The Twilight of the Guards, or, the Plowshare Conundrum

Illustration by Kelly Freas

Sneel was so full of anxious energy that his tall, conical sorcerer’s hat floated several inches above his head as he paced the palace waiting room. As First Wizard of the Kingdom, Personal Advisor to Emperor Cradar the Conqueror, and Cabinet Secretary of the Imperial Department of Magick, he had never been kept waiting before, not in all his decades of service. “Especially not during the recent Ice War,” he muttered aloud, shaking his head. The pointed hat bounced to and fro, just slightly out of phase from the movement of the wizard’s intensified cranial magick field. He glanced nervously at the Emperor’s closed door, flanked on each side by four big, ugly trolls. Redundant description, he thought.

Sneel calmed himself down a bit and tried to generate interest in touring the Great Hall while he waited the Emperor’s pleasure. Since he had never waited here before, he actually had never paid much attention to the Hall Of Magickal Fame, to other of the Empire’s notable magickians, wizards, advisors, thaumaturgists, and sorcerers. Yet here they were, represented in heroic-sized statuary for all the world to pay homage to. First in line was the legendary Trinity of Magickians—Laneel, Opp, and T’ller—They Who conjured primal Magick from mushrooms to triumph in the First War of the Pearl. Sneel himself, then barely an apprentice, had played a significant part in that conflict, but his accomplishments were overshadowed by the fame of those giants of sorcery.

Killing time, the First Wizard gazed over the lesser statues and plaques honoring other wizards, both great and small, in the Empire’s Magickal history: BrokVen, SavNah, OkRig, LarBer, L’vMur, all gone now, either dispatched by enemies or retired to the Western Isles. Sneel tired quickly of these old memories, and he tired of waiting. Actually, after fifty years of defensive spells, offensive enchantments, magickal battles with enemy wizards and the unrelenting discipline and constant study required by the Craft, he was also too tired for the next assignment. With the Ice Men frozen forever in glaciers at the Roof of the World after a monumental battle of Magickal spells, the Empire of Cradar was the acknowledged supreme nation of the known Earthe. Who was left to fight next?

Before Sneel could formulate an answer to his own question, brazen trumpets blared and the gigantic oaken door creaked open with the noises of ancient joints screechily resisting movement. The wizard lay down his thaumaturgical staff with its glowing cap of spinning fire-fairies orbiting a tiny central orb, in full view of the glares of the troll guards, and, thus unarmed, strode down the hundred yards to prostrate himself before Cradar the Conqueror. The Emperor was a swarthy little man with piercing black eyes that revealed a fiery intelligence. That intelligence had helped him seize the throne from his father fifty years ago when that unfortunate man had tarried too long abroad after his last battlefield victory. At the Emperor’s command to rise, Sneel allowed himself a penetrating glance into Cradar’s eyes. The little man winked briefly at his Magick Advisor, acknowledging his old debt to Sneel’s use of unorthodox spells. Cradar, the magician knew, kept his sullen father—for fifty years now, all of two inches tall, by virtue of Sneel’s creative spells—in a small glass box at his bedside. No parricide for this boy!

Cradar stood and waved his throne guards away. “Come, Sneel, my old friend, and let us relive our glory days!” As the two retired to the adjacent feast room, a bevy of silken wine girls and golden beer boys brought out platinum and gold goblets brimming with spiced liquids, and muscular servers hoisted up roast meats and trays of sweets. “We have much to discuss, my friend,” the Emperor said. “Very much, indeed.”

Though by law, Sneel had sworn to dispractice any psychic talents while in the palace grounds, his premonitive sense jolted him with a sudden sharp pain—of warning.

Up until the last course, the repast was fit for an emperor. But while Sneel was swirling the sweetest of sweets around in his crystal cup, Cradar grew grim. “My old, dear friend, I’m afraid I must break sorrowful news to you.” As Sneel set his cup down, Cradar urged him to finish his dessert drink. “No. Go on, old friend, drink up. This is nectar of the gods.”

Warily, the magician sipped at the liquid in his glass while Cradar continued. “It’s this way. With the Ice Men defeated, with the whole world at peace, I—” The Emperor paused, swallowed hard. Sneel was shocked: the Conqueror hesitating? Never! “I—that is, the Empire—my counting servants have finally tallied up what your sorcerer’s services are costing us.” The royal brow furrowed. “The Department of Magick is very, very expensive.

“Sneel,” he nodded at the wizard, “across the Empire, your Department of Magick complex employs nine hundred assistants, thousands of acres of special cropland, extensive exotic animal preserves, and requires the output of a plethora of mines and ships.”

Puzzled, Sneel shrugged. “Sire, two plethora, at a minimum. But, Sire, no one ever said Magick was cheap. Let me explain. The assistant wizards are specialists, each doing very important preparations, testing out new spells. The special croplands are for the herbs and incenses needed for the incantations. And I cannot simply grab any random toad or any species of newt or bat for my concoctions, you know; there are very selective breeding criteria, very detailed specifications. As for the mines—why, from those we obtain the essence of the Earth Mother, minerals and chemicals that produce the great weapons and spells that have brought you victory after victory. The ships search out amulets and parchments from which I learn how my brother sorcerers are progressing around the edges of the world.”

The Emperor’s countenance grew firm, but Sneel gulped and continued, “You have asked much of us who make up the Magick Complex, and we have always delivered—whatever you needed, and on schedule. I have to agree that our needs are expensive, but,” his voice tried to sound more confident than he actually felt, “the needs of the Empire have always been met. I never considered the cost, not when the orders came down from the palace—er, from you, Sire.”

