On a hot summer day in the market square of the former Alight City-state, now known as Lumiere, the capital of the eastern shore’s subjugated states, now called the Kingdom of Eldhjarta, stood an old man. He was adorned in a beautifully decorated cloak, but otherwise, his attire was plain. The man willingly shared the city’s history and imparted knowledge to those who were interested. A young man standing before him was eager to learn everything about this city.
“Two decades ago,” the old man began, his voice lowering to a conspiratorial whisper, “a barbarian fleet stormed our shores, catching Lumiere off guard. The city fell swiftly, and its people, weary of King Henri Du Vallon’s tyranny, welcomed the change.” He leaned closer, eyes gleaming with the memory. “Imagine, a ruler so feared that even barbarians seemed a relief.”
“Aren’t you afraid to tell stories that portray the current regime as barbaric?”
The old man chuckled. “Our ruler values honesty over flattery; he believes open discourse strengthens his reign.” Then he mimicked the king with an altered voice. “Sigread doesn’t need anyone to tell him how things are, but others do. Sigread knows the truth, himself, and his goals. Sigread values opinions because, otherwise, how would he know how well or poorly the common people are faring, and most importantly, what their level of education is?”
The young man smirked and said, “Who speaks of themselves in the third person?”
The old man stared at the younger one and asked, “You’re not from around here, are you? To whom do I have the pleasure of teaching? I am called Enron, and ‘the Voice of the Old Folk’ is my title,” the old man said, waiting for the young man’s response while observing his demeanor. The young man was dressed in a worn, light and gray-brown reinforced long coat with gray pants, giving him the appearance of a craftsman. A large brown rectangular leather bag and a bandoleer he carried on his back reinforced this impression.
“I’m Tosh S. Stitten, an alchemist and an assistant mage,” the young man, Tosh, introduced himself.
“Assistant mage?” Enron echoed.
“Yes,” Tosh replied, “half of magic is illusion and theatrics; the real spectacle lies in powders and chemical reactions.”
“What reactions?” Old Enron inquired, but Tosh merely waved his hand, suggesting they move on, and requested the story to continue.
The old man, Enron, nodded, his brows furrowed and a hint of disbelief on his face, but he continued as his audience seemed intrigued.
Enron cleared his throat. “It’s said the King’s Guard commander sealed the former king’s fate by handing his sword to Sigread Fireheart in the throne room.” Enron paused dramatically. “Instead of executing the tyrant, Sigread led him to the people, letting them deliver justice. Now, the former king’s skull adorns the gates of Lumiere, a stark reminder of power’s limits.”
Tosh’s expression changed, his eyebrows raised in understanding, and his lips curled into a crooked smile. “Indeed, that’s the purpose of that charming, albeit macabre, lipless welcome smile.”
Enron chuckled at the interruption but appreciated the young man’s attentiveness, as the skull was perched high and caked with dirt. “It took only two months for the conquered city-state of Lumiere to subjugate the nearby countryside, now calling itself the Kingdom of Eldhjarta, named after its conquering king’s original Humerian name.” Enron savored his words. “One could say the people have been content with their king. I can’t even remember the last time I went hungry myself.”
“So, the people are content and secure?” Tosh asked, scanning the bustling square. The square was covered with guards, and there were a few blind spots under their watchful eyes. Some were on the walls, and others patrolled the square in pairs.
“Not much to complain about,” Enron remarked. “Although the elite might have a different opinion since Sigread dipped into their coffers to benefit the rest of the people.” Enron chuckled contentedly. “Not that they would ever starve. It’s just that when someone has more, they always want more. Let’s hope our king avoids that ailment.”
“Indeed, but thank you for your time, ‘Voice of the Old Folk,’” Tosh bowed deeply, receiving an approving nod from the old teacher. “One more question, Mr. Enron. Where could I get permission to showcase my work in the square?” Tosh asked.
The old man, Enron, pointed to a tall, red stone building on the edge. “Say greetings from old Enron. Give him this,” Enron said, handing Tosh a paper note with only one mysterious word on it: ‘appreciation.’
Tosh thanked him and offered a coin as payment for the man’s teachings and assistance. Enron shook his head. “Thank you for the gesture, young man, but the king’s administration already pays me adequately for my work. If you wish to give something, promise that you will live your life honorably.”
