regal manner gone. “My master told me you would come. My spies informed me of your arrival. I could have had them kill you instantly, but I doubt it would have accomplished much, not that way.” When he turned to Daasek, the regal mien was gone, replaced by one approaching civility. “You see, I cannot divine the future, Daasek. I have paid enough for what power I have. I will not pay more. If I kill you, he will send someone else. If I can convince him, through you, that I cannot be harmed and I will not harm him, perhaps he will leave me in peace.”

  “And if I kill you?”

  He glared at Daasek, all humanity gone from his face. “You are beginning to tire me. But I will tell you this. There are spheres of power that control this world, spheres of power in conflict with one another. Each of these spheres or gods or demons—whichever you can comprehend—has agents in this world. Each has tools as well. I am an agent. You are a tool.” His voice darkened. “It is much easier to destroy a tool, Daasek, than an agent.”

  “Why do you tell me this, if I am in truth a helpless, hopeless pawn?” He dropped his hand near his dagger once again.

  The magician flicked his hand as if a gnat had bothered him. “For now that is true. But the time may come when you can free yourself. The odds are against it, but dear Karmela has smiled upon you much longer than any could have anticipated. If that happens, I wish you to remember everything he has done to you, everything he has made you do. I believe you will feel very strongly about revenge.”

  “Since you know, tell me who he is and where I can find him.”

  “It matters not presently. Frankly, I doubt you will have the opportunity.” He yawned exaggeratedly. “If you'll excuse me, I'm rather tired. I hope you realize it is not my lack of hospitality, but my common sense that makes me bid you leave. I have made arrangements for your transportation.” He looked at Daasek coldly. “You will not return to Ta'Bel.”

  Daasek suddenly found himself rising to his feet. He tried to reach his dagger, but he could not move his arms even the few inches necessary. Instead they were caught in a steel grip from his shoulders to his hands, and for all his strength he could not control them.

  He tried to trip over a chair, walk into a wall, but his feet marched unbidden. But Krujj can't control me, he thought as he was walked towards the door, then outside and into the night-covered street. He said so.

  It was only when he was in the cool evening air and sitting on the back of a galloping mount, that he finally understood. It was not his body Krujj controlled, but the clothing Daasek had been maneuvered into wearing.

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  Daasek's flight into the night was a dream born in Hys. He had no control over his body, his mount, his destination. The entire journey was at full gait down winding s
tone streets, over tree-lined roads and rock-strewn paths. Limbs slashed across his face, his horse nearly fell a dozen times, yet he could only sit straight and rock still in the saddle and curse Krujj.

  Near dawn the ride ended abruptly. The tension of the velvet disappeared without warning and Daasek almost fell before grabbing hold of the reins. Then his mount collapsed below him. As he picked himself off the ground, he finally realized how his steed had maintained the rapid pace for so long. Daasek had been riding a corpse.

  He slept in the open until sunrise. It was only after wakening, when he attempted to bathe the dried blood and dirt and pain away, that he understood the full horror of Krujj's plans. For he could not remove the clothing at all. And it was slowly beginning to compress.

  Daasek caught and cooked a rabbit for lunch and planned. He must get the clothing removed. Somehow. He must get back to Ta'Bel. Somehow. He must slay Krujj. Somehow. When he awoke from a brief nap, he knew the answers. Somehow.

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  “I don't think I can do it.”

  “I've paid you sufficiently, have I not?”

  “You may die.”

  “I will die if you don't. Every day they grow tighter. They will soon crush my very breath from me.”

  The healer looked at the array of knives, potions, and amulets at his disposal. None seemed adequate. “Some I can cut, some I will have to burn. Are you sure you cannot take my herbs?”

  “They have no effect on me. You have tied me securely?”

  “Yes.” Daasek was suspended from two beams. His hands, ankles and head were fastened by leather straps and metal chains. Once the pain began, neither knew if they would hold him immobile. Or for how long. Only his head was uncovered.

  “You may begin,” said Daasek.

  The healer put a strap in his patient's mouth to cover his screams, taking care to compress the tongue so it could not be bitten through. Then he turned to the table where his instruments lay. He sharpened and heated his knives while he studied his patient. Magician's work to be sure. A man as muscular as Daasek should be able to burst through the velvet just through his own strength. He hoped the man was indeed as strong as he appeared. He would need it all if he were to recover.