Zed frowned. “What sort of challenge?”
Makiva waved her dagger in a wide arc around the tent. “If you can pick out which charm is yours, you can have it for free.”
Zed’s mouth fell open. He looked up and gazed across a sea of wooden tokens, all hanging from bits of twine. There must have been hundreds of them in the murky tent. Perhaps more.
“And what if I can’t?” he asked nervously. In the stories, a witch’s challenge always came with a dire cost for losing.
“Oh, it’s nothing. A trifle, really.” Makiva’s voice fell to a whisper. “You must only…give me a piece of your soul.”
Zed gasped, his eyes falling back to the charm seller.
The mystic burst into a fit of laughter, resting the dagger on her stomach—a little dangerously, Zed thought.
“Peasants are so easy to scare,” she said. “No, no. If you guess incorrectly, then you’ll just have to pay the full price. One silver piece. But you get only one guess.”
Zed nodded, breaking into a nervous grin. He glanced at the ceiling again for a long moment, thinking. There were as many charms here as there were stars. Picking one out was impossible. Finally he looked back down at Makiva.
“Is that it?” he said, pointing to the charm in the mystic’s hand—the one she was currently carving.
The woman looked up from her work, and her mouth spread into a wide smile.
“Why, yes, it is,” she said softly. She set the charm down on the table and pushed it across to him.
Zed couldn’t believe it. It had been a wild guess. He picked up the charm and held it close to his face. A small creature was carved from the wood, its bushy tail wrapped around its body. A loop had been whittled into the top of the charm, so a length of twine or string could be pulled through.
“This one is called a fox,” the charm seller said. “Clever and agile, with vivid red fur. Foxes are nervous but playful little creatures. A bit like you, I think. People once believed they had magical gifts.”
Zed looked up at Makiva. “It’s lovely,” he said. “Are you sure?”
The charm seller nodded. “We’ll say the generous young Lord Guerra paid for you.”
Zed tucked the charm into his trousers. He must have been grinning like a loon. “Thank you so much,” he said.
“I have something else for you,” Makiva added, searching beneath the tablecloth. “An extra prize for your clever guess.” She withdrew her hand and held it out over the table, her fingers clasped tightly around something inside. Slowly, she unfurled her palm.
Resting there was a length of silvery chain. Even in the dim space, the cord glistened with a light all its own—more jewel than metal. Every link was a tiny work of art, joined together into a spiraling string of masterpieces.
“It’s…” Zed started. But to call it beautiful wouldn’t do the thing justice. There was something about the chain that spoke to him. It was unlike anything he’d ever seen, and yet it filled him with a familiar sense of yearning.
His eyes rose from the glittering cord to Makiva. “It must be worth a fortune.”
“It’s priceless, in fact,” Makiva said. “Though I’m sure the Merchants Guild would give it their best try. You remind me of its last owner, Zed. How long ago was it that the elves sent rangers to our city?”
“It was…it was twelve years ago,” Zed answered softly.
“So it was,” Makiva agreed with a slow smile.
There were no elves in Freestone. No full-blooded elves, anyway. They had their own city—Llethanyl—with their own walls and customs and guilds, or whatever elves called them.
Zed glanced once more at the chain, cupped in the charm seller’s dark hand like the moon reflected in a midnight pool.
“I can’t take this,” he said. “It’s too much.”
Makiva smiled a bit coyly. “You’re the one person in this city who should have it, I think. The chain is made of a metal called mythril—a favorite of the elves. It’s less delicate than it looks, I promise. But if it will convince you, then I’ll accept a delayed payment. Once you’ve made your way, we can speak again.”
Zed considered the offer. “Thank you,” he said, taking the cord from Makiva’s outstretched hand. He slipped the end through the loop in the fox charm and was pleased with how the wooden pendant looked on such a fine chain.
Outside, the first bell struck from the Golden Way Temple, signaling the official start of the morning.
“I should get going,” Zed said. “My mom’ll worry if she can’t find me in the square. And I’m sure you’ve got more people waiting.”