Cradar twisted his neck, trying to work out the tension there. After a satisfying series of cracks and pops, he opened his arms, hands out, in a gesture of apology. “Yes, you did, and for that the Empire is eternally grateful. However, with the need to feed the unfortunate populations once led, however poorly, by the recently-defeated Ice Men, and with all the other extraordinary expenses that peace has brought, the Empire can no longer afford your services.” He let out a long breath. “I’m afraid that Magick is just too expensive for anything but war. The Department of Magick has to be downsized.” The Emperor shook his head. “Eliminated, actually. I’m letting you go.”

The wizard nearly fell back on his pillow in shock. “Surely, Lord Cradar—” he said with a suddenly weak voice. But Cradar rose and dismissed him with the wave of a hand. As the ex-guest made his way to unsteady feet, the Emperor said, “I’m truly sorry, old friend, but the Council of Barons and the Merchanter’s Guilds are demanding that the war taxes now be used for new bridges, new port facilities.” Giving a royal arm for Sneel to steady himself on, he continued, almost apologetically, “Of course, I shall maintain your estates for other Empire uses, and will use many of your assistant wizards to clean up some of the residual spells at Magick sites here at home and in the land of the Ice Men.

“You shall receive a pension in recognition of many years of loyal service to the Empire. And you may keep a modest castle.” The royal throat coughed, embarrassed. “Of course, upkeep and servants will be your own affair.”

“Sire,” Sneel ventured softly, “are you aware of what it costs to keep a castle in good repair these days? Not to mention the servants—”

Cradar interrupted, “But surely a wise man has stored away some talents of gold.” The magickian shrugged. “Apparently not, then. Hmmm. Well, can’t you just turn some rocks into gold or jewels, make yourself rich, go retire to the Distant Lands as a wealthy lord?”

Sneel shook his beard. “Cradar, Sire, the Laws of Magick require that you put more value into transmutation of minerals than you get out, and the value is about two to one when you turn stones into gold.” He recalled sour memories of Cradar’s attempts to fill the Empire’s coffers with gold from transmuted granite mountains, and how the wizards of the land had nearly died of exhaustion. It would have been financially more efficient to have hired them out to other lands!

Cradar shrugged in return. “Hmmm. I had thought of suggesting that you do something like turning swords into plowshares, but swords are damned expensive and we already have unemployed blacksmiths and enemy iron enough for the plows.” Pointing to the candle-clock he muttered, “Go then with my good wishes, old friend. I’m sure you’ll find something. I’ll keep your remuneration at the present level for two months. Then you drop to 30 percent pay, plus a few perqs at the Royal Pub. Best I could do with those slow-witted bean counters in Auditing.” With trumpets blaring once more, Cradar departed through purple velvet drapes and four armed trolls appeared out of nowhere to escort the ex-Magick Advisor out the door. Fast!

Sneel’s first task was to break the distressing news to his second-in-command, legendary Laneel of the Mountains, summoning him from his eyrie above the valley. The famous old Magick man, who once had been Sneel’s mentor, proofed in front of Sneel by apportation. Laneel took the shocking turn of events with some grace, though tempered by sadness. “I must find another line of work, young Sneel,” he said gravely. “Perhaps emigrate to another land.”

“But you, Laneel, you don’t have riches beyond belief, after a hundred years of service?”

The Ageless One moved his head sadly. “Two hundred, young man. But no. Of course, early on I invested heavily in First Empire bonds, but with the wars and all, and the insurrections and the last coup…” The trailing off of the old man’s voice evoked similar emotions in Sneel. His own investments, meager though they had been, had also suffered in the inflationary times following each war he had helped win. In a brief instant of indignant self-pity, he wondered, If we winners get booted out, how did the losers fare? Instantly, a panoply of episodic memories from the past played before his mind’s eye, giving rise to a momentary chill—imminent genteel poverty was still infinitely better than the fates of the foe’s magickians. Spending all eternity sealed alive in an airless iron box, or embedded in a frozen glacier, were definitely not good alternatives. And those were two of the more humane judgments!

He also knew he should feel guilty about Laneel’s situation. After all, half a century ago, he, Sneel, had reduced Cradar’s father to the size of a toad, thus facilitating the filial coup—and the financial upheaval—that had wiped out the old magickian’s First Empire savings bonds. He sighed; even wizards couldn’t change the past. Well, strictly speaking they could, Magickally, but such practices were strictly off limits to ethical professionals. And besides, temporal displacement to the past was one large investment of time and Magick, and Sneel suspected that the thaumaturgical laws would have the last laugh. Something for nothing didn’t seem to be allowed at all.

The wizards said farewells, and Laneel disappeared in a another poof! Sneel laughed. The old boy would soon have to start walking or buy a horse and carriage; apportation was now a luxury just too costly in time and energy! He himself would depend on good old shoe leather, especially on the path toward the crags that held his one remaining castle.

Holding that thought, the magickian peered down at his own foot coverings. Strange, but he had never appreciated how important soles were—as in shoes, sandals, boots. Why, civilization itself depended upon such humble things. And, in a civilization where every subject of the Emperor had to have dependable foot coverings to survive the hot and cold muddy streets, to plow rocky fields and traverse a myriad of pebble-strewn paths, Why, a clever Magickian could make his living in shoes and boots. A fortune, even!

