“The Spear Stave and Wands is one of the few places in camp where a person can purchase himself new parchment and re-equip with ink and quills, but from the looks of you I’d say you’d be more interested in a Pint,” he said decisively, “you don’t look like a scribbler.”
Falon frowned, as she knew that she was quite good with her letters and figures. Then she realized that her disguise was working and flushing with pleasure at being taken for a ‘normal man.’
“Thank you but I’m not here for drink or parchment, I’m trying to find someone,” she said politely.
The bartender grunted and started wiping the counter with an old, bloodstained rag. “It’s a free tent,” he replied, shaking his head after she had stared at him for several seconds waiting for something more.
Over at the side of the tent a pair of flutists started playing.
“Is Oliver the Wizard here?” Falon asked over the din.
“That’ll be two pints of the dark,” the bartender said, pulling back the previous tankard he had placed in front of her and replacing it with two wooden mugs almost foaming over with ale.
Falon stared from him to the now two mugs of ale. “That wasn’t an answer, goodman,” she said. “And I already told you I don’t need an ale.”
The bartender looked at her from his now lowered brow as he picked back up his bloodstained rag and started wiping the table top again.
“Questions don’t require an answer, only a reply; that, my young Officer, was a reply,” the Bartender said with a twinkle in his eye.
Falon stared at with growing irritation. If he wasn’t going to be helpful, the least he could do was stop trying to sell her an ale!
“Nothing around here is free, young gentleman, least of all my drinks,” he said seriously, “which will be three coppers each for the dark.” He lifted a finger when Falon opened her mouth in outrage, “This here is a house of drink, so you can either buy a drink and your bartender,” he stuck a thumb at himself, “can help you out with whatever he knows, or you can buy a parchment seeing as this is the kind of establishment that caters to all sorts of magickers and pen pushers. Doesn’t mean I’ll know what you need, but you won’t know one way or the other until you find out.”
His piece said, the bartender shook his graying head, sending his ponytail wagging and bent down to retrieve another pair of mugs which he proceeded to fill.
Falon’s cheeks puffed out; her outrage was stilled and she was starting to feel foolish. This was the second time today she had been tacitly asked for a bribe, and both times she had ended up looking or at least feeling the fool. She needed to do better at these types of negotiations—for that was clearly what they were.
“Alright,” she grunted reaching into her pouch and pulling out three coppers, “now about the wiz-”
The bartender tutted, waggling a finger at her and lifting a pair of fingers he pointed to the pair of mugs.
Falon sighed and dug out another three coppers.
“A pleasure doing business with you, young gentleman,” the bartender said, picking up the mugs and thrusting them into her hands.
“Now, about that wizard,” Falon said, juggling her unexpected load.
“Lad you’re looking for is at table five,” the bartender interrupted her gesturing over to the side.
Falon’s eyes popped and she swiveled over to look. To call it a table was a bit of an overstatement, and at first glance to call him a ‘wizard’ was, as well. But when she looked back at the bartender in disbelief, he urged her over.
“That’s…?” she trailed off, turning back to stare at the gaunt young man with a patchy attempt at a beard on his face. He was hunched over a rickety old campaign desk barely large enough for one person, but with a chair situated on the other side of it clearly indicating the desk was supposed to be a two person affair.
“That’s Oliver,” the Bartender laughed.
“I didn’t catch your name,” Falon said absently as she turned away her voice sounding faint even to her own ears.
“You can call me Aquarius,” he said.
That seemed an exceptionally odd name for a bartender, but then again this was a fairly odd place for a pub. Not that she had ever had much experience with pubs, but even so, the village watering hole wasn’t the same as a place that catered to wizards and sold parchments along with the ale.
So, taking a deep breath and steeling herself for disappointment, she took a firm grip on the ales and headed over to table five.
Chapter 11: Getting down to Business
“Hello, I’m Falon,” she said bending over and carefully placing the Mugs on top of several parchments that currently covered every space of the miniature table.
