The Galactic Mage

by John Daulton

  Altin, grimacing as he watched the child enthusiastically massacre the carcass, nodded at Nipper’s remark. The way his head hurt and his body ached, the old man’s assessment likely wasn’t far from the truth.

  “Now, Nipper,” Kettle scolded, “what kinda way is that fer ya to talk to the young master? And him tryin’ to eat an’ all. Have some consideration, won’t ya?”

  “I’m considerin’,” Nipper retorted. “An’ I’m considerin’ he looks like a pig’s arse what rolled in shite. Boy too dim to sleep. Up all night castin’ his magic, no carin’ fer his body. Like as if he made of stone. Gonna get him killed, just like the othern.”

  “Oh, now you stop,” Kettle said. “Altin’s too smart fer that, ain’t ya lad?”

  Again Altin nodded, stuffing his mouth with a newly presented slice of steaming bread, the butter still melting into its sumptuous fluff. Not only was he half-starved, the bread gave him a chance to not respond.

  “I seen the last two,” Nipper pressed on. “I watched ‘em. Always come down here lookin’ just the same. Don’t know why they keep sendin’ ‘em here like that. Weren’t nothing Tytamon can do. They just kill theirself ever’ time. And this one getting’ close. I can see it in his face; his wore out pig’s arse face. Just like the rest. Same face. Tired of watchin’ ‘em die.”

  “Nipper! You stop this instant or I’ll have at ya with this here pin.” She raised her rolling pin menacingly. Nipper seemed to take the threat seriously despite his out-ranking the woman in both position and years.

  A thumb-sized chunk of pork suddenly flew into his face, startling him and sticking wetly to his cheek. “Gods above, child!” he said as he quickly retrieved the knife from Pernie’s hands. Much longer and the carcass would have been fit for only sausages and stew. He shot a look Altin’s way, something between anger and concern, and then returned to his work carving the boar, absently batting the girl’s hands away as she continued groping for the knife.

  Altin knew the old steward saw something that should not be ignored. Nipper wasn’t so much different than Tytamon in that way. But, he also knew that he was still casting with discipline. Neither Nipper nor Tytamon ever gave him credit for having discipline. He’d stopped himself last night, just as he should, just as he always did. Altin was in control. He wished they would understand.

  “Ya want something fer yer head,” Kettle offered. “I keep some willow powder in the cupboard over here fer just such a thing.” She shot a glance towards Nipper, then tipped an imaginary bottle to her lips.

  “Yes, please,” Altin answered. “It’s really bad this morning. And while I don’t think Nipper needs to worry about me killing myself, I have to admit, I think I’m pressing the edges of my skill. It’s pretty hard on me come mornings. I’m starting to think I won’t be able to do it after all.”

  “What?” Kettle looked shocked. “Not gettin’ to yer moon? Don’t be silly, child. Ya was born to do it. Ya just haven’t found the right way about it yet is all. Don’t ya start with that givin’ up talk or there be no more bread waiting mornings down here to warm ya up. You’ll make do with that old, hard yesterday loaf ya always get if’n ya start with that down here. Ya hear me? I won’t have no quitters. Not in my kitchen.”

  He smiled politely and sighed. “Yes, Kettle.” She was kind—if nosey and ultimately annoying. He ate silently while she began talking about Miss Madeline, the farmer’s daughter down the way a league or so, and for whom Altin had nothing approaching interest or desire. Madeline was a nice girl, but about as sharp as the corners on a melon; and frankly, Altin had no time for vapid fawning farm girls anyway. He had work to do, and the last thing he needed was some illiterate furrow-raker doting all over him in awe of his magic—not to mention his proximity to the legendary wealth of Tytamon the Ancient. No, that was exactly what he didn’t need. He had no time for girls.

  Somewhere between Miss Madeline and an argument with Nipper regarding the number of cloves required for properly preparing a boar of that size, to which Altin paid no attention at all, Tytamon came into the room. Suddenly everyone was quiet and fell into a most professional demeanor, Nipper sending Pernie to the chicken coop with a basket and a “shush, just do it” when she started to protest.

