Finally, the town was behind them and the sun had cleared the far mountains. The warmth of the day had begun to crawl across the lands.
“Are we there yet?” Asked Grimbledung. “We’ve been gone for a while, haven’t we?”
“Grim, we are just barely out of Aution,” explained Drimblerod. “We’ve got a good two hours to go before we’re there. Why don’t you go in the back and count clouds, or have a snack, or take a nap, or something,” said Drimblerod testily.
“Sorry, Drim” said Grimbledung, “it’s just that I’ve never been on a business trip before. It’s very exciting.” He bounced on the seat and clapped his hands. “You don’t know how much I want to make up a song about riding in a wagon.”
“I can only imagine,” offered Drimblerod.
“With the wheels going round and round, the scenery going by and by.” He stopped as Drimblerod gave him a warning glance. After a moment, he pressed on warily, “And there’s a sale in it for you and me. Yes, probably a wand sale in it for you and me.”
“Feel better?” Drimblerod squinted at his partner. “That’s as close to breaking out in song as I want you to be until the sun has set.” His eyes squinted even more to the point where Grimbledung did not even think he could even see him anymore. “Understand?”
“Sure thing,” said Grimbledung. Not knowing if his partner could see him finished by waggling his ears at him. “Loud and clear,” he said, smiling.
The rest of the trip through rolling hills passed uneventfully and to Drimblerod’s (and RatShambler’s) relief, unmusically. After what seemed hours, but was only two, the large blades of the windmill that was the main hall of Displaines’ School for Young Wizards and Witches came into the distant view. They were turning slowly even most of their fabric was missing and there was barely any breeze.
Displaines’ School for Young Wizards and Witches had been established in an abandoned Gristmill. The outbuildings had been renovated to act as classrooms and a large three story building had been built as a dormitory. In total about 100 students actually lived at the school and thanks to a newly opened Teleportal service, again that many students commuted every day to attend classes. The establishment of a Magic school – especially a Displaines’ School, was usually a boon to a local economy; restaurants, clothiers, and inns (filled during conferences and sporting events) invariably sprung up soon after a school was opened. This fact made communities interested in having their very own Magic School. The Teleportal service was the first of what would invariably become a business explosion in the area.
The school itself was actually a franchise operation belonging to the successful businessman and Wizard, Mac Displaines. Buying unusual abandoned buildings was part of a business model that kept start-up costs low. Hiring local instructors and support personnel kept local governments happy and the requirement for bribes to a minimum; graft may take a back seat, but it never got completely out of the wagon. Thanks to operating under the umbrella of the Mac Displaines’ School of Magic Corporation, slick marketing drew in students. Mac had long since retired from the Wizarding School business and he used the franchise scheme to ensure a healthy income. It was a perfect existence; he lived like a king but without the hassles that accompanied being King.
“FINALLY!” Cheered Grimbledung’s clambering back to the front of the wagon. He had moved to the back of the wagon and had, for the past hour, been describing what he saw in the clouds.
In detail.
“Yes, finally,” agreed an exasperated Drimblerod, “now be on your best behavior when we meet Julie. We don’t know anything about her and I sure don’t want you offending her right from the start.”
Chapter Twenty Nine (Interlude)
Wherein Big Julie’s Ascension from
Crime Lord to Franchise Owner is Presented
Julie had been orphaned at a very young age, so young in fact, that she did not even know her family name. She was just “Julie.” Her parents were now mere wisps of memories that came to her only in the occasional dream. Taken in by a tavern owner, she spent her childhood serving drinks and clearing tables at the Gutted Boar Tavern. Because of her age, patrons would talk to her of high adventures and lucrative business deals. Not many of the stories were true, but to the ears of the young waif, they told of a magical future that could be hers. She listened raptly to anyone who would talk to her. As the years passed, she drew information from the Gutted Boar patrons, building a knowledge base that ranged from how to cold pitch a low level government employee to setting up a successful Bronze Mine prospector pyramid scheme; “A quick exit strategy is the key, Julie!” She had been told with a wink. “Or your first scheme that falls apart will be your last!” Along with that one bit of advice, Julie had also learned two hard rules:
1- People generally pushed around those weaker than them, and
2- Being one of the aforementioned weaker people, on the whole, sucked.
