Footwizard

by Terry Mancour

  “Sent back?” I asked, confused.

  “Sent back to the Wilderlands, through the wastes. With one bottle of water,” he said, grimly. “The Kasari don’t believe in the death penalty. But if the wastes take you . . .” he shrugged.

  “That’s Nature’s Justice,” nodded Fondaras, somberly. “Many tribes practice exile. Here, that means the wastes. It keeps folk remarkably well-behaved.”

  The journey to Midmarket was actually fairly short, and we arrived by noon. It was an odd little village, behind a sturdy palisade to keep animals at bay but otherwise undefended. There was a single guard at the gate, a middle-aged fellow with a bow and a hunting spear. He waved cheerfully as he welcomed us to the market town, and soon I understood why: he was the local innkeeper, as well. Indeed, there were only about ten houses within the palisade surrounding the market square, and the largest one was an inn with a graciously wide patio that faced the market.

  His name was Malartu, the self-styled Master of Midmarket. He proved to be a Kasari half-breed whose mother haled from Anferny. Despite Travid’s claim, he was all too eager to take the silver we offered for his hospitality. And then he proceeded to interrogate us all about news from the Wilderlands and beyond.

  Malartu and his family were apparently the unofficial arbiters between settlements in Anghysbel. Control of the market was the one bit of institutional leverage that kept each one within its frontiers, both physically and metaphorically. Malartu’s great gift seemed to be negotiation, and he facilitated more than trade to the civilized parts of Anghysbel. He was also the chief source of news for the land.

  The rare traveler from afar could not venture up the road without coming to his village, and the locals came because it was expedient. But Malartu’s profit came not from his infrequently filled inn; it came in knowing enough of everybody’s business to see the business opportunities in everybody. He greeted Fondaras at once, and fondly, likely because the footwizard was a font of news.

  Malartu professed particular honor – and a great deal of excitement – when he learned I was a count, and more particularly his count, by the reckoning of the Five Duchies. I don’t think it particularly impressed him, but he did note it, as well as his introduction to Viscount Tyndal and Countess Alya.

  “Oh, you’ll enjoy meeting the Lords of Anferny, my lord,” he chuckled, as he served us some sweet liquor from a simple glass bottle. “And they, you, I’m sure. Old Lord Kanlan is getting on, but his son and daughter keep the place tidy in his dotage. Good people,” he assured. “A very good family.”

  “I look forward to meeting them – and accepting their oaths of fealty,” I added. “That’s part of my business here.”

  “Business, you say?” the innkeeper asked, surprised. “May I inquire, my lord?”

  “It is manifold. I seek certain rare minerals, for my experiments. You see, Tyndal, Ormar, Taren, Gareth and I are magelords, not just Wilderlords. There have been many changes in the south,” I said, meaningfully. “The Bans on Magic have been broken, and a king rules over Alshar, Castal and Remere. And Wenshar,” I added, knowing how the Wenshari are about such things. “Indeed, he technically rules Anghysbel, as well, and wished me well for my journey. But there are magelords, again. And I am chief of them.”

  “Well, Huin’s holy hoe, my lord, that is a book full of news,” he said, shaking his head in wonder. “We heard about the goblin invasion a few years back and wondered if any man would rule the Wilderlands again.”

  “Count Minalan rules a part of it, known as the Magelaw,” Tyndal informed him. “It was an office given directly to him by the Duke of Alshar for his efforts at protecting the Wilderlands. You are ruled by a wizard, my friend,” he smiled. “Count Minalan the Spellmonger, of the Magelaw Palatinate. A mageland, and one that apparently includes the only nonmagical land. Kind of ironic, really.”

  “The tapestry of history is woven with the threads of irony,” Fondaras assured. “My lord Minalan seeks a fabled bit of yellowed glass, naturally occurring, that has particular magical properties. The last known sample of it allegedly came from here, if the records are accurate.”

