Chapter 3 - Without a Fight

Dash'tan slowly opened his eyes and blinked to make sure the nothing he saw was real. The cold from the stone floor seeped through his linen breeches, and as he pushed himself to a sitting position, he could feel dirt gritting beneath his hands. With a small moan he put his hands to his head in an effort to repress its throbbing. Surrounded by cold darkness, he tried to remember what happened.

Oh, yes. Qandra and that creature, and the mage who held me still with a spell of Restraint, that knock on the head, and now here. But why? I may have made some enemies working with the Free Way, but none of them are anywhere near the jungle, and none are severe enough to chase me this far, unless . . .

As he thought, he explored his cell carefully, nearly jumping through the low ceiling when his fingers touched fur -- of what dead animal he did not determine. From what he could discern, the room was just long enough for him to lie down in with about a foot to spare, and wide enough for fingers from his outstretched arms to brush the stone walls. Although he halfheartedly attempted to scrape away some sort of opening, he succeeded only in tearing his fingernails. He decided against finding the height of his cell when he put up his hand and brushed some sort of webs. Trapped securely, and all he could do was wait. His subsequent shiver was not entirely from the cold of the floor.

Third Deisho Mashian let the televis spell wink out and Dash'tan's image disappeared from view. He allowed himself a small smile of satisfaction. Another traitor who would have a government based on commoner's whimsy caught and ready for questioning. No matter he had had to waste a day following the boy so he could get him alone -- it was worth it to get one alive. And this one looked young enough that he might actually talk; and yet old enough to actually know something. If the right methods were applied . . . Mashian's eyes glittered in anticipation. The boy would soon find out that the Free Way was not so "free" after all.

The jungle grew more and more dense the farther Qandra followed the tracks. Although the tracks made a small, clear path through the mammoth cycads and ferns, she had to duck often. Just as she was about to take out her belt knife to cut her way through, the vegetation was gone. She looked up and discovered a small house, one story and unpainted, well-kept but unadorned. Circling the house cautiously, she scanned for signs of life, traps, or any other possible dangers, but the house was strangely lifeless. There was only one door, which let out onto a small porch, and on an adjacent wall was the only window. Spying this window, she crept forward, worm-like, until she could kneel on the moist, packed earth and peer inside.

A middle-aged man in a green embroidered coat sat there, a red scarf slashed with gold tied around his neck. Qandra drew back with a start and took a deep breath. Those were the High Sorceror's colours! What was one of his staff doing here, wearing those colors for everyone to see? She vaguely remembered having heard something in Zarion's class about a scarf like that, but for now its meaning eluded her.

Now what? Dash'tan must be in there somewhere, but I don't think I can get past that fellow without a fight, and he doesn't look like one I want to mess with. The High Sorceror was known for having hired the best mentalists, sorcerers, rangers, and other magic-users to work for him, even solshr class sometimes! Although the solshr class was only one above jei, there was an immense gap between the two, with only about a fourth of the jei mentors ever becoming a solshr master. Rilca, or apprentice, was the lowest level, what Qandra was now. Not for long, she thought to herself. As soon as I finish this quest, then I'll be promoted to djan, or refiner, for sure.

Like a sloth, she slowly rose to peep over the edge of the splintery windowsill once more. The room was furnished sparsely, but opulently, with a table made out of the dark green wood of mu liron, a large rug spun from scarlet and gold threads, and a high-backed chair covered in silk cushions, and on top, the man. He was reading some of the papers on the table, but Qandra was too far away to make out any of the words.

The man threw down the parchment with a sudden motion, disgust and wrath making the hard lines of his face stand out like small rivers in a desert. She swallowed a desire to cower and made herself continue watching. He began to pace, and she ducked as he turned towards the window, pressing herself against the wall of the house in case he should come look out the window. She could hear his footsteps come closer to the window, and then turn around and walk in the opposite direction. Her ears strained to hear any sign of what he might be doing now, but all she heard was a slight creak coming from her left, on the adjacent side of the house.

Confused, she started slinking away from the sound, still pressed against the splintery wall, her silent walk soon being sacrificed for her desire for speed as she heard footsteps. I hope he hasn't seen me . . .

She turned her head to the side to look back, but saw no one, and when she turned to look forward again she was too slow to stop from running into a thick, baked earthen wall that she was sure hadn't been there before. She collided, so hard she thought for sure her brains were spilling out of her head, and she stumbled, kneeling on the ground sprinkled with grasses. She held her head in her hands and blinked rapidly, trying to keep her sight from dimming, straining to stay conscious . . .

She crumpled, just as she heard a quiet mocking laugh from over her. Some rescuer I am . . . and then her eyes and ears shut out the world.

Mashian chuckled at her feeble efforts to stay awake as she plunged to the ground. But then his nostrils caught a slight odor of decay, and he wrinkled his nose in disgust. He tried to ignore the dead grass sprinkled with writhing grubs and dried beetles that crunched under his feet as he moved closer to the wall that had so effectively disarmed the intruder. Although he had easily become accustomed to the power of sorcery, he never could make himself ignore its fatal after-effects to the world around him. Shaking his head, he pondered the girl. Now, what to do with her? She doesn't belong to the Free Way, and therefore has no value as a prisoner, and I would let her go except now she knows I'm here. If only she was not connected with the boy, then he might not have to kill her, but since she knew . . . The Deisho shook his head. He did not like killing, but he could not simply let her go. He took a coarse hemp rope he had brought for the occasion and began to tie her up, preparing to leave her in the middle of the jungle.

