“I know,” Emily said, waspishly. “What sort of rumors are there?”
“A handful.” Caleb looked away. “Some say you were courting back during the war—the war here, I mean. Others... that you had a brief relationship in Zangaria that neither of you expected to last.”
Emily felt a hot flash of anger. She’d been dating Caleb, back during the Farrakhan War. She certainly hadn’t cheated on him, with Cat or anyone. And people were suggesting she had... she wanted to find the person who was spreading that rumor, all of the rumors, and tear him apart with her bare hands. There was a blatant double standard about female sexuality, even with regards to sorceresses, that never failed to grate. No one would have said anything if she’d been a man.
“I didn’t start a relationship with him until after I left Whitehall,” she said, truthfully. Caleb might have done something stupid if he’d thought otherwise. “And then he ditched me, when I lost my powers.”
“Idiot,” Caleb commented. “Didn’t he have faith you’d get them back?”
“I think he got bored awfully easily,” Emily said. “And things were boring...”
Caleb met her eyes. “Don’t make excuses for him,” he said, sharply. “He should have stayed with you. It wasn’t as if he had somewhere else to go.”
“I know.” Emily shook her head. “But... in some ways, it was a relief.”
She looked down at her hands, unsure of her feelings. It had been nice to be able to have a relationship without worrying about the future. And yet, as the relationship had grown, she had worried. Cat had told her, openly, that they couldn’t last. She’d had no way to predict how the relationship would end, but she’d known it would. She just wished she’d ended it on her terms.
And talking to Caleb about it doesn’t help, she thought, as she stood and smoothed out her dress. It’s too awkward to talk to him about relationships...
“You should find someone,” she said, tiredly. “Perhaps you should try Aloha.”
“She’s in the middle of a brilliant apprenticeship,” Caleb said. “And she wouldn’t look twice at me, in any case.”
“She will, when she sees what you can do.” Emily smiled. “And there are others.”
“Yes,” Caleb said. “Mother says the same.”
“If we agree, we have to be right.” Emily winked at him. “I’m sure you’ll be beating them off with sticks, soon enough.”
“Perhaps.” Caleb let out a sigh. “But whoever I choose has to be acceptable to my family.”
“Or you could just get married first, then tell them to put up and shut up,” Emily said, remembering how Caleb’s family hadn’t been sure how to treat her. “Melissa followed her heart.”
“Yes.” Caleb nodded, stiffly. “And just look at what it cost her. She was exiled, kicked out of her family. She was lucky her parents didn’t send assassins after her.”
He cleared his throat. “In any case, we have other things to worry about right now. I came to tell you that the next convoy has arrived.”
“Oh, good.” Emily accepted the change in subject without demur. “That will make some people very happy.”
“And then we can get down to some real work,” Caleb agreed. “I’m quite looking forward to it.”
Chapter Twelve
THE REST OF THE WEEK PASSED smoothly, somewhat to Emily’s surprise. A dozen convoys arrived from Farrakhan, bringing everything from new apprentices for the craftsmen to the supplies they’d need to turn their dreams into reality. Emily watched a small mountain of equipment—including a printing press and a forge—being unloaded, then steadily transferred into the storerooms next to the workshops. There was no shortage of magical supplies either, from potions ingredients to the tools and equipment enchanters used. It was costly—she knew she was spending more than she should, although it wasn’t as if the money was that useful sitting in a bank—but necessary. The university needed supplies to function.
Emily spent most of her time exploring the school, steadily clearing corridors and chambers for occupation while watching over Jayson’s shoulder as he struggled to put the library into some semblance of order. It wasn’t easy. The books had apparently been poorly organized even before the school had been attacked, forcing him to start again from scratch. Emily was mystified by the shortage of information about mirror magic beyond the very basics. There should have been something, even though it was a largely discredited branch of magic. But there was hardly anything...
She’d asked Imaiqah via chat parchment, as she’d studied it years ago, but her friend had little to say. She’d said that mirror magic was just tricks, little magics that didn’t lead anywhere. Imaiqah had dropped mirror magic as soon as she could. She didn’t feel it had any real potential.
Something was missing out of all that. Emily was certain. But what?
“We still don’t know where the necromancer slept,” Caleb pointed out, one evening. “Did he sleep in the nexus chamber?”
Emily shrugged. She still didn’t know if necromancers even needed to sleep, let alone where. But it was odd that they hadn’t found something. Where had the necromancer spent most of his time? The library? The nexus chamber? Or had he practically abandoned the school, himself, after discovering the nexus point was dead? Emily found it hard to believe—she would never have left the school, if she’d taken it by force—but she had to admit it was possible. The necromancer might not have been that interested in a dead nexus point and an empty building. There was no way to know.
On Saturday, she called the first meeting of the university board.
Emily wasn’t sure what the conference room had actually been, before it had been converted into a place for the board to meet. It looked like a study, just like the rooms she’d used at Whitehall, but it was considerably larger than any reserved for mere students. The round table was stone, not wood; the chairs were surprisingly elegant, for a school in a country where wood was relatively rare. Emily suspected they’d been imported in the years before Heart’s Eye was invaded and occupied. There would have been no trouble shipping them to the school through portals. It might not even have cost much either.
