Page 14 of Wizards & Weavers
It seemed about as sensible as wearing a sign that screamedPlease come and mug mein big bold letters. Whatever happened to understated clothing, a sensible sweater? Braiden pulled his own sweater tighter around his torso, keeping warm against the chill of an evening breeze as he prepared his spell.
He trailed his hand out to the left, leaving glowing threads in midair. Then he drew lines downward with his other hand, twiddling his fingers to interlace the strands in a crisscross pattern. A quick tug and a pull, and he had instantly woven a square of fabric, exactly as Card No. 3 suggested.
The magic made lightweight strands of thread, good enough to use for practice, about as thick as an average weight of yarn. The small weaving spell would last a few hours, more than enough time for him to make the walk home safely. He shoved the cloth into his coin purse, trusting it to help muffle the sound.
Elder Orora knew exactly what she was doing, preying on his vulnerability like that. But if Braiden invested the dragons wisely, he could enter the dungeon equipped to the teeth. With luck, he’d find enough treasure to pay off Orora’s loan, cover a few months’ rent, and then some.
“Maybe she was only joking about the interest,” Braiden mumbled.
Sure. Because the only thing more generous than a council elder was one who used to be a professional pirate.
Braiden’s new quest was recruiting the right party member to accompany him down the dungeon. He would have to hunt down the Wizard of Weathervale and get in his good graces.
There was, of course, the problem of Augustin being very angry with his grandmother, and possibly even Braiden, by extension. Fortunately, that was going to be a problem for tomorrow’s Braiden. Tonight’s Braiden still had to worry about dinner.
The smell of something savory and faintly sweet wafted by. Smoke. Charcoal. Grilling meats and seafood. Braiden’s stomach grumbled. Weathervale had a fabulous night market that he normally tried to avoid due to budgetary constraints, but he had a small loan from a pirate and a rumbly tummy.
“I’ll need to get my strength up for the dungeon,” Braiden told himself, as if his brain and belly needed any more convincing.
The soft glow of hanging lanterns led the way to the night market. Very pretty, how they lined the street, even though the surest way to find the market was still through the tantalizing smells of its many stalls.
The strings of lanterns reminded Braiden of his own brand of magic. Would it really be so terrible to cast glowing threads outside the shop? An explosion of brilliant ribbons and streamers sounded like such a festive way to attract would-be crafters.
Maybe after he’d braved the dungeon, he’d brave the cobblestones outside Beadle’s Needles. Was this what happened when someone tried to take actual risks? Maybe he really had left the old Braiden Beadle back behind the counter of the craft shop.
He didn’t mind the new Braiden Beadle that much. This Braiden had the nerve to chase after the Wizard of Weathervale. This Braiden came face to face with a Lighthouse elder, creatures famously more frightening than any sea serpent.
Sure, he might have walked away owing on a small loan, but never mind that. Big journeys started with small steps, didn’t they? And what a journey this would be, if only Braiden could track down that pesky wizard.
Gods, Augustin could have flown anywhere. Not too far out of town, hopefully, knowing he still had designs for the dungeon. But how remarkable, and enviable, too. The magic of flight was nothing to sniff at.
Elder Orora knew how to fly, too. Braiden shivered, watching the darkened sky for signs of a cackling, flying debt collector. He quickened his pace toward the hanging lanterns.
The locals knew that a stroll through the night market meant the inevitable spending of coin. Walking away with a full purse was simply impossible. It wasn’t just the fine seafood freshly caught from the ocean quite literally in their backyard.
The night market’s stalls showcased culinary delights from all corners of Aidun. A casual browse of the market could take a diner on a quick tour of the realm. Dainty, delicate Il-venessi sweets, the hearty stews of the Emerald Reaches, even that lobster roll that Whiteport liked to claim it invented? There was always demand for a taste of something exciting and new.
The Gwerenese man who sold meat pies, for example, had promised his wife that they were only passing through. Three years later and here they still were, running one of the busiest stalls in the market, happily expecting their first child. The best hand pies in Weathervale, the edges crimped and scalloped like sea shells, the flaky crust filled to the brim with meat, or cheese, or warm spiced fruit.
And this new influx of adventurers meant better business and new stalls in the night market, maybe some new shops in the merchant district, too. Visitors often stayed on as vendors, seduced by the night market’s sights, smells, and flavors. It was a tourist trap in a different sense. A sticky-sweet trap, but also savory, and sour — whatever fit someone’s fancy.
Tonight Braiden fancied something comforting and familiar, but more importantly, something warm to help stave off the chill. He followed his nose to the skewer stall, run by a stout Weathervale woman with a bright face and a boisterous laugh.
Braiden liked Izzy a lot, almost as much as he liked her stall’s selections. She drew the back of her hand across her forehead, clearing away the sweat as she stoked the hot coals of her grill with a large woven fan. Her face lit up at the sight of him, her cheeks rounding as she smiled.
“Back for more of my delicious balls, are we, Braiden?”
Braiden could feel his ears redden, going hotter as heads turned at the sound of Izzy’s voice. They played this game sometimes. Braiden came to support her stall and fill his belly, and she got to rib him mercilessly while he waited for his skewers to cook.
“No balls tonight, Izzy,” Braiden said, volleying as best as he could. “But I will take two shrimps, a squid, and a seared tuna, please.”
Flames leapt up from the grill, as if something among the coals had taken his order.
“Coming right up!” Izzy shouted. The grill hissed in greeting as she arranged his skewers over the fire, painting each one in a generous slather of her secret sauce.
Nothing like freshly grilled seafood at the night market, so simple and clean. Izzy’s aforementioned balls were excellent, too. She had a tasty assortment to pick from, all of them ready to throw on the grill or plunge in a pot of sizzling oil.
Braiden thought his stomach gurgled again. He frowned down at himself, ready to admonish his internal organs out loud when he realized that the sound hadn’t come from his body. It was from the person standing nearby. He recognized the hooded cloak immediately.
