by Garon Whited
There are a few possibilities, but no one that really stands out to her.
The city of Mochara is famed as a place where everyone is a wizard. That’s technically true, insofar as everyone who has more magical sensitivity than an eggplant knows a spell or two, but very few of them make it their actual career. I’d say they aren’t wizards, just people who know a few spells. Wizards tinker with the things. Most people in Mochara are rather like very-low-grade magicians; they were trained well enough to memorize a few convenient spells and that’s about it.
Sadly, there seems to be little or no interest in the science I brought. I talked myself hoarse to give them the secrets a whole other world struggled to discover, and everyone seems to be, “Oh, I can use numbers on a lever to calculate how much force it exerts? That’s nice. How about I just try it, and get a longer lever if I need one?”
Magic, they care about. Reading, they care about, at least a little. Science and technology are just too much work.
I am sad.
Is that a cultural thing, I wonder? They think in terms of magic, rather than how to make the world work without it. Or is it the fact that magic is so pervasive and obvious? When you can violate the “laws” of science by an act of will, it might be difficult to have any faith in them.
Would this attitude change if I insisted? If I had been here for the last few decades, would my attitude toward this stuff have changed theirs? Or would I be slowly influenced by their point of view? Interesting question. I tend to mix my magic and science already.
Still, I suppose I should admit to unrealistic expectations. I thought that they would have something along the lines of, say, the Victorian era technology—rudimentary steam engines, for example. But they haven’t much technological change. True, they make a better grade of steel, but that’s hardly a cultural revolution. They just don’t have any impetus to change! Why develop a steam engine if it doesn’t have a job to do? Why build a hot-air balloon if you don’t see a need for one?
They have changed, at least a little, on the cultural front. Hellas becoming a Duchess helped, as did Tamara sitting on the throne of Karvalen. I’d like to think my repeated insistence that women be treated like people, instead of property, might have had something to do with it, too. Daughters are still often stuck with an arranged marriage, but it’s become less common. There are even a few women who have their own businesses—Tort being a perfect example. True, most of the other women’s businesses are things like tailoring or laundry. But Mochara has one seafront inn that I would call a restaurant with rooms, and one printing shop, both owned and operated by ladies.
They need the printer, too. Since literacy is now pretty much a given, it’s no longer something people regard as impressive. Now, if someone can’t read, they’re kind of looked down upon. Peer pressure can be used for good, apparently.
Can I take credit for all that? No. But I am pleased I gave them a good push in that direction.
“Because you stressed so forcefully that concept of ‘equality,’—no, let me begin again,” Tort said. “You inner circle discussed that concept and had no idea what you meant.”
“I thought I was pretty clear on it,” I said. “I mean, I’m against treating people differently based on just some—” I broke off when Tort held up a hand.
“Please? People are not equal, not in all ways, and seldom in any particular way. Someone is always stronger, slower, smarter, or something. Yet you wished them all to be treated as though they were the same. It took some time, but they settled on a definition of this ‘equality’ thing you so favored. Would you like to hear it?”
“Oh, this should be good.” Tort smiled at me.
“The idea was all should be allowed to rise in whatever fashion his merits permitted. If a boy wished to sew, if his talents would take him to a tailor’s life, then so be it. If a girl wished to be a jeweler, then, if her talents permitted…
“As a result,” she went on, “many children are traded—not in the literal sense—to other families for their apprenticeships. A cobbler’s son might be traded to a butcher for a daughter who likes making shoes. A child might be traded several times before he finds something suited to his talents and temperament. And, on occasion, a man might give a child to another family, along with a gift.”
“Such as the cobbler trying to trade with a jeweler?” I guessed.
“Quite possibly. There are many occupations that require considerable talent, and those who fail to demonstrate it must seek elsewhere.”
“Seems to me that this kind of invites kids to drift around for a couple of years, just sampling different… hmm. I’m not sure that would actually be a bad thing, come to think of it. Would you say that most people in Mochara are happy in their work?”
“I would. Those who are not tend to seek new employment.”
“And they can?”
“Of course. All the skilled trades are in demand. Even wizardry.” She smiled. “Professional wizards, I mean.”
“But you and T’yl are the only magicians?”
“I am.”
Ouch.
Which, of course, brought up the subjects of her foot and my as-yet-unfulfilled promise to grow a new one for her. We started working out some of the details.
Interlude
Tyrecan and Rakal rose from their chairs, stretching tiredly. Parrin’s hired wizards remained seated, exhausted to the point of unconsciousness. The two magicians regarded the empty husk of their compatriot. Hagus’ body twitched slightly as its nervous system continued to shut down.
“I didn’t know he could do that,” Rakal said, quietly. Tyrecan said nothing, eyeing the corpse and trembling. Rakal continued with, “The Prince isn’t going to be happy about this.”
“He’s not going to be happy?” Tyrecan repeated. “I was involved in that spell! So were you. If he’d been a little quicker, or a little better-trained, he might have worked back through Hagus to us.”
“That… hadn’t occurred to me.” Rakal looked slightly ill. “I also didn’t know Hagus felt that strongly about nightlords. Did you know he hated them?”
