Manly Hero

By Adrastus Rood

"A fun fairy-tale fantasy that should please fans of William Goldman's The Princess Bride." -- Kirkus Reviews

Manly Hero is single, hours away from his thirtieth birthday, and the last descendant of a mighty, monster-slaying family. His ancestors lived lives of adventure, magical mystery, and irresponsibly raucous partying. Manly, however... well...

Manly is a butterfly curator who wears stripped pajamas to bed, still pines for his high school crush, and spends evenings drinking tea with his two best friends; Cronimus -- a dangerously clumsy wizard -- and Ruby -- a sexually liberated, pickpocketing pirate. Adventure simply isn't an option for Manly, because monsters no longer exist. His grandfather, the most famous monster slayer in history, was just a bit too good at his job.

But all that changes the night of Manly's birthday party, when a mysterious letter from his deceased grandmother, a messy encounter with an ego-demon, and a distant city in flames all conspire to bring Manly Hero more adventure than he can possibly handle alone!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Adrastus Rood
• Release date: Dec 12, 2011
• ISBN: 9780983944201

Adrastus Rood

Adrastus Rood (our pen name) is comprised of writing duo Petra and Adam. Both North American nomads, we met at university and knew instantly that we wanted to tell stories together. Adam loves gin, video games, history, and mythology. Petra loves wine, fashion, yoga, and magazines. We both love tea, t.v., reading, hiking, board games, and picnics in parks. We currently make our home in the Pacific Northwest with our crazy dog.

Book preview

~ dedication ~

To you adventurers.

~ prologue ~

The morning of his thirtieth birthday, Manly Hero woke to find that he had nearly come to terms with the facts of his life. They were as follows:

Firstly, his parents (almost certainly inebriated at the time) had inappropriately and anti-prophetically named him Manly, and no one was ever going to give him a half-decent nickname.

Secondlier, he was a Hero with a capital ‘H.’ The last (and very likely the shortest) in a long, illustrious line of Heros. Manly’s family, alongside the Legends and the Champions, had long-ago sworn a solemn oath, promising to protect the Queendom of Aldendhar against all manner of evil. Specifically, the Hero family had dedicated themselves to dealing with monsters. Dragons being a prime example, but there were also demons, swamp goblins, hydras, the unnaturally undead, the naturally undead gone rogue, bad unicorns, etcetera, etcetera. It was a rather long list.

Thirdlisome, Manly was never going to live a mystery-filled, quest-questing, monster-hunting life of adventure, for monsters no longer existed in Aldendhar. Manly’s grandfather (with a little help from his contemporaries) had managed to rid the entire queendom of every last monstrous thing, ushering in an unparalleled age of prosperity and boredom in the process. (There were, of course, a few ogres left here and there, some tourist-attraction trolls chained up under bridges, and a centaur or two poking around the darker parts of the forest. But, technically, these didn’t count as monsters, as long as they kept to themselves and didn’t do anything… monstrous.)

Fourthlilike, Manly was never going to grow up and marry Amelia Champion, his childhood crush and eternal dream-girl. In fact, forget marry! It was increasingly unlikely that they would ever speak again. Amelia had grown into a beautiful, fashionable socialite; the toast of Thrakis and darling of the tabloids. Manly, on the other hand… well…

Fifthliwise, Manly Hero was the Curator of Butterflies at the Royal Museum of Arcanonatural History.

And so, by the morning of his thirtieth birthday, Manly was pleased to find that he was honestly and truly, almost okay with all of this. So very close to ‘okay’ that it nearly counted as being actually okay with it all.

Almost.

~ one ~

Manly sat on the edge of his deep featherbed, wearing his favorite striped nightshirt and cap, and forced his eyes open against the morning light. Thirty, he thought groggily, feels very much like twenty-nine. It was a mildly disappointing realization.

For several weeks now, Manly had been experiencing a peculiar anticipation in regards to his birthday, as if something truly life-changing were about to happen. He hadn’t yet decided if the feeling was exciting or ominous. A small part of him had hoped that turning thirty would magically make him smarter, or wiser, or… taller. Make him amazinger, somehow.

He glanced over the edge of the bed at his dangling feet, toes barely reaching the floor. Not taller, then, he thought ruefully. But, I suppose the day is still young.

It’s an excited feeling, he decided aloud, nodding to himself in encouragement. Today is going to be a very good birthday, indeed.

But a good birthday, like any good day, had to start with priorities first: tea. Manly had purchased a new Thuvian breakfast blend from his favorite teashop the day before. It was embarrassingly expensive, but he had excused it as a present to himself. He forced himself up from the bed and stumbled sleepily into his kitchen, eager to try it out.

‘Kitchen’ was a very generous term for the two shallow cabinets, tiny wood stove, narrow prepping table, and small cold-cupboard wedged into a single corner of his apartment’s main room. (Manly thought of it as his kitchelividining room.) Though quite compact, it was functional enough to prepare tea and a decent birthday breakfast.

Besides, Manly thought, as he took one of the kitchen chairs and stood on it, giving himself the necessary reach to retrieve his copper kettle from its special shelf. There is nothing wrong with being just a little small.

