"There is a story told in the hills of the North," began Professor Doctor
Griswald Grimm, his voice quivering slightly, "that the gods keep the balance
between Law and Chaos on a golden scale that measures the deeds of individual men against one or the other of these opposing forces."

The giant alchemist's young apprentice, Fleet O' Feet stood motionless the
floor of apothecary known to the trades as the little shop of poisons and
potions, as though his small legs had suddenly taken root and grown downward into the boards beneath his sandals. He stared, mouth open at Grimm, whose fury was not yet manifesting itself in the form of a raised voice, but rather as a ticking vein in his forehead and a tautness of muscles on his massive body that bespoke the effort he was having keeping himself under control.

The boy, who barely stood high enough to top his master's belt buckle,
understood that he was in no physical danger. Grimm made a great show of
brutish anger when the lad messed something up, but never had struck him, nor connected with any of the numerous objects he had flung, over the years, in his apprentice's general direction. But the anger was real enough, and Fleet knew that it would be a while before it would be prudent for him to speak.

You, lad," Grimm voice was now only a few decibels short of shouting. "You
will someday tip that scale and rain chaos down upon us all, with your
thoughtlessness and your reckless attitude!"

He tossed the first thing he found handy at Fleet's head. A seat pillow
missed by inches and landed with a soft, unsatisfying thunk inside a box
filled to the top with unrefined invisibility powder. Parts of the pillow
disappeared in the small dust cloud the impact raised.

"Well, what have you to say for yourself?" Grimm roared.

"The bottles - "Fleet offered in a tiny voice. "The bottles are identical."

"Gods in the HEAVENS!" Grimm swore. "That's why I spent thirty in gold
teaching you to READ!"

"Master, I am truly sorry." Fleet blurted. The bottles were the same. The
stealth potion he asked for is right beside it. I did not discover the
mistake until today. He has already gone. I checked."

Tears were beginning to roll down the boy's face. " He . . is . . already
gone from.. the city." First, sobs of remorse, then, hiccoughs issued from
his tiny frame, softening the gruff giant's demeanor despite his anger.

Softly, Grimm said, "Lad, you must read every label. You must know every
ingredient if you are to work here."

He came out from behind the counter and approached Fleet, then bent down to one knee to near the boy's eye level and gently gathered his apprentice into
a hug.

"You must understand, Fleet, the potions we sell here are very specific. The
mercenary asked you for a stealth powder. What you gave him was an
aphrodisiac."

"Fleet gulped, hiccoughed and then said, "Aphro-what?"

Grimm searched for a way to explain. The boy was only ten and had been his
apprentice for less than a year. He was bright, but didn't seem all that
world-wise, even for an orphan.

"A powder that affects the ladies in a -um- unusual way. They will want to
kiss him." Grimm fell silent, guessing by the sudden wrinkling of Fleet's
nose in disgust at kissing, that he had explained enough.

"Now get back to work, lad." Grimm said, standing, " and as you stack those
bottles," he indicated several boxes, "I want you to read each label aloud.
Everything on the label, mind you."

"Yes, Master Grimm." Fleet said obediently and set about following the
instructions he'd received."

Behind the curtain that separated Grimm's study from the shop room, the giant alchemist stretched out in his chair and broke into a quiet chuckle. The
image of that mercenary, dusted with "Love Me" powder and desperately trying to remain stealthy, had crept into his mind's eye. There would be a reckoning of course, if the man survived. Grimm stood behind his apprentice and his products. Meanwhile though, the master alchemist offered a small entreaty to the gods that whatever female that smelled that powder at least would be human.

In response, the scale tipped ever so slightly toward chaos.