Chapter 8
The wood was a copse compared to the great forest, but even with it's tower, he had not seen the dwelling from without. The slopes of the slough were covered in mulch, fern and mosses, but slabs had been knocked into flattened steps of earth, held at the sides by staves driven down as if nails. The colours on the ground around the house splodged and clashed. It's lowest floor was like a glazed dune.
As the descent ended, the Dervish put his foot down gingerly, looking first for a patch that held something like a natural hue. He looked up as the door opened, and froze.
'Are you a devil? Is this a devil house?'
'An efreet I am not, human of the Order of the Warrior Dancers. Demons are born of that borehole of the soul, called by some the Nadir of Hell. I was made, not born, with these horns, this tail, and with this indigo skin, velveteen.'
The door opened wider.
'My master has custom already, but the lackwit purloins added labour to the exchange in virtue of his dis-cognisance. I intuit I would serve him agreeably to admit you now.'
The red cap of the master of the house appeared to emulate the droopy curve of his sandy tower. From the near window, The Dervish could see the ground floor roof – like a boulder smoothed in a giant's river. The previous customer sat close to the sorcerer. He enviously eyed the tousle-haired fellow's two swords. The two hunched over a crinkled parchment.
'Now – turn away. Repeateth the concatenation.' The magic-weilder's eyes closed as he bowed his head.
'Odas. Glwigli. Seveth … eth … ether...'
The sorcerer's eyes shot open with alacrity. 'No No NO! Sevethethethether! Sevethethethether! Ohp!' A fright passed over the man's face and he quickly dangled his index and middle fingers between the fingers of the right, mumbling. He breathed out and turned a sidelong glare at his pupil. 'LOOK what you almost made me do. Do you KNOW what you almost made me do?' The man in the leather jerkin was staring intently at the parchment. His face was of constipated diligence.
The man gathered his red gowns. 'A break. Continue to study, if you wish, sir. Your money is as good to me as your mind is bad to you.' He crossed the room to a door. A bubbling sound emerged as it opened. 'And remember there are no refunds, sir.'
The man leaned back on his chair. Hands stretching on his knees, he lifted his gaze.
'I've been with this fool for three hours.'
The Dervish could think of no reply, so nodded.
The man with the two blades rubbed three fingers idly along the bottom of his ribs. 'I'm bored.' He addressed the air, then turned his head. 'Care for a game of dice?'
The Dervish held himself still. 'Yes. Why not.'
The man stood as if a sergeant, and picked up the back of his chair. The swords clattered on the ground. The chair was dropped facing away from the Dervish, and the man sat, legs either side of the back, facing him. An open hand offered the two orange dice.
'The game is simple. It's the oldest one. We each roll two dice. The highest wins. You first.'
The Dervish took the dice. They felt cold. The stranger stared at him as he rolled.
'A Seven. That's not bad,' the Dervish opined.
The stranger's gaze returned once his dice were retrieved. The Dervish felt his neck constrict as he watched them roll on the glazed, sandy floor. A three and a two.
'I …'
The Dervish looked up to an empty chair. Moments later, he heard a crash of glasses.