10 – Aftermath by Asprin, Robert

“Urn.” The spellwright’s expression did not change, which took effort. “Uh, well, anyhow, uh-what do I owe you, Spellmaster?”

Strick showed his visitor a very small smile and a small shake of the big head that was covered to midforehead, midcheek on each side, and the base of his nape by the snug cap of leather dyed dark blue. No one had seen this man’s bare head, or a sign of hair. They saw the cap, and the strangeness of deep blue tunic over matching leggings. Strange, and dull. The medallion, a plugged gold piece he always wore, did little to alleviate the severity of his attire. Oddly, the medallion nearly matched his large and droopy mustache.

“I’ve done nothing for you, Abohorr. You owe me nothing. You’re sure that you don’t want to fight back and cope-to be the best one-thumbed carpenter Sanctuary ever saw or heard of? That I can help you with!”

“I just don’t want to go back to carpenterin’, Spellmaster,” the poor fellow said, and with several expressions of thanks and apologies, he left the office of the man from Firaqa.

Strick waited a minute or so to allow him time to get down the steps and to the door of what he referred to as “my shop” before shouting,

“Wints!”

The man formerly described as “an overage street urchin” was much less than a minute in making an appearance. Wintsenay was a changed man, now, with good steady employment and the blue livery of Strick tiFiraqa.

“Sir!”

“You suggested to your friend Abohorr that he come see me,” Strick said grimly, fixing the other man with a stem face and a pointing finger bigger than any of those of the carpenter or ex-carpenter who had just departed. “You know bloody well I can’t do anything about a lost thumb, Wints! I wish you’d never learned my curse-that I have to help or try;