Reading Sampler
A M Jenner
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Copyright Notice
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Copyright 2011, A M Jenner
Smashwords Edition
This ebook is offered free by the author. Please feel free to distribute it. The only thing I ask is that the book be kept in once piece, that this notice accompanies each copy, and that my name remains as author. Thank you.
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The best way to get to know an author is to read their work. I'm offering this free book of sample chapters from six of my novels. By the time you finish this, you will know for certain whether you want to buy everything I publish or avoid my writing in the future. Either way, this free sampler book will save you a lot of time. I'm betting you'll be hooked!
~A M Jenner
Fabric of the World
A Fantasy Novel
A dangerous birth. A powerful man.
Orphaned at three, Quibell struggles to control the power he was born with. Overcome by emotion at a public Burning on his seventeenth naming day, he lashes out. Fearing for his life, Quibell flees Turpan, only to be captured by a band of desert nomads. Can he bring justice and freedom to Turpan, or will the evil Mages who murdered his mother remain in power?
Chapter 1
The pounding intensified as Tigano hurried out of the dining hall toward the entrance door.
"The clinic is closed," he called as he lifted the latch and pulled the door open. One look at the woman told him why she had come out of hours.
She peered up at him through a gap in the limp, brown hair that fell across her face, her visible eye gleaming golden in the dying light of the red sun. Her ragged clothing, distended belly and thin limbs told the story of privation during her pregnancy.
She gasped in pain, bending over and clutching at the child on its way into the world.
Tigano stepped forward and gathered the small woman into his arms, her slight weight no burden at all.
"Zorian, I could use some help!" Tigano called out as he carried her into the hall.
Zorian, chief among the Healers in this Hall, poked his head out of the dining hall's door, then moved swiftly down the hall and opened one of the doors off the long hallway. Tigano carried the woman into the small room and laid her on the high, narrow cot. He heard the sounds of Zorian closing and latching the outer door, and then his footsteps as he entered the room.
"Who is she?" Zorian's breathy whisper sounded loud in the still air of the small examination room.
"No idea." Tigano shook his head. "We haven't been introduced yet."
The pair of men worked together as they often did, functioning as a team as they urged the woman to push and rest as the seasons came upon her.
Tigano wiped her face with the cool cloth. A great deal of dirt came off along with the sweat of her labor. He wondered in passing whether she was one of the city's many harlots. She was really too thin to be bearing a child, and the labor was difficult for her.
Tigano continued to wipe her face, as well as her arms and hands. As he did so, he was struck by her frail beauty, and came to the conclusion that she must be Outcast from one of the Great Houses; a servant who dallied with her master, perhaps, or an unfavored daughter.
During one of the resting times in her labor Zorian handed her a cup of tea, the herbs calculated to ease and hasten the birth.
"Who are you?" he asked.
The woman shook her head, biting her lips together and refusing to speak.
"It doesn't matter to me if you're Outcast," Tigano said as he smiled at her, "you're still entitled to our care. I just thought it would be nice if you could give us a name to call you."
"Elara." The woman's voice was scratchy, as if from long disuse. "My name is Elara."
"What House are you from, Elara? Does anyone from your family know where you are?" Zorian asked.
She shook her head violently. "No House. I have no House, no family. They," her strong emotions choked off her words and overwhelmed her. Unable to finish her sentence, Elara suddenly burst into tears.
"Shhh, it's all right, Elara," Tigano soothed, stroking her filthy hair. "We don't throw anyone out who needs our help. Were you Outcast because of the babe?"
Elara nodded, wiping at her face, but only managing to smear her muddy tear tracks. "My f-father tossed me into the street personally when he found I was with child."
"Was the babe's father not willing to take you in?" Tigano asked.
Elara pressed her lips firmly together, biting them closed from the inside. A trickle of blood leaked from the corner of her mouth.
Just then her pains started anew, and the two men were busy once again. It wasn't until the early hours of the morning that the male child finally arrived. In the end, they had cut him from Elara's body, lest they lose both lives.
Zorian sewed the emaciated woman back together with his precise stitching, wiping the wound with wine to clean it; while Tigano took warm water and bathed the hungry child, wrapped him in a small blanket, and handed him to his exhausted mother.
Elara cuddled him to her breast and watched with great wonder and satisfaction as he began to suckle.
"What will you call him?" Zorian asked.
"Quibell. His name will be Quibell."
"Do you call him for his father?" Tigano queried.
"No, nor for any of his ancestors, and you shan't trick me that way. It's his name, and his alone. My father cast me out for the babe's sake, and his father couldn't have us. We are alone in the world, and I will not name my son for either of those men!" Her final word was ejected with so much force it could have easily passed as a curse upon the entire male gender.
Tigano stroked the baby's fine black hair, as he watched him greedily suckling at his mother's breast. "He's a beautiful child," he said softly, "and healthy, too, despite your own poor condition."
"How soon can I leave here? I must return to work on the morrow, or starve." Elara said.
"Where do you work?" Tigano asked quietly.
"At the laundry near the Tanner's Well," Elara replied. "It was the only place that would take me, Outcast, and with no reference."
Tigano nodded. He knew the area around the Tanner's Well. It was a rough place to be scratching out a living, and laundries never paid very much to their workers. She had probably been living on the street, or at best, sleeping in one of the community gathering places that used to be houses of worship.
"You may not leave until you're healed at least a little more, and a little better able to face the world. Probably at least a good five or six months, I'd guess," Zorian said as he was tying off the last knot. "And I don't think what you were getting for your work made much difference between living and starving," he added, sweeping her thin limbs with a professional eye.
