The Path of Prosperity

ZANNOPOLIS WAS A CITY larger than any town Steven had visited. It was surrounded by a wall, and soldiers at the gate saluted smartly as the knights galloped past with Steven running behind. The broad road on which they entered turned sharply to the left, then to the right and right again. Amid the towering shops and houses closing in on them, Steven quickly lost his sense of direction. There was not just one inn, but a row of hostellers lining the street they traveled on, and the knights eventually reined in at one bearing a sign with a rooster on it.

Steven was familiar with the routine of the knights by this time, and went immediately into the inn to commandeer a table and food for their pleasure as they directed pages in the stable to care for their horses. With his bow slung over his shoulder, Steven carried his staff as a symbol of authority when he entered the inn. He was surprised, however, to find the common room had, already, a number of knights seated, eating, drinking, and making loud conversation.

Steven rapped his staff sharply on the floor when he entered and announced, “A table and provisions for six of the king’s knights and their humble page.” A few of the knights glanced up, but most ignored him. A lone man sat at one table large enough for the company, so Steven marched up to him and stated boldly, “Knights of the king have need of this table, kind sir.”

The stocky man looked at Steven through slitted eyes. “Is that so?” he remarked. “It seems knights of the king need all the tables then,” he said pointing around the room. Indeed, every other table in the common was occupied by knights and their pages. “Where is a poor citizen to get food and drink? Are not the knights the protectors of the citizens?”

Steven realized at once that this might be a heated situation, and not wanting to put his masters in the midst of a fight before they even reached the battlefield, he stepped up to the man and bent near his ear.

“These knights have journeyed far and have had naught but my poor cooking on the road. But they are noble and kind and would crave your company at their table, kind sir,” he spoke quietly.

“Indeed we would, brother,” said a voice behind Steven. The leader of Steven’s little band of knights stood behind him.

“Well, who is a humble merchant to rebuff such a kind invitation?” said the man at the table. He rose from his chair and brushing Steven aside reached and embraced the knight. “Welcome to Zannopolis, brother.”

The other knights in the band pulled up chairs and scuffled into places at the table as the innkeeper brought ale for them. Steven immediately began directing the placement of mugs, dishes, and platters of food on the table. Then he took a stand at the head of the table behind the right shoulder of the knight and clutched his staff at his side.

“Steven George,” said the knight, “come sit at the table with us, for as of this meal you have completed your service to us, and while this food is not so tasty as that served us on the trail, it is good, hot, and refreshing. And you didn’t have to cook it or clean up.” Steven smiled and sat next to the knight on the offered bench. The knight continued, “Brother, this fine fellow is Steven George the Dragonslayer. Steven, my brother, the Merchant of the North.”

“Honored to meet you,” Steven said nodding at the merchant. “Are you really brothers?” Perhaps the question was blunt, but following the excitement, he completely forgot his manners.

“Brothers as much as two born of the same mother can be,” said the knight and the two men laughed.

“Tell me, Dragonslayer,” said the merchant, “how many dragons have fallen beneath your valiant charge?”

“Oh, none yet, sir,” Steven answered. “I am on the road to find and master my dragon. In that capacity I fell in quite by accident with these fine gentlemen knights.”

“I fear,” said the knight, “that pressing Steven join us on this trek has delayed his own mission. He would be in Byzatica by now and headed on the south road had we not pressed him into service.”

“All roads lead to the dragon,” Steven repeated.

“Perhaps,” said the knight, “but I would speed you on your journey. Brother, are you traveling soon to Byzatica?”

“Indeed, I leave on the morrow,” said the merchant. “I would have gone today but that I tarried to see you arrive. So, you see, you have delayed me on my journey as well!” The company laughed. “Can I possibly assist your friend in his journey? The travel will not be fast, but it is safer by far in this country to travel in company than to venture alone.”

“I hoped you would suggest it,” said the knight. “Steven, my brother journeys often between Zannopolis and Byzatica. And there might be opportunity to practice your other craft as well.”

“Is he then a man of many talents?” asked the merchant. “Does he do more than slay dragons and build cookfires for knights?”

“Indeed, brother, Steven is of those rustics who make currency of stories. If you have an especially good tale, he will surely repay you in kind.”

“Most gladly, sir,” said Steven.

“Then it is settled,” said the merchant. “We will leave Zannopolis when the gates open at dawn and journey southeastward to Byzatica. When we camp along the road, we can exchange stories and both come away wealthier.”

So, it was decided that Steven would leave the knight’s service and join the merchant for the trip to Byzatica. It did not take long for Steven to discover that, while not so jovial as his brother, the merchant was pleasant company. But it was becoming more difficult for Steven to keep track of where he was. The merchant had a huge wagon pulled by a team of horses and two guards who rode alongside. The merchant insisted that Steven ride in the wagon with him and thus Steven had no idea how many steps he was from his home any more. For much of the first day, this distressed Steven and he tapped his feet on the floor of the wagon in mock walking. The merchant was amused by this. Finally, the merchant asked, “Where are you from, Dragonslayer?”

“I am 597,565 steps, a wagon ride, a boat across a lake, and a fording of the river from home,” Steven said. “That way,” he added, pointing back toward Zannopolis. Knowing the direction from which the knights had come, the merchant quickly computed the approximate direction of Steven’s journey.

“You mean that way,” the merchant said pointing southwest.

“I came from there,” repeated Steven again pointing back northwest toward Zannopolis.

“Steven,” said the merchant, “you don’t have to retrace every step if you journey back. There are many roads that lead to where you want to go.”

“But there is only one by which I have come,” Steven said.

“Ah. Yes,” agreed the merchant. He shrugged his shoulders and urged the horses on more quickly. As dusk was settling over the valley, they came to a small inn in a village almost as small as Steven’s. Here they secured their wagon and left the two guards with it while Steven and the Merchant ate dinner. Then the merchant called for wine and settled in his chair to address Steven with his story.

ONCE UPON A TIME, in the youth of the world, there was a poor beggar named Feirou who lived in a tiny hovel in the shadow of a great palace. Each day the poor man would sit in the streets before the palace and beg for food. Some days he would receive a dry crust of bread or a bean, but other days he would return to his hovel with an empty belly and tears in his eyes. He watched the wealthy merchants and princes as they made their way to the palace and about their business and thought, “If only I were wealthy and wise, I would never have to sit in the path and beg again.” But day after day he begged.

Then one day the king announced that his daughter, now being of marriageable age, would seek a husband among the men of the kingdom. Those who were eligible were to present themselves at the palace in exactly one year to make their proposal.