The bustle in the castle increased as the feast drew near. Though feasts happened often enough in Gandon, with the return of Valith coinciding with Lorenth’s coming-of-age the vendors, performers, and other show folk were happy to seize an additional day of profits. More than one exhausted team of cart horses was driven through the city gates as merchants hurried into the city. The intensity would increase even further in the following days as the trade for flour, spirits, metals, fabric, and other raw materials increased in intensity.

Abnormally, the bustle even drew unsavory elements into the city proper. The jails were filled with pickpockets, con-men, strong-arm thieves, and other ruffians. Mercenaries who were returning to the town with the soldiers or those mercenaries hoping to join up with the army when they marched once more, also entered town.

In the middle of this all was a small brightly colored wagon with banners on each side. Slightly garish in their design, they did not fail to attract the occasional eye as the cart entered the main streets of the upper city. As the banners claimed, this was the humble transport of Brandus the Adept.

A showman, acrobat, merchant, and tinker by trade, his one-man show put many of the larger outfits to shame.

Orphaned as a lad, or abandoned- Brandus didn’t know for sure, he had wandered the streets for several years living the life of a pick-pocket. That career choice, though more like a survival necessity at the time, had nearly landed him in a dungeon more than once. If it had continued, it almost certainly would have ended up being the death of him.

The Divine One had a different plan in mind for him though. Brandus had chosen the wrong mark to steal from one day. The thought of that fateful day brought a smile to his face. He ran a hand through his thick brown hair and rubbed the back of his muscled shoulders. It had been a long trip to get here in time.

Rastara- She had been a talented performer and tinker. After watching one of her performance long ago, or more specifically the coins she kept receiving from pleased onlookers, he had decided her coins would feel better in his purse. He hadn’t counted on her speed or dexterity.

As his hand had darted into her pocket from behind, her hand had grabbed his long scruffy hair and lifted him completely off the ground with ease.

Thankfully, she had been reluctant to turn a starving lad over to the city guard. The guard and court in that particular city was not known for its leniency. Instead, Rastara had offered him the opportunity to work off the offense.

While working for her, he had shown an exceptional talent for both the tinker trade and performance tricks. Beyond that, he had shown a moral aptitude that belied his previous employ as necessary for survival and not intentional malice on his part.

It was she that had introduced him to God as well. A God unlike any other, one without the flaws and shortcomings that the other gods exhibited, but yet a God that was personal to an intimate degree. That was perhaps the most important thing that Rastara had taught him. There was a God who cared for his well-being so much that He created rules so Brandus could walk according to His will. Brandus had seen how the actions that violated those laws resulted in punishment, and how he was called to walk by faith in God. Not a blind faith, but faith based in a revelation through creation and through the ancient prophets. It was an old religion, and not common place in this age. He believed and therefore trusted it would be counted to him as righteousness when time ended and all things came under divine judgment.

Their partnership had grown closer over time, and he stayed with her long after his debt had been settled. As their partnership grew, so did their performance. As their performance grew, so did their profits.

He still couldn’t believe she was no longer alive. She had been killed by the city governor, the Maraharian Legate, for smuggling fugitives out of the city. It was a righteous action for which she’d been convicted, but injustice had reigned that day it seemed. She’d had a strong moral compass, like Brandus, and it had gotten her killed. Maybe the hardest part for him, even ten years later, was that she hadn’t told him about it prior to her arrest.

That exclusion was, in all likelihood, what saved his life in the face of treason charges. When he had managed to escape from the line of chained convicts during the night after Rastara’s death, the pursuit had been mild since he had not been a prisoner of any particular note.

After he had fled Marahari, he had made due with the skills he’d learned from Rastara. All the while, he’d saved up until he could finally purchase a team of horses and the wagon he now drove. From that time on, with the help of a few years and hard lessons learned, he had started running his own little show.

He still missed the companionship though. He could handle himself well enough in a pinch, better than many trained staff wielders, but it was safer with more than just him. Beyond that, conversation was far more pleasant with two people, instead of one person and two horses.

Times were good at least. The roads were never safer for traveling than right now.

Brandus doubted, given the chance to do things over again, he would have changed one thing for himself… unless it would’ve saved Rastara’s life.

The streets were widening now, getting slightly less chaotic as he entered to the city proper. It wasn’t long until he’d find the lodging for himself and his team. Even better, this year he was near enough to the palace that he may have a chance of attracting royal attention.

The lodging would have been near impossible to find if he hadn’t known an inn keeper here. Even knowing one as well as he did, it would have been an unsure thing if he hadn’t paid ahead the prior year.

The year before had been rather challenging. He had come into the city later than he would’ve liked, in fact if he had arrived any later he would’ve ended up performing for the lower city. He had ended up sleeping in his cart every night because the inns were all full.

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To have that happen this year would’ve resulted in a major cut into his profits. What’s more, it would have made it even less likely to acquire an invitation to perform at the princes’ celebration.

He entered into the main square and turned the team to skirt the outer edge. There was no sense in disrupting the work of the multiple crews setting up the stalls in the middle of the square.

Brandus had to travel a bit around the outer square prior to arriving at the side street where he’d find his lodgings. As he turned the cart onto the road, the sign for the inn first came into view: A pale man, armed with an axe like weapon that had a curved blade which seemed to function as both the blade and the guard for the haft. The man stood heroically above a battle-field on a rocky outcropping with the sun at his back. Underneath the picture the name of the inn was painted in a bright yellow, “The Caldorian General”. The sign was wonderfully painted and, if not for the weather warn wood, could probably have hung above the mantle in the hunting lodge of a minor noble.

