As far as I can tell, only one person reads this so I'm probably not hurting anybody's feelings. But in the event that somebody else reads this, sorry.
I decided that I like this story enough that I can't stand to do it piece by piece. I'm no Charles Dickens. I can't put it out one chapter at a time to be read before I know exactly where it's going. I'd get to the end and be frustrated by the limitations I'd put on myself. I'm still going to write the story, it just won't be on this blog. Maybe one day you'll see it in Barnes & Noble. Probably not, but maybe. If you read this leave a comment and maybe I'll send you an autographed copy.
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
Monday, June 7, 2010
Welcome all!
So yesterday my wife reminded me that this blog was still "private" and could only be viewed by those I invited. Which seems to counter my idea of having people actually read it. Fail.
It's fixed now, though I still have some tweaking to do on the story. I should have another part put out within a weekish. MissWillow keeps bugging me for more. Whenever I sit down and write it, you'll know.
It's fixed now, though I still have some tweaking to do on the story. I should have another part put out within a weekish. MissWillow keeps bugging me for more. Whenever I sit down and write it, you'll know.
Monday, May 24, 2010
Fixing Chapter 2
I've added chapter 2 to the "Bellezandra" page. In doing so I noticed some formatting errors. Please be patient while I work on fixing them. Thanks!
Saturday, May 22, 2010
Chapter 2 is here
So despite fighting formatting issues in Word, formatting issues with transferring over to blogger, and at the moment fighting viruses/malware on the other computer, it's finally here. R finished editing it for me last night, but I think she may have missed some spelling errors that I just saw. So if you find some, leave a comment so I can fix it. Thanks. Without further ado:
Chapter 2
The morning air was crisp, cool but not cold, and the sun was up, as the Apothecary came downstairs from his meager home above the shop. As he passed through the parlor he stopped to once more check his appearance in the mirror behind the counter. He had razored his beard into clean lines and waxed it into a broad point below his chin. His mustache was lightly waxed as well. He hated all of it, though he admitted to himself that his wife would like it very much were she still alive.
He unlocked the shop door, exited and relocked it from the outside. At the feel of the crisp air, he pulled his cloak snuggly about him and began to walk quickly toward the center of town. He hadn't been to the palace in several years, since soon after the king had gone missing. Since the Alchemist had stepped in as acting head of state. He pushed that thought from his mind. He would deal with whatever this invitation was about and then go back to his shop and continue to live his life in peace.
As he made his way along the cobblestone streets, he was passed by several carriages on their way to or from the palace. One was a new mechanical, horseless carriage. The Apothecary wasn't sure how it all worked, something about a heated kettle that pushed steam through pipes that turned the wheels. As it approached it slowed, and the driver, who had no reigns at all, asked if he wanted a ride.
"Thank you but no. I'd rather walk," replied the Apothecary. In truth he was just too cheap to pay for something he could do for free. He was soon within the outer wall of the grey stone palace. The inner steps were lined with guards in deep blue and gold dress. Their shields bore the silhouette of a gellic, a powerful creature like a monstrous dog, standing on its hind limbs. In one hand it held a Farsekian sword with its distinctive curve over its head. In the other a spear much like those used in Southy fishing towns. It was the same symbol that flew on the Farseki banners, a proud and fierce symbol of power and courage. But it was a farce.
That had once been the spirit of Farseki but it had been seduced and subdued by progress and commerce, until it could barely be called independent. Kaladea, the country to the north was a giant of industry and manufacturing and Farseki had swiftly spent itself into a chasm of debt in recent years buying steam-powered carriages and lighter-than-air vessels and most off all the trans-national railroad tracks, which could now carry a man from the Southern Gulf to the Grasslands on the northern border in two days and then on to Kaladea. And who knew where it went from there.
The Apothecary was admitted into the first hall by a young palace aid and told to wait while His Majesty was informed of the visitor's presence.
