When he had accomplished that bit of deceit, Tobas had thought that his place was secure and that he would live out his life in his native land. Right up until he had opened the Book of Spells, he had thought he would stay.
Who could have known that the old man had put such powerful protective spells on the thing?
He shook his head in dismay. He still didn’t know exactly what he had done wrong or how the protective spell had worked; he had never noticed Roggit speaking any countercharms or doing anything special when he consulted the book. The old man would simply reach over and open it, as he would any other book. Tobas had just tried to do the same.
But the protective spell had obviously been there, and here he was, watching the fire destroy his last link to the village.
All he had ever wanted was a home and a quiet, comfortable life; was that too much to ask of the gods?
The front wall of the house sagged, bent, then crumbled inward with a grinding crash, and Tobas turned away. He had nothing left here, nothing and no one to keep him in Telven, and no way to live if he stayed. It was home no longer. He saw no point in drawing out the ordeal; he trudged off into the gathering twilight, away from the heat and light and sound of the fire, with tears in his eyes that, he told himself firmly, were caused by the smoke.
CHAPTER 3
The sun was well up the eastern sky when he awoke. His first waking thought was surprise at finding himself curled up in a field of tall grass rather than in his own bed in Roggit’s cottage, but he quickly remembered the events of the previous day and night.
After leaving the swamp, he had wandered aimlessly in the dark with no thought to where he was going, until at last he had collapsed and gone to sleep. Now he was awake again, stiff from sleeping awkwardly, utterly dejected over his loss, and still with no idea where to go.
He sat up, the grass rustling beneath him, and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. He tried to think. Where could he go? He had no skills that would earn him a living; he was not particularly strong or fast or even handsome. A little thin, just over average height, with ordinary features and dull brown hair and eyes, there was nothing unusual about him at all physically, nothing that would suggest a career. As far as his education was concerned, he had learned the usual basics of reading, writing, and arithmetic and had heard the stories that made up Freelander history and religion; but except for his apprenticeship to Roggit, his learning and experience were nothing in any way special. He had never been more than three leagues from Telven in his life, save for one short voyage his father had taken him on out of Shan on the Sea, along the coast for a few leagues and then back. He knew what little geography every boy in the Free Lands learned, but no more. To the west and south was the ocean, to the north and east was the Hegemony of Ethshar. If one went far enough to the southeast, along the Ethsharitic coast, one reached the semimythical Small Kingdoms that had once been Old Ethshar. If one went far enough north, one reached the barbarian nations. Beyond those, the northern edge of the world was sealed in ice, the eastern edge was burning desert, the west was wrapped in fog, and to the south the ocean went on forever, so far as anyone knew. He had heard descriptions of mountains and forests but had no idea where such things might lie; all he had ever seen were the familiar rolling green hills, graveled beaches, and villages of the Free Lands and the vast empty ocean to the south.
Shan on the Sea, the only real town he knew at all, was less than a day’s walk to the southwest. But if he went there, what would he do? A dozen people in Shan knew him as his father’s son and would undoubtedly spread the word about his bad luck, or, worse, try and collect on his father’s old debts, both real and imaginary. They would know his history, know that he had nothing to offer. He was now far too old to fool anyone into offering him an apprenticeship; even poor, half-blind, sometimes-senile old Roggit had been suspicious about his age. He couldn’t go to sea any more than he could take an apprenticeship; he had heard that among Ethsharites a sailor might start as late as age sixteen, and he might have passed for that, but in the Free Lands the captains preferred to start their people young, at twelve or thirteen.
He needed to go somewhere no one would know him, that was obvious. Anywhere in the Free Lands someone might eventually recognize him.
That meant he would have to go to Ethshar. The Hegemony of Ethshar was the only nation sharing borders with the Free Lands.
But how could he do that? The border was dozens of leagues up the coast, he was sure, and such a journey would mean days of walking, days in which he would have to beg for his food or starve. And once across the border, where would he be? In an enemy land! In the wilderness! He knew little of Ethshar but was fairly certain that nothing of importance lay anywhere near the Free Lands.
A league to the south lay the ocean, and every ship sailing the coast of Ethshar passed by here, the survival of Shan and the rest of the Free Lands depended on that fact, since, without the plunder brought home by the privateers, the town would starve. No Ethsharitic ship ever put in at Shan willingly, and no ship sailed from Shan bound for Ethshar, so he could not board a ship in town. But what if he were to intercept one while at sea? He would need a boat of some kind, swimming out to a ship was not practical.
Could he build a boat? He asked himself that question and immediately knew the answer.
No, he could not. He had always intended to live a fat and lazy life on his inheritance, whether his father’s gold or his master’s spells; he was forced to admit to himself that he barely knew how to hold a hammer.
In that case, he told himself, he would obviously have to find a boat that had already been built and acquire the use of it somehow.
Well, he thought, that sounded simple enough and shouldn’t be too difficult. He got to his feet and turned southward, thinking he could already smell the salt of the sea on the gentle breeze that ruffled the grass.
The sun was almost straight overhead when he finally topped the last little rise, a row of dunes, and staggered down onto the beach. A league had never seemed like very much when he had been sitting at home talking or dreaming, three miles, a mere six thousand yards, nothing much, but walking it in the hot sun, with no breakfast, wearing shoddy house sandals rather than boots, had proved to be an exhausting enterprise for one so out of shape as himself. His tunic was soaked with sweat, and he wished that some other garments, in addition to what he wore, had survived the fire. He sat down heavily on the pebbles and stared south, squinting at the blazing midday glare on the waves, his stomach growling. The breeze had died, and the damp, still air did little to cool or dry him.
When he had caught his breath and his eyes had adjusted to the brilliance, he turned and looked first east, then west.
He saw no sign of a boat and sighed heavily. More walking would be needed.
He got slowly to his feet, brushing off his breeches, then paused to choose a direction.
Either way, if he walked far enough, he would eventually reach Ethshar; the Free Lands bordered on nothing but the ocean and the Hegemony. To the west, however, he suspected it would be a good deal farther, and Shan was in the way. Besides, the richest Ethsharitic cities were said to lie to the east.
He turned east and started walking.
He had gone less than a mile when he suddenly stopped again to reconsider. He didn’t want to walk to the border, he wanted a boat. Shan’s docks were full of boats. For all he knew, though, there wasn’t a boat to be had between where he now stood and the nearest Ethsharitic city. He glanced back.