Morning came, and a smiling Sneel strode purposefully down the long spiral staircase from his Inner Sanctorum to the breakfast nook. By the look of him, his downcast apprentice, Marmet, hadn’t slept all night. Sneel continued the smile. Let the boy wonder.

“Sire, you are so cheerful. Do you have a plan?” the apprentice inquired sheepishly.

“Yes, I do,” Sneel fairly smirked with confidence. “I’m going into the village and apply a bit of Magick therein.”

“Not in games of chance, Sire?” the boy blurted out. “They burn folks for such as that. Or, so you told me.”

Sneel shook his head. “None so foolish as to risk the red for the silver.” The flame for the coin. “No, it is time to practice a new Magick, a practical Magick: Magick for the Masses!” Pursing his lips, he rolled those words around in his mouth, enjoying the feel of the phrase. He might have need of some capital to institute his new schemes, and in any event it would be wise to know what his personal worth was at this critical moment in his career. “Marmet,” he said, “I want you to do an inventory of everything in this castle. Estimate the value on the market of everything—lands, possessions, crops. I need to know the financial resources I presently control.” He felt the gaping, dropped-jaw stare of his apprentice. “Never mind what for. Just prepare me a list. By the time I return this evening.”

“Today, Sire? I am scribe-trained in numbering, but that will take—” Marmet paused, trying to guess how long.

“—No longer than when I return, boy,” the wizard growled. “This evening.”

The cobbler’s shop was dark and cramped, smelling of curing skins and tannic acid, an odiferous nightmare. The cobbler’s personal odor was unidentifiable, but nonetheless obnoxious. Sneel ignored it all. “How do you see anything in here, friend Cobbler?”

The leather-aproned, dye-stained bald man looked up at the magician, not slowing his hammering by a stroke. “Don’t have to see. Feel the leather, feel the sole, feel the nails, feel the hammer.”

“Do you make a living, friend Cobbler?”

A quick nod, no audible answer.

“How would you like to make ten times as many shoes?”

The hammering continued. “Look, Lord Magickian, Sire,” the man sighed loud enough to be heard, “I can’t work ten times as long as I do now. And I can’t bring in nine apprentices to help.” His tongue played inside his cheek. “Course, I do have nine kids. Nay, most of them are girls and they can’t use hammers.”

Sneel pulled out a sheepskin scroll. “Look at this, friend Cobbler. If you will get me these materials, I will conjure up as many shoes as you could make from them.”

“Can do that myself, Lord Mag-ickian.”

“In the twinkling of a flea’s flick?”

The hammering stopped.

“And you get?” the cobbler demanded, a little bit above his station.

Sneel tried to ignore the breach of protocol. “Half the profit when you sell them all.”

The hammering stayed stopped.

“Can’t read, Lord Sneel. You tell me what to get.”

An hour later, Sneel walked around an unkempt pile of nondescript junk that all but filled the cobbler’s shop, floor to ceiling. “Friend Cobbler, you’re certain everything I asked for is in there?”

“Certain, Lord Sneel. For sure.”

“And you have told me every step you use in making shoes, from the foot to the last.” He smiled, waiting for the simple man to laugh. Or at least smile. Nothing.

“Yes, Lord Sneel. For sure. You start with cutting out a pattern from the leather…”

The wizard sighed, waving the man away. “Very well; it’s your business to know how shoes are made. I’ll just make them many times faster. Please leave the room.”

Sneel knew he could perform his rituals successfully in public, he had done such many times in the palace this last half-century, but he was so used to absolute secrecy from the public at large that he felt more comfortable alone. “Hargon, Eyen’l, Mund, P’nel” he chanted, calling on the spirits of long-Passed wizards of old. “Ornel, HanFd, WyeTwef…” his voice cracked with emotion as he kept up the ritual, filling the air with the motions of the sacred and mysterious Quadrefoil sign language. He sighed at the memory. Once these powerful wizards, past Magickal Advisors to long-ago chieftains and kings in this very nation, before the Empire, had run their own Departments of Magick, had delivered miracle after miracle to the government of their time. And now they were all gone. Strange, but he had never considered their fates before today. He shrugged off the mood; there was work to do.

Vague whuffings and stirrings arose amongst the pile of shoe-stuff as the Magick field took hold. Lights flashed, the room shook, heat and smoke erupted, were sucked back in, a magickians cauldron stirred by Magick, warmed by forces of other worlds. An hour later, Sneel sprinkled a shiny dust over the amorphous mass, and touched the throbbing blob with his glowing thaumaturgical shaft.

Poof! A hundred pairs of shoes and boots appeared. Sneel inspected a few pairs, found them to be of quality, in the variety of kinds and colors Friend Cobbler had asked for. He smiled; the ladies and gentlemen of this town would find some of the colors absolutely delightful, for they did not exist anywhere else on Earthe. Satisfied but sweating, he called for the cobbler to come in.

The simple man was overawed. “My Lord Sneel! A hundred pairs! It would take me months!” The cobbler thanked him over and over again as he sorted out the sizes and shouted for joy at the beautiful new colors. “It will take me some time with the scribe to work out the numbers to determine how much your share will be, Lord Magickian, but I’m sure it will be worth the time you took.” His forehead wrinkled. “By the way, Sire, not meaning to question you, but er, ah, ain’t two hours a bit longer than a ‘flea’s flick’?”