“By which you mean the Alchemist?” inquired the Apothecary. “He is an Alchemist. Nothing less, nothing more. Do not shame your country by calling him majesty, boy.” The boy looked up wide eyed, as if he had been caught doing something he knew he shouldn't have. His look then turned to one of admiration and he nodded curtly at the Apothecary before running off to the end of the hall. The boy disappeared behind a door and then reappeared moments later waving the Apothecary toward him.
“May I take your cloak, sir?” He asked. It was odd that he should ask now after the Apothecary had been in the palace for several minutes, but the Apothecary recognized it as a sign of respect regardless of how belated.
“Thank you,” he said shrugging it off and handing it over. He walked through the door and into the Grand Hall. It was a wide, high-ceilinged room with several banquet tables, guards, members of the court and at the center, a very large ornate chair with a slightly smaller one next to it. In the large chair sat a man, and next to him an older looking woman.
When the Alchemist saw him, he smiled. “My old friend!” he announced for all in the hall to hear. “How are you, Ma-”
The Apothecary held up his hand and stopped the Alchemist abruptly. “Royal Alchemist,” he said addressing the man on the throne. “You have summoned me, Apothecary from Kent street, of the Order of Royal Maji of Farseki. How may I serve my nation?” It was overly formal and almost rude, the way he interrupted the Alchemist, but the Apothecary refused to allow any pretense of friendship as much as it was in his power. The Alchemist's smile faded, understanding.
“With your knowledge and skills in the Art and your relationship with the crown and all associated, I find myself in need of your services. In all humility I ask you to aid me here at the palace. You will most certainly be recompensed for your time and troubles.”
“And what, may I ask, is the nature of this task in which my services are required?”
the Alchemist hesitated, telling the Apothecary all he needed to know. “At the behest of advisers refrain I conveying that which thou desire, in company such. Perceived allegiance common to kingdom may reflect nought but facade for the purpose of deceit and betrayal.” He had switched to speaking High Tongue, a snobbish practice used by nobles to speak secretly in the presence of laymen. Another declaration to the Apothecary that what the Alchemist desired was not for the kingdom but rather, as usual, for selfish gain. The Apothecary searched the Alchemist's face. Unlike his own, it was still soft and smooth. As far as the Apothecary knew, the Alchemist had not achieved making the Elixir of Life, but he was apparently close. He kept his face clean shaven and his head covered in the cap and circlet that signified those acting in the king's stead, because only his hair gave away his age.
“Would thou retirest together with me to mine chamber, whenceforth matters current might be divulged at length?” It was like coarse sand against the Apothecary's ears to hear High Tongue. It wasn't a terribly difficult language. In fact the words in High Tongue were also words in Layman Farsekil. High Tongue was in actuality more of a way of speaking. It relied on an extensive vocabulary and quick wit to put one's thoughts in a way that would be confusing to uneducated eavesdroppers. The Apothecary looked at the woman to the Alchemist's right. The Queen of Farseki had skin a little lighter than his own, like when he added a drop of milk to the Waking Elixir he sold to patrons of his shop on cold mornings. She looked at him and for a moment their eyes locked. Then she quickly looked away. Her eyes had once been vibrantly green, but now with age, had faded to a grey as had her once black hair.
Finally he answered the Alchemist's question. “I beg thy pardon Alchemist, but rightly recalled, what oath was swore bound powers and efforts mine to aid for kingdom as well as country. Contrarily, said promise permittest me not the use of Arts for such efforts deemed for the gain of self or him seeking to be lofted over his countrymen.”
The Alchemist seethed. “You ungrateful liar!” he shouted rising off the throne. “I have you in your shop, peddling your tonics and elixirs! Don't pretend you make no gains from using your Arts!”
The mask had been taken away. The Apothecary knew he was insulting the Alchemist, but he had attempted to do so in a way that kept those in the court from knowing it. Now the Alchemist had personally attacked him in Layman for all to hear. So be it, Alchemist. He could no longer restrain his anger.
