A Touch of Magic (21 page)

“All right boy, don’t get your dander up,” the man said, a little steel returning to his voice. “So you’re fifteen, and your master was killed. Why don’t you tell me about it? Make me understand why you’re out here instead of back at home.”

“Master had taken me home to visit my family, and we were going to make our first caravanning trip afterwards. We were ambushed on the way to Paranol!” Randall cried, trying to weave as much truth into the story as possible. “Men with crossbows came at us, and I was forced to run into Black Eel Marsh.”

“You crossed Black Eel Marsh
by
yourself
?” the man with the fancy clothes asked, incredulous, earning him a sharp look from the dark-haired one.

Randall started to answer when he was interrupted by the dark-haired man. “Your master was a caravaner then? What was his name?”

 “Earl,” Randall answered. He felt nervous about giving Master Erliand’s cover name to these strangers, but he had no other name to give. “I…I never learned his family name.”

Both men started at the mention of Master Erliand’s cover name. The fair-haired one recovered first.

“He was an older gentleman, kind of portly?” he asked, and Randall nodded.

“That would explain how you made it through the marsh,” he said.

“Explains the reflexes, too,” the other said. “So, you’re Old Earl’s boy, eh? Hard to imagine him being taken in an ambush. How many did he get before they took him?”

“I..I don’t know,” Randall said. “I didn’t see. He just told me to run, and so I did.”

“Hah! The old fart’s probably still alive then,” the dark-haired one snorted, slapping Randall on the back. “He’s probably been in Paranol a week, wondering why you haven’t shown up yet.”

Of course! Randall thought to himself, brightening considerably. There’s no way that Master Erliand could have lost that fight in Geldorn! He’s probably still alive!

“Well, boy,” the dark-haired man continued. “I suppose introductions are in order. My name’s Brody. That there is Tobsen.”

The light-haired man, Tobsen, tipped his hat with a flourish.

“I’m…Randall,” Randall stammered. He briefly considered making up a name on the spot, but he rejected the idea. He just couldn’t think of one quickly enough to make it a convincing lie.

“Well met, Randall,” the man named Brody said. “We’re caravaners ourselves, on the way to Paranol as it so happens. You’re more than welcome to join us. Any boy of Old Earl is a friend of ours. When we get there, we’ll help you find him.”

“Really?” Randall asked, his excitement rising. Things seemed to be going his way for once! Even if Master Erliand wasn’t in Paranol, these men might know where to find him—provided that he was still alive.

“Yes, really,” Brody chuckled. “I imagine it won’t be that much work to track him down. He’ll probably be at the first pub we stop at!”

Both Tobsen and Brody shared a laugh at this last quip, and Randall felt himself growing to like the two caravaners and the easy companionship they obviously shared.

“You look exhausted boy. Why don’t you get back to sleep and we’ll keep an eye on things out here.” Tobsen suggested. “We have a long day ahead of us still.”

Randall nodded. With all of the excited thoughts racing through his head, Randall was certain he wouldn’t actually be able to fall asleep. But he was exhausted, and sleep crept up on him while Brody and Tobsen built a small campfire. As they worked, they kept up a running conversation, their voices pitched too low for Randall to overhear.

 As he dozed next to the flames, Randall reflected on how nice it was to sleep next to a big warm fire, a luxury he hadn’t allowed himself since going on the run. As he drifted in out and out of sleep, he caught a snatch of Tobsen and Brody’s conversation.

“The boy’s story’s got holes in it, Brody. And you know it,” Tobsen said, his tense voice rising above a whisper.

“Well, it seems to check out where it matters,” Brody replied. “We’ll know the truth of it all soon enough. Now keep quiet, or you’ll wake the lad.”

Randall tried to concentrate to listen to more of what the two men were saying, but the harder he concentrated, the more he found his mind wandering, dozing in and out of dreamland. Finally, he fell asleep completely, dreaming fitfully. Over the last couple of weeks, he had hardly dreamed at all. But with these two men standing guard, perhaps Randall felt safe enough to fall into a deep enough sleep.