Sneel snorted at the man’s ingratitude. “That’s how long the final transformation takes, simple friend. To magick something, you have to plan, to prepare, to—” He stopped short. He was beginning to sound like old Laneel, and he wouldn’t have that! He walked to the door and turned to face the still-amazed cobbler. “I shall await my share of the sales, Cobbler,” he snapped. “You know where my castle is.” He turned on one heel and departed.

“So it was a good day, Sire?” Marmet met his master at the drawbridge with a goblet of wine and a sheaf of parchment. His fingers, Sneel noted with satisfaction, were ink-stained. Good! The lad could follow orders, even under stress.

“As I said this morning, Marmet, I think we have a new trade, a way to turn a profit.” he stopped to quench his thirst and calm his nerves. “ ‘Magick for the Masses’ will make us rich!”

Marmet nodded with pleasure. “Now, Sire, except for the additions and multiplications, I have come up with all the numbers you asked for.” Groaning, Sneel shook his head and asked for dinner to be delivered upstairs to the room. He would eat alone tonight, and plan.

Early the next morning, as Sneel was working out his demanding aerobic spells, there was an insistent knock at the drawbridge. Minutes later, Marmet appeared, pale and shaken.

“Yes, what is it?” the wizard demanded.

The servant gulped. “Sire, it is the village constable, and—”

“Yes, go on. And—who?”

“The cobbler, Sire.”

“I’ll handle it, my good man,” Sneel groaned. “Show them to the reception room.” He stopped and thought a few seconds. “Better yet, show them to the Interrogation Room.” Hmph! A little dried blood splattered on the wall usually kept unwelcome guests on edge. What in the world could they be wanting anyway?

“You want me to pay for what?” Sneel shouted in outrage. “For cows? Some crazy peasants think I skinned their cows? Nonsense!”

The constable cringed before the outburst, but defiantly held up the sheepskin. “Sire, did you not give the cobbler this list, to help him—make shoes?” The burly, middle-aged man spoke the words as if he couldn’t quite believe the whole situation. It was apparently quite hard to fathom: a world-famous wizard, making shoes? Two days before, Sneel himself would not have believed it possible, either.

“Yes, that’s my list, constable. What has that to do with ten—skinned—cows?”

“The leather, Sire. It came from those cows, I’m sure. The poor dead creatures still have the cobble patterns for the shoes and boots cut right out of their hides.” Sneel mumbled a memory spell to try to clear the confusion in his head. If only there was a magic potion to wake him up early in the morning. One of the Brotherhood from North Africa had reported salutary effects from a kind of goat-weed. He’d have to keep looking in on that one. But for now, how—? He jerked the sheepskin list away from the trembling constable, then he fished out a quill pen and parchment and made some rough calculations of area, to see if indeed ten cows was a reasonable amount of leather.

The villagemen watched him in awe, as if mere mathematics were a kind of Magick in itself. Maybe it is, Sneel thought. After ten minutes of furious scribbling, he sighed and put down the pen. It was useless to show his figurings to these persons; they were largely uneducated in numbers. He suspected even the constable couldn’t read, since the man had held the sheepskin upside down while pressing his charges. “Ten cows—ten scrawny, underfed cows—would be about right. But didn’t the cobbler bring the leather to me, as I asked for? Wasn’t it in the pile of materials along with everything else?”

The constable frowned. “Sire, the cobbler is embarrassed to admit it, but he substituted simple broadcloth for the leather and skins on your list.” Sneel’s jaw dropped. That would explain it all! By the discovered laws of magick, the spell field would go fetch the specified materials from the closest source. Which happened to be ten cows in a nearby commons. Thank the OverGod Aloo he hadn’t been using ingredients more conveniently obtained from the nearest humans! Magick, in the wrong hands, could be very dangerous.

Sneel closed his eyes. “Of course, this fool is just another one who thinks that wizards can transmute anything into anything else, so broadcloth should be just as good, and a hell of a lot cheaper.” He pulled out his modest purse and dropped a few coins into the constable’s hand. “Enough for the cows?” The lawman nodded.

Sneel turned to the cobbler. “And the extent of my share of the shoes?”

The man held up a parchment of figures. “The village scribe worked out the numbers for me, Sire, but I can’t read them. And it will be many months before I can sell all of them, and give you your rightful share.”

Sneel snorted and grabbed the sheet. He made a big show of turning the figures rightside up. “Hmm, a trifling amount, if I may say so. And you cobbler, you and ten other people live on this much?”

“Yes, Sire, for three months or more, but not very well.”

The magickian sighed and handed the paper back. “Learn to figure, my good man. And then you will know how much you will make from all these shoes. You’d best keep the whole amount.”

The villagemen left with profound gratitude for the generosity of the Lord Magickian. Alone again in the tower, Sneel frowned. He’d have to rethink his finances; in fact, he had never given thought to such things, assuming he’d be the Magick Advisor until his death by natural causes or in battle with other wizards. Apparently there wasn’t much money to be made in shoes: his share of the cobbler’s sales wouldn’t have been enough even to pay Marmet, let alone his dozen other acolytes and the servants and their families. He sighed. Magick had never failed him; he would yet prevail.

As he watched from the tower window, the two villagers were heading toward town on an ox-driven cart that squeaked and jolted viciously on the rocky trail leading the miles back down the mountainside. Maybe, just maybe, if he couldn’t earn sufficient income making shoes, he could find some other type of manufacture that he could enhance. Preferably one that already had all the component parts built and ready for assembly. In the distance, the cart disappeared behind an outcropping of rock. Something about the jostling, bumping cart gnawed at his mind…

He spoke to his stone walls. “Hmm, now how many parts does a cart have anyway?”

