The Sunset Warrior - 01 Read Free Page B

patient.’
    ‘All right.’ The Saardin beckoned and a daggam appeared. He had been standing just inside the threshold to the room on the right and they had not noticed him before. A writing tablet lay along the inside of his forearm. In his other hand was a quill with which he drew symbols on the tablet. ‘My scribe is never far from me,’ said the Saardin. ‘He takes down all that I say, and all that is said to me. In this way there can be no—misunderstanding at a later time.’ He looked from the Medicine Man to Ronin and back again with a neutral gaze. It was impossible to guess what he was thinking. ‘He shall read from the report made to me earlier today.’
    ‘That will be fine,’ said Stahlig. ‘But let us go in first, so that I may see Borros’s condition.’
    Freidal bowed stiffly and they moved silently into the shadowy cubicle and over to the cot on which the figure lay. ‘I apologize for the lack of light,’ Freidal said without a trace of regret. ‘The Overheads have recently failed, hence the lamps.’ Two of the familiar clay pots sat on the work table across from the bed, their flames illuminating the room with an uncertain smoky glow.
    The figure lay lashed to the bed—an otherwise unremarkable affair consisting of a wooden frame and large, soft pillows—with leather straps around chest and ankles. Both Ronin and Stahlig leaned closer to get a better look in the low light.
    In all ways he appeared singular. He was long-waisted with a thick barrel chest and peculiarly narrow hips. His hands had long delicate fingers tipped with protracted, translucent nails. However, most unusual of all was his face. The head, an elongated oval, was entirely without hair, and the skin, drawn tightly over the scalp and high cheekbones, was of a most peculiarly sombre hue with a yellow tinge. His eyes were closed and his breathing was shallow. Stahlig bent at once to examine him.
    At that moment the scribe began to recite: ‘“Recorded on the twenty-seventh Cycle of Sajjit—”’
    Freidal raised a hand. ‘Just the text, if you please.’
    The scribe inclined his head. ‘“Statement of Mastaad, Teck to Borros, Magic Man. We had been working for many Cycles on the final phases of a Project, the goal of which Borros steadfastly refused to confide in me. I did the mixing and controlling of elements, that is all. For several Cycles Borros had been working nonstop. I would leave him at the end of the sixth Spell and when I returned at second Spell, he would be as I had left him, hunching over his table. Three Cycles ago I arrived to find him immensely agitated. But he would tell me nothing, though I begged him for the sake of his health to—”’
    ‘What are these, Saardin?’ Stahlig interrupted. Throughout the scribe’s recitation, he had been hard at work probing and listening, trying to ascertain the seriousness of the Magic Man’s condition. So he had missed them at first. But he had seen them at last and now he pointed. Ronin bent and saw three small spots, like dark smudges of charcoal, forming a triangle, imprinted on each temple of the hairless head.
    Freidal too was looking at the spots, and for the first time Ronin felt a heavy tension fill the room. The Saardin continued to stare at the recumbent body. ‘You are the Medicine Man, sir,’ he said carefully. ‘You tell me.’
    Stahlig seemed about to answer, then apparently thought better of it. In the silence, Freidal, looking satisfied, lifted his hand again.
    The scribe’s voice once more took over: ‘“—let me let him more fully. He refused, becoming abusive. I withdrew. The next Cycle his agitation had increased. His hands trembled, his voice cracked, and on more than one occasion he found cause to insult me. Second Spell this Cycle, when I arrived, he screamed at me to leave. He said he no longer required a Teck. He began to rant incoherently. I feared for his health. I tried to calm him. He flew into a rage and assaulted me,