“No. I would never have let him try this if I had,” Tyrecan replied. “We can’t afford to let his mortal form die. You know what happens to the blood when the thing dies.”
“I remember the experiments with Keria’s blood,” Rakal agreed, then changed the subject. “Did you see what happened to him? Was it our men who got to him before sunset?”
“I’ve been in a dream-spell, remember?”
“Right. Sorry. Take a look, will you?”
Tyrecan drew a crystal pendant from beneath his robes, regarded it for several seconds. He put it away again, frowning.
“Yeah, our guys reached him.”
“Good.”
“His horse reached him first.”
“Not good?”
Tyrecan moved his finger in a throat-cutting gesture. Rakal frowned.
“Are we sure he didn’t fry?” Rakal persisted.
“He looked completely intact. None of his gear seems even singed.”
“Then… maybe we can avoid discussing Hagus’ feelings on the matter. The plan failed because of the metal horse. Parrin doesn’t need to know the rest.”
“Probably best. I’ll talk with the Prince as soon as I feel a little stronger,” Tyrecan said, gloomily. “What do we do next?”
“If Hagus failed to keep him busy while our men captured him, I’m supposed to throw something big at him,” Rakal said. “I get the impression from passing remarks that the prince is also planning a simple assassination attempt—some muscle and a hired magician.”
“He found someone stupid enough to go along? Who?” Tyrecan asked, curious.
“I’m not sure. I think it’s Trezik.”
“The guy with the fetish for translocation?”
“That’s him.”
“Does he know who he’s going after?”
“I strongly doubt it. It was supposed to be just us three
in on the deal.” Rakal shrugged. “If he wants to hire people as expendable resources, I’m for it. I’d rather not be regarded as expendable.”
“I’m not sure what to make of this plan. First, he says we have to capture him alive, but he insists on sending assassins and monsters to try and kill him. I don’t understand it.”
“He says it’s part of the plan,” Rakal sighed.
“Do you think he’s keeping to the deal?” Tyrecan asked, bluntly. Rakal glanced at the wizards in the chairs. They seemed unconscious, but it was best to take no chances. Rakal touched a finger to his ear and mouth, then nodded at the chairs.
“Of course,” he said, shaking his head in the negative. “I trust him implicitly,” he added, drawing a finger across his throat.
Tyrecan nodded tiredly. Rakal snapped his fingers and a pair of black mists rolled up from the shadows, coalesced into small, muscular Things. They spoke in a strange tongue, all gutturals and lisps. Rakal answered in the same language and indicated the corpse of the former magician. The Things seized the body and took it out.
Rakal glanced at the exhausted wizards, shrugged, and left them alone to recover. Tyrecan recovered his staff from beside his chair and the pair of magicians walked slowly from the room, blue robes and black ones whispering around their ankles.
“I still think we should try to get something out of Keria,” Tyrecan remarked, quietly.
“I don’t,” Rakal replied. “She’s not a living nightlord.”
“I know, but you could remove the—”
“Look,” Rakal snapped, “we’ve had this discussion before and I’m tired of it. Let me put this to rest. I’ve studied this sort of thing for most of my well-extended life. You don’t want to ingest anything that a demon has touched, much less possessed. I could purge her by fire or light, but she’s polluted, got that? If we want nightlord blood, there’s only one place to get it.”
They walked in silence for several paces.
“What about another gate?” Tyrecan asked, suddenly. “The Hand went hunting for the things through a gate. There’s one in Zirafel and in Tamaril. Couldn’t we use one of those?”
“The Hand,” Rakal said, patiently, “was an organization of hundreds of professional monster-hunters. They had a god on their side, and look what happened to them. This one nightlord is problem enough. I don’t want to even think about where he comes from or how many more like him there might be. One is bad enough; do you want a dozen of him roaming around?”
“We’d have more choice,” Tyrecan muttered.
“Maybe so. But, for now, we don’t have any.”
They walked in silence for several moments, ignoring the palace servants that bowed and stepped aside when they passed.
“When are we heading back to Vathula?” Tyrecan asked.
“Tonight, probably. It’s a better place for a demon-sending, and I have to keep a close eye on Keria.”
“I’ll get the rest of my gear. We’re using a skyboat?”
“Yes. I’ll be conjuring it myself.”
“I’ll see you at the south tower, then.”
Wednesday, April 21st
Year 87 of the Kingdom of Karvalen
Day Four of the King’s Return
Nuts to that. Let’s just go with April 21st.
Technically, it’s the second day of Tosil, or about a month after the start of Spring, but “April” is a calendar month I can relate to. The local calendars are a bunch of gibberish to me.
Although it was nice to know that I was reasonably close with my guess of a hundred years. Eighty-seven isn’t too far off. Still disturbing, in some respects—that’s a hell of a nap—but at least I knew somebody who was still around. I could still pretty much assume that it was a whole new world, though, from the standpoint of all-new people.
For those of you who may be new to the immortality thing, bear in mind that one human lifetime is the same thing as forever. If you leave someplace for longer than anyone there will live, when you go back, it will be a strange place.
