young. I doubt we’d have made it otherwise.”
Gasterlo lifted a hand in modesty. “My earlier spell could not hold the creatures at bay a moment longer and the power to guard our environs is well beyond my paltry abilities. In fact, it is to become a Master Magician that I left the comforts of an indolent life and venture forth. What entices you? You don’t have the look of a vagabond nor the errant.”
Dringo hesitated a moment only. What harm can come from openness? “I seek my father. I have — at least so said my mother — only his looks and nothing else that connects me to the man who sired me.”
“A noble cause, Dringo! We will ponder our futures over that ale I promised. We draw near the periphery of the town and already I can smell the roasting of meats, and my throat yearns for something other than the fusty water I carry.”
As they approached, the town exhibited a liveliness surprising for the lack of nyctophobia so common in the folk that dared to live within the Ambit. Shutters were open on many of the small cottages that abutted the road creating a warm lambency to their path. Cries of greetings and well wishes were generously spoken by those who happened to peer out as the two strangers passed. One would think that they had just heard that the dying sun was to be invigorated on the morrow and that they expected to wake to a dawn of renewed brilliance, such was their obvious mood of sanguinity.
The road led to a small area of shops. Gasterlo pointed to the only two-story building. A weathered plank hung from an equally feeble gibbet. A flickering lantern shared the crossbeam throwing shadowy light on the crudely lettered sign: GRIPPO’S HOSTELRY. “Our destination, it would seem. I see nothing ahead more promising.” Gasterlo held the wooden door open and the travelers entered the inn.
Inside, the bonhomie was even more in evidence. Every table and chair was taken by smiling, red faced men. An elevated side room seemed to be the center of attention to all within, though many turned to look as Dringo and Gasterlo entered. From the raised alcove a young man stood up and shouted: “Gasterlo! We had all but given up. Come have a seat.” He roughly pushed the shoulders of an old man sitting nearby. “Make room for our friend.” The man rose with a subservient nod. Several others moved to the side allowing Dringo to glimpse the speaker’s companions. Four additional young men, two dressed in elaborate doublets of brocatelle and two clad in flowing robes similar to those worn by Gasterlo, were seated on benches that flanked a table of knurled deobado. Succulent food was spread across its surface, and Dringo’s stomach lurched in an attack of envy.
Gasterlo stepped up, turned back to Dringo who had hesitated and said, “My cohorts. Join us.”
Just then an officious innkeeper bustled up, shoving several local patrons out of the way. “Make room! Don’t hinder their path, you uncouth rogues. Let these high goombahs join their friends.” He guided them through the crowd to the table. “I assume you’ll be wanting a gill, or do you wish something stronger? An absynthea? A green croate? I am Grippo and I’m at your service.”
“Beer is fine,” replied Gasterlo without glancing at the innkeeper. He clasped his friend with a hearty embrace. “Cavour Senthgorr, you look well. Are you ready to start training?”
“Indeed,” he replied. “For too long have we been dogwadled by our powerful fathers. They perch in their manses content to watch the dying sun sink deeper into morbidity while they use their maugism to taunt their rivals and play games of spite with the small folk.”
“Precisely!” agreed Gasterlo. “If nothing else, let the Twenty-first Eon, if this be our last, be marked by a renewed thrust of triumphant vibrancy — but here, let me introduce Dringo. We two barely escaped the maw of a visp — or some other equally horrible death — not moments ago.” Gasterlo named his friends around the table: Cavour Senthgorr; Tryllo Makshaw; Zimmy Garke; Luppie Fross and Popo Killraye. All were sons of magicians of greater or lesser renown and were to be fellow students at the collegeum. Dringo felt diminished and uncomfortable; the young men were noticeably of higher status and breeding.
Room was made at the table and they took seats. The beer arrived delivered by a lass of sturdy stock who smiled shyly at Dringo. Gasterlo pulled out his purse, but Cavour halted him, “Our expenses are covered. The school has set up an account. However, you might add a few tercels into the common pot.”
