“You did well,” Zed said, sounding as though each of the words cost him dearly. “It will take you months of practice to become a reliable brewer, at least of Manaskol, but you have successfully created your first batch. I believe you are now ready to move on to more advanced brews.”
Emily winced. Manaskol had twenty-one steps, all of which had to be completed perfectly or the mixture would explode, evaporate or become a useless sludge. The thought of something worse, something that needed more steps to brew, was horrific. But she wanted to master the art, no matter how many problems it caused her. The more she knew, the better the magician she would be.
“Thank you, sir,” she said, out loud.
Zed nodded, then led the way into his private brewing chamber. A large tome sat on the desk, already opened at a specific recipe. Emily sat down when he indicated the chair, and started to read her way through a complex potion that seemed to have no understandable purpose. It looked as though the title had been carefully removed before the book had been placed on the desk. Puzzled, she glanced at the recipes to either side and found two recipes that were equally unmarked.
“Sir,” she said slowly, “what is this potion meant to do?”
“You’re meant to figure it out,” Zed said. He jabbed a finger towards the single bookcase, then smiled at her, humorlessly. “You can consult the textbooks if you wish, but I expect you to work out precisely what the potion does and then justify your results to me.”
Emily sighed as she returned her gaze to the tome. Professor Thande was fond of making them want to think–or so he put it–by telling them to figure out why they needed certain ingredients to make a certain potion, but he’d never given them a recipe and told them to work out what it did. That was supposed to be advanced work, if a student stayed at Whitehall for Fifth and Sixth Year. By then, they would either have a sense for what the potion was supposed to do, or be willing to put in a great deal of research for an answer that might well be meaningless.
She sighed, again, as she ran her gaze down the list of exotic ingredients. She’d never been a good cook–she’d never been able to afford the ingredients that would have allowed her to experiment–but alchemy was often completely counter-intuitive. Professor Thande’s zany nature, she’d been told, was part of what made him such a successful alchemist. He would ask himself what would happen if he added Eye of Newt or Tongue of Bat to a brew, while Emily would dismiss the idea as worthless. But alchemy suggested it wasn’t worthless...
“Yes, sir,” she said. “Can I have a sheet of parchment?”
Zed produced several cheap sheets without comment. Emily took one and started to write down the ingredients she knew, then went to the bookcase. Every alchemical classroom had a set of standard reference works updated every five years by the Alchemist’s Guild. Professor Thande had complained, quite often, that every five years wasn’t often enough; Emily had a feeling that the printing press would ensure that new textbooks would be produced every year, if not every month. There was always a new alchemical discovery to study.
Scanning the shelves, she found one of the standard textbooks and started to look up the ingredients, one by one. The pattern that emerged in front of her, though, made little sense. It almost seemed to be a delayed action potion, yet there was a quite staggering amount of magic worked into the liquid, carefully bound together by alchemical processes she didn’t even begin to understand. And the final component, the introduction of blood from the intended user, suggested that the potion was highly personalized.
She looked up at Zed and knew the answer. “This is the Royal Bloodline,” she said. “Isn’t it?”
The insight gave her new understanding. There were ingredients intended to promote muscle growth, shaping a child in the womb; ingredients intended to promote mental development, although there were limits to how far magic could enhance a person’s mind. But all of them would only take effect in the next generation, not the current one. The person who drank the potion would draw no direct benefit from it. Only his or her children would reap the rewards.
If there aren’t hidden drawbacks, Emily thought, as she returned the book to the shelf and walked back to the table. The Royal Bloodline had also rendered its users much less fertile. In the past, King Randor had no shortage of royal mistresses–the temptation to act like Henry VIII must have been overpowering–but he’d only had one child. Emily had no doubt that, if he’d had a bastard son, he would have acknowledged the boy and made him his heir. They don’t understand quite what they’re doing.
“It is,” Zed said, flatly. “Or a much-improved version of it.”
He had been sitting at his desk, marking essays, while she worked. Now, he rose to his feet and stalked towards her, then sat down facing her. Emily sensed magic crackling over him, like the sun peeking out behind the clouds, and braced herself. If he’d finally decided to take a little revenge...
“The Royal Bloodline was a dangerously-flawed creation at start,” Zed said. He sounded more than a little frustrated, but his face was almost expressionless. “I would have preferred to produce a whole new version of it, but that was impossible.”
Emily nodded. Lamarckian biology–the concept that any changes in a parent’s body, such as having a hand cut off, would be passed down to the child–had been discredited long ago on Earth, but the Royal Bloodline made it work to some extent. King Randor might have been better served by adopting a child from a mundane bloodline, then ensuring that no one would ever know the child wasn’t legitimate. It wouldn’t have been hard to make it work, not with his mistresses and resources.
But it wouldn’t have been a child of his blood.
“Instead, I looked at ways to improve the modifications without the weaknesses,” Zed continued. “But many of the weaknesses were already forced into the bloodline. They could not be removed.”
“I know,” Emily said.
