The Magic Thief

by Sarah Prineas

  “Nevery—” I began. I didn’t want to go with her.

  “Don’t argue, boy,” he said. “And don’t give anybody any trouble.” He glared down at me, then went tap tap tap down the stairs, on his way to Magisters Hall.

  The girl stood looking down her nose at me. “Hurry up,” she said, walking quickly across the courtyard, ignoring the other students, who stared at me. Following her, I stared back at them. Like the girl, they all wore gray robes over their regular clothes, but they had different color patches on the sleeves; hers was green with yellow letters.

  We went inside and down a hallway to a study room. The girl slung her bag onto the floor, sat down on a bench facing me, and leaned back against the table. Beneath her gray robe, she wore an embroidered black wormsilk dress down to her ankles, and black lace-up boots. She took a few moments to look me up and down.

  “What’s your name?” she asked. “I suppose you do have one, besides ‘boy.’”

  “Conn,” I answered. “Connwaer.” Now why had I done that? Nobody knew my own true name, only Nevery. And I’d gone and told this horrible girl.

  “Connwaer,” she said, looking up at the ceiling. “It’s a kind of bird, isn’t it?”

  Yes, and she’d better not say anything more about it.

  “Black feathers?”

  I nodded.

  She gave me a glinting look, all sly and sharp. “Suits you.”

  I blinked, surprised. Maybe she wasn’t so bad, after all.

  “I’m Rowan. I’m a regular student, not a wizard’s apprentice, but I sit in on the apprentice classes. Magister Brumbee told me you need to learn how to read.”

  “That’s right,” I said.

  She bent to pull some things out of her bag: paper, pencils, a couple of books. “I’ve never taught anybody to read before. I have no idea why Magister Brumbee gave me this assignment.” She waved me over.

  I went and sat next to her on the bench. “Maybe he’s mad at you,” I said.

  “Hah,” she said, and gave me the glinting look again. “I think he wants to teach me patience.”

  She seemed like an impatient person; that might be the reason.

  Rowan opened one of the books, which had big runes written across the pages. “This is a rune book, obviously, from the babies’ class.” She quickly told me the names of the runes, then shoved the book along the table to me. “There. Look at them for a while yourself. I’ve got some studying of my own to do.” She opened the other book.

  I flipped the pages back and looked at the runes again, then paged forward until I came to the words. If I put the runes together, they made patterns—words. I worked at that for a while, until Rowan closed her book and pulled my book away from me.

  “All right, that’s enough,” she said. “I’m going to drill you on your runes.”

  “What d’you mean?” I asked.

  She blew out a sigh. “I’m going to test you, to see if you know which runes are which.”

  I didn’t get it. “But I already know that.”

  She put her elbow on the table and her chin on her hand and looked at me. “You learned the runes?”

  “And how to put them together to make words.”

  “Right. Show me.”

  I took the book back from her and put together some of the words.

  She gave me the down-the-nose look she’d given me before. “So you did know how to read before.”

  “No, I didn’t,” I said.

  She shook her head. “You’re lying.”

  “Why would I lie about something like that?” I asked. I could think of much better things to lie about.

  She stared at me for a while. “I guess you wouldn’t. But you learned that awfully fast.” She gave a sudden, bright smile, which made her sharp, proud face look much friendlier. “Maybe I’m just a really good teacher.”

  At that moment, the door flew open and a group of gray-robed students burst into the room. Rowan’s face went back to looking proud and sharp, and she snapped the rune book closed.

  “Oh, sorry, Lady Rowan,” one of the students said, breathlessly. “We didn’t know you were studying in here.” They started to back out.

  Rowan shoved the papers and her book back into her bag. “No, it’s all right,” she told the students. “We’re all finished.” She gave me the rune book. “Here. Study this tonight, and we’ll go on with your lessons tomorrow.”

  As she got to her feet, I noticed the patch on her sleeve. In the middle was a slender tree, stitched with green and yellow thread. Below it was a line of things that I now knew were runes. They made words. Rowan’s patch said T-R-E-E and L-E-A-F.

