"Very funny, Sasha. But I'll get there one day. I'll get there."
"That day is today, magic man. You got there. Look." She pointed toward a curling wisp of chimney smoke wafting inland on the gentle sea breeze. "Calimport. It's showtime."
As they walked into the main square in the late afternoon light, Wiglaf noticed how little had changed in the year since he left. Natives of Calimport tended to be simple, good people who believed in an honest day's work: the smiths, cobblers, farmers, and other crafts-people who provided the common sundries and services that so many took for granted. Chief among those who took things for granted was the ruling pasha of the lands of Calimshan, a rotund, sedentary fop who was that rare creation, the ultimate consumer. The pasha never ventured outside his sequestered palace, rather doing his will through hundreds of tiresome bureaucrats and servants. The city-states of his kingdom were constantly squabbling with each other, but out of sight is out of mind, and the great man was always in residence, alternating between legendary periods of sloth and debauchery.
So, as in many seaport communities, of the total population on any given day, true working-class natives were relatively few. The bulk of the inhabitants of Calimport, and the lifeblood of the town's commerce, were sailors, both merchant and navy. Most were outside mercenaries flying the flag of Calimshan for money, many setting foot on dry land for the first time in months-and a bitter few annoyed because fortune had tied them to what they considered a pathetic backwater when they could be enjoying the many temptations of the bustling city of Waterdeep, far to the north on the Sword Coast.
This is not to say that citizens of Calimport were ignorant, naive, or without pride. The kingdom of Calimshan long predated Waterdeep, and locals tolerated the sailors' pining with rolled eyes and secret winks. As the children's rhyme went, "Calimshan was Calimshan when 'deepie was a pup, and Calimshan will be Calimshan when 'deepie's time is up." Though fully gregarious with each other, when it came to strangers, the natives preferred listening to talking. The seafaring transients, along with a constant influx of route merchants who pitched their commercial tents in a very popular common area outside the city, brought frequent news from Waterdeep, Shadowdale, and the rest of the Western Realms. And though Calimporters might not boast the cosmopolitan sophistication of the "so-called City of Splendors," and though they were overwhelmingly human, the sight of elves, gnomes, halflings, even the occasional half-ore swab, was so common in town as to go unnoticed.
In truth, Calimport itself was far more exotic than its visitors. Fashion and architecture were a mishmash of traditional Heartlands work and the splendor of the southern lands of djinn and efreet. Topknots and pointed cupolas were as unremarkable here as jerkins and brick chimneys.
As he neared his old neighborhood, Wiglaf smelled fresh leather and roasting curried meat, heard steel clanking on a busy forge and a saw nosing its way through new lumber. Shouted sea chanteys already blared from the Sheets to the Wind tavern and inn as evening beckoned, and horses whinnied and snorted in the stables.
This, not the pasha's palace, had been Wiglaf's world. When he had lived here, such mundane sensations had itched and gnawed at him like mites he could never reach. But now he almost felt like weeping. It was wonderful to be home.
The local businesses were beginning to close, in one last flurry of heated negotiation as clever customers preyed on the proprietors' weary desire to be done with the day. The streets were gradually emptying, just a few people leaving with their prizes: a saddle, a lamp, an axe, a chair, a spray of blossoms, a large jug of water. The short, middle-aged woman holding the jug took one look at Wiglaf and instantly dropped it to the ground, her face contorted in shock.
"WIGLAF!"
She ran across the street, headed for Wiglaf at full speed. Sasha instantly drew her broadsword and crouched in attack position, inhaling and exhaling sharply through clenched teeth.
"It's okay, Sasha!" Wiglaf barked. "It's my mother!"
Never losing stride, the woman launched into Wiglaf s arms, nearly knocking him down. She smothered him with kisses as a chastened Sasha stepped back and replaced her sword, looking around to see if anyone else had noticed.
"Wiglaf Wiglaf Wiglaf Wiglaf Wiglaf," the woman cried between kisses.
"Hi, Mother," he replied in embarrassment after he finally extricated himself from her embrace and noticed Sasha stifling a giggle.
"It's really you! Oh, my goodness! Why didn't you tell us you were coming home, dear?"
"Because I just decided to come. We'd have been here before you got word."
"Oh, of course you would. Oh, my goodness!" A cloud passed over her face for an instant. "This is a visit, isn't it, son? You didn't… fail in your studies?"
