The Burning Gate

All through Glunday, Regnar's plan rumbled around Martel's head. It did not involve doing anything wrong or fighting, but he would almost have preferred that; instead, it depended on Martel participating in a performance. Having tried that a few times, Martel already knew he disliked having everyone's attention on him, waiting for him to fail. The pressure only increased knowing that if things went poorly, they could not expect to gather the money to get the troupe released.

Martel was not keen on that part either; the thought of a prefect imprisoning someone simply to be paid in order to release them again felt very wrong. Surely someone appointed to hold an office of justice would not abuse it in such a way, Martel had thought at first. But Regnar had been certain, and the novice did not feel confident enough to gainsay him. Still, it seemed prudent to check with someone else.

"Maximilian, do you know the prefects of the city?"

The acolyte looked up from his lunch. "Not much. I dealt with one of them when we handed over that berserker and got our reward. Why?"

"You remember Regnar and the actors? We just saw their play. Anyway, the troupe has been arrested by one of the prefects. Fellow named Cornelius, I think it was."

"I do not know him. Why the arrest?"

"The play they made last time, at the spring faire. Well, Regnar thinks it is just an excuse for the prefect to get a bribe before releasing them again." Martel looked at his friend. "Could that really happen?"

The mageknight shrugged. "I suppose. Life and careers in Morcaster are expensive. I would not be surprised if someone helped their earnings a little."

"But that's against the law! Why doesn't someone stop this prefect?"

"He is cracking down on a group of travelling actors, whose plays do not exactly paint the emperor in a pretty way. Why should anyone care? If you ask me, they should be grateful if the prefect gives them an easy way out rather than have them sentenced to the galleys."

Martel's eyes widened at the prospect. He had never thought much about crime and punishment before. Once, one of the neighbours in Engby had been discovered thieving, and the townspeople gave him a thrashing while taking money to cover the cost of the stolen goods, and that had been the end of it. Before now, Martel had never known about galleys or who sat at their oars. If he ever became a seamage, he sincerely hoped it would not be aboard such a vessel.

"Martel, you realise it is their own fault, right? Do not get pulled into any sort of trouble on their behalf," Maximilian warned him.

"I won't," Martel claimed, not really sure if he could keep such a promise.

"Good. Helping you out is one thing, mate, but we already stuck our necks out for that hedge mage. It is beneath us as wizards to run around risking our hides for a bunch of vagabonds and miscreants."

"Alright. I won't," Martel repeated. Not that he wanted Maximilian present for the performance later that day anyway; the less people, the better.

~

Wearing his expensive doublet, though he had substituted the silk shirt for one made of coarser material, Martel made his way through the city. He felt even more uncomfortable moving through the crowd than usual; he knew his garments made him stand out, which was the whole idea. While he walked, he went through Regnar's plan in his mind, crucially his own involvement.

Once he reached the square with the theatre, he felt anxiety begin to knot itself in his stomach. He tried to calm himself by remembering that it could not be worse than performing in front of the nobles at their celebrations. Taking a deep breath, Martel slipped around the stage unseen to find Regnar.

The hedge mage's eye twinkled upon seeing the novice, and he removed the pipe from his mouth. "Look at you! Far too respectable for the likes of me. Good. You remember your part? I can do the leaf, but I'm not good enough to do the whole door."

"Yes, it's simple enough to remember." Actually carrying it out was another matter. "You sure this will work? Are people really going to pay enough just for this trick?"

"Yes, yes," Regnar brushed him off. "Now get out there before anyone sees us. And be ready. Timing is everything."

~

Martel spent a while idly perusing the stalls at the square, pretending to be just another market-goer. When Regnar's voice boomed over the area, he felt both relief that the waiting was over and anxiety that their little performance was about to begin.

"Gather around, good folk of Morcaster! Prepare yourself to be amazed by a magic feat unrivalled even by the wizards of the Lyceum!" Regnar placed his pipe back in his mouth and released several puffs of smoke.

Martel knew that on the contrary, even if their performance had been real, more than one mage at the Lyceum could easily do the same. Yet he kept his mouth shut and gathered with the others in the crowd, looking up at Regnar on the stage. The only item occupying the raised platform was a doorway next to the hedge mage.

"You're not an actor," someone objected.

"I am far more," Regnar retorted, letting sparks fly around his head. "And today, you shall witness a brave soul pass through scorching flames, yet emerged unscathed in The Burning Gate!" The crowd seemed sufficiently intrigued by this to quell any further questions, and the hedge mage continued. "Watch this simple doorway, deceptively mundane, as it becomes engulfed in fire!"

That was Martel's cue. He summoned his magelight to wreathe itself around the free-standing doorway on the stage, glowing brightly until it looked like a door of actual fire.

