Volume 1: Pickpocketing

by R. A. Consell

  “If you are bold enough, brilliant enough, brave enough—” he stopped abruptly, placed a hand over his heart, then continued in a more subdued tone—“then I, Stanislav Ogonov, will be your guide.” He concluded with a flourishing bow.

  The class couldn’t help but applaud the performance. Kuro had never seen anything quite like it, and he stared in wonder at the wizard, who humbly waved off the praise of the crowd. “If you all work hard, study hard, and practise often,” he said encouragingly, “you too can master all the delicate arts of evocation.”

  What Mr. Ogonov failed to mention in his introduction was the means by which they would master the arts. Over the course of the class, he filled the blackboard a dozen times with runes, equations, and diagrams. Kuro couldn’t copy fast enough to catch half of what the teacher wrote and certainly couldn’t listen at the same time.

  It also turned out that the opening demonstration had been more than a little misleading, as Mr. Ogonov later explained that by the end of term, they should be able to lift a small rock, boil or freeze a cup of water, turn rose quartz into amethyst, and possibly, if they were extremely diligent, deliver a mildly uncomfortable electric shock.

  As Kuro piled the two new evocations textbooks into his already overweight backpack, Mr. Ogonov approached him. “Kuro, lad,” he said in a casual friendly manner. “I’m a friend of Talen’s. He asked me to keep an eye on you. My door is always open. If you need anyone to talk to, just let me know.”

  Kuro just glared. As he had suspected, Dubois had spies everywhere, waiting for him to let some secret slip. Waiting for him to feel safe, complacent, and trusting. Kuro then did his best to smile pleasantly at the teacher and said, “Thank you, sir, but I am fine,” before making as hasty an exit as he could while hauling his backpack.

  By the end of the first day, Kuro’s eyes were sore from reading, his brain ached from thinking, his hand was cramped from writing, and his backpack was so laden with textbooks that he could barely lift it. He already felt two days behind and couldn’t imagine how he was going to actually pass any subjects. The only motivation he had was to stay out of Niflheim Prison, but a quiet cell in the middle of the Arctic was starting to sound pretty compelling.

  None of the other children was having as much trouble as he was. Even Marie, who had never even heard of the veil a month ago, seemed to be better suited to wizardry than Kuro. All of them had an education of one kind or another. They had read more than the occasional discarded newspaper and had written longer compositions than “IOU 4 dollars and 1 toasted corned beef sandwich on French loaf.”

  The next day saw the rest of his subjects for the term. French class was much like Elvish, utterly impenetrable. Marie, who spoke French better than English, said their version was weird and so old-fashioned that she could barely understand it. French was followed immediately by Gaelic, which would have been bad enough on its own, but Kuro’s head was filled with bits of two other new languages already competing for space.

  Nearly everyone else was glad of their next subject, music. They all thought it was easy, singing simple scales and well-known songs and doing familiar dances. Kuro was worse off than even the fireflies. They didn’t know the words, but they picked up the melody well enough. Kuro’s only exposure to music had been overhearing the occasional bawdy shanty being sung in a pub, and he’d never even seen someone dance. It didn’t help that their teacher, Miss Ligeia, kept telling them how critical their musical skill would be to their future success at the school.

  Social studies was a reprieve. Not because the subject was easy, but because the teacher was hopeless.

  He was young enough that he could have been confused for one of the high school students if not for the ill-fitting tweed suit and crooked bowtie. He greeted the class with a stutter and looked so nervous that it made Kuro feel relaxed in comparison.

  The teacher wrote his name, Mr. Widdershins, by hand on the chalkboard, where the other teachers had written by magic. Once finished, he gave a shaky smile and then asked of the class what would ultimately turn out to be a disastrous question. “Let’s see who’s been working ahead, okay?” He punched the air weakly. “Who can tell me when the three kingdoms were founded?”

  Evelyn, at the front of the class as she always was, extended her hand as though it were a flower blooming and looked around to make certain that she was the only one who knew the answer.

  “Yes, please, go ahead, um, . . .” said Mr. Widdershins.

