Weeks rolled on and days grew warmer. Snow slid from the rooftops and gathered into little puddles by the village streets, down which ran the cart in the dewy mornings, headed for the town, loaded with flowers fresh from the magical garden.

Alvar could now grow quite a few varieties of flowers besides the seasonal ones, and the seeds retained the enchantments he cast upon them. He was beginning to get the hang of it at last.

Managing the business was no easy task, for he was no good with numbers, but Aunt Elena helped him handle it. Her things were by now all unpacked, all settled in Gran's room upstairs, her clothes in Gran's old wardrobe. She'd fixed up the cracks in the roof, and helped repair the chimney. Every week, she would make some outlandish dish out of a strange cookbook from a foreign land beyond the sea, yet another treasure brought from her voyages. By an unspoken rule, Lars was invited to such homely meals--if he found the time to drop by. He had not missed a single one of these dinners so far.

After that, the two of them had made it their habit to go look at the Witch's Apple every night under the moonlight. Only a little sapling it was, but it grew with speed Alvar had seen in no other plant before. Though it would be long before the tree would bear fruit. The essence from a single leaf was enough to help Snatcher get better, who had warmed up to Alvar soon enough, despite their rocky start.

Their small house at the end of the lane was now a bit more cheerful and the fire in the hearth always burned bright.

Sometimes after dinner, when the tide was low, they'd walk back to Lars' place, where they took the boat out to the sea to catch shrimp. In those nights there wasn't much for Alvar to do, other than holding the green-glass lantern aloft while Lars prepared the traps, and did most of the shrimping part.

When at last they returned, their arms full, Marcella would be found asleep on the armchair. Snatcher dozed with his head lowered, upon the wooden perch Alvar had made for him. At least the raven actually used it, unlike Marcella, who preferred Alvar's old toolbox rather than the cosy little cot he made for her with tools from said box. So Lars now used it to prop up his broom, which he never swept the floor with.

"It's not meant for such crude tasks," the wizard would say as he gently picked apart each tangle in the brush, and polished the oakwood handle to a shine, while the rest of the house lay hid beneath a carpet of dust that raised clouds when trod upon.

Simply preposterous, thought Alvar, who had no interest in knowing what less crude task was the much prized broom for. He went and fetched his own cheap one, that had no fancy oakwood handle but did its job fairly well. And with that he proceeded to sweep the house clean one sunny morning.

"What's gotten into you?" said Lars, who took refuge at the top of the stairs, his cloak drawn up to his nose to shield himself from the dust storm that rose from all the aggressive sweeping. "I thought you were supposed to be my gardener?"

"I can garden indoors too, seeing how much dirt there is!" he retorted.

Alvar succeeded in cleaning out years worth of dust despite his protests, and seeing him suffer through a sneezing fit as a result, the wizard promised to do his own cleaning from then on. By the time he made a habit of it, spring was around the corner.

For the folk of Frostspire, this was a time of merriment and laughter and music, to celebrate the passing of winter and the arrival of spring.

It was time for the village fair.

As always, they held it in the meadow by the Northwall Plains, just outside the village.

One misty dawn, Alvar was out, seeing off one of his old customers, a merchant who ran a shop in the flower market of a nearby town named Roselake.

He found there was much hustle and bustle about on the meadows. Traders from nearby villages and towns showed up early with their goods, and were more than welcome to stay at the local inn. The harvest of this year had been plentiful, and the folk of the village were cheery and generous.

Many stalls had been put up, and others stood half-ready, but he could already smell the delicacies that the baker was busy putting on display, huge apple pies, caramel pudding, and of course, his signature pumpkin bread that everyone knew and loved. A fishy stench reached him next. There across the baker's stall, fishermen brought in the day's catch, a great many herrings and mackerels and sardines caught from the sea. But the one that caught everyone's eye was the massive trout Sigrid's father showed up with, caught from the lake where Ilaira lived.

The shrimps were all sold out in no time, to be served at the stalls of food, where bright fires leapt up and oil sizzled in large pots. He couldn't wait to have a taste of them, golden and savoury, and fried to a delicious crisp.