  * * *

  Underlord came to Magisters Hall, rowed across river with three bodyguards. Underlord not a big man, speaks quietly, but fills room with his presence. Powerful.

  Underlord very calm.—I share your concern, Magister Nevery, he said.

  Doubted it. Not a wizard, how could he?

  —I realize I have a bad reputation east of the river, Crowe said. He put his hand into his pocket, followed by odd clicking noise.—But Magister Nevery, I am just a businessman trying in hard times to keep the factories open so the workers can earn their wages.

  Very likely this true. Why would Crowe work to reduce the level of magic in city if it meant factories would no longer operate? Makes no sense.

  —At the same time, Crowe said,—my calculations indicate that the crisis has been exaggerated.

  —Why so, I asked.

  Underlord shrugged, very smooth. Then sound of odd clicking noise again.—The werelights in the Sunrise still light that part of the city. The factories are running. They run thirty percent slower, but they are running. I see no reason for panic.

  Underlord folded his hands on the table and leaned forward.—What, precisely, are the magisters doing to remedy the problem? he asked.

  —We are studying the situation, I said.—And have little to report.

  This actually true, unfortunately.

  After more pointless discussion, Crowe left.

  Hadn’t met this Underlord before return to Wellmet. Crowe civilized man. Still, not to be trusted.

  * * *

  CHAPTER 16

  I spent six days going to school with Rowan, while keeping an eye open for my locus magicalicus. The reading was going well. The searching was not.

  On the seventh day, Rowan met me at the academicos steps. She had her book bag with her and looked impatient.

  “You’re late, Conn,” she said, turning to lead the way into the main entry, the two-story gallery with the staircases and shiny stone floor. “No lesson today.” She paused and pointed toward Brumbee’s door. “The magister wants to talk to you.” She shot me her glinting look. “You in trouble, young man?”

  I hoped not.

  “Well,” she said, “good luck.”

  Thanks. I nodded at her and crossed the hall to knock on Brumbee’s door.

  “Come in!” his voice called. I opened the door and edged inside. “Ah, Conn,” Brumbee said. He sat behind his desk, which was piled with papers and books bristling with page markers. He waved at one of the comfortable chairs before his desk; his two cats sat in the other one. “I’m not due at Magisters Hall for half an hour. That should give us a little time.”

  Good. I needed to talk to somebody about my locus stone problem. I went over to the chair and sat down.

  “How are the lessons with your tutor?” Brumbee asked.

  “All right,” I answered.

  “Are you learning your runes?”

  I nodded. I didn’t really want to talk to Brumbee about schooling. And I could tell he didn’t want to talk about anything but my schooling.

  “Good!” He beamed.

  “Brumbee,” I said, before he could ask me if I’d learned to spell C-O-N-N. “How do I find my locus magicalicus?”

  “Ah.” He shifted in his chair, then opened a drawer of his desk, as if looking for something. “Well, you know, Conn,
that is for Nevery to help you with.”

  “He doesn’t have time,” I said.

  “Yes,” Brumbee said unhappily. “I know. This situation with the magical decay. It’s a very serious problem, and we are relying on Nevery to figure out what’s going on.”

  I nodded. I knew it was serious. Nevery had been very distracted, spending hours tinkering with devices and magical calibrations in his workroom, or staying up all night to pore over books, searching for precedents to the situation in Wellmet, or meeting with the other magisters. From the looks of it, he hadn’t found any answers, and he was frustrated and short-tempered as a result.

  “It’s awkward, Conn. Do you understand?”

  I didn’t, really.

  Brumbee went on, fidgeting with a pen he’d taken from a drawer. “The thing is, my boy, it’s very odd that Nevery has taken you on before you’ve found your locus stone.”

  A sinking feeling gathered in my stomach. He didn’t think I should be an apprentice. “I am a wizard, Brumbee,” I said. “And I only have twenty-three days left to find my locus magicalicus,” I said.

