Songs of the Dying Earth

“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 was an outrageous idea. “How can that happen? I have only a meager purse. I have no father who has provided a stipend. I know nothing of magic, and obviously you all have some basic skills.” He proceeded to give a litany of other arguments, his voice becoming ever more plaintive as he realized that suddenly he did want this, more than anything.

“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.”

He hesitated a moment and then added in a somber tone, “I am a bastard.”

They all looked at each other, and then suddenly the entire table broke out in raucous laughter.