The early hours of the morning, when velvet darkness still embraced everything and when the grey of dawn was still but a long-off thought, were Taryanderon Pallerion’s favourite hours. It seemed that his mind was most active, his brain most alert in those precious hours.

He sat at his desk within the Port Authority building, a ledger open before him, pages of numbers dancing before his eyes as he upheld his contract by balancing the Authority’s accounts. It was one of the many facets to his position as hired scribe: not only did the young man have a way with words, he was also remarkably numerate. He had been hired to straighten the Authority’s books – and until he had embarked upon the task had had no idea just how crooked they actually were to begin with.

The work relaxed him; allowed him to switch off from worries and concerns that had begun to eat away at him – namely, the cost of living worries. It was all very well whilst he had this job to do – part of the agreement was board and lodgings. And although in this instance, ‘board and lodgings’ meant a small, single room at the back of the Authority building which Taryn was certain was inhabited by not only himself, but several insects and very definitely a rat or two – at least it was shelter.

Taryn had never felt truly comfortable in cities. When he had left his studies behind and gone out into the world, he had sworn he would never come to the city, that he would offer his services out to those less able to find scribes. To farmers, like his father, for example.

Ah, the arrogance of youth.

Taryn had learned swiftly that whilst his intentions may have been noble, farmers had little requirement for his services other than to perhaps read a letter or two, make a few adjustments to their accounts – and invariably they had no money with which to pay him. More than once he had grudgingly accepted payment of provisions or clothing.

His pen scratched across the heavy pages of the ledger, his work accompanied by thoughts that on this night simply refused to leave him be.

I trained as a Fire Mage. Why, in the name of all that is holy, am I sat here fixing some rich bastard’s accounts?

More than anything, Taryn yearned to travel further afield, as part of a mercenary party with whom he could learn the art of survival, with whom he could extend his skills and abilities and with whom he could share, of course, in financial reward. But here he was, pen in hand, barely making ends meet.

The words that rose unbidden in his mind were childish, he knew, and he despised himself for even thinking them, but still they pressed forward into his mind.

It isn’t fair!

His masters back when he had been training had painted such a glamorous picture for the young mages, especially those who had shown themselves to be in possession of talent the level of Taryn’s. ”There will always be a need for mages who can prove their prowess in a confrontation – and those mages are the ones whose deeds live on in the very books you have under your hand.”

Such promise he had shown. Over and over he had been told that his ability to learn and his even natured temperament meant that he was destined for those history books. Flattery to get him to work even harder, perhaps? Even when he had worked with the head of the school on his diplomatic relationship skills they had said that his future was bright.

His future? Bright? Taryn raised his head to stare at the two flickering oil lamps that were almost now burned out. If this was bright, he thought grimly, then he didn’t want to see those mages who were never primped and groomed the way he had been.

Taryn was under no illusion that his work as a scribe would keep him in cheap clothing, stews and watered down wine for the rest of his life, but he yearned desperately for the chance that never seemed to come: the opportunity he needed to get out there and develop himself.

One of the oil lamps guttered and finally died out. The light in the office was now too dim to work by, signalling that Taryn should finish up his work and go and get some sleep. But to Taryn, whose body clock never kept what could be called ‘normal’ hours, the night was still young. He was in the Port area: a perfect place to browse for would-be employers. As long as he could avoid the young women of Dockside…

As it happened, it proved that he was incapable of any such avoidance. He had been wandering, all innocence, looking for any ships onto which he could barter passage. The role of a scribe on board a seagoing vessel could not be underestimated: the position of purser was one that could pay extremely well. A good looking young man like Taryn was like a lure to the mullets who worked Dockside and within thirty minutes of his arrival, he had been accosted by three of them, all of whom promised him a night he would never forget…

That had actually proven to be the case as he had – politely, of course – refused their amorous advances. The young women had begun squabbling amongst themselves and the situation had escalated rather quickly with a full-scale fight breaking out amongst the three and several other young women who had nothing better to do.

Taryn had been momentarily flattered: these women were fighting over him, after all – but the flattery had come to a rather abrupt halt, as had the mild amusement over watching all the mullets fighting, when he’d found himself on the business end of a dagger. His eyes had travelled the length of the blade, which was resting against his Adam’s apple and he had come face-to-face with what could only be the owner of one – or probably more – of the girls. It hadn’t been a pleasant face. In fact, Taryn would have been hard pushed to find a word that truly described the man who had been leering horribly at him.

“Nobody comes into me patch and leads me girls on,” he had said, the voice tinged with more than a little halitosis. Taryn’s eyes had begun to water slightly at the stench of the man’s breath on his face. “They do be brayin’ out for your blood, brat.”

Taryn had put on his most winning smile. Speaking had been rather uncomfortable, largely due to the dagger point resting uncomfortably against his larynx.

“A misunderstanding,” he said, summoning up every ounce of his quite considerable charm. “I am merely passing through here…”

“Aye, happen ya are,” the pimp had said. “But whatever ya said to me girls has done got ‘em upset. An’ I don’t like me girls bein’ upset, ya savvy, runt?”

“Oh, I understand entirely – and if anything I said has caused offence in any way, then I’m truly sorry…” Taryn had flashed his most winning smiles. One or two of the girls had preened slightly. “Of course, I would be glad to recompense you for any inconvenience…”

He had made a move to reach for his money pouch.

Fortunately for Taryn, it had been a good call on his part. The pimp’s eyes had moved hungrily to the money pouch. Taryn had been dressed in a white cotton shirt and simple black cotton trousers that he wore tucked into soft kid-leather boots. The clothing, whilst not expensive, was relatively new and helped give Taryn the impression of being a young merchant. The illusion was helped exponentially by the fact he’d carefully padded out the barely five gold in his money pouch with strips of wadded leather.

He’d learned quickly that merchants were well respected in the city, and if Taryn was good at one thing, it was adapting to his surroundings.

Once the pimp’s eyes were off his and on the money pouch, Taryn had mouthed the words of the Fear spell, knowing that it would ultimately lead to his escape, but hoping that the sheer numbers of people who were within a thirty yard range of where he was standing wouldn’t trample him in their urge to get away.

Odd that a charismatic, affable young man should suddenly generate an aura of true fear. That was the thought, although perhaps not quite so eloquent, that had gone through the minds of the twenty or so people who had fled, shrieking, from the scene of the fight. By the time their minds were their own again and they had returned, Taryn had slipped away, back to his rat-infested room.

“I have got to get out of here,” the young mage complained to nobody in particular. “The Gods damn it, I’ll sell my soul if it means I can taste adventure.”

His mother’s voice rose, unbidden at the back of his mind, whispering words he’d always hated as a child and which now, as a young adult, were less annoying and more sinister.

Be careful what you wish, Taryn. It may just come true.