Elara blushed. "They will not take me back at the laundry after I've been gone that long." Elara's voice cracked in her distress. "How will I feed my child?"
"If you don't feed yourself, Elara, you will have no milk for Quibell," Zorian said. "Tell me; in the House which threw you out so precipitously, did you ever learn how to cook?"
Elara paused a long while, then nodded slowly. "I know a little about cooking; nothing fancy, mind you, but a few plain things."
"Good," said Zorian. "You can work here as a cook, but only after we've taken the stitches out of your belly. The last cook we had left us a brace of months ago when she wed; we Healers have been scratching together our own meals for the last two months. There's not a one of us who has the least talent for it. In the meantime, you are under strict orders to stay in bed and take care of yourself and your son."
Elara nodded, relief on her face as the two Healers turned and moved into the hall.
As soon as the door closed behind them, Zorian spun to face his partner.
"Did you get a good look at the child Quibell's eyes?"
"They were dark, like any newborn babe."
"His hair was black, but the silky sort that falls out before it's replaced by the true color," Zorian said. He blew a puff of air into the fringe of hair that fell across his forehead and into his eyes.
"Her speech was well educated," Tigano said.
Zorian nodded. "I would imagine her father was upset because he had a husband in mind for her; still, Outcast for the pregnancy, and refused to name the father…."
Tigano grimaced. "Exactly. Well, we'll have to wait a time until his eyes and hair settle before we'll be able to tell if he is a mageborn child or not. And that will be a year or more at the soonest. And if he is, it would have been much more comfortable for her to die in the birth of her child than to be burned alive." He sighed in exasperation at laws he had to carry out on pain of death, but which went against his sworn oath as a Healer.
"If Quibell isn't mageborn, we need to keep her alive or the child will die also. I don't know any wet nurses who will take in an orphan. If he is mageborn, I don't see the father coming forward to be burned alongside them."
"I wouldn't come forward, were I him," Tigano said with a wry smile.
Zorian laughed. "Were I mageborn, I'd have enough brains not to lie with a brown haired girl, no matter who she was, or how pretty she looked in her father's House. No woman in the world is worth losing your life over. I just hope she can actually cook." He turned and went back up the hall to finish his half burned dinner.
"Amen to that," Tigano agreed as he followed his superior.
Chapter 2
Tigano was kept busy at the chores which also occupied the other Healers; tending the herbal gardens that provided the Healers with their medicines, drying the herbs and compounding the medicines, teaching new apprentices, and treating their many patients. Still, he managed to keep a close eye on the boy Quibell as he grew.
Though by no means celibate, very few of the Healers married; there were no children in the Hall of the Healers Quibell's age. His fine, black baby hair fell out as they had expected it would, and was replaced by flaming red curls, tightly furled. Though uncommon except in the families of the mageborn, red hair wasn't unheard of. His chances had narrowed, but the child might yet grow up with his mother.
By his third month, Elara had given him his first hair cut, insisting her son should not wear ringlets like a girl, but have a man's short hair. Tigano wondered if his father's hair grew in ringlets, and Elara was afraid Quibell would look too much like him, disclosing his identity to anyone who cared to guess.
Elara developed into a good cook, and Zorian had spoken of keeping her on permanently. Tigano spent many quiet summer evenings walking with Elara in the garden. She had an insatiable hunger for knowledge, and he taught her many things about the plants which grew there. Good food did much for her appearance, and although her beauty snatched Tigano's breath away, Elara remained a slender, petite woman.
Quibell was soon crawling everywhere, his dark eyes gleaming with mischief, though he seldom got into things he shouldn't. Slow to speech, he was quick to giggle, and all of the Healers grew fond of him. His eyes remained dark for a very long while, and Tigano dared to breathe a sigh of relief.
As he began to walk, Quibell often left the kitchen and the kitchen garden where his mother ruled supreme, and toddled in Tigano's wake. Elara spent a good deal of her free time with Tigano, although she made it clear that her heart belonged to Quibell and his still un-named father. Tigano accepted the place she allowed him to have in her life, and prayed nightly to the abandoned Gods of the City of Turpan that Quibell was not mageborn, and therefore he and Elara could have long and happy lives.
On the eve of his second naming day, Quibell was sitting in a corner of the kitchen while his mother cooked. An enormous tom cat with midnight fur, a white blaze on his chest, a bottle-brush tail and a nasty disposition sat in Quibell's lap, tickling the boy's face with his tail.
Quibell gently brushed the cat's tail away from his face, and the cat replaced it. Quibell brushed the cat's tail away again, but to no avail. The old tom was deliberately being annoying.
Tigano sat near the table, slowly sipping at his mug of caffe, idly watching both cat and boy over the rim. Elara opened the door of the stove and added a small stick of wood, closing it swiftly before too much of the heat could escape.
She stirred the bubbling pots on the stove as Quibell, irritated, moved the cat's tail from his face once more, pulling the cat's tail rather hard. Tigano smiled. The old tom was really aggravating the boy and he felt the cat needed to be taken down a peg or two.
"No!" Quibell commanded the cat. It was one of his few words, and his favorite. The tom stood, nearly as tall as the seated boy, and deliberately shoved his entire hind quarters into the boy's face.
Quibell had had enough. Tigano didn't blame him one bit, or try to stop him, as he grasped the tom's tail firmly in his right hand and shoved against the feline's buttocks with his left and screamed "NO!"
