"Your first plan was good, boy. The Empire of Ranke has failed and is dying. The battle of those two power-seeking females nearly destroyed this town, and Kadakithis the Rankan was lax and late-is late-in coping. Simple matter to spread poison words and poison thought about him. Simple matter to see his outre wife dead and bring about his complete fall; to take full control of this town! Firaqa is well governed, ruled by wizards ... why not Sanctuary by a wizard!"
The face of Marype, a not unhandsome one, smiled. He glanced over at the cage of pure gold on another of this large chamber's three worktables. Within was a happy vole-a darkish gray mouse but for its short tailhappily dining on choice foods. In that rodent of necessity reposed the soul of the mage Markmor, else he could not have assumed the body of his apprentice. Markmor was long dead, resurrected by Marype only to run afoul of the gluemaker Chollander. Now Marype was dead; now the essential intelligence of Markmor resided in this body. That created anomaly, for a body could not house two souls-and yet without the soul of Marype this one would be impossible to maintain. Markmor had no desire to have the well-made, youthful body he now occupied rot into putrescence about him.
The brain of Markmor guided the body of his apprentice and son of his former chief rival, years agone. Within the body necessarily remained the soul of Marype, and so-the vole. It was a happy vole, mindless, well taken care of, and well guarded in this spell-warded chamber. "Shadowspawn, that street slime Hanse, is disposed of," Markmor said, pacing over to a mirror to look into the face of Marype and watch its mouth move. "A city cannot be taken without money, and plenty is coming in, thanks to your plan." He smiled, watching Marype smile at him.
Long ago Markmor had learned to make gold. Good gold; real gold. He was not sure that any other sorcerer had ever succeeded. Yet if he simply created the gold necessary to bring about his ends in Sanctuary, he would need more and more and ever more, for he would have destroyed its precarious economy. No, money must not merely be created but be generated; earned, brought into Sanctuary, to aid the economy rather than harm it. That had been Marype's ingenious plan, for while he had been a stupid boy he had not been ignorant or without cleverness.
The same as Shadowspawn, the master mage thought. And so the rising number of persons missing from Sanctuary. They were not missing. They were merely relocated in the Isles of Bandara, to the considerable profit of Markmor of Sanctuary.
Markmor of Sanctuary strode to the door, slim and young and leggy in black tights and boots under a belted tunic the color of old gold. "Tarkle!"
The hulking fellow appeared, a man beyond homely but looking respectful-ugly both inside and out, Markmor knew, with hair a brown tangle like an overgrown bramble patch fit only to hide a fearful rabbit. But then Markmor also knew without caring that his own new beauty was external only.
Respectful too were Tarkle's manner, and tone, and choice of response:
"Sir?"
"You and your associates will do tonight's work in Downwind, Tarkle."
"Downwind."
"We leave the Maze alone for a while-and who misses anyone in Downwind? After-"
"Nobody."
"That, damn it, was a rhetorical question. Be quiet and listen. After tonight's work in Downwind, return here. But tomorrow it is time you got out of that dingy hole you live in. You will go there and decide what you have that you consider of value, and fetch it here."
"Here?"
Markmor fought his exasperation with this semi-intelligent semihuman, "Yes, here. The room done in greens is yours."
Tarkle's eyes showed joy. "Yes, sir! Oh, I do thank you, sir!"
"I want you close by me, Tarkle."
Immediately Tarkle moved a pace closer.
Markmor took a pace backward and lifted a staying hand. "I don't mean now, you ..." He broke off and sighed. "Be prepared for a new appearance."
Tarkle looked around as if expecting a new appearance.
The wizard ignored that and wished he knew how to make brains. Or to transfer one from, say, a cat to a human, for instance, thus increasing Tarkle's intelligence severalfold.
"Be prepared for a new appearance," Markmor said in Marype's voice from Marype's mouth while he twitched a lock of Marype's long silverblond hair. "I am tired of all this hair. Today I cut it off and color it, and I don't want you taking me for someone else when you see me tomorrow'"
Tarkle smiled and nodded. "No chance, sir!"
He saw Marype nod, and wave a hand, and a happier Tarkle louted out.
Markmor secured the door and returned to gaze into the mirror. "That big beast is useful, but his mother must lament the fact that she never had any children. Shadowspawn is disposed of," he repeated in a low, controlled voice Marype had seldom used, "and three more must go. Three who know my secret name. The white wizard they call hero of the people ... that mail-shirted pretender at Sly's Place, and the gluemaker." Markmor chuckled and again the plump vole looked up. "Best he go into his own kettle. What a lot of glue he will provide for the good citizens of my city!"
Skarth showed the Vulgar Unicorn's new man the glass tiger-eye. Shmurt dragged his gaze off Taya, said "What d'you need?" and reached for it.
Skarth snatched it back. "Can't. I have to show it to Abohorr tonight, to get a message."
"Irregular," Shmurt said. He had been caretaker of an apartment building now mostly rubble, then unemployed, then construction laborer. Only recently had the Vulg's new owner installed him as day man.
"Strick said to tell ye a word," Skarth told him, and dropped his voice so that Shmurt leaned forward across the bar. "Boodoovagoolarunda," Skarth whispered.
Shmurt smiled and shook his head- "Don't know where he gits them words! What d'you need?"
Skarth told him.
"She wants to stay here?"
"Right."
"You sure?"
"Shmurt ..."
Shmurt nodded hurriedly, raising both hands in a fending gesture, and soon they had Taya installed, happily or un-, in one of the rooms upstairs over the tavern.
"Classiest roomer this place ever had," Shmurt said as he and Skarth came back down. "Don't believe I know you. Live close by?"
"Name's Skarth. You've seen me often enough. I live over on Red Court. Sure ye don't know me?"
"Can't say that I do, Skarth. Sorry'f I should."
Skarth chuckled and ordered a small pail of beer. While Shmurt saw to that, the old man glanced in surprise at an unlikely pairing in a dim back comer of the main room of the already dim dive. There where eyes less keen might have missed them sat Furtwan Coinpinch, changer and sometimes pusher, and Menostric called the Misadept, the cheapest mage in town. Well, the least expensive, anyhow.
"Watch those two, Shmurt," Skarth said, his staff banging the floor as he headed for the door. "They could steal your eyeballs and ye'd not notice till ye tried looking for 'em!"
The two men in back looked up. "What in the fart was that?" Furtwan demanded.
"Skarth," Shmurt called. "Don't you know ole Skarth?"
Then he returned his gaze to the empty doorway, trying to fathom who in the fart Skarth was and why he seemed almost familiar.
Ole Skarth was making his way up the street and into the market area, his staff bang-banging rather than tap-tapping. So many people thronged here that it felt a lot warmer. Business was brisk these days, what with all the employment available to anyone who could dig, cut stone, lift stone, carry stone, mix or carry or spread mortar, or swing a hammer or pick or sledgehammer. He saw Hummy and her daughter buying meat, real meat, and he was glad; that meant Hummy's husband had gotten on with the many others working in construction; the rebuilding of a better, handsomer, safer, and prettier Sanctuary, according to the official documents tacked up here and there for everyone to read or pretend to read, after nature and two viciously maniacal women and some dyspeptic gods and those outlanders of Tempus's and what some referred to as Nature had done their best to make this old city only a rubble-strewn memory. There was Lambkin buying food for her brothers and father, too, which meant that the latter was no longer taking odd jobs but "workin' regular" in the current popular phrasing, at some aspect of construction.