  “Lemieux.” Evelyn introduced herself by last name, as though the teacher should be impressed by it. “Evelyn Lemieux d’Ys. The first kingdom was the Alfheim, founded in 962 by wizards crossing the Byfrost fairy road from Vanaheim. The next settlers came across the ocean on Blandish boats from France and founded the eastern kingdom of Acadia in 1607. Finally, the wizards of the British Isles claimed the southern lands in 1670 as the kingdom of Tirnanog.”

  “Oh, very good. Textbook answer.” Mr. Widdershins applauded Evelyn and slowly wrote each name on the board. “Now could someone name the capital cities of each kingdom?”

  Evelyn’s hand raised again, but so did a few others’, including Marie’s. Mr. Widdershins took down the names of the capitals—Saguenay, Ville d’Ys, and New Camelot—but Marie’s hand stayed up.

  Widdershins was surprised to find a hand raised, but he was quick to celebrate her bravery. “Ah yes, a question. Good,” he said. “Questions are very welcome in this class. There are no bad questions.” He gave a thumbs up to the class before nodding to Marie to speak.

  “If there are only three kingdoms, why did the principal talk about four yesterday morning? And why are there four residences?” Marie scanned the class quickly to see if she was asking a foolish question.

  Evelyn rolled her eyes at Marie’s ignorance, but several others in class nodded along with curiosity. Mr. Widdershins tripped over himself. “Ah, yes, good, right. Very good question. That’s not really on the curriculum this year, but very good observation.” He was visibly uncomfortable with the subject. “So, yes, there is another kingdom. The Western Wildlands technically belong to the Autumn Court, but nobody actually lives there.”

  “I do!” shouted Charlie.

  “Okay, right,” Mr. Widdershins corrected himself. “There are some brave settlers that have moved there, but the natives prefer to live outside the veil—”

  “Do you mean like Native Americans?” asked Sean Cassidy without raising his hand. “Do they have wizards? Why don’t they come to Avalon?”

  “Ah, well, that’s complicated,” said the flustered teacher, “but very good questions. Very good. Um, as I understand it, they prefer to live with their families, even those that cannot cross over. Family, I understand, is very important to them.”

  Something in Widdershins’s manner reminded Kuro of a thief in the market being questioned by a Peacekeeper. He was choosing his words carefully and trying hard to make his interrogator stop asking questions.

  “Also, yes, Autumn Lodge was built for them,” Widdershins continued, “but I assure you that they do not have any desire to use it anymore. They have made that very clear.” Before anyone had a chance to ask anything further, he changed the subject. “But like I said, not on the curriculum this term. So let’s instead open our new textbooks and read the chapter on the crossing of the Byfrost Bridge.”

  Most of the class broke into chatter while vaguely pretending to read their text. Many scoffed at the idea of choosing to live in the Blandlands, saying they couldn’t imagine how awful life would be without magic. Widdershins made no attempt to quiet them. He just sat shakily at his desk looking like he’d escaped a werewolf.

  Marie, curious but afraid to look stupid, whispered more questions to Kuro and Charlie. “All these places, Avalon, Ys, and Camelot, I’ve heard of them. Are they the ones from . . . Blandlands stories?” She was still getting used to calling her home the Blandlands and hesitated on the word.

  Kuro answered almost a
utomatically. “No, they are just stolen names. Pale copies of the originals.” He was surprised and uncomfortable to hear Phineas’s words coming out of his mouth. Phineas had often spoken of the superiority and glory of the homeland across the ocean. Kuro had wondered why Phineas hadn’t ever gone there if it was so much better, but he’d known better than to ask such things.

  Charlie rambled for most of the rest of class about how great her home in the Western Wildlands was, how her farm had lots of interesting creatures. They specialized in breeding rare animals like wyverns and cerberuses for rich wizards. She complained that it could be a bit lonely because there really weren’t very many people around.

  “Humans,” Arthur corrected, surprising the other three as he had appeared to be actually reading his textbook and had, until that point, not spoken a single word.

  “What’s that?” asked Charlie, excited to have someone else participating in her chatter.

