Censorless, Part Three

This is Part Three of the story.  Part Two can be found here.

"It's a bit small, ain't it?"

"Well it's supposed to be small," Harris explained.  "It's a holdout pistol.  You can hide it under a belt, or in a boot."

The shopkeep frowned, turning the small firearm in his hands.  "And it only holds a single round?"

"Umm, that's correct.  It's not meant to be used as a primary weapon, though, it's a backup.  Something a lady might use, for example, for personal protection."

The shopkeep grunted as he pulled out the chamber to make sure the weapon wasn't loaded before peering down the barrel.  "It's not even rifled."

Harris winced inwardly--it was sloppy to not rifle the barrel of the gun, but he didn't have the proper tools to do so, and if he botched it by using poor tools ill-suited to the task, he'd likely ruin the weapon completely.  "It's a weapon for safety," he said again, almost defensively.  If he wasn't able to sell the weapon, then he'd be stuck in the most expensive city on the planet, as close to penniless as mattered.

His hand, hidden below the counter, twitched, as if he was searching for something in the air.  Very slowly, very carefully, as if too quick a movement would send whatever elusive dust mote he sought scurrying into hiding.  "I assure you, it will sell," he said, almost as a distraction.

There.  His forefinger traced a line in the air, as if it was gliding atop an invisible surface.  Then, his finger twitched sharply.

The shopkeep nodded, slowly.  "Yeah, I think I could move it.  I'll give you fifteen gold for it."

Another twitch.  "I was hoping for something a bit...higher," Harris said.

The shopkeep furrowed his brows.  "I...suppose I could go for...thirty gold?"

Harris considered pressing his luck further, but knew it wouldn't be a good idea.  "Deal," he said.

The shopkeeper reluctantly counted thirty gold Imperiums into a small leather sack, a frown on his face the entire time, as if he had an idea that this should have gone quite differently.  Harris took the money from him and turned to walk out when the door to the shop exploded inwards, with the force of a mighty shove, one of the hinges snapping.

"Harris!" Kote said, his voice excited.  "Come on!  I have to cut this kid's hands off!"  With that, Kote tore off once again, running down the street with reckless abandon.

The shopkeep gaped, and it was impossible to tell if he was more shocked by the damaged door or the words of the young man who did it.  "Is he joking?" he asked.

Harris grit his teeth, shoving his freshly acquired bag of gold into a pocket in his cloak.  "He doesn't know how!"  He yelled, sprinting out the door and taking a hard right, the direction that Kote ran.  He could see his friend in the distance, absently barreling through people, jumping over small obstacles and dodging bigger ones.

"Hells," Harris said, running after him.  People saw him coming and moved out of the way, making his passage slightly easier than Kote's, but it was still almost impossible to keep up.  Back home, Kote was out in the fields and the forests near their home almost every day, gathering various herbs and minerals for his alchemic experiments.  Over time, he had developed a number of large circuits that he would take, doing a different route every day, running at a breakneck pace through the wild so as to devote as little time as possible to what he considered the 'boring' practice of gathering, and to save more time for his experiments.

Harris, on the other hand, rarely had a reason to run.  He had never really considered Kote to be his physical superior before, but it had become plainly obvious that he decidedly was.  After nearly ten minutes of their wild rush through town, Kote was nearly twice as far ahead as he was when Harris first exited the shop, and gaining.  In addition, Harris' breaths were more like gasps, bursting from his mouth like a battering ram through a parchment door, and Kote barely seemed fazed.

The chaos mage took a sharp turn into an alley, and Harris prayed that the chase was finally coming to a close.  He arrived at the entrance to the alley just a few short minutes later, and was pleased to see Kote standing only a few feet deeper in.  About ten feet beyond Kote, the passageway turned into stairs leading maybe fifteen feet down before the alley became a dead end at a wooden door with dark iron bands.

"What in the hells, Kote?" Harris asked between great whooping breaths, bending at the waist to put his hands on his knees.  He felt nauseous.

