Chapter 22: A City Named Wiccawich

“I see her face, when I look upon my lute. She’s pale and gaunt. I need to see her.” Dante mumbled. I tried to get him to elaborate, but he refused to speak more, although unlife did return to his eyes. After this odd statement he seemed to be conversing with his inner demon; still not with me. I was not totally comfortable with the arrangement although I thought it best to let sleeping dragons lie.

The road, even at night, was busy. We were passed by wagons every half hour or so. Many of which seemed to possess items of at least some magical interest, no doubt owing to Woden’s. I regretted leaving those students under false pretences. I had taken on a number of apprentices, but none had ever graduated. Looking back I had used them as little more than assistants for my experiments, never teaching them, never believing I had time. Always on to the next test. I couldn’t blame them for leaving. Taking on my masters form and mannerisms had reminded me, not only of the struggles of apprenticeship, but of how I had enjoyed those years. I had done my own students a disservice and, despite myself, I missed the old man.

Perhaps Dantes grief was infectious, I thought, wiping away an illusionary tear.

Congratulations:

* Illusionary Skin has reached Lv.9

We passed through a number of villages and hamlets along the road. There were signs of people everywhere. The farms grew closer and smaller until either side of the road was blocked by tall houses. They seemed twisted and hunched, clearly with poor design and ill intent.

Eventually, we came to a bridge, spanning a gentle river which glowed blue when disturbed. On the other side we were greeted by the largest barbican I’d ever seen. The open portcullis was flanked by two circular towers adorned with a number of rather grotesque sculptures. Faces pointed outward in all directions, sneering and leering. On the lowest levels; goblins and orcs, going up through dwarves, elves, and humans until, finally above them all was a rather wizened old man with an arrow through his eye - his pointed hat, the blue tiled roof. The other side was much the same, except a woman's visage sat atop the pile, clearly in pain. As we drew closer I could see that each and every face had some form of wizardly marking; a pointed hat, arcane runes, or in one case a wand clenched in a dwarf’s jaw. The fortification wasn’t attached to a city wall, and, there didn’t appear to be such a thing, if not for defence then it must be decorative, or at least there to send a message. I didn’t have to wonder for long as we were approached by a man in a dark red jack and skull cap. His manner was lackadaisical as he whistled to us to stop before swaggering over. He looked at Dante muttering to himself, before turning to me.

“Either yous magical types?” he slurred, squinting us up and down. He stopped when he saw my monk's robes and sobered slightly.

“I am a wizard, not a monk,” I clarified, before he could assume. I didn’t want to get in trouble with any churches. The man grinned at my words, hiccuping before speaking:

“There be a Wizard’s tax fur enterin’ Wiccawich,” giving me a conspiratorial glance he added, “I recon there ought be a…n… not a monk tax an all.”

I sighed, but reached into my knapsack. All that remained was a couple gold coins I had looted from what was now legally my fort and a handful of silver. I took out the bag of silver, it should be more than enough for a bribe. As soon the pouch was visible it disappeared. The guard was opening and checking its contents.

“That er do,” he said, before staggering back to his post. I was left flabbergasted. I simply stood there a moment, mouth agape. When the guardsman waved me through I huffed, raised my hands in exasperation and entered Wiccawich.

When we were safely within the city, Dante pulled me aside.

“I need to do something in this city,” he stated with resolve. “I’ll meet you in three nights at that gate.”

“Okay. Are you sure you want to do whatever it is alone?” I asked, trying to support the man.

“I’m sure,” he replied firmly but not unkindly. Then his features softened into a smile,”but thanks for offering.”

“See you in three days then,” I said, somewhat surprised. Dante proceeded to leave via an ally, at a jog, I was slightly concerned what that demon was having him do, but I trusted him enough to deal with it alone.

Walking down the main thoroughfare at night was an interesting experience. Despite the monument at the gate, this city seemed rather welcoming. Night-time revellers were out and about in full, music could be heard from a number of taverns. Some even carried the dancing out into the street.

“Perhaps it was some kind of holiday?” I wondered, as yet another drunken man spilled out in front of me. Bending down, to help the man up, I spotted a single copper coin so I helped myself.

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Choosing a drinkery which seemed less rowdy than the others I entered. I still had to skirt my way round a full room as everyone listened to a rather sad tune played by a trio of pipers. When I finally pushed my way through to the bar, my boney frame aiding the endeavour, it took a further ten minutes before a bedraggled looking barmaid came to me.

“What’ll you be havin’, ale’s copper a pint,” she said, tiredly.

“Actually, I just wanted to ask a few questions,” I said, innocently. She looked at me, nodded at the packed bar then flopped her head back at me, clearly annoyed.

“You’ll have an ale,” she said.

“I’ll have an ale,” I agreed.

