Inconvenient Magic 01 - Potatoes, Come Forth! Page 22

  “He’s a friend, Father!” Emily burst out and then giggled.

  Joseph threw his eyes skyward as if to say, “Sisters! Heh.”, then added aloud the clearly more important bit, “He’s a wizard too!”

  While Sarah shushed her siblings, her father reached out a work-hardened hand and took Everett’s in a firm greeting that revealed considerable strength. “From the depths of my heart, Monsieur de Schael, I wish to thank you. Her disappearance was a major shock to us all and her return an incredible joy. Is there any way in which I could possibly repay you?”

  Noting Sarah’s quick look and tense expression and thinking wistfully of her original promise of a huge silver bounty, Everett wisely shook his head. “No need, Monsieur. It has been my pleasure to assist your daughter.”

  Sarah’s grin resurfaced and the elder Monte-Jaune looked from her to Everett and back again. His eyebrows rose slightly. “I see. Well, may I at least invite you to supper this evening? We must have a celebration and though the meal may not be of the highest standard, it will be filling.”

  “I’d like nothing better.”

  Then Sarah led him around to make further introductions. All proved to be family of one flavor or other, from a young man and young woman who were Sarah’s brother Kyle and sister Meredith to cousins of all sorts, affiliations, and ages. Finally, she presented him to an older couple addressed as Aunt Louise and Uncle Alec, who confessed to simply being friends of Sarah’s father. Louise was a tall, handsome featured woman who wiped explosive, happy tears while Alec, though marginally shorter than his spouse, had the lean bulk and steely demeanor of a former soldier. Their three daughters and son, all about Sarah’s age or slightly older, were among those previously introduced.

  “Sarah,” Guillaume Monte-Jaune suggested when they had made the circuit back around to him, “why don’t you find Everett a room in the residence where he can rest while the Reserve Company finishes up here?”

  “Monsieur Monte-Jaune--" Everett interrupted.

  “Please call me Guillaume. Everyone does.”

  “I’ll be glad to help, Guillaume. How many sand bags do you need and where do you want them?”

  “Well, we're trying to build firing positions here in front of the Yellow Gate. There have not been doors for the old Snake Gate there in more than a century and we thought –“

  “Stay your passage, O Time!”

  As soon as the spell took effect, Everett cast his tenth and twelfth spells and bounded away. His magical strength did not erase the physical weariness of his muscles, but seemed simply to overwrite it, and he fleetingly wondered without concern if he were doing irreversible damage to his body by insisting that it perform far beyond its normal limits.

  Well satisfied of the inherent limitations on his ability to manipulate smaller objects in interrupted time, he had not bothered to attempt to divide the loose sand in the wagon in order to fill the waiting empty bags. That task would have simply been impossible. Moreover, he had already seen an abundance of ready-made sand bags along the miles of fortifications on the frontier between the opposing alliances. A few terrific leaps carried him north beyond the unmarked border of Kleinsvench, over the narrow neck of land appertaining to the Prince of Gainsfield-Schloss, and to the entrenchments of the Grand Alliance positions. Somewhat motivated by unadulterated spite, he considered but quickly discarded the idea of stealing the sandbags from the Alarsarians. Sailing over them and across a clear-cut no-man’s-land of stumps and burn scar better than a mile wide, he entered into Republican territory. At a long closed and now fortified customs post astride the amputated stump of a major highway only a half mile back from the front, he found thousands of sturdy Zherian sandbags ready for the taking.

  He landed alongside the twelve-foot sloped wall of a forward redoubt, refreshed his strength, and took hold of a bag on an upper course. However, instead of the single bag, a twelve-foot section a dozen courses deep pulled cleanly away in a single piece, with only a few bags ripped apart but unscattered in the process. He gave a half shrug and began liberating other sections of the wall, in the process leaving formerly guarded spyglass wielding sentries standing fully exposed. In several stages, he returned the sections to the Lower Ward and arranged them to protect the portcullis and curtain wall of the Yellow Gate. For good measure, he brought a few hundred extra sandbags in various configurations and set them out of the way on the eastern side of the courtyard.

