“Quiet,” said Tapper, with a glance at Gustin that the boy pretended not to see.
They rounded the bend in the road. “Look, saers, our village,” said Gustin.
Nerhaltan blinked at the collection of buildings circling a widening in the road. One large oak marked the center of the village, a brute of arboreal pride so big that none had ever figured out how to cut it down, and so the road split around it and the village circled it.
“Well,” remarked Nerhaltan, “I have seen smaller. Let’s hope the smith knows something about swords as well as farm tools.”
The evening grew late. Past sundown was past his uncle’s usual bedtime, but the three adventurers kept them talking at the tavern, insisting on buying them a meal and, for his uncle, a tankard of ale, in return for conversation about the village and the ruins up the road. Gustin did most of the talking and his uncle did most of the eating and drinking. Eventually Gustin’s uncle slumped in his chair, snoring lightly before the fire.
Gustin felt no urge to sleep. His brain was fizzing with the stories that the three strangers told in return, about stolen maps and lost treasures, risks taken and rewards won.
“Oh, I wish I could go adventuring,” he said, and then blushed at sounding so young. To cover his embarrassment, he reached for the slice of bread on his plate, crumbling it between his fingers and then making it disappear altogether in a shower of red sparks and a few tinkling notes of music.
Tapper’s head reared back. “Well, now,” said the dwarf. “That’s a neat trick. Most small boys just eat the loaf to make it disappear.”
Gustin shrugged. “It’s just something I do to entertain the little children,” he said, with all the pride of a lad who owned ten years of age. As far back as he could remember, he could make small things disappear or shift around. Such tricks made the widow laugh when she came to clean the farm and she’d taught him ways to twist his fingers and words to add sparks or dancing lights to the effect.
“Hmm,” said Nerhaltan, also staring intently at him. “Can you do other tricks?”
“A few,” Gustin admitted. “Like making my voice come from someplace else.” That sentence caused the fighter Wervyn to start in his corner, as Gustin’s voice sounded behind his head. Like Gustin’s uncle, the big fighter had been dozing in his chair.
The dandy and the dwarf laughed. “Oh, very good. Do another.”
“Do you have a cloth and a coin?” Gustin asked. This was a fairly new trick for him and he’d been practicing to impress the widow.
Nerhaltan pulled a handkerchief edged with lace out of a hidden pocket. Wervyn produced a well-worn copper coin.
With a few waves of his hand, Gustin passed the coin through the cloth. Then he crumpled up the handkerchief and shook it out empty.
“Humph,” said the fighter. “And where’s my money?”
“Why, in your pocket, saer, just where you had it,” said Gustin.
The big man slid his hand under his vest and produced the copper coin again.
“Quick fingers?” the dandy questioned his companions.
“The boy never came near me,” the fighter observed.
The trio stared hard at Gustin. “So, how did you do it?” Tapper said.
Gustin shrugged. “I’ve always been good at tricks,” he admitted.
“A boy like you, a brave boy,” began Nerhaltan, “could be a great help to us.”
Gustin slid forward on his chair, eager to hear what the dandy had to say.
“Leave him alone.” His uncle’s flat voice, harsh and loud, startled them all. The man was awake and scowling. “No more tales. No more tricks.”
His hand dropped hard on Gustin’s shoulder. He pulled the boy out of his chair with one yank. “We are going home now. Stay away from us. Stay away from the boy.”
“Uncle!”
“Saer,” said Nerhaltan, following them into the twilight gloom outside the tavern’s door. “It’s growing dark. Let us buy you a bed for the night. We meant no harm and could perhaps come to some prosperous…”
“No!” shouted Gustin’s uncle, lurching down the road, dragging a reddening Gustin after him. “No tales. No tricks. No more!”
Halfway back to the farm, his uncle’s hand finally loosened enough on his collar to let Gustin wiggle free.
“I wanted to hear what they had to say,” he protested, feeling very brave because the moonlight was dim and he could barely make out the deep frown scoring his uncle’s face.
His uncle wheeled around, grabbing his shoulders, and shook him the same way that the farm dog would shake a rat when it caught one.
“Stay out of the village until the strangers are gone. If they come near, do not speak to them. Do not look at them.”
“But…”
“And no more silly spells,” yelled his uncle. “How many times must I tell you! No magic at all!”
“I only do simple ones to make people laugh,” protested Gustin.
“No more!” roared his uncle. “And no more trips to the village. Not until you learn more sense.”
They were in sight of the farmhouse. The dog set up a volley of harsh barks, awakened by his uncle’s shouts. The farmer turned and yelled at the dog to be silent.
“Tomorrow, I’m burning your mother’s books,” he said in a quieter, more sober tone, turning back to his nephew.
“No!” Gustin sprang away from his uncle, racing toward the barn where her trunk was still stored.
“Including that daft guidebook you keep in your shirt!” yelled his uncle after him. “Don’t think I don’t know about that! No more foolish tales, boy, no more tricks! This time, I mean it!”
Upstairs in the barn, Gustin stuffed the battered knapsack as full as possible with his mother’s papers, scrolls, and books. He would leave nothing behind for his uncle’s bonfire.
Down the barn ladder he crept with more caution than he had hurled up it. The farmyard was a tangle of shadows. The hound shifted, paws churning in some dream of a hunt, and rattled its chain as he crept past, but the old dog did not wake. It knew Gustin’s footsteps in its sleep.
Gustin was out the gate and halfway down the road before he stopped to consider where he would go. Everyone in the village knew him. His uncle would look there first.
The three adventurers had talked about going back to the ruins, just as soon as the fighter’s sword was mended. After that, who knows where they would go? Waterdeep, as he had always dreamed, or some other destination equally splendid. Surely they would want a clever boy, a boy like him who knew more than a few magical tricks, to help them on their way.
Gustin turned off the road, following the track that led to the ruins. Being tired and mindful of the night shadows whispering through the tall grass, he decided not to go into the ruins by himself. Instead, he slid down into the bracken at the base of a tree, curling himself around the knapsack stuffed full of his mother’s papers.
The three adventurers found him there, dozing in the late afternoon stillness and dreaming of Waterdeep.
The dandy poked him awake with one pointed toe. “What are you doing, boy?” he asked, but his eyes were bright with laughter and he looked as if he knew what Gustin would answer.
“I’ve come to help you to find the treasure,” Gustin said as boldly as he could with grass sticking out of his hair and a few dry leaves itching their way down his shirt as he scrambled to his feet.
“How do you know we are looking for treasure? Or your help?” said the dwarf, and his face was harder and more suspicious than his companions.
“You said… last night… well, I thought,” Gustin mumbled a little, staring at his toes, wondering if he’d been a bit rash.
“Of course, we are after treasure,” said Nerhaltan. “What else would three like us be doing here? The boy’s too bright for us to deceive.” The dandy nodded high over Gustin’s head at his companions. “We welcome your help, young wizard, welcome it indeed.”
“I’m no wizard,” Gustin quickly answered. “But I do know these ruins.”
“Does your uncle know where you are?” asked Wervyn. The fighter looked concerned and frowned when Gustin shook his head. “Maybe you should go back to your farm, boy.”
