by Brian Murphy
Unfortunately, he could not say the same for his masters.
Grantheous and Stynmar had not a sneaky bone in their bodies. They zigged when they should have zagged. They ran into carts, fell over garbage piles, small children, and their own feet. So inept were they that the stranger was forced on more than one occasion to halt so they could catch up. Deeply embarrassed, Fetlin hoped none of his old gang saw him.
The chase, such as it was, led up a lane and down several alleys, a left turn, a right turn, and then forward in the direction of the warehouse district and the docks.
The sinister man paused at the end of a street. He looked to make sure that the three saw him, then dashed across the street to a warehouse, where stood a man in flowing black robes. The man walked up to the black-robed figure. The two conferred, then both of them entered the warehouse, closing the door behind them. The one in the black robe walked with a decided limp.
“That’s… it,” said Stynmar, coming thankfully to a halt. He was gasping for breath, puffing and wheezing. “That… Black Robe… stole… our scroll.”
“Yes,” said Grantheous, gulping air. “We should go… get it back.”
The two looked at each other.
“When… we’ve rested,” said Stynmar, brightening. “Look! A tavern!”
“The very place,” said Grantheous. “We’ll come up with a plan, Fetlin. You stay here and keep watch. Let us know if he leaves.”
The two mages bolted for the tavern. They were in such a hurry that they did not notice the faded wood sign hanging above the entrance, nor did they notice the yellow pine floor stained with beer and blood.
Fetlin noticed. He would have warned them, but he’d been told to stand guard. He could only hope his masters figured it out before it was too late.
The two found a table near the back, as far from the windows as possible.
“What do we do now?” Grantheous asked.
“Have a drink,” said Stynmar. “I can’t think when I’m thirsty. My dear?’” he sang, summoning the serving wench.
“I’m not your dear, old man. What do you two want?” she demanded, placing one hand on her hip. “Prune juice?”
“Beer,” said Grantheous with dignity. “Your best brew.” He pulled out a steel coin, one of the few they had left.
She eyed it suspiciously, then flounced off. She brought back two tall, almost-clean flagons. Chasing and sneaking and intrigue was thirsty work. The mages drank deeply.
“Wonderful stuff,” said Stynmar, chugging his flagon.
“Tastes vaguely familiar,” said Grantheous, wiping the foam from his beard.
“We’ll have another!” both called out.
“So what is our plan of action?” asked Grantheous.
Stynmar polished off his second beer. “We go in after him!”
Grantheous stared down into his own pint, as if the solution to the riddle lay somewhere in its bubbly, amber depths. “But we don’t know for certain that the Black Robe stole it.”
“He fits the description. I say we confront this mystery man and his sinister minion. See what they know.”
“Threaten them, you mean?” said Grantheous.
“He stole from our home,” said Stynmar. “We know he did. We go into the warehouse-”
“The warehouse across yonder?” asked the barmaid, plunking down two more beers.
“Yes,” said Stynmar, looking at the barmaid in doration. “You are the loveliest thing I’ve seen in years, my dear.”
“Bah! They all say that.” But she looked flattered.
“Have you seen a black-robed man sneak into that building?” asked Grantheous.
“Have I seen him? The ugly bastard’s been in here the past three nights.” She twirled a string of hair, coaxing it to curl, and leered at Stynmar.
“What’s he like?” Stynmar asked hesitantly. “Strong? Powerful? Fiery eyes? A dark smile?”
“Hah! He’s older than you two, skinny and bony. I could wring his neck like a chicken.”
“Many thanks, m’lady,” Stynmar said as he slid forth the last of his steel coins.
She grinned, bit on it to make sure it was good, then returned to the bar.
“He is ancient!” said Stynmar.
“And he is weak,” said Grantheous.
“We go in the front!” the two said together.
They raised their glasses and tossed back the remnants of their third pint.
“One more round before we take on the evil man who has stolen from us,” said Grantheous.