Realizing that aside from size, knowledge gave power, Julie endeavored to build her mind. She learned to read from the menus she passed around and from the wanted posters tacked to the walls sometimes two or three layers thick. Arithmetic she learned quickly after being soundly reprimanded for being cheated while making change. That sound being the ‘swish’ of a switch. And, thanks to that one patron’s unmitigated gall to continue to patron the Gutted Boar after cheating her out his entire night’s tab, Julie learned the time consuming art of distilling Miasma Brew. Because of that, that particular patron only came back a few times. By the third dose of Miasma Brew, he suddenly didn’t have the strength to leave his house.
Ultimately, it was only with the help of six bearers that he eventually did make it out of his home ... and down the street, left at the bakery, and then straight on to the cemetery.
As she grew, Julie- raised on a strict diet of mutton, beef, and Shambler cutlets with ale to wash it down- gained what would become a lifelong moniker; Big Julie. Not offensive to look at, she was just big. Upsized. Robust. A true Broad. Between her imposing size and accompanying street-smarts, at the tender age of 20, Julie managed to take control of the Gutted Boar when its owner died unexpectedly of natural causes (around that town, very few actually expected to die of natural causes). Closing for several weeks, she renovated and expanded the tavern. It was with much fanfare that Julie opened the first of several lucrative businesses; The Prancing Vixen Bed and Brothel.
After the Prancing Vixen began to turn a healthy profit, Big Julie focused her attention across the street to the faltering establishment there. With mild coaxing that only bordered on illegal, she acquired a tailor shop. Once again, there was a store closing, a two-week refurbishment, followed by a grand opening of Rugged Jules Clothier and Such. She specialized in not only clothes for larger people (the Clothier part), but also for people who needed clothes with hidden pockets and built in armor (and Such). Word spread quickly in ne’er-do-well circles of this useful store that had a “no questions asked” sales policy, and once again, profits began to climb. That’s when Julie received her first cold pitch. For insurance.
“These are nice shops you have here, Julie,” the man began as he came into Big Julies office- a converted room above the Clothier, “real nice shops.” He was dressed in all black and wore a black cloak- both seemed just a little too small on him as if he had borrowed his younger brother’s outfit. He was accompanied by a hulk of a Human male who was similarly dressed. Similarly, only in the sense that he too was dressed in all black and had a cloak. His trousers were crisp and cuffed. The cloak just barely brushed the floor and hung on his shoulders smoothly. The pitch-man moved to the chair in front of the desk and sat without asking. His shirt puckered open at the buttons revealing a pale belly beneath. “I hear you’re doing well for yourself. That’s a good place to be, you know. Owner of two successful businesses.” He put his feet up on Big Julie’s desk. Behind him, Muscles closed the door and stood in front of it, arms crossed across his chest.
Julie noticed that
even in that position, his shirt hung properly and the cloak fell flat across large, rounded shoulders. I wonder if that’s one of our designs, she thought, while at the same time, Julie fumed. She had seen shakedowns in the tavern growing up and even then they turned her stomach; people unable to make their own business because of lack of vision bullied those that could. It was begging with a club. Outwardly, her expression was the same- thanks to watching countless games of Trufflidge. In that card game, bluffing was an integral part of the game; those that could do it invariably took home a substantial pile of coins. “How about a drink?” She asked as she opened a bottom drawer of her desk. She saw that the man before her tensed as she reached down. Muscles, who was already watching her intently, leaned forward slightly. No aces in his hand. Out loud she remarked casually, “I brew it myself.” She produced a large square bottle filled with a purplish fluid. She sat the bottle on the desk and pulled two glasses from the same drawer. The man eyed her as he put his feet back on the ground. Not even a face card. Muscles, seeing the bottle and two glasses as opposed to some sort of weapon, once again leaned back slightly against the door.
