◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆
(One) ◀◀◀◀◀ Chapter Two ▶▶▶▶▶ (Three)
◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆
"Well, Stefano did explicitly invite us to make ourselves at home while he and Mortegro see about getting Petra fixed up," said Gwenno. "I'm sure he wouldn't mind if we entertained a few guests in his absence. Especially two well-behaved lads such as yourselves, hm?"
Gwenno's emphasis on the words well-behaved did not escape the two lads in question, though both of them fell squarely within that all-too brief span of teen-ages where rolling one's eyes and muttering at such a comment was not only acceptable, but expected. However, neither one was yet too jaded to resist taking a fair fistful of biscuits from the tea cart she'd just rolled into Stefano's parlor.
Despite being such an otherwise idiosyncratic place, the Moonshadian parlor still served as a kind of symbolic confirmation of one's high status and nothing more; a little trifle of a chamber frequently found wedged up the backsides of real rooms with actual purposes like foyers or libraries. The ultimate destiny of any respectable parlor is to sit untouched, unpopulated, and swaddled from floor to ceiling and corner to corner in dustproof sheeting. Gwenno recalled visiting the good lady Frigidazzi's parlor on one occasion, a parlor so comprehensively pristine that even the bowl of complimentary motto hearts had its own little cheesecloth tarp, and that each complimentary motto heart had its own paper wrapping.
But as he did in most other arenas of his life, Mr. Stefano Pavone broke the mold when it came to his own parlor: He actually used his. The room itself, like every other room within this particular manor, was aggressively elegant and monstrously lavish... or at least it was until Stefano moved in. Polished white marble floors that once reflected naught but the ceilings now laid bare every remnant of revelry, every crumb of food or blot of wine or wayward undergarment dropped onto them. The previous owner of the manor had the davenport and its matching rocker upholstered in fine midnight blue velvet; as Stefano soon discovered, the dark material could hide the wine but not the crumbs, which speckled the cushions like constellations.
All while an engraved silver crumb sweeper collected dust on a side table, stealing the spotlight beneath the parlor's bridge lamp (also coated in dust and listing noticeably, and was that some gent's nasty old stocking dangling obscenely from the shade? Gwenno squinted but said nothing about it).
The younger of the two lads added a few new stars to the firmament, stuffing amaretto biscuits into his mouth and chatting while he chewed. This was hardly proper parlor behavior, but then, Stefano's parlor was hardly proper. "Thanks, ma'am," he said. "Torrissio doesn't let us have sweets in the house. Or anything else, really."
"Really?" Gwenno raised an eyebrow; the child (whom she knew as Freli, the son of a Fawnish shopkeeper) looked healthy, blond and bright-eyed, with enough baby fat to suggest a regular schedule of meals.
"Aye," said the older of the two, a ginger-headed archetypal spotty youth, who spoke with a distinct vestige of a Monitorian accent. (This one's name is Andrio, Gwenno recalled; was he not due to graduate the Seminarium in a few months?) "The rotten blister makes us eat outside. Says he doesn't want us getting too comfortable in his shack."
"Still makes us call him Uncle Torrissio though," Freli muttered. "Uncle Blister, more like."
"Tea?" Gwenno offered, electing to let that whole uncle thing go.
"Yes ma'am," the boys answered in unison.
"Say, Mrs. Gwenno, is the Avatar here too?" Andrio wondered hopefully. "I like hearing about her adventures."
Freli snickered. "You just like hearing her stories 'cause you think she's a hot tomato."
"I-I don't!" If the other boy was blushing, his acne hid it handily. "It's not like that, Mrs. Gwenno, really it's not."
Gwenno carefully passed him a saucer wobbling with a full teacup. "Oh, I'm sure it'd be alright if it is. Giselle is a very nice lady," she said, adding a wink. "Pretty too!"
"Well it isn't! Freli's just got a big stupid mouth, that's all."
The lad in question, clearly unfazed by such dire insults, crammed another biscuit into said big stupid mouth. "Mmh. Well, you're the one who keeps that picture of her in his footlocker—"
"Alright, Freli!" Gwenno laughed. "Now, now. It's not nice to tattle on your friends like that! Go on, drink your tea, wash down all those biscuits." Before your friend hauls off and smacks that grin off your face, she silently added."But honest, Mrs. Gwenno. I really was hoping the Avatar and her friends could come around and tell us some stories. Or at least something about what's happening around the Isles," Andrio resumed. "Since the Glowing Man came 'round and ruined everything, we've been in the dark, see? No newspapers, no broadsheets, no visitors, nothing."
With hands warmed by her own fresh cuppa, Gwenno settled her bones into a cushioned rocking chair. Everything seemed to sough contentedly, even the furniture. "Indeed. Well, sorry to say, but I've no news myself. Nothing you surely do not already know by now," she said between sips. "As for Giselle, she is here but she went out duck hunting with Ernesto."
"Uncle Birdbrain, more like," Freli muttered.
