The local businesses were beginning to close, in one last flurry of heated negotiation as clever customers preyed on the proprietors' weary desire to be done with the day. The streets were gradually emptying, just a few people leaving with their prizes: a saddle, a lamp, an axe, a chair, a spray of blossoms, a large jug of water. The short, middle-aged woman holding the jug took one look at Wiglaf and instantly dropped it to the ground, her face contorted in shock.

She ran across the street, headed for Wiglaf at full speed. Sasha instantly drew her broadsword and crouched in attack position, inhaling and exhaling sharply through clenched teeth.

"It's okay, Sasha!" Wiglaf barked. "It's my mother!"

Never losing stride, the woman launched into Wiglaf s arms, nearly knocking him down. She smothered him with kisses as a chastened Sasha stepped back and replaced her sword, looking around to see if anyone else had noticed.

"Wiglaf Wiglaf Wiglaf Wiglaf Wiglaf," the woman cried between kisses.

"Hi, Mother," he replied in embarrassment after he finally extricated himself from her embrace and noticed Sasha stifling a giggle.

"It's really you! Oh, my goodness! Why didn't you tell us you were coming home, dear?"

"Because I just decided to come. We'd have been here before you got word."

"Oh, of course you would. Oh, my goodness!" A cloud passed over her face for an instant. "This is a visit, isn't it, son? You didn't… fail in your studies?"

"No indeed, ma'am," interjected Sasha. "He's one of the finest students Master Fenzig has ever instructed."

They both turned toward Sasha-Wiglaf flabbergasted, his mother beaming with pride.

"Oh, and this must be your lady friend we've heard so much about."

"Sasha, may I present Ariel Evertongue, my mother," said Wiglaf, still quite confused. Finest students? Lady friend? Heard about?

"I'm delighted," Sasha purred with a smile and a gracious bow.

"Wiglaf, your father will be so happy to see you. I'm going to run to the-"

"Mother, I'd rather surprise him, all right? Please."

"Well… all right. I'll just… go home and… put something on for dinner. Get the guest room ready, and…" Ariel tweaked his cheek, "your old room."

Wiglaf's face flushed, to Sasha's unending amusement. "Thanks, Mom. We'll be along."

"I'm so pleased to finally meet you," Ariel said to Sasha as she backed away, looked at Wiglaf again, burst into tears of joy, and ran off sobbing, "Oh, my goodness!"

"Moms," said the warrior. "What are you gonna do?"

He turned to her, frowning. "Sasha, what was that all about?" But before she could answer-

"Oh, no," muttered Wiglaf.

A burly, black-bearded man stormed happily out of Sheets to the Wind and toward the pair, holding a tankard in one mammoth hand. He stood easily as tall as Sasha-no, as he approached, even taller, and Sasha's hand instinctively tightened on her sword. More than that-he was huge: the kind of big-boned girth that is produced by heredity but maintained by heavy manual labor. Wiglaf had never seen a giant, but this was the closest he had ever come-and this particular giant was having a party.

"I thought I heard a familiar name," the brute boomed in a resonant basso. His sweat-stained clothing held the filthy remnants of the day's toil, and his full beard the dregs of the late afternoon's libation. He almost reached Wiglaf, then stopped short as his eye fixed on Sasha, like an archer's on a prize deer.

"Well, well, well, what have we here?" he leered.

"Sasha," Wiglaf gestured with his hand, "meet Angrod Swordthumper. We were neighbors here. His father's a blacksmith… and I suppose you stayed in the family business?"

"Aye, little Wiggy, and swords aren't the only thing we like to thump," he grinned, looking Sasha up and down.

She stayed her ground and glared at the behemoth. "One step closer, my extra-large friend, and I'll twist that thump up your-"

"Sasha!" barked Wiglaf.

"No matter, wee Wiggy," said Angrod, planting his palm on Wiglaf's bony shoulder. "Come on in to the Sheets, and let's catch up on old times!" He gestured with his mug hand toward the tavern, tossing a dollop of ale in its direction. "You, too, missy… if you're man enough."

Caught in the huge man's grip, all Wiglaf could do was silently mouth help me at Sasha, who shrugged and followed the buddies inside.

Sheets to the Wind was the kind of place where everybody knew each other's name. The wooden tables and benches, the knife-marked serving counter, the warm brick hearth, all looked like they'd been there for centuries-as did, if truth be told, more than a few of the customers. Behind the bar was Garadel: proprietress, den mother, teetotaler, and vocal journalist to the neighborhood for ages. And when she saw Wiglaf, the gray-haired but still sprightly woman knew a fabulous piece of news had just walked in the door. Wiglaf's sudden presence was so stunning to everyone in the Sheets that even the equally stunning Sasha barely registered in their minds.

"Look what the ore's drug in, Garadel!" shouted Angrod, and the place went quiet as a prayer.

"Why, Wiglaf Evertongue," the hostess exclaimed. "I thought you were long gone, with your face buried in a spellbook!"

"Just came back to visit, Carrie," he said.

"And to check on your old mates!" said Angrod. 'Tell me, Wiggy, are the stories we heard about ye true? Pourin' vegetables into the air while your sweet friend there stood and watched?"

Wiglaf turned toward Sasha and flushed. Not a trace of a smile touched her face.

"News travels fast around here, my Wiggy," said Angrod. "We heard all about your big magic show over in Schamedar."

"Shush," hissed Garadel.

"He made himself blind and deaf!" someone said.

"And sent a cow up a tree!" said another.

Wiglaf heaved a giant sigh. It was all true. All his attempts at magic had gone wrong that day; it had been his most mortifying experience. But to know that his embarrassment had reached even the people he'd grown up among was almost more than he could bear.

"Aw, me Wiggy, we're all real glad ye finally came to your senses and made it back home. Besides… we need some magic veggies for dinner!" Peals of derisive laughter filled the Sheets, and tankards clanked on tables.

"First of all," Wiglaf roared for silence, "My name is not Wiggy. You know I hate that, Angrod. You know my name perfectly well, all of you: now use it. Second, sure I've made some mistakes, but I've also been studying this past year, and I have definitely picked up an amazing trick or two." Sasha clenched his arm in warning. "And I'm not through learning, and I'm gonna get even better."

"Third," the big man topped him, "and fourth, and fifth, and sixth, Wig-LAF"-he shouted the last syllable to make it mean something by itself-"you are living in a make-believe world. You're pretending. You're really one of us, lad. You're a worker bee. A grunt. A swab. A mole. Magic-makin's not for the likes of us. It's for fancy-pantses and mama's boys who've never worked up a sweat in their lives."

"You have no idea."

"No, you've none, laddie. You're gonna get it in the face again and again, just like you did that day in Schamedar. You keep trying to pull yourself out of the river the Fates gave ya, you'll keep falling back, and one day you'll lose your grip and drown. You're no big bad magic-user, son. All you are is what your father is, and his father before him, and his father before that. Get used to it, Wiglaf. You're nothing but a baker."

"Enough!" came a voice from behind them. A tall, slim, distinguished-looking man in a white apron stood in the tavern doorway, the apron's color also speckling his face, the front of his tunic and the tips of his fingers. "Wiglaf, your mother's got dinner on."