"Perhaps you should call me Rand from now on," he said, aware that the request sounded incongruous. He needed it settled before their voices reached the ears of villagers. "My friends do."
Lyim lifted one eyebrow in mild surprise. "Sure," was his only vague comment, his attention already on the buxom maids scurrying home for the night on the darkening street. He called to one suggestively. The young woman glanced at him in his odd robes, reclining on the swaying mound of tubers. She ducked her head and scurried away, leaving high, tinkling laughter in her wake.
"Damn!" cursed Lyim. "I've never had a woman laugh at me before." He tugged angrily at his robe and brushed at some dried mud from the hem. "If I weren't on this lumbering potato wagon, I'd-"
"You'd be walking in the grasslands by Pensdale, where there aren't even any women to look at."
"That might be better than the indignity of-" Lyim scowled and waved his hand at their conveyance "- this! I tell you, I'm just not used to this kind of reaction from women!"
Guerrand could believe it of the flawlessly handsome man. "You're losing sight of the goal, Lyim," he said gently. "We have little more than a fortnight left to get to Palanthas. This wagon has been a godsend."
Lyim was only marginally pacified. "Well I, for one, will be grateful to get off this godsend."
Removing a potato that had been lodged in the small of his back for too long, Guerrand had to agree.
"Yer in luck on two counts, lads," said Guthrie, the mate on duty this night. The farmer had just concluded his transaction, received payment for his produce, and left for an inn, happily counting his coin.
"Palanthas is a port o' call for the Ingrid. We'll make it in three weeks, if Habbakuk's luck shines on us. We'll also be needin' at least two more hands by mornin'." He bent slightly and spit bright yellow nut juice onto the deck. "Lost four hands to the salt-sea blight this last trip on the far side of Enstar Island." Guthrie shrugged and spat again. "Truth be told to all but their mothers, they weren't much good anyways. Only a weaklin' gives in to that sickness.
"Ye look like sturdy lads, though." The mate pinched Guerrand's bicep through the fabric of his robe. "Ye'll need to take off these gowns. They'll just weigh ya down durin' a gale. 'Sides, Captain Aldous distrusts anyone in a robe-thinks they're dirty users of magic." The mate squinted at the two men closely, suddenly suspicious. "Ye wouldn't be dirty users of magic, would ye?"
"Absolutely not!" cried Lyim. "We're, uh, novitiates in a religious order to, uh, Gilean. The coarse-spun robes symbolize our dedication to a simple way of life. We can take them off instantly, if they make Captain Aldous uncomfortable." To demonstrate his honest intentions.
Lyim loosened his robe and began slipping it over his head. "There!" Frowning, he nudged Guerrand, who was watching him with eyes agog.
"Oh, yes," muttered Guerrand. He, too, removed his robe and began to roll it to a size that would fit in his pack. Looking in the leather sack, he caught sight of the shard of mirror and remembered with a start that Zagarus was still inside and had been for days. He certainly couldn't release him now, with the mate and Lyim watching. Closing the flap quickly before Zagarus could squawk, he resolved to make an opportunity the second the negotiations were over.
"Well, then, that be settled," said Guthrie. "Ye can get started on yer work straight away." He kicked an empty wooden crate forward and nodded toward the wagon upon which they'd ridden. "Start loadin' these spuds so's we can get 'em on deck and the farmer'll get his cart back by mornin'."
"Now?" gulped Lyim. "You want us to load potatoes yet tonight?" He looked wistfully toward the well-lit inn the fanner had entered.
"Do ye know another way to get 'em on deck by sunup?" asked the mate, weatherworn hands on his hips.
"Yes," Lyim muttered under his breath for Guerrand's ears alone.
Afraid that the impulsive apprentice might be driven to a foolish display of magic, Guerrand grabbed a handful of potatoes and tossed them into the crate. "We'll happily get right at it, Guthrie, sir." He tossed another armload of spuds into the box. "Be done in no time."
"Gentle now," warned the mate. "We don't want to be bruisin' the stock afore we sell it." He watched Guerrand for a moment until satisfied with his touch, then walked up the gangplank and boarded the ship.
"Happily, sir," mimicked Lyim, at last joining in. "I didn't know you were a bootlicker, Guerrand. You don't seem the type."
Guerrand looked about anxiously. "Remember, call me Rand." He glared at the other apprentice. "And I'm not the type, Lyim. But I had to do something to reassure him after your gaffs. We're going to be on this ship day and night for more than a fortnight, and the mate can make our lives very easy or very difficult." He arched a brow. "I know which of those I'd prefer."
"I was the one who explained away our robes," sniffed Lyim.
"Yes," agreed Guerrand, "and now we have to remember the details of that lie. Which god was it?"
"Gilean, one of the old gods." Lyim chuckled, ignoring the implied criticism in Guerrand's tone. "I'll take that as a thank-you."
Bent over a crate, Guerrand peered under his arm at Lyim. "Let's just hurry and get these things loaded."
They made short work of the task, filling sixteen crates. Guerrand called to the mate, who showed the young men where to put the crates on the deck. It was long, tedious work, and even patient Guerrand thought he might lose his mind by the time Guthrie released them for the night, with a reminder to report for duty just before sunup.
Lyim wasted no time heading for the light and mirth of the Laughing Lynx Inn, a rambling structure of weathered stone, with wooden cross braces bleached gray by many seasons exposed to the sea. Guerrand begged off, saying he needed to stretch his legs before retiring.
The second he saw Lyim's back disappear into the Laughing Lynx, Guerrand hastened down the shore to a rocky jut of land. Sitting on a boulder, he flipped open the pack.
What on Krynn are you doing, Guerrand? He could hear Zagarus's angry thoughts directly inside his head.
Let me out of here!
Though he knew no one else could hear the sea gull, he couldn't resist the temptation to hiss, "Ssshhh!" He carefully withdrew the mirror, glaring into the glassy surface. There, he could see the shadow-shrouded image of his familiar.
Zagarus sprang forth with a squawk, nearly crashing into Guerrand's face. Before the bird could speak, Guerrand said wearily, "Don't ask. All you need to know is that I found the tower and have a master-"
I figured that, since we're not dead.
"And we're traveling with another mage, so we'll have to be careful. No one can know you're my familiar."
The more things change, the more they stay the same, said Zagarus. Including that I need to eat. How many days was I in there?
Guerrand shook his head. "I'm not sure. Two, maybe? I'm sorry it was so long, but it couldn't be helped."
No wonder I'm starving! With that, Zagarus lifted his wings and soared seaward to find food.
"Stay close!" called Guerrand, knowing it was unnecessary. Zagarus understood the rules better than anyone. Guerrand thought that was strange, when he was on the threshold of learning a whole new set of rules himself.