A History of Magic

by Scott J Robinson

  Munday

  Rawk woke with a start and saw Travis sitting in his cane chair watching.

  “That is very creepy, you know?” Rawk said.

  “And it’s not a lot of fun sitting here watching you, either. You know you talk in your sleep?”

  Rawk grunted. “What did I say?”

  Travis suddenly looked uncomfortable. “Nothing. I couldn’t understand.”

  Rawk guessed he’d said something about Maris. He couldn’t remember what he’d been dreaming, but it wasn’t too hard to guess. He closed his eyes for a moment and took a deep breath. “So what do you want, exactly?”

  “Sylvia is here. And a dwife.”

  “So why didn’t you wake me? Get out of here. I’ll be down in a minute.”

  “Very well.”

  “Wait. We need to hire some more Heroes.”

  “They won’t bring her back, you know.”

  Rawk ignored the comment as best he could as he started to search for some clothes. He concentrated on the task for a moment as he gathered his thoughts. “I fired somebody yesterday— ask Frew who it was before you go paying anyone— and sent four others to patrol south of the river.”

  “What? Why?”

  “You don’t think I should?”

  “Not really. They can sort it out themselves.”

  “And what if an exot appears on Celeste’s doorstep?”

  “Celeste’s?”

  Rawk waved a hand. “Or Grint’s. We’re making a big investment with those two; we don’t want them dead.”

  “Whatever. It’s your money.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Speaking of money, a dwarf turned up yesterday afternoon and started talking about stairs down to the cellar. I assumed you had something to do with that?”

  “Was it Gabbo? What did he say?”

  “He didn’t shut up, bloody dwarf. But the main thing was, apparently, that he can build some stairs in the ostler’s yard, near the street, for about five thousand ithel. It will take a couple of days and he can start straight away.”

  “What did you say?”

  “I said we’d need another quote.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He said he’d be back today to start because he’d already been told he had the job. You trust him to give you a fair price?”

  Rawk thought of mentioning the threat he’d made about not getting any more work. “I trust him,” was all he said in the end.

  “You’re crazy.”

  “Thacker said he was going to send around the best mason.”

  “Who’s Thacker?”

  “A few weeks ago you told me that dwarves know how to do things properly.”

  “I also said I don’t like them.”

  “Do you know a mason who you think is better than the best dwarf mason in Katamood?”

  Travis looked around the room. “No.”

  “He’s here to work, not drink ale. So, just leave him alone and let him get on with it.”

  “I’ll tell Sylvia you’ll be down in a minute.”

  “Thank you. See if they want some breakfast.”

  Rawk was still buckling on his belt when he hurried own the stairs a few minutes later. His crooked dwarf staff was tucked under his arm, making things difficult. Dabaneera clattered against he wall and nearly tripped him up as he reached the bottom and pushed through the door into the common room. The breakfast crowd turned to look at him for a moment and he gave a small nod of greeting then he looked at his usual table. It was empty. From behind the bar, Travis motioned out into the kitchen.

  Neither Sylvia nor Biki were there either.

  “Where are they?” Rawk asked Kalesie.

  “Where are who?”

  “Sylvia and Biki.”

  “The elf and the dwarf? Where do you think they are?”

  Rawk looked over at the back door. “Next time they can sit where ever they like.”

  “Ain’t no stinking dwarves going to eat in my kitchen.”

  “It isn’t your kitchen, Kalesie. It belongs to Keeto Alata.”

  She glared up at him. “You get away with a lot because you’re friends with the owner, but if dwarves and elves aren’t in here to work, then they aren’t in here at all, and even that would be stretching my good graces. The day someone says different is the day I leave.”

  “They were in here a couple of nights ago.”

  “What?”

  Rawk headed out the door, leaving her standing and glaring.

  Sylvia, scarf half-unwrapped, was sitting with a bowl of stew on the small table just outside. Biki was scraping up the last dregs of hers. In the corner of the yard a bunch of dwarves were already hard at work, digging up pavers and unloading stone blocks from a waiting wagon. A couple of them were also standing around looking at the wall that divided the yard from the street.

