The Zero Curse

by Christopher G. Nuttall

  “Take a seat,” Magister Niven said. He sat back in his wheelchair, resting his hands in his lap. “Those spectacles are really quite fascinating. Do you know just how many of your classmates touch up their appearance with a little glamour?”

  I nodded, shortly. My mother had tried to teach me basic cosmetic spells, but - of course - I’d never been able to get any of them to work. She’d taught Alana and Bella too, then warned them to be careful. Anyone who didn't like them could easily cast a cancellation charm at their glamours, popping them at the worst possible moment. Lazy magicians had been publically humiliated because they’d tried to hide everything under a glamour. A smart magician would use the glamours to improve their appearance, but they wouldn't rely on them.

  “And genuine Objects of Power, at that,” Magister Niven added. “The first new Objects of Power in over a thousand years.”

  “Yes, sir,” I said, wondering if he was going to get to the point. I was due in potions soon ... how soon? I didn't even know the time! “I made them myself.”

  “Indeed you did,” Magister Niven agreed. He leaned back in his wheelchair. “Over the past thousand years, countless magicians have sought to forge Objects of Power. They all assumed that it required a level of precision that few magicians could muster. It never occurred to them that they were going in the wrong direction. Why do you think they never saw the truth?”

  “Because people with no talent for magic at all are very rare,” I said, dully. I’d assumed the same myself until I’d been sent to school. “They might have believed that they simply didn't exist.”

  “There’s no might about it,” Magister Niven said, sternly. “Everyone has magic, at least at some level. A person who cannot cast a single spell might still have some level of magic - we know that to be true, don’t we? It is a rule. But you seem to be a complete exception to the rule.”

  I nodded. “And that means that the rule is bunk.”

  “Correct,” Magister Niven said.

  He leaned forward. “Now, here is the question,” he said. “Forgers always assumed that they were required to infuse magic into their workings. And - historically - they used their magic to create Devices of Power. They took their limited success as proof that the whole mystery would be cracked, one day, when someone managed to muster the precision necessary to carve Objects of Power.

  “But tell me ... if you need magic to forge, how can you forge?”

  I stared at him. “What do you mean?”

  “You have no power,” Magister Niven said. “So tell me ... where does the power come from?”

  “I ...” I stopped, unsure how to answer. Everyone knew that carving the right runes into metal - or wood or whatever - allowed a forger to infuse magic into the object. I’d done it ... I’d done it, even before I was sent to school. And Magister Niven was right. Where had the power come from? “I don’t know.”

  He met my eyes. “Can you brew a potion?”

  “Not without help,” I said. I thought of the stirrers in my bag. “Or without the right tools.”

  “And you need magic to turn a smelly concoction into a potion,” Magister Niven said. “Why can you forge Objects of Power, but not brew a potion?”

  “I don’t know,” I repeated. I’d never thought about it before. And yet ... it made no sense. I was powerless. If I couldn't brew potions, I couldn’t forge. But I could forge. I’d made a number of Devices of Power before I’d discovered I could make Objects of Power. My head hurt. It made no sense. “Sir ...”

  I tried to gather my thoughts. “I carve runes into the metal,” I said, after a moment. “Don’t those have power?”

  “Maybe,” Magister Niven said. “But if runes have power, why is it safe to sketch out a runic diagram in a textbook? And if words have power, why can’t you cast a spell simply by reciting the magic words?”

  “I ... I don’t know,” I said.

  I’d recited spells until my throat had started to hurt. I’d whispered incantations, I’d roared and chanted spells that would have daunted magicians more advanced than either of my sisters ... I’d even touched on Words of Power so dangerous that only a handful of sorcerers had dared to write them down. And it had been pointless, utterly pointless. There hadn't even been a glimmer of power.

  Dad didn't even reprimand me for looking at those books, I recalled. He was too desperate for me to show even a spark of magic.

  My thoughts ran in circles. Logically, I shouldn't have been able to forge. And yet, I knew I could forge. Why couldn't I brew? Or cast spells? Except ...

  “It makes no sense,” I protested. “It’s impossible.”

  “The word impossible is only a reflection of the unknown,” Magister Niven said. “We have been told stories about flying buildings and castles that were bigger on the inside. The stories are so prevalent that they are impossible to dismiss. And yet, we don’t know how it was done.”

  “The Empire knew how to do it,” I said. “Unless ... the stories grew and changed in the telling.”

  “It’s possible,” Magister Niven agreed. “But it’s equally possible that the secret of flying buildings was lost when the Eternal City fell.”

  I remembered Magister Tallyman’s flying machine and felt cold. If one could produce a flying machine, why not a flying building? What were the upper limits? Were there any upper limits? Magister Niven was right. My sisters cast spells - regularly - that our ancestors would have said were impossible. And yet, I knew how easily a rumour could grow and change until it became unrecognisable. It had been a thousand years since the Eternal City had fallen. Who knew how the stories might have changed as they were passed down the years?

