“Yes.”
“Our late recruit?”
“Yes, Russell.”
“Why’s he in colors? Doing half my job for me?” Russell Quilt, early twenties, barely graduated a few years before I showed up. As Head of Testing he also doubled as a kind of counselor for the Ultras, though he’s not one himself. Unlike Miss Frosty, it was never a sore point.
“He’s broken enough for me to be sure.” Ceinwyn Dale made herself at home, even flipping through Quilt’s filing work. “No surprises?”
“Just the one yesterday I told you about.” Quilt studied me for a bit. “Your gnome here passes and that’ll make thirty. You’re getting too good at this, C.D.”
“Not good enough.” I got what she meant. Still mancers getting missed, still people like Mom she didn’t find in time.
“You got a High Five,” Quilt shrugged, fiddling a machine with a fan of some kind on it. “First one in twelve years, give yourself a break.” The fan stopped. “If he passes.”
“I’ll pass.”
“Uhuh.”
“And I ain’t a gnome.”
“An ewok then.”
“Give me the test before I break your glasses.”
Quilt laughed, pulling out another machine. “They’re plastic, good luck.”
Fourteen-year-old-me snorted. “Not talking about that way, man.”
An eye-roll to Ceinwyn. “He always this aggressive?”
“Well, he’s not calling you a ‘fucking bitch’ so there’s actually been some improvement.”
An ink marked finger went up. “We don’t use fuck in this room.”
“Frakking bitch,” Ceinwyn Dale relented with a sigh.
“Thank you.”
Like I said, Russell Quilt: huge nerd.
Here’s the vaunted test of the Asylum. The nightmare in the mind of potentials across the country, the threat of mancer parents far and wide—‘study hard or you’ll fail your testing,’ ‘eat your veggies or you’ll fail your testing,’ ‘don’t talk back or I’ll rig things, boy!’ The vaunted test of the Asylum is a circle of wood about three feet wide with thirteen glass globes attached to it at the edge. Don’t get me wrong, it’s a nice piece of wood—it’s engraved, got Latin on it, even got a kick stand. But it’s a piece of wood . . .
Fourteen-year-old-me was further displeased. “You’re pulling my dick . . .”
“No, luckily not,” Quilt mumbled as he started up paperwork to add me to his lists. “Very simple, no pain at all.”
“Do I try to make the snow-globes blow up?”
“Of course not!” A flutter of paper and panic. “You couldn’t even do that . . .” then after a moment’s thought, “He can’t do that, can he? Glass is technically earth . . .”
“Russell, stop giving him ideas.” Ceinwyn Dale gave me the papercut-incoming face.
“If I don’t blow it up, then what do I do to it?” I asked while making sure to remember to try to crack a window once Ceinwyn Dale wasn’t around. “I got a cig headache, man, quit making this stuff drawn out.”
“Touch the globe in front . . . right there,” Quilt told me, pointing at one with a pen.
I did as told. Nadda.
“Next one, on the right.”
Still nadda. “You fucking with me?”
“When we get the right one it will react to you. And no fucking in here, remember?”
“Only blow up dolls, got it.”
“Next one.”
We finally got our reaction on number twelve. The globe flashed alight for a whole three seconds then went out.
“Ah, there we are.” Quilt smiled to himself. “You’re a geomancer.”
He said it like it’s the most amazing thing in the world. I guess for kids who didn’t have a clue what was going on, that’s something. But not for me. To me, it was . . . phony. He used that voice on every kid. It made the whole thing shit. “We already knew that!”
“But now we’re sure . . .”
“Why didn’t you try the geomancer one first then?”
“That is a good point actually . . .”
“Miss Dale . . .”
“Be good, King Henry.”
“But—”
“Next test, Russell,” rolled me over before I could break anything.
“Right . . . the big one . . . big one . . . where are you, big one?” He rummaged through his testing devices, lost in the piles of machinery. “Sorry, haven’t had another geomancer today. There we are!”
He pulled out a box, lined in some soft fabric—silk? Velvet? I’m not a fabric guy. Inside the box was a pair of magnets, iron. Old iron. Ancient iron. Not a fabric guy, but I know more about metals than anyone in the 21st century ever should have to.
