Chapter Three
Zazesspur: Through the Eyes of a Child
Originally Zazesspur
had been the seat of Tethyr political power - a small city of beautiful
and stately buildings. During the 'Ten Black Days of Eleint' which
followed the deaths of the king, prince, and general the city was sacked;
looted and burned by the angry mobs.
Despite this the city's
population had doubled within a week of the burning as the refugees, loyalists,
and former nobles fled from all parts of Tethyr to the only center of stability
they knew.
Today it was three
times as large as it had ever been, the greatest and most populous city
in Tethyr. The old city, which had been put to the torch, became
the center of the new city, the newer parts sprouting up and radiating
out from the former ruins in a mazelike wheel.
The outer edges of
this 'wheel' were little more than a tent city, where merchants hawked
their wares and where the poorest of the city's residences lay.
Joram kept Athos close
to his side as they made their way through the city. The crowds were
heavy and Athos was distracted. The boy was amazed at the myriad
of sights and sounds that assailed his eyes and ears.
Just inside the eastern
gate a pair of dirt-encrusted beggars moaned and pleaded with the passing
throng. One had a dirty rag tied over his eyes and a cane by his
side, the other had no legs below the knees. Both held out dingy
wooden bowls in hope of a few copper pieces.
Catching sight of
them, Joram halted and fought his way across the way to get to them.
He dropped a Tethyrian silver piece into each bowl before walking on.
Athos noted that both boys snatched the valuable coins from their bowls
as soon as he and Joram had passed, leaving only the few coppers which
had been there before. He also noticed that the boy with no legs
sat strangely, as if he were kneeling on real legs instead of resting on
his rear. Curious.
"Look there!" exclaimed
Joram after the two beggars had passed out of sight behind them.
"Jugglers!"
Athos looked to see
what fascinated his father so, but saw nothing extraordinary. "Where?"
he asked, standing on tiptoe, thinking that perhaps his view was blocked
by passerby.
"Just there," said
Joram, pointing again and privately wondering at the boy's lack of perception,
"not more than a score of paces distant."
Athos watched the
two men for a moment, then looked up at his father in surprise. "Why
are you so excited, father?" he asked, perplexed. "They are doing
nothing a normal person could not."
The two men were juggling
a series of small swords back and forth between them. A small crowd
had gathered around them, applauding appreciatively every now and then
as the jugglers performed a particularily intricate trick.
Joram chuckled, taking
Athos by the hand and leading him away. "You should try to do what
they are doing sometime. I think you will find it far more difficult
than it looks."
The boy frowned.
He didn't see how that could be, and resolved to try this 'juggling' himself,
as soon as possible.
A movement to the
left caught Athos' eye. A young boy of twelve or so was walking behind
a fat merchant, his right hand moving within the pouch which swung freely
at the merchant's side. The boy looked up, feeling Athos' eyes upon
him. He gave a weak smile.
Athos smiled back,
and gave a little wave. The boy nodded and scampered off a moment
later, something in his hands. He joined a group of other boys his
age, and they darted off into the crowd, snickering. The merchant
walked on, unaware that anything had happened.
Before Athos could
puzzle out exactly what had happened a tall skinny man dressed in flowing
robes stepped in front of him and grinned gap-toothedly. "Does the
young master like toys?" he asked in Amnish accents, holding out a stuffed
animal pelt cut to look like a came which had obviously seen better days.
His breath was noxious.
"No thank you, sir,"
said Athos, backing away.
"It's alright, Athos,"
said Joram, urging the boy forward. "How much for the toy?"
The swarthy man smiled,
his eyes narrowing. "Ah! You have a good eye, sir! This
very toy was once a possession of a young prince of far distant Thay!
It being a priceless heirloom, I cannot let it go for a paltry sum."
"I can offer you no
more than two silvers," said Joram apologetically, turning away.
"A moment, kind gentleman!"
protested the man. "Ordinarily I would not dream of doing such a
foolish thing, but as my poor family is in dire need of money, and because
the young master looks so disappointed... I offer you the chance of winning
this prized toy in a game of chance."
Joram turned back,
interested. "A game of chance?"
"A mere distraction
for one of your intelligence, good sir," said the man, gesturing to a rude
wooden table standing at the side of the street. "I possess three
cards, one of which bears the sigil of the sun." He had now reached
the table and fished from some pocket three worn cards. "I will show
you the card bearing the sigil of the sun, then place the three cards face
down on the table and mix them up. If you can keep track of which
one is the sun card, you win the toy." As he spoke he laid the cards
down and began shifting them, demonstrating."
