Realms of the Arcane

Bread Storm Rising

"A vacation?"

The scowl on the mage's wizened face looked even craggier than usual, and Wiglaf Evertongue nearly lost his nerve then and there. Perhaps it was the legacy of his family name that urged him onward, for Wiglaf had spent much of his boyhood outracing his brain with his mouth. But there it was, the word was out, and nothing could be done but to follow where it led. He began to draw breath, but his mentor went on.

"Young Evertongue, you are supposed to be studying the magical arts. No, more: you are privileged to learn the mageways. This is not some cozy craft hall where we wash our grime away and lock up once darkness falls. Magic is not something we do; it is something we are. I thought you had agreed to absolute commitment when you began your training, and now I am made to believe that you wish to prance off on a holiday?"

"Maybe Vacation' was the wrong word, sir." Wiglaf shuffled his feet and fussed with an imaginary dirt-spot on his robe. "It's just… it's been more than a year since I left Calimport, and I only need a short while to go back home, and I know my family would want to see what's become of me, and it's not like I haven't worked hard these past months, haven't I, Master Fenzig? Haven't I?"

"Your crude imitation of a puppy is noted, Wiglaf," the mage's voice sliced as he knotted his hands behind his back and turned away. "I remind you that it was your own choice that brought you here. It was you who asked for my guidance and instruction. You understood the sacrifices I would demand. Furthermore, as you well know, I have kept your family apprised of your progress, modest though it has been. Your request is baseless and without merit." He gazed for a moment at the cluttered studio where the two had toiled together for so long that he had to strain to remember another condition. Then he turned back to face his pupil. Wiglaf was still studying the wood grain on the floor. "However… you may go."

"I… what?" Wiglaf squeaked joyfully.

"Even ancient ones like me can yet remember what it felt like to relinquish the past in service to a greater goal. There is more than one kind of calling, Wiglaf. Go and answer yours. I give you one week in Calimport. And I give you… this." He laid a heavy, bronze-clasped book in the student's hands. "Call it your homework assignment. We can still be productive, even when we rest. And I want the verbal components of three new spells recited to me without error in one week's time."

Wiglaf's newly minted euphoria melted slightly.

"And just to make sure you practice while you're gone, I'm going to send a companion with you." The mage made a quick movement with his hands, then cupped them in front of his mouth and whispered a word that Wiglaf couldn't hear. And a few minutes later, while Wiglaf was packing the last of his travel items, an amazon appeared.

Taller than Wiglaf by two full hands, the blonde, tanned warrior filled the doorway of the magician's studio as fully as she filled the most pleasant dreams of almost every man who looked upon her. A battle-beaten broadsword draped her magnificent frame and crossed luxurious thighs below the line of her brown leather skirt, toward long, lithe, athletic legs that looked as if they were equally able to pirouette or to kick in the face of an enemy.

"Oh, it's you, Sasha," said Wiglaf.

"You called, Master Fenzig?" the vision inquired in a soft but authoritative voice.

"Yes, please escort this whelp to Calimport and try to keep the inevitable trouble to a minimum."

"Come on, magic man." Sasha smiled at Wiglaf, revealing a set of perfect white teeth that handsomely completed the dazzling picture. "Let's see if you can put one foot in front of the other without falling down."

Their trip was brief and pleasant, combining the soft serenity of sandy plains and the occasional wooded glade with the bracing salt air and rhythmic pounding of the nearby seashore. Wiglaf felt as if he had been imprisoned forever and now finally set free. He didn't even mind Sasha's presence, for to hazard the journey alone would be to invite the perils of another kind of company. Not that any small-time cutpurses along the way would find anything of value on Wiglaf's wiry frame-these brigands could hardly read a trespassing notice, much less a spellbook-but Wiglaf had heard that their disappointment could often manifest itself in actions yielding bodily harm. He would have made the trip anyway, counting on luck and an inventive tongue as his only assets, but Sasha was admittedly a more effective deterrent. No thief could ever mistake her for a cringing female; only the dimmest among them could fail to realize there were far easier ways to make a living than to oppose this woman.

In the rare moments when Sasha did relax, however, she indulged herself in her favorite recreation: teasing Wiglaf. She had been part of a confidence team under Fenzig's secret instruction, which last year had imparted Wiglaf's first lesson: magical power was the result of study and labor, not a jackpot won instantly. He had fallen for it like a stone and made a fool of himself in front of crowds of people, and Sasha meant to make sure the lesson was well learned. Wiglaf flattered himself that Sasha thought him cute, for her stream of torment was never meanspirited, even though she pursued it with relish. Yet, despite her taunts, somehow Sasha's delightful smile always wound up producing its twin on Wiglaf's own face.

"So, magic man, what great feats have you learned lately? Plague of bunions? Oatmeal levitation? Speak with lint?"

"I've been working night and day to prove that the wand is mightier than the sword. You can ask Fenzig."

"I don't have to," Sasha replied. "The look on his face tells me everything."

"That expression hasn't changed since the day I got here. He wouldn't know a joke if it lifted up his robe."

"He deals with a joke all day long. And now I've got the duty."

"Laugh all you want, milady muscles. One of these days, you'll be getting free ale when you tell people you knew the great mage Wiglaf Evertongue."

"Hey, I do already."

Wiglaf brightened.

"I can make a tavern crowd spit ale out of their noses by telling about you."

"Very funny, Sasha. But I'll get there one day. I'll get there."

"That day is today, magic man. You got there. Look." She pointed toward a curling wisp of chimney smoke wafting inland on the gentle sea breeze. "Calimport. It's showtime."