  Magister Niven pressed his fingertips together. “You forge Objects of Power,” he said. “I believe that makes you unique, for the moment. Or is there a technique that your family has decided not to share?”

  I shook my head, firmly. Dad wouldn't have hesitated to sell the secret, if there was a secret to sell. It would have secured our position, once and for all. No, there was nothing different about my forging, nothing Akin or Magister Tallyman couldn't match. The only real difference lay in the person doing the forging. I could follow the ancient instructions and get an Object of Power. Akin could follow the same instructions and get nothing, but a piece of scrap metal. Or an explosion.

  “So tell me,” Magister Niven repeated. “Where does the power come from?”

  I had no idea. From me? I was wary of that, simply because I wanted to believe it. The thought of having power ... it had been my dream, ever since I had started to realise that I had no magic. And yet, if it didn't come from me, where did the power come from? The runes?

  “A rune needs to be carved into the metal for it to work,” I said, slowly. “Perhaps the diagrams simply don’t trigger the magic.”

  “I’ve seen active runes drawn on paper,” Magister Niven countered. “A sorcerer who wanted to protect his spellbook would need to work runes into the cover, just to lock the spell in place.”

  “Maybe my intent shapes the runes,” I said. But that didn't make sense either. Someone could cast a spell without knowing what it did. It was stupid, but it wasn't impossible. “I have to be very careful to make sure the spellform doesn't take shape until the last possible moment.”

  “Which leads us right back to the original question,” Magister Niven said. “Where does the power come from?”

  I looked down at my dark hands. I’d never considered the question, not really. And yet, in hindsight ... why hadn’t I thought about it?

  Because I assumed ... I assumed what? The thought taunted me. That there was magic inherent in the materials?

  “When we brew a potion,” I said, “we take care to pick ingredients that have magical properties ...”

  My voice trailed off. That couldn't be right. I’d been careful, very careful, to keep my workroom free of magical contamination. The cold iron I’d used to forge the blade - and the layers of gold and silver I’d laid on top of the ir
on - had been as close to magically dead as myself. Potioneers might break down the magic in different ingredients to produce a single spellform, but I ... I couldn’t do that. Magister Niven was right. Where did the power come from?

  “It makes no sense,” I protested.

  “Nor would a spellform from our era, if you showed it to your great-grandfather,” Magister Niven said. “We assume that one requires magic to forge. But you forge - and forge well - without magic. Or at least magic of your own. So ... where does the power come from?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. I was starting to be sick of that question. It wasn't something I wanted to look at too closely. And yet, it nagged at my mind. Where did the power come from, if it didn't come from me? “Magister ... I don’t understand.”

  “Nor do I,” Magister Niven said. He gave me something I think was meant to be an encouraging smile. “But we will figure it out, eventually.”

  “I hope so,” I said. I wasn’t sure that was true. If someone figured out the secret, if someone found a way for normal magicians to forge Objects of Power, what would happen to me? “I ... why do you think I can forge?”

  Magister Niven cocked his head. “You lack active magic, yet you can forge Objects of Power,” he said. “Simple logic indicates that those two facts are connected. Your lack of magic is actually an asset, under the right situations. Can you name others?”

  “Spells don’t linger on me,” I said, slowly. I could be turned into a frog, but not for longer than a few hours. “They just don’t stay in place.”

  “Another piece of the puzzle,” Magister Niven said. “We will solve the rest, in time.”

  He rose. “We’ll be talking again, later,” he said, as he walked over to the desk. “Are there any questions you want to ask, before you go?”

  I hesitated. There had been something I’d been wondering about, but I wasn't sure I wanted to ask. And yet ... “Will you get in trouble for ... for talking about John Lollard and King Rickard?”

  “There are always complaints,” Magister Niven said. He sounded amused. I realised I wasn't the first person to raise the issue. “But the authorities understand the importance of my class.”

  But you told us that authority moves to stamp out anything that brings its authority into question, I mused. Was that a lie? Or was he lying to me now? Or was I missing something? Why did you caution us against believing everything you said?

  I took a breath. “I think I understand why you want us to question assumptions,” I said, slowly. I wasn't sure what I wanted to say, let alone how I wanted to say it. “But why do you want us to question everything? Should we not have something to rely on?”

  “Last year, everyone knew that everyone has magic,” Magister Niven pointed out, coolly. “How many people got into trouble because they believed something that was demonstrably untrue?”

  “They didn't know it was demonstrably untrue,” I countered. “Did they?”

  “No,” Magister Niven said. “But does that make a difference?”

  He sat down at his desk. “Everything we know to be true may be untrue tomorrow,” he said, wryly. “Our assumptions may be proven wrong at any moment. And when that happens ... we need to maintain the flexibility to adapt to a whole new world.”

