Vignettes II

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Magister Tamash Tonda, Court Mage of Canlemere, sat drinking a mug of beer, crunching on salted roasted almonds and thinking about his family. Not the one of widowed mother, sister, cousins and nephews back in Rothil, but the clear and present one. Having an elf lady over four centuries old (and court mage to three previous kings) for a mother-in-law was an experience few men could boast of. Most woud rather keep silent.

Whoever next, mused Tamash. This morning Marcille told him merrily that Fvirlitz Buddleschemp was arriving with his entourage and he, Tamash, turned out sadly unprepared, ignorant who might that gnome be. Doctor Buddleschemp, she told, is the greatest medical specialist to ever set foot on the Northern continent for as long as Mother remembered. Tamash said everybody and their dog were coming to Rhelym once he’d started inviting them to the tower, giving them a polite conversation, snacks, drinks and lucrative offers — whoever next, the world’s greatest shoemaker? Pastry cook? Hamster breeder? He’d politely turned way more than one insane inventor, a few outright crooks, a man on a divine mission, a demon summoner and the alchemist who’d discovered the elixir of immortality. At least that one took his concoction and survived. He did not invite any doctors, thank you very much, and if Vialenne did…

Then Marcille told him to not involve Mother, because it was her stepfather’s idea. They both looked each other in the eyes, sighed and shrugged shoulders. Some of Mother’s choices were decidedly unconventional.

Like husbands.

But she was working to make Canlemere a better place. That Fvirlitz guy might do good to the folk of Canlemere, Holy Guardians only knew the squalor of the city slums and the village poor. Vialenne did for sure, owning a serious part of the capital’s real estate. A new vaccine that could save a child per family? A new hospital?

It was a formal meeting like he’d been at before. Gnome mages politely talking in Common because a tallman Magister most probably knows gnomish — very instructive, rife with opportunities and if Tamash wanted that kind of meetings he’d have stayed at the Academy.

Two gnomes were enough (Lady Vialenne did not grace the gathering) - soon Dr. Fvirlitz Buddleschemp and Mr. Tenplo Skoppeldraigh, Tamash’s gnome father-in-law, mounted their respective dogmatic horses and set to breaking spears in person, as if they haven’t been corresponding for years.

The Doctor, it seemed, was persuaded of plenipotential mutability of the lower life, while the natural philosopher supported the older idea that muishi, the tiny disease-causing and sundry animalculae were just as specific as horses and cows. Tamash formed a moderately low opinion of both and felt relieved when his charge for the day finally arrived.

The Doctor brought along a healer and midwife, a respectable lady already off on a call, and an assistant. Adept Jarmo Delehkan finally received his practice permit from the new Tax Registry office. Tamash pitied the man’s lost time but liked seeing at least one of his projects, the purely pen-and-paper magical organization built on the grave of Querian Guild working smoothly and indiscriminately.

The mage was a young, dangly, skeletally gaunt tallman, freckled pale with long reddish hair tied back. Tamash was asked to show him around and entertain at the palace Mage Tower, by way of a holiday before patients flock in. Jarmo looked mysterious and menacing to lay folk — blood red robes decorated with embroidered symbols, dangling pendants, meltdown gems and very real surgical instruments displayed gleaming in an open case on his belt. He talked eagerly, probably glad to be rid of his employer for a while. After a brief tour and explanation of the capital they were at the palace.

As always, Tamash presented his treats cupboard, he’d been calling it the “Mage Free Tavern” to himself lately. Anyway, both had an appetite, and when the host asked the guest if he could serve him anything, Jarmo looked down and asked if he could have some redwood. Just a bit. He had no time to himself with the Doctor, and the Doctor disapproved strongly.

“Another one” - thought Tamash, but this looked more like a managed case.

- Which way?

- Brewed. In spiced wine, if you can be troubled, Magister Tonda.

Magister Tonda could. With spices at the ready and redwood leaf in a handy compartment, he brewed a mug and set it before the Adept - with another of just mulled wine for himself.