As they walked into the main square in the late afternoon light, Wiglaf noticed how little had changed in the year since he left. Natives of Calimport tended to be simple, good people who believed in an honest day's work: the smiths, cobblers, farmers, and other crafts-people who provided the common sundries and services that so many took for granted. Chief among those who took things for granted was the ruling pasha of the lands of Calimshan, a rotund, sedentary fop who was that rare creation, the ultimate consumer. The pasha never ventured outside his sequestered palace, rather doing his will through hundreds of tiresome bureaucrats and servants. The city-states of his kingdom were constantly squabbling with each other, but out of sight is out of mind, and the great man was always in residence, alternating between legendary periods of sloth and debauchery.

So, as in many seaport communities, of the total population on any given day, true working-class natives were relatively few. The bulk of the inhabitants of Calimport, and the lifeblood of the town's commerce, were sailors, both merchant and navy. Most were outside mercenaries flying the flag of Calimshan for money, many setting foot on dry land for the first time in months-and a bitter few annoyed because fortune had tied them to what they considered a pathetic backwater when they could be enjoying the many temptations of the bustling city of Waterdeep, far to the north on the Sword Coast.

This is not to say that citizens of Calimport were ignorant, naive, or without pride. The kingdom of Calimshan long predated Waterdeep, and locals tolerated the sailors' pining with rolled eyes and secret winks. As the children's rhyme went, "Calimshan was Calimshan when 'deepie was a pup, and Calimshan will be Calimshan when 'deepie's time is up." Though fully gregarious with each other, when it came to strangers, the natives preferred listening to talking. The seafaring transients, along with a constant influx of route merchants who pitched their commercial tents in a very popular common area outside the city, brought frequent news from Waterdeep, Shadowdale, and the rest of the Western Realms. And though Calimporters might not boast the cosmopolitan sophistication of the "so-called City of Splendors," and though they were overwhelmingly human, the sight of elves, gnomes, halflings, even the occasional half-ore swab, was so common in town as to go unnoticed.

In truth, Calimport itself was far more exotic than its visitors. Fashion and architecture were a mishmash of traditional Heartlands work and the splendor of the southern lands of djinn and efreet. Topknots and pointed cupolas were as unremarkable here as jerkins and brick chimneys.

As he neared his old neighborhood, Wiglaf smelled fresh leather and roasting curried meat, heard steel clanking on a busy forge and a saw nosing its way through new lumber. Shouted sea chanteys already blared from the Sheets to the Wind tavern and inn as evening beckoned, and horses whinnied and snorted in the stables.

This, not the pasha's palace, had been Wiglaf's world. When he had lived here, such mundane sensations had itched and gnawed at him like mites he could never reach. But now he almost felt like weeping. It was wonderful to be home.

The local businesses were beginning to close, in one last flurry of heated negotiation as clever customers preyed on the proprietors' weary desire to be done with the day. The streets were gradually emptying, just a few people leaving with their prizes: a saddle, a lamp, an axe, a chair, a spray of blossoms, a large jug of water. The short, middle-aged woman holding the jug took one look at Wiglaf and instantly dropped it to the ground, her face contorted in shock.

"WIGLAF!"

She ran across the street, headed for Wiglaf at full speed. Sasha instantly drew her broadsword and crouched in attack position, inhaling and exhaling sharply through clenched teeth.

"It's okay, Sasha!" Wiglaf barked. "It's my mother!"

Never losing stride, the woman launched into Wiglaf s arms, nearly knocking him down. She smothered him with kisses as a chastened Sasha stepped back and replaced her sword, looking around to see if anyone else had noticed.

"Wiglaf Wiglaf Wiglaf Wiglaf Wiglaf," the woman cried between kisses.

"Hi, Mother," he replied in embarrassment after he finally extricated himself from her embrace and noticed Sasha stifling a giggle.

"It's really you! Oh, my goodness! Why didn't you tell us you were coming home, dear?"

"Because I just decided to come. We'd have been here before you got word."

"Oh, of course you would. Oh, my goodness!" A cloud passed over her face for an instant. "This is a visit, isn't it, son? You didn't… fail in your studies?"

"No indeed, ma'am," interjected Sasha. "He's one of the finest students Master Fenzig has ever instructed."

They both turned toward Sasha-Wiglaf flabbergasted, his mother beaming with pride.

"Oh, and this must be your lady friend we've heard so much about."

"Sasha, may I present Ariel Evertongue, my mother," said Wiglaf, still quite confused. Finest students? Lady friend? Heard about?

"I'm delighted," Sasha purred with a smile and a gracious bow.

"Wiglaf, your father will be so happy to see you. I'm going to run to the-"

"Mother, I'd rather surprise him, all right? Please."

"Well… all right. I'll just… go home and… put something on for dinner. Get the guest room ready, and…" Ariel tweaked his cheek, "your old room."

Wiglaf's face flushed, to Sasha's unending amusement. "Thanks, Mom. We'll be along."

"I'm so pleased to finally meet you," Ariel said to Sasha as she backed away, looked at Wiglaf again, burst into tears of joy, and ran off sobbing, "Oh, my goodness!"

"Moms," said the warrior. "What are you gonna do?"

He turned to her, frowning. "Sasha, what was that all about?" But before she could answer "WIGGY!!!"

"Oh, no," muttered Wiglaf.

A burly, black-bearded man stormed happily out of Sheets to the Wind and toward the pair, holding a tankard in one mammoth hand. He stood easily as tall as Sasha-no, as he approached, even taller, and Sasha's hand instinctively tightened on her sword. More than that-he was huge: the kind of big-boned girth that is produced by heredity but maintained by heavy manual labor. Wiglaf had never seen a giant, but this was the closest he had ever come-and this particular giant was having a party.

