“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.