Barnaby lay bound hand and foot upon a rough wooden floor. The room held scarce light, but shadow and echo declared it someplace large. He spied boxes and barrels. Beyond the ceiling sounded conversation, laughter, bootsteps going and coming.

I'm in the cellar of the tavern, he decided. This explained the memory of being dragged down steps, as well as the aches and scrapes from that dragging. Granted, the ache in his head came from the blow struck before the dragging.

'Ware wolves on two feet'; that had been wiser advice than he'd understood. At the time he'd pictured real wolves walking upright, as the witch's magic pig Baltazar attempted. But now the meaning shown bright, for all the basement dark. Some folk were wolves on the inside, no matter the human face they wore. Barnaby sighed to admit it.

But: don't gaze overlong on dark things, his Da always said. Barnaby nodded, and did his best. Bound in the dark, he pictured the wonders of the last three days. He'd watched witches at work; met a bard with a golden harp. Said hallo! to a stone saint. He'd helped a poor donkey, buried a stranger and rode in an ox cart. Not that riding an ox cart was extraordinary. But he'd sat by the fire of loud acrobats, listening to tales that would make his mother scowl and his father laugh.

No, he'd met no one more unpleasant than a cow that chased him when he'd sought to drink from its trough. Well, and that farm wife who'd struck him with a broom, before he had chance to bargain work in exchange for a meal. All said, the world was full of good folk, everywhere; until he'd sat with the three smiling soldiers anxious to share cheese, ale and army service.

"Might have been my fault," he considered. "Perhaps I did the toast wrong. Who knows what words mean so far from home?" But no; they'd said he was a soldier for declaring the oath. He didn't feel like a soldier. He felt like a bruised miller, tied up same as a sack of flour.

He considered his bound hands and feet. Leather straps; the kind Da used to bind the flour barrels. Wrap the leather wet, let it dry and it became tight as chains. These felt dry and tight.

He struggled for awhile, not expecting any success and not finding any. A rat darted across the floor. He considered whether he could get it to chew through his bindings. More likely it'd prefer to chew him. Barnaby gave struggle a rest. He drowsed for a while; dreaming that he discussed life and bindings with the rat.

"You fellows are always chewing on what you shouldn't," pointed out Barnaby. "Candles and shoes, toes and the Sunday pie. You might make yourselves useful for once."

"Ha," said the rat, showing yellow incisors. "You sound like your mother."

"Oh, I'm sorry then," said Barnaby, not wishing to hurt the rat's feelings.

Mollified, the rat bowed. "For all the ancient war twixt Miller and Rat, I'd be glad to aid one so polite caught in trap. But I dare not." The rat looked left and right, twitching nose, then confided in the low whisper of night creatures. "The cat's coming." With that he scurried off.

Before Barnaby could call him back, he awoke, shaken by a distant boom that echoed like cannon fire. Perhaps it was cannon fire, from the army hurrying to claim its new recruit. He listened for the call of bugles and marching feet. Then the boom came again; a clap of thunder from the world beyond. He smiled, catching the faint rush of rain-heavy wind. He felt parched, longing to be drinking honest water. And yet, the patter and roar of storm comforted. Bound in the dark, it lightened Barnaby's heart to know that in the wide world beyond waited clean drink, free air.

A trickle of rain began splashing down the wall beside Barnaby. He moved away, wiggling like a caterpillar. Then thirst made him wiggle back, putting mouth to all he could catch. It tasted of stone and dirt, but he drank all he could. When that sufficed, he held his bound hands beneath the trickle. Wetting the leather straps, seeking to soak them. It was a long slow business that left him wet and weary. He fell asleep again.

He awoke more slowly this time. Not to a thunder-clap, but a calm and measured voice. Barnaby felt the speaker had talked some while, gradually drawing him awake. He opened eyes to the shadow-filled cellar. A beam of moonlight now shone from a high window. Someone paced in and out of the faint glow, hands clasped behind in pose of concentration.

Behold a short little man with fat belly covered by fur vest. He wore a cap turned up in points on either side, like the ears of a cat or fox. The man's eyes were bright white, flashing like lightning as he made some declaration that moved his heart.

