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barely visible slice.
"Has Tarlson shown yet?" he asked. He had Alteans to lead him to the border,
but after that he would be on his own. Unless Tarlson turned up.
He didn't. They had to start. It took four hours to reach the border, every
minute of which Ragnarson grew more worried. The men performed well enough,
moving excitedly but quietly. For them it was still an adventure.
Tarlson met them at the border. "They'll help," he said, sounding surprised.
"Didn't have to promise anything. Said our victory would be reward enough."
"Uhm." Bragi thought he sensed the touch of Haroun. What had bin Yousif
promised?
"But we've got a problem. Two thousand Volstokiners are camped just north of
here, right over their border. Rumor is they'll move to support Breitbarth if
he needs it."
Ragnarson wondered if he were entering a trap.
As the night waned, his patrols reached Lake Berberich. Going slowed because
of heavy fog. He didn't know whether to curse or praise it. It slowed him, but
concealed him.
A Marena Dimura runner, badly winded, came sprinting up the column. Tarlson
translated.
"Volstokin's moving. Their vanguard's only a mile behind us..."
Could an oddly dressed, short fat man on a donkey, remarkable for his
inability to handle any language properly, slide unnoticed through a hundred
miles of Altean farmlands, cross a heavily patrolled border, penetrate forty
miles of soldier-dense Kavelin, then appear as if by magic on the cavern route
from Vorgreberg to the west? Mocker had his doubts. But also his years of
experience. He dropped out of sight at the
Scarlotti ferries and reappeared days later at the hamlet of Norr, well behind
the Kavelin-Altean border.
Mocker arrived after the men had already gone to the fields. The women were
gathering at the well. Even the youngest was a tangle-haired mess, but they
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were Wessons and clean.
"Hai!" the fat man cried, trying to look pathetic and harmless. "Such visions
eyes of poor old wanderer have not seen in age. Hand of Queen of Beauty fell
heavily on town." Suspicious eyes turned his way. "Where are menfolk? In land
of humble traveler, self, husbands never stray from sprites like these." He
tried not to wrinkle his nose as a crone smiled and shifted a babe from breast
to wrinkled breast.
"But wait. Must observe proprieties. Must introduce self lest same be suspect
for wickedry. Am called Saltimbanco. Am student philosophic of Grand Master
Istwan of Senske in Matayanga. Am sent west on quest for knowledge, to seek
same at academies in Hellin Daimiel." Children too small to work gathered
around him. He did a ventriloquism trick and made the donkey ask for a drink.
That frightened some women and disarmed others. Then he asked a meal for
himself, for which he offered what he claimed was his last copper, and while
he ate told several outrageous lies about the shape of the earth. He then
traveled on.
He repeated the performance in every hamlet till he reached Damhorst, thus
building himself a small reputation. It was a hurry-up specter of his usual
meticulous preparation. He hoped that in the disruption no one would have time
to check his back trail.
Damhorst was a large town with a substantial castle atop a tall hill. As
happened where armies gathered, leeches were common. One more wouldn't be
noticed. A common ground at town's center was crowded by the tents of whores,
ale sellers, a tattoo artist, fortune-tellers, amulet sellers, and the like.
Saltimbanco would fit like a fish in water.
He arrived early. Few of his colleagues were stirring, but he quickly learned
that Bragi was approaching Staake. Mumbling, he spread a rug where he would be
outof traffic, yet could watch everything.
"Identical spot." He chuckled. A long time ago, when he really had been coming
west, he had paused here to bilk a few Damhorsters. "And same props. Should
have thrown away, Nepanthe said. Might need someday, self replied. Hai! Here
is husband of same, in business at old stand." Around him he spread a
collection of arcana that included bleached apes' skulls and bones from
little-known eastern animals, moldy books, and glass vials filled with nasty
concoctions. "So many years. Am getting old. But bilking widows hard work even
for youngest, virilest man." He chuckled again. He had made his first fortune
in Damhorst, by making promises to a lusty young widow named Kersten Heerboth,
and had gambled it away in Altea.
He settled against a wall, nodded sleepily. Occasion-ally, when a rider or
lady in a litter passed, he would lift his head to call desultorily, "Hai!
Great Lady," or Lord, "before you sits mighty thaumaturge out of mysterious,
easternmost east, with secrets of life as unlocked by mightiest of mighty
eastern necromancers. Have gold-rare vials of water of fountain of youth, to
suppliment beauty of already most beautiful damsels of glorious Damhorst. Have
potation guaranteed to banish wrinkles forever. Have cream to end eternally
ghost of whiskers on great ladies' lips. Husband getting shiny on top? Have
secretest dust, made at midnight full moon by Mata-yangan magicians,
heretofore unseen west of Necremnos, guaranteed to restore hair on statue.
Just mix same with blood of Escalonian snow snake, only furry snake in world,
and will correct same. Snake blood also available here, prepared by adepts of
bearded turtle cult deep in darkest heart of Escalon." And so forth.
It was river water, mud, and the like, but there had been a time when he had
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made a living selling it to ladies on the downhill side of thirty.
Near noon a shadow fell on his lap, into which he stared sleepily. He looked
up into one of the nastiest faces he had ever seen. It was scarred, one-eyed,
neither clean-shaven nor bearded, and wore a grin with several teeth missing
and the rest rotten. Before he could say a word, the man left.
"Derran One-Eye," he muttered. "Hired blade of friend Haroun." He looked
around quickly, thought he saw a familiar back vanish round a corner a block
distant. Haroun? Here? He was tempted to follow. But Haroun would contact him
if necessary.
Later, he decided Derran's appearance was an ill omen he should have heeded.
He should have gathered his props and fled, and damn finding out what
Breitbarth was up to.
Things soured that afternoon. A lady came by, a lady getting a bit paunchy and
looking more than a bit wealthy. She appeared a certain victim. Did he still
have the true touch? He accepted the challenge.
"Hai! Great Lady, shadow of Goddess of Love and Beauty on Mundane plane, glow
of desire, harken to words of acolyte of greatest mage of east, self. Am in
possession of one only packet rarest of rare herbs of Escalon, well-known but
impossible of finding amantea, famous to corners of world for efficacy of
treatment of teeny, tiny bit less than perfect waistlines..."
"It's him!" the woman shrieked. "And he hasn't changed a word. Harlin,
Flotron, seize him."
The armed men who had been walking before and behind her sedan, puzzled,
started toward the fat man.
"Woe!" Mocker cried, stumbling to his feet. "Of all ill fortunes," he shouted
at the sky, "of all potential evils..." He shook a fist, gathered the skirts
of his robe, and ran.
He had been seated in one position too long. Kersten's bravos overhauled him.
"Self, should have stayed home," he moaned as they dragged him back. "Should
have listened to Nepanthe. Should have stayed pig farmer and mud grubber. But
evil gods, maybe wicked sorcerer, lured poor foolish self to fateful
appointment..."
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