Charlatan

Torches flickered in the blackness like a swarm of angry bees.

Lucien eyed the mob warily over the edge of the watering trough. It was slim cover and it wouldn't hide him for very long, but there was nowhere else to go. Shouts and muttered curses came from all around. It was sheer luck that no one had found him yet. Or maybe it was because none of them had thought to look in the dumbest possible place to hide; dead center in the middle of the Briar Hills town square.

Lucien tried not to fidget, but the water was frigid and the effort to lie still caused his muscles to tense painfully. It might almost be better to jump up and make a run for it. He ground his teeth and cursed softly. If he ran, the villagers would be on him in moments, a bristling mass of pitchforks and scythes. And if he stayed put, he'd likely be captured and strung up from the nearest tree.

The choices stunk.

It's never the big choices that give you grief, Lucien. It's the little ones. The insignificant things you do every day without thought. It's one of them that will change your life, or maybe end it if things go against you. They were his father's words. Lucien squeezed his eyes shut, but couldn't stop the tear that trickled down his cheek; his father had been almost prophetic. It was no mob that killed him last autumn. It was a meaningless trip to the cobbler to patch a worn shoe - Lucien's shoe - and bad luck that a Tracker needed new boots that day.

Almost too late, a sound shook Lucien from his thoughts - hooves stepping towards the trough and the creak of wagon wheels. He snatched a breath and slid under the surface, barely avoiding the huge brown muzzle that plunged into the water, inches above his face. The mule either didn't notice him or didn't care as it sucked the water down. Lucien prayed it wasn't too thirsty.

Deep, booming laughter sent ripples across the water's surface.

Lucien pressed against the walls of the trough and held himself under, pulse pounding in his ears. Somehow, being underwater made the voice seem louder, closer than it really was. He'd nearly jumped at the sound of it.

"And did this monster shoot lightning from his eyes? Flames from his arse?" The speaker's voice had a curious foreign sounding accent, but Lucien couldn't place it.

"Don't mock," growled a second voice. The odd pronunciation of the vowels marked him as a Briar Hills townsman "He's dangerous. A killer, like all his kind."

"Mmm. I see. And tell me, what did this killer look like?" The laughter had subsided, but even the accent couldn't mask the man's sarcasm.

"You'd know him if you saw him. Patched gray shirt, rope belt, and straw-wraps fer shoes."

"What? That skinny, raven-haired vagabond? He barely looked sixteen."

"You seen him?" demanded the townsman. "Where?"

"I have. Not five minutes past, strolling down the road headed west, calm as you please."

With a whoop, the townsman's voice trailed off into the distance, shouting for men to follow. The mule, however, continued its leisurely drink while Lucien's lungs began to burn.

What had just happened? The stranger had lied and sent the mob charging off in the wrong direction. Why? Should Lucien risk revealing himself? Maybe this stranger could help spirit him out of town.

Trust is a choice, boy. And it's usually the wrong choice. More of his father's advice echoed in Lucien's ears. But it had made more sense when they had each other. Now Lucien was alone. Unless he avoided all human contact, sooner or later he had to trust someone.

A muffled thump shook the trough. "Quiet now, boy," hissed the foreigner. "You've only moments. Let's go!"

___________________________________________________________

Abbot Malkior swirled the last of the wine in the bottom of his glass and sighed. The empty bottle sat at the corner of his writing desk. It was an exquisite vintage - the best money could buy, if the church was inclined to sell it. But like most of the finer things in life, the difference between 'serviceable' and 'artistry' would be lost on unrefined palates. And the members of his congregation were most definitely unrefined.

No. 'Unrefined' was too generous of a word. They were barely better than savages.

Setting the glass on the desk, the Abbot eased back into his crushed velvet chair and smoothed his robes. There was no point in delaying it any further. He'd kept the young Earl cooling his heels in the anteroom for over half an hour. Hopefully, the message was clear enough that even the eighteen year old Earl would understand it; You may be a Duke's son elsewhere, but not within these walls.

Balancing a pair of spectacles on his nose, Malkior gave two quick taps to his crystal desk chime.

The echo hadn't even died before the door banged open and Earl Jeoffrey Norwich swaggered into the room. Aside from a shaved head and plain gray robes, almost nothing about Jeoffrey gave any indication that he was an initiate of the church. His deep set eyes were more predatory than thoughtful. His beaklike nose was prominent and would have looked more natural on a bird of prey than a man. His physique was compact and muscular, almost feral. The man was built for violence, not worship.