After boiling water and setting the tea to steep, he opened the cold-cupboard. His mother had insisted he add it during the remodel, and now, though he would never admit it to her, it was something he couldn’t imagine living without. Inside the cold-cupboard were truffle-fed, Heffenshire bacon slices, local cream, a stinky (but delicious) cheese, a carrot from Mr. Yaffle, leftovers from the great little stew shack down the street, and an egg. An egg! Yup, an omelet would make a nice birthday breakfast. A single megahen egg he’d picked up the day before at the Cherry Hill peasant’s market. He added a little cream, a little cheese, and some oregano. He considered the carrot, but didn’t want to go too crazy. He poured the mix into a cast-iron frying pan he’d inherited from his grandmother, set it over his small wood stove, and topped it with bacon. Voilà! Perfect.

As breakfast cooked, Manly surveyed his apartment. It was part of an ornate old mansion that had been converted into a lodging house. Quite a common situation here on Cherry Hill, a formerly posh section of town that was now popular with artists of the struggling variety. It was a vibrant community, brimming with musicians, painters, and people who spent vast amounts of time experimenting with fringe magic and smoking whatever they could burn. With his family’s name and money, Manly could have lived almost anywhere he liked, but that was one of the reasons he’d chosen Cherry Hill. To be away from all the money, and (if he was honest with himself) to have a little distance from his family and his noble upbringing.

"How can you want to live up there? his mother had asked. People will think you are a drug-addict or a… a poet!"

I don’t really care what people think, Manly had replied.

At this assertion the Lady Hero had nearly fainted.

The only way Manly could convince his mother to accept his choice (without letting her feel like a gigantic social failure), was to give her control over decorating his apartment. It had, of course, turned into a full-scale remodel.

For three months Manly’s life had been consumed by candle consultants, fabric experts, and rare woods people. Not to mention the twitchy lady who had spent an entire afternoon smelling the walls, making the contractor rip out ‘spiritually rotten’ sections. She had specialized in Décor Magic, a branch of the mystical arts that Manly’s friend Cronimus found embarrassing, insisting that it gave real magic a bad name.

The whole ordeal must have cost his mother a small fortune, but in the end Manly supposed it had turned out alright. Light blue walls that were specifically hued to accentuate his skin tone; fashionably ornate furniture that was hopelessly uncomfortable to sit on; and highly appropriate, completely uninspiring paintings hanging here and there about the space. Not the artsy apartment Manly had hoped for, but it was nice in its own way. Like a picture. Except for one, tiny detail.

The head decorator had been so enamored of the reclaimed hardwood flooring that he had refused to allow Manly a rug of any kind. Bug farms, the man had taken to calling them whenever Manly tried to gently broach the subject. Here?! the decorator would ask with a shudder and a grand gesture. "You want a bug farm here, in this domestic temple?! It nearly came to blows (well, emotional blows anyway) before the Lady Hero took Manly aside and pointed out that once the whole process was finished, and the decorator long gone, Manly could buy any hideous carpet in the entire godsdamned world."

But, with no functional concept of style to call his own, Manly had still not found the ‘bug farm’ of his dreams. He had grown increasingly convinced that this chronic ruglessness was the source of the vague, un-grounded feeling that had haunted his life of late. He resolved, for the umpteenth time, to simply make a decision and buy the first functional rug he found. It seemed like the adult thing to do. A thirty-year-old should definitely own a rug.

He turned his attention back to the sizzling omelet, but, as he did, something on the floor by his front door caught Manly’s attention. It was a small, powder blue envelope.

He froze at the sight of it. He knew exactly what it was without needing to pick it up. He knew how fine the antique paper would feel, how precise and perfect the handwriting on the card inside would be, and how that card would carry the faintest hint of a scent that would transport Manly back in time.

For that little, powder blue envelope contained a very special birthday card. It was from Manly’s long-deceased grandmother, Sophia Hero.

And, Manly knew, it was the last such card he would ever receive.

~ two ~

Manly bent to the card and reverently picked it up. He had received a similar card every birthday since his grandmother had passed, beginning with his sixteenth. That card had explained how she had written from her sickbed, knowing her time was coming to an end, and how she desperately wished she could watch her beloved grandson grow to be a man. It promised more cards in the future, and also requested, in the most earnest terms, that he keep the existence of the cards a precious secret.

Manly had never been able to work out how the cards were delivered to him. They simply arrived, most often slipped under the door of wherever he was staying, and always when his attention was otherwise occupied. Once, his mother had sent him south for his birthday, but he had still woken to find the card waiting on a table in his room at the inn. After that he had given up trying to figure out how the envelopes arrived (though he sometimes suspected magic), and simply enjoyed the fact that they came at all.

The card he had received when turning twenty-nine had warned Manly that the card for his thirtieth birthday would be the last. His grandmother had promised him this represented only the limits of her time, and not of her love. She also promised him that the last card would contain a very special message, and asked him to keep an extra eye out for it.

Manly tapped the card lightly in his palm, anticipation and sadness warring in him. Perhaps this was the grand birthday event he’d been anticipating. Part of him wanted to rip it open then and there, but a larger part of him preferred to wait. I’ll open it when I get home tonight, he thought. It will be the perfect way to end my birthday.

The faint odor of his omelet starting to burn brought Manly’s attention back to the task at hand. He opened the drawer of his prepping table and slid the blue envelope inside. Then he slipped the finished omelet onto a plate, poured himself a steaming mug of tea, and (still in his nightshirt and cap) headed for his porch.