“I receive pay, yes. So that I may eat and buy supplies. But I see you Alchemist. For too long have you sat in a chair which is not yours, making decisions which are not yours, making decisions which are not yours to make, and prostituting our kingdom's wealth for gears and steam engines while your hands and eyes rove about full of lust and greed for all that is not yours!” He was shaking with fear anger. There were audible gasps. The Alchemist's eyes narrowed and when he spoke it was low, almost a hiss.
“The king is dead. And if not, he has rejected his home and this throne. Show me an heir and I will gladly step aside, but until you do, as the king's badik I act in his stead and make decisions for the progress of this nation. I politely asked for your help and have been answered with the utmost disrespect. You are no longer welcome here. Guards!”
Two guards came forward as the Apothecary turned to leave. “Your cowardly assistance will not be necessary. I have no desire to stay in this place. It makes my stomach ill.” As he neared the door back into the First Hall, the palace boy returned his cloak, wide-eyed. “I'm sorry you had to see such a display of my temper.” The boy only stared.
The guards followed the Apothecary back through the First Hall to the steps of the inner gate. “Make haste old man,” one said and the other chuckled. The Apothecary stopped before beginning down the steps to put his cloak back on. “I said, make haste!” At this the guard reached out and shoved the Apothecary's back. The Apothecary reached back as he was falling and grabbed the man's outstretched arm with his right hand. In one smooth motion, he stopped his fall with the weight of the bulky guard and swing around, pulled a small knife from his belt with his left hand and brought the handle end to bear on the guards neck.
The guard flinched almost imperceptibly and then coughed from being hit in the neck. “Let that be a reminder,” the Apothecary told him, “not to judge a man's mettle by his age. I could have just as easily used the blade. Show some respect to those who truly deserve it.” The guard had not moved and his partner only stared with his hand on the hilt of of his sword. The Apothecary released his hand from the guard's arm and walked down the steps towards the outer gate. Before he reached it, however he heard, “Psst!” Turning, he saw a hooded figure gesturing from a door in the castle wall. Cautiously he moved closer. When he got near, he saw that the gesturing figure was the boy who had held his cloak from the palace.
“Please sir, the Queen wishes to speak to you in the garden.” The boy spoke softly and avoided looking him in the eye.
“Hold your head up son.” The boy looked up. “Never be ashamed of doing what you think right. And if you think the thing not right, do not do it. Show me the way."
They boy held the door open for the Apothecary but did not follow him into the garden. The garden was an assortment of flowers, trees, sculpted shrubbery and a few fountains. To the Apothecary's right was an ornate aviary with an assortment of song birds. To his left a ways off was a series of steps leading back into the castle, with several landings along the way. Here and there gardeners and palace attendants worked or talked in small groups. The Queen was sitting on a bench a few paces from the door he had just come through. When he entered, she rose to meet him.
“Well meaning as it might have been, it was no good thing what you said today. If you and he were not enemies before, you most certainly are now.”
“The Alchemist and I have been less than amiable for some time now, my lady. I do not find my worth in the value of self-serving men.”
“Be that as it may,” she said tersely.” You have shamed yourself and you have shamed me. Do you think those present did not understand what you insinuated when you accused him of greed and lust.” She paused. Then in a softer, pleading tone she asked, “Do you think I have given myself to him?”
“My Lady, if you feel shamed it is no doing of mine. That responsibility falls on you, the council and the Royal Guard; those who have allowed him to remain in power.”
“You did not answer my question Apothecary,” she said. “Do you think I have given myself to him? In my husband's house? In his bed?”
The Apothecary was trapped. He firmly believed in doing what was right, no matter the price. But publicly insulting a man and publicly insulting a woman, especially the Queen, were entirely differently matters. “As an Apothecary, it is not my place to question the actions and motives of her Majesty.” But she was not satisfied. Again she pleaded with him.