The audience gasped appropriately, watching intently. Only Martel remained quiet, his concentration on maintaining the spell.

Regnar pulled out a large oak leaf. "Watch," he commanded, still smoking merrily. He placed the plant against the flaming doorway. This in itself did nothing, the magelight being cold to the touch, but Regnar supplied some heat of his own to ignite the leaf. Timing it correctly, it looked to the audience as if the green piece of plant had caught on fire. "Now I shall need a volunteer, willing to place their faith in me and passed through The Burning Gate!"

Various hand flew into the air, including Martel's.

"Yes, the young, tall gentleman in the lovely blue and silver doublet," Regnar called out, pointing at Martel with his pipe. "Does he not look the very image of a bold hero? Please, young sir, join me on stage!"

With a little difficulty, straining to maintain the magic, Martel climbed onto the stage to stand next to Regnar.

"And what is your name, good sir?"

Martel had not considered that and went for the first thing. "Maximilian."

"Give our volunteer a hand!"

Martel felt sweat on his brow, not from heat but from exertion. "Hurry up," he whispered.

"In a moment, this brave young man shall pass through the door of fire with not a single hair on his head singed! But first, the magical protection." Regnar muttered various words and send a gust of wind to ruffle Martel's hair. "Done! Please, good sir, have no fear. Step through the door."

Relieved to be almost done, Martel swiftly passed through his own magelight. As he emerged unhurt, the audience gasped.

"Too fast," Regnar mumbled. "Do it again."

Martel did not get the chance. From the crowd, an apple flew through the air to pass through the door of fire. It landed on the stage, untouched by the supposedly flames. Martel stared at it with wide eyes, and his concentration broke, dispelling the magelight.

"Hey, it's not real fire!"

"Run," Regnar told Martel before he inhaled deeply on his pipe. As he exhaled, a cloud of smoke streamed out to envelop his body. As the crowd shouted in anger, the hedge mage disappeared into the conjured fog.

"Where's my coin?"

"Thieves, all of them!"

Unrest broke out as the audience turned into an angry mob. Several people stormed towards the stage. Martel looked at the smoke where Regnar had been; he could not perform the same feat of disappearance, but he could buy himself a head start. Summoning the wind, Martel pushed the smoke towards the audience, who coughed and halted in their tracks, rubbing their eyes. Meanwhile, the novice beat a swift retreat.

~

Martel hurried through the streets towards the hideout of Weasel and his gang. Passing through the slums, he attracted more and more stares. It took him a while to understand why, as his immediate thought had been to escape the angry crowd; his clothing made him look rich, and unlike actual nobility, he did not carry any weapons to dissuade would-be muggers. Clenching his hands, Martel kept ready to unleash magic while sending what he felt were his toughest glares in every direction.

With relief, he reached the gang's house and hastened inside. He found only a few of the children, though both Weasel and Regnar were present. Martel frowned a little, realising the old hedge mage had beat him here; his expression only deepened seeing the pile of coins on the table between them. "Where did that come from?"

"Martel, good to see you back. These are the spoils of our little venture, of course," Regnar explained.

"But it fell apart before we could get any payment," Martel objected. He realised that the table held far more coins than any such performance could feasibly have earned. "Wait, where did you get that? How?"

"Me and mine," Weasel exclaimed even as Badger arrived to pour the contents of a purse onto the table. "While you and the geezer had the eyes of the crowd, we cleared them out. Risky to do so many so quickly, but your distraction worked well to let us escape."

"You stole this," Martel protested.

"That is the crude term for it," Regnar admitted.

"Wait, this was your plan all along? To have the performance fail and escape with people's money in the confusion?" The novice stared at the young boy and the old man.

"We were never going to get sufficient coin otherwise," the hedge mage argued. "A pitiful performance like ours? We'd be lucky to scrape together enough silver to satisfy a penny harlot."

"Why would you keep this from me? You could have warned me we'd have to run!"

"Because you are a decent sort, lad, unlike me, and you would have objected," Regnar claimed. "I'm sorry, but time did not permit the luxury of morality. Ian is nine years old," he added, speaking of the boy who typically collected payment from the audience before a play. "The dungeons of Morcaster are no place for him."

"Your fellow vagrants weren't as concerned for you when you were in trouble," Martel pointed out, crossing his arms. "While they did nothing, I risked my life to help you. I thought I deserved the truth from you."

"You did. You do. But we rarely get what we deserve in his life, boy."

"Does this mean you don't want your cut?" Weasel raised an eyebrow at Martel.

"Keep it." With a disappointed look around the room, Martel left.

"Twice my age and half my wits," Weasel remarked with a mocking tone. "Imagine leaving money on the table like that because you're offended."

"Enough." An edge in Regnar's voice served as a reminder that he was not a harmless old man. "You have your share," the hedge mage said coldly. "Leave it at that."