  “Good morning, Sylvia, Biki,” Rawk said.

  “Rawk. Good morning. You’re late.”

  “Early is such a fluid concept.”

  Sylvia shook her head, but Biki gave a small smile.

  “How’s breakfast?”

  “Good,” Biki offered. There were a bunch of flowers on the table beside her.

  Sylvia grunted. “If Kalesie did not spit in it, it is only because she did not think of it.”

  “I wonder if she realizes that the wind is coming from this direction. Soon your smell will be wafting around the kitchen.”

  “My smell?”

  “Of course. You smell like elf. It’s terrible.”

  “What do elves smell like?”

  “Trees. And fresh air. It’s horrible for someone who grew up in the city. Give me a minute.”

  Rawk went back inside and grabbed his pack and water skin from behind the door. He found some ham and an apple then filched bread and cheese as Kalesie watched suspiciously. He smiled at her, mainly because he knew it would annoy her, then headed back outside.

  “They did not waste any time,” Sylva said, motioning to the workers as she rose to her feet and fixed her scarf.

  Rawk felt like saying, ‘They’re dwarves,’ as if that would explain everything, but Sylvia already knew that, so he grunted instead and headed for the street. The two women were a few steps behind him when he passed through the gate. There was only a small crowd waiting but they started to call out questions and a sizable, rumbling tangle of easily amused people rushed around from the front of the tavern as well.

  Rawk held up a hand and waited a moment for the noise to die down. “Thank you.” A walnut tied with a ribbon hit him in the head. It hurt a bit. He blinked and looked around for who had thrown it, but a moment later walnuts started raining down. Normally they just threw the stuff near his feet, but the combined crowd was larger than usual, so many had to lob their missile over the heads of those closer in. He was hit again and again. Drawing in a deep breath, Rawk tried to stay calm, but it wasn’t easy. “Thank you,” he said again. And again, it didn’t do any good. He looked behind him. Sylvia and Biki were hiding inside the ostler’s yard.

  “Rawk, were you scared?”

  “How big was the exot?”

  “Have you ever fought a unicorn before?”

  And the walnuts kept coming.

  Rawk held up his other hand. After one especially painful blow he’d had enough. “Stop with the damned walnuts,” he shouted.

  The questions faltered. The rain of nuts slowed to a drizzle, then stopped completely.

  “Just stop, for Path’s sake. Don’t you all have something better to do? Don’t you all have jobs to go to? How do you pay for all the nuts?”

  There was silence for a moment.

  “My brother said you fought a sorcerer yesterday.”

  And the questions and the walnuts started again. Rawk drew Dabaneera, roared a battle cry and stuck out into the crowd. They parted before him, shocked, frightened, but many still trailed behind as he made his way westwards. He looked back once and saw Sylvia and Biki slinking along
behind, trying to remain out of sight. They didn’t want to be seen, and that was fine with him.

  Rawk wished he could slink as well. But all he could do was keep up the pace and hope the crowd tired of the game soon. The most enthusiastic of them lasted almost a mile before turning aside. Rawk kept going, striding through the streets. After a while, he turned and saw Biki walking beside him, almost running to keep up. He slowed slightly.

  “They mustn’t like you very much.”

  Rawk stopped. “What? They love me.”

  “Then why do they throw walnuts?”

  “Well... I have no idea at all.” He looked at her. “Why? Do you know?”

  “There was a dwarf king, Garen of Turrin Gorge who was loved by all the dwarves, as was his eldest son. But Yarrow, the second son, was not happy with his place in life. When the king was on his deathbed, Yarrow met with his brother in the palace gardens. They argued and Yarrow drew a dagger. The crown prince died beneath a walnut tree.

  “Yarrow was able to hide the crime and ruled for many years, using fear and corruption to become even more powerful. When the dwarves eventually learned what had happened they could not confront him outright for people who did that usually died quickly. So they started to throw walnuts tied with ribbons. They acted as if they were honoring him and he could say nothing without admitting he knew what they were suggesting.”

