The Blue Book of Wisecraft

By Connor Kerns

Lease Mottle practices michemistry, a form of magic. He is loyal to the goddess Hecta, loves Lady Heloniss, and cares for his family estate. But fanatic muddyed from a rival cult have come to Prosper Isle seeking the lost ancient books of wisecraft. Mottle beats them to finding the Blue Book of Knowledge, setting off a race among the cults to also find the Red Book of Power and the Black Book of Foresight. Though a scholar and an herbalist, Heloniss doesn't understand the book or wisecraft, even though she is wrongly suspected of also being a practicer of wisecraft. She must flee persecution and use her wits as she is hunted by muddyed and Kadge Goodfellow, whose skills as a spy may kill or save her. Can she and Mottle safely bring the Blue Book's wisdom to its origin in the Uplands? And will she marry Mottle as everyone expects, or will she choose the dangerous Goodfellow instead? The Blue Book of Wisecraft blends elements of fantasy, science fiction, romance, and the flavor of Shakespeare's dialogue. It is the first in "The Three Books of Wisecraft" series, which continues in The Red Book of Wisecraft and concludes in The Black Book of Wisecraft.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Connor Kerns
• Release date: Jun 21, 2021
• ISBN: 9781005295400

Connor Kerns

Connor lives in Portland, Oregon. He started writing poetry at the age of 11, and his first published poetry book was Image Made Word (1990, Roan LTD).He got up the nerve to start e-publishing novels in 2020, and the following titles are available: The Hero of Houston, an eco-thriller; Measure Her, a comedy-romance; Blue Blossom, a historical memoir set in World War II; and a sci-fi/fantasy trilogy, The Three Books of Wisecraft series.Premieres of play adaptations of Jane Austen novels, Persuasion and Northanger Abbey, were produced by Quintessence: Language & Imagination Theatre, where he was Artistic Director. Other productions of his plays include: Pride and Prejudice, The Child is Father of the Man, Face Reader, and Treatment (Quintessence); A Bawdy Tale (Montgomery Street Players); Zaney (Arts Equity); I Go to War and Vaward of Pallas 3 (Epicurean); The Folio (CoHo) and Where No Storms Come (Stark Raving Theatre).He is also a director, having received his MFA in Directing at the University of Portland, and he taught acting for 24 years. His book Imaginative Doing, Collected Essays on Acting was published in 2013.

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The Blue Book of Wisecraft

First of The Three Books of Wisecraft Series

Connor Kerns

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2021 Connor Kerns

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

Thank you for downloading this ebook. The Blue Book of Wisecraft remains the copyrighted property of the author, Connor Kerns, and may not be redistributed to others for commercial or non-commercial purposes. If you enjoy this book, please encourage your friends to download their own copy. Thank you for your support.

Chapter 0, Prologue

I tell stories. I do not write. I will pronounce the story of the Wise Book Blue--it be your office to remember it.

Colors, look you, make a good beginning to a story. They un-shutter the windows of the mind. They open onto blue sky and grey rain, the rusts of the desert, the blackness of the moon and the starry night sky. But a wichemist or michemist or a mystic might look inward to the three whels of the body, and believers like us might see three blazons of the gods: blue for our Hecta; red for Zo; black for Dia. And yet, you may argue, Dians wear green and not black and I, though a Hectan, wear black. O, ay, black hides me indeed, and unnoticed I listen, and later I tell the stories I have heard. For stories contain contraries and wisdom, yet in the end all gods and all wights are one with the Great Mother.

But you have asked me for a story and not about allegiance or a moral, and you wonder when will my story begin? You are seeing colors, are you not? You are thinking about yourself and Globe, are you not? You are recalling that wights--and gods--equivocate, are you not?

Now let me tell you the first time I met our goddess. She was a grey woman with hard skin, like the side of a burning mountain. That was year 1723. (O, ay, I am very old.) When next I encountered her, she was pale everywhere. That was year 1776. Now it is the Year of the Goddess. Will it also be the year we see her again, and will she come to our aid at last? For it is sure, these recent days of Trigonese terror have made many of us long for wisdom. And, perchance, will it be the year of the Wise Books?

For all this is prologue to what Sion Mottle lately found, following the path blazed by Deed the Miner. Certain, Deed the Miner be a strange name. Like me, Deed was a traveler. As our sion tells it, Deed was aboard a galley ship bound for Nama. He heard the oarsmen chanting an ancient work song about the three colors. He fancied they might signify three books that belong to the three whels in the body and the three orbs of the Great Mother: the blue globe, the red sun, and the black moon.