“Then as my brother?” The Apothecary sighed, sadly. He was relieved of the position of insulting the Queen. But now he had to speak his mind.
“Have you?”
She slapped him. Hard and loud, so that several of those in the garden turned to see. She turned on her heels and left. He stood a moment and then walked back to where he had entered from, but there was no door, only castle wall. When he reached the wall he beat his fist about until he heard a change in sound. As he looked nearby for a handle, it opened from the inside and the boy was waiting for him. “If you would kindly show this old trouble-maker the way out.”
“Yes sir,” the boy said looking him in the eye.
Chapter 2
The morning air was crisp, cool but not cold, and the sun was up, as the Apothecary came downstairs from his meager home above the shop. As he passed through the parlor he stopped to once more check his appearance in the mirror behind the counter. He had razored his beard into clean lines and waxed it into a broad point below his chin. His mustache was lightly waxed as well. He hated all of it, though he admitted to himself that his wife would like it very much were she still alive.
He unlocked the shop door, exited and relocked it from the outside. At the feel of the crisp air, he pulled his cloak snuggly about him and began to walk quickly toward the center of town. He hadn't been to the palace in several years, since soon after the king had gone missing. Since the Alchemist had stepped in as acting head of state. He pushed that thought from his mind. He would deal with whatever this invitation was about and then go back to his shop and continue to live his life in peace.
As he made his way along the cobblestone streets, he was passed by several carriages on their way to or from the palace. One was a new mechanical, horseless carriage. The Apothecary wasn't sure how it all worked, something about a heated kettle that pushed steam through pipes that turned the wheels. As it approached it slowed, and the driver, who had no reigns at all, asked if he wanted a ride.
"Thank you but no. I'd rather walk," replied the Apothecary. In truth he was just too cheap to pay for something he could do for free. He was soon within the outer wall of the grey stone palace. The inner steps were lined with guards in deep blue and gold dress. Their shields bore the silhouette of a gellic, a powerful creature like a monstrous dog, standing on its hind limbs. In one hand it held a Farsekian sword with its distinctive curve over its head. In the other a spear much like those used in Southy fishing towns. It was the same symbol that flew on the Farseki banners, a proud and fierce symbol of power and courage. But it was a farce.
That had once been the spirit of Farseki but it had been seduced and subdued by progress and commerce, until it could barely be called independent. Kaladea, the country to the north was a giant of industry and manufacturing and Farseki had swiftly spent itself into a chasm of debt in recent years buying steam-powered carriages and lighter-than-air vessels and most off all the trans-national railroad tracks, which could now carry a man from the Southern Gulf to the Grasslands on the northern border in two days and then on to Kaladea. And who knew where it went from there.
The Apothecary was admitted into the first hall by a young palace aid and told to wait while His Majesty was informed of the visitor's presence.
“By which you mean the Alchemist?” inquired the Apothecary. “He is an Alchemist. Nothing less, nothing more. Do not shame your country by calling him majesty, boy.” The boy looked up wide eyed, as if he had been caught doing something he knew he shouldn't have. His look then turned to one of admiration and he nodded curtly at the Apothecary before running off to the end of the hall. The boy disappeared behind a door and then reappeared moments later waving the Apothecary toward him.
“May I take your cloak, sir?” He asked. It was odd that he should ask now after the Apothecary had been in the palace for several minutes, but the Apothecary recognized it as a sign of respect regardless of how belated.
“Thank you,” he said shrugging it off and handing it over. He walked through the door and into the Grand Hall. It was a wide, high-ceilinged room with several banquet tables, guards, members of the court and at the center, a very large ornate chair with a slightly smaller one next to it. In the large chair sat a man, and next to him an older looking woman.
