Sentencing
There he stood, like many before him, wondering what he’d done.
Charges against were kept secret until the day of the trial. It was one of the many staples of the Wizards’ Guild, along with excessive drinking, lollygagging, and general avoidance of anything resembling work. Classifying allegations only served to ensure the accused had no time to do what wizards did best: think something up.
“It says here,” said Councilwoman Muppy, the chair of the guild, “that Treneth of Dahl is accusing Master Xebdigon Whizzfiddle of never having successfully completed a quest.”
“To the letter,” Treneth amended.
“Hmmm?”
“I am accusing Master Whizzfiddle of never having successfully completed a quest to the letter of the contract.”
Whizzfiddle plucked through the cobwebs of his memories. He assumed that somewhere along the vastness of his experience there rested at least one actualized contract. Unfortunately, nothing came to mind. He had learned at a young age that people had little desire to continue with a dangerous adventure after the first couple of setbacks.
“I assume you have evidence of this?” Whizzfiddle said.
Treneth held up a folder and approached the bench. “These are all of the contracts that Whizzfiddle has been a party to over the last eleven hundred years. I have perused each of these contracts—”
“So you just glanced over them,” Whizzfiddle interrupted, “and you put charges against me?”
“You need to find a dictionary, sir,” Treneth answered with a snotty grin. “The term ‘peruse’ has been watered down through improper use over the years. Let’s just say that I have carefully examined each contract and have found that not a single one has been done to the letter.” He began pacing in front of the council members. “Now, you’ll find no complaints on his record. All of his clients seemed pleased to work with the man. However,” he said, stopping in front of Whizzfiddle, “according to the recent update to the Wizards’ Guild membership requirements, each wizard must fulfill all obligations stated in a contract at least one in twenty times.”
Whizzfiddle cleared his throat. “Then I shall do so effective immediately.”
“A wise decision, were it available to you. You see, the legislation asseverates that it applies to the last one hundred quests.”
“Preposterous!” Whizzfiddle declared, making a mental note to look up “asseverates,” making a further note to find someone who could spell it.
“I wholeheartedly agree,” Treneth replied in earnest.
“You do?”
“I do.” Treneth sauntered back to the prosecution’s chair. “I think we would all agree how preposterous—to use your term—it is that our longest tenured member has never finished a single quest properly.”
Whizzfiddle scowled at the man’s back. Always one for details was Treneth of Dahl. Cunning, cagey, crafty, and a slurry of other words that the elder wizard attributed to his former apprentice, most of which were ascribable to any wizard. But they seemed to fit extra well with Treneth. And now these descriptors were being used in a careful pursuit to get back at Whizzfiddle for releasing his former apprentice so many years ago.
The council set about debating.
After thirty minutes of waiting for the verdict, Whizzfiddle’s legs began to cramp. It wasn’t easy being perpetually old. He had been gifted this perpetuity of life by completing a Fate Quest that slowed his aging process to the point where one year for him was like one day to everyone else. If only this quest had been available to him when he was 50, life would have gone much more smoothly. Sadly, it didn’t avail itself until he’d turned 650.
He retrieved his staff and decided to stroll around the council floor to stretch his muscles.
Whizzfiddle had sat on the council in the past, nearly half a lifetime ago. The room itself hadn’t changed much over the years. It still had the high ceilings with the thick oak crossbeams. While it served as the Wizards’ Guild chambers at certain hours, it was normally the home of Hibberton’s School for Gifted Attiliators, which explained all of the crossbows and target boards, and the arrows that littered the floor. Originally, the guild had attempted affiliation with Hibberton’s School for Crafty Cooks. Due to a speech impediment of the Hibberton’s trust manager, where he had a tendency to make a “kw” sound for the letter “c,” the Thieves’ Guild had won the location. Still, Whizzfiddle reflected, their location turned out better than what the Sewing Club and the Farmer’s Federation got: the Gong Farmer Academy and the Kipper’s Cotters, respectively.
Finally, he went back to his chair and turned his focus on his former apprentice. Other than looking a couple hundred years older, Treneth was still as prim and proper as ever. If anything, the gray streaks in his thick helmet of hair made him look more dapper. Even the man’s leather gloves had a nice shine to them.