There was a stall dedicated entirely to beers and ale and mead, hosted by the owner of a brewery from Roselake. Right beside that there was Mr. Launceleyn with his famous giant cabbages, though who was going to buy them was anyone's guess, because if they did, they'd also need to hire a carriage to carry it home. Artisans from the neighbouring villages showed up with their wares, figurines of animals carved from wood and stone, painted earthenware depicting warriors and scenes of battle from a time long gone, hanging lanterns that when lit from within, cast patterns of stars all around it. Wind-chimes made from seashells tinkled in the gentle breeze that swept across the meadows.

Above that rose the sweet tune of a flute. Alvar turned around.

A party of musicians and performers arrived in their carriages, causing a great clamour and excitement among the folk. Soon their arrival breathed new life into the preparations. A small stage was set up in the centre, and tall poles were erected, tightropes strung upon them.

"Come one, come all, fair folk of Frostspire!" cried a tall man, giving his trailing dark cloak a flourish, "here we are gathered to celebrate the coming of spring. Let us get into the spirit of this auspicious day by starting off the festivities with a glimpse into what Cirque Royale has to offer! Let the fun begin!"

At the swish of his carved staff, acrobats dressed in dazzling shades of green and red and blue climbed up on the stage behind him. With a great billowing of his cloak and a bright flash of light, the man was gone, as though vanished into thin air, raising a great collective gasp from the audience.

Jostled around by the eager crowd, Alvar stood on his tiptoes and craned his neck to see all the wondrous things that went on up there on the stage. He caught only brief glimpses of the perfomers as they leapt through hoops and arranged themselves into formations, twisting and bending their lithe figures in ways he didn't think was possible. But then someone tall and wide stepped into his line of sight.

"Hey!" He cried, but it was hardly needed, because the crowd took a collective step back when a fire-breather sent forth a jet of green flames, perfectly in sync with the musicians, whose melody took an excited pace as the show went on.

A part of Alvar wanted to rush back up the mountain path, and to the lonely house up there where Lars would be found working, or watching the waves down at the dock, or simply having a smoke. Then he would grab him by wrist and bring him all the way here to watch. But the other part of him stood entranced, unable to take his eyes off as the performers began climbing the ladders up to the poles, ready to leap upon the tightropes high above him.

"Careful, careful!" warned many voices.

Gasps and excited shouts rose from the crowd as one of the performers walked the tightrope, a parasol open in her hand. He held his breath as a strong wind blew, and for a moment he covered his eyes. But when he opened them, she was still there, her steps nimble and phantom-like upon the rope. A young man was up next, juggling flaming torches as the rope swayed beneath him.

When the show came to a close, to begin preparations for a bigger event at nightfall, people were astonished to find the tall cloaked man right in the middle of the crowd, partaking in the fun with everyone else-- and he'd been standing right beside Alvar this whole time.

"How did you do that?" he asked the man. "That--that vanishing trick?"

He only smiled. "If I tell you that, laddie, I'll soon be outta business."

When the performers gathered again on the stage and bowed, cheers rang and coins rained.

Yet somewhere amidst this merrymaking, there came a scream.

Alvar turned in time to see one of the performers lose his grip on the ladder set to the pole on his way down. He fell and landed in a heap on the ground below.

He rushed to his aid at once and found that it was the young man who juggled the torches. Thankfully he'd fallen from a small height and had not sustained any grievous injury, save for a twisted ankle and sprained arm.

Or so Alvar thought.

The acrobat wailed, clutching his injured foot. "How am I supposed to perform in the evening show now?"

"Be glad it wasn't your neck," Alvar told him, dusting off his fancy clothes.

He only howled louder. "But the show's now ruined, and that's all because of me. Oh, I should've been more careful. The boss's gonna murder me!"

"No one's murdering no one," said the cloaked man, appearing out of nowhere in the crowd in that illusive way of his. "And I wouldn't be boss for long if murdering folk was my way to go! Here, let me see."

With Alvar's help, he took the acrobat to a nearby tent and sat him there. His foot was swollen quite badly within a quarter hour, but he stopped wailing when he was brought a foaming mug of beer from the brewery stall.