On Earth, there might have been options. She wasn’t sure of the exact process for taking sperm, then ensuring that only the viable ones reached the egg, but she knew it was doable with modern technology. If King Randor had any viable sperm, Earth could probably have ensured he had a new child, perhaps more than one. But she knew it wasn’t so practical in the Nameless World, even if King Randor had been prepared to consider the process. It was considered a source of pride to have as many children as possible. To be infertile was considered a great disgrace.
But his noblemen must guess the truth, she thought. They’d certainly known the King wouldn’t have accepted Alassa as his Heir unless there was no choice. They know how many lovers he’s had.
Zed studied her for a long moment, then nodded.
“This would also make the new children compatible with the old children,” he told her. “The old modifications would be superseded by the newer modifications. And there would be no need for your partner to take the potion himself.”
He paused. “You’re a noblewoman of Zangaria,” he added, almost casually. “You could drink the potion now, and join the Royal Family.”
Emily stared at him. She didn’t like being reminded of the obligations King Randor had foisted on her, particularly the worst of them. Sooner or later, she would have to produce a child, someone who could take the Barony of Cockatrice after her death. The thought of actually dating a boy... it felt less horrific than it had a year ago, she had to admit, but she still felt uncomfortable at the thought of exposing herself so openly. And to think that female magicians enjoyed a sexual freedom unknown to any other class in the Allied Lands.
And what, precisely, was Zed doing?
She had no idea if there were any laws concerning the Royal Bloodline in Zangaria, but she was fairly sure that adding herself to it without King Randor’s permission would be awkward, at best. If she was adding herself to it. And why would Zed seek to offer her the bloodline unless there was a sting in the tail?
And even if he wasn’t planning to use this against her–or King Randor–in some way, she doubted he
had taken everything into account. The Nameless World had a better understanding of how to fiddle with genetics than Earth–they bred everything from horses to cattle–but they didn’t always know what they were doing. It was easy to imagine her descendents paying the price for her folly.
“No, thank you,” she said. “Besides, who would I marry?”
“There are potions that could change your gender permanently,” Zed pointed out.
Emily blinked in surprise as she finally realized what he was telling her. She could change her gender, then become part of the Royal Bloodline and marry Alassa herself. It would utterly humiliate King Randor, Alassa and Emily. What better revenge could he possibly take?
“At the cost of screwing up my mind,” she said, tartly. She’d looked into gender-bending potions when she’d realized just how badly King Randor had wanted a son. Why not force-feed Alassa something that would turn her into a man? But a madman on the throne was worse than a queen. “I think it would be a bad idea.”
“As you wish,” Zed said.
Emily took a breath, then asked the question that had been nagging at her mind since she’d discovered how Mountaintop used wands.
“Sir,” she said, “did you deliberately teach Alassa to rely on a wand?”
“She was a very poor pupil,” Zed said. It wasn’t quite an answer. “I was unable to teach her the mental discipline she needed to cast spells without a wand. She was even unable to learn how to prime her wand without assistance. Sending her to Whitehall was a desperation move for King Randor.”
“But it worked,” Emily pointed out.
“After the brat was almost killed by an untrained magician,” Zed pointed out. He gave Emily a dark look. “King Randor was furious at the thought of his daughter coming to harm. He might well have hired assassins if things had gone differently.”
Emily swallowed. She had almost killed Alassa. If things had been slightly different, if she had killed Alassa, she would have started a civil war in Zangaria...
But Zed was right; Alassa had been a very poor pupil. If Emily hadn’t been forced into tutoring her, the blind leading the blind, Alassa might never have progressed at all. Emily could easily believe that Alassa hadn’t been able to learn magic properly–and Zed would have had no power to discipline her. But at the same time, it was remarkably convenient to have the only known magician in Zangaria’s Royal Bloodline crippled by reliance on a wand. Zed might not have tried very hard to teach her.
“She isn’t a poor pupil now,” Emily said, instead. Alassa might not be as scholarly as Imaiqah or Emily, but she was far from stupid and she learned fast. And she had a competitive streak a mile wide. “She’s growing into one of the most capable magicians in Whitehall.”
“If she is allowed to complete her studies,” Zed said, dismissively. He rose to his feet, towering over Emily. “You should be aware, purely for the sake of throwing a potion on troubled waters, that there are discontented rumblings among the tutors. Not all of them are happy right now and, without the MageMaster, there is no single will who can keep them all in line. You really should watch yourself.”
Emily blinked. “Me?”
“You are a Child of Destiny, are you not?” Zed asked. “Children of Destiny cut both ways, young lady, and not everyone wanted you here in the first place. And the current situation is untenable. How many more students will be injured before the Great Houses start demanding action?”
Emily said nothing. Frieda hadn’t listened to her half-hearted warnings. And, even if she would have, it wasn’t just Frieda who was rebelling against the established order. Or fighting back against an insurgency...
She shook her head. What had she done?
Chapter Thirty
“THE BLUNT TRUTH IS THAT MAGICIANS are more moral than mundanes,” Robyn said, several hours later. “We are simply more suited to rule.”
