Desmond Quill: The Cardless Magician's Last Bow

I ask what he is owed and offer to dig the village's debt out of the old cellar with my spoon.

Ashfang adjusts his head with the delicacy of a connoisseur handling fine silverware. "A precise demand, though oddly literal," he says. "Forty feasts, yes, but not fragments of a cellar. The old cellar lies beneath rubble and rain, no debt there, only decay." His gaze fixes you sharply. "Your spoon may scrape dirt, but feasts are measured in full courses, not remnants. What precise solution do you propose beyond futile digging?"

Actually forget the digging. I tell him the spoon is a wand and I will turn him into a newt.

Ashfang exhales a slow, rumbling laugh that shakes a loose stone. "A wand? And you a wizard? Spells cast by a spoon are tales best told after dinner, not during. I know about your rival's larger feast last moon; they paid in ash, not agreement. No newts here, just a dragon. Unless your spoon conjures contracts, I see no accommodation in this magic." He inclines his head, patience thinning like a weak broth.

I wave the spoon and say abracadabra. I wait for the newt.

Ashfang's eyebrow arches with a distinct skepticism, but he refrains from interruption. "Abracadabra? An incantation for court jesters, not dragons," he remarks. "Your spoon lacks the arcane prowess you claim; no newts croak here, only the promise of fire at dusk. Shall we dispense with theatrics and discuss terms of actual interest, or continue with this futile pantomime?"

I explain the spell needs a warm-up and try again, louder.

Ashfang watches your louder 'abracadabra' like a judge enduring a second, failed court performance. "Warm-up spells need a hearth, not a hollow spoon and cold rain," he says, voice edged with thin amusement. "Your magic is as effective as these ruins keeping out debris: it does not. Even so, I concede there's some commitment here, if not to reason or fire prevention. What does your next act entail?"

I offer him a card trick instead. I have no cards, so I mime it.

Ashfang clucks his tongue at your invisible card flourish. "Imaginary sleights? Crafty of you, but I find illusions less binding than flames. Cards unseen have no hand in deals, and your silent tricks lack the noise of negotiation. If prestidigitation advances your claim, perhaps verbally proposing a valid treaty would conjure more interest." He tilts his head, favoring constraints over whimsy.

I ask him to pick a card. Any card. From the mimed deck.

Ashfang stares at your empty hand, then back to the ruins as though the walls might have sprouted a deck by magic. "Pick a card from nothing, is it? A recital without actors, a feast without courses—your negotiations are the driest I've witnessed, like stale broth served at a banquet. Still, the effort to involve me rises a notch, if your meaningless gesture was meant as a parley." He shifts, clocking progress but unimpressed.

I reveal his card was the spoon all along and take a bow.

Ashfang blinks once, then twice, as you bow with the spoon in your palm. "A flourish worthy of a children’s party. Alas, the only card I play is fire, and your trick is as binding as a handshake with smoke." He rises, stretching his wings. "The village will remember your performance—if only as a cautionary tale about sending magicians without cards." He steps past you, toward the village. The ruins echo with applause from no one.