His dreams weren’t at all peaceful, however. While he was on the run in the bog, Randall didn’t have the luxury of being afraid. He had to keep putting one foot in front of the other, not knowing if he would live or die the next hour, much less the next minute. Randall had no idea how much fear he had kept bottled up within him until it came boiling out of him in his dreams. In one particularly harrowing dream, Randall was being chased by a huge bog-wight while Berry sat on the creature’s shoulder, cackling and chittering. Finally, the pair trapped him with his back against a mangrove tree. Berry raised his spindly hand, pointing his finger while beginning to say the words that would practically turn him inside-out.

“Berry!” Randall cried out, and sat bolt upright.

“Easy lad!” Brody called from the campfire. “You’re all right! Nobody’s going to get you. Who the devil is Barry?”

It was mid-morning judging from the sun, and Brody was making breakfast of some sort. Tobsen was also sitting by the fire, lightly plucking a lute. Next to the minstrel was a man that he had not met the previous night. Randall knew that he couldn’t mention his traveling companion to these men. If Berry
was
some kind of fae, it would be better not to mention him at all, rather than drawing suspicion upon himself.

“Berry, not Barry,” Randall said. “You know, blackberries? I was picking them a few days ago when the bog-wights attacked me.”

Brody’s eyes grew wide, while Tobsen and the other man looked skeptical.

“You were picking
blackberries
when the
bog-wights
attacked you?” Tobsen asked, clearly disbelieving every word Randall had said. “Blackberries aren’t even in season!”

The other man continued to poke at the fire, seemingly ignoring the conversation. He had close-cropped hair, and was extremely muscular, with an upper body built like a circus strongman. Randall wouldn’t want to get in a fist fight with
him
, that’s for sure!

“I know!” Randall said. “That’s why I was picking as many as I could! I thought maybe it was just dumb luck to find some that were fruiting early! You don’t have to take my word for it! I’ll show you!”

Randall reached over and grabbed his traveling pack, jamming his arm deep inside looking for one of the few blackberries that he had left. He jerked when he felt something skitter across his forearm. Yanking his hand back and peering into the sack, he saw Berry curled up near the bottom of the sack, his eyes saucer-wide.

Randall paused for a long moment, almost giving his friend away, trying to figure out what to do next. Then he spotted the half-eaten blackberry in Berry’s hands. Reaching back in, he snatched the blackberry from the sprite and quickly closed the bag again so that the men could not see what else it held. Or hear Berry’s angry chittering protest at being robbed of his meal.

“See?” Randall said, indignantly, holding the berry for the men to see before popping it into his mouth. “Do you believe me now?”

“Well, I’ll be,” Brody exclaimed. “And you said you were attacked by bog-wights?” He cocked his head skeptically at Randall’s nod. “You sure it was bog-wights? What’d they look like?”

Randall described the horrific creatures for the men. He described their large, brutish frames, and their horrible, all-too-human features. He explained how they swarmed him as a pack, trying to get around him on all sides so that he couldn’t escape.

“But the worst part about them is the smell,” Randall said, gazing off into the distance as the memory washed over him. “It was like…like. It was like dead fish and caramel!”

“That’s bog-wights all right,” the large man said, turning to join in the conversation. “Can’t say as I can figure how a scrawny whelp like you survived a run in with the likes of them, though.”

“That there’s Declan, and don’t you take no offense at him,” Brody said. “He has a way of cutting to the heart of things, and he doesn’t much care if he steps on someone’s toes in the process. That’s a mighty fine asset to have when you’re negotiating.”

“So, how
did
you survive?” Tobsen cut in, still looking skeptical.

“I…I ran,” Randall said. It was mostly the truth.

“Bah!” Tobsen cried, setting his lute aside. “First you fled the bandits. Then you fled the bog-wights. How am I going to get any good songs out of your adventures if they all end in you running away?”

