I’ll See What I Can Do
by Jared Buck
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Table of Contents parts 1, 2, 3 |
part 2
Garno turned and walked to the door but, before he had it halfway opened, he turned around and cleared his throat to get my attention. I had already begun my head-clearing process. “How soon will it be ready? Your spell.”
His words snapped me out of my reverie just as it had begun. “I cannot say for certain, but I estimate two or three days.”
“Two or three days?”
“As I said before, a spell, even an elementary one, is not a simple thing to formulate. It is not a pot of stew. One must be careful and precise. Calculations must be made, ingredients sent for, tests must be made.”
“Yes, yes. I see your point, wizard. Just get about it as quickly as you can, before those rascals burn my tavern to the ground!” I saw the color of his face turn a tinge of crimson, and though my eyesight has never been particularly good — the price one pays for a lifetime of squinting at the minuscule writing in manuscripts by candlelight for nigh on forty years — even I could see the outline of the bulging vein which ran down the left side of his forehead, from where his hairline had once been, down to his bushy black eyebrow.
“I shall do my best. I promise you, friend Garno.”
Without another word, he left.
* * *
The spell, in fact, took nearly five days to formulate. It was not the most complicated one I had ever crafted; that honor belonged to a spell I crafted for a nobleman whose daughter had been transformed into a donkey by a witch. But it was far more difficult than I had anticipated and more expensive.
There were powders to grind, for which rare herbs needed to be sent for from Crixas, the closest port. I had to send Orty out to hunt for a spider snake — rare in these parts — for I needed its skin. But the most time-consuming part was the composition of the actual spell itself. All sorcerers must, after a fashion, be poets, for words are not children’s baubles to be carelessly tossed about; they are swords with slippery hilts and far sharper.
At last it was done. I went with Orty to the Mermaid, for I would have to cast the spell in person on the very site.
I got out of my carriage and approached the tavern. The Mermaid was a large but humble establishment. A sign with — as one might expect — a faded painting of a mermaid on it, hung over the door. Her wan smile greeted me as I approached, though her face seemed sad despite — or perhaps because of — her thin smile.
Before Orty could open the door for me, it swung open. A young woman, broom in hand, appeared. She looked no more than twenty. Her flaxen hair was done up, with strands hanging down over her cheeks like a bonnet. She wore a simple dress of light gray wool, over which she wore a stained and soiled apron.
“You’re the wizard,” she said. “Father is waiting for you.” She turned around and went back in. “Took him long enough,” I heard her mutter as I crossed over the threshold. Indeed, she seemed to be her father’s daughter.
When I crossed the threshold, I felt transported to another world, and not the sort of world that every sorcerer dreams of being transported to. This was no higher plane of existence, where the world of mundane matter gives way to the realm of higher thoughts and ideas. Neither was it one of those dark realms the common people would refer to as Hell, but it was closer to that than the former.
There was a hog impaled on a spit over the fireplace. A girl, presumably the younger sister of the first, turned it. She eyed me warily. Two other women, one older and gray-haired, the other of an age between the other two daughters, carried pewter cups of ale and mead to the few customers present. It was the middle of the day and not very busy, which was why I had chosen to come at this time. I saw broken chairs and the remains of one or two broken tables piled in one corner of the room.
“At last!”
I turned and to my left saw Garno coming towards me, a dirty towel slung over one shoulder. He seemed the worse for wear, the skin under his eyes puffed into large dark sacks.
“I am here, as promised.”
“You have the spell, then? It’s ready?”
“Would I be here if it were not?”
Without further ado, we got on with it. He asked me if it would be necessary to clear the tavern of customers. He seemed anxious at the idea, and I could see why. They did not seem the types, with their swords and maces close at hand, dented armor, and scarred faces, who would be turned out easily. I felt every eye on me.
“If the spell works, these... gentlemen shall leave of their own accord.”
“If it works?”