On the way, Manly caught sight of himself in the garishly framed mirror his mother had insisted on installing, claiming that it would make this sad little space feel less pathetically small. His somewhat boyish reflection blinked back at him blearily. He balanced his teacup on the edge of his plate and reached up to smooth down his perpetually unruly brown hair. Then he turned his head side to side, narrowed his green eyes, tried to even out his lopsided grin, and tilted his jaw to a more confident angle. There, he thought, with a little nod. Now I look more like thirty. He paused. I also look like I’m smelling something foul. He made a face, grinned unevenly at himself, and stepped out onto his small porch, overlooking the communal garden.

Mr. Yaffle was already out among the plants, pruning, weeding, and doing all sorts of green-thumby things. The old gardener fancied himself a painter-poet, but Manly felt his real calling in life was the giving away of vegetables, a task at which the old man excelled.

Ms. Pennynickle was also there, lounging on a quilt at the edge of the garden, sipping gently spiked lemonade. She was the owner of Manly’s lodging house, and this was her usual rent-day collection spot. The tiny, elderly woman would spend the entire day fanning herself with one of the enormous hats she favored, and lavishing Mr. Yaffle with a never-ending stream of stories and anecdotes. Mr. Yaffle, for his part, did not seem to mind.

Ms. Pennynickle and her four sisters (each confoundingly referred to as ‘Ms. Pennynickle’) owned nearly all of Cherry Hill, and fancied themselves as great patrons of the arts. Manly’s Ms. Pennynickle in particular was convinced that every single one of her tenants was "brilliant, simply brilliant." For her, rent meant anything her tenants could provide that month, be it a poem, a song, or (luckily for Mr. Yaffle) a tremendous amount of zucchini. She had extended the same expectation to Manly, but he just couldn’t bring himself to believe that curating butterflies was art. It was scientification. Manly, therefore, paid a regular and timely rent in coin.

He exchanged pleasantries with his landlady and the gardener, thanking Mr. Yaffle again for the carrot, and putting in a request for a purple tomato as soon as they bore out.

You can have two, Mr. Yaffle offered cheerily. He stopped trimming a plant and looked up at Manly. Have you heard anything about this fire to the north? It was the talk of the tavern last night, but the talk was short on facts. Mr. Yaffle had a thing about keeping up with the latest news.

I hadn’t heard, said Manly. But, if I learn anything in the city today, I’ll fill you in this evening. And, Ms. Pennynickle? I deposited my rent in the box last night, just so you know.

Yes, yes! she chirped, raising her lemonade in approval. I saw. On time, as always. You’re my Hero! She laughed with twittering glee. It was her favorite joke. Oh, speaking of being my hero. Would you mind escorting an old lady downtown, on your way to work this morning? I have some business to attend to.

The request struck Manly as a bit odd. Ms. Pennynickle never had ‘business’ to attend to. Her business was being rich, drinking spiked lemonade, and sweetly mothering her tenants. Of course, he said. I’d be happy to. Um, how soon can you be ready to go?

Oh, I’m always ready to depart, dear, she replied. Always.

Mr. Yaffle nodded in agreement, and the two of them had a good laugh at some inside joke Manly was not part of.

I just need to finish my breakfast, said Manly, and then get dressed.

Take your time, dear, said Ms. Pennynickle, waving with her lemonade. I just appreciate the neighborliness.

My pleasure, said Manly, and he meant it. This neighborliness and sense of community was a big part of why Manly had chosen to live on Cherry Hill. It was an out-of-the-way spot really, slightly inconvenient if you worked downtown, as Manly did, but he felt it was worth the commute.

He’d chosen this specific lodging house because of its communal garden. Not that he was a gardener of any sort. Manly’s only skills with plants were the killing and eating of them. Rather, he enjoyed the garden for all the butterflies it attracted. This morning alone he could identify six species of butterfly, all of which he had personally named.

He was especially happy with the iridescent blue one whose shades shifted hypnotically as it fluttered in the sunlight, like a blue silk flag caught in a snapping breeze. As a child he’d known them by their colloquial name, Blue Dragons, and they had been his favorite butterfly. Seeing one always reminded him fondly of his grandmother’s garden, of the good days before she had passed away, while Grandpa Hero still had his wits about him. Manly had spent hours in that garden, often with Amelia, telling each other stories of the adventures they would one day share. He found it hard now to recall the full power of those daydreams, nearly two decades gone.

The Blue Dragon was the first butterfly Manly had named when the Royal Academy of Arcanonatural Scientification had appointed him to his post. Dracosus Sapphiritic Amelium. Amelia’s Sapphire Dragon.

He was still rather proud of that one.

The bells at the local Aggregate chapel rang the hour, and Manly rushed through the last of his breakfast, then hurried inside to dress. The brown pants that Ruby said made him look taller seemed like a wise choice. Then a brand new, white linen shirt, with hand stitched details on the cuffs. It seemed like a good outfit for turning thirty.

He dressed quickly, grabbed his leather satchel, and went to get Ms. Pennynickle. Manly liked being punctual, and if he was going to stay on schedule today they had a gondola to catch. After that, he would meet Cronimus and Ruby for tea and presents, then work, then off to the party his mother was throwing him.