Randall blushed to the tips of his ears, while the other two men broke into boisterous laughter.

“C’mon, boy,” Brody offered, still chuckling. “Have a seat and get some grub in you.”

 Randall gladly took the offered porridge and returned the favor by sharing his few remaining blackberries with the men, being careful to keep Berry hidden while digging them out. They tasted marvelous when added to the porridge, brightening an otherwise bland meal.

After breakfast, the four companions set out for Paranol. They traveled along the path that Randall had found the night before, confirming his suspicion that it led toward the city. Declan had driven a horse-drawn covered wagon to the camp sometime while Randall slept, and today it was evidently Brody’s turn to drive the vehicle. Brody invited Randall to ride within, and he eagerly accepted.

Randall was excited to see that the wagon was full of shiny knick-knacks and baubles. He was particularly in awe of a set of tiny glass sculptures. There were miniscule sculptures of dragons, mermaids, feathered serpents and all manner of mythological creatures. He couldn’t believe something so fragile and tiny could have such detail and vibrant color. His favorite by far was a sculpture no bigger than his thumb of a phoenix rising from its own ashes. The tips of its wings were such a vibrant red that it nearly looked as if it were sculpted from pure flame. It was a masterpiece.

Noticing Randall’s interest, Brody mentioned that the trio had just returned from Dyffryn, a large elven community deep within the forest. Randall was shocked nearly speechless at the casual mention of elves. He had only recently learned from Master Erliand that elves and dwarves actually existed, and now, here was a caravan driver casually mentioning that he traded with them!

“Elves?” he sputtered. “Elves live here on Tallia?

Brody broke into laughter at Randall’s incredulity. “You said you’re from Geldorn, right?” he asked before continuing at Randall’s nod. “Well, I imagine it’s a pretty small backwater. Most folks in the bigger cities are pretty accepting of the fact that there are elves on the island, even if they’ve never met one.”

 “But hasn’t king Priess outlawed all magic on Tallia? How can they even be allowed to live here?” Randall asked, letting the ‘backwater’ insult slide.

“Well, there’s the rub, kid,” Brody said, matter-of-factly. “Making a decree and enforcing a decree are two different things. King Priess may not approve of elves on his soil, but Tallia’s a big place. Lots of it is still wild country; country no man is safe setting foot in. There’s plenty of places where the name of King Priess has never even been spoken, and even more places where he dare not send his men. So, just so long as the elves mind their own business and ignore humanity, King Priess is happy to do the same.

“The arrangement suits me fine.” Brody said, pointing to the back of the wagon where a pair of elegant woodcuts showed the scene of noblemen orchestrating a fox hunt. “We make a pretty penny selling elven artworks to a very exclusive clientele.”

“So, you trade back and forth with the elves all the time, then?” Randall asked. He imagined it must be exciting to spend such close company with the creatures of folklore.

“Only once or twice a year, actually” Brody informed him. “It’s not safe to spend much time around elves. Tobsen’s really the only one who deals with them, and he risks his neck every time he does it. We trade news and music to them for these trinkets. Elves are notoriously bored creatures, always hungering for the new and novel, which Tobsen attempts to provide to them.”

Well, that explains why a couple of obviously experienced caravaners would take up with such a fop, Randall thought to himself.

 “We’ll travel from here to Paranol,” Brody continued. “From there, we’ll hit the other big cities all the way up to Port Medlin. There, we unload the last of our goods and load up on spices and other imports to sell on our way back to Dyffryn. That won’t bring us as much coin as the artworks, but at least we make money both ways.”

Randall was in awe. These three men practically traveled the entire island of Tallia, back and forth, several times a year! Visions of exotic locations dancing in his head, Randall vowed that if they did not meet up with Master Erliand in Paranol, he would beg the caravaners to take him on as an apprentice, and he would leave the world of magic behind forever, along with all of its dangers and heartaches.

