To Catch A Sorcerer

Gray almost ran right into him. He was cast partly in shadows, partly lit by the yellow lamplight that streamed through the double doors to the dining room.

‘I don’t feel quite well,’ the old mage said. ‘I wonder if you might accompany me to my room?’

Gray hesitated, thinking of what Alistair said that morning. He tried to peer at him more closely. ‘Do you need a healer? We don’t have mage healers here, but there’s a physician -’

‘No. Please. Just take me to my room.’

Gray hadn’t been expected to receive his full weight, and he staggered. Slowly, they made it up one flight of stairs. The mage fumbled for the key in his pocket, his hand shaking.

‘Let me.’ Gray took the key from him, and the door swung open.

The room was pristine, except for the table, which was a clutter of books and pages and empty ink bottles. Gray settled the mage on the bed and poured him a glass of water from the pitcher by the bed.

‘I’m getting Barin,’ Gray said, turning on his heel.

‘Not necessary,’ he said.

Gray faltered. ‘Is it from the griffin? Doing magic?’

‘Not from the griffin. That was a piece of cake.’

‘Honey lemon tea, then. Is it a flu?’

‘No.’ He caught Gray’s wrist, his grip tight. For a moment, his overly bright eyes held Grays.

Gray blinked and looked away.

‘There’s powdered unicorn horn in my bag. Willow bark. Mint and bilberry root. Do you mind mixing them into a brew? Heavy on the horn.’

Gray nodded and bid as he was bid. The mage lay shivering on the bed.

‘Are you sure you don’t need a physician?’ Gray said, shredding the mint. ‘It’s no trouble.’

He was quiet for so long Gray thought he wasn’t going to answer. Then, ‘I believe it’s a ryece. Mages go through it every so often, when our power increases. It’ll happen often after a battle. I don’t need a healer.’

He curled up on his side, on top of the covers.

Gray needed boiling water. The room had equipment for tea and a special pot from the Ralph smithy in Reviness, to help boil and heat things faster than natural.

He grabbed this, feeling the prickle of magic, and boiled up some water. Poured it, steaming, into a small teapot.

Gray fretted over the mixture, adding it to the teapot.

‘Here,’ he muttered, handing the mage the brew for inspection. ‘Is that right?’

‘Yes. Good boy.’

The old mage swallowed a few mouthfuls, then lay back down. He unfurled a little, blinking slow.

‘I,’ Gray said.

‘Yes?’

‘Nothing.’

Something must’ve shown on Gray’s face, because he said, ‘You got a question, kiddo? Ask.’

Gray licked his dry lips. ‘No. No question.’

Gray had a million and one questions.

But, he pushed the curiosity down. It was pointless, and dangerous, to ask too many questions.

The table was a mess of herbs and powder from him making the tea. Gray busied himself, tidying it up, and putting items back into place.

‘It’s a terrible tease,’ the old mage said. ‘You clearly have a question. Curiosity’s good, kiddo.’

The mage’s face, it was kind. He had this impressive nose, that he scrunched expressively when he talked. If Gray had had grandparents, he thought they might’ve been like him.

Gray’s chest ached.

‘Maybe,’ said Gray, ‘maybe when you feel better.’

The mage grunted, and closed his eyes. Gray backed out of the room.

Gray made it to the attic level, to his room. He stashed his bag by the small desk he and Alistair shared.

He was almost back at the door when he noticed something.

Alistair’s clothes chest. It was open and empty.

Gray frowned. He peered into it, running his hand inside the empty space.

‘No, Alistair,’ he muttered.

Gray glanced around the room, his stomach sinking. Alistair’s rucksack was gone. The ardent from under Gray’s mattress was gone.

Alistair was gone.

Rosie had just lied for him.

Of this, Gray was sure.

Gray sprinted down the stairs in threes, and dashed back through the kitchen. Checked the back alley.

Rosie had disappeared.

Of course.

Gray must’ve spent a good ten minutes with the old mage.

Gray stood, torn between checking the stables for any missing horses in case Alistair had taken one, and chasing after Rosie to get her to tell him where Alistair had gone.

Kraus glared at Gray, her chin resting on her chest, the curse mark on her face maroon in the fading light.

‘You seen Alistair?’ Gray asked her.

‘I’ve seen a snake in the grass,’ she said.

‘I need you to speak plainly, Kraus,’ said Gray.

‘That’s plain as day, tavern boy.’

Gray ran into the stables. He checked each stall, his boots scuffing the hay, the horses poking their heads out of their stalls to watch.

No horses missing.

Gray scanned the row of potions, curses, and jinxes Barin kept in jars in case of emergency, up the far end.

Nothing was disturbed. Alistair hadn’t taken anything.

Gray swore, and ran after Rosie. Krydon Hall, she’d said.

Gray darted through the groups of people on the streets, and into the main square.

Kyrdon Hall was there, towering at five levels high, and with a bell tower in the middle. Vines covered the west side. It was grand enough to have prisons in the cellar, offices for the council members and town guards, and accommodation for when anyone important needed to visit (which wasn’t often).

Gray sprinted up the front steps, and through the large front doors.

Inside was brightly lit, with giant paintings of forgotten - conquered - nobles on the walls, and dragon’s clay pottery glittering and on display. The crow symbol was everywhere - on the wall paper, etched into doors. Some had been replaced, probably decades ago, with the Auguste’s stag, but the crow was still rife.

Gray had no idea where to start looking for the kitchen. He spun on the spot, hands in his hair.

‘Hey.’ The Captain of the Krydon guard limped towards Gray, up the front steps. She was exhausted and pale enough to look alarming. Dried blood crusted in the lines around her eyes. A deep scar ran down her left cheek.

