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

“What?”

  “If you don’t have the gold,” the scribe said, “I will have them arrest you. Alfred?”

  “You heard me,” Hobart said. “I must see Commander Garret at once.”

  Alfred hesitated, opened the bag, and paled. Without looking up, he said, “Bring down the lift.” He looked up from the bag and asked Hobart, “How urgent is it?”

  The scribe pointed at Angus and said, “There is an injunction forbidding him entry.”

  “The danger is not immediate,” Hobart said, “but it is of grave importance.”

  The solder nodded curtly and turned to the scribe. “His injunction is temporarily lifted,” he said. “By the order of the king.” He turned to his men and barked, “Why haven’t you signaled for the lift!”

  One of them turned, hurried in behind the scribe and grabbed a red flag. Then he ran out far enough away from the wall to be seen by those on top of it. He began waving the flag, and within a minute, the lift was rapidly descending.

  “You will not need your horses,” Alfred said. “Would you like to have them stabled for you?”

  “That won’t be necessary,” Hobart said. “We plan to go south after we make our report. We’ll take them with us.”

  “How long will you be staying?” the scribe asked. “I must make note of it.”

  “Two days,” he said. “Unless Commander Garret requires more of us.”

  The soldier looked at the bag in his hands and said, “He will.” He turned to the scribe and said, “Plan for an indefinite stay.”

  “Indefinite?” Hobart repeated, frowning.

  The soldier nodded and said, “Commander Garret will not be satisfied with this,” he held up the bag. “He will want you to show him where it came from.”

  “We have a map,” Hobart said. “There is a road.”

  The soldier shrugged and turned to the lift platform. “The lift will be here momentarily,” he said. “You are familiar with the loading procedures?”

  Hobart nodded and kneed his horse forward. The rest of his group followed.

  “The fee!” The scribe called.

  “Is waived,” the soldier said without turning. “Official business of the king.”

  The scribe began writing in his book as they rode passed. Fierce, angry, precise strokes.

  The lift settled into place, and the doors were opened. Several people were inside, and they were ushered quickly off. Then the members of the Banner of the Wounded Hand entered and the lift doors were locked.

  Alfred took a deep breath as they began rising at a steady pace, exhaled it, and asked, “How many are there?”

  “We killed about two dozen,” Hobart asked. “There may have been more.”

  The soldier exhaled loudly, chuckled, and shook his head. “Two dozen?” he repeated. “That’s all? Not thousands?”

  Hobart frowned. “Why would you think that?”

  The soldier shrugged. “The last southbound caravan that went through told us the crops were all harvested, and there had been no sign of the fishmen. None. They didn’t even come out of the Death Swamps this year.”

  Hobart frowned. “They didn’t attack?”

  “That’s what the caravan said.”

  Hobart’s frown deepened, but he didn’t say anything.

  When they reached the top, he asked, “Commander Garret is in the southwest tower, isn’t he?”

  “Yes,” the soldier said.

  “Good,” Hobart said. “We’ll be heading south after we give him our report.” He didn’t seem to be very confident of it, though….

  2

  Fanzool shuddered as he reached for the knocker and drew his hand back again. It was a dreadful thing, a serpent’s head poised to strike. The forked tongue was the lever, and he had to reach inside the serpent’s mouth to make it clang. His hesitancy was understandable; he had seen others use it many times with the same reluctance. Three times he had seen the snake’s jaws clamp down on the hand within its mouth, and then the fangs extended deep into the forearm, releasing their poison….

  I was summoned, he thought, surely he does not wish me dead? He gritted his teeth and, his fingers shaking, reached into the gaping maw, twisting his forearm away from the fangs as best he could. He touched the tongue, and the eyes—beady little rubies worth a fortune—pierced through him, their sinister glow a casual warning of the power held by its owner. No one would dare steal them, not from Argyle.

  The tongue was rough, like a dog’s, and dry as the stone it was carved from. He gripped it tightly—too tightly—closed his eyes and pressed down. The mouth slowly closed in upon his arm, tickled his skin, and clamped down. The lips were a smooth ridge biting into his skin without breaking through. The grip was firm and unyielding, but the fangs held their place.

  “Who calls upon me?”

  Fanzool opened his eyes and let out his breath. Sweat began to swell up at the roots of the hairs on his temples, and he tried to speak. “F-F-F—” He tried to swallow, but his mouth was dry. He tried to clear his throat, but there was nothing blocking it but his tongue.

