Franz Marc Stables

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someone to talk to. Several villagers were lounging in the warm shadows but, as the wizard approached, they sat up expectantly and tried to look intelligent, generally with indifferent success.
The smith didn't feel the need to be quite so subservient. He nodded at the wizard, but it was a greeting between equals, or at least between equals as far as the smith was concerned. After all, any halfway competent blacksmith has more than a nodding acquaintance with magic, or at least likes to think he has.
The wizard bowed. A white cat that had been sleeping by the furnace woke up and watched him carefully.
"What isyou yourself were an eighth son?"
The smith's face stiffened. He turned to the other villagers.
"All right, the rain's stopping," he said. "Piss off, the lot of you. Me and -" he looked at the wizard with raised eyebrows.
"Drum Billet," said the wizard. the name of this place, sir?" said the wizard. The blacksmith shrugged. "Bad Ass," he said. "Bad - ?" "Ass," repeated the blacksmith, his tone defying anyone to make something of it. The wizard considered this. "A name with a story behind it," he said at last, "which were circumstances otherwise I would be pleased to hear. But I would like to speak to you, smith, about your son." "Which one?" said the smith, and the hangers-on sniggered. The wizard smiled. "You have seven sons, do you not? And