by Tim Susman
The demon did at least ask where they wanted the books, so they hurriedly cleared off the top of one of the shelves. When he had deposited the books, he simply vanished, taking the peppermint tingle in Kip’s nose with him.
Emily returned as they were examining the titles, looking damp and very pleased with herself. “The baths are along that corridor,” she said. “There were two tubs and robes hanging up, and one of the tubs was warm, so I got in and washed off, and it felt heavenly.” She sighed, looking down at her feet. “And now I am back in the dust and grime. I wish we could burn all these papers, but where would the smoke go?”
“Up into the Great Hall.” Kip grinned.
“At least it would be warm,” she continued. “Have you figured out how we will heat this room when it gets colder?”
They hadn’t asked Master Windsor about that at all. Kip exchanged a guilty look with Coppy. “Not yet,” he said. “I suppose fire is out of the question.”
“Do you know how to make fire?” Emily asked.
“No.” Kip gestured to the books. “Fire is an alchemical spell and we don’t have that book yet. We’re stuck with tinder and flint, or a torch and a walk upstairs.”
Emily made her way along the cleared path until she could reach her stack of books. “Nothing else about heat?”
“We haven’t looked all the way through it.” Coppy was turning pages of Considerations of Ethics of Sorcery and Their Application in Historical Context.
Kip picked up the new copy of An Introduction to the Methodes and Practickal Applications of Sorcery. His old copy sat safely in his bag, and while this one had the same text, the same spells, it did not feel as grand, especially not next to the other books full of spells and knowledge he hadn’t yet acquired. This book he had earned; the old book in his bag had been a gift of faith, and all these other books grew from that one.
“We have Saturday and Sunday to read them,” Kip said.
“Or to fix up this basement.” Coppy patted Kip on the shoulder. “I know which one you’ll rather be doing.”
And that night, lying on his bedroll with Coppy snoring lightly next to him, Kip looked up at the bookshelf he’d cleared to put his schoolbooks on them. This first night would have felt like a dream but for the itching of the dust that had wormed itself into his fur, and the small scratching of insects (and perhaps mice) that his ears constantly flicked around to pick up. The smells of himself and Coppy were nearly lost, even up close, in the overwhelming stench of old paper, moldering cloth, decaying leather.
Still, he could not sleep this night, staring at the ceiling, hardly daring to believe that the stones below his back were the stones of the Tower, lain two hundred years ago, that above him lay all the sorcery of the Colonies, and that he was a part of it all. What he’d known since he’d seen the sorcerers floating up the hill, since seeing the great, ancient Tower watching over the town, was that he belonged here, that even though nobody thought a Calatian could become a sorcerer, he had the ability. Magic is in our blood, he thought, and even so, none of the other cubs he’d known had felt the same pull. He knew that he could do sorcery, and finally, in his nineteenth year, he was going to have the chance to prove it.
8
Physical Sorcery
The first week of classes left much to be desired from Kip’s point of view. They were instructed in theory he already knew, taught basic spell language he had already mastered, and forced to practice gathering magic, which he could already do. He itched to get a start on impressing one of the masters, more even than his fur itched from dust. He wanted to perform magic for his father’s master, Vendis, but he was not allowed to talk to any of the other masters, he was not allowed in the library to do research, and he was not allowed to practice casting spells except under Master Windsor’s supervision, which was notable all week for its absence. When Kip complained, after their History and Ethics class, Master Windsor said, “You have no studies that require you to cast spells, and therefore no need of my supervision in order to do so.”
Kip fumed at this on Tuesday morning, pacing back and forth in the small clear space in the basement. “They’re holding us back so they don’t have to keep us on as students. They’re going to teach us enough to build roads and walls and that’s it.”
“That’d still be plenty for me.” Coppy got up from his bedroll to approach Kip. “More than any Calatian’s done so far.”
“And all the students have the same restriction.” Emily held up the Introduction to Sorcery book. “Why don’t you just teach yourself more spells from the book?”
