help him, or shall we make him croak a bit longer in order to teach him manners?”
The young boy had folded his arms, cocked his head, and stared straight into Valdaimon’s eyes. A look of serious study had come over his face, and his fat lips had pouted outward as he concentrated.
“He looks rich,” the boy had said at length. “The rich should have better manners. He should not have struck you, Father.”
“Right on all three points!” the man had answered, a broad smile lighting up his face. “You see, old man, the boy has cunning. But, Bagsby,” he had added, turning back to the boy, “a kindness that costs us nothing and could be richly repaid should not go undone.”
The boy had continued to stare skeptically at the withered old figure. His father had laughed again, then had risen and started toward the fountain. Valdaimon, angered at the impudence of the pair but relieved that his request was being fulfilled, had flopped back down among the pillows of his litter, letting the curtains swing shut.
“Father,” he had heard the child’s voice cry, “he bears the mark of the dragon!” The little urchin had noticed the pattern on the curtains of the litter: a large black dragon, its wings extended fully to both sides. An instant later, the curtains had parted, and the father was once again gazing at Valdaimon. This time, though, he was drawn up to his full height of five feet three inches, and his barrel chest was puffed out to the full.
“Dragon wizard—Valdaimon! You are Valdaimon!” the man had shouted, pointing a finger as though the mere mention of the name was an accusation.
Valdaimon, too tired to argue, his throat burning and bleeding, had merely nodded his head in his pillows to acknowledge the recognition.
“You vile bastard—your wizardry has corrupted half of Heilesheim,” the man had cried, “and you rob the better half by your influence with the king. You can fetch your own accursed water. And may Kirie, god of thieves, cause you to choke on it.”
Valdaimon’s rage had flashed. Despite the dryness of his throat and feebleness of his bones, he had managed to sit bolt upright in his litter, jam the end of his huge staff into the man’s chest, and shout a word of magical command. The man had exploded, and when the black, oily smoke had finally cleared, there was nothing left of him on the sun-soaked pavement save a pile of burning flesh and bones.
“Now, you,” Valdaimon had commanded, pointing a bony, thin finger at the quavering child who stared dumbly at his father’s smoldering remains. “You, fetch me water!”
The child had met Valdaimon’s eyes, his own wide with fear—was it loathing? At any rate, he had quickly obeyed, leaping toward the fountain, swiping a cup from a beggar who sat near the edge of the crowd of children, dipping it in the lukewarm water, and hastening with it to Valdaimon’s side without spilling a drop.
“Now you know how to serve your betters and the cost of defying the royal wizard,” Valdaimon had snapped, grabbing the cup from the boy’s outstretched hands. As he had raised the cup to his lips, Valdaimon had felt a strange, sudden pressure in his groin that his brain instantly translated into nauseating pain.
“Oooomph!” the old wizard had croaked, spitting and dropping the cup. He had sat upright and doubled over, bumping his head against an elbow of the agile child, who had leapt into the litter and stamped on his groin. Valdaimon had raised his eyes to see the hate-filled face of the child snarling at him. A dagger had flashed, and the tiny boy had held aloft Valdaimon’s coin purse. Finally, before the old mage could react, the child had kicked him, hard, right in the face, dislodging another of his already precious yellow teeth. An instant later, the child had vanished, melting into the gathering throng that clamored insults against the royal wizard.
It was then, Valdaimon now realized, that he had made two mistakes. Overcome
The young boy had folded his arms, cocked his head, and stared straight into Valdaimon’s eyes. A look of serious study had come over his face, and his fat lips had pouted outward as he concentrated.
“He looks rich,” the boy had said at length. “The rich should have better manners. He should not have struck you, Father.”
“Right on all three points!” the man had answered, a broad smile lighting up his face. “You see, old man, the boy has cunning. But, Bagsby,” he had added, turning back to the boy, “a kindness that costs us nothing and could be richly repaid should not go undone.”
The boy had continued to stare skeptically at the withered old figure. His father had laughed again, then had risen and started toward the fountain. Valdaimon, angered at the impudence of the pair but relieved that his request was being fulfilled, had flopped back down among the pillows of his litter, letting the curtains swing shut.
“Father,” he had heard the child’s voice cry, “he bears the mark of the dragon!” The little urchin had noticed the pattern on the curtains of the litter: a large black dragon, its wings extended fully to both sides. An instant later, the curtains had parted, and the father was once again gazing at Valdaimon. This time, though, he was drawn up to his full height of five feet three inches, and his barrel chest was puffed out to the full.
“Dragon wizard—Valdaimon! You are Valdaimon!” the man had shouted, pointing a finger as though the mere mention of the name was an accusation.
Valdaimon, too tired to argue, his throat burning and bleeding, had merely nodded his head in his pillows to acknowledge the recognition.
“You vile bastard—your wizardry has corrupted half of Heilesheim,” the man had cried, “and you rob the better half by your influence with the king. You can fetch your own accursed water. And may Kirie, god of thieves, cause you to choke on it.”
Valdaimon’s rage had flashed. Despite the dryness of his throat and feebleness of his bones, he had managed to sit bolt upright in his litter, jam the end of his huge staff into the man’s chest, and shout a word of magical command. The man had exploded, and when the black, oily smoke had finally cleared, there was nothing left of him on the sun-soaked pavement save a pile of burning flesh and bones.
“Now, you,” Valdaimon had commanded, pointing a bony, thin finger at the quavering child who stared dumbly at his father’s smoldering remains. “You, fetch me water!”
The child had met Valdaimon’s eyes, his own wide with fear—was it loathing? At any rate, he had quickly obeyed, leaping toward the fountain, swiping a cup from a beggar who sat near the edge of the crowd of children, dipping it in the lukewarm water, and hastening with it to Valdaimon’s side without spilling a drop.
“Now you know how to serve your betters and the cost of defying the royal wizard,” Valdaimon had snapped, grabbing the cup from the boy’s outstretched hands. As he had raised the cup to his lips, Valdaimon had felt a strange, sudden pressure in his groin that his brain instantly translated into nauseating pain.
“Oooomph!” the old wizard had croaked, spitting and dropping the cup. He had sat upright and doubled over, bumping his head against an elbow of the agile child, who had leapt into the litter and stamped on his groin. Valdaimon had raised his eyes to see the hate-filled face of the child snarling at him. A dagger had flashed, and the tiny boy had held aloft Valdaimon’s coin purse. Finally, before the old mage could react, the child had kicked him, hard, right in the face, dislodging another of his already precious yellow teeth. An instant later, the child had vanished, melting into the gathering throng that clamored insults against the royal wizard.
It was then, Valdaimon now realized, that he had made two mistakes. Overcome
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