The Tiger's Eye (Book 1 of the Angus the Mage Series)

of the spell.

  The door opened inward, and a frumpy old woman stepped in. In her arms were Angus’s robe, tunic, leggings, undergarments, and boots. She almost dropped them when she saw him standing there naked, his right arm craning outward toward her, his left apparently ready to pounce on something that wasn’t there.

  “Goodness,” the old woman gasped, coming to a stop just inside the door. “You are a sight, aren’t you?” She smiled, a jovial smile with an undertone of irascibility. “My yes, a sight indeed!” she chuckled, moving past him to lay the clothing on the mattress. When she turned back, she ordered, “Sit you down, now.”

  He let the magic slip away as he reached down for the coverlet and wrapped it around himself again. “Nargeth?” he asked.

  “Yes, yes,” she said, giving him a firm but friendly nudge toward the bed. “And you be?”

  “Angus,” he replied.

  “Sit, Angus,” she said. “Let me tend to those feet.”

  He studied her for a long moment. She wore her gray hair in a bun beneath a bright orange scarf that contrasted wildly with her simple gray homespun dress, food-spattered apron, and mud-colored leather boots. He sat down on the mattress next to his clothes and slid his hand into the folds, of the tunic.

  She stepped forward, put her hands on his knees and knelt down in front of him. He braced himself to resist her weight, but it was a surprisingly light touch. Once she was on her knees, she slid back and reached out for his calf. She lifted it until it rested on her thigh, and then deftly unraveled the bandage. She let it slip to the floor and did the same with the other foot. When she finished, she levered herself up again.

  “You will be as good as new by morning,” she said. She turned, walked out of the open door, and came back a few seconds later with a small clay pot in her hands.

  “What’s that?” Angus asked.

  “Healing balm,” she replied. “Now, pick up the bandages and move you back. My back is too old and crinkled for bending like that.”

  Angus did as instructed, and she set the pot beside his feet and pried open its lid. A pungent, almost floral aroma arose from it, and when it struck him, he wrinkled up his nose.

  “That’s a fierce smelling concoction,” he said.

  She chuckled as she reached into the pot with two fingers and plucked out a small glob of thick, yellow-brown goo. “Ulrich makes it,” she said, spreading the paste-like goo over his feet. “He has an herb garden outside the village. What he can’t grow himself, he gathers from Maple Wood. If it’s not there, he buys it on his annual trip to Hellsbreath. Sometimes he loses himself in the mountains for a while.” She wiped her fingers around the lip of the pot and replaced the lid, pressing it down until it sealed. Then she began rubbing the ointment into his soles.

  “It seems to work well,” Angus said.

  Nargeth nodded. “Best healing balm outside Hellsbreath’s temples.”

  Angus frowned, “How much do I owe you for it?”

  “Already paid for,” she said.

  Angus frowned and started checking his pockets; they were empty.

  “You need not worry,” she said. “Check the boots.”

  Angus frowned, picked up a boot, and heard things rolling around inside it. He upended it, and the garnets fell out in his palm. The other held the coins he had brought with him from Blackhaven, all but the gold coin he had given her. He looked at Nargeth and raised his eyebrows.

  She shrugged. “Only fools cross wizards,” she said. “And you paid well enough when you arrived.”

  Angus nodded. “How long have I been here?” he asked.

  “Two days,” she said.

  “Two days?” Angus repeated. “My feet healed that much in two days?”

  “Aye,” she said, smiling as she began wrapping up the bandages. “Best healing balm north of Hellsbreath.”

  “I’ll say,” he agreed. “How much will it cost me for a pot like that?”

  Nargeth shrugged. “Ulrich doesn’t sell it to outsiders.”

  Angus frowned. “Perhaps if I talk to him?”

  Nargeth shook her head.

  “Well,” Angus said, pointing to the pot next to his feet. “What about that one?”

  Nargeth frowned, sighed, and said, “You paid for it.”

  He smiled. It would no doubt come in handy wherever he ended up.

  “You come from the south?” Nargeth asked as she picked up the pot and set it on the small table.

  Angus shook his head. “No. Northwest. Blackhaven Tower.”

  She turned from the table and and eyed him shrewdly. “You know that foul wizard?” she asked.

  “Voltari? He was my mentor.”

  “Don’t speak his name!” Nargeth half-shouted, wringing her hands and looking about the room as if she thought Voltari was about to appear.

  Angus straightened his posture and waited. When Voltari failed to appear, she took a deep breath, squinted at him, and said, “I don’t allow magic in my inn.”