That was very reflective of the inn’s owner, Kae’lo. Adding to the initial impression of strength, sturdiness, and craftsmanship, were the metal rails for hitching horses bolted to the stone building face. The oversized solid oak support beams for the small upstairs porch completed the effect. It was a friendly place, in a rather sturdy and practical way. Again, just like its owner.

Kae’lo had earned a reputation in the area which backed that impression. The sturdy dwarf ran a tight inn with a cheerful but “no nonsense during business” approach. That was also reflected in the dwarf’s personal life. In fact, so far as Brandus could tell, Kae’lo was the only dwarf he’d ever met who trimmed his beard on the regular

Preconceptions were funny things. The first wrong conclusion about Kae’lo many people arrived at was that a dwarfish inn-keeper was somehow an unusual thing. This was a fair distance from the truth. The idea came from a mistaken assumption that every dwarf seen selling jewelry, metalwork, or stonework was somehow representative of a hundred more like himself back in his homeland. The fact was dwarfs had just as much professional diversity as any other people.

Because of the lack of travel to and from Droven, the dwarf country to the northeast, the only people of their race commonly seen outside their land were the craftsmen plying their wares. There were impassible mountains on one side of the land, and on the other side was a wide and deadly jungle. The journey was just too risky for most other people, though Brandus had been there twice now.

This isolation also resulted in other popular misconceptions such as: dwarfs were dying out- they weren’t; dwarfs hoarded mounds of gold and silver in their cities- they didn’t; and dwarfish metalwork was vastly superior to that of other races. This last, at least, was partially true, but it was more due to the availability of better ore from the mountains and hills than due to actual craftsmanship. With regular access to the metals that the dwarfish race frequently worked, any of the high races would eventually have obtained the same expertise.

These preconceptions resulted in one other false rumor: the rumor dwarves were somehow more volatile than other races. They were mostly just defensive about their people and slightly irritable about their height.

Brandus pulled the cart to a stop and grabbed his staff from the wagon bed behind him prior to hopping down to meet the two young stable hands rushing over to meet him.

Brandus knew both of the boys. In fact, he was a close friend of their parents and they had called him “Uncle Brandus” for years.

The boys drew up short and fixed their faces with as serious a look as they could manage. The older of the two boys, Marten, spoke first, “Hello, sirrah, can we take care of your noble steeds for you?”

Brandus chuckled, this was a ritual each year and he’d end up paying them about three or four clippings per night, “Well, young’uns, I don’t know about the ‘noble’ part of that, but I’ll let you rub down and bed my team for me perhaps. How much will it cost me?”

Brandus was never actually “required” to pay for stabling, everyone knew him here, but it was always fun to negotiate with the boys. Besides, it gave the boys the opportunity to earn a little extra silver to spend on trinkets and such.

The younger boy, Treg, tried to give what Brandus could only assume was an attempt as a shrewd face. Instead, it resulted in more of a look that suggested he’d just eaten something exceptionally sour. “Well, for two horses, bedding, and feed…” He gave his older brother a sideways glance. “I’d say a silver bar and a half per night should do.”

Brandus nearly choked on his laughter. That was at least two clippings higher than they had started the bartering with the year prior. Brandus quickly turned the laugh into an outraged expression, “A silver bar and a…! I’ll give you three clippings and not a half clipping more!”

It was Marten’s turn to pretend outrage, “I dare say, that’s not even enough to cover the price of the bedding! Are you trying to make us starve?! Wait, wait... I believe I may have seen your face before.” He fought back a smile and faked a sigh. “Fine then… I’ll make you a special offer since you look like someone I knew a long time ago. How about a bar and three clippings? It is barely enough for us to get by with, but I suppose I could help you out a little.”

Brandus couldn’t resist chuckling aloud at that one, vaguely familiar his grandma’s beard, “Bah! What would young striplings like you two know! Don’t you recognize your dear ol’ ‘Uncle Brandus’? We’re near to family as you can get without having the same blood! I’ll give you one, one mind you, bar a night and the feed better come with some oats and coreroot for my steeds.”

Treg and Marten looked at each other leaned close and gave a series of exaggerated whispers, as if they were disagreeing about something. Finally, Treg sighed and rolled his eyes at his brother, “Fine then, I suppose that will have to do. Next time though, don’t be expecting such generosity. You owe us a favor down the road. Understood?”

“Oh, most certainly good sirs,” said Brandus, “next time when funds aren’t so tight, I’ll be sure to pay you more!”

The little blighters would hold him to that next time too. Brandus smiled. A bar was 2 clippings higher than the last year, “Now, how about a hug for your uncle before you see to the horses, aye?” Both the boys smiled big and threw their arms around him in a big hug. “It’s good to see you, Uncle!”

They all shared a laugh together. “It’s good to see you both as well. Now you see to the horses, and when you’re done, could one of you run home and let your parents know I’ll be around to visit in a bit?”

Marten smiled, “Sure, Uncle.”

With that, they both jumped up and took the reins to drive the team into the stable yard.

Brandus watched them go with a smile. Every time he saw those two boys they were older and more street savvy. Brandus could’ve had his horses stabled for two clippings and a filing elsewhere, but it was worth it just to see them smile when he let them drive him into a hard bargain.

Obviously, he wasn’t their real Uncle, but he’d known their family for a long while, ever since their father had built his wagon. When he’d first bought it years before, Parcus, their father, had barely charged him more than the cost of the materials just to help Brandus out.

Brandus knocked the dirt off his boots on the side of the step steps and opened the inn door toward himself.

Like the rest of the inn, the door was sturdily built. It was at least three inches of solid oak. It was a good thing Brandus had opened it. No sooner was the door opened than a man came flying bodily through it and landed in the street face first.