  Satisfied, he returned to his place in front of Sarah’s father. “Time, resume thy flow!”

  “—that we should—“ Guillaume continued and then abruptly stopped at the shifting cloth sounds of the settling bags that now stood between the group and the lower gate with only a small gap at the center. He looked around for a moment, eyes widening, then focused on Everett once more.

  “That is quite amazing, Everett. Master Wizard, did you say?”

  “Grand Master Wizard, Father,” Sarah corrected, smiling, apparently with proprietary pride.

  “Excellent!” Guillaume beamed, and then with a suddenly serious mien, affirmed “Everett, we must talk.”

  “Could that wait till a little later in the evening? I know that you and your family would like to spend some time with your daughter and I’ve some shopping to do in town.”

  The elder Monte-Jaune regarded him calmly but intently. “Of course. Perhaps after supper?”

  “That’d be fine.” Everett smiled at Sarah, bid all farewell, and started toward the flaking and cracked sandstone of the high-peaked arch of the Snake Gate. After murmuring something to her father, Sarah rushed to catch up.

  “Everett?”

  “Yes?”

  “Are you coming back?”

  “Of course.”

  “Do you want me to come with you?”

  “No, I’ll be fine. Grand Master Wizard, remember? I saw an apothecary’s shop when we came into town and I want to see if they have a muscle lineament. I sprained one in my back sometime in the last couple of days.”

  “Are you going to be all right?”

  He bestowed a confident smile upon her. “Sure, it’s nothing serious.”

  “I’ll see you in a little while?”

  “No more than a couple of hours.”

  As Sarah, displaying noticeable reluctance, turned back, Everett strode with a steady gait out of the Lower Ward and down through the switchbacks and disused outworks toward the city. An impulse struck him to look back at her, but he did not.

  As he moved along the uncluttered cobblestone streets of Kleinsvench among the mostly timber and stone buildings, he kept his eye out for a luncheon vendor's cart, but saw none. While he tried to persuade his empty belly that it would have to wait, it became clear that much of the city's populace was absent. He saw almost no wagon traffic and many of the houses and shops were shuttered or boarded up. The few pedestrians that he did encounter were often stopped in tense, compact groups, disputing quietly. He saw one matron on a second floor balcony hanging clothes to dry on a line that spanned between two buildings, but in general, the normal daily routine of the city was nowhere to be found. The longstanding expectation of the imminent appearance of the Republican juggernaut must have prompted the majority of the citizens of Kleinsvench to seek a less exposed abode.

  Despite what he had said to Sarah, the apothecary lay not along the main avenue by which they had entered the city but in its western quarter. Though he had never been there, he navigated to it without incident. It lay on the southern side of Rheen Street, in a four-storey brick building just across from a small park. Wedged between a locked librairie and an open but quiet boucherie, the shop, at the top of a set of half-circular stone steps, had a tiny display window and a broad parquet patterned door. The unadorned brass sign at the entrance read: Simon Mindelsen, Master Apothecary.

  A bell attached to the door jangled as he pushed it open. A small space hardly bigger than a large closet, the interior of the shop was clean and orderly. On each side, floor-to-ceiling shelve
s packed with labeled boxes and tins made a slightly claustrophobic aisle that funneled customers directly to a marble-topped counter at the back. Behind that were additional packed shelves outlining a black-curtained doorway. Small, signed displays covered most of the counter: Ervil’s Patented Hair Restorer! Guaranteed Cure for Colicky Babies! Petifoy’s Mange Balm (For Dogs Only).

  The proprietor was a wizened man of advanced age with hardly two orphaned strands of white hair on his age spotted bald cranium. No other customers were present and a professional but welcoming grin sprang to the proprietor’s face as he looked up from a large book opened on the counter.

  “Good morning, young man! What ails you today?”

  “Uhm, actually, nothing, Monsieur Mindelsen. I wanted to ask--”

  “Come, come, no need to be embarrassed. If it is a bedroom potency problem that afflicts you, then rest assured that I do not gossip. We have the latest formula bulletins from Eyrchelle and I am sure we can restore you to full vigor.”

