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

the thief.” He half-turned and called, “Isn’t that right, Norby?”

  Three guards came into view, and one of them—the largest one, easily a head taller than the others and nearly neckless, with shoulders twice as wide as a normal man’s—grunted in agreement.

  The group of victims fumed, and the first one demanded, “Then take us to him!”

  The gate guard smiled and repeated, “Not my job.” He paused to study their faces, shrugged, and gestured them through the gate. “Second street on the left,” he said. “You can’t miss it.”

  The victims of the thief mulled around for a few seconds before one of them finally half-screamed and stormed through the gate. He walked rapidly down the street, and the others hurried to catch up with him. The three guards stepped back to their posts around the corner.

  “Sorry folks,” the guard said. “It happens sometimes. Nothing to worry about. The magistrate will take care of it.”

  When it was Angus’s turn, the guard looked him over, squinted in the twilight, stepped a bit closer, and looked again. “Have you been here before?” he asked.

  “Not as I recall,” Angus said.

  “Business?”

  “None,” Angus said. “I seek only a night’s refuge and a warm meal.”

  The guard looked at him a bit longer and muttered, “A bit taller, longer hair….” He shook his head. “All right,” he said, nodding him past and turning to the next in line.

  “Thank you,” Angus said. He stepped through the gate, paused, and turned back. “If it is of any help,” he offered, “the man you denied entrance was the thief.”

  The gate guard frowned, glanced at him, and waved him away.

  Angus turned, took a few steps, and smiled. So, he wondered, What’s your cut?

  Inside this ring of the city were inns, taverns, stables, shops—everything a traveler might find useful in his journeys. It was the largest part of the city, with many cobbled streets branching off from the main road. The side streets were well lit by oil lamps spaced strategically along them. At the peak of the caravan season, Wyrmwood could easily provide lodging, food, shelter, and entertainment for nearly two thousand guests, but this wasn’t the caravan season; many of the shops were closed and the few people who were there were nearly dwarfed by the wide streets. Angus ignored most of those and headed south until he came up against the last, oldest, innermost wall and the cobbled road wrapped around it. That was where the north road ended.

  The wall was a high barrier that appeared to have been built in layers. The bottom ten feet were ancient, crumbling stone that had been patched many times. Even in the encroaching darkness, there was a small group of workmen scraping out mortar in one section and replacing it with fresh cement. The second layer reached up nearly fifteen feet above the first and was made from newer stone; its weathered surface resembled that of the walls separating the workers and shops. It was probably constructed at the same time, with the last layer—wood capped with a walkway and guard posts spaced within easy earshot of each other—added sometime later, perhaps when they had built the outermost wall?

  Angus paused to study the wall for several minutes, wondering what was beyond it and somehow knowing it was the wealthy merchant families who owned most of the town, the mines, the farmers’ lands, and the lumber sent downriver by the woodsmen. There were vast fortunes within that little enclave, and it was sorely tempting to find a way inside, sneak through—but the guards on top of the wall patrolled at irregular intervals, never less than a few minutes apart. Still, with a rope and grapple, muzzled with cloth to avoid the clatter…. It would have to be painted with a pattern that would blend in with the stone, since there wouldn’t be time to haul it up; without the camouflage, the guards would see it dangling there. Then what? Once he was inside the wall, the guards on it would be easy to avoid; they were looking out for trouble, not in. But what if there were more guards inside? He would have to bribe some of them, find out the schedule, learn more—but that would be risky. He didn’t have near enough money to match what the merchants could offer, and he would have to kill the guard after he talked with him. But that would alert the merchants….

  He frowned, puzzling over the problem. Maybe—

  “Move on, wizard,” a guardsman said from beside him, startling Angus from his reverie.

  Angus turned and smiled. “Sorry,” he said. “I was lost in thought.”

  The guard looked like he wanted to give him a shove to move him along his way but was too hesitant to risk it. “This is no place for gawking.”

