Chosen of the One: Book 1 of The Redemption

By Clyde B Northrup

I began the series with the premise of the ‘damaged’ hero; thus, this first book focuses on the damaging of the heroes by Gar, the consequences to them and their ability to fulfill their quest. Gar, with the help of a servant, steals a powerful magical artifact, and the two of them travel across time and space to alter the minds of those who will be chosen by the One to end Gar’s dominion.

The chosen come from all the orders of good: one from the kortexi order, a holy warrior for the One, named Blakstar, violated by servants of Gar and marked with the symbol of evil upon his chest; another from the white maghi order, wielders of elemental forces, called Thal, the symbol of Gar woven into the patterns of his mind; he and Blakstar are sent to Shigmar, home of the green kailum, practitioners of healing arts, to meet the third chosen, a kailu named Klaybear, who has the potential of becoming the most powerful kailu, marked by Gar himself, as Klaybear goes to the order’s sacred glade to receive his vision, a vision that is corrupted by his marking with the symbol of evil.

Once the other chosen gather in Shigmar with these three, Klaybear is tried for openly bearing the symbol of evil, and during the trial, nearly all the chosen present are shown also to bear the same mark; these are branded as outlaws and condemned to die, but are rescued from the school dungeon by one of the chosen not condemned, called Tevvy, from a race half the size of the others. As they sneak through the sewers beneath the city, they discover a refuge, opened by Blakstar’s sword, which is one of three keys. Inside this refuge, hidden for 3500 years, they discover mental compulsions on two of their number and sever the links, but the severing of these strings causes the minds to which they were attached to unravel. The compulsion on Tevvy is simple and easy to repair; on Klaybear’s wife it was attached in such a way that her entire mind begins to unravel, and he cannot repair the damage quickly enough to prevent her from becoming a mental vegetable. When he despairs, thinking all is lost, other mental hands come to his aid, and all present hear the voices of the One and His spouse, along with one other, speaking to them, giving them instructions on what to do next and helping him to repair his wife’s mind.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Clyde B Northrup
• Release date: Jul 2, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476010298

Clyde B Northrup

Who am I?–a question I often ask myself, without ever coming up with a satisfactory answer: am I just a husband, father, professor, scholar, writer, poet, or some combination that changes from moment to moment, depending on the day, and time of day. . . . Nah, not really–but it is an intriguing way to begin–kind of mysterious and tormented, with a hint of instability that promotes empathy in the reader, and lets all of you know that I am a professor of English, down to my bones, and I cannot help but play around with language. My areas of specialty are 19th-20th century British Literature, the novel, Tolkien & fantasy; my dissertation was on Tolkien’s 1939 lecture “On Fairy-stories” in which he created a framework, as I discovered, for the epic fantasy that I used to critique several modern/contemporary works of fantasy, including Tolkien’s. I have taught at the university level for 14 years. My wife, of 30+ years, is an elementary school teacher.As a poet, I am much like Wordsworth, while as a novelist, I am more like his pal Coleridge, both of which illustrate the influence of my education and areas of expertise. My poems are predominantly narrative in nature, reflecting, no doubt, the overwhelming impulse to tell a story, using the compact, compressed form of the poem to narrate significant moments in the daily life of the poet. As a novelist, my biggest influence is Tolkien, flowing out of my study of his ideas for what he called a “fairy-story” for adults, what we term epic fantasy.

Book preview

Chosen of the One

Book 1 of The Redemption

By Clyde B. Northrup

Smashwords Edition

Copyright © 2012 Clyde B. Northrup.

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

To my brothers, who started, unknowingly, this train. . . .

Author’s Preface

1The novel that follows, an epic fantasy and first in a series, contains the beginnings of a long and complex story that takes place in a world very different from our own. Some elements will feel familiar; the characters & situations should also be familiar, although the names and professions sound alien to our contemporary world. This work, like all works of fantasy, requires an extra investment on the part of the reader, and the learning curve is steep in this first volume, introducing a new world, new races, new professions, new creatures, and a new language with its own quirks. I beg the reader’s patience and encourage the reader to ‘press on’–the reward in the end will be worth the investment. This volume has gone through many different iterations, all of them critiqued by readers of fantasy, and their suggestions have helped increase both clarity & access; note also that this book includes a glossary that will aid in understanding these new elements. I have also posted a searchable version of the glossary on my website at http://clydebnorthrup.webs.com under the Documents tab that can be downloaded and searched at the reader’s leisure (perhaps while reading the story), along with other information relevant to this (and other future stories). Please visit the site and enjoy what has been (and will be) posted there for the reader’s benefit.

