Magus Glorianna Bywater, Matriculate of The Esoteric Academy for the Wise of Carabos, and member of the Order of the Astral Circle, Spellcaster of the Freelance Hunters and part-time adjunct faculty at the EAWC, woke up hung over. Cheerful morning sunlight streamed through her window and onto her face. She grumbled and turned over. She contemplated blotting out the sun and plunge the whole land of Elanterra into a thousand years of darkness. But that sort of thing took a lot of prep time, and she could barely sit up without being sick. She tabled the idea until at least after breakfast.
Instead, she stumbled carefully out of bed and nearly crawled to the privy. When she reached it, she found the water butt had frozen in the night. She grumbled for a moment, then she took a deep, cleansing breath and stretched out her hands. The silvery tattoos that covered her small hands glinted in the morning light. The angular patterns were the mark of her training. As the runaway daughter of a prosperous Hillfolk trading clan, she was one of the few outsiders to ever wear them. The technique had been designed for the graceful, flowing movements of the long limbed Riverfolk, but Glory had adapted them to her small frame well enough.
Staring at the frozen water tank, which stood half-inside and half-outside the little lavatory, Glory felt an irrational stab of hatred. She had requested a heated one, but their landlord, cheap lout that he was, refused the expense. So they had to suffer with the damned thing constantly freezing over in the winter months. As she began the spell, she hoped that Mr. Gannet, doing whatever it was that the Riverfolk did under the ice in the winter, felt a sympathetic like of flame.
Glory concentrated, and waving her hands in complex looping gestures, pulled the image of the runes she wanted from the chaos of glinting motion. The spell gathered itself in her mind, and she channelled it outward, expelling a simple blast of fire at the irksome water tank. There was a squeal and pop of protesting metal, and a wave of steam engulfed her small frame. She ladled out a pitcher of warm water and washed up. The satisfaction and warm water soothed her headache, but did little to improve her mood.
Having washed, Glory dressed in a casual robe of green wool and stomped down the hall of the suspiciously quiet apartment. She had to admit that the rooms were actually quite spacious for Carabos. She shared it with her fellow Freelance Hunters, the Pikeman Joachim Verne, a tall human from the barbarian regions of the Icy Mountains, and their fingerman, Bingo Proudfoot. Bingo was a half-tall Hillfolk like her, but his surname marked him as a clan-less city dweller.
She stepped out into the parlor that served as their sitting room, dining room and meeting space for clients and found it in complete disarray. Bottles of varying sizes and colors littered the tables, along with the remains of meals, yellowing old broadsheets, and other assorted rubbish. Her roommates/coworkers were useful in fight, but such slobs. She almost regretted not keeping a room on campus, even if it did shut down for half the year. The rooms were damp and chilly, and the astrologers and astronomers spent all night arguing as they climbed up and down the stairs, but at least there was a cleaning staff. She started clearing up the worst of the leftover chicken bones and apple cores when she spotted Bingo snoring on the couch, the lazy bastard.
“Wake up!” She shouted testily, and noisily grabbed a pair of bottles. The reformed thief sat up and stretched. He stared blankly at her for a moment before his face broke into a wide grin.
“Good morning, Glory! Is the tea on yet?”
“Don’t you good morning, me, Proudfoot! How are you so blighted chipper after “how much you and Verne drank last night?” Bingo hopped to his feet, stretched, bringing his height to nearly four feet, and cocked his head thoughtfully.
“I don’t granny why, but I feel great today,” he said.
Glory eyed the debris of the previous night’s debauchery. Carabos was the center of commerce in Elanterra, and nothing traded better than booze. While her own memories of the events were hazy, it looked like they drank their way across the Great Island. There were empty bottles of Hillfolk-brewed ale and whiskey from Goldenfields, Human corn liquor, wine and ciders from the southern orchards, and even an empty bottle of Dwarven vodka. There was also a trio of little bottles that she couldn’t immediately identify, but something itched in the back of her furious mind when she looked at them.
“Are you saying you don’t have any hangover at all?” She demanded.
“Of course not. My head’s killing me, but I’m just in the best mood. Doesn’t that just butter your bacon?” He gave a little giggle. Glory remembered what the other bottles were for.