I should say that the Trigonese name them the Wiche Books, though I name them The Wise Books: Wise Book Blue; Wise Book Red; Wise Book Black.

But alack, Deed's knowledge perished after he spoke to Sion Mottle. And it be here that our sion, like a player, enters the story. For if Deed be silenced, could it be that the Wise Book Blue, and Mottle, will speak?

Part First: Fall Equinoc, Globe Year 1777

"One two three

Bound book key

Three two one

Moon globe sun

"Black red blue

Crown roo’ throo’

Blue red black

Ye’ now back."

(Galley bondmen work song)

Chapter 1, Lease and Heloniss

Hold Lease MOTTLE's thoughts flitted between the visitor on the porch and the trunk in his chamber: was it the object hidden there or the man at the door--or something else--that had caused a sudden tension around his heart, a pulled bowstring? It was certainly a Prosper man with a disarming manner, nothing like the whipjacks from Trigon at the crossroads. The face was vaguely familiar though he certainly didn't dwell in Wayfair. But why the disturbance inside Mottle's heart and not an alarm of fear in his mind?

Tricking away these suspicions with a breath, Mottle spoke a polite greeting to the man and held his jealousies tight. In reply, the visitor's baritone became urgent, Look you, I seek the Lady Heloniss.

That took Mottle aback. Did the man not realize he was the landholder of Grey Cross? Just because his people were cleaning up the morning meal and harvesting in the fields and he had answered the mansion door himself? He caught sight of a green heart brooch at the fellow's neck--it probably meant that the new head priest of the Dian Temple had sent him.

He answered courteously that the Lady was at work in her garden. The visitor insisted, I be of Handmaiden's Temple, and I would speak to the lady of this tainture, for report says she dwells here.

Mottle was amused at the sanctimonious enunciation of the word ‘lady’ and the lofty legality of 'tainture' to describe Grey Cross--surely these weren't the man's native syllables but some Dian priest's! His errand must wait, apparently. Lady Heloniss Prose dwells here indeed. He purposely colored his answer with pride. The stranger's intent eyes were unblinking, however, hair scarcely contained beneath a tight-fitting cap, as if a powerful energy lurked, scarcely held in check.

I would speak to her private. They locked eyes and a wide grin broke out on the other's face. If you please.

Mottle couldn't help but smile back and inclined his head at the unexpected and delayed courtesy. It helped suppress a feeling he could only identify as misgiving. For surely, this man could have nothing to do with the searchers from Trigon and the prize in the trunk? He couldn't remember meeting an unkind Dian--he sometimes envied their sweetness compared to the bitter, somber folk in his own cult. His heart told him this was a good man. Meanwhile, his brain agitated, because his errand pressed and the old man's ghost haunted while strangers skulked along the borders of the estate. Such mixed up sensations were common, and michemistry had taught him to trust them.

I bid you follow me, sir. He rejected the temptation to ask the visitor if he had seen any Trigonese on his way from his temple. Instead, he led the way through the high hedge. Heloniss was not hard to find in the section she had marked off as her garden, grunting and bending between two hand-carts, one empty and the other piled high with long-stemmed marigolds.

He met her lightsome eyes, indicated the Dian, and announced, Lady Heloniss, here you see a visitor would speak with you.

If you please, sir, anon. Her natural liveliness could not completely varnish her strength of command, and Mottle observed the stranger accepting the delay with a slight bow that was both informal and easy. Almost at once, Heloniss turned to him. Hold Mottle, your hands, if you please, the calendulas’ unruly.

Unruly because, he noted with irritation, she had over-stacked the cart. He sensed the visitor's eyes widening as the man realized he was not some servant but the lord of the estate! I am your servant, Lady, he quipped and grasped the cart on each side while she gathered, stacked, and broadcast the remaining flowers. Their guest took several steps back to avoid being pelted. Heloniss swept up the strays with mitten gloves that reached to her elbows, and the well-worn rough leather evidenced a long gardening history. Her curly hair, tinged with gray, tumbled freely as she piled the last marigolds high on the cart, which wobbled in his hands as she pushed, shoved, and finally climbed up and lay upon them to press them down, her broad hips accentuated by the work dress. He held on tightly lest the cart run away and also held his tongue while, awkwardly, she rolled off with a terrific grunt.

