It was difficult to focus on chores, with the multiple distractions of Malcador, a potential murderous conspiracy, and … wait a minute had someone mentioned gold? A warm glow kept stealing over her at the thought of piles of coins stamped with the heraldry of the Moot. It was one of only three mints in the Empire that held an Imperial warrant to produce coin, a jealously guarded concession. It was said that the mint was one of the bribes Karl Franz had used to convince the elector of the Moot to cast his vote in his favor, though other stories suggested it was a life time supply of Carlsburg sausages, so who could say. Emmaline was fuzzy on the politics and doubly so when gold was involved. She wondered if she might get a look at his gold… Malcador’s hand closed around her arm and pulled her back gently but firmly, just in time to avoid her from tumbling down a flight of stairs. He shook his head in mute wonder that she managed to avoid breaking her neck on the way to the privy.



“Wait here,” he told her. Here was a landing the Celestial College towers. Doors opened off in the four cardinal directions while a stairway rose through its center with steps made of polished brass. Emmaline could tell they were actually polished rather than kept shiny with enchantments, which must have been the absolutely despair of the Celestial apprentices.



“Are we in time?” Emmaline asked. Malcador nodded his head and flourished the scepter like a field marshals baton.

“I have five minutes to spare,” he announced proudly. Emmaline peered at him.

“How do you know?” she asked. Malcador gave her a faintly pittying look.

“I’m a Celestial Wizard,” he supplied, generously leaving out the implied ‘you idiot’.

“Oh,” Emmaline replied with a blush.

“Just stay here and don’t touch anything,” Malcador instructed, guiding her behind a statue of a man with a long beard peering up towards the heavens. He took a few step towards a door and lifted his hand to knock, only to have the door swing open so his fist swished through empty air. A wizened old man in a dressing gown and slippers stood there.

“Your arrival has been foretold,” the old man declared in a weedy piping voice.

“I uhhh, I am returning your scep…”

“Foretold!” the old man squeaked and snatched the scepter from Malcador’s hand.

“My master extends his..”

“Foretold!” the old wizard thundered. Then he peered at Malcador for a moment.

“Your in for a very interesting week young man,” the old codger opined. Malcador opened his mouth to say something but with a final ‘FORETOLD!’ the wizard slammed the door in Malcador’s face.



“Does uhhh… that happen a lot?” Emmaline asked as Malcador rejoined her.



“Almost every day,” the young wizard replied with a world weary sigh that made Emmaline giggle.



It took another hour to finish delivering the scrolls and Emmaline’s legs were well and truly ready to complain about it. The temptation just to pitch them into a firepit was strong but she resisted heroically. Albrecht was well able to make her life miserable, particularly during pie week when the all night revelry kept him up and aggravated both his hangovers and his gout.



“I va stawies,” Emmaline said around a mouthful of cherry pie, “we could twel a fwiendly pwiest.” She took a moment to swallow and then took drink from a bottle of white wine. They were sitting in a corner of the common square at the center of the Colleges Magic, watching as a quartet of children jousted at each other atop ostriches who squawked indignantly. One of the paper and paste lances struck a shield and shattered, raining colorful sugar plums to the floor. Children rushed in from all sides to gather up the treats to the delight of crowd and the continued indignation of the overburdened birds. Malcador made an incredulous sound.



“Even if we knew a priest, can you imagine? Assassination plot hatched in the Colleges of Magic! Burn the Witch!” Malcador declaimed impressively, drawing the eyes of several nearby servants.

“You make a good point,” Emmaline conceded. The Colleges of Magic were a part of Altdorf society, and the Church was forced by the Emperor to keep its denunciations somewhat veiled, the populace was never too far away from riot when magic was brought up. Whatever the outcome the Magisters would not look kindly on apprentices who stirred up that kind of heat.

“We could…” further discussion was cut off as Gunter, an indifferent Gold apprentice appeared before them, cheeks red and flushed with excitement.



“Emmaline did you…” he trailed off as he registered Malcador’s presence then barreled on, “did you hear? They are searching the Gold quarters, apparently someone stole some artifact from the Jade College!” Malcador and Emmaline exchanged glances.

They made it back to Albrecht’s tower only minutes ahead of a group of senior wizards, utilizing a series of unfrequented galleries and disused libraries known to Emmaline. The old wizard himself was snoring drunkenly, so they hurried down into Emmaline’s quarters. Nothing appeared amiss except… Emmaline snatched up the ring that she and Malcador had enchanted the previous night. She had left it on the windowsill to expose it to the sky as he had told her. A booming knock sounded from the door above which made Emmaline jump almost out of her skin.

“Shit,” she said eloquently and looked around in a panic. Malcador’s eyes widened too, no doubt aware that being caught here wasn’t going to be a good thing. For want of a convenient pocket, Emmaline slipped the ring onto her finger, the lusty thrill of gold on flesh tantalizing her. Then she froze. One of her books was out of place. She stepped over to it and pulled it from the shelf. It was a fat volume about some forgotten war, something she had certainly never bothered to read, but behind it was a torc of gold and green jade that hummed faintly with arcane energy.



“Shit,” she repeated. The banging upstairs was becoming more insistent and she could hear Albrecht beginning to stir and shout her name. Someone had planted this in her room, and it was about to be discovered. Emmaline snatched up the artifact and shoved it into Malcador’s hands, the other apprentice’s eyes widened as though he were handling a live snake. She pulled her flask from her pouch, took a drink, then stuffed it back into the book shelf in place of the torc, then put the book back into place.

“Alright, very clever, but there is still the fact that…” Malcador began.

“Put it in your pouch,” she directed, gesturing at the torc, then stand up against the wall.” Malcador looked like he would rather jump from the window but he did as he was instructed. Emmaline spread her hands wide and chanted, drawing on the power of the ring as she did so.