"Now where do I find a healer here in Frostspire?" the boss mused.

Lars' name arose in the concerned murmurs of the crowd as it did in Alvar's mind, and wasting not a second more, he ran for the hills. He dashed through the woods and up the rocky path, and at last the much familiar house came into view.

The wizard spent much of his time these days up at the turret, experimenting on the essence gathered from the Ursanthus leaves. Flashing lights could sometimes be seen from the round window when Lars was at work.

Today the window was thrown open when Alvar arrived, and he was busy fanning out a trail of murky black smoke, coughing and saying to himself, "well, that wasn't supposed to happen!" Soot covered his tall nose and his hair stood on end.

"How goes your experiment?" cried Alvar from below.

Lars shuffled inside, and reappeared with a leaf of Ursanthus, black like coal and burned to a crisp. It crumbled to pieces in the slightest touch of wind. "Splendid, as you can see!" he said.

Alvar didn't understand what he was even trying to do in the first place, so he took that as a sign of progress. "Very good. Now come with me, we need your help."

"Of course, of course," he grumbled a little, but in a minute he came down, green cloak and leather satchel thrown over his shoulder. "Where to?"

Alvar told him all about Cirque Royale on the way.

"Can I perform in the evening show now?" asked the acrobat.

"Absolutely not," Lars said as he finished tying up his injured foot snugly with a strip of cloth. "You need rest. And the medicine needs time to take effect."

Morosely the young man looked down at the vial that Lars handed him. Clearly he preferred beer to whatever this strange green solution was, which no doubt tasted bitter and odd. Urged by the encouraging look of his fellow performers, he downed it in one gulp. He shivered.

"Better taking it easy for a day than falling and cracking your skull open, eh?" said his boss, who stood leaning on his staff. "Fear not, I'll figure something out. But before that--" He turned to Lars, "How can I ever thank you?"

"No need," he said, already packing up his things. Then he looked at Alvar for a long moment. "Actually, you can. You can pay me back by answering a question that my friend has for you."

The master of Cirque Royale fell into step beside them, peering curiously at Alvar. "And that is...?"

He seized the opportunity. "The secret to the vanishing trick, of course."

"Naught but dedication and years of practice," answered the man with a flourish. Alvar did not believe that at all.

"There is some truth in your words," said Lars, studying the man's staff. "Hm. Teleportation magic takes many years to master."

His dark eyes widened, and something changed in them, as he looked upon their faces. A sheepish smile spread across his lips and he dropped the act. "So I am caught at last."

"Selling actual sorcery as sleight of hand?" Alvar wondered. "Thought that was supposed to be the other way around."

"Ah, but that is the way of charlatans. I, however, use my gift to entertain. To bring joy to people."

He looked fondly where the performers and musicians gathered, tuning their instruments, laughing and talking amongst themselves, cheering on their injured friend as he chugged down a huge mug of beer.

"But when I rounded up this bunch, there was no sorcery involved, I assure you, good sirs," he said.

Lars smiled. "I have no need of assurance. We are free to use our gifts in any way we deem right, so long as those actions bring no harm."

"Oh, but I want you to bring a lot of harm to whoever's been robbing me, Master Wizard!" cried a voice.

Other times, Lars would've gone on a long monologue to explain why he was no 'master', only a mere apprentice, but now he sensed the urgency. He turned to face the plump woman who stood with her hands on her hips, looking positively furious with a dish towel thrown over one shoulder and a rolling pin in one hand. The innkeeper of the Cracked Flagon.

"Robbing you?" Lars wondered. "But who could've...?"

"That I'd like to know too, and put an end to this once and for all," she said. "Help me out, will you?"

Lars always did. He and Alvar said their farewells to the master of Cirque Royale.

"Investigating a robbery, now?" He said with wonder in his eyes. "I thought you were a healer."

"I can be many things," answered Lars with a wink.

A few minutes later, the three of them stood in the pantry of the Cracked Flagon. Above them the inn bustled with cheery voices. Many people had put up here for the festival.