Chapter 10

Time passed quickly traveling with the three men. As they traveled, Brody kept Randall entertained with stories about the various places the trio traded in. He explained that Tallia had close to twenty towns and cities officially on the tax rolls. In addition to those, there were probably dozens of little hamlets and farmsteads that had a population so small that they didn’t really matter to anyone, except of course the people that lived there.

“That’s not counting the elves,” Brody said with a wink. “Can’t tell how many communities
they
actually have. But I wouldn’t be surprised if they were all throughout Shaderest Forest.” He punctuated his sentence by jerking his thumb northward, deeper into the forest.

“So, it takes you about six months to travel from one end of Tallia to the other?” Randall asked, trying to get a feel for the caravanning lifestyle.

Brody laughed. “Not really. We could make the whole circuit in about eight or nine months if we didn’t stop for rest and relaxation. But we really don’t travel the island from tip to tip, you know.”

“What do you mean?” Randall asked. Living in a small town hadn’t really given him much of an idea of the island geography. He knew about the three large communities surrounding Geldorn, and the marsh, of course. For most people in his town, that would be as big of a world as they would ever need to know.

“Well, most of the big cities are on the eastern plains,” Brody explained. “Much of Tallia to the north and west are either mountains or forest. Pretty rough places to try to scratch out a living. Honestly, the only reason we ever come this far west is to treat with the elves. If it weren’t for them, we wouldn’t ever bother traveling further than Paranol. Ain’t no cities of any account past there anyway.”

“That’s not true,” Randall protested, offended that his hometown would just be brushed aside as if it were completely inconsequential. “There’s plenty of towns down there! People come from all over to come to our job fair!”

“Think so, boy?” Brody asked derisively. “So you tell me, then. What’s a good day’s pay in your town?”

Randall considered carefully. “Well, we might make six or seven ringets. Depending on how much flour people need.”

“And you make that bounty every day, do you?” Brody asked condescendingly.

“Of course not! Some days, nobody needs flour. Other days, like if there’s a wedding, we can make ton’s more!” Randall shot back defensively. “You don’t get paid every day either!”

“True that. But you have to look at the big picture. Six or seven ringets a day. That’s, what, twenty or so quartos a month? And I’d bet a lot of that money goes right back out nearly as fast as it comes in. It’d probably take your pa what, eight, ten years to save up a talen’s-worth of coin?”

Randall tried to keep up with the math as Brody spoke. It was true that his family usually had very little spending money, even though they had a fairly successful business—by Geldorn standards. In the end he had to give a grudging nod at Brody’s assessment.

“Now, would you rather waste a month scratching for a handful of ringets in a backwater hick town, or would you rather spend a week in Varna on the Lake, trading elven trinkets for zigs? And three weeks later be doing the same in Troyan?”

The ziggur was the highest monetary piece that Randall had heard of, though he had never seen one. Most people just called them ‘zigs’. In Geldorn, they were mostly the subject of children’s fantasies. When Randall was younger, he and Bobby would often sit and stare at the clouds, playing “If I had a zig.” They would take turns saying “If I had a zig,” followed by all of the things they would buy.

Randall recalled how his heart had thumped in his chest when Master Erliand had pulled only two talens and a few florn from his pouch. That money was several years’ earnings for the elder Miller. A zig was worth so much more, it was impossible for Randall to fathom actually owning one, much less several. He was forced to admit to himself that Geldorn
was
a backwater hick town, and that these caravaners would probably see more wealth in one season than anyone from his home town would see in a lifetime. And if Randall was lucky, so would he!

“Yeah, you don’t gotta answer, boy. I can see the greed in your face,” Brody said, satisfied. “So, we go west-to-east, starting with the elves all the way to Port Medlin, hitting the big cities in between, and pretty much ignoring the boondocks and the cities that are too far out of our way. Tallia’s taller than it is wide, so, we really only cross the island the short way across.”