The story that follows could have taken place on our world, in the far distant past, perhaps before the last ice age, or on another world, or in another dimension; it is a reader turned scholar turned author’s attempt to tell an epic story, a tall tale, a lie breathed through silver, an exercise of the noble art of lying, a reflection of the one true ‘fairy-story’, to whom I owe everything and express my undying gratitude for the gift, the means, and the opportunity to share this story. May the reader find as much joy in the reading as I have in the creation!

Clyde B. Northrup

December 2012

Table of Contents

Prophecy of the Chosen

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Glossary

Prophecy of the Chosen

At the center of the ages come those chosen of the One, they who will end Gar’s dominion; two from my own order: one more powerful than all others, doubled of another; one who opens the forbidden way, sprung from my home; one from Karble, myth reborn, dear to the people, bearing the living waters; one from Melbarth, fire of logic burning in his mind; three from the new order, one king, one queen, mirroring each other, one aperu slayer, sacrifice for another; and the cunning mouse, who penetrates all secrets; all maimed and marked by the burden of their choosing.

Darkness and evil go with them, light guides them, rumor precedes them, destruction and disturbance follow them; choose to aid them to suffer, choose to oppose them to die. . . .

Prophecy of Shigmar

Prologue

. . . and Gar went forth with a servant

taken from the corrupted wedoram

stealing thought-giver, ranging across time

to inscribe his mark, his sign of evil

upon hands, hearts and minds

of the CHOSEN OF THE ONE. . . .

from The Great Year, a song cycle by Sir Kovar, written Atno 3553

Atno 3500, Spring

The old peddler pulled sharply on his reins, calling loudly to his mule, needing to shout to be heard over the pounding rain. He set the brake on his cart when his mule staggered to a halt, its iron-shod hooves clattering and slipping on the cobblestones, slick from the downpour. The old wethi lifted one arm to shield his face from the rain, his head turning this way and that, his bright blue eyes trying to pierce the darkness and find the source of the sound that had caught his attention. He found the boy hiding behind an overflowing waterbarrel, his too large feet, along with his sobs, giving him away.

Come out of there, boy! the peddler called above the sound of the rain.

The bare, and filthy, feet shifted, as if he were trying to pull them out of sight, but the boy did not rise or answer.

Don’t be foolish, boy! the peddler called again. I know you hide behind that waterbarrel; come out, and I can help you!

The dirty, overlarge feet finally disappeared; a smile quivered on the old peddler’s lips.

Fine, then. the peddler said. I’ll be leaving town now, and I’ll leave you to your fate. A pity, truly, since I could have helped you. He grinned to himself, then released the brake on his cart, preparing to shake the reins.

You can’t leave town now, a piping voice spoke from behind the waterbarrel, the gates are closed!

The old peddler ignored the boy, shaking his reins; the mule started to move, its hooves clopping loudly on the cobblestones, the motion of the mule jerking the cart forward. When he felt the boy jump onto the back of his cart, the old peddler smiled widely, revealing the hint of a much younger wethi.

You better get out of those wet rags and dry off, the peddler called over his shoulder and under the tarred canvas covering his cart. I left out some clothes that should fit, he went on, better than those rags you’ve been wearing, along with some sturdy shoes, and some bread and cheese–I expect you are hungry–little boys are always hungry. The old peddler smiled again, then raised his right hand. An archway of white light opened in front of the mule, an archway large enough for both the mule and the cart to pass through; the mule plodded through, stepping off the cobblestones and onto the hard packed dirt of a country road, out of the downpour and into a night free from rain, the sky clear and the stars shining brightly overhead. Rolling hills surrounded the country road, hills that were neatly ploughed and covered with new shoots. The peddler lowered his hand once the cart had passed through, closing the archway, and lowered his hood, revealing shoulder-length, wavy gray hair that glittered in the light of a quarter moon.