Tosh bowed deeply. “Of course,” he said with a blissful smile, inwardly cringing at the audacious lie.
For a while, Tosh had been assessing the situation and noticed that Enron, his teacher, was highly respected and the only one who could offer a swift path to performing in the square. Tosh also wanted to showcase his own skills and identify potential individuals who might unwittingly contribute to enriching his life in a tangible way.
The labels of “thief” and “con artist” sounded too cold to Tosh’s ears. He’d prefer to be called a professional in the alternative lifestyle of resourceful recycling, a title he held proudly.
Before long, the street preacher’s word had helped Tosh gain access to the square, now performing as an entertainer.
“Excuse me, sir, may I set up here?” Tosh asked amiably to a fire-breather who also sold roasted potatoes, combining two talents in one act.
On the other side, Tosh partnered with a stoic mage who practiced a dance of fire and ice. Fire and ice orbs danced through the air in an endless cycle of destruction.
The performance area was already packed with people, and the more privileged ones were, of course, allowed to be in the front row, closely watched by guards and bodyguards, ready to enjoy the performances and possibly purchase services.
Tosh took his place, first casting a keen eye around him. Directly in front of him was what he considered a “fat catch,” a keychain bulging with keys and golden bracelets adorning wrists. The ornate buttons on his coat were worth more than the annual income of the common citizens further back. He was also uncomfortably aware of two guards: one on his right and one behind him, with swords at their hips and daggers in their sleeves.
‘Professionals,’ Tosh sighed inwardly, ‘always ruining easy gigs.’
Tosh’s permit didn’t grant him the right to collect money or beg, but he could advertise his skills and accept donations for services rendered.
He dug out his items from his backpack. Opening it carefully, it revealed an array of small jars, bundles, and glass bottles filled with various substances, each securely fastened individually.
Despite his precautions, one small glass bottle rolled out and lazily descended to the ground, producing a loud clink as it shattered into pieces. Almost immediately, it began to emit furious smoke, shrouding the immediate surroundings in a thick smokescreen.
“Sorry, sorry. It’s not poisonous, I apologize,” Tosh continued his apologies and quickly put on his peculiar glasses, which had countless different lenses.
Now the glasses were adjusted to the position where he could see through the smoke as if it were daylight. With confident movements and just a few careful steps, he approached the recently rich target. First, he expertly and discreetly snagged the keychain, which, at a quick glance, had only one notable key.
‘Key for vault, thick and secure,’ he quickly assessed and took out some wax from his pocket. Pressing the halves together, he made a copy. As a final touch, he snapped one of the valuable buttons off with his pocket knife.
Tosh returned to his spot and, with a flick of his wrist, tossed the button to a desired location. He removed the glasses from his head and placed them safely at the bottom of his bag.
“Apologies again. The smoke is dissipating. Very embarrassing, I apologize, ladies and gentlemen,” Tosh earnestly apologized to the audience.
The mage sneered at him mockingly and arrogantly, confident in himself and his magic. On the other hand, the fire-breather patted his shoulder enthusiastically. “Hey, thanks, buddy. Now I might actually look good in this company,” he winked, indicating that he wasn’t maliciously gloating.
Tosh flashed an encouraging smile and tossed a coin. “Fire up those potatoes, my friend.”
The fire-breather/potato vendor snatched the coin from the air and opened his palm, where a solitary copper coin lay. “You mean to eat just one?” he quipped again.
The audience approached cautiously now, watching closely to ensure this new performer dropped no more surprises. The fire-breather began his act. He doused his thin, metal sword with oil, set it on fire, and started moving the blazing blade toward his throat when it extinguished with a hiss. The fire-breather dropped the sword from his hand, and Tosh noticed it briefly glowed pale blue.
On his other side, the mage chuckled. “Oh dear, the ball got away,” he remarked and conjured a new ice ball to accompany the lonely circling fireball.
The audience laughed at the mage’s seemingly clever prank, leaving the fire-breather to relight his sword and prepare for his performance again.
Tosh watched from the sidelines as the mage smirked maliciously once more. He threw the ice ball again, extinguishing the fire-breather’s blade and amusing the audience. “Hahaha, hands shaking, matchstick boy?” the mage taunted.
The fire-breather’s patience seemed top-notch, ‘or at least he was accustomed to dealing with such wankers’, Tosh thought to himself.