“What is the meaning of this?!” Albrecht demanded as he stumbled to the door and threw it open. The three wizards outside recoiled from his naked body and his fetid breath, but they were magisters and they rallied quickly.

“Master Albrecht,” the leader, an ethereal and somewhat androgenous mage from the Light College began, “there has been a theft, and we are searching for the culprit.”



“Good luck with that,” Albrecht replied sourly and then slammed the door in their faces. The knocking resumed. In due course the three wizards informed him that they had a letter of authority from the arch-mage himself and Albrecht reluctantly opened the door with much complaining about the rights and dignity of a wizard being violated. That dignity was unquestionably improved by his adoption of a somewhat stained robe, that mostly hid his naked body.

The three wizards searched the upper chambers than, with Albrecht in tow came down to Emmaline’s abode. Emmaline was on her bed, legs crossed behind her while she read from a book, the very picture of a Reikland idyll to innocence.

“Miss… Morganstern?” the Light wizard asked, glancing down at a scrap of parchment.

“It is Von Morganstern actually,” Emmaline replied sunnily.

“They are looking for some stolen property,” Albrecht interjected, “of course no apprentice of mine would be so stupid as to resort to thievery.” The silent ‘and get caught’ hung threateningly in the air. Emmaline opened her mouth in a moo of surprise. The Gray Wizard, an adept of the Lore of Death and so far silent, glanced around the room before his eyes alighted on the book shelf.

“The dust is disturbed,” he croaked. He was a handsome man in a middle aged kind of way, pale and with dark hair that included an elegantly trimmed mustache and beard. His robes were of a fine black silk embroided with silver thread. Large amethysts hung from his neck and both wrists in intricate settings of gold and electrum.

“We aren’t here to dust Blackwood,” the third wizard a brawny looking Amber with an incredibly bushy beard snapped, but the darkly handsome Blackwood ignored him as he crossed to the shelf.

“Von Kellerman’s Account of the Vampire Wars? Odd reading for an aspiring Alchemist?” Blackwood suggested. Behind the trio of wizards Albrecht mouthed ‘what the fuck’, his face looking increasingly worried. Blackwood plucked the book from the shelf with a single flick of his wrist.

“Well… what have we here?” he reached in and plucked out the flask, the triumph on his face turning to confusion.

“Uhhh… for my… you know… nerves,” Emmaline said, blushing to the roots of her hair in feigned embarrassment. Blackwood glared at her and then tossed the flask to the ground. He began to grab books and throw them to the floor, emptying the shelves in the matter of a few moments.

“See here!” Albrecht roared, “you come into my home, accuse my apprentice of theft, and now destroy my property, I demand recompense for the damages!” The Hierophant placed a restraining arm on Blackwood’s, and the Gray Wizard shrugged it off angrily then seemed to realize he had gone too far.



“Ah.. yes, I apologize, I am frustrated that such a theft has occurred in our sacred College,” he said somewhat lamely. Emmaline looked down at the scattered books with the heart broken expression of a kicked puppy. Blackwood made a sound of disgust then wheeled and stalked away, drawing the other wizards in his wake.

Once the door had closed Albrecht stared cooly at Emmaline for several long minutes. His eyes tracked sideways to a suit of cavalry armor that stood, as though on display, in one corner. He turned back to her and shook his head.

“Clean this up,” he instructed, “I need a drink.”



Emmaline crossed to the suit of armor and laid her hands on the cold steel, exhaling a long breath. The metal shimmered and formed into Malcador who sucked in a deep breath and shuddered.

“Damn,” he wheezed as he pulled the torc from his pouch, “you really do know how to get a man hard.”

Malcador clutched the torc for a brief moment as if it were a symbol of holy Sigmar, before he stuffed it into his pocket. Malcador sighed to calm his nerves, before gesturing with his head toward the door Albrecht stepped out of. "Do you think he knows?"

Emmaline ran her hand through his dark locks. "Hmmm?" She blinked. "Oh, no! I mean, he's not stupid, he probably suspects something, but he doesn't know anything."

"I guess we have been careful," Malcador reasoned as Emmaline threw clothes across the room, fixed her hair, and changed into a different blouse in a flash of cloth. Malcador closed the door, before he turned back to Emmaline, looking even more beautiful than ever. She sported a light jacket and men's trousers for moving quickly, hair tied into a ponytail.

"Not that I'm complaining but..."

"Our chores are done, remember?" She asked him.

Malcador was still chilled from the spell on him, but after a minute or two, he remembered. He stroked his fine chin. "You're right, we've got a halfling to warn." He said. "But, after that, we're getting drinks, a room at the inn, and my tongue buried in wherever you want."

She looked at him incredulously, tilting her head. "You're acting as if that's a quid pro quo and not something I was planning on doing anyway."

"...right. Should I change?"

"I can spruce you up a bit, I suppose..."

A few minutes later, the two of them were down the stairs and heading off of the College grounds, trying to pass as quickly and quietly as possible, while still trying to appear to be nonchalant. They almost made it out, before the unlikeliest of people barred their way. It was the old Celestial mage they had delivered the scepter to earlier, his beard singed from some unknown mishap in his arcatorium. He looked as if he was heading somewhere to complain, a gleam in his eyes, when he stepped in their way on the smallest street.

"Oh, it's you lad! And the golden lass as well." He said, as if he was waiting for this moment. Perhaps he had been. He took a professional poise, pursing his lips. "You know, I should thank you for the timely delivery. Here..."

He closed his eyes, and placed his hand atop Malcador's forehead. It was warm to the touch, and it grew mildly hotter as he began to concentrate. There was a soft light behind his closed eyelids. "I foresee you have great potential! A true master of your craft, my young mage! But a dark cloud hangs over your head, threatening to scatter your talent to the wind if you let it!"

Malcador was not certain what to make of that, before the old magister turned to Emmaline and placed a hand atop her forehead.

After a few moments, he said. "Ah, the dark cloud I had foreseen."