There was a flash of intensely bright blue light. The cat yowled. Tigano's mug crashed to the floor, and Elara screamed. Tigano was dazed by the brilliance of the light. He felt the hot caffe dripping down his legs, and the trickle of warm blood. He'd apparently been cut by flying shards from his mug. He could feel four sets of claws digging into his chest and thighs. He clutched at the cat with one hand, rubbing his bedazzled eyes with the other.
As his vision returned, he saw Elara standing at the stove staring at her son in horror. Quibell sat in the same corner near the stove, now holding the cat's long bushy tail in his hand and acting for all the world as though his entire world hadn't just come crashing down around him.
Tigano stroked the trembling tom cat, trying to quiet him, even as his heart was stirred in anguish for Quibell's future. Elara had no future now; it was clear Quibell was mageborn.
Tigano finally soothed the cat, and carefully set the animal down before he rose from the table, walking to where Elara stood as though frozen in place, staring at her son in horror. He picked up a thick rag and moved the now smoking pan from the stove.
Tigano set his hands gently on Elara's shoulders and she collapsed against him, sobbing. Not knowing what else to do, Tigano cradled the woman against his chest, murmuring nonsense words in a soft, crooning voice.
Eventually the teary storm abated, and Tigano regretfully set her from him, handing her a towel to wipe her face on.
Her usually lovely face, now blotchy from the storm of emotion, eyes and nose still streaming from her weeping, Elara wiped herself clean before asking, "What will become of us now? He can't be mageborn, he can't! I didn't bear him for naught!"
"Who is his father?" Tigano's voice was soft as he asked the question, placing one hand gently on her shoulder.
Elara shrugged his hand away. "Quibell's father didn't look mageborn. I loved him, and my father," she shrugged, "disapproved. He had a plan to marry me off to one of the outer land-chiefs, in return for, oh, I don't know, something Father wanted. Quibell's father and I, we hoped if I was with child, my father would permit us to marry."
She hugged her arms tightly around her and walked toward the far wall of the kitchen, talking mostly to herself, though loud enough for Tigano to still hear her.
"It took nearly six months for me to show signs of being with child, but when my father found out, instead of allowing us to marry, he threw me out. He said I was no use to him with a child. He said I was ruined, both in body and in reputation, and he had never even wanted a girl child to begin with.
"I went then to Quibell's father, for I had nowhere else to go. He can't possibly be mageborn; his hair is dark!" She sniffed, taking a swipe at her face with the cloth before continuing.
"In the time it had taken me to show my father I was with child, his father had betrothed him to another. He didn't know about the betrothal until the papers had been signed atwixt their fathers. He told me there was no way to honorably break the betrothal; his father would never accept a marriage to an Outcast bride, no matter what House I was born to."
She turned to Tigano. "He is wed now, and there's naught to be done, but he isn't mageborn; he can't be. I'll not be telling you who he is, because they will burn him too. There is absolutely no way Quibell can be mageborn."
"He has red hair," Tigano said quietly, "and his eyes have been lightening steadily in the last months, though they're not yet the silvery grey of the mageborn. But when you consider what he did to the cat just now, there can be no question in anyone's mind. Quibell is mageborn, and destined to be very powerful. I've never heard of someone coming to their power until the first change of life, yet here is your son with only two years to his name, red hair, blue eyes, and powerful enough to strip the tail from a cat with no blood and no more fuss than a flash of blue light."
Elara dissolved into tears again. Tigano took her into his arms, longing for some way to preserve her life, knowing there was none and lamenting the day he had let her into the Hall of Healers and the most tender reaches of his heart, which was now being torn asunder.
"Tell me his father's name," Tigano said softly in her ear, "and Quibell will be raised among the mageborn, to claim his birthright. Refuse to name him, and you condemn your son to be raised in an orphanage, denied his powers, and running uneducated in the streets."
"If I told you," Elara sobbed, "they would burn him alongside me, and leave his wife a widow and his son an orphan. Quibell is too powerful; they'll never let him live, one who came into his power so young. I'll not tell; then both my son and his father shall live." She pulled herself from Tigano's embrace.
"I ask one boon of you, Tigano. Give me until his eyes finish turning to teach him to hide his power. Don't speak of his power, but decry him when his eyes are fully grey; on his appearance alone."
Tigano knew the council of Mages probably would have the boy killed if they discovered how early he'd come into his power. Yet, if he didn't report this and someone else discovered it, his life would also be forfeit. He wavered a long moment, and then nodded. Though she didn't love him, his heart fully belonged to Elara, and he could deny her nothing. Perhaps no one would notice the old tom's tail was missing, or if they did, they may assume he had been in one of his periodic fights for dominance with the other cats of the district. Although there was no wound, he bandaged the cat's missing tail, to hide the manner of his losing it.
It took Quibell's eyes another full year to finish turning the pale, icy shade of grey only the mageborn had, while his mother anxiously taught him everything she thought he would need to know in order to survive once she was gone.
Once Quibell's eyes had settled in their color, Tigano went to speak to Zorian.
For the next two weeks there was an intensive search for Quibell's father. Elara, even though closely questioned, remained steadfast in her refusal to name her lover, and no mageborn man came forward to claim the boy as his own.
She also refused to tell what House she was Outcast from, and no one stepped forward to own her, though there was no way her own family was unaware of the Mages' thorough and methodical search for her lover and family.
Tigano had watched the proceedings with a small, righteous smirk in his heart, for although he had reported the boy as mageborn according to the law; he hadn't volunteered any of the other bits of information he possessed. Thus, the search was carried out only among the Mages. Tigano had done his solemn duty to the extent of the letter of the law, for he had no wish to die as well. Performing his duty had cost him most dearly, for he had also come to care greatly for the cheerful boy.