“Now let the show begin,” Tosh declared, standing up and positioning himself in the path of the fire-breather and the mage. Finally, the fire-breather could also start his performance.
Tosh began lightly by taking an empty large piece of paper from his bag and attaching it to the lattice fence behind him, against which grapevines climbed to great heights. “Alright, good audience and esteemed comrades,” Tosh started, glancing at his sides. The mage glanced at him disdainfully, continuing his long-lasting ice and fireball act.
On the other side, the fire-breather nodded approvingly, sipped his drink occasionally, and spat it through the flaming blade, creating a hot, fleeting fireball. He then thrust the blade into his mouth, swallowed it whole, and when it was pulled out, it ignited once more, eliciting applause from the audience.
“Sir, um, fire-breather?” Tosh inquired.
“The Great Triple Pee,” the man proudly announced. Seeing Tosh’s half-open mouth and bewildered look, he found it necessary to clarify, “Yes, Triple P, as in Pyro Potato Performer, Pyro alone will do.”
“Of course, now it’s clear,” Tosh nodded and refrained from commenting on the name’s potential improvement. Instead, he made a request, “Mr. Pyro, when I throw powder into the air shortly, could you shoot fire in that direction?”
Mr. Pyro observed for a moment and agreed with a nod. Tosh gathered his gloved hands full of the powder mixture and looked at Mr. Pyro, who was ready. “On the count of three, okay?” Tosh confirmed and noticed the mage behind him, who was observing them. Now their performance seemed to be attracting people’s attention away from the mage, which appeared to annoy him.
“One, two,” Tosh counted, grabbing an open pouch from his pocket. At “three,” he tossed the pouch backward towards the mage while simultaneously casting the powder cloud towards the paper on the fence.
Mr. Pyro blew fire towards the powder cloud at the same time, somewhat unsure of his feelings. It looked like this performance might very well end with arson charges once again.
The contents of the pouch that Tosh had thrown behind him burst out, and a cloud of silvery powder erupted onto the way just as the mage was throwing his ice ball, attempting to disrupt Mr. Pyro and Tosh’s joint act.
On the other side, in front of Tosh, the flame Mr. Pyro blew reached the crystalline powder Tosh had thrown, igniting them into a colorful fireworks display.
Behind them, the mage’s ice ball reached the powder cloud, causing its own reaction: the ice ball exploded violently, releasing a surprising and rapid white cloud and a burst of flames.
The audience’s heads whipped around, first captivated by the colorful fire display, then startled by the white explosion near the mage. As the smoke cleared, Tosh bowed deeply. The audience, after a moment of stunned silence, burst into applause. Tosh gestured for Mr. Pyro to join him in bowing, and above them, the paper had transformed, now displaying the text “Alchemist for Hire.”
On the other side, the mage felt his forehead in confusion, sliding his fingers downward and smelling something burnt. His handsome bangs had turned into curls, and his eyebrows were a bunch of darkened spikes that slowly drifted down to the ground, hovering gently as he touched them. Rage filled the mage’s face; the audience had noticed what had happened, and now that the disgraced mage himself was the subject of laughter, it was no longer funny.
The mage hissed through his teeth at Tosh, “You worthless pile, I could kill you right here and at best, I’d get a job at the palace. There aren’t mages like me on every branch, but there’s plenty of crap like you clogging up the sewers.”
“Ooh, I’m so scared now,” Tosh taunted the mage.
Mr. Pyro took it upon himself to pull Tosh back and issue a warning. “Kid, he’s speaking the truth; mages are valuable.”
Tosh winked at Mr. Pyro and turned back to the mage, who was summoning the fire element, forming a large, blazing hot sphere in front of him. “Oh, what are you planning?” Tosh asked, pretending to be frightened, and dropped to his knees as if begging for mercy. He glanced around, looking at the audience and the mage, even casting a glance at the elite bodyguards as if seeking support.
Then Tosh fell silent and turned back towards the nearby, finely dressed gentleman. “Sir, there’s a missing button from your waistcoat… I’m quite sure I saw the same one just there,” Tosh said and turned dramatically toward the mage, whose murderous intent seemed to grow with the fireball. “There, among the mage’s belongings! Thief!” Tosh shouted, pointing his finger at the mage.