“One more round before we take back that which is ours,” said Stynmar.
“Masters!’ cried a voice. “What are you doing?”
“It’s Fetlin,” said Grantheous. “Our trusted apprentice.”
“Have a drink, lad,” said Stynmar. “Great stuff. Almost as good as our own.”
“Masters!” Fetlin groaned. “It is your own!”
The two looked down, looked up, and looked down again. Looked into their empty flagons.
Grantheous raised a ghastly face. “We have just drunk three pints of our own enhanced brew.”
“The strongest of the batch,” Stynmar whispered in horror. “The Minotaur Tickler!”
“What do we do now?” Grantheous asked.
Stynmar rose. He reached out, grabbed the barmaid, and kissed her. “We go in the front!” he said.
Grantheous rose. He, too, kissed the barmaid. “We go in the front!”
“The gods help us,” said Fetlin.
Grantheous and Stynmar walked straight toward the warehouse. Fetlin did his best to stop them, but they were in no mood to listen.
“We will be neither diverted nor discouraged,” said Grantheous.
“With or without magic, we will fight the good fight to the end,” said Stynmar. “We must not allow our recipe to be used for evil.”
“Damn right,” said Grantheous, and hiccuped.
Fetlin checked the small crossbow and loaded his only bolt. Stynmar adjusted his white robes and then aided Grantheous in tucking away his chest-length beard.
“Best not to allow the enemy any advantage,” he said solemnly.
Grantheous and Stynmar stopped in the middle of the street to do a few stretches, limbering up their calves, thighs, and chests.
“Nothing worse than getting a leg cramp in the midst of chasing down evil and pummeling it,” said Grantheous.
Fetlin could have sat down and wept.
Exercises completed, the two strolled, with strides of importance and purpose, the final distance to the warehouse.
“Nothing can overcome the stuff our courage is made of,” announced Stynmar.
“Hops and barley,” Fetlin muttered.
The two stopped outside the warehouse door. They turned to one another and shook hands.
“We will win today,” said Grantheous, exuding confidence.
Cool and levelheaded, Stynmar agreed. “Even if we die, we will win, for this day we fight Evil.”
“Evil that is the bane of the existence of mankind-”
“Oh, get on with it, sirs!” Fetlin pleaded.
Stynmar took a few steps back and then, putting his shoulder into it, charged the door at ramming speed, just as the sinister man opened it.
Stynmar was almost halfway across the warehouse before he could stop himself. Turning, regaining his dignity, he looked about to see that he was standing in a dusty warehouse confronting a black-cloaked old man who was laughing at him.
The old man had a face that hadn’t laughed at much, seemingly-a face that was so wrinkled that his wide open, laughing mouth broke the face into mismatched laughing pieces. Stynmar closed his eyes, hoping that if he opened them again, the old man would turn out to be an illusion.
That didn’t happen.
“Gerald!” Stynmar gasped. He sidled over to stand beside Grantheous.
Grantheous didn’t say anything at all. He simply stared, his mouth open.
“Since when do you call your s
uperiors by their first name?” growled Gerald, scowling. “You will call me Archmagus, as you used to do.”
“Yes, Archmagus,” said the two mages, cringing.
“We heard your were dead, Archmagus,” Stynmar added.
“You sound disappointed,” replied Gerald.
“Well, maybe a little,” Grantheous admitted.
“No, no,” Stynmar babbled, stepping on his friend’s foot. “We’re glad you weren’t eaten by ogres-”
“Oh, shut up,” snapped the Archmagus. He waggled a bony finger at them. “You two have been disobedient. Broken all the rules. Using magic to sell beer!” He snorted. “Come now. Speak up and be quick about it. I am not getting any younger.”
“You stole our scroll!” Grantheous cried.
Gerald scowled. “Of course.”
“But why?” Stynmar wailed. “We worked over a year on that recipe.”