Which means I can go ahead and miss Raeth and Bouger, Riddle and Esmun and Hellas… how many other people? Everyone. I can literally miss everyone. It’s not a question of going looking for them to see them again; they’re gone. And I can miss them.
I can also miss Shada, but I don’t want to think about that. It still hurts a little even to miss Sasha, too. Does it make me a bad person that I don’t want to think about them? Or just a weak person, because I don’t want to hurt that much?
It also means that when I screw my courage to the sticking-place and finally go see my children… my god, my kids are eighty-seven! They went from unborn to senior citizens while I was having a nap!
I know kids grow up fast, but that’s extreme.
Hmm. Has eighty-seven years gone by back home? It should be near the year 2100 now. I wonder if I can find a gate and borrow it. I’d like to pop home for a bit and see what’s become of the place. Magic and swords and all that are fun for a while, but I miss showers, microwaves, television, and toilet paper.
Yesterday was a busy day.
Morning came and went before Tort finished bringing me up to speed on Mochara, Karvalen, and the kingdom in general.
Incidentally, “Karvalen” can mean either the mountain itself, or the kingdom as a whole. How do you tell the difference? I have no idea. I’m relying on context clues, myself.
Tort decided to nap for a while; I spent most of the day reviewing the prototype spell and the process that might help her grow back a foot. A lot of that was in my mental study, in the workroom, because things go much faster in there; I spent the equivalent of several days running simulations on it.
The papers are still everywhere, but they’re slowly being sorted into stacks. Progress! I imagined some cookies and a glass of milk and left them on my desk. When I came out of the lab, they were gone. The butler/sorter didn’t mention anything and I disposed of the dishes.
When I came out of my head for lunch, I made the acquaintance of Pilea, Tort’s housemaid. She was apparently under orders to feed me as much as possible, a prospect that I did nothing to discourage. I learned that I much prefer bland food, however; my sense of taste is much more sensitive than I recall. Oatmeal, for example, is not known for its flavor, yet I find it quite pronounced—now. God forbid I run into anything spicy! Imagine flavors turned up as high as the brightness on a cloudless summer sky.
Tort woke up that afternoon, kissed my cheek, and told me she had some calls to make—magicians have to earn a living, too, apparently. I wished her luck and went back to refining the details of my new spell, going over its construction and effects. Revising its code, if you will.
Tort and I discussed it over dinner that evening. She had a number of healing spells, none of which would do the job, but they were interesting, nonetheless. I could see how they worked when she assembled them, and, like any good computer programmer, I shamelessly swiped chunks of them for modification and use in my own designs.
I think that scandalized Tort a bit. She’s not used to thinking of spells as things to take apart and rearrange. She didn’t actually say anything, though. It’s her leg I plan to work on, after all.
“How long do you think it will be before we are ready to attempt this spell?” she asked.
“I’d like to wait until after nightfall,” I told her. “I can see life more easily then, and link it to you more carefully.”
“Nightfall?” she asked, surprised again. “You mean to do this tonight?”
“Well, yeah. Of course.” Then I saw what she meant. “Oh, no, it won’t grow back in a single night. It’ll take time, and lots of it. Days. Maybe weeks. But we can put the spell on tonight and watch it over the next few days to see how its working, or if we need to make changes.”
“Ah. I had thought a new spell would… yes. Of course. Forgive me, my angel; I was startled.”
“Think nothing of it. I’m going to go hide in that closet again, though, if you don
’t mind.”
“I shall await you here.”
Sunset did its thing, which I endured with my usual stoicism and only a little gritting of the teeth. And a cleaning spell—of all the spells I know, I’m really good with that one. Right after that, I was back in with Tort.
She sat in a cushioned chair and took off her false foot. It stood by itself next to her chair, which I thought was a little creepy.
Tort lifted her robe to show me her shortened leg. I knelt and held it in my hands, examining it. Most of the shin was still there, but the muscle around it was badly lacking. Comparing it to her good leg, it seemed structurally sound, at least until the cutoff point. That was good; it meant there was less to do with the existing flesh. I wanted a good, solid foundation for this, or at least definite mounting points.
Tort had thoughtfully provided a charcoal pencil; I started some preliminary magical drawing on her lower leg when the front door thudded several times. Probably someone’s idea of knocking. As I realized that, I also realized I was already on my feet, sword drawn, and moving toward the door. Damned reflexes. I jerked to a halt and resheathed my sword. Tort bit her lips again, trying to restrain a smile.
Paranoid? Maybe. But people are out to get me. Maybe paranoia is just a good grasp of what’s going on.
“Oh, go ahead,” I told her. “If you laugh at me, maybe it’ll encourage me to be a little less reactive.”
“As you wish.” She pulled her enchanted foot back on and walked to the door. “Who is it?”
“It’s us, Lady Tort!”
Why is it that when you knock on someone’s door and they ask who it is, the default answer is something like that? “It’s me!” seems redundant, doesn’t it? It’s silly. It’s like the knocker expects whoever it is to just know them, and is surprised when they are not instantly recognized through two inches of oak.