He could have cheated in quite a few ways, from sleight of hand with the leaves to using a trick jug standing at the ready in the cupboard. He knew at least two spells to isolate the poison (three hundred thousands dead gods, it counted as poison…) or prevent its effect, or just drink up. Tamash Tonda did nothing, for he could see his companion cared only for his fix.

Tamash saw Jarmo cool his mug with a surreptitious spell to gulp it down faster, mumbling thanks and a not very convincing praise of Tamash. Soon professional banter accompanied by plenty of redwood-mulled wine and savory pies got the best out of him. A driven, dedicated, one-track professional with a love of what he did. People were lucky Adept Jarmo loved healing them.

- And, you understand, Colleague, he cannot concentrate on a spell and operate at once. Even on other races - ‘course, Doctor Buddleschemp would never risk using magic on a gnome in case things go wrong, but in general! We have developed a list of things to do for a full-out magically assisted surgery, may I elaborate?

Tamash replied “By all means” and after asking if he should brew more leafed wine, pointed the guest to another cupboard filled with choice art supplies.

Soon, a lead flashed across paper in Jarmo’s surgically trained fingers, drawing a scheme of things.

First, a long while before operating, they viewed the patient’s internals, planning the intervention and approach.

Then, enchanted the instruments for durability and sharpness.

- We use instruments that look like spiderwebs! And diamond hair instead of knives and saws wherever possible!

- I used the same for shipbuilding, Colleague.

- Cheers to you, Magister Tonda! Great minds think…

Jarmo downed his mug in confusion, almost choked, stuffed his mouth with candied berries and finally calmed down to continue. Tamash imagined the process - he could have visited their operation theatre anytime soon, but was not interested. Suffering in any way, even with the best of magic. Let Notran, the royal physicker, stand around with a mop and bucket, he’d be obliged.

Next, Jarmo went on, they, that is, he, cast minor death on the operating room, the patient, instruments, bandages - everything. Usual sleep well before starting - and to keep the patient asleep a while later. Stupefy or Arhold’s Greater Dream as the main painkiller. Common paralysis for relaxation. Light in a dozen points over the table, bright and shadow-free.

- We work dry! Hemostasis before the first incision is made! If the patient’s heart decides to take a rest, a minor discharge at coarse-blue. Fereene’s Boneweld if it’s fixing a fracture or we have to cut through bone! But it’s all just magic, Magister, - the Adept’s eyes shone with pride and leaf, - these are the tools!

He opened an inner compartment of his belt case. It looked complicated, a device with fine moving rings and rods, but seemed to work - grabbing a leek, Jarmo showed how it was inserted into a small incision on the wall of a blood vessel and pressed together loose ends to heal them into a working tube again. To save limbs and organs and the very heart.

This, Magister Tonda conceded, was the finest work in metal he’d ever seen, gnome, elf, or whatever. A sort of chain that could twist itself to form two sliding rings half an inch across or less than a line depending on the guide wire set into it.

- You know what is the most important, Colleague Magister?

- Pray tell.

- Another look through the body. In case some tools or cotton balls or something got forgotten.

- Excellent. I will prepare all the recommendations, invitations and so on. Some members of our Mage Club must be interested, too. You’re invited… may I extend my hospitality and offer you to stay there? Saves on inn expenses.

- Most… welcome.

He was drooping by now - a solid dose of redwood does that sometimes. Mumbling apologies, he let himself be shown the toilet, and when Colleague Delehkan shuffled out, Tamash guided him to sleep the drug off on a couch. Maybe his employer finishes the argument with father-in-law, and goes looking for the assistant, may the Guardians judge the poor soul.

Tamash thought he knew exactly what helped in addiction cases.

Going down to the dungeon, dying and getting raised.

What Tamash had planned for the next dungeon trip (Marcille and Lana again, someone has to mind the court) was a different kind of medicine. Checking that the guest breathed well, he took a draft from his table, reconsidered its wording and wrote out a fair copy.

