the ears, and his other hand mimicked the motion on the skulls. “You must find out.”
“Of course,” Fanzool said, excited by the implication that he would still be alive when he left. “I shall consult the spirits—”
“No,” Argyle said.
Fanzool’s tongue tried to swallow his teeth, and he gurgled with the abruptness of his silence.
“That coin,” Argyle continued, “was brought to my attention by an associate in Hellsbreath. It is but one of several that were sold there by an enterprising young upstart named Giorge. My associate knew of my interest in such coins, and pursued the matter to his satisfaction. He sent a Truthseer—” Argyle looked meaningfully at Fanzool “—to discuss the matter with this Giorge fellow, and she was satisfied with the truthfulness of his answers. The coins came from a wizard named Angus. That wizard was also questioned, and the trail ended at Blackhaven Tower. I want to know where the coins were prior to that time.”
Fanzool’s heart slowed, and he felt the blood fleeing from his skin to hide deep within his chest, where it burbled furiously. Voltari….
“The Truthseer did not return,” Argyle said. “And my associate was reluctant to send another.” Argyle paused to study Fanzool for a long moment before continuing. “I understand you know the mage who dwells there?”
Fanzool licked his lips and nodded. He couldn’t speak the name….
“Good,” Argyle said, smiling happily. “I want you to pay him a visit.”
“Me?” Fanzool gulped.
“Yes,” Argyle said, leaning forward and clasping his hands together before him. “Speak with this mage. Find out what he knows about him. If this is one of the coins he took from me, I want to know where he was when he had it last. Then I want you to go there and find his body.” He leaned back, shook his clenched hands and let them fall easily to his lap.
“I,” Fanzool began, paused, licked his lips with a dry tongue. “My lord Argyle,” he said, hoping the formality would ease what he had to say. “He will not see me.”
“Who will not see you?” Argyle said, separating his hands and putting them on the skulls of his throne.
“The mage,” Fanzool said, his fear torn between the one before him and the one from his past. “He does not receive visitors.”
“Ha!” Argyle laughed. “You must convince him to see you.”
“I—” how could he explain it? What part of the truth could he offer that Argyle would accept? “He will kill me on sight.”
Argyle smiled, the wicked, indifferent smile of a man who knows the power he has and how to wield it to achieve his goals. “And I will kill you if you fail.”
Fanzool shuddered, blinking back the tears threatening to overwhelm his composure. Voltari….
“You will speak to this mage, and you will find out what he knows of the coins. And you will bring Typhus or his body back to me.” The smile broadened, and he leaned forward until his gigantic head hovered only a foot from Fanzool’s. “Take Sardach with you. Surely this mage won’t refuse a visit from him.”
Not Sardach! Fanzool’s knees buckled and the tears began to fall.
Argyle leaned back and began to laugh. They were deep, resounding laughs that bounced around the room and joined together to form a chaotic melody of sadistic glee.
Fanzool dropped his head in his hands, the gold coin pressing against his cheek. He sobbed uncontrollably, the fear pounding through him.
A nearby shadow separated itself from the wall and floated quietly toward him….
About the Author
Robert P. Hansen teaches philosophy at a community college and writes fiction and poetry in his spare time. His work has appeared in various small press publications since 1994.
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