Gerald shook his head. “I don’t care if you worked a hundred years on it. It was foolish, and I will not abide by such behavior.” He adjusted his robes and, almost as if it were an afterthought, said, “And tell that scrawny apprentice to come out from his hiding place.”
Fetlin crawled through a side window and stood there, crossbow in hand, feeling foolish.
Grantheous twisted his beard and shuffled his feet. His voice rose an octave. He might have been the young student again. “Master, begging your pardon, but what we do with our magic does not concern you.”
“We want our scroll back. Now,” said Stynmar with a blustering attempt at defiance that was spoiled by the fact that he kept trying to suck in his sagging gut.
“Please,” Grantheous added.
“You must give them back the scroll, sir,” said Fetlin sternly, and he raised the crossbow.
Archmagus Gerald laughed. He hacked and wheezed until he nearly fell over. “Apprentice,” he said to Fetlin, “the scroll is gone.”
“What?” Simultaneous gasps of horror and shock.
Gerald wagged his finger again. “I tried to instill certain lessons into these two over-grown children, but all my teachings seem to have fallen on deaf ears. I should have held them back, to be honest.”
Grantheous and Stynmar bowed their heads and shuffled their feet.
“That scroll was their work and my work,” said Fetlin. “You have no right to it, Black Robe!”
“Black robe?” Gerald glanced down at his cloak. “Oh, this. Nonsense.” He whipped off the black cloak to reveal dingy white robes. “I have every right to the scroll, Apprentice. I taught Grantheous and Stynmar everything they knew when they were no older than you.”
“But that doesn’t make you responsible for everything they do!” Fetlin protested.
“You’d think so,” said Gerald with a sigh. “But life doesn’t work that way. If they were to slay a dragon or solve the riddle of the dying magic, they would be proclaimed heroes. Would anyone say of them, ‘Heroes taught by the great Archmagus Gerald himself? No. Not a word. But if they had gone through with this dunderheaded plan, all you would hear would be: ‘What do you expect? They were taught by that supreme idiot, Archmagus Gerald.’ “
Grantheous and Stynmar both protested, but a cold look from Master Gerald sealed their lips.
“I told them this Immortal Truth many years ago, and I will repeat it again, for apparently these two are slow at learning. Apprentice,” he said to Fetlin, “you listen, too, and remember. Magic is serious business to be pursued by serious-minded people. The last thing a proper wizard should do is go about magicking beer. And as for you”-he pointed a bony finger at Srynmar- “keep to the courage of your convictions. You knew this was wrong, yet you let yourself be persuaded by a mixture of self-righteous claptrap and filthy lucre.
“And you.” The bony finger went to Grantheous. “ ‘I’ll die when the magic dies,’ he whines. Bosh! You’ve other talents, inner resources. I can’t think what they are, right now, but you must have something.”
Grantheous and Stynmar hung their heads.
“Wh-what did you do with our scroll, Archmagus?” Stynmar asked meekly. “Did you rip it up or burn it?”
Gerald shook his head. “No, no. I told you that I wanted to teach you a lesson.” He folded his arms across his chest. “I cast the spell.”
“Where? On what?” The two gasped.
“The Palanthian City well, of course,” said Archmagus Gerald. He pointed to the window. “And it seems to be having quite an interesting effect.”
That day, in the city of Palanthas, something strange and wonderful began to happen. It was as if the gods had cast down a fiery mountain of revelry, a Cataclysm of Hope, directly on the city of Palanthas.
And none could escape its effects.
Children ran through the streets, giggling and playing. Adults ran through the streets, laughing and cavorting with the children. The rich decided that they owned too much for their own good and opened their doors to the poor. Gnomes made sense. Render emptied their pouches. Innkeepers erased debts. Politicians spoke the truth. Dark Knights of Neraka played hopscotch. Everyone began dancing in the streets. Mages forgot that their beloved Art was dying and joined in the celebration. With what little power they had left, they tossed magical fireworks into the air to mark the festivities with a shower of blue and gold sparks and images of water lilies and lilacs.
