The Delusionist's Son

by Danny Macks

  “No,” Silva said. “This spell is fine.” It didn't really matter. His days were numbered anyway. Delan had only invited Silva over to make sure he wasn't joining Silva in meeting the executioner.

  Dr. Poincer laughed and slapped Silva on the back. “That’s my boy. Show us old codgers how its done. It may take me a few days, but I’ll track another copy down.”

  After Dr. Poincer left, Dr. Delan sat down at his desk and studied Silva's sketch. Without glancing up, he said, “Are you certain your old scroll was destroyed?”

  Silva slid the scroll out of the hidden pocket in his sleeve and threw it in the fireplace. The fire wasn’t burning, but a few glowing coals remained. The parchment slowly curled and started to turn black. Dr. Delan stared at the fireplace while the ribbons smoldered and caught light.

  “I understand why you did what you did,” Silva growled, “but I don’t forgive you.”

  Dr. Delan was slow to answer, his eyes still locked on the fireplace. He opened his mouth to speak, but Silva slapped him first. Silva yanked his sketch off the desk and added it to the fire. “No excuses!”

  Silva didn't wait to see his sketch also catch fire before striding out of the room.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Doris clambered up the steep tile roof to join Silva, who was meditating with his knees on either side of a dormer.

  “You could have called out from below,” Silva said calmly while Doris caught his breath. “I was meditating, not asleep.”

  Releasing his frustrations on Dr. Delan’s face earlier that morning had stirred up a lot of pent up emotions. Silva needed the meditation for reasons other than ley energy. He maintained his kneeling position, reluctant to rejoin the world.

  “Yelling like a farmer calling hogs is unseemly and not in keeping with the nature of our relationship.” Doris wiped his face with a lace handkerchief before folding it carefully and returning it to his pocket. “You have a package, sir.”

  “Have you opened it?”

  “I would never,” Doris protested, but there was something impish in the tone. Silva turned his head and raised an eyebrow. Doris smiled back. “I bribed the delivery boy, instead. It's a cloak from Horner and Symbic, commissioned by Dr. Clarence Delan. It's been specifically designed to match a robe which Dr. Neran commissioned from the same firm for a party this evening. I’m not certain what Dr. Delan paid, but the cloak arrived prior to both the robe and the party invitation, which are due to arrive this afternoon.”

  Silva allowed himself a smile. “You're remarkably well-informed about other people’s plans for my immediate future.”

  Doris’s smile broadened into a grin. “I’ll take that as a compliment. You are, of course, under no obligation to accept the invitation, when it arrives.”

  Silva stretched. Carefully. The drop to the lawn was four stories down. “Let’s see this package, then.”

  As Silva picked up the cloth out of its paper wrapping, a card fell out. Doris quickly scooped it up.

  “This says,” Doris said, reading the card, “Dr. Delan sends his compliments and advises ‘it is occasionally useful to hide one’s weakness after casting great magics’. I don’t understand.”

  The ‘cloak’ in the package was more like a capelet: a black silk evening cape with a tall collar and two buttonholes which allowed Silva to attach it directly to the upper buttons on a robe. The lining was blue and blue needlework decorated the hem, vines with leaves and flowers. It hung to slightly below his elbow when he tried it on. The buttonholes didn't quite line up on his old robe.

  Even with modern embroidery machines, how much had a rush job on this much embroidery cost? And why were they dumping so much money on him making a strong impression at a party?

  Silva pulled off the cape and inspected the lining. An unpowered rote had been inscribed on the cloth with blue thread which matched the cloth so exactly as to be invisible from a distance. “While we're accepting gifts,” Silva told Doris, “could you broadly hint I don’t have the latest copy of Unabridged Encyclopedia of Signs and Sigils?

  “Mr. Delan has an abridged copy,” Doris replied, “in the lower library. I believe you have a standing invitation to make use of it.”

  Luckily, the rote from the capelet was not too obscure for Drudge’s abridged reference book. It was used by professional duelists to hide their power levels, leaving a dim smudge to altered vision instead of the swirling blue aura most saw.

