Page 9 of Wizards & Weavers
“I run a craft shop,” Braiden said. “We sell supplies for the arts. Sewing, crocheting, knitting, embroidery, that sort of thing. Hobbyists love us.”
Or they used to, at least. Braiden kept that part to himself.
The wizard’s eyes scanned down, then up Braiden’s body. It didn’t feel as cutting as when the elf had done it. He wasn’t judging, only appraising. Then why was Braiden starting to feel hot behind the ears? He shifted from one foot to the other, wringing his hands.
“And it appears that you have a touch of magic about you. Is that correct?”
The wizard glanced one or two inches above Braiden’s head, tracing the outline of his body, the tips of his fingers. He was looking past the physical, examining the arcane ripples that flowed around Braiden as naturally as blood flowed through his veins. Yet again it almost made Braiden blush, the steely intensity of his gaze.
“Yes.” Braiden enunciated the word with hardened confidence, not the flimsy uncertainty of a schoolboy unused tobeing the center of attention. “My grandmother — I learned a few things from her. Before she passed.”
“I am sorry for your loss,” Augustin said. “But surely someone familiar with the fundamentals of magic would understand why having a dungeon so close to a town is a terrible idea.”
“Not really,” Braiden answered. “It’s not like this is something new. Entire towns have sprung up around newly discovered dungeons. Adventurers arrive, lured by the promise of prestige and treasure, and eventually a settlement pops up, and businesses open, and there you have it. A gold rush, only you’re never quite sure what’s really in the rushing.”
Augustin snapped his fingers. “And there you have it. Without delving deep, without spending extensive time and resources to study a dungeon’s nature, how can we be so sure that it won’t begin issuing a stream of nastiness in the days to come? Maybe the dungeon burrows down to an ancient necropolis filled with the hungry undead. Maybe it’s filled with demons, linked to a portal to one of the many hells.”
Braiden threw his hands up in exasperation. “For all we know, it could be filled with fluffy bunny rabbits.”
“Maybe. Or maybe it’s filled with bloodthirsty machines, vicious automatons from a long-forgotten civilization.”
“That’s all just speculation! How could anyone possibly know that?”
“How indeed? And if you are, in fact, the shopkeeper at a fine establishment dealing in threads and thimbles, why are you so worried about some filthy hole in the ground? Don’t tell me you were planning to enter the dungeon yourself.”
Braiden gawped like a fish, looking as stupid as he felt.
“I, well, that is to say — I have a plan.”
Augustin chuckled. “I’m sure you do.”
Braiden’s fists tightened. And smoothly, so light on his feet, Augustin sidestepped him, his boot soles clicking on the cobblestones, his cloak billowing behind him. Braiden thought he felt a gust of wind as the wizard passed. And did his body seem to blur for a moment, too? Must have been a trick of the light. Or maybe Dudley’s lightest beers were stronger than he thought.
Still Braiden followed the wizard, determined to get in the way of his horrible plan, which was to get in the way of Braiden’s marginally less horrible plan. If nothing else, Braiden could use his body. No, not like that! To obstruct the wizard, maybe, stop him from his goal.
“Where are we headed, anyway? We’ve been walking forever.”
Augustin wagged his finger and tutted. “Don’t be silly. It’s hardly been five minutes.”
At least Braiden was learning that he was dreadfully out of shape. Maybe he needed to get in some more exercise before he attempted the dungeon. Provided Augustin didn’t get everything shut down in the first place, which, how would he even have that kind of power?
And then Braiden understood. He froze in place.
Four roads ran nearly the entire length of Weathervale, intersecting in the middle and dividing it neatly, like eight pieces of a large pie. Or the eight spokes of a ship’s wheel — very thematic, Braiden always thought.
Weathervale was essentially sorted into eight convenient districts. Both Beadle’s Needles and the Dragon’s Flagon, for example, were part of the merchant district. And at the hub of the wheel — its beating heart — was the Lighthouse.
Braiden gritted his teeth, staring accusingly at the back of Augustin’s head. He’d brought him here. He’d made a direct linefor town council, and Braiden had followed him the entire way like an adoring puppy.
Augustin stopped, then turned over his shoulder. “Well? Aren’t you coming to harass me to the very end? You’re giving up far too easily for someone who intended to explore the dungeon.”
Braiden could feel his hackles rising. Augustin had no way of knowing about his financial woes, and yet here they were, the last place in Weathervale Braiden wanted to be.
“Why are you heading to town council?” Braiden asked.
Augustin shrugged. “I have to make this official before I do anything drastic. I still have to follow the letter of the law.”
Before Braiden could respond, the wizard spun on his heel and continued onward.