When she got her balance, gasping slightly, her sprightly gaze met his. I thank you, sir. A goodly autumn morning's work.

But Lady, why not use the other cart?

That cart is for lavandula. She patted the pile. Lavender in the vulgar. He rubbed his hands, surveying the orange stains. You may leave us to our propose, I know you are in haste. But immediately as he turned to go she burst out, Hold, Hold! Drawing up her skirts, she strode over to a low plant, cut, and offered him some leaves. Chew this borago. It will ease your mind.

He took the offering, enjoying the brief touch of their hands. Could this woman read his mood better than a wiche? Though he'd told her nothing about his anxious haste to ride to the temple with the prize, perhaps because he had shown it to her last night, she guessed? But he must not delay or involve her further--there was nothing more to do except take his leave, which he did.

Every servant's business is his own, she said dryly. He couldn't help but look back and smile; he noticed the visitor smiling, too. Hurrying back to the mansion, he wondered if he should be jealous.

Now, welcome, sir, what would you? HELONISS' guest's fleeting look of favor vanished and he remained silent, so she prompted him, Y'are a Goodfellow, is it not so? He stared with hot eyes that flickered and dropped and gave her leisure to observe his large hands and thick windswept hair framed by a leathern cap. Unlike the just-departed Lease Mottle, whose dark-soft eyes, steep craggy nose, thinner hair, and deft fingers imparted an air of efficiency and restlessness, this man was light-footed, sinewy, his eyes fierce, his body settled. Your brother worked at the market, Heloniss continued when he remained silent. Did you not attend him on occasion?

I...even so, lady. His tentative response resonated musical and deep.

Which are you?

Kadge Goodfellow, lady.

Even so, Kadge Goodfellow. Brushing the marigold stems from her sleeves and stepping away from the laden carts, she nodded at the clasp holding his cloak: I see you are wearing the badge of the Dia Temple. The clasp was heart-shaped, which she knew reflected the saying, ‘And take our hearts.’

This totem--token, Goodfellow stammered, Signs that I speak with our priest’s voice. Heloniss judged him to be about her age, much shorter than Lease, a compact frame that, she imagined, hid a quick strength and made an intriguing contrast to his social awkwardness. I am to...you are... He stopped, his hands dropping to his sides. He started again, more confidently, Know you there is writ a new decree on wisecraft. It is henceforth to be reported. Know you any wichery to report?

O, cults and decrees, Heloniss said shaking her head. Who can piece out their rulings? Why, I have heard some are barred from eating cabbage after dark.

Indeed? Yet I have not heard that rule.

No? Well, then, look to it, man. This is all? She smiled mischievously.

But the visitor was somber-faced. It may be the 'craft is done upon these grounds. And if it be so...it should be told.

At that empty threat, she bristled. Some say this calendula will draw madness from the mind. She stared hard at him. Marigold in the vulgar. I’ve found by practice that it soothes sunburn. Now she narrowed her eyes, You have leave to carry an armful back to your Temple. Sure someone knows herb-lore there, and you see I have an excess. It will be of more use to your cult than tattling decrees or gossip.

You will not heed my warning? If--

Warning! O, ay, upon compulsion, well bethought. The annoyance pricked her again, but she said playfully, Think you this: you have warned me in good time, and there’s an end on it. As you see, pointing to the garden, I am what I say I am: an herbalist. His expression was blank. Could this be about the strange book that Lease had found the day before? How could they have possibly heard of it up at Handmaidens' Temple? Besides, what did the fat old men there teach him? In exchange for ‘taking his heart’ for their goddess? However, she reflected, she knew little about his reclusive cult, including if his teachers were fat or not. Guilt softened her address. Come, Master Goodfellow, have you ever seen wiches conjuring marigolds or harvesting barley or crushing grapes? This mirth had little effect, for he remained silent, and she became blunt. Why do you run such an unmannerly errand against us?

The man’s face seemed to open a little. I owe a debt.

And I owe Hold Mottle a debt.

Then... He made an inconclusive gesture which might have been a warning but dissolved into a dropped hand.

What? Heloniss folded her arms and waited. He looked uncertain what to do, watching her with his flashing eyes. If his office hadn't been so unpleasant, she might think him striking. What is the punishment if one here is proven practicer of wichemistry? Houses your temple vindictive soldiers? I thought Dia protected women.