  “Oh, the folk of Lakeshire blow glass,” he said, tapping the bottle of spirits, “but you might be thinking about Desert Glass,” he said, thoughtfully. “It’s sometimes yellow. And hard as a diamond, it’s said. You can find it up on the cliffs, sometime, or out in the tundra. Up around Chimney Mountain,” he said, nodding his head to the smoking mountain in the north. “You might want to ask that wizard fellow who went up towards there, a few years ago.”

  “A wizard?” Tyndal asked, surprised.

  “Said he was,” Malartu shrugged. “How would we know? But he wandered in here years ago – right after the invasion, in fact. I saw him for six months around the vale, and then he disappeared up-country. Has some sort of lair up there. Near the dragon,” he explained, calmly.

  “The dragon?” the entire table said, simultaneously. Yes, that’s exactly how it happened.

  “Oh, aye. It came here soon after, too, come to think of it. It perches in a cave in the north and leaves us alone. Why, we’ve barely seen it since it came. It’s very well behaved, for a dragon,” he assured us.

  “There’s a dragon living in your neighborhood, and you don’t mind?” Alya asked, shocked and surprised. She’d seen what a dragon could do to a city. A village like this wouldn’t last a moment.

  “Why should we? It keeps to itself, just as we do. No need to go starting trouble,” he advised. “The wizard says it’s perfectly content to stay peaceful, too, now that it’s free. Fleeing some bad business, away south, he says. We get a few folk like that. Think the wizard did the same. He comes to town every couple of years to trade,” he added. “Always has some interesting fare, too.”

  “This wizard can talk to it?” Tyndal asked, in disbelief. “Without magic?”

  “Oh, he might could be as crazy as a doodlebug in a butter churn, he might,” admitted the innkeeper with a sigh. “But he’s a gentleman, otherwise. Says he talks to the dragon. Says it talks back. Who am I to judge? But if anyone would know about your magical glass, he would. He’s been up there for years, now. Searching, I think. Don’t know for what, but we traditionally get the odd fellow who dives into the bush upcountry, looking for one thing or another. Hells, that’s how I met good old Fondaras,” he laughed. “Although he didn’t have ‘the Wise’ as part of his name back then. For good reason.”

  The old footwizard blushed as he recalled the tale of their encounter. I could sense a story, there. “I was looking for . . . well, it doesn’t really matter what I was looking for,” he decided. “I didn’t find it, and what I found instead was more valuable, in the end.”

  “And what was that?” asked Tyndal.

  “Wisdom,” shrugged the footwizard. “It’s the only thing really worth finding.”

  “Perhaps our reclusive wizard friend has found it as well, then,” I proposed. “What is the name of this mysterious mage?”

  “Rolof,” the innkeeper informed us. “Master Rolof. Polite fellow. Very quiet. Always pays for an ale with silver. I like clients like that.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  The Forgotten Folk

  I find myself amazed at the varied cultures of Anghysbel. For such different peoples to live in relative harmony is impressive enough. But for each culture to thrive as mere forgotten remnants of greater civilizations is a token to the special nature of this place. Anghysbel is filled with forgotten folk.

  from the Expedition Book of Anghysbel,

  Recorded By Minalan the Spellmonger

  Rolof. I knew Rolof.

  He’d been a warmage in the coastal counties when he’d run across Pentandra, on her way west to rescue her friend Minalan, who’d gotten himself in quite the mess. Indeed, he’d been among the first warmagi to hire on as her mercenary, as she’d just gotten off the boat from Remere.

  Lured by the promise of irionite and a handsome signing bonus in silver, he’d fa
ithfully crossed the duchies at break-neck pace with her, picking up further warmagi along the way. He’d served valiantly and cunningly at the Siege of Boval Castle, he’d sworn his oath and gotten his witchstone, he’d stood with me against the Dead God, and he’d escaped with the rest of us. It had been his family’s estate that we’d regrouped at, after the siege.

  Then he’d disappeared. Indeed, no one had laid eyes on Rolof since the day we departed his estate.

  The rest of us had gone on to become great magelords, like Astyral and Azar, or died in battle like Horka and Hestia and poor Delman. But Rolof had missed all of that. For years, no one had seen him. Because, apparently, he’d gone into exile in Anghysbel for no good reason anyone could tell.

