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“The Drunken Wizard” was one of those filthy roadside joints that honourable people who minded their own well-being avoided at all costs and preferred farms over, to seek a night’s stay at. The tavern itself took up the first floor of an old, rundown farmhouse and consisted of one large room and a kitchen where a stew and a roast of questionable origins and even more questionable quality were being prepared, and a crude counter, nailed together from old boards that might or might not have been ripped off a rotten fence somewhere out in the pastures, split a corner off the room, a row of dusty bottles proudly displayed on a shelf behind it. At the tables scattered into the room just as questionable public drank and arranged their shady deals, and the smoke of tallow candles, the fireplace and tobacco stuffed into pipes mixed together with the smell of humans and animals, and the scent of suspicious dinner that wafted from the kitchen, and together they lay heavy in the room and onto the patrons. The owner of the establishment – a small, round fellow with the snout of a pig and the eyes of a rat, which glanced from underneath lank, sticky hair – was always to be found behind the counter, where he wiped the only glass cup, which had, surely by a miracle alone, survived in this place, with his grimy apron, like the self-important person that he was, while his wife and daughters tended to the kitchen and the guests. A rather poorly taught musician with a violin had found his place in another corner of the room, calling forth sounds that only a gaggle of drunks would have deemed good music.
The old man had picked one of the finest seats, by the only window not barricaded with old, long-suffering furniture, and stretched his legs under the small table, as he sipped from the slightly dented copper mug – too much of a fashionable item for this place, one that had cost him accordingly – and observed his surroundings with polite interest that was just enough to not draw attention to him in such place and which the other patrons practiced as well. The mistress of the house lumbered by, with a large wooden tray laden with drinks in each hand. One of her daughters followed, with wooden bowls of the questionable roast and the mystery stew, stopping at the table for long enough to set one of them in front of the customer, and graced the old man with a coy, yet pained, smile, as a silver coin landed on her tray. He appeared to be a regular here, strangely so, for the expensive fabrics his clothes were made of spoke of a man who could have easily bought the whole house, not just ale in a copper mug there. His neatly trimmed beard and clean, smooth hands were those of a person who had not had to work hard labour a single day in his life, while the long scar on the left side of his face told the story of somebody unafraid of getting into the fray, were it required.
He did not know when the stranger had entered – which was a feat in itself, for any new face around here was treated with suspicion at best, yet not a single head had turned – nor had he noticed when it was that they had taken place across the table. Their face remained obscured by the hood of a traveller’s cloak, even as they raised their hand and called the tavern keeper over. The man left his place behind the counter and approached, a mug of ale already in his hand, which he placed, carefully, in front of the visitor, before retreating again.
- It’s not usually that one sees a new face, around here.
The old man felt like striking up a conversation. After all, the stranger had chosen to spend the evening in his company.
- I can’t say I’m exactly new, - an answer was given, before the man took a sip from the mug, - but it is, nonetheless, the first time I am here.
- Well, this place has its charm, I ain’t gone lie about that, stranger.
- As do they all, don’t you think?
- Certainly, certainly. I must say, though, I am in awe, at your entrance.
- Oh, - the stranger merely shrugged at this observation, - it’s just my nature, so to speak. People don’t really pay attention to me most of the time.
- Wouldn’t that be a feat, for myself, most certainly! – The old man laughed about the answer. – But pray tell, what does bring you here?
- I am actually looking for somebody. – The man did not seem to be in a hurry, the way he took another, long, sip of the disgusting house ale that the owner of the place praised beyond belief, but which, in reality, was just a pinch better than dishwater. – A certain Baltram. A merchant. People say he frequents this place.
- Well, my good man, you’ve found him! – the old man exclaimed, sitting up straight and clasping his hands. – How may I be of service?
- I have heard that you deal in… certain wares. – The stranger set the mug on the table and whisked a speck of dust away, before leaning closer. It had been a long time since the place had seen water and soap, and the surface of the table was sticky to the touch, and one speck did not do much, in terms of keeping it clean, but it was the thought that counted, in any case. – Wares from all across the land.
- My good man, what’s with the secrecy? – Baltram laughed. – I’ve nothing to hide! I have sold my finest, to our graceful king and the queen themselves, may the gods bless and protect them! Is there a deal you wish to strike? Anything in particular, if you come seeking me out?
- To put it one way, yes.
The stranger waved the owner over to them again, and again the man approached and set not one but two mugs onto the table, and the visitor made a gesture, inviting his new acquaintance to a drink.
An hour passed, with Baltram sinking deeper into the pleasant swamp of drunkenness – for who was he, to refuse an offer this generous – and a silly smile continued spreading on the old man’s face, as he reminisced about deals struck on marketplaces and in estates, on nearby farmyards and in faraway mines, counting down on his fingers the times he had been especially lucky to score deals. Other patrons around them paid no attention to the two men, busy with their own dealings, and the musician in the corner had exhausted his repertoire for the evening and was chatting with the owner of the joint.
- This one time, - Baltram rambled on, gesticulating wildly, his speech a happy slur, the courtesy of the ale and mead in his head, - one guy paid a small fortune! I didn’t even pay three silvers, for that one! But he! He paid ten gold! Imagine that! Ten gold!
