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(Eight) ◀◀◀◀◀ Chapter Nine ▶▶▶▶▶ (Ten)

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"Now, it's no cause for worry, really! In fact, we may have found a bit of a silver lining here! Say, if any of you ever wanted to see my capable teaching assistant handle an injury, just as they would've done back in Ophidian times. Eh, Seth?"

But through that brave face of hers, Gwenno sucked her teeth, her pain obvious as said capable assistant wordlessly eased her down onto the front stoop of Stefano's manor.

"Gosh! Bucia, that dizzy bint. She sure made a dog's dinner of your foot." Andrio cringed. "Made you walk all the way back here by yourself, did she?"

"Of course not, don't be silly! As I said, it's no cause for worry! Just a little boo-boo, I should think!"

"Darlin', if that's what you consider a little boo-boo, I'd hate to see what it looks like when you get a big one." Words spoken with a low but authoritative drawl that could've originated from none other than the Avatar herself.

It was no more than a handful of minutes ago when she and Ernesto—on their triumphant tear back to Stefano's, still a-twitter with exhilaration from a successful hunt—caught up with Gwenno, moving with the same destination in mind at an equally determined hobble. The mere sight of it took Giselle's breath away, her boon companion unable to do little more with her right foot than drag it uselessly behind her while limping forward with the left, and absolutely insisting she was quite alright, quite alright, quite alright, just a little bruised my love, just a little banged up, nobody's fault, a complete accident, no worries dearie, no worries

A Garden Gopher Scare Mishap as Gwenno described it, involving a favor for Bucia and some perilously heavy stone something-or-other that slipped off a cart and onto her foot when it should've been deposited safely beside a prized peony bed. The apparent severity of Gwenno's injury afforded little time to sort out any additional details, though countless memories gleaned from an eon-spanning friendship hinted towards at least one; in a rare episode of Rational Imagination, Giselle could see and hear the stubborn old dame so clearly, refusing any and all of Bucia's offers for assistance, swearing up and down and up and down that she was quite alright, quite alright, quite alright

But a steadfast soul like an Avatar's would not be swayed so easily. She practically forced the babbling bard to take her arm while Ernesto—lucky chap!—would assume the honor of lugging their Fresh Fruits o' the Forest (Giselle's own term) for the rest of the walk back to Stefano's place. The moment the Ranger took hold of the little oilcloth sack, his face turned a faintly fungal shade of grey and he had yet to recover.

Even now, he maintained a heroic grip on the Reeking Bag o' Euggh (Ernesto's own term), keeping it safely at elbow's length. "Are her toes broken?" he ventured with eyes fixed to some unknown point in the distance.

"What's the matter, Uncle Birdbrain?" Freli delivered a first-class smirk. "Too scared to look?"

"Oi! I told you sprogs not to call me that!"

"Yeah, don't call him that, Freli," snapped Giselle.

"Right, don't call him that, Freli," Andrio repeated her tone for tone, and stopped just short of smacking the imp right off the boy's face.

"'cause it just ain't real courteous, calling folks names like that," Giselle added.

"Right, 'cause it just ain't real courteous, calling folks names like that."

"Applesauce!" Freli spat. "Andrio calls him that all the time when it's just us! He came up with the name in the first place!"

Andrio reddened and averted Giselle's glare. "Ah, well…"

"Just reckon her toes might be broken, that's all. Or worse, bleeding," Ernesto resumed, swallowing before chancing a glance at the woman. "Ugh—! Hell's bells, they are bleeding, and it's coming through her shoe! Eek! Egad! Is that bone?!"

"Of course not, dear! I'm sure it's nothing more than a little bruise," Gwenno tried to reassure him while Sethys helped her out of her boot, revealing her bloodied stocking.

But not even she could not watch as he peeled it off.

"Hmm…"

"Hmm?" Gwenno did not like the sound of Sethys's Hmm…, nor the accompanying chorus of subdued disgust from the others.