  I didn’t know him very well – I’d met him once in Farise, during the war, and had drinks with him, I recalled, but that and the siege was all the time I’d spent with the man. I’d always wondered where he’d gone. You wouldn’t think that the first thing a wizard with a witchstone would do would be to go where he couldn’t use it, but that just meant that there was more to the story than I knew. Like everything about this valley, it was intriguing.

  Malartu was a hospitable host, and dinner that evening was grand and even a bit exotic. I got to try the famous spirit the Tal Alon of the vale made from a particular beet, and I had to admit that it was both delicious and potent. Tyndal promptly ordered six bottles of it from our host, and pledged to buy more before we left. The rooms at the inn were small and comfortable, but most importantly, after spending more than a week camping in the wastes, they were normal.

  The Midmarket Inn only got business a few days a week, as most local folk returned home at the end of the day. It didn’t take very long to get someplace, in a little land like Anghysbel. Malartu was glad for the business, and nearly beamed the next morning as the only real market in Anghysbel convened. It was fascinating to watch, actually, as various delegations arrived that morning.

  First came the Tal Alon of Lakeshire, who had the farthest to travel and the most to carry. Their llama-drawn carts and wagons were laden with early season vegetables, potatoes and turnips, and massive squashes, as well as barrels, bags and baskets of other produce. They were odd-looking, for Tal Alon. They wore clothing, akin to human style, including the felt caps their folk like so much, and a buttoned waistcoat that seemed to be fashionable even when no trousers were worn. They were somewhat taller and less hairy than their southern kin, their faces thinner and their limbs lankier.

  Nor, apparently, did they share the same values as the Tal Alon I was familiar with. Back in Hollyburrow, in Sevendor, the Tal Alon fawn obsequiously over the Karshak and are nearly worshipful toward the Alka Alon. But when the delegation from Lakeshire arrived, they noted the presence of both races in our party but refrained from showing the slightest amount of deference to either. Indeed, they seemed as willing to bargain and cheat Ithalia or Azhguri as they were anyone else.

  They spoke a kind of debased form of Narasi, picked up from the Anferny folk and used as the common tongue to the civilized folk of the vale, but it was filled with words in their own language as well. They used it, loudly, as a barker began squeaking out the values and bargains available this week as the carts were unloaded. As they were spreading out their blankets and displaying their wares in the market, the Anferny caravan arrived.

  Carts and wains piled high with sacks of grain and other goods rolled through the gate accompanied by a dozen merchant men of Anferny. Malartu introduced me to them, and the others who’d come with me. They seemed pleased just to have new people to talk to, regardless of our rank. They were a friendly folk, like most Wilderfolk, though their speech was an even more exaggerated Wilderlands brogue in accent, and sometimes it could be as hard to understand them as the Tal.

  Finally, three wagons drawn by sturdy mules arrived from Grost Kilnuskum – the pretty little mountain toward the center of the valley. Apparently, it was where the Kilnusk clan had settled in exile, as the mountain was riddled with caves and tunnels. The Kilnusk who brought their trade items to market were three in number . . . and they were the biggest three dwarves I’d ever seen.

  Don’t mistake me – they were not tall, though they were taller than the other clans. Kilnusk are wide. They had impressively broad shoulders, and their torsos were twice as wide as a man’s would be in those proportions. Their arms and hands were massive slabs of muscle, though their legs were squat. Their faces were excessively broad, compared to a man’s or even another dwarf, with long aquiline noses and broad mouths. Their hair and beards were a uniform golden color. I don’t mean blonde. I mean they had the metallic sheen of gold in them that was naturally occurring, not ornament. It could be curly, kinky, straight, or braided, but it all shone like a hoard of gold.

  The Kilnusk three traders looked confused, at first, when Suhi and Azhguri introduced themselves and explained their commission to them. Then there was excitement, enough that one of their number went running back to their halls with the news. Before the day was out, a delegation of five Kilnusk arrived at Midmarket.