"Been happening for a week now," she told them. "Every morning I check the pantry, there's something missing. It started small. First, a few tomatoes. Didn't mind those, they were about to go bad anyway. Next, a whole pumpkin. But see, now--"

She threw open the doors to a cupboard, and the shelves were empty. "All the bread and cheese, gone. Vanished into thin air! Now you tell me how am I to feed all these folk? They're from Roselake--most of them. Traders, merchants, craftsmen, old pals. I can't just turn them away. Gotta be on good terms with them, if you understand me."

Alvar did. When Gran ran the shop, she made many such connections, and not only with humans, it seemed, if her notes were any indication.

"I'll get to it right away," Lars told her. "Leave some of that bread out. As bait."

She did as he requested, and went back up, looking reassured.

"Now what do we do?" said Alvar to no one in particular.

"We wait and see," answered Lars. "But not from here. We'll catch the thief on their way out."

They went outside, and then to the back of the inn. An old ladder stood against the wall there. Lars went up that in nimble steps and pulled Alvar up after, and here they positioned themselves upon the thatched roof, from where they had a clear view of the backdoor that led to the pantry.

They waited and waited there for a long time. It was rather an ordinary business, not magical at all.

Clouds drifted lazily along the clear blue sky overhead, and below upon the slopes the grass rippled. Tulips swayed in the pots in the loft balcony, blooming in shades of white and deep red. Alvar had sold them to the innkeeper a week ago, and already they had blossomed. Ilaira's silver shovel was a wonderful thing.

Lars hummed a song under his breath, a melody Alvar heard him hum often when he rowed the boat or dusted the blankets over a clothesline, or cooked dinner. The words were foreign to him. The tune was strangely sad; not the bitter kind that fills one with regret, but the good kind, like reaching the end of a journey and looking back upon the long road that lay behind. The kind Gran said she felt right before she passed.

"What's this song about?" he asked.

Lars paused. "It's a tale of an old sailor who feels homesick at sea."

"Well, why doesn't he go back home then?"

"The sea is also his home," he said. "And he loves her very much. So he's torn in two."

Alvar sighed. There was something about the sea that bewitched some people, like it did Aunt Elena, ever since she took to sailing with the crew of a merchant ship. He, on the other hand, much preferred solid earth under his boots and a warm meal at the end of the day.

"Have you been at sea, Lars?"

"I've been in all sorts of places, seas and forests and deserts and mountains--you name it." He pointed with his staff where the distant snow-capped mountains gleamed in the sun. "I have been there too."

Those mountains were deemed unclimbable by most, and nothing grew there on the sheer rocks, assailed by harsh winds all year long. "And what was it like?" Alvar asked.

"Beautiful," said the wizard, a faraway look in his eyes. "You'd think you could reach the stars from up there."

"But it's also cold, and empty and worse, it's so very lonely up there," he continued after a pause when Alvar thought he'd finished. "There's no place to stop by, and not a soul to talk to. It gets rather dull after a while--all that rock and ice and snow. And when the sun goes down, seeing all the lights come up in the village down below, you'd soon wish you were back home instead. Beautiful places are tricky like that."

"Then don't go to those places," said Alvar. The solution was so simple even he could see it. "Why go climbing mountains or traversing oceans when you can stay at home? It's still cold most of the time here, mind you, but at least it's not lonely."

Lars contemplated for a long moment before answering.

"When you're born with magic in your blood, you cannot stay in one place for long," he said.

"Why?" Alvar couldn't imagine him going away. His heart ached at the thought of the house upon the cliff falling silent forever, the hearth cold and dark and the beautiful garden, in ruin once more.

"The magic within whisks you away to new lands, my mentor used to say. It's the Call of the Unknown. She refused to elaborate upon the true reason the Call comes to us, saying I must discover it myself in my own time. If I am simply told the truth, I may choose to not pursue magic at all." Lars paused. "But when the time comes--it's near impossible to resist."

"Is it?" said Alvar thoughtfully. "I'm no expert in things as such, but you should at least try tying yourself to a very strong pole--if you really don't want to go."

Lars laughed, a soft, ringing laughter. A gust of wind rose to flutter his hair. It'd grown long and shone like burnished gold in the sun. Alvar had half a mind to place flowers in them. He already had the look of a runaway prince from some forgotten woodland realm, and a crown of flowers would suit him splendidly.