"I saw him," was Kote's reply.

"What?  Saw who?"

"The kid who stole your bag.  He was wearing it."

"What?  How do you know it was mine?"

Kote rolled his eyes.  "You've had the same bag for years, Harris.  It wasn't hard to pick out.  Anyways, I followed him here."

"And?  Now what?"

"I figured I'd cut his hands off.  Come on."  He began to make his way down the stairs, and Harris reluctantly followed him, trying to talk sense to him through his heavy breaths.  "Kote, you can't cut off some poor kid's hands."

"I'm not going to."

"What?  You just said you were!"

"No, I'm going to cut the hands off of the kid who stole your bag.  He's obviously not poor, even if he was beforehand, because we had enough gold stuffed in there to pay for both of our tuition at the University for a year."

"That--that doesn't matter, Kote," he said, but his comments fell on deaf ears as Kote pushed on the heavy door and walked inside.

"Oh, damn it all," Harris said, following.

Very little light penetrated this far into the alley, and the room beyond the door was lit only by a few dim candles.  It took Harris' eyes a few moments to adjust, and when they finally did, he wasn't very happy.

"Oh.  Well.  Hello, there."

Six men stood, each with a very menacing revolver pointed at the two teenagers.  The men were each heavily muscled, and they all looked like very qualified competitors for the title of 'The Most Scarred Man in the Land.'

"Yeah?  Hello, eh?" The man who looked as if he might have placed third place said.  "And who the hell are you, then?"

Harris opened his mouth to try and find a diplomatic way out of their predicament, but Kote saved him the trouble.  "That's Harris.  I'm Kote.  We're here to cut off the hands of the boy hiding behind you."

Harris' eyes widened in shock, and he noticed for the first time the child, maybe eleven years old, hiding behind the line of armed men.  And yes, that was indeed the backpack Harris had owned for nearly seven years resting firmly against his scrawny back.

"Really, then?" the second prize winner asked.  "And what gives you the right to threaten Harold's son?"

"He's a thief," Kote said simply.  "So I'm going to cut off his hands, so he can't steal from us again.  Then, Harris is going to take his backpack back."  Leave me out of it! Harris thought, but said nothing.

Kote considered for a moment.  "Backpack back.  Backpack back.  Backpack pack.  It gets harder to say that the more often you say it."

The men exchanged wry glances with one another.  "Well, we're thieves, too," Third Place said.  "Ain't that right, Fred?"

"Sounds about right to me," Fifth Place, 'Fred', replied.

"Yep, we're thieves, too.  So you going to cut off our hands, so we can't steal anymore, either?"

Kote frowned, obviously in thought.  "No," he finally said.  "I don't really care that you're thieves.  Not as long as you haven't stolen from me."  Then, as if an afterthought, he added, "Or Harris."

"I'm tired of this crap," one of them finally said.  "Let's just kill them."

Kote narrowed his eyes.  "Let's not."  He threw his hands out in front of him, making strange gestures in the air.  "Nommus Tseab!"

A vibrant bronze light began to shine from Kote's hands.  He quickly brought them together, seemingly molding the light into a small ball that he flung at the feet of the thugs.

The thugs took a cautious step back, but the sphere shaped itself too quickly for them to gain any real distance.  It began to grow, and four legs sprouted from it.  A head formed, and the light began to fade as the rough gray fur appeared.  Finally, the creature stood.

" Baaa," the sheep bleated.

The men burst out laughing.  "A sheep!"  One cried.  "Don't threaten the boy, or he'll summon a sheep and make us all new pants!"

Kote sighed.  "That wasn't really what I was going for," he said, and he began making more arcane gestures.  "Ria Tsrub!" he yelled, throwing his hands out before him.  A semi-visible pocket of air launched itself at the crowd, and four of them, plus the sheep, were thrown into the air, flying nearly ten feet back before slamming against the far wall, crying in pain as the cruel stone cracked ribs, skulls, and arms.

