Harvey Smith Aces and Eights
Traveling, en route to somewhere, in search of something; employed by a king, interrupted by a dying man�
I awoke when the sounds of tumbling rocks and sliding gravel reached the dream-etched realms of my subconscious, which at the time happened to be buried beneath several tons of sleep. I sat up, immediately reaching for the 9mm lying atop my pack. The bright stars were dimly reflected along the barrel of the pistol.
About eight feet away, from the lip of the rock shelf that I occupied, came a gasp then a bandaged hand. I watched the scratched and bleeding fingers for only a second before moving over to the edge. The man clinging to the side of the cliff did not seem capable of doing anything particularly vicious, so I tucked the pistol into my belt and reached down to help him. I took hold of the man's forearm and lifted, bringing him safely up and over. As I lowered him to the stony ground, he groaned softly, then shuddered and went limp. Leaving him lying there on the edge of the shelf, I fetched a canteen from my pack and brought it over to where he lay. I crouched next to him and placed a hand on his shoulder.
The man stirred and looked up at me. When I offered him the water, he reached out with shaking hands and managed to choke down a few gulps. He was lean, with rat-like features and dark hair. There was an odd design tattooed over his left eyebrow. Composed of wavy, interwoven lines of green and black, it looked like a character from some pictographic language. He needed a bath badly.
When he suddenly began to tremble, I moved back a pace, and drew the corner of my cloak across my mouth, thinking of plagues and sickness. "Don't worry," he whispered hoarsely, "It's nothing you can catch."
"What's wrong with you?" I asked.
"I'm dying."
A quiet moment hung between us, during which the wind swept across the ledge. "I'm sorry," I told him. "Is there anything I can do?"
"That depends." He forced himself up on one arm and rummaged through a leather sack secured to his belt. He retrieved a worn brown envelope. "See if you recognize this."
I took the envelope and opened it carefully. It fluttered with the wind, and I leaned over slightly to shield the contents. Inside there was a piece of paste board roughly the size and shape of a large playing card. The thing's coolness must have startled me some, because he smiled at me then.
"I knew you'd know what it was," he said. "Now I can rest."
"You knew I'd recognize this?" I asked, irritated that I had allowed him to see my surprise. I examined the card I held. It was a Trump, something that people outside the royal families of Chaos and Amber rarely have access to. This one showed a tower on a small, rocky island. "How?"
"I saw you talking into one, in a bar, several weeks ago. I've been trying to catch up with you since then. You travel fast."
"Where did you get this?" I asked.
"Use the card," he said, lying back down again. A series of violent coughs shook him. "I haven't got the strength to explain."
"Sorry, but I've got to know."
"Please..." he choked out, "ask me again in the morning." His voice was a wheezing sigh.
Considering, I tucked the Trump away. Then I got him a blanket and built a fire. I spent the remainder of the night watching over him, but his condition was fragile and by morning he was dead.
* * * * *
I withdrew the dead man's Trump and studied it; pale milky sky and emerald waves, with a gray tower standing like a needle on the scene's single, rocky island. I was certain that I had never seen the place before, but�knowing that a Trump could access any one place imaginable�the fact that I was not familiar with it did not mean much; the painted image on the card could have represented anywhere.
I felt a strong desire to unravel the mystery of the tower. Had the bearer of the Trump sought me out specifically, or would anyone who understood such devices have served as well? Whose Trump was it anyway? Someone had to have painted it, and it had definitely not been rendered in the same draftsman-like style as those with which I was most familiar. I had gotten the impression that the man who had given me the thing had been a courier, or merely someone acting in that capacity. Perhaps he had been under a geas. I wondered who had commissioned him to deliver it. Damn him for dying anyway.
The Trump and tower thing came at a bad time, as I still had some business to finish for my employer and friend from back home on the Shadow called Earth. I refer to Lucas Raynard�known in his homeland as King Rinaldo�the single source of all my travels away from Earth.
Contact me @ Ruby2190@ yahoo.com
A well written story by Harvey Smith
Aces and Eights
A little long though well worth it. Please email me with any questions.
Aces and Eights 2