Makiva sighed in mock exasperation. “I’m sure. Good-bye, Zed. Keep your chin up today and your ears held high.”
Zed laughed and nodded, then swept out of the tent to go find his destiny.
Brock had promised his father that he’d stay out of trouble on this of all mornings. As his parents never tired of reminding him, the Guildculling was the most important day of a young person’s life. He’d worked hard to prove himself worthy of the Merchants Guild—lost countless summer days to sorting applications from fur traders, leatherworkers, and smiths. Worse were the long nights spent solving math problems by candlelight, until the ache in his eyes matched the ache in his fingers. Yet even after all that, there were no guarantees.
So after breakfast his father had held out a silver coin, and when Brock reached for it his father had gripped his hand, pressing the silver to Brock’s palm and holding tight.
“No fights,” he’d said. “No trouble. No mischief.”
Brock had pointed at himself with his free hand as if to say, Who, me?
“Ah, yes. The portrait of the dutiful son.” His father glowered. “I want to hear you say it: No mischief.” He shrugged. “Or no coin.”
Brock had been learning from merchant lords long enough to recognize a bad deal when he heard one. But then he thought of his best friend, Zed, and the promise he’d made him.
He resolved to stop making promises. Right after this one.
“No mischief,” he told his father. “You have a deal.”
Now, standing outside the charm seller’s tent, that promise weighed on him like an iron breastplate. Because someone needed to teach little Lord Micah Guerra a lesson.
Brock listened at the tent’s flap long enough to confirm his initial impression of the noble’s character. Then, when it was clear that Micah would step outside at any moment, Brock slid over to the larger boy’s horse and grabbed its reins.
The horse regarded him impassively, and Brock, seeing his reflection in the beast’s big brown eyes, took the opportunity to straighten out his tunic. “Play along, would you? There’s a carrot in it for you.”
“Oy!” called Micah’s bullish voice. “Hands off my horse.”
“I beg pardon, Messere,” Brock said, smiling shyly and averting his eyes. “He looked fit to bolt. I thought to hold him until you returned.”
“A broken horse doesn’t ‘bolt,’ you idiot.”
Brock swallowed his retort. He kept his mouth shut and focused on the role he was playing: submissive and timid. He held the reins up and kept his eyes down. As he’d expected, Micah wasn’t content to simply accept the reins from him. He took the opportunity to shove his shoulder against Brock as well.
It hurt. In fact, it felt like being run into by an anvil.
Even so, Brock smiled with satisfaction as he watched the noble saddle up and trot away to the sound of the morning bell.
Zed appeared some moments later, stepping from the tent. His ears were bright pink, which meant that the woman had been particularly nice to him…or particularly mean. Or that he’d said or done something to embarrass himself, or perhaps simply that he was remembering something embarrassing that had happened years before. Zed was horrible at hiding his emotions and had no talent for bluffing; he’d make a terrible merchant.
Brock hoped fiercely that he’d make a decent mage.
“How’d it go in there?”
he asked.
Zed held up his new charm. “It’s even better than I’d hoped. It’s called a fox.”
The charm itself looked like a bushy-tailed dog. What really drew Brock’s eye was the glistening chain, not silver but something like it. “Aw, you got an accessory for yours? No fair.” Brock opened his palm to show the charm he’d lifted off of Micah Guerra. “All I got was this ugly thing.”
Zed gasped. “Brock, you didn’t!” But then he laughed, which Brock took as encouragement.
“What do you think?” he asked. “Am I Stone Sons material now?”
“If the Stone Sons want you, we’ll know that thing’s magic—extremely powerful magic.”
“Aw, I don’t know.” Brock flexed his paltry bicep. “I’ve won a fight or two.”
Zed rolled his eyes. “You’ve outrun a fight or two. It’s not the same thing.”
“Well, it isn’t losing. But seriously.” Brock frowned at the wooden carving. “Is there anything to these? Can you sense mana coming off them?”
