Magician’s End. Raymond E. Feist
The man nodded once, turned his back and opened the door. He leaned in and said, ‘Someone looking for you. From Jim Dasher.’
Somehow the monstrous guard stepped aside enough to allow Ty and Hal to enter the room. Inside they found a tiny desk behind which sat a slender man with the oddest hair Hal had ever seen. He was balding, but had a fringe of dark hair which he had allowed to grow, and which he swept up and forward to cover his pate. He used some manner of pomade or oil to keep it in place, so it looked as if he was wearing a strange, shiny helm. His clothing was ostentatious and he wore earrings and several necklaces. Only his thumbs lacked rings.
‘Jim Dasher?’ he said, rising. He moved around the desk, but did not offer his hand or bow. He just appraised the two young men silently.
Hal started to speak, but Anton cut him off with an upraised hand. ‘I do not need to know many things, and do not want to know almost as many. I’m in Jim Dasher’s debt, so tell me what you need and I’ll do what I can to help.’
‘We need to reach Prince Edward,’ said Hal.
Anton winced. ‘That tells me too much, but you had no choice. That way could prove dangerous.’ He fell silent for a moment, tapping his cheek. ‘I can get you safely to Salador. From there you must find your own way.’
‘Salador would be a good start,’ said Hal.
Anton went to his desk and removed a parchment, ink and quill, and began to write. ‘Our lord, the Duke of Bas-Tyra, has remained neutral in the contestation for the Crown. He’s a wise man, our duke, who will wait until he’s certain which way the wind is blowing, at which point he will declare for the winner.’
‘A practical man,’ observed Ty.
Anton shot him a dark look. ‘Now,’ he said, holding out the parchment. ‘Take this to the servants’ entrance to the palace. Ask for a man named Jaston, no one else. Someone at the gate may argue they’ll take the message, but do not permit it. Just keep insisting and eventually they’ll send for him.
‘You do not need to know who Jaston is, so do not ask. You do not need to know why he will do me this favour, so do not ask. More importantly, he doesn’t need to know anything more about you than I’ve written down here, so do not answer any of his questions, no matter how affable the conversation may be. Do you understand?’
Both Hal and Ty nodded.
‘Do what he says, however, and he will get you to Salador.’
Hal took the parchment and turned without remark, Ty a step behind.
The massive guard stepped aside as much as he was able, allowing the two travellers to squeeze through the door.
Within half an hour, Ty and Hal were at the servants’ gate to the palace arguing with a guard about summoning Jaston. Eventually, as predicted by Anton, Jaston was sent for and appeared.
By his dress, he was a man of some rank within the ducal household. He read Anton’s letter and then looked at Hal and Ty. ‘Come,’ he said brusquely, and led them through the gates.
They walked around the massive castle’s side yard, past some flowering gardens, and to the rear marshalling yard. There a company of horsemen was gathering. ‘Captain Reddic!’ Jaston shouted.
An officer of horse, dressed in the black tabard of Bas-Tyra, with a golden eagle spreading wings embroidered over his heart, turned and replied, ‘Sir?’
Jaston indicated Hal and Ty. ‘These two gentlemen are to accompany you to Salador.’
‘Sir?’ said the captain again, this time his tone curious.
‘They are men of rank, but their identities will remain unknown to you. Should there be cause to speak to them, keep it brief and to the point. Ask no questions. Should anyone question you, they are mercenary swords attached to your patrol – nothing more, nothing less.’
The man named Jaston turned and walked away without waiting for an answer. The captain didn’t look pleased with his instructions, but after a moment turned to Hal and Ty. ‘Ask the lackeys inside to fetch out two sturdy mounts. We’ve a very long ride ahead and we’ll be weeks on the trail. We leave in a half-hour.’
They walked towards the stables and when they couldn’t be overheard, Ty said, ‘I never understood just how far Jim Dasher’s reach went.’
‘I had no idea,’ said Hal.
In less than half an hour, a patrol of thirty cavalry with two mercenaries tagging along left the palace of Bas-Tyra and wended its way through the second busiest city in the Kingdom, moving slowly towards the western gate and the road to Salador.
• CHAPTER SEVEN •
Journey II
MIRANDA SCREAMED.
The frustration of finding herself in what appeared to be an endless maze of tunnels somewhere underground had brought her to the brink of unleashing destructive blasts in all directions. Despite her enraged state, she realized the best she could hope for would be to vent some rage, and the worst that could happen would be to bring the tunnel crashing down on her. Not that she feared for her safety, but digging herself out from under tons of earth would be even more tedious than wandering lost. At least she wasn’t wandering blind, as she was able to use her magical abilities to light a path.
Her magic worked here, though as in the last place she had tried a spell, it was amplified. She was as adept at willing herself to new locations as anyone she had met, far better at it than Pug, and perhaps still better than Magnus, but even she had to have a rough idea of where she was headed. And despite her prodigious ability, even she didn’t wish to risk discovering she had transported herself into solid rock, or off the face of the planet.
The tunnels were not commodious, but large enough that she didn’t have to stoop or squeeze through narrow openings, but they were seemingly endless. She had come tumbling out of the vortex to land hard on her face, and since then her mood hadn’t got any better. She had lost track of how long she had been walking, but she knew it was at least the better part of a day.
She had tried a technique used in mazes: to keep turning in one direction, then turn back when hitting a dead end, go to the last intersection, turn in the other direction, then again keep turning in the original direction. It was tedious and likely to be anything but swift, but lore had it foolproof for eventually finding a way out.
At last she heard a sound. It was faint, as if echoing down corridors from a great distance away, but she heard it. A light, trilling sound, which she almost recognized. It stopped. She paused, and a moment later she heard it again. She hurried first one way, then the other, moving from one end of her tunnel until she was certain where the sound was louder, and almost ran to the first intersection she had found. At a crossroads she turned her head this way and that, until she was certain again which way the sound was loudest.
After fifteen minutes of tracing the source of the sound, she realized that what she was hearing was music – a pipe of some sort, playing a simple refrain over and over.
After another ten minutes, she was certain where the music was coming from. She closed her eyes and used her magical senses to locate the source. Trusting there wasn’t some evil joke by Kalkin, God of Tricksters, at play, she willed herself to the source.
She found herself in a cavern where dozens of tunnels met, and above was a series of stone ramps leading to other tunnels. A pit in the centre of the clearing showed more tunnels below. A single large rock sat at the edge of the pit, upon which sat a young man, barely more than a boy, playing a simple wooden pipe.
He was dressed in leggings vertically striped in yellow and green and a matching green tunic with yellow piping. He wore slippers of green with silver bells at the toe, and a flop cap of green with a dyed yellow feather held by a silver buckle.
‘A jester,’ said Miranda, wondering if some mad