- Guard, - said Magister into the tube, - have this sent to the Night Watch.

***

Dressed like a commoner, Tamash guessed, the young man looked unobtrusive and could blend into any crowd, even of two. Now he wore the black coat and dome hat of a Night Watch agent as a knight his field plate — or a mage his robe, stern and self-conscious. This was a smart one, Commander Terry’s Night Watch has few dull men. Also, the Commander respected Tamash and even better, was indebted to the court mage…

“Magister Tonda lent a hand to us personally a couple times, like the ol’ windmill case. (The agent winced, he’d been there, if only for the cleanup). Did a fine job reinin’ in the poor and discontent magicians with his Auxiliaries, too. Last thing we needed was mages stealin’ an’ robbin’. He says some will, someday, as we’re gettin’ more an’ more magicians. So go, Schent, listen carefully an’ get whatever he needs done”

This, Schent supposed, included to obey instructions from Marcille as well - the agent knew who the elf lady was (not too many of those in Rhelym) and could only guess how far and deep that family reached. That’s for Commander Terry to know.

- You need to search the slums, - said Marcille, - we shall need cripples. Tallmen males missing one limb, an eye, disfigured in the face - not helpless and bedridden. All must be relatively hale otherwise, able to travel and be reasonable.

- Meaning what, Milady?

- Reasonable? I mean not just sane - guess many aren’t, but ready to stay mostly sober and follow orders.

- How much? - asked the agent.

- You mean how many? - asked the lady back.

- No. How much am I to offer them for participation.

- A few silver coins so they could, well, cure a hangover, eat a meal, cleaned up and settle small debts. We offer them a chance to maybe get healed, all travel expenses paid. W’ll hand out rewards after the trials, in fair proportion to the pain a patient suffers, the success of restoration and for general compliance. We’ll pay for both success and failure, - said Marcille matter-of-factly.

- And, - added Tamash, - if any of them chooses to rather stay in Vecrin or turn aside anywhere on the way back, why not. Tell nobody’ll drag them back to Rhelym on a leash.

- Well. And now, how many?

- Get us half a dozen.

***

Magister Tamash Tonda idly checked the list of his current affairs.

Starcrest was sailing the ocean towards Tir Tainigre, with Orellas as captain and a handpicked crew, burdened by His Majesty’s embassy suite. Tamash bought up weapons - crates, barrels, cases filled with arrow points, spearheads, sword blades packed in oiled sawdust. There was enough chainmail and helmets for a myriad troops, as well as nails and buckles as the Prince asked, carpentry and smithing tools. The dwarves and gnomes of Rhelym were ready to carry him around on a throne — he’d swept the stocks clear and got every foundry blazing, every smithy ringing. The fellow countrymen were grateful, too, for improving the racial relations, there was definitely commerce going on between the quarters.

One by one Danath’s crystals on a signal board popped off - they’ve crossed this meridian and that, all was right, Lurssen’s Waystar project worked fine even if Orellas could do just fine by stars. Teams of Adepts took their turns sitting bare-bottomed on the gilt thrones powering the compass wheel, the Royal Navy, its small standing force and trade cogs on the impress list received tablets. So far only flagships of detachments sailed with a mage navigator, all four of them. Brandoch fought tooth and nail, reluctant to send freshly initiated pupils off to the sea even for a brief spell. There were fourteen Initiates and already three Journeymen at Canlemere School, never enough for anything — the Auxiliaries were mostly all right with manning the navigation beacon but only one took to the sea. Magister Tonda visited the school a couple dozen times, they had to arrange for bringing students to the capital and back to attend his courses.

Materials for the third almanach piled, he had help from Dean Danath and a young Journeyman, a Journeylady with a surprising feel for editing work, blessed they be.

At least it kept him busy.

Both Marcille and Lana were off, a month already — he hoped for no cozy homemaking with an chaos mage elf.

And Marcille… she’d said something before leaving, things he was not sure about, about needing to go “there” “someday” and doing something.