This last thought made him shudder, and he pressed it resolutely from his mind. No point in letting it ruin the rest of the day. For now he had bigger things to worry about. Birthday things. Thirty was a big deal. It felt like the line between pretending you were an adult and actually being an adult. And Manly could not shake the feeling that something epic was going to happen today. It just had to. Whatever it was, Manly’s optimism was growing by the minute, and birthday optimism cannot be ignored.

~ three ~

As Manly escorted Ms. Pennynickle through the labyrinthine, cobblestone streets of Cherry Hill, she chattered away happily, regaling Manly with colorful stories of her youth. Her feather hat bobbed languidly as she gestured to landmarks. It seemed as though she had once visited every elegant old home they passed, most often to attend a party. To hear Ms. Pennynickle tell it, she had been quite the catch as a young woman, though she also managed to indicate (with many a demure wink) that she had not been a particularly difficult catch.

They reached the gondola station just in time to be the last two passengers on Manly’s usual car. When he reached out to hand over his coin at the ticket booth, he received a sharp slap on the wrist from Ms. Pennynickle. The tiny old woman paid for both tickets herself, brushed confidently past Manly, and elbowed a space for them on the crowded iron gondola, motioning for him to follow. During these maneuvers, she never once paused in her happy chattering.

Manly stepped into the ornate car, nodding a friendly apology to a merchant he bumped as he entered. The man didn’t even notice, absorbed as he was in reading the morning edition of the Gazelle. An enchanted headline pulsated red at the top of the page: ‘Inferno In Farwall!!!’

The gondola door clanked shut behind Manly, and the depot master rang a small brass bell mounted on the platform. This bell had a twin, at the other end of the gondola line, that would now be ringing out magically, all by itself. The gondola attendants in the downtown station had a count of thirty in which to safely secure the few passengers allowed on their lightly loaded gondola. Then the heavier car, here on Cherry Hill, would be released to the forces of gravity, pulling the lighter one up, and both cars would be taken for an exhilarating ride.

As they waited for their car to be released, Manly tried to skim the merchant’s newspaper without being too obvious. Apparently a milkmaid in Farwall had tipped over a lantern, and the fire had gotten out of control. A great number of people had died in the blaze. It sounded like pretty horrible stuff.

Sad isn’t it? Ms. Pennynickle asked.

Manly turned his head to find her watching him intently.

Very sad, Manly agreed. Those poor people.

Oh, I don’t mean them, Ms. Pennynickle replied with a small shake of her head. I was thinking about those they left behind. All of us sad, lonely people. She tilted her chin down as she said this, and her eyes disappeared behind the brim of her wild hat, leaving Manly unsure of how to respond.

He glanced back at the headline, seeing it differently now. Ms. Pennynickle was right. His heart caught in his chest as he imagined what the story meant for anyone who had relatives in that small town, far to the north. It was a painful thought. He found himself wishing there was something he could do for everyone affected by the blaze, but there wasn’t, of course. Unless a call went out for charitable contributions. If that happens, he resolved, I’ll definitely donate.

Time to go, the depot master called out. He stepped to the side of the gondola car, peering in through the iron filigree, smiling beneath his bushy mustache. Have a safe trip! he said merrily, as he threw the great brake lever mounted there.

The gondola car bounced mightily as it lurched free from its moorings, rolling forward to begin its decent into the city. Ms. Pennynickle squeezed Manly’s forearm with her tiny, birdlike hand, and lifted her face to him. Oh! she exclaimed, a delighted twinkle in her eye. I do love this part!

I know, said Manly, as the car emerged from the depot, the view opening panoramically before them. Me too.

The capital of Aldendhar spread out below them, tiny and distant, like a child’s toy. Up against the perfect blue waters of Crescent Bay stood the oldest part of Thrakis, still surrounded by mighty stone walls. Those ancient ramparts had been breached from the inside by the city itself, as it prospered and grew in the heady days after Manly’s grandfather slew the last dragon. Now the city covered the lowlands all around the bay. A loose ring of five hills surrounded these lowlands, each hill named for a different fruit (a system which Manly found unforgivably silly). And each hill had its own gondola connecting it to Old Thrakis.

The gondola car Manly and Ms. Pennynickle now rode in picked up speed as it moved out over several yellow lodging houses owned by one of her sisters. Once beyond these buildings the gondola dropped like a stone (always a thrill), as the cable dove down the steep, western slope of Cherry Hill. Manly put an arm around Ms. Pennynickle, instinctively trying to protect her from the jostling of the car and its other occupants, but the gesture was unnecessary. She smiled up at him, obviously enjoying herself.

A high-pitched whistle started up as the iron cage tore down over the mansions of the recently gentrified western slope. Then came a heavy feeling in Manly’s legs as the car leveled out and shot off over the lowland districts, with their annoyingly identical houses and markets. Here, at the halfway point, the other gondola hurtled past on its way up, nothing more than a blur to the eyes. Manly looked out ahead, anticipating the adrenaline buzz he always received near the end of the ride. He felt a light squeeze on his arm and glanced at Ms. Pennynickle.

This is my other favorite part! she said loudly, above the whistling of the wind.

Ahead of them the ancient wall of Old Thrakis, with its twelve massive gargoyles perched protectively around the rim, loomed large. The feeling that one was about to crash was very strong, until a sharp climb in the cable hurled the car up and over the granite battlements, taking away its momentum. The brakes came on and the world around them slowed back to its normal pace as the gondola came to a jerking, staggering stop at Breadmarket Station, depositing its passengers into the bustle and chaos of Thrakis.

