Mark of the Fool
Chapter 680: The First Battle for the Fool

Alex Roth had been in his bakery’s kitchen since well before sunrise, preparing for the day. Truthfully, he wasn’t needed, there was no emergency and Troy and the rest of his staff were more than capable, but this morning, he’d been glad to be busy. He’d made it a point to hire staff who were creative, eager and willing to learn.

He was no McHarris, who used to simply grab any enthusiastic, job seeking, desperate, young person who came through his door, then crush them with towering expectations, and an endless tide of abuse. Alex had taken the opposite tact, training teams of apprentices, shaping them into bakers that bakeries around the world would admire.

For those apprentices who showed talent, he had challenged them, honing their skills.

For those who showed average talent but great enthusiasm, he’d moulded them into chef’s assistants whose jobs were to help where they were needed, and to make sure that the kitchen ran smoothly and efficiently.

Not everyone he hired lasted though, there were always Dereks in every field, folk who started off acting like they had all the enthusiasm in the world, but soon dropped the act, cruising through the work day while everyone else did their work. Through hard work and intuition, Alex had built strong teams of bakers, servers, hosts, and assistants, who supported each other, took pride in their work, and helped the business’ reputation spread.

In return, he’d made sure that his staff were well paid and well treated, keeping employees happy working for him.

The atmosphere in the bakery was always welcoming, customers noticed and commented, saying it was always a pleasure being there. Even if Alex wasn’t there, he knew that the quality of food would be excellent; he had confidence in his staff, their training, and their skills in producing mouth watering dishes that kept hungry folk coming back for more. Working for McHarris had meant one either sank or swam, and Alex had swam, teaching himself how to be a proper chef. After getting the Mark, he’d fine tuned his skills in the kitchen to a supernatural level of expertise, letting him produce baked goods that the Roth Family Bakery had become famous for. While the staff didn’t have his Mark-honed edge, they’d been personally trained by him and always produced some of the finest food in Generasi.

And this morning?

It had found him working in the kitchen before his staff arrived, teleporting from place to place, surrounded by an army of Wizard’s Hands, while challenging himself to make some of the best baked goods he’d ever made.

Today was the day, after all, that could be his swan song; the final day he might ever set foot in his own bakery. He’d wanted to savour the time before he had to leave for city hall.

Troy and the rest of the staff had arrived in the early hours of the morning, surprised, but glad to find their boss in the kitchen, and got straight to work. The mood was light as they joked around, preparing for the morning rush. Not a single one of them knew what was awaiting Alex at noon that day, and in a way, he was glad they didn’t; he could forget for a while, enjoy their laughter, enjoy what was possibly his last normal morning in Generasi.

Keeping busy had carried him through the morning preparations, and—by the time the bakery opened—enough dishes were ready to last them for a few days.

Delectable scents drifted from the kitchen, wafting upstairs, bringing Selina, Theresa and Brutus down for breakfast. Claygon followed, his attention was fixed on Alex as the young wizard brought a platter of quiche and meat pies to his family’s table.

They were all subdued—worry draping them like a dark cloud—but Theresa and Selina had smiled, quietly showing him their support.

Claygon had placed a hand on his father’s shoulder, his iron palm patting the young wizard while Selina had caught his eye, looking as though she wanted to say something…but, instead, had turned away.

No words were really needed, he already knew what she was thinking; she had an exam at school, but wanted to be with him, Claygon, Theresa, and Professor Jules at city hall.

She couldn’t, and she knew it, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t bothering her.

Alex was about to comfort her—just as their first customers of the day were coming through the bakery doors, ready for breakfast—when a familiar song chilled him to the bone.

Theresa’s eyes flew wide, she was on her feet before he could take a breath. Her hands were at her waist, reaching for hilts that weren’t there, for blades that weren’t there.

The back of her chair hit the floor, startling Selina, drawing all eyes to the Roth family’s table. Claygon’s hands clanged as metal fingers snapped into deadly fists. His head turned toward the door.

Brutus growled, three heads facing the door.

Alex’s voice was low. “Selina, I need you to go upstairs.”

“What? Why?” she demanded, getting to her feet.

The young wizard’s face was a thundercloud.

‘So this is how it’s going to be?’ he thought.

“Selina, I want you upstairs,” he said again, his voice like ice. “I don’t know what’s about to happen, and I want you far from here.”

Her green eyes hardened like emeralds. “No.”

“Selina—” he started, strongly considering teleporting her upstairs and grabbing his aeld staff.

Outside, a commotion was starting.

“Hey, watch it!” someone shouted. “Budge up, you! There’s a line for this place! Hey, come back here! Who do you think you are?”

The door was flung wide.

Standing within its frame?

An elderly woman—her back bent by the toll of years—held a gnarled cane in one hand…while a symbol of Uldar sang on her neck. White priest’s robes, as pristine as a newly draped death shroud, covered her, and stern eyes scanned the bakery as she hobbled inside.

Behind her came an army…such as it was.

Many Alex recognised from Carey’s funeral and campus; Campus for Uldar were there in force, accompanied by a clot of Uldarite worshippers.

Every last one of them had the white hand of Uldar dangling from their necks. Irate customers glowered as the stream of worshippers pushed their way to the front of the bakery. All eyes flicked from them to Alex, while the symbol of Uldar continued singing around the old priestess’ neck.

She silenced it with a hand, closing a gnarled fist around the symbol.

Knuckles popped.

Her hand shook.

“The Fool of Uldar,” she hissed, her voice filled with venom. Every word was a contrast in tone; a mixture of disappointment, anger, derision and even…a touch of relief. “So, this is where you hide!”