Maybe she did not really mean going to Utaya and trying to close the chaos gap, Marcille always had to hold herself responsible for every chaos-damned thing, but Tamash guessed elven forces holding the perimeter were getting strained. After all, the Queen of Queensryche perished because of her. One thing she never wanted was killing elves.

One thing Tamash knew was he’d sail with her anyway.

Utaya… if a dozenth of what he’d heard was true, it was not a party job. They said it was a dungeon of horrors turned inside out for many, many leagues, with monsters and very demons walking in broad daylight. Maybe anyone killed there could be raised or resurrected - and what if they won?

Even if all they needed was getting Marcille there, into the gaping wound of Utaya, it would take an army of warriors and mages.

Chaos and abyss.

This is what Magister Tamash Tonda is busy building.

***

They greeted each other, exchanging minor news, a tired and sad Marcille ordered a pile of wrapped gifts from Baronettess Namari to be brought in.

- By the way, before we tell the details, one of the patients wants to see you. We’ll have him sent in later.

- Why should I care, Lana?

- Well he is the best, and he wants a job. Warrior, done dungeon delving. Not a bad man, if there’s anything wrong with him, he did not catch it from out healing - muttered Lana, and continued in a more business-like way, - next, we had another complete success, a foot and calf halfway to the knee. Patient was not really a beggar, he’d been keeping a low-end watering hole, had plenty of connections, a Night Watch informer I guess, so pretended well enough to insinuate himself into the experiment. It was too late to remove him from the cohort.

- You had four more.

- We did, Tamash, and now hear about the worse. Next, we restored an eye perfectly in every sense, but it did not see a thing.

Tamash signed.

- Another patient had a face severely disfigured by burns. After the ritual it was restored to fine features, smooth and perfect skin, but not what the man used to look like. At least that’s what he said himself. He got the face he wanted. Also, this new face had anomalously low movement and sensation.

- Both received moderate compensation and left us satisfied, in a way, - said Marcille, - the eye man made up a story of a magical elven-made false eye…

- Not that much of a story - added Lana, Marcille just grimaced.

- The refaced man just went off to start a life anew. The last and worst one. Well. Totally not well. He, instead of a hand, had a monstrous claw-like thing grow out. All wrong in shape and size. This is I guess what his soul supposed the hand to look like, and we can’t heal that.

- Did you… re-amputate it?

- Yes. We didn’t even have to convince the patient, he demanded it be cut off.

- So it all mostly depends on the soul impression.

- As mediated by the mind. The Quastren warrior and the lame man were very straightforward and clear in becoming whole.

- Lana. Marcille, - said Tamash, raising a hand with splayed fingers, - these are five. And you said that was the worst.

- Lana, let me tell myself. The sixth died. Just died on contact with chaoplasm. Heart stopped and would not restart, - told Marcille, - Falin tried raising him. I tried resurrecting him, but the soul was destroyed. I am sorry.

- Do not say “chaos and abyss”, dear Tamash. It’s just that. We’re not breaking the world this way, - sighed Lana.

- So, ladies? Do we have an unanimous decision?

- We are not getting the healing… thing underway any time soon. Not using Brolin’s developments, - Marcille shrugged her shoulders, - have to get a report through to him somehow, Mother must have his contacts and encryption keys.

- He has to know what he’s done, - concluded Lana, - so much for research, Elf-style.

- Those Elves, - Marcille made a snort full of derision, - don’t work systems. Brolin healed himself, a chaos mage of unparalleled experience. Where’s the trials, the numbers, the experiments? Centuries of anecdotal evidence don’t mean a thing. Especially dealing with chaos. Enough elves. Concerning Dwarves, Tamash, - Marcille suddenly reached into her cleavage and drew out a small bag, - this is from Namari, a very private gift she says. You don’t want to inform the treasurer that you, a state servant, received from a freehold lord… these two.