She would have preferred something a little more informal, but Caleb had impressed upon her—when they’d planned the session—that the first meeting of the university board had to be as formal as possible. The others had to enter the room first, with her entry—as the chair—serving as the signal the meeting was in session. It felt silly to Emily—not to mention pointless—but she knew that some magicians and aristocrats took formality very seriously. It was bad enough that Master Highland had wanted to replace the round table with a rectangle, something that would have suggested a hierarchy even among the board members. She’d had to overrule him on that one.
We’re meant to be equals, she thought, as she walked into the room. Master Highland and Senior Craftswoman Yvonne sat at opposite sides, both clearly pretending to ignore each other; Cirroc stood behind his master, holding a pen and a pad of paper. Alchemist Dram and Caleb sat together, the former looking mildly displeased; Professor Wyle sat alone, seemingly unbothered by his isolation. I’m going to have to have a talk with him, sooner or later.
She took her place at the de facto head of the table and looked around. Master Highland and Yvonne looked grimly determined, while the others were masking their thoughts and feelings. Caleb seemed nervous, but it was hard to be sure. They’d planned the session as best as they could, yet... there were limits to how much they could plan without knowing what everyone else would do. Sergeant Miles had drilled it into her head, time and time again, that no battle plan ever survived contact with the enemy. She supposed that was true of social planning too.
“Mistress Irene will not be here for another three weeks,” Emily said. It wasn’t much of an opening, but it would have to do. “When she arrives, she will be the chair. Until then, it will be me.”
There was dead silence, broken only by the scratching of Cirroc’s pen. Emily felt her lips
twitch. Master Highland had offered to chair the meetings, correctly guessing—no doubt—Emily wouldn’t want the job herself, but she’d turned him down. It would have put altogether too much power into his hands. Stalin had been a secretary, she recalled. It was hard to understand how he’d turned that post into the most powerful—and feared—dictatorship in human history, but he’d clearly done it somehow. The power to decide who should speak—and who should be heard—was not to be sniffed at. She wondered, morbidly, if she should keep an eye on Cirroc’s ambitions. He hadn’t raised any protest at being forced to take minutes.
And he’d probably sooner be flogged than do women’s work, Emily thought, although she didn’t think that personal assistants had to be female. King Randor’s assistants and secretaries had all been male. I wonder if he realizes just how much power he could claim if he tries?
She dismissed the thought and continued. “It’s been a week,” she said. “Before we start, does anyone have any concerns they wish to raise?”
Master Highland leaned forward. “Two mundanes entered the sorcerer’s dorm yesterday,” he said. “They could have been hurt.”
“They were invited into the dorm by a friend, who happened to be a magician,” Yvonne countered. “You can hardly blame them for taking up the invitation.”
“They shouldn’t have been invited into the dorm at all,” Master Highland snapped. “Their friend should have known better.”
“Then discuss the issue with him,” Yvonne said. “Unless, of course, you’re scared he might abandon you for us.”
Emily winced, inwardly. She’d never really liked it when her roommates—and dormmates—had invited strangers into the room. She had always felt exposed, even though she was perfectly safe. And, traditionally, a stranger couldn’t enter without permission. But... she shook her head. Permission had been granted. And no one had complained the visitors had overstepped their bounds.
“I don’t think we can bar people from inviting friends to their rooms,” she said, calmly. “And the dangers can be handled.”
“That brings us neatly to the first item on the agenda,” Caleb put in. “The rules.”
“Yes,” Emily said. “Open the folder.”
Caleb produced a leather folder and opened it to reveal a set of papers, which he placed on the table. “Given that most of our staff and students are supposed to be mature”—he ignored a handful of snorts—“we felt it was proper to minimize the number of rules. The ones we wrote are very basic, ranging from clear guidelines on social interaction to more specific rules regarding experiments, credit and patents. We welcome your input.”
Master Highland took a paper and scanned it. “You intend to ban students from practicing magic on each other?”
“Without consent,” Caleb said. “We don’t want someone walking down the corridor one moment and finding themselves a frog the next.”
“Students testing their powers on their fellows is a long-standing tradition,” Master Highland insisted. “And one that will significantly weaken our students, if abandoned.”
Emily felt a flash of angry, mingled with irritation. “Most of our students will be in their twenties,” she said. “Many of them will have already spent time at Whitehall or one of the other schools. They will already have had the advantages of learning magic in a place where they can—and perhaps will—be hexed without warning.”
She gritted her teeth. She understood the logic, but hated it. Some students might thrive in an environment that demanded they sink... or swim. Others wouldn’t do so well. The ones with less talent, the ones with less power... they’d suffer. Emily remembered some of the pranks played on her during her first few years at Whitehall. She’d been one of the lucky ones. Her reputation had provided some degree of protection. Others had been far less fortunate. She knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that toughening someone up could easily become bullying.
“And others do not have any magic,” she added, after a moment. “It would be unfair to ask them to compete in a game they couldn’t win.”
“We could tell the students not to practice their magic on mundanes,” Master Highland pointed out, coolly. “It would be simple enough.”