"Father," said Athos,
"I don't want the toy, really."
Joram stepped forward.
"It sounds simple enough. But I'm only betting one silver."
"Agreed, agreed!"
The swarthy man was eager.
The merchant picked
up one of the cards, displaying it to Joram. It was the sun card.
"Once upon a time,"
he began, gesturing broadly with his left hand, "the sun was captured by
an evil demon." In a deft movement he placed the sun card face down
with the other three cards. "The demon spirited the sun off to some
lower plane of existance - perhaps Tarterus, or maybe Hades." Now
he began rearranging the cards, picking them up and placing them in different
positions. To his credit, the cards moved quickly, but it was fairly
simple to keep track of the card which must have been the sun. "Now,
the world was a dark and lonely place without the sun, and many adventurers
and brave souls ventured out, seeking the demon to ask for the sun's release.
He turned them all away with this riddle. Perhaps you, sir, will
be able to bring back the sun." He finished and leaned back, smiling,
to allow Joram to make his choice.
Joram reached forward
to where the sun card must be, but Athos caught his sleeve.
"The sun card isn't
on the table, father," said Athos. "I saw him slip it into his sleeve
as he gestured during the story."
The swarthy man looked
surprised, then indignant.
"Is that true?" asked
Joram.
"Of course not!" snapped
the man, putting on a great show of being offended. "I am insulted
at being so wrongly accused! Now, make your choice!"
Athos reached forward,
quickly overturning all three cards at once. None of them bore the
sun sigil.
Joram was furious.
"I choose the card within your pocket, charlatan!"
Already the skinny
man was racing off, darting through the crowds and melting into the flow,
his cards forgotten.
Joram looked at Athos.
"You have a very sharp eye. I'm sorry that he made off with the toy."
Athos picked up the
three cards teh skinny man had left behind. The moon, a skeleton
holding a scythe, and a beautiful woman made of ice. "I didn't want
the toy anyway, father."
Joram smiled, then
rumpled Athos' hair.
"Let's go," he said.
"We've a full day ahead of us."
* * *
That evening, they
supped in the tavern room of the The Singing Crossbow, the inn they would
be staying at.
"And what will you
have with your meals, sirs?" asked the serving wench, a plump girl of seventeen
or so.
"Water and unfermented
goatsmilk, please," replied Joram. She nodded pleasantly and moved
off.
"Look father!" said
Athos, picking up his silverware.
"Be careful with that,"
admonished Joram as the boy tossed the utensils in the air.
"Juggling," said Athos
after a moment as the knives and forks began an intricate circular dance
in the air. "It's easy."
Joram was astonished.
"You have a gift, boy," he murmured. "But you'd better stop.
You don't want to attract attention, and I don't think the barkeep appreciates
his silverware being tossed about."
The boy nodded and
caught the dancing silverware, placing it back on the tabletop.
The serving girl returned
after a short time, bringing their meals: steaming rabbit stew and an exotic
looking salad full of leafy vegetables of colors and textures Athos was
not familiar with. They dug in heartily.
Well into their meal,
a man stumbled into the tavern and wandered to the bar. He began
singing lustily and off-key melody. His face was unshaven and his
hair was wildly tousled. The Singing Crossbow was not the kind of
establishment which catered to crowds of raring drunks. It was a
quiet place, and the man looked wildly out of place.
He surveyed the room
unsteadily for a few moments, barely keeping his feet. His bleary
eyes fell on the table where Athos and Joram sat, and he waved merrily.
"Ho friends!"
"Ignore him," instructed
Joram. Athos looked down at his dinner.
The man was undeterred.
He stumbled acros the room towards their table, and sat in one of the empty
chairs heavily. He giggled. "Hello, my quiet friends!" he said,
clapping Athos on the shoulder. "I am Luskag, and I am a dead man!"
Athos wished he were
somewhere else.
"Take note, Athos,"
said Joram. "This is what alchohol does to a man's mind."
Either the man didn't
hear the gibe or he decided to ignore it. He leaned back and propped
his feet up onto the table. He was still smiling stupidly.
"I tell you I am a dead man! Aren't you curious about death?
Have you no questions to ask a dead man while you may?"