Deep red and blue, they were thumb-joint sized, in their natural coarse oblong shapes, but even so Magister Tonda with his practiced eye could see the asterism, the precious star pattern in both, something neither meltdown rubies nor sapphires could have.

- Now we’ll need gnomes, too, to sell this. Droodle or your stepfather, who’s more reliable?

- You doubt Droodle?

- Namari understands how complicated this is. He’s a sworn state servant too, as court jester. I do not wish this gift to be written down against my name.

- Or pay tax on it, - added Lana, economical as always, - tax alone will be myriads. It’s royal crown stuff, right? A little black market, don’t worry dear, I got nice presents too. Please talk to that man, I am tired like a dog and dreaming of my dear home bed.

- Quite so, - agreed Marcille, - see you in the evening, love. I’m taking an all-day nap.

***

There was no shortage of Quastrens in Rhelym. After all, the Northern Continent was by and large theirs, spared by the Great War if any inhabited land could count as spared.

There were tribal absentee lords living in civilized luxury, plenty of dealers in timber, furs, honey, hemp and whatever else the North of the North produced - tusker and walrus tusks, whale lamp oil and baleen, cod and salmon, from richer than lords to small-scale hopefuls. The crown of Canlemere wisely let the suppliers into the capital to become the principal go-between. There were, in a quarter of their own, Quastren craftsmen, charcoal burners and tanners. There were soldiers, two whole all-Quastren volunteer regiments of archers and shaggy-ponied mounted archers. Beggars, whole and crippled, too. This one, not any longer.

- He insisted on seeing you personally. We’d rather humor him, Tamash - this is our best result, - explained Marcille earlier. Tamash agreed.

The man stood about average height, bony and sinewy, a body that has seen better days. He bowed his head of dark straight hair in an uneven, frizzled bowl cut curtly, and looked up. The expected pale blue eyes set deep to the sides of a long straight nose, pale like they say is the very sky up in the north, and a skin of a grayish tinge, not unhealthy but the faded tan of that folk, a Quastren long out in the sun turned almost slate-gray. There was a creased, worn-out ring in the right sleeve of his buckskin shirt which he’d been wearing tied off for a long while.

The right arm past the elbow and the right eye - both looked perfect and seemed to work just fine.

- Greetings, sir mage.

- Well met. I am Magister Tamash Tonda.

The man cleared his throat, set his right palm over the heart and replied:

- I am Ymnug second son of Wyam, son of Syalvi, of Smallriver clan of the Elk tribe, from Kerhinn at the Falls.

- How do your parents and stead fare? - asked Tamash in the proper way to address a Quastren, thankful for having read that up.

- They won’t believe me, - said Ymnug, no longer doing the stoic warrior part, - no one will. So I won’t care. Maybe just won’t tell them when I get there. I didn’t when I… back then.

- Are you going home? You could have just collected the return trip allowance in cash and gone north from Vecrin.

The man shook his head, hair spreading out like raven feathers.

- Good sir, the allowance and reward combined are not enough to settle on. I was offered that by the two ladies in charge, very polite and respectable, both the redhaired and the fae one. They said the fae is you wife and the redhaired your ex. I did not believe.

Tamash shrugged his shoulders and asked:

- So, what would you like to do?

- Whatever you tell me.

- Very straightforward, - muttered Magister.

The man reached under his buckskin and drew out another piece of skin, which he unrolled. Bordered in a snaking line of script, half-filled with the angular Quastren lettering, it had several carved disks of black stone or maybe horn attached, seals meant to survive rough handling.

Tamash ran through his memories of things Quastren. He’d read a book filled with details on clothing, deer farming, snow tusker taming and so on, but there was a chapter on the intricacies of families and clans.

Second son means not the current heir. Second son to a father, son to a mother - remarriage? Bigamy? Is Madame Syalvi someone important? Well, a pedigree scroll means he is nobility and can swear pledges. Which Quastren knights of their own tribal orders tend to keep well.

- I owe you an arm and eye, Magister Tonda. A life of a full man. If I could serve you…

- You could, depending on what you can do.

