Rise of the Mages (Rise of the Mages 2) by Brian W. Foster Read Free Book Online

feinted low, and Robb moved to block. Spinning, Brant swung his weapon fast and hard at his opponent’s helmet.
    “That’s enough!”
    The blade halted inches from its target.
    “Get cleaned up and find Dylan,” Captain Reed said. “Master Rae wants to speak with the two of you.”
    Brant faced his dad. “I’d be better off at the cells.”
    The captain’s face clouded. “I’ve heard enough of that.”
    Arguing would get Brant nothing beyond added chores, so he dropped it. But it wasn’t fair. How could everybody let that catcher arrest Xan?
    As he oiled, cleaned, and stowed his gear, he couldn’t get rid of the image of a deserter he’d seen hanged. The fear on the boy’s face before. Lifeless eyes after.
    Xan couldn’t end up swinging from a rope. Brant had to do something. Fight the guardsmen. Challenge the catcher to a duel. Anything.
    Instead, he was stuck running a fool errand to see a crazy old man. There was no help for it, though. After sponging the sweat from his body, he changed out of his sparring clothes and began the long walk to find Dylan.
    Much of Eagleton consisted of sturdy stone buildings that weren’t too fancy or colorful. Not so for Merchant Street. The homes, shops, and offices lining the way assaulted the eyes. Each trade house stood as a fortress with stone walls, iron gates, and liveried guards.
    The prize for the showiest easily went to the spice merchant. A sparkling gold-tile roof topped bright purple plaster framed with emerald green wood trim. Ten-foot marble statues of the Eagle and his lieutenants guarded each corner of the building in an over-the-top display of wealth.
    The trade house of Dylan’s father, the dye merchant, looked simple in comparison. Half the size of the buildings on either side, its pale blue plaster, white trim, and shingled roof stood as an island of class in a sea of ugliness.
    Brant strode through the gate with a curt nod to the guard and marched inside without knocking. He breezed through an inner door to find Dylan seated at a desk piled high with paper and ledgers.
    “Master Rae sent for us,” Brant said.
    Dylan nodded. “Just let me tell Father.”
    Before he had taken more than a step toward the storeroom in back, Master d’Adreci called, “Go on. It’s not like you’re getting anything done anyway.”
    Brant turned and left, setting a rapid pace. Neither of them spoke the entire way to the apothecary’s house.
    Master Rae led them to seats at the kitchen table. “It’s a terrible thing about that apprentice of mine. No help for it but that he’s going to be executed, and after I put so much work into training him.” He eyed each of them. “Neither of you are looking to learn to be an apothecary are you?”
    What the rads? He’d summoned them for recruitment? Brant clenched the hilt of his sword.
    “No? Pity. I have a new mixture I need tested.” Master Rae laid a wood tube and ten items that looked like fishing flies on the table. “This is a blowgun, popular with the tribes. They treat the tips of these darts with poison.”
    Brant had never seen the like. It wouldn’t help much in battle, but if it was as quiet as it looked …
    Master Rae stuffed a dart into the end of the tube. “Simply blow in one end.” He lifted the tube to his mouth and puffed his cheeks. The dart flew across the room and quivered where it stuck out of a wood cabinet.
    The apothecary turned to Brant. “If it breaks the skin, it kills the target. It’s silent and deadly, but it has faults. It’s only accurate to about fifty feet, and the darts won’t penetrate armor. Sometimes even a heavy cloak stops it. But if a man, say someone standing guard” —he winked— “didn’t expect an attack, it could take him out quickly and quietly.”
    “But—” Brant said.
    “Of course, poison causes such a mess, perhaps creating more problems than it solves. Dead bodies lying around and bloating.” Master Rae wrinkled his nose before taking a small glass