I do so love that ride, Ms. Pennynickle said with a chuckle. They made their way down the steep stone stairs of the depot platform, joining the rush of people along Market Street. Exhilarating! I’m certain I’m going to die every time.

Manly grinned at her as he offered his arm. She certainly was a unique old lady. And, where can I escort you today, Ms. Pennynickle? he asked.

She took his arm with a delicate little curtsy, the most ladylike of manners, then launched off down the street, heading deeper into Old Thrakis, nearly dragging Manly along behind her. This way, dear, she said sweetly. This way.

Market Street, the main thoroughfare of Thrakis, sloped away ahead of them, down through the heart of the city, all the way to the docks (where Ruby liked to spend her time). Shops of every sort lined the street. Here, toward the eastern end, were the mid-scale shops; the discount cloth merchants, the secondhand tome shops, the working-class cobblers and such. Vendors who couldn’t afford shops cluttered the sidewalks with their carts and blankets. A great many of these were food vendors, doing a brisk morning trade. Manly found it nearly impossible to start hungry at one end of Market Street and make it to the other without purchasing at least one tasty morsel. The whole thing was a wondrous, discordant symphony of color, smell, and sound. Manly loved the crush and busyness, the energy and the anonymity of it.

Dear me, Ms. Pennynickle said. Market Street gets busier every year. Or, perhaps it only seems that way. Perhaps it stays the same, but I slow down. She giggled as if the concept pleased her somehow. Oh, I spent so many crazy nights here, you know? she said, raising an eyebrow at Manly. When I was just a little younger. She winked.

Manly tried to imagine a younger Ms. Pennynickle, but couldn’t. She had the look of a woman who had always been ninety-two.

This city can be a wonderful place, she continued, breathing deep of the mixed aroma of Market Street. Wonderful and terrifying.

A crier on a small platform yelled out the morning news as Manly and Ms. Pennynickle hurried past. The story had changed since the morning papers were printed. Now they were saying the fire in Farwall had started with an explosion at a small spellworks. I’ll have to remember to tell Cronimus, thought Manly. He’ll be interested to hear that!

This is my stop, dear, Ms. Pennynickle said, coming to a sudden halt, interrupting Manly’s thoughts. He looked up at the stout brick building they were standing in front of. A small wooden sign, with ornately painted lettering, hung from an iron bar above the door. It read, ‘Harrington, Hemington, Procter, Procter, and Peeves: Three Good Lawyers, Four Excellent Liars, and all Five Chaps have Reasonable Fees.’

Are you sure? Manly asked, frowning. He wondered what Ms. Pennynickle was doing here. With the money she had at her disposal, she could have afforded an attorney from the Palace District.

I’m quite certain, dear, she said patiently. The address has not changed since I was a small girl.

Manly glanced back up at the sign. Above it sat a window, and through this he caught a glimpse of a man staring down at them. He was tall and very thin, with a gaunt, serious face. Manly could have sworn the man was wearing a dusted gentlemen’s wig, though such things had not been in style for at least fifty years. The man’s eyes grew wide when Manly looked at him, and he ducked quickly from view.

Manly turned to Ms. Pennynickle. I don’t mean to intrude, he said, but… you aren’t in any trouble, are you?

She chuckled and reached out to pat his cheek in a motherly way. You really are my Hero. No, I’m not in any trouble. One of my sisters passed recently, that’s all, and I’m hearing her will today.

Manly was stricken, feeling as if he understood her reaction to the Farwall headline better now. Oh, I’m… I’m so sorry for your loss, he said. I hadn’t heard.

Thank you, dear, said Ms. Pennynickle, but I’m fine, really. Tabitha was ninety-four! That’s a lot of years we had together, exploring this wonderful life. I’m just a bit jealous, truth be told. She’s on to her next adventure, and here I am, taking on more and more responsibility. She pulled a piece of paper from her small handbag and frowned at it. Tabitha owned quite a bit more property than I do. I’m afraid a lot of it will fall to me now. I suppose it’s all part of growing older. She lifted her head and looked at Manly. You’ll understand soon enough, turning thirty and all. Happy birthday, by the way. I didn’t want to say anything in front of Mr. Yaffle. He’d bury you in artichokes.

Oh, thank you, Manly said, though he felt a little strange accepting the congratulations. It was odd to admit to something like a birthday, when so many others were in mourning.

Ms. Pennynickle moved up the steps and Manly opened the heavy wooden door for her. Would you like me to wait for you? he asked. Walk you back to the gondola?

She chuckled. I can take care of myself, dear. I just enjoy your company, is all. Roped you into an escort so I’d have someone to chatter with. Besides, I could be here quite a long while, and I know you like to be on time for things. Go meet Ruby and Cronimus. Say ‘hello’ for me. Oh, I do so adore your friends. She stepped inside, then turned back. And, for the gods sake, don’t waste the whole day working! Make time for a bit of adventure, dear. This life is only so long. She turned and moved inside, waving over her head as she did.

I will, Manly promised with a grin, watching the old woman until she had shuffled the length of the corridor and disappeared around a corner.