Kip’s breath hissed out between his teeth. “Because it took me six months to learn each of those spells and we only have two. And the first spells in the book, the ones they’re going to teach everyone first, are the two I know. So I need to get ahead.”
“It’s our second day.” Coppy set a paw on his arm. “There’s plenty of time.”
“And the other students are living with masters,” Kip said. “I bet they get to talk to them in the evenings and they get extra help and lessons.” His fists clenched and his ears flattened. He could impose on Master Vendis, prevail upon the relationship his father shared with the middle-aged sorcerer, but he didn’t know where to find the masters who were not teaching and not hosting.
“All right.” Emily held up her hands. “Why don’t we ask Adamson to share what he’s learning?”
Kip considered that, his ears coming up partway. He had gotten the chance to ask Adamson about the dead fox in his tent, but not to his satisfaction; Victor had evaded the question twice and finally had said that Farley had gone and done that without his knowledge, and he had expressed his disgust. Kip left the conversation uneasy, partly because Adamson, in this denial, had reminded Kip strongly of his dead friend Saul. Saul, too, had protested that he couldn’t watch Farley all the time, after the bully had ambushed Kip with thrown rocks. But Saul, at least, had gotten in a blow back for Kip. Victor Adamson’s methods were slower and less direct; he had merely promised to keep Farley in check. “Or Malcolm.”
Emily’s lips tightened and she looked down at that. “What?” Kip tilted his head. “I thought he was perfectly pleasant.”
“He’s very glib,” she said. “I don’t doubt he would say just what you wanted to hear.”
“That’s not…” Kip considered. “I think he was fairly straightforward.”
“I liked his manner.” Coppy smiled. “Quite friendly, he was. Most of the Irish I’ve known have been.”
“Yes, he’s very proud of his heritage,” Emily said. “Ask him if you must, and maybe then I will ask Adamson.”
“Let’s go now, then. They’re both in Master Argent’s quarters.”
Emily sighed. “It’s almost time for class. We’ll ask them afterwards, or at lunch.”
That morning they had History and Ethics, which proved unexpectedly engaging. Master Windsor lost some of his sour tone when discussing the earliest known sorcerers, in the Mesopotamian basin. Their names had been lost to history, but their deeds lived on: the great floods that wiped out the cities of Ninevah and Ur, the earth swallowing the armies of Sumer, the vast dam on the Euphrates, the fire that devoured Halicarnassus. Kip had read of some of these events in his classics, but Windsor concentrated on the magical features of each. None of these were considered Great Feats, as none continued to the present day, but to the many questions, Master Windsor replied irritably that they would cover Great Feats in a future class.
They did not catch either Adamson or Malcolm on their way to lunch, but Malcolm sat with Smith and Cobb at the adjacent table to Emily, Coppy, and Kip. A number of the other students lingered by Emily, clearly wanting to talk to her but put off by the Calatians. Kip was about to lean over and ask Malcolm whether Master Argent was teaching him and the others after hours when pain burst at the back of his head with a sharp impact.
He clapped a paw to the stinging pain, registering the noise of something falling behind him and the s
nickers of Farley across the tent. He didn’t have to turn to put two and two together, especially as Coppy, sitting across from him, got up immediately. “Don’t,” Kip said, rubbing his skull, but the otter ignored him, bending to pick up the rock. “The ravens,” Kip reminded him, pointing up.
Two or three ravens perched above them, as they had at every meal (possibly the same ravens, possibly different), watching intently but remaining quiet. “What of ’em?” Coppy said. “They didn’t care when he threw a rock.”
By now the whole tent was quiet. Coppy brandished the rock at Farley and raised his voice. “You want to start throwing rocks?” Kip half-turned in his seat, tensed and ready to get up in case a fight broke out.
Adamson spoke up, his voice at once commanding and languid. “We don’t want to turn lunch into a sort of toddler’s version of the Battle of Trafalgar now, do we?”
