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Gypsy Feather Meadow
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"Close the door behind you," Willas says, his voice sharp and nasal. "Right. You lot are the hedge mages, then."
"Correct," I say. "I am Jerruv, this is Astrea, and this is Thomas."
"And you're the ones who killed those bandits," says Willas. "I see. Well, you went and excited Calidore and now he's running about with ideas rattling around his pot helmet again."
"The man outside?"
"Aye." Willas puts down his quill. "Our only mage, he, and still a stripling, almost. Big lad, but if he has a beard he worked months to sprout it. He's been wanting to go hunt down them bandits for nearabouts a year, now, but of course we old regular folks lack that kind of deathwish. I suppose he's doing handstands out there at the thought of someone else going after them."
"I wouldn't want to disappoint him, but we didn't come here for bounty," I say. "We're here for knowledge about an infamous mage by the name of Ansirous."
"Ansirous, eh?" Willas sniffs. "Can't say I've heard of him, but if you have a chance at finding him it's in the archives below the Proper. Old Estus runs it. Good with names and dates and that. Now you won't cause him any hassle. He's too old to deal with hotblooded magi in their prime. I'm sending Calidore with you whether you go kill yourself some bandits or peruse the archives, but the boy's on the jumpy side himself, God knows, so don't you go overboard, you hear?"
"I do," I say. "Thank you, Willas."
"And if you do look to sell your sword, by the by, the bandits are the lesser of our worries," says Willas. "It's that thrice-damned Rootax at the crossroads, what plagues the king's roadss the most these days. But I suppose he's a big fish for three scholar-magi to fry. Bandits aren't known to eat manflesh."
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