“You leave my brother alone!” Selina spoke up, her eyes like flint. “This is our home, not yours. Get out!” Her hand was on her dagger.

The old woman’s eyes went to the young girl.

“Hush, child—”

“Do not tell her to ‘hush’ in our home,” Theresa snarled, taking a silent step forward, putting herself between the Uldarites and her fiance. “And while you’re at it, get out.”

“Unless…you are planning…to buy something…” Claygon's voice was low, crackling with a threat. A demon’s voice.

The horde of Uldarites stepped back.

Brutus growled.

They took another step backwards.

But, the priestess of Uldar stood firm: her lined face fixed like carved rock. “Is this how it will be, Holy Fool? Will you do violence unto our flock? Unto those who follow Uldar, those you were born to protect?”

A murderous rage sprang to life inside Alex—for a moment—the urge to tell Claygon to blast every last one of these obnoxious, zealots to atoms consumed him.

This was his home.

This was his family.

How dare they come here?

His teeth ground as he clenched his jaw.

But he fought, controlling his ire; lashing out now, even with words alone, could hurt his case with the council. They might not see him as someone who was defending himself and his family, they might see him as some hothead who chose to attack an old woman instead of talking to her. He didn’t need them thinking he was some violent maniac, easily provoked into attacking people in order to preserve his own interests.

If he struck out now, even he wouldn’t blame the wizard-council for slapping him in chains and sending him back to Thameland by way of the first wizard who could teleport him there.

But…if he showed decorum and self control…maybe he could turn the situation in his favour.

So—a few hours before his battle in the chambers of the ruling council of Generasi was set to begin—Alexander Roth opened his mouth…

…ready to fight his first battle of the day, for his home, his family and his life.

His eyes fell on Claygon, his solid, steady golem, and he took a long breath, focusing his senses.

He inhaled for a count of four.

Held his breath for a count of three.

And exhaled for a count of eight.

In that time, he allowed every sight in the room, every sound, and every smell to pass through his mind, drowning allthoughts and his spiking rage. Overlapping sounds reached him, murmuring customers, plates clattering in the kitchen, Brutus’ growling.

But, the sounds that came loudest were the pounding of his own heart, and the thundering of his own breath.

His eyes caught every movement and expression the Uldarites made—frowns, wide eyes, squared shoulders, slumped ones, knitted brows, clenched jaws—and among his customers—slack jaws, darting eyes, cocked heads, silently moving, whispering lips—as the scene unfolded before him.

But towering above all of that was his family, standing before him like living shields.

He detected various scents in the air: the sweet aromas of baking, the foul stench of morning breath and unwashed bodies drifting from certain customers, even the medicinal smell of a poultice of pain relieving herbs that the priestess was wearing.

But, the most powerful smell that reached him was coming from the meal on his family’s table; forgotten, and growing cold.

His taste buds remembered all that he’d tasted as he’d baked that morning, pleasant residues lingering behind his lips.

He felt the weight of his clothing on his body, the grip of his boots and the floor beneath them.

It all washed over him; all the sensations that made up a life.

His life.

And they washed away his rage.

Alex Roth acknowledged his anger, his fear, his irritation and disgust.

Each fell away, one, by one, until his mind was a calm pool of crystal clear water.

He levelled his gaze on his enemies. He was now ready to do battle.

But he would do so strategically.

His mind began to work. ‘What do I want out of this?’ he thought. ‘What are my win conditions? Their win conditions are simple: either I go with them and get on the first boat back to Thameland, or they show Generasi that I am what they say I am: a dangerous, useless coward who belongs under the heels of the other Heroes.’

Alex met the hardened gaze of the priestess. ‘My win conditions are: getting them out of my bakery, resolving the situation quickly, taking care of my customers, and using this as an opportunity to improve my reputation in the city. That means I can’t be too aggressive: that’ll just turn people against me. I also can’t lie: it’d be an easy lie to disprove, and I’ve already been keeping secrets from people. What I need now is truth…and calm words.’

He looked around his bakery, his mind working quickly. ‘Remember: these Uldaritesare the aggressors. To my customers, they look like some horde of hooligans burst into their—hopefully—favourite bakery to start acting like thugs. Most folk in Generasi have an indifferent attitude toward religion, so all their zeal’s just going to drive sympathy toward me…I’ll need to capitalise on that sympathy. I need to make them show themselves as the bad guys in this. And in order to do that…okay, I’ve got it.’

Alex stepped forward, adjusting his body language; his back straightened, his shoulders slumped and his frame relaxed. His arms spread wide, his face took on a look of concern.

“A ‘good morning’ would have been a better greeting, I think,” he said to Uldar’s priestess, carefully adjusting his tone; loud enough to be commanding, but not loud enough to be threatening. He wanted to convey control over the situation, putting his customers at ease while displaying one important fact.

He had done nothing wrong.

The priestess frowned, her expression as dark as a stormcloud. “Holy Fool, we speak of your duty to Uldar, and you respond with flippancy?” she growled.

More whispers ran through the crowd of customers, like birds flitting from tree to tree in the woods. He could already see body language relaxing, and irritation turning toward the priestess.

He’d shown control over himself, and established that folk were safe.

He’d established himself as the one who belonged.

Meanwhile, the priestess had responded with anger, drawing on religious words and throwing them in his face, alienating herself from the gathered customers who were simply there to grab some food before they went to work. He could already see increasing numbers of his regulars glowering at the Uldarites.

He could capitalise on their displeasure.

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