The wagon rolled to a halt in the center of the town's square, and Jastom leapt acrobatically to the cobbles. He bowed deeply, flourishing his heavy cape as grandly as a court magician, and then spread his arms wide.
"Gather 'round, good folk of Faxfail, gather 'round!" he called out. His voice was clear as a trumpet, honed by years of hawking wares until it was as precise as the finest musical instrument. "Wonders await you this day, so gather 'round and behold!"
From out of nowhere (or, in fact, from out of his sleeve) a small purple bottle appeared in Jastom's upturned palm. A gasp of amazement passed through the crowd as folk young and old alike leaned forward to peer at the odd little bottle. The morning sunlight sparkled through the purple glass, illuminating a thick, mysterious-looking liquid within.
"Wonders indeed," Jastom went on, lowering his voice to a theatrical whisper that was nonetheless audible to even the most distant onlookers. "After just one sip of this precious potion, all your aches and ailments, all your malingering maladies and ponderous pains, will vanish as though they had never been. For a mere ten coins of steel" — a dismissing gesture of his hand made this particular detail seem of the barest significance — "this bottle of Mosswine's Miraculous Elixir will heal all!"
This last, of course, was not precisely true, and Jastom knew it. He and Grimm were charlatans. Fakes. Swindlers. The potion in the purple bottle couldn't so much as heal a rabbit of the sniffles let alone any of the dire ills he was claiming. Mosswine wasn't even Jastom's real name. It was Jastom Mosswallow. However, by the time folk in any one place realized the truth of things, Jastom and Grimm would always be long gone, headed for the next town or city to ply their trade.
It wasn't at all a bad business as Jastom reckoned things. He and Grimm got a purse full of coins for their efforts, and in return the folk they duped got something to believe in, at least for a little while. And these days even a brief hope was a rare thing of worth.
It was just six short months ago, in the dead of winter, that all of Krynn had suffered under the cold, hard claws of the dragonarmies. The War of the Lance had ended with the coming of spring, but the scars it had left upon the land — and the people — had not faded so easily as the winter snows. The folk of Ansalon were desperate for anything that might help them believe they could leave the dark days of the war behind, that they could heal themselves and make their lives whole once again. That was exactly what Jastom and Grimm gave them.
Of course, there were true clerics in the land now, since the War. Some were disciples of the goddess Mishakal — called Light Bringer — and they could heal with the touch of a hand. Or at least so Jastom had heard, for true clerics were still a rarity. However, he and Grimm did their best to avoid towns and cities where there were rumored to be clerics. Folk wouldn't be so willing to buy false healing potions when there was one among them with the power of true healing.
Abruptly, there was a loud, surprising clunk! as the wagon's side panel flipped downward, revealing a polished wooden counter and, behind it, a row of shelves lined with glimmering purple bottles. Grimm's glowering eyes barely managed to peer over the countertop, but the crowd hardly noticed the taciturn dwarf. All were gazing at the display of sparkling elixirs.
Jastom gestured expansively to the wagon. "Indeed, my good gentlefolk, just one of these elixirs, and all that troubles you will be cured. And all it costs is a mere ten coins of steel. A small price to pay for a miracle, wouldn't you say?"
There was a single moment of silence, and then as one the crowd gave a cry of excitement as they rushed forward, jingling purses in hand.
All morning and all afternoon the townsfolk crowded about the black varnished wagon, listening to Jastom extol the wondrous properties of the potions and then setting down their cold steel on the counter in trade for the small purple bottles.
There was only one minor crisis, this around midday, when the supply of potions ran out. Grimm was busily scurrying about inside the cramped wagon, measuring this and pouring that as he hurriedly tried to mix a new batch of elixirs. However, a few burly, red-necked farmers grew impatient and began shaking the wagon. Jars and bottles and pots went flying wildly inside, spilling their contents and covering Grimm with a sticky, medicinal-smelling mess. Luckily, the dwarf had managed to finish a handful of potions by then, and Jastom used these to placate the belligerent farmers, selling them the bottles for half price. Losing steel was not something Jastom much cared for, but losing the wagon — and Grimm — would have been disastrous.
After that interruption, Grimm was able to finish filling empty bottles with the thick, pungent elixir, and business proceeded more smoothly. However, the dwarf's eyes were still smoldering like hot iron.
"Fine way to make a living," he grumbled to himself as he tried to pick sticky clumps of herbs from his thick black beard. "I suppose we'll swindle ourselves right out of our own necks one of these days."
"What did that glum-looking little fellow say?" a blacksmith demanded, hesitating as he started to lay down his ten coins of steel on the wooden counter. "Something about swindle?"
Jastom shot a murderous look at Grimm and then turned his most radiant smile to the smith. "You'll have to forgive my friend's mumblings," he said in a conspiratorial whisper. "He hasn't been quite the same ever since one of the ponies kicked him in the head."
The blacksmith nodded in sympathetic understanding. He left the wagon, small purple bottle in hand. Jastom's bulging purse was ten coins heavier. And Grimm kept his mouth shut.
It was midafternoon when Jastom sold the last of the potions. The corpulent merchant who bought it gripped the purple bottle tightly in his chubby fingers and scurried off through the streets, a gleam in his eye. The fellow hadn't seemed to want to discuss the exact nature of his malady, but Jastom suspected it had something to do with the equally corpulent young maiden who was waiting for him in the door of a nearby inn, smiling and batting her eyelids in a dreadful imitation of demureness. Jastom shook his head, chuckling.
Abruptly there was a loud whoop! Jastom turned to see an old woman throw down her crooked cane and begin dancing a spry jig to a piper's merry tune. Other folk quickly joined the dance, heedless of the aches and cares that had burdened them only a short while ago. One shabbily-dressed fellow, finding himself without a partner, settled for a spotted pig that had the misfortune to be wandering through the town square. The pig squealed in surprise as the man whirled it about, and Jastom couldn't help but laugh aloud at the spectacle.
This was the work of the elixirs, of course. Jastom wasn't altogether certain what Grimm put in the small purple bottles, but he knew the important ingredient was something called dwarf spirits. And while dwarf spirits were not known to possess any curative powers, they did have certain potent and intoxicating effects.
Jastom had no idea how the dwarves brewed the stuff. From what little he had managed to get out of Grimm, it was all terribly secret, the recipe passed down from generation to generation with ancient ceremony and solemn oaths to guard the formula. But whatever was in it, it certainly worked. Laborers threw down their shovels, goodwives their brooms, and all joined what was rapidly becoming an impromptu festival. Respected city elders turned cartwheels about the square, and parents leapt into piles of straw hand-in-hand with their laughing children. For now, all thoughts of the war, of worry and of sickness, were altogether missing from the town of Faxfail.