~ four ~

There were no less than six White Whale teashops in Old Thrakis alone (not counting the numerous blue and white vendor carts scattered throughout the city, like so much caffeinated confetti). The shop Manly and his friends frequented (the one he referred to in conversation as my Whale) occupied part of a renovated textile factory on the corner of Market and Grand. This specific shop was a convenient stop on his morning commute, and on Cronimus’ as well. Ruby, having neither commute nor consistent living arrangements, didn’t really care where they met.

Brass bells chimed Manly’s arrival as he opened the door to the teashop, and he was met by all the warm, earthy smells that should inhabit such a place. Jaela, the portly manager, glanced up from where she stood at an iron stove covered in whistling, copper tea kettles. She had the air of a captain, firmly in control at the helm of her ship.

Oh, good morning, Manly! she called out happily across the crowded shop, holding up a hand to pause the customer she had been helping. Come in! It’s Tuesday, right? So… that’s a black tea Caramel Catapult for you.

Manly nodded. Yes, it is. Thank you. Feeling like a regular here always gave him a warm glow. For no reason that Manly could explain, Jaela had taken a real shining to him, and he rather liked it. Convenience aside, she was the real reason Manly frequented this particular Whale.

Jaela turned her back on the line of customers waiting at her counter, and started collecting the ingredients for Manly’s drink, as if she were in her own personal kitchen and Manly were her only guest. Take a seat, dear, she said. I’ll bring it out to you.

The entire line of customers turned to glare at Manly, and he winced at them apologetically. No, it’s fine, Jaela, he said. I can wait in line.

She waved him off without glancing up from her stove. Don’t be silly, Manly, she chuckled merrily. And your tea’s free this morning, being your birthday and all.

The line of customers glared again and shook their heads, but no one spoke up. Jaela had been known to permanently refuse service to those who dared complain in her shop. And being cut off from her scones was a dire fate indeed.

Manly nodded another quick apology to the other patrons, then moved toward an open table with a couple of comfy chairs by the large, storefront window. There was no sign of Ruby or Cronimus yet, but he’d expected no different from his perpetually tardy friends.

Next to the table Manly chose, two merchants sat talking about business and the state of the local economy. The senior of the two gestured languidly as he spoke, the massive Merchant Guild ring on his right hand flashing like a beacon in the sunlight. Both men were dressed in the finest current fashion of the semi-rich. Finely patterned silk vests under linen summer jackets, big, floppy, red velvet merchant’s hats, and highly improbable mustaches, curving and whirling around up-turned noses. They sipped at their tea, frowning superiorly, and Mm-hmming to one another in constant agreement.

Manly found an unoccupied wooden chair nearby, and pulled it up to his chosen table, so Ruby would have a place to sit. (She had recently decided that plain wooden chairs were under-appreciated, and was doing her best to give them all a little attention.) Then Manly settled down into a super-soft, velvet chair. It was standard White Whale blue, with a subtle, white paisley pattern. He sighed contentedly, and turned his attention outside. It was an absolutely perfect morning, after a long, rainy start to the summer.

Traffic beyond the window was really starting to pick up as people hurried off to work or to shop. Manly’s Whale marked a loose boundary between the upper and middle-class shops along Market Street, and this part of the city attracted a nice potpourri of lifestyles and cultures. He loved sitting here in the mornings. It was as if he were peering through the glass into a massive terrarium.

From the free-love communers of the Southbridge district, with their mangy hairdos and tie-died togas, to the affluent merchants of Wedgetown, stopping by for a scone on their way to the harbor to welcome a ship, or to send one off. Manly loved inventing stories for the people that rushed past the window, especially those most outlandishly dressed. He wondered if their lives were as interesting as their outfits, or if they were just dressed to compensate for how boring they felt inside.

This morning he barely had time to properly start people-watching before Jaela came striding proudly across the shop, carrying a gargantuan, steaming tea mug, half the size of Manly’s head. He tried not to look shocked, or intimidated.

I found this at Breadmarket! Jaela declared excitedly. I instantly thought of…

She was interrupted by a clattering of brass bells, as a tall, dark-haired man entered the Whale, using his back to shove open the door. He came twisting into the shop, tripping over the threshold, muttering impotent curses beneath his breath, as loose parchments hemorrhaged from his book-laden arms. He stooped and bent in all directions at once, grabbing handfuls of papers, losing as many as he collected, the tails of his long black overcoat flapping like the wings of some great and wounded bird.

The first of Manly’s two closest friends had finally arrived. It was Cronimus Crudge, looking frazzled and distracted as usual.

~ five ~

Apologizing eloquently and grandly, Cronimus bumped and jostled his way through the crowded shop towards Manly’s table. Jaela set the massive tea mug in front of Manly and then stood, hands on hips, glaring at the new arrival as he approached.

Cronimus had nearly reached the seat Manly was saving for him, when he suddenly tripped on his own feet, surprise registering briefly in his deep brown eyes as he lurched forward. Somehow he managed to dump most of his books and papers onto the table as he fell past, but he himself landed in a tangled heap on the floor. Fortunately, Manly scooped up the head-sized mug just in time, and thus avoided drowning in his Caramel Catapult.

Cronimus leapt back to his feet, his wavy hair a fluffed mess. Oh, fuck it all! he swore loudly, in frustration. It sounded rather silly in his refined, proper accent. He seemed to suddenly become aware of his audience and sat down in his chair, turning in a half circle as he did. Sorry, he whispered, so very sorry. He smoothed his hair down with both hands, scratched at his perpetually stubbled chin, and straightened his wrinkled coat. This seemed to resurrect his dignity and he sighed contentedly.