“Hey, I’m working here!” protested the young man.
Falon shot a quick look at him out of the corner of her eye and he didn’t look either ready or able to turn her into a toad, so she released her grip on the mugs and pulled the chair opposite the young man under her.
If she was any guess of age, he looked maybe a year or two older than Duncan. It was hard to tell with the absolutely atrocious excuse for a beard growing on his face. Whatever he thought to accomplish with it one thing, but it was definitely not attractive.
“I say, what are you doing,” the young wizard said. Her hopes were lifted slightly when she saw a pair of wands and a potion strapped to a leather belt running across his chest.
“Do you want a drink?” Falon asked seriously. She looked down at the ale uncertainly. She had tasted small beer before—sips and small drinks only, of course, with her Papa and that cherry wine her and Krissy brewed up early in the season—but she picked up the ale and took a sniff. Her nose wrinkled at the odor.
Still, she was supposed to be a man, wasn’t she? And men couldn’t stop themselves from chugging down the stuff.
“I say, do you know who I am?” the young man spluttered as she continued to ignore him and eye her mug of ale.
“Oliver, right?” Falon asked, and before she could stop and talk herself out of it, she decided it was time to ‘man up’ and reached for the ale. Tipping the mug to her lips, she tossed back a mouthful.
“Oliver!” the young wizard said with outrage.
Falon nearly gagged at the bitter taste of the dark ale, and not at all used to the thick bits and pieces that went down her gullet along with the liquid.
“I am Schmendrick the Magician, last of the red hot swamis,” declared the wizard exasperatedly.
“Gah,” Falon gagged wishing desperately for some clear spring water or even a sip of small beer or cherry wine rid her mouth of the taste, “how do men actually come to like this stuff?”
“I am…but you…,” Oliver, or Schmendrick, or whoever and whatever he was spluttered before leaning back in his chair. “Bah,” he said darkly, his ears turning pink, “it’s not so bad once you’re used to it.” He picked up the other mug and took a sip. His face twisted slightly before he smacked his lips and set the ale back down.
“Ugh,” Falon said shaking her head, “I can’t believe people actually pay for this.” Careful not to spill any of it on his parchments, she deliberately pushed her mug of dark ale over to his side of the table. “I have no interest in becoming ‘used to it,’ so you can have mine,” she said with distaste.
The wizard, or Magician, or whatever he was grimaced but accepted the second mug with fair grace.
“Thank you, I suppose,” he grumbled, first eyeing her and then the two mugs of dark ale in front of him before picking up his original mug and taking another mouth-twisting sip.
Falon stared with fascination at a person who would willingly drink that stuff before giving herself a shake. “So you’re not Oliver?” she asked questioningly.
The Wizard’s mouth turned down and he scowled at her. “I am he who you seek,” he said, drawing himself up haughtily until he was staring down his nose at her. “But you can call me Schmendrick,” he added, trying to sound almost as if it were an afterthought bu
t he failed miserably but she could tell that the name meant more to him than he wanted to let on.
Falon looked at him questioningly. “Well I guess it makes no difference what you call yourself, or even if you’re the person I originally came to see, so long as you can get the job done at a reasonable price,” she said. “Oliver, Schmendrick, or whoever you are,” she added under her breath.
“Oliver was just the boring name my parents gave me,” the wizard said with great dignity—and maybe a touch of dismissiveness wended in—then his face morphed into the same look as a religious revivalist in the midst of a sudden life altering revelation, “but Schmendrick the Magician, Last of the
Red-Hot Swami’s, is the name that belongs to my soul!”
“Hokay-dokey,” Falon blurted, her eyes bulging. She had never talked to an actual crazy person before, at least not in what was otherwise an entirely regular conversation. It’s true what they say, she boggled, crazy is as crazy does and sometimes they really did look just like everyone else!