- Fight. Track. Guard. Ride. Shoot, - Ymnug lapsed in brave Quastrene warrior speech briefly but composed himself, - teach all of those. I can hunt, trap, fish, herd, log and gather honey of course but, sir, I think your resurrection and healing business needs none of that.

- We can use a party of skilled Quastren warriors. Both down below and above. Are you…

Ymnug took the mage’s gaze head on.

- Sir, if you mean to ask if I am dishonored, outcast or proclaimed craven, I am not. Just rather not meet some people back home. I can find men, I will lead and they will follow. I will sign in blood from the hand you returned me. Yes, it was the fae lady who wrought fell magic on me in the dungeon, turned a leg of goat into an arm of man, but you’re His Majesty’s Magister and you’re in charge.

Tamash lost the man for a moment thinking who really was, and what was he really doing in Rhelym beside hiring more and more people for all sorts of jobs. The track of those thoughts was… well-beaten. Was Ymnug saying something that demanded an answer?

…we need a literate witness? Few Rhelymians read Quastrene.

- Nor would I, - said Tamash with a shrug of his shoulders, - expect one to read Rothilan. I’m not from here.

The man lit up and spoke, reciting someone else’s words, something he’s been told, probably long ago and back home where he didn’t want to return.

- We Quastrens and you Rothilans are real tallmen speaking the tongues of ancestors from before gods fell. In the Twelve Tribes there is no ban for a shaman to be lord, or for lord to be a shaman. We say magic is blind. I would rather serve a Rothilan mage than a Rhelymian mongrelman noble.

“Mages, lords, Quastrens or Rothilans, for fucks sake,” - thought Tamash, bending to the pipe and saying:

- Guard, please send a page to see if the librarian, Honorable Dauthen, can spare a while and come round to the mage tower, report if not.

- I’m being a poor host, Ymnug. You offer your steel and blood, I offer my gold and patronage. There must be bread, meat and mead along, am I right? There’s time before the learned man can vouch your skin.

Ymnug agreed and watched in slight bewilderment as Tamash rose, went to the cupboard and took out a fully loaded tray of viands. “He expected I’d call a servant or something,” - thought Tamash and quickly made up an almost-true explanation:

- In Rothil, when a lord accepts a warrior’s oath, he offers bread from own hands.

The Quastren nodded eagerly, the man must be very fond of such ceremonies and rites.

- So hope this bun counts.

- Thank you sir, - said Ymnug, biting into the kept fresh, but very crusty bread, chewing and swallowing with effort. He saluted with a cup of pale dry mead (good thing their oathtaking does not include libations - thought Tamash.)

- If we were on home soil, - words echoed his thoughts, - mead must be given to the ground. I will spare your fine carpet, sir, - said Ymnug, smiling a bit for the first time.

“So, he’s not hopelessly dour.”

Ceremonies over, the man took a slice of larded and herbed cold roast pork, picked a silver gravy boat, poured a stream of hot cheese sauce, wrapped the result in a goldcorn flatbread and set to eating.

Damn, thought Tamash, Nele used to make those flatbreads. Another one who’d trusted and served me. Hope he fares better. Magister Tonda filled a cup and fashioned a wrap for himself, too.

- Is this the bread of Rothilan land? - asked Ymnug politely.

- No. I just like it. There’s oatcake, too.

****

****

The guard let him - them - into a large room.

“ ‘most round like arena, plenty space to move, no tight corners to get stuck in, - growled low the geist, - good. Man in front, no good. Power. No fear. Bad man.”

Walls of stone, wood-panelled in places. Couple doors and more could be hidden. Windows, too narrow - and bars too thick anyway. Maps on the walls, the world (well the seas are wide enough), the continent, the kingdom he guessed he was in now. That must be the city and… some squiggles and pinned notes connected with colored twine. Lots of cases and shelves, magic stuff. There was a big dragon skull hung from chains, and bottles, papers, books. The hand of the man sitting in the tall-backed chair rested on a ball, as big and smooth as his head. The ball was made of night - blackness and a swirl of stars going deep, too deep to fit in that piece of glass.

