“Learned Rector, have you heard of Peppard the Ungainly?”
“Yes, he conducted certain experiments that defined the boundaries of virginity.”
“With Dacostians.”
“Yes. He proved that virginity can be lost to a Dacostian as easily as to one of our own race.”
Laron blinked. The bottom fell out of his stomach.
“Ah, what about those who believe they have kept it, even though they remember performing the very act itself?”
“You mean like silly girls and boys who think they can keep it by fornicating while standing up? That is for some future experiment to determine.”
Not anymore, it isn’t, thought Laron, feeling not a little betrayed. The only reason he had endured the final ordeal was that he believed he was technically still a virgin, and that he would have something new to experience when abed with a girl of his own species.
Yvendel suddenly stopped, her mouth slightly open. Laron stopped as well.
“Would you by chance have been recently conducting experiments involving etheric energies, your own virginity, and a Dacostian lady?” she asked.
“I, I, I—What makes you think that?”
“Your questions on the subject.”
“Oh! Ah, well, I have actually been doing a lot of study on Dacostian anatomy lately. Hence my, ah, good showing in the examination, ah, of that subject.”
“Ah, yes, of course. Besides, there is only one Dacostian woman in all Diomeda, and she is the Academy nurse. Had you been conducting applied anatomy experiments with her while doing your shopping at the Bargeman’s Pole, then beating up other students in defense of that Dacostian lady’s honor, well, her identity would very soon become obvious, would it not?”
“I never said she was Dacostian,” Laron stammered.
“Neither did I.”
They entered another room, lit only by a single oil lamp. A tiled pool was sunk into the floor.
“Is this another water allegory ritual?” asked Laron.
Yvendel gave him a push, and he splashed heavily into the clear, cold water then rose gasping with shock.
“This is a bath. You smell like a rower’s cushion in a battle galley. Soap, a towel, and clean robes are on that ledge in the corner. Use them.”
Laron emerged a quarter hour later, exhausted, bruised, disorientated, and confused, but nevertheless clean. Pellien entered and beckoned for him to follow.
“Never had anyone fight for my good name before,” the nurse admitted. “Something to do with not having a good name, I suppose.”
“It was the path of honor,” Laron replied mechanically, then added, “Peppard the Ungainly indeed!”
“Ah, sorry,” she admitted. “I, er, never realized that your status was going to be tested so soon—ethericalty, that is, I mean.”
“But you knew that it would, eventually.”
“Well … er, yes.”
“But I believed that I could not lose it to you, so that saved me.”
“Well, yes. Just.”
“I am unimpressed.”
“You could have said no at any time!”
“Just like a moth could abandon a lamp’s flame. They never do, though.”
“I’m sorry.”
Laron did not try to hide the scowl on his face. He considered himself to have been wronged, after all. They walked the corridors in silence for two dozen steps.
“Laron, three days ago, while I was treating a man of twice your weight and strength for some quite impressive cuts and bruises, I had to keep reminding myself that the fight had been in my name. Nobody has ever been my champion before, Laron, and I … I can only hope that the experience of sleeping with me was as sweet as the way I felt then. While I was swabbing Starrakin’s cuts and grazes with my most potently sharp and acidic ointments and oils, for one brief, sparkling, and glorious moment, I loved you. See? You made me do something I never thought I would do.”
They stopped before a door. This is all too unlikely for words, thought Laron, even though it is so intensely romantic. What does she really want?
“Someday, sometime, please try to forgive me for deceiving you,” asked Pellien.
Laron frowned and pressed his lips together. “Someday,” he said slowly and reluctantly. “Sometime.”
“Thank you. And I shall thank Fortune for repairing the damage.”
She put a hand to Laron’s neck and kissed him very softly on the lips, then whispered, “My brave and valorous champion.”
As she drew back she snapped her fingers, as if breaking a casting spell. She meant it, she really meant it, Laron thought, as guilt for doubting her struggled to break through his relief that he had managed to keep his doubts to himself.