Harris' arms flung out, his fingers performing elaborate dances that no one could predict.  Finally, he made grasping motions with both of his hands, and made a great yanking motion with each.  The two guns that had been dropped on the floor were the first to fly towards him, followed shortly after by the four guns that were still held, each tearing itself from the grasp of it's master to fly through the air, clattering at the feet of the two arcanists.

"We need to cut off the boy's hands," Kote said.  "And retrieve our belongings.  But the rest of you can go."

"Kote, we're not cutting off his hands."

"No?  Why not?"

"Because.  That's a solid six.  Maybe a seven."

Kote sighed.  "Fine," he said, and he walked over to pull the backpack from the cooperating child.  He put the six revolvers in the top before shoving it into Harris' arms.  "At least we're not poor, anymore," he said, as they turned and walked back outside.

Censorless, Part Two

This is Part Two of the story.  Part One can be found here.

After a few moments, the door opened to reveal a pale face staring at them.  The woman was middle-aged, with green eyes dulled by two many nights spent alone but with the company of a bottle, and tattered, poorly-patched clothing.  Her hair was straggly, and she missed more than a few teeth.  "What do you be wantin'?" she asked, with a voice that was strangely sweet despite her odd accent and rough appearance.

"I, uh..." Harris was at a loss for words.  He looked at Kote helplessly, before facing the strange woman once more.

"Pardon my friend," Kote said, abruptly.  "He's an idiot with his words at times.  He requires medical assistance, as he decided it would be a wondrous idea to break his hand against a stone wall."  Harris shot Kote a venomous look at this, and Kote responded by raising an eyebrow in slight confusion.

"Oh," the woman said, apparently mollified with this response.  "Be comin' in, den."

Despite a few reservations, Harris nodded, entering the strange home.  It was lit by a decent-sized fire roaring in a grated fireplace, and he could make out strange and eerie collections on the shelves that lined the small room.  He took a seat at the table in the center of the room when she gestured, still staring at the shrunken heads, jars full of strange powders and liquids, and various other odds and ends organized throughout the room in no seemingly particular order.

"You, too, den," she said, looking at Kote and gesturing at another seat at the table.

"I'd rather study these," Kote said, and Harris was horrified to see him pick up one of the shrunken heads and stare at it, turning it in his hands.

"Kote--" Harris started, but he was interrupted by the strange woman's laughter, which sounded surprisingly clear and cheerful coming from her disfigured face.

"You be an honest one, chil'," she said, and then her voice turned as hard as steel and cold as ice, "but if you don' be puttin' dat down and sittin' down like Kalia tol' you, den you'll be joinin' my collection."

Kote blinked twice, then obediently put down the shrunken head and wordlessly took a seat at the table.

"Dat's bettah," she said, before taking a seat across from Harris.  "Now, chil', be lettin' me see dat han'."

Harris offered his hand, and she took it with a surprisingly gentle grip, clicking her tongue sympathetically.  "Dat look painful, chil'," she said, "but not terrible.  Any doctor can fix dis up, why not go to one o' dem?"

"I...thought you were a doctor."

Again she laughed, a great laugh from her stomach up, and her face seemed to grow ten years younger during the duration of it.  "Oh, chil', I be no doctor.  I can fix dis up, no problem.  But my way be much faster dan any doctor.  Who be tellin' you such tall tales, eh?  Who be tellin' you dat ol' Kalia is a doctor?"

"No one told us anything," Kote said.  "I cast a spell.  To find a doctor.  It led to you."

She looked at him curiously, studying his long black hair, his blank, emotionless face, his simple but well-kept clothing.  "You be a seer, den?" she asked, and Kote shook his head.  "Well?"

Kote said nothing, and Kalia's eyes grew frosty.  "What, den?  Don' come to Kalia's house and be playin' no games, chil'.  I asked you a question, I 'spect an answer, do you understan'?"

After years of friendship, the flicker of a frown on Kote's face was as plain to Harris as the sun was at noon on a cloudless day.  Kote disliked speaking of his abilities, but Kalia had no way of knowing that.

