Bikker would slay him the moment he walked through that gate. There was an enchantment over the entire house-he had watched the footpad lifted into the air and held there like a starling impaled on the claws of a cat. There were armed guards all over Hazoth’s estate, and no diversion to draw their attention.
Worst of all, should he succeed, and find some route into the sorcerer’s inner sanctum-he would then be prey to magic.
No man was wise who flaunted wizardry. Magic was unpredictable at the best of times. Students of the arcane were more liable to blow themselves up-or drawn down bodily into the pit by angry demons-than to live long enough to ply their trade. Those who did succeed in their studies, however, became powerful. They gained access to abilities normal men could scarce imagine. And Hazoth was one of the greatest sorcerers of history.
Malden had begun to believe all the stories he’d heard about the sorcerer. There was the tale of how Hazoth drove the elves away from southern Skrae by making every tree for a hundred miles wither and die in a single night. Old men sometimes spoke of the day Hazoth wiped out an entire barbarian army almost single-handed, how a simple wave of his hand rooted the painted berserkers to where they stood so they could do nothing but rave and curse as the knights of Skrae cut them down at leisure. The stories of what Hazoth had done to men who crossed him were too gruesome for Malden to want to remember.
The sorcerer might place some dread curse on him that would make the rest of his life a living hell. Hezoth might make his skin turn inside out. He might boil his stomach inside his body, so he died shitting out parts of himself over a course of days. Or he might simply flay the flesh from his bones with a word and a wave of his hand.
“Another,” Malden said, and slapped his money on the bar. He was starting to feel the liquor in his veins. It wasn’t helping.
For distraction, he turned and studied the low-lifes in the barroom. Most of the patrons were honest enough folk-laborers in leather aprons, covered in flour or candle wax or soot from some forge. They talked loudly to each other and laughed lustily and stamped their feet when they made some jest or swore an oath. In the back of the room, near the hearth, a card game was in progress. The players looked like the kind of desperate bravos who would cut each others’ throats over a mislaid wager. They were playing in earnest, though, and were almost silent as they took turns laying down their trumps. The game they were playing was unknown to Malden, so he wandered over to observe. One of the players, a mangy fellow with an unkempt beard and a smear of dirt on his forehead, looked up and growled, but the others insisted he play his hand, and he ignored Malden after that.
The game, it turned out, could not be simpler. The cards were thin pieces of paper with hand-drawn pips on one side and nothing on their backs. They were numbered from one to ten. Each player had a hand of five cards, drawn at random from the deck. He would throw coins into the center of the table based on how high his cards ran, and the others were required to match his wager or forfeit the hand. Then the player would lay down his cards to show the table what he had. If none of the others could beat it, he took all the money. Everyone who had played would draw a new card and the cycle would begin again with the betting.
One of the players had the king’s share of the coins before him. Clearly the cards had been running his way. From the way the others glared at him, they must have been wondering how he got so lucky. He did not bother to look their way, instead pausing in his play only to drink from his cup. Bizarrely enough, he had a hollow reed stuck in his tankard, and when he wished to drink would place his lips around its end and suck up ale like water through a hosepipe.
“Are ye playing, lad, or gawkin’? ’Cause there’s a tax for gawkin’,” the lucky player said. The others guffawed, but Malden’s mouth fell open. He had been paying attention to the cards and not the faces of the players, or he would have recognized the man sooner.
“Kemper?” he said. “What are you doing here?”
A ripple of anger went around the table as each player in turn stared wide-eyed at the lucky man.
“Kemper?” the gambler with the dirty face said, rising from his stool. “I’ve heard of a cove called Kemper. A cheat, they call him.”
“Then they lie, don’t they?” Kemper told him. “Now sit back down, ye piebald cur.”
“I’ll not sit at table with a card sharp!”
“Play, or leave, ’tis all the same to me.”
“You’ve been taking my wages all day!” the gambler shouted. “Let me see those damned cards of yours. They must be marked!”
“Sit an’ play,” Kemper repeated.
Malden jumped back as the gambler grabbed up the table and hurled it aside. Coins and cards went flying as he rushed at Kemper, his belt knife suddenly in his hand. Kemper did not rise from his seat as the gambler thrust the knife again and again into his chest.
There were screams and shouts from every corner of the room, and the barkeep stormed out from his post with a hand spike, but it was already over. The gambler had gone milky white and stared at the knife in his hand. There was no blood on it. He staggered backward, and Malden saw that Kemper was unharmed, sitting with perfect composure on his stool, still holding his cards.
“Clean this up, then,” Kemper said to the gambler, “and get back t’playin’, a’ready.”
The dirty-faced gambler ran gibbering from the barroom. The others eased away from Kemper as if they’d seen a demon jump up and save him from the knife. All but one of the cardsmen, anyway, who bent down to anxiously grab up coins from the floor.
“Leave ’em,” Kemper insisted. “They’s mine. For me trouble, like.”
The greedy gamester nodded and hurried off.
“Ah, lad, yer timin’ is not of the best. Yet I’m glad to see ye, I am,” Kemper said, and finally rose from his stool. He pushed his cards in his pocket and stepped toward Malden.
“That knife-his aim was deadly serious,” Malden said. He wondered if his face showed as much shock as he felt. “Yet there’s no drop of blood on you.”
Kemper laughed. “Here, shake me hand an’ see why.” He held out a callused and scarred hand, and Malden reached to take it.
It could not be done, however. Malden’s hand passed right through Kemper’s as though it weren’t there. He felt nothing more than a cold clamminess, as if he’d tried to hold a wisp of fog. He gasped and grabbed at the man’s arms and then his hair, unbelieving. He could not touch the man at all. He might as well try to grapple with his own reflection in a mirror.
“You’re-a ghost,” Malden said.
“A livin’ ghost,” Kemper agreed. “Which’s the saddest contrary I ken.”
Chapter Forty-Four
Kemper drew too many stares after that to allow any comfort in the tavern. He gathered up his cards and his drinking reed-and of course the pile of coins scattered across the floor-and the two of them headed out into the streets, bound on a wild carouse. Perhaps just to spite those who glared, Kemper handed Malden his things and walked right through the closed door, which rose more than a few startled gasps. Malden bowed deeply to the astonished patrons and then walked right into the door himself, smacking his face on its wooden boards. Perhaps his three cups of ale had more of an effect than he thought.
Without looking back he opened the door and stepped out into the road. Kemper was waiting for him, whistling random notes that never quite added up to a song.
“It’s good to see ye, son, it surely is. ’Tis always a pleasure t’have such company as one can speak plainly to, and not have t’worry ’bout keepin’ secrets and bein’ circumspect. I’ll just have those,” Kemper said, and took his things back. The reed and the coins went into his tunic, but he kept the cards in his hand and riffled them as he walked.
“How is it you can hold those cards, when you cannot hold a tankard?” Malden asked. He had already worked out that the reed was necessary as Kemper’s hand would pass unheeding through any drinking vessel he tried to pick up.
“Well, now,” Kemper said, coming to a stop and lifting his chin like an orator. “The curse on me’s a strong