“Not exactly,” Zed said. He took a tentative sniff at his wooden fox. “Supposedly magic smells minty.”
Brock licked his own charm. “Mine is more wood than mint, I think. But also more wood than woodland creature, which I’m happy for.”
“Gross,” said Zed. “Oh! I almost forgot.” He produced a silver coin. “You can get those shoes after all.”
Brock grinned. “Charmed the charm seller, eh?” He slapped his friend on the back. “I know just the thing to spend this silver on.”
“It’s shoes, right?” said Zed warily. “I’m pretty sure it’s supposed to be shoes.”
“Not shoes. I’ll be right back.” And Brock dashed across the square, noting that the space was already filling with spectators. On the easternmost side, beneath the rising sun, members of the Works Guild were setting up the stage as a prim steward looked on. “Save me a spot!” he called back over his shoulder.
Brock burst into one of the newer tents on the square—the pale green tent of the town’s very first perfumer. Brock’s father had been the one to approve the man’s license, and he’d told Brock all about the strange alchemy the man practiced, mixing oils and herbs and powders to trick the nose and summon scents unbidden from the air.
“Can you make a man smell of mint?” Brock asked.
The perfumer bowed his head in greeting. “Indeed I can, Messere,” the man said. “I have the materials at hand.”
“Excellent,” Brock said, playing a new role now—that of a young man with money to spare. “I’d like my friend to absolutely reek of mint within five minutes.”
It wasn’t that Brock had no faith in the fox charm. But there was the luck you got, and the luck you made, and a smart man bet only on the latter.
He watched the perfumer at work—first with mortar and pestle, then fire and glass—and he felt a dawning sense of awe. The man’s actions were careful and precise, but quick, and it was immediately obvious to Brock that he had been honing his craft a long time.
Brock leaned over and sniffed as the mixture began to bubble in its flask.
“It doesn’t smell right.”
“Not yet,” the man said. “But you’ll see.” He steepled his fingers, never taking his eyes off his project. “I have to trick the contents into becoming something new. Here.” He withdrew a stoppered vial from his pocket and handed it across the counter to Brock. “Smell.”
Brock took the vial and considered the liquid within, a dull yellow the shade of an especially weak tea. But when he unstoppered the vial and took a sniff, he was reminded of something else entirely.
“It smells like breakfast,” he said. His mouth flooded with saliva. “Like the best breakfast I ever had.”
The perfumer smiled. “Maple and cinnamon. Or the illusion of them, anyway.” His eyes flicked to Brock for a brief moment. “You definitely don’t want to drink that, whatever your senses are telling you.”
“Amazing,” Brock said, and he meant it. This was what he loved most about the merchant quarter, where intown and outtown met and those from all walks of life mingled freely. Each time he thought he’d seen everything the city had to offer, some artisan came up with something entirely new. And once Brock had taken his place in the Merchants Guild, he’d have a hand in ensuring that the best of them—the true artists in their midst—found the success they deserved.
After all, a perfumer’s wares would never be as in demand as wheat or salt or wool. But Brock had the unshakable sense that Freestone would be a bleaker place without perfumers and glassworkers and even strange old Makiva and her wooden charms.
He watched the boiling mixture as intently as the perfumer did, wondering if there would be some outward sign of change to herald its completion. He paid no attention to the sound of the tent flap opening behind him.
But he took immediate notice of the sound of his father’s frustrated sigh.
“There you are,” Brock’s father said.
Brock paled, turning slowly. He felt his stomach tighten, the excitement of the previous minute swept away in an instant, already forgotten.
“Father. I can explain.”
Brock steeled himself for a lecture, but his father smiled and placed a hand on his shoulder. “Here’s my little rogue, never where he’s supposed to be,” he said with an insincere smile. His grip was the grip of a drowning man, slick with sweat.
Something was wrong.
Two figures followed his father into the tent. The first was a plump, pale man with thin lips, dressed in black finery from head to toe. One pace behind him was a woman, a full head taller than him, in the drab gray uniform of the Servants Guild.
