“No need.” Frujeur flicked the skin off the counter, right into his face. Dead scales glittered an inch from his eyes.
He fought down a flinch. Or tried to.
The scaly tangle dropped to the floor with a whispery thud.
Good thing he hadn’t studied shields yet. If he’d had the slightest idea how to shield, he’d have knocked the nasty thing across the room.
A loop of snakeskin uncoiled.
Shivers scuttled up his back. Maybe he should get this over quickly, in case Frujeur was powerful enough to sic a dead snake on him.
The chant itself was quite simple, if a little silly. ‘String, straighten out, Complete, unbound, and whole, Your usefulness much improved.’ Had chants started out as wizardous children’s nursery rhymes? He’d ask Trevor later.
For now, he needed to change the wording enough to affect the snakeskin. The trick was to keep the meter steady, and the meaning clear. He couldn’t do that in three lines.
But he could do it in four if he added a word or two. What rhymed with full? Desiccated, of course. ‘Dry snakeskin shall straighten out,’ would do.
“Skinn o snaca siticul
“Sceal strecchen full.
“Complere, unbindan, et hal,
“Iwwiz mycel usus enproul.”
The crumpled snakeskin uncurled like a long, tender noodle until it lay as straight as, well, as a string.
Trevor applauded. “Technically a third level chant, given the necessary adaptations, but his execution was flawless.”
Frujeur scuttled around the counter and stared at the scaly skin. “He used too many words.”
Viper rolled his eyes. If old Bahtdor Nose couldn’t recognize cursive Old Tongue, he probably was guessing at the printed words.
“What took him so long, anyway?” Frujeur crossed his arms and glared down at him. “He should have finished first level lunars ago.”
Trevor raised one eyebrow. “He became injured and caught pneumonia.”
The old man kindly left out how he became injured. Viper still had nightmares about the gang’s attack, about being beaten until he passed out. About being tortured and left for dead.
“My apprentice will take the second level exam in a lunar or so.” In three lunars, since he’d failed it just this morning. Unless he could talk Trevor into intensive tutoring and an early exam. After all, it wasn’t his fault he’d never even heard of shields before today.
Trevor scooped the grimoire off the counter and held out his other hand. “My mandrake root, please.”
Bahtdor Nose snatched the snakeskin off the floor and stomped behind the counter. He bulled through the curtain, and into a back room.
“Open it,” Viper whispered.
“Sing to the Weaver,” Trevor breathed. “Do you know what this is?”
He grinned and nodded. “My best find ever.”
“I should say.” Trevor paged through the book. His eyebrows crept higher and higher. “May I borrow this for a few days?”
“If you’ll tutor me in shields.”
Trevor laughed. “I’ll find you a book. I believe I wrote a treatise about shields a few decades ago. I’d like to spend a little time with this one.”
Viper nodded. He was curious, too, but he couldn’t read cursive Old Tongue easily yet. Trevor would skim through it in a day or two.
Frujeur shoved through the curtain and slammed a small box on the counter.
Trevor slid the book into his frockcoat pocket and pried the box open. His mouth drooped. “I must say, old man, I had thought you more successful. A good herbalist would carry a full selection of mandrake roots bigger than this one.” He slid the box into another pocket. “I certainly won’t patronize your shop when I’m in need of exotic ingredients.”
So Bahtdor Nose had welched on the bet. Why wasn’t he surprised? Well, Trevor had been cheated, but they’d gotten a first-rate grimoire out of the nasty old herbalist.
His four pence would go into his savings. Unless he found another book before he got home and squirreled the coins away. He really needed to find a new way to make money. Running the occasional errand for the neighbors and his wages from serving Trevor barely covered his book addiction.
Trevor tugged on his arm and shepherded him out the door without saying goodbye to Frujeur. Wow, the old man was sincerely annoyed. Bahtdor Nose must have cheated him big time.
The old sorcerer marched across Market Square and charged onto the main street, practically under the hooves of a horse pulling a large wagon.
Viper leapt back, but Trevor ignored the horse and continued to march uphill.