The walls answered softly—as he had magicked them to do, so many years before that he had almost forgotten they were still enchanted: “Twenty-three, on average, Sire, if you count the wheels as separate sub-assemblies. On the other hand, if you count each of the individual piece-parts that are fabricated individually by the wheelwright, plus the blacksmith’s contributions of rivets, pins and plates, plus the separate leather ox control straps, leashes, and so forth the total can be as high as three hundred.” The magician stared at the morphic stone mouth that was stating these figures matter-of-factly. “Of course, if you want yokes, brakes, and a differential mechanism, there can be thousands—”

“Enough!” Sneel shouted. “I understand quite sufficiently! Lots and lots of parts!”

“Sire, if you wish to take into account the so-called ‘train-wagons’ of Far Cathee, with their human-powered assisting drives, then—” Sneel sighed and magicked the walls off. If memory served, he hadn’t spoken to them in a dozen years, so naturally the poor things were eager to exercise their voice and their Magicked talents. But, Holy Hephaestos, were they overbearing!

Dawn had not yet lit the skies as Sneel trundled across the lowered drawbridge, heading for the village. He yelled back to Marmet, “And you’d better have those numbers for me tonight, or you will be the first casualty of the peace, apprentice!” From somewhere in the darkened castle came the boy’s weak affirmation.

The Cartwright’s establishment, it turned out, was far on the other side of the Imperial Palace estates. It was a tired and foot-weary Sneel who settled down, cross-legged, under the shade of the spreading branches of an ancient, gnarled oak in front of the place. The manufactory comprised a crude hovel, a lean-to shed for the storage of rough-sawn lumber, and several outbuildings of equally crude construction. A dozen or more men went about their noisy tasks, hauling boards over their shoulders, sawing with large manual string-saws, hammering pegs, assembling parts into near-carts and unfinished wagons of several varieties. Off to the side, two wheelwrights were rolling their handiworks in for assembly into vehicles.

The odors, as usual, were not those of the rare and perfect parfums of the palace, or even of the enchanting workaday incenses of Sneel’s more modest castle. These were the mustiness of sawdust, the smell of curing leather—for suspension and brakes, Sneel knew, courtesy of his talkative but all-knowing Sanctorum walls—and the pungency of lubricating greases and wood-treating potions. The cacophony and the symphony of odors, however, were strangely pleasant in their effect, as if a well-oiled device were humming along according to its intended Magicked animation spell.

As three men rolled out a finished wagon, complete with tongue and yokes in place, Sneel arose and walked over to inspect the vehicle. The men stopped their forward progress, bowing toward the Lord Magickian and backing off to a proper distance. One of them left to enter the nearest hovel of the manufactory. The satisfying feel of the finished wood, the smell of the many treatments of oak and leather, and the obvious pride of the workmen in their accomplishment suflused the magickian with a sense of pride in his fellow citizens of the Empire. Strange that he had never taken the time to appreciate the beauty of the synthesis of raw materials into useful things. Soon a coarsely-dressed, bent-over old mortal, whom Sneel took to be the operator of the manufactory, came out bearing a battered silver goblet brimming with aged mead. Nodding in thanks, the magickian said, between sips, “I have come to offer my services, good Cartwright, in the furtherance of your profitability.”

The old man jerked straight upright, the hump in his back disappearing. “My Lord Magickian,” he began, nervously smoothing out the greasy creases in his broadcloth breeches, “Of course I welcome your assistance, but to what do I owe such an honor?” The man’s gaze turned toward the palace walls and spires in the distance. “One of the Nobility, a Lord Wizard—the Lord Wizard, if my old memory serves me, Lord Sneel—deigning to work in the mud, with wood and grease and iron?”

Sneel arose, handing back the goblet to the carter. “Well, my good wagon-maker, not iron, if you please!” The wizard’s gorge rose when he thought of all the evil iron had wrought, with its strange attractions and anti-spell fields. “You mortals are best with that. But the other materials—” he held out callused hands, palms up, to illustrate his point. “—they are well known to me. We who work with Magick have vast experience with all the minerals and materials of this world.

“And of others,” he whispered knowingly.

The carter invited Sneel inside, and there they schemed.

“This time, Marmet, it worked according to my plan.” Sneel was smiling broadly, pretending to audit the stack of parchments the apprentice was handing him, one sheet at a time.

“I am pleased to hear that, my lord.”

“Yes, old Cartwright and I, we went over every step of the assembly of just one wagon. We discussed the fact that the old man already had every single part for the task, on hand and ready. I personally counted every wheel subassembly, every wooden peg, every single flat board and lathe-turned piece, every leather strap and down into the vials of oils, ointments and vaporous substances with which the wagon-makers treat their fabricated items.”

Marmet stopped shuffling the parchment, fascinated by the working of the great wizard’s mind. This was apprenticeship at its best—receiving wisdom straight from the mouth of the master. No loathsome toads to dissect, no slimy, wriggling newts to hold while you pulled out their eyes with suction devices, and no wringing of bat wings from screeching, biting aerial varmints!

“Cartwright had his crew of laborers and craftsmen lay out all those dozens of parts in his wagon yard,” Sneel went on, satisfaction and relief evident in his relaxed voice, “according to the steps of the process that they traditionally follow. The wheels out at the edges of the yard, the chassis boards and lumbers near the center, the tongue and yokes off to the front, the tail gate to the back, and the axles near to the center. I even sketched up a ‘layout’ drawing of the diverse parts to enhance the assembly spell’s efficacy.”