“The munificence of our fathers surprises me,” said Gasterlo.
Dringo ventured into the conversation: “Was it you who lofted the encirclement around the town?”
“Hah,” snorted Popo Killraye. “We have many weeks of study before we’ll be able to repel an insect. No, Lord Lychenbarr has protected this town for our benefit.” He waved an arm in a gesture encompassing the crowd. “Thus, the gratitude of those around us.”
“I wondered about the festive mood of the people. The Ambit is not known for folk who dare stroll beneath the shadow of a mowood tree, much less cavort openly along gloamy streets.”
Tryllo Makshaw chuckled. “It seems that Lord Lychenbarr wants us to have a place away from the collegeum to do the things young men do without disturbing his symmetry. He is a fusspot and a querulous magician who has been pressed into service to instruct us reprobates.” He nodded towards another buxomly server jiggling towards the adjoining table. “I look forward to our time here. We shall see exactly how grateful the townspeople are when it comes to surrendering their daughters’ virtues.”
Cavour pushed a plate of fried trotfish towards Dringo and spoke to Popo, “Hand over that red-looking fungie. You both must be starved. Grippo! Another gill for all at the table.”
Dringo had forgotten the food but was now ravenous. Gasterlo and he filled plates, and more beer was brought to the table. The evening seemed to progress as a moment in time quickly come and gone. There had been much laughter and goodnatured ribbing as only young men lacking attachments can perfect without rancor. Though still crowded, the inn began to quiet with small groups wandering towards the door, usually after stopping by their table, doffing hats and speaking a few ingratiating words. Dringo felt quite above himself surrounded by these sons of powerful magicians. They seemed to enjoy his comradeship, though, as he did their boastful banter. The innkeeper had arranged for their rooms upstairs and by unanimous decision they decided on one last drink before retiring.
Luppie Fross leaned over to Dringo. “Where does your journey take you next?” he asked.
“Good question, Luppie. I’ll brood over that tomorrow with a clearer head. I’m searching for my father.” In a moment of braggadocio, he added, “He was a magician himself, you know?”
“What?” shouted Luppie. He turned to the rest of the table. “Dringo tells me his father is a magician.”
Embarrassed, he held up his hand. “Hold on! I base that only from some stories I heard from my mother. She only had a short time with him but he did tell her he was a magician of minor rank — of course, according to her, he also claimed many things of which he was not. I don’t even know if he yet lives.”
“Dringo told me he goes on a quest in search of his father,” remarked Gasterlo.
“Tell us more,” said Zimmie.
“Indeed!” added Popo.
“There is little more to tell,” said Dringo. “Though I don’t know where to begin or whether I can survive the task, I seek my father. Without the aid of Gasterlo tonight, my journey would have ended with only my gnawed bones marking the failure of my mission. But it is a deathbed promise I made to my mother.” Dringo made a gesture with his hand. “You all have spoken disparagingly of your fathers this evening, and I well understand why. Yet, you have someone to measure yourself to. I do not.”
The table fell silent for a moment. But then Cavour leaned forward in a conspiratorial manner. “I have an outrageous idea, Dringo. Join us at the collegeum. What better way to prepare yourself for the rigors ahead than to have a quiver of spells at your call?”
At once everyone spoke: “Yes!” cried Tryllo. “Splendid!” said Zimmie. “Bravo!” agreed Popo. Luppie raised his beer in a salute, and he and Gasterlo clanked their tankards.
Dringo was bewildered, dizzy with drink and the onslaught of thoughts racing through his mind. It
“Fiddlefaddle,” said Cavour. “The collegeum has been funded by the Magicians Guild. One more scholar will hardly matter. We will help cover any incidentals. Won’t we, fellows? As for thaumaturgical abilities, we are all fledglings. Gasterlo here is the only one that has more than rudimentary skills.”
“I am honored, my fine new friends,” said Dringo earnestly. “But you hold a station high above me. It will be obvious to this Lord Lychenbarr of whom you speak that I don’t belong.”