"And so we see that magic may occur in the intersection of any two realities. This land of St. Demetia is a place of life and growth. While its neighboring terrain of Plutarch is dark with decay and rot. The magic of one intersects with Life; the other with Death."

The little man reached the wall. He turned, pacing in the opposite direction. Behind him something waved in time to his words. A tail, realized Barnaby. Fascinated, he watched the tail as it twitched this way and that, same as the hand of someone guiding music.

"Consider the Republic of St. Hefestia, land of mechanical wonders. With what strange world does it collide to derive its magic? Why, from the world of the mind itself. From the laws of math and logic, the power of observation and experimentation."

At mention of Hefestia, Barnaby grew excited.

"Do the Festians truly have ships that fly in the clouds?"

The little man frowned at this interruption, stopping his pacing. He spent a while giving his fur vest a brushing, in case any moonlight stained it. At length he answered.

"They do. Giant egg-like things, brittle and hollow, swimming like great slow fish through seas of cloud and star."

"I'd like to see that," declared Barnaby, happy to hear a wonder of the world confirmed.

"Indeed the sight is something," admitted the man.

"What is this foolishness?" whispered a new voice. A low, deep voice; rough and impatient.

The little man showed no surprise at this second interruption. Though the tail twitched, annoyed.

"I am beginning the long process of educating this blank slate of a being, this empty bucket of a boy, you sad shadow of an ignorant."

"Why not to teach him some cantrip to free himself?"

"Oh, far too advanced. He knows no more of magic that a fish knows of fire."

"Then untie him."

"Hmm, entirely outside the curriculum," declared the little man. "The rule of my summoning was: 'to teach, not to aid.' He put hands behind his back, began his pacing again. "In any case a bound student is far more attentive than a free one."

Barnaby stared into shadows, seeking the second speaker. There, by the wall. Behold a man in long dark coat, a wide-brimmed hat. A face darker than the basement shadows. This personage leaned nonchalant, letting Barnaby judge him. Barnaby judged him eerie. He turned back to the little man.

"You are the cat the witch summoned," declared Barnaby.

Again the man stopped his pacing. Giving Barnaby a measuring glance. "Indeed," he admitted. "Hmm. Quicker than I took you. Perhaps more than luck let you steal a summoning from a coven." He gave a bow. "I am... Professor Shadow Night-Creep."

Barnaby laughed in delight. He'd always wanted to talk to a cat. Well, he'd talked to plenty of cats. But now he'd found one who could talk back. Unless the others had been able to reply but chose not. In any case, Barnaby did his best to return the bow while sitting bound on the floor.

"I am Barnaby the miller's son," he declared. "Very pleased to make your acquaintance, Professor Shadow. Am I really going to learn magic?"

Professor Night-Creep examined the fingertips of a gloved hand, inspecting. "Hmm. It remains in doubt whether you shall learn. But certainly I shall strive to teach. In magic. Its various forms and logics, flavors and systems."

"Bah," declared the man slouching in the shadows. "Useless. He needs far different instruction." He took a step into the moonlight. Its dim silver glow revealing a tall, wide-shouldered figure in heavy coat. Hands deep in pockets as though he walked in December wind. The cat-professor backed away, making the hiss of an angered tea-kettle. The dark man ignored this.

He leaned towards Barnaby, staring down. Barnaby gaped up. The man's face was familiar. But he'd never seen eyes so dark; two caves with firelight a mile within.

"First lesson," whispered the dark man. "Never, ever trust strangers in taverns who are over-free with welcome and ale."

"I think I did their oath wrong," admitted Barnaby.

"Ah, no, you did it right," corrected the dark man. "But if you toast St. Demetia, vowing to serve her before an officer and two witnesses, why then by law you have enlisted into the army."

"Ha," said Barnaby. "That explains it nicely." His eyes widened in realization. "So, I am a soldier now?"

"By law," affirmed the Dark Man. "For what the law is worth. That worth summing to one well-measured bushel of dog shit. No, it is a mere trick to pull fools into a net of rules and flags, orders and songs, medals and mindless obedience."

