The farmer shook his head, frowning. “Well. I ain’t got time to be sittin’ around here watchin’ you lose your mind. There’s things need doin’. Now, I’ll take my payment now.” He held out a hand and Chall slowly sobered, blinking at it.
“Payment?”
“That’s right, like we agreed. Three sovereigns for the trip.”
Chall grunted. “And how much for the punches? Or are those extra?”
The farmer raised an eyebrow. “Oh, they’re extra. Matter of fact, I got another one lyin’ around here somewhere, if you want it. And you keep flappin’ your gums like you are, I’m gonna assume you want it.”
“No, no,” Chall said, holding up his hands and deciding that he really needed to work on his interpersonal relationships, read a book on it, maybe. “That won’t be necessary.”
The farmer snorted, satisfied. “Didn’t figure it would be. Now. My coin?”
Chall grunted, licking his lips. He wanted to tell the man he was an idiot. After all, what fool, if he had money, would pay for the privilege of riding in the back of a pig—and pig-shit—infested wagon? But since his nose already felt a bit loose, and he still hadn’t recovered from the candle-stick beating he’d taken at the hands of the ugly innkeeper, he decided to let it go.
Instead, he reached into his pocket, fingering the small pebbles there, pebbles he generally always kept in his pockets—at least those times in which he had pockets—for situations just like this. He closed his eyes for a moment, concentrating, calling on the magic.
“Well?” the farmer demanded. “Now, look here, if you lied and you ain’t got no money, you’ll get a ride from me alright, right to the constable in Celdar, see what he has to say about folks as don’t pay their debts.”
“No…lie,” Chall said, focusing then, a moment later, producing several pebbles from his pocket. Pebbles which, just then, looked like coins. Except for the flaw, of course. He stared at them, looking for it, not seeing it but knowing it was there, then decided to let it go. Not perfect, certainly, but close enough for the farmer to believe that he was holding several coins. The magic would dissipate in time—half a day, no more than that—but until then, the farmer would think he’d gotten a steal. “Here,” Chall said sweetly, “take an extra. For your trouble.”
“Kind of you,” the man said, snatching the coins away so quickly that a person might have been forgiven for thinking he was a magician in his own right. He looked at them then paused, frowning. “What are you playing at?”
“Hmm?” Chall said, just now picking himself to his feet. “What do you mean?”
“You tryin’ to cheat me with fake coin, that it?”
Chall held a hand to his chest. “You can’t be serious. Me? I’m as honest as they come. Now, what would even make you say such a thing?”
“This,” the farmer said, turning the coin to face him, and Chall did his best to hide his surprise. “Now, I ain’t gonna claim to be the richest bastard in the world, but I’ve seen a few sovereigns in my time. You tell me—this look anythin’ like old King Reinhart to you?”
The nose. It was always the damned nose. The man was right, though. The nose on the king’s golden face looked like a huge, bulbous mass, as if he had some terrible infection. “That’s strange…” Chall said, doing his best to hide his nervousness. “Can I see the coin?”
The man frowned deeper then handed it back. Chall took it, staring at the face, focusing on it, then closed his eyes. When he opened them again, the nose was as it should be, a large, prominent nose that was common among the aristocracy. “There you are,” he said, offering the farmer his best smile as he handed the coin back. “Must have been a smudge of dirt.”
The man frowned. “A smudge.”
“That’s right,” Chall agreed, glancing at the pigs. “One can’t imagine where it might have come from.” The man scowled, but he took the coin, snatching it away.
“Well. I guess that’s alright then.” And with that, the pig farmer swung himself back into the front of the wagon and Chall was left staring after him, waving a hand in front of his face in an effort to bat away the dust the wheels kicked up behind the wagon.
“Bastard,” he said at normal volume when he’d judged the wagon was far enough away that the man had no way of hearing him. Then, he glanced down the road, in the direction the wagon was traveling, and asked himself, once again, what he was doing here. And once again, himself had no answer—at least none that didn’t involve him being a complete fool.
He could have just turned around then, probably should have. He could have gone back to the city, found a good tavern and a good ale or, failing that, any tavern where he didn’t have an extended line of credit already—surely there had to be one out there, it was a big city after all—and if good ale wasn’t on offer, he’d be satisfied with any with alcohol in it. Why should he let a little thing like a vision of impending doom falling on an old comrade—if anyone could be said to be comrades with such a man—make him uproot his life, such as it was, and travel to see a woman who had always hated him anyway? He shouldn’t, that’s what, just as he shouldn’t allow a little thing like being banned from