The volume of the panel’s debate gradually increased and laughter fell in with the discussion. Councilman Ibork, the grossly overweight halfling, tended to snort when he laughed; the Croomplatt twins, Councilman Elik and Esin—who appeared human, but nobody was one hundred percent certain of that fact—yelled the only word they could command in standard language, “ha,” which could have many meanings depending on context, but happened to fall in perfectly with jovial pursuits; and even the elf, Councilman Zotrinder, the most vocally reserved member of the council, proffered a “heh heh.”
“Madam Councilwoman,” Treneth said after a time, “can I assume that the council has reached a decision?”
“Not quite,” Muppy said as she adjusted her robe. “There are many options and this may take time.”
“May I offer a suggestion?”
She pursed her lips. “Why not?”
“Very well,” Treneth said, rising. “It is clear that you all have reservations about removing Whizzfiddle’s membership, even if it is the right thing to do. Thus, I would suggest that you deem it necessary for the defendant to seek and contract a new quest promptly, say within the next twenty-four hours. He then must complete that contract to the letter within one month. Failure to comply or succeed to the fullest extent will result in immediate discharge from the guild.”
Whizzfiddle saw a bunch of nodding heads and found he was nodding too. He stopped.
The council resumed their huddle for a few more moments.
“Yes,” Muppy declared finally, “we’ll do that.”
Preparing For A Quest
Whizzfiddle understood that quests were tedious things, so starting off correctly was paramount.
The problem was that Whizzfiddle had done so many over his years that he had grown bored with them. Doing magic was amazing, certainly, but the questing part of the gig was tiresome at best. There were too many details, they required tons of effort, and they took away time from life’s most important enterprise: relaxation.
When it came to selecting quests, a wizard had to be choosy. Newer wizards grabbed after easier quests, as they were cheaper to hire, but established magic-doers tended to be a bit more cautious, carefully seeking different options with each new contract. After all, it was a rare wizard who wanted to be typecast.
Regardless, wizards were always in demand because there was a limited set of them.
Magic was an easy thing to command, but a difficult thing to start. There were no grid lines or runes or things of that nature in the world of Ononokin, so in order to get into the profession, one had to dedicate time to finding their particular magical essence. It literally came down to locating the power source that fueled each hopeful sorcerer, and everyone was different. Some toiled for years, working as an apprentice to a seasoned wizard, only to meet the finality of life while having never successfully fired off even the simplest of spells.
Whizzfiddle had been one of the lucky few. He’d happened upon his magical source the day his father took him to the pub for his adulthood celebration. Prior to that evening, it looked as though he would inherit the family farm, carrying the name Lenny Flepp for all his days. But that night the booze ignited a sizzling augury that all but flipped his eyelids inside out. He’d taken on a new name, found a master, and toiled to learn the ins and outs of his new profession so that he could get to a place where toiling was no longer necessary.
The beauty of each substance that became a wizard’s fuel was the balance that kept them from becoming too powerful. There was no such thing as a single wizard that could go on about casting grievous levels of magic. They either couldn’t get enough essence to manage it or they would overdose on it and become completely useless. If Whizzfiddle wanted to do a massive spell, for example, he’d have to drink a lot. That would make him drunk, which in turn would set his channeling into a slur of words, haphazard lightning bolts sizzling this way and that, and Whizzfiddle himself being chased by an agglomeration of bunny rabbits and geese. He never quite understood what caused the rabbits and geese.
And that was how the world managed to keep wizards from having too much potency.
Having alcohol as one’s magical essence was far better than what many wizards ended up with. One poor lad learned during a duel that his magical essence came from being stabbed in the heart. His wizarding life lasted only moments. There was one lady living in Argan who had to hang from a tree limb with her right hand only. This made swinging her wand around somewhat clumsy since she wasn’t left-handed.
