Winter Witch by Elaine Cunningham Page B

and he was determined to rescue her. That part was simple. But how did an apprentice mapmaker launch a rescue expedition? If he could persuade Basha to settle their account—and that was a very large “if”—he might have enough to cover his travel expenses to Irrisen, assuming he continued to borrow Majeed’s horse rather than purchase one of his own. Raising a ransom was another matter.
    Gambling was a possibility. He played a decent game of cards, and his dice seldom took a dislike to him. In theory, his chances stood as high anyone’s, but he was beginning to wonder whether he cast spells subconsciously somehow. Jamang’s reminder of his animated caricatures and Zimidge’s insistence that Declan had cast some sort of ward against enchantment had him wondering what was wrong with him. Whatever it was, if it happened at the gaming table, it would mean big trouble.
    High-stakes games generally had a wizard present to ensure that no magic was cast to influence the game. Laws against magical cheating were strict, and violators paid fines far heavier than their prospective winnings. But not, Declan noted glumly, heavy enough to deter people from trying. He suspected the laws were designed to allow certain people to cheat and still make a small profit, the better to fill the city coffers. On the other hand, Declan couldn’t be certain that hewouldn’t end up owing a cheater’s tax, which he couldn’t possibly pay.
    He wouldn’t try to influence the game, but he hadn’t set out to create the spell Jamang had valued so highly, either. His goal had been a flipbook, a popular trifle with pictures drawn in small stages of movement, so that when the pages were swiftly riffled the drawing seemed to move. But when he’d stacked the completed drawings, they’d melted together into a single page. If he could create a magical animation without meaning to, who knew what might happen in a game of chance?
    And of course he could always lose the game outright.
    Putting gambling aside, his options were few. He owned nothing of value to sell. Borrowing money was out of the question, for he had nothing to put up as collateral for the moneylenders. His friends would help him if they could, but their circumstances were similar to his own—they were students and artists, earning their way, but only just. After paying for their training, their room and board, their books and paint and brushes and so forth, they were lucky to hoard enough coins for an occasional evening at a tavern or theater.
    In the tales Declan had read as a boy, the hero would simply set out on his journey. He’d find a sword along the way, win a wild hippogriff’s trust by removing a caltrop from its hoof, maybe slay a dragon or two to finance the venture.
    In real life, he noted glumly, things were seldom so easy.
    The deeper Declan rode into the marketplace, the slower his progress. Finally he decided he could move faster on foot. He left the stallion at one of the tent stables and pushed into the crowd thronging the heart of the market.
    Booths and tents lined both sides of the street. Declan edged past a stout woman who was eyeing a gray-and-white rabbit in the pen outside a curtained butcher’s shop. Just beyond, a flock of hens scratched outside their movable coop, a brightly painted miniature wagon that reflected the common image of a Varisian vagabond caravan. Declan waded through the flock and waved away the enterprising merchant who was handing out slices of fragrant pink melon.
    An overturned fruit cart blocked the street ahead, and the argument between the vendor and his apparent competitor was swiftly moving toward a brawl. Declan ducked through the makeshift grape arbor one of the merchants had set up to showcase enormous bunches of scarlet grapes. In the alley just behind, a stained wooden press stood nearby to crush the grapes for fresh juice. Declan wiped the back of his hand across his damp forehead. If the day proved as warm as it promised to