Tithian reached into his satchel and visualized a chain of black iron. When he felt it in his fingers, he pulled his hand free of the bag, bringing with it the chain, which was attached at either end to a square iron cage containing a disembodied head. As they were removed from the bag, the two prisoners glared briefly at Tithian, then focused their eyes on Andropinis.
“Kill him, Mighty King!” hissed the first head. He had a shriveled face and ashen skin, with sunken features and cracked, leathery lips. “Slit Tithian’s throat and drop him close to me!”
“No, give me the throat!” growled the other. He was bloated and gross, with puffy cheeks, eyes swollen to dark slits, and a mouthful of gray broken teeth. Like the first head, he wore his coarse hair in a topknot, and the bottom of his neck had been stitched shut with wiry thread. He licked the bars of his cage with a pointed tongue, then continued, “And let the coward live. I want to see the fear in his eyes when I drink his life!”
Andropinis took the cages from Tithian, at the same time removing his hand from the Tyrian’s throat. “Wyan, Sacha!” he said. “Borys told me that he had disposed of you two.”
“Rajaat’s magic is not countered so easily,” spat the bloated head, Sacha. “Now open this imposter’s veins, Albeorn. He hasn’t fed us in weeks.”
“Albeorn?” Tithian asked.
“Albeorn of Dunswich, Slayer of Elves, the Eighth Champion of Rajaat,” snarled Wyan. “Traitor to his master and the righteous cause of the Pristine Tower.”
Tithian knew that Wyan referred to a genocidal war that an ancient sorcerer named Rajaat had started several millennia earlier. It had ended more than a thousand years ago, when all of Rajaat’s handpicked champions-with the exceptions of Sacha and Wyan-had turned against him. After overthrowing their master, the rebels had used his most powerful magical artifact to transform one of their own number, Borys of Ebe, into the Dragon. The other champions had each claimed one of the cities of Athas to rule as an immortal sorcerer-king.
Still studying the caged heads, Andropinis asked, “These two are your proof of the Dragon’s favor?”
Tithian nodded. “When he said he had disposed of them, he meant that he had entrusted them to me,” said the Tyrian. “They’re acting as my unwilling tutors, so I might learn to serve our master as a sorcerer-king.”
This seemed to amuse the Balican. “Is that so?” he asked, raising his brow.
“Of course not,” sneered Wyan. “He’s lying.”
“Kill him!” hissed Sacha.
Andropinis smashed the two cages into the stone tiers of the gallery. A tremendous clang reverberated through the hall, making Tithian’s ears ring. The heads slammed against the bars of their prisons and bounced to the other sides, then dropped motionless and dazed to the bottoms of the cages. When the Balican handed the chain back to Tithian, the corners of each cage were folded in from the impact.
“For now, I’ll accept these abominations as proof that the Dragon wouldn’t want me to kill you,” Andropinis said. “You may remove them from my sight-and tell me what you need with my fleet.”
As Tithian stuffed his dazed tutors back into the satchel, he said, “That’s the concern of myself and Borys alone.”
“Then you may leave your gold and go. Our audience is at an end,” Andropinis said, resuming his inspection of the baskets offered by his patricians. “The chamberlain’s guards will show you to the city gates.”
Maurus smirked and waved the Tyrian toward the exit.
Tithian ignored him, asking, “What of my ships?”
“You have none.”
“My demand is made in the Dragon’s name!” Tithian snapped.
“Which is the only reason I suffer you to live, usurper,” Andropinis replied. He pulled a wad of fleece from a basket held by a dwarven patrician, then used the Way to ask, What is the meaning of this, Lord Rolt?
House Rolt pledges a hundred sheep to feed Your Majesty’s legions, came the reply.
Andropinis scowled, then grabbed the dwarf’s thick wrist and snapped it effortlessly. A garbled howl of pain rose from Lord Rolt’s throat and his knees buckled. Had the king not been holding him up by his broken arm, he would have fallen to the floor.
Despite his pain, the dwarf managed to reply, House Rolt pledges a thousand sheep, Mighty King.
Smiling, Andropinis released the patrician and allowed him to collapse to the floor. He glanced down, leaving no doubt in Tithian’s mind that the exhibition had been for his benefit, and moved on.
Ignoring the implied threat, Tithian continued to press his demand. “If you deny me, you are also denying Borys.”
“Perhaps, but I will not send out my fleet-not for you, and certainly not now.”
“When?” asked Tithian.
Andropinis shrugged. “Perhaps in a month, perhaps not for many years,” he said. “When the war between the giant tribes is over.”
“Which tribes are at war?” Tithian asked.
“Your question betrays your incompetence to command my ships,” scoffed the sorcerer-king.
“I’m sure we can circumvent their lines and keep your ships safe,” Tithian replied.
“I’m not concerned about my ships!” Andropinis spat. “It’s my city I want to protect. The first giants to spy a fleet in the estuary will assume I’ve taken sides with their enemies. They’ll storm Balic, and I’ll be drawn into a war that’s none of my concern.”
“I had not thought a few motley giants would frighten a sorcerer-king,” Tithian countered.
“Only a fool is not wary of giants,” Andropinis replied. He stopped at the side of Lady Canace, the plump half-elf to whom Tithian had tried to speak earlier. The Balican clucked his tongue at the contents of her basket, then slapped her face with the back of his hand. She fell to the floor, spilling the six gold coins she had brought as an offering.
Andropinis continued down the gallery, leaving Maurus to collect the coins. “Even if Borys were here to demand it himself, I would not entrust my ships to such an oaf,” said the king.
“I’m no oaf.” Tithian’s voice remained calm.
“You are if you believe the Dragon can make a sorcerer-king of you,” said Andropinis. He lifted a long necklace of diamonds from the basket held by the stumpy hands of a dwarven patrician.
“I think he is more than capable of bestowing the necessary powers on me-once I supply him with the Dark Lens,” Tithian replied.
The Dark Lens was the ancient artifact which Rajaat’s rebellious champions had used to imprison their master, and to transform Borys of Ebe into the Dragon. Shortly afterward, a pair of dwarves had stolen the lens from the Pristine Tower, and it had been missing ever since.
Andropinis dropped the necklace in his hand back into the basket from which it had come, then narrowed his eyes at Tithian. “So, I am to assume that you have discovered the location of the lens, and the Dragon has sent you to find it for him?” he asked.
“Yes,” Tithian replied. He had hoped to avoid revealing so much to Andropinis, but it had become clear that the sorcerer-king would risk trouble with the giants for nothing but the most important of reasons. “Borys said you would cooperate by giving me the ships and men I need.”
The Balican studied his guest for a moment, then said, “If you are truly attempting to recover the lens on the Dragon’s behalf, then tell me where it is-so we’ll know where to look if you fail.”
Tithian gave Andropinis a wry smile. “Do you really want me to do that?”
The Dragon had warned him never to reveal the Dark Lens’s location, for the artifact’s ancient thieves had placed a powerful enchantment on it to prevent Borys and his sorcerer-kings from discovering its location.
Andropinis returned his guest’s smile, revealing a long row of sharp teeth. “Perhaps the Dragon did send you,” he said. “It took him many centuries to understand the magic protecting the lens. Certainly, without his help, you would not have learned its nature in a single lifetime.”