"I'm a chaos mage," he finally spat out, "you prying bitch."

"Kote!" Harris hissed.  "I'm sorry, ma'am, he doesn't mean AHH!" He was cut off by her hand crushing his broken hand with the strength of a vise.

"He mean it, all right," she said.  "Don' be lyin' to old Kalia.  He be tellin' de truth, and dere's no shame in that.  You be lyin', and dere's shame in dat aplenty, do you understan'?"

"Yes, ma'am," he finally squeeked out, and she released his hand.  He gasped in release, nursing the wounded appendage.

Kalia wasn't paying attention to the recipient of her crude torture, however.  She studied Kote's face silently for a good while, before finally saying, "It not be possible.  No chil' your age can understand chaos.  No chil' your age can reign it in and use it for his own.  It be takin' years of hard work to surrender a bit of yourself to true chaos, and understandin' even a tiny piece of it.  And until you can understan' dat, you be no chaos mage at all."

Kote met her gaze, and they stared into each others eyes.  Harris looked at each of them, silently, wondering what to do.  After over a minute of silence, he finally decided to simply thank the woman and leave with Kote in tow, and as he opened his mouth to say so, Kalia said in an awestruck voice, "By da stars.  You be tellin' da whole truth, ain't you?"

Kote nodded.  "I prefer not to speak of it."

She, too, nodded.  "A small wonder, dat.  Dere be more power in actions den in words.  I apologize, den, chil', for underestimatin' you."  She studied him for another moment, before saying, "Aldough you might not be much of a chil' after all."

She turned to Harris, and, as if nothing had happened, took his hand once more, gently probing it.  "It be a bad break.  I can fix it, but it be a painful process.  Are you sure dis be da route you wanna take?"

Harris swallowed.  "I have to be able to use my hand.  If it gets crippled...well, it can't get crippled."

"I be seein' a touch of de arcane in you, too, chil'.  Not chaos, but order."

"I'm a spinner."

"Ah.  Well, den, you be right, you have to be havin' full use of your hands, eh?  Very well.  I be helpin' you, and I be doin' it for free.  Consider it a...gift.  And a way for me to be makin' up for insultin' you and your frien'."

She stood, and took a small scrap of leather from a shelf before casually tossing it on a table.  Then she opened a large chest resting underneath a different set of shelves and took out a human hand, tinted green and perfectly preserved.

"Da strap is for you to be bitin' on, chil'," she said.  "You don't know how much dis be hurtin'."  Harris swallowed, and put the piece of rough leather in-between his teeth.  It tasted foul, and for a moment he considered that maybe, just maybe, this wasn't the best course of action.  But he knew that Kote's magic had led them to this woman, and his magic was trustworthy.

Usually.

Well...sometimes.

Kalia smoothed out his hand on the table, sending a sharp pain rocketing through Harris' body.  Then she took the dead hand and laid it palm-up on top of the wounded teenager's own palm.  "Now be de time to start bitin'," she said, raising her hand.

With an impressive amount of force, she brought her hand down and slammed the severed extremity on top of Harris' wounded hand.  Harris screamed behind his tightly-grasped teeth, and tried to yank his hand away, but he seemed paralyzed, unable to move.  A sickly, greenish light began to irradiate from the hand, and it reminded Harris of plagues, and famines, and countless other horrors in the world before her hand slammed down once more.  Now the green light began radiating from Harris' appendage, as well, and the pain that began shooting throughout his body was unimaginable, like something the Dark Lord Asmodeus would inflict on someone on a particularly bad day.  Again her hand slammed down, and the light stopped shining from the corpse's hand, but shone twice as brightly from his own, bringing a new level of pain.  He struggled to pass out, to die, anything to escape the torment he was in, but his body refused to heed him, and he watched her hand slam down yet again with horror through tear-blurred vision.

And it hurt.  It hurt as much as any punch to the hand would hurt.  But there was no more of the intense pain, not from the sickly-green light that was no longer shining, or from having a broken hand.