The boy poked his head out of the canvas, revealing an unruly mass of dark red hair. The rain st– he began in his high, piping voice, stopping as suddenly as the rain, his eyes widening in fright. His mouth fell open. How did . . . but we were. . . ? he twisted his head around, trying to see behind the cart.

The peddler turned and smiled at the boy reassuringly. Now, what were you telling me about not being able to leave at night? he asked.

How did you get out? the boy asked, and then went on, not able to wait. "Did you make the rain stop? Are you a . . . maghi?" he asked the last in a hushed, almost reverent voice.

The peddler laughed, a musical, boyish sound. Have you gotten dressed yet? the peddler asked.

The boy nodded, looking with new awe on the peddler.

Did you get something to eat?

The boy shook his head, still staring at the peddler.

The peddler sighed and shook his head. You won’t listen very well if you are starving, he said, so grab the bread and cheese, and jug of water, a blanket for warmth, and sit beside me while you eat, then we can talk.

The boy did as instructed, returning with food, water, and blanket, climbing out of the cart and sitting down beside the peddler then beginning to wolf down the bread and cheese, occasionally drinking from the water jug.

Easy, boy, the peddler said, you’ll make yourself sick, eating like that! he exclaimed, then he laughed and waited for the boy to finish. The boy’s hands were as large as his feet, and he had a gangly build that promised he would someday be tall; he looked to be about four years old, maybe older, but he had a mind that was sharp for his age, always asking thoughtful questions.

Feel better now? he asked.

The boy nodded.

Why weren’t you with the other urchins?

They threw me out.

"Why?

Cuz I got caught–we’re not supposed to get caught, and when the peddler looked quizzical, he added, it’s one of our rules.

The peddler sighed and fell silent for several moments. The mule plodded on, winding among the brown hills, the scent of newly turned earth strong. The peddler’s cart creaked only a little; the boy finally broke the silence.

You never told me how you left the city, he said, "or how you stopped the rain, or if you’re a maghi."

The peddler chuckled. "Little boys have an insatiable curiosity, he quoted a popular saying, then smiled down at the boy. Do you have a name, boy?" he asked, not answering his questions.

Everyone calls me Tam.

The peddler shook his head. That’s not right, he replied, stunning the boy.

But I don’t have any other name, the boy protested.

The peddler laughed, the boyish, musical sound that belied his apparent age. Not yet, boy, but soon you will, he continued to laugh, and the hint of a much younger person was clearly visible on his face and in his laughing blue eyes, "and soon you will be found by your true parents, who will raise you to be who you were meant to be."

The boy’s face wrinkled. That doesn’t make any sense, he said to himself, then spoke louder, I don’t understand, he admitted.

No, the peddler replied, "nor will you remember this conversation, but you will remember that an old peddler brought you to the village up ahead, taught you some minor ortheks, and left you in the care of those who will look out for you."

"So you are a maghi," the boy concluded.

No, not in the sense that you think, he replied, but I know a few tricks I can teach you, like how to make a root rise up and trip someone, or how to make your voice sound like a hundred people.

The boy’s face wrinkled again in thought. But I never forget anything that happens to me, he said.

Really? the peddler replied. Do you remember your mother’s name? he asked.

The boy opened his mouth, then closed it suddenly; his small, oval face colored brightly.

You see, the peddler went on, you can forget things, and you will forget our conversation, remembering only what I have told you. Now I think you should get some sleep.

"But you haven’t taught me the ortheks," the boy protested.

The peddler grinned but did not look down at the boy. I already have, he replied, but you will not remember that I have until you need to, which will not happen for many years yet.

But how will I find my parents? the boy protested again.

You don’t need to worry about that, the peddler answered, they are my servants, and they will find you, soon.

But . . . , the boy tried again.

"No more buts tonight! the peddler interrupted the boy. Now, crawl back into the cart and get some sleep!"

The boy yawned widely, a look of surprise in his eyes that was quickly replaced by sleep; he shook himself, then crawled through the flap and disappeared inside the cart. The peddler smiled to himself. They really are wondrous, he whispered to himself, glancing over his shoulder and knowing that the boy was already fast asleep.