"No," said Joram acidicly,
turning back to his stew.
"What? None?"
The man's breath stank of cheap ale. "And you, boy? You have
no questions?"
Athos said nothing.
"You are rather lively
for a dead man," said Joram. "Your breath may stink like a day old
corpse, but you are still very much alive, I think. Just drunk."
The man swung his
feet off the table and leaned forward, grinning. "I am not believed?"
Joram shook his head.
"Go away. Leave us to our meal."
The man leaned back
again. "I am not believed," he murmured almost thoughtfully.
"You are newcomers to this city?' he asked, then laughed. "To our
fair city?"
Joram studiously ignored
him. After a moment his gaze shifted to Athos.
Uncomfortable, Athos
finally gave a slight nod.
"Ah," said the man,
nodding, "newcomers. You wouldn't know how our thieves' guild operates
then, would you?"
"We don't associate
with thieves, stranger," growled Joram.
The other man shrugged.
"Incidentally, I am a member of that guild myself. Or, rather, I
was a member. Five days ago they called me before the guild council
and charged me with witholding the percentage that every guildmember must
pay when they make a score." He winked at Athos. "They said
I was cheating them. They were right, of course. I do it all
the time. I've just never been caught at it before." He shook
his head solemnly. "They pronounced me a dead man."
Joram was ignoring
the man, but Athos found himself trying to follow what the man was saying.
"They didn't kill you right there, on the spot?' he asked.
The man smiled.
"No need. they always execute a rogue member the same way - in public
and very messily. Serves as an example to other guildmembers, you
see."
Athos shook his head,
not understanding. "But you aren't dead yet. Why not flee the
city?'
The man's smile melted
away. "No use in running, boy. The guild has a long standing
agreement with an assassin." His face went grim. "They say
he's part demon, and I'm inclined to believe them. I've seen his
handiwork before." He shook his head again. "One thing's certain.
You can't run from him. He'll find you."
"What's his name?"
"His name?"
The man chuckled. "In his business, a name is power. I don't
know what his name is. I doubt that anyone who did would live for
very long." His voice dropped to a whisper. "People call him
the Viper."
A chill worked its
way down Athos' spine. For a moment a superstitious dread hung over
the room.
"Remember this, boy.
He is the true ruler of this place. To see him is to know terror.
If you live your life in poverty and misery but never cross his path, count
yourself fortunate."
The man scraped back
his hair, standing suddenly, looming above the boy. He threw back
his head and howled. "Viper! Come and take me, you filth!"
He sat down heavily
on the floor, missing his chair, and collapsed in gales of laughter.
"Come Athos," said
Joram, "I've lost my appetite. Let's get to bed."
As they mounted the
stairs Athos heard the man bawling at the barkeep. "Dwarven spirits,
man! Fetch me your strongest dwarven spirits!"
* * *
There was no moon that
night, and the city of Zazesspur was cloaked in blackness as thick as pitch.
A ghostly wind played across the rooftops, whistling softly, eerily.
Athos stood at the
window, the room dark and quiet behind him, looking out at the tiny points
of light that marked streetlamps and windows, pondering. Joram was
in bed, his breath making a tiny shushing sound as his chest rose and fell
slowly.
The inn was still.
It had been for hours. No doubt the doors were shut, the tavern room
carefully cleaned and empty, the patrons either retired to their rooms
or gone out into the night. And yet Athos couldn't sleep. He
wondered what had become of the drunken man. Perhaps he had taken
a room. More likely he had drunk himself into a stupor, and the barkeep
had thrown him out into the street.
A piercing wail rang
out suddenly, shattering the night. It was a cry of desperation,
of terror, of pain, and with terrible certainty Athos realized it came
from a human throat. The cry was abruptly cut short.
Joram jerked awake.
"What was that?" he whispered loudly. "Athos?"
"Here father," whispered
Athos, terrified. The cry had emanated from somewhere within the
inn.
The cry sounded again,
closer and louder than before. It was a man's voice, crying in agony.
Athos had a sudden vision of the drunken man, wounded and fleeing his assassin.
Joram began rooting around in the darkness, searching for something.
There was a click, and then a flare of light. He had lighted a small
lamp. Athos could see that in his other hand he clutched a knife.
"I'm going to see what's going on," he said, heading for the door.
"You stay here."
"No father!" protested
Athos. "Don't go! Stay here, where it's safe!"
