by Bill Ricardi
I rolled my eyes. “Stop that. I’m neither dead nor dying. Anything short of that and we’re ahead of the game.”
The young human scowled. “Lizard crap! This is your future we’re talking about Sorch, for the gods’ sakes.”
I sighed a little bit. “First of all, ‘lizard crap’ is my thing. Second of all, I should be dead several times over by now. I see anything that happens from this point onwards as a bonus.”
The noble son folded his arms over his chest. “That’s a cavalier attitude to have about something that affects the rest of your life.”
I peered at him. “You know, you impersonate a middle aged mother of three remarkably well for a kid. Maybe acting is your true calling.”
“Sorch!”
I held up a palm, stopping any further recriminations from my former student. “I know. I know. I’m going to show up tomorrow morning and make the best of it. I certainly won’t lose any sleep over it. If my best isn’t good enough, I’ll find another way.”
I did sleep that night. Just not very well.
After my morning rituals, I reported to Master Max’s classroom. Unsurprisingly, he had no other students. Also unsurprisingly, the place was a study in chaos. Books and notes were scattered everywhere, material components were unlabeled and ill-stored. The slate chalkboard was filled with notes from an unrelated endeavour. Even in my limited capacity to understand these things, the writings seemed more like fanciful ramblings than mystical theory.
And standing in the center of it all was Max. He looked even older and more sour than yesterday. His thinning hair was wild, like masses of spider silk after being blown around in a windstorm. The magus wore the same farmer’s jeans that he had donned yesterday, but he had picked up a small coffee stain between then and now. The look he was giving me was best defined as ‘smouldering’.
“So, you had the guts to show up. You can’t hide behind a language barrier, given your shameful but at least competently phrased attack on me yesterday. So now we will weigh your ineptitude on its own merits… or more likely, lack of merits.”
I walked deeper into the room. I moved a stack of parchment from one student desk to another, clearing a workspace for myself. After sitting, I commented, “Since we’re dispensing with the niceties, don’t expect any particular use of honorifics, Max.” His gaze narrowed even more as he watched my every move. “And since we’re being so honest, what did the Headmaster threaten you with? Firing? Leave of absence?”
The old man stalked to the front of the room, rapidly transcribing his blackboard notes onto parchment. “Worse… vacation. I have four years accrued. She was gonna make me take all of them, all at once.”
I had to laugh at that. Hemitath had a lot of style.
The wizened Master finished his transcription, then threw an eraser at me. “Clear the board. Since our fates are intertwined, we’re going to attempt the impossible: Teaching a tribal primitive the intricate language of the spellcasting elite. You’ll fail to some degree, without a doubt. But if we can show at least some progress, we may all get what we want.”
I erased the board, and then without being asked, wiped it down with a fine cloth to get rid of the lingering white dust. “Where do we start?”
The human heaved a huge sigh. “At the start.”
I wouldn’t admit it to Master Max, but the old man had a brilliant take on magical theory. He was weaving together the elements of a spell in a manner that none of my books had come close to covering. Everything was about balance: Power to speed, material component to desired effect, subconscious intent to manifested reality. All concepts that I understood in isolation, but he brought them together in a new triangular balance that opened doors in my mind. I said almost nothing in those first few hours, scribbling notes as the old man furiously ground through two pieces of chalk.
By the time lunch had arrived, both of us were nursing aching wrists. “Food will being sent up. Then we rest, and I want to see that stupid spell of yours. The unmasking of a pretender starts with the analysis of their flawed craftsmanship.”
I grit my teeth to prevent myself from retorting. Instead I simply said, “Have them send up some of the fudge cake.”
The fudge cake made the day bearable.
Truth be told, the afternoon session ended up being better than the cake. After a rest, I casted my Augmented Intelligence in front of Master Max. He stared at me for a full minute after I had finished. The older human quickly wiped out one of the chalkboards and scribbled down computations and casting details that nobody should have been able to discern after observing a single casting. He was writing down things about my spell that I hadn’t perceived or accounted for. I opened my spellbook and started making notes in the margins.
Max looked at me suspiciously, as in if he thought that I had been switched with a doppelganger during lunch. Then the questions rained in. How did I calculate the minimum material component? Why was my inflection so sharp on the sixteenth syllable? Was there a strain in my diaphragm at the height of the third somatic gesture?
I answered every question as honestly and fully as I possibly could. Each question gave rise in my mind to new possibilities, subtle improvements or variations. More notes in the margins were the results.
“Show me the spell in your book.”
I finished my last note, sprinkled some fine sand over the ink, and then spun my spellbook 180 degrees. Max spent several minutes going over my work. As he was pouring over the fine details of the incantation, I realized that I had learned more in a few hours with the old man than I had in weeks of private study.
He slowly rotated the book until it was facing me again. “Alright then. Let’s get to work.”
For the rest of the day, my own spell was dissected before my eyes. Although some of the criticism was needlessly harsh, the process was establishing a common vocabulary. My origins were as a hedge wizard at the end of the day, and Max was an amazingly powerful and traditionally trained magus. I quickly learned the verbiage that he used when describing spells and techniques, and I learned them through the lens of perception that only my most belovedly crafted creation could provide.
