“I am sorry to give you such a shock, sir—perhaps Madame Kermarec could assist you? She is a close relative of the late Magister, and inherited this house from him. Unfortunately she and her husband are away at present, but they are expected to return shortly…”
It was suddenly hard for him to think. The light that had bothered him earlier was growing dim. He needed a magician. Would this female relative know of such things? There was this namas wall, so some magician remained here. He had to save his master.
“Who speaks now for Oron?” Sonam whispered, as the darkness in his vision increased. The old man reached out a hand, worry evident in his eyes. Sonam felt himself fall, and the darkness was complete.
Dominic glanced about the busy Reuytersalle in an agony of indecision, pen poised above his notebook. He only had a few blank pages left, and what should he choose to write about? The precise defensive wards being set up by the Prince’s magiewacht, or their splendid formal uniforms? The carefully intricate rules for the magical duels, or the fascinating splendor of the masterwork spell competition? How could he pick? How could he get another notebook without leaving the building and missing something?
He had gathered that the Reuytersalle usually functioned as an indoor riding arena, which would explain the large, open space and the somewhat crude temporary plank flooring. It was full of people and bustle, with archaic clothing and banners and ceremonies Dominic had never heard of before now. He wondered if other countries had their own magical customs similar to this or if it was unique to the Low Countries. He would have to ask someone.
The dazzling magic of the masterworks was finally too much for him to resist. Each spell was in its own large glass case, which he could see also had protective wards. He wasn’t sure if the wards were to protect the masterwork or the viewers. The first section was journeyman entries. They seemed to rely on illusion and spectacle more than power, and he found himself shaking his head at a sloppy stasis field in one entry. He smiled at himself, realizing he had developed rather exacting standards from watching Ardhuin’s skill.
Then he came to the true masterworks. There were ten in all, ranged in a large circle in a separate space created by dark red fabric suspended from the ceiling beams. Dominic was grateful for this, since there was so much magic present it was beginning to all blur together for him.
One featured an automaton that danced with human grace and expression but was a mere six inches in height. Another featured an illusion of a nymph of flame, flickering about the case as if seeking to escape. All crafted with jeweler’s precision and care. Still, the main effect was that of appearance.
Then he came to what appeared to be a simple, perpetually turning waterwheel. The water was real, not an illusion, which piqued Dominic’s interest. Then he noticed the water ran uphill to the wheel and went around it and then up to a floating cloud, continuously. Dominic stared at it in complete fascination, trying to puzzle it out. He could see tiny gears and blades of stasis, all rotating together to make it seem the water was moving by itself in the wrong direction. The stasis gears had long axles held up by a physical frame at the top of the case, concealed by a strong combination of illusion and avoidance magic.
He stepped around the case near the curtain wall to get a better view of the hidden mechanism at the top, and to allow others to take a closer look at the waterwheel. And that was when he saw someone else looking up above the case instead of at the wheel. At something no one else should be able to see. Someone he’d seen at the dueling section earlier, a man in a grey waistcoat, wearing a pince–nez. He’s a scryer too. It was strange to realize there was someone else like him.
The man had not seen him, and Dominic resolved to be more careful. As fascinating as all this magic was, he had a job to do and it would be easier if no one realized his true abilities.
He caught sight of Ardhuin in the crowd, talking to someone in a competitor’s tabard. She had illusioned herself to appear as a male Atlantean journalist, complete with a brash accent and engaging grin. Dominic walked in that general direction to see who she was talking to, and to let her know what he had learned.
They had not had much luck with the list of candidates they had been given. All were competent but uninspiring. Dominic had seen much evidence of Trégor’s accusation of the heavy weighting given to rank. It was much more likely to be mentioned than level of skill when competitors were spoken of by the officials. All the magic used in the duels was straightforward and, frankly, dull. He kept remembering the fight with Denais in the ruined mansion, and shook his head. None of these mages would have lasted five minutes.