Cronimus nodded to Manly, a very formal gesture. Good morning, Manly, he said gravely. Happy birthday. Then he turned to Jaela and smiled as if he had just noticed her. Ah, Jaela my dear! You radiate. Summer becomes you. I would absolutely adore one of those blueberry scones you’re becoming so very famous for, hmm? Warm, with a half-pat of butter?

Jaela huffed. I always radiate. Order at the counter like everyone else. She headed back to her post at the iron stove, as normal conversations resumed around the room.

Well! said Cronimus, stooping to gather up a few last papers from the floor. Can you believe that woman? We have been coming here for years and she still does not know who I am! Besides. Look at that line. It’s absolutely serpentine.

Manly was still holding the huge mug out above the table and his arms were starting to ache. He nodded at the pile of papers and books. Do you mind?

Hmm? Oh gods, sorry Manly, said Cronimus. That is an obscenely large tea mug. He started shoving fistfuls of parchment into his satchels, bags, and even the pockets of his overcoat. He had no less than four different bags slung from his shoulders, ostensibly to organize his ‘research’ into various categories, but there didn’t seem to be any order to the way he stuffed papers here and there.

The papers themselves were full of strange notes and diagrams in Cronimus’ unexpectedly neat and flowing handwriting. Some were surely notes for his classes later in the day, and he would regret not paying better attention to which bag or pocket he was now stuffing them into. But most of the papers were likely new spells that Cronimus was working on. There was big money in patenting a useful spell, and Cronimus was convinced that was his ticket to the good life. He’d never had a spell actually work, not properly anyway, but that didn’t stop him from trying. Constantly.

And it wasn’t just to make money. For Cronimus it was a matter of pride and identity. He had to create a successful, useful spell. If he didn’t, he’d be the first adult Crudge in five-hundred years to never have an official entry in Blackmore’s Compendium of Spells and Hexes. Manly knew the constant failures were a burden that seriously weighed on his friend.

Cronimus collected his books into a sloppy pile at the edge of the table. Manly couldn’t remember ever, not in their entire lives, seeing Cronimus without a book somewhere close by. These had titles like History of the Mage-Kings, Common Garden Alchemy, and Better Pyrokinesis in 30 Minutes a Day. (The last was more of a pamphlet than a book, and looked to be one of the magical-improvement courses Cronimus was always getting suckered into.)

Manly set his mug down and rubbed his wrists. Jaela knows exactly who you are, which is probably part of the problem.

Cronimus looked scandalized. "What is that supposed to mean?"

Cronimus was a Crudge of the Shassur Crudge’s, the oldest and most respected mage family in all of Aldendhar. So old that several bedtime stories featured Crudges doing this or that bit of magic. History of the Mage-Kings could very well have been titled A Family History of the Crudges, and if Manly wasn’t careful Cronimus would tell him all about it.

Again.

He didn’t feel like arguing on his birthday so he pointed to the books, changing the subject. Busy?

Cronimus perked up instantly, his dark eyes shining. He loved talking magic. "Oh yes, very busy! I am giving a big test this week. I expect it will be impossible to pass. He grinned. I still cannot believe I am stuck teaching summer classes. Again! He waggled a hand dismissively at the stack of books, then dug through one of his satchels excitedly. But this! This is what has been occupying the greater part of my attention of late." He dumped a handful of crumpled parchments onto the table, smoothing them out and arranging them neatly in front of Manly, to whom they were quite incomprehensible.

They were certainly fun to look at though; so full of strange diagrams and complicated magical calculations, written in Cronimus’ flowing hand. The papers looked very wizardy.

Is it a spell? asked Manly. Cronimus had a whole shelf in his minuscule apartment overflowing with failed spells he’d designed, some going back to when they were kids.

No, said Cronimus. It is a potion. Well, more of an elixir really. Very exciting!

An elixir? Manly thought, frowning. He still hadn’t entirely forgiven Cronimus for using him as a guinea pig for a particularly nasty ‘Elixir of Biceps’ their freshman year. What’s it supposed to do? he asked, suspicious.

"Take, for example, that elephantine tea you are chugging your way through. Going to really perk you up, isn’t it? Or ruin you, more like. Where did she find that mug?!"

Breadmarket, I think, said Manly. It’s like a tea bathtub. I love it.

Well, said Cronimus, tapping a finger on one of the diagrams. Three sips of the ‘Elixir of Unwakefulness’ and your tea-buzz is gone like that! He tried snapping his fingers, didn’t quite pull it off, then snapped them triumphantly and sat back with a smug smile. He immediately leaned forward again. That smells delicious. May I? He lifted the mug to his lips with both hands. Oh, it weighs a ton. He took a sip. Mmmm. Very nice.

Manly smiled. Usually Cronimus’ idea of what constituted useful magic was a bit sketchy, at best, but this… You know, that’s not a half-bad idea, Cron. For people who enjoy black tea, but don’t want the buzz. Maybe people would like a cup before they go to sleep. Seems like there could be a market for that.

Cronimus nodded excitedly. That is what I thought as well. Establishments such as this could remain open later. Think of all the late night tea business my elixir would create! He sighed and looked out the window. It would be nice, wouldn’t it? A best-selling elixir. I could retire early from teaching and dedicate myself full-time to designing spells. His voice trailed off as he lost himself in the beautiful thought.

