Wizardry, being the study and manipulation of space, time, matter, and energy, were bound by the Laws of Motion. Bodies in motions and all that. The laws were concrete, that is if they ever stopped moving. But there was another, lesser known law of motion. ‘Multiple bodies in motion were always subject to a fussy child’. Mace Perovay was observing it now.

Mace, along with three other passengers, were bouncing along in the carriage as went. She was tall and stick thin, with a face that was more freckle than face. Her curly hair spread out in all directions. It didn’t have the decency to be described as auburn or like the leaves in autumn. It was orange, and was already threatening protest under these humid working conditions. Her large round glasses were fogging up in solidarity.

She didn’t take up much space to begin with and was being squished up against the coach’s window by the large man sharing her seat. At least he had the decency to sleep through most of the trip, unlike the child sitting across from her.

He couldn’t have been more than six or seven, so it wasn’t really his fault, Mace thought. All that energy and excitement concentrated into such a small body, he was practically a dwarf star.

He was climbing the seat, picking at the upholstery while his mother next to him tried to read the newspaper.

Cornsilk’s had been staring at Mace for hours now. ‘Recluse Wizard Dead at 27’ was the headline. Mace attempted to read a bit of the article when the boy slipped.

The newspaper was ripped out of his mother’s hands as the boy landed on her lap. Surprise quickly turned to anger.

“I told you to sit down and be quiet!” She had, fourteen times today by Mace’s reckoning. The boy was about to mumble something, when Mace spoke up.

“He can’t hear you.”

The mother looked up at her. Whatever anger she was about to direct at her son was loaded and aimed directly at Mace. There was the anger that came with disciplining your children, then there was the fury from someone else doing it.

“He’s got something in his ear!” Mace added quickly. Before either could react, she snatched something from behind the boy’s ear. Something that glittered. Mace rolled a gold coin in her fingers. “He seemed to have a bit of blockage.”

The boy’s mouth fell open while the mother looked confused.

Mace closed her hand over the coin and opened them again. The coin vanished. She puffed up her cheeks and made a gagging sound, and spit the coin out into her hand. The boy’s open mouth started to curl into a smile. He looked to his mother, then back to Mace. She gave the mother a wink, who gave her very relieved smile in return.

Mace just hoped she had enough tricks for the rest of the trip.

If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

The coached pulled to a stop. The mother and son eagerly stepped out to stretch their legs. Mace pushed the door open and read the sign.

“Cob-pleh-ton?” she read, stepping down. The coach had stopped in the middle of a crossroads with a single sign. To the right, Cobpleton; to the left, Ye Olde Roadhouse. She looked up the road and saw Copleton’s gate, then down the road where a large cottage was nestled in the woods.

“It’s pronounced cobble-ton,” came the driver’s voice. “The p is silent.”

The driver idly scratched one of the mushak’s ears, which chittered its appreciation. Mace had grown up around mushaks in the city, but their large yellow teeth and beady eyes made her uneasy. They seemed more fit for sewers or on top of a chef’s head than as beasts of burden.

The history of Munth could not be told without mushaks, the giant rodents that pulled carts, carried travelers across continents, and were the literal backbone of cavalry. Very much unlike those horses, the small vermin that infested sewers and roof thatching. Most people were afraid of horses, but Mace always thought they were cute and majestic, even if they were a little dirty.

The driver crawled over the roof of the coach while Mace was lost in thought.

“Here, catch!” Her luggage slammed into her back, knocking her to the dry, cracked mud. Luckily, all she had was a small duffle with a few spare sets of clothes.

“Ope, sorry miss,” said the driver.

She came up spitting out dust. “Do you have an idea who I am?!” she shouted at him.

He just gave her a flat look, already preparing his walls for the verbal assault. Every service worker knew how to prepare the castle of their mind from the siege of an angry customer.

“Er…should I?” he said finally.

She returned his flat look. “The Hickory family? The Perovays?!”

He just continued his dumb sheep stare. “Um, are they from the area?”

“Perfect!” she exclaimed with a smile.

Finally, thought Mace Perovay, a town where she wasn’t weighed down by her name and family. She pushed a silver into the driver’s hand. As the mother and son got back into the coach, the boy looked at Mace confused.

“Sorry kid, this is my stop.”

The boy was crestfallen.

“Wait, what’s your name?” she asked.

Both he and his mother stopped halfway up the steps. “Jamison,” he squeaked.

“Jay-mi-son,” she sounded out. “That’s seven letters right?”

The boy nodded. His mother gave her a quizzical look.

“Check your pocket.”

His small chubby hand fished around in his pocket. There was a jingling. In his hand were seven gold coins, each with a letter of his name written on them.

The mother’s jaw dropped. “M-miss! We can’t possibly accept this!”

Mace put up her hand. “I got plenty more up my sleeve, and I can always go fishing around my ears for more if I need it.”

She looked at her, to the coins, and back at her. Her son didn’t take his eyes off the small fortune. “Thank you,” she finally said.

Mace waved as the coach rattled off. In truth, that was most of the money she had left. It wasn’t even a particularly clever trick. She had spotted the boy’s name of his luggage and covertly written it on the coins while he was napping. But it was still magic, or at the very least a kind of magic.

She looked down the road and hoped Ye Olde Roadhouse was cheap.