Work in Progress

"So there we were, right at the Throne of Bhaal itself..."

"Was it a really big chair?" little Willa asked.

Jan Jansen looked down at his little nieces and nephews, ten of them all told, and smiled. He had not realized it would feel so good to be home in his own house again, to sit in front of his own fireplace and educate the next generation, all eyes and ears that they were.

"See, that's the funny bit: there was no actual throne there," Jan said, letting himself sink deeper into his own armchair. It was warm and welcoming, its plushy cushions molded to perfection by the liberal application of many a Jansen buttock over the years, and its armrests boasted hidden compartments, full of any number of useful things; Jan's own addition to the family heirloom. He'd missed the chair almost as much as he'd missed his Ma's turnip stew. "Melly didn't care to sit; poor silly thing thought herself too high and mighty for that! No, what she had was a bunch of pools, and big shiny tubes that connected to the center. Those pools were full of power she'd stolen, and she stood there in the middle and let that power rain down on her. It made her strong, a bit like Aunt Pretty's special brew - except Melly didn't explode, not at first, at least. Now, we didn't want her to get stronger like that. So what do you think we did?"

"What? What?" the children clamored excitedly.

"We tricked her! Yes, we did. We killed all the beasties that guarded her - and there were lot and lots of them; I even thought I saw a griffin at one point, but it was just a fallen solar - and then we cut the tubes. Melly didn't like that, of course, so she set after us like a mountain fish that hadn't had its breakfast yet. But when she did that, she stepped right into the traps I'd set up for her. Bit her toes, they did!"

The children laughed.

"It was easy after that, of course. Old Melly was so busy hopping around on one foot, holding the other, and calling us nasty names that were completely and utterly uncalled for, that she completely forgot what she was there for! So we clobbered her, and won the day," Jan concluded. "Uncle Blarney would have been so ashamed of her."

"I heard Uncle Blarney dropped a hammer on his toe one day," cousin Nilar said. "He went on like nothing had happened, but his face turned all purple and steam shot out of his ears! And then his missus started to drop a hammer on his toe whenever she was boiling turnips, 'cause when the boiler looked like him she knew it was all done!"

"Didn't she put a griffin in that boiler once?" Hetty asked.

Jan leaned back into the warm depths of his chair, letting the children take over the stage with their stories. It was the best way for them to learn the art, after all.

He thought back to the traps he'd set for Melissan. Ingenious devices, really. The traps he could make now could be used for just about anything, especially when combined with a touch of magery. Why, they could even be keyed to one person, if he really wanted to.

He could rig a trap for Vaelag. It'd be quick. One of the ones that had nipped Melissan's toes should be enough to turn the Lissa-stealing, child-beating, too-big-for-his-britches petty thief who thought he was a crime lord into a pile of griffin feed.

There was only one teeny, tiny problem with that: such a fate was far too good for him.

No. He'd better stick with his original plan.

"Time for turnip tea," Ma Jansen said, ending story time with a platter of cups and cakes. The children shouted with glee and clustered around the platter; Ma left it to them, taking two cups with her to sit beside Jan.

"A bit too straightforward, I thought, but you'll spin a good tale from it yet, my boy," she said, handing him a cup.

"Thank you, Ma." Jan lifted his cup and drank deeply from it. Nobody made turnip tea like his Ma, and that was the truth!

"So... no more adventuring, you say. What do you intend to do now?"

"Smuggle monkeys," Jan said.