And unlike a normal initiate, who would be expected to kneel upon entering the Abbot's presence and wait to be recognized, Jeoffrey ignored Malkior completely. He casually strolled to the desk, picked up the empty wine bottle and upended it, catching the last few drops on his tongue.

Malkior watched him impassively from behind steepled fingers.

"Provider's balls, Malkior!" Jeoffrey said, tossing the bottle to the floor. "All the bloody praying in this place makes a man thirsty. Couldn't you have saved a glass for me?"

Malkior clenched his teeth. Any other initiate would have just earned himself a backhand across the face and a month of scrubbing chamber pots. But then again, most initiates couldn't claim Duke George Norwich as their father. Distasteful as it may be, a little latitude was called for.

"Brother," the Abbot said in a measured tone, "I must insist that you refrain from blaspheming within the monastery walls."

"Oh, please. Even according to the mythology of the church, the Provider began as a man. Surely, you aren't implying he was a eunuch?" Jeoffrey chuckled.

Malkior nearly choked. His eyes narrowed while his nostrils flared. Mythology? A Eunuch? Outrageous! And yet, something made the Abbot hold his tongue. Blasphemy was a serious accusation. Even for an Earl, it could mean a heavy penance. But instead of regret, Jeoffrey piled two more blasphemies atop the original. Why?

Jeoffrey only smiled and turned his back. It wasn't to admire the delicate collection of ivory statuettes that stared down from the teakwood wall shelves. Of that, the Abbot was sure. While the statues were shamefully expensive, Jeoffrey's father had many of his own ostentatious displays.

No. Turning his back was a message: I don't fear you.

Malkior felt a bead of sweat form on his temple. He wanted this conversation to end. Soon. "Why are you here, Jeoffrey?"

The Earl straightened, but still refused to face Malkior. "All right, then. No fencing with words." Even with his back turned, Malkior could sense the smile on Jeoffrey's lips. "I've invited my father to travel here to Stormgarden to witness my binding ceremony on the first of the month."

The Earl's words struck Malkior like a slap. He squeezed his eyes shut and worked to keep his breathing even. His mind whirled. Damn this arrogant little pup!

A flutter of wings caught the Abbot's attention. He glanced at the pigeon cote that was mounted in the window. A delicate little shadow hopped towards the food dish. A message had arrived, but this wasn't the time for distractions. Whatever message had found its way here couldn't possibly be as urgent as this. He returned his attention to the Earl.

"On whose authority was the binding ceremony ordered?" he rasped. His chest began to feel uncomfortably tight.

"My own," Jeoffrey said. When he turned to face the Abbot, his features were still neutral, but his eyes had become icy. "I've grown tired of waiting, old man. For two years my family has been without an Archmage. My father is powerful, but even so, lesser families begin to move against us."

"But - but you're not ready for the binding!" Malkior knew Jeoffrey had heard this excuse before. It was flimsy, and they both knew it. It would no longer be enough.

"My family will have the magic, old man. The church will keep its promise." His voice was emotionless but at some point, Melkior relized, Jeoffrey had picked up a silver letter opener that had been lying on the desk. It was hardly a weapon, but it was sharp enough. And Jeoffrey - though not yet twenty - was bigger than most grown men.

Malkior swallowed. "And we will keep that promise, Lord Jeoffrey. But you need more time to master the basics. Master Juvans tells me..."

"Master Juvans is a charlatan. I need magic, not card tricks. I resigned my post as Captain in the night watch for this farce."

"But - " Malkior lowered his eyes. Jeoffrey seemed to grow larger and more intimidating by the minute.

"You have three weeks, old man. For three weeks, I'll submit to whatever idiotic mummery the ritual entails. But on the new month, my family will have an Archmage once more."

Malkior flinched as the letter opener came flashing down to bury itself with a terrifying thunk - halfway to the hilt - into the polished surface of the desk. He was vaguely aware that he'd stopped breathing at some point.

His mouth opened and closed, but no sounds came out. Jeoffrey snorted down at him and then abruptly turned and stalked out of the room. Only when the door had slammed behind him did Malkior finally find his breath again.

He slumped down into the chair. The room fell silent, except for the ragged sound of the old man's breathing and the soft, relentless tapping of a pigeon nibbling on corn.