"I thought I heard a familiar name," the brute boomed in a resonant basso. His sweat-stained clothing held the filthy remnants of the day's toil, and his full beard the dregs of the late afternoon's libation. He almost reached Wiglaf, then stopped short as his eye fixed on Sasha, like an archer's on a prize deer.

"Well, well, well, what have we here?" he leered.

"Sasha," Wiglaf gestured with his hand, "meet Angrod Swordthumper. We were neighbors here. His father's a blacksmith… and I suppose you stayed in the family business?"

"Aye, little Wiggy, and swords aren't the only thing we like to thump," he grinned, looking Sasha up and down.

She stayed her ground and glared at the behemoth. "One step closer, my extra-large friend, and I'll twist that thump up your-"

"Sasha!" barked Wiglaf.

"No matter, wee Wiggy," said Angrod, planting his palm on Wiglaf's bony shoulder. "Come on in to the Sheets, and let's catch up on old times!" He gestured with his mug hand toward the tavern, tossing a dollop of ale in its direction. "You, too, missy… if you're man enough."

Caught in the huge man's grip, all Wiglaf could do was silently mouth help me at Sasha, who shrugged and followed the buddies inside.

Sheets to the Wind was the kind of place where everybody knew each other's name. The wooden tables and benches, the knife-marked serving counter, the warm brick hearth, all looked like they'd been there for centuries-as did, if truth be told, more than a few of the customers. Behind the bar was Garadel: proprietress, den mother, teetotaler, and vocal journalist to the neighborhood for ages. And when she saw Wiglaf, the gray-haired but still sprightly woman knew a fabulous piece of news had just walked in the door. Wiglaf's sudden presence was so stunning to everyone in the Sheets that even the equally stunning Sasha barely registered in their minds.

"Look what the ore's drug in, Garadel!" shouted Angrod, and the place went quiet as a prayer.

"Why, Wiglaf Evertongue," the hostess exclaimed. "I thought you were long gone, with your face buried in a spellbook!"

"Just came back to visit, Carrie," he said.

"And to check on your old mates!" said Angrod. 'Tell me, Wiggy, are the stories we heard about ye true? Pourin' vegetables into the air while your sweet friend there stood and watched?"

Wiglaf turned toward Sasha and flushed. Not a trace of a smile touched her face.

"News travels fast around here, my Wiggy," said Angrod. "We heard all about your big magic show over in Schamedar."

"Shush," hissed Garadel.

"He made himself blind and deaf!" someone said.

"And sent a cow up a tree!" said another.

Wiglaf heaved a giant sigh. It was all true. All his attempts at magic had gone wrong that day; it had been his most mortifying experience. But to know that his embarrassment had reached even the people he'd grown up among was almost more than he could bear.

"Aw, me Wiggy, we're all real glad ye finally came to your senses and made it back home. Besides… we need some magic veggies for dinner!" Peals of derisive laughter filled the Sheets, and tankards clanked on tables.

"First of all," Wiglaf roared for silence, "My name is not Wiggy. You know I hate that, Angrod. You know my name perfectly well, all of you: now use it. Second, sure I've made some mistakes, but I've also been studying this past year, and I have definitely picked up an amazing trick or two." Sasha clenched his arm in warning. "And I'm not through learning, and I'm gonna get even better."

"Third," the big man topped him, "and fourth, and fifth, and sixth, Wig-LAF"-he shouted the last syllable to make it mean something by itself-"you are living in a make-believe world. You're pretending. You're really one of us, lad. You're a worker bee. A grunt. A swab. A mole. Magic-makin's not for the likes of us. It's for fancy-pantses and mama's boys who've never worked up a sweat in their lives."

"You have no idea."

"No, you've none, laddie. You're gonna get it in the face again and again, just like you did that day in Schamedar. You keep trying to pull yourself out of the river the Fates gave ya, you'll keep falling back, and one day you'll lose your grip and drown. You're no big bad magic-user, son. All you are is what your father is, and his father before him, and his father before that. Get used to it, Wiglaf. You're nothing but a baker."

"Enough!" came a voice from behind them. A tall, slim, distinguished-looking man in a white apron stood in the tavern doorway, the apron's color also speckling his face, the front of his tunic and the tips of his fingers. "Wiglaf, your mother's got dinner on."

"Right away, Father," said Wiglaf.

He glared back at the crowd before heading for the door. As Sasha passed Angrod, the hilt of her sword dumped his drink into his lap, but she didn't apologize for any accident, and she was smiling as she walked away.

"I wanted to surprise you," said Wiglaf as Thorin Evertongue walked them home.

"Your mother couldn't keep a secret if it was locked in the pasha's playroom," Thorin said. "You should know that by now." He paused in the street. "Barroom talk is cheap, Son. Welcome home. We're very proud of you."

"We're very proud of you, dear," agreed Ariel exactly twenty minutes later, over a mouth-watering dinner that Wiglaf and Sasha were attacking greedily.

Wiglaf's mother had laid on an assortment of spiced meats-the specialty of the region-lovely steamed vegetables, and best of all, hot fresh bread and cakes from her husband's bakery, one of the oldest continuing establishments in Calimport. After days of bland road rations, the visitors showed their appreciation with their appetites. Wiglaf was glad to see Sasha enjoying herself: she was on her best behavior, and his parents seemed to like her company. It's true, he thought. There's no place like home.

"And I hope you feel that way about us, son," said Thorin. "Those layabouts in the Sheets can talk all they want, but no man ever need apologize for a day of honest labor. And I've never seen any of them turn down the fruits of my ovens, have you?" Wiglaf smirked shyly as his father placed a hand on his shoulder. "You chose another path, and we're happy for you. Face it," the tall man grinned, "you weren't exactly my best apprentice anyway, were you?"