Nohgal stopped at a fair distance and bowed clumsily.

***

This… man was inside. The outer guard warned the inner, Magister Tonda had a look through the mirror shaft and on command he was ushered in, though with a warning “barrel, sir” through the pipe.

“Barrel” was code for a potentially rough customer. Rough, that was what he looked.

A hard, broad face with receding hair, small round ears flat against the skull, a nose broken over and over. Build of a dock hand or wrestler, cheap clothes stretched over muscles. Strangely for a commoner, the man wore gloves.

Tamash knew at the first glance of his mind’s eye what the man was, before the visitor cleared his throat.

- Sir, beggin’ me pardon. I was told your … grace (he sounded unsure how to address the court mage. Many were) is where I need go.

- Have a seat.

The visitor chair was well-built and didn’t creak.

- Name’s Nohgal, sir. And, sir, I am…

- I know what you are, - nodded Magister Tonda.

- Called me Black Paws, they did.

There was pride in the hoarse voice, and bitterness, not pain - too used to pain, maybe.

Chaos swirled through the man’s body, crisscrossed by lines of tattoos. Black scintillating inscriptions bound his chest and limbs, followed the lines of bones, reached down to his finger and toe nails.

- I, - the man swallowed hard and clenched huge, gnarly fists, - want the beast out of me.

- You are a werebear pit fighter, mister Nohgal.

- I was. No more for me. Done with that.

- You were a slave?

- Slave? A thrall, sir? - asked the man to be sure, - yes sir.

- You sold yourself into pits?

- No, sir. Master sold me off, anf elfs bought me, and… did this to my body.

- Have you bought yourself out? - from what Tamash knew about blood sports, gladiators could make good money and those that survived spent it on liberty sometimes.

- They have no pits in Canlemere here. And no thralldom. So they say.

- Not legally. By the law, - Tamash tuned his vocabulary down, - you are a free… man.

- I ran, sir.

He did not look a good runner in the literal sense. A werewolf could run away. A werebear would rather break out.

- Mister Nohgal, tell me, when you ran, did you kill anyone? Did you rob or steal? Have you done anything here in Canlemere?

- No, - the small hazel eyes flashed, - not here sir. Wring some elf necks back there, that I did.

The man’s gap-toothed smile alone could make one flinch. Tamash reassured himself. Even a werebear would be dead in a couple heartbeats with half a dozen darts across the table, through the face and into the brain. His sleeves were loaded for the interview. Magister Tonda nodded the guest to continue.

- Took their things and coin, too.

- Since slavery is illegal in Canlemere, you cannot be persecuted for escaping from being held against your will. Any possible claims or testimony against you won’t fly in court, I think. If you don’t do wrong here, you are free.

- I am not free. The beast, sir.

- So you want to have the enchantment removed.

- Get the bruin geist out of me, sir. Anything. All I got.

Whatever the gladiator’s loot and perhaps own savings were, it was probably not the major chaos magic price tag. But that was healing, sort of. Marcille could be interested. Tamash could bet she would be.

- Listen here, mister Nohgal. I will try to help you. Let me think… Are you hungry?

The man made to object, but a stomach growl gave him away.

- Kind sir, I have coin. Plenty inns and stands in town.

- Stay here a while.

The man made a hand-to-head gesture as if to tug a forelock, which he had none. Tamash rose and opened his well-enchanted cupboard.

Not these dessets. Nor the cheeses and cold cuts made to whet the appetite, not fill one. Assorted seafood rolls, Eastern-style, probably not too. A mage, not an innkeeper, Magister Tonda hasn’t faced a hungry werebear in his study before. A pot of stew would be best. This might do - largest thing in the cupboard was a pork pie.

Next, Tamash took out a glass pitcher of wheaten ale, cool and foam-crested, to which Nohgal suddenly objected.

