The Esteemed Wizard Longshadow was in a spot of trouble. Ten years ago, in 1652, he had left his home of Ireland with his manservant Mr. Quin to live in the city of Nantes. Just two years prior, Charles the Second had dispatched of the rodent problem infesting Britain which had been the cause of the pair's departure, but the city of Nantes had endeared itself to them so they remained. However, in that decade, the city had failed to reciprocate that endearment, for various reasons, the least of which was the Esteemed Wizard's infamously rakeish behaviour, and they found themselves forcibly ousted from their home by a group of unscrupulous (indeed, even more unscrupulous than the Esteemed Wizard) gentlemen to whom Longshadow owed a rather large sum of louis d'ors.
“I simply do not see why we don't just give them the money and be done with it, sir,” said Mr. Quin, who finished packing yet another trunk full of books and magical baubles, “especially considering we most certainly have enough.”
Longshadow turned to his chamberlain, haphazardly tossing yet another bottle of brandy into his trunk. He grinned, his mouth overlong, and rested his back against the trunk.
“You see, my dear Mr. Quin, I have considered that,” he looked out the window, wondering just when the men would arrive for the pair “but I have come to the conclusion that would much prefer to just kill me and take the money off of my corpse. They're that sort of people.”
Longshadow scratched the back of his head, and laughed to himself. “Besides, we don't actually have any money anymore...” He looked back out the window again “because I gambled it away last night.”
Mr. Quin sighed audibly, and wrinkled his nose, which caused the red moustache sitting just below it to bristle.
Mr. Quin sighed audibly, and wrinkled his nose, which caused the red moustache sitting just below it to bristle.
“How prudent of you, sir,” grunted Mr. Quin “and how do you expect us to escape, pray tell?”
Longshadow pulled the bottle of brandy from the trunk once again, and popped the top to take a deep drink, before wiping his mouth with the sleeve of his coat. He grinned even broader.
“Well, you see, it's quite brilliant,” Longshadow said with a self-conscious sarcasm.
Mr. Quin sighed. “We're going to jump out the window, aren't we?”
“Damned mind-reader!” exclaimed Longshadow. “the only question is who goes first. Out of respect for you, Mr. Quin, I nominate yourself.”
Running his hands through his hair, Mr. Quin groaned. “Of course you do, sir.”
The banter of the two was interrupted by a loud pounding on the door. Both of them hoped that it was perhaps someone other than the rogues to whom the Wizard owed the money, but those hopes were for naught when a shouting rang through the halls.
“Ou est notre argent, vous radin irlandaise?” roared the voice.
“Ou est notre argent, vous radin irlandaise?” roared the voice.
Longshadow looked at Mr. Quin.
“Still going first?”
Mr. Quin responded by simply pushing his master out of the way, kicking the window open with some force. Despite the steep drop, Mr. Quin leapt out the window without hesitation, two trunks full of books in his arms. When he hit the ground, Quin managed to keep his footing and remain standing.
“I don't know if I could do that!” called down Longshadow. “Maybe I should try another way!”
Before Mr. Quin could respond, Longshadow heard the door smash open, and several insults in both French and Breton reach his ears as the collectors came plodding up the stairs. Losing all apprehension, Longshadow leapt from the window and into the alleyway which it looked over. Unfortunately, he lacked the grace his chamberlain did, and crumpled up into a ball upon hitting the ground, dropping his trunks. Quickly, the chamberlain ran to his master's side.
“Sir, are you alright?!” Mr. Quin cried with alarm.
“No...” moaned Longshadow. “I'm almost certain the brandy shattered.”
Rolling his eyes, Mr. Quin helped Longshadow to his feet and dusted him off.
“Always one to prioritise, sir.”
Checking the damage to his clothing, which was minimal, Longshadow looked up to see that the collectors had indeed enough foresight to place a man at opposite ends of the alley-way, both of which were armed with pistols, presumably loaded.
“Mm, it seems we have failed to outsmart them, Mr. Quin,” mused Longshadow in a tone ill-fitting for the danger of the situation.
“I was simply waiting for you to notice, sir,” replied Mr. Quin in a similarly dry tone.
Longshadow gave a grin, indicating he was to be the one to handle the situation.
“Mes amis,” he began “il n'ya aucun probleme. Je vais vous donner votre argent tout suite.”
The men with the pistols looked at him, then at each other from across the alley, and said in unison:
“Beth?”
Groaning, Longshadow buried his face in his hands.
“Bretons.” he announced with some exasperation.
