Songs of the Dying Earth

Almost as disagreeable as this inn. He should have paid more heed to the Pooner. The Tarn House had little to recommend it, save perhaps the pretty freckly thing who had joined his little game of peggoty. Already he had won her hat. Her boots would soon follow, and then her stockings. Chimwazle was only waiting for some of the other travellers in the common room to retire to their beds before beginning his assault in earnest. Rocallo was too dull and diffident to interfere, he was certain. Once he’d won her clothes the girl would have nothing to wager but her indenture, and afterward he could harness her to his cart an arm’s length ahead of Polymumpho. Let the Pooner chase after her henceforth, that should serve to keep those hairy legs of his pumping briskly. Chimwazle might not even need to ply the whip.

The inn’s privy was cramped and smelly, and offered neither bench nor bar, but only a ragged hole in the floor. Squatting over it with his breeches round his ankles, Chimwazle grunted and groaned as. he voided his bowels. The act was never a pleasant one for him, attended as it was by the risk of waking the imp nested in the fleshier portions of his nether parts, whose second favorite amusement was loudly describing Chimwazle’s manhood in terms of withering scorn (its first favorite amusement was something Chimwazle did not wish to think about).

He was spared that ordeal on this occasion, but worse awaited him when he returned to the inn’s common room and found that the tall magician with the fearsome face had taken a seat at his own table. Chimwazle had had enough experiences with great sorcerers to know that he did not want any more such experiences. His present appearance was the legacy of a misunderstanding at a crossroads with one such, and the imp with the loquacious mouth hidden in his breeches was a souvenir left him by the witch Eluuna, whose affections he had enjoyed for a fortnight when he was young and slim and handsome. This sorcerer in scarlet and black lacked Eluuna’s charms, but might well share her fickle temper. One never knew what small gaffes and innocent omissions a wizard might take for mortal insult.

Still, there was no help for it, unless he meant to flee at once into the night. That course seemed less than advisable. The nights belonged to grues and ghouls and leucomorphs, and there was some small chance more Twk-men might be awaiting him as well. So Chimwazle donned his best smile, resumed his seat, and smacked his lips. “We have another player, I see. Innkeep, run fetch some ale for our new friend. And be quick about it, or you may find a carbuncle growing on the end of your nose!”

“I am Molloqos the Melancholy, and I do not drink ale.”

“I perceive you are of the sorcerous persuasion,” said Chimwazle. “We have that in common, you and I. How many spells do you carry?”

“That is none of your concern,” warned Molloqos.

“There now. It was an innocent inquiry, between colleagues. I myself am armed with six great spells, nine minor enchantments, and a variety of cantraps.” Chimwazle shuffled the placards. “My sandestin awaits without, disguised as a Pooner and bound to my cart, yet ready to whisk me off into the sky at my command. But no sorcery at table, please! Here dame fortune rules, and may not be confounded by spells!” And so saying, he placed a golden centum in the center of the table.” Come, come, put in your stakes! Pegotty has more savor when gold is glinting in the pot.”

“Just so.” Prince Rocallo laid his centum atop Chimwazle’s.

The girl Lirianne could only pout (which she did very prettily). “I have no gold, and I want my hat back.”

“Then you must put your boots into the wager.”

“Must I? Oh, very well.”

The sorcerer said nothing. Instead of reaching into his own purse, he rapped thrice upon the floor with his ebon staff and pronounced a small cantrap for the dispelling of illusions and concealments. At once, Chimwazle’s centum transformed into a fat white spider and walked slowly from the board on eight hairy legs, while the pile of terces in front of him turned into as many cockroaches and scuttled off in all directions.

The girl squealed. The prince chortled. Chimwazle gulped down his dismay and drew himself up, his jowls a-quiver. “Look what you have done! You owe me a golden centum.”

“Far be it!” Molloqos said, with outrage. “You aspired to hoodwink us with a cheap conjurer’s glamor. Did you truly believe such a feeble ploy would work upon Molloqos the Melancholy?” The great golden eye atop his staff was blinking, as green vapors swirled ominously within its crystal orb.

“Softly, softly,” protested Prince Rocallo. “My head is hazy from the ale, and harsh words make it ring.”

“Oh, will you fight a wizard’s duel?” Lirianne clapped her hands together. “What grand magics shall we see?”