The Last Philosopher

A Barrac stroll

Outside the walls, they all relaxed a bit. Except Skelor, who still looked like he was keeping a stick somewhere uncomfortable. It wasn't even a short walk to the edge of Barrac. Lyeasrakardsul led them down one of the narrow, dirt-brown alleys. Walking the scenic backstreets alone wasn't recommended for the less offence capable magick schools. However, with four of them, they could go off the beaten to death path of the sorcerers road. Without fear of being beaten to death.

It wasn't long before Lyrir snuck up beside Lyeasrakardsul. "Can I ask you something? Why don't the Trolls wear robes?"

"They don't want to and paint is cheaper than fabric."

"Alright, but if they don't want to wear robes, then why the red loin-cloths?"

"I couldn't say for sure, it's hard enough getting an answer to even the simplest question out of a Troll." He was surprised at his own straightforwardness. "As far as I can tell they have nothing to hide, but perhaps they still want to?"

Lyrir retreated with a puzzled look. The four sorcerers walked on in silence. Moving upwards, the alleys got wider and cleaner. The more well-to-do of the servant class lived at the top.

If there is such a thing as well off servants, his spite chimed in.

At a crossing, they came to a bottleneck in the foot traffic. The only uncongested option leading was a tunnel, or more correctly, a built over alleyway. But even with four sorcerers he wouldn't go into the Barrac tunnels.

"Should we stop for a bit and catch our breath," he suggested. Skelor was breathing heavy.

I bet he doesn't have to march up and down thirty floors everyday, his constitution thought triumphantly.

Looking around the press of servants, he felt certain they were well away from any patrols. A Troll would barely fit into the narrower alleys.

"So-O-o?" Lyeasrakardsul's voice broke like a teenager's.

"How exactly did you three manage to put two Trolls in the institute?" He had been dying to ask, but hadn't dared with all those surly rocks around.

"Actually, it was just Lyrir, and he didn't mean it, plus he did say he was sorry. I don't see what all the fuss is about," Emmlina answered for the brothers, scanning the crowds with disapproval.

"Rupert got a bit out of hand, that's all. I was giving myself up, but he must have sensed my hesitation," Lyrir added with what seemed like honest remorse. And odd look for any sorcerer.

"Rupert?"

"That dumb fir-tree he's had since he was a kid!" Skelor paused to take another gasping breath."You're such a pansy tree-hugger."

"Let's not brabble in front of the nice man!" The non-male brother's tone left no room for appeal.

No doubt about who's in charge, Lyeasrakardsul's intuition thought.

Is it me?

Yes, of course that's what we meant, his third thoughts brown-nosed.

I'm not being a very good host, I should say something, Lyeasrakardsul scrambled for something inoffensive to say.

Why should we! His inner sorcerer yelled. We've always enjoyed a good silence, tense or otherwise.

"So, that's the plain of Pentakl?" Pointing west through a gap, Emmlina took charge of the lacking conversation. "It's more depressing than I imagined, and why does it smell like rotten eggs?"

"That's the gases from the volcanic activity, but don't worry about that, the free-lodger is on the highest spot in Barrac, the wind up there will help with the smell."

"What's wrong with these people?" Lyrir changed the topic.

"What people?"

"He's talking about the servants," Emmlina explained, the alley was bustling with muted activity.

"Yes, them, see they're all cowering up against the walls to avoid us!"

People? His authority thought, they're only servants, that's what they're supposed to look like.

"Lyrir lets his servants run wild back at his tower!" Emmlina gave her younger brother a look that could be trying to say that this wasn't the time for social commentary.

"You mean free," Lyrir muttered under his breath.

The ancient headmaster had always felt the servants in Pentakl were more free than the sorcerers. That there should be a more unfettered class of servants out there felt strange. Still, there was no time to think about it, the worst of the throng had cleared, and they moved on chatting almost amicably.

Half way up the hill that was Barrac town, the worst awkwardness had dissipated. Lyrir and Emmlina were jesting, and even Skelor joined in with the occasional hurtful quip. He called Emmlina an ink-drinking bookmoth, an obvious code for Dalmicir user. Lyeasrakardsul's bushy eyebrows were amused and they bobbed up and down, enjoying the infectious vibe.

The brothers kept interrupting each other, like children competing to have the first say. Among other things they wanted to share their parents research on children with magickal parents. The whole concept was a bit disturbing. As they kept using F-bombs, family related words. Still, they managed pry his mind quarter-open for a little while.

Leaving the last stairs behind, they headed up the Free-lodger inn. A light hung besides the door, displaying a glass-case with items left behind by others. Before leaving them at the unenthusiastic reception, he remembered what he had wanted to ask.

"You will go along with the prophecy? Won't you?" He directed the question at Emmlina.

Scrunching up her freckled face, she looked as if she could go either way. "I suppose we will, but you haven't told us much about it yet, go along with what exactly?"

"I can't, not now, all your questions will be answered at tomorrow's meeting," he assured her, wishing someone would have assured him. "Or, well, some of your questions might be answered."

Later that evening, despite his back pain, he almost considered struggling down the stairs for a second visit to the inn. He could have joined them for dinner, a few drinks, and some more chat. Even just sit there and listen, he had never really experienced a nice chat before. Who knew it could be so much fun. Even so, it wouldn't be proper, so he ate alone in his penthouse as usual.

At least it gave him time to plan out how he would manipulate the council into making him go with them. He had almost promised Isath he would go and inspect this observatory thing. He dreaded the idea of travelling, but if he could go with the brothers, perhaps that wouldn't be so bad.

Sitting there in his lonely tower, a something that had been itching at the back of his mind all day started him scratching.

Why do the Trolls have a second jail in their tower? He almost choked on a soggy piece of bread dipped in mushroom soup.

Updated: 03.02.2024