Emmaline gave an offended gasp, but Malcador looped his arm around hers and pulled her away. The old wizard cackled at their backs as Emmaline glanced back over her shoulder, glaring daggers.

"He's joking. He doesn't like gold wizards." Malcador assured her as her anger turned into a pout.

If Pie Week in the Colleges of Magic was a riot, the Street of a Thousand Taverns declared it a war. Enthusiastic crowds caroused up and down the street, swilling ale from tankards that were refilled at tapped kegs Infront of taverns. Tavern boys sat by the kegs with buckets into which the revelers tossed a few copper coins before filling their mugs, long sticks lay across their laps to knock the drinks from the hands of those who tried to fill without paying. The smell of hot pies and roasting meat wafted from the doors of every tavern, making the mouth water and drawing the hungry in for a slice or two. The happy buzz of conversation was punctuated with whoops and cheers as men tossed dice or played cards at tables or simply on clear patches of cobble stones. Street musicians strummed lutes and banged drums, somewhere a dwarven bag pipe was wailing away. It should have been discordant but somehow it melded with the noise of the crowd to create a vaguely pleasant whole. The only thing missing were the firebrand preachers, though they were never as popular in the Street as they were in the rest of the city. Normally people went to the Sigmarplatz for that kind of entertainment before their evening beer. That wasn’t to say religion was entirely absent, a few optimistic doom sayers stood on improvised platforms made from wine crates to rhapsodize about the coming end of the world. Pickpockets were also at work, having an easy time with the crowded streets and the general level of intoxication. Twice someone tried to cut Emmaline’s purse, only to find her enchantments turned the blades with a noisy clink.



“How are we going to find our man in all this?” Malcador asked as he swatted an innocent looking urchin who had made a grab for his own coin purse. The kid darted off into the crowd in search of easier pray. Malcador was dressed in a coat of dark blue silk over a white cotton shirt and dark grey pants of fine Sutherland wool. He looked like a minor aristocrat out for an evenings entertainment, and several other such people gave him cautious nods or speculative looks. More than a few women cast him approving glances, which made Emmaline feel a little jealous.



“Well, I hadn’t really thought of that,” Emmaline confessed.

“Lemon!” a voice called and Emmaline spun to find a gaggle of duelists dressed in silk and wearing polished breastplates. A lithe looking brunette steered the pack of them toward them, cutting a path through the crowd on swagger alone. The newcomer wore a pair of pistols at her right hip and had a simple but well made fencing foil at her left. A bright red dueling rosette was affixed to her left breast.



“Hannah,” Emmaline called out, clasping the other woman’s hand. Hannah yanked her into an embrace and planted a loud kiss on her cheek.

“S’good to see you out of your Tower,” Bianca enthused before turning to Malcador, “s’friend kinda cute.” Hannah Fischer had clearly been drinking, which was a bit like saying ‘winter is cold’ or ‘dwarves hold grudges’, but though liquor made her questionable judgement much worse, it never threw her aim off. Emmaline had known Hannah since childhood, when they had both grown up semi-wild in the sprawling tenements down on Dockside and they were firm friends.



“This is Malcador of the Celestial College,” Emmaline introduced. It sounded a bit pompous but last names weren’t frequently used in the Colleges.



“Malcador, this is Hannah Fischer an old friend of mine.

“S’charmed,” Hannah managed, taking Malcador’s outstretched hand and kissing it like a Brettonian might.

“Hannah, any chance you know where we might find a Halfling Bigwig named Clodfot?” Emmaline asked, Hannah was a fixture of the Altdorf tavern scene and knew everyone who was anyone.

“Clodfot? he and his boys is down at the Stumpy Cock,” Hannah supplied.

“Why you need some halflingus?” Hannah snickered, then tried to elbow her companions to share the joke, only to find that they had wandered off into the crowd. She peered owlishly at the empty air for a moment then turned back and frowned.

“S’friends of yours?” she asked, gesturing with her chin towards two apprentices trying to force their way through the crowd. It was Heinrich and Gunter, annoyed no doubt, at once again having been stood up by Malcador. Emmaline sighed, they didn’t have time to deal with the two melodramatic wizards right now.

“Sort of, think you can distract them for a few minutes?” Emmaline asked. Hannah snickered.

“What are their names?” she asked conspiratorially.

“Henrich and Gunter,” Malcador supplied. Hannah was already striding towards them, bulling her way through the crowd like a war galley.

“Henrich! You haven’t even come to see the baby! How could you promise to marry me and then abandon me so” she screamed at the top of her considerable theatrical range. Emmaline snickered, caught Malcador’s hand, and hurried down the street towards the Stumpy Cock.

Malcador grinned at Emmaline, still amused at the whole affair. "She seems nice," he told her as the two tried to maneuver through the press of the bawdy crowd. A halfling atop an awning played an accordion as two tavern wenches danced beneath him, giving him a marvelous view of their cleavage, while three dwarfs and one very drunk reikland man compared tattoos and scars just beside an overturned cart of grain.

"She's been accused of many things, but nice is a rare one." Emmaline laughed, and the two managed to fanagle their way down two more streets, keeping their coin-purses close and their eyes peeled. Malcador had heard of the establishment, but he had never been. There was always a tavern that was either a bit more high class or a bit cheaper to visit. Yet it was a hard one to miss, with a headless rooster emblazoned on the sign just outside of the rickety steps leading into the wide open front doors.

Emmaline eagerly began to make her way to the entrance, but Malcador caught her wrist gently. She glanced at him, curious. He drew closer, whispering in her ear. "We need to be careful, we don't know who's watching Clodfoot now, and I also think we should tell him from a discreet note. I don't think it's good for even him to see our faces."

