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.