And while everyone was in the streets having the time of their lives, the members of the Thieves Guild sneaked into the empty houses-but only to return items they’d stolen in the past with little notes of apology.
The two mages and their apprentice wended their way through the mob and finally, after much hugging and kissing and pounding on the back, Grantheous, Stynmar, and Fetlin reached their house. Racing inside, they bolted the door and, then and there, took a solemn vow to destroy their notes for their recipe for hope, distilled into the perfect pint.
The frenzied celebration ended at dawn. People rubbed their eyes and went to their beds. When they awoke, a day and a night later, they went back to doing what they had been doing, but each knew in his or her heart, that for a brief moment in time there had been true peace in their world. It had left them with heartburn and sore feet, but also a more kindly feeling toward their fellow men, though no one could remember a thing about what had happened.
No one except for two aging mages and their apprentice, who, after witnessing the effects of their best intentions, resolutely refused to drink anything other than plain milk from then on.
Just in case.
The End
Nancy Varian Berberick
Be careful, Jai,” said the librarian, Annalisse Elmgrace.
Jai Windwild bent low over the worktable to see the parchment sheets better. Three were stuck together. He suspected they were held fast by the beginnings of mildew.
With great difficulty he bent to one knee so his eye was level with the table, but he held his position only for a moment. Gripping the edge of the table and gritting his teeth, he quickly levered himself up again. His shattered left kneecap had long since healed, or at least the bones had grown together again, though they had never knitted well. Sometimes, Jai felt the bones grinding against each other, the pain like lightning shooting through him. It had been his bad luck to break his kneecap in the dark years after the gods had left and taken magic with them. There had been no one to heal him, mage or cleric or sorcerer.
“Be careful, Jai,” Annalisse murmured.
He said, “Yes, madam,” but didn’t look around. The librarian cared only about her books, scrolls, and manuscripts. Fond though she might be of him, her best apprentice, her true love was for the Library of Quali-nost. This Jai knew, and he didn’t resent it.
“Ah, excellent,” she said, as he slipped one page from atop another. “These pages are among our most precious treasures.”
Jai waited, hiding a smile, for he knew what she’d say next. He’d heard those words a hundred times.
“We can’t forget who we were, Jai. It’s how we
know who we are, and how we can guess who we will be.”
He said, “Yes, madam,” as he had a hundred times. Hearing her dictum over and again did not lessen his belief in the truth of it.
Head bent, Jai returned to his work, for another thing the librarian liked to say was this: “Results. I care about results, and the only result that matters to me, or should ever matter to you, is that we preserve our Library in the best order.”
They did that, the Lady and all her scribes and cat-alogers and recorders and preservationists. Their devotion was to the Library of Qualinost, heart and soul, and each had sworn the quiet vow required upon entering the service of the Lady Librarian: There will always be a Library; there will always be History’s Hoard in Qualinost.
There would always be, Jai thought, his fingers teasing the edges of the parchments, looking for a way between. Yet the collection was not growing. Few new books came to the library these days. Annalisse and her staff tended what books they had in their collection. They repaired old manuscripts, brightened faded illuminations, deepened the ink of an ancient script, tried to maintain the various rooms at the proper temperature and level of humidity to keep safe manuscripts that were penned as long ago as the Age of Dreams. In the days before the Dragon Purge that had been easier to do. Then there had been elven mages to weave spells to keep the climate of the great Library of Qualinost at perfect balance.
No matter the difficulty, this was the dearest work of Jai’s heart, this careful preservation of a race’s history in the face of war and a dragon’s oppression. Most especially because of those things. Some elves stood against the dragon’s overlord-some with their bodies armed in secret or, as Jai’s own parents, standing as small links in a slender chain of shadowy resistance. Jai served in his own way, safeguarding the records of ancient elven heritage, the history to stand forever as a light against the darkness. In these days after gods, in these dragon days when House Cleric did not send its sons and daughters to temples but to libraries, Jai did holy work.