Farley scowled, and for a moment Kip thought he might throw a punch at the pale young man sitting beside him. But amazingly, Adamson’s words both pushed Farley back into his chair and got Coppy’s arm to drop. “Tell Admiral Gravina, then,” the otter said, “to hold his fire from now on.”
A good insult, Kip thought. The otter was quicker on his toes than he gave himself credit for. Farley wasn’t, but even he knew the name of the Spanish Admiral who’d fought under the French Navy and been defeated by Lord Nelson. “Oh, I’m Gravina, is it?” Farley sneered.
“Aye. It’s nice you’ve finally found your Villeneuve.” Coppy gestured to Adamson, and then lobbed the rock onto the table, where it smacked into Farley’s soup bowl, splashing soup into his lap.
Farley tried to scoot back, but could barely shift the bench and almost toppled over. He grabbed the rock and threw it at Coppy before Adamson could get a hand up to stop him.
Coppy grabbed the rock out of the air. “Want to play catch?”
“Whorepelt,” Farley snarled. “Fancy yourself Nelson’s pets, then, do you?”
“Stop it.” Adamson rose to his feet. “Otter—Lutris—drop that rock.”
Somewhat to Kip’s surprise, Coppy let his arm hang down and his fingers open, letting the rock thud to the wood floor. Adamson lifted one white hand. “We all have to study together here. We’re going to have to leave all of our old rivalries behind. There’s nothing to be gained from fighting amongst ourselves.”
Kip kept his eyes on Farley until the round head lowered and the small eyes returned to his meal, and then he relaxed, tail hanging down behind the bench. Coppy, too, kept his eyes on Farley as he made his way back to the table. “Pretty speech,” he murmured. “Don’t worry, Kip. Got my eye on him now.”
“From now on,” Emily said in a low voice as Kip reluctantly turned his back on Farley, “Why don’t the two of you sit with your backs to the tent, and I’ll sit with my back to Admiral Gravina there.”
“Wouldn’t put it past him to throw a rock at you,” Kip growled back.
“Whatever you think of Adamson, he was right.” Emily looked between the two of them. “We’ve too much to do to waste energy on fighting.”
“He didn’t do much to stop Farley throwing that first rock.” Kip rubbed the back of his head.
Emily reached out and put a hand on the paw Kip was resting on the table. “Don’t give them,” she inclined her head up toward the ravens, “any more reason to kick you out than they already have.”
“I know.” Kip stared down at his bowl of soup. “It’s just one more thing.”
“Farley won’t stop,” Coppy explained to Emily. “Not for some fellow’s words, fine as they might be.”
“For what it’s worth.” They all turned to the next table, where Malcolm leaned over to them. “I’m thinking I find myself quite happy to be over here on this side of the tent.”
“Thanks.” Kip’s eyes traveled down to the rock sitting in the middle of the floor and then up to the ravens above it. “Say,” he said, “Master Windsor said no unsupervised magic in the Tower, right? Did he say anything about the dining tent?”
Coppy smiled. “No. I don’t believe he did.”
So the next day, when Adamson’s talk again failed to keep Farley from throwing the first stone, Kip was ready. He caught it and then called magic to him. The ravens still made no protest, and Adamson and Farley watched with their friends, tense and ready for action. So he cast the spell and sent the rock floating over their heads.
“Drop it on his head,” Emily murmured, but Kip had years of practice with Farley, and knew that retaliation was less effective than a show of strength. But he couldn’t resist letting the stone hover over Farley’s head, while the boy kept his neck craned back and one hand raised like the shadow of the stone that floated there.
“My control’s not that good,” he said, loudly enough that Farley scrambled to get out of the way of the rock.
And then Kip moved it toward the front of the tent and out. It slipped from his spell’s grasp as he lost sight of it—something he would endeavor to master soon, when they were allowed to practice. But that little display was effective enough to stop the stone throwing for the rest of the day, although it did not appear to please Adamson.
“You should not show off your power that way,” he told Kip, lingering in the Great Hall after dinner that evening. “It makes my job more difficult.”