"Have we any mandrakes?" Sethys asked discreetly, peering vaguely towards Giselle, then Andrio and Freli.

The older boy shrugged. "I do, but they're still pretty fresh; never got a chance to prepare them properly. Not much use for a Vas Mani."

"That'll do. I intend to boil them into an oil. Can you fetch them for us?"

"Oil? Fie, that'll take hours! And in case you haven't noticed, sir, her foot's about to fall off!"

A muffled wretching sound came from Ernesto's direction.

Sethys nodded placidly. "All's well, Andrio. I don't need any reagents for a Saengktu, which we can do right here. But I do think the injury also needs to be wrapped. If we put the mandrakes on the boil now, we can make the poultice sooner rather than later."

"I see." Andrio nodded in understanding. "They're in my schoolbag. Should still be inside the manor unless Stefano already hocked it for spare change."

"Did you say Saengktu?!" Now that was ancient history. Alas, Gwenno was in no state for academic expounding, but damned if she wouldn't try anyway; she cleared her throat. "Ah, yes! Yes, it has been documented that some factions of the ancient Ophidians did cleave to a bifurcated magical canon very similar to that of the old Sosarians at the time of Exodus, namely The Book of Amber Runes and—oof! Do be careful dear, it is rather sore—and The Ancient Liturgy of Truth. But then, other Ophidian factions utilized a schema more akin to the words of power we know today."

These old names pinged something deep within Giselle's memory as well. "But didn't the Ophidians use their own grimoires? We sure found plenty of scrolls lying around their ruins," she remarked.

"Eh? Seth? Oh, he's chanting. Marvellous!" Gwenno lowered her voice, still thick and wavering with pain. "Now, Andrio, Freli, I especially want you two to watch this very closely. This is a one-off chance to witness a rare and valuable demonstration of an antiquated method of spellcasting which needs no book, scroll, or even reagents. It's very kind of our Seth to show us how his obscure Xenkan scholar-monk cloister has kept this tradition alive for purely academic purposes, and he should require absolute silence to aid his concentration—"

"Miss Gwenno, please," Sethys suddenly blurted.

"Yes, dear? Oh! My apologies! I'll stop blathering so you can get on with it," she realized. "Everybody hush now. Shh, shh. Watch him…"

Sethys slipped once more into his incantation, and once more a natural harmony filled the ensuing void of Silence; the endless circulation of the waves and wind, with the sporadic caterwauling of gulls and petrels and the odd avocet to—

"FELICITATIONS, FRIENDS!"

—break the silence, as Stefano, ever pleased by the sound of his own voice, cheerfully strolled towards his homestead with an exasperated Mortegro in tow.

"A crowd, eh? Eh, look, Morty! Looks like the gang's all here! Hooray!"

"A crowd, eh? Eh, look, Morty! Looks like the gang's all here!" the thief observed, warmly. "Hooray!"

"Looks like the gang would have our guts for garters, Stefano," Mortegro replied through his teeth.

But Stefano felt too flattered not to deliver a royal wave—at the very least—and bare his slightly crooked but nevertheless radiant grin. "Ahh! Well, how's everyone getting along? How's tricks?" he asked. "Nice to see all of you back at the family shack in one piece."

"One piece! Mate, in case you haven't noticed, that woman's foot fell off!" cried Ernesto.

"What?!" Stefano recoiled instantly. "Miss Giselle?"

"Not me, ya big bazoo. Gwenno!" Giselle—who always stood firmly on her own feet, thank you—pointed at the patient still seated on the front stoop, around whom everyone had assembled.

"It has not fallen off, not even remotely, for virtue's sake!" Gwenno groaned. "Would you please curb your hysterics? Look, he has already finished healing it, easy as pie."

In the time it took for Stefano to outdo the din of the seagulls, Sethys finished casting his nearly silent Saengktu, ameliorating the gnarliest parts of Gwenno's wound and making its appearance much easier to stomach.

