the countless tokens and charms was a small silver whistle. He grabbed it with his uninjured hand and blew on it for all he was worth. Such a furious, shrieking commotion erupted from inside the chest that Boltac worried it might burst. He imagined the hundreds, maybe thousands, of coins in the cramped, dark space–all angry, all clawing at each other in fury. He smiled.
Boltac had named these treacherous pieces of currency the Creeping Coins. At one time, he had thought to train them to perform, as he had seen traveling mummers train fleas, snakes, monkeys, and even bears. But they were either untrainable or Boltac hadn’t the knack for it. For all his time and experimentation, he had earned only some nasty bite scars and the knowledge that a certain high-pitched frequency drove the Creeping Coins mad.
Who had created these creatures, and why? Boltac had been unable to find out. What he had learned was that they were a species of Magical animal that preferred to stay unseen. They had a most sinister method of reproduction. If you placed one of these Magic coins in a pile of regular coins, they would slowly but surely convert all of the real money to animated hunks of metal with sharp little teeth. One at a time, they were an annoyance. But in the depths of a dungeon, in a chest full of gold that might not be opened for years? These creatures could turn a payday into a nightmare.
He rubbed a healing ointment into the fingernail-sized bite in his hand. It stopped the bleeding but did nothing for the pain. What could a school of these things do? Or just a few of them under a suit of armor? He shuddered. At least death by Dragon would be quicker.
But that’s the way it was with any enterprise. People feared the big things, but it was always the little things that did you in. The demons were in the details, as they said. All the work you spent polishing your shield in preparation for a basilisk would be lost if you forgot to bring oil to protect it from rust.
It was a terrible business, Adventuring. Another reason Boltac was glad he had grown up, settled down, and learned to enjoy a warm fire and a crisp profit. Again, he reassured himself that he had done that lad a favor by knocking him on the head.
8
As Dimsbury sat with his feet by the fire, it took him a good hour to give a name to what he was feeling. Contentment didn’t quite do it. Comfort was part of it, but there was something else. A warmish feeling in the stomach that he was quite unaccustomed to. There was something about a good meal after a good day’s work. His plans all in order, everything tilting and tending the way it should. Sated, yes, that was the word he was looking for. He felt sated.
For a moment, he considered ordering another whole dinner. But there was no time. He had completed his errand and should really leave the city before the carnage started. But perhaps he should take a leg of mutton to go. Or–would they have such a thing–some mutton sandwiches?
It was so hard to get good food at the bottom of a dungeon. Yes, he had servants, but they were creations. Not flesh and blood. They viewed roasting as an information-gathering technique, or at best a method of discipline, not as an essential part of cuisine. And spices? Well, Orcs are rare minerals and raw flesh. It was a practice guaranteed to keep the palate in an unrefined state.
None of this even touched on the degradation of his decor and living conditions. Of course, the Wizard could have taken some pains on his own behalf, but there was his work to think of. All else paled in comparison to that. But even here, in this homey inn, the Wizard felt a longing for the comfort he had almost forgotten he could have. A woman’s touch. Yes, that was the phrase.
When the wench came around again, he asked, “Do you make sandwiches? You know, to go?”
“My sandwiches are so good, men have proposed to me after the first bite,” said Asarah with a playful toss of her hair.
Outside, a
Boltac had named these treacherous pieces of currency the Creeping Coins. At one time, he had thought to train them to perform, as he had seen traveling mummers train fleas, snakes, monkeys, and even bears. But they were either untrainable or Boltac hadn’t the knack for it. For all his time and experimentation, he had earned only some nasty bite scars and the knowledge that a certain high-pitched frequency drove the Creeping Coins mad.
Who had created these creatures, and why? Boltac had been unable to find out. What he had learned was that they were a species of Magical animal that preferred to stay unseen. They had a most sinister method of reproduction. If you placed one of these Magic coins in a pile of regular coins, they would slowly but surely convert all of the real money to animated hunks of metal with sharp little teeth. One at a time, they were an annoyance. But in the depths of a dungeon, in a chest full of gold that might not be opened for years? These creatures could turn a payday into a nightmare.
He rubbed a healing ointment into the fingernail-sized bite in his hand. It stopped the bleeding but did nothing for the pain. What could a school of these things do? Or just a few of them under a suit of armor? He shuddered. At least death by Dragon would be quicker.
But that’s the way it was with any enterprise. People feared the big things, but it was always the little things that did you in. The demons were in the details, as they said. All the work you spent polishing your shield in preparation for a basilisk would be lost if you forgot to bring oil to protect it from rust.
It was a terrible business, Adventuring. Another reason Boltac was glad he had grown up, settled down, and learned to enjoy a warm fire and a crisp profit. Again, he reassured himself that he had done that lad a favor by knocking him on the head.
8
As Dimsbury sat with his feet by the fire, it took him a good hour to give a name to what he was feeling. Contentment didn’t quite do it. Comfort was part of it, but there was something else. A warmish feeling in the stomach that he was quite unaccustomed to. There was something about a good meal after a good day’s work. His plans all in order, everything tilting and tending the way it should. Sated, yes, that was the word he was looking for. He felt sated.
For a moment, he considered ordering another whole dinner. But there was no time. He had completed his errand and should really leave the city before the carnage started. But perhaps he should take a leg of mutton to go. Or–would they have such a thing–some mutton sandwiches?
It was so hard to get good food at the bottom of a dungeon. Yes, he had servants, but they were creations. Not flesh and blood. They viewed roasting as an information-gathering technique, or at best a method of discipline, not as an essential part of cuisine. And spices? Well, Orcs are rare minerals and raw flesh. It was a practice guaranteed to keep the palate in an unrefined state.
None of this even touched on the degradation of his decor and living conditions. Of course, the Wizard could have taken some pains on his own behalf, but there was his work to think of. All else paled in comparison to that. But even here, in this homey inn, the Wizard felt a longing for the comfort he had almost forgotten he could have. A woman’s touch. Yes, that was the phrase.
When the wench came around again, he asked, “Do you make sandwiches? You know, to go?”
“My sandwiches are so good, men have proposed to me after the first bite,” said Asarah with a playful toss of her hair.
Outside, a
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