I found myself outback of the establishment in a nice garden where folks seemed to go for a break or to fondle one another. Mostly the latter. I stared at the wooden tankard in my hand, not quite knowing what to do with it. Scanning the walled garden, I found a gruff looking older man, sitting alone, who eyed his empty tankard as if it owed him money. Sliding the mug in front of him I offered, “ale?” The man gulped half of it down greedily before looking up.

“Thanks,” he said with a gasp, he paused when he saw the robes. “Not here to chastise me for my sins are you?” he asked, surprisingly jovial.

“I’m not a monk,” I replied, wishing I’d picked another deadman's clothes.

“Guess we all have sins,” he responded with a smile, slapping me through the shoulder and inviting me to sit. Thankfully his inebriation didn’t have him think long on the oddity.

“So what can I do you for?” the grey fox asked as I took a seat opposite him.

“I’m new to the city and in need of coin,” I started.

“Who ain’t,” the stranger butted in, after taking another large gulp.

“I’m also interested in Woden’s School for the Magical arts,” I finished.

“You're a bit old to be going there,” he said with a laugh. I signed internally at the remark, it appeared they weren’t likely to take on aged students, although…

“Magical type are you?” he added.

“I am?” I replied, hesitantly.

He shook his head before continuing, “if you’re new to the city I guess you don’t have a licence?”

“A licence?” I asked, eyeing the well-appointed man who just entered the garden, flanked by two guards.

“Aye,” his eyes tracked the newcomer wearily. “If you want to practise magic for money in this city.”

“How do I get a licence?” I asked, watching the guarded man as he approached a couple, broke them apart, and proceeded to berate them until he received payment.

“What licence?” the older man asked.

“What?” I asked, confused.

“What kinda magic do you do?” he followed up.

“I’m sorry, I don’t follow.”

“Different guilds give different magical licences, for example: the enchanting guild can issue a licence to make and sell enchanted wares… so long as they are not weapons, that would also require a writ from the weaponsmith guild. They don’t like it if a mage comes along and sells their sword for five times the price, just by adding some fancy magic. There’s also the magical builders society, they're not a guild but they still hold the right to issue licences, and are responsible for any injury due to shoddy magical building. And the Icers’ guild but I think you get the picture,” he waxed.

“I can do whatever pays best, I need money to fund my research,” I explained, hoping for advice. After the third couple that had been wrenched apart, people were starting to get the idea and separated prematurely.

“If you are willing to do anything, then I think I have something in mind,” he replied with a lascivious wink. At my look of disgust, he chuckled, “Not that, you’re too boney anyhow. The best pay in the city, in any city, would have to come from the Adventurers Guild.”

“Adventurers?” I asked, unfamiliar with the term.

“You know, the people that go out and have adventures,” he tried.

“How does that make good money?” I followed up, confused.

“You know; if a king has a long lost family heirloom, or a demon has been sighted, or there’s simply too much ratechin in the sewers, the Adventures Guild is called upon,” he explained.

“So they’re mercenaries?” I asked.

He waved his hand in a so-so gesture, “yes and no. They ain't usually hired for direct confrontations. The more famous ones have something a bit different about them, they’re not just fighters. For example, there was a very famous architect who fought with a whip who would only take contracts to find relics of one sort or another.”

“He sounds interesting,” I allowed.

“He was,” he confirmed, “Unfortunately his legacy was tarnished somewhat by his son–-” He cut off as the opulent man approached our table. Bumping my knee under the table, he whispered, “look alive.” Which to his surprise elicited an involuntary chuckle.

“Your worship,” the drinker said, with a nod of respect. Now that the rather haughty man had drawn near, I could see that he did, indeed, wear vestments similar to Vicar Inclement’s - if they had been dipped in gold and worked to within an inch of their lives. He ignored my companion and addressed me directly.

“Brother in light, I welcome you to our city,” he said, bowing deeply in respect.

“I’m sorry, but I’m not a monk,” I explained. An icy silence swallowed up what little chatter remained in the garden.

“You are impersonating a member of the clergy?” he asked, raising a delicately manicured eyebrow.

“Well I never actually claimed to be a monk,” I tried.

“I bowed… to a commoner!” he said in a low voice, as it hit him. For a moment he looked as though he would attack me right there, or vomit perhaps, but a quick look around at the onlookers culled his anger and stilled his stomach. My drinking buddy wisely remained silent.

“I’m not actually…” I started but was cut off.

“I hope, for your sake you have something on you that can mend my honour,” he said, indicating his two enforcers to search me. As I still wanted to conduct business in this city, I allowed it. The only thing they seemed to find of interest was my two gold coins.

“Barely adequate,” the priest declared, upon receiving his extortion payment. He was just about to turn and leave when an idea clearly stuck him.

“We simply can’t have an affront like this happen again; don’t you agree?” he began but didn’t wait for an answer.

“Strip!” he ordered.