He must have seen something of what she was thinking on her face because he hastily schooled his face into a more appropriately businesslike demeanor. “Let me assure you that I am a board-certified, White Tower Initiate,” he said hastily, “fully capable of any spellwork and magics appropriate to my level of education.”
Falon looked at him sideways, still more than a little concerned about the man’s mental status but before she could say anything, another robed figure guffawed.
“A White Tower Initiate’s what we call an Apprentice without a Master,” the middle-aged man said. His mustachios was so waxed that it curled at the tips, and he had a deep auburn beard only lightly streaked with a pair of grey hairs. “You’re better off hiring a real wizard and forgetting this…” he sneered mockingly, “Initiate.”
Falon’s brow furrowed.
“Better an Apprentice than a drunk!” Oliver-Schmendrick snapped.
“Do I look drunk to you, Lieutenant?” the rather dapper-looking Wizard asked mockingly. He was facing Falon but his words were clearly intended for her table mate.
“Only because you’re out of coins,” Schmendrick shot back. “Better an Initiate,” he said clearly emphasizing his title, “than a constantly drunk Wizard who’s been a Journeyman for the past twenty years!”
“That’s White Tower Adeptus to you, Initiate!” the other wizard snarled.
“Riiight,” Schmendrick drawled.
“Gentlemen, please!” Falon said interjecting herself back into the conversation. “Or…you know what? If you’d care to continue your conversation, I can just be off now,” she decided, pushing back from the campaign table, fed up with the posturing.
“Wait!” Schmendrick exclaimed, reaching out and grabbing the cuff of her shirt, “You just got here. Please let me apologize for both my colleague and myself.”
The other Wizard snickered into his beard but when Falon turned in her chair to face him, he just rolled his eyes and turned back to his parchments.
“If you tire of a two-bit hack, come back and look me up,” he scoffed.
Falon’s lips tightened.
“As compared to a three-bit—” Schmendrick began, but feeling her eyes on him he bit his tongue and smiled wanly.
Falon leaned back in her chair, still ready to push off and sit up.
“Look I’m sorry…again,” he muttered, “just tell me what the job is and if I can do it lets make a deal. If I can’t,” Schmendrick took a deep breath, “I promise I’ll direct you to someone who can. Please?”
Falon crossed her arms and tapped her middle finger of her right hand on her left upper arm as if in consideration, deliberately dragging things out to let him know that she didn’t appreciate this kind of behavior. In the end though, she ‘needed’ the services of a wizard for the tattoos, so she released a breath.
“Fair enough,” she said stiffly, “here’s what I need…” She then proceeded to lay it out.
Schmendrick stroked his patchy chin whiskers as she finished and nodded. “I think this is something I can help you with,” he smiled slowly, and something in Falon started to relax at this positive response, “now all we need to do is finish talking price.”
Falon immediately tensed right back up. “I can’t spare much,” she said cautiously.
“I’m sure we can work something out,” Schmendrick, the self-styled Magician, smiled.
After that, they got down to some serious haggling.
Chapter 12: Making her Mark
Schmendrick the Magician leaned over the right hand of a Fighting Swan recruit and then straightened.
“All done,” Falon said happily and leaned closer to take a look. She was thrilled, despite the fact that he’d already done this countless times already today, and she looked at the image of what they were calling a ‘Fighting Swan’ and couldn’t help a small surge of wonder. The rampant Swan, with its wings spread wide, gripping a sword in one set of talons and a spear in the other, was a fierce and not entirely realistic rendering of a real Swan. But despite—or rather, because of—this, the fowl on the dominant hand of each man left the impression of a pugnacious fowl, ready, willing, and even eager to fight. In the end, that was all that was really necessary.
Reaching down to her belt, she untied a purse and handed it over to the patchy-bearded Apprentice wizard, while behind the wizard a warrior with a new mark gave his hand several shakes before rubbing it.
“These will work just like the Villain spell?” she asked one more time, just to be clear.