"His mind was somewhere else, dear," offered Ariel cheerfully.

Thorin winked at Sasha. "Well, let's give thanks that today, his mind is here with the rest of him. At home."

Wiglaf raised his tankard of sweet cider, and the rest of the table joined him. "Home," he said with a clink.

The next morning, bellies full and tired bodies rested, Wiglaf took Sasha off to show her the sights, and he headed first for his favorite spot: the seashore.

Wiglaf had spent hours upon hours here as a boy, dreaming of lands even stranger than the Empires of the Sands, of people even more worldly than the sailors whose tales he had doted upon, of heroes and quests unknown and uncountable. The vastness of the panorama made many people feel insignificant, but Wiglaf saw the stunning vista as a window into a wider world, beckoning with opportunity and potential. Here he felt greater, not smaller.

The shoreline was pocked with blowholes, caves, and grottoes carved by the relentless pounding of the Shining Sea, and Wiglaf and Sasha retreated from the warm sun and salt air into one of these hidden refuges. Once inside the grotto, they stopped short at the sight before them.

A gentle three-foot falls fed a still pool of crystalline water, perhaps thirty feet in diameter, surrounded by a navigable ledge. As their eyes grew accustomed to the dim light, they carefully stepped farther around the perimeter to a spot where the water level nearly reached the ledge. Wiglaf walked like a balancing artist, arms outspread, feet in single file, as Sasha dipped her hand into the luxurious pool.

"Now this is my kind of magic," she sighed. "It's warm!" She unclasped her sword and slipped into the water. A few powerful strokes took her to the center of the pool. "Ahh, perfect! Come on in, magic man."

As Wiglaf looked up to watch Sasha swim-for who could resist that sight? — his foot caught on an outcrop and he tripped into the pool, executing a perfect belly flop that reverberated through the cavern. Splashing and sputtering, he flailed for a moment, but then Sasha was there, and Wiglaf was in her arms, something he might well have enjoyed under other circumstances, but his pride was at stake-in fact, just now it was burning at the stake.

"Perfect form, o magic one," she snorted as she dragged him through the water to the ledge.

After he finally found a handhold, he blustered, "I'm, uh, a little rusty in the water. It's hard to navigate in this robe. I landed wrong."

Sasha was incredulous. "Wait, wait. You grew up in Calimport, on the ocean, and you can't stvim?"

He took a breath to answer, then let it out. His belly was aching from the impact, but the terror was gone, and the water was soft and soothing, so near his body temperature that Wiglaf felt like he was floating in air. The ripples from his splat were subsiding and forming a beautiful shimmering glow just below the water line.

What?

"Sasha, there's something down here!" Wiglaf shouted. There, in the rock at knee level, something definitely glistened in the dark pool. He anchored himself to the ledge and reached underwater with one hand to pry it out, and with some effort slid it free.

It was a bottle, the kind you might use to cast a message into the sea; Wiglaf was barely able to hold it with one hand. He couldn't see clearly through its translucent surface, but something inside continued to twinkle softly. It looked as if the bottle was reflecting bright sunlight as he turned it in his hand. He looked up to find the light source, but no sun shone inside the grotto. He placed it carefully on the ledge and clambered up beside it as Sasha easily pushed out of the pool.

Dripping wet, he held the bottle up before him and reached toward the stopper, but where a cork might normally have been, there was nothing but smooth, sealed glass. In surprise, he jerked his arm back, brushing the bottle out of his other hand. It seemed to hang in midair for an instant, then fell to the rocky ledge and smashed to pieces.

"No!" he screamed. But his distress evaporated when he saw the glowing packet among the shards. Gingerly, he retrieved it and shook off the remaining glass.

It was squared, just larger than a double handful, and solidly packed. A smooth, opaque, milky white material stretched tightly over its contents. Wiglaf noticed that though the back of his hand was still dripping, the packet itself was as dry as a stone in the desert, its surface instantly consuming the moisture off the tips of his fingers as he rubbed. As an experiment, he dipped the tip of the packet into the water and fingered it again. Bone dry, and it left a tiny residue of fine white powder as it again consumed the moisture from his fingertips.

There was clearly something inside, something square-edged and yielding, and another item that was harder and cylindrical. But the strong, thirsty stuff that encased its treasure was completely smooth; Wiglaf tugged and pried, but he couldn't find a seam or clasp to work with.

"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.

Sam dipped a small spoon into the sack holding the bakery's sugar. Everyone knew this was the moment of truth: was it really possible that the yeast in the dough had somehow survived all these years? With a portentous glance at Wiglaf, who swallowed hard, Sam dropped the sugar into the water and began to stir.

The mixture started bubbling.

The bakers let out a cheer.

"It's alive!" said Sam, clapping Wiglaf on the back. "It's good!"

Sam poured water into another bowl, then expertly mixed some honey, salt, and flour. Then, so gradually it was almost painful, he added the dough-water. It dissolved into the flour mixture easily, almost as if it knew its function.

When he was satisfied by the consistency, Sam upended the bowl, and a large cream-colored blob plopped nicely on the table. He rolled it flat, then began to knead it into a loaf; pressing, folding, bunching, turning, with graceful flowing movements that entranced his audience as effectively as any spellcasting.

"Fine dough, young Wiglaf," he said as he massaged the mixture. "I don't know how it will taste, but it works in the hand like a tender young maiden."

"So, too, shall it work for the Grand Exalted One!" came a shrill voice from the doorway.