How could the old man be so unconcerned about a creature that big? Was he that angry? Even if horses were only a quarter the size of a bahtdor, they still had huge teeth.
Little red apples packed the wagon bed. Saliva flooded his mouth. He’d starve to death before the meeting ever started.
He eased around the cart and trotted after Trevor. The old man had forgotten about his short legs. Again. Though he’d been quite considerate about it for lunars… Trevor must be furious.
Rain splashed on the street, on the traffic, on his head. Why hadn’t he brought a jacket? He might actually enjoy the Society meeting’s scorching fireplace for a change. Cold water dripped through his hair, onto his shoulders, through his shirt.
Icy raindrops hardened into hail just before they ducked into the tavern.
Hot, spicy stew perfumed the air. Fresh bread steamed on the tables. His belly growled loud enough to drown out every conversation in the noisy room. He’d never last until the meeting was over to beg for dinner.
He had to last. He wouldn’t beg. His honor was at stake.
Frujeur scuttled into the tavern, right behind them. Trevor sent the herbalist a look that should have frozen his bones to dust.
Viper shivered and hurried through the crowd on Trevor’s coattails to the Society’s table in the far corner.
Bahtdor Nose had enough sense to keep his distance, and quickly vanished into the crowd.
The Trader’s Inn was unusually noisy for a cold and hailing evening. How did traders travel when the weather was nasty? It didn’t seem worth the few coppers they earned to continue on. Setoyan tribes would still be settled in the southern plains at this time of year.
Trevor grabbed the last two empty chairs and thrust them close to the table beside Samiderf. His teacher’s eyes were colder than pebbles of hail.
Viper shivered again.
Samiderf glanced at him. “If you’re cold you should move next to the fire.” The silvery old man gestured at the heath. “Don’t take a chill.”
“I’m not cold.” At least, not that cold. Just wet. “I was thinking about the traders and snow.” And about Trevor being mad enough to freeze lava.
Samiderf nodded and returned his attention to the conversation.
“There is too much conflict in the north.” Raulin edged her ancient bones closer to the fire. “You’re asking for trouble if you go up there.”
“I need to know what is really happening.” Marise bounced in her chair, her teal and fuchsia sleeves waving like symbol flags as she pounded on the scarred table. How had she gotten here ahead of them? “The lord of Shi can’t have changed that much.”
“What about the talk that wizard Clay has settled in Shi?” Frujeur kidnapped a chair from another table and scooted close to Raulin. “And that he’s spending all of his time with the Lord of Shi’s crippled daughter?”
Murmurs of amazement greeted Frujeur’s questions.
“Clay is a wanderer.” Trevor glared at the herbalist, shook his head, and frowned thoughtfully. “He hasn’t settled in four hundred years. Why now?”
“And why with Jroduikil?” Marise clutched both hands to her head. Her rings tangled in her white hair.
“Speaking of Shi and wizards.” Samiderf leaned forward. “Wizard Crane has disappeared, and he was last seen in Shi three lunars ago. No one saw him leave, but no one has reported s
eeing him since two days after he entered the city, either.”
Viper felt a spiderish shiver crawl up his spine when the ancient group shook their heads in worry.
Claressa hid her face in her wrinkled hands. Gray hair tumbled into her eyes. “Could the deaths and disappearances have anything to do with the Manifestation we felt two days ago?”
Heat swarmed up his neck and settled in his face. Thank the Thunderer for the dim lanterns inside the tavern. He hadn’t meant to manifest the giant spider. He still didn’t know how he did it. No way was he going to ask anyone.
Trevor sent him a hard look, but said, “I don’t think it was related.”
Samiderf raised his eyebrows, examined his red face, and chuckled. He waved down a server and ordered cha for the three of them.
Frujeur demanded a double vodka. The server handed the glass to him almost before he finished the words.
Raulin frowned, but didn’t object this time. Viper admitted to himself there wasn’t any point. Bahtdor Nose wasn’t much more obnoxious drunk than he was sober.
