opened a small panel behind the bench and nimbly
disappeared inside the wagon.
Concocting potions was Grimm’s task; selling them
was Jastom’s. It was an arrangement that had proven quite
profitable on their journeys from one end of Ansalon to
the other. The two had first met some years before, in the
markets of Kalaman. At the time, neither had been making
a terribly good living for himself. Even Jastom’s brilliant
smile and ingenuous visage had not been enough to
interest folk in the crude baubles he was attempting to
foist off as good luck charms. And as for the dwarf, his
gloomy, glowering looks tended to keep potential
customers well away from the booth where he was trying
to sell his elixirs. One night, the two had found themselves
sharing a table in a tavern, each lamenting his particular
misfortune over a mug of ale. Both had realized that each
had what the other lacked, and so their unlikely but
lucrative partnership was born.
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