"Stand back, Athos,"
commanded Joram, brushing by the boy.
Athos reached out,
grasping his father's sleeve. "Don't go!" he said urgently.
Joram ignored the
boy, and opened the door. The hallway was pitch black. He stepped
out, peering down it.
Athos stood rooted
to the spot, afraid to leave the room.
Joram held the lamp
higher, and started down the hallway. "Who's there?" he demanded.
The light, and Joram,
moved out of sight, to the right of the doorframe. From where he
stood, Athos could only see the weird shadows cast by the small light moving
on the far wall.
"Blessed Tyr!" he
heard his father exclaim in horror, "What are you doing?"
The the light was
extinguished and Athos heard his father scream.
And suddenly he knew
that his life was in danger. He knew - knew! - that if he
wished to escape the assassin he would have to be silent. Paralyzed
with fear, he sharnk back against the wall, sweating, ashamed of his cowardice.
This was not the way heroes behaved in stories. How dare he hide
here! His father needed him! Had he no more love for his
father than this? It was a betrayal! And yet he could not move,
could not think. He was powerless against his own fear.
And now, in the very
hour when he needed to be silent most, he found that he could not.
His heart rang in his ears loudly. Quiet! he ordered himself.
Silence! His breathing was so loud that it seemed to him that
it must be heard throughout the inn. He held hs breath for as long
as he dared, placing his hand over his mouth. Be silent!
He felt hot tears streaming down his cheeks, and he was ashamed of that
too.
A tiny rush of wind
touched his face. Someone or something brushed past him in the darkness,
and stopped. He fought down the urge to shrink back. Be
still! Be still! He shut his eyes tightly in terror.
And then he was alone.
Perhaps he had been still enough. Perhaps the assassin had been fooled.
Be Still!
The assassin hasn't left! He's waiting, waiting for you to betray
yourself by moving, by making a sound! Every minute became an
hour, every breath an agony.
And he waited, determined
that he would not move.
And waited.
And waited.
He stayed there until
morning came, frozen by fear, his muscles trembling from the effort of
holding himself still for so many hours..
Eventually, when dawn
came, he realized he was alone. As the light grew, he dared to look
into the hall. When he caught sight of the carnage, bile forced its
way into his throat.
The city guard arrived
later.
"What happened here?"
the captain asked the innkeeper.
"A thief who was slated
for death was executed last night." The innkeeper was almost nonchalant.
"Apparently the other man was fool enough to get in the way."
The captain nodded.
"The Viper's work," he said dismissively.
The Viper!
thought Athos. The assassin the drunkard spoken of!
The captain made as
if to leave. "Well, there's nothing more to be done here," he said,
looking at the innkeeper. "I don't envy you, having to clean up that
mess."
"Wait!" said Athos,
grasping the hem of the captain's tunic. "Aren't you going to find
this killer and bring him to justice?"
The captain laughed
and turned away. "Who is this ignorant brat?"
"The other man's son,"
replied the innkeeper. "Which reminds me." He turned to Athos.
"Unless you have some money, you'd best be on your way. My inn is
not a haven for vagrants and orphans."
"What?" asked Athos,
hardly understanding.
"Do you have money?"
asked the innkeeper.
"My father had all
the gold."
"There wasn't any
gold on him when I found him," said the innkeeper. "You'd better
go."
Athos felt a flash
of rage go through him. He hurled himself at the man, only to be
snatched off his feet by a nearby guardsman. "Liar!" he shouted.
"I saw you take the money from his body!"
The innkeeper produced
a gold piece, and slipped it into the captain's waiting palm. "Do
your duty, captain."
The captain chuckled.
"We'll escort him out for you." He gestured, and a second guardsman
stepped forward to help his companion with the boy. Together, they
managed to seize the struggling boy by the feet. Athos was carried
upside down, swinging back and forth and unable to get a grip on either
of his captors. They carried him down the stairs, to the whooping
and hollering of their comrades, and hurled him face first into the mud
outside.
Athos scrambled to
his feet and ran. Behind him the soldiers' laughs faded.
He didn't stop until
his lungs were on fire and his legs gave out beneath him. He looked
around him and realized he had no idea where he was.
He huddled against
a wall and sobbed.
"Can't you cry somewhere
else?" whined a nearby beggar. "You're going to ruin my business."
Athos ignored him,
and clutched the only possession he had left to him.
Three worn playing
cards.