"No indeed, ma'am," interjected Sasha. "He's one of the finest students Master Fenzig has ever instructed."
They both turned toward Sasha-Wiglaf flabbergasted, his mother beaming with pride.
"Oh, and this must be your lady friend we've heard so much about."
"Sasha, may I present Ariel Evertongue, my mother," said Wiglaf, still quite confused. Finest students? Lady friend? Heard about?
"I'm delighted," Sasha purred with a smile and a gracious bow.
"Wiglaf, your father will be so happy to see you. I'm going to run to the-"
"Mother, I'd rather surprise him, all right? Please."
"Well… all right. I'll just… go home and… put something on for dinner. Get the guest room ready, and…" Ariel tweaked his cheek, "your old room."
Wiglaf's face flushed, to Sasha's unending amusement. "Thanks, Mom. We'll be along."
"I'm so pleased to finally meet you," Ariel said to Sasha as she backed away, looked at Wiglaf again, burst into tears of joy, and ran off sobbing, "Oh, my goodness!"
"Moms," said the warrior. "What are you gonna do?"
He turned to her, frowning. "Sasha, what was that all about?" But before she could answer "WIGGY!!!"
"Oh, no," muttered Wiglaf.
A burly, black-bearded man stormed happily out of Sheets to the Wind and toward the pair, holding a tankard in one mammoth hand. He stood easily as tall as Sasha-no, as he approached, even taller, and Sasha's hand instinctively tightened on her sword. More than that-he was huge: the kind of big-boned girth that is produced by heredity but maintained by heavy manual labor. Wiglaf had never seen a giant, but this was the closest he had ever come-and this particular giant was having a party.
"I thought I heard a familiar name," the brute boomed in a resonant basso. His sweat-stained clothing held the filthy remnants of the day's toil, and his full beard the dregs of the late afternoon's libation. He almost reached Wiglaf, then stopped short as his eye fixed on Sasha, like an archer's on a prize deer.
"Well, well, well, what have we here?" he leered.
"Sasha," Wiglaf gestured with his hand, "meet Angrod Swordthumper. We were neighbors here. His father's a blacksmith… and I suppose you stayed in the family business?"
"Aye, little Wiggy, and swords aren't the only thing we like to thump," he grinned, looking Sasha up and down.
She stayed her ground and glared at the behemoth. "One step closer, my extra-large friend, and I'll twist that thump up your-"
"Sasha!" barked Wiglaf.
"No matter, wee Wiggy," said Angrod, planting his palm on Wiglaf's bony shoulder. "Come on in to the Sheets, and let's catch up on old times!" He gestured with his mug hand toward the tavern, tossing a dollop of ale in its direction. "You, too, missy… if you're man enough."
Caught in the huge man's grip, all Wiglaf could do was silently mouth help me at Sasha, who shrugged and followed the buddies inside.
Sheets to the Wind was the kind of place where everybody knew each other's name. The wooden tables and benches, the knife-marked serving counter, the warm brick hearth, all looked like they'd been there for centuries-as did, if truth be told, more than a few of the customers. Behind the bar was Garadel: proprietress, den mother, teetotaler, and vocal journalist to the n
eighborhood for ages. And when she saw Wiglaf, the gray-haired but still sprightly woman knew a fabulous piece of news had just walked in the door. Wiglaf's sudden presence was so stunning to everyone in the Sheets that even the equally stunning Sasha barely registered in their minds.
"Look what the ore's drug in, Garadel!" shouted Angrod, and the place went quiet as a prayer.
"Why, Wiglaf Evertongue," the hostess exclaimed. "I thought you were long gone, with your face buried in a spellbook!"
"Just came back to visit, Carrie," he said.
"And to check on your old mates!" said Angrod. 'Tell me, Wiggy, are the stories we heard about ye true? Pourin' vegetables into the air while your sweet friend there stood and watched?"
Wiglaf turned toward Sasha and flushed. Not a trace of a smile touched her face.
"News travels fast around here, my Wiggy," said Angrod. "We heard all about your big magic show over in Schamedar."
"Shush," hissed Garadel.
"He made himself blind and deaf!" someone said.
"And sent a cow up a tree!" said another.