  As Doris had predicted, a black silk robe arrived with an invitation later the same day. The lining and embroidery on the hem identical to the viney leaf and flower pattern on the collar and hem of the cape, all sewn with blue thread. Although black, the robe rippled with reflected light as Silva ran the silky material through his hands. “Well, with this on I certainly won’t blend in.”

  “Blending in is a servant’s skill,” Doris quipped, “and overrated.”

  That evening, Silva contemplated the magical rote on the capelet's lining as a horse drawn carriage took him to Dr. Neran's party. The Neran estate was far enough outside of the capital he rented the University ballroom for Silva's debut. All of his professors would be there. He'd, in essence, executed a woman for using life to power a spell. Now he was headed to a party in his honor, for doing the same thing. The thought made him queasy. Maybe, if he kept his head down, he could duck out quickly without being rude.

  He activated the obfuscation rote in his mind and slipped the cape over his new silk robe. As expected, the buttonholes on his custom cape lined up perfectly with his new, ostentatious robe.

  “Don’t fidget,” Doris chided. “You’re the hero of the day.”

  “I’m a trained monkey.” A monkey with a short lifespan.

  Doris chuckled. “After the heroic bits are over and the parades start, I’ll concede there’s not much of a difference.”

  Kaleb Symbic, the famous clothier, was waiting when Silva stepped out of the carriage. He gestured and everything blue on Silva's robes began to glow softly. Silva rolled his eyes and Mr. Symbic clamped down on his facial expression. He was no doubt expecting a more positive response. Silva mimicked the clothier’s forced calm face and said, “Thank you. I’m certain your design will be the hit of the party.”

  Halfway up the walk to the University ballroom, Doris said, from a step behind his employer, “Well, at least I won’t have a problem blending in, tonight.”

  Silva grinned back at him, and was still smiling when they stepped inside.

  “Welcome back, my boy!” Dr. Wardic’s red lion mane of hair shook vigorously as he pumped Silva's hand. He’d rushed out of the crowd almost before the doorman finished announcing Silva's name.

  Silva smiled, despite himself. “Not exactly the reception I expected after our last meeting.”

  The professor’s smile faltered and he leaned forward, pulling Silva close with the iron grip on his hand. “About that, I'm not going to pretend your little ruse didn't wound me, but everything worked out in the end and that’s what matters. How about we forgive each other and move on?”

  Silva nodded and the grip on his hand released, to be replaced by a stout pat on the shoulder which moved Silva sideways a step. “Excellent.” Dr. Wardic kept his hand on Silva's shoulder and steered him toward a group of men in purple robes. “In that case, there are some people I would like to introduce you to.”

  Silva glanced over his shoulder, but after successfully dragging Silva to his employer's party, Doris had vanished.

  Everyone at the party wanted to shake Silva's hand, but as time passed he couldn't help getting the feeling they were waiting for something. The professors were all quick to point out Silva had been an excellent student, elevating his academic achievements — and by extension their own teaching — to the level of fantasy. He saw no signs on any face anything unusual was happening, but the sense of foreboding grew. The hairs on the back of Silva's neck stood up. If he had to give a name to the feeling he could sense, but not see, it was anticipation. What were they lookin
g forward to and why was he dreading it?

  The only exception to the feeling was a small group of about ten people off to one side containing Kate, Drudge, and Dr. Poincer. They were engaged in an intense and animated conversation. Some of them even wrote notes on random items: napkins, the back of invitations, sleeves and hands. Silva longed to join them, but whatever they were talking about obviously had nothing to do with him. They didn't even glance his way as they left the room together.

  Right as the anticipatory feeling crested, the crowd parted and Dr. Neran led a young man up to Silva. He was dressed in a suit, but tailored for someone larger. Every voice in the room fell silent and every head turned. This is what they had been waiting for.

  Silva adjusted his vision. Expecting blackness, the brightness of the crowd made him squint. Silva's own power level was above average among the students at University, but most of the people in the room had more blue ley energy than he did, and all of them were fully charged. The boy, on the other hand, was tinged with green. Wherever he had been, it was outside the effect of Silva's necromancy spell. Perhaps in a distant town.

