When the little bluebird who has never said a word starts to sing

Lets Do It (Tank Girl) - Joan Jett & Paul Westerberg

Well, here it is, my 700th blog post. Sorry it's taken so long. I've just had nothing really jump out at me that said "hey, you should write about THIS for your 700th post!" In lieu of posting anything substantive, instead I'd like to share a story with you all. Unfortunately due to certain restrictions on what constitutes "published," I cannot post the entire story for you. If after reading the first couple of pages here you want to check out the entire story, email me and I will send it to you as a .pdf file. I'd love to know your thoughts on it after you read it, either here or privately.

What Wizards and Witches Want

by Ian Thomas Healy

A distinct lack of sound jarred Dundicutt out of his indulgent slumber. He blinked in surprise at the unfamiliarity of a bedroom he rarely saw bathed in sunlight.

Bidgie stirred next to him. “Good morning to you, love. Why haven’t you left yet?”

“Gods alive, I’m late!” he cried as he threw off the sleeping furs and shivered as his bare feet touched the cold stone floor. “The thrice-bedamned rooster never crowed.” He cast about, desperate to find his breeches.

Bidgie yawned. “I’m sorry, husband. Goodwife Salo slaughtered the insolent cockerel yesterday eve for the soup. She claimed he was giving her cheek.” She fluttered her sleepy eyelids at Dundicutt, which nearly made him dive under the covers once more, but he relented.

He found his pants and dragged them on over his slender legs. They were not stocky like those of a hard laborer used to carrying heavy loads, but instead were the lean, toned limbs of a messenger. His official uniform jacket went on over his sleepshirt. He jammed his feet into his rabbit-skin shoes, costly and decadent but well worth the expense for someone who walked and ran for a living. Finally, he grabbed his hat from the bedpost and in doing so, bent to kiss Bidgie goodbye. If he left any later, he might as well quit his job entirely and go build the city walls in back-breaking, thankless work for a pittance in daily coppers.

“Farewell, husband,” she said, her voice husky. “I’ll have supper ready when you return. Love to you.”

“Love also to you, dear wife.” Dundicutt paused by the hearth to take a hunk of last night’s bread for his breakfast, and ran from the house.

“Hai, Dundy, you’re late!” called Goodwife Salo from her chicken coop.

He didn’t answer her; instead, he crammed the hunk of Bidgie’s best brown bread into his mouth and pelted along the cobblestones, his hat clutched in his hand to keep it from flying off.

He ran past the harbor and its stink of rotting fish and old sailors, past the marketplace filled with the clamor of early-morning shoppers and vendors hawking their wares, along the Avenue of the Guilds. He cut through the Jackdaws Quarter, where the denizens would still be sleeping off the previous night’s transactions of the flesh, all the way to the King’s Post Office.

Other carriers were already filing out of the hall when he arrived, laden with their messages, letters, and parcels; ready to deliver them all across Lundigo City, the Shining Star of the Wending River, the Jewel of Kingdom Lund.

“Hai, Dundy, you’re late!” yelled Froshimar as he slung a heavy bag across his back. “Did that lovely wife keep you up past Low Bells?” He made a suggestive thrusting motion of his hips that made the other carriers laugh and catcall.

“Bite your tongue, Froshy,” retorted Dundicutt. “My neighbor slew her rooster. I slept past sunup.”

“You ought to get you a wizard clock,” said Froshimar. “More reliable than a cock for morning alarums.”

“My cock always wakes me,” cracked a carrier whose name Dundicutt couldn’t remember. The others whooped in amusement.

Dundicutt shook his head. “Magic. I don’t trust it, Froshy. It’s not natural.”

Froshimar chuckled. “Then you’ll be pleased to know what route is left to you today.”

Dundicutt’s face fell. “Not that. Anything but that.”

The other carriers laughed as they started to disperse in various directions.

Dundicutt grabbed Froshimar’s arm. “Wait. What of the Low Bank?”

Froshimar shook his head. “Harisey’s got it today.”

“Jackdaws Quarter?”

“Young Barze has it. It’s his birthday.” Froshimar winked. “Madame Lynnea promised him a special present, and you know what that means.”

Dundicutt indeed knew, albeit only by reputation. He’d been married long before Madame Lynnea opened up her brothel with special rates for the King’s officials. “Assassin’s Guild? Stablery? Contagion Circle?”

“Afraid not, Dundy.”

Dundicutt hung his head low as Froshimar left on his own route, hat perched jauntily and whistling a merry tune.

He knew it would be Wizardry Row.