  “Oh?” Angus asked glancing past the guard to see three more standing nearby. But this one was clearly their superior; he had a long sword in a sharp-looking black leather sheath, his leather armor was reinforced with iron bands, and there was an epaulet—dark blue? gray? It was difficult to tell in the fading light—on his left shoulder. He stood with his hands on his belt, near enough to draw his sword if need be but far enough away so as not to appear threatening, and his back was braced and fluid at the same time. He had the air of a well-seasoned, confident fighter ready to do battle but not seeking it out. His leather-clad companions, on the other hand, milled around uncertainly, shuffling from foot to foot with their hands gripping their short swords a bit too tightly.

  “I was admiring the construction of the wall,” Angus offered. “History is a bit of a hobby of mine, and I am curious about its construction. The lower portion,” he pointed at it, “is no doubt from the founding of Wyrmwood, and the higher levels are reminiscent of the town’s expansion. That second layer in particular must have been built before the coal mines, and—”

  “Yes, yes,” the guard interrupted, his disinterest readily apparent. “You’ve had your look-see, now move on. It is not wise to hover near the inner wall.”

  “Really?” Angus asked. “Then perhaps you can direct me to someone who has knowledge of its construction? I may wish to visit with him about it tomorrow.”

  The guardsman shrugged. “The stone mason’s guild might know something,” he said. “They’re in the southern quarter.”

  “Surely there is a library?”

  “What’s a library?” one of the other guards asked his companion. “Is it dangerous?”

  The second guard nodded, “Very,” he said. “I hear it’s a place where dragons sleep.”

  Their leader half-turned and snapped, “Quiet!”

  As one, their hands went to their sword hilts, their feet came together, their backs straightened, and their jaws clenched.

  “A library is only dangerous to those who fear it,” Angus said to the guard who had posed the question. “It is a source of knowledge. Books, scrolls, maps—”

  “Never mind that,” their leader interrupted. “You won’t be able to gain access to the library. It’s in there,” he nodded through the wall, “and no one is allowed into The Sanctum without invitation.”

  “Ah,” Angus said. “That is unfortunate. Perhaps you could arrange such an invitation for me?”

  “No,” he said. “We have tarried too long, here. We must continue our patrol, and you—” he paused. “Where is your destination?” he asked.

  “Fenbrooke’s Inn,” Angus said without thought.

  “Fenbrooke’s?” The guardsman’s eyes narrowed and his hand inched toward his sword hilt. He looked closely at Angus for the first time, and asked, “What business do you have there?”

  “Food and lodging,” Angus said without hesitation.

  The guardsman continued studying him for a few more seconds, and then relaxed a bit. “Have you been to Wyrmwood before?” he asked. “I feel as though we’ve met.”

  “Doubtful,” Angus replied. “This is my first visit to Wyrmwood.”

  “Hey Jasper!” a shadowy figure shouted down from the top of the wall. “Is there a problem?”

  The guardsman looked up and shouted, “No problems, Landon. He was just leaving.” Then he turned to Angus and said, “Weren’t you?”

  “Yes,” Angus said
. “I suppose I was. It’s too dark to inspect the wall more carefully, anyway. Perhaps tomorrow it will reveal its secrets to me?”

  The guardsman lingered for a long moment, nodded toward the south, and said, “Fenbrooke’s is that way.”

  Angus smiled, nodded, and said, “Thank you—Jasper is it?”

  Jasper nodded.

  “I’ll be on my way, then, Jasper.” Angus turned and made his way around the wall until he was almost to the southern quarter. But instead of entering it, he turned west and worked his way through a tangle of lamplit streets and shadow-encrusted alleys until he was standing across from Fenbrooke’s Inn. It was a three story building built from whitewashed block and mortar. A sign—a beer stein dripping on a pillow—jutted out over the front door. Music—the strident strains of a playful jaunt being strummed on a harp and accompanied by the lilting whistles of a flute and the steady thumping beat of a drum—escaped through the front door and flung itself toward him, as if it were trying to charm him into submission.

  Angus frowned. Bards were known to use magic…. He concentrated for a few seconds before dismissing his concern. None of the nearby strands of magic were acting as if they were being manipulated. The music may be entrancing, but it wasn’t the result of magic; it was just a vibrant, lively tune to lure in customers. He half-smiled, left the shadows of the alley—ignoring the other two shadows still lurking there—and made his way across the street