The Galactic Mage by John Daulton

consideration, won’t ya?”
    “I’m considerin’,” Nipper retorted. “An’ I’m considerin’ he looks like a pig’s arse what rolled in shite. Boy too dim to sleep. Up all night castin’ his magic, no carin’ fer his body. Like as if he made of stone. Gonna get him killed, just like the othern.”
    “Oh, now you stop,” Kettle said. “Altin’s too smart fer that, ain’t ya lad?”
    Again Altin nodded, stuffing his mouth with a newly presented slice of steaming bread, the butter still melting into its sumptuous fluff. Not only was he half-starved, the bread gave him a chance to not respond.
    “I seen the last two,” Nipper pressed on. “I watched ‘em. Always come down here lookin’ just the same. Don’t know why they keep sendin’ ‘em here like that. Weren’t nothing Tytamon can do. They just kill theirself ever’ time. And this one getting’ close. I can see it in his face; his wore out pig’s arse face. Just like the rest. Same face. Tired of watchin’ ‘em die.”
    “Nipper! You stop this instant or I’ll have at ya with this here pin.” She raised her rolling pin menacingly. Nipper seemed to take the threat seriously despite his out-ranking the woman in both position and years.
    A thumb-sized chunk of pork suddenly flew into his face, startling him and sticking wetly to his cheek. “Gods above, child!” he said as he quickly retrieved the knife from Pernie’s hands. Much longer and the carcass would have been fit for only sausages and stew. He shot a look Altin’s way, something between anger and concern, and then returned to his work carving the boar, absently batting the girl’s hands away as she continued groping for the knife.
    Altin knew the old steward saw something that should not be ignored. Nipper wasn’t so much different than Tytamon in that way. But, he also knew that he was still casting with discipline. Neither Nipper nor Tytamon ever gave him credit for having discipline. He’d stopped himself last night, just as he should, just as he always did. Altin was in control. He wished they would understand.
    “Ya want something fer yer head,” Kettle offered. “I keep some willow powder in the cupboard over here fer just such a thing.” She shot a glance towards Nipper, then tipped an imaginary bottle to her lips.
    “Yes, please,” Altin answered. “It’s really bad this morning. And while I don’t think Nipper needs to worry about me killing myself, I have to admit, I think I’m pressing the edges of my skill. It’s pretty hard on me come mornings. I’m starting to think I won’t be able to do it after all.”
    “What?” Kettle looked shocked. “Not gettin’ to yer moon? Don’t be silly, child. Ya was born to do it. Ya just haven’t found the right way about it yet is all. Don’t ya start with that givin’ up talk or there be no more bread waiting mornings down here to warm ya up. You’ll make do with that old, hard yesterday loaf ya always get if’n ya start with that down here. Ya hear me? I won’t have no quitters. Not in my kitchen.”
    He smiled politely and sighed. “Yes, Kettle.” She was kind—if nosey and ultimately annoying. He ate silently while she began talking about Miss Madeline, the farmer’s daughter down the way a league or so, and for whom Altin had nothing approaching interest or desire. Madeline was a nice girl, but about as sharp as the corners on a melon; and frankly, Altin had no time for vapid fawning farm girls anyway. He had work to do, and the last thing he needed was some illiterate furrow-raker doting all over him in awe of his magic—not to mention his proximity to the legendary wealth of Tytamon the Ancient. No, that was exactly what he didn’t need. He had no time for girls.
    Somewhere between Miss Madeline and an argument with Nipper regarding the number of cloves required for properly preparing a boar of that size, to which Altin paid no attention at all, Tytamon came into the room. Suddenly everyone was