- Nay, kind sir. The bruin geist likes liquor too much. I must not have any.

- Here’s barleywater, then. Eat, drink and answer my questions.

The loaded tray levitated and softly landed before the guest, Nohgal cautiously broke off a piece and bit into it, mug in his other hand. He ate with restraint, almost quietly.

- Freeman Noghal of? - Tamash was writing a note for Marcille.

- They took me from Cythria, the slavers.

- Freeman Noghal of Cythria, conceived on?

- Not know, sir.

- Your lifeday, - Tamash glanced at a spot above the vistor’s head, - is tenth of Rainmonth, year 1653, making you twodozen-eight years old.

- How… Thank you sir wizard! - Noghal stared in amazement.

- You can celebrate in two weeks. Or fast and pray, whatever.

Tamash ended the brief case description, folded, signed the paper on the outside and wrote: “To Lady Marcille Tonda. From court mage. Urgent” for the page relay. If she’s at home, they’ve managed half an hour. She might be out on the town with Falin, for her wedding preparations. Looking up a decent lot to build an Eastern-style house on, as the husband to be was an ambassador now, appointed since his father’s faction won their war back on the island of Wa. They’ll find her sooner or later… well, back to the bear guy, should be quite sated by now.

- Listen, freeman Nohgal. We need to go to a dungeon.

The thick neck bent in a nod.

- I will not be the one trying to… separate you. An elf lady will do that. Yes, Nohgal, an elf. You will obey her. Do all she says. Elves did it to you and an elf will try to undo it. I’ll be close by.

- Seems fair, sir. Yes, right.

- It will hurt.

- I fear no hurt.

- You may die.

- I fear no dying.

- It’s not a pit brawl, freeman Nohgal. You may die for real, even in a dungeon. Even with mages ready to raise you.

- I want the geist out, sir. I ran away from the pits, but it’s, - he gestured with fingers round his neck like a collar, - can’t run away from the bruin.

“Want free? Run. Kill. Enemy strong. Die. Want free?”

- Nohgal?

Like an avalanche coming downhill, the man snapped out from some introspective.

- Oh sir… the bruin a-talkin’ in my head.

- Saying what?

- Bruin geist is afraid. Will it die?

- In a possible bad case, an unbound bear ghost powered by chaos sorcery might appear by your side. I said I’ll be there, and other mages. I do not know of any successful examples of spiritual graft werebeast disjunction (Nohgal listened closely, if the magician talks magic, that’s his job) but we sort of deal in the impossible. Can you spend a month here, in Rhelym? We don’t go to dungeons daily.

- Must sell some stuff, sir. Living’s dear.

- Let me help you with that.

Tamash dipped his pen again. Writing in gnomish, in choice gnomish thieving cant he’d studied with Droodle, he addressed a certain contact. Schblom Thwrindle will, on such a note, give a good price for whatever elf stuff is in the bundle Nohgal left with the guards. And pass the word to find the man a job, something like a bouncer somewhere on the Bar Mile. Or hauling stuff if he keeps away from drink.

- Keep this note and pass it to the bartender of Holy Day Inn at the head of the Mile. Can you read?

- No, sir.

- Then I won’t give you written directions… Watch the map. We’re here, - indicated Tamash to the hexagon of royal palace, - you cross the New Channel, go past all the Old Town to the Stonewall, and as Low Town begins, so does the Mile. Sign is three hearts and three lions. Next, this chit is to have you let out of palace. You can go through the front gate, saves time and quite a sight on the way. Enjoy your stay. We’ll find you when it’s time to go.

The pre-printed, numbered, engraved card said:

“To: Palace Guard. Capt. Roderyck or officiating

On: 34th Trewmonth 1686, second day watch

From: Court Mage Tamash Tonda, Magister

This is to certify that I have concluded to satisfaction my business with bearer thereof, Freeman Nohgal of Cythria and said person is to be released from the premises, seal, signature”

There was no period marks at the ends of sentences.

Potential danger. Initiate covert Night Watch surveillance.