Wiglaf heaved a giant sigh. It was all true. All his attempts at magic had gone wrong that day; it had been his most mortifying experience. But to know that his embarrassment had reached even the people he'd grown up among was almost more than he could bear.
"Aw, me Wiggy, we're all real glad ye finally came to your senses and made it back home. Besides… we need some magic veggies for dinner!" Peals of derisive laughter filled the Sheets, and tankards clanked on tables.
"First of all," Wiglaf roared for silence, "My name is not Wiggy. You know I hate that, Angrod. You know my name perfectly well, all of you: now use it. Second, sure I've made some mistakes, but I've also been studying this past year, and I have definitely picked up an amazing trick or two." Sasha clenched his arm in warning. "And I'm not through learning, and I'm gonna get even better."
"Third," the big man topped him, "and fourth, and fifth, and sixth, Wig-LAF"-he shouted the last syllable to make it mean something by itself-"you are living in a make-believe world. You're pretending. You're really one of us, lad. You're a worker bee. A grunt. A swab. A mole. Magic-makin's not for the likes of us. It's for fancy-pantses and mama's boys who've never worked up a sweat in their lives."
"You have no idea."
"No, you've none, laddie. You're gonna get it in the face again and again, just like you did that day in Schamedar. You keep trying to pull yourself out of the river the Fates gave ya, you'll keep falling back, and one day you'll lose your grip and drown. You're no big bad magic-user, son. All you are is what your father is, and his father before him, and his father before that. Get used to it, Wiglaf. You're nothing but a baker."
"Enough!" came a voice from behind them. A tall, slim, distinguished-looking man in a white apron stood in the tavern doorway, the apron's color also speckling his face, the front of his tunic and the tips of his fingers. "Wiglaf, your mother's got dinner on."
"Right away, Father," said Wiglaf.
He glared back at the crowd before heading for the door. As Sasha passed Angrod, the hilt of her sword dumped his drink into his lap, but she didn't apologize for any accident, and she was smiling as she walked away.
"I wanted to surprise you," said Wiglaf as Thorin Evertongue walked them home.
"Your mother couldn't keep a secret if it was locked in the pasha's playroom," Thorin said. "You should know that by now." He paused in the street. "Barroom talk is cheap, Son. Welcome home. We're very proud of you."
"We're very proud of you, dear," agreed Ariel exactly twenty minutes later, over a mouth-watering dinner that Wiglaf and Sasha were attacking greedily.
Wiglaf's mother had laid on an assortment of spiced meats-the specialty of the region-lovely steamed vegetables, and best of all, hot fresh bread and cakes from her husband's bakery, one of the oldest continuing establishments in Calimport. After days of bland road rations, the visitors showed their appreciation with their appetites. Wiglaf was glad to see Sasha enjoying herself: she was on her best behavior, and his parents seemed to like her company. It's true, he thought. There's no place like home.
"And I hope you feel that way about us, son," said Thorin. "Those layabouts in the Sheets can talk all they want, but no man ever need apologize for a day of honest labor. And I've never seen any of them turn down the fruits of my ovens, have you?" Wiglaf smirked shyly as his father placed a hand on his shoulder. "You chose another path, and we're happy for you. Face it," the tall man grinned, "you weren't exactly my best apprentice anyway, were you?"
"His mind was somewhere else, dear," offered Ariel cheerfully.
Thorin winked at Sasha. "Well, let's give thanks that today, his mind is here with the rest of him. At home."
Wiglaf raised his tankard of sweet cider, and the rest of the table joined him. "Home," he said with a clink.
The next morning, bellies full and tired bodies rested, Wiglaf took Sasha off to show her the sights, and he headed first for his favorite spot: the seashore.
Wiglaf had spent hours upon hours here as a boy, dreaming of lands even stranger than the Empires of the Sands, of people even more worldly than the sailors whose tales he had doted upon, of heroes and quests unknown and uncountable. The vastness of the panorama made many people feel insignificant, but Wiglaf saw the stunning vista as a window into a wider world, beckoning with opportunity and potential. Here he felt greater, not smaller.
The shoreline was pocked with blowholes, caves, and grottoes carved by the relentless pounding of the Shining Sea, and Wiglaf and Sasha retreated from the warm sun and salt air into one of these hidden refuges. Once inside the grotto, they stopped short at the sight before them.