"Not if we can help it, at least." She agreed wholeheartedly, and squeezed his hand. Hands together, they weaved their way into the tavern. Immediately the smell of alcohol and sizzling meat mingled with a faint air of sweat, and Malcador's mind went from carefully laid plans to food, drink, and Emmaline Von Morganstern. He simply wanted to get the whole ordeal over with and have a pint and some tilean stromboli he'd heard the taverns now sold. However, they had to complete the matter at hand, and he peeled his eyes around for any halflings they might see. Emmaline did the same, but lacking Malcador's height, she compromised by poking her head under raised arms of toasts and peeks through the crowd.

Finally, Emmaline's search bore fruit, telling Malcador they were at the far left table before both of them heading for kegs. They both grabbed a pint and shimmied between two of the kegs, Emmaline raising the mug to her lips before Malcador stopped her. She pouted, and when he gave her an amused look, she huffed. "So, what's the plan?"

Malcador glanced at the crowd. "We use our talents together," he said nonchalantly. "You've got the ring, and you're good at acting, right?"

She nodded, her ponytail bobbing up and down.

"I'll divine when you should go, so fortune favors you, fraulien. Then you take a pan of drinks to their table, act like you're a serving wench, conspicuously leave a note that tells him he is in danger and from whom, I'll call you over for another drink, and then we can go enjoy our night." Malcador gave a wink at the end, and Emmaline took a sip at that, though her blue eyes glinted with mischief.

Malcador finished his first drink and ordered a second before he judged the time to be right. Emmaline stood up and picked up a drink tray from the bar while the barman looked the other way, then sauntered over to the table as though she belonged. Horatio Clodfoot was tall for a halfling, just over four feet with impressive blond mustaches which drooped down to his breast bone. He was dressed in a doublet of gold and cream with a large feathered cap on his head. Three other halflings were drinking with him, two appeared to be body guards while the third might have been a secretary or an advisor, given his round glasses and advanced age.

"We didn't order any drinks," Clodfoot stated in a surprisingly deep and melodic voice as Emmaline closed in.

"They are on the house," she lied and set the tray down.

"By the Moot look at the size of them melons!" one of the bodyguards said with a leer. He reached out to grab Emmaline and she slapped at his hand. The paper note she had tucked up her sleeve slid free and fluttered to the table top.

You are in danger, beware of assassins.

All three halflings read the paper at once and their eyes widened like tea cups.

"Assassins!" one of the bodyguards roared and leaped to his feet overturning the table. He knocked the old conseler over and the halfling crashed into a burly looking human who spun just in time to see Clodfoot jumping to his feet.

"You stunted little klutz!" the human yelled, jumping immediately to the wrong conclusion, then slugged the Emissary across the face with a punch that sent him reeling back into Emmaline. Off balance and startled, Emmaline promptly toppled over and landed on the bodyguard who had tried to grope her. Clodfoot yelled in fury and punched the human in the groin, doubling him over.

Within seconds the tavern descended into chaos. Halflings and humans were throwing punches at each other, but the violence quickly spread to intra-species as well. Emmaline struggled to stand up, the halfling pinned under her rump tried to shove her off but that was just making things worse. The bodyguard tried to scream but was muffled by her bottom. A noble laid out a serving wench with a thrown elbow and was rewarded with a bottle of wine to the face from the incensed barkeeper. Punches, bread, and flagons of ale flew in every direction.

"You are coming with me," Clodfoot declared, grabbing Emmaline by the arm and pulling her to her feet. She ducked a roast chicken and kicked a chair at an onrushing fisherman that sent him crashing the ground. One of the Halflings slapped her across the rump and she whirled to find the one she had sat on grinning at her.

"We will sort it out later," Clodfoot said as he dragged her towards the stairs at the corner of the tavern.

"Look out!" Emmaline yelled and snatched up a serving tray which she thrust out like a shield. A crossbow bolt smacked into it, splitting the wood in two. The crossbowman, a cloaked figure near the door, snarled and began to reload the cumbersome weapon. One of the halfling body guards produced a short bow and began trying to string it, but was cut short when a drunken dwarf crashed into him, sending them both sprawling into a knot of drunken clerks.

"Malcador!" she yelled as she was half escorted, half dragged up the stairs.

Malcador heard her scream his name just as he was punched in the face.

He truly had not expected it. It was a brawl, sure, but he had kept as close to the wall as possible until he verified he could make a go at Emmaline, yet as soon as he stepped one foot out, a fist came out of the crowd and hit him square in the face. It was only by the endless grace of the gods his nose had not shattered, yet he still lamented it. Not the pain, but the fact his face was the money maker! He was a dashing man, and prized his looks highly.

Malcador staggered back, blinking away the bright light that had exploded in his vision. He hit the wall again, and if it wasn't for another scream from Emmaline, he might have checked out then and there. He was averse to fist fighting, trying to avoid it at all costs. Yet he had been in two tavern brawls before, and one poorly executed schoolyard fist fight. It had been unfortunate all 3 times, but they gave him a small sense of how to dodge and how to hit if need be. He pushed off the wall again after shaking his head and fixing his hair, dodging through the crowd and ducking under the next fist that flew his way. He struck out in the direction this fist came from, and heard a satisfying groan of pain. He spied Emmaline on the stairway, and rushed forward until he was blocked by the stumbling body of a duelist, his face bloodied. Malcador cried out, shoving the stammered man away, inadvertently unsheathing his rapier from his belt. He looked at the sword newly gripped in his hands, and shrugged to himself. He lifted it and slipped past a gaggle of drunkards in a whirlwind of fists and another tavern wench breaking a bottle of watered down mead over a dwarf's head. At last Malcador leaped over a newly fallen chair and made it to the stairway.

"Clodfoot!" He cried dramatically, rapier raised. "Unhand her!"

The tall halfling turned, an oxymoron if there ever was one, but it was true. Clodfoot looked both angered and perplexed. "Who might you be!?"