Emily frowned. That was a change–or, perhaps, it hadn’t really been a change at all.
Magicians were arrogant, as a general rule. She’d only ever met one magician who had expressed concern for mundanes he’d never met, Master Tor. He’d been doing it to make a point, Emily suspected, but he’d also been right. It wasn’t good for mundanes to be ruled by a magician who was more interested in experiments than taking care of her people. But there weren’t that many magicians who were also rulers.
“A mundane can break his oath without repercussion,” Robyn continued. “A magician cannot break his oath without losing something very valuable to him. We are simply more trustworthy than mundanes.”
Emily could see her point. King Randor’s noblemen had turned on him, despite their sworn oaths to loyalty. And they’d come alarmingly close to overthrowing him and turning his daughter into a puppet. If Emily hadn’t been there... but then, if Emily had never entered the Nameless World, they might not have needed to bother. Why set up puppet strings when the old Alassa wouldn’t have troubled herself to interfere with their lives?
But she didn’t like the concept. She had been raised to consider everyone as equals, regardless of wealth, skin color, gender or skill set. Practically speaking, she knew there was no such thing as true equality, but it was definitely the ideal. To have a group of people separated - placed on a pedestal - over the common herd offended her sense of right and wrong. Merit was far more important than birth.
And yet... magicians were practically a different order of life compared to commoners. Mundanes throughout the Allied Lands scrabbled in the dirt; magicians used magic to clean themselves, to make themselves healthy, to run hot and cold running water... all things mundanes couldn’t do for themselves. And it was a rare mundane who could beat a magician in battle, sword against sorcery. And other magicians laughed at the magician who happened lose such a battle, pointing out that it ensured that the magician who lost was removed from the breeding pool. It bothered her more than she could say to acknowledge that there were any differences between magicians and mundane, but she had to admit they were there.
“Mundanes aren’t idiots,” she said. “And they have ways of making do without magic.”
Robyn snorted. “And how would they cure themselves without the potions we produce?”
Medicine, Emily thought. She had a private suspicion that the Allied Lands had stumbled on medical science, to some degree, and every potion that could be brewed by a mundane might actually be a form of medicine. But while she had a vague idea how to produce penicillin, it wasn’t something the Allied Lands needed. They’d be happier using potions.
But things would change soon, she was sure. She’d done her best to introduce the scientific method to Zangaria, along with gunpowder and steam engines. Even if she never offered them another idea, she would have changed the world beyond repair. There was no way King Randor and his fellow monarchs could put the genie back in the bottle, not now. And, as ideas were exchanged between her followers, trying to press the limits of what she’d taught them, she had no doubt that they would eventually crack all the secrets of Earth, all the science she’d never thought to study.
And if I had a copy of The Way Things Worked it would be so much easier, she thought, ruefully. If she’d had more practical experience, the world would have been turned completely upside down by now. We’ll just have to keep repeating the mistakes of the past.
Robyn cleared her throat. “Oaths and obligations bind our society together,” she said, calmly. “Mundane society does not have those advantages.”
“I know,” Emily said, suddenly feeling very tired. The hell of it was that Robyn was largely right. And yet she didn’t want to agree with the older girl. There might have been mundanes who were shifty treacherous weasels, but she knew there were good and decent mundanes, too. Sergeant Harkin, for one, and Imaiqah’s parents. “But that doesn’t mean that all mundanes are evil.”
“I didn’t say evil,” Robyn pointed out. “Just... less moral. And much less capable.”
Emily felt her temper snap. “And how much opportunity d
o they have?”
Robyn raised her eyebrows. “I beg your pardon?”
“Imagine a girl born in a peasant village,” Emily said. “She’s brilliant, smart enough to take what has been invented before and improve on it, or develop a whole new theory of her own.”
She took a breath. “But she will spend her early days, from dawn till dusk, working in the fields or cooking, cleaning and sewing for the men. She will be married off as soon as she can have children safely, then start churning them out as soon as she is in the marital bed. A word out of place will lead to a beating, so she learns to keep her opinions to herself. She will never have the education she needs to actually put her mind to work, so it will be completely wasted. And she will die, never having made a mark on the world.”
Robyn frowned. “If she had magic,” she said, “we would find her.”
“She doesn’t have to have magic to change the world,” Emily argued. She recalled one of the lads from Alexis, who had taken Emily’s half-formed ideas and produced a vastly superior printing press. “All she needs is a chance to develop herself to her full potential. And that is what she won’t get.”
She sighed. “A magician can balance children and a career,” she said. “But a woman born to a peasant village will never be able to rest and actually use her mind.”
It was worse than that, she knew from bitter experience. Peasant culture was communal in ways the communists would have envied, but it was also very conservative and unwilling to accept new ideas. Someone who tried to stand apart from the herd would be isolated, cut down to size, or simply banished. And because their lives were so hardscrabble, there was little tolerance for anyone who might put on airs and graces. Even the merest hint of book-learning would be disliked, if not outright hated.
Schooled in Magic 5 - The School of Hard Knocks Page 29