Free The Trials of Trass Kathra by Mike Wild

faculty for bodily transformation, and had decided his best tactic for capture would be to simply overwhelm him. He’d hoped to have all of his men inside before he was alerted but it seemed that was not to be. Though the shop had appeared empty through its windows, the old man was suddenly there, appearing as if by magic.
    Yan DeFrys sneered. With a shock of white hair and beard, and what looked like a pink horse blanket over his shoulders, the old man shuffled about the shop waving a feather duster over piles of stock. This was his target?
    “I’m closed,” Merrit Moon said.
    “Then you should lock your door, Mister Moon.”
    “Why? Others respect the sign hanging there. You see what it says, hmm? ‘Go Away’ is what it says, and I’d be obliged if you did so.”
    “We’re not here to shop, old man.”
    “No? Some pongbegon for you, I think. Wooh-hoo, yes. And you, sir – in you I sense a man with a frustrated wife. Knickerknocker Glory’s what you need. Direct from the Sardenne and very good for the old early oooh , if you know what I mean.”
    The mercenary to whom Moon had spoken moved forward, but DeFrys held him back.
    “We have no interest in your trinkets, trivia or fetishes, old man. We’re here for you.”
    Moon continued to shuffle about, apparently not listening. It was odd but for a second DeFrys got the impression he seemed to blur between locations rather than physically move. DeFrys nodded to two of his men, who moved to apprehend him. Moon looked up as they began to weave their way through piles of stock, and manoeuvred himself behind others when they drew close. This happened twice more and the mercenaries cursed in exasperation finding direct pursuit impossible. The stock had been arranged in such a way that it formed a miniature maze seemingly designed to frustrate their every attempt to reach their quarry.
    “That’s right, that’s right,” Moon said. “Have a good look around.”
    “I already told you, old man,” DeFrys barked. “We have no interest in your goods.”
    “Today’s special is a boozelhorn made by the Yassan of the Drakengrats. It’s said if you blow a boozelhorn your enemies comprehensively fill their trousers. Would you like a demonstration?”
    DeFrys growled; game over. He bashed away a pile of stock, hurling pots and jars to the floor. Some clattered through an open trapdoor which Moon moved towards.
    “I expect there’ll be quite a mess,” he said. “Now where did I put that shovel?”
    “Stay where you are, old man!” DeFrys ordered as Moon began to descend. His men crashed after him, reaching the opening just as the old man’s head vanished below. It was odd but just for a second he thought he saw the old man disappear before he disappeared – that was, before passing out of view beneath the floorboards. It had to have been a trick of the light. It was difficult to tell with his men crowding around.
    “What are you waiting for?” he shouted. “Follow him!”
    DeFrys expected to hear the sounds of a scuffle before the old man was dragged back to the ground floor. But there was only a puzzled cry from one of his men.
    “Sir, he’s gone, sir!”
    “What?”
    “The old man, he just seemed to disapp... no, no, wait, he’s here. I think.”
    “Make up your mind, man!”
    “I could have sworn...”
    DeFrys bit his lip. This whole thing was damned peculiar.
    “Don’t let him out of your sight,” he said. “I’m coming down.”
    DeFrys descended the ladder. Half way down he paused, running his hand over a light tube that illuminated the lower level – the kind of light tube, Old Race technology, that he had only ever seen in archaeological sites or the sublevels of Scholten Cathedral. What were they doing in a primitive market town in Pontaine?
    What, for that matter, were all the other objects down here?
    The old man stood on the other side of the cellar, smiling. In the artificial light he looked somehow strange, almost flat and two