"I'll be sure to let you do the honours when my Call comes," said Lars. "But know this: ships aren't meant to stay at the harbour forever."

"Nor are they meant to stay at sea for all eternity," Alvar countered. "One needs to replenish their supplies from time to time. All ships need mooring. Sometimes even permanently. Like-- that one floating tavern in Roselake. What's it called again? The Moonmaiden-- yes yes."

"A grand place," agreed Lars, who'd been there many times. All people of Frostspire had, at some point or the other. A great, three-masted merchant ship she was, sailed the cold grey seas of the north in days of her youth. Now, though her sails no longer billowed in the high winds and the rigging was old and worn, the Moonmaiden was a warm place filled with joy, laughter and song, and of course, rum of quality unparalleled.

He laughed to himself. "Now if everyone took your advice and started turning their ships into floating taverns, we're going to have a very tricky situation indeed!"

Alvar made no reply. Something had caught his eye.

He leaned over the edge of the roof and watched something near the pantry door. Lars followed suit. A little dark shape flitted past their line of vision for a brief moment.

"There's your robber, I think," whispered Alvar.

"Robbers," corrected Lars.

They were expecting a person, or persons, so no doubt it came as a surprise when they saw the rats marching out the pantry door. Each carried a burden of bits of food--chunks of bread, slices of cheese, slabs of butter, apples, tomatoes and potatoes among many other things.

Alvar was ready to chase them down, but Lars held out his staff and stopped him.

"No," he said. "We need to follow them. This isn't normal. Someone put a spell on them, and that someone ought to be our target. Let us spare these little fellows, they're just following orders."

He lit his fancy little pipe and had another smoke as he watched the rats go.

As the last of the rats left, the two climbed back down and stood by the pantry door. They were about to follow when something soft and round collided into the back of Alvar's leg and there was a great deal of squeaking.

He turned to see a rat much smaller than the rest of those who had already marched off, struggling to push an apple three times its own size.

"Well, well," said Lars, "what have we here?"

The rat sat on its haunches, the apple rolling away somewhere unimportant.

"Did you get left behind?" Lars knelt before the tiny creature.

Alvar heard no reply, because rats do not speak, not in the way people do anyway. But he did see a strange sort of sparkle in its eyes. It went away as soon as Lars gave his staff a swish. The rat shook its little head and blinked, as though waking from a trance.

"Stealing is bad," he then said to it, his tone mildly admonishing, as if speaking to a mischievous child. "A good rat never steals!"

Alvar wasn't sure the wizard knew how rats worked.

"Are you sure it's just mint that you've been smoking?" he asked him.

"I assure you, my friend, it is mostly mint," said Lars. He then stretched a hand out to the rat. "Here. I'll take you to your friends if you promise to be good."

Alvar didn't know if the rat really promised that, but Lars allowed it to climb up his arm, then snuggle into the crook of his neck, from where it peered over the edge of his hood.

"Let's go," he said.

They'd lost sight of the marching rats by then, but nothing escaped the sharp eyes of Lars. He set his monocle before his eye, and three more lenses before that, and stooping low to the ground, he followed the trail of tiny, rat footprints.

"Sorry! Excuse me, just passing through-- begging your pardon," was all that Alvar had to keep saying as they scurried through the crowd of the marketplace, diving below stalls and benches, skirting around houses by taking dank, back alleys. One time Lars almost hit his head on a hanging sign, only to be yanked away at the right moment by him.

People pointed and murmured.

"Is that a rat inside his hood?"

"Wonder what that's all about?"

"Where're you off to, lads?"

Alvar felt his ears grow hot.

"Are we done yet?" he asked impatiently when they passed beyond the village gates.

Lars stood upright and pointed. "Not nearly."

Out of the woods, a small stream trickled down the grassy meadows nearby, and the footprints ran a course beside it upstream--or so Alvar assumed, simply because Lars started down that trail. He was too busy making sure Lars didn't get his eyes poked out by branches that stuck out from the nearby trees. He lost track of his surroundings so easily that it was a great wonder that he hadn't had serious injuries before.

