Clay swiped crumbs from the front of his shirt. “Do you hire bodyguards, at least?”
That drew a scoff from the wizard, who gestured at their humble surroundings. “I can hardly afford to pay off goons every time I need a specimen,” he declared. “Alchemy is a costly hobby, I fear. I barely make ends meet selling my phylactery. Frigid Hells, if it wasn’t for the limp dicks of Conthas I’d be flat broke! Besides, I’m careful about setting foot in the forest. I am a frigging wizard, after all, not some street magician peddling cantrips for silver shillings! I can handle a few monsters!”
Moog’s dogged good cheer was making its inevitable return, but Clay’s concern was mounting as well. “It’s not monsters I’m worried about,” he stated. “What if you—”
It was the look on Gabriel’s face that cut him short, and Clay cursed himself for a fool. The wizard had been grieving all evening. Reminding him of Turing’s death, or of Fredrick’s for that matter, was both counterproductive and cruel. Moog, however, loosed a chuckle that bore only the barest trace of bitterness.
“If I what, Clay? If I get the rot, you mean?”
“Well, yes. Exactly.”
“I’ve already got it.”
Chapter Ten
Through the Looking Glass
“Listen, you don’t—” Clay faltered. “If you—” and faltered again. “What? No. Just … no,” he repeated, like an idiot.
Gabriel looked dumbfounded, like a man who’d found himself stuck on the pointy end of a centaur’s lance.
The wizard, meanwhile, lifted his left foot and removed his slipper, so that Clay could see the black crust sheathing his two smallest toes. “Don’t worry,” he assured them, “it’s not contagious. There’s only one way to get the Heathen’s Touch, and that’s to be cracked enough to spend time in the forest.”
Clay considered a number of responses, many of which involved calling Moog a bloody fucking fool, but then he tossed them aside and settled on “Why?”
“Why put myself in danger?” Moog asked, replacing his slipper and sitting up in his chair. “Because I needed specimens, like Turing, who were actually infected. I needed to see what didn’t work at all, and what almost worked, and then figure out how come.”
“Why not ask”—rotters, he’d almost said—“people who are already infected? We saw one in Conthas.”
The wizard shrugged his bony shoulders. “I couldn’t afford to feed them. And besides, with people … there’s too many emotions involved. Theirs and mine. I mean, you see how upset I am over Turing, and he was a tree! He tried to strangle me in my sleep once, you know.” Moog smiled wistfully. “I’m going to miss that cheeky little bugger.”
“And what if there is no cure?” said Clay. “What if you’re wasting your time? What if you’ve thrown your life away for nothing?”
The wizard’s melancholy smile remained firmly in place. “Yes, well, what choice do I have? I’ve devoted nearly half my life in search of a cure for this damnable disease, and I’m no closer now than when I started. I’m not married, I have no children. You have a little girl, right?”
“I do, but—”
“You both do,” said Moog. “And Matty’s got, what, five, six kids now? And he’s the Glif-kissing king of Agria! And Ganelon … well, he’s frigging Ganelon, isn’t he? But me? What sort of legacy will I leave behind? I’ve got no family, no friends, except for you guys. What have I done that’s worth anything?”
“Well …” Clay looked desperately at a crate stamped with Magic Moog’s winking visage.
“Ah, yes, I do have erectile dysfunction by the throat!” He gave a derisive snort and curled his fingers around the imaginary neck of … well, Clay let that image slide right on out of mind. “No,” said Moog finally. “The rot has defined my life for so many years. It might as well define my death as well. Unless, of course, I find a cure. Now who wants hot chocolate?”
Clay opened his mouth and closed it. They could be at this for hours, going round and round in the ruts carved out by earlier arguments, but he knew it was no use. Moog was stubborn as a bugbear on its birthday when he set his mind to something—this business with the rot was evidence of that—and had always dealt with grief in his own unusual way.
And besides, Gabriel had raised his hand. “I wouldn’t mind some,” he said.
Moog bounded to his feet. He poured water from an ewer into a brass kettle and hung it over the fire, then went to a cupboard and withdrew something wrapped in cloth that turned out to be a brick of black chocolate. “So what brings the two of you here?” he called over his shoulder. “Don’t tell me Matty invited you and not me to the Council of Courts?”
“The what of the what?” Clay asked.
The wizard pared off a slab of chocolate and used a mortar and pestle to grind it into powder. “Oh, it’s got something to do with that Horde laying siege to Castia. They say a druin’s the one who got all those monsters riled up in the first place. He arrived in Fivecourt a few weeks ago and demanded a meeting with the high and mighty of Grandual.”
“A druin?” Clay said.
“Where’s the meeting?” asked Gabriel.
Moog looked from one to the other. “A druin, yes. He calls himself the Duke of Endland.”
Clay used his tongue to ferret a tomato seed from between his two front teeth. “Since when does the Republic have dukes?”
“It doesn’t,” said Moog. “I doubt this druin has anything to do with the Republic. In fact, I’d say it’s clear he doesn’t like them very much. It’s possible the ‘duke’ thing is for the benefit of the courts. It’s a familiar title, regal enough to command their attention, but not as overtly pretentious as, say, Supreme God-Emperor of the City Formerly Known as Castia.”
“Fair enough,” Clay said with a shrug.
“Or maybe he’s just an asshole,” suggested Gabriel.
“Maybe,” Moog agreed, chuckling. “As for the council, it’s being held right here in Agria.”
“And all of Grandual’s monarchs will be there?” Clay asked.
The wizard nodded. “Those who are able will no doubt attend, and those who aren’t will send emissaries in their stead. Whether or not he’s an actual duke, having a hundred thousand monsters at his command gives the fellow a fair bit of clout. That, and it’s not every day you see a real live druin.”
True enough, thought Clay. He’d only seen a handful in his life, and they’d all been hiding out in the Heartwyld. Although the druins were rare enough to be considered harmless, they tended to steer clear of human populations, since most people tended to harbour a certain animosity for immortal beings who had once treated their kind as chattel.
It also didn’t help that scrubbing one’s scalp with a druin’s blood was said to cure baldness—this dubious fact alone made them fair game for bounty hunters the world over.
“Will the courts send an army, do you think?” Gabe sounded hopeful, and Clay, too, felt hope flutter in his gut. If the kings and queens of Grandual decided to send a professional army against the Heartwyld Horde, maybe he could go home after all.
Stow the thought, Cooper, he told himself. How long will it take for a host that big to gather? How long to march that many men and women through the Heartwyld and over the mountains beyond? Months, at least. Half a year, maybe. And how long do you think Castia can hold out?
“Beats me,” said Moog, answering Clay’s unasked question along with Gabriel’s inquiry. “Agria and Cartea are at each other’s throats these days. The Narmeeri tend to keep to themselves, and the northerners hardly get along with one another, let alone the rival courts.” He spooned the chocolate powder into a pair of cups. “As for the Phantrans … well, they’ve got all of Grandual between them and the forest, and I hear the fishmen have started raiding their coasts.”
“You mean the saig?”
The wizard shrugged. “I think fishmen sounds cooler.”
“It doesn’t,” Clay assured him.