After two full weeks of interrogation, and most likely some torture at the hands of the Mages, Elara was ordered burned alone, and alive.
On her Burning Day, Tigano stood silently at the pyre in the square, holding young Quibell's hand. The Mages had decreed Quibell must watch the public execution, in the hope he would name his father.
Quibell watched solemnly as Elara went silently to the flames. She died with the name of her lover still unuttered, and without even any cries of pain. Tigano picked Quibell up and held him, once Elara was dead, and their shared tears mingled on their cheeks.
Having helped to raise him for his three years, Tigano felt himself a foster father to the boy, and felt warmth within his heart when Quibell had asked if it were possible to remain with him. He petitioned for permission from the Mages to adopt the boy, but as an unmarried man, he was denied.
Quibell couldn't be taken into the Healer's Hall as his apprentice until he had reached his seventeenth naming day, therefore Tigano took the boy to the best orphanage available, near the Smithy's Well and then returned to the Hall of Healers, vowing to do what he could for Quibell, as often as he could be of service.
Chapter 3
Quibell entered the Community Hall, and made the customary obeisance in the direction of the altar stone. No gods had been worshipped here for time out of mind, but the people still gathered for many reasons. One of them was to meet with the Teacher, the learned man in the district, where, in exchange for some of the commodities of life, they could be taught the laws of Turpan, or anything else they could afford to learn. Some slept here, and others ran dubious businesses from the many alcoves and shadowy places.
Quibell's business here today was to leave his naming day offering to whatever gods may be listening. He crept toward the alter and laid there half a loaf of bread, and the eight pennies which signified his eight years of life the gods had granted to him.
As he turned to leave, a hissing voice came from the darkness. "Quibell!"
He turned toward the sound of his name, and a hand shot out of the shadows, its steely grip drawing him inexorably into the darkness. The hand propelled him in silence through several twisting passages, and up a winding flight of stairs, then through a door into the brilliant desert sunlight of the rooftop.
The hand released him with such force that he was thrown to his knees, and he felt the rough stone tear the skin from his left knee.
As Quibell blinked, adjusting his eyes to the sudden glare, he heard footsteps retreating and the grate of a door against stone.
When vision was restored, he found himself kneeling at the feet of a man in his third decade. The scrabbly black beard and long hair that flowed over the threadbare doublet was identification enough. Quibell knelt before Pokharel, Turpan's most notorious thief.
Pokharel smiled beneficently, and reached out with his single left hand to stroke Quibell's face.
"I heard lots 'bout your talents, young Quibell, and I got a job for ye."
Never one to turn down an opportunity to earn a little money, Quibell nodded, even though Pokharel gave him an uneasy feeling.
"Be at th' front entrance of the Commu'ty Hall near the Pennyck Well, an hour past sunset," Pokharel said, then waved his hand in dismissal.
"How long will this errand take?" Quibell asked, "They lock the orphanage doors at full dark, and if I do this for you, I'll be locked out all night."
Pokharel laughed the wheezing cackle of a man twice his age. "Ya don't need ta bother 'bout where to sleep, my young Quibell, no bother 'tall."
He repeated his gesture of dismissal, and turned to speak with one of his men. The same steely grip took control of his arm again and pulled him through the door, and nearly blinded by the sudden dimness, he allowed himself to be thrust down the stairs at the pace demanded by the man prisoning his arm.
True to his word, Quibell arrived at the well in front of the Community Hall at the appointed time. Pokharel was there, but gestured for complete silence. He mutely bade Quibell follow him, and melted into the shadows of a nearby alley.
Quibell darted into the alley, anxious to keep up with his employer. He saw no one, and so he continued forward at a more sensible pace. Even that precaution didn't keep him from tripping over a pile of refuse that echoed loudly off the walls as it fell.
Quibell's arm was immediately grabbed and he was pulled back into a tiny alcove. He pressed fearfully against Pokharel's body as the night watch came rushing down the alley, searching for the source of the noise.
Of a sudden, it occurred to Quibell what would happen to him if the night watch found him sneaking around in an alley with a known thief. He'd lose his own hand, even if he hadn't stolen anything.
The orphanage was already locked, and he had no alternative tonight other than to follow Pokharel. If he went back on his word to help the thief, the fact, but not the circumstances, would become known throughout Turpan, and he'd receive no more confidential commissions.
He'd just have to do a terrible job tonight, so Pokharel would never again ask him to help with a night's work. Quibell spent the remainder of the evening accidentally on purpose dropping things and bumping into things which might make noise, and though they made attempts to enter several compounds belonging to the Great Houses, they passed the entire night without a shred of success.
Quibell was triumphant. He had completed the exercise with his honor and his hands intact. Pokharel was disgusted with Quibell's incompetence, and told him so in a rant that lasted a full quarter of an hour. Finally as dawn was breaking, Quibell was dismissed. He returned to the orphanage and slept through the day.
Chapter 4
Nine year old Quibell slunk quietly down the street, carefully pulling around himself the Fabric of the idea of unnoticability. He couldn't make himself truly invisible, but he found it remarkably easy to be overlooked. He didn't think of his unusual talents as magic. Magic was only for the Mages in the Citadel. Still, he knew that sometimes if he concentrated hard enough, he could see the Fabric the world was made of and mold it into a different shape to suit his needs. The skill had helped him survive in the six years since his mother had been murdered by the Mages.