"Oh, I suppose she wanted to let off some steam. Change her pace a bit. The Avatar has had precious little time to relax and take her mind off some very horrible things; she's been so busy."
Andrio brightened. "Busy with adventure?"
"You could say that, yes!" said Gwenno. "Up in the frozen north, where all the old serpent temples lie. Frightening places, all haunted and cursed!"
"And that's where you found Uncle Morty—er, Mortegro, right?" said Andrio. "I overheard it from Uncle Sloth, who was telling Uncle Blister about it: All the adepts thought he'd stolen away into the night to become a vampire or something, but really it was one of them lightning storms what got him while he was out doing field work for old Uncle Gasser."
"A vampire!" Gwenno coughed on her tea. "Good gracious! Whatever could've happened to give the mages that idea?"
"Well, Vasculio happened," said Freli. "Wasn't that long ago, neither—"
"Fie! What're you on about? That story's ancient history!" Andrio scoffed.
"It's not that ancient!"
"We weren't even born yet!"
"I mean, not ancient to mages like us. See, 'cause we mages can live a really really long time, Mrs. Gwenno," Freli explained. "So fifty years ago may be ancient history for mundanes, but not for the likes of us. Do you know the story of Vasculio?"
Gwenno nodded, lips tight from trying to hold back her laughter. Andrio provided the response in her stead: "Of course she does, everyone does!"
"But maybe Mrs. Gwenno doesn't! She's not from around here, remember? So Vasculio was this hedge mage who got done in for using forbidden magic, see," Freli went on anyway. "We call it breaking the Strictures and boy, he broke all the worst ones too! Torturing animals and mundanes, hoarding bloodspawn, using death magic, stuff like that."
"He sounds a terrible man, indeed," Gwenno agreed, solemnly. Of course, Andrio's assertion was correct and she'd already been told this tale several times over during her New Sosarian expedition.
"He really was! It got so bad, the Magelord had to put him down like a rabid dog! But it wasn't even a week before they went to check on his crypt and found it completely empty, all rent apart like he blasted himself out from the inside!"
"I remember Uncle Morty telling us about that," said Andrio. "He thinks Vasculio must've cast some illegal enchantment that allowed him to cheat death!"
"Right, they say he turned himself into a vampire, a real vampire! Then the Magelord got scared and all the grown-up mages had to go to his palace for questioning, even Uncle Hot-Hands—uh, that's the Magister, we call him that because whenever Andrio screws something up, he's liable to end up with his butt in a sling," said Freli. "But anyway, even though Uncle Morty was the one who dobbed Vasculio in, I guess with the whole Necromage thing, well, I guess—"
"Goodness, what a horrendous thing to say! Does Magister Fedabiblio really strike you two?"
"Nah, not me. But I never screw anything up!" For a mere novice, Freli already showed precocious talent in the time-honored mages' art of Gloating. "Okay, so I screwed something up once, but—"
A swift nudge to his shoulder—courtesy of Andrio's elbow—truncated an undoubtedly fascinating schoolboy anecdote. If not fascinating, then perhaps suspicious to some end, but probably not so important that Gwenno felt compelled to pursue the matter any further.
"No need for the po-face, ma'am," said Andrio. "He's just kidding. The Magister doesn't really paddle us or nothing; he's all bark and no bite. If you don't believe me, ask Stefano! He was Fedabiblio's worst student ever and he never got smacked once, not even after he pinched his favorite hat!"
Gwenno raised an eyebrow. "Not Uncle Stefano?"
The two boys exchanged glances.
"Why no, Mrs. Gwenno! He's just, y'know, Stefano!" said Freli.
"Stefano's not an uncle or nothing—we actually like him!" said Andrio. "He never tries to tell us what we can and can't do! He knows how to have a little fun around this place."
"Yeah, a little fun." Freli snickered to himself, his smirk spangled with biscuit crumbs. "Remember when I suckered him out of 40 Guilders—"
Alas, another riveting schoolboy anecdote cut down in its prime, courtesy of Andrio's elbow. For a minute or two, Gwenno observed the lads and their ribbing, her worries unallayed. Having no children herself—and certainly no plans to change that at her age—she nevertheless enjoyed spending time with them, shaping young minds, providing guidance and fascinating stories and yes, biscuits and tea. An auntie figure, perhaps, there to experience all of the joys of raising children with no real responsibility for their actual upbringing or any delinquencies involved therein.
But at the end of the day, who was responsible for these lads? Andrio had to be at least sixteen or seventeen by now, so he was capable of looking after himself to some extent. But what a terrible shame, Gwenno thought, that the Anarch had to come and turn Fedabiblio to cold, lifeless stone when Andrio was so close to graduating. Would he ever finish his mages' course and graduate as an officially recognized Initiate? Did he even care anymore?