"I am the one who sent the note." He told him, only to nearly lose his step as one of the halfling body guards had been tossed his way like a sack of grain. Malcador took three steps up, and the mootlander hit the stairs with a disgusting, weighty thump. All three of them winced for a moment.

"You!? Who in Ranald's taint are you, and why do you wish to kill me!?"

"I don't wish to kill you, you fool! I bought the drinks and sent the note because someone else does, now unhand this poor woman!" Malcador ordered. Clodfoot's face was unreadable save for the mild effort of thinking over the situation. He looked at Emmaline, and then back at Malcador. "Very well then, I believe you. But perhaps I'll buy this girl's services in more ways than one." He smiled lasciviously.

Emmaline slapped the halfling, who whirled on her. Malcador had seen enough, poking the rapier's rigid blade between the halfling's legs and pivoting the angle, tripping him up. Clodfoot squealed an undignified squeal, and plummeted down the stairs, nearly taking Emmaline with him. It was her turn to squeal, but Malcador dropped the rapier and caught her before she could join the bugger in a heap at the bottom. The two mystics smiled at one another, but before they could kiss, the last halfling bodyguard had come to find his motionless, knocked out brethren. He looked between them and the two students.

"I suggest you take your master back to the mootland. Reikland is a silly place." Malcador told him, still keeping his aristocratic air of authority.

"We can't go back! If we leave before we pay off the Count..." the halfling began. Emmaline threw up her and and there was a bright golden flash a crossbow bolt intersected with her shielding spell.

"Sounds like we can file that under your problem," Emmaline called. Several cloaked men were trying to force their way through the brawl, clearly with murdeer on their minds.

"Time to go," Emmaline urged, tugging on Malcador's sleeve.

"You are wizards, help me get his Excellency to saftey and you will be well rewarded!"

Emmaline glanced back at the closing assassins, she very much doubted they would let them just walk out. There was a whisper of magic in the air that made her ring throb. Someone was using one of the darker winds, Shadow or Death magic, to keep the tavern isolated from the rest of the City. There was no way tthey could keep that up for long, the assassination had been botched and help would come sooner or later.

"Let's get him up the stairs at least," Emmaline urged.

"I note you aren't trying to lift him," Malcador observed archly as he grabbed on of Clodfoot's arms and started hauling the halfling up the stairs.

"I'm the rearguard!" Emmaline snapped.

"Well it is a fine rear," Malcador observed.

"Very fine," the Halfling guard agreed as they got Clodfoot to the top of the stairs and out of immediate danger. Emmaline lay her hands on the iron handrail aand muttered a spell. The wrought iron began to writhe beneath her hands and then began to hiss as it transformed into a metallic snake which began to sweep its head back and forth, discouraging anyone else from trying the stairs. They dragged Clodfoot into a well appointed room in which another halfling sat upon a locked chest the size of a man, a blunderbuss looking huge in his hands.

"Gold..." Emmaline breathed, staring at the chest as though the gun didn't even exist.

Malcador's vices leaned more towards the flesh than avarice, but he still had to agree with Emmaline with a long, low whistle. "You halflings weren't kidding."

"Who are they!?" The guard with the blunderbuss demanded, raising the firearm. The movement nearly pitched him over, and Malcador was certain his unsteadiness would discharge the gun, but by the grace of the gods the halfling caught himself. The halfling guard that led them into the room raised his hand to calm his fellow.

"Easy, Humper! They're with me!"

Maclador burst out laughing. He did not mean to, but it erupted out of him with the force of a flood. He couldn't keep ahold of Clodfoot's feet and dropped him, which caused Clodfoot's prone form to knock into the guard, who reeled back and nearly fell to the floor. As Malcador wheezed, he bade Emmaline close the door. She did so, locking it tighly for good measure. The myriad of complaints that rose up were silenced after Mal caught his breathe, holding up two hands to placate them. "My apologies, good mootlanders. I don't know what came over me."

"You better make sure he wasn't bruised!"

"He's fine, he's fine. In fact, it's because we helped you that he's fine and not chopped to bits. I also warned you about the assassin, did I not?" Malcador reminded them.

"What assassin!?" Humper asked excitedly, and Malcador and Emmaline ducked as he swung the gun again.

"I don't know, yet! But they're like as not to strike tomorrow! I only know what I heard, now please give us s bit of gold as the reward you promised, and we'll be out of your hair."

"Help me put him on the bed." The guard told Malcador, and reluctantly the debonair mage helped him do just that, making certain to be gentle this time. Clodfoot was not man, but he was heavy for a halfling. Luckily, the both of them did it with relative ease. Once they did so, the halfling fixed his pillow, set it under him, and gave a sigh. "Okay... Humper, give them a couple of sacks."

Malcador looked away, vainly trying to hold off the laughter. Emmaline placed a hand on his mouth to keep it from bursting out as Humper grabbed a few coin purses.

Humper drew two leather bags from the chest and tossed one to each of the wizards. Emmaline snatched both of them from the air with a grace she displayed in zero other aspects of her life, clutching them both to her bosom possessively. Her fingers began to unconsciously massage the bags, as though the clink of metal was the most wonderful thing she had ever heard. Malcador lowered his outstretched and still empty hand and peered at her for a moment.

"Why do you have so much gold?" Emmaline asked, glancing lustily towards the chest.

"None of your business Goldilocks!" Humper snapped.

"We didn't just hear about an assassin," Malcador said. Humper drew another pouch from the chest and moved it back and forth, deliberately drawaing Emmaline's rapt gaze, then tossed it to Malcador. Emmaline lurched towards it but was unable to catch it with both her hands occupied. The Celestial wizard snatched the pouch and quickly tucked it away.

"Well now we are warned it will be safe," Humper declared.

"Safe?" Clodfoot groaned from his bed, he sat upwards and glared at the humans.

"We won't be safe until this money is delivered to the Imperial Palace, it is for... sensitive diplomatic negotiations," the emissary declared, casting a glare at Malcador whom he now remembered had punched him in the face.