“Learned Laron, through this door is a revel in your honor,” Pellien declared with a broad smile. “Get in there and revel, sorcerer!”
No tricks, no demands, no requests, no pleas, no knives, not even a casting. Perhaps she really meant it.
She opened the door. On the other side was the dining hall, which had been rearranged and decked out for a feast. All of the other students and academicians were there, as was Yvendel. They began clapping as Laron entered.
The Academy scribe cleared his throat for attention.
“Laron of Scalticar, also known as Laron d’Tyrll-ny, you have been graded to level nine of initiation, that is, non-commissioned sorcerer, having passed certain examinations, demonstrated knowledge and requisite skills, and provided proof of virginity. As has been agreed, from your deposit in trust you will forfeit five silver pagols to your esteemed opponent, ten pagols each to the examiners, fifteen pagols to the chief examiner, one pagol to the venue, and twenty pagols to the Diomedan Governance of Initiates. Are you agreeable?”
“I am agreeable,” called Laron, rubbing at a bruise on his chin.
“Answer yes or no.”
“Yes.”
“The registrar has your scroll of articles, ring, and seal ready. Uh, registrar?”
“Here.”
“One scroll, made out in your name. One seal cylinder carved from a sea-dragon tooth, on a leather thong.”
“Be careful what you endorse with that,” said the registrar, suspicious of Laron’s apparent youth and lack of maturity.
“Finally, one ring of electrum.”
“It marks you as a non-commissioned sorcerer,” added the registrar.
“And now, eat and drink. This is all in your honor.”
Laron sipped his red wine with his scroll safely in his pouch, his seal cylinder on the thong around his neck, and the new ring on his finger.
“Of course, the nicest thing about becoming a non-commissioned sorcerer is that virginity no longer confers any advantage for higher levels,” the chief examiner was saying suavely. “Many don’t bother to keep it, and still think they can drink the blue wine of pathways with impunity.”
“Amazing,” Laron said with a little shrug.
“Yes, and they spend years studying, thinking nobody will notice, then snap! The women, well … I’m not, ah, qualified to know. The men drink the wine and dive straight down into the, ah, ocean. Not every time, though. I always remember a young lady who was rendered blind drunk by a classmate and seduced, oh, a mere week before her test. Sheer stupidity, if you ask me. Anyway, she remembered nothing of the, ah, exercise at all, and surrendered to celibacy.”
“Astounding,” replied Laron, aware that his own story was far stranger.
“He didn’t qualify, of course. Cost his parents a packet! They tried to sue, but then the girl’s parents sued on account of his malicious intent to cost them five years of study.”
“Inconsiderate of him.”
“Quite so. Well, if you are inclined to exercise your new freedom, do so with care. There is an outbreak of red pox in Diomeda. All those sailors and marines from Torea, if you ask me. Are you, in fact, er, about to …”
“Celibacy can be more of an escape than a burden.”
“Ah,
well put.”
Lavenci materialized out of the crowd. The tall, angular albino’s wide lips were painted crimson. She had always reminded him of something predatory, and she had a strangely appraising look about her. She had taken him through the basics of casting words and protocols, and had assessed him as latently having a high degree of etheric control.
“Laron, I do admit I’d not expected you to pass today,” she said in a strong but not intimidating voice. “You could collect your assessment charts and projections from my office if you wish to leave here.”
“But, ah, I have to leave,” said Laron, almost beyond decisions by now. “I was expelled.”
“Oh, no. You can now stay as a tutor academician; you were only expelled as a student. You were very marginal in some areas, however, so you really should study them in greater depth.”
This technicality came as a surprise to Laron. “Oh. Well, I’m still not sure.”
“Come and get your charts anyway. You can always return them if you decide to stay.”