The magnets were big enough to grip with your hands. Fourteen-year-old-me was littler than most, but I had muscles to lift them up and look from one to the other without struggling under the weight. “And?”
Ceinwyn Dale studied me like I might turn into either gold or dogshit . . . maybe even golden dogshit given our relationship. “If you’re an Ultra, you’ll be able to push those together . . . if not, you’d have better luck moving the building.”
I studied the pieces, hefting them at my sides. “Can I control magnetism?” Probably thinking about becoming a super villain at this point.
“They aren’t actual magnets,” Quilt explained, pushing up his glasses with one hand and waving the other in the air. “They project an anima field. What makes Artificers special is they can store, draw out, and coerce animas not their own by repelling them. You can’t use them . . . but you can sidestep the rules to make something that can.”
“Sidestepping rules . . .”
Ceinwyn Dale smiled my way. “Figured you’d like that.”
I thought there was going to be some resistance or something, so I almost broke a finger clanging the things together. Russell Quilt gasped when I did. I only frowned. Couldn’t be it. I banged them together again for good measure. “You sure these work?”
“Very . . .” Quilt whispered. “Very sure.”
“Seems easy.” Few more clangs. “Don’t feel nothing.”
“He’s an Artificer.”
“I told you he was, Russell,” Ceinwyn Dale said. “They do exist despite our dry spell.”
“You’re my first,” Quilt told me in a way that can only be called creepy.
“Eww, man.”
“No! Just! Of course not that . . . I’ve had . . . there was a very nice . . . I . . . I didn’t mean . . .”
“Russell,” Ceinwyn Dale said, “Quit hyperventilating.”
“He’s the first Artificer in seven years!” Quilt did not stop hyperventilating, he even got screechy when he became excited, “Russia and Britain and France got one each last year, you know . . . and China has gotten four in a row! DaVinci! Michelangelo! Colt! Browning! Some of the biggest names in history!”
“I know, Russell. Try to compose yourself though. King Henry’s got a big enough head already, even if it looks small.”
I put down the magnets or whatever they were. “What’s this mean? Seven years?”
Ceinwyn Dale studied me for awhile. I looked back. We both knew I meant Mom. “Yes, King Henry. I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay . . . not your fault, Miss Dale . . .”
“First time it ever worked,” Quilt muttered to himself as he put away the magnets in one of his unorganized piles. “Means we got the High Five, C.D.”
“I suppose we did.” The Head of Recruiting didn’t seem as happy as the Head of Testing. Guess it’s the difference between those that study and those that go out and find. The optimism of cataloging what you’ve got versus the pessimism of knowing what you missed.
Fourteen-year-old-me had similar if less philosophic thoughts. “Thanks for finding me, Miss Dale.”
She smiled at me again. Not the oh-you’re-interesting smile or the amused smile or the cutting smile. Her thankful one. The smile that every time I see the dam
n thing it makes me feel like I’ve done something worth mattering. “You’re welcome, King Henry.”
“My first Artificer. And a High Five.” Russell Quilt—one track mind.
“What’s that shit, a High Five?” That was me. Notice the shit.
Quilt happily expounded. “It has to do with the Ratio of Anima Dispersion, with regards to human population specifically.” The math again. “Did you, um . . . study percentages at the school you came from?”
“I’m sure one of my teachers mentioned it.”
Quilt glanced to Ceinwyn Dale for help.
She didn’t help him. “I have a lunch date with the Lady, Russell, why don’t you entertain King Henry until I return?”
He turned back towards me with a horrified expression. “I’m busy today, C.D!”
“It will be informative for the both of you.”
“I’ve got kids to test!”
“He won’t get in the way.”
“I was going to ask Audrey out for coffee . . .”
“You can do better.”
Foster and Quilt were married during my Pent year.
“Don’t break anything, King Henry. See you in a bit.” Ceinwyn Dale waved at us, gave a last eye-see-you sign, then left.
“Shit.”
That was Quilt this time.
[CLICK]
Quilt never actually told me about a High Five that day. Or the Ratio of Anima Dispersion. But hey, I was a teacher for two years during my graduate work as an Artificer. Poor kids. They learned some good words though. So why can’t I be a bit of a teacher to a recorder?