"Don't forget, it's only partially healed for now," he noted while winding a length of crisp cotton gauze around the woman's foot. "Like I said before, I'm not really properly trained as a real healer. But perhaps Mortegro or Giselle could…"

"Nah. You did fine for now, honey," said Giselle. "Besides, if it were up to me, I'd do like you suggested anyway. Wrap it in an enchanted poultice later, Vas Mani, or something like that. Then make sure this stubborn old broad keeps off it 'til the bones reset."

The incantation was but a minor one, but one could not discount the major sense of relief it brought to Gwenno, made plain by her smile and the little crinkles about her eyes. "There!" she sighed. "Everybody thank Seth for such a fascinating demonstration of the ancient Ophidian healing arts. I cannot say I would have intentionally chosen this for a lesson plan, but I do hope you boys learned something just the same."

"I know I did," said Freli, sourly. "If Bucia ever asks you to do anything for her, run for it!"

Cheeky lad. Gwenno fired her best disapproving look at him as Sethys helped her to an awkward one-legged stand, though she had to cling fast to a balustrade for additional support. "I suppose you're off the hook now, Seth," she told him. "I think we can safely declare that school is out of session for today. Phew!"

"Ahem. Class may be dismissed, but I'm afraid Seth is not," Mortegro intervened, stepping forward. "Assuming we are speaking of the same Xenkan scholar-monk from an obscure cloister who also happens to be my cousin. Apparently."

"Oi! This chap's your cousin, Morty? Really?" said Ernesto. "I didn't know you had a cousin!"

"Oh yes. Well, he's never been off the mainland before so it's likely you've never seen nor heard of him. Did I get that right, Seth?"

Sethys attempted to reply, but suddenly found his throat too dry to produce any other sound but a weirdly strangled squeak. When he looked to Gwenno for a lifeline, he saw naught but the back of her seed-packet blouse and knit waistcoat as she pretended to be interested in Stefano's collection of tropical plants.

"Is that right? Never been off the mainland ever? Strewth! You're a sorry little mouldywarp, aren't ya! But game as a buff rooster too!" Ernesto went on, gormlessly impressed. "I mean, I can't imagine! Spending your whole life in a cloister and then coming to Moonshade—of all places!—for your first taste of the outside world, eh? It's like a... Ah, what do they call that? Like a culture shock, right?"

Mortegro exchanged a glance with Ernesto, who fired a glance towards Sethys, who averted both of their glances in turn. This exercise in narrative paucity threatened to continue indefinitely until Giselle's timely interruption:

"So where's Petra?" she wondered. "Me and Ernie went through all the trouble of rustling up your supper. We're making a stew; I was hoping she'd be around to bake us some rolls to go with."

"Yeah, we sure did some, uh, rustling," agreed Ernesto, giving the oilcloth sack a little shake.

Stefano leered towards it, sniffing cautiously. "Phew, that thing reeks! What in the world have you got stashed in there, Ranger?"

"You'll find out later. Sorry."

"It is a long and risible story," Mortegro continued, "but I regret to say that Stefano and I are still working on getting Petra back."

"Still—?!" Giselle couldn't believe it. "You've been at it for hours! What's the hold up?"

"Well, Torrissio is!" said Stefano. "I say, the man's gone completely potty, and potting drunk to boot."

"We did made a breakthrough in our negotiations, but he has made it clear that he will not give up Petra without a fair fight," Mortegro added. "Unfortunately, it's up to him to determine what fair means in this regard. To cut a long and risible story short, it all comes down to Seth."

"Me?" Sethys looked up at nobody in particular. "Why?"

"Yeah, what exactly do you plan on doing with my Ophidian?"

Giselle's unthinking outburst elicited raised eyebrows from two certain young lads who may or may not have recently entertained a "highly implausible" yarn involving an ancient acolyte and a time prism, which to their ears sounded even more cooked-up than their own potboilers about secret love children and serial goat killers.