Brock recognized the man immediately. Everyone in Freestone knew Lord Borace Quilby by sight. Not only was he the head of the Merchants Guild—rumor had it he was richer than the king himself.
But the first to speak was the perfumer. “It—it’s an honor to have you in my humble shop,” he said, bowing his head much lower than he had for Brock.
“Thank you,” Quilby said. “Your hospitality is greatly appreciated and will be remembered. Now, we would be all the more grateful if you would leave us for a moment.”
“Of—of course,” the merchant said, and he walked to the tent’s flap, head still bowed, not sparing a glance for the concoction he had watched so intently before. “I’ll stand outside and ensure you’re not disturbed,” he said before ducking out. Brock almost thought he seemed to be addressing the woman, although she was clearly Quilby’s servant.
He considered her once more. Drab from head to toe, except for an immaculate brooch at her chest in the shape of a spider’s web.
“Brock,” his father said, turning to stand beside him, “this is Lord Quilby, guildmaster of the Merchants Guild. Lord Quilby, I present my son, Brock Dunderfel.”
Brock’s rearing kicked in then, and he dropped smoothly to one knee. “Lord Quilby,” he said.
“Up, up, my boy,” Quilby insisted, and Brock rose to greet his appraising look. “If these knees weren’t so old, I should be the one bowing to you. I’ve heard such things about you. Such a promising applicant!”
For once Brock wished he blushed as easily as Zed. He suspected a blush would be endearing at the moment, proof of some humility. But Brock didn’t feel especially humble on this point. He was a promising applicant; it was a simple truth.
He gave a polite smile, though. “Thank you, my lord.”
Quilby’s tongue darted, moistening his small gash of a mouth. “Yes, well. I’m quite glad to have tracked you down before the ceremony. It’s very rare, you understand—quite against protocol for a guild to announce its intentions beforehand. Not least because the knights or mages might yet swoop in to claim you. Isn’t that right?”
Brock shrugged playfully. “I don’t have any natural talent for magic. As for being knighted, well, I’m told that lifting a sword is a requirement.”
Quilby squirmed a bit, as if unsure how to respond to levity, a
nd Brock sensed his father tensing up at his side.
“What I mean to say, my lord,” added Brock, “is that I believe I was born to join the Merchants Guild. I’ve worked very hard for this day, following the honorable example of my parents. It’s all I’ve ever wanted.” He clasped his hands before him, and caught the faintest hint of mint wafting his way from the glassworks at his back.
“Good, good,” Quilby said. He turned partially toward the woman standing at his shoulder and gave her a small smile. “Young Messere Dunderfel, in truth it is not the knights nor the mages that concern me this day, but another guild entirely. Tell me, what do you know of the Sea of Stars?”
“The Adventurers Guild?” Brock fought the urge to shrug again. “I know very little.”
“Aye,” said Quilby. “And therein lies the problem.” He licked his thin lips once more, just a flash of tongue, like a frog after a fly. “Young Messere, here is what you should know about the so-called Adventurers Guild. It is made up of the fey-brained and fiend-touched. Nobody knows precisely how many they number, but they are heavily armed. The guild’s leader has proven quite intractable, putting her own concerns above the laws of king and nature, to the point that many believe the guild now endangers the very community it was formed to protect.” The tongue darted, pink on white. “They also have a habit in recent years of drafting the most promising apprentices from other guilds.”
“Drafting…?” Brock said, drawing out the word, taking the opportunity to break eye contact with Quilby and glance at the woman. She was watching him, but her expression gave away nothing.
“By ancient writ, and in recognition of the danger the guild faces in the name of Freestone, the Sea of Stars has the authority to forcibly recruit one apprentice each year from any other guild. Traditionally it is a right they don’t exercise—they’ve long been content to fill their ranks with criminals, outcasts, and orphans. But that has changed under the leadership of the Basilisk.”
The Adventurers Guild Page 2