"No use. It's shut tight." He sighed and tossed up his hands in dismay-to discover his palms and the bottoms of his fingers covered in white powder. Curiously, he rolled it with his fingertips and was fascinated to find that it joined together in little clumps. He brought a bit to his tongue and tasted before Sasha could reach to stop him.
Wiglaf s face brightened. "Flour! It's flour!"
"And it's covered," she said.
Wiglaf looked back at the packet. Its protective outer shell was sloughing off in great clumps now, deconsti-tuting as they watched. Wiglaf made to pick it up, and his hand came back full of flour. He brushed it away, and revealed his new discovery.
Nestled inside the pile of flour was a cream-colored soft lump, a finger-length square, that appeared to have been broken in two, judging from its one jagged edge. There was a small jar full of cloudy, viscous liquid with bits of matter suspended in it. Under both items, Wiglaf found a double-folded piece of parchment covered with strange vertical scribbles: semicircular forms, bisecting lines, strategically placed dots. The dry sheet crackled as Wiglaf unfolded it.
"Can you read it?" Sasha asked.
"Thorass."
"I beg your pardon?"
"It's written in Thorass. Auld Common tongue." Wiglaf bent in concentration. "Nobody uses it anymore. There's no telling how old this is, Sasha. Centuries, maybe."
"I'll bet Fenzig can read it."
Wiglaf frowned. "For your information, he's teaching me how, too."
"Fine. Give us the translation, your mageness."
"Well… I just started, and it's a dead language anyway, so I didn't really…"
"… and you have this problem with studying. Great. Just when we could actually use a little book learning."
"Hold on, hold on. I've got some of it. Time'… no, Year… none-food.' "
"Ah. Crystal clear."
"Please, Sasha. 'Make… meal'… no, 'bread… of… wonder. Make year… many-food.' "
Wiglaf's mouth fell open. He turned slowly to the other items.
"Sasha, do you realize what happened? Do you realize what we have here?"
"No, me many not-realize."
"There must have been a Year of Famine, long ago, who knows? And then a very powerful magic-user- maybe a whole bunch of them-made this." He held up the lump and turned it in his hand. "So stupid, it's right • there in front of me. Dough. This is starter dough! It makes the bread of wonder!" He grabbed the jar. "And this has to be magical sourdough starter-to make even more dough!"
"I'm hungry already."
"No, don't you see? This stuff turned the Year of Starving into a Year of Plenty. It might even have saved our whole civilization. And they must have hidden it here in case a famine came back."
"You think it's still any good?"
"No reason why not. In Luiren, they discovered a sealed flask of ale from ancient times that turned out to be just fine. And so was the recipe they found along with it. Inns are serving Oldest Ancient Stout there today. And this could be even bigger!"
He stood, amazed, and threw out his arms. "Sasha, this is the greatest discovery Calimshan has ever seen!" He started to tip back into the water, but Sasha was there.
"Hey, no more diving today, okay, Wiglaf? Let's just take your wonder bread back to town."
The Ovens of Evertongue employed three full-time bakers; two apprentices who evaluated, procured, cataloged, stored, and measured the constant flow of foodstuffs; and, lowest in the pecking order, an ovenboy whose never-ending job was to keep the floors and counters as tidy as business would allow, and the used implements recycling back into the process all clean and shiny. Wiglaf himself had served a few terms as ovenboy, a miserable duty that nevertheless befell anyone who wished to rise in the hierarchy. Even the shop's cat, Piewacket, considered herself in a supervisory position.
Thorin and the entire staff had been at work well before sunrise on the morning pastry detail, and had shifted toward loaves for evening meals when Wiglaf and Sasha burst in from their journey. The bakers were happy enough to see their old colleague, but they were terribly busy. Wiglaf had to dodge scurrying people as he rapidly recounted the day's events-omitting, Sasha noted, only his unorthodox entry into the grotto pool. At the ultimate moment, he pulled the treasure from his pocket and held it aloft like an enchanted sword.
When the bakers finally had something tangible to see, all activity stopped. They moved tentatively toward the starter dough and the jar that Wiglaf brandished. Only Piewacket, asleep in a U-shape on the windowsill, was uninterested.
"If that isn't starter, I'm a "deeper," marveled Sam Brownstone, Thorin's veteran baker. Wiglaf handed it to him for inspection. "But it's the damndest one I've ever seen." He gave the lump a gentle squeeze. "It feels fresh, but dry as the desert on the outside. We're to believe this is hundreds of years old, young Ever-tongue?"
"Maybe thousands!" cried Wiglaf.
"So what are you planning to do with it, son?" his father asked.
"Well, if you don't know what to do with it here, maybe I'd better take my business to another establishment," Wiglaf beamed.
"You don't actually believe it's still good after all this time?"
"There's only one way to find out, Father."
Thorin Evertongue paused and pondered. "All right, but after we've finished today's baking. Today, gentlemen." The spell was broken, and the staff hurried to its duties again.
Wiglaf leapt up in delight. 'Well, what are we waiting for? Give me an apron and I'll help!"
Sasha cleared her throat. She had gone completely unnoticed in the commotion. "I think this is my cue to take a stroll. See you later, Wiglaf."
He gave her a curt wave and made his second dive of the day-into frenzied work at his father's bakery.
It felt good, toiling at his former station. If fresh, hot bread was comfort food, then making it was comfort work. Sometimes those who have gladly left a trade are reminded of their past misery by smells and sounds; Wiglaf knew a former blacksmith who hated the smell of horses and jumped at the biting sound of steel on steel, and he himself had often thought that if he could just get out of this bakery, he'd never enter one again. But he knew that any profession becomes a chore if you have to do it when you don't want to-yes, even the study of magic. And as anyone knows who has passed one by, there are few smells as tantalizing as those issuing from a bakery; that pleasure is not lost on its employees.
Wiglaf helped with preparation, cleaning, and especially customer service at the counter in the front room, a task at which he excelled. Most of the patrons who stopped in were lifelong acquaintances, surprised to see him back at work, and each one was treated to the story of his latest exploit. The afternoon flew by, and before he knew it, the last loaves-the ones the staff would take home for themselves-were steaming in the bakers' baskets.
With the solemnity of a group of learned healers, the craftsmen prepared to conjure Wiglaf's special loaf. The ovenboy produced a pot of water warmed by the fire. Sam Brownstone poured a bit of it into a large bowl and gave Wiglaf the honor of adding the magical discovery.
"Now, this is just half a loaf," Wiglaf said, "so let's use half measures. We'll test it first." He carefully added a bit of the dough into the water and stirred the mixture with a fork. Everyone in the room was intent on this otherwise mundane task; even Piewacket came up to snake against ankles and compete for attention. Soon the dough had completely dissolved into the water.