“Nameless god smite me,” She muttered, as she hunted across the room for something. There was a slight whiff of brimstone and she felt a tiny jolt. Wizards had to take care when swearing, but fortunately the invoked deity had little power or interest. Finally, she found what she was looking for: a trio of neat corks, each labeled with her initials and the date in neat, tiny letters. She rounded on Bingo. “Were you degenerates keeping your beer in my ice box again?”
The ice box had been a luxury she permitted herself on the excuse that it was useful for her research. It was a white metal box, about two feet square. A low powered frost spirit was bound to it with runes of power. The well-to-do in Carabos used it to store food, but the magicians and alchemists of the city-state kept them as a certain way to regulate the temperature of their potions.
“They were freezing on the balcony, so we kept some inside, just for the party. Why?”
“Because, you buffoon, I just finished an experiment I was running with humor-altering potions. Do you know how much those reagents cost me? And there’s no way I’ll see another fresh ewe’s kidney before the thaw. Salted just doesn’t do at all!” She went on griping while Bingo processed her complaint and eyed the three mysterious bottles, the remains of iridescent liquid still lining the bottoms. His nausea increased, but he found it did little to dent his sense of well-being.
“Do you mean to say we slipped ourselves love potions?” She glared even harder at him.
“I’m the first person you’ve seen all day.Are you overcome with desire, Proudfoot?” She only called him that when she really wished to irritate him. The magician was only a little shorter than he was, with wavy black hair that she kept trimmed short and hazel eyes. She had a good figure, as their constant running about kept her more fit that most mages. But then, Glory was a singular Hillfolk Magus.
Bingo made a show of considering the sharp-witted and short-tempered woman before replying. “No more than usual.”
“There are, obviously, other emotions than love, or lust, as they are usually concocted. I was brewing something to enhance them as a bit of study. And now you’ve gone and drank them!”
“There are three of us, and there were three lushes,” the fingerman replied, almost casually. She grimaced again, and he had to bite his tongue to keep from laughing.
“We drank them,” she admitted. “But we never would have if you had just kept your damn beer outside like I asked!” He raised his hands in a placating gesture.
“Fair enough. My apologies, Magus. So what have you hit us with?”
“Well, based on my foul mood and your fair one, I must have taken ‘Wrath,’ while you are in the throws of a potion of Delight. Which means Joachim drank the third potion, Regret.” Working out that her temper was enchanted took a slight edge off her mood, but she still felt like strangling someone. When Bingo burst out laughing at the news, he noms”noted himself. “What is so godsworn funny?”
Bingo struggled to catch his breath between gasps of laughter. “Joachim got the regret potion,” he wheezed. “The bludger who’s left more destruction and tragedy in his wake than anybody in Carabos City. The man whose personal motto is live for the day. The man who refuses to talk about his past, and you gave him the regret potion!” Bingo doubled over in another fit of giggles.
“I didn’t GIVE it to him. He took it, as you will recall.” How dare the little twerp imply that it was her fault for leaving poorly labeled bottles of spirits around. It was true that Joachim was reticent about his past, and vague when pressed for details. But he had told them his fare share of tales, mostly of his exploits in his youth as a mercenary. He had traveled to every corner of the Great Island, and had a romantic misadventure in most of them, to hear him tell it.
But he always got quiet and somber when pressed for details. He had been born in some backwater village so small it barely had a name, deep in the Icy Mountains. That was all she knew. He wouldn’t even tell her where he had acquired Incisor, the enchanted spear he always carried with him. Whatever that story was, it was clearly a painful one. And he had taken a potion to bring to the surface and amplify his regrets.
As a rule, wizards avoid swearing. A magician’s curse can have real consequences. Glory took this moment to be an exception to the rule. “What has gotten you so fussed?” Bingo asked, his giggling fit finally subsiding.
“We have to find Joachim before does harm to himself!”
“Yes, I can see how that would be a problem,” Bingo said. He took a deep breath. They checked his room first. It was empty, and the spear was missing, although his armor was standing on the rack. The big set wasn’t quite matched, having been cobbled together from the various mercenary company’s Joachim had served in. Each one was etched with a different boss. Glory thought it made him look like a piece of lost luggage. She picked up a greave, which bore a soaring eagle, and carried it out into the parlor.