She led Laron out through a small door that led to a walkway among the roofs of the Academy. Presently they came to a door leading into the side of a tiled roof. Lavenci rattled the latch, but it was bolted from the other side.
“Ah, damn, shortcuts always turn out to be the longest way,” she sighed. “Sorry to drag you across here, I know how weary you must be.”
She sat down on a flat, moss-covered brick divide. Laron, who had been standing for the hour since his bath, was grateful to do the same. Lavenci lay back and looked up at the sky, which was heavily overcast.
“They say the smoke from Torea’s burning has changed the weather,” said Lavenci.
Laron looked up, too. “Rector Yvendel says that the dust and smoke blocks out the sun, and that the world is growing cooler,” he said.
“Did you ever notice how the pyre, beacon, and street-corner torches of a big city like Diomeda are reflected as a glow in the clouds?” asked Lavenci.
Laron had noticed. There was a faint light about the roof, just enough to see outlines. He lay back, looking up at the sky. A moment later a vast, dark shadow filled his field of view, and what seemed to be an unnaturally large mouth pressed itself down on his lips and nose as Lavenci rolled on top of him. For quite some time Laron could barely breathe, and while he was fighting for air he became aware that the drawstring of his trousers was being untied by quite expert fingers. Lavenci embraced Laron and heaved him along the moss-covered brickwork. His trousers stayed where they were, and she had already taken the trouble to gather up her own skirts. Probably a graduation ritual, it’s probably expected of me, thought Laron as he began to take an interest in the proceedings. Lavenci responded by settling down on him and locking his legs between hers.
Wensomer arrived late at the reception, secured a goblet of wine and a marinated chicken leg, then sought out Yvendel.
“I heard that my protégé graduated,” she said brightly.
“Yes, and he was even a virgin,” said Yvendel. “Rather surprising, for a protégé of yours.”
“Well, it just shows you should not believe all those scurrilous rumors about me,” laughed Wensomer. “Where is he now? I can’t see him.”
Yvendel gestured to the small door leading onto the roof, and Wensomer strode off at once, the goblet of wine still in her hand.
Moments later there was a piercing shriek from outside, followed by the clang of a goblet being dropped. Wensomer scrambled back inside, slammed the door shut, and stood with her arms spread out against it. The expression of bloodless shock on her face quickly crimsoned into anger.
“Really, Mother, this is too much!” she rasped, looking straight at Yvendel.
“What, fair daughter?” asked Yvendel.
“I was but an hour late into this revel, and, and, and …”
“The pastries were all eaten?”
Wensomer strode across to where Yvendel was standing. “He was my protégé!”
“Yet he remained a virgin. I was stunned when he drank the blue elixir, yet—”
There was a clack from the door. The entire assembly turned to watch Laron and Lavenci attempt to enter inconspicuously. Everyone began to applaud.
“One bloody hour,” growled Wensomer. “It must be a record.”
“Ah, no,” said the registrar. “The record is held by Rector Yvendel.”
“Who was not then rector,” said the scribe.
“’Twas in the bath chamber.”
“Took advantage of a new initiate.”
“Gave him one.”
“Thirty-one ten, it was.”
“No, 3112, the year before the birth of …”
The voice trailed away. Wensomer’s eyes narrowed. Thirty-one thirteen was the year of her birth. “Those who do not take a cheap lesson in history must pay for an expensive course in experience,” said Yvendel.
“A plague upon the lot of you!” Wensomer snapped.
“Just because some of us do not flout our passions from the chimney-tops, fair daughter, do not ever assume they do not burn. Why does a blacksmith pick up everything with tongs? Hot iron or cold, iron looks the same.”
“I think enough hot iron has already been picked up tonight. We have business to deal with, Laron. Attend my villa tomorrow.” With that, Wensomer swept out of the hall, slamming the heavy door behind her. It took some time for the level of conversation to progress from tentative whispers to loudly declaimed opinions again.