Schmendrick nodded. “Except that when you destroy this parchment,” he said, deftly pocketing the coins with one hand and showing her the small scrap of paper for this latest ‘volunteer’ in the other, “the swan turns grey, the wings are pulled close to the body, no longer rampant, and the sword and spear lay broken at its feet.”
“Fine work, Schmendrick,” she praised him. She felt rather pleased with herself as well, for finding and securing his services in the first place.
The self-proclaimed Last of the red-hot Swamis looked equally pleased.
Darius sidled up to the pair and nodded a greeting to Falon. “I’m afraid you forgot one person,” the Fighting Swan Sergeant said seriously.
“I’m sorry,” said Schmendrick looking taken aback, “just send him here and we’ll fix that up in a jiff.”
Falon looked at Darius curiously. “Good thing you discovered this now,” she said looking around, “where is he?” she asked.
“He’s right here,” Darius said placing a hand on her shoulder.
Falon looked into his deep blue eyes and lost herself for a moment before quickly shaking it and his hand off.
“Where?” she asked with an edge to her voice, as she turned to peer over her shoulder for the missing warrior trainee.
“You missed the Lieutenant here,” Darius smirked, clapping the wizard on the arm hard enough to jolt the younger man, “I dare say, the both of you missed it.”
Falon’s blood ran cold and she stared with dawning horror down at her hand. She’d thought the magic swan mark would only be for the warriors—the men—she hadn’t really even considered the idea that she herself could be marked with the image of the Fighting Swans.
Looking back and forth from the wizard to the Sergeant, she unconsciously shook her head ‘no’.
“Come now, it doesn’t hurt,” Darius said wickedly, “well…not much.”
“Give me your hand,” the wizard gestured as he stepped toward her.
Producing a sickly smile and feeling the eyes of the entire Battalion upon her, she forced herself to extend her hand.
“Who’s afraid of a Swan on their hand?” she chuckled uneasily, while silently resolving to keep the magic parchment with her name on it in a waterproof pouch around her neck. At least then she could destroy it. She couldn’t imagine keeping the mark and someday trying to explain to a husband how she had gotten the mark of a company of fighting men on the back of her hand.
; “This won’t take but a few ticks,” Schmendrick assured her, grabbing her hand.
Resisting the urge to pull her hand back from the grip of a man she’d only just met a short time ago, Falon reminded herself that as far as anyone else knew she was just another man among men.
As the White Tower Initiate said the words of his spell and passed his hand over hers, the back of Falon’s hand started to itch. At first a pale, colorless shadow appeared and then began to fill out with all the vibrant colors of a full-blown magical tattoo mark. The itch quickly went from barely noticeable to feeling like a bee sting that was now crawling over with ants.
“There, it’s done,” the Wizard declared.
“Thanks,” Falon said through teeth that were still gritted to keep from crying out. By the Lady, her hand stung! How did the rest of the men keep from calling out, she wondered? Only slowly did the pain from the magical Swan on the back of her hand ebb away.
“Now we’re all Fighting Swans,” Darius declared prominently displaying his own tattooed hand. Then he turned to the assembled men, “Alright. It’s time to march!”
Chapter 13: The Long Road ‘away’ from Home
The Prince’s men, tarnished as they were by mud and recent battle, had once again out shown the rest of the army as they turned and took the road north.
The Baron of Quinn’s men came in a closer second than the last time they had marched out of a long camp, if anything appearing much more dapper and valiant than they had at the Lamont Keep.
Now of course, days later, the rain was pouring, the mud was thick enough to suck the shoes right off a girl’s feet if she wasn’t careful.
In short, Falon and the rest of the battalion were completely and utterly miserable.
“How much longer can it keep raining?” she complained. She had a brief but powerful urge to shake her fist at the sky and demand it produce the sun for a while, but the next slap her sopping wet clothes against her stomach and chest sent any such urges flitting from her mind.
The Painting (Rise of the Witch Guard Book 2) Page 10