She protects. But we...I am to warn of mischief-makers and to find.... It seemed he was too embarrassed to continue.

She extended a hand. Well I thank you for your care. His face looked innocent with doubt-break to light it: a hint rosy, rounded, smoothing the lines at the corners of his mouth. I hope we may be friends.

Lady, I will take my leave, he mumbled without taking her hand.

She could have departed without another word, but she was curious about his orders. Wisecraft they practice in Weki and Nom's Land. Will Dian decrees be enforced there?

The man seemed to consider. I have delivered the warning for this tainture. He backed away but he didn't leave. His eyes moved across hers, face alternating red-dark-light like a Prime Equinoc sky.

Why did he stay? Why did she? Should she invite him for nunchin? She dismissed this idea and her guest by saying graciously, Well, Kadge Goodfellow, I thank you for your pains.

Some strangled pleasantry wrung out in his throat, he shook his head, and darted away. She watched as his easy gait carried him across the fields. She checked a rush of fascination that made her glow inside, chuckled, and cut a long length of twine to tie down the marigolds.

MOTTLE passed through the gap in the hedge and along it to the mansion door, chewing the leaves Heloniss had given him. He knew her medicine was always good. The prairie grass stretched westward, where a stand of evergreen trees stopped his eye. On either side of the trees, he knew, a slope tumbled down into the sea. Some miles distant, the mist was thinning and he could see the houses in Wayfair and the top of the water mill. The apple tree dripped dew. Or was it rain? The flats steamed in the morning sun, rabbits appeared and disappeared. Distant conversation and dull thuds reached his ear—the house servants putting away the dishes. His stomach reminded him he had not eaten since yesterday when the strangers came. Voices rose in laughter, then fell. Steps creaked.

He didn't open the door. Though Davy would be waiting with Midnight saddled, he remained on the porch and swallowed the leaves. Time might be essential, but shouldn't he wait for the Dian to leave? His heart seemed full in his chest, swollen by a lingering pressure. He checked the rain--he had not expected it today. Because it was an island, Prosper entertained weather from all directions. Some trick, however, kept it mostly dry, as clouds often emptied their cargo in the high Bar Mountains, visible miles away beyond Mauger Strait and the Six Valley. Their sharpened, frozen tips seemed to rise as waves out of the Western Sea. Out of his view in the other direction, Tamia’s coast also endured rains and winds. But over Prosper Island, the blue sky opened above on many days when it was cloudy southwest and northeast. Today, however, he would get wet riding into Wayfair.

Even though it was the busy fall time--the grapes just in and crushed and the field crops only just started--he had set up his estate to run without him, for Hecta's Temple came first. A damp pile of straw lay on the porch. Soon they would have to cover the slate floors his father had installed--the moisture would make them too slippery. His father had also roofed with slate. He remembered the men ferrying the slate and cobbles from distant Sawahill, arriving in batches over the course of a long, tedious summer.

He cared little for building, unlike his forbears, and preferred to leave it and the manage of his fields to others. Wayfair's main dock with its stone embankment was the first major project on the island, followed by the warehouse at the water’s edge, and his great-great grandfather had overseen the work. Later, his great grandfather's boast was to bring the triphammer from Tamia and engineered it so the water mill could pound flax some days and wool on others. And then, as his grandfather proudly pronounced, Wayfair had thus become a city. From his studies, though, he knew that there were much greater cities in Tamia, Weki, and Trigon, and he wished once again he could see them himself.

Wayfair's small harbor was like other river harbors on the island. A long crescent-shaped spit protected the bay from the worst weather. Pilings had been driven out into the light surf, and a trading port had thrived since. But besides Grey Cross, the place he cared most about was the Hectan Temple on Wayfair's bluff.

Though all was ripe to go there, he delayed his errand, as if he were about to move away from home and wished to remember things as they were. He recalled the neighbors gossiping at Wayfair market the week before, When will Hold Lease Mottle and Lady Heloniss Prose be wed and make a home together? Each insisted she was more surprised that the event had not taken place. Indeed, he felt the shame of it standing on his porch while she talked to another man.

