A World Without Heroes - Brandon Mull [29]
“I only know I need to have a talk with him.”
“Your business is your business. By all reports he is a just arbiter. Some who surround him seem odd. You’ll have to form your own opinion.”
“What do you think of him?” Jason asked.
“He keeps a fairly high profile in a time when it might be more prudent to lay low. You should be on your way.”
“Thank you, Franny.”
“You seem very open,” Franny said sadly. “You should travel with more care. There are plenty abroad who would take advantage of you.”
Jason descended the porch steps and backed toward the gate. “Thanks for the warning, and the bread.”
“We never met,” Franny said, retreating into her multihued house and closing the door.
Jason waved at the trees where Aster was hiding, then started down the lane. He opened the bag and tore off a chunk of warm bread, which tasted hearty. By contrast it made the bread back home seem ridiculously flimsy. Grateful to have something to eat besides mushrooms, Jason consumed almost half the loaf.
Not long after Franny’s home passed out of sight, Jason reached the crossroads. A white stone obelisk marked the intersection. One side of the obelisk was deeply scarred, as if an inscription had been gouged away. Aside from the tall marker and the dirt roads, no evidence of civilization could be seen in any direction.
Jason turned left, passing feral fields of tall grass interrupted by occasional copses of trees. He saw the charred remnants of a house, thorny shrubs growing up among the blackened wood, the scorched chimney still mostly intact.
Presently he came upon tended fields where crops grew in long rows. A fenceless house came into view up ahead: a low, sturdy structure. Out front a burly, shirtless man in overalls sat on a short stool sketching on a large parchment propped on an easel. Another fellow sat nearby on the grass, fiddling with a series of interlocked iron shapes. On a nearby table rested a ceramic dome segmented by lines suggesting it was a complex three-dimensional puzzle. Farther back towered a bronze sculpture comprised of bizarre shapes balanced precariously. Certain portions of the sculpture were on pivots and swiveled lazily in the breeze, squealing faintly.
“Hi, there,” Jason said from the lane. “Is one of you the Gamester?”
“I am,” said the man in overalls. He stood, a husky man with arms like a linebacker. He seemed a tad wary, but unafraid.
“Did you make that puzzle?” Jason said, jerking his head at the man trying to unlink the shapes.
“I did, along with many others.”
“I like that sculpture.”
“It can be reassembled in many combinations.”
“Do you sell your puzzles?”
He shook his head. “I give them away.”
“Do many people come by?”
“Mainly just Jerome here. Most folks would rather not bother. Sometimes a few will come and watch Jerome solve a series of my toughest creations.”
Jason gestured at the parchment. “Are you designing a new puzzle?”
The Gamester nodded. “I permit no man to view my designs.” He rolled up the parchment, even through Jason could view none of the drawing from where he stood. “What brings you this way, stranger?”
“I need to speak with the Blind King.”
“How do you know the Blind King?”
“Isn’t he famous?” Jason answered vaguely.
“Locally, yes, to some extent. But you are not from these parts.”
Jason was unsure what to say. “It might be best not to ask me too many questions.”
“Fair enough,” the Gamester replied. “Safe journey.”
Jason turned his back on the peculiar pair. The Gamester had not acted very welcoming and had seemed a little too curious. He walked briskly.
After a few miles Jason stopped and stripped off his gray coveralls for the first time, revealing his T-shirt and jeans. A tentative sniff proved that his sweat-marked underarms reeked like unwashed monkeys. It was long past time to wash up and do some laundry. Maybe the castle would have someplace to bathe.
Continuing on with cloak, blanket roll, and coveralls bundled under one arm, he eventually forked right onto a gravel road. Crunching along the gravel sapped more energy than walking