Wizard's Moon

"I wish to buy a boy."

A warrior from the Northlands purchases a young man for purposes both secret and perhaps sinister.

Wizard’s Moon

March 2015

Copyright (c) 2015 by Josh Lanyon

Cover by KB Smith

Photos by luminaimages and artshock licensed through Shutterstock

Map by Keren Reed

All rights reserved

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from JustJoshin Publishing, Inc.

Edited by Keren Reed

ISBN: 978-1-937909-77-2

Published in the United States of America

JustJoshin Publishing, Inc.

3053 Rancho Vista Blvd.

Suite 116

Palmdale, CA 93551

www.joshlanyon.com

This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.

WIZARD’S MOON

Josh Lanyon

"I wish to buy a boy," the stranger said.

His shadow separated from those of the flames. It loomed across the wall as he pushed back his hood. His hair was black as night, tied back in warrior fashion. He wore a patch over his left eye. His cloak carried the scent of night and autumn in this place that smelled perennially of sweat and boiled cabbage and hurried sex.

"Buy?" Across the table, Quix’s own eyes went round and dark as counting beads. Buy? You mean take with you?

Faro stole another look at the stranger as he filled his goblet. Despite the triangle of black that quartered his face, he was beautiful, and though his garb was simple, he had the manner of a lord. The clasp at his throat was finely wrought, the emblem of some old northern family. What could such a man need with a whoremaster?

Ignoring the wine, the stranger recited, Tall and slim. Blue eyes. Chestnut hair. His good eye, which was the fierce amber of a hawk’s, rose to meet Faro’s curious gaze. This one will do, he said.

Quix nearly choked on his wine. "Th-this one?"

Faro went very still as the stranger looked him over. That dispassionate gaze turned him cold, as though he stood naked, as though the winter wind licked his bare bones. Instinctively, he turned to Quix.

Reading his face, Quix made some stumbling objection.

Faro is not—that is—Faro is—well, he’s— he gestured vaguely at their filled goblets and then at the statue-still youth, indicating his exclusive status. Or perhaps his history; something the whoremaster took perverse pride in.

Indeed. Thirty silver pieces?

Thirty! Quix was insulted. "Why, the boy is worth triple that. Look at him. Look at that skin, that hair, those eyes. This one’s got all his teeth. He’s clean, he’s healthy. Healthy as a horse. And educated! He can read and write. Why I wouldn’t sell him for—for double that!"

Faro put the decanter down. His hand shook a little. The stranger noted it with his pale eye. A tiny sardonic smile touched his mouth.

Seventy-five pieces of silver, he said urbanely.

I tell you he’s worth his weight in gold. One of my most requested boys. Quix faltered under Faro’s searing gaze. Well, I don’t much use him anymore—

How old is he? the stranger inquired. Nineteen? Twenty? Surely growing long in the tooth for this game? Your customers favor them softer, pinker, still wet behind the ears, no?

From behind the thin walls came shouts and laughter. Someone began to sing loudly and off-key. And from inside the walls, the sound of rats gnawing at the woodwork.

Quix chewed his