The Captain visited the tavern almost every day. She loved the ale Barin imported from Reviness. She knew Gray, at least by face.

‘You have permission to be here?’ she said.

Gray ducked his head. ‘No.’

Suddenly, he felt childish. Running after Rosie and accosting her about Alistair in a blind panic was stupid.

‘I’ll just go. Sorry, ma’am,’ he said.

‘You’re Barin’s, right?’ She stopped Gray, a huge hand on his shoulder.

‘Yes, ma’am,’ said Gray.

‘Your guest,’ she said brusquely, ‘the mage. What’s his name?’

Gray hesitated, a wave of protectiveness rising within him. The last thing the old mage needed right now was a superstitious Captain breathing down his neck. ‘I don’t know, ma’am.’

‘You don’t know?’ she snapped.

‘I can ask Barin for you?’ said Gray, thinking he at least would have a chance to give the old mage a heads up.

‘No.’ She wiped dried blood from the corner of her eye. ‘I owe him a drink, is all. I’d like to know who I'm thanking.’

‘Oh,’ said Gray.

Something must’ve shown in Gray’s face, because the Captain smiled grimly.

‘He’s unwell, at the moment,’ said Gray. ‘I thought - maybe, you weren’t happy with him …’

‘Not happy with him?’ said the Captain. ‘Longwark and his friend were a godsend. That mage guest from your tavern was on another level. It’s because of them no one was killed. I don’t like to think of what would’ve happened if the three of them hadn’t been there. I know the townsfolk don’t like ‘em, but mages are useful to someone like me.’

Despite everything, despite the building panic that Alistair had run away for good, Gray shot her a small smile.

-

Gray dried off the last of the cutlery, stashed it away and slammed the draw shut. Crossing the now-deserted kitchen, Gray dimmed the lamps as he went.

He tripped as the sole of his boot came loose from the upper.

He stumbled. ‘Crap.’

Determined the day wouldn’t be a total loss, he righted himself, tied a length of string around the toe of his boot to keep it together, and scowled around for the best food left.

There was some lukewarm tomato soup left over from service. Gray helped himself to a generous bowl and the end nub of a loaf of bread.

Gray sat down on a bench, forcing down bites of soup-soaked bread. Two of the kitchen workers were in the dining room next door with the last patrons of the night – Barin’s best friend, Ronald and his wife, the Mayor of Krydon, Poppy.

Gray could picture them – Ronald lounging back with his legs spread to make room for his huge stomach, his pouchy eyes gazing glazed at the last of the wine in his glass, and Poppy, her salt and pepper hair curled up into a neat bun and her long neck craning as she searched the room for free leftovers.

Gray tried to stay out of their way, out of sight.

They complained Gray constantly smelt like livestock and garlic, from mucking out the attached tavern stables and scrubbing dishes in the kitchen. They were more penny-pinching than magpies – never left tips, even with the friend-discount Barin gave them – though you’d never know it to look at them. They wore the finest clothes, ate the finest food, and kept the finest friends.

Which included Barin, Gray guessed.

Barin wasn’t there, not now. He’d come back briefly after not finding Alistair, and charged out again, and Gray couldn’t bring himself to tell him Alistair had run away.

Gray needed Alistair to change his mind.

He’d be back.

He hadn’t been so unhappy here.

But … but Gray knew he had been unhappy.

And no one runs unless they hate where they’re at.

Gray had ignored Alistair’s blatant warnings. He’d really screwed up.

Their voices drifted over Gray and he half listened, glaring at his knees. Mostly they chattered about the menu for tomorrow, and the new waiter.

A couple of times, they talked about Barin and Longwark, their voices lowered.

‘It was amazing,’ said one of the short-order cooks, ‘One look from Barin – and whoosh – he up and fled.’

‘Wish I could have seen it,’ boomed back Ronald. ‘That damned mage thinks he’s the King’s gift. After the griffin today, he’s going to be insufferable.’ He paused. ‘Alistair still missing?’

‘He’ll turn up,’ said the cook. ‘As soon as he gets hungry.’

‘Has he asked the boy? Thicker than temple thieves, those two.’

Gray pushed his bowl away and stood up abruptly. He grabbed the bag of rubbish from under the scrubbing sink. Stalking outside, he tied the bag of rubbish tightly, glad to escape the thick heat and smell of the kitchen.

The street was quiet, and he dumped the rubbish into the bins, startling the ginger stray. He nodded at Kraus, who had her curse-marked chin resting on her chest, but her eyes wide open and glaring.

Barin hated Kraus hanging out outside their kitchen door and forbade the workers from giving her food. None of them listened to him, though. They’d frequently give her food and ale and old furs.

Kraus disappeared every winter – Gray had no idea where she went – and every summer she’d return to live in this alley.

Kraus stared at Gray haughtily. Gray backed away, but he didn’t want to go back into The Tipsy Stag.

The air was cooler the further he got from the tavern. He impulsively turned down a tight side street on his left, Chester Close, and when he thought about it later, he guessed he sensed something down there.

Because it was not somewhere he normally went. It was a dead end. Chester Close was the most deserted part of the neighbourhood, the most unused.

Gray’s shoes left prints in the dusty dirt on the cobblestones, and something in the back of his mind said to keep going, to ignore the dark shadows cast by the wooden beams overhead, to ignore the jokes Alistair always cracked about a ghoul haunting this side street. Because there’s something down here, and you, someone, anyone, needs to see.

Gray heard the sound of rats – too many rats – scattering away as he approached, and the hairs on his neck stood up.

A rope creaked, heavy with strain.

Gray saw him, out of the corner of his eye. Swinging from a beam.

Alistair.

Dead.