"Well we will just be going and leave you to..."

"Malcador," Emmaline scolded, "we can't just leave all that lovely gol... I mean these noble citizens of the Empire to their own devices.

"It is our duty as members of the... something something..." she trailed off, completely enraptured by gold fever.

"Ah yes, the something something clause inducted by Emperor Sigismund the IV." Malcador remarked sagely, clearly poking fun at Emmaline, but not too surprised when she nodded enthusiastically, buying every word. The celestial mage rolled his eyes, and took Emmaline by the arm to lead her aside.

"What?" Emmaline asked, trying to peek over his shoulder at the chest.

"Even if we help them, they aren't going to give us the gold!" He whispered to her, trying to shake her back into reality. Sigmar, the dwarfs from Zhufbar had been less enthralled when they saw gold. There was an insanity to her eyes that unnerved him. It seemed to flow in one our and out the other, and he decided to speak slowly: "Emma, that gold is meant for the Emperor. Not. Us... We. Cannot. Have. It."

"I know that!" She protested, a bit too loudly. Her next words were softer, embarrassed. "I know that..."

"They might be rewarded if they help, right?" Humper asked Clodfoot, and Malcador almost fell over as the gold lust burst back into Emmaline's face like the sun. Despite how crazy she seemed, Emmaline Von Morgantsern had an odd way of titillating Malcador at every turn. It looked just like how she might look if... He let the thought go. If they were smart they would take these 3 sacks of gold and go, but there was no stopping her now. If he dragged her out of there, she very well might be mad at him for a week. It was better than the both of them being dead, but somehow he could not quite bring himself to do it.

He must have been as crazy as her. He turned to the halflings, who watched expectantly.

"We'll help," Malcador said, and Emmaline gave out a squeal and a jump. Malcador sighed. "The key word is help, herr halflings. I don't intend for my lady friend or myself to be harmed. Once we get there, you'll also personally commend us to the Duchess Elize von Skaag, or whatever official you're to meet. Do we have a deal?"

“There are at least a score of them out there,” Malcador reported as he stepped back into the room, he shed the cloak he had taken from the tap room below. “Averlanders by the look of those ridiculous mustaches. They have the place surrounded.”
Emmaline was rubbing one of the golden coins along the band of her ring while she gazed at the chest of gold, still guarded by a suspicious Humper. The metal seemed to chime softly at the contact.

“They have a wizard too,” Malcador added.

“How do you know?” Emmaline asked. Malcador stared at her incredulously.

“Because I paid attention in class?” he responded, aghast that Emmaline had apparently skipped so basic a lesson. Her education was shockingly spotty, surprisingly deep in places but with corresponding holes where she had never bothered with, or never been taught, the basics.

“Blackwoods,” Clodfoot growled.

“Who?” Emmaline asked, tearing her gaze from the chest with obvious effort.

“They are a family of wizards in Averland, more power hungry and greedy than most humans,” Clodfoot supplied. Emmaline shrugged her shoulders, not recognising the name, but Malcador arched an eyebrow.

“Blackwood was the name of that wizard wasn’t it, when you dressed me up as a knight?” Malcador asked Emmaline.

“Dressed you up as a knight?” Humper asked, “is that a sex thing?”

“No,” Malcador told him.

“Yes,” Emmaline replied in the same breath. The halfling glared at them.

“Why would a wizard want you dead?” Emmaline asked.

“If I die it will mean a power struggle between Averland and the Moot,” Clodfoot said, climbing out of the bed he had been resting in to recover a bottle of brandy from a pack. He pulled the cork from the bottle and took a long drink, which was doubtless a sin against good liquor.

“Why would the Blackwoods want that?” Emmaline asked. Clodfoot made an equivocal gesture with the bottle.

“The Blackwoods spend most of their time fighting among themselves, praise be to Taal,” Clodfoot explained. “The family is lousy with wizards, some of whom are a little too close to Sylvania if you take my meaning.”

Emmaline did. The Amethyst College was ever at pains to point out how much it hated necromancy and the undead but there was always a suspicion that they were too close to the same mysteries.

"Trouble in the Moot would let them snap up more land and influence, both of which they are hungrier for than an Ogre in a sausage shop."

“So what is the gold for?” Malcador asked. Clodfoot peered at the young wizard then sighed.

“Political chicannery that will frustrate attempts to claim lands on the borders of the Moot, it is more complicated than it is interesting,” he explained.

“Say less,” Emmaline agreed emphatically, her interest in political manuvering evidently exhausted. She glanced out the window at the afternoon sun then back towards the gold, her emotions clearly split between the precious metal and the possible entertainment she was missing on the second day of Pie Week.

“Can’t we just go and get the guard or something?” she suggested.

“They have to have paid off the guard or they would already be here,” Humper snapped, “besides they probably saw you warn us, I doubt they will let you just walk out of here.”

“I doubt they are going to let any of us just walk out of here,” Clodfoot said, his mustaches drooping, “I think they would have stormed the place already if you hadn’t thrown them off balance with your little stunt. In a few minutes they will find their balls and we will be in real trouble.” The Halfling noble's voice was tinged with despair.

“We could…” further discussion was interrupted by shouts from below and the pounding of feet on the stairs. Clodfoot’s eyes widened in panic.

“Block the door!” he shouted, and his two bodyguards leaped to the heavy wooden door, throwing their shoulders against it a moment before someone tried to pull it open. A shoulder slammed against it and the door shook. Malcador grabbed the edge of a bed and began to heave. Clodfoot, realising what the wizard was about, grabbed the other end, and they shoved the bed against the door, baring it for the time being.

“Now what do we do?” Emmaline demanded.