When the Alchemist saw him, he smiled. “My old friend!” he announced for all in the hall to hear. “How are you, Ma-”
The Apothecary held up his hand and stopped the Alchemist abruptly. “Royal Alchemist,” he said addressing the man on the throne. “You have summoned me, Apothecary from Kent street, of the Order of Royal Maji of Farseki. How may I serve my nation?” It was overly formal and almost rude, the way he interrupted the Alchemist, but the Apothecary refused to allow any pretense of friendship as much as it was in his power. The Alchemist's smile faded, understanding.
“With your knowledge and skills in the Art and your relationship with the crown and all associated, I find myself in need of your services. In all humility I ask you to aid me here at the palace. You will most certainly be recompensed for your time and troubles.”
“And what, may I ask, is the nature of this task in which my services are required?”
the Alchemist hesitated, telling the Apothecary all he needed to know. “At the behest of advisers refrain I conveying that which thou desire, in company such. Perceived allegiance common to kingdom may reflect nought but facade for the purpose of deceit and betrayal.” He had switched to speaking High Tongue, a snobbish practice used by nobles to speak secretly in the presence of laymen. Another declaration to the Apothecary that what the Alchemist desired was not for the kingdom but rather, as usual, for selfish gain. The Apothecary searched the Alchemist's face. Unlike his own, it was still soft and smooth. As far as the Apothecary knew, the Alchemist had not achieved making the Elixir of Life, but he was apparently close. He kept his face clean shaven and his head covered in the cap and circlet that signified those acting in the king's stead, because only his hair gave away his age.
“Would thou retirest together with me to mine chamber, whenceforth matters current might be divulged at length?” It was like coarse sand against the Apothecary's ears to hear High Tongue. It wasn't a terribly difficult language. In fact the words in High Tongue were also words in Layman Farsekil. High Tongue was in actuality more of a way of speaking. It relied on an extensive vocabulary and quick wit to put one's thoughts in a way that would be confusing to uneducated eavesdroppers. The Apothecary looked at the woman to the Alchemist's right. The Queen of Farseki had skin a little lighter than his own, like when he added a drop of milk to the Waking Elixir he sold to patrons of his shop on cold mornings. She looked at him and for a moment their eyes locked. Then she quickly looked away. Her eyes had once been vibrantly green, but now with age, had faded to a grey as had her once black hair.
Finally he answered the Alchemist's question. “I beg thy pardon Alchemist, but rightly recalled, what oath was swore bound powers and efforts mine to aid for kingdom as well as country. Contrarily, said promise permittest me not the use of Arts for such efforts deemed for the gain of self or him seeking to be lofted over his countrymen.”
The Alchemist seethed. “You ungrateful liar!” he shouted rising off the throne. “I have you in your shop, peddling your tonics and elixirs! Don't pretend you make no gains from using your Arts!”
The mask had been taken away. The Apothecary knew he was insulting the Alchemist, but he had attempted to do so in a way that kept those in the court from knowing it. Now the Alchemist had personally attacked him in Layman for all to hear. So be it, Alchemist. He could no longer restrain his anger.
“I receive pay, yes. So that I may eat and buy supplies. But I see you Alchemist. For too long have you sat in a chair which is not yours, making decisions which are not yours, making decisions which are not yours to make, and prostituting our kingdom's wealth for gears and steam engines while your hands and eyes rove about full of lust and greed for all that is not yours!” He was shaking with fear anger. There were audible gasps. The Alchemist's eyes narrowed and when he spoke it was low, almost a hiss.
“The king is dead. And if not, he has rejected his home and this throne. Show me an heir and I will gladly step aside, but until you do, as the king's badik I act in his stead and make decisions for the progress of this nation. I politely asked for your help and have been answered with the utmost disrespect. You are no longer welcome here. Guards!”
Two guards came forward as the Apothecary turned to leave. “Your cowardly assistance will not be necessary. I have no desire to stay in this place. It makes my stomach ill.” As he neared the door back into the First Hall, the palace boy returned his cloak, wide-eyed. “I'm sorry you had to see such a display of my temper.” The boy only stared.