"Dere," she said.  "It be done, chil'."

Harris was relieved to see that he had regained the power to move his hand, and he quickly pulled it out from under the macabre remnant that was resting on it before gingerly feeling it with his other hand.  No pain.  No stiffness.  Nothing at all.  He hesitantly made a fist, then another, then began flexing his fingers with abandon.  "No pain," he said.  "It doesn't hurt at all."

"It shouldn'," she said, picking up the hand on the table and throwing it in the fire.  "It's gon' be weak for a few hours, den it should be right as rain.  Now go.  Old Kalia's got more to do den mend de hands of foolish boys."

Harris nodded quickly, and the two friends left the strange house hidden in the middle of the city.

***

"So what now?" Kote asked, as they passed a city guard riding a majestic horse in full steel barding.  It had taken them well over an hour to finally get back to a main street, and the sun was nearing the horizon.

"I honestly don't know," Harris replied.  "Almost all of our money was in my backpack, and...well, you know what happened to that."

"You got it stolen."

Harris glared at him.  "It wasn't my fault.  I had my back turned for less than a minute."

Kote shrugged.  "It wasn't not your fault, either.  Your bag was packed to the brim.  Nice target, ripe for the picking.  I would have stolen it too, were I in a thieving mood.  You should have kept it on your back."

"I get it!" Harris shouted.  "You don't have to keep rubbing it in.  Ass."  He sighed.  "Let's just find an inn.  You still have those parts I gave you, right?"

Kote stared at him, his face as blank as ever.  "I haven't taken off my backpack.  I thought it might get stolen if I did.  So, yes, I still have the parts that you gave me when you realized that you packed too much junk for your own bag."

"You really are a horse's ass, Kote.  And that's about a three.  An annoying three, at that."  He considered for a moment.  "Probably a two.  But a very annoying two."

"Oh.  Sorry."

Harris shrugged in resignation.  "We'll find an inn.  I'll see if I can't cobble something together with the parts I gave you, even though almost all of my tools are gone.  I think I can make a small pistol...maybe.  Then, if we can sell that, we'll be on better ground.  We won't have nearly enough to even consider applying at the University, but we won't be quite as screwed as we are now."

After a bit of searching they found a room available at The Scarlet Crusader for six imperiums.  The room only had one bed, but it did feature two small desks, and each of the teenagers went to work as soon as they entered, Harris taking the few parts and tools he had left and putting them on one desk, and Kote taking out the alchemical supplies he had brought and neatly organizing them on the other.

"Any idea what you're making?" Harris asked.  Kote had an odd habit of simply mixing together various reagents just to see what would happen.  He claimed that it was the only way to make a truly great discovery.

Kote stared at the small jars and bottles he had.  "Alchemist's Fire," he finally said.  "It sells."  He sighed.  "And I suppose we could use the money."

Harris pursed his lips for a moment.  Kote was right, of course, but....  "That...might be a bad idea," he finally said.

"Why?"

"Well, say there was an accident?  You could burn the inn down."

Kote stared at him.  "I don't have accidents."

"Sometimes you do.  Less than most people, I'll grant you, but you're hardly perfect.  And making something like Alchemist's Fire in an inn during our first day in town...well, that could lead to some rather bad impressions."

"It's not like anyone is going to know, Harris."

"Granted.  Most likely no one will.  But there's still a chance.  And since I spent over half of the coins I had on this room, I'd rather not risk getting kicked out of it."

Kote snorted.  "I'd have loved to help pay for the room, but all of my money was in your backpack.  Where you insisted it would be safest.  Fine."  He surveyed his materials once more.  "I'll make frost, instead.  It doesn't sell as well, but I suppose it'll have to do."

Alchemist's frost was a bluish liquid that held an unnatural coldness.  With proper application, it could serve a variety of purposes, such as freezing parts together for a limited time, or providing the fuel for cold-boxes.  It also could be used in combat to quite a devastating effect.