“Oh,” Randall said. “Then, you only visit the same cities every trip? You don’t see everything?” Randall was learning that the reality of caravanning didn’t quite match up to his romantic notions about the nature of the work.

“Don’t sound so disappointed!” Brody said, chuckling. “We see everything worth seeing! There’s plenty of adventure to be had, not to mention plenty of pretty girls looking for a fella who has a coin or two to spend on them.”

Brody waggled his eyebrows suggestively, causing Randall to blush furiously. “Haw,” the elder caravaner chortled. “You blush like a schoolgirl! I swear, I can’t imagine what possessed Old Earl to travel all the way to some place like
Geldorn
to find an apprentice. We’ll make a man out of you yet! Soon, you’ll be drinking liquor and swaggering with the best of them!”

Randall looked down. He knew why Master Erliand had chosen him for an apprentice, though it wouldn’t be wise to share that with this man. If caravaners never traveled to the southern towns much, it would explain why Master Erliand’s house was between Geldorn and Paranol. Close enough to Paranol to get back into the caravanning circuit to keep up his cover story, but far enough away to afford him a bit of privacy.

Later that day, the group stopped for lunch near a stream. Randall jumped down from the wagon with his travel sack, under the pretense of getting some water for cooking. When he got to the water’s edge, he opened the sack and peered within, only to be confronted by a very unhappy sprite.

“Look, Berry, I have to keep you hidden,” he started, apologetically as the imp chittered angrily at him.

“I know, I know! I’m sorry,” Randall continued as Berry continued to harangue him. “I don’t know if you can understand me, but I’ll let you out of the bag if you just stay hidden. I’ll save some lunch for you and smuggle it to you later. Promise! Just
stay hidden!
”

Berry cocked his head sideways and looked at Randall as if he was considering what Randall had said. Then, in a flash, he clambered up Randall’s arm to his customary spot on his shoulder.

“No, Berry! I can’t keep you up there!” Randall protested quietly, turning his head to get a good look at the sprite so he could pluck it off of his shoulder.

 “Berry?” Randall hissed, confused. The little sprite wasn’t there!

Randall spun around, and began patting down his clothes, frantically looking for his friend. He couldn’t just walk back to camp and risk Berry being seen. There was no telling where the little sprite was hiding!

“Hey, boy, what’s the matter with you?” Randall heard from behind him. Tobsen had come to see what was taking Randall so long.

“Oh, uh…I got a bug in my shirt! A big ol’ tree roach!” Randall exclaimed while continuing to pat around on his chest.

Tobsen pulled a face at the news. “Ugh!” he said as he said as he shivered in sympathy. “I wondered what all of the hullabaloo was about. I could hear your tomfoolery over my lute practice!”

Randall patted himself a couple of times and said “Well, I think it’s gone.” Tobsen shivered again in sympathy, closing his eyes and making a thoroughly disgusted face.

Randall would just have to look for Berry later. He couldn’t do a thorough examination of himself looking for the little man without it being obvious that he was looking for something other than a bug.

He scooped up a pot full of water and followed Tobsen back to the camp, his heart pounding in his chest. He just knew that Berry was going to turn up at the worst possible moment, and then Randall would be on the run again.

He briefly considered mentioning the little sprite to the caravaners. They did deal with the elves, after all. But something held him back. Though they skirted the law by dealing with the elves, they seemed to only do so out of a profit motive. Randall suspected that they wouldn’t be nearly so keen to have one of the fae as a traveling companion. Plus, Berry didn’t seem to trust them; he stayed hidden whenever the other men were around. So, Randall vowed to keep his friend a secret, at least for now.

When he got back to camp, he put the cook-pot on the fire. Declan and Brody announced that they were going to try to find some small game to add to their meal, and headed off into the forest, crossbows slung over their shoulders. While Randall worked on making some soup, Tobsen sat far away, plucking his lute and muttering to himself. As far as Randall could tell, the foppish man never did anything to help out when it came to camp chores. All he ever seemed to do was to play his lute and complain.