  “And what happened? Did he repent?”

  Biki shook her head. “No. Yarrow decided he was not going to let the people get the better of him, so one day he had his cook make some walnuts into a pie.”

  “That’s how your story ends? You need some practice telling stories.”

  “Yarrow died, Rawk, because it turned out he was allergic to walnuts.”

  Rawk smiled and gave a small nod. “That’s much better. What’s allergic?”

  Sylvia answered. “Some foods can make people sick. Very sick in some cases.”

  “Jargo was allergic to milk,” Biki said.

  Rawk looked away from the dwife and didn’t say anything. He wondered if Jargo would ever have a story. But that was probably up to him.

  Rawk knew where he was going now, and this time he was not afraid of who he might meet, so the journey was quite a bit quicker than the last time he had made it. The two women kept pace, and nobody talked more than was necessary.

  The ruins of the city grew up out of the forest, crumbling, jagged edges blurred by greenery. A house with, somehow, teeth of glass still in a window gaped at them. A chimney, standing on its own in a pool of green, loomed over them like the bare trunk of a stone tree. And wherever they went, a hush followed them. Rawk saw an exot, a red leathery thing with six legs and crested head, but it disappeared into the undergrowth before he could even think of what to do.

  When they arrived at the huge log cabin, Rawk paused just under the trees again. There was just the cabin and the graves.

  After several minutes, Rawk noticed Sylvia looking at him. He shrugged and the elf walked out into the open. He really had no choice but to follow. Galad’s sword was still upright in the ground, but the Y-shaped stick he had used as a marker for Jargo was tilting to the side. He resisted the urge to fix it now, instead moving out of the way as Biki slowly approached.

  Eventually the dwife knelt by her husband’s grave. It was obviously which one is was, seeing it was quite a bit smaller than the other, and Rawk wondered if he should have made the graves the same size. Would a smaller grave be some type of subconscious indication to others that the man buried there was somehow less? Or was it an indication that he was a dwarf, and therefore a good thing? Biki didn’t say anything, merely stayed where she was and quietly cried for a long time. The flowers she carried were looking bedraggled after the long walk and the stems had been crushed and twisted in her hands, but after a while she set them down and tried to neaten them as best she could.

  “You buried him right next to your friend?” she said with a small smile.

  “Of course.” But it hadn’t been a natural thing at the time. It had taken thought. It had felt like he was doing Jargo a favor. “He saved my life,” Rawk said. “And I still don’t know why.”

  “Because he was Jargo.”

  “Yes. I suppose so.” He pointed to the lopsided Y at the head of the grave. “Did he believe in Path?”

  “No.”

  Rawk nodded. After a moment, he went and removed the stick. He drew Dabaneera, examining the blade. It was a good blade. Not as good as Kult but good none-the-less. “He didn’t die a warrior,” he said, “because that indicates a decision to go out looking for battles, even if it is a reluctant decision. But he died bravely. He died fighting for what he believed in, and that is an even greater thing.” He was only just coming to understand how much greater. “I would like to leave this...” He held up Dabaneera.

  “But that is your sword.”

  He shrugged. “I can get another.” He didn’t want another. He didn’t want any sword. But Jargo had died because of the stupidity of warriors and people in Katamood were dying because of the stupidity of sorcerers. Somebody had to stop it. “I can get another.” He set the tip on the ground and pushed it down, sliding it deep into the earth so it would not move. After a moment, he took his dwarvish staff and pushed it down beside the sword.

  “Thank you. You do him much honor.”

  “No, thank you, Biki. Thank you for your forgiveness.”

  She looked surprised by that, as if the thought of blaming Rawk had never crossed her mind. “He was Jargo.”

  “Rawk. You may want to reconsider the placement of your sword.”

  Rawk spun to look at Sylvia. And he followed her gaze to the corner of the cabin. Opok was standing there, leaning on his staff, watching Biki.