He wandered past Ardhuin and the stranger, heading for an area marked off by shrubs in pots, set with tables and chairs, and offering refreshments. He took a seat and started writing in his notebook, and shortly Ardhuin sat down at a table behind his. He saw the bright flow of magic and then heard her normal, nonillusioned voice.
“I think I may have found a better candidate than the ones on the list,” she said. “Talking to the top–ranked mages, I pretended to be ignorant of the spells used but eager to learn. They all think they are the best, of course, but when I asked who might be able to explain such things to me they mostly mentioned one name, Jan Kreuwel. I also asked them how the other contestants would rank in terms of skill, hinting that Atlantea was thinking of hiring talent for their own ars magica universities, and his name was universally suggested.”
Dominic grinned. “Ah, they would love to get rid of him, is that it? Was that the man you were speaking with just now?”
“Yes. No rank to speak of, of course. And he was considering not even competing in the duels! He just put a masterwork entry up. He said there was no point, that ‘favor’ would not be shown for his style of magic and it wasn’t worth the trouble.”
“It’s the second day of the tournament—is it too late for him to compete?”
“All competitors are entered. He just has to show up.” He heard her shift behind him. “I’ve arranged to meet him tonight. I’m not sure how to help him, though. He seems just as good as the others, better even, but he is quite sure he will not win the duels.”
Dominic sat back. “Ah, there I can help you. The judges don’t like surprises, or any novelty. There is a strict list of the spells that may be used in the duels, and in some cases even the order is mandated. Also,” he lowered his voice, even though he knew Ardhuin’s spell was completely hiding their conversation, “there is another thaumatic scryer here. Grey silk waistcoat, pince–nez, and an amethyst ring. I saw him earlier, watching all the duels, and I have seen him speak to several of the more favored competitors.”
“Are you sure?”
“Oh yes. I saw him looking at the masterworks. One of them, the perpetual waterwheel? It has a spell element far above the fountain itself. If you can’t see magic, there’s nothing to look at, but he was staring at it.” Dominic opened up the competition program booklet, scanning the list of entered masterworks. “Aha! Interesting. That was Jan Kreuwel’s entry. Fantastic command of detail.”
“Hmm. I still don’t see how they can skew the duels, but it’s happening somehow. I suppose I should keep looking, in the event Jan doesn’t work out.” Ardhuin sighed, and he heard her chair slide back.
“How are you doing?” Dominic asked softly. “This must be difficult for you.”
“There are far too many people,” Ardhuin replied in an equally quiet voice. “But it helps, a little, to be in disguise. I am not myself.”
“With luck, we will be done soon and we can go home,” Dominic said, trying to cheer her.
“I will look forward to that.”
Ardhuin left, and after a few minutes Dominic returned to the Reuytersalle. He saw Ardhuin a few times in the crowd but focused on keeping an eye on the thaumatic scryer and trying to figure out what the man was doing.
They met with Jan Kreuwel that evening at a small bierkeller near the Reuytersalle. There were several other people Dominic had seen
at the tournament there as well, so meeting him there should not be too much remarked on. Still, he took care to find a booth in the back, away from the bar and the thickest crowd of patrons.
Jan was a middle–aged man with a cherubic face, sturdy build, and an infectious intellectual curiosity Dominic found very congenial.
When Dominic broached the issue of the duels, Jan waved a hand dismissively. “Ach, these mijneer mages, they all have this style of doing the thing, you understand. They will only teach their own kind, and if you do not know the high style, well, you don’t win.” He shrugged. “And why would I want to learn? It’s not useful, at all.”
“What if you could learn—and win?” Dominic asked. He saw Ardhuin come in and make her way to their table. “I saw your masterwork. It’s amazing. I’ve never seen such fine control with so many disparate elements.”
Jan’s pale blue eyes widened slightly. “Perhaps I did not hear correctly, but did you not say you are not a magician?”