Quickly, the Bretons called out to their companions in their native tongue, grinning in triumph at Longshadow and his chamberlain, as if they had performed some great feat in waiting at the opposite ends of an alleyway with loaded firearms. Most of the men simply ran down from the stairs in the house to the alley, but the leader, whom Longshadow knew as Le Froid, or, in a more civilised tongue, “the Cold”, leapt from the window and landed in a fashion similar to Mr. Quin without so much as a wince or a stumble.
Le Froid was different from his compatriots in that he was firstly, Lyonnaise, and secondly, he was a Huguenot unlike his Breton Catholic underlings. He carried himself with a dignified air, and dressed himself in the height of French fashion – pleated breeches made from the finest imported Spanish fabric, a deep red coat embroidered with some obscure family crest; most likely fallen nobles who lost their position after Henry the Fourth lost his power over to his son, or rather, to the esteemed Cardinal Richelieu. His hair was covered by that of a particularly ridiculous wig, which was quite fashionable in France, for the more ridiculous you looked, the higher your status and respectability.
“Ah, Monsieur Longshadow,” he said with malicious glee “how fortu--”
“I hate to interrupt, but,” said Longshadow in a typical display of inability to gauge the danger of a situation “I'm not a 'monsieur'. Like how you call a physician “doctor” or a priest “father”, you called a wizard, well... Wizard.”
Le Froid stared at Longshadow for a few moments, before grunting loudly and gesturing to the men armed with pistols. “Saethu y Gwyddel a'i was!” Roughly translated, and filtered through the fact that Le Froid had never bothered to learn Breton and instead learnt Welsh, and then considering his Welsh was quite terrible, what Le Froid said was “Shoot the Irishman and his servant”.
Now, in any normal story, when the protagonists are faced with being shot at by two men armed with pistols, they would die in the name of realism. But there is nothing realistic about a novel about magic. So, it was quite possible for the balls of lead to zoom right past their targets, past the crowds, and hit each gunman square in the torso, killing them instantly. Still, it gave everyone in the alley a bit of pause as they took in the sheer improbability of the situation.
“...Merde.” muttered Le Froid, observing the two Bretons and the holes in their chests. Looking at the other men, some of whom were quite in shock, he calmly said “Encore.”
Unfortunately for the gang, who opted to brandish all manner of instruments to bludgeon, gore and slash the two subjects of their ire, they were dealing with a Wizard. Already having prepared for a rush, Longshadow completed his spell, and the Breton gang and their Lyonnaise leader could only watch in horror as the brickwork of the alley surged up at them like a wave of stone, dashing the heavy bricks into their craniums, knocking many into unconsciousness and just as many into the after-life awaiting them.
Longshadow grinned to himself. “Well, that went well,” he said with intense self-satisfaction “what do you think, Mr. Quin?”
Mr. Quin did not respond, as Longshadow had been quite indiscriminate about who the spell hit, the only terms being “not himself”, and as such the chamberlain laid upon the ground, blood running from his nose.
Groaning, Longshadow nudged the prone servant with his foot.
“Do get up, Mr. Quin. I can't afford you being dead or I'll have to carry all my things to Paris by myself and that's quite a trek.” When the manservant did not respond, he kept nudging him with his foot, harder and harder each time.
“For the love of God, sir,” started Mr. Quin in a tone of intense annoyance mixed with grogginess from a possible concussion “stop kicking me before I make you eat your shoes.”
Sitting up, Mr. Quin wiped his nose with a handkerchief he kept in his breast pocket, looking down at the blood and tutting. He sighed as he rose to his feet, taking a moment to steady himself, taking deep breaths.
“I would request,” said Mr. Quin, glaring daggers at his master “that you do not forget I am here next time you decide to hurl heavy stone about.”
Shrugging with childish innocence, Longshadow replied with a tone of genuine, though underwhelming, remorse. “I really did not intend to hurt you, Mr. Quin. I'm simply forgetful.”
Mr. Quin rolled his eyes, and surveyed the piles of bodies and bricks about them with some concern. He knelt and took the pulse of one, then looked up at his master as he vigorously wiped his hand off with the handkerchief.
“Sir, some of these men are dead. We best get out of here before the guards arrive... I hardly suspect we'd have enough money to bribe...” He gestured to the bodies “this off even if we were the King of Poland.”
Longshadow looked at the bodies with pity. “Well, I scarcely meant to kill them.” This seeming regret was spoilt, however, when he started looting some of the bodies for their coinpurses, and when one revived with a start, kicking him in the head and back into unconsciousness. “Well, I suppose you're right. Let us depart, Mr. Quin. I hardly look forward to being hanged.”
