The guard at the border post barely restrained from a sneer at the paltry amount of silver declared when the party returned. Clearly, Chrys, thought, their status as amateurs was confirmed. As Skive had no livery service, once again they swung down the road to Dtlag on foot. It was the first month of Harvest and the road was busy with carts loaded with sacks, bundles and sheaves. As Chrys remarked, on the one hand the dust raised a thirst but, on the other, the ripe fruit available at every village and roadside stall quenched it. She said this with melon juice dribbling down her chin. Aitonala nodded as she bit into her own fruit. She handed Chrys another slice as they leaned on a fence and watched two workers guide a reaper across a field. Copper strips flashed as the revolving drum hurled cut stalks into the following cart.

“At least four Practices contributed to making that thing,” observed Chrys. “If I studied hard, in three years I might get to help make one in return for a modest but steady income. Then in fifteen years, maybe ten if I really work at it, I might be a master Practitioner and give graduation speeches.”

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“I wonder if anyone has told the new magicians something like ‘Sod it, the usual careers are boring. Go out into the Wild and get rich and powerful, even if most of you won’t because you’ll be dead,’” mused Aitonala.

“We’ve spent two months in the Wild and only one of us died,” objected Chrys. “That sounds uncaring, and I miss Venalse, but still..”

“And how many of us would have died if we had stayed at home? Even Rakt did not see that much danger in two months, or even a year by his own account. Apart from Carnival. Moreover,” Aitonala went on “the Brahnaks were out a few weeks and they all died. Combine them and us and the casualty rate looks pretty dreadful.”

“Fair point,” conceded Chrys. “Still, I think the thrill has got into my blood. And,” she added practically, “I’m a long way from the wealth I desire.” She finished her melon, wiped her chin and bent to pick up her pack.