Atno 3524, The Great Year, Early Spring

The central hall of the school of the white maghem was dark and silent but for the soft glowing and humming of the protective ortheks surrounding the artifacts displayed around this large, airy chamber. Pillars of white marble supported the vaulted ceiling, high overhead; the night sky was visible through the many narrow windows high in the walls, and one shaft of moonlight fell upon a single display case at the precise center of this wide, round room. Gems glittered, reflecting the thin shaft of light, but the platinum rod appeared dull gray, the satin cushion cold silver in the light of the moon. The crystal case pulsed and hummed, the many elemental forces that surrounded and protected it just visible, evidence of the many complex ortheks that secured the rod that lay within, and only the sedra knew how to remove them all. The rod belonged to Melbarth, the founder of the white order, after whom the city, school, and order were named, a maghi who lived more than three millennia before. All the students and masters of the school passed through this room and passed by this crystal case many times each day, a reminder of what they could achieve, but it was also a reminder of what they had lost, for none today could make a rod or a staff that was its equal, the knowledge of its making lost. At this hour of the night, some two hours past midnight, nothing stirred within the hall.

In the shadows of a nearby marble pillar, an archway of deeper shadow, like a piece of the elemental Void, silently opened; two hooded and cloaked figures stepped out. Had anyone been in the hall to notice the strange manner of their arrival, this student, master, or hierarch would have only noticed that one of them walked on booted feet, for the hard sounds of boots stepping across the marble floor, and that the other did not wear boots, or shoes of any kind, for the sound of its footfalls was like the sound of hands gently flapping on stone. The two figures stopped in front of the crystal case, pausing for only a moment.

Pathetic, the taller, booted figure whispered in a voice filled with derision. He waved one hand carelessly over the crystal case; the pulsing light and humming sounds ceased at once. The figure made a lifting gesture with his hand and outstretched arm, and the case opened; the ornately carved platinum rod rose out of the satin cushion and into the outstretched hand of the second figure. The hand of this figure, however, was nothing like the first: the skin was pale green, and the hand was narrow and longer, with only two fat fingers and a thumb, and all three digits were lined with round indentations, like some kind of sea creature. The rod started to glow with an angry red light, the huge diamond atop the rod lit with bloody light, but the figure now holding the rod spoke some words in a voice that hissed and bubbled, with an oddly muffled quality, causing the angry light to fade slowly and finally wink out, becoming again its former dull gray in the strange, green-skinned hand, with only a tiny pinpoint of red light still visible at the center of the eye-shaped diamond that formed the platinum rod’s apex.

Hold up the rod, the first figure growled. He waved his hand again, and an exact copy of the rod appeared on the white satin cushion within the crystal case. The figure waved his hand across the crystal case, the case closed, and the humming, pulsing protective ortheks re-activated. We must go, he noted, there is work that we must perform now that we have that rod.

Yes, the second hissed, a note of exultation in his strange voice, there is nothing I cannot do with this rod.

The first figure whipped around and grabbed the second by the neck, lifting the second off the ground. Never forget, he growled, that you would not hold that rod without me! If you ever betray me, Motodu, I will destroy you! Two points of red light flashed from inside the shadows of the first figure’s hood, and the eye-shaped diamond atop the rod flashed red in response. His voice, nearly a shout, quieted as suddenly as it had risen in volume. I am your master: never forget that. The first figure dropped the second back onto the marble floor, the feet slapping hard, the sound echoing around the chamber. For one brief moment, when the first figure turned and stalked away, the second raised the rod, the light in the diamond turning a sickly green and glowing brightly. Are you certain, Motodu, the first asked without turning, as he reopened the black archway, "that you have sufficient command of that rod to face me? Only the chosen with all three keys could hope to do that, powerful though you think you are; I suggest you stop courting oblivion so that we can take care of what we need to before the rod rejects you. Gar cast a half-glance back over his shoulder. Unless you’d like me to leave you here, in the middle of Melbarth’s school? I could set off all those alarm ortheks and remove the duplicate rod: you’d be trapped here, caught with Melbarth’s Rod in your slimy hands, not even knowing that the rod itself could have allowed you to escape." He stepped into the black archway, grinning smugly to himself when he heard the sounds of Motodu’s feet slapping across the marble floor as the morgle ran to the black archway before Gar let it close.