  Brumbee sighed and nodded. “And Nevery is too busy. Very well, then. I will help you, Conn, as much as I am able.”

  I took a deep breath of relief.

  Brumbee stood and bustled toward the door. “Come with me. We’ll start with our collection here and see what happens.”

  He led me into a dark, dusty back room of the library. “Ah, here we are. Let me just fetch us a light.”

  I waited in the darkness until he returned carrying a stand with six candles on it. He pulled out his locus magicalicus, which was round and brown, like an egg. He used it to light the candles, whispering a word and touching the stone to each wick, which sputtered and then blossomed into light.

  As the room brightened, I saw that it was full of wooden boxes, all labeled and stacked neatly on shelves.

  “Yes, very good. In these boxes,” Brumbee said, pointing at the shelves, “are locus magicalicus stones, carefully cataloged. They wash up here at the academicos, and we collect them and wait for their wizards to turn up. Sometimes they do and sometimes they don’t; we have lots of stones and not many wizards, you see. We keep the stones, just in case.”

  I nodded. But I reckoned people from the Twilight didn’t show up often to claim a stone.

  “Here’s what you must do,” Brumbee went on. “Go through the boxes carefully. Touch each stone but be sure to put it back just where you found it. If your locus magicalicus is here, it will call to you.”

  Right. “What does the call sound like?”

  Brumbee pursed his lips. “It is different for every wizard. For some, the call can be nearly undetectable, like a whisper. For others, it is a kind of tingling connection. In some rare cases, I’m told, the call of the locus stone is overwhelming, like being caught up in a gigantic wave of magic.” He shook his head. “At any rate, if your stone is here, you will know it is yours when you touch it.” He smiled and patted me on the shoulder. “Now, I must go to Magisters Hall. I will leave you to it, shall I?”

  “Thank you,” I said.

  “You’re welcome, my lad,” Brumbee said. “Best luck.” He went out, and the candle flames jumped in the breeze from the door closing as he left.

  I looked at the boxes, tidy, labeled rows of them, piled from floor to ceiling. Going methodically through them would take days.

  And my locus magicalicus was not here, I knew it already.

  * * *

  Too much to do. Device construction going very slowly. Can’t get cursed verity crystals properly aligned. Hardly a drop of slowsilver to be found in city. And spent fifteen hours in academicos library, still have thousands of pages to read, notes to transcribe, collate.

  Need secretary. Absolutely certain boy hasn’t temperament for secretarial work. Asks too many questions. And his handwriting is terrible. Will ask Brumbee for advanced student at academicos to assist me.

  Left library late, close to midnight. Walking through tunnel toward Heartsease, came to locked gate. Boy curled up in corner shadows, asleep.

  Had forgotten about him. Cursed nuisance. Nudged him with foot to wake him up.

  Pulled out my locus magicalicus, said the opening words.—Well, boy, I said.—You’ve been waiting all this time. Why didn’t you just pick the lock to get through?

  He stood up stiffly, followed me through gate when it opened.—I tried to, he said.

  Imagine the lock singed his thieving fingers for him.

  Walked through tunnels to Heartsease without speaking further. Went up to kitchen. Benet asleep, so told boy to make tea while I warmed my fingers before the fire. Cursed academicos library cold and damp has gotten into my bones.

  Note to self: Must get Benet stove for cooking.

  Boy brought cup of tea and a biscuit. Very quiet.

  Come to think of it, boy often quiet. Not a chatterer. Fortunate because will not tolerate chattering. Drank tea, warmed up.

  —Well, boy, I said.—You are a master lockpick, are you?

  Boy nodded.

  Finished tea, went up to study, where I keep several locked boxes. There, boy taught me to pick locks. Not as easy as one might think.

  Some of boy’s instruction:

  Keys have flanges.

  Trick is to insert wires into lock to replace flanges.

  Easy to do when key has just one flange; wire turns lock like a bolt and, as boy says, YOU’RE IN.

  Some keys have flanges all around barrel. These, boy says, are TRICKY.

