needles, spool after spool of thread, tunics and boots and cloaks, crossbows and swords and arrows. Each shelf was numbered, with a narrow strip of pegboard rising up to the tallest.
“It’s cool in here,” Pontifax whispered. After the humidity and the warm rain, the cold made him shiver.
“And the floor was clean, too, before you dragged in those sodden packs,” came a voice from the polished suit of armor standing at attention next to the door. It spoke in the trade tongue known as Common. “Don’t you two know to wipe your muddy boots?”
The armor shuddered, and a child ten winters old walked from behind it. Like many Chultan natives, his skin was the dark brown of fertile earth and his black hair was cropped close. He wore short pants and a loose shirt, both tan and spotlessly clean. “Well?” he asked, gesturing with his polishing cloth to the wet muddy footprints.
“Oh, er, sorry,” Artus stammered. He and Pontifax stepped back to the stoop. “We’re here to purchase supplies and to hire a guide and some bearers.”
But the boy’s attention was on a large package that had fallen into the nearest aisle. “Zrumya!” he shouted. “Pick up in row two, level six!”
From high in the rafters came a shriek, followed by the flutter of wings through the chilly air. A monstrous bat, as large as a man, tumbled down and darted crazily between the high stacks of boxes. Finally it landed with a thud in the aisle, right on top of the fallen package. Using the claws located at the joints in its wings, it slid the bundle into a pack strapped to its chest. Then, with slow, spiderlike movements, the bat crept across the floor and began to climb the shelving. It hooked its claws into the pegboard and made it way to the sixth shelf, where it unloaded its cargo. Job done, the bat fluttered back to its perch.
The boy turned back to study Artus and Pontifax for a moment. “Father!” he shouted, then disappeared between a high row of boxes.
The boy’s father appeared at the end of the long aisle running from the door to the back of the warehouse. “Pay Inyanga no mind,” the man said. “He is trying to prove to me he loves the store so he can inherit it some day.”
Despite this, Artus opened the door and kicked as much mud off his boots as possible before treading across the clean planks. Pontifax removed his shoes completely. The old mage smiled at the stern-faced boy, who had returned with a bucket and mop. “It’s our mess,” Pontifax said, holding up a hand. “Allow me.”
He muttered an incantation. Instantly a blue light limned the mop, then it jerked out of the boy’s hand. As the child stared, it cleaned up the mud and swabbed the whole area in front of the door. Finally the mop floated back to the bucket and lowered itself into the now-grimy water.
“I used to sweep up my father’s store when I was your age,” the mage said kindly. “There were lots of times when I wished someone would come along and make the broom do the work itself.” He patted the boy and hurried after Artus, his bare feet peeking out from under his long brown robe.
“This is Ibn Engaruka,” Artus said when the mage reached the long, low counter that ran the entire length of the warehouse. The owner nodded politely, though his face was an impassive mask. The young boy resembled him closely, from the broad nose to the hard-set jaw. Even the clothes they wore were alike.
Ibn gestured to the wet patch near the door. “It has been years since magic has blessed this place,” he said stiffly. “I was just telling your comrade here, a local sorcerer used to trade magic for goods. He placed some enchanted gems under the floorboards to keep the store cool. That keeps my foodstuffs from spoiling so fast, do you see?”
Before either Artus or Pontifax could reply, Ibn clapped his hands. “Inyanga, bring some chairs for these gentlemen.” The boy had apparently foreseen the order, for before his father finished speaking,
“It’s cool in here,” Pontifax whispered. After the humidity and the warm rain, the cold made him shiver.
“And the floor was clean, too, before you dragged in those sodden packs,” came a voice from the polished suit of armor standing at attention next to the door. It spoke in the trade tongue known as Common. “Don’t you two know to wipe your muddy boots?”
The armor shuddered, and a child ten winters old walked from behind it. Like many Chultan natives, his skin was the dark brown of fertile earth and his black hair was cropped close. He wore short pants and a loose shirt, both tan and spotlessly clean. “Well?” he asked, gesturing with his polishing cloth to the wet muddy footprints.
“Oh, er, sorry,” Artus stammered. He and Pontifax stepped back to the stoop. “We’re here to purchase supplies and to hire a guide and some bearers.”
But the boy’s attention was on a large package that had fallen into the nearest aisle. “Zrumya!” he shouted. “Pick up in row two, level six!”
From high in the rafters came a shriek, followed by the flutter of wings through the chilly air. A monstrous bat, as large as a man, tumbled down and darted crazily between the high stacks of boxes. Finally it landed with a thud in the aisle, right on top of the fallen package. Using the claws located at the joints in its wings, it slid the bundle into a pack strapped to its chest. Then, with slow, spiderlike movements, the bat crept across the floor and began to climb the shelving. It hooked its claws into the pegboard and made it way to the sixth shelf, where it unloaded its cargo. Job done, the bat fluttered back to its perch.
The boy turned back to study Artus and Pontifax for a moment. “Father!” he shouted, then disappeared between a high row of boxes.
The boy’s father appeared at the end of the long aisle running from the door to the back of the warehouse. “Pay Inyanga no mind,” the man said. “He is trying to prove to me he loves the store so he can inherit it some day.”
Despite this, Artus opened the door and kicked as much mud off his boots as possible before treading across the clean planks. Pontifax removed his shoes completely. The old mage smiled at the stern-faced boy, who had returned with a bucket and mop. “It’s our mess,” Pontifax said, holding up a hand. “Allow me.”
He muttered an incantation. Instantly a blue light limned the mop, then it jerked out of the boy’s hand. As the child stared, it cleaned up the mud and swabbed the whole area in front of the door. Finally the mop floated back to the bucket and lowered itself into the now-grimy water.
“I used to sweep up my father’s store when I was your age,” the mage said kindly. “There were lots of times when I wished someone would come along and make the broom do the work itself.” He patted the boy and hurried after Artus, his bare feet peeking out from under his long brown robe.
“This is Ibn Engaruka,” Artus said when the mage reached the long, low counter that ran the entire length of the warehouse. The owner nodded politely, though his face was an impassive mask. The young boy resembled him closely, from the broad nose to the hard-set jaw. Even the clothes they wore were alike.
Ibn gestured to the wet patch near the door. “It has been years since magic has blessed this place,” he said stiffly. “I was just telling your comrade here, a local sorcerer used to trade magic for goods. He placed some enchanted gems under the floorboards to keep the store cool. That keeps my foodstuffs from spoiling so fast, do you see?”
Before either Artus or Pontifax could reply, Ibn clapped his hands. “Inyanga, bring some chairs for these gentlemen.” The boy had apparently foreseen the order, for before his father finished speaking,
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