Allan COLE - Wizard of the winds

As she crouched there waiting for the moment to come, Nerisa thought of the poor woman waiting in the tent. The terror she had to be feeling made Nerisa's heart pang in empathy. What a price to pay for something so natural as being in your lover's arms. The unfairness of it clawed at her. For a moment it was painful to breathe.

Stop it, Nerisa, she commanded herself, fighting for control. It's not like you haven't seen it before.

Safar sat in a small outdoor cafe, shaded by an ancient broad-leaf fig tree, counting coins piled in a sticky puddle of wine. A pesky wasp made him lose count and he had to tot it all up again. A little drunk, he rubbed bleary eyes and decided that he had enough for another jug of the Foolsmire's best. Which is to say it was the worst and therefore cheapest wine in all Walaria.

It was late afternoon and the summer heat lay thick over the city, stifling thought and movement. The streets were empty, the homes and shops shuttered for the hours between the midday meal and evening call to prayer. It was so quiet that in the distant stockpens the bawl of a young camel, lonely for its mother, echoed across the city. The people of Walaria dozed fitfully in shuttered darkness, gathering their energies to face the day anew. It was a time for sleep, for lovers trysts. A time for self reflection.

Safar rapped politely on the rough wood of the table. Katal, he cried. My strength is fading. Fetch me another jug from the well, if you please."

There was a muttering from the shadowy depths of the bookshop abutting the cafe and in a moment an old man emerged, carelessly dressed in worn scholar's robes. It was Katal, proprietor of the Foolsmire, an open air cafe and bookshop tucked into the end of a long dead-end alley in the Students Quarter. Katal had a book in his hand, index finger pushed between the pages to keep his place.

"You should be resting, Safar, he said, or tending to your studies. You know as well as I that the second level acolyte exams are less than a week away."

Safar groaned. Don't spoil a perfectly good drunk, Katal. I've invested a week's room and board to reach my present condition of amiable insobriety. It's drink I need, sir. So dig into your holy well for the precious stuff, my dear purveyor of bliss. And dig deep. Find me as cold a jug as these coins will buy."

Katal clucked disapproval, but he set his book on the table and hobbled to the old stone well. A dozen ropes were strung around the rim, tied to heavy eyebolts imbedded in the stone and disappearing into the cool black depths. He hauled on one of the ropes until a large bucket appeared. It was full of jugs made of red clay, all the width of a broad palm and standing a uniform eight inches high. Katal took one out and fetched it to Safar.

The young man pushed coins forward, but Katal shook his head, pushing them back. I'll buy this one, he said. My price for you today is talk, not copper. A Foolsmire special, if you will."

"Done, Safar said. I'll listen to your advice hour after hour, my friend, if you'll keep my cup full."

He sloshed wine into a wide, cracked tumbler. He stoppered the jug then held it up, studying it. Three years ago, he said, I helped my father make jugs like these. They were much better, of course. Glazed and decorated for a fine table. Not turned out in factories by the scores."

Katal eased his old body into the bench seat across from Safar. I could never afford such a luxury, he said. If I had bucketsful of Timura jugs in my well I'd pour out the wine and sell the jugs. Think of all the books I could buy with the price I'd get!"

"I'll tell you a secret, Katal, Safar said. If you had Timura jugs you could make your own wine, or brandy or beer, if you prefer. My father makes a special blessing over each jug he produces. All you need then is some water, the proper makings for whatever brew it is you desire and you'll have an endless supply of your favorite drink."

"More pottery magic! Katal scoffed. And this time water into wine. No wonder your teachers despair."

"Actually, Safar said, there's no magic to it at all. My father would dispute that. But it's true. Part of the spell, you see, is that we pour spirits from an old tried and true brewing bowl into the new jug. We shake it up and pour it back. And the little animals left in the clay will produce spirits until the end of timeas long you don't wash the jug."

"Little animals? Katal said, bushy gray eyebrows beetling in disbelief.

Safar nodded. Too small for the eye to see."

Katal snorted. How do you know that?"

"What else could it be? Safar said. As an experiment I've made several such jugs. Some I chanted the spell over, but failed to use the brewing bowl liquid. Others got the liquid, but not the chant. The latter produced a good wine. The former nothing but a watery mess."

"That still doesn't explain the small spirit making animals, Katal pointed out. Did you see them?"

"I told you, Safar answered, they're too small for the unaided eye to behold. I theorized their existence. What other explanation could there be?"

Katal snorted. Be damned to theory, he said. When will you learn that supposing doesn't make it so."

Safar laughed and drained off his cup. Then you don't know anything about magic, Katal, he said, wiping his chin. Supposing is what sorcery is all about. He belched and refilled his cup. But that answer is a cheat. I admit it. It's scientific observation you were speaking of. And you were right to chastise me. I've never seen the little animals. But I suspect their presence. And if someone gave me money I could grind a glass lens so powerful I might be able to see them and prove their existence."

"Who would give you money for such a thing? Katal said. And even if your proved your point, who would care?"

Safar was suddenly serious. He jabbed a finger into his chest. I would, he said. And so should everyone else. If we are ignorant of the smallest things, how can we know the larger world? How can we guide our fate?"

"We've had this argument before, Katal said. I say the fate of mortals is the business of the gods."

"Bah! was Safar's retort. The gods have no business but their own. Our troubles are no concern of theirs."

Katal glanced about nervously and saw no one in earshot, except his grandson, Zeman, who'd come out while they were talking and was brushing fig leaves off the tables on the other side of the patio.

"Be careful what you say, my young friend, Katal warned. You never know when one of the king's spies will be about. In Walaria the penalty for heresy is most unpleasant."

Safar ducked his head, chastened. I know, I know, he said. And I'm sorry to be so outspoken in your presence. I don't want to get you in trouble because of my views. Sometimes it's difficult to remember that I must guard my tongue here. In Kyrania a man of twenty may speak his mind about any subject he chooses."

Katal leaned close, a fond smile peeping out from his untidy beard. Speak to me all you like, Safar, he said. But discreetly, sir. Discreetly. And in well modulated tones."

The old man had been a kindly uncle to Safar since he'd arrived in Walaria some two years before. In that spirit Katal dipped into his robe and fished out a small cup. He cleaned it with a sleeve, then filled it with wine.

He drank, then said, Tell me what this is all about, Safar. If your family were here they'd be worried. So let me worry for them. I'll tell you what your own father would say. Which is that you've been drinking heavily for nearly a month. Your studies must be suffering as much as your finances. You've had no money for food, much less books. I'm not complaining, but I've been feeding you for free. I'd even be willing to forgo my usual rental fee for any books you required, if only I thought you'd make some use of them. There's an exam coming up. The most important in your career as a student. All the other second level candidates, except the sons of the rich whose success is assured by the fact of their wealth, are studying hard. They don't want to bring shame to their family."