  “Who calls upon me?”

  The voice was more insistent, and the lips tightened slightly. Blood trickled from a tiny pinprick as the fangs lowered. It was a strange voice, dark and hollow like the corridor, a sepulchral echo of life filtered through stagnant air. It didn’t come from the snake; it was just there, all around him, pressing in….

  “Fanzool!” he gasped, staring wide-eyed at the fangs. If they lowered much more….

  The blade was cold and sharp at his elbow. It felt heavy in his white-knuckled grip, and he gritted his teeth from the effort to keep it in place. He wanted desperately to pull it back, but if the snake bit down….

  The eyes flashed, and a pair of brilliant red lights bore into him for a brief moment. Then the snake’s mouth opened. It was a full second before he jerked his arm out and a few more before he put his dagger back into the sheath tied to the sash of his robe.

  “Enter.”

  Had the voice changed? Was it…friendly?

  Fanzool shook his head. He was imagining things. The voice was never friendly. Argyle was never friendly. Except when he planned to do something particularly nasty….

  The catch on the door released, and it slid silently aside.

  Light burst into the corridor, and Fanzool shielded his eyes until they adjusted to it. When they had, he stepped forward and the door slid shut behind him.

  “Fanzool,” Argyle purred. “I have been waiting for you.”

  Fanzool gulped, lowered his eyes, and let his arm fall to his side. He said nothing; there was no need. Argyle would make it clear when he was to speak and what he was to say.

  “Come,” Argyle said.

  Fanzool took several steps forward, stopping only when he saw Argyle’s feet. They were huge feet, each one at least as long as Fanzool’s forearm, and the boots were deadly. They were braced with iron straps, and short, flat, jagged barbs jutted out all around their edges. One kick to the neck….

  He had seen that once…. But he wasn’t worried about the feet; Argyle preferred to use his hands—or his dog. The paws—black ones as large as Fanzool’s head, tipped with four long, curved claws that resembled a cat’s more than a dog’s—were at the edge of his vision, quivering in anticipation.

  Fanzool waited. He still did not look up; Argyle hadn’t given him permission to do so. His fate—like so many others—was held in Argyle’s vice-like grip, and there was nothing he could do about it. He was but a small cog in the giant’s carefully constructed machine. He did his job, and was generally rewarded with a few coins and Argyle’s quick dismissal….

  “You said he was dead,” Argyle accused, his voice careless, dispassionate.

  Fanzool flinched. He didn’t need to be reminded of whom Argyle spoke; there could be only one such person: Typhus. “Yes, Argyle,” he said, his mind racing. “All indications were—and still are—that he is.” If only the augury had been clearer….

>   Argyle flipped a coin several times, and then said, “Take a look at this.”

  Fanzool lifted his gaze up past the sitting giant’s knees, and craned his neck until he saw the huge hand. Argyle was wearing a vibrant blue pantaloon and a frilly green silk blouse. It was his favorite outfit! He isn’t going to kill me! The blood…. Argyle tossed a coin toward him, and Fanzool hastily reached out to catch it. Once he had it in his hand, he looked at it. It was a simple gold coin. He frowned.

  “Tell me,” Argyle said. “What do you see?”

  Fanzool frowned. “A gold coin,” he suggested.

  “No,” Argyle said. “That is one of the coins he took from me.”

  “Are you sure?” Fanzool said before realizing what he was saying. “There are other coins like this one.”

  Argyle dismissed his question with a casual wave, the breeze from which caused Fanzool’s hair to flutter. “Perhaps,” he said. “I want you to tell me where this coin has been and who has had possession of it.”

  Fanzool nodded. “I shall do so at once,” he said. “The augury—”

  Argyle put his hand on the armrest of his makeshift throne. It was built from bones, and the armrest ended with a cluster of skulls mortared together, each seeming to be eating the one in front of it. He began thrumming his fingers on the skulls, the sound of the hollow tapping echoing through the chamber. He leaned forward, sneered, and repeated. “You said he was dead.”

  Fanzool gulped, feeling sweat funneling down his backbone. “Yes,” he agreed. “He is.”

  “Perhaps,” Argyle said, letting his other hand come to rest on his dog’s head. He patted it gently, stroked it behind