Crisis resolved.
“We’re here to talk business, Julie.” The man began when he also decided that there was no threat from the drawer. He was still tense however. “Business. Your business.” He said, continuing the pitch, “which is going well.”
“You know,” began Big Julie as she poured two glasses of the fluid quickly with her left hand. She filled his glass substantially more than hers. After pouring the drink, she lifted the bottle up as a toast and as she put the bottle down on the opposite side of the desk, she picked up her glass with her right hand. The man’s eyes followed the moving bottle instead of looking at the unequally filled glasses. Quickly she picked up her glass and tilted it towards her mouth. There was now no way to tell how much was actually in it compared to his. “I think we can work something out that’s mutually beneficial” she said with a smile. She then pretended to take a drink. When she sat her glass back down, it was obviously much less full than the man’s- practically empty in fact. Simple sleight of hand had been taught to her by one of the regulars at the Gutted Boar; a traveling magician. Young Julie could never get enough of his antics at the tavern.
The man looked from Julie to the glasses and back to Julie. “Good. That’s good.” He said as he picked up the glass. “We were worried you would make trouble,” he said as he took a drink from the glass. He glanced at the liquid in his glass and nodded. “Real good. And when people make trouble for us,” he took another drink from the glass, “we make trouble for them.” He eyed Julie and in what he hoped was an ominous fashion, and downed the rest of the drink. “And no one wins then.”
Julie stood. “Sounds great! How about your draw up the papers and we’ll sign them tomorrow.”
“Papers?” Said the man. “We don’t need papers.” He smirked at her. “We can just have a gentleman’s agreement, you and I. There’s no need for papers.”
Julie remained standing and glowered down at the man. “In case you haven’t noticed, I’m not a man, gentle or otherwise.” She raised an eyebrow at the man. Behind him, a chuckle escaped Muscles.
Realizing that he was losing initiative and worse, was being talked down to, the man stood. As he did, the room took a complete clock-wise turn. He leaned forward and put his hands on Julie’s desk for stability. “We’ll draw something up and be back tomorrow right after lunch.” The man narrowed his eyes. For a moment Julie became unfocused.
“You do that,” said Julie as she came around the desk and moved to Muscles. They were the same general size but the bumps were all in different places. “I hope to see you again,” she said to him levelly- there was not seduction in her voice; it was an offer of employment.
Muscles blinked in surprise. He looked from Julie to his current boss who was steadying himself on the arm of the chair as he walked around it, and back to Julie. Unsure of what to say, he simply nodded.
“Well then. I will be very interested in seeing you tomorrow afternoon, Mister ... Mister ...”
The man could hear what Julie was saying but there was some sort of disconnect between his brain and his mouth. He thought he was speaking but apparently he was not. He frowned as he concentrated. A fog came over him. What was his name? At the moment he was not entirely sure. “Drinn. Drinn Kaposioned” he slurred.
Muscles knew that wasn’t his boss’ name but played along “Right.” Drawing up an agreement meant there would be a paper trail. Maybe his boss was laying the groundwork for a pseudonym so that there would be no incriminating evidence. “Let’s go Mister Kaposioned” he said. Big Julie stepped out of the way as Muscles opened the door, putting him two steps closer to his boss who stumbled forward a step and took his body guard’s arm.
“Less go,” mumbled the doomed man. Muscles looked from his Boss to Julie and back again. “Mayhap you need to lay down for a bit, Sir.” He offered his arm to his boss.
“Yes, that’s a grand idea. A nice… long … nap,” Big Julie said as she locked eyes with Muscles. “See you.” As she stole a glance at the wavering man, she added ominously, “Soon.”