  The staff wasn’t generally intimidated by the great mage, and Altin heard their silence as if someone had rung a gong. Absorbed in his thoughts and food as he had been, he feared there might be something he had missed.

  Tytamon clapped a hand on Altin’s shoulder as he neared, offering a “good morning” as he sat down next to Altin on the bench. No evidence of anything untowards there. Altin harrumphed silently in his head.

  “Good morning,” he said, eyeing the older mage for clues.

  The truth was, Tytamon came down here often, but this morning it didn’t take any great feat of perspicacity to suspect that, given Altin’s beleaguered appearance and generally battered condition, this morning was not going to follow a normal course. The servants were savvy enough to understand, even if Altin was not, which was why a moment later found the room evacuated but for the two mages sitting there.

  “You emptied the sky last night,” Tytamon said without precursor. “Two nights in a row.”

  “Yes, I did,” Altin agreed.

  “I don’t even empty the sky, Altin. Not unless I have to. And I can count the times I’ve had to on my fingers and toes. At your current pace, you will surpass me in such instances by a good seven hundred years. Don’t you think that’s pushing it a bit?”

  “Yes,” said Altin. “I am.”

  “Care to explain why?”

  “No, but I’m sure you’ll milk it out of me eventually, so I might as well, right?”

  “Might as well.” Tytamon reached over and sliced himself a thick piece of Kettle’s bread. He buttered it and took a bite. “By Hestra and her seven-headed son this is good.”

  “It’s always best right out of the oven.”

  “Indeed,” agreed Tytamon chewing slowly and contemplating the succulent nature of the treat. “You know, this bread is like the death dance of the male novafly. An exquisite moment in time, almost impossible to catch for most, but those who have seen one erupt talk of it for years. One of life’s subtle gems. Generally, those are the best.”

  Altin nodded and took another bite. Kettle’s bread could only buy him so much time. How was he going to explain it to Tytamon? It wasn’t like he’d done anything wrong. He just pushed a bit, found a limit, and stopped. That was good magic. Solid application of the principles of experimentation. Nothing less than could be found in every reputable magician’s notebook from every century for essentially all of the Magical Revolution. So why was he having such a hard time making himself explain it to the one person who knew this better than anyone else alive?

  “So,” said Tytamon after cutting another piece of bread. “What does one do with that much mana? Hmm? I can only assume you haven’t landed one of your fancy rocks on Luria yet, or I would have heard the rapturous shouts last night. So what’s going on? Tell me, and maybe I can help.”

  Altin moaned. The old man was always so calm and patient. Why did Altin seem to forget that all the time? He locked up a little inside whenever he had to go to Tytamon for help. The defensive reflex was worse when Tytamon came to him, normally because his errors were so easily observed. He drew in a deep breath and let it all spill out.

  “I can’t do it. I can’t get there. It’s too damned far away. I’ve hit the limit of my power and I’m no closer now than I was two years ago when I figured out how to enchant the seeing stones. I can suck the night dry of mana and still not even make a dent in finding it. It’s damnably far away, Tytamon. You have no idea how far away it has to be from here.”

  “Well, you’re right about that; I don’t. But I can guess that if a Z-class teleporter with your gifts hasn’t figured it out after all this time, it must be pretty far.”

  “I can port myself to Duador in one shot, no hop, damn it. How is it
that I can’t even three-hop far enough to change my perspective on the moon to something I can see? Something at least noticeable to the eye?”

  Tytamon leaned away from him, a bushy eyebrow raised. “Duador?” He remained calm, but a genuine storm brewed behind that cocked gray cloud upon his brow.

  “Only once,” Altin hastily amended. “Just once, a year ago, to see if I could do it. Just there and back, not even a full minute in between. Just time to breathe and recast.”

  “There and back? That’s it?” He was looking straight through Altin and the young mage felt certain that Tytamon was using some subtle O-class mindreading on him. He hadn’t the courage to try a lie.

  “Well, ok, there and then to String, and then back here.” As soon as the words left his mouth he knew that Tytamon was going to blast him on the spot, or cast a six-month silence spell on his tongue, or worse, throw him out of Calico for good.