Marmet’s eyes glowed with respect. Sneel hoped the youngster was listening; he, of course, would figure in Sneel’s plans for marketing this kind of expertise. The spell was simplicity itself, one even a dullwit like Marmet could learn in a few hours. And then, their success—and income—assured, the apprentice could assemble wagon and carts, while Sneel went on with his researches into the goat-weed morning-waking stimulant, and perhaps other fields; maybe he would even delve into the strange attractive properties of the hard-to-handle, degenerative element, iron. “Of course,” he continued, “I could not let those simples observe my conjurations, so Cartwright sent them on home.”

Marmet was impatient. “Sire, do go on. What spell did you use? The Knowledge of Conglomeration Device ritual? The time-consuming but ultimately reliable Dragooning Of Entities apportation conjure?”

Sneel waved him quiet. “No, it was a rather truncated version of the Natural Schema of Formation, but quite adequate for the purposes, particularly when used with the Magicked drawing.” Marmet seemed a bit disappointed. “My young apprentice, don’t be discouraged. After all, we must utilize only the appropriate thaumaturgy, conserve our strengths, preserve our resources. I will instruct you anon on the nuances with which you, too, shall construct wagons.”

The apprentice’s body language displayed a mixed response. Sneel sighed; he could feel the young man’s pain. After ten years of rigid, not to say harsh, discipline and an enormously difficult curriculum in ancient and mysterious knowledge, experimentation with dangerous and difficult spellfields, and a hard-earned appreciation of the potential powers and awesome applications of Magick, it had to be a letdown to realize that one would never apply it all, nor ever to go into combat with foe-wizards, never test one’s mental mettle and thaumaturgical talents. All those hopes and dreams, all the work and schemes. To make wagons?

But the days of Magick glory were over and done with. The boy would have to learn to live with the new order of the peaceful world, “Magick for the Masses,” and that was that.

“As you wish, Master Sneel,” Mar-met whispered. “I trust that you were successful, then? In assembling the wagon?”

Sneel roared with laughter. “The cartwright was overwhelmed, astounded, confounded, and delighted!” He showed a heartfelt smile, one Marmet had never experienced. It seemed—almost mortal, the apprentice thought. “Every part was exactly in place as planned; every piece of wood fit its neighbors as if they had been grown as one organism. No place did so much as a seam or crack or line show. The vehicle exceeded in quality anything ever made in the history of wagon-making. In fact, the old cart-wright could pull it himself, with one hand, so perfectly balanced was the finished product.

“The old man was awestruck. ‘A wagon fit for an emperor,’ he muttered. When I suggested that he consider it such, he immediately objected. ‘Lord Sneel, I cannot afford such generosity. This wagon—these parts—are a week’s work for my men. Without recompense for our efforts, we do not eat!’ ”

“I, of course, let the remark slide, though in the olden days the man would have been on the rack and had his tongue sliced in two for such treasonous comments.” Sneel rose and stretched, letting the stack of Marmet’s scribblings fall to the floor like so many autumn leaves. “But now I am more mellow, and I understand how the working classes earn their daily bread. I just intend to help them do it a lot faster. And make some gold talents along the way.” He winked at the scrambling apprentice.

“This time, we did the numbers first, good Marmet, and in wagons there is enough profit for both the cartwright and me each to make a good living.”

From the floor, Marmet stared up at Sneel. “And for all the unnecessary crew of workers, Lord Master?” Sneel frowned at the thought.

It was a dark and sleepless night.

Sneel awoke to an insistent knock. Cobwebs of unslept sleep still clogged his conscious mind as he finally found the wit to speak. “Marmet, you will die slowly in the dungeon if you have bothered me for no good reason!”

“Sire, I… I… there are visitors. Important ones.”

The wizard’s robes flowed to him as he dragged weary bones from his straw bed. A pitcher of water floated over; he welcomed the cold spray of mist on his face. “Yes, Lord Marmet, at your service, sire. Coming right down.” Fleeting footsteps raced back down the tower. He hoped the apprentice would tell from his mood that the guests should be received in the Torture Room.

When the magickian arrived downstairs to receive his guests, he remarked mentally on Marmet’s depth of perception, as well as sense of irony. The visitors, in fact, were ensconced in various sitting devices in the Torture Room. Sneel would have liked to activate the magicked garrotes as the two sat. He recognized both—men? One was a man, at least, though not much of one—the Guild Master. The other was a Tax Thing, and not human at all. Inwardly, Sneel shuddered at that one.

Sneel nodded mere millionths of an inch toward the Guild Master. In a voice as cold as the fate of the Ice Men, he inquired, “Lord Guild Master. To what do I owe this honor?”

Even though the man was dressed in expensive robes, the rough character and savage demeanor of the Guild Master issued forth, like a bad smell from a finely-arrayed swine. “By the law of the Empire, magick may not be used against one’s countrymen.”

Sneel opened his hands in a gesture of So? What have I done, you fool?

“Magicker Sneel,” the magickian stiffened at the overtly insulting slur, “In the making of wagons and carts there is much money, and with such devices as you conjured up yesterday, many of my Guild members will have no source of labor income.”

“I have thought deeply all night on that instance, Guild-Jockey,” Sneel returned the slur, “and your cart-wrights can change their procurements—buying already-finished parts from carpenters, iron mongers, lumber-jacks. They can make many identical pieces, and my magickian, Marmet there, can conjure up the last few steps of assembly. The Empire can have many more vehicles, of perfect quality, and we all can be made richer.”