The stream rushed out down a jutting rock, where it formed a miniscule waterfall. Behind it there was a crack, just enough for the rats to pass through.

"Guess we'll have to find another way around," said Lars.

"Oh really? I thought you were going to squeeze through," Alvar grumbled, who'd rather be at the fair, enjoying some fried shrimps and a bottle of ale.

"I'm a bit too tall for that, I'm afraid," Lars replied, looking at him as if he were stupid.

They didn't have to look around for long. A little way around the rock there was a cave opening. Once inside, Lars summoned an orb of fire to find their way around. Thin streams of ice cold water trickled down the stone walls. Alvar had to give several warning cries for Lars who narrowly avoided knocking into rocks, because he was too busy studying the moss that hung from said rocks.

The passage sloped gently downward until the floor was plain again, and they stumbled into a huge open chamber of sorts. Before them rippled a great subterranean lake. In the middle of the lake upon an island, flooded in a column of sunlight that entered from above, stood an ancient oak tree. Deep green moss and mushrooms of many colours grew on the surrounding rocks and butterflies fluttered over blooming wildflowers. Even here on the hard rocks, the touch of spring had endured.

That was when Alvar heard the sound of a flute playing. The haunting tune came from under the tree, reverberating on the cave walls, and reached his ears. It rooted him to his spot for a moment, until a hand fell on his shoulder and the trance broke.

"Shall we?" said Lars, gesturing with his staff to a trail of stones that jutted out through the water. It led to the island. The little rat now leapt down from his shoulder and bounded across the stones. The two followed.

The rat ran and took refuge inside the sleeve of the stranger who sat leaning against the trunk of the tree, flute in hand. At first Alvar didn't really know what he was looking at, because all he saw was a very long hat and an even longer beard that trailed across the stony floor. For all its length, it was rather well maintained, gleaming brown strands brushed to a shine, and neatly woven into a thick braid with wildflowers stuck in them. Indeed it was the most beardiest beard he'd ever seen, and it was speaking a lot, because Alvar had seen many glorious beards among the patrons of the Moonmaiden. He'd tried growing one once, but so far he'd progressed no further than a light stubble on his cheeks. Lars insisted it looked just fine.

But that's a tale for another day, because the owner of the great beard now decided to speak up.

The kind face of a middle-aged man appeared from beneath the hat. "Good day, gentlemen!" he said, and reaching over with a long scrawny arm, lifted a platter of food. Only now did Alvar notice how much of food there was, arrayed in trays and baskets and crates; nearly all of the Cracked Flagon's supplies. In one corner there sat a burlap sack overflowing with flutes and the floor was littered with wood shavings.

"May I interest you in some of this excellent cheese?" offered the man.

Lars leaned forward on his staff. "Are you quite sure it is yours to offer?"

"My hospitality? Oh, yes. A humble abode though this place may be, you still are my guests," he said. "As for the food: I did not make it myself, if that's what you mean, kind sir."

"I will not seem so kind when I bring you before the people of Frostspire to answer for your crimes," said Lars, and his face was the most serious Alvar had ever seen.

"Now, now, there's no need for that. Off you go, and let me enjoy my meal in peace!" The man brought the flute again to his lips and began playing a different tune this time. There was a strange intoxicating feel about this one, not at all like the calming melody that drew them here in the first place. Alvar swayed a little on his feet.

"Plug your ears, Alvar," commanded Lars, and swung his staff in a long, sweeping motion. The flute flew right out of the stranger's hands, wheeled through the air and knocked Lars right in the forehead before he caught it. Alvar didn't think that last part was intentional.

"Haven't seen sorcery like this in years," he remarked, examining the flute, turning it over in his hands. Strange runes were carved on its polished surface. "Spells to establish control upon the mind, men and beasts alike." He looked back again at the man, who, fearful now, had shrunken in half--except his beard. "A dangerous thing, no doubt, when in the wrong hands."

The man got to his feet and clasped his hands together. "Mine aren't the wrong kind!" he pleaded.

"I can see that," said Lars. "There are things you could have done that are far more nefarious than stealing some bread." He handed the flute to Alvar to see and seated himself on a nearby rock. "You have the look of a decent fellow, sir. Why turn to stealing?"