That suited Randall just fine. If Berry was near, he was sure to make a scene when the soup was done, and Randall didn’t need anyone around when that happened! He didn’t have much in the way of herbs to add to the soup, but the traveling men did have some potatoes and salt in the wagon, which he helped himself to. By the time he put the soup on the fire, he could hear Berry’s familiar chittering, though it was faint, and Randall couldn’t pin down where it was coming from. Glancing up surreptitiously, he saw Tobsen absorbed in his practice, taking no notice of the goings-on at the campfire.

Randall was going to have to do something about Berry. No matter how deep in concentration Tobsen was, he was bound to notice Berry’s angry tirade at the cook-pot when Randall took it off of the fire and waited for it to cool. So, while the soup was still on the fire, Randall went to the wagon, and rummaged around, trying to come up with an idea.

Luckily, the traveling men had some basic wooden dinnerware and serving utensils. With the soup still on the fire, Randall scooped up a small portion in a large ladle. He quickly blew on it, touching it with his tongue occasionally until it was just cool enough to drink. Then he made a great show of tasting the soup and then pretending to drink the entire ladleful.

Randall didn’t think Tobsen was watching him that closely, but still, he went through the motions. These men seemed to treat him with an easy acceptance, but in reality, they were virtual strangers. He couldn’t be sure if the troubadour was truly ignoring him, or if he had stayed behind to keep watch out for the wagon’s valuable cargo.

When Randall was satisfied with his charade, he set the ladle to the side, carefully balancing it on a log so that it wouldn’t spill. Almost immediately, he heard the sound of Berry greedily slurping up the soup.

Randall stared at the ladle. Berry wasn’t even there! Randall looked closer, trying to pinpoint the source of the noise, but all he saw was soup fast disappearing from the ladle. It wasn’t until Berry finished drinking and stood upright that Randall finally noticed him. Berry wasn’t invisible after all, but he had become so transparent that might as well have been. When he stood perfectly still, it was practically impossible to see him if you didn’t know what to look for.

“Good job, Berry!” Randall whispered. “That’s amazing!”

Berry gave a little slurp as he licked the dripping soup from his chin, and then curled up on the grass, for his afternoon nap, still mostly transparent. Randall scooped him up in the ladle and carried him back to the wagon. He placed the little sprite in the back and covered him with a scrap of cloth, under the pretense of rummaging for some bowls to serve the soup in.

“Stay hidden for me, all right?” Randall whispered, as the sprite began purring softly.

“I take it the soup is ready?” Tobsen called from his lute practice. “I am quite famished and ready for my repast.” Tobsen had been paying at least some attention to Randall after all.

Randall grumbled while grabbing a couple of bowls from the wagon. He wasn’t really making the soup for Tobsen or the other men. He had assumed they could look after themselves as they had been doing, and he would do the same. The last thing he wanted was to play fetch-and-carry for this overstuffed peacock.

Still, the men were taking him to Paranol, and Randall should probably show them some appreciation by sharing his soup if they wanted it. Besides, he really didn’t want to get into an argument that could turn ugly. The men seemed jovial enough now, but it was clear that they were a little on the shady side. Trading with the elves wasn’t legal, and if they were willing to skirt the law that far, there was no telling how far outside of those boundaries they were willing to go. Besides, Randall
had
nicked a couple of their potatoes.

So, even though it stuck in his craw to do it, Randall made a bowl of soup for himself and Tobsen both. The added potatoes helped stretch the meal out, and Randall gave them both small portions. If it was assumed he would share his soup with the others, he wanted to be sure there was enough for everyone.

 As Randall ate in silence, Tobsen slurped soup between composing lyrics for a song. After a few false starts, Tobsen began singing about a boy of legendary cowardice, who once ran away from a fight so quickly that he went completely around the world and ran into himself from behind. Even though Randall knew Tobsen was making fun of him, he couldn’t help but giggle at the imagery.