“Whizzard Sneel,” the Guild Master escalated, fuming, “With your ‘magick-mass-produced’ wagons on the road, why just one ox could pull a whole wagon-train! As the sole Empire representative of the Drayer’s Guild, I must also look after the welfare of the cart-drivers and wagonmasters. Thus, you will cease such meddling in the smooth-running affairs of commerce! At once!” Sneel could swear the porcine man was sweating in streams and spurts. “You must voluntarily renounce the magickal manufacture of any and all items now made by human labor!”

Sneel sighed once again. Although it was within Sneel’s powers to reduce this swine to a piglet for the night’s dinner table, the obnoxious ruffian was an Imperial Appointee, and was obviously carrying a message from the Emperor. “I so renounce it, Guild Master.” An outstretched palm made its unobtrusive way across the table. “I see, for your troubles, I would presume.” More coins left Sneel’s lightening purse.

Sneel had one trick, however, that he would use to assuage his wounded pride, and to keep the man quiet while the really important discussion took place, that is, the business with the Tax Thing. The Guild Master gasped as the garrote clamp instantaneously surrounded his throat, and leather straps from the torture chair snaked out across his calves and his wrists. The Guild Master’s eyes bulged in fear and his cheeks wheezed as he tried to scream. At least the man would be quiet for a while—if his larynx weren’t crushed too badly—even though his sweat-odor couldn’t be magicked away.

Reluctantly turning his eyes away from the gasping guilder, Sneel faced—even though his other guest had nothing resembling a “face”—the creature that occupied the horizontal Iron Maiden construction opposite him. “I shudder to find out your intentions, Mr. Tax Thing, sir.” It was no exaggeration on the magickian’s part.

An almost reptilian smile split the otherwise expressionless pale visage. “I believe, soon-to-be-retired Lord Magickian,” the Thing half-hissed, “that in producing a specified quantity of high-quality, salable, cobbled goods, not to mention a superb wagon, you have neglected to pay the war-imposed VAT tax.” Sneel shuddered at the implication. This peculiarly pernicious tax was called VAT for two reasons, one having to do with the rather severe penalty for failure to pay it. “It has required overtime for the Emperor’s scribes to calculate, but I have here the figures with me, and the total amounts to…”

“So your purse is empty now?” Marmet squinted as Sneel dumped one last coin on the table. The young man was wiping blood from the garrote’s U-shaped clamp, and from the sharpened screw-point that extended through the head rest behind it. His nose reeled at the smell of sweat and other bodily fluids. What an unappreciative guest, he mused. A real swine!

“That was it, Apprentice,” the mage moaned. “And a whole month until the payman visits next. Any suggestions?” Magick or not, the end of his rope seemed to be uncomfortably close.

“Sire,” Marmet ventured hesitantly, “if it’s any comfort, I do have all those calculations you wanted.” Sneel looked at him quizzically. “You know, Master, you wished me to figure out the net worth of all your belongings?” The wizard nodded.

“Well, Sire,” the boy read from a parchment that he pulled from his blood-stained shirt, “if you add up the value of the castle, the grounds, the furniture and the crops yet to be harvested—”

“Yes, do go on, young Marmet,” Sneel sighed, hoping for enough worth to eke out the dismal existence he foresaw for himself, his many remaining centuries lived alone in a crumbling ruin, a faded memory in the mind of the prosperous Empire he had served so well.

“—Well, Sire, it is almost enough to pay the new property taxes the Emperor has imposed, to be used for further improvements in the infrastructure and health care benefits.” Sneel’s bulging eyes stared in disbelief. “You know, Sire, the health benefits? You haven’t been reading your post documents? As an employer, you are now liable for taking care of the physicks of all the servants here.” He smiled broadly, “Including me. Isn’t that something? The Emperor cares for us all!”

It was next morning before Sneel relented and turned Marmet back from a toad into a human. “Not much of an improvement,” he said, surveying his work.

“Marmet,” the quickly-aging magickian said evenly, “We’ve got to get serious. Short of hiring ourselves out to a neighboring kingdom, or maybe traveling to far off Fu-Shang, land of the great red trees, in search of Magickal work, we are useless.” He and the apprentice were sitting in the Sanctorum, strategizing over their future. The boy had never been allowed in the place in the decade of his training, but Sneel felt there was little harm now. What secrets he had apparently weren’t worth keeping anymore, and this youngster, after all, was his sole acolyte, to whom he had intended to entrust his Ultimate Magick, namely the survival of his immortal soul.

“At this point the future looks disinviting, and the outcome certain. Poverty, disgrace, oblivion. Now you, boy, you could go to some great foreign center of thaumaturgic learning, teach what you know, earn a living wage. Or maybe be taken in as a household mage—”

“A magicker, sire, to protect lands and homes from bandits and intruders? No, Sire, I would rather throw my fate in with yours.” He fairly beamed, but his demeanor belied his outward confidence.

Dejected, Sneel conjured up a sphere of smoke, inserted his head, inhaled, and blew a puff from his cheeks. Someday, he’d have to give up the habit, but the idea of using lighted plant leaves for smoking bothered him. He coughed and wheezed, then said, “Let me see those parchments, boy, and let me re-figure out the numbers. Maybe we can hold on for a while yet. The Emperor does owe me for one more month of full pay, before I begin that miserably small pension.”

