Swords & Dark Magic: The New Sword and Sorcery

Lost him. By now the only doorway the man would see was the one that had let him into the alley, and that was Wiggy’s place, where the guards were. So the man would stay there a while, and then go back up into the Merry Ox, and presumably get out and away for good.

It was a narrow escape. Really narrow. And going back to the Merry Ox right now to finish up business for the day was not a good idea. Hersey was going to be upset, Wiggy was, and they wouldn’t be in a bargaining mood, especially if the duke’s men had broken up the furniture.

And especially if the stranger came traipsing back through the bar wanting to be served.

No, it was a good time to be home, and home was two more bends down the Alley.

It was a relief, the solid sound of the door and the bar dropped—thunk!—into its slot. Willem drew his first whole breath.

But looking around at the occupants of the little house, all sitting by the fire, with its scant pot of yesterday’s beans—

Willem raked a hand through his hair. He was sweating. He had run the last block, to make sure there was no way the man could have overtaken him to spot another hole in his defense. And the faces arrayed around that waiting fireside mirrored his, in his disarray.

“Nobody followed me,” he said, first off, with a wave of his hand. “I didn’t lose the spells.” That was second. “Trouble got into the Alley and I’m sure it’s out again, by now.” Unless the duke’s men had stayed to swill down Wiggy’s warm beer and stranded the armored fellow out in the Alley for an hour or two. Neither side was going to be happy in that transaction.

“I brought bread,” he said, and admitted the truth. “I didn’t get down to trading with Hersey.” The usual pay was the butt end and bones of whatever roast or fowl Wiggy had been parsing out to his customers. And it made a big difference in supper. “And Melenne, well, this isn’t one of her best, but it’s solid.” A lot of flour was in that loaf. He took the two pieces of it out of his shirt, which it had blacked with its charred end, and it weighed like two bricks. “We might want to just add that to the beans.”

Two glum faces—Almore and Jezzy—greeted that suggestion; and one kind forgiveness—that was Master Cazimir, who tolerated everything.

“We can toast it, at least,” Jezzy said.

“Looks as if it’s been toasted,” Almore said glumly. “Twice.”

“Now, now,” Master said. “With the beans and all, it should be substantial, and maybe we can conjure up a taste of butter.”

Conjure was it, for sure: a taste, but no substance. Master could still do the butter trick, and occasionally toasted cheese. But Master wasn’t himself lately. He looked weary, and he forgot things, and occasionally his spells went astray…it was no sure thing that the taste Master conjured would be butter, but no one mentioned the last time.

Nobody said anything about the last time.

“I didn’t lose the papers,” Willem said. “I’ll go out early, before daylight. I’ll go back to the tavern. They’ll buy. And I’ll bring back breakfast, with maybe a bit of coin.”

“Coin!”

“Well, maybe a pot I can turn for coin. Ratty’s going to fire the kilns this week. That’s a long firing, for sure. That’s worth a pot.” He took the big knife from the cutting board—cook had run off with Master’s silver, but left the cutlery—and Master, being the kind heart he was, hadn’t cursed it, just contented himself with the knives, which were useful.

A little silver would have been useful, long since. But things were as they were. They survived, in their little pocket of an Alley. Things had nearly gone wrong today, but they’d toast the bread, Master would conjure butter, and they’d have beans to fill out the corners, with water to drink. There was always that.

And after dinner there were lessons. The day was long and they worked at whatever there was to do, carrying wood and water, selling spells where it was safe—a narrow, risky market, that, since spells could give them away: the duke’s wizard, for one, was always sniffing about—

But in the late evening, after dinner, Master would get into his Book, and read to the three of them, and tell them about philosophy and spells and charms. Master lately never remembered where he had stopped—reading the Book was less about reading words than about the symbols in it, and Master explaining how they fit together—but they could scratch a meaning out of it, and Almore in particular kept asking about the fire mark and how to make it longer and longer and steady, and the last three evenings Master had been mostly on topic, which had Almore in a froth of earnestness on fire signs.

“If I can get a fire to hold on,” Almore had said to Willem, “and keep being just as hot, and quit exactly when you want—”

“Ratty’s kiln,” Willem had said, figuring that. Every potter, every cook, every smith in town would want that one…

Which argued that nobody had ever been able to make a charm like that, or it would already be in the Book, wouldn’t it?