The first time Mottle saw Heloniss was in a house below the water mill; for some reason he looked for it now, even though he knew the hills blocked it out. He recalled his father had gone to discuss harbor taxation with Heloniss’s father, and he drove the cart, which was unusual. His father had injured his wrist. The first thing Mottle saw as they entered her house was the bright lantern, placed in the middle of the room. It illuminated the painted walls and ceiling, depicting stories he didn’t know. Men and women embraced, soldiers fought, children danced in circles. Boats, ships and a three-faced lady floated. Rays of light spread everywhere. Much different than the austere interior of Grey Cross! The only personal sign his father made of his wealth was to wear his green silk vest, velvet coat and gold chain on the famous occasion when the Queen of Tamia passed through Prosper to visit Weki.

Upon arrival, his father told him to wait outside. This slight was typical and he prided himself on not appearing to care. Heloniss had appeared, bringing him tea. Afraid she would think he was trying to court her, he avoided her eye and merely bowed in thanks. He looked up to see her squatting next him like an old friend, and the bright, full attention of her gaze made a lasting first impression.

Finally, he got the courage to ask about Flordell, the University in Tamia. Haven’t you lately been to sea? he'd asked, or something like that.

Smiling--she was a great smiler he noticed at once--she had replied, Yes—to Tamia. Sure you too have traveled from our island?

My father is afeard of seawater. And he denies it me. He filched a glance at her—tracing the rounded skin of her cheek--and looked down shyly into the bowl. Well, my grandfather and my cousins died crossing to Tamia. Their ship…foundered. In a storm…on Wodter Solstill. So…no, I have never been to sea.

An ill day for your family.

The bittersweet tea burned his tongue, and spilled, and she had laughed and, unable to resist, so had he....

One moment Mottle was lost in this memory about Heloniss on her porch and the next duty roused him upon his own porch. Time seemed to crack like a whip. He threw open the door and rushed into his private chamber, setting out his empty travel bags, before anxiously kneeling at the trunk. Stir, wood! The effort cost him, the battered trunk lid sprang open, and he removed the ash bow and arrows. His hand shook as he lifted the top cloth, quickly packed the daggers and dirk into his travel bags, all the while his eyes remaining fixed on another cloth in one corner of the trunk.

He clenched his fist, steadied his hand, and plucked up the cloth. There lay the prize, an old book of loose-bound leaves, its cover decorated only with a single circular symbol, illuminated in vivid blue which seemed to spread across it like water. The symbol meant nothing to him; another appeared on the back cover, although the front was slightly more faded and dented, as if something used to lodge there. While turning the book over a marker fell out. It was leather, decorated in wavy blue lines. He carefully wrapped the book in the cloth and closed it with a ribbon. He settled it underneath his supertunic inside his shirt pocket, securing the ribbon under his collar, so he could feel its weight against his neck. He tucked the bookmarker near it.

He chose an extra set of travel gear and packed that next to his weapons. Then, stealing a glance toward the garden (where he could see nothing), he opened the north door and whistled for Davy.

Davy knew not to ask where he went or why, only to be ready when he left or returned. The trips were sudden and could occur any time. The boy whistled back from the stable-yard. When Mottle entered the low wood building, Davy reported all was ready. He cinched the travel packs tight to the back of Midnight's saddle, remembering many nights perched in the hay listening to Old Roth's horse stories. Davy held Midnight's bridle while he swung up and stroked her glossy hair.

Davy, tell no one I am gone to town but Lady Heloniss. I have an errand—I shall not return tonight.

I will, Davy answered.

And Davy, when I've gone bid Ing tell to keep watch on Lady Heloniss--she entertains a Dian visitor even now. He suspected Davy knew little of the cult dedicated to the goddess Dia beyond their pledge to protect children and mothers; it was enough to remark he was a stranger.

Yes, Master, Davy said wisely.

The Kempe boys are on watch at our borders for there were some odd folk at the crossroads yestereve. Fail me not.

Not a Highlone spring tide could prevent me, the boy vowed.

He gave the lad a silent blessing, then urged Midnight onto the road to Highlone. No one was on it. After cantering out of sight of the estate, he veered over to a small track through thick alders until the horse had carried him to the Fair Fork. He cut through a stand of trees on Hinder Knott's property, coming out on the Wayfair road and Midnight making all good speed toward town.

Knott was a loyal Hectan and his property great. Knotts and Mottles helped broker trade between the two traditional enemies, Tamia and Weki. In war-like years, Tamia ships would dock at Tag on the isle’s eastern side, and Weki ships at Wayfair on the western. Then, after unloading their cargoes, Prosper caravans plied them the width of the island to the opposite port. This way, Tamian and Weki ships never entered each other’s waterways, their people never met or faced the dishonor of treating in the others’ language.