The man sat back down and a weary look crossed his face. "I suppose I didn't think things through when I turned to my little creatures to bring me sustenance. I was too hungry to stop and think that all the food was coming from someone else's kitchen, and I may be robbing 'em."

"You have, whether you meant it or not."

He sighed. "I apologise." He lifted his hat and a dozen rats skittered down from his bald head. They too stood arrayed in a row and bowed their heads.

"It's not us, but the innkeeper from our village that you ought to address with your apologies," said Lars. "But before that, I'd like to know who you are, and how on earth did you get yourself in this position."

"The name's Haldor. I'm a flute-maker," he said. "And as you can see, I dabbled a bit in wizardry. I'm not very good at that, as you can also see. That mind-control spell doesn't work half the time. But my flute business was going quite well, and life was good, that is, until my neighbours began complaining about my babies."

"You mean the rats."

"Fascinating creatures," said Haldor, petting the smallest rat who climbed onto his shoulder. That one seemed to be his favourite. "And quite lovable too."

"But the people of my village failed to see that. Gonna ruin the crops, they say, as if I don't already spoil 'em with the best treats! What need do they have to hunt for food out in the fields or somebody's granaries? But they don't listen. They want me to get rid of them--all twelve of them." He cradled the rats in his arms. "So I set out one night, and bring them here to set them free. But I couldn't part from them, you see. Wanted to spend a few more days before the final goodbye. But then I got hungry--and well, you know the rest."

Haldor wiped his eyes and pulled out a handkerchief from his pocket into which he blew his nose. "I'll come with you. Just give me a moment to say goodbye to them all."

The rats gathered around him and one by one he ruffled their heads as he talked. "I'll return all the food you see here, but the rest I cannot pay for, as I haven't got any money. You can take my flutes instead. They're of fine quality."

"Flutes won't help to replenish an inn's stores, I'm afraid," said Lars. "No, that won't do at all."

Alvar thought hard for a moment.

"I know a way you can both keep your rats and pay for the food--by making the money yourself," he said.

"And which way is that?" asked the flute-maker, his eyes wide.

"Tell me," said Alvar. "Do you have stage fright?"

"I believe we've found a replacement for your performer."

The master of Cirque Royale looked up from his contemplation over a flagon of mead. "Have you, now?"

The sun had gone down and lights had come to life all around the fair. People gathered before the stage, eager for the show to start.

"Allow us to introduce Master Braidbeard!" Alvar and Lars presented Haldor before him, who took off his hat in greeting, his rats serving as a makeshift wig.

"What the--" the master jumped.

"They can do any trick I ask of them," explained Haldor. "All I need to do is this." He blew into his flute and one by one they leapt down. They climbed atop each other's shoulders and formed a pyramid.

"They can dance." The rats formed a circle and danced around in pairs. "And they can sing. In a way." The rats squeaked and screamed.

The master looked at the rats with his mouth hanging open for a long moment, so long in fact that they thought he too had been entranced by the magic flute.

"You're hired," was all he said at long last.

After he was done thanking Lars and Alvar with all his heart, and rewarding them with gold despite all their protests, he took Haldor to introduce to the rest of his crew.

When at last the two stepped out of the tent, stars had begun to appear in the darkening sky.

Lars gestured with his staff to the crowd before of the stage. "Save us a spot in the front, will you? I'll be back in a minute."

"Where're you off to now?"

Grinning, he tossed a bag of coins into the air and caught it; his share of the reward. "Can't enjoy a good show on an empty stomach, can we?"

When he returned, moments before the show started, he had not only brought two big servings of fried shrimps, but also bottles of the finest ale.

And that was how the people of Frostspire got to see the strangest show, the likes of which they had never seen in previous spring fairs. That evening Haldor earned enough to pay back the innkeeper of The Cracked Flagon. She was pleased and did not break a rolling pin over his head, despite what Alvar had feared.

Master Braidbeard retired from the flute-making business and took to travelling with Cirque Royale with his rats where he became a beloved name among the people, for he appeared in the spring fair show every year since then.