  “You three-hopped around the whole planet?”

  The reply caught Altin off guard.

  “Well, yes,” he answered reluctantly. “It was three full ports, actually, but I could have done the whole thing in one shot knowing what I know now about the distance. It wouldn’t even be hard.”

  Tytamon looked amazed. He appeared to be about to say so, and then checked himself, saying instead, “Why in the name of Lord Morton’s moustache would you do something so ridiculously dangerous as going to Duador? I mean, the elves on String could have done any number of things to you for trespassing, much less breaking a five-hundred-year-old treaty… but Duador? Good gods, man, that’s insanity. Is there any place worse that you could go? Next thing you’ll be telling me you….” He cut himself off. “Foolish boy.”

  “Look,” said Altin, his ire up a bit. “I’m not a foolish boy. I’m twenty-two. And I knew exactly what I was doing. I spent the entirety of eight months prior to that jump reading up on Duador and on String. I knew exactly where the demons arrived, and I knew exactly where the hordes should be in their ravaging rounds. I scried out my landing twenty-seven seconds before the cast, landed exactly on target, and was gone before a puff-adder has time to strike. Same goes for String, adding fifty-eight seconds from the time I scried it out as well. What I did may have involved some risk, but the way I did it was neither foolish nor reckless. It was calculated risk, necessary to my work, and I put in the book time just like you always insist I do. You are right to be mad at me for doing it, but you are wrong to think I did it foolishly. I did not.” He stared back at Tytamon defiantly, his lips and hands trembling.

  Tytamon studied him for awhile, a long silence before beginning to nod. Altin was at least a year older than the rest had been, more disciplined too. The look in the aged sorcerer’s eyes suggested an internal debate. “But why did you do it?”

  Tytamon was stalling. Altin knew. He just didn’t know why. “I needed to get an idea how far I can jump. I needed something as a measure. And now I have it. That was all. I’m trying to do like you taught me. One tiny detail at a time. Each chip from the stone moves closer to the statue; the finer the detail, the finer the work. I get that. I swear I do. I’m not just another reckless Six.”

  “They’re not always reckless, Altin. They lack circularity. We’ve had this conversation before. That much power without access to the whole circle of magic limits your ability to work that power safely. You can’t know what you don’t see because you’ve never seen it, can’t see it. For ninety-nine-point-nine percent of humanity, lack of circularity doesn’t matter. But when you are a Six, it does. The law of circularity is proven, Altin.”

  “Well, I’m not a Six, so it doesn’t matter.”

  “Your guild card says you are.”

  “They’re wrong. I skipped divination on one side and growth on the other, and yet still hold K-class in illusion? How does that fit into the law of circularity?”

  Tytamon really didn’t want to have this argument again.

  “It doesn’t, that’s how,” Altin pressed. “I’m either a K or better in healing, or I’m a K or better in divination; it’s just latent or something.”

  “You’re twenty-two. Nobody is that latent. It’s never happened.”

  “Eight of eight never happened either. Not until you.”

  The problem with bright young apprentices was that sometimes they made argumentation tedious. And on this particular topic, Altin was unyieldingly adamant, and, unfortunately, at least possessed of a logical case, if not a reasonable one. He drove Tytamon to fits, and quite despite the great magician’s considerable experience with powerful young mages. However, Tytamon would not allow himself to be drawn into this fight again today. Besides, he had something else in mind. “Look, do you want my help or not? We can argue about your Seven-ness some other time.”

  Altin stopped abruptly, ignoring the sarcastic undertones. “What kind of help?”

  “I realize that it will likely be the death of you, but I know how you Sixe… Sevens can be if you don’t get your way. I didn’t stop Finnius from defying the gods and getting himself fried by divine wrath; I let Synthia play with her mermaid soil; and, my coupe de grace, I allowed Miss Montclaire to destroy herself and, in the process, facilitate the genocide of an entire race. Why should I not help you out as well?

