Realms of the Arcane a-5 Read online

  "Can you read it?" Sasha asked.

  "Thorass."

  "I beg your pardon?"

  "It's written in Thorass. Auld Common tongue." Wiglaf bent in concentration. "Nobody uses it anymore. There's no telling how old this is, Sasha. Centuries, maybe."

  "I'll bet Fenzig can read it."

  Wiglaf frowned. "For your information, he's teaching me how, too."

  "Fine. Give us the translation, your mageness."

  "Well… I just started, and it's a dead language anyway, so I didn't really…"

  "… and you have this problem with studying. Great. Just when we could actually use a little book learning."

  "Hold on, hold on. I've got some of it. Time'… no, Year… none-food.' "

  "Ah. Crystal clear."

  "Please, Sasha. 'Make… meal'… no, 'bread… of… wonder. Make year… many-food.' "

  Wiglaf's mouth fell open. He turned slowly to the other items.

  "Sasha, do you realize what happened? Do you realize what we have here?"

  "No, me many not-realize."

  "There must have been a Year of Famine, long ago, who knows? And then a very powerful magic-user- maybe a whole bunch of them-made this." He held up the lump and turned it in his hand. "So stupid, it's right there in front of me. Dough. This is starter dough! It makes the bread of wonder!" He grabbed the jar. "And this has to be magical sourdough starter-to make even more dough!"

  "I'm hungry already."

  "No, don't you see? This stuff turned the Year of Starving into a Year of Plenty. It might even have saved our whole civilization. And they must have hidden it here in case a famine came back."

  "You think it's still any good?"

  "No reason why not. In Luiren, they discovered a sealed flask of ale from ancient times that turned out to be just fine. And so was the recipe they found along with it. Inns are serving Oldest Ancient Stout there today. And this could be even bigger!"

  He stood, amazed, and threw out his arms. "Sasha, this is the greatest discovery Calimshan has ever seen!" He started to tip back into the water, but Sasha was there.

  "Hey, no more diving today, okay, Wiglaf? Let's just take your wonder bread back to town."

  The Ovens of Evertongue employed three full-time bakers; two apprentices who evaluated, procured, cataloged, stored, and measured the constant flow of foodstuffs; and, lowest in the pecking order, an ovenboy whose never-ending job was to keep the floors and counters as tidy as business would allow, and the used implements recycling back into the process all clean and shiny. Wiglaf himself had served a few terms as ovenboy, a miserable duty that nevertheless befell anyone who wished to rise in the hierarchy. Even the shop's cat, Piewacket, considered herself in a supervisory position.

  Thorin and the entire staff had been at work well before sunrise on the morning pastry detail, and had shifted toward loaves for evening meals when Wiglaf and Sasha burst in from their journey. The bakers were happy enough to see their old colleague, but they were terribly busy. Wiglaf had to dodge scurrying people as he rapidly recounted the day's events-omitting, Sasha noted, only his unorthodox entry into the grotto pool. At the ultimate moment, he pulled the treasure from his pocket and held it aloft like an enchanted sword.

  When the bakers finally had something tangible to see, all activity stopped. They moved tentatively toward the starter dough and the jar that Wiglaf brandished. Only Piewacket, asleep in a U-shape on the windowsill, was uninterested.

  "If that isn't starter, I'm a "deeper," marveled Sam Brownstone, Thorin's veteran baker. Wiglaf handed it to him for inspection. "But it's the damndest one I've ever seen." He gave the lump a gentle squeeze. "It feels fresh, but dry as the desert on the outside. We're to believe this is hundreds of years old, young Ever-tongue?"

  "Maybe thousands!" cried Wiglaf.

  "So what are you planning to do with it, son?" his father asked.

  "Well, if you don't know what to do with it here, maybe I'd better take my business to another establishment," Wiglaf beamed.

  "You don't actually believe it's still good after all this time?"

  "There's only one way to find out, Father."

  Thorin Evertongue paused and pondered. "All right, but after we've finished today's baking. Today, gentlemen." The spell was broken, and the staff hurried to its duties again.

  Wiglaf leapt up in delight. 'Well, what are we waiting for? Give me an apron and I'll help!"