Chapter Eight
VOYAGE TO DETENTION
Laron was full of apprehension as he was shown into Wensomer’s parlor. His patroness had been clearly outraged by his behavior on the Academy roof. She probably had showed up at his graduation revel to invite him home to consummate their long and strange relationship, he now suspected. On the other hand, Lavenci somehow seemed a far preferable choice for that sort of activity.
He sat quietly, contemplating his future. On the one hand there was Silverdeath and the question of just which homicidal maniac would make the safest master for the infernal device. On the other hand there was Wensomer, and just what she might have in mind for the next hour or so for Acrema’s newest sorcerer. If it involved raising anything more substantial than his eyebrows, he was probably about to make a fool of himself. Over the four days past he had experienced one fight, one duel, one initiation ordeal, four examinations, a night with Nurse Pellien, and then half an hour with Academician Lavenci, followed by the rest of the night with the very same academician. What he currently wanted more than anything else was at least twelve hours of undisturbed sleep.
The steward returned, bowed, and bade him follow. Laron was taken up one of the villa’s two towers and shown into a sparsely furnished, whitewashed room where Wensomer stood waiting. The steward withdrew, closing the doors behind him as he left.
“Hail the, ah, rather late morning, Learned Wensomer,” Laron mumbled.
By way of reply the sorceress walked over to one of two benches and flung back a sheet. Strapped to it was the very obviously dead body of a man of perhaps thirty. There were stab wounds over both of his hearts, and he had taken a severe blow to the side of his head. Otherwise it was a nicely proportioned body with a full beard, broad, hairy chest, and impressive biceps.
“This is about to become yours,” Wensomer declared.
Laron looked up. “Well, er, admittedly, I don’t have one of these, but—”
“I mean I can recast your oracle sphere onto it. My theory is that within your oracle sphere you still have the soul of a vampyre. Silverdeath only restored your body to life. You are about to become a vampyre once more.”
Laron looked down at the corpse again. He reached out and touched its arm. The skin was cool.
“It is no more than three hours dead. Gr’Atos Arak’s Necrotic Merchandise charged me eleven gold pagols. In another three hours it will be worth barely one.”
Laron peered down at the corpse’s genitalia.
“Not very well hung, was
he? I mean, even mine are bigger.”
“You didn’t use yours for seven centuries, and you will certainly not be able to use these, so what do you care? You will have fantastic strength, immortality, and the ability to address every bully, thug, and varlet by his place on the menu. You will also be fully grown, broad in the chest, and ruggedly handsome. Remove your clothes and lie down on the other bench, if you please.”
“Strip?”
“Yes.”
“Naked?”
“That is the most common meaning assigned the word ‘strip,’ in popular usage, at least.”
“Why?”
“Why should you care?”
“You may, er, interfere with me.”
“If I choose to, it will no longer be you, and should not concern you at all. Are you going through with this or not?”
Laron stripped and lay down. He closed his eyes. Wensomer spoke words of casting and then there was a soft crackle as she shaped the etheric energies. There was a tingling, glowing sensation as she applied the casting to his head, then all his senses winked out and he was suspended within metallic-violet nothingness.
Wensomer put the ether-enclosed circlet and oracle sphere down beside the corpse, and peeled back his eyelid. Satisfied, she felt for Laron’s breath with the back of her hand and checked his pulse. Everything was normal. She picked up his penis between her thumb and forefinger, shook her head, and said, “What a waste.” Next she hoisted up her robes, swung up onto the bench, straddled Laron, and breathed a fine-tendriled, sparkling casting into her hands. She put a hand either side of his head, and pressed her forehead against his. Slowly her mind merged with Laron’s.
“Greetings—anyone home?” she inquired wordlessly.
There were only echoes of her own words in reply. Probing further, she met with resistance. The body was named; she could be no more than a visitor. Experimentally she opened the eyes and saw her inert face directly above, meshed with her casting’s energies.
Voyage of the Shadowmoon Page 42