The guards followed the Apothecary back through the First Hall to the steps of the inner gate. “Make haste old man,” one said and the other chuckled. The Apothecary stopped before beginning down the steps to put his cloak back on. “I said, make haste!” At this the guard reached out and shoved the Apothecary's back. The Apothecary reached back as he was falling and grabbed the man's outstretched arm with his right hand. In one smooth motion, he stopped his fall with the weight of the bulky guard and swing around, pulled a small knife from his belt with his left hand and brought the handle end to bear on the guards neck.
The guard flinched almost imperceptibly and then coughed from being hit in the neck. “Let that be a reminder,” the Apothecary told him, “not to judge a man's mettle by his age. I could have just as easily used the blade. Show some respect to those who truly deserve it.” The guard had not moved and his partner only stared with his hand on the hilt of of his sword. The Apothecary released his hand from the guard's arm and walked down the steps towards the outer gate. Before he reached it, however he heard, “Psst!” Turning, he saw a hooded figure gesturing from a door in the castle wall. Cautiously he moved closer. When he got near, he saw that the gesturing figure was the boy who had held his cloak from the palace.
“Please sir, the Queen wishes to speak to you in the garden.” The boy spoke softly and avoided looking him in the eye.
“Hold your head up son.” The boy looked up. “Never be ashamed of doing what you think right. And if you think the thing not right, do not do it. Show me the way."
They boy held the door open for the Apothecary but did not follow him into the garden. The garden was an assortment of flowers, trees, sculpted shrubbery and a few fountains. To the Apothecary's right was an ornate aviary with an assortment of song birds. To his left a ways off was a series of steps leading back into the castle, with several landings along the way. Here and there gardeners and palace attendants worked or talked in small groups. The Queen was sitting on a bench a few paces from the door he had just come through. When he entered, she rose to meet him.
“Well meaning as it might have been, it was no good thing what you said today. If you and he were not enemies before, you most certainly are now.”
“The Alchemist and I have been less than amiable for some time now, my lady. I do not find my worth in the value of self-serving men.”
“Be that as it may,” she said tersely.” You have shamed yourself and you have shamed me. Do you think those present did not understand what you insinuated when you accused him of greed and lust.” She paused. Then in a softer, pleading tone she asked, “Do you think I have given myself to him?”
“My Lady, if you feel shamed it is no doing of mine. That responsibility falls on you, the council and the Royal Guard; those who have allowed him to remain in power.”
“You did not answer my question Apothecary,” she said. “Do you think I have given myself to him? In my husband's house? In his bed?”
The Apothecary was trapped. He firmly believed in doing what was right, no matter the price. But publicly insulting a man and publicly insulting a woman, especially the Queen, were entirely differently matters. “As an Apothecary, it is not my place to question the actions and motives of her Majesty.” But she was not satisfied. Again she pleaded with him.
“Then as my brother?” The Apothecary sighed, sadly. He was relieved of the position of insulting the Queen. But now he had to speak his mind.
“Have you?”
She slapped him. Hard and loud, so that several of those in the garden turned to see. She turned on her heels and left. He stood a moment and then walked back to where he had entered from, but there was no door, only castle wall. When he reached the wall he beat his fist about until he heard a change in sound. As he looked nearby for a handle, it opened from the inside and the boy was waiting for him. “If you would kindly show this old trouble-maker the way out.”
“Yes sir,” the boy said looking him in the eye.
Sunday, May 16, 2010
Second chapter is coming
I've finished writing chapter two in my journal, then retyping it in my computer. I had some issues with fonts but I got it straightened out now. I'm just waiting for my lovely editor to find everywhere I misspelled something or wrote "lead" instead of "led, etc. Once that's done, rest assured I'll post the next chapter of The Apothecary and the Alchemist. Spoiler alert: the Alchemist is actually in this chapter. Well it should be up in the next week. Hound Ricci on her blog if you want it up faster.