“Evenin’, gentlemen. Might I join you?” Ardhuin’s voice provided Dominic with a graceful evasion. He kept forgetting…
“There you are! It is Mr. Talbot of the newspaper.” Jan beamed. “You are perhaps acquainted, Monsieur Kermarec?”
“We have met.” Dominic suppressed a smile. “Actually, we would like to ask you a question.”
Ardhuin sat down and discreetly activated the antieavesdropping spell. The murmur of conversation in the bierkeller faded, earning Dominic another sharp look from Jan.
“And what is this question?”
“If we show you how to do the high style, as you call it, will you compete in the dueling competition?”
Jan took a deep drink from his mug. “I feel I must point out you are not even from the Low Countries, and of necessity not a mijneer.” His round face remained calm, even if his gaze had become sharp. “How can you teach me what you do not know?”
“I am a thaumatic scryer,” Dominic said bluntly. “I will appreciate your discretion with this information. I can see this high style and help you learn it.”
Jan was interested, he could tell, but still hesitant. “The favored ones always win. It is not just a matter of skill. They seem to know just what to do.”
Dominic blinked. “So that’s what the fellow was up to! He was watching the duels to learn the combatants’ styles! The other thaumatic scryer,” he explained.
“I’m beginning to think these mijneer are in great need of a set–down,” Ardhuin murmured. “If they already know who is going to win, why bother with competitions?”
Jan glanced at Ardhuin in her disguise, and then back to Dominic. “You are together in this? To what purpose, if I may ask?”
“I’m Atlantean. We don’t like seeing a good man held down just because he doesn’t belong to some dusty old family that hasn’t done a lick of honest work in a hundred years,” Ardhuin drawled. “Don’t spread it about, now, but I know a few bits of magic that might be of use. Between us, I think we can give your mijneers a bit of a surprise.”
Dominic nodded. “I agree. A tournament should be honest, and a mage’s rank earned. Do you know of a place where we can work without attracting notice?”
Jan did.
They left the bierkeller and followed him down narrow, cobbled streets for some distance, until the city had thinned and the buildings were more widely spaced. By now it was completely dark, and few people were about. The building Jan lodged in had a back garden with high brick walls and the only other tenant in residence an elderly lady.
“Vrauwe Voorleyn is as deaf as a post,” Jan reassured them. “And she enjoys a tropf of schnapps before retiring to bed. You hear?” The corners of his mouth quirked up.
Dominic listened, and indeed the sounds of stentorian snoring were quite clear near the house.
Ardhuin raised an eyebrow and set up wards and concealment anyway. Jan observed her with his arms crossed, his expression bland and revealing nothing.
Ardhuin chewed her lower lip in a gesture Dominic recognized as indicating deep thought, but also as one a man would be unlikely to use. Fortunately Jan did not seem to notice. “Let’s begin with an attack.” Her arm extended with the words, and Dominic saw the magic flare out.
Jan was surprised but did not falter. Ardhuin then coached him on his own attack. After a few exchanges his polite skepticism and doubt changed to enthusiasm. “I still do not understand your eagerness to help me,” he gasped, his cherubic face now pink with exertion, “but I make no complaint. Again, if you please,” he said to Ardhuin.
She flung another attack at Jan, with so much power Dominic blinked. Jan blocked it, not gracefully, but effectively.
“We don’t want to destroy him,” Dominic murmured in Ardhuin’s ear. “What are you about?”
“Those duels are useless to determine his true skill in a fight.”
“Yes, well, he still needs enough energy to stand up tomorrow or it will all be for nothing. And we still must teach him the high style.”
Ardhuin sighed, and nodded reluctantly. “Let me show you some more effective parries than you are using.”
Chapter 4
Ardhuin stifled a yawn and looked around the Reuytersalle discreetly. It was the fourth day of the tournament, and the final duels were taking place. Jan had advanced without much difficulty thanks to Dominic’s information, carefully noted while watching other combatants, and their nightly coaching sessions. It had caused no little consternation among the officials, apparently, and the other magicians were now watching Jan’s duels with interest. Which was a problem, since the crowds of magicians made it difficult for her to see.
