Published: 18 Mar 2019

Death of a Salesman

It might have been the weather, which had been overcast for a tenday. It might have been the proximity to the mountains over which a current of darkness seemed to flow. It might have been the people of the town: dour and dark. It might have been the inn, at which a small fire of smoky pine did nothing to drive away the damp. It might have been the bath, which was only moderately warm. It might have been the stew, which was watery and bland. It might have been any of these things. More likely, it was a bit of all of them. The boys were on edge, and when Gary bumped George’s arm while reaching for the breadbasket, George lashed out. “Hey, dork, watch it!” There was real anger in his voice.

George saw the look of fear in Gary’s eyes. George’s face flushed and then went ashen. “Oh, Gary! I’m sorry! I’m so sorry!” He began to stretch his hand toward the smaller boy, and then pulled it back.

Gary flicked his eyes toward Arthur. Arthur sat, motionless and expressionless. They need to work this out on their own, he thought. Gary paused only an instant, and then reached for George’s hand. “I’m sorry, too, George.”

“Hey,” Larry said. “What’s a dork?”

“It’s a dick head,” George giggled.

“Is that a bad thing?” Larry asked.

George exploded in laughter. Arthur, remembering the slang from his years on George’s world, joined in.

Gary giggled, but with relief rather than because he understood the joke.

Larry asked, “What’s a dick head?” This set George off again.

George gasped and swallowed. When he could again speak, he said, simply, “I love you guys. I love you all so much.”

There was only one market in Lollypine. It incorporated the worst elements of the worst Ordinary Market in Arcadia or Elvenhold. The stalls were slovenly, and the greasy smell of cooking suggested that they served as both habitation and mercantile. Sellers squatted among their wares, as often as not spread on the dirt of the plaza rather than on a blanket. Bruised vegetables, meat that attracted the few flies that had escaped the autumn freeze, weapons whose dull color suggested an abundance of pot metal rather than high grade steel, amulets and trinkets, and tiny clay pots of drugs, and poisons.

The companions had wandered into one of the permanent shops, one cleaner than they had seen elsewhere in the town. After wandering around for a few minutes, George stood beside Arthur. “Those charms,” George said. “They sound real,and a little bit Evil.” He kept his voice low, and nodded rather than pointed.

Arthur nodded, and then gestured for the boys to follow him. They left the shop.

“What did the amulets sound like?” Arthur asked when the boys were well away.

“Do you remember when Theo told the story about the trolls, and made scary noises on his lute? He ran his fingers up and down along the strings,” George said.

“Sure,” Arthur said. “Transverse vibrations. Is it the same sound, or a scary sound.”

“Yes,” George said. “Yes to both, that is.”

“Larry? Gary? Did either of you see or hear anything?” Arthur asked.

“Round, hung from a string, silver—” Larry said, and then faltered.

“Silver plate on pot metal, at best,” Gary picked up. “Thin silver, at that. And, the edges of the runes weren’t sharp; they were crumbly like they’d been poorly impressed onto the metal.”

“Did you recognize any of the runes?” Arthur asked.

“Love,” Gary said. “They all had love on them; some had other things I didn’t know.”

“My guess,” Arthur said, is that someone cast a variation of the Lure Spell on the amulets and they’re being sold as love charms.” The boys had returned to the inn, and sat in the common room. A low fire provided some heat. Arthur had poured a little brandywine into the boys’ small beer. “Just to kill any bugs,” he said.

“Lure spell?” George asked.

“Actually, this one’s probably pretty sophisticated,” Arthur said. “One part stimulates the brain to produce oxytocin; George can tell you about that one. Another part stimulates the brain to produce endorphins or dopamine; Larry can tell you about those. We use them to dull pain. Another part operates on a part of the brain associated with vision. In a way, it provides a sense of direction, pulling the eyes to the amulet. Finally, a specific part binds those spells as well as some magical energy to the amulets. That’s probably the real reason for the silver, however little there is of it.”

“So, if you’re wearing one, someone who comes close will feel good and be drawn to you,” Gary said.

“Actually,” George said, “actually, I don’t think so.”

“Oh? Why not?” Arthur asked.

“Power and range,” George said. “The inverse-square law—it’s got to work here. Just like the light of a candle gets dimmer the farther away you are the strength of a spell gets weaker, unless it’s aimed, right?”