He ground his teeth as he thought of the Mages who lived in their great gold and white Citadel on the east side of the city. Some day, he determined, their magic wouldn't be enough to protect them.
Quibell paused as he reached his destination. His friend Alycia had fallen this morning and hurt her leg badly. Tigano had examined her and discovered the bone was cracked, but not broken through. He had bound her leg straight, and she was to stay entirely off it and take boneset tea thrice daily for at least a week, two or three if possible. Quibell had carried wood for half a day to pay for the service Tigano had rendered.
Quibell was off to the apothecary now, to get Alycia some boneset, enough for a week's worth of teas. He pulled the Fabric closer around himself so no one would notice him unless they knew for a certainty he was there and they were looking specifically for him.
He waited near the door of the shop until another customer, a large man, entered; then he slid through in the wake of the man, ghosting over to the place where the apothecary kept small bags of prepared teas ready for sale.
Quibell had to be extremely careful when he was actually stealing. The law provided that the first time a thief was caught, he would lose his right hand. The second offense took the left hand, and the third took a man's head. The law made no distinction between men, women, and children, and the Apothecaries were particular in assiduously meting out to each its "just" punishments.
He glanced across the labels, looking for the boneset. The orphanage grudgingly provided a leaky roof and clothing to cover his body, and barely enough food to live on. No formal schooling was provided at any of the orphanages in Turpan, though the children were trained to do menial work.
He'd pestered the Matron at the orphanage to teach him to read, telling her he'd be able to get odd jobs as a messenger because he could read the signs on shops and streets. In truth, he was simply hungry for knowledge. The Matron grudgingly helped him make arrangements with the Teacher, who worked in the Community Hall.
Quibell had worked very hard for the man, cleaning and running errands, in exchange for the knowledge of how to read. Once he'd learned to read, he often "borrowed" books from various booksellers, returning them later. He was always careful not to damage any book, for fear of discovery.
Quibell made a few coins for himself carrying various messages around the city. He didn't steal very often and then usually because others needed his help, like Alycia. He couldn't remember the last time he'd stolen something for himself. He'd typically work out a deal with the owner; mostly an exchange of work in return for the desired item. Many things could be bartered for, and he often did odd jobs in trade, but herbs were expensive; neither he nor Alycia had the money for them.
Apothecaries never would take work in trade for their herbs, and Quibell wished he had a different way to acquire them. He felt there was a better use for his talents, something more he should be accomplishing.
The boneset was quickly located and he slid several of the small bags into an inner pocket of his robes and left with the large man whose business in the shop was now complete.
He visited three other apothecaries during the course of the afternoon, taking a few doses of boneset from each, so his thefts would go unnoticed, saving the Apothecary who packaged his teas in crinkly parchment bags for last.
Alycia was overjoyed when he returned to the orphanage with the boneset. He quickly made up the first dose of tea for her before heading off toward the laundry where Alycia was employed.
He'd like to have rested, because manipulating the Fabric always tired him, but he'd promised Alycia's overseer he'd be there to do her work for her until she could walk again. This way, Alycia would still have a job waiting for her when she was healed. Quibell planned to take her place for the entire three weeks, if he could keep Alycia off her feet for that length of time. It would be tricky though, for Alycia would fret at staying in bed.
He idly wondered if there was a way to use the world's Fabric to bind her down, so she'd think she was merely weak, and be content to rest. As he considered it, a picture formed in his mind of how it could be accomplished, if he could see the right sort of Fabric near where she slept.
Quibell liked working in the laundries during the winter; stamping on the clothing in the hot buckets of water was a good way to keep warm.
Even at the age of nine, he was well known throughout the district. He had a reputation as a hard worker, and an honest boy, having never been caught pilfering. Messengering was his favorite job in the summer, because he was able to see more of the city, and it paid much more money for much less work, which gave him more time to study his precious, though temporarily stolen books.
Chapter 5
The entire city of Turpan was in mourning; outwardly, at least. King Jonturs was dead. Everyone throughout Turpan wore black, if they had it, or at least displayed an arm band made from a black rag tied on. The inhabitants of the city went about their business in nearly full silence for an entire week. Even the clang of hammer on anvil was stilled.
There was a splendid burial service held at the palace, of course, but only the heads and families of the Great Houses were permitted to attend. After all the ceremonies had concluded, and King Jonturs' body was laid on the funeral pyre, there was a three day period when normal business was conducted, but the people were still required to remain silent and to continue to wear the black of universal mourning.
Now dawned the morning of the Crowning Day. Jeftha, the seventeen-year-old son of King Jonturs, was declared the legal and rightful heir. In another elaborate ceremony which only the heads of the Great Houses attended, Jeftha was crowned King of the Divinely Blest City of Turpan.
He announced his council; a long list of names and titles Quibell didn't recognize. Amid rumors that times would be changing for the better, Quibell had a few words with Pokharel about what it would mean for those of the city who lived in poverty.
Pokharel had snorted. "Means no changes at all. Strip all of 'em fancy titles from th' proclamation and you'll see that ever' last man on his council is a Mage." Pokharel spat in the dust of the street to clear his mouth. "The young kid is scared to death of the Mages, same as the rest of us."
"I'm not scared of the Mages," Quibell asserted.
"Yeah, ya are, or ya'd do more'n just hate 'em. We all of us hate 'em, every one of 'em, but we be too scared to do anythin' 'bout it. Otherwise we'd a done somethin' already. There's more of us than 'ere are of 'em. So tell me why hain't we done somethin' afore now?"