Absentmindedly, he rubbed his nose, itchy from the rotting odour, and stood up. Perhaps she could be used to influence the boy . . . He might tell her things he wouldn't tell me - she may be of some use after all.

Not bothering to untie her, though he did not now plan to leave her to the mercy of the jungle's denizens, he picked her up and hoisted her over his shoulder with a grunt. She's heavier than she looks, he thought as he entered the house. He lifted the red and gold rug and then opened the trap door underneath that led to the nearly sound-proof cells and the essential though little used Questioning Quarters.

She awoke trussed, hands behind her back and connected to her feet by a thick prickly rope. Her arms tried to dig into the rough stone beneath her, and she almost yelped when she heard a dry laugh.

"Well, well, if it isn't Qandra, the rilca mentalist, dropping by to visit me in this most hospitable place." She heard Dash'tan laugh again wryly, and she tried to smile back in the darkness, but her forehead sharply reminded her that even her mouth muscles were in no condition to move. She managed only to let out a small moan and he laughed again.

"Guess you got knocked about a bit on the head. Well, with this atmosphere, I'm sure you'll recover shortly."

"It would help if you could untie me," she managed to croak. After waiting for several seconds, she was about to repeat her request when she felt cool metal slip into her hand.

"Here's my knife. You can free yourself." As she awkwardly maneouvred the knife to saw at the ropes, she pondered his behaviour. He must be acting indifferent so he doesn't feel so scared, she finally concluded, just as the ropes fell off her hands. After untying her feet, she tried to sit up, but her limbs had little strength. I really ought to stay awake, she thought dimly, blinking again to make sure her eyes were open. Placing her hand on what turned out to be Dash'tan's shoulder, she pulled herself up to a sitting position against the wall. He stiffened, obviously uncomfortable, and she removed her hand quickly.

"Sorry," she whispered, slowly regaining her strength. She closed her eyes again and breathed deeply the moist, moldy air, and before she could wonder if it was a good idea, she fell asleep.

Dash'tan exhaled deeply as he saw her eyes close, and then brushed at his shoulder with a shiver. He didn't know why it felt so odd to have her touch him. Stop being so touchy, he told himself, she tried to help you and you helped her. That's all there is to it.

Suddenly, with a muted clang, the portion of the wall Dash'tan was leaning on slid upward and he fell backward into more darkness. Curious, Dash'tan inched through the opening, opening his eyes wider in an attempt to penetrate the oily darkness, but as soon as he was through, the door closed again with a slish-cong. Dash'tan hit his head in disgust, and was about to begin to call himself all sorts of unsavoury names, when he was interrupted by a calm voice that seemed to come out of the invisible ceiling.

"My dear friend, in the ensuing chat, I shall expect you to be on your best behaviour, or else we shall have to discuss things in a rather less civilized manner. Shall we begin?" Though his neck prickled and his clammy fingers twitched nervously, he managed to sound flippant when he replied,

"Yeah, whatever."

"I am not amused," said the voice from the ceiling.

"Neither am I. Mold and cobwebs aren't exactly the best recipe for fun and games." A dry chuckle meandered down through the grime, and the voice continued,

"First topic of discussion - identity. What's yours?"

"Who do you think I am?" Even from his spot on the floor, Dash'tan could hear the other sigh.

"Young people these days just don't have any respect for their elders. Perhaps it would help if they knew what it was like." Before Dash'tan could ponder this statement, he was distracted by an image of himself floating in the air, glowing like a fresil in June.

"What in blooming fig trees --" A strange sucking sensation in his arms and legs cut him off, and, in the light emanating from his own youthful image, the youth saw his fingers begin to turn grey and shriveled. The voice asked calmly,

"What is your identity?" Dash'tan's arms also began to transform, and, falling to the floor, he replied weakly,

"My name's Dash'tan. An artist. Tried to become a mentalist but failed. My father was from Qaim and my mother was a Tephiran, born in Guadara, a well-traveled trader." As the floating image disappeared and the sucking sensation vanished, Dash'tan grew braver, "I was born at a very young age in a --"

"Enough. What is your association with the Free Way?"

"Not much. I just have a lot of friends there, and sometimes I go to meetings." Dash'tan made his eyes blank of expression, a practiced motion, for even though it was dark, he still feared the mysterious questioner would detect his prevarication.

"That seems to be a common response from members of the so-called Free Way." Dash'tan shrugged.

"Most of those who participate are just normal people who come every now and then. We have very few devoted leaders."

"How should I know you are not one of those leaders?"

"Me? A young stick of a youth for whom adventure means drinking a glass of slirya and getting home after dark? I wish I was one of those leaders. Then I might actually have a life."

"Then why, if you are so low in life, do you wear such fancified clothing? And if you are such a dullard, what are you doing here, so far from any towns?"

"I have work to do, for I am a successful artist," he said mock-modestly, "Well, perhaps not successful, but I am good at what I do."

"Exactly what kind of artist are you?"

"A magician. Not a mentalist, or a sorceror, but I know a few optical illusions and sleight of hand tricks my mother showed me (you know how those Tephirans are!), and with these I can make a few kilder at any hitra town where their idea of a holiday is taking a bath in a bathtub instead of a lake."

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