  His lips quirked. “It takes nearly three months to sail from Shallot to Hangchow,” he added, after a moment. “Why can't we do the trip in one month, by sailing through the Inner Sea and passing through the Corvallis Gulf?”

  “Because no ship has made it past the Eternal City,” I said. I’d heard the stories. Storms, tidal waves, sea monsters ... even the stoutest sailor would mutiny instead of trying to sail through the Sea of Death. “They have to go the long way around.”

  “Quite,” Magister Niven agreed. “What happens if - tomorrow - the Sea of Death became passable?”

  I thought about it. Trade between us and Hangchow has always been limited, if only because it took months for a ship to reach Hangchow and return. Silks, spices, fine wines ... there weren't many other trade goods worth carrying all the way from Hangchow. A handful of travellers had headed south to visit Hangchow - I’d dreamed of joining them, once upon a time - but there was no such thing as tourist trips to such distant lands. Noblemen on the Grand Tour didn't think about taking a year out of their lives to go to Hangchow, particularly when the risk of death was so high.

  But if travel times were cut, sharply ...

  “It would be easier to get a return on one’s investment,” I said, slowly. Sailing ships were expensive. “And there would be more ships heading there and back.”

  “True,” Magister Niven agreed. “But if transit times were shorter, it might be economical to ship different goods from Hangchow to Shallot. What might happen to us if something was imported from Hangchow? Or if it became easier for Hangchow to project military power over here? Or for us to project power over there?”

  “It would be a change,” I said. I wasn't quite sure what to make of it. “I don’t know what would happen.”

  “But it might,” Magister Niven said. He jabbed a finger at me. “The world changed, the moment you discovered you could make Objects of Power. Your family now has access to a game-changer. Worse, anyone who finds another like you will have a game-changer of their own. And if we cannot adapt to the new world, we will go the way of the terrible lizards.”

  He met my eyes. “Always question what you are told,” he said. “And always question what you know. Because someone might be lying to you - for reasons of their own - or what you know may simply be not so. I think my opinions are correct, for all sorts of reasons, but I need to hear it if I’m wrong. Does that answer your question?”

  “Not everyone likes to hear they’re wrong,” I said. I’d corrected Alana’s work, once. She’d turned me into a snake and stormed off. “You could be getting some of us in trouble.”

  Magister Niven snorted. “Would you rather get into trouble or believe a lie? A truth can always be proven, young lady; a truth can be defended, even against a vigorous attack. But a lie will not hold up to scrutiny. And anyone who refuses to allow vigorous debate is not on the side of truth. It is better to fight and refight the battle over truth, time and time again, rather than let a single lie - or mistruth - go unchallenged.”

  He smiled. “A year ago, everyone believed that using dragon scales in a potion was asking for trouble. And what did you manage to prove?”

  My face itched. “That I could use them safely, with care,” I said. That I could use them safely. Rose and I had nearly been killed because Rose had stood too close to the boiling cauldron. “I don’t know if anyone else could use them.”

  “Not in the same way, no,” Magister Niven said. “But it does prove that the original theory was wrong, doesn't it?”

  The bell rang. I groaned. There would be no chance of getting something to drink before the next class. I had a bottle of water in my bag, but it wasn’t the same.

  “We’ll talk later,” Magister Niven said. “Dismissed.”

  I nodded, scooped up my bag and hurried out of the room. The corridors and passageways were already filling with students, trying to get to their next class before the second bell. I felt eyes following me as I walked down the stairs, picking my way through the building. No one spoke to me ...

  The homework envelope felt heavy in my pocket as I walked down the corridor. I pulled it out and opened it, my eyes going wide as I read the single line. A MAN WITHOUT MAGIC IS WORTHLESS. I blinked. Prove or disprove? My mere existence disproved it.

  But that, I reflected, might be the point.

  Chapter Fifteen

  “Magister Niven is crazy,” Akin said, after classes had finished for the day. “How many students are already writing home?”

  I shrugged as I looked around the chamber. Magister Tallyman had told us both to join him - barely giving either of us enough time to snatch a drink before we walked back to the workroom - but there was no sign of him. The wards on the door had opene
d at our touch, allowing us to step inside. He must trust us, I decided. But then, he’d know who to blame if something went missing from his classroom.

  “He wouldn't be discussing such matters without approval,” I said. The sword - the broken sword - was positioned on a table, cocooned in a cobweb of silver wire. “No one is going to pay attention to the complaints.”

  Akin made a rude face. “This isn't us whining about being given too much homework on the first day,” he said. “This is ...”

  “Questioning assumptions,” I finished.

  I heard the door open and turned, just in time to see Magister Tallyman stride into the workroom. He looked to have picked up a couple of new facial scars in the last few hours, although they didn't seem to have slowed him down. So little of his face was his any longer that I couldn't help wondering if he’d lost all feeling. I’d splashed molten metal and boiling liquid on my bare skin and the pain had been agonising.