"Because they've got magic, and we don't," Quibell said quietly. "It's said they can kill with their staves, kill hundreds at a time. We can't fight that."
"We could, iffen there be enough real men in this town 'at wasn't afraid o' dying. Jist think on this, Quibell, ma boy; nobody's ever seen a Mage kill a man except by fire in the ordinary way at a Burning. Nobody's ever seen a Mage cast a spell. They own this city through fear, not magic; fear. Fear is their only real power." Pokharel spat again.
"Take Jeftha now; they murdered King Jonturs. Likely Jonturs wouldn't play things their way anymore, so they killed him. Then they tell Jeftha if he won't play nice, they'll kill him too. Jeftha's a kid, just past his seventeenth naming day. He'd rather live than see his no good cousin Zuryell of Dassanid take the throne. So he does what the Mages tell him to do. He names the Mages to his council, and then they run Turpan, same as they've been doing for time out of mind." Pokharel spat once more.
"It's what you'd do, were you in Jeftha's shoes," Pokharel concluded, "An' don't be telling me otherwise." He turned and vanished into an alleyway.
A spark of pity and compassion bloomed for King Jeftha, though Quibell knew in his heart he'd have died rather than give in to the Mages. From his life in the rough orphanage, Quibell had learned that standing firm, even to the point of violence, was the only way to deal with a bully.
Chapter 6
Though not yet in the midst of the greatest heat of summer, the eve of Quibell's thirteenth naming day was hot as Quibell hurried down the sizzling pavement, intent upon his latest commission. A Lady from one of the Great Houses had asked him to deliver a message for her. Her perfumed paper was now tucked into an inner pocket, and her money jingled in his purse. She promised him the Gentleman to whom he was to deliver the note would pay him also, and he was then to wait in case he was needed to bring back the reply. The Lady would be shopping along the same street all of the morning.
Doubtless this was a matter of extreme importance, involving the arranging of an assignation, or a lover's tryst. Quibell had often delivered such notes, and couldn't imagine how the pair in question thought they were being discrete. The messenger was aware of it, as well as several servants.
What was known to a single servant, of course, would be all over the city by the following afternoon, for the servants of the great and the near great couldn't be stopped from gossiping about the families to whom they were bonded.
As he passed an alley, he heard an ear-piercing scream. Abandoning the spoiled noblewoman's quest, Quibell turned aside into the darkness of the passage. Each story of the buildings on either side leaned further out over the space until they nearly met in the middle, making the alley into a tunnel, with only one bright chink of sunlight that could make its way into the space, and that only at high noon.
In the gloom, he could make out four large boys huddled over a heap of clothing on the ground, which was thrashing about frantically. As he drew closer, the girl screamed again, pleading for someone, anyone, to help her. One of the boys kicked her, and knelt down to help his mates subdue her. A tipped basket nearby of now-half folded laundry gave mute testimony as to her employment and current errand. The clean clothing she had been delivering would now have to be washed again, and she would probably be beaten for the soiling of the laundry. Doing the work over again would make her deliveries late, and she might be discharged from her workplace without a reference for the infraction.
One of the boys threw the girl's skirt up over her face, watching the flailing of her bare legs as he began tugging at the lacings on his breeches.
The girl screamed again. The boy's three friends caught her arms and legs and held her splayed before their leader, obviously awaiting their turns.
Quibell looked quickly around him for some of the world's Fabric, seeing what his options were. The boy had his breeches unlaced and dropped about his ankles now, and was lowering himself onto the girl. She screamed again, and one of his accomplices put his hand firmly over her mouth, practically suffocating her with her own skirt.
With precious few choices, Quibell saw some Threads that were near enough and grasped them, twisting them quickly around the bully's neck and then letting go with a flick. The boy's head flew from his shoulders, and he collapsed on top of the girl, blood pouring out across her and spurting all over the alley, dousing the clean laundry. Well, there was no help for it. The laundry had to be rewashed anyway, and the bloodstains could be removed if they were tackled while still damp.
The second boy turned toward Quibell, a knife suddenly in his hand. Quibell wrapped the same Threads around this boy's wrist, sending both knife and hand flying. The other two began to run. Quibell grasped more Threads and ensnared their feet, cutting their ankles open and dumping them painfully on their faces in the muck of the alley. He was acting in haste, he knew, but found himself filled with a towering rage and a righteous desire for revenge on the girl's behalf. The attack had been well-choreographed, and Quibell knew this wasn't the first girl they had assaulted. She would, however, be the last.
He advanced down the alley toward them, wrapping some of the Fabric of illusion around him to appear taller than his thirteen years; they would think he was a mature man, and one of the Mages. He even gave himself a fanciful cloak, for their eyes. Careful to remain silent because he'd not yet learned to make his voice sound older, he appeared to tower above them where they lay cowering and bleeding in the alley.
The law declared rapists should be castrated on the first offense; killed on the second. Quibell opted for leniency. With one further twitch of his fingers upon the world Threads, he cut off their hands.
Very few employers would trust enough to hire a man without hands; it would be assumed they were thieves. If they lived through the shock of the decapitation and healed, they would be too busy trying to scrape out a living and would never have time for rape again.
Quibell turned back to the girl and pulled the dead body from her. She lay unmoving, terrified, not sure of what was to become of her now. He wished he could do more to comfort her, but as he had performed magic, he must make it appear he was a Mage, or risk losing his life to the flames. Quibell silently pulled her skirt to its proper place, helped her to her feet, and gestured for her to gather up the laundry.
