The Locksmith

by Howe, Barbara;

  Mrs Cole stared at him. “Take her away? Why, what is she going to do?”

  “Arturos will be tutoring her and René in practical witchcraft, starting this afternoon. Tomorrow they will be practicing with Arturos in the morning and continuing with their studies in theory in the afternoon.” He gave Mrs Cole a condensed, matter-of-fact version of the previous day’s events, leaving out the high drama. He did not give any information about levels, just stating that I was a more powerful witch than he had suspected.

  Mrs Cole’s head swivelled back and forth between the Warlock and me as he talked. She stared at him a bit longer, and said, “I can see there’s more here than you’re telling me, but don’t worry, I’ll keep my eyes open and my mouth shut.”

  He bowed to her, saying, “Thank you, my dear, I knew I could count on you.”

  On her way out, she whispered to me, “If you need a hug or a shoulder you know where to find me.” She patted my hand and scurried away.

  The Warlock told me to wait, and left by a different door.

  I walked across the room to the marble table, and sat in one of the metal chairs, scuffing my toes on the flagstone floor. My nearly empty stomach growled. How angry would he be if I ran away? Not that I would. If I was a witch, I was going to be a scorcher of a good one.

  The Warlock returned with Master Sven, René, and Arturos. Arturos and René went to inspect the contents of the boxes on the metal shelves at the far end of the room while he related the same story to Master Sven.

  The tutor looked startled but delighted, and offered to help with our training in any way he could. “Should René and Lucinda continue as they have been in general theory, or should we focus on specific areas, to reinforce what they will be doing in the practical arts?”

  The Warlock said, “Yes, indeed, I was coming to that. I do want a change of focus. The three of you will learn what you can about locks.”

  Master Sven looked taken aback. “Er, Your Wisdom, I know next to nothing about locks. I don’t even know where to begin.”

  The Warlock flicked his wand at the table and two piles of books appeared, a short stack of about half a dozen, and a much larger pile.

  “You will begin here. These are all the books I have found in the past century that address locks, and as you can see there are few. This stack,” he tapped a book on top of the big pile with the butt of his wand, “reduces to this, if you eliminate the repetitions and plagiarisms.” There were now three where there had been three dozen. “In a few months’ time, you will all be world experts on locks. Is that a fair trade for keeping their studies a secret for the present?”

  Master Sven said, “Why do…” and then a most extraordinary set of expressions flitted across his fair face—surprise, comprehension, shock, horror, before settling into resolution. “Yes, Your Wisdom, quite fair. I will do my best, sir.”

  I turned away. Sven was not helping me calm down.

  René and Arturos came towards us carrying a box of candles. The three wizards and René discussed how to begin, and Master Sven left to go back to his other students.

  The Warlock said, “Most of what you need to learn, Arturos will teach you, but there is one area neither of us knows much about. Lucinda, I want you to teach René your lock.”

  “I don’t know what I did, sir. How can I teach it to someone else?”

  “Attempting to explain it to René may help you clarify it in your own mind.”

  “Yes, sir. I’ll try.”

  “Thank you, my dear.” Then, leading me out of earshot, he said, “I want a private chat with you later. Come up to my study when Beorn is through with you here.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good girl,” he said, and left.

  “Yesterday, you proved beyond a doubt to Jean and me that you are a fire witch,” Beorn said. “Today, you’re going to prove it to yourself.” He set a candle in a candlestick on the table in front of me. “You are going to light a candle.”

  I backed away as if it had fangs. “How do I do that?”

  “You combine your ability to create mental models of physical objects and real events with your innate ability—commonly referred to as magical talents—to apply the changes you make to the models in your mind back into the real world. The making and reshaping of mental models is the first and most fundamental of the four magics. All humans have that ability to a greater or lesser extent.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Yes, sir. I know, that’s basic theory.”

  I knew that manipulating the mental models does not always go hand in hand with magical talent. Some mundanes—scholars, inventors, craftsmen, mathematicians among them—manipulate the mental models. Some witches and wizards—the annoying troublemakers the guilds have to spend too much time policing—direct the energy without understanding what they are doing.

  The witches and wizards that are most valued are those adept with both the mental models and the flow of energy in the physical world. I had the mental capacity, but I would have to practice to become proficient at using my talent. The Fire Guild Council would never let an untrained warlock run loose, and I didn’t want to spend the rest of my life with them breathing down my neck.

  I said, “I meant—how do I get started? I’ve never done this before.”

  Beorn scratched his chin. “Oh. Interesting question. Most youngsters arriving here have been making nuisances of themselves, like René, by setting fires right and left without meaning to. I can tell you what I do, but the form of the mental models varies from person to person, and the key to tapping the energy also varies. What works for me may not work for you…”

  “Go on. What do you do?”

  “I’m tactile. The key for me when I was first starting out was rubbing my fingers together, feeling the energy between them. Now I do it in my head, but it still feels like flames are dancing on my fingertips.”

  I shuddered. I’d burnt my fingers too many times in the kitchen. “What about you, René?”