  Despite himself, Everett reddened slightly. “No, thank you. What I need is some assistance with three formulas that I’ve found.”

  “Found, you say?” The apothecary eyed Everett guardedly. “You have not stolen them, have you?”

  Everett offered the lie that he had prepared. “No, Monsieur. I came across them while studying the techniques of harmonizing. There’s a book on ornithology in the library in the monastery at Gerabalde and I found them written in the margins.”

  “I see. I must warn you that proprietary formulas have been known to turn up missing. We apothecaries must work hand in hand with chemists and as a member in good standing of the Apothecaries Guild I am honor bound to report any formulas with undocumented provenance to the main Guild Hall in Eyrchelle.”

  Everett nodded with a blank expression. “I’ve no objection to that.”

  Mindelsen tucked one side of his mouth. “Let me see them then.”

  Everett handed the man the slip of paper on which he had copied the three formulas. Mindelsen studied it for a moment.

  “Hmmm. This is standard chemist’s script, but the characters are not the Modern Refined Set. An antiquated notation I would say, maybe from two centuries ago. The first formula has only three ingredients: sulfur, a nitrate, and sugar. The process directions seem odd though. One step introduces a bonding agent that I believe to be highly volatile. Were there any other notes with the formulas? Do you know if it is some type of throat lozenge?”

  “My understanding is that it’s a combustible substance.”

  “For what purpose?”

  “To launch a projectile.”

  “Is that so? Hmm. Yes, I see. Though I must confess without shame that it is not my area of expertise, this second one is obviously an explosive. There are coded warning symbols throughout. However, this third one does not appear to me to be martial in nature. What is it for?”

  “It’s a potion to combat fever and infection.”

  “Ah! If you are not aware, a great many medical conditions do not respond to existing potions. Any new medicinal potion of sufficient efficacy will produce significant revenue. That formula may be the most profitable one, if you have a mind to set up production.”

  “I was actually hoping that you could concoct a set quantity of each of the formulas for me.”

  Mindelsen placed the paper carefully on the counter and folded his arms. “I would be happy to, once I have verified that the formulas are not contraband. Regrettably, if I post a letter, assuming that the war does not disrupt the mail, it will take a month or more for a response to return from the Royal Capital.”

  Everett shook his head. “I don’t have a month. I need the potion within a week and the other compounds within days.”

  “I am sorry, young man. I cannot see that happening unless you can find a wizard that can magic a response from Eyrchelle.”

  Everett smiled. “As a matter of fact…”

  TWENTY-SIX

  “At least the main invasion did not come through Kleinsvench,” Sarah’s brother Kyle told Everett. “We’d have been flattened here. Frankly, those mechanisms you described would have rolled through the Eiae Plain with hardly a pause until they reached the Cyheur Canal half way between here and Eyrchelle.”

  “Kleinsvench has no army?”

  “We have the Residence Guard, who usually serve as gendarmes, border agents, and wardens. They number about two hundred and fifty, but three days ago the Elector took the Guard and enough volunteers to fill out a rump battalion and marched to the frontier to join the Grand Alliance forces. This stripped Kleinsvench of what few defenders we had – well, except for us in the Reserve and we don’t count – we only have two rifles for Magic’s sake -- but a military contribution was a condition of our inclusion in the Alliance.”

  “There was no way to avoid the Alliance?”

  “No. When Sister’s wedding fell through, the Alarsarian ambassador flat out said that the only way we could avoid full occupation by the Royal Army was to play an active role in the Alliance. It was basically an ultimatum and the Elector had no realistic option but to agree. The Alarsarians tend to be arrogant and overbearing but at least we can retain some semblance of sovereignty. If the Republicans overrun us, we'll become just another puppet state.”

  Everett sat across a large, otherwise vacant, circular table from Kyle in the ancient, cavernous banquet hall of the Residence. A complaining Emily and Joseph had already been escorted to bed by Meredith and Aunt Louise. Uncle Alec and some of the cousins had cleared the remains of the meal and then had left to relieve another team of Reservists keeping watch in the tower at the summit of the crag. This was, Kyle had been eager to explain, the abode of the largest set of great bronze bells in the known world, constructed at the decree of a centuries dead Queen Lydia d’Lho for the stated purpose of dispatching the Summer Doldrums, and referred to by one and all as Mad Lydia’s Folly.

