The young ogre glared. “My uncle—”
“Was a good man,” Maldred finished. “The best who lived in this gods-forsaken city.”
“I know,” said the young ogre sadly. “He’d help anybody.”
“He helped me on plenty of occasions,” Maldred said.
The young ogre glanced at Sabar. She’d soundlessly passed through the curtains behind them. “He was known even to help humans,” said the young ogre. “Said the gods created them too, and we shouldn’t belittle them so.”
“Grim was a good man,” Maldred repeated.
“Even took a human in once, he did.”
Maldred raised an eyebrow. “When?”
“It was a dirty little child he found wandering outside on the street. He took her in so no one would turn her into their slave. That was only a day or two before he died.”
“The child…?”
“Oh, she’s long gone. Someone must’ve taken her right away after he was found dead. A pretty human child like that is worth a handful of coins.”
Maldred felt his throat tightening. “A little girl, you say.”
“Why, yes, and—”
“About this tall?” Maldred’s hand dropped to his hip.
The ogre nodded.
“With hair the color of polished copper?”
“Yes.”
“This little girl, did she have a name that you remember?”
The ogre shrugged. “I never bother remembering human names. I don’t want to be around them long enough to worry about learning their names.”
Maldred returned his attention to the bookcase, tugging out an especially ancient book on the topmost shelf. Paper flakes fell from the pages as he brought it to the counter. A motion, and the ball of light followed him to hover overhead.
“Did they bury Grim?”
The young ogre shook his head. “Burned him.” He leaned over the counter, trying to see what Maldred was reading. “They burned him and the others who died the same day”
Maldred stared at the young ogre, inhaling sharply. “Others?”
“Six more. All died the same day. They said my uncle died because he was old, but I think it was some epidemic. Something that got him and the others all at once.”
Maldred pressed for names. The young nephew of Grim Kedar could only remember two of the dead ones. They had been friends of the ogre-mage from his youth, and they were among those Grim Kedar trusted in the city.
“Nura Bint-Drax.” Maldred muttered the name as a curse.
“Sorry?”
“The child who killed your uncle,” Maldred said. “She also killed my friends. But she will pay.”
Maldred ignored the young ogre as he continued to search through the book, finally finding the passage he sought and frowning as he memorized it. When he was certain he knew the incantation, he moved behind the counter and poked through jars and small boxes.
“You can’t take any of those things. This is my shop now.”
Maldred brushed by him, glancing down at Sabar. “You say we’re not physically here. Then how can I keep these things? I might be able to use them to help Dhamon slow down the magic that’s turning him into a spawn.”
She took from him a collection of preserved leaves, tiny feathers, and a packet of coarse red powder.
“My magic will keep them for you,” Sabar said.
“We’ve got one more stop,” he told her. “Across the street. That spawn I saw, I’m going to—”
The young ogre opened his mouth to say something else, but no words came out.
“Give me that crystal ball, ogre.”
In a flash Maldred found himself back sitting on the front of the raft. The first rays of the morning sun were stretching across the river, setting it to shimmer.
Ragh snatched away the crystal ball on a jeweled base, and thrust it into his pouch, tying the pouch to a belt he’d fashioned of a strip of cloth. The raft tipped precariously. Ragh shifted his balance and resumed poling with the glaive.
“I’ll take care of the lady and the crystal for a while,” Ragh said tersely.
“I wasn’t finished!” Maldred fumed.
“You were at it plenty long,” Ragh returned. “Too long. I shouldn’t’ve let you use it in the first place.
Not without Dhamon up and watching. How do I know what you’re up to?” After a moment: “Did you find anything to help him?”
Maldred glowered at the draconian, debating whether to fight him. The draconian would be a formidable foe, but Maldred considered himself smarter and stronger and was certain he could best the creature. But to what end?
“I found something where I went,” Maldred finally answered. In one meaty fist he held several feathers, leaves, and a small pouch of powder. “But we have to wait for Dhamon to regain consciousness.
He has to accept the magic for the spell to work.”
“He might never wake up,” Ragh said sadly. “If he does, I’m not sure he’d accept any magic from you.”
Chapter Fifteen
Passage
Fiona sat uncomfortably on the shore of the New Sea, in the middle of a patch of sharp-smelling ferns.
Her wrists were bound with a heavy strip of cloth from Dhamon’s robe, with a sweat-stained gag in her mouth. The tip of her own sword prodded her from the back, whenever the female Knight moved a little too much.
Ragh held her weapon, and he was lying concealed in the taller ferns behind her. Dhamon stood wobbly a few yards behind them, effectively cloaked by late afternoon shadows and a veil of willow leaves. Maldred was with Dhamon, watching everything and remaining silent. The ogre-mage had been quiet and busy ever since Dhamon came to at about midnight, a little better than three days after Fiona had attacked him.
Dhamon still ached terribly from the scales, which covered him almost completely now. There were only three significant patches of human skin remaining—on the left side of his face, down his left side, and across the small of his back. Maldred had cast a spell on him, a particularly uncomfortable enchantment that he’d initially objected to out of distrust. Oddly, Ragh had sided with the ogre-mage, saying the spell might stop the spread of the scales. After a fashion, Dhamon relented, and not a single scale had sprouted since the spell. Neither had a single one disappeared.
Dhamon had abandoned his boots because of the scales on the tops of his feet and the thick gray skin tough as boiled leather covering the bottoms of his feet. He barely registered the rocky ground and exposed roots he trod on anymore.
The wound on his back was the worst, but Dhamon’s ability to heal was remarkable, considering how deep Fiona had cut him with her sword. His back wound should have killed him, he knew. It would have instantly killed any normal man. And he hadn’t completely recovered. The fever racing through him could be from that wound or the scales or even Maldred’s spell. Whatever its source, the fever added to his misery.
His fever and the soaking heat threatened to pitch him to the marshy loam. He focused his efforts on remaining alert and leaned on the haft of the glaive for support.
Ragh cast him a worried look.
“I’m all right,” Dhamon muttered. Surprisingly, he found some comfort in the draconian’s concern.
Odd that fate had put him in league with a sivak at this juncture in his life. When he belonged to the Knights of Takhisis they had relied on sivaks as spies and informants, but he never placed any amount of real trust in any of the creatures. Until meeting Ragh, he had loathed the lot of them. “Really, Ragh, I’m all right.”