I ignored him and got to work. I spread the fine blue powder I had made, the chief effective ingredient being the spider snake skin, around the room, and then applied a thick gray paste to the frames of every door in the establishment. Finally, I handed a vial of dark green potion to Garno and each member of his family.
“Drink this,” I instructed.
They shot one another wary glances.
“What is it?” asked his wife, the gray-haired woman who had been serving drinks. One of the daughters opened her vial and sniffed the contents. She gagged with the violence of one who has just entered a particularly filthy outhouse.
“I’m not drinking this! It’s rancid!” she protested.
“What is this you’ve given us?” Garno asked, his tone less than cordial. “Do you mean to poison us?”
I forced myself not to roll my eyes. Orty turned his head and sighed; even he was frustrated by their obtuseness.
“Yes, I have decided to poison you all so that I might take possession of this lovely establishment, retire from a life of sorcery, and ascend to the exalted title of tavern-keeper.”
They all stared at me as though I had turned into a three-headed chicken. My humor, it seemed, had a limited audience: myself, and perhaps Hoot.
“It is not poison. Once I cast this spell, your tavern will have an aura which will repel the sort of ruffians which now frequent it. This potion will make you immune to the spell.”
The first daughter grunted with disapproval. “He’s calling us ruffians!” she barked. “The nerve of him! We’re fine people, wizard. I’ll have you know that. You may think you’re—”
“I am not saying you are ruffians, or that you are not fine people.” I spoke the words slowly, though I was less than sure of the truth of them. “This spell must cast a rather wide net, yet without being too wide. I do not know how it may affect you fine people, so I have prepared this potion for you, as a precaution. I would not want you turned out of your own establishment by the very spell you have paid me to craft.”
“Will pay,” Garno was quick to add, “If it works.”
Once they had drunk the potion, Orty and I went outside the tavern. I walked around the tavern thirteen times, chanting the spell as I went. I spoke it in Classical Parnthanian, the tongue of the Old Empire, and the common tongue of sorcery. Once done, I cast a glass ball, containing yet another powder, at the front door. It shattered, and a plume of red smoke billowed into the air.
“There. It’s done,” I said, smiling with satisfaction. Orty smiled, too.
“Will it work?” asked Garno. He had watched me pace around the tavern from across the street, arms crossed, and his mouth curled into a dark scowl. “How soon?”
“We shall see,” I replied. “It should begin to take effect by day’s end. Come back to me in three days and report what has occurred, if anything.”
He spat on the ground. “Always a wait with you it seems, wizard.”
“Good things come to those who are patient.”
“Let’s hope so, wizard.” He shook his head and went back into the tavern.
* * *
Garno returned after only two days. “It didn’t work,” he said upon entering. He stood before me, his arms across his puffed-out chest, his lips a red snarl beneath his thick, oily moustache. His head was bandaged, and the front of his tunic had a large red stain, like some misshapen island, from his chest down to his thick leather belt.
I stared at him in silence as I collected my thoughts. How could it have gone wrong? I had put so much into the spell. It had been a work of art, of poetry!
At that moment, Orty sprinted through the door, panting. “Apologies, master,” he said between huffs. “I... I couldn’t stop him. I tried to—”
I raised my hand. “It is no matter, Orty. Leave our friend and me to discuss this. We shall sort things out soon enough, I am sure.”
Orty looked from me to Garno and back to me, unsure what to do before he nodded and left, closing the door behind him.
“Please sit, friend Garno,” I said, pointing to the chair opposite me. “It seems you have been through an ordeal of great unpleasantness.” I helped myself to some wine, offered him some, but he declined.
“Perhaps, friend wizard, if you spent less time quaffing wine and playing with owls, you would be able to craft more effective spells.”
“Perhaps you are right,” I said, sipping some more. “Tell me what happened.”