“What are you going to do with that?” Bingo asked as she cleared off the dining table and set the piece down.
“Locator spell, and be quiet, I need to concentrate!” Bingo did his best, but the cost of his silence was constant pacing. The spell was a simple one, but as she waved and shaped her hands over the object, she couldn’t fix the proper runes in her mind. Each time she came close to completing the spell, some fresh wave of anger or irritation would catch her attention and it would collapse like a soufflé in a wind tunnel. Bingo wouldn’t keep still, or another tenant made noise on the stairwell, or a bird chirped outside. Why was the world so blighted distracting? Glory took another breath and tried again. It was really herself she was angry with, she decided. Drinking her own potion, was a exceptionally stupid thing to do, and magecraft was not a field that suffered fools. She’d never achieve anything of note if she didn’t pay better attention. And worse, what if her carelessness killed Joachim? If he harmed himself or others during his fugue, it would be her responsibility. That would be something unforgivable. She had to get to him before that happened. Rather than working against it, she poured her anger into the spell. It was dangerous, as the emotion was unstable. But she had to work with what she had or she’d never get anywhere. The spell wobbled, but it held this time. The leg-guard began to shake like a dowsing rod, and would have flown off the table if Glory hand’t picked it up with both hands. It was all she could do to stop the thing from pulling her out the door.
“Bingo, get our coats. We’re going out!”
A few minutes later they were hurrying through the slushy streets of Carabos. Winter was the off season, and with the Academy closed the streets were clearer than usual. But Glory still had to narrowly dodge horse-carts and apologize to pedestrians as the enchanted greave pulled her like a magnet towards Joachim. She prayed that she wasn’t too late. She anticipated the sounds of battle or carnage, but as they drew closer, she was surprised to hear music instead.
They found him standing in front of an inn, surrounded by a band of all things. They were repeatedly playing one short piece while Joachim shouted something up to one of the high windows. In her opinion, they could use some practice.
“Joachim!” She shouted. He didn’t seem to notice. The band broke off mid-song.
“Does he belong to you?” The lute player asked.
“Nominally,” Glory said. “What has he been up to?”
“He hired us up in the middle of the night to stand out here and play the same ballad, over and over again. He’s corked. You’d better take him home. After paying us, of course.”
“How much do we owe you,” she asked, fearing the answer.
Joachim turned around, apparently noticing them for the first time. The tall man was leaning on his fearsome spear for support, and he had been sobbing into his beard.
“Screw them, I paid upfront!” He said. “And it’s no use anyway. She won’t see me.” Glory glared at the musicians and they decided discretion was the better part of valor. She entertained the idea of shooting a ball of fire or lightning at their retreating feet, but couldn’t muster the energy. The relief at seeing Joachim unhurt seemed to have broken the spell, leaving her more tired than angry.
“Who won’t see you?”
“Margolotta, of course!” He turned back to the window. “Margolotta! I’m sorry!” He apparently was unaware that he had lost his accompaniment. Finally, the window opened and a red faced young human woman in a maid’s cap stuck her head out.
“For the last time, it’s Margery! Go the hells home, Verne! You’re drunk!” Bingo fell down in the street giggling. Rather than help him up, Glory led the weeping barbarian gently home by the sleeve. This sort of thing shouldn’t happen to mages, she decided. It was an affront to their dignity.
The Freelance Hunters spent the next two days recovering. Glory and Joachim, aside from a bit of embarrassment and exhaustion on top of their hangovers, were none the worse for wear. Bingo took the worst of it, and spent the entire week lying in bed, depressed. Glory made careful study of the phenomenon.
After everyone had fully recovered, she gave the ice box to her companions as a gift. “What about your potions?” Joachim asked.
Glory shrugged. “I learned what I needed to, and saw no point in repeating the experiment. Besides, I ran the numbers and the profit on making and selling potions isn’t worth the trouble.” She grinned at them and held up a box of carpentry tools. “Wands are the next big thing.”
Hugh J. O'Donnell 