“I suppose we could…” the window shattered as a lantern sailed through it, striking the wall and exploding in a shower of oil. Emmaline screamed and scampered away as the flames began to lick at the wood paneling. Malcador and the halflings stared at the fire in horror, unable to leave the door as the attackers outside continued to pound on it. They were caught between the fire and the blades of the assassins waiting outside.

“We are doomed!” Thumper cried, his eyes wide with panic. By now the wall was fully ablaze and the flames were licking upwards towards the ceiling joists. Emmaline ran over to the chest of gold and threw open the lid. She gripped the bottom edge and tried to lift it but it was too heavy for her.

“What are you doing you crazy trollop?!” Clodfoot demanded but Malcador had already abandoned his place at the door. He grabbed the chest and heaved and it tipped over spilling an avalanche of coins across the floor.

“Do you actually have a plan or did you just want to roll around in gold before it was too late?” he asked. Emmaline threw herself down onto the carpet of gold and began to roll, pressing her cheek to the precious metal. The blows on the door grew more intense as the Halflings were slowly forced backwards.

“Mmmm?” she murmered dreamily, “oh.. right, the plan.”

The second story window exploded outward in a spray of glass and smoke. Revelers in the street below looked up in shock as a cloud of gold coins burst from the tavern like leaves caught in an autumn gale. The glittering swarm formed a thin carpet beneath four halflings and two humans, all clinging desperately to their insubstantial salvation. Emmaline gripped the golden ring on her finger as it pulsed with wild magical energy. Beneath them the coins shifted and chimed, each one too weak to bear their weight alone yet somehow keeping them aloft through a communal effort. They shot down the alley at the speed of a galloping horse. The halflings screamed continuously while Malcador grimly maintained his side of the spell. They burst out onto the Street of a Thousand Taverns and soared over the crowd. Hundreds of upturned faces stared in disbelief as a flying carpet of gold streaked overhead, trailing screams and expletives in it’s wake.

“Left!” Malcador shouted.

Emmaline yanked on glowing threads of Charmon only she could see. The construct lurched violently into the merchant district, swaying so violently that Humper nearly slipped free. The halfling grabbed a handful of coins that buzzed irritatedly in his hands but prevented him from falling to the street below.

“Where are you taking us?!” Clodfoot cried, his mustache pushed back against his head by the breakneck speed of the run away bribe.

“I don’t know!” Emmaline yelled back, her blue eyes huge with fear, excitement and gold lust.

"Aren't you the one driving?" he demanded in white knuckled terror.

Ahead loomed the ornate facade of a merchant prince’s palace. Its steepled roof of slate tiles and overabundance of leaded glass windows promising an immediate and messy end.

“LEFT! LEFT!” Malcador screamed, he gestured furiously with his left hand, even though by doing so he imperiled his grip on their sorcerous steed.

Emmaline hauled upwards at the last second. They missed the building by inches and suddenly soared high above the city. For one dizzying moment all Altdorf spread beneath them in torchlight and gathering dusk. The upper spires still burned gold in the light of the setting sun while the mighty ribbon of the Reik gleamed silver below, crowded with the lantern lights of countless river craft. Temple domes, crowded tenements, noble villas and crooked alleys stretched away in all directions.

“We are far too hi…"

Something exploded nearby in a blinding burst of light and concussive noise. Emmaline flinched and the carpet rolled violently sideways. Everyone screamed as fireworks burst across the sky around them, great blooms of red and gold exploding over the city as the second night of Pie Week reached full celebration. The smell of gunpowder filled the air and their skin prickled with burning grains of powders and flaming parchment cases. The noise was incredible and even with her eyes closed Emmaline could see the flashes of pyrotechnic light.

“Down!” Malcador shouted. “DOWN!”

Emmaline shoved the construct into a wild dive. They plunged over Cheapside so low that laundry lines snapped beneath them and pedestrians hurled themselves into gutters to avoid being decapitated by the storm of flying gold coins. Malcador pulled a linen shirt from his face and hurled it aside into the whipping slipstream, ducking his head to avoid a tavern sign paintd with a drunken goat.

“The river!” Malcador warned.

The Reik rushed toward them, fringed with a network of docks and warehouses that sustained the hundreds of fishing smacks, river barges, and larger vessels. Emmaline pulled back frantically whipping drunkenly between several gantrys before skimming out over the water so low that they threw up a great roster tail of spray behind them.

“Marginally better!” Malcador yelled.

An Imperial galleon loomed ahead. Sailors stared upward in drunken astonishment, freezing in their labors at this bizarre wonder that had interrupted their normally stayed routines. Its vast wooden flank loomed up ahead of them like a castle wall, its painted gunports draped with festival silk.

“UP!”

They shot over the bulwarks, flashed across the deck, and tore beneath the rigging so closely that sailors ducked for cover. Several lines parted with snaps like nearby gunshots and the main course came crashing to the deck, like a theatre curtain clumsily dropped on a trope of comic actors. Then they were across the river and hurtling toward the great towers of the Grand Temple of Sigmar.

“You’re heading for the temple district!” Malcador cried.

“How do I stop?!” Emmaline shouted back, yanking this way and that on the tethers of magical energy that she had created but only marginally controlled. Golden filaments twisted through her fingers like tangled reins they writhed in her fingers like living things, with definite opinions on where they should go. This spell was far beyond her, without the ring she and Malcador had created it would have been impossible but even with that powerful magical focus it was too complex for her limited abillities. Steering the construct was like trying to ride a drunken horse during an earthquake. Every correction introduced fresh disasters in pitch, yaw, and spin that whipped them around like children's toys.

“Not into the towers!”

Hundreds of pigeons exploded upward around them in a storm of feathers and indignant squawking as Emmaline banked sharply to avoid splattering them against a cathedral spire. They curved around a vaulted dome an then whipped past a bell tower so closely that Emmaline caught sight of a pale-faced Canon staring at them in disbelief throug an arched window, his book of hours falling to the floor.