All heads turned to behold a mousy, balding little man carrying a worn ledger before him like a tome of holy writ. His brilliant red raiment was offset by an ornate, nearly shield-sized golden pendant hanging from his neck, which may have been at least partially responsible for a perpetually stooped posture. Thorin let out a barely audible groan as the visitor stutter-stepped like a dying ghoul through the front counter area, frightening Piewacket into a far corner.

"Wiglaf, I have the honor to present the official countenance of the honorable Has'san Hairsplitter," Thorin said in a barely disguised singsong voice.

"Hars'plittar," the weasel corrected.

"Anyway," Thorin said with a roll of his eyes, "this is the tax collector."

"Underassistant domestic economic redistribution specialist," the little man remonstrated, "for the west-northwest semi-urban trade zone, city of Calimport, kingdom of Calirnshan, in service to the Mightiest of Mighties, His Majestic Royal Benevolence."

"We've made our graft payments," said Thorin.

"Ah, but this is a special command visit," said the bureaucrat. "It has come to the attention of His Mammoth Munificence that a discovery has been made on his lands, in his kingdom, of certain items of arcana that may have significant historical… mm, significance."

"Your customers have been talking, Wiglaf," Thorin said with a rueful glance at his son.

"It's nothing but a bloody loaf of bread," said Sam, still absently kneading the dough.

"Nevertheless, under footnote eleven, subsection double-T, paragraph thirty-four, of His Unutterable Awesomeness's five hundred twenty-fifth royal decree, historical artifacts are subject to a special levy."

"This bread is definitely unlevied at the moment," said Thorin, as the bakers stifled chuckles. "Has'san, how are you going to valuate a pile of dough?"

"His Magnanimous Puissance understands the problem, and has instructed me to receive the tribute in kind. I fall to my knees and weep over his glorious generosity toward you."

"What did he say?" asked Wiglaf.

"His boss wants dough," Thorin sighed.

Hars'plittar slinked to Sam's table and reached for a knife. "The special levy for arcana is satisfied… so." He lopped off two thirds of the dough, draped it in a piece of Thorin's cloth, and hobbled for the door. "On behalf of the artisans in His Fearsome Omnivorousness's kitchens, and all of Calimshan, we salute your patriotic initiative in this matter and wish you a sincere and pleasant good evening."

The foul residue of his visit lingered for many moments after he was out of the door.

"Can he do that? How can he do that?" pleaded Wiglaf.

"It could be worse, laddie," Sam said as he rolled the fractional piece again and kneaded it into shape. "At least he left us with something. And that jar over there never made it up the chain of command. The bean counters forgot all about it. Better take it away before that ferret decides to come back."

"I'd love to pour this over his head," Wiglaf said as he stashed the jar in a pocket of his robe.

"Never mind that," Thorin said. "Let's get ready to close up. We'll have to leave it out overnight to let it rise." Sam placed the pitiful little measure into a greased wooden bowl-the smallest one on the premises-then covered it with a cloth and nestled it near the warmth of the great ovens. "Coming home later for dinner, Son?"

"In a while, Dad. I'm going to find Sasha and stop in at the Sheets. I want to see their faces when they hear that Calimport's biggest news comes from the bakery."

Finding Sasha and stopping in at the Sheets turned out to be one and the same task. After an hour or so of fruitless search, Wiglaf finally peeked into the tavern to find the late-afternoon trade in full flower, and Sasha at the bar in rapt conversation with Garadel, sipping some of the innkeep's best spiced wine and surrounded by five or six regulars. She noticed him at the doorway and waved him inside.

"It didn't take you very long to make friends," Wiglaf smiled.

"Well, some folk are friendlier than others," she said, pointing to Angrod and his mates, each nursing a tankard of ale at a far table in the crowded tavern. "That one there, he's very friendly."

"He told her he'd like to wrestle with her!" said a gap-toothed customer. "He'd show her a few moves!" from another, and the group burst into cackling glee.

Wiglaf blanched. "Why-" He started toward Angrod, but Sasha held him back.

"No, no. I said it sounded like fun."

"So Sasha suggested they arm wrestle," said Garadel, not looking up as she swabbed the top of the bar with a cloth. A restrained giggle suddenly left her mouth as a spit sound.

"You beat him?" Wiglaf was incredulous.

"That hulk? Oh no, he won, all right. But trust me, he paid for it."

"It took two out of three falls!" crowed a patron, and others joined in.

"His face turned red as an apple!"

"He screamed like a banshee!"

"I thought he'd burst his bullocks!"

"Notice he's drinking with his left hand." Sasha nodded toward Angrod as he set down his ale to massage his right wrist. "I think Mister Swordthumper's had enough wrestling for today."

Over dinner that night, Thorin Evertongue laughed loud and long at Sasha's story, while Ariel smiled shyly at her son's "lady friend." To his slight dismay, there had been no need for Wiglaf to recount his seashore triumph in the Sheets, for during the afternoon the news of his discovery had spread there just as quickly as it had reached the pasha's palace. But he'd received his fabled free tankard of ale from Garadel, and before long he was in the spotlight as he'd hoped: adding plenty of delicious detail for a rapt audience, small bits of it perfectly accurate. Finally the pangs of hunger had called everyone to their evening meals, and Wiglaf and Sasha to their temporary home.

"Young Swordthumper won't stew for long," Thorin said. "He struts and roars like a wild beast, but he'll do no real harm. Your little match today was probably good for him."

"It certainly did me good," Sasha said. "He'll think twice before-"

"Thorin!" came a muffled voice from outside. The Evertongues' front door shook with repeated pounding. Thorin ran and opened it on a frantic Garadel.