The spell had seemed to work the first day. The usual riff-raff, unable to enter his establishment, had sought their libations elsewhere. Soon, his tavern was filled with other adventurers, ones of a finer class than he was used to: true knights, the sort who carried gilded sword hilts adorned with rubies. Men with titles. War-mages, thieves, and archers of the finest caliber.
Garno and his family had been delighted with this change of fortune at first but, soon enough, his new guests proved even worse than the unlettered brigands he had long been accustomed to serving.
“They were worse, in fact, if such can be believed.”
“Do tell. Spare me no details.”
He spared me none. What they lacked in bad manners, these new customers made up for in pride and vanity, and their pride was easily pricked. This proved to be the source of a violence and rancor of a worse sort. They were not less violent than their predecessors, but simply more refined. They preferred to challenge each other with an exchange of formalities before they proceeded to run each other through with silver swords.
They spent more time getting into arguments over who among them should lead their adventures, over who outranked whom, over who had truly slain Mornamack the Mad Mage, or Orgroth the Swamp Monster, or the Purple Knight of Yradale, that they spent precious little time actually embarking upon the adventures they had met at the tavern to undertake.
“Adventurers,” I muttered half under my breath. I had never liked them, but now I found myself beginning to loathe them. It seemed silks and fine manners did little to cover up the foul character of such a class of louts.
“Adventurers, indeed,” said Garno. “I should have been a blacksmith, like my father. Tavern-keeping is for the dogs.” He spat, and I shuddered for the sake of the fine Alsanian carpet upon which his spit landed. It would not be easy for Orty to clean later. “So, Wizard Velmore, what shall you do to fix this?”
I sighed. “I’ll see what I can do.”
He tensed up. “See what you can do? Whatever does that prattle mean?”
“Exactly what it sounds like, friend Garno. And I’ll have you know that your insolence has not gone unnoticed. I have been tolerant up to now; however—”
“What is it you will do then, wizard? I have paid you quite a handsome sum already.”
My good humor, needless to say, was at this point gone. I bit my tongue nevertheless. With some people, it is better not to argue; one only digs oneself deeper into the pit.
“As I said, I will see what I can do. I assure you, I will make every effort to rectify the situation. I have promised to rid you of your troubles, and I am a man of my word. I shall begin, of course, by lifting the spell. Then, I shall get to work on a new one.”
“Then I suggest you get to work right away.”
I nodded. Garno stood up and let himself out, and I sighed with relief when he was gone. Sipping my wine, I looked over at Hoot, perched on the window sill behind me. “Sometimes I envy you, my friend.”
* * *
I realized where I had erred. The problems lay not, as I had supposed, with the class of adventurers frequenting the Mermaid. My assumption that adventurers of greater social standing would be an improvement had been a false one. The only difference between them and their humbler brethren was in their sartorial choices and accoutrements; beneath the silks, they were cut from the same cloth. The problem lay with the very nature of adventurers themselves: people who thirst for adventure, excitement, action. Such people are not easily contained, and regardless of social class, the impulses motivating their actions were identical.
The problem was their propensity for violence; that, itself, was what needed to be addressed. Of course! Why had I not gone this route in the first place? But such a regret serves no use; wine spilled is wine gone, after all.
I went to work right away, forsaking my usual habit of strolling in my garden with Hoot, who was rather peeved by this departure from procedure. I had never yet been defeated in my efforts to help someone who had come to me, and I did not intend to be defeated now.
I worked night and day. Seldom had I worked so hard on a case. Orty soon grew concerned for my health, but I dismissed his concerns; work, at times, must come first. I completed the new spell much faster than the first, for I had all the ingredients I would need at hand, and this new spell really wasn’t entirely new at all, but rather was a modification of an old one.
The spell was not even of my own creation; it came from a classic crafter by the name of Slorman the Crafty, a sorcerer of olden times and a crafter of many classic spells. In addition, it was one I had used before, to lull Timrar the Mad Giant to sleep to aid a previous client in his quest to rescue some princess who needed rescuing.
Copyright © 2024 by Jared Buck