Atno 3523, Late Spring

The small room with a simple cot was dark, with only a narrow beam of moonlight entering through a window that was hardly more than a slit in the stone wall. Fast asleep on the cot lay a tall, thin young wethi whose mass of long hair obscured his face. Out of the darker shadows of the room, two cloaked figures stepped through the shaft of moonlight to the head of the cot. One figure raised a rod topped with an eye-shaped diamond that glittered coldly in the moonlight, then burst into life, emitting a sickly green light; the second figure held out his hands, which glowed with bloody light.

There are two areas, Gar, the figure without the rod, whispered, in which the pattern must be altered, such that, when the time is ripe, those meddling fools will discover my symbol written into the very patterns of his mind and thoughts; thus will he be condemned with the others.

As you wish, my lord, the figure with the rod hissed, and both of them reached forward with hands and the rod, but what they were doing could not be seen in the actions of their hands: their hands and the rod hovered motionless in the air over the head of the sleeping young wethi, the rod still glowing brightly.

After a few moments of silence, the figure with the rod spoke again. My lord, I thought that this one studied with his master, he hissed, not here at the school.

He is here to take their trials and to receive his rod, the other replied, "which is why I moved to this moment to alter his mind, when he was out of sight of his master," he added, not disguising his derision.

The figure with the rod thought about this for a moment and realized something, but he did not voice it, wanting to stay on his lord’s good side, for he knew that the sooner he did his lord’s bidding, the sooner he would be left alone to use the rod for his own purposes. The young wethi on the cot groaned and started to turn.

You are supposed to be keeping him asleep, Motodu, Gar growled.

Sorry, my lord, Motodu replied, "but a thought just occurred to me: aren’t these sleeping cells also protected by ortheks that set off alarms if anyone enters or leaves?" Motodu asked as he used the rod to put the young wethi into a deeper sleep; the question was, he realized, foolish, but it was the first thing that came to his mind to cover his lapse. He focused his thoughts on the question so that his master, if he tried to read it, would see only his concern for being caught in his mind.

Gar snorted. We did not enter or leave by the door, he scoffed, surely you should have realized this?

But wouldn’t his master have prepared for something like this? Motodu countered, his voice hissing and bubbling. "He is the best thinker and logician of the wethem since the maker of this very rod . . . ," he started to say but was interrupted.

Be careful, Motodu, Gar noted, cutting him off, your words reveal your sympathies, and sympathizing with my enemies will cost you everything, he finished in a quiet but cold whisper.

These words made Motodu angry, so angry that, for a moment, he forgot to whom he spoke. Save your threats for your squealing servants! he hissed. None of them could touch this rod, let alone use it! He stabbed the rod toward Gar; the light from the eye-shaped diamond flared bright green, reflecting Motodu’s anger. "None of them could do what I’m doing to the minds of the chosen! Do not threaten me, my lord!" he finished in a hissing whisper as cold and threatening as Gar’s had been.

A moment of silence followed, then Gar chuckled and pointed one finger at the dark space inside Motodu’s hood that must have been right between his eyes. Motodu, he laughed, you’d better learn to control your tongue, especially in my presence. The next hint of such insolent behavior from you, and this is the last thing you will ever see: the end of my finger pointing directly between your eyes, because what will follow will be a piece of the Void, and you will be instantly obliterated. Gar lowered his hand and brought his face to within an inch of Motodu’s before he spoke again. Understand? he asked in a barely audible whisper, and when, after a moment, Motodu gave a slight nod, Gar pulled back his head. Then let’s finish this one so we can move on to the next.

Motodu bit his tongue and turned back to the mind of the young wethi, now sleeping deeply on the cot before them.