"I suspect we hear the voice of former soldier in this observation upon military service," said Professor Night-Creep.

"Be silent, witch-spawn," growled the Dark Man. In reply the cat-man also growled. His eyes glowing bright, tail thrashing like a wheat stalk in storm wind.

"I was instructing," declared Professor Night-Creep. "Begone, ghost."

"Bah. You give theory when he needs a knife."

"Have you knife?" demanded the cat.

"Experience is a knife. I know what he needs to learn. To fight, to defend, to walk wary."

"You," said Barnaby. "Sir. Ah. Are you a ghost?"

"Of a sort," shrugged the man. "Not the usual shrouded thing moaning through eternity in some idiot ruin." He considered. "Call me... Dark Michael."

"Dramatic name," scoffed Professor Shadow Night-Creep.

"Since my death, I am feeling dramatic," declared Dark Michael. And for the first time Barnaby saw him smile, following with a laugh chill as autumn rain. The man pulled a hand from pocket, grasping something. Crouching near Barnaby, he opened the fist to reveal what it held.

A copper penny, looking light as tin.

"Ah," said Barnaby. "Ha. Well. You are the very fellow I buried then?"

"I am."

"I am pleased to see you again," declared Barnaby. "You look far better than when I saw you last, Master Dark Michael. And have you seen the donkey?"

At which question Professor Night-Creep laughed. A high laugh that hurt the ears, like icicles worming towards the brain. While the ghost shook his head. Rising again, he returned hands to coat pockets. Then stood awhile studying Barnaby with those cavernous eyes.

"The donkey?"

"Yes," affirmed Barnaby. "You recall him, surely? I worry that farmer might treat him ill."

"You are prisoner of those who beat you, bound in the dark. Trapped with a mad ghost and a witch's idiot familiar. And you ask about a donkey?"

Barnaby considered. Was he being foolish? These two did not seem to mean him ill. And what an amazing thing, to talk to a ghost and a cat. On the very same night in the very same basement! Who knew but the donkey could talk as well? Barnaby had not thought to ask it. But what would one ask a donkey? For that matter, what would a donkey ask of a miller?

While Barnaby pondered, the ghost-man sighed. Then began pacing in and out of the moonbeam, exact as the cat-man had done, lecturing the attentive-bound student.

"When you realized the soldiers meant you ill, you should have smiled, sat again." His long legs quickly brought him to the wall; he turned, began pacing the other way. "You should have pretended to be delighted to join them. Waiting for them to be distracted by time and wine. Then... hmm, I'd grab the pepper pot, toss it into the captain's eyes. Then taken up a bottle, striking the man to your left. That leaves but one. If he remains sober he'll move beyond reach of the bottle. But if you stand, take your chair and strike him it leaves the field to your flag."

Barnaby pictured himself performing these dance-steps. It seemed an unlikely dance. "I don't think I could hit a man with a bottle or a chair. I suppose I could manage the pepper."

Dark Michael exchanged looks with Professor Night Creep. One shrugged, one twitched a tail.

"Can you free him?" asked the cat-man.

"I may walk beside him, advise as is fit," declared Dark Michael. "But three times only may I reach hand out to this boy's aid. Then is my service ended." He turned to Barnaby. "Do you wish me to untie you? If you do not get free you will soon be marching on the road while some shouting sub-captain beats time with a baton upon your backside."

"Three times only," considered Barnaby. "It's like wishes. I get three, and must not waste them."

"Exact so," said Cat and Ghost together.

Barnaby shook his head. "Da always said 'never waste a grain of flour or a bright day's hour'." The two stared blankly. "He meant that I should keep what I can for when I need it."

"You need it now, boy," growled Dark Michael.

"Indeed, the graveyard brute is correct," agreed Professor Night-Creep. "Dawn comes. You have little time to be free of your bindings."

"Oh, I'm free of them already," said Barnaby. He rose, slowly; sore and stiff. Stretched, then held out the leather straps to show his teachers. They dripped damp. "Once they had time to soak, it was easy to pull them off."