Marmet pulled out a sheaf of rolled parchment. As he handed it toward Sneel, the binding ribbons unwrapped, spilling the sheets in all directions. Sneel groaned. This was the creature who was going to protect his secrets and his soul? “Pick them up, boy. And while you do, tell me what the numbers are, so that I may know when I have to yield up the castle and grounds.”

“Sire,” the walls responded to the inquiry, uninvited, “by the proper floating of your property tax payments, and with clever marketing of the rare herbs and spices in your unharvested crops before the Emperor seizes them, you should be able to hold on to everything you own, and turn a small profit besides.”

“Ye Gods!” Marmet shouted, dropping the sheaves again. Sneel merely gasped. What hath stone walls wrought? he wondered.

Marmet continued to stare at the subtly morphing wall-mouth. “Sire, talking walls? You never mentioned—”

“After all, boy, this is my Inner Sanctorum,” the wizard said, defensively.

“What do the walls know?” Marmet asked.

“Everything,” a barely-visible fluid-stone mouth replied. “Everything that has happened. Everything that will happen. Everything that can happen.”

Sneel shouted, “I had no idea I magicked you so damned well. Walls? Why haven’t you told me all this before?”

The mouth puckered in a pout. “You never asked me.”

A long silence ensued while Marmet bit his lip, trying to keep from bursting out laughing. Being a toad, even just for overnight, was no laughing matter. And Sneel might figure a toad was easier to feed than a growing stripling. But he had a sudden inspiration. “Walls, can you help with these numbers?”

“Of course, Squire Marmet. You need only to ask.”

“You mean, I could have saved all this effort these last weeks, all my counting and numbering and adding and subtracting, everything?”

“Everything.”

Marmet fairly glowed with excitement. “Lord Sneel, can you put such Magick in a smaller stone?”

Sneel looked puzzled.

“Something, Master, such as one might carry in a purse?”

Sneel understood, a broad grin breaking out across his face. He was truly happy for the first time ever. Well, not ever; putting one of his living foes into that ugly outcropping of rock in front of the castle had been truly satisfying as well. He reached over and gently touched Marmet on the hand, a token of heartfelt thanks, the first time he had touched the boy not in anger. They looked at each other and could not contain their grins.

The Emperor was amused. “So, my good friend, and newly-appointed Economick Advisor, Baron Sneel, how do you like your new position, the perqs, the new estates?”

Baron Sneel bowed in gratitude to Cradar the Confident. “Your Excellency, everything is quite up to the highest standards. And I especially am grateful for the use of the mute, your ex-Guild Master, as my new Latrine Lord.”

Cradar shrugged with a smile, pulling out of his robes a sparkling diamond that dangled from the end of a thick golden chain. “This is quite a novelty, Sneel. And useful; why, I was even going to fire my bean-counters, but they convinced me that with these they could do all the Empire’s accounting and figuring work that really needs to be done. But by Hephaestos’ Horns, how did you ever think of making Purse Counting-Stones?”

The wizard shrugged. “Well, ‘the walls have ears’ they say. But seriously, it is not a great Magick to instill the simplest of calculatory skills, even into a simple PC-stone. And in a great jewel such as you have there—”

“And I thank you for it, Sneel. I have come to depend on its advice, as well as the number-mongering.”

“Think nothing of it, Sire, for it is one of a kind. No other PC-stone has the ability to translate the speech of others, or to give you the outcome of situations, and to calculate numbers as well. But as you know, the real profit is in producing the simple Purse Counting-stones for sale to each and every commoner, especially to the merchants and the tradesmen and the crafters. Thousands of them, millions of them. Profit enough for everyone.”

“I thank you, Sneel, for with this device you have made the Empire incredibly rich. How clever of you to determine what we needed, something entirely new and unprecedented. And above all, to supply that need without upsetting the existing trades and businesses. Even my Tax-Things grumble less now that tax calculations are clear to all.” Even Cradar trembled at the thought of those particular minions. “And I suppose the newly-anointed Wizard, Marmet the Magnificent, is enjoying your old castle and grounds?”

“Indeed he is, Sire, and he is a worthy successor, should you ever again decide to appoint another Imperial Magick Advisor.”

“No more Department of Magick for me, Sneel. I find your new Economicks much more rewarding. You might say, even more fun than war used to be.” He beamed, looking younger than ever. “And a lot more comfortable.” He held up a bolt of the sheerest cloth, a near-magickal, almost-transparent cloth of incredible beauty. “Tsilk,” Cradar said. And a bag of pungent-smelling dried leaves, labeled “Tea.”

“And now, if you will accompany me, Sneel, we have some important negotiation and trading to do with the delegation from the Emperor of Far Cathee.”

Lord Marmet sat at his thinking table in the Inner Sanctorum of Castle Sneel. The production of Purse Counting-stones was progressing very well. He was making hundreds a day with no particular strain, and it was indeed real Magick, not working in a wagon-yard. A sudden thought inspired him. In that very same wagon-yard, Sneel had sketched up a diagram of the wagon layout before proceeding with the assembly that fateful and unhappy day. The spell-casting was enhanced by the drawn-picture, Lord Sneel had said, Because in spell-technology the value of a word is only one-thousandth the worth of a corresponding drawn-picture!

An image came to Marmet’s mind of a device somewhat larger than a Purse Counting-stone, something like a flat crystal filled with moving diagrams.

“Walls,” Marmet said, measuring the words carefully, “Now if I wanted to get pictures from these stones… ?”