Whizzfiddle recalled the day that his former apprentice uncovered his particular source. They were walking the fields when an obstinate ostrich of some size took to chasing Treneth around. Being less than an athlete, the young man was no match for the speedy bird. Whizzfiddle had yelled for Treneth to lie down before the beast smashed him. Treneth kept turning this way and that to avoid dropping to the earth. He was far too prim and proper to subjugate himself to such an act. But he was tiring and the bird began pecking at the back of his head. Finally, which he later insisted was due to a trip and not an intentional act, Treneth dropped and slid face down into a mixture of mud and ostrich feces. The concoction slipped under his fingernails and his power was born. Whizzfiddle still cringed at what his apprentice had done to that poor bird.
The elderly wizard sighed as he strolled through the town of Rangmoon toward Gilly’s Pub, his place of operation.
Gilly’s stood near the center of the bustling streets in his beloved city. It wasn’t much to look at. The roof shingles had been laid out in a haphazard pattern that made one wonder how many buckets were needed inside during a rainstorm. Most of the windows were either cracked, dulled, or both, and the frames were rotted. The siding had all but lost its most current painting, which, if Whizzfiddle’s eyes weren’t fooling him and his memory served, was a yellowish-reddish-bluish color. The building’s only redeeming quality was being situated between Furnitureland and the town’s clothier, A Hint of Moon, a shop known for its somewhat transparent garb.
But Gilly’s had the finest ale in all of the land. To a wizard whose livelihood depended on liquor, fine ale was more important than looks.
The familiar stench of stew and soured booze filled the air as Whizzfiddle pushed through the main door of Gilly’s Pub and headed purposefully toward the back.
He stopped at the decorative rail that bordered a lofted platform where a single table sat in the corner. It was Whizzfiddle’s table. Not just a favorite table. No, he had paid for it when the original pub had opened many generations of Gillys ago. It had cost him a good deal to ensure that the table would be cleared for him whenever he entered the establishment and he still paid a yearly fee to maintain that right.
It had been quite a while since his last visit to Gilly’s. He only attended for quest-seeking, quest-preparation, and post-quest celebrations.
A part of him wished he had selected a different pub for wizarding purposes. He much preferred Gilly’s ale to Libertin’s Tavern or the horrendously bad Cuts & Ale Depot, but those places had more pizazz.
He shrugged, rubbed his hands together, and stepped up into his “office.”
As was his custom, he knelt to take a look under the table. “Whizzfiddle was here” was engraved above the series of lines that indicated how many quests he had sought over the years. After getting to twenty-five he lost interest in the count and instead set about carving in a new line.
“Master Whizzfiddle, sir,” said a familiar voice.
Whizzfiddle peered up and gave a quick nod to the greasy-haired pub owner, then resumed his work under the table.
“‘Tis a right pleasure seeing you again,” Gilly said. “I was just tellin’ the wife not two days back how we’d not seen Master Whizzfiddle for quite a spell.”
Whizzfiddle held up a finger to convey he needed a moment. He heard Gilly grunt and then watched the man spin and storm off, his boots pounding the rickety wood floors with each step.
Whizzfiddle paused his carving. He retraced the scene, unveiling that his attempt to convey pause had yet again failed.
It never ceased to amaze the elderly wizard how significantly one’s communicative intent was changed by holding up the wrong finger.
Treneth Of Dahl
Treneth preferred his office to be free of color and playfulness.
Heavy brown curtains surrounded a lone window that allowed a speck of light to peek through. Lanterns offered plenty of visibility for his tidings and Treneth kept them running at full both day and night. His diplomas, awards, and accolades were all set in perfect alignment to the wooden planks that ran from floor to ceiling. Each frame was made of the same dark mahogany as the paneling.
He scanned the room as he always did, seeking for anything out of place.
Satisfied that all was in order, he stepped into the room. He was careful to avoid the third floorboard. It always creaked. Creaking was a sign of imperfection. Treneth abhorred imperfection. He had learned to tolerate it because the world was full of it, but where it could be avoided he endeavored to do so. Repairing the board was not a priority in the grand scheme of things, and the dust, noise, mess, and disruption the fix would cause was out of the question.
He stopped at his large mahogany desk, noticing a problem. He pointed to a smudge that sat just under the lip of its edge.