Trevor crossed his arms. “Shall we move on to business more relevant to the Society? Frujeur, you can explain the importance of mandrake roots for our edification.”
Bahtdor Nose choked on his drink.
Samiderf steepled his fingers. “I should be most interested in hearing what an experienced herbalist has to say about the mandrake.”
Frujeur gagged, but couldn’t find his voice.
Marise rolled her eyes. How had she gotten sober so quickly? Had they spent that much time in Frujeur’s shop?
Trevor turned to Viper. “What do you know about the subject?”
“I read in Authoritative Herbal Datum that you must pull the root during the rise of the Miner.” He shrugged one shoulder. “And that it screams so horrifically that everyone within hearing goes mad or dies. That sounded a little weird to me.”
Clarissa giggled. “That book is three centuries out of date.”
“Most myths sound a little odd when we analyze them.” Samiderf nodded to the server and paid for the cha.
Trevor nodded solemnly, but his green eyes twinkled. “The tale has been confused, certainly. Old superstition says that the essence of the root is most powerful if pulled when the Miner rises at night during the midsummer season. Untrue.”
Marise leaned forward. “Any cool summer night will do, and any cool but not cold hour will suffice. If the air is too cold, the limbs of the rhizome break off. If it is too warm, the sap runs too strongly and the essence is lost.”
The server set a mug of cha in front of him. Cinnamony steam warmed his face and made his stomach growl again.
“Next, the root does not scream.” Trevor smiled and spread his hands. “It doesn’t have a mouth, so how can it make any kind of noise?”
Frujeur’s jaw dropped open, and he shook his head emphatically. “Of course it screams,” he muttered. “And timing is essential.”
Raulin sighed.
Viper snickered. Bahtdor Nose looked like an angry goose, with his denials and grumblings.
Trevor winked at him. Yup, the old sorcerer was getting revenge for the welched bet. “The sole reason people go mad is the essence of the root itself: the sap. When the rhizome is pulled, rootlets break and sap oozes. The vapor from the sap permeates the sinus cavity, is absorbed by the sinus lining and rushes to the brain, causing intense pain and hallucinations.”
Marise waved her beringed hands. “Because even the finest gloves thick enough to offer any protection inevitably ruin the root, it must be pulled barehanded. The sap is absorbed by the skin, travels through the bloodstream to the internal organs, causing internal bleeding, and convulsions.”
“If a limb breaks, the handler always dies,” Trevor added.
“In humans,” Samiderf said. “Except when the human has Tlk’likaq ancestry, which is not as uncommon as one might think. Tlk’likaq and mixed-blood humans gain certain benefits when they eat the mandrake, such as the ability to see the aura, or life force of other creatures.”
How would anyone know if they had Tlk’likaq heritage? And what was a Tlk’likaq? Something he was supposed to know by now, obviously. “Why do sorcerers want it?”
“Rumor says,” Marise added, “and these reports are completely unverified, that ingesting tea made from the mandrake root causes one to be able to see ghosts.”
In that case, he’d avoid the stuff. He still had nightmares from the ghost stories his older brothers told him. Just the mention of seeing one gave him the shivers.
Samiderf shook his head. “The stuff is dicey enough without adding rumor to the mix. Aura visibility has been confirmed.”
“The root induces useful results when brewed into a weak tea.” Trevor held up his mug of cha. “It aids the execution of complex spells. A sorcerer can see the lines of the spell, the ‘will power’, if you like. It also seems to aid in focusing one’s concentration.”
“That benefit is most likely a product of the user’s mind,” Raulin said. “It is not a normal side effect.”
“Be that as it may.” Trevor leaned back into his chair. “I concentrate far better when I use it. However, it leaves me so completely exhausted that I don’t dare use it often.”
Samiderf nodded. “Very wise. It is good to know one’s limits, my friend.”
Trevor lifted his chin and glared. “I haven’t found mine yet.”
Marise straightened one flowing sleeve as if it needed adjusting. “Didn’t you write a book on the subject?”
Trevor nodded. “An article really, in The Magically Advantageous Flora of Menajr, a century ago.”