  Other keys have crenellations or studs, and some have flanges, studs, and crenellations, and these, boy says, are REALLY INTERESTING.

  Locks are like puzzles, according to boy. But good lockpick can open even trickiest puzzle lock in under a minute.

  Boy also advises that lockpick should carry at least two sets of wires, and one should be hidden in case he’s taken up by city guards. Picked up one of Benet’s knitting needles from table, said it could be useful to lockpick. Says a little knife is good to have as well, because a lockpick with, as he calls it, QUICK HANDS, can use it to pick easy locks.

  Don’t believe there is any such thing as EASY LOCK.

  Giving it a try, managed to lock myself out of study, boy inside warming himself by fire. Wouldn’t let me in, curse him. Finally picked lock, got in.

  Expect picking pockets more difficult skill to learn.

  * * *

  CHAPTER 17

  Twenty days left.

  I hadn’t bothered going through the academicos collection of locus stones. As a result, Brumbee was disappointed in me.

  “My locus magicalicus isn’t in there,” I said.

  “But how can you be sure?” Brumbee said. “You haven’t looked carefully.”

  “It just isn’t.”

  He shook his head and sent me away. He couldn’t, he said sadly, spare me any more attention if I wasn’t going to make an effort.

  Eighteen days.

  Rowan had told her teachers that I was ready to join the other students in the apprentice class. For some reason, she was in the class, too.

  “Ordinarily,” she’d explained, “regular students don’t need to know much about magic. But I’m interested.”

  “Even though you’re not an apprentice?” I’d asked.

  “Even though, Connwaer.”

  But Rowan wasn’t always in class. When she wasn’t, I missed her.

  The apprentice class was held in a long room with a high ceiling and lots of windows to let in plenty of light. Dust floated in the air, sparkling like tiny stars in the beams of weak winter sunlight.

  Only five students, plus me, were in the class, and that day we sat in three groups of two, passing a spelltext back and forth, reading the spell out loud in quiet voices. The words must roll smoothly from the tongue, Periwinkle told us—she was our teacher—without hesitation or error, in order to invoke the magic.

  Because I was the worst student, Periwinkle had put me
with the best student. Keeston was a bigger boy who was very proud of his locus stone, which was shiny black like Nevery’s, but splintery looking. The patch on his robe had a stone arch embroidered on it. He was also proud of his looks; he was tall and strong, and had wavy fair hair and dark blue eyes. He was Pettivox’s apprentice, and he was proud of that, too.

  He wasn’t happy about working with me. I still couldn’t read very well out loud. I was slowing him down, he said. Keeston sneered every time I had to stop and put the runes together to make words.

  And then we came to a spell I knew something about. The embero, the spell Nevery had used to turn me into a cat. Keeston had the book, and was reading the embero spell out loud. Then he made a mistake.

  “It’s tarkolil,” I said, interrupting him.

  Keeston gave me the eyeball. “It is not, new boy. It’s terkolil. Says so in the book. Can’t you read?”

  “Yes, I can,” I said. “The book is wrong. It’s tarkolil.”

  Keeston sat back in his seat and gave me a scornful look. “Magister,” he called.

  Periwinkle, her gray hair straggling from its bun, came over. “You have a question, Keeston?”

  “Not really, Magister,” Keeston answered. “The new boy thinks the embero spell has the word tarkelel in it.”

  He’d gotten it wrong again. “Tarkolil,” I said.

  “Look, Magister,” Keeston said, pointing at the book, which lay open on the table. “The new boy is being stupid about this.”

  Periwinkle leaned over to peer at the book. “Ah, yes.” She cast me a silencing glare and straightened. “Keeston, you are correct and Conn is in error.”

  I stared at her. I knew I was right.

  Keeston smirked.

  “Now, apprentices,” Periwinkle said to the class. “You may each open your books again and study the next chapter.” Then she leaned over to speak softly to me. “And you, Conn, will forget everything you know about the embero, if you know what’s good for you.”