Monday, May 10, 2010
First Chapter Up!
I've posted the first chapter, and will give a few people preview privileges for a couple of days before unveiling The Bellezandra to the world. Or to the five people who might stumble upon it. Whichever.
I'll post the newest chapter in the blog as well as put it in order on the "Bellezandra" page. As the story progresses I may put each "part" on it's own page. We'll see. For now enjoy.
I'll post the newest chapter in the blog as well as put it in order on the "Bellezandra" page. As the story progresses I may put each "part" on it's own page. We'll see. For now enjoy.
Part 1: The Apothecary and the Alchemist, Chapter 1
Chapter 1
The Apothecary looked up when the bell above his shop door announced a visitor. It was Cecil, the Parcelman. Cecil reached into his welpit-skin bag and pulled out a large decorated envelope.
"Invitation for you," he said waving it. Cecil laid it down on the counter and seated himself on a stool in front of it. He removed his scarlet cap and placed on the stool next to him.
"I don't entertain, Cecil. My majicks are for healing and helping, not for pleasure and vanity." The Apothecary pulled a glass from a rack behind him and asked, "What'll it be?"
"Well it's hotter'na crook of a cufat's hind limb out today," he said wiping his forehead on the sleeve of his bright red Parcelman's coat, "so gimme somfin' cold. An' add a li'l zip if you'd be so koind." Cecil's dark black skin and Southy accent made him stick out absurdly here in Bundai, the capital of Farseki. Rumor had it Cecil's family was part of the aristocracy in the Dalfort Islands in the Southern Gulf. The Apothecary doubted this though, because while it wasn't the most labor intensive job, being a Parcelman wasn't easy.
Using a pair of grasping tongs, the Apothecary dipped the glass into a thick iron cauldron that frothed white from its mouth and was covered in condensation. He immediately removed the glass and it was covered in frost. The Apothecary replaced the cauldron's lid and set the glass on the table. As he set about mixing ingredients he said, "I thought you Southies were accustomed to warm weather."
Cecil clucked his tongue derisively. "Yeah but we don't wear these rundune jackets and long trousers on the beach do we?" The Apothecary finished mixing ingredients into the glass, which now contained the most unappealing combination of dried plant parts, water, and various syrups. It looked to Cecil like the Apothecary had dipped the glass into the mouth of the Dundrik River, where the sea water and fresh met and prevented the silt from ever settling to the bottom. The Apothecary placed a clean handkerchief over the glass and then placed his right hand on the handkerchief. He closed his eyes and concentrated. Cecil looked away, feeling embarrassed suddenly, as though he'd seen something he wasn't supposed to. Majicks was a fading art and was quickly becoming socially unacceptable, or at the very least in bad taste.
"That ought to do it," said the Apothecary, stuffing the handkerchief back into his vest pocket. He placed his hand against the cold iron cauldron to relieve the heat that always accompanied using majicks. The Apothecary had never used majicks in a fight. He couldn't imagine how taxing it must have been for the maji of old who had taken this land with sword and spear and majicks as the Maker had promised from the previous inhabitants.
"Fanks koindly." Cecil took the glass and began to quickly down the liquid, which was now a crystal clear, pale blue, with no evidence of plant debris. "Ain't you gonna open ya letter? I fink it's probly urgent."
"I told you Cecil," the Apothecary replied scratching his salt and pepper colored beard, "I don't entertain. Not birthdays, not weddings and definitely not funerals. They always want me to bring someone back." He chuckled, making the laugh lines on his face momentarily more prominent. Then he shook his head and gave a little shudder, still grinning.
"It's not that kind of invite you brown-skinned witch-man! I fink it's from the Royals." He turned the envelope over and there it was, the seal of the House of Halikara. "If you ignore it they'll just send a summons and make you go anyhow. Better to go as a guest, eh?" Cecil drained the last of his drink, got down from his stool and gathered his things. "Welp, good tidings wif all that. I'd suggest trimmin up before you go. Fanks again for the drink." With that, he left.
