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“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.”