The stranger chuckled, nodding along.
- Un-belie-vable, what some people just… do! – the merchant spread his arms, gesturing about. – And I tell you, those Ahtermuchy peasants – they’re no good for a-ny-thing! At all!
- Still better than Glasgow ones, now?
- Oh, you betcha! I wouldn’t put up with those, even if I were offered double the price! Too much hassle, that one! See this ‘un? – Baltram pointed at his scar and leant closer to his companion. – One didn’t quite want to agree with my terms! Grabbed a knife, the knave! It’s luck I’m used to squabbles! Would’ve cost me an eye, that one! Unruly folk, Glaswegians!
- I have no doubt about that, - the stranger agreed. – Say, you mentioned Auchtermuchty, right?
Baltram nodded vigorously, almost spilling the ale all over himself.
- Aye! You from there?
- In a way, yes, - the stranger affirmed. – I used to visit there, when I was little. I remember there was this woman… what was she… a laundress, I believe, and she had a kid. And then, I came back the next year – and they were gone. Imagine that!
- Yes! Yes, that’s what I’s talking about! – Baltram exclaimed, and his smile widened. – I paid what, two silvers, for that one! And three for the woman! And that was a waste of money, let me tell you!
- What happened?
- Well, imagine! It’s such a waste of money, I still feel sorry for it! So! I get my ten gold! And I’m happy like, - the slave trader downed his drink, - like a spring goat! About that! But, nobody wants a crippled washerwoman, so I think, okay, maybe in the next town. And then she just goes and dies, three days from there!
- Dies? – The stranger tilted his head, slightly so, and began tapping on the surface of the table with his fingers.
- Yes, can you imagine! Three silvers, all down the drain!
- What would she die of, so suddenly?
- Oh! don’t think, don’t think that I’m some cruel bastard, killing my merchandise left and right! She said she couldn’t live on! Imagine! Like, people die every day! Children die every day! Why’s different? So, I say to her: “Well, you can just get a new one, you’re still a pretty one, I tell you! Just gotta find somebody who ain’t gonna mind that leg of yours, and you’re all set!” But no, she goes and causes me damage! Broken heart, ‘s what the doctor told me. Burials cost, too, you know! People are scru-pu-lous beyond belief! Demand money for common grave, even! Cheap-skates!
- Indeed, they are. – The stranger pushed his own (barely touched) mug away. – Tell me, old man: you said you remember everybody you’ve ever sold, yes?
- Yes, sir-e! Indeed, I do! – Baltram banged onto his chest with one fist, prideful. – I pride myself in that! Whomever, whenever! That’s how I know I’m not being swindled!
- Good. That is good. Tell me, then, – The stranger removed his hood, wavy hair cascading down his shoulders, – who am I?
Baltram stared.
- The boy, - his fogged mind made the connection, albeit slower than it normally would, - you’re that boy. The laundress’ kid.
- Indeed. – The young man stood and made a step closer, then another, and another, until he was finally standing, looming over the trader like a vulture, and Baltram felt his heart throb like it was about to jump from his chest.
A finger with a steel claw brushed across the slaver’s face, leaving a cut in its wake.
- What do you want?
The sound had been more of a squeal, than a question, and the man smirked.
- You know who I am, and you just confessed to me that, because of you, my mother is dead. What do you think I might want?
- But… but I am not fault! I merely paid for what was brought to me! I—
- Shh~ - The stranger smiled, and it made the creeps run down the trader’s back. – I know. But you’re merely the first one, of you all, that I meet. No hard feelings, my dear man.
- No! No! - Baltram made an escape attempt, and, when that did not work, he resorted to screeching. – No! Help me!
- Oh, I am afraid they can’t hear us. – The wizard’s grin made the man’s knees tremble, and Baltram was unable, even by his best wish, to hold his gaze, as the stranger’s eyes lit up with unnatural gleam. – To them, we don’t even exist here at the moment. You see, - he continued, tracing the scar on the trader’s face, - if you had only given me an answer that I liked. Such as, for example, that she was likewise sold, and you can even tell me where she might be. I would have happily left you to your own devices. As is your luck, however, I rather hate the answer you’ve given me.
His finger stopped at the old man’s temple and tapped, twice, ever so slightly as if he were touching a baby bird rather than a human being.
Baltram’s eyes widened, his face dropped, and the man slouched against the wall like a sack of potatoes propped up on the chair.
The wizard pulled his hood up again, turned and walked towards the door, his pace slow. He passed by the counter, dropped a few silvers on it, and then the door had already closed behind his back.
In a couple of hours, once it was time to close down for the night, one of the daughters would speak to Baltram, to let the old man know it was time to leave. She would shake him by the shoulder, and he would collapse onto the floor, and she would scream and cry, and call for help. A doctor would be called in, unwillingly making his way inside the tavern, and the next day everybody in the nearby villages would know of old Baltram who was a fair trader and a good man overall, and who died, at an honourable age, but at a less than honourable location, as his heart gave out after an evening of cheap booze, and none of the guests and even the owners of the tavern would remember the man he had been talking to, that night when death’s cold claws finally clutched his heart in a deadly embrace.