  One was apparently their prince – a young fellow named Husadri who was dressed more richly than his fellows, and bore both a golden circlet on his brow and a great gold chain with a distinctive round pendant around his neck. He bowed in the dwarven fashion to the two emissaries and welcomed them graciously. Then he led them inside the inn for ale and spirits because that’s what dwarves do.

  The Kilnusk seemed like their fellow clans in much of their custom and speech, but there were distinct differences. They seemed more arrogant and belligerent than either the Karshak or the Dradrien clans, but also more charming, when they wanted to be. Husadri was a vigorous fellow, I saw as he and the others talked and drank . . . and drank. They put away a goodly portion of the ale the Tal Alon had brought to market themselves, it seemed.

  Midmarket was a raucous place after the Prince arrived, but trading continued. It was entertaining and informative to wander through the little market and see the produce of each community.

  While foodstuffs were the province of Anferny and Lakeshire, there were some with both the Kasari and Kilnusk merchants. And while the Kilnusk’s stall was laden with hinges, nails, hasps, plowshares, and other well-crafted stock, there were similar items available in Anferny’s section. In addition to their ironmongery, the Kilnusk also had a selection of bold, brightly colored woolen fabric for sale, a distinctive pattern of crisscrossed lines of different hues in dramatic patterns that seemed popular.

  But I enjoyed the stalls of the Lakeshire Tal the most. I spent a few pennies trying some strange fruits I was curious about, and feeding some of the better bits to Alya, who was equally as intrigued. The beets were actually among the more interesting fare. There was one sort of stark white beet that proved deliciously sweet and tender when cut and eaten raw.

  They had a stunning collection of glassware for sale, including items that would have vied with the best in Vanador, yet were colored in wild patterns and interesting shapes. They had a cart full of cunning woven baskets. They sold small gourds full of their famous sugar beet rum for four pennies each, though you could fill your own mug of watered rum from their barrel for a single penny. They, of course, were happy to throw in a dip into the barrel as part of a bargain on other items. The turnips they sold were huge. There were tubers available I had never seen before. There was one Tal merchant selling nothing but odd-shaped gourds, which they used for pipes as well as cups and bottles.

  There were also a few oddly large carrots in multiple shades. Of course the Tal Alon merchants had to make a show of phallic humor in front of my wife to try to get me to buy them, because that’s what Tal Alon do.

  The folk of Anferny were interesting in a different way. They were, ostensibly, no different from the Wilderfolk I ruled over in the Magelaw, by culture and custom. Indeed, they were fiercely proud of their origins, as they were eager to tell me when my position and office became widely known. They peppered me
with questions about the Wilderlands, after an introduction, and wanted Alya to tell them about the latest styles and court gossip, of which she knew precious little.

  But her tales of Duke Anguin’s sudden restoration, under King Rard, and his marriage to the princess seemed to enchant them – likely because they were not privy to the actual personalities involved. Rardine seemed a bit of a romantic figure, considering her imprisonment at the hands of Korbal the Necromancer, and subsequent rescue by the Duke, himself. We wisely left out her role in the deaths of Lenguin and Enora. No need to sully a perfectly good romantic legend.

  The folk of Anferny were pleasant, if simple, in my estimation. They were as pragmatic as other Wilderfolk despite the fact they lived in one of the most exotic locales in the kingdom. But they also maintained the sense of hospitality and generosity that the Wilderfolk are known for. They were eager to invite us to visit their settlement, which I promised to do presently, and they weren’t nearly as concerned over the fact that they were now ruled by a magelord as most Wilderfolk were. They were just amazed that their ruler would deign to travel to their remote domain and give it some modicum of respect.

  “Aye, we’re the Forgotten Folk,” one old geezer selling grain informed me. “I went South, in my youth, and saw the country with my own eyes. But none I met had ever even heard of Anferny,” he said, indignantly. “They had no idea that the Wilderfolk lived beyond the wastes. ’Twas galling, it was. I was happy to be headed home, at the end of the journey. The Wilderlands is grand, but they are an ignorant people,” he declared. Somewhat unjustly.

  “In their defense, only the Wise were aware that there had been a colony here,” I pointed out. “It’s been seventy years or more since any account of Anghysbel has entered the record. Much has happened, since.”