Knott’s descendants multiplied the business by adding docks at the end of the spit and persuading Tamian ships to sail past Tag in the east and make the slightly longer journey to the western side and anchor off the spit. Though docked in full of view of the Weki ships, they might still never meet or converse.

The Knott family would have preferred all sea trade to come through Wayfair, but prevailing winter winds or war-like tensions were bars to the route around Highlone. Thus, for months the docks were nearly empty, and Hinder Knott disappeared from his merchant duties and the public view until Spring. People said he rested, as much as such a 'great' man rests. But Mottle knew that in the coldest months Knott did his Great Mistress’ bidding, as he did now, urging Midnight faster toward the Hectan Temple…

The rain ceased by the time he reached Wayfair. He looked about him before making his way to the temple stables and giving Midnight into the grooms' care. Next, he followed the secret ways to the sequestered door, but when he arrived, a black scratch mark forbade entry. Shouldn't he wait here with the prize? No telling how long. His stomach urged him to Tibald’s for a good hot soup. In good time, he was outside the inn’s side door on the smooth end of a bench, steaming stew and a hunk of bread beside him. A jay squawked in the maple next to the stream lazing down the bluff and darkening Mauger Strait. After a quick nunchin, the prize would be safe.

A fine rain, almost a mist, started and stopped. Fall Equinoc had come-- and that led to thoughts of his father's death two years ago, well after Mottle had come to hate him. The widower had given him little except menial duties until his death granted the deed to Grey Cross estate and the title of a Landholder. Trapped on Prosper Isle had bred contempt for his father and the yearning to escape--across the Bellial Strait east to see the plains, rivers and forests of Tamia, or across Mauger Strait west for the mountains of Weki. Denied any of his dreams, he had fled down the inner path of michemistry.

While Tibald's stew replenished him, memories of his father pressed down like a printmaker’s plate. His father had chased any wild beast—stag, elk, hare, fox, boar, badger, even rat and mouse. Mottle disliked the sport. One of his father’s rare smiles would come while holding vinegar in the palm of his hand and lifting it to his hounds’ noses: the smile of anticipating the sport of death. Mottle felt sympathy for wild beasts, most especially deer and elk. Nevertheless, he had felled the requisite wild boar and received the family crest at age 14, though he would wait 14 more years to write his first letter of business.

Once it seemed it would be different--his father suffered a prolonged illness, the physick said he would die. But a traveling see-er of Zo’s cult predicted he would live. Aunt Reki had believed the physick, and so they had made burial preparations, but the see-er proved right.

Mottle realized he should have believed the see-er because when he thought of his father, and his future, his heart ached in a peculiar way. Ambition to be High Bailiff gave his father purpose, so at age 16 Mottle was initiated into the secret cult which he had served far more zealously than his family’s crest. The cult chained him to Prosper Isle, for he had to be ready for any order that might come from behind the sequestered door in the Temple. To exercise his desire to be doing, by day he explored the island on horseback, worked the cargo boats on Sir Lake, and later captained the Wayfair militia. In the night, he studied wisecraft, disciplining his breathing, honing his concentration, charging his mind. Night and day divided his double life.

Lease is sad, echoed a familiar reedy voice in Weki, the second language on Prosper, breaking his reverie. He looked up from the empty bowl to see Upshoot and Barm. Now he not commands us, not we say ‘sir’.

By my life, is he in love? questioned Upshoot in his low rumble, switching to Tamian.

Barm flailed his lanky arms and argued, Love makes a man keckish! Nay, I say he yearns for the soldier’s life. He dreams of cutting barbarous throats.

Mottle listened to their teasing banter in amusement. No, Upshoot shook his head; he was broad-shouldered, round-faced, and well-fed despite growing up the last of 19 children. If he dreams, he dreams of free-booty and perfume, but never marches. Mark his rough beak and wide wings—he’d kiss a woman if he could.

Barm rejoined, In his great manor bed, he dreams for ditches and stitches, Nom oars that cut water, and Wayfair docks a-burning.

I say he writes verse and wears tailored tunics and plucks on the gittern.

And I say in secret he wears padded leather and plucks his pommel.

Mottle repaid their laughter by ridiculing their wit. During this exchange, he spied a temple servant, Charmean, walking nearby and inclining his head in a way only a Hectan would notice before proceeding to the cistern.

To distract Barm and Upshoot, who had followed his gaze,