  Sasha cleared her throat. She had gone completely unnoticed in the commotion. "I think this is my cue to take a stroll. See you later, Wiglaf."

  He gave her a curt wave and made his second dive of the day-into frenzied work at his father's bakery.

  It felt good, toiling at his former station. If fresh, hot bread was comfort food, then making it was comfort work. Sometimes those who have gladly left a trade are reminded of their past misery by smells and sounds; Wiglaf knew a former blacksmith who hated the smell of horses and jumped at the biting sound of steel on steel, and he himself had often thought that if he could just get out of this bakery, he'd never enter one again. But he knew that any profession becomes a chore if you have to do it when you don't want to-yes, even the study of magic. And as anyone knows who has passed one by, there are few smells as tantalizing as those issuing from a bakery; that pleasure is not lost on its employees.

  Wiglaf helped with preparation, cleaning, and especially customer service at the counter in the front room, a task at which he excelled. Most of the patrons who stopped in were lifelong acquaintances, surprised to see him back at work, and each one was treated to the story of his latest exploit. The afternoon flew by, and before he knew it, the last loaves-the ones the staff would take home for themselves-were steaming in the bakers' baskets.

  With the solemnity of a group of learned healers, the craftsmen prepared to conjure Wiglaf's special loaf. The ovenboy produced a pot of water warmed by the fire. Sam Brownstone poured a bit of it into a large bowl and gave Wiglaf the honor of adding the magical discovery.

  "Now, this is just half a loaf," Wiglaf said, "so let's use half measures. We'll test it first." He carefully added a bit of the dough into the water and stirred the mixture with a fork. Everyone in the room was intent on this otherwise mundane task; even Piewacket came up to snake against ankles and compete for attention. Soon the dough had completely dissolved into the water.

  Sam dipped a small spoon into the sack holding the bakery's sugar. Everyone knew this was the moment of truth: was it really possible that the yeast in the dough had somehow survived all these years? With a portentous glance at Wiglaf, who swallowed hard, Sam dropped the sugar into the water and began to stir.

  The mixture started bubbling.

  The bakers let out a cheer.

  "It's alive!" said Sam, clapping Wiglaf on the back. "It's good!"

  Sam poured water into another bowl, then expertly mixed some honey, salt, and flour. Then, so gradually it was almost painful, he added the dough-water. It dissolved into the flour mixture easily, almost as if it knew its function.

  When he was satisfied by the consistency, Sam upended the bowl, and a large cream-colored blob plopped nicely on the table. He rolled it flat, then began to knead it into a loaf; pressing, folding, bunching, turning, with graceful flowing movements that entranced his audience as effectively as any spellcasting.

  "Fine dough, young Wiglaf," he said as he massaged the mixture. "I don't know how it will taste, but it works in the hand like a tender young maiden."

  "So, too, shall it work for the Grand Exalted One!" came a shrill voice from the doorway.

  All heads turned to behold a mousy, balding little man carrying a worn ledger before him like a tome of holy writ. His brilliant red raiment was offset by an ornate, nearly shield-sized golden pendant hanging from his neck, which may have been at least partially responsible for a perpetually stooped posture. Thorin let out a barely audible groan as the visitor stutter-stepped like a dying ghoul through the front counter area, frightening Piewacket in
to a far corner.

  "Wiglaf, I have the honor to present the official countenance of the honorable Has'san Hairsplitter," Thorin said in a barely disguised singsong voice.

  "Hars'plittar," the weasel corrected.

  "Anyway," Thorin said with a roll of his eyes, "this is the tax collector."

  "Underassistant domestic economic redistribution specialist," the little man remonstrated, "for the west-northwest semi-urban trade zone, city of Calimport, kingdom of Calirnshan, in service to the Mightiest of Mighties, His Majestic Royal Benevolence."

  "We've made our graft payments," said Thorin.

  "Ah, but this is a special command visit," said the bureaucrat. "It has come to the attention of His Mammoth Munificence that a discovery has been made on his lands, in his kingdom, of certain items of arcana that may have significant historical… mm, significance."

  "Your customers have been talking, Wiglaf," Thorin said with a rueful glance at his son.

  "It's nothing but a bloody loaf of bread," said Sam, still absently kneading the dough.