Bahtdor Nose’s eyes popped open. “You wrote a book? Where is it?”
“In the house somewhere, I imagine.” Trevor shrugged. “It was a student effort. I’ve lost track of it.”
Samiderf laughed. “It’s probably under your bed.”
Like anyone stored books under their bed. He always made sure his book made it back to the Lab, even when he fell asleep reading it. “Why not use a shovel to harvest the mandrake?”
Every sorcerer present stared at him.
“A tool risks damaging the intangible environment,” Marise said.
“Shovels interfere with atmospheric influences,” Trevor whispered. He waved at the server, mimed a bowl, and jerked his thumb toward Viper.
“It simply isn’t done.” Raulin turned to Clarissa. “What is the name of the new mayor, again?”
Simply wasn’t done? Interferes with intangible influences? They had to be teasing him. “Why is the mayor’s name important?”
“Young man, we must always remember names.” Samiderf placed his hand over his chest with mock solemnity. “A name can be a powerful weapon in the strange branch of magic called politics.”
Viper snickered and rolled his eyes. He’d heard the old man’s rants on politics before, but this sounded like a new one.
“You think I’m joking?” Samiderf shook a blunt finger at him, and he tried, unsuccessfully, to sober his expression. “Think on this. If politics is not a form of magic, what is it? How can such a blatantly impossible form of conmanship exist? What wizard is able to control such an amazing type of mass hypnosis? Only the specialized politician.”
Viper was laughing and coughing too much to answer.
Samiderf swatted him on the back and waited for him to catch his breath. “It wasn’t that amusing.”
He giggled. The old man’s performance was that funny. The outraged expression on Raulin’s face was even funnier.
“Seriously.” Samiderf leaned back into his chair. “The name of any important person can be a non-magical key in many situations. Always remember names.”
Viper choked down another cackle. “I just hope I never meet a politician wizard out to control my mind.”
“So do I.” Marise’s voice grated with suppressed emotion.
He’d only been joking. What had put a twist in her tail?
“There is a type
of magic user who can control other people’s thoughts. The Mindbender.” Marise crossed her arms over her heart. “They are very rare and very dangerous, even though they seem to have no other magical powers. They control only a few people at a time, but they choose powerful individuals, and thereby control enormous resources.”
Trevor shifted uneasily. “I know of only six Mindbenders in Menajr’s history, and each of them started disastrous wars. Four of them won and held much of the world until they died.”
“Nashidra began that way. Our current Emperor is descended from the Mindbender Altrada. The chronicles say she was astoundingly beautiful and equally strong willed. Apparently all Mindbenders are beautiful.” Samiderf’s voice melted into the noise of the crowd.
Viper sat spellbound by the chilling descriptions. He wouldn’t care to face someone who could read his thoughts, much less control them.
Trevor clapped his hands. “Now, to change to a more pleasant subject. What can the Society do to inhibit the deaths of sorcerers in our domain?”
The server slid a scalding bowl of stew under Viper’s nose. Spicy steam stung his eyes. His belly rumbled like an Alignment-Day earthquake.
The deathwind could take the killer until he’d eaten. He trusted Trevor to work something out, and to convince the other sorcerers to go along with it.
A plate of hot, fragrant bread joined the stew. Basil and anise tickled his nose and tugged at his gut. Could a boy faint from hunger? He needed to eat before he found out.
Somebody else could save the world tonight.
Chapter 5.
Trevor strutted into the parlor and leaned against the doorjamb. “I have gathered all the ingredients for a new and difficult experiment.”
Viper sighed and set My Time in Kresh on the table. Could Lorel get the day off from tending her parent’s shop? Any time Trevor talked about a new experiment he was about to be thrown out of the house.
He trudged to the door and slid a light jacket over his shirt. The weather was warm enough outside he wouldn’t bother with a coat.
“The effort will require many long hours and a great deal of patience.” Trevor put his hand into his pocket and pulled out the trio of house keys on a twist of copper wire.
Sorcery's Child (The Mindbender's Rise Book 2) Page 5