Ulfric watched as they dragged the
gambler to the stocks. The sky was slate grey over Edgewick, and leaves tumbled
by like a dry tide as the wind tugged at the edge of his ragged overjacket,
chilling him. He stuffed his hands into the large pockets and watched them
force the man to his knees, shoving his throat against the rough wood. The
blacksmith’s sons dropped the heavy elm yoke across his shoulders, dropping the
corroded iron pins into it. The wind whipped the drying trees, tearing leaves
from them as the invisible sunlight faded the charcoal sky, and the indigo
feather in the gambler’s broad hat leapt from the band and danced a pirouette.
The magistrate left in a swirl of
purple robes, and the blacksmiths followed him, leaving only Ulfric and the gambler,
staring at each other. With a trapped hand, he beckoned Ulfric closer. Ulfric
walked closer, standing in front of the crude platform.
“Can you help me?”
“Why?”
He seemed genuinely puzzled by the
question.
“What did I do wrong?”
“It isn’t obvious by now?” Ulfric
asked.
“No, I mean, why is it illegal to
gamble?”
“It isn’t illegal to gamble,” Ulfric
said. “It’s just illegal to win.”
“Who was I playing?”
“The magistrate’s son.”
The gambler let out a sigh. A
trickle of blood inched down his throat where a splinter had stabbed him,
making a scarlet rivulet on his neck. “I have the worst luck with opponents.”
He gave Ulfric a sharp look. “Well? Can you let me out?”
“Why should I do that?”
“I have something that could make
you one of the most powerful men in the world.”
“Why should I believe you?”
“What do you have to lose? Look at
yourself.”
Ulfric had heard that more times
than he cared to remember, but coming from the mouth of a complete stranger was
like getting punched with a lead club.
He wasn’t much to look at, that much
he knew. A skinny, scraggly orphan, maybe fifteen, with fingers quick enough to
get him into trouble; filthy hair knotted with dirt and over his old servant’s
shift a once-colorful captain’s jacket, flowing sleeves a glory of torn and
yellowed lace and cracked epaulets over the blue and red and gold. His eyes
were the only thing that could trap one’s attention: green as an oak leaf,
sparkling like a forest stream and deep as a well.
“What can you give me?”
“I can give you the ability to never
fail.”
“I can see it worked for you.”
“It doesn’t work like that.” The man
was getting exasperated. “I have a book in my pack. The pack is stored
underneath this platform because your magistrate is stupid enough to not recognize
it for what it is; he thought that it was a journal. Get it out for me.”
Ulfric got on his knees in the icy
mud and crawled underneath the girders of the stocks. Caterpillars and
glowfairies fled before him as he grasped the hardened leather bag and pulled
it free.
“Open it and pull out the book.”
The heavy volume was bound in
leather, with an ivory plate on the front. An indigo sigil was painted on the
white bone.
“This book contains the secrets of
Touch, the ability to finish any task, do anything successfully, and it’s all
written in a language that only I can understand.”
“Where did you get it?”
The man winked. “I’ll tell that
story when you let me out.”
Ulfric thought for a moment, and
then dropped the book back into the bag. “I like my life just fine right now,
thanks.”
Rather than getting angry, the man
seemed to deflate.
“Then go. Leave me to contemplate.”
Ulfric turned and started to walk
away. A few feet away, he paused and turned. “What do you call yourself?”
“Stag.” The man said. “Now go.”