  "Nevertheless, under footnote eleven, subsection double-T, paragraph thirty-four, of His Unutterable Awesomeness's five hundred twenty-fifth royal decree, historical artifacts are subject to a special levy."

  "This bread is definitely unlevied at the moment," said Thorin, as the bakers stifled chuckles. "Has'san, how are you going to valuate a pile of dough?"

  "His Magnanimous Puissance understands the problem, and has instructed me to receive the tribute in kind. I fall to my knees and weep over his glorious generosity toward you."

  "What did he say?" asked Wiglaf.

  "His boss wants dough," Thorin sighed.

  Hars'plittar slinked to Sam's table and reached for a knife. "The special levy for arcana is satisfied… so." He lopped off two thirds of the dough, draped it in a piece of Thorin's cloth, and hobbled for the door. "On behalf of the artisans in His Fearsome Omnivorousness's kitchens, and all of Calimshan, we salute your patriotic initiative in this matter and wish you a sincere and pleasant good evening."

  The foul residue of his visit lingered for many moments after he was out of the door.

  "Can he do that? How can he do that?" pleaded Wiglaf.

  "It could be worse, laddie," Sam said as he rolled the fractional piece again and kneaded it into shape. "At least he left us with something. And that jar over there never made it up the chain of command. The bean counters forgot all about it. Better take it away before that ferret decides to come back."

  "I'd love to pour this over his head," Wiglaf said as he stashed the jar in a pocket of his robe.

  "Never mind that," Thorin said. "Let's get ready to close up. We'll have to leave it out overnight to let it rise." Sam placed the pitiful little measure into a greased wooden bowl-the smallest one on the premises-then covered it with a cloth and nestled it near the warmth of the great ovens. "Coming home later for dinner, Son?"

  "In a while, Dad. I'm going to find Sasha and stop in at the Sheets. I want to see their faces when they hear that Calimport's biggest news comes from the bakery."

  Finding Sasha and stopping in at the Sheets turned out to be one and the same task. After an hour or so of fruitless search, Wiglaf finally peeked into the tavern to find the late-afternoon trade in full flower, and Sasha at the bar in rapt conversation with Garadel, sipping some of the innkeep's best spiced wine and surrounded by five or six regulars. She noticed him at the doorway and waved him inside.

  "It didn't take you very long to make friends," Wiglaf smiled.

  "Well, some folk are friendlier than others," she said, pointing to Angrod and his mates, each nursing a tankard of ale at a far table in the crowded tavern. "That one there, he's very friendly."

  "He told her he'd like to wrestle with her!" said a gap-toothed customer. "He'd show her a few moves!" from another, and the group burst into cackling glee.

  Wiglaf blanched. "Why-" He started toward Angrod, but Sasha held him back.

  "No, no. I said it sounded like fun."

  "So Sasha suggested they arm wrestle," said Garadel, not looking up as she swabbed the top of the bar with a cloth. A restrained giggle suddenly left her mouth as a spit sound.

  "You beat him?" Wiglaf was incredulous.

  "That hulk? Oh no, he won, all right. But trust me, he paid for it."

  "It took two out of three falls!" crowed a patron, and others joined in.

  "His face turned red as an apple!"

  "He screamed like a banshee!"

  "I thought he'd burst his bullocks!"

  "Notice he's drinking with his left hand." Sasha nodded toward Angrod as he set down his ale to massage his right wrist. "I think Mister Swordthumper's had enough wrestling for today."

  Over dinner that night, Thorin Evertongue laughed loud and long at Sasha's story, while Ariel smiled shyly at her son's "lady friend." To his slight dismay, there had been no need for Wiglaf to recount his seashore triumph in the Sheets, for during the afternoon the news of his discovery had spread there just as quickly as it had reached the pasha's palace. But he'd received his fabled free tankard of ale from Garadel, and before long he was in the spotlight as he'd hoped: adding plenty of delicious detail for a rapt audience, small bits of it perfectly accurate. Finally the pangs of hunger had called everyone to their evening meals, and Wiglaf and Sasha to their temporary home.

  "Young Swordthumper won't stew for long," Thorin said. "He struts and roars like a wild beast, but he'll do no real harm. Your little match today was probably good for him."