"Someone's inside the bakery!" she spluttered. "Your cat's howling, crashing noises-we've got to stop them!" Sasha bolted to her feet and slung her broadsword's strap around her neck as Thorin grabbed an axe from the fireplace. Wiglaf fumbled through his pockets in vain, terrified he'd left the precious spell-book back in Schamedar and that Fenzig would therefore be roasting him on a spit soon after the intruders were done murdering his father.

"My book!" he shrieked.

"Oh, my goodness," said Ariel, going to the mantel. "Is this what you're looking for?" She held up the most wonderful, most delightful, most beautiful spellbook Wiglaf had ever, ever seen. "I always empty the pockets before I wash clothes, dear."

"Mom…" He grabbed the book and they were gone.

As they dashed to the bakery, Garadel shouted that some inn guests had complained about the racket outdoors: cats in heat, maybe, from the unearthly hissing and wailing. Then they heard utensils scattering to the floor and a loud crash, the cat only moaning louder. Thieves rarely plied their trade in this working-class section of Calimport, and heaven only knew what valuables they expected to find in a bakery. There was a first time for everything, though, and after all, there were such things as very stupid bandits.

Adrenaline pumping, they reached the bakery in minutes, braced for action. The street was nearly deserted in the soft moonlight and the flickering glow from strategically placed overnight torches on poles. A few boarders from Sheets to the Wind watched in their nightclothes from the doorstep across the way. Sasha crept up to the bakery door and quietly tried it. Locked.

They listened. There was no crashing, no clanging, just one thing alone: the kind of spooky, ululating wail that fathers use when telling ghost stories to their children. They had never heard Piewacket make such noise. She sounded like a wretched alto mutilating her scales; she was beyond upset, spiraling down toward full-blown feline catatonia.

"They've heard us!" Wiglaf stage-whispered.

"Get behind me," hissed Sasha as she drew her sword and took the stance. "Mr. Evertongue, please open the lock." Thorin pushed the key in and twisted, and the door slowly swung open, increasing the volume of Piewacket's eerie howl. Sasha stood in the doorway, tense, alert, as Thorin reached just inside for a morning torch, which he pitched to Wiglaf to light, then drew his axe.

The front counter area was deserted. Wiglaf returned in seconds with the torch aflame, and the three slowly stepped inside, past the front room, toward the baking area.

Piewacket mewled even louder when she saw the torchlight, and the three looked up to find her high on top of the ovens, hair standing straight, spitting in anger. They followed her gaze downward.

Pots and pans, bowls and spoons that they had stacked neatly on the baking surface this afternoon were strewn all over the floor. The wooden bowl that had held Wiglaf's tiny loaf of bread was dumped over on its side, empty.

"My bread! They stole my wonder bread!" Wiglaf whispered.

"And they got out somehow," said Thorin in a full voice. "Come on, Piewacket. It's okay now, girl." But the cat did not move.

Sasha held her hand up. "I see someone's back. There." Wiglaf raised the torch higher, and now they could all make out a curved shape lurking just behind the table. "Come out now," she commanded. "It's no use. You're finished. Now." No response. Cautiously, they approached the crouching figure. As they rounded the table, Piewacket suddenly leapt over their heads, touched the table with one bound, trampolined onto the wood floor, and skittered out the door.

There was nobody there. Nothing.

Except for one thing.

An oblong mound of cream-colored dough the size of the largest dog in Calimport.

From the floor, it barely cleared the level of the baking table, half Wiglaf's height. Lengthwise, it was twice that. It was squeezed tightly in the work space between the table and the hearth at the back of the room.

"My sweet grandma!" Thorin said.

"Wonder bread," Wiglaf said in rapture.

Sasha touched the huge mound with the tip of her sword, and it sank in easily, making a wet pop as it cut through an air bubble, which spit some droplets at her. She withdrew the weapon; the blade was covered with doughy goo.

A heavy pot hanging near the oven tipped over with a reverberating clatter. Sasha and Thorin turned to look, but Wiglaf was still admiring the miracle.

"Wiglaf," said Sasha.

"This is how they fed all those people in the Year of Starving," he exulted.

"Wiglaf," said Sasha.

"Good-bye to hunger. Good-bye to famine."

"Wiglafl" shouted Thorin.

Wiglaf turned with a start.

"Son, it's still rising."

The doughy mass had pushed farther toward the ovens. Now it nearly covered the metal arm that had held Thorin's water pot over the fire. They whirled around. The monstrous loaf had increased to a full hand taller than the level of the baking table. When they held still, they could see it rising silently, inexorably, like flood waters up a riverbank.

"Well, let's get it out of here," said Wiglaf, and he sunk his arms into the mound up to his elbows. He pulled out a double handful of the goo. The impressions of his hands vanished in seconds as the dough expanded beyond them, and he could feel the sticky ball he held growing larger, inflating like a sheep's bladder. The pace was accelerating. He dropped his gargantuan biscuit into the broadening mass.

"Next idea?" Sasha raised one eyebrow.

"How long has this stuff been sitting here?" Thorin asked.

“Two, three hours? Why?" cried Wiglaf.

"How long before it stops rising?"

They stared with growing dread at the bread-mountain. It was easy to see its progress now. The dough was moving past the fire grate on the back wall at a slow, syrupy rate, pressing through the tines like soft cheese, headed toward the smoldering coals. In the other direction, against the baking table, the pile was nearly as tall as Sasha, patiently oozing over and around the table, pushing its way into every empty space.

"We've got to leave," she said. "While we still can."