And Freli! Spare a thought for our poor Freli. Thirteen years old at the most, which meant he still required the guidance and supervision of a caring, responsible adult, but so far it seemed like the only person who gave a damn about the lad anymore was his classmate, scarcely older than him. Moreover, Gwenno knew that the child was an orphan now; he would need a patient and experienced hand to help him navigate the trauma of his lonely new world. She made a mental note to speak with Giselle about this, whenever she returned from her snipe hunt with Ernesto.
Hmm. How receptive might Ernesto be to mentoring these lads?
After all, who else was left? Mortegro was indisposed for now, Petra as well. Boydon was still looking after the Sleeping Bull. Sethys's grip on reality was still nascent. Fedabiblio and Gustacio were still a handsome (if overlarge) pair of stone bookends in the Seminarium front office. Stefano was still Stefano. Ducio had little interest in anything that extended further than the tip of his own nose, and Torrissio…
Gwenno's prior visit to Moonshade—months ago, while the city yet thrived—saw her meeting most of its prominent residents, either through her business as a scholar or her talent as a musician. Her first-hand knowledge of Moonshade's Life Mage hardly extended beyond a vague awareness, but numerous testimonials from the city's other residents allowed her to piece together a picture of the man that she sensed was more or less accurate, however incomplete.
To say the least, the word blister cropped up from more than one mouth.
"Don't mind us, Mrs. Gwenno." Andrio's apology, while sincere, sent a mouthful of rich tea crumbs scattering across his lap and ultimately the floor. "Like we said, it's just a little fun."
"It's just that me and Andrio, we're so bloody bored around here!" wailed Freli. "We're trying to do our studies and all but it's really hard going when it's just us, you know?"
"I was told that Torrissio is supposed to be supervising you," said Gwenno. "Surely he'd be willing to lend a hand with your studies?"
"Like hell," Andrio scoffed. "He just tells us to bog off so he can fiddle around in his laboratory and get stinking drunk. Then he makes us scrounge around for tucker while he dines like a king and sleeps on furs in the Magelord's palace."
"I see. You know, for a so-called Life Mage, that Torrissio doesn't seem to care a whit for other living things. But never mind him—are you two really being left alone all day, every day?" Gwenno probed. "With nothing better to do with yourselves but wander around an empty city, bickering amongst yourselves and bumming scraps of food off your surviving neighbors like a pair of little ragamuffins?"
The lads exchanged glances again, ready to contend but ultimately finding no fault with the woman's accusation—not even the bit about ragamuffins, however unbecoming the word might seem for a pair of Adepts-in-Training.
"Aye, Mrs. Gwenno. Aye, that just about cracks it, for sure," said Andrio.
"But sometimes Uncle Sloth or Uncle Birdbrain—"
"Oh, dear Freli, I really am having quite a time trying to keep up with all of your sainted uncles," Gwenno lamented into her teacup.
"Sorry, ma'am. I mean, sometimes Ducio or Ernesto might have something for us to do, but it's always something horrible like mucking a gutter or scraping the scales off a pile of dead fish."
"It sounds daft when I say it, but we really do like old Fedabiblio," added Andrio. "He could jaw, but he wasn't a bad egg."
"Yeah." Freli gulped, clenching his throat. "And you know, at least he actually let us eat indoors. Not out in the cold like Uncle Blister."
"Well, it is still summer," Andrio reminded him.
"But it'll be winter soon enough."
"Too right." The teenager stared into a wistful distance. "I was all set to graduate this winter."
"I know, Andrio. I know," Gwenno sighed. "Well, perhaps not all is lost, hmm? Let me see now. Uh, what were you two studying before Anarchy arrived?"
"Fedabiblio was teaching us about civic history," Andrio told her. "Like how Moonshade was founded by those folks escaping Beast British and all. And then he took us around all the ancient ruins left by the snake people—"
Ancient ruins? Now that was something Gwenno could work with…
"Yes, yes!" Freli excitedly interrupted his friend. "We were doing rubbings with charcoal and paper, and trying to translate the words what the ancient daemon folks carved into the walls."
"And Freli found some pretty snazzy stuff too!" Andrio chortled. "Remember? For the best lay in town, ask for Mashajash or something like that."
"And then old Uncle Hot-Hands—I mean, Fedabiblio (sorry Mrs. Gwenno) thought we were making it up, but then we made him translate it with his own lens."
"There were no more visits to the ruins after that!" Andrio's laughter deflated like a punctured balloon. "Seminarium was a wringer, for sure. Some days I thought I'd rather have my gums scraped than sit through another one of those awful lectures on reagent paucity or what have you."
Freli nodded. "But then, at least we had fun. Didn't we?"
Andrio nodded too. "A little fun, anyway."
"A little fun is still better than no fun at all, like how it is now."
"I am not sure what we can do about Uncle—er—Magister Fedabiblio, or about the days to come, which will continue to be difficult and long for all of us," said Gwenno, rising to her feet while an unlikely smile bloomed across her face. "But as for the remainder of this particular day, I have an idea. Now, won't you be well-behaved lads and wait right there?"
◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆
(Back) ◀◀◀ (Story Index) ▶▶▶ (Next)
◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