the summer sky. He was clad in finery fit for a noble — albeit in hues a bit brighter than most nobles would choose — and his dark, crimson-lined cape billowed out behind him in the morning breeze. He waved to the townsfolk as he passed by, his broad grin rivalling the sun for sheer brilliance.
On the hard wooden bench next to the seller of potions bounced a short, swarthy-looking fellow. His look was not nearly so cheerful as his companion's, but then this was only typical. He was a dwarf, and it has often been said that dwarvenkind is every bit as hard and unyielding as the metals dwarves are so fond of forging deep in their dim mountain smithies. This particular dwarf wore a dour expression, his heavy eyebrows drawn down over his irongray eyes in a scowl. His coarse black beard was so long he wore it tucked into his broad leather belt, and his shaggy hair was bound with a leather thong into a braid behind his neck.
'You know, you're going to scare the townsfolk out of what little wits they have with that sour look you're wearing,' the seller of potions said quietly to the dwarf through clenched teeth, all the while grinning and waving. 'It won't do us a great deal of good if they all take one look at you and go scurrying inside to bolt their doors. At least, not until after we have their money. I don't suppose you could smile for a change, could you?'
'I am smiling,' the dwarf answered in a gruff voice. His craggy visage was not quite as warm and friendly as a chunk of wind-hewn granite, but almost.
The seller of potions eyed the dwarf critically. 'Maybe you shouldn't try so hard,' he suggested lightly, but the joke was completely lost on the dour-faced dwarf. The seller of potions sighed and shook his head. His name was Jastom, and he had traveled with this particular dwarf long enough to know when argument and teasing were pointless. The dwarf's name was Algrimmbeldebar, but over the years Jastom had taken to simply calling him Grimm. Not only did the name slip more readily from the tongue, it also suited the dwarf's disposition far better.
Rumors sped faster than sparrows through the towns narrow streets, and by the time the wagon rolled into Faxfail's central square, a sizeable crowd of curious townsfolk had gathered expectantly. It wouldn't be the largest audience Jastom had ever hawked potions to, but it wouldn't be the smallest either. Faxfail was a town deep in the Garnet mountains of southern Solamnia. The nearest city of consequence — that would be Kaolyn — was a good three day's journey to the north and west. These were country folk. And country folk tended to be far more trusting than city folk. Or gullible, depending upon one's choice of words.
'I suppose this means I'll have to mix more elixirs,' Grimm grumbled, eyeing the growing throng. The dwarf opened a small panel behind the bench and nimbly disappeared inside the wagon.
Concocting potions was Grimm's task; selling them was Jastom's. It was an arrangement that had proven quite profitable on their journeys from one end of Ansalon to the other. The two had first met some years before, in the markets of Kalaman. At the time, neither had been making a terribly good living for himself. Even Jastom's brilliant smile and ingenuous visage had not been enough to interest folk in the crude baubles he was attempting to foist off as good luck charms. And as for the dwarf, his gloomy, glowering looks tended to keep potential customers well away from the booth where he was trying to sell his elixirs. One night, the two had found themselves sharing a table in a tavern, each lamenting his particular misfortune over a mug of ale. Both had realized that each had what the other lacked, and so their unlikely but lucrative partnership was born.
The wagon rolled to a halt in the center of the town's square, and Jastom leapt acrobatically to the cobbles. He bowed deeply, flourishing his heavy cape as grandly as a court magician, and then spread his arms wide.
'Gather 'round, good folk of Faxfail, gather 'round!' he called out. His voice was clear as a trumpet, honed by years of hawking wares until it was as precise as the finest musical instrument. 'Wonders await you this day, so gather 'round and behold!'
From out of nowhere (or, in fact, from out of his sleeve) a small purple bottle appeared in Jastom's upturned palm. A gasp of amazement passed through the crowd as folk young and old alike leaned forward to peer at the odd little bottle. The morning sunlight sparkled through the purple glass, illuminating a thick, mysterious-looking liquid within.