  “You have come to honor the fallen?” the duen said, bowing his head for a moment.

  Biki rose to her feet and backed away a step.

  Rawk went the other direction. “Hello, Opok.” He stopped a few steps away, realizing he was actually unaware how the duen traditionally greeted each other. Besides, he had the feeling that if he tried to shake hands he would end up with a couple of broken bones. “You arrived much quicker this time.”

  “Greetings, Rawk. I could have be quicker last time, but was reluctant.”

  “So was I.”

  The duen smiled and turned to Sylvia. He gave a small nod. “Mother.”

  Sylvia recovered quickly. “Opok. It is a pleasure to meet you. You are a sorcerer?”

  “A shaman, yes, but your power be a great river to my trickle.” He squinted and looked more closely. “Though your power be dammed for a long time.”

  Sylvia cleared her throat and glanced at Rawk for a moment. “Magic is not allowed where I live.”

  Opok nodded. “I see.” He turned and bowed to Biki. “Your distress be great. Can I be of assistance?”

  “You are one of the creatures that killed my husband?” It was hardly a question at all.

  Opok looked at Rawk.

  Rawk sighed. He didn’t know what to say. He wasn’t given more time to consider as Biki drew a small dagger from beneath her cloak. Rawk quickly moved to stand in front of her, though he doubted Opok was in danger.

  “Opok harmed nobody, Biki. I killed his two grand-children in the forest, then came here looking for more.”

  The dwife looked up at him for a moment.

  “Opok’s family did nothing more than defend themselves.”

  “They killed Jargo.”

  Opok knelt slowly on the grass. “Will my death be enough?” he asked. “Or will you be requiring more after that?”

  Biki shifted the dagger in her hand. She moved forward to stand just in front of the duen. She was still shorter than he was. “I do not know.”

  “Will ten duen deaths be enough? Twenty?”

  “I do not know.” She was looking down now, examining the weapon in her hand as if wondering how it had come to be there.

  “I don’t think there woul
d ever be enough deaths for you. You cannot be filling an emptiness by digging another hole. All you do be doing is move the emptiness to another place. There have already been too many deaths.”

  “I want him back.” Biki said. She fell to her knees as well, letting the dagger fall on the grass by her side.

  Opok nodded. “I be understand.” And he said no more for a long time, merely sitting with Biki as she cried. The duen seemed to have the patience of a mountain. Finally, the dwife rose to her feet and returned to Jargo’s grave.

  “Are you be coming only to visit the fallen, or do you be having more questions about wrestling arms?”

  Rawk looked at Sylvia. “Mainly the fallen, I think.”

  Apparently Sylvia had other ideas. “You told Rawk you can feel the portals from here. Can you tell me anything else about them?”

  Opok stared into the trees. “Many strange things are happening,” he said after a moment. “It is as if the magic be holding its breath.”

  “Pardon?”

  “There be great surgings of power, like a drawing of breath, but then the breath is held and released later. Sometimes three of four breaths are being held at once.”

  Rawk watched Sylvia’s brow furrow as she tried to think. If she was confused, he wasn’t even going to try to work out what was going on.

  “So they are binding the spells, but then not engaging them?”

  Opok shrugged. “I do not be completely knowing the terms you use, but it seems you understand.”

  “So what does that mean?” Rawk asked.

  Sylvia stared blankly for a moment, then shook her head as she collected her thoughts. “A spell is like... Magic is in the air all around us all the time. Spells are merely a means of forming the magic into useful shapes.”

  “I’m with you so far.” At least he thought he was. It wouldn’t take much to lose him though.

  “Well, imagine the magic is a fire that’s always burning. The spell is a fry pan and the result is cooked bacon.”

  Rawk nodded. “I like that spell.”

  Sylvia sighed. “Shef and his friends are putting the fry pan on the fire and it is heating up, but the bacon isn’t cooking.”

  “It isn’t?”

  “No. They are taking the cold bacon out of the fry pan and putting it back in the cupboard.”