  Arthur continued to keep his eyes forward and nose buried in his book but replied in a robotic monotone: “There are people there, just not many humans.” He pulled the book up closer to his face to show that he had nothing more to say. The ringing of the bell distracted Charlie from probing further.

  The next class was spellcraft, taught by Ms. Crawley. She was about as different from Widdershins as could be: mature, confident, and commanding. She wore large round glasses and a neatly tailored grey morning coat, which together made her look an awful lot like her barn owl familiar, perched on her shoulder.

  She quieted the class with no more than a clearing of her throat, a trick that Mr. Widdershins desperately needed to learn. “In this class we will be learning the basics of spellcraft. That includes everything from runic theory to wand and staff work, with a strong focus on linguistic evocation, otherwise known as spells with words.” She spoke crisply, deliberately enunciating each word clearly as if dictating a letter, but also with a slight smile. “Before you ask, we shall not be learning to summon familiars.”

  A hand shot up in the front row, and without even having to look to the student, Ms. Crawley answered. “There is a full course on summoning next year. You will learn then.”

  The first hand withdrew slowly, but another rose quickly to fill its place. Again Ms. Crawley answered without the question even being asked. “For two very good reasons,” she said. “The first is that few of you will have adequate mastery of Gaelic or dance to incant the spell until next year. The second and more important reason is that people put entirely too much stock in the shape of familiars. There’s always someone who ends up with a pegasus or some such, and everyone thinks it means something. Far better for you to learn who each other is without familiars complicating it.”

  The hand with the question fell, and the class collectively sighed in disappointment, but Ms. Crawley did not let them wallow in it. “Can anyone tell me how I knew what your questions were going to be?”

  The hand of a Summerhill girl raised hesitantly. “Yes, Abigail. Go ahead,” the teacher said without having to turn to see her.

  Abigail stood and said, “Telepathy?”

  “Yes, very good. It is the first and most practised technique in the field of mentalism.” A piece of chalk began to move on its own and write the word across the board. “Can you tell me what it is used for?”

  “It’s talking and listening to thoughts.” Abigail appeared excited about the subject and bounced a little as she explained it.

  “Well done.” Ms. Crawley nodded crisply and gave an encouraging smile to Abigail before explaining more to the class. “I could hear the questions you were planning to ask. You were practically screaming them in your mind. Can anyone name another mentalist magic? Yes, I foresee that Genevieve will be able to name one of the two remaining ones.”

  Genevieve looked shocked for a moment that she’d been called on but pieced together Ms. Crawley’s clue. “Clairvoyance,” she said. “Seeing things that are far away, or in the future.”

  “Very good. There is only one left, and someone knows the answer but they’re too shy to put up their hand. It’s okay. You can tell us, Kuro.”

  Kuro choked when he was called on. He did know the answer. It had been ringing in his mind since the teacher had asked. It was one form of magic that Kuro had extensive experience with, as he had been on the receiving end of it regularly. Kuro’d had no intention of answering, but he must have been thinking about it loudly enough that Ms. Crawley had heard him.

  Kuro stood and cleared his throat. He felt a little shaky with so many eyes on him, but he tried his best not to let his voice waver. “Neuromancy. It’s controlling other people’s minds” was all he said out loud, but running through his head was a much longer explanation. It can make you feel every bad feeling there is, like all of your skin is being burned, and sand is being ground into your eyes while every bone in your body breaks. And you want to scream, but it’s like you’re drowning, and you can’t breathe at all. Or make you do things you don’t want to, or make you want to do things you would never ever do.

  His thoughts had been much too loud. Ms. Crawley had a look of horror on her face. She found her voice after a few too many moments and pasted on a congratulatory smile, as she had with the other students. “That is absolutely correct. And that is why neuromancy is tightly regulated. We won’t be doing any of it here at Avalon, so you don’t have to worry about that.” She said the last while looking directly at Kuro. “Instead, we’ll be working a lot on how to protect yourself from magic. Your own and others’. We’ll start with how to keep those thoughts more private and your mind to yourself.”

