The Wanderer's Tale Read Online Free Page A

he’d just laugh in your face; other times he’d spot something you’d swear was useless and pay a fortune for it.
    Odd, definitely not normal – but at least it meant money.
    With great relief the carter at last beheld the unmistakable sight of the Qaladmir mountain looming up ahead, with its city of sparkling fountains, swaying palms and gleaming palaces of turquoise and gold, high up on its slopes. A most wonderful sight indeed after the long days of gruelling travel. And before long he was driving his dromedary-hauled cart triumphantly through the massive, arched gateway that breached the towering city wall. Here at last was succour from thirst, hunger and weariness, and a chance to indulge in those private pleasures that were so difficult when travelling with only three men, two camels and a goat.
    But before any of that came the wearisome but exigent need to acquire some hard cash, the only key that opened any doors in this place. First he must negotiate streets ankle-deep in filth and lined with the worst cases of poverty, disease and corruption in the whole of the Qalad basin. To eventually reach the upper terraces where wealth, luxury and beauty resided, he had to push his way through this throng of beggars, drug-pedlars and assorted opportunistic ne’er-do-wells and get to the alchemist’s place.
    ‘Pashta? Good day to you!’ rasped the pedlar through the open doorway of the alchemist’s hovel.
    Flicking away a large bluebottle that seemed determined to force its way in between his honey-smeared lips, Pashta-Maeva the alchemist looked up from his book and sighed.
    ‘Oh no . . . please not now,’ he muttered in a voice heavy with bored resignation. ‘Not that dusty-faced, red-eyed little nosebleed again! Right now, I think I’d rather push hatpins into my eyes than talk to him.’
    Glancing at the figure silhouetted in the doorway against the searing white sunlight of the hot afternoon, Pashta reflected upon the luxurious coolness here inside his house. Though only on the second level of this five-tiered city, therefore still in the poorer quarters, his abode possessed the clean simplicity of a monastic temple, austere but comfortable, a refuge from the noise, heat and dust of the street outside. Here he could practise his arts, write his theses and dream his dreams, undisturbed by the smelly denizens of the streets outside. And thereby still retain the anonymity that protected him from the unwelcome attention of any of the powerful cults controlling this city. For his work was, to say the least, ‘uncommon’, and there were many out there who distrusted such deviance from the norm.
    ‘Ah well, business is business, and he may have something of vague use in his magpie’s hoard of trinkets this time. See to him will you, Nipah. Keep him talking while I finish this . . . sun-dried lizard slop you call dinner.’
    He went back to picking distastefully at the meal before him, while the lanky youth sitting opposite him got sulkily to his feet and went to meet the pedlar, scuffing his sandalled feet noisily on the stone-tiled floor as he went.
    ‘Hello, I’m Nipah Glemp,’ the boy announced to the dust-caked stranger who stood before him, then he added politely, ‘Did you have a nice journey?’
    A choking splutter of a laugh from Pashta behind him made Nipah realize that this probably wasn’t the best way to greet someone who has just spent the last few days toiling through one of the worst regions of the desert. Nipah Glemp was often described as being ‘alone with his thoughts’, conversation having never been one of his strong points.
    ‘Hello yourself, young sir,’ the pedlar replied with a fixed smile. ‘I’ve got a few little items in my cart which might interest your master. Perhaps you’d both like to take a gander, eh?’
    Nipah smiled nervously, wondering just what to say next.
    ‘Look, just bloody ask him in, will you, and stop dithering,’ Pashta chided from within.
    Nipah stepped