Not that it mattered to her now. She was completely convinced Jan was the correct choice. He was far more interested in learning from her than in winning the tourney and had surprisingly little animosity toward the noble mages who had hindered him. Rank had not interested him either. She had added a few spells that would not be useful in the tournament, just to see how well he handled something completely new. What Jan didn’t get with quick intuition he stubbornly persisted with until he mastered it.
She had sent her first coded telegram to let Trégor know what had happened so far and had gotten a response to contact the ambassador from Bretagne when the tourney was over to proceed with the Mage Guardian selection.
Ardhuin craned her neck and found a gap in the crowd that just let her see Jan’s face. He looked intent and focused as he fought. His opponent was all but snarling as he went on the attack. Jan moved to counter, then his eyes widened, startled, and he dropped out of her sight. The crowd gasped, then broke out into excited shouting. Exasperated, Ardhuin tried to work her way closer to find out what had happened, being careful not to make physical contact with anyone. Illusion only went so far.
Dominic was visible ahead, looking furious, and she changed her direction to meet up with him.
“What happened?” she asked.
He stepped farther away, where fewer people could overhear. “They cheated, that’s what happened. And if you hadn’t taught Jan those powerful shields, he would be dead or injured.”
“But cheated how? Only the competitors and the judge are allowed within the wards. Nothing can get through.”
Dominic smiled bitterly. “The judge himself. He placed a linking spell on Jan’s foot and the floor, just for a moment. Jan lost his balance. Naturally, his opponent attacked, and with full power. The judge gave him full points and the match. What can we do? Even if I make a complaint, it will be my word alone. I doubt their scryer will support me.”
Ardhuin grimaced. “Jan is still in third place, even so.”
“Will that be enough?”
She hesitated. “It would be better if he had won. It is more to convince their government, really.” Ardhuin could see Jan now, outside the dueling area. He was pink–faced again, but this time he looked more angry than tired. “I have an idea.” She took a leaf from her “journalist” notebook and wrote quickly. The judg
e used a binding on you. Before the next duel, cast a light repulsion field on yourself. Any attempt at binding will cause a visible flash and won’t attach.
Ardhuin wandered over, and with general conversation about the recent duel, shook Jan’s hand and passed him the folded note. She went on to speak to others still present, to maintain the fiction of her being a journalist, and when she turned back she was gratified to see Jan calm and with a hardened expression. He nodded slightly to her.
“He is still fighting?” Dominic whispered when she rejoined him.
“Yes. Have you noticed any other foreigners nearby? See if you can get them where they can see the next duel clearly. If they try the same trick, it will be visible to everyone now.”
“With pleasure.”
When the next duel was announced the judge and opponent were already there, and when Jan at first did not appear, Ardhuin could see a smug look on the opponent’s face, quickly replaced by shock and irritation when Jan came out of the crowd with no visible indication of concern. This time she was close enough to hear him speak.
“Ach, good! You are here! I am eager to begin.” Jan smiled as if he had not just experienced a defeat, and the opponent’s expression grew puzzled.
This duel was less theatrical, but she sensed even more serious to the contestants. Jan was cautious, never overextending himself but also never allowing an opening to go unexplored. Completely in the conservative model favored by the Low Country mages, some of whom were muttering to each other nearby, concerned.
Then it happened. A bright flash, this time near Jan’s knee when it was bent. Jan did not stumble. He clenched his jaw and unleashed a withering attack, completely overwhelming his opponent.
But before Jan could unleash the final blow, the judge, face scarlet with fury, grabbed Jan’s wrist. The crowd gasped, Ardhuin included. Of all the rules of magical decorum, that was one of the most stringent. No magician laid hands on another in anger—especially in a duel—and the judge, a magician himself, would know that. To use physical force instead of magic was a terrible insult to another magician—and a shocking loss of dignity coming from a judge.
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