“But it would draw lines between magical and mundane students,” Emily countered. She wondered if he understood what it would really do. One group would look favored—and perhaps not the obvious one. People resented having to watch as others were given special treatment, even if—in an objective sense—they needed it. “Better to put a flat ban on magical mistreatment than try to pick and choose who gets to play.”
Master Highland scowled. “You run the risk of hampering their education.”
“They will have plenty of time to learn,” Emily said, reassuringly. “And they will learn other things too.”
“True.” Yvonne smiled, primly. “Praxis and I have already made strides by combining magical and mundane techniques to produce something new.”
“Good,” Emily said. She ignored Master Highland’s snort. “Do you have any objection to the rules, as stated?”
“Nothing in particular,” Yvonne said. “And I look forward to getting to work.”
Emily looked at Dram. “Alchemist?”
“It will not be easy to expand the alchemist apprentice program,” Dram said, curtly. “I can and I will lecture an entire group of students, but I would prefer one-to-one training for actual brewing. My apprentices and I have some ideas—I admit that—yet the risks are quite considerable and effectively impossible to surmount. Indeed, some potions must be brewed in complete isolation. We dare not let them be contaminated by others.”
“We may need to hire additional tutors,” Caleb said. He sounded as though he was trying to be very formal. “Can we not hire brewers, rather than full-fledged alchemists?”
“There are dangers in hiring brewers,” Dram said. “No brewer is ever aware of the subtleties of alchemy—if they were, they would be alchemical masters themselves. Their techniques are often lacking because they have no core understanding of what they’re doing. They might be able to teach individual potions, particularly the truly complex brews, but not the theory behind them.”
“We might trade,” Emily suggested. “They instruct our students in brewing; we teach them to become masters in their own right.”
“You misunderstand.” Master Highland’s voice was heavy with foreboding—and a hint of satisfaction. “A brewer would not be able to talk a student through the process, underlining what is actually happening as they worked. They would certainly be unable to relate what they’re doing to other potions, pointing out the similarities and differences. You would be hampering the students in the long term.”
“But if the students already understood, perhaps through reading, it wouldn’t matter,” Caleb said.
“Any fool can read a book,” Master Highland said. “But experience? That comes through doing—and it isn’t something that can be taught.”
“We will certainly be doing a lot of experimenting,” Dram said. He shot Master Highland a sharp look. “Given time, we will be able to figure out what works and what doesn’t.”
“We already know what works and what doesn’t,” Master Highland snapped.
“The whole point of this project is to figure out newer and better ways to do things,” Emily said. She kept her voice calm, somehow. “Not all of our ideas will work. Of course not—we’ll have a list of failures longer than my arm by the end of the year. But some of them will, and we will build on them.”
“Which brings us to the Sorcerer’s Rule,” Master Highland said. “You intend to overthrow it?”
“I intend to rewrite it, at least for people who do their research here.” Emily met his eyes, evenly. “You know as well as I do that expense is one of the great limiting factors in research, mundane as well as magical. If we underwrite a researcher’s expenses, we should have a right to share in the proceeds.”
“More than just a right to claim the profit,” Master Highland
stated. He picked up one of the papers and waved it at her. “You intend to share what they discover with other researchers.”
“Yes.” Emily didn’t look away. “Every discovery, magical and mundane, is based on a previous discovery. The researchers didn’t need to reinvent the wheel every time they wanted to invent something new. They worked on what they already had and improved it. I understand the Sorcerer’s Rule—and yes, I have benefited from it—but it is also a barrier to innovation. If someone works here—if we fund their work—we want the right to share their work with others, who may improve upon it.”
“And how do we prove,” Master Highland asked, “who made the first discovery?”
“There are spells to detect lies,” Caleb said. “And anyone who tried to claim a new discovery could surely show their work.”
“Perhaps.” Master Highland didn’t sound convinced. “It won’t sit well with the traditionalists.”
Including you, Emily thought. And you might have a point.
She put the thought to one side and leaned forward. “We’re not trying to stop the traditionalists from being traditional,” she said. “We’re just trying to find newer and better ways to do things.”
“And we do have a model for how the system works,” Yvonne inserted. “The Patent Office in Cockatrice works surprisingly smoothly. People who make discoveries have to share what they’ve discovered, true, but they also profit from their inventions. Quite a few craft shops and factories are based on a single discovery—and the profit that resulted.”
“We shall see,” Master Highland said. “I submit that many traditionalists will not join.”
“Then they will be left behind,” Emily said. “A thousand minds are better than one.”
“If only that were true,” Master Highland muttered.
Emily shrugged. He’d see the truth of it soon enough. The innovations she’d introduced had been very basic, by earthly standards, but the locals had taken the ideas she’d given them and run with them. She hadn’t predicted just how quickly steam engines would make their appearance, or muskets and blunderbusses. It was just a matter of time before newer and better steamboats started appearing on the rivers and heading down to the open seas. None of the locals had come up with the ideas themselves, but once they’d been gifted the concept... she smiled. It was astonishing just how much could be done if one crowd-sourced one’s ideas.
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