Arthur nodded, and George continued. “If you go twice the distance, the strength isn’t one-half, it’s one-fourth; if you go three times, it’s not one-third, it’s one-ninth. That’s the inverse square part of it,” George said to Gary and Larry.

Gary nodded, and said to Larry, “George taught me that. I’ll show you.”

George continued. “The power of those amulets was too weak to do much more than fool the person wearing one into thinking they’re sexy!”

“Is that why George heard scary sounds, because they’re a cheat?” Gary asked.

“In a round-about way, yes,” Arthur said. “Magic is neither good nor evil; you all know that. Even a lure spell isn’t ipso facto evil. I’m sure we could come up with some Good ways to use such a spell. However, a person who would make cheap, fake amulets is probably not a Good person. Not necessarily totally Evil, but dark enough that some of his personality, his aura, was impressed on the amulet—captured in the spell. That’s what George heard. Let’s go back, and take a closer look.”

When the reached the shop, George grabbed Arthur’s arm. “The merchant’s name, see?” George pointed over the door to a rebus they’d not noticed before. “Eisenstein—two eyes in a beer mug! That’s the merchant Endymion was apprenticed to!”

“Mighty bold of him, if he’s the same one. Of course, we are a long way from there.”

“The tween’s the only person we’ve seen in the shop,” Gary said.

“Are you Eisenstein?” Arthur asked the tween, when they were in the shop.

“No; he is my master,” the boy replied.

“Hmm,” Arthur said. “I’m interested in the price of quantities of these tunics. May I speak with him?”

“He does not come to the shop, and he does not deal directly with custom,” the tween replied.

It did not take long for Arthur to realize that nothing he could say would entice the tween to call his master to the shop. Gesturing to the boys, he led them out of the shop.

“How might we lure the master to the shop?” Arthur asked the boys. They had returned again to their inn, and were again drinking small beer sterilized with a dram of brandywine.

“Why don’t you just use magic to sterilize the small beer?” Larry asked. George kicked him under the table. “No, really,” Larry said, cuffing George’s arm.

“George?” Arthur asked.

“Don’t want to use magic unnecessarily,” George grumbled.

“Anything else?” Arthur asked.

Seeing that George wasn’t going to answer, Gary added, “My father said it. We wouldn’t always find small beer. You want us to understand alcohol?”

“Exactly,” Arthur said. “I want you to understand its taste and its effect on you. Later, I’ll teach you how to avoid its effects. And, George, you know I will deny you nothing even that which might harm you. Do you want more brandywine?”

“No,” George said. “I was kidding.” It’s the truth, Arthur thought. I’m glad. I think the genes for alcoholism have been eliminated in World, but I must be careful with George. I don’t know if that’s something the gates do, or not.

“Back to the original question?” Arthur hinted.

“Start a fire,” George said. “Just kidding,” he hastened to add. “But a small one? Some smoke?”

“A possibility,” Arthur said. “Good, actually. Cause some slight, repairable damage that only the merchant could address.”

“Neutralize the amulets,” Larry said. “The tween? He knows what they are, and can feel their power.” In response to Arthur’s raised eyebrows, the boy continued. “I watched him while you were looking at the daggers. He stands by the amulets and when he thinks no one is looking, he fondles them. I think,” Larry giggled, “I think he needs to share boy magic very bad!”

“Badly,” Arthur mused. “Very badly. It’s an adverb. I believe you’re on to something. Gary? How would we do this? We can’t stand in the middle of the shop waving our arms and mouthing spells.”

“Can’t you just do it?” George asked. He knew that Arthur could control the Great Magic with only the power of his mind, and didn’t need gestures, words, or—for that matter—spells.

“Could. Won’t.” Arthur said. “Why?”

“Because we wouldn’t learn anything,” George said. Before he was halfway through the sentence, Larry and Gary joined in, and the boys finished in unison.

“Do I say that a lot?” Arthur asked. There was a smile on his face.

The three boys put their heads together, and then reported to Arthur.

“Like whoever neutralized the Sword Mark spell,” Gary said. “Put twisty magic on something, and bring it close to the amulets. It would have to be shielded until we were in the shop.”

