The Ultimate Stonemage: A Modest Autobiography (46 page)

And they all said, “May these things all happen. Amen.”

Well, as luck would have it, an accident did befall our fine friend Ghymlan a few days later, because his hands were crushed under a heavy stone! As a result of this event, he was unable to practise his trade further, for a stonemage needs a delicate touch, and Ghymlan had certainly lost his.

It was, therefore, Lepic who received the commission. She was paid twenty arrans for the work. I took fifteen arrans from this sum, though, for fifteen-twentieths of the work had been my own.

You will think it was a cruel and unhappy thing that befell poor Ghymlan, and you are right in thinking so. But then, this world is a cruel and unhappy place to us all, and if the unhappiness we bring to others through our prayers can relieve our own misery for a short time, then it is proper we should ask God to inflict unhappiness, for, were the positions reversed, our enemies should surely do so to us.

This is a lesson which I learned only very late in life, yet I practise what I learn, and, as a result of other heartfelt prayers, two more stonemages who came to this town seeking work have left with their arms in bandages, so I think the next great structure which goes up here in Rowel will be solidly in the classical style.

Until then, however, I take much delight in the water stall which I helped build. It is a lovely sight, and brings admiring glances from all who chance upon it. And within are further enhancements, which I created as I built, and which were not in the plans. If you come to Rowel, I urge you to visit the building, which is near the
Trader’s Arms, just off the
Harbour Road, and please sit upon the pots there, for, when you gaze down at the floor, you will see glazed images of the various buildings I have mentioned in my tale.

And, if you are a man, you must also pay a call upon the pissing walls, for there you will discover, to your utmost delight and pleasure, that the black walls are crafted, in places, of stones that become very dark when wet, so as you relieve yourself, you will see a word forming before you. And this word is none other than the name of your humble and unworthy narrator, which is to say

Yreth.

About the Author

Duncan McKenzie was born in Plymouth, England, but now lives in Oakville, Canada. He occasionally works as a TV writer and producer, and helps run an improv theatre. He has four children, one wife, and no knowledge of architecture or magic.