He escorted her out to the street and continued on his way, keeping the illusion of manhood around him until he was well out of her sight. Then, dropping all his illusions, Quibell the boy hurried up the street in search of the noblewoman's paramour.
Chapter 7
Clutching his small bundle of belongings to him, Quibell left the orphanage for the last time. Today was his seventeenth naming day, and he was now a man. Outcast, certainly, but a man, nevertheless. He hung his small bundle from his waist and strode down the street, head held high, as he thought about what he intended to do with his life.
He felt uneasy today, but couldn't identify what was wrong. Perhaps the answer was simply that he was leaving behind the only home he really remembered.
He had few memories of living at the Hall of Healers; most of them involved a large, tailless black cat and an equally black stove. He'd always had a good relationship with the Healer Tigano; had always been able to work a deal with him to get care for himself and his friends. Tigano had offered to take Quibell in as an apprentice when he reached his majority, and Quibell now directed his steps toward the Hall of Healers where Tigano found his employment, near the Weavers' Well. While most of the guilds tended to cluster together in the District about a particular well, the Healers had halls and houses in many parts of the city, for their craft was needed by all of the inhabitants of Turpan, at one time or another in their lives.
He could use a reputation as a good Healer to mask his use of magic. He didn't know if what he called his power was the same thing the Mages in the Citadel had named 'magic', but 'magic' was as good a word as any to label what he'd learned to do.
He wasn't yet certain what he should use his magic for, but felt strongly it had been given to him to help others. He'd learned how to manipulate the Threads and Fabric of the world to see what might be wrong; sometimes he'd even fixed a problem. He'd often eased Alycia's ankles when they were swollen from a day's work in the laundry, and soothed other minor bumps and bangs among his particular friends in the orphanage.
As he neared the central square of Turpan, the crowd was thicker than usual. Wondering what was happening, Quibell eased through the press of bodies. Several people turned and looked at him, and then thrust him behind them. Apparently they felt their wealth entitled them a better view of the proceedings than his ragged appearance suggested he ought to have.
Quibell reached out almost automatically and wrapped around him the idea of not being noticed, and the idea that he was a comfortable friend. He added the illusion that his robes were richer than they appeared, so he looked, perhaps, like a younger son of a Minor House, or perhaps an upper servant of a Great House. He also darkened his hair so as not to stand out amongst the crowds of the non-mageborn which were gathered so closely together in the square.
He usually thought of the Threads and Fabric of the world as Ideas; they seemed to come more comfortably to his manipulation when he did. Prepared, he slipped quietly between the rich people, a few of them actually making way for him.
Quietly, cautiously, he made his way at last to the front of the crowd. A great cairn of wood stood in the center of the square, and an elderly man with tightly curled red hair shot through with silver stood before it.
It was another Burning; some poor woman had given birth to a mageborn child. The square was packed tightly with people pressing closer; Quibell didn't dare call attention to himself by trying to leave. He'd have to watch the burning. He usually avoided them; the memories of watching his own mother burn still hurt too much.
Quibell returned his attention to the officiator. He wore deep purple robes. A gold stole lay draped across his shoulders and reached nearly to the ground on either side in the front. Red velvet-covered toes peeped out from under the robes, and he wore enough gold and jewelry to buy Quibell both food and lodging for the rest of his life, were he to steal it. Quibell highly doubted he could manage the feat even if he tried; there was something about this Mage which indicated an air of watchfulness, and that sort of vigilance ran counter to the idea of not being noticed.
The man seemed unusually aware of his surroundings, and gave Quibell an extremely long and sharp look before finally doing as others in the area had done, and turned his face and attention elsewhere. The man raised his hand, and silence fell, first in the front rows of people, and then sweeping back, until there wasn't a single sound being uttered in the square.
"Bring the guilty and condemned one forward!" the man proclaimed, his voice ringing in the silence, and two men, armed and girded in the accouterments of the professional soldier came forward through the crowd, dragging between them a struggling, weeping woman.
"I didn't know he was mageborn!" the woman screamed at the old man, beseeching both him and the crowd around her in a vain attempt to change her fate.
"He came to me in the night and slept with me. Paid me good, too, he did, well enough I didn't need no other man. Loved him, I did, and didn't want no other man, neither. When I told him he had a babe, he didn't believe me 'twere his, not even after it were borned; but I followed him home one even', to give him the babe, for even with what he paid me, I couldn't keep it." The woman tried to pull away from her guards, but they held her fast, facing the Mage.
She spat at him, her aim true.
The man, who looked to be in the midst of his sixth decade, ignored the spittle running down his cheek.
"You are here today for breaking the greatest of our laws," he intoned unfeelingly. "You have slept with a mageborn man, my own son, and have conceived a child by him."
"How was I to know he was your son? He didn't look mageborn! But then none of your children do, do they? Has your wife given you even one child with so much as a hint of power?
"Dozen and more, you got on her, and another dozen on each o' yer concubines, and still ye cannot get one with red hair to follow in yer steps. Not a one with power; so I'm after guessing maybe ain't none of yer supposed sons and daughters be yours. Mayhap yer women knew ye couldn't conceive in them, and they went Outcast, to brown-haired men, hey?"
"You are therefore condemned under the law to die by fire, and your lover and child with you." The man continued as though she hadn't spoken a single word, although his face had twitched slightly when she'd taunted him about the lack of power among his copious offspring.
He now gestured to the guards and they walked resolutely forward, dragging the wailing woman with them.