“...and that’s why you need to consider material quality as well as raw mass. I expect even a primitive such as yourself should be able to produce a graph of acceptable purities and weights. Well. That’s all. Tomorrow the real work starts. Dinner time. Dismissed.”
I rose and left the room without a word.
My mind was spinning. The thought that kept resurfacing was: ’Why did such a brilliant man have to be such a horse’s ass?’ But the amount of raw knowledge that he had been able to push into my brain was astounding. I knew that I needed to get a full night’s sleep if I was going to keep up with the wily old mage tomorrow morning. I stopped in to give Ames a quick update, and to reassure the feline that I was fine. Then I retreated to my room in order to crawl into bed. Surprisingly, my young roommate was already in bed himself, snoring away.
I finally caught up with Leeson early the next day, having completed my morning rituals and a short bath before the young man managed to roll out of bed. He was doing well, enjoying the challenge set before him. He said he had news about Master Max that might help me.
“Most of my research didn’t turn up anything other than what you could find in his official school biography. However, I think the racial bias stuff might all be an act. Apparently he’s just as harsh with his human students as any others, and just picks a different set of insults to use when he teaches them.” the nobleman’s son said as he pulled his socks on.
I considered this information as I sipped the cup of tea that I had purloined from the kitchens on the way back from my bath. “The question is, why?”
Leeson shook his head as he laced up his boots. “Nobody seems to know. At one point a couple of decades ago, he was dating the Headmaster. But the anger started before they broke up… it might have been the cause of the breakup. He started treating everyone badly, and they
all pulled away. Whatever happened to change him doesn’t seem to have any correlation with a publicly observed event.”
I thanked my young companion, and asked him to drop my teacup off when he stopped in for breakfast. I wanted to get an early start with Master Max.
When I arrived in the classroom however, all indications pointed towards a late start rather than an early one. At least for Max. He had absolutely filled two slate boards with notes on the Lightning Bolt spell. Both technique and theory were covered, under the heading: ‘Transcribe, Greenskin.’
I dutifully started to copy the notes into my spellbook, keeping in mind the triangular balance that was the cornerstone of Master Max’s method. There were footnotes with references to other books, so some hunting and sorting through the chaotically scattered classroom materials was required.
By the time the old mage walked into his classroom, mug of steaming coffee in hand, I was cleaning up my notes and translations. He was two hours late, but infuriatingly his estimate of how long I would take to transcribe everything was spot-on. He strode over to take up position just behind my seat. The annoying but brilliant man stood over my shoulder, sipping his beverage loudly in my ear, and pointing out a couple of minor mistakes in my notes.
After deriving sufficient pleasure from my irritation, Master Max shuffled to the front of the classroom and erased what was on the board. “We have two days for this primitive spell, best used for murdering helpless goblins I’m sure. Then we have three days to spend on real magic. Magic that allows two minds to touch each other across any distance, breaking the barriers of sight, sound, and even breaching the planar veil. Magic that I very much doubt you can wield. But we will endeavour to make you understand the basics well enough to make it clear that any failure is the fault of your talent, rather than my genius.”
I sighed, “Is today going to be a study in your egomania, Max, or will we be taking a break from admiring your former glory to get some real work done?”
The elderly human’s expression was hard to read at the best of times, but I thought I detected a little amusement creeping into his features, if only for an instant.
“You seem to have at least a primitive grasp on that lovely sledgehammer of a spell you call ‘Acid Bolt’. Let us build upon your dubious knowledge of that fetid chestnut, so that you might be able to do even more damage to whatever innocents, women, and children you happen to run across.”
All prodding aside, that’s exactly what Max did. Parallels were drawn between what I already knew about hurling acid and what I was going to learn about hurling electricity. We started with targeting, then moved on to range. Intent and mindset were almost identical, as it happened. The material component changed however, to a brass rod and animal fur. The components were not consumed in the casting, I discovered.
Max left me to get familiar with the material components, my task being to analyse the elemental and mystical aspects to be harnessed, and determine why the materials persisted after the spell was cast. The human cited ‘real work to be done’ and said he would be back at lunch time.
I discovered that the material components weren’t the sacrifice, the static spark was. By rubbing the brass and fur together, energy was produced. The spark was sent into the quasi-elemental planes and a conduit was opened. That very brief window into another world allowed the caster to pull forth a bolt of destructive electricity.
By the time Master Max returned, I was working on somatic gestures. He had a first year apprentice in tow, who was pushing a wobbly-wheeled wooden dinner cart. “Stop. Lunch.” was all the old man said. The student was made to clear a space on one of the cluttered classroom desks, lay out a meal of baked chicken with turnips, and then told to beat a hasty retreat. We ate in silence. Then the old man waddled back over to his own chair, closed his eyes, and took a nap. The one advantage of working with the ornery codger was that my own midday rest periods weren’t called into question.
When we both woke, it was time to play follow the leader. Master Max would run through the somatic components at full speed, and then I would copy his movements as he observed. Amongst the ever-present abuse was the odd scattered compliment. I always was good at mimicry, and even Max had to admit to observing some talent in that area.