Larry had carried his quarterstaff on the earlier visit to the shop. It was equipped with a metal ring to receive a light spell. This time, however, the ring was to be the repository of what Gary called twisty magic. The power in the ring was shielded with a spell that Larry could break with a word and a simple gesture. George and Gary were to distract the tween; Arthur would watch over them all. The plan was set, and the time was at hand.

George held a shilling between his fingers so that the tween clerk could see it. “I like this belt,” he said, “but I’ve only a shilling for it and my supper. Will you take eightpence?”

The clerk moved toward George. Larry, who had been standing by the amulets, whispered the word and touched the ring. Arthur watched the clerk closely. The boy’s sensitive to the amulets, but he’s no mage; he didn’t twig when Larry released the energy of the ring.

Having failed to negotiate a price with George, the tween moved back to the amulets. By this time, Larry had moved to stand with Arthur. They were pretending to look at a pile of tunics, but were closely monitoring the tween. His reaction would have been comical had it been presented in the town square as an entertainment. Larry could barely contain himself. Barf, snot, poop, he thought in an attempt to keep himself from laughing aloud.

At a loss for what to do, the tween dithered, and Arthur thought their plan had been for naught, until the tween pulled a bell rope beside the rear door to the shop. Only George heard the faint tinkling from above the shop.

Within minutes, the rear door opened, and a man in a brocade robe appeared. The expression of his face was not one of great pleasure. The tween blanched, but then whispered to the man. The man looked hard at the companions, and then went to the amulets. George moved closer to the back door, and pretended to examine the belts, again, while Arthur purposefully strode toward the man and the tween.

“Eisenstein, I believe,” Arthur said. “Late of Mountainmass.” Arthur was prepared and easily saw the lie when the man replied, “Eisenstein, but not of … where?”

Wanting to be sure, Arthur again said, “Mountainmass. You were allied with the Mage Tumlin in the attack with Mage Fire on your own caravan.”

The man blanched, but Arthur did not need that reaction to know the truth of his accusation.

George is right, Arthur thought. I can control the Great Magic—quietly and efficiently—with my mind, alone. And Larry was right. One can see a person’s pattern, twist it, and thereby kill the person. Arthur did as he thought, and Eisenstein fell to the floor, dead.

The tween did not know that Arthur had killed his master, but he did know that something awful—as in awe-inspiring—had just occurred. “Please,” he said, “What has happened?”

The reeve had come and gone; Eisenstein’s body had been removed. Arthur and his companions were again alone in the shop with the tween.

“Were you his apprentice?” Arthur asked.

“Yes,” the boy replied.

“Sworn and witnessed?” Arthur pressed the question.

“Yes,” the boy said.

“Then, by law, the shop is yours,” Arthur said. “Um, you know these amulets are fake, don’t you?”

The boy blushed. “Yes,” he said. “I saw that one,” he pointed to Larry, “I saw him looking at me. Please,” he asked, “please don’t tell anyone?”

The tween’s father and the Town Master, as well as a Mendicant, had witnessed the transfer of ownership of the shop. The tween, whose name they learned was Alvie, was not as overwhelmed by his new responsibility and fortune as Arthur had thought. When he suggested this, Alvie responded with a smile. “Eisenstein remained in his rooms except to deal with a few suppliers, like the one who sold him the amulets. He relied on me more and more as time passed. I think he knew that something was about to happen, and it frightened him. What,” the boy asked, “what did happen? I think now that you killed him.”

Arthur looked at Alvie and saw no fear.

“Eisenstein caused great pain to a boy who became a very good friend to us. He also caused the death of a number of people, and harm to a great many others. Yes, I killed him. Not because he harmed our friend or the others, but so that he could never do it again.”

“At least not in this life,” Alvie said.

Arthur merely nodded. And perhaps not ever, he thought. That particular use of magic is most definitely not something that the Light would find appropriate. I may have caused what the elves call the ultimate death of his soul. Not sure I like that. Not sure in this particular case I dislike it, either.

Alvie had invited the companions to visit his quarters, once those of his master, above the shop, and they had accepted gladly. Eisenstein had not stinted on his own comfort. The bath was…

“What’s sybaritic?” Gary asked.

“Indecently luxurious,” Arthur replied. Larry was right. The boy needed to share very badly. Well, this should hold him until he can find his own friends.

David McLeod has published many stories about “World”. “George of Sedona” is one of them. Please email David to let him know you are reading this story at: David dot Mcleod at CastleRoland dot Net.