  When Monsieur Monte-Jaune had mentioned supper, he had actually meant a full-blown potluck to which everyone remaining in the city had been invited. Ingeniously, the castle residents had apprised the populace of the event through a coded message of tones broadcast from the bells atop the monument to Queen Lydia’s eccentricity. The thrice-repeated message had been simple: Sarah’s home! Let’s have supper! Within an hour, the several hundred attendees had begun to arrive for a cooperative gala equipped with their own food, drinks, tablecloths, silverware, and dishes. After shaking innumerable hands and enduring hugs from citizens of all ages, sorts, and sizes, Everett had been obliged to sample dozens of dishes proffered by preening amateur chefs. Despite this overabundance of appetizers, he had managed to clean his plate of the solid meal of boiled potatoes, pinto beans, and browned rice prepared as a communal effort by the Monte-Jaune extended family. Desert had been a magnificent fried apple turnover prepared by Sarah from a highly valued cache of sun dried fruit.

  It was well after nine o’clock and it had been necessary to light the great chandeliers suspended high above, a task accomplished by Sarah in three casual spell casts as she strolled across the hall to the accompaniment of raucous applause. Beaming happily, she had been the prime focus of the evening and had been obliged to circulate continuously, chatting and smiling, while Everett had been allowed to retire contentedly to his seat. This had had the double consequence of allowing him to make an in-depth acquaintance of her family and for her family to submit him to a not so veiled scrutiny of his motives, history, skills, finances, goals, health, hygiene, and employment prospects.

  At one point during the evening, Aunt Louise had patted him on the hand and said, “Don’t worry, dear. I’m sure you’ll prove fit for our Sarah.”

  Throughout, he had kept a watchful eye on his traveling companion, but she seemed determined not to let her wound, though still obviously painful, disrupt her homecoming. Now that most of the guests had finished eating, the more energetic revelers had migrated toward an open area at one end of the hall for an impromptu dance. A band c
omposed of stringed instruments and a single xylophone had formed through carefully planned spontaneity and lively music now echoed along the vaulted ceiling and among the forlorn tables.

  Enjoying the opportunity for a lately-rare moment of relaxation, Everett continued talking with Kyle concerning random casual matters for perhaps another hour as the hall began to slowly empty, the guests clearing their tables, setting the chairs atop, and carting away the fragments. Then he noticed Guillaume Monte-Jaune separate from the remaining die-hard attendees and make directly for him.

  Kyle also took note of the approach of his father. “Father wanted to speak to you alone, Everett. So, I think I'll head off to bed. Besides, I have to get up before daybreak to take my shift in the tower.”

  Everett nodded. “Have a good night’s rest.”

  “You do the same.” Kyle strode off quickly to meet his father, exchanged a quick word that Everett could not overhear, and disappeared up the stairway that led to the family apartments.

  Guillaume took a place next to Everett, sinking into the chair in a way that suggested he was tired enough to appreciate a quiet sit. His expression solemn, he wasted no time with preliminaries. “Everett, I wanted to ask you how long you might stay in Kleinsvench.”

  Having expected this question, he had a ready if imprecise answer. “I’m not sure, Monsieur Monte-Jaune. I had thought to set up a shop in Eyrchelle, but now with the invasion I think I might find better conditions for business in New Zindersberg.”

  “I don’t doubt that you're correct, however I'd like to offer you a position here in Kleinsvench.”

  “Uhm, do you grow a lot of potatoes?”

  Guillaume looked momentarily confused. “Sorry, potatoes?”

  Everett shook his head to clear it of an obsolete mind-set. “I mean, is there a great demand for magicking in Kleinsvench?”

  “Not a great deal, as far as I know, but what I actually had in mind was an official position on the Elector’s staff.”

  “What, like Royal Wizard?”