By the end of the day, my mind was frazzled and my body sore. The old human drew things to a close by saying, “Tomorrow you put it all together. That or you fail miserably. Either way we need three solid days for your next bungled attempt at magic, so that’s that.” I stared at the back of his head, absently wondering where my beloved Rock was right now.
Everyone got together for dinner that night, leaving our youngest dinner companion a little bit starstruck. To Leeson’s right was two graduate alumni and active adventurers… and those were the ones he knew well. Across from him, two exotic creatures, also adventurers, and one of them the size of a small house. I sat to the lad’s left. That wasn’t for his benefit really, I just wanted to sit next to Ames.
Over some kind of baked pasta dish that was very comforting to me, Will and Rick gave me some helpful tips for executing the Lightning Bolt spell. I took them on board, but was rather distracted by a naked feline footpaw running up and down my leg under the table. I shot a couple of warning glances at Ames, but the feline only smiled toothily at me.
Once he got over his shyness, Leeson had a dozen questions, most of them directed at Toby. The theatrical minotaur was more than happy to tell his tales. I tried to concentrate on the paladin’s words, but those curious were-cat toes crept higher on my leg until…
I jumped in my seat, bumping the table hard with a knee. I practically growled, “Excuse us.” My meaty green hand found Ames’ shoulder. The feline had slipped those mischievous toes back into their boot just in time to be dragged off. The only study that was accomplished that night involved pleasure thresholds and the structural integrity of the University’s bed frames.
Somewhat ill-rested but far more relaxed, I showed up for the morning study session. Once again, no Max. There was a thick, somewhat singed log leaning against one of the stone walls. Miraculously, desks had been moved and the room had been tidied up somewhat so that nothing would catch fire; the task probably completed by the hands of overworked students. The slate board simply said ‘Dry runs, no material components, don’t hurt the log.’ I was to execute the verbal and somatic components of the Lightning Bolt spell without using the brass or fur.
About an hour into practice, Max showed up. As he walked by with his mug, I caught the scent of wine rather than coffee. I commented, “Isn’t it a little early for that?”
“No.” was the flat reply. I sighed, and went back to my drills.
After watching me for almost the entire morning session, the aged mage commented, “Your form is good. It’s a tragic waste of course.”
The mixed compliment and insult gave me pause. I shook out the tension in my calloused hands and asked, “A waste?”
Max nodded. “Think about it. A high percentage of your power has to be dedicated to overcoming what amounts to a racial defect. A portion of the spells that you memorize will always be to artificially boost your intelligence. The drain exists on the financial, mental, and paraphysical levels. If I was teaching anyone other than yourself, one hundred percent of the effort would be reflected in the result. With you, it will always be this absurd juggling act. Hells, without that amulet you wear, you’re useless. In essence, I’m just giving you the ability to drain your intellect even faster. Which means you need to dedicate more resources to enhancing it, and so on, and so on. It’s a downward spiral. And a waste.”
I nodded slowly. His logic was flawless. Nothing he said was strictly wrong. I was at a disadvantage, and there was nothing that turned it into an advantage in any way. “So what’s next?” I asked.
The master mage shrugged. “Well I supposed you could start a little business somewhere. Perhaps become a night watchman with a magical bent. Something non-taxing that would make use o
f your limited talents.”
I shook my head. “No, I mean…”
I picked up the rod of brass and swatch of fur from my desk. A few moments later, the room was filled with a thunderclap as my Lightning Bolt crashed into the log, setting it ablaze in the process.
“...what’s next?”
The elderly magus and I stared at each other for a few long moments. Finally, he answered.
“Put out the damned fire. Then lunch.”
We had an extra half day to master Max’s Message. My confidence soared. I had gained an understanding of Max’s magical ‘vocabulary’, and I had to admit that I was a much better magic user because of it. I tackled the afternoon session with a renewed vigor.
I learned that Max’s Message sacrificed duration for range. In fact, through a brilliant modification of standard psychic contact magic, the range of Max’s spell was infinite. If you kept the number of words to two dozen or less, and assuming you had personal knowledge of the target, you could send a message to any intelligent creature, anywhere on Panos. They could then respond, with the exact same restrictions. Anything above two dozen words however, and the spell fizzled. That was the tradeoff.
Max’s Message used a braid of copper wire as the material component. As I had blacksmiths cutting up my copper coins all the time, this was yet another task for them. Luckily, my copper supply was quite large at this point.
The next few days were intense, but for me, the result was never in question. Leeson was thriving in this environment, and I had it on good authority from Professor Dunn that the lad was going to pass with flying colors. As for myself, I kept a healthy sleep and study schedule, save for the night prior to my final test. I figured that Ames was such a good luck charm last time, sacrificing a little bit of sleep for a little bit of entertainment and relaxation was the only logical, responsible thing to do.
The were-cat was probably somewhat shocked and flustered when, in the early afternoon of the last day, a colorful and ribald suggestion suddenly popped into their head. To be honest, I wasn’t certain if Ames even owned a whip. Luckily the string of curses that the feline responded with was less than twenty-four words.