"Well, if the Avatar said it…" Freli mumbled to Andrio. Their conversation continued at a level too low for any older folks to make out.

"Nothing untoward, I promise!" swore Stefano. "Just a spot of identification, maybe a little translation, hopefully a little education—we'll bring him back, Miss Giselle! Honestly, you'd think we're trying to pawn him for moon cheese!"

"We'll have to explain the details to you along the way, for I'm afraid we've little time to waste. Petra's continued well-being—perhaps even her life—depends on how well we handle this matter," Mortegro told Sethys.

"Petra…" He mused. "You mean, the automaton woman?"

"That's right. I know you never got the chance to meet her, but surely you can appreciate the overall gravity of the situation, yes?"

"I suppose I can."

"You suppose?"

"I mean, I think so. I hope I can. This is all a bit new to me, Mortegro. I must confess, I'm not entirely used to being useful."

Mortegro tried to look Sethys in the eyes, but he met with naught but a moving target; Sethys shifted his gaze left, then right, then down, anywhere but at. The behavior did not strike him as suspicious, so much as he felt like he'd slammed full-force into an impenetrable wall of dread. The continued presence of that absurd winter hat and scarf he insisted on wearing whenever they went outdoors—even while a late summer sun blazed overhead, roasting the other gents alive in their morning coats—only enhanced the accuracy of Ernesto's verdict: A sorry little mouldywarp indeed, saddled with 87 centuries of psychic baggage and now kneecapped by what the Ranger described as culture shock.

Still, nothing that couldn't be mended with a little time and a little care. "You'll be right," Mortegro sighed as he led the way, back up the avenue from whence he arrived only minutes ago. "Come along, Stefano! You too!"

"Well, duty calls. Leave a light on for me, eh?" said Stefano; he would walk backwards until he finished addressing the others. "And maybe save me a little supper too, assuming you manage to cook something edible with whatever's fermenting in that bag, hm?"

"Now you listen here, darlin'," Giselle fired back. "You may think Petra's the best cook in town, but I bet my bottom dollar that my Minoxian-style Stewed Snail Pottage could give anyone a run for their money, automaton or no."

Stefano began to walk a little faster, spurred by a decidedly delectable combination of keywords. "Ehh? Stewed snail? Oh sure, sure! Oh, I've no doubt in my mind about whatever you just said, truly!" Before turning into a full trot: "Must dash! Morty, wait for me! Wait—!"

"Bugger me dead," Andrio spoke just under his breath. "That bloke really wasn't lying, was he?"

"What was that, dear?" Gwenno overheard. "You mean Stefano? Because whenever it comes to Stefano, I presume fraud."

"Not Stefano, I mean your assistant," Andrio replied, suddenly flustered. "Uh. I mean, uh... I mean, Seth really wasn't lying about this place once being the snail capital of the ancient world and all that, was he?"

"Well, it does strike me as the sort of truth that would be too farfetched to be a lie. Besides, I'm not sure what anyone would have to gain by making up a story like that."

"Guess you're right, Miss..."

"Oi! You two laddos had a busy day exercising your brains, right?" Ernesto managed a wan smile as he approached the two. "Now how about giving your arms a fair go by helping me and Giselle boil up all these darned tasty Moon Snails, huh? Doesn't that sound like a gas? Or are you just going to let us have all the fun? Eh? Ehh?"

He jiggled the sack, feigning excitement for the sake of two moping magelings and any extra hands they might be willing to provide.

Andrio and Freli exchanged glances as the waning remainder of the day stretched before them, spanning the dim maw of an odiously bubbling cauldron—not at all dissimilar to how the Magister used to schedule their apothecary's practicum directly before the dinner bell, thus ensuring a sufficient enough loss of appetite to stomach the Seminarium's typical bill of fare.

On the other hand, they would be allowed to eat indoors today. But at what cost?

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