She continued to taunt the old man. "Sure, and kill yer son, yer has plenty left, what, fifty or more, hey? And none of them with power. I heered 'most all the guards an' servants at the palace and Citadel be your get."
As the guards, brothers by the look of them with their evenly featured faces and tight brown curls, carried her to the top of the cairn of wood, her words became nearly incoherent as she pleaded the innocence of her intent and begged for mercy. They ignored her cries as they tightly fastened her to the center stake, using chains which wouldn't burn away and thus give her the least opportunity for escape.
Feeling ill, Quibell knew he could not witness this Burning; the memories of his mother's Burning were too sharp. The story the woman gave was too similar to the things Tigano had passed on to him from his mother. He began to ease slowly toward the clear aisle the guards had used. Perhaps he could leave by that avenue, dubious as it was. It would be much better than remaining in the square to watch.
The old man took a torch from a third guard, higher in rank, to judge by his uniform, whose only part in the proceedings had been to hold the torch for the Mage. With great vigor, the Mage thrust the torch into the oiled pile of wood; the flames blazed high, eagerly lapping up the oil, using it as a means to spread rapidly across and through the well-seasoned dry wood.
Two more guards entered, bearing the unconscious body of a man early in his fourth decade. They bound him with cords and threw him onto the flames. The Mage didn't show any sort of emotion as his son was consumed by the flames.
Quibell noted the son's face was so similar to his sire's that, other than the lines of age, they could have been brothers. He also bore a great resemblance to the guards, and Quibell wondered about the woman's allegation that the old man had sired many of the guards. Did they consign their brother to the flames with glee, knowing there would be more inheritance for them, or out of duty? More likely, was it from the fear that if they didn't obey the old man, they might be next to sample the warmth of the funeral pyre?
A sixth guard came forward, carrying a red-haired toddler. Quibell's heart ached. But for his mother's silence, this would have been his fate. He edged nearer to the single avenue of escape. What had this child done? Nothing. The old man and his ilk were killing an innocent child for fear of what he might one day do. They feared to lose their power over the people; power they held by the terror of their reign.
The guard handed the babe to his grandfather, a man who ought to be protecting the child, not murdering him. The old Mage in the purple robes then held the child high in the sight of all before he threw the infant directly into the heart of the flames. The innocent babe quickly perished.
What right did those sanctimonious old men have to tell people who they could marry? Or who they could lie with? What right did they have to decide who could have education and who was to run ignorant in the street? What right did they have over who lived and who died? Anger blazed in his heart, and Quibell felt the entire world was about to burst forth from his chest. He acted without thinking.
A blue light blazed from his hands, and the old man was suddenly bound securely with iron shackles, and standing in the midst of the fire, sharing the fate of his victims.
In the long moment while he knew the eyes of the crowd and, much more importantly, the eyes of the guards would be stunned by the light, Quibell raced down the open aisle between the guards. The torch-bearing guard in the fancy uniform stepped forward to block the aisle, and Quibell ran straight into him. They struggled face to face for a moment, then Quibell let go his grip on the layers of the World's Fabric, slithered out of the Guard Captain's grasp, and fled down the nearest alley.
There would be no training for him with Tigano now. He'd killed a Mage by magic. If they caught him, he would be the next man hauled onto a funeral pyre if he lived long enough to reach the flames. He ran as fast as he could, but even as he ran he heard the first shouts of the guards' anger, "Catch him! He has killed the Archmage!"
Chapter 8
Quibell dashed down the alley, running as fast as he could. As he broke from the mouth of the passage into the street, he darted to one side then moved into a recessed doorway where he stood bent over, his hands pressed against his knees to hold himself up, gasping for breath.
He listened intently over and above the sounds of his breathing, but could detect no sign of pursuit for the moment. He had guessed from the man's clothing he had been highly placed, but it never had entered his mind the Archmage himself would stoop to murder in the sight of so many witnesses.
With the Archmage dead, Quibell hoped the other Mages would squabble amongst themselves before they turned their minds to hunting him. Could they track him by magic? Could they tell when he worked his spells? Would it ever be safe for him to use his power again?
There was no point in speculating: magic wasn't the only way he could be found. Many in the square had seen his face, and his red hair would stand out in any crowd. He must leave Turpan before the gate guards could be told to stop him; but first he would need as much water and food as he could purchase. Dassanid wouldn't be far enough; he'd have to find someplace where the Mages had no influence.
He deftly pulled around him all of the spells of misdirection he could think of; the Ideas of unnoticeability and of being a comfortable friend. He added the idea of you-absolutely-do-not-need-to-look-over-here, the idea of invisibility, and even, as a last remedy, the idea of you-really-need-to-sneeze-now. He stealthily left the doorway with his Ideas wrapped closely around himself and made for the lesser market square of the city.
The great market would be watched. In any event, it was much too near the site of the Archmage's demise. Furthermore, the lesser market had the distinct advantage of being not very far from one of the two city gates, and of usually having lower prices on goods.
Upon reaching the lesser market, Quibell slipped into an alleyway and changed the nature of the illusions he had drawn about himself. He made himself appear taller, and more muscular, broader of shoulder and hip, and darkened and straightened the appearance of his hair. He took his bundle of possessions from where it still hung at his waist, and unrolled it. He draped his cloak half over one shoulder in the fashion of a traveler. The small pouch of coins and the two pins he'd been given as payment for various odd jobs went into his purse. He examined the other items, and discarded some of them, then deemed himself ready for the next step.
He entered the square, careful to walk with the swagger of a muscular man, and began bartering with the used clothing merchant to sell all of his remaining clothing.
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