Atno 3523, Late Spring

On the northeast edge of the village of Artowgar, all was silent on the farm; even the large, farm cats sat still, eyes glowing brightly in the moonlight as they watched for vermin. Inside the house, the family slept peacefully, although in one small room, a candle burned on a small writing desk where a thin, dark-haired young wetha sat poring over her lessons, working in secret so that neither her family, nor the young maghi she fancied, and who was the apprentice of her mistress’s husband, had any idea of what she studied, tutored by the matron of the tower nearly twenty miles to the west of her village. The work was difficult, and even more so for having to keep it concealed from all others until the time was right; it made for long, weary days, and longer nights with little time for rest, but she kept herself going with an image of the look on the young maghi’s face when she revealed to him that she, too, could use elemental forces. Her mistress had told her it was important, vitally important, for her to learn the art. She glanced at the candle and saw that it had burned down to her mark; she finished what she was working on, whispered a word to hide her books and parchment, blew out the candle, and got wearily into bed. As she drifted off to sleep, she smiled, thinking of the shocked look on his face the first time she would cast an orthek in his presence. She thought she should wait until after they were joined, and they were alone for the first time; she wondered if there was a orthek to make one’s clothes fly off. . . .

Two figures stepped out of the darkness and into her room; without a word, the taller of the two hooded and cloaked figures nodded, and the shorter held out a rod that glowed with green light. The two stood for a minute next to her head, silent and motionless; the young wetha sighed in her sleep, the smile replaced by a pained look. The two turned their backs on her, the light atop the rod winked out, and they stepped back into the darkness from which they had come.

Chapter 1

Only a great fool, one in utter despair or in absolute desperation trusts the word of a methaghi.

Anonymous saying among the seklesem.

Atno 3523, Late Winter

A tall, cloaked, young wethi looked furtively around the darkened street in the merchant district of Holvar. It was two hours past midnight; no one moved along the dirty street but for a few rats and one mangy dog, sniffing around the refuse dotting the street’s edges. The young wethi looked carefully along the street, eyeing all the windows and doors. Seeing no signs that anyone watched him, he slipped silently into the narrow alley and climbed a flight of rickety stairs. Each board creak caused him to wince and glance around, assuring himself that no one had noticed, that no curtain twitched back so someone could see who or what made the noise. On reaching the building’s second floor, and the door at the top of the stairs, he tapped the door softly two times. A tiny panel in the door slid open, and the young wethi gave the correct response. The door opened enough so that he could slip inside, then the door closed quickly and quietly.

In the small, dark antechamber, the young wethi stood and threw back his hood; a beam of light from a carefully opened bull’s eye lantern showed his young face with the hint of a beard, sandy hair hanging to his shoulders, and bright blue eyes.

Aaah, a voice hissed, "the seklesi who wanted my master to answer an important question for him. If your superiors knew you were here, the voice continued in sibilant tones, you could be expelled." Although the face behind the lantern was cloaked in shadow, the young seklesi sensed that the wethi holding the lantern was smiling widely. Follow me, the voice said, covering the lens and turning away. Now only a small, dark red beam of light illuminated the floor.

The young seklesi followed the dirty, booted feet down a short hallway. The light stopped; a latch clicked and a door opened, flooding the hallway with bright light. The young seklesi squinted in the sudden brightness, then moved slowly past the hooded figure holding the lantern and into the room. The door closed behind him with an audible thunk. The young wethi stood still, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the brightness. He sensed that eyes were upon him, examining him from head to toe. Once his eyes adjusted to the bright light, he saw a grey-cloaked figure sitting behind a desk between them; the figure’s hood covered both head and face, so that only a bit of grey beard and the end of a long nose were visible. A silver chain hung around the figure’s neck, with a symbol resting at the center of the figure’s chest, a symbol the young wethi recognized as representing the methaghum.

You wanted to purchase my services? a deep, resonant voice asked.

If the price is right, the young wethi replied.

What do you want to know?

The future of my second.

What precisely do you want to know about your second’s future?

Will she marry me?

A slow chuckle resonated from the grey figure. "That is a difficult and expensive question to answer, and the chances of the answer being wrong are great. Also, she would need to be here, and she would have to agree with what we do. The fact that you have come to me alone, seklesi, tells me she would not. I can only look into your future, and we might see her in it, or we might not. Do you want me to look into your future, seklesi?" the grey figure asked, the last word spoken almost with a laugh.

I have to know, the young wethi replied.

You may be disappointed, the methaghi noted wryly.

How much?

"100 ghelwum, all in advance."

The young wethi choked. "100 ghelwum?"

Yes, and if you are not willing to give it to me right now, you will leave and never return to waste my time. I may even tip off your superiors. . . .

The young wethi interrupted him. All right! Here is your money, he