Creation Mage 6 by Dante King (red scrolls of magic .TXT) 📗

point where the whites of his eyes could more accurately be called the reds, were surprisingly clear. His mustache was free of its usual powders, twigs, and bits of miscellaneous fluff and crumbs.

“This, young man, is my patented pancake sandwich,” Igor said happily, picking up the maple syrup bottle. “Sausage, eggs, bacon, and chocolate wafers sandwiched between two pancakes. Liberally doused in maple syrup.” He poured about half a gallon of syrup over the gastronomic heartstopper on his plate. “It’s a breakfast designed to stave off even the most dogged of hangovers. Step two in my two-step system, which enables a mage to rise early and without a morning head that makes them feel like if they sneeze they’ll have an aneurysm.”

“I can’t believe that I’m sayin’ this, sir,” Barry Chillgrave said, from where he was floating a couple of places along from me, “but ye don’t look hungover to me.”

“Ah,” Igor the wisenheimer said, “that would be thanks to step one in the two-step anti-hangover program.”

“And what’s step one?” I asked.

“At least a quart of Demon’s Mouthwash,” Igor replied at once. “Administered to the gullet and sent down to the stomach on the moment of waking.”

Igor picked up his pancake sandwich, syrup dripping all over his fingers. He took a bite and sighed appreciatively. He swallowed and said, “Best make sure that you don’t have a candle burning on the bedside table when you put step one into practice. Demon’s Mouthwash is one of those potent little numbers that’s roughly ninety-five percent alcohol.”

I laughed, shook my head, and applied myself to my bacon sandwich.

“Pass the ember salt will you, Idman, old chum?” Reginald asked Idman from his end of the table.

Idman took a sip of the tea that he was drinking and prodded with a finger the salt cellar. The glass and silver shaker set off sedately down the table, meandering its way through the maze of dishes, cups, and implements that littered the table until it came to a halt next to Reginald’s plate.

“Thanks kindly,” Reginald said, applying the ember salt to his meal.

“What is ember salt?” I asked the Headmaster. I was always intrigued by these small details of mage life. The more in your face things such as murderous trolls, Eldritch prisons, and regenerating after dying in the War Mage arena were preposterous aspects of life, but easy to understand. For some reason, the everyday, household things like this held their own little mysterious allure.

“Well, you know smoked salt, mate?” Reginald said. “That fancy seasoning that the swanky inns and eateries are all about at the moment, even in Nevermoor?”

I nodded.

“Ember salt is fancier still,” he said, “and packs a tiny bit more punch to the tastebuds than the smoked stuff.”

“Right, that’s enough of everyone’s blather,” Great Granddaddy Gorlbadock said, banging his coffee cup on the table in place of a gavel to call for order. The cup shattered and spilled coffee everywhere, but the old man paid it no heed.

“All my clan know what this hunt of ours entails,” he said in his cracked and cantankerous voice. “For those of you who are new here, I shall give you a brief explanation.”

The patriarch of the Chaosbane clan got unsteadily to his feet, unhooked his walking stick, which we all knew was his vector, and began pacing around the table, all the better to say his piece.

“The reasons that we Chaosbanes take part—and have always taken part—in the Eggnog Gnome Hunt around this time of year are twofold,” the crusty old fellow said. “The first reason is because the Eggnog Gnomes are annoying little shits. I’m a man who calls a broomstick a broomstick, and that’s the truth of the matter: they’re the sort of nuisance that makes my damn crotch itch! They’re—”

Leah snorted into her bowl of chicken and mud-nut noodles. “By the gods, it’s a bit early in the morning for talk of itchy crotches, Great Grandaddy!”

The old man scowled. “Oh, I’m sorry, my dear,” he said, “did the middle of my sentence interrupt yours?”

Leah rolled her dark eyes and blew Great Granddaddy Gorlbadock a kiss.

“As I was saying,” the grumpy codger continued, “the Eggnog Gnomes are overpopulated in this area and cause no end of mischief in the winter months when their sex drives make them a damned penance to the locals.”

I had a lot of questions already, but I knew when to keep my lip buttoned.

“To try and keep the numbers of the Eggnog Gnomes down and to stop the creatures from rampaging around the district stealing everyone’s underpants and raiding liquor cabinets,” Great Granddaddy Gorlbadock carried on seriously, “the first Chaosbane that built this fine settlement organized a hunt to be partaken by the family, and so the tradition was started. A few generations later, it was decided that the hunt could also be used as a point scoring system to decide who had the honor of carving the Yuletide Log on Yuletide Eve.”

“The Yuletide what now?” I blurted before I could stop myself.

“Log, Mr. Mauler,” Reginald said. “The big, long, steaming Yuletide Log, yet another Chaosbane family tradition.”

“Do you bake it?” I asked speculatively.

“In a manner of speaking,” Mort said.

“Enough blather!” Great Granddaddy Gorlbadock said once again. “Now that the reasoning behind it has been explained, how about we ruddy well get out there and get to blasting those little heathens out of the sky. Is everyone ready?”

“I feel a bit iffy,” Igor said thickly through a mouthful of pancake sandwich.

“Oh, Igor,” Aunt Ruth said, dabbing at her lips with a napkin, “don’t worry, dear. The first forty years of childhood is often said to be the hardest.”

Leah stood on her chair, walked across the table, and dropped nimbly down to stand next to me. She took me by the hand and pulled me toward the door. “Come