  Angus relaxed and smiled at her. “No worry there, Nargeth,” he said. “Once I’ve recuperated, I’ll be heading south. From the look of it, I’ll be leaving in one, maybe two days.”

  “Hellsbreath?”

  He nodded. “How long does it take to get there from here?”

  “Three, maybe four weeks by foot,” she said.

  He frowned. It hadn’t looked that far on the map. In fact—

  “My map,” he said suddenly. “It wasn’t in my backpack. Did you take it?”

  Nargeth nodded. “Ulrich wanted to see it.”

  Angus frowned. “I need that map—”

  “He’ll bring it before you leave,” she said. “He said it was an old map and wanted to study it while you slept.”

  Angus frowned a little longer, and then shrugged. There was nothing he could do about it now, and if Ulrich brought it back, there was no loss. He sighed and asked, “Can I walk on these bandages?”

  “Certainly,” Nargeth replied as she moved toward the open door. “Get you dressed and come down to the common room. There’s a fine stew waiting for you, and I’ll send word to Ulrich that you wish to see him.”

  “Thank you,” Angus said. “You have been kind.”

  She grinned, looked him over again, and said, “For a gold coin, you can have more, if you like.” She pushed out her ample chest and laughed, noisily closing the door behind her.

  9

  A large bowl of stew was waiting for him when he limped gingerly into the common room. He had decided to wear the robe without the reinforced tunic and trousers, and was already regretting it. It chafed against his skin. The stew was an odd mixture: potatoes, tomatoes, carrots, corn, onions, meat—Nargeth called it a red quisling, a domesticated bird nearly as large as a chicken—seasoned with salt, sage, basil, garlic. It was edible, but the taste was far from desirable. Still, he was hungry, and he ate as much of it as he could stomach before turning away. The ale helped.

  He was still sitting at the table when a woodsman walked in. He wore a light brown tunic, brown trousers, and dark brown leather boots. He held a bow in his left hand, and his right hand rested lightly on the hilt of a sword whose tip dangled below his knee. It wasn’t a threatening gesture, but the woodsman was clearly ill at ease. A quiver of arrows hung easily over his right shoulder, and he carried himself like a mountain cat entering another male’s territory. His hair was a mass of brown with bits of leaves and twigs tangled in it. His face was painted with two green finger-streaks from the left brow to the right ear, and a third ran down the bridge of his nose. He scanned the room quickly, nodding to the other customers, and moved rapidly to Angus’s table. When Nargeth stepped out from behind the counter, he waved her off with a glance.

  “You are Angus,” he said, his voice clipped, harsh, accusing. “Friend of Voltari.”

  Angus studied the newcomer’s posture—A snake ready to strike? A cat about to pounce?—and nodded slightly. “Ulrich,” he said. “Please sit down.”

  “Bla
ckhaven Tower is a blight on the land,” Ulrich barked, his voice sharp, as if he were stating an uneasy fact. “The dead must stay dead.”

  Angus did not respond. There was no need to; Ulrich obviously had a firmly set opinion, and anything he said would be pointless.

  Ulrich shifted his quiver and sat down across from Angus. “Tell me, Angus,” Ulrich asked, each word sharply accented. “What business have you in Woodwort?” he demanded.

  “Woodwort?” Angus asked.

  “Here,” Ulrich snapped. “This village.”

  “Only rest and recuperation,” Angus answered. “I will be leaving in a few days.”

  “For Hellsbreath?”

  Angus nodded.

  “Business?”

  Angus smiled. It wasn’t a friendly smile—at least he hoped it wasn’t—nor an unfriendly one; rather, he was acknowledging the boundary they were forming between them. “Perhaps,” he said. “What is it to you?”

  Ulrich returned the smile easily, shrugged, and said, “Idle curiosity.”

  “Well then,” Angus said. “If that is all it is, you’ll be disappointed. I have no idea what I’ll be doing there.”

  “You should visit Ungred,” Ulrich said. “He will make you a proper pair of boots.”

  “My boots are fine,” Angus objected.

  Ulrich shrugged. “His shop is on The Rim.”

  “Well,” Angus said. “I’ll look in on him if I can find the time.”

  Ulrich nodded, rose from his chair.

  “Ulrich,” Angus said. “You have something of mine. I would like it back.”

  Ulrich nodded again, and before Angus could complain, he turned crisply and walked out of the common room, as if he were a cat that had just made up its mind to leave.

  The