  “The first time I used magic I was cold and wanted a fire. I pretended I was listening to the sound of the fire burning in the fireplace. Then I thought I wanted to hear that same sound coming from right in front of me, and there it was.”

  “Yes, that simple,” Beorn said. “What happened when you created your lock?”

  “I imagined the writing in my mind’s eye, and saw a bright flame dancing along the lines.”

  “Your mental models seem to be textual and visual. Perhaps you should try imagining the sight of a flame on the candle.”

  Nothing happened.

  He grinned. “Maybe you should unlock first.”

  Feeling sheepish, I released the lock and tried again. Still nothing happened.

  “Hmmm, maybe not just a flame. How about the flame you were using on the text?”

  I brought up the mental image again, and blinked away the written words, leaving just the flickering flame. I moved the flame so that it danced on the candle. Still nothing. I glared at it. Light the candle, drat you!

  René jumped backwards three feet as the candle exploded in a foot-long column of burning wax. My jaw dropped open. Beorn’s laugh echoed through the big room. “Ha, ha, knew you could do it, ha, ha, just a little problem of control, ha, ha, ha.”

  “I did that?”

  “You betcha. Now you see why there’s no burnable furniture in this room.” He put another candle in the candlestick. “Try it again, more gently this time.”

  I imagined the flame shrinking until it was a mere spark. Again, nothing happened until I ordered it to light the candle. A red glow that lasted a few seconds appeared on the wick, then went out with a thin trail of smoke.

  “Much better. What did you do to make it work?”

  I told him about both the images and the words.

  “Interesting. What happens if you think at it, without the image o
f the flame there, too?”

  Nothing happened. I was soon convinced that I needed both the visual image and the words.

  He said, “A little unusual, but we already knew you were that. Not that it matters. The important thing is finding out what works for you. Now both of you practice lighting candles until you can get the size of flame you want.”

  We practiced for the better part of an hour. I judged the amount of energy needed better than René, despite his already having used magic for some time. As we worked, something wound up tight inside me let go, and I began to enjoy myself. I picked up a bunch of candles with both hands, and lit them all, one after another, with flames all the same size. I grinned at Beorn. “I’m a fire witch. I am a fire witch.”

  He grinned back, and winked. “You’re going to have to work hard, René, or you won’t be able to hold a candle to her.”

  Later, Beorn set us to lighting other small things such as paper, wood chips, and pieces of kindling. When we started, lighting the candle seemed one of the easiest things I had ever done. After three hours, I ached, and the flame seemed like a real flame burning my eyes. René looked exhausted. He might have given up much earlier if he’d been willing to admit a girl could get the better of him.

  Arturos let us stop when I lost control, and scorched entire sheets of paper instead of lighting corners.

  The Warlock had said to come see him when we were done. I put my head down on the marble table and cried.

  An Argument with the Warlock

  The Fire Warlock wanted to talk about the prospect of me someday becoming the Fire Warlock. Why else would he want to talk to me alone, in his study? And what was he going to say when I broached a subject both he and Master Sven have warned me away from?

  My body trudged on its own accord towards the stairs. My head pounded, stomach growled, muscles ached, and eyes burned. I would rather go to bed. I would rather go back to Lesser Campton. I would rather go just about anywhere else.

  The Fortress, as a rule, was never a noisy place, but down on the level of the library there were the small sounds of scholars and staff moving about and talking in low voices, and the kitchen with its fire and bubbling pots of soup was never quiet. The silent stairs carried me away from those whispers. In the stillness, my own breathing seemed raucous. It was cold, too, even in August.

  Mrs Cole had directed me to take the middle set of stairs (there was a set at each end of the Fortress, plus a grand one in the centre) and go to the first door on the right in the uppermost level. As the last flight of stairs rose, my heart sank. The double doors of carved mahogany, more than twice my height, were as intimidating as the entrance to the Fortress from Blazes. I couldn’t knock on that.

  He opened the door as I stepped off the stairs, and ushered me in.

  Floor-to-ceiling windows marched along the outer wall. He gestured towards chairs by a window, and I waded across a carpet the size of the Rubierre town square. The carpet glowed in reds, yellows, and oranges against dark carved panelling on the other three walls.

  I sat in an armchair upholstered in dark red. The chair fit as if it had been made for me. I ran my hands over the chair arms and marvelled at the softness of the leather. How many calves died to upholster this room? They didn’t get this off of Old Bessie.

  Under my skirt, I slipped my feet out of my shoes and dug my toes into the rich pile. My feet could be comfortable, even if my head wasn’t.

  The Warlock took a chair facing me. We studied each other for a few moments. He looked weary and out of sorts, and cleared his throat twice. He didn’t want to talk to me, either. My stomach fluttered.

  He said, “I am sorry you had a bad night. There are sleeping draughts you may take if you wish, although I would not advise taking them often. You will have to ride out the nightmares sooner or later.”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you, but I knew that. That’s not what I’m concerned about.” I took a deep breath, then said in a rush, “Your Wisdom, does René know he’s a level five?”