  She continued the lesson as if all were normal, but sadness crept into her normally aggressive eyes whenever she looked at Kuro. At the end of class, Ms. Crawley asked him to stay behind. “Kuro,” she said sympathetically. “I’m very sorry I heard your thoughts. It was impolite of me to be listening. It sounded to me like you knew what that kind of neuromancy felt like yourself. Is that true?”

  “Yes,” he answered hesitantly, worrying that he was somehow in trouble but seeing no way to deny what she already knew.

  “It’s okay.” Her stern features had melted away, and she looked sad and caring. “I just want to know, the person who cast it. Do you know who they are?”

  Kuro was getting suspicious. “Yes,” he said again, uncertain if it was the right answer.

  “Do you know where they are?” she asked.

  Kuro chose both his thoughts and words carefully. He didn’t want to give away any information about his master, but he was pretty sure he knew what she wanted to hear regardless of whether it was true. “Niflheim Prison,” he replied.

  Ms. Crawley visibly relaxed at the answer. “Have you talked to anyone about your . . . experience?” she said awkwardly.

  “No.” Kuro couldn’t imagine anyone caring to know.

  “It can help,” she said, putting her hand on his shoulder. “Believe me. . . . Can you keep a secret?”

  If Kuro was good at anything, it was keeping secrets. He nodded.

  “I. . . .” She paused and took a moment to swallow and steady her breathing. “I’ve had some similar experiences. Having someone to talk to afterwards really helped. If you needed someone, you could tell me. Okay?”

  Another spy. She was trying to trade a secret for a secret, but he wasn’t going to fall for it. Kuro faked a smile and thanked her before running off to alchemy.

  Alchemy should have been Kuro’s best subject. He had helped Phineas with enough concoctions and cooked enough meals that he knew how to follow a recipe. Unfortunately, he quickly discovered that skill had very little to do with success in the class.

  Most of the students from the other residences came with brand new sets of equipment. They had clean beakers, accurate scales, sharp knives, and sturdy granite mortars and pestles. Most of the Lodgers were stuck using the worn, chipped, and stained sets provided by the school, which had been used by generations of students before
them.

  The Alchemy teacher was Professeur De Rigueur. He was an old man with thin and bony fingers and drooping features, though he carried himself like a Spring prince: haughty, melancholic, and detached. He wore a gaudy wig of white curls and powdered his face heavily to hide his wrinkles. He spent most of the class reclining on a velvet chaise longue he had in the classroom, draped in a silk smoking jacket, feeding himself grapes and dozing while students were busy with their work.

  That he demanded that the students refer to him as Professeur rather than by name told Kuro more than enough about him. Kuro knew the type. Most nobles wouldn’t bother coming down to Bytown Market; they’d send servants. Men like De Rigueur, though, they’d come just to show off their possessions. They’d spread stories and dangle the promise of money, but they carried little and clutched it tightly. They never gave to beggars. To men like De Rigueur, Kuro had always been invisible.

  Actual accomplishment in his class seemed irrelevant. De Rigueur was much more interested in pedigree than performance, which he made extremely clear on the first day. Before class had even started, he congratulated the students with their own supplies on their commitment to their education. As he called names on the roster for attendance, he stopped to quiz students if he found a name familiar. He had passed casually through most of the list before his eyes brightened and he called, “Evelyn Lemieux.”

  “Present,” Evelyn replied as though all in attendance should celebrate the fact.

  “Isn’t your father the great-nephew of the Winter king?” De Rigueur smiled broadly at her from behind droopy eyelids.

  “Yes,” she replied haughtily. “Father is seventeenth in line for the Winter throne, and Mother is a second cousin of the Spring queen.”

  “Very good.” Professeur De Rigueur smiled broadly at Evelyn, looking her over as if she were a prize he had won. “Very good indeed.” He noted a couple other students on their somewhat less impressive breeding. The only ones from Autumn Lodge worth pausing on appeared at the very end of the list. “Arthur Wood.” De Rigueur’s eyes opened near enough to see his pupils. “I know your father. How is he doing in his new position?” He gave Arthur a knowing wink.