  “Sadly, Kurr has no better mentor for you kids, and, well, I have no better method of mentoring than to advise caution and give what advice I may. You’re going to chase your dreams with or without me, but perhaps, with some luck and a few friendly suggestions, you might live to realize your potential. Just try not to level the castle this time. You people are so hard on these old walls.”

  There was something of resignation in his bearing, a weariness, as if he, like Nipper, did not want to endure another dead apprentice, another round of grief and chaos and the rebuilding of broken towers and sundered hearts. But he was willing to do it because it needed to be done. He seemed reconciled to it now. And apparently the time was right to try.

  “Come with me, boy.” He got up from the bench and strode purposefully from the room.

  His aged legs carried him swiftly, belying his feeble frame as he passed through the central courtyard and unlocked the massive steel door that guarded the entry to the underground sections of his tower. Altin had never been down here before. He followed Tytamon down flights of stairs that carried them a couple of stories down. Finally they emerged into a low, dark basement, the ceiling only a hand’s width above Altin’s head. Altin followed Tytamon, guided entirely by the rustling of his robes, until Calico’s master reached for a lamp hanging on the wall, finding it by memory in the Stygian blackness, and a moment later it sprung to light, illuminating the space around.

  The entire room was clutter. Pure clutter. Crates were stacked everywhere, against every wall, piled in every corner and heaped about the middle of the room. Where there weren’t any crates, there were barrels and casks. Atop the barrels and casks there were small boxes and sacks and elegant chests and little piles of assorted things like books and cloth and vials of mysterious liquids, powders and gels, all of which combined to give off the most curious of smells, metallic yet with a hint of flowers and perhaps a bit of burning hair. The room was filled literally to the rafters with various objects and containers too numerous to count, and all were covered with layers of dust as thick as a slice of bread. The dust was soft and powdery, of such fine consistency that it began to waft into the air, stirred up by their footsteps and the breezes created through the fanning motions of their pendulous robes and vacuous dangling sleeves. The rising dust coated Altin’s mouth and the inside of his nose, its dryness and the musty taste causing him to sneeze and cough, which only made the situation worse.

  “Juice of a werebat,” Altin spat, coughing harder and pressing a fold of his sleeve against his face in an attempt to filter the particles in the air. “This is awful.”

  Tytamon, seemingly unaffected by the dust, wasted no time with any of the boxes or barrels and headed straight for a low, iron-bound
door made of thick oaken planks mounted on the room’s furthest wall. Altin scurried through the jumble and stood near the ancient mage, waiting expectantly and blinking at the dust that was drying out his eyes.

  Tytamon placed his hands on the rough wood and spoke a few words of magic. The door’s cast-iron handle flamed for a moment as a magical trap disarmed. Altin had to blink a few more times, waiting for the stain of the magic’s brightness to leave his retinas. Tytamon pulled a ring of keys from a pocket in his robes and unlocked the conventional lock that was in the handle too. He turned to Altin for the first time since leaving the kitchen and said in a voice so low and foreboding that it startled the younger man to chills, “Don’t utter one word of magic in here. Not one. Not even a thought. Do you hear me?”

  Altin, wide-eyed and with goosebumps rising on his back and arms, nodded affirmatively. Not a word.

  Tytamon opened the door revealing a tiny chamber, barely three paces across in either direction, and stepped inside. Altin followed. The ceiling was too low for his six-foot frame by about two inches, and so he had to stand awkwardly, alternating between ducking his head and spreading his legs. Neither worked very well, but he made do and looked around.

  Shelves. Three sets of shelves, that’s all there was to see. And the sets against the left and right walls were almost empty. On the right side, the lowest shelf held a skull of some sort, a twisted, toothy looking thing the species of which Altin couldn’t even hazard a guess. To the left, on the upper shelf there sat a little jewelry box, tiny, hardly bigger than a bar of soap, and upholstered in lace, once white but now brown with age and dust. A miniature silk bow on its curved top was the little box’s only decoration, and the bow was so old that it had lost all but the faintest tinge of pink. But neither of these were what had brought them here, for Tytamon went directly to the shelves mounted on the room’s farthest wall.