  Silva returned his vision to normal. The plan was obvious. They were going to ask him to perform his necromancy spell, in public, as a damn party trick. Dr. Neran raised a hand for attention and drew a deep breath. Silva cut him short. “No.”

  Dr. Neran lowered his hand. “Excuse me?”

  “I said no. Muriel Vatic's sigil was discovered only days ago and its use has not been approved. I accept full responsibility for my rashness, but this is not an emergency. So, no.”

  Dr. Neran forced a placating smile onto his face, but Silva's intuition told him the man was steaming. “The relevant officials are all here and have agreed to hasten the approval process. But they need a demonstration.” No doubt they had already tried to manipulate the wemyds with Drudge’s flawed sigil, without success.

  What could he tell them which would make sense? Admit to necromancy? No, if they didn't have the common sense to figure it out for themselves, Silva was in no hurry to tell them.

  You’re a Vatic, a feminine voice whispered in his ear. Think of your father.

  Thank you, Mother. He'd worry about his sanity later.

  “How many of you have seen my father?” Silva said slowly. His gut, already queasy, clenched painfully. He hadn't spoken about his father, hadn't even admitted Dr. Tobias Vatic was his father, in years. “He’s missing an arm, melted off by the effects of rushing to accomplish a goal, when I was only twelve years old.” Silva paused to wipe a sleeve across suddenly wet eyes. He wasn't saying anything new. Why did saying it out loud abruptly make him feel like weeping? “He was a good man, like you are, but he acted in haste. I will not. For better or worse, I’m his son.”

  Why had he added that last sentence? Another tear flowed down his face. Being a mage is about control. Silva turned toward the door before he looked like a greater fool, forcing himself to walk instead of run.

  “Silva, if you'd reconsider,” Dr. Neran said, in a voice normally reserved for crazy people and mean dogs. “The good you could accomplish would–”

  Silva whirled. “I am not your trained monkey!” The words echoed in the silent ballroom. Shocked faces met Silva's gaze everywhere he looked. He fled as fast as his feet would carry him.

  The glow on Silva's robes winked out once he left the range of the clothier's spell, near the edge of the University grounds. Two blocks later, the clop of hooves approached. Silva's carriage pulled up next to him. Doris sat beside the coachman in the front.

  Silva kept walking. “Give your boss my thanks,” he said to Doris, without looking up. “I’ll walk home.”

  Doris hopped down and sent the carriage away with a gesture. “All the way to Winterhaven? After that performance, they’ll likely continue the stalled plan to open the dams, just to spite you. And anyway, he’s no longer my employer. I've accepted another opportunity elsewhere.”

  Silva gave Doris a sideways glance. “With whom?”

  “Why, with you. And I want a percentage. None of that straight salary …" He waggled a hand in the air. "…stuff. You scare the hell out of me, but fortunately for you, every worthwhile thing I have ever done in my life initially scared me half to death. Right now, I’m terrified.” He shot Silva a brittle grin. “We’re going to be amazing together.”

  Doris lived in an older section of the city. Large multi-roomed edifices which had been divided into smaller apartments when the original owners fell on hard times or moved to less crowded neighborhoods. His apartment appeared to have once been a two story tall sitting room or library, with old, waist-high wooden panels below burnished chair rails and lots of built-in bookshelves. In one corner, a granite counter, delft porcelain sink, and woodstove had been retrofitted, and porcelain tiles added to the wall above the chair rail, each painted with a different herb or flower. The loft at the top of an iron spiral stair appeared to be a bedroom. Lots of cushions and a pair of blankets draped haphazardly across a worn, but comfortable couch, next to a low table bearing an open, face-down book. Laundry dried on the banister. The entire effect was slightly cramped, slightly cluttered, but elegant.

  As he slept on the couch, Silva dreamed of the party. Although he recognized clothing and body builds, everyone was faceless, with blank patches of skin where eyes, nose and mouth should be. Everyone, except the boy.