The Ratio of Anima Dispersion works two ways that we know of. One way within human populations and the exact opposite way in the natural world. There’s a theoretical third, but we won’t get into it. Think of it as fractions. 2/3/5. 5/3/2. There are three tiers. In the natural world, the First Tier is the most concentrated. Among humans, the First Tier is the least concentrated. Necromancy, geomancy, aeromancy, pyromancy, hydromancy. That’s your First Tier. In the natural world these appear as anima concentrations or flows or any type of that stuff. Remember fairies from an earlier session? Same stuff. Mancers can’t use them or their anima, so I never gave a shit. In human population the phenomena are mancers.
This is all didactic as fuck, but it helps explain the High Five. One in ten-thousand people are mancers. One in twenty-five mancers are Ultras. Two in ten mancers are First Tier. Calculate the odds against population totals and the knowledge that the formulas don’t recognize modern national cartography and it’s amazing to think the five of us were pushed together, not to mention that Ceinwyn Dale found us or cajoled us to come to the Asylum.
Heinrich Welf, Valentine Ward, Asa Kayode, Miranda Daniels, King Henry Price. Did we cause problems . . .
[CLICK]
I stayed with Russell Quilt for probably four more hours. Enough to see the fiftyish other kids come through. No more Ultras, which ain’t all that rare. We make more noise and the Asylum is actively looking for us. Ceinwyn’s told me they figure on about twenty-five Ultras a year. My class had thirty. Another rarity. You’d think someone would have sacrificed a dove or something and known what was coming.
About a third of the Ultras are from overseas, with probably dozens left unfound in shithole countries. China’s gotten pretty good; India’s got an extra dosage of crazy people they didn’t get in time. As far as Intras though, the Asylum only has so much room. Once population reached a higher limit than they can handle . . . well, kids have started to get abandoned to whatever fate they find. Mancers with no one to teach them. Going to go crazy just like my mom. Chance again, screwing over the poor and weak. More than fifty a year and getting worse. Why should normal schools be the only ones to do a shitty job? Sorry . . . it’s a sore spot. It will be a sore spot when I’m a broken old man . . . if I ever make it to being a broken old man.
So four hours of testing. I was actually really good for fourteen-year-old-me. I think Ceinwyn Dale was already trying to plant the seeds to turn me into a Recruiter even back then. Or maybe it was the budding Artificer in me. All the tools Quilt used were made by my fellows.
That’s the Artificer’s gift. Items of repeat usage.
Seeing Quilt rummage through his stacks to find the tool he’d need—then seeing him lose the tool and have to look for it again ten minutes later—is interesting stuff. Electromancers have to spin a wheel then stop the spin—something to do with current control. Sciomancers put on a glowing cloak and are told to stand a foot from a dark corner—hell if I know why. I even saw another geomancer who failed what I’d passed. He couldn’t move the magnets to within six inches of each other.
I was really good except for one teeny tiny detail. Detox sucks. Quilt told me the same thing Ceinwyn Dale did. No smoking on campus. Easy for him to say. I had a headache that could split rocks . . . and without the Mancy to help it out. Even an energy drink and a bag of chips he finally gave me to keep me from passing out didn’t help. By the time the last kid went out the door, I was thinking about smashing whole walls to bits. Forget windows. Walls!
“Please don’t,” Russell told me while finishing up his lists.
“Huh?”
“Please don’t break anything.”
“Wha . . . I . . . you . . .”
He gave me a little smirk. Quilt’s little smirk is about as mean as a Chihuahua. We used to have one at home—so I know about the little putas. Yippie shits. It was my middle sister’s—Jordan Josephine Price, or JoJo—but she took it with her when she ran away from home about a year before my entry into the Asylum. She was fifteen at the time. Wonder if she still has the thing? Suppose she could, but it’d be ancient by now. Mean little thing. His name was Coñando. But back to Quilt.
“I’m a mentimancer, K.H.”
“Like what? Mind guy?
“Yes. I wish we’d call ourselves neuromancers, I wrote a paper on embracing modern styling actually,” said the guy with a pen and a paper list. “But the Asylum loves tradition . . . even if it tries to hide it.”