“Vigilance, Rimpertuz,” Treneth said to his apprentice. “It is the only way we attain perfection.”
Rimpertuz hustled over to buff out the smudge, stepping on the loose board and apologizing as he had done many times.
Treneth sighed.
A verbal lashing was almost always in order for Rimpertuz. Treneth had all but given up on trying to correct the man. As his father had once said, “You cannot make a diamond out of a piece of coal.” It wasn’t at all accurate, but the intended point was taken. Treneth had often toyed with the idea of dismissing Rimpertuz, but being linked to losing an apprentice would be another tarnish on Treneth’s record. And, to be fair, Rimpertuz did have his uses now and then, being that he was just a cut above dimwit.
It was a good sign that the outbox sat reasonably higher than the inbox. He tidied up one of the stacks as he sat in his high-backed leather chair.
There was much work to be done. His aim was first a council seat and then the council chair.
Whizzfiddle’s demise was an important step in attaining that goal because Treneth deplored unfinished business. It muddled his thinking. Since Whizzfiddle had a history of ignoring rules, or rewriting them, all Treneth had to worry about was setting things in motion and occasionally tweaking dynamics to keep his former master tripping.
Fortunately, the Wizards’ Guild council had ruled in Treneth’s favor, setting Whizzfiddle to have to complete a quest to the letter within thirty days. Knowing the old coot as he did, Treneth felt confident that the man’s wizarding days were at a close. Vengeance was a beautiful thing, when done correctly.
“I have a special assignment for you, Rimpertuz.”
“Yes, sir?”
“You will follow Master Whizzfiddle today and report to me any information that you glean.” Treneth adjusted one of his pens to set it parallel to another. “We need to understand our prey. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir,” Rimpertuz said. “Which god are we praying to, sir?”
“No, Rimpertuz.” Treneth closed his eyes and clicked his teeth. “Not pray as in seeking divine guidance—something we have discussed at length and, again, I will state that there is nothing divine to offer any such prayer to—prey as in a rabbit to a fox.”
“Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.”
“Vigilance, Rimpertuz. Always. Now, you will find Whizzfiddle at that wretched pub by the clothier.”
“Gilly’s, sir,” said Rimpertuz a little too quickly.
“Yes,” he said at length while tapping a gloved finger on the desk. “You may frequent the establishment for this purpose only. I repeat, for this purpose only. Are we clear?”
“Yes, sir. I wouldn’t dream of attending without your express permission, sir.”
“Pray you do not.”
“Like a rabbit to a fox, sir.”
“No…” Treneth started and then shook his head. “Look, go to the pub and find out what you can, and keep yourself from being noticed.”
“You can count on me, sir.”
Sadly, Treneth could not. Treneth could only be in one place at a time, though, so Rimpertuz would have to do.
A thought occurred to him as Rimpertuz was shutting the door.
“One more thing! Keep a close eye on Whizzfiddle’s hat. As long as I’ve known the man he’s been hiding something under that hat and I would be quite pleased to learn what it is.”
Now that his plan for Whizzfiddle’s demise was flowing, he would have to think of how best to finagle his way on to the council.
Chairperson Muppy could be a formidable foe, but she was flighty at best. She had a temper, to be sure, and she had moments of clarity that Treneth would have to watch out for, but all in all he felt certain that she wouldn’t be much of a deterrent to his goals; Councilman Ibork was an exceedingly fat halfling that was too much of a dullard to be of any real concern. He was more of a threat to a bowl of stew than to the likes of Treneth of Dahl; Councilman Zotrinder was an elf that was entirely too caught up in his looks and personal grooming regimen to even know what was going on half the time; and the Croomplatt twins, Elik and Esin, didn’t have enough grasp of the local language to bring arguments against him regardless of what he did. They merely said “Ha!” as a response to most everything, and typically in unison.
Still, Treneth would have to be patient and smoothly set plans in motion so that he could ensure his spot on the council. Once that was complete, he would begin the next phase of taking over the main chair. Then he would be able to enact the rules and regulations that he believed every wizard worthy of the title should follow.
He leaned back and smiled.
Finally things were moving in the right direction.
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