“What am I to do?” Kip had felt rather proud of his success. “Allow stones to fall in my food and accept it meekly?”
“In the long run, that would be the better strategy.” Adamson’s brow had been furrowed, his manner cross, but now he relaxed and stared beyond Kip. “If he sees you as a colleague rather than a threat, I will be able to make peace all the sooner.”
“He’ll never see me as a colleague. Never.”
“Not as long as you don’t see him as one.”
Kip flattened his ears, propriety be damned. “Do colleagues throw stones at each other? Slaughter animals in each other’s beds?”
“Someone has to make the first step,” Adamson said, distant and patient.
“That someone is him.” Kip folded his arms and curled his tail around his leg. “You have no idea what I and my friends have endured.”
“I had hoped your obvious intelligence would allow you to take the long view.” Adamson sighed. “I shall continue my efforts regardless, and I hope that when you see the fruits of my labors, you may trust that they have been worthwhile.”
Privately, Kip thought it much more likely that Farley would bend Adamson to his ways simply by dint of sheer stubbornness and malice. More than one human boy had been bullied into shunning Kip and his friends. Saul never had, and maybe Adamson was made of the same stuff. “I wish you luck,” he said.
“Say.” Adamson stopped Kip with a hand on the fox’s shoulder. “What did you think of Patris’s lecture?”
Kip shrugged. “Nothing we didn’t know. Magic comes from the earth.”
“Indeed. But he didn’t touch on one question. Is magic exhaustible?”
Kip tilted his head to one side. “What do you mean?”
“Like gold, for instance. There are gold mines that yield no more gold. Do you think that we are all tapping into a magic mine that might someday run out of magic?”
“Actually…” Kip rubbed his paws together. “I wondered about that with Calatians. I mean, we’re magic, but we’re born to our parents naturally. There’s no spell needed for a child to be born.”
“Other than the romantic kind.” Adamson gave a slight smile. “But go on.”
“So where does the magic to make each Calatian come from? Is it from the original Great Feat? Or do we somehow draw magic up as a wick pulls oil into a lamp?”
The blond boy rubbed his chin. “I had thought it believed that the magic inherent in all Calatians is a part of them and passed on to their children. You don’t eat magic food, do you? You might as well ask how an ordinary piece of cheese contributes health to a magical being.”
“I…hadn’t thought of that,” Kip admitted.
“I doubt we here are equipped to solve that problem tonight. But it might be worth some study in the future.” Adamson inclined his head. “Good night, Penfold.”
“Good night.” Kip paused a moment to think about Adamson’s question, then said good-night to the phosphorus elementals in the fireplace as had become his custom, and walked downstairs to his basement room.
“We’d best all get as good as Kip,” Malcolm said later that week, “if we’re to have peaceful lunches or dinners.”
“I don’t understand why the sorcerers don’t stop it,” Emily said.
“The masters have better things to do than stop every fight in school.” Malcolm was leaning back against one of the shelves that separated Kip and Coppy’s living space from the rest of the basement. They had cleared out a circle to sit in some days before, and now that the insects had sought other shelter and the stone had lost its damp, Malcolm had joined them to sit there.
“But fights in this school are liable to be more deadly than in other schools.” Emily’s eyes slid to Kip, and she caught herself. “Most other schools, I suppose.”
“Boy in my school lost a hand in a schoolyard fight. Right gruesome,” Malcolm said. “Another almost lost an eye when a nasty bully sat on him and rubbed his face into the dirt. But he and his eye survived, though some of his good looks were sacrificed that day.” He touched the skin around his eye, and Kip realized that what he’d thought were pockmarks were actually scars.
“We didn’t have injuries in our school,” Coppy said. “But some nights, if cubs wandered too far afield, they’d have their tails docked and sold to rich people who wanted to wear fur.”
“Young children?” Emily stared.
“Well, if they take the tails of the grown-ups, they’re too big.” Coppy pulled Kip’s tail out and held it up. “No passing that off as a regular fox.”