A gentle three-foot falls fed a still pool of crystalline water, perhaps thirty feet in diameter, surrounded by a navigable ledge. As their eyes grew accustomed to the dim light, they carefully stepped farther around the perimeter to a spot where the water level nearly reached the ledge. Wiglaf walked like a balancing artist, arms outspread, feet in single file, as Sasha dipped her hand into the luxurious pool.
"Now this is my kind of magic," she sighed. "It's warm!" She unclasped her sword and slipped into the water. A few powerful strokes took her to the center of the pool. "Ahh, perfect! Come on in, magic man."
As Wiglaf looked up to watch Sasha swim-for who could resist that sight? — his foot caught on an outcrop and he tripped into the pool, executing a perfect belly flop that reverberated through the cavern. Splashing and sputtering, he flailed for a moment, but then Sasha was there, and Wiglaf was in her arms, something he might well have enjoyed under other circumstances, but his pride was at stake-in fact, just now it was burning at the stake.
"Perfect form, o magic one," she snorted as she dragged him through the water to the ledge.
After he finally found a handhold, he blustered, "I'm, uh, a little rusty in the water. It's hard to navigate in this robe. I landed wrong."
Sasha was incredulous. "Wait, wait. You grew up in Calimport, on the ocean, and you can't stvim?"
He took a breath to answer, then let it out. His belly was aching from the impact, but the terror was gone, and the water was soft and soothing, so near his body temperature that Wiglaf felt like he was floating in air. The ripples from his splat were subsiding and forming a beautiful shimmering glow just below the water line.
What?
"Sasha, there's something down here!" Wiglaf shouted. There, in the rock at knee level, something definitely glistened in the dark pool. He anchored himself to the ledge and reached underwater with one hand to pry it out, and with some effort slid it free.
It was a bottle, the kind you might use to cast a message into the sea; Wiglaf was barely able to hold it with one hand. He couldn't see clearly through its translucent surface, but something inside continued to twinkle softly. It looked as if the bottle was reflecting bright sunlight as he turned it in his hand. He looked up to find the light source, but no sun shone inside the grotto. He placed it care
fully on the ledge and clambered up beside it as Sasha easily pushed out of the pool.
Dripping wet, he held the bottle up before him and reached toward the stopper, but where a cork might normally have been, there was nothing but smooth, sealed glass. In surprise, he jerked his arm back, brushing the bottle out of his other hand. It seemed to hang in midair for an instant, then fell to the rocky ledge and smashed to pieces.
"No!" he screamed. But his distress evaporated when he saw the glowing packet among the shards. Gingerly, he retrieved it and shook off the remaining glass.
It was squared, just larger than a double handful, and solidly packed. A smooth, opaque, milky white material stretched tightly over its contents. Wiglaf noticed that though the back of his hand was still dripping, the packet itself was as dry as a stone in the desert, its surface instantly consuming the moisture off the tips of his fingers as he rubbed. As an experiment, he dipped the tip of the packet into the water and fingered it again. Bone dry, and it left a tiny residue of fine white powder as it again consumed the moisture from his fingertips.
There was clearly something inside, something square-edged and yielding, and another item that was harder and cylindrical. But the strong, thirsty stuff that encased its treasure was completely smooth; Wiglaf tugged and pried, but he couldn't find a seam or clasp to work with.
"No use. It's shut tight." He sighed and tossed up his hands in dismay-to discover his palms and the bottoms of his fingers covered in white powder. Curiously, he rolled it with his fingertips and was fascinated to find that it joined together in little clumps. He brought a bit to his tongue and tasted before Sasha could reach to stop him.
Wiglaf s face brightened. "Flour! It's flour!"
"And it's covered," she said.
Wiglaf looked back at the packet. Its protective outer shell was sloughing off in great clumps now, deconsti-tuting as they watched. Wiglaf made to pick it up, and his hand came back full of flour. He brushed it away, and revealed his new discovery.
Nestled inside the pile of flour was a cream-colored soft lump, a finger-length square, that appeared to have been broken in two, judging from its one jagged edge. There was a small jar full of cloudy, viscous liquid with bits of matter suspended in it. Under both items, Wiglaf found a double-folded piece of parchment covered with strange vertical scribbles: semicircular forms, bisecting lines, strategically placed dots. The dry sheet crackled as Wiglaf unfolded it.
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