  He sat with his arms folded, his eyes guarded, a slight frown on his face. “No, because he is not one.”

  “Not yet, but you think he will be, otherwise why would you be spending so much effort on his education?”

  “Yes. He came here already a level three, and most people do not display that level of talent until well into puberty. A good thing, too. Can you imagine what the world would be like if we had to deal with four-year-old warlocks throwing temper tantrums? The human race would not have survived this long.”

  “Yes, sir, but about René?”

  “His talent outstripped his emotional maturity, and he was causing problems for everyone, including himself. I put a geas on him to prevent him using his magic until he had a better understanding of what he was doing, and the possible consequences.”

  “So why have you changed your mind? Why now, and why so much secrecy? Are you going to tell him? I think you should.”

  His frown deepened; the black brows drew together and his eyes grew even more guarded. He took a deep breath, and seemed to be choosing his words with care.

  I said, more sharply than I had intended, “Don’t lie to me, sir.”

  “Of course not,” he snapped. “Surely your parents told you, never, ever lie to a warlock.”

  “Of course they did, sir. So?”

  “Fool girl, are you forgetting you are a warlock? It applies to me, too. If I lied to you it would come back to bite me.”

  Maybe there was something to be said for being a warlock. “Aren’t you lying to René?”

  “I most certainly am not.” The glower got even deeper. “I have not told him everything I know. That is not the same thing.”

  “It’s close enough, if it misleads him.”

  “I am not misleading him. I am not burdening him with information he is not yet mature enough to handle. You did not like the suggestion he made yesterday that you might someday be the Warlock; you fainted. How well do you think a twelve-year-old will deal with that news? He might either be so scared by the idea that he would cower under the bed—”

  “Not René.”

  “No, probably not. Or he might be so thrilled that he swaggers about and lords it over everyone else who is not level five.”

  “Or it might make him think and start to settle down to deal with consequences and control issues. That’s what you want, isn’t it? Beorn has been trying to make him appreciate the value of control, but he’s not likely to understand if he doesn’t see that that it applies to him.”

  “Enough. I did not invite you here to argue about René.”

  I glared at him with my arms crossed. He sat with his fingers steepled, eyes closed. After a bit, he went on in milder, almost placating, tones, “You may indeed be right about René. It has not been clear to me how I should handle him. I do not promise that I will tell him, but I will give your argument serious thought. I trust you will be content with that.”

  The Fire Warlock backing down? Miracles still happened. The throbbing in my head diminished. “Yes, sir.”

  He rubbed his eyes, and appeared to stifle a yawn. “Part of my concern about telling him is that he would have difficulty in keeping the secret, even with magic protecting it. Both he and you need breathing room in which to come to grips with your own powers before having to face the world with them. You are unusual in exhibiting strong talents without having developed defences at lower levels. There are forces in the outer world that would seize this opportunity and strike down an emerging warlock. We must keep your talents secret as long as possible, so that neither of you attract attention from our enemies until you can defend yourselves.”

  “I’m sorry, Your Wisdom. I should have known you would have good reasons.”

  “You need not apologise. It is good for me to have you take me to task. There are far too few people who are willing to do so.”
/>
  He was thanking me for arguing with him? I stared at him.

  “For someone who is usually so mild,” he said, with his ghost of a smile, “you can put up a good fight.”

  “Do I, sir? I don’t mean to. I mean I…”

  He chuckled, dark eyes dancing. “You mean you would rather not fight if you did not have to. Correct?” I nodded. “But you have the intelligence, backbone, and other characteristics needed to put up a good fight if you feel you must protect someone you care about, like René, or your stepsister Claire.

  “I know you rather well. If not before yesterday,” he said drily, “certainly now. If the Office ever lands on your reluctant shoulders, you will carry it with more grace and wit than some of the more ambitious but less sensible warlocks who have coveted it.”

  The throb in my head came back, fiercer than before. “That’s what you wanted to talk to me about, wasn’t it, sir? About being a warlock?”

  “Actually, no.” He acknowledged my surprise with a small smile. “I would rather not talk about that, but I suppose I must.” There was no trace of laughter about his eyes now. “Let me reassure you it is improbable you will ever be the Fire Warlock, nor is it likely to happen for many years, if it ever comes to that. I am not a seer, I cannot predict the future with any certainty, but I can say that I and all the other male warlocks will do our best to prevent that from ever happening.”

  “But how can you prevent it? Doesn’t it always go to the oldest warlock? Won’t it be my turn someday?”

  “Certainly not. That is an old wives’ tale told by people who do not understand how the Office works.”

  “But I thought…”

  “No, the original texts left by the Great Coven confirm they never intended for the Office to choose the Warlock. That was a back-up plan, in case the recently deceased Warlock had failed in his responsibility of anointing his successor. The Office has some discretion; it will not choose either Warlock Nostradamus, whose mind is not up to the task, or Warlock Venturos, whose body is not. Further, it will choose a woman only if there are no competent male warlocks left. You look too happy, girl—you make me nervous.”