Then they were diving again, streaking over manicured gardens and marble estates toward the looming bulk of the Imperial Palace. Soldiers in the livery of Karl Franz gaped openly as the screaming collection of wizards, halflings, and gold coins hurtled over the moat.

“Pull up!” Malcador shouted. “Pull up now!”

But the spell was failing. The golden threads frayed apart beneath Emmaline’s hands. The carpet bucked violently. With one final desperate effort she hauled them over the outer curtain wall before the magic gave out altogether. Emmaline tumbled through the air and crashed into a cherry tree at the center of a small ornamental garden. She grabbed one branch, slipped from it immediately, and landed heavily on her backside. A moment later Malcador fell from above and crashed down beside her with enough force to knock the breath from both of them. Thousands of coins rained from the sky around them in a musical cascade.

For several long seconds nobody moved.

“That went well,” Emmaline declared brightly.

Malcador believed he was dead for a good, long moment. The finality of his last fall weighed on him. However, as soon as he realized Morr had not taken him to the realm of the dead, he bolted upright, a surge of spiteful energy rushing through him.

"That's it!" He cried, coins sliding off of him like raindrops. "I'm finished! Nothing is worse this nightmare!" He brushed his princely apparel, certain his knee was bleeding and his face ruddied from the elements, but still more concerned with his handsome image. Even without Emmaline there, he was a vain man. He gestured to the left. "Not the gold!" He gestured to the right. "Not the prestige!" He turned around. "Not even-!"

Emmaline looked at him, her big blue eyes shining and her full lips in a pout. Malcador immediately deflated, knowing he would do it all over again. That, and try as he might, he was a loyal son of the empire, and it would gain him more scholastic achievement once the word got out. Emmaline squeaked and gave him a hug, which he reciprocated.

Out of the locks of golden hair, Malcador noticed something distinctly grey, and it took the mage a moment to realize the steel head of a halberd was pointed right at him. Malcador pulled Emmaline away from it, and she squeaked a second time when she was aware, herself. Six halberds bristled from the well trained hands of the imperial palace guards, their mustaches nearly as ornate as their finely wrought breastplates, burnished and intricately crafted with the heraldic skull of the empire. The plumes on their caps along with their steel shells made them briefly look like a strange chimera of bird and crustacean.

"Give us a reason why we should not run you through without mercy." One of the palatial guards declared.

At that moment, Clodfoot finally decided to make his debut. The halflings had all landed in a pile, like a clutch of hairy and particularly smelly kittens. He shoved Humper off of him and rose to his full height, impressively tall (for a halfling). "Is that any way to speak to my honour guard!?" He cried.

"Who in Sigmar's name are you!?" The largest guard spat.

"I am Clodfoot of the mootland, dignitary and expected by Karl Franz, Prince of Altdorf himself! I come bearing...uh..." He looked at the piles of gold scattered across the courtyard. "this wealth, as a token. These two are mages of the Imperial Colleges of Magic, having risked life and limb to help me arrive without coming to blades with terrible assassins!"

The heavily mustachioed halberdiers looked at one another, some incredulous and others in plane disbelief. Still, it worked in the end. Malcador and Emmaline were swiftly escorted to one of the outer lobbies of the Imperial Palace itself, waiting with Clodfoot and his 'men' while their arrival was brought up the chain of command. Malcador and Emmaline could only wait an uncomfortably long amount of time, hand wringing and wondering if they were going to be thrown in the stocks or taken into custody by witch hunters for what had to be a brazen and unadulterated use of magic. However, Clodfoot and his men, along with the carefully picked horde of coins they had meticulously plucked from the ground, were inducted into the inner sanctum of the palace by a bearded and overly pompous chamberlain, who glared at them the two mages and seemed to be about to shoo them out of the front gate, before a carefully whispered message in his ear had him take a sizeable pouch of golden coins from his belt and toss them at the two contemptuously.

"Mine!" Emmaline yelled, but Malcador was quicker, snatching it out of the air, and subsequently bowing before the chamberlain.

"You do us great honour, sir. Please know Malcador Zauberhaft, Magister of the Celestial college, and Emmaline Von Morganstern of the Golden Order, live to serve..." He remarked, and backed away slowly. Emmaline had the frame of mind to do the same, and within two hours, they had made it back into the Colleges, richer and more famous than they had anticipated. The consequences, however, might bite them in the ass within the week, if they were unlucky. Hopefully Ranald had a sense of humor.

The second night of Pie Week was in full swing by the time they returned to the College. Instruction was finished for the day and apprentices and tradesmen alike were celebrating in the courtyards and platz. Wagons laden with food, wine, and ale were doing a brisk trade and the crowds seemed merry and good natured. Here and there minor spells crackled as apprentices engaged in playful boasting and showing off but any serious magic would bring irritated magisters down on their students.

"Can you believe we pulled that off?" Emmaline asked, still breathless with excitement.

"I can hardly believe you didn't kill us both, where did you ever get the idea to fly on gold coins?"

"I just couldn't bear to let the assassins get all that gold!" Emmaline replied, her cheeks flushed and eyes bright with excitement.

"Also killing us," Malcador pointed out. Emmaline blinked as though this thought hadn't occurred to her. Malcador could only shake his head at how much the gold lust had blinded her to the danger they had been in.

"Sigmar alone knows what rumors will spread about it," Malcador added. Emmaline shrugged her shoulders. Strange things happened on the Street of a Thousand Taverns and the Gods knew half of the witnesses had been drunk. Magisters might hear it from the palace of course but Emmaline was hoping that news would take a while to filter back to the College. Albrect wouldn't be mad that she had cast spells in public, but he would be furious that she hadn't given him a share of her gold. The thought of the gold made Emmaline reach into her belt pouch and run her fingers through the wealth of gold coins and let out a soft moan.

"So," Emmaline said, a wicked gold glazed look stealing over her, "any plans for the rest of the night?"