I held out my left hand, and Chord made a small cut on it, wetting the blade in the blood of the stinging wound. Then he reached up to dab the red fluid into the Golem's ear.

"You can name it if you like," he said. The pottery man turned round to face us, and a hollow voice welled up from the chasm of its clay chest.

"What will you call me? "

"I will have it work for you in the forge," said Chord.

I stood marveling, unsure how best to deal with the feelings that coursed through me. This was no piece of machinery, nor a man either. I had a portable computer once, programmed to respond to my voice, and decided to consider the clay-man in the same manner for now.

"It can't burn, and will free some of your time for other duties about the keep," said Chord. "Be mindful of it, for once set on a task, it will continue until you stop it. No other can control it save you and I. So if you set it to dig, and then we both died..."

"It would continue to dig its hole for twenty years, and then vanish," I finished.

"You have said it," Chord noted.

"My name?" the Golem repeated.

Chord looked at me. I shrugged. "OK, I'll call you Gort."

Something small cringed in me, as I had remembered the name from some old Sci-Fi classic, but hell, I had to call it something.Chord eyed Gort and flicked a finger against the ceramic figure. It did not ring.

"The demon asked for you in exchange for this. I have never heard one suggest any trade for human flesh, ever. I need to think on this further, and do a bit of research. This is most disturbing."

"Maybe some kind of joke," I offered.

"Jokes are not made by bargaining demons within the ritual circle," said Chord seriously. "Its request was unnatural, and dangerous. I am not the only mage by any count. I would like to know if that kind of offer has been made to others of my profession. I hope not. Take...Gort with you and put it to work. Be sure we get our value out of it."

"Always plenty to do in the forge," I noted. "Follow me, Gort." I moved toward the cavern opening watching over my shoulder as the pottery man shambled along behind. The next two weeks passed quickly, as days do when one is busy, and I found endless tasks for Gort. For one thing the Golem was super-humanly fast with its hands, even at fine work. I gave it the task of filing out a die design for my coining experiment. Its hands worked the shaping files with blurring speed, finishing out the entire design in an hour. Gort, tireless at the bellows, became a blessing when time came to replenish hardwood stocks.

I focused my attention on the two apprentices and soon they were producing spikes and cold form hinges unaided, building up common stocks ahead of demand. The new coinage found rapid acceptance in the village once it became clear that the forge was in full operation and both offered and redeemed them appropriately.

Harold, quick to gloat, pointed out that several of the small hot-struck iron disks were now adorning belts, and being traded about the village between vendors instead of being rushed to redemption at the keep.

My pastoral existence ended with the appearance of a visitor from the court of Duke Reginald Wayland. Two litter bearers bore the curtained box up the lane to the keep. A small band of five armed men accompanied the litter; each sporting a deep red sash emblazoned with the circle and five star sigil of the fief of Wayland.

Harold came by the forge and hailed me. "William! Chord would like you to join him at the tower front. We have a visitor, the Earl of our eastern provinces, Sir Connor."

I arrived just as the porters settled the litter before the keep. The black polished door swung open, and a stocky well-dressed man with dark, shiny hair stepped out. His manner was bluff, and he moved with an exaggerated efficiency. Chord waited as the man took the last few steps, stopping a little closer to us than courtesy normally required.

"A fine day eh, Chord? Been a while, it seems!" The mage offered a somewhat mechanical smile.

"Good day, Sir Conner. Is it that time of year already?"

"Yes, 'fraid so, 'fraid so. Here to discuss the accounts, of course." The nobleman waved away his escort, who went on toward the outdoor trencher tables behind the keep, where they could sit and rest.

"Come inside then," said Chord, "and have some wine with us. We can discuss Wayland's needs while you refresh. This," Chord indicated me with a wave, "is William Drake, my new Blacksmith."

"Ah, yes. I heard your forge is back in service. Good day to you also, Master William. A Smith eh? Noble trade, we have one in Corbell, though 'tis a profession rare, especially this far into the provinces." He turned guileless eyes back to Chord. "When was it the forge were last opened? Five year agone, now?"

A wary cast flitted over Chord's features. "About then. You have a keen memory. Our Smith died in a fall while repairing the keep roof. A great loss to us, at the time."

Sir Connor looked to be struggling to remember something, then brightened. "Garrol, his name was, If I remember. Learned the trade at his father's knee, eh? Tinker's son." Then to me, "Where did you come by the skill, Master William?"

Chord hastily interjected himself, saying, "William comes to us by chance, the gift of some unfortunate conjuring drew him here through the planes, stranding him. The skill is apparently more common in his homeland. He agreed to make his home with us, and serve the keep."