They stepped gingerly around the growing goop, backing against oven doors that would soon be covered in dough, inching their way sideways toward the front counter area, thankfully still pristine for now. Like a witness to a carriage accident, Wiglaf had to fight a perverse fascination as he moved; he just couldn't take his eyes off the bizarre sight. Safely past the entrance to the baking area, they watched helplessly as the dough rose upward and outward, seeking the confines of whatever oddly shaped "pan" it was now in. It was taller than any of them now. It pushed toward the ceiling and out to the walls. It had thoroughly covered the fire coals and was rising up into the chimney. For the first time there was a faint smell of baking as the trio backed out the door.

"Self-baking bread! It hardly needs any heat!" Wiglaf sighed in amazement.

There were a few more people in the street now; Garadel had fetched the constabulary, and two night-shift officers were armed and ready to repel thieves. But before Wiglaf and the others could explain, a red, hissing coal fell from somewhere above and landed with a plop at Wiglaf's feet. He recoiled, ran into the street, and frantically mumbled at the flickering overnight torches, praying he'd remembered every syllable of one of the very first spells Fenzig had ever taught him.

Each time they are called upon to make their solemn decisions, the Fates weigh our lifelong understanding against our immediate need. Somehow, at this moment, the divine mathematics were on Wiglaf's side, for without a sound, a brilliant ball of continual light winked into existence, completely surrounding the bakery and turning darkness into daylight within a precisely defined sphere. It was as if the spectators in the street were watching a show whose star happened to be a building. Within the spell's range, the illumination was blinding, and Sasha and Thorin, tumbling out of the bakery and into the street, saw only spots for a brief moment. But for the others looking back, all was clear.

A woman in Garadel's doorstep screamed and pointed back at the bakery roof. Spotlit by Wiglaf's magical radiance, the impossible shape of a huge squared block of breadstuffs slowly pushed its way up out of the chimney, like sausage through a grinder, festooned with hot coals that trickled off the mass and ran down the roof's bricked incline into the street.

Back inside, the main sticky blob had insinuated its way into the front room and was headed for the door, its bulk loudly dragging pans and utensils against the wood floor in a weird imitation of a chain-clanking ghost. Two squared-off doughy arms proceeded out through the windows on either side of the bakery and oozed limply toward the ground, several neighborhood dogs barking and snapping at them. A family of mice scurried out the front door, the largest one shaking something cream-colored off its paws.

"What's all this, then?"

Another group of excited and curious townspeople had been drawn by the magical light, and Wiglaf was dismayed to see Angrod Swordthumper among them, dinner napkin still bibbed in place under his chin.

"Wiggy! So this is yer big recipe?" he bellowed. "I was to be pickin' up tomorrow's breakfast rolls… but it looks like one'\\ be enough!" The crowd broke its stunned silence with a titter of nervous laughter. Angrod grabbed an overnight torch and sauntered over toward the bakery. He tapped with the torch at the growing claylike fountain oozing from the window. "I'll have this one!" Relieved of its tension, the crowd laughed louder.

"Get away, man!" Sasha warned.

"I can handle Wiggy's breakfast, missy," Angrod sneered.

But suddenly, as he poked at the dough, his torch went inside it, through the membrane of a mammoth air pocket. The torn bubble popped and splattered him with dough, and the crowd went wild. Livid and embarrassed, Angrod began to club at his gooey tormentor with the torch, but each time he struck the lump, more air popped out, more dough spat on him, and he only became a bigger mess.

Wiglaf heard other popping sounds; he turned to see air pockets in the dough bursting and splattering in all directions as it squeezed out of the tight confines of the bakery, covering the yipping dogs and anyone else who happened to be too close. Then the horrible sight vanished-for it was at that precise instant that Wiglaf's spell exhausted itself and the magical illumination winked back to normal. There was only popping, splat-ting, clanging, barking, and screaming while everyone's eyes adjusted to torchlight.

"Get the light back!" yelled Sasha.

"It's supposed to be permanent! I don't know what went wrong!" Wiglaf cried, desperately thinking of a substitute. He wildly gesticulated, chanted from memory, reached an emphatic finish, and extended his arms in a flourish. The torches and hot coals, every fire in the street, burst into superluminance; their light was as bright as the noonday sun, and revealed a panicked group of people who looked like the losers in a pie fight-including his own father. Wiglaf felt the magical flame's warmth and perversely wanted to bask in it, but then came a shout from Angrod.

"I can't move me legs!" the big smith bellowed. In the dark, Angrod had stumbled farther into the mountain of gook, and now he was trapped waist-deep in it, flailing with his torch, surrounded by dough. The crowd stared in gooey stupefaction.

"Hold on," screamed Sasha, and ran to Angrod, careful to stay out of the stuff herself. She grabbed both hands and yanked with all her strength.

"Ooooowf Angrod screamed. "Me mitt! Leave us be!" He left her grip and massaged his right arm and shoulder, still smarting from arm wrestling. The mass was rising yet, well past his hips, headed toward his chest and head.

"No! If that stuff gets to your face, you'll smother!" Sasha shouted.

Wiglaf was suddenly there, reaching under Angrod's left shoulder to help. They pulled as hard as they could, but Angrod was stuck tight, and getting trapped deeper by the second. The already gargantuan lump was growing so steadily that it looked instead as if Angrod was receding into it. The dough had risen past his belly button and was still moving.

“Too late, Wiggy," Angrod sobbed. "Save yerself."

"Thanks, you big goon, but there's one last chance," Wiglaf said. "Only I've never tried this on a person before. Okay with you?"

“Try it, laddie," Angrod said grimly.

Wiglaf produced a piece of pork rind from his robe and chanted softly but quickly. "One more time, Sasha."