First time I heard the term, so I did what you’d expect. “What’s the Asylum? Without math please.”
“Oh . . . yeah. Um . . .” He scratched his brow. Simple answers are hard for Quilt. “Don’t tell the staff I said it, but that’s what the kids call the place.
I liked it.
“So, mind guy.”
“Yes, K.H.”
“Can you make me do things?”
Didn’t like the thought of that.
“No . . . at least, I’m only an Intra, K.H. Only reading and sending thoughts for me. Still valuable though.”
“I’ll say.” Apparently, he was still listening in—or my motives were obvious—because Quilt blushed. “What about the Ultra ones like you?” Amazing how quick kids pick up ideas. Of course, by that point my expectations had been beaten down where I accepted anything. Probably helped that my mind’s the type looking for any advantage it can find with new info.
“They’re called Mindmasters . . . the strongest can suggest from what I understand, but mostly their gift is reading and sending long term memory. Also valuable.”
Really didn’t like that.
“Any in my class?”
Quilt checked his list. He knew already by heart but Russell Quilt is a guy who double checks and always gives the right answer. “An exchange student from Dubai, Athir Al-Qasami. Very wealthy family, excellent grades, very polite.”
“Oh bull-fucking-shit!”
Quilt frowned. “Don’t be like that.”
“You’re teaching some Arab kid to read minds? He tries to screw with me I’ll choke him with his . . . um, are they the ones with turbans?”
Quilt’s face had him at a step from calling the PC police. “Listen . . . K.H, we teach every Ultra we can get. A good number of your classmates are foreign. There’s a girl from Nigeria, a boy from Mexico, another from Brazil. You’re going to have to get along with them or you’ll be in trouble. Mo
re than even you’re used to.”
I thought about that for a long while.
[CLICK]
Speaking of long, this went longer than I thought it would. Excuse me as I get dinner. Suppose I don’t have to tell this to an invisible listener but this stuff is still new to me. So . . . fuck off, recorder.
[CLICK]
Ah . . . the joys of the poor bachelor and late night fast-food runs. Oh, don’t blame me—a man can’t cook all the time. Probably hasn’t helped that I got so used to someone at the Asylum making my meals for me.
Case in point, Ceinwyn Dale walked into the Testing Room while Quilt was attempting to distract my questions by making me play some kind of card game with elves and swords and crap. In her slim-fingered hands, she held a styrofoam meal holding thingy. Take-out box. That what they called? We didn’t do take-out at Shithole Price.
“Your dinner,” she told me, sitting it on the cards and sending poor Quilt into another convulsive fit.
Opening it up, I found it a plate of Chinese food. Also not a Shithole Price delicacy. Dad never got a hang of it. Sweet and sour pork, eggrolls, and a heap of fried rice. Told you the Cafeteria made good food. If Ceinwyn Dale is actually using this tape for recruits, then make sure you try the fish tacos on your first Friday and every Friday after that. I have no idea what’s in the sauce but it tastes like a whole tree’s worth of lime has been squeezed into it and distilled and then stuffed with whole peppercorns.
“And where’s mine?” Quilt complained.
“In the Cafeteria, Russell,” Ceinwyn Dale shot back, “You aren’t a child.”
“Neither am I,” got mumbled around a mouthful of pork. “Want the extra eggroll, man?”
Quilt was going to turn me down. I saw it in his eyes. Growing up like I did, you know how to read the eyes. You learn how to know when the slap’s coming or learn to see if Mom’s at home in that body of hers. Quilt was going to turn me down, but then he got a nod from Ceinwyn Dale, so he took the food from me. Guess she thought sharing’s a good sign.
The rest of the food went down quick, then a goodbye to Quilt and out onto the school grounds with Ceinwyn Dale again.
It was summer, so it wasn’t dark, but getting long in the day. The grounds had kids and teachers still but they weren’t all huddling around the Admin building. Brave Singles were checking out the school, returnees were hanging in the Park or Field or wherever. Clothes were being changed from street-wear to uniformed colors, where the street-wear would remain locked in closets for eleven months.
The Foul Mouth and the Fanged Lady (The King Henry Tapes Book 1) Page 16