The two left with Muscles practically carrying his boss. Big Julie closed the door and quickly went to her desk. She took out a bottle of water from a different drawer and poured it over her lips, making a puddle on the floor. Bending over she also took a towel from the same drawer and scrubbed her lips vigorously. Finally satisfied, she threw the rag into the waste bin- it wasn’t even safe to use as a dust rag anymore. She took a swig from the water bottle, stoppered it, and slammed it down on the desk. “Me pay protection money?” She roared. She ran out the door and down the stairs to her shop. “Raul!” She called.
“Ma’am?” replied Raul with a silky voice as he appeared, as always, out of nowhere. “What can Raul help you with, Mistress Julie?” Raul, a 900-year-old Woodland Elf (as far as Elves go, still a youngster), always referred to himself in the third person. Not a narcissist by any means, it was merely a linguistic habit he had picked up living with Orcs as an armorer (for a couple of centuries) whose grasp of Common was tenuous, at best. As far as running the Clothier, Raul was second to none; he always dressed impeccably, was honest in appraisals, and could make a two-thread slip stitch as straight as he could fire an arrow. Being an Elf, that was really straight. He also knew practically everyone. If Raul didn’t know a person or creature, the odds were he knew someone who did. And everyone who was anyone in the fashion world knew of Raul. If there were a gala event taking place, anywhere in The Region, Raul invariably had two, sometimes three message hawks show up- note in one claw, bag of coins in the other. Fashion by Raul was It.
“Who were those two goons who just came through here?” Big Julie asked, still fuming.
“The big one is named Mo Fletcher.
“Muscles,” offered Julie.
“Decent guy working to support a family. Excellent taste.” He gave a small bow. “I did his ensemble.”
“It hung beautifully,” offered Julie.
Raul thought again before continuing, “The small guy is a two-bit Under Boss named Sal Valachi. He’s trying to set out on his own.” Raul said. “From what I hear, he’s got a good shot at making it happen.” He looked at Julie appraisingly. “Yes?”
Julie shook her head slowly. “Not unless he can bring his whole plan together in the next couple of hours.”
Raul blanched. “That’s not going to go over well, Mistress Julie. Raul heard just last week that Sal was going to be Made. In a month or so.”
Julie cupped her hand and punched it with her fist. “That’s not good. Even if he’s not Made yet, that’s still not good.” She put her hands on her hips as she considered her next course of action. In times of crisis, it was the one with the clear plan that everyone looked to. In the many brawls, arguments, and duels she had seen it regularly in the Gutted Boar. When the customers got riled, they always looked to the bartender, expect
ing him (or her) to have some sort of plan. “I need to get moving. You know where Sal has his meetings?”
Raul gave a hurt look. “Why does Mistress Julie say such things to Raul? Why doesn’t she just say ‘where does Sal Conduct Business’?” Before Julie could open her mouth, he continued, “Head down to the Surgeon’s Shop. He works out of the back room.”
Julie called a ‘thanks’ over her shoulder as she quickly exited her store and went left up the street. Huffing and puffing, passersby gave her a wide berth; she was, after all, Big Julie. As she rounded a corner, she saw a familiar red and blue striped pole hanging from a storefront. It was on a strap of leather so it spun back and forth in the breeze. She moved to the entrance and stopped to compose herself. Putting a glower on her face she burst in. A patron was getting a shave, and, as he jumped, the Surgeon nicked him.
“Gah! You trying to get someone kilt?” Scolded the Surgeon. “Ya don’ just barge in this place of all places!”
Julie pushed past him into the back room. Several males were seated at a dingy wooden table. They had been leaning over in heated discussion. Muscles was standing by the back door. He looked at her with surprise. “Don’t bother getting up,” she snapped, “this won’t take long.” The two Dwarfs, a Human, and a Gnome looked expectedly at Muscles. Muscles returned their look then glanced at Big Julie. Silently, he turned and went out the back door. There was a solid -thunk- from the door as he leaned against it from the outside. The four looked at Julie, sitting ramrod straight.
They Were The Best of Gnomes, They Were The Worst of Gnomes (Tales From a Second-Hand Wand Shop Book 1) Page 20