The Apothecary hadn't taken his eyes off the envelope since he'd seen the seal. He had hardly even noticed Cecil leaving. He turned and looked back at the mirror on the wall behind the counter. Yes, he thought, I suppose I should shave.
The Apothecary looked up when the bell above his shop door announced a visitor. It was Cecil, the Parcelman. Cecil reached into his welpit-skin bag and pulled out a large decorated envelope.
"Invitation for you," he said waving it. Cecil laid it down on the counter and seated himself on a stool in front of it. He removed his scarlet cap and placed on the stool next to him.
"I don't entertain, Cecil. My majicks are for healing and helping, not for pleasure and vanity." The Apothecary pulled a glass from a rack behind him and asked, "What'll it be?"
"Well it's hotter'na crook of a cufat's hind limb out today," he said wiping his forehead on the sleeve of his bright red Parcelman's coat, "so gimme somfin' cold. An' add a li'l zip if you'd be so koind." Cecil's dark black skin and Southy accent made him stick out absurdly here in Bundai, the capital of Farseki. Rumor had it Cecil's family was part of the aristocracy in the Dalfort Islands in the Southern Gulf. The Apothecary doubted this though, because while it wasn't the most labor intensive job, being a Parcelman wasn't easy.
Using a pair of grasping tongs, the Apothecary dipped the glass into a thick iron cauldron that frothed white from its mouth and was covered in condensation. He immediately removed the glass and it was covered in frost. The Apothecary replaced the cauldron's lid and set the glass on the table. As he set about mixing ingredients he said, "I thought you Southies were accustomed to warm weather."
Cecil clucked his tongue derisively. "Yeah but we don't wear these rundune jackets and long trousers on the beach do we?" The Apothecary finished mixing ingredients into the glass, which now contained the most unappealing combination of dried plant parts, water, and various syrups. It looked to Cecil like the Apothecary had dipped the glass into the mouth of the Dundrik River, where the sea water and fresh met and prevented the silt from ever settling to the bottom. The Apothecary placed a clean handkerchief over the glass and then placed his right hand on the handkerchief. He closed his eyes and concentrated. Cecil looked away, feeling embarrassed suddenly, as though he'd seen something he wasn't supposed to. Majicks was a fading art and was quickly becoming socially unacceptable, or at the very least in bad taste.
"That ought to do it," said the Apothecary, stuffing the handkerchief back into his vest pocket. He placed his hand against the cold iron cauldron to relieve the heat that always accompanied using majicks. The Apothecary had never used majicks in a fight. He couldn't imagine how taxing it must have been for the maji of old who had taken this land with sword and spear and majicks as the Maker had promised from the previous inhabitants.
"Fanks koindly." Cecil took the glass and began to quickly down the liquid, which was now a crystal clear, pale blue, with no evidence of plant debris. "Ain't you gonna open ya letter? I fink it's probly urgent."
"I told you Cecil," the Apothecary replied scratching his salt and pepper colored beard, "I don't entertain. Not birthdays, not weddings and definitely not funerals. They always want me to bring someone back." He chuckled, making the laugh lines on his face momentarily more prominent. Then he shook his head and gave a little shudder, still grinning.
"It's not that kind of invite you brown-skinned witch-man! I fink it's from the Royals." He turned the envelope over and there it was, the seal of the House of Halikara. "If you ignore it they'll just send a summons and make you go anyhow. Better to go as a guest, eh?" Cecil drained the last of his drink, got down from his stool and gathered his things. "Welp, good tidings wif all that. I'd suggest trimmin up before you go. Fanks again for the drink." With that, he left.
The Apothecary hadn't taken his eyes off the envelope since he'd seen the seal. He had hardly even noticed Cecil leaving. He turned and looked back at the mirror on the wall behind the counter. Yes, he thought, I suppose I should shave.
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