"I remember the first time you made Alchemist's fire," Harris said, as he began to use his small powersaw to cut a tube of iron to the size he needed.  Sparks began flying, and he was glad that he hadn't stored his goggles in his backpack.  "Hemmel was out at the market that day, and you were supposed to be working on...a sunrod, I think.  But sure enough, you found one of his recipe books, and couldn't resist.

"It was a sunlamp," Kote broke in.

"Ah, okay.  Anyways, you damn near set Hemmel's entire house in flames."

"It probably would have all burned if you weren't there.  That was the first time I really saw you spin."

Harris chuckled dryly.  "It wasn't very impressive.  If the fire brigade had gotten there any later, I would have lost any semblance of control I had.  Still...we got a good laugh out of it."  He paused for a moment, looking at the alchemist's profile.  "I miss your laugh.  I used to hear it a lot."

Kote turned his head to face his friend, and Harris saw a shadow of some rare emotion in his eyes.  A flicker of fear, perhaps, or maybe a deep, painful longing, something that was strange and alien and almost frightening on his normally abnormally calm face.

"Are you sure?" Kote asked.  Harris didn't know how to respond to that, and after barely more than a second, the strange emotion vanished from Kote's face, and the mage shrugged.  "I guess I don't really remember."

"Kote...are you having memory problems, now?  Maybe the damage was worse than we thought.  Maybe we should try and find a doctor.  A proper doctor, I mean, not one like...." He set down his powersaw and pointed at his hand.

Kote shook his head.  "I remember every birthday I've had, from my--" he stopped and thought for a moment-- "fourth onwards.  I remember how many stairs there are in my father's house--seventeen, by the by--how many trees are in front of the school, and how many drinks Father Caffrey usually has at the Fried Frog every night before he goes home to pass out.  No one remembers everything, Harris.  I guess I've just forgotten most of the times I've laughed."  He turned back to the jars in front of him and began carefully measuring a dark gray powder from a small glass tube into a wooden bowl before stoppering the tube again.  "As far as things go, it's hardly a loss of any real value."

Harris stared at him for another second longer, sorrow etched deeply on his face, before he reluctantly turned back to his work.  They shared no more anecdotes that night.

Part Three

Censorless, Part One

Harris sighed as he felt his coin purse under his thick, wool cloak.  Less than ten silver imperiums, enough for a few nights at various inns, but not nearly enough to gain entry at the University.  Not enough by any stretch of the imagination.  He grit his teeth in anger and punched the nearby stone wall before a cry of pain escaped his clenched jaw.

"You shouldn't do that," Kote said from behind him.  "You could break your hand."

Harris whirled around to snap at his friend, before seeing his calm and detached face.  Not his fault, he reminded himself.  He swallowed his anger and took a deep breath.  Then another.  "That would be about a three," he said.

Kote blinked, obviously confused.  "Breaking your hand?"

Harris sighed.  "Patronizing someone when they're this angry.  It's probably more of a two, but still."

The mage slowly nodded, before frowning.  "But what about the time that you--"

"I don't have the time to go into all of the intricacies right now, Kote.  We've been left damn near penniless in the largest city in the Empire.  We have to figure out what to do, where to go."

As they slowly began to make their way down the crowded street, Harris tried to ignore the sharp, persistent throbbing from his right hand.  He tried to curl in his fingers, to make another fist, and had to strangle a cry of pain back.  It seemed Kote was right, one really could break their hand if they decided to engage in the time-honored pastime of challenging stone walls to fist fights.  He guessed that at least his two middle fingers were broken at the knuckle, which left him with a predicament he'd rather not have: spend a portion of his now meager money to receive medical aid, or try to tough it out, risk his hand healing improperly, and the possibility of never being able to properly spin again.

"I have to see a doctor," he finally admitted.

"Wha for?" Kote asked, his voice muffled.  Harris glanced over to see that his friend had apparently decided to stop and buy a fresh apple from one of the many stalls that lined the street, and he sighed, stopping.  "Talking with your mouth full is probably a one," he said, offhandedly.  "And please don't waste your money."