"Ah," Sir Connor nodded gravely, "how unfortunate, but a blessing for the province, then. He will have much to learn. He was told of his provincial duties, at least, if he is to stay with you?"

"Some, as time has allowed," temporized Chord. "He has fit himself in well here, and become a great boon to me."

"Well then, William," boomed Sir Connor, "be welcome to the Fief of Esterford. Good man!"

I said something polite in response, and we went inside, where Harold had already set out a small wheel of white cheese, three square sided, stemmed cups of chased copper and a pitcher of wine.The four sided, stemmed cups, called mazers, were clumsy affairs, but could contain bird-bath quantities of liquid, doubtless a boon for those who waited table. Not being much of a drinker, I eyed mine ruefully. Our guest beamed at the sight of them, however. Sir Conner seated himself first, waving for us to join him at table, and helped himself to one of the filled mazers.

"Interesting item of yours, those markers, Chord; I see them popping up everywhere hereabouts. Whatever gave you the idea?" Mage Chord pulled one of the mazers close, and pointed at me. "William's idea, actually. He thought it might make trade easier, and it has." This drew a new evaluative gaze from the Earl upon me, which Chord hastily interrupted, asking, " What news from Corbell?"

"Hah!" Sir Connor's attention quickly refocused on this. "The Duke intends to add a new tower this year, if the labor tithes stay steady, for your friend, Mage Orton. Duke Wayland thinks to make an astrologer of the man. Orton goes along with it because he wants the space for his research in other things, doesn't care a fig for Astrology, just makes interested noises at the Duke when he mentions the subject. You know how it is between the two. Sends his regards, and told me to mention that Duke Felway's mage, Veddek, reported his chief acolyte missing, about the time you had inquired of." Sir Conner's tone grew graver. "Some trouble there, you will remember, a year ago; Burlies thick as mice in a granary. The Duke of Felway had to send troops to drive them off the farmer's porches, and then they all disappeared. Interesting, Orton's response to you - makes me curious. What did you request of Orton, exactly?"

Chord flashed a look to me, then said to Sir Conner, "I had some information that one of our mages had arranged to go exploring other worlds. Expensive, usually fruitless effort, as you know. We of the art warn our members against it. "Occasionally, some fool will try it, driven by old legends, or madness. Sometimes there is some small scrap of knowledge gained if one successfully returns. Or, more often the case, from perusing whatever notations or evidence remains of the attempt, if ... unfruitful."

Sir Connor stabbed a piece of cheese with his belt knife, shaking his head. "I never understood the purpose of that. Suicide, as I understand it. The Demons list a high price, and then scoot the mage off at random, more often than not to places from which there is no return. Is this not so?"

Chord nodded. "That is the case, yes. The demons cannot determine a destination the Magician does not have firmly in mind. A clear visualization is required for any work involving the creatures--it is a principal skill for working in the art. Else, more would follow the path than do. Not one acolyte in a dozen ever achieves full guild membership, and acolytes are carefully chosen specifically for this ability. It may have been such fiddling that drew Master William to us."

It became clear to me why Chord had wished my presence. Business was never breached straight away. Even the intrusion of this tax collector provided for mostly a social occasion. Only after every possible ounce of gossip and story were exchanged would any issue of purpose be mentioned. This seemed an open opportunity to glean further answers to my many questions. I cleared my throat, and interjected one. "This Acolyte of Veddek's, a young man, long yellow hair, and tall?"

Sir Connor wiped his dagger on the tablecloth, and returned it to his belt. "I couldn't say, having not met the poor fool. MaCaan, if I remember. You would have to inquire of him at Veddek's holdings, or possibly of mage Orton. I trust we do not bore you with these doings, comings, and goings, Master William?"

It seemed to me Sir Connor remained well content to sit and converse for as long as the steward had wine to pour; a duty he permitted Harold to perform once again.

"I am still learning the customs and histories of Wayland, Sir Connor, so I am all ears for news and tales of the kingdom. It is all new to me, and equally fascinating. I hope to find time to travel some, and get to know it better one day."

"Hah!" The Noble Assessor grinned, launching an open-handed swipe at my shoulder that changed my seating position a good two inches, despite his soft-fleshed appearance. "Hah! Good Fellow! That is the spirit! Likely have your way sooner 'an you may think so, as happens, but this is to be discussed later."

I half smiled, half winced at the well-lubricated functionary. I noted some tension pass through Chord, as if he regretted having introduced me. Only slowly did it sink in that Wayland's "tithe" might involve my labor, and some travel. Upon reaching this epiphany, I begged to be allowed to withdraw, feeling that the longer I fed the flames, the more drinking and less work would be done here, and I was anxious to hear the outcome of all this.