  “Is this a prophetic dream?” Silva asked.

  “The future is in flux,” the boy replied with Mother's voice. “We can only see the linchpins of change, not the destination.”

  “And this boy is a linchpin?”

  “Among others.” The boy gestured toward the corner and Silva saw Kate also had a face. Everyone else in her group, even Drudge, was faceless. “Tonight, she changed the world, as your father did when he showed you his work. They are changing things still.”

  “My father’s in a hospital.”

  “Your father turned his last prison into a palace. A man can do a lot with a son’s love.”

  “That sounds like my mother, not a prophecy.”

  The boy shrugged. “Sometimes I’m both.”

  Silva woke with a blue-furred book wyrm on his chest, purring softly. He sneezed and tossed the animal aside. It strode away several feet, appearing offended, then industrially groomed its tail with its long, forked tongue, ignoring Silva entirely.

  “Good morning,” a stranger said. Like Doris, the man was clean shaven, but the similarity ended there. He was about Silva's age, dressed in only pants and suspenders, and moved with unconscious grace. Messy black hair topped his head but his bare, muscled chest was devoid of hair and striped with several dueling scars. He handed Silva a cup of the tea mixture Kate had nicknamed coffee. “Sleep well?”

  Silva pulled a blanket across his naked lap — the duelist was eying him a bit too intently — and sipped the warm drink gratefully.

  Before the situation could get more awkward, Doris breezed into the door. He wore the intense, tired look of a man who hadn't slept and had no intention of succumbing any time soon.

  “Oh, you’re both up. Good. Saves me making introductions. While you were resting, I've spoken to some people and–”

  “I need to see Kate,” Silva interrupted.

  Doris took a bleary moment to process. “Huh?”

  The shirtless man relaxed and smiled.

  “I need to track down Kate and I need you to find that boy which Dr. Neran dragged to the party. I had a dream about them.”

  “But my business plans …" Doris said, still looking confused.

  The stranger pulled on a shirt and kissed the back of Doris’s head. “You two have fun, I have to get to practice.”

  “Sword practice?” Silva asked.

  “Dance practice,” the man said, slipping on shoes without socks. “My name’s Layton. Make sure he gets a nap before he’s no use to anybody.”

  “No promises,” Silva replied as Layton left. He turned his attention back to Doris. “N
ow, about that boy …”

  At Drudge's house, Liam confided, with a little coaxing, neither Drudge nor Kate had returned from the party the night before. He promised to let them know Silva had stopped by, but wouldn't commit himself beyond that. Doris had more luck locating the boy.

  Later that day, Silva sat, in his regular robes, in a small house on the outskirts of town.

  “We’re from Winterhaven,” Mr. Fenwick, the boy’s father, explained unnecessarily. He had recognized the folks which used to run the sewing shop, even if they didn't recognize him. “When Charlie showed signs of magical ability, we moved to the capital to further his education. The University admission office says he has potential as a high level technician, but he’s yellowed enough that they won’t admit him as a mage. We heard what Dr. Neran and his team had done and contacted him. He said he could help.”

  What Dr. Neran had done in Winterhaven? Silva schooled his features and nodded serenely. Beside him on the couch, Doris began to snore softly.

  Mrs. Fenwick held up an envelope. “Last night he gave us our money back and said there was nothing he could do.” She held out the money to Silva.

  Silva took the envelope and riffled through the contents. There was more than enough here to pay for University tuition for several years. He looked around the house. The Fenwicks weren't prosperous. Outside of Winterhaven, the tailor couple's inability to power a sewing machine had likely been a major handicap. Silva was suddenly certain he was holding their entire life savings.

  This wasn't about him. Or his father. It never had been. Several thousand people had lived in Winterhaven when the disaster occurred. People who had done nothing wrong beyond being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Innocent people which now had a glimmer of hope. Doris snored again, interrupting Silva's thoughts.

  “I can’t accept this,” Silva said, and saw the hope leave their eyes. He counted out the percentage he promised Doris, woke him as he shoved the money in Doris's vest pocket, and handed the rest of the envelope back to the confused parents.