Does it work? Manly asked gently.

Hm? Does what work? asked Cronimus.

The elixir.

Oh, yes. Well, mostly.

Mostly, eh? said Manly. You know, I’ve been on the receiving end of a few of your experiments that ‘mostly’ worked.

Oh, honestly, huffed Cronimus. I have apologized quite enough for all of that, and besides, it was ages ago.

Maybe for you, said Manly. I still have a mole.

"A benign mole," Cronimus pointed out.

Manly stared at him. So. This ‘Elixir of Unwakefulness?’ What does ‘mostly work’ mean?

Well, said Cronimus, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. I gave some to my reader, and it completely negated all the effects of the tea he had ingested.

Wow, said Manly, that’s good, right?

Yes, said Cronimus, reaching forward to take another sip of Manly’s drink. Only, he… fell asleep.

For how long?

Cronimus squinted. Today is Tuesday, right? Oh, call it… four days.

Wow, said Manly.

Yeah, said Cronimus, looking over his parchments. He un-shouldered his bags, getting more comfortable, and then removed his long, black overcoat, giving Manly his first look at the outfit beneath.

Manly nearly choked on his tea. He shook his head. Cronimus! What… what are you wearing?

Cronimus looked offended in that haughty way he had perfected. "I am wearing a shirt, thank-you very much." He folded his coat neatly and placed it under his chair.

The ‘shirt’ (as Cronimus called it) was a noisy affair of lavender silk and gold embroidery, with skin tight sleeves, and ruffles running down a neckline that plunged from each shoulder into a very deep ‘v.’ Cronimus had shaved his chest for the occasion.

Cronimus sat up a little straighter. "I will have you know that this, he pulled at the shirt with thumb and forefinger, is vintage Frederico Farelli. Only thirteen and a half were ever made. I have it on good authority that one will sit on permanent display in that new fashion exhibit at your museum. And, now, one sits on me."

I thought that Farelli guy made women’s clothes, Manly said.

Cronimus sniffed. "He designs, and I quote, ‘raiment for the beautiful woman and the adventurous man!’ And his vintage lines are making a comeback. This is the absolute latest in fashion." He said this proudly, as if he had accomplished something grand. Cronimus had always had a fascination with anything on the cutting edge of fashion, but never seemed to be able to quite pull it off. People were staring.

Manly nodded. Oh, I’m sure it’s the latest fashion. If you’re twelve. And a girl. Gods, Cron, you look like an out-of-work troubadour! He pointed a finger and grinned evilly. Oh, when Ruby gets here she is going to cry her one good eye right out of her head, and die from laughing. At you. For once you will be dressed more conspicuously than her. Speaking of. Where is Ruby? This is extra late, even for her.

Yes, said Cronimus, sitting up a little straighter to show how little Manly’s mockery bothered him. Which brings us nicely to something I have been wanting to discuss with you for some time now.

Is it serious? asked Manly.

Yes, actually, said Cronimus. It rather is.

Then please put your coat back on. I can’t take you seriously in that shirt.

Oh, just listen, will you? Cronimus cleared his throat. You see, Manly, I have been thinking. Quite a lot lately, about us. The three of us, I mean. Ruby mostly, but also about you and I, and also about her and about our friendship. Specifically about our friendship being… well, being the three of us. You see what I’m saying?

No, said Manly. Is this about you still having a thing for Ruby?

"I do not have a thing!" Cronimus said, a bit too loudly. A couple of teenage girls sitting nearby giggled and put their hands to their mouths. Manly couldn’t help but notice that their blouses had certain, frightening similarities to the shirt Cronimus was wearing.

Oh, honestly, Cronimus said to them. Grow up and eat your scones! He turned back to Manly and said, in a quieter voice, I do not have a thing for Ruby. I will grant you that there has been a certain attraction in the past, but that is all quite over now, I assure you. It is also entirely beside the point.

Manly strongly doubted that the candle Cronimus had long carried for Ruby had suddenly burnt out, but decided not to press the issue. Then what are you talking about?

Cronimus sighed and shifted in his chair again. He seemed unsure of how to begin. Why do we associate with Ruby?

Associate?

Cronimus frowned and rolled his eyes. Why do we ‘hang out’ with her? Why do we spend so much time with Ruby?

Manly shrugged. She’s our friend.

Exactly! said Cronimus triumphantly. Why is Ruby our friend?

I don’t know, said Manly. She’s been our friend for, what… twenty-some years? She’s just our friend! Does there have to be a why?

Cronimus smiled his I’m-about-to-be-very-right smile, which always made Manly want to prove him wrong. Manly, you and I are going places in the world, becoming men of standing, of society and means. You are the big ‘three-oh’ today, after all, and I am not far behind. You do important scientification work at the Royal Museum of Arcanonatural History. You are a Curator, and I am proud to be your friend. He placed a humble hand on his naked chest. I am a student of the Deep Arts, and an up-and-coming Professor of Magic. The world is our oyster and fame is the fork with which we shall pry it open and suck out its… its… well, its succulence, I guess. We are going places, Manly. And Ruby? She is nothing more than a… He lowered his voice. …than a common thief! A pickpocket. An impressively talented one, to be sure, but a common, petty criminal nonetheless. He sat back in his chair and held out his palms apologetically. "I hate