'Wonders indeed,' Jastom went on, lowering his voice to a theatrical whisper that was nonetheless audible to even the most distant onlookers. 'After just one sip of this precious potion, all your aches and ailments, all your malingering maladies and ponderous pains, will vanish as though they had never been. For a mere ten coins of steel' — a dismissing gesture of his hand made this particular detail seem of the barest significance — 'this bottle of Mosswine's Miraculous Elixir will heal all!'
This last, of course, was not precisely true, and Jastom knew it. He and Grimm were charlatans. Fakes. Swindlers. The potion in the purple bottle couldn't so much as heal a rabbit of the sniffles let alone any of the dire ills he was claiming. Mosswine wasn't even Jastom's real name. It was Jastom Mosswallow. However, by the time folk in any one place realized the truth of things, Jastom and Grimm would always be long gone, headed for the next town or city to ply their trade.
It wasn't at all a bad business as Jastom reckoned things. He and Grimm got a purse full of coins for their efforts, and in return the folk they duped got something to believe in, at least for a little while. And these days even a brief hope was a rare thing of worth.
It was just six short months ago, in the dead of winter, that all of Krynn had suffered under the cold, hard claws of the dragonarmies. The War of the Lance had ended with the coming of spring, but the scars it had left upon the land — and the people — had not faded so easily as the winter snows. The folk of Ansalon were desperate for anything that might help them believe they could leave the dark days of the war behind, that they could heal themselves and make their lives whole once again. That was exactly what Jastom and Grimm gave them.
Of course, there were true clerics in the land now, since the War. Some were disciples of the goddess Mishakal — called Light Bringer — and they could heal with the touch of a hand. Or at least so Jastom had heard, for true clerics were still a rarity. However, he and Grimm did their best to avoid towns and cities where there were rumored to be clerics. Folk wouldn't be so willing to buy false healing potions when there was one among them with the power of true healing.
Abruptly, there was a loud, surprising clunk! as the wagon's side panel flipped downward, revealing a polished wooden counter and, behind it, a row of shelves lined with glimmering purple bottles. Grimm's glowering eyes barely managed to peer over the countertop, but the crowd hardly noticed the taciturn dwarf. All were gazing at the display of sparkling elixirs.
Jastom gestured expansively to the wagon. 'Indeed, my good gentlefolk, just one of these elixirs, and all that troubles you will be cured. And all it costs is a mere ten coins of steel. A small price to pay for a miracle, wouldn't you say?'
There was a single moment of silence, and then as one the crowd gave a cry of excitement as they rushed forward, jingling purses in hand.
All morning and all afternoon the townsfolk crowded about the black varnished wagon, listening to Jastom extol the wondrous properties of the potions and then setting down their cold steel on the counter in trade for the small purple bottles.
There was only one minor crisis, this around midday, when the supply of potions ran out. Grimm was busily scurrying about inside the cramped wagon, measuring this and pouring that as he hurriedly tried to mix a new batch of elixirs. However, a few burly, red-necked farmers grew impatient and began shaking the wagon. Jars and bottles and pots went flying wildly inside, spilling their contents and covering Grimm with a sticky, medicinal-smelling mess. Luckily, the dwarf had managed to finish a handful of potions by then, and Jastom used these to placate the belligerent farmers, selling them the bottles for half price. Losing steel was not something Jastom much cared for, but losing the wagon — and Grimm — would have been disastrous.
After that interruption, Grimm was able to finish filling empty bottles with the thick, pungent elixir, and business proceeded more smoothly. However, the dwarf's eyes were still smoldering like hot iron.
'Fine way to make a living,' he grumbled to himself as he tried to pick sticky clumps of herbs from his thick black beard. 'I suppose we'll swindle ourselves right out of our own necks one of these days.'
'What did that glum-looking little fellow say?' a blacksmith demanded, hesitating as he started to lay down his ten coins of steel on the wooden counter. 'Something about swindle?'
Jastom shot a murderous look at Grimm and then turned his most radiant smile to the smith. 'You'll have to forgive my friend's mumblings,' he said in a conspiratorial whisper. 'He hasn't been quite the same ever since one of the ponies kicked him in the head.'
The blacksmith nodded in sympathetic understanding. He left the wagon, small purple bottle in hand.