The well-dressed gentleman looked at the front of his vest and then raised his eyes, now fiery with anger. He took a few steps closer and saw that indeed, in the folds of the mage’s discarded cloak, was his precious button, poorly concealed.
A mixture of disappointment, anger, and finally, disgust crossed the gentleman’s face, the expression often seen when the elite had to deal with lower beings. And what could be lower than an entertainer stealing their property, even if it was a mage?
“Guards! Apprehend this scoundrel and take him to the dungeon,” the well-dressed gentleman began, then continued ominously, “by the scenic route, but leave no visible traces.” His mouth twisted into a grotesque grin, and his bodyguards passed him on both sides, grabbing the mage’s arms, with one holding a dagger to his throat.
The fireball dispersed, and the mage’s eyes spun in their sockets. “But, but, I haven’t done anything!” he screamed as the guards dragged him away.
The mage’s gaze locked with Tosh’s, who waved his fingers in farewell. “That, that scoundrel framed me! Did you hear?” he shouted one last time before his voice was drowned in the general murmur.
“Thank you for your keen observation, young man,” the finely dressed gentleman nodded and extended his hand. Tosh thought this would probably be a sufficient reward, knowing that getting any real reward would have required much greater deeds from him.
Nevertheless, Tosh bowed politely and shook the man’s hand with both of his, bowing deeply and letting go.
The man departed, and Tosh began to gather his belongings. “Today took a sour turn,” he commented to Mr. Pyro, who was now proceeding with the next phase of his performance. Mr. Pyro was roasting potatoes over the fire, occasionally blowing flames onto the coals.
Tosh swiftly packed his belongings, rolling up the paper from the fence. He discreetly pocketed the golden bracelets taken from the well-dressed gentleman during their handshake, confident the mage would be blamed if the theft was noticed.
He also knew that the mage was unlikely to be punished too severely. While common thieves might lose a hand, they would probably only sentence a mage to work in the palace for a set period. Mages were a rare breed, even if they were mere street performers.
Tosh strolled away from the market, bidding Mr. Pyro, now known as “Mr. Potato,” a farewell. Next, Tosh planned to find out who the well-dressed gentleman was and devise a plan for a nightly visit. Of course, he would need to create a key from the wax mold he had taken.
“Excuse me, where is the nearest blacksmith’s forge?” Tosh stopped to ask a guard on the edge of the square.
The guard was happy to help and even praised Tosh’s part: “Fantastic performance, full of sparks and colors, a splendid show, until that unfortunate theft.”
Tosh thanked the guard profusely and patted him on the shoulder while using his other hand to steal the keys to the manacles from the guard’s belt.
‘The keys might come in handy if I ever ended up in chains and imprisoned in this city’, he mused to himself. He continued whistling as he headed towards the blacksmith’s forge on the outskirts of the city, as directed by the guard.
He paused to take a deep breath of fresh air. “Ah, the scent of opportunity,” he remarked with a grin.
“Or is that just self-admiration? Patting yourself on the back, planning to kiss the mirror tonight?” a high-pitched voice mocked from below.
The voice continued, but this time it was different, lower, almost lazy: “And if you were, were you planning to moon the mirror first and then plant your lips on its cool, smooth surface?”
“Uh, that’s quite detailed, boys,” Tosh pondered and stomped his foot.
“Well, look who’s making assumptions,” the squeaky voice continued.
“Shut your trap, or I’ll dive into the fireplace feet first,” Tosh muttered, his expression tightening as he forced a smile at a passing guard, who regarded him as just another vagrant.
“Sorry, ‘boss,’” the low voice replied, dripping with sarcasm.
Tosh took a deep breath and sighed. ‘I wish I had irritated that witch more thoroughly, then she might have killed me instead of enduring this, year after year…’
“Well, lad, aren’t you going to write something in your little diary, Toshi-dictionary?” the high-pitched voice inquired.
“Yeah, you need your therapy; you wouldn’t be so angry then,” the low voice added.
“It’s a crucial scientific treatise that will revolutionize—” Tosh halted, realizing the futility. “It’s the Toshionary, important to me. Just leave it.”
A moment passed, and the voices fell silent, at least for a while.
‘Someday, I’ll check myself into the sanitarium and be the master of the place. Hardly any other lunatic has socks cursed by the witch of chaos that talk and that only I can hear. And they, damn it, are never quiet for too long.’