They anchored their arms under Angrod's shoulders and pulled, causing lances of pain to shoot up the big man's right arm. There was a little resistance at first. Then he started to move out of the goop, and once they established some momentum, Angrod slid out of the dough like a sword from its sheath, with a long wet sucking sound. The expanding dough wrapped itself around Wiglaf's right foot, but he kicked it free.

"Ye did it, lad!" he cried. "Ye saved me!"

"Wiglaf, how?" Sasha asked in astonishment.

Angrod pushed to his knees and tried to stand, but his feet slipped out from under him and he fell flat. He got to all fours and failed at a few sliding strides before sitting down with a plop.

"I greased you," said Wiglaf.

Sasha guffawed as Angrod slipped before even rising to his knees.

"Don't worry. It won't last much longer."

"Wigg-" Angrod started, then thought better. "Excuse me, Wiglaf. I don't care how ye done it, laddie. I'd have been a goner but for you. Maybe you do have magic inside ye, after all." He extended his hand, and Wiglaf and Sasha helped the big man to his feet. "Thanks be to ye, lad. I-what's that smell?"

Wiglaf sniffed. It smelled like baking bread, everywhere. The remnants of dough on Angrod's legs were definitely hardening; they could pull it off in little strips. But there was another scent in the air too.

Smoke.

The torches!

It seemed as if the rate of growth of the dough pouring out of the bakery might have finally slowed. But now the large mass was pushing up and out, against the nearest supercharged overnight torches. The onlookers could all see a faint brownish cast on the surface of the dough mound-and at the very edges, unmistakable traces of carbon. Smoke began to waft upward and overpower the lovely self-baking smell. In the nearby stables, horses whinnied and kicked in terror. Wiglaf groaned. The largest loaf of bread in history, and now it was burning.

"You've got to turn them off!" Thorin shouted.

Wiglaf gave it some panicked thought. He mumbled and gestured toward the torches with a sweep of his hand. At the end of his movement, a fine streak flew from his pointing finger into the night sky a few yards above the bakery, and with a low roar, a fireball detonated.

"NO!" screamed Sasha.

The wave of heat was almost solid as it raced downward toward the near-bakery-sized lump of dough, crisping the outer surface. The bricks on the roof drank in the heat and began baking the dough's underside. The blackened burning areas spread, and huge billows of smoke cascaded into the street and caused spasms of hacking in the onlookers' throats. Wiglaf was drenched in sweat. The dough had apparently stopped rising. Wonderful. Now everyone would simply die of suffocation.

Then, a miracle happened.

The columns of smoke changed course and blew over the heads of the coughing crowd. The breeze pushed a pair of low-lying clouds together in front of the bright moon, and they darkened in seconds into impressive thunderheads. A fat, heavy drop of water splat-ted on Wiglafs head, and was joined by thousands more just instants later. The magnificent cloudburst sizzled out the torches and coals and drenched the suddenly jubilant people in the street. The sticky dough was wiping off easily in the cleansing rainstorm, and the goopy mass that moments ago had threatened Angrod's life was quickly turning into the world's biggest dumpling.

A gaunt, berobed figure in the middle of the street dropped his arms and ran his hands through a head of wet, snow-white hair before replacing his cowl.

Not a miracle at all. This storm had been manmade.

"Fenzig! Whe-, wha-, hoo-" sputtered Wiglaf when he reached his master's side.

"Spare me the hyperventilation," the mage sniffed in a voice too low for others to hear. "You actually thought I would let you out of my sight for an entire week? Though I must admit, I did underestimate you." He frowned at the street scene. "I didn't think such a level of disaster could possibly be created in a single day."

"I didn't mean-"

"Silence. I know what you meant. I've been watching you the entire time. You know just enough to be dangerous, lad, and precious little else. If you had applied yourself during our language classes, you would have been able to read the entire inscription on the parchment. That, youngling, was your undoing."

"But the Year of Plenty-"

"Achieved with your magic dough, yes, but the rest of that piece fed multitudes!"

"The other half?"

"It is written perfectly plainly in Thorass," Fenzig hissed. "One sprinkled pinch is sufficient to make the oversized loaves that ended that famine of antiquity. I could throttle you for causing this mess. And you're going to make amends. But now I have to put on the public face."

Against all reason, Fenzig put his arms around Wiglaf and walked him back toward the crowd, speaking at stage volume. "Thank you, Wiglaf, for extinguishing the fires," he intoned, "and what a grand gesture, giving the jar you found to your father in payment for his inconvenience."

"Fenzig, have you gone mad?" Wiglaf spoke out of the side of his mouth.

"No, son," his master spoke softly, "but I never cause my students ridicule in public. Bad for the professional image. Don't worry, you'll be doing plenty of penance when we get back home."

And so, while Fenzig and Sasha passed the time with Wiglafs parents, Wiglaf himself spent the rest of his Calimport vacation on janitorial duty. He emptied the bakery with rakes and shovels, and on hands and knees scrubbed it clean again from top to bottom-a job made even more difficult after just about every bird in Cal-imshan discovered the mammoth feast; a few judicious grease spells when nobody was looking helped the process immensely.

The bakers enjoyed a temporary holiday while Wiglaf cleaned up, and spent the days lounging in the sun and at the seashore.

"I'm sorry, Father," Wiglaf said on the third day, when Thorin brought him a lunch basket from home. "I'm sorry you had to close down."

"Don't worry, son," the baker said, looking around. "This place has never looked so clean before. And Fen-zig has shown me exactly how to use that jar of starter, so I should make up for the lost business in no time. In fact, this could turn out to be my most profitable season ever. And I owe that to you, son."

Wiglaf hugged his father for a long time. Things were right again. Things were normal again in Calim-port.

Except.

Those who were close enough to hear said the screams from the pasha's palace continued for many days thereafter.