"Never.  That's a horrible idea."

"Then why did you buy the apple?  What did it cost, a ha'penny?"

"Two pennies, actually.  Welcome to the big city.  And I was hungry, obviously, why else would I buy an apple?  Well, I suppose I could buy it to throw at someone.  Or maybe it has alchemical properties.  But logically, when someone buys an apple, it's generally to eat it, Harris.  You should know that."  He took another bite of the bright red fruit and chewed appreciatively.  "You should really get one, they're quite good.  So why do you need to go to the doctor?"

"I think I broke my hand on the wall," he replied, deciding to ignore the apple.

"Told you it was a bad idea."

"I'm not even going to point out the irony in that."  They began walking again, Harris' eyes scanning the various shop signs for some sort of doctor.  "If I don't get my hand set correctly, it might never heal right.  Which means I could end up like Old Man Tanner, back in Westridge."

Old Man Tanner was once a sailor, that had almost been forced to take residence in their home town.  After proudly joining the Imperial Navy, he sailed for seven years, before their ship was caught in a freak storm just days after a heavy battle, in which their ship's cleric was lost.  A rope securing a cannon had snapped, sending the cannon careening out of control across the deck just as Tanner was climbing up.  As his hands grasped the edge of the hatch, the cannon rolled over them, barely missing falling in on top of the sailor, but shattering his hands.  It was almost a month before they were able to make port, and during that time his hands had healed--improperly--too much.  He was honorably discharged, rendered exempt from land taxes for the rest of his life, and bought a small house in Westridge that barely amounted to more than a shack.  He was little more than a beggar, his hands in such a shape that he could barely grasp most tools , let alone do any real work.  Once a week, Harris' cousin went to his house to do a small bit of cleaning, and she always came back with a broken heart.  'A shame to see such a proud and noble man, brought down to such a low place,' she once said, her eyes wet with unshed tears.

"Well that's no good," Kote said.  "Hard to spin if you can't use your hands, isn't it?"

"Not hard, Kote, impossible.  You have to use your hands to sense the currents, and to manipulate them.  I don't think I'll end up nearly as bad as Old Man Tanner, but if my hand is crippled even a little..."  He felt anger welling up inside of him, anger at his own stupidity.  "What kind of an idiot takes their tools and bashes them against a stone building?"

"A demolisher does.  You know, the mundane kind."

Rhetorical question, Harris thought, but said nothing.  He kept walking, not noticing for a good few seconds that Kote had stopped and was standing in the middle of the street with his head tilted back, staring blankly at the sky as he murmured unintelligible words under his breath.

By the time he realized and walked back to him, the mage was apparently finished.  "Follow me," he said, shouldering his way past a brightly-garbed messenger boy and heading down a cluttered alleyway.  They turned into another alley branching off of that one, then another, then another.  After a while, Harris began to feel as if he was trapped in a maze some clever architect had hidden into the city, and wondered what in the Gods' names would account for so many twisting, turning, confusing walkways that were, apparently, so very far from any main road.  Still, Kote pressed on with a swift stride, never faltering at a turn, never reaching a dead end, as if he was born here, and had in fact navigated these very alleyways every day on his way to school, thank you very much.  Finally, after what had to be over a half hour, Kote stopped, and nodded his head towards a plain wooden door, reinforced with iron bands.  "Here you go," he said, simply.

"Umm...what's this?"

"A doctor.  A cheap doctor, at that."  Kote frowned.  "I think.  It could also be..." he scratched his head thoughtfully, "well, damn near anything else.  Except for a panther.  I don't think there's any reason a panther should be in there.  But then again, doesn't that make it more likely that there's a panther back there?"

Harris opened his mouth to reply, before shutting it again, realizing that he had no idea what to say to that.  He raised his left hand and knocked on the door with trepidation, hoping that he wasn't about to get attacked by a panther.  His day had already been bad enough.

Part Two