  "It certainly did me good," Sasha said. "He'll think twice before-"

  "Thorin!" came a muffled voice from outside. The Evertongues' front door shook with repeated pounding. Thorin ran and opened it on a frantic Garadel.

  "Someone's inside the bakery!" she spluttered. "Your cat's howling, crashing noises-we've got to stop them!" Sasha bolted to her feet and slung her broadsword's strap around her neck as Thorin grabbed an axe from the fireplace. Wiglaf fumbled through his pockets in vain, terrified he'd left the precious spell-book back in Schamedar and that Fenzig would therefore be roasting him on a spit soon after the intruders were done murdering his father.

  "My book!" he shrieked.

  "Oh, my goodness," said Ariel, going to the mantel. "Is this what you're looking for?" She held up the most wonderful, most delightful, most beautiful spellbook Wiglaf had ever, ever seen. "I always empty the pockets before I wash clothes, dear."

  "Mom…" He grabbed the book and they were gone.

  As they dashed to the bakery, Garadel shouted that some inn guests had complained about the racket outdoors: cats in heat, maybe, from the unearthly hissing and wailing. Then they heard utensils scattering to the floor and a loud crash, the cat only moaning louder. Thieves rarely plied their trade in this working-class section of Calimport, and heaven only knew what valuables they expected to find in a bakery. There was a first time for everything, though, and after all, there were such things as very stupid bandits.

  Adrenaline pumping, they reached the bakery in minutes, braced for action. The street was nearly deserted in the soft moonlight and the flickering glow from strategically placed overnight torches on poles. A few boarders from Sheets to the Wind watched in their nightclothes from the doorstep across the way. Sasha crept up to the bakery door and quietly tried it. Locked.

  They listened. There was no crashing, no clanging, just one thing alone: the kind of spooky, ululating wail that fathers use when telling ghost stories to their children. They had never heard Piewacket make such noise. She sounded like a wretched alto mutilating her scales; she was beyond upset, spiraling down toward full-blown feline catatonia.

  "They've heard us!" Wiglaf stage-whispered.

  "Get behind me," hissed Sasha as she drew her sword and took the stance. "Mr. Evertongue, please open the lock." Thorin pushed the key in and twisted, and the door slowly swung open, increasing the volume of Piewacket's eerie howl. Sasha stood in the doorway, tense, alert, as Thorin reached just insi
de for a morning torch, which he pitched to Wiglaf to light, then drew his axe.

  The front counter area was deserted. Wiglaf returned in seconds with the torch aflame, and the three slowly stepped inside, past the front room, toward the baking area.

  Piewacket mewled even louder when she saw the torchlight, and the three looked up to find her high on top of the ovens, hair standing straight, spitting in anger. They followed her gaze downward.

  Pots and pans, bowls and spoons that they had stacked neatly on the baking surface this afternoon were strewn all over the floor. The wooden bowl that had held Wiglaf's tiny loaf of bread was dumped over on its side, empty.

  "My bread! They stole my wonder bread!" Wiglaf whispered.

  "And they got out somehow," said Thorin in a full voice. "Come on, Piewacket. It's okay now, girl." But the cat did not move.

  Sasha held her hand up. "I see someone's back. There." Wiglaf raised the torch higher, and now they could all make out a curved shape lurking just behind the table. "Come out now," she commanded. "It's no use. You're finished. Now." No response. Cautiously, they approached the crouching figure. As they rounded the table, Piewacket suddenly leapt over their heads, touched the table with one bound, trampolined onto the wood floor, and skittered out the door.

  There was nobody there. Nothing.

  Except for one thing.

  An oblong mound of cream-colored dough the size of the largest dog in Calimport.

  From the floor, it barely cleared the level of the baking table, half Wiglaf's height. Lengthwise, it was twice that. It was squeezed tightly in the work space between the table and the hearth at the back of the room.

  "My sweet grandma!" Thorin said.

  "Wonder bread," Wiglaf said in rapture.

  Sasha touched the huge mound with the tip of her sword, and it sank in easily, making a wet pop as it cut through an air bubble, which spit some droplets at her. She withdrew the weapon; the blade was covered with doughy goo.