by Mark Eller
* * * *
“Ah, gentle sirs and ladies, if you thought the last display was magic beyond your comprehension, then these next wonders shall astound you beyond your wildest dreams,” Califrey announced.
“Ain’t no ladies here thet I kin see,” Ludwig’s neighbor observed. “Far as thet goes, thar ain’t a one of us what fit the gentle sir part neither.”
Ludwig scowled. “You may well think not, Yezman,” he said, being careful to speak with trained haughtiness, “but you are wrong. I am more than enough gentleman for you.”
“Get on with ya,” Yezman scoffed. “Ya been spreading yer claptrap since ya joined up. I don’t believe it now no more’n I did then.”
A flash of light interrupted Ludwig’s reply. Colors of blue, white, and red swirled in a chaotic cloud above the magician's head. Waving his hands gently in small spirals, Califrey used delicate movements of his fingertips to direct the spinning lights.
Ludwig sucked down a fast gulp of cheap ale. The brew tasted sour, but that was expected. He grimaced while the ale churned unhappily in his stomach. As a gentleman, he hated ale by right of breeding. In fact, he hated everything about the life he now lived.
With his scowl growing deeper, he turned his head and spat out the brew, but the foul taste would not leave his mouth. He frowned. A man had to drink to live. Ludwig just wished his drink was halfway decent wine instead of this swill.
Up on the makeshift stage, Califrey jerked his hands apart, and the colors separated with them. Separating into triangles, the colors shifted into tumbling spheres rolling through the night air. Califrey’s hands hesitated, trembled, and the lights blurred into a brown blob, fell to the ground, and disappeared.
Ludwig snickered.
“Be kind,” Harlo admonished.
“He does nothing but manipulate a cheap amulet,” Ludwig replied. “The man is no more a mage than I am.”
“He might be a lousy mage,” Harlo agreed, “but he’s an excellent entertainer, and he’s needed. We’re a gloomy, dour lot, us drovers. There isn’t much cheer in our lives when we’re trailing. For that matter, few of us are happy when we’re not trailing. Every man here has a tale of heartache or misfortune. Problem is you spend so much time wallowing in your own story you fail to see the open books around you.”
He gestured toward one of the laughing audience. “Jorge there, he left the graves of his three children behind him. They died because of a fire he was too lazy to bank properly. Charle killed a man, and he’s afraid if he stops moving the man’s family will catch up to him. Garland, our own wagon master, has his story. He was a brigand before he turned twenty. He did his share of rape and murder, and then he went home to find his own sister had been raped and killed by some of his fellow brigands. It took him five years, but every one of his former friends died by his hand. He started caravanning and worked his way up to where he is now, but he’s still hell on brigands. Won’t forgive a one of them.”
Ludwig thought of his other neighbor. “What about Yezman?” he whispered so the other man would not hear.
“You best leave him alone. Too many of his mates have been found with knives in their backs.”
Yezman must have been bored because he chose this moment to jab Ludwig in his ribs. Turning his head to deliver a well-deserved glare, Ludwig saw the other man giving him an evil grin.
“Think ya can do better than our Califrey? Ya got one of them amulets, don’t ya?
Scowl fading, Ludwig fingered the leather cord hanging about his neck. “I have one.”
Eyes glinting amusement, Yezman rose to his feet.
“The Gent,” Yezman called out to the drovers, “thinks he kin do magic better’n our Califrey. I think we ought ta make him prove it.”
Affronted by them expecting him to perform like a common entertainer, Ludwig stood regally, tilted his nose, and placed his most practiced sneer upon his lips. He met Yezman’s challenging stare and used his most contemptuously superior tone. “I don’t do public performances. It is beneath my station.” He set his hand on his sword hilt.
“Lad,” Harlo sighed, “You’re an idiot.”
