by Tim Susman
“You know it’s night in London when it’s day here,” Emily said.
“Not all the time.” Malcolm took a piece of paper and called over to the phosphorus elemental. “Neddy, make us a charcoal, there’s a good lad.”
“You don’t have to teach us a lesson,” Emily said. “I’ve had enough of that for one day.”
“I believe you,” Kip said to Malcolm as the phosphorus lizard crunched up some paper and worked his jaw before spitting out a compressed blackened lump.
“But it’s one of the few things I know.” The Irishman smiled and picked up the charcoal anyway, but didn’t try to write anything with it.
“Kip,” Emily said. “You don’t have to go to London.”
He looked up from the bedroll. “Are you going to stop trying to impress me into the independence movement?” She blinked at him and didn’t answer. “Then I have to go to London.”
“Kip Penfold.” Her voice grew so cold that even Neddy stopped and looked up at her. “I am not driving you away.”
“If we hadn’t had that meeting at the Founders Rest—”
“This is not about that.” She folded her arms. “This is about you being so accustomed to having a master that you can’t imagine life without one.”
He’d bent to tie up his bedroll and now straightened again. “Who’s going to teach us magic, if not masters?”
“I’m not talking about sorcerers.”
Kip suppressed a growl, though his tail lashed quickly back and forth. “All right, then. Do you know what you’re asking me to risk?” She opened her mouth but he talked over her. “How many of your lady friends have been attacked?”
“Nearly all of them. Some by their own husbands.”
“How many vanished with no explanation? How many turned up dead?” She fell silent. “If a few thousand women were killed,” he pressed on, “would the entire race of women in the world end?”
“That won’t happen. Nobody would destroy the Calatians.”
“But they might destroy all the foxes. How many wolf-Calatians do you know? I’ve never met one. They might all be dead by now.”
“And what if by taking a risk, you could guarantee their safety?”
“It’s too great a risk.” He finished tying up his bedroll, and when he stood up again, Emily’s eyes were fixed on the back wall several feet behind him.
“Fine,” she said. “Have a lovely trip.” And she left the basement, stomping up the stairs.
Neither Malcolm nor Coppy spoke as Kip slid his bedroll into the rough canvas bag he’d bought from the Inn. “Sorry about that,” he said finally into the silence.
Malcolm nodded. “Ah, she’s a passionate one, but once the emotions cool she’ll understand what you’re about and she’ll miss you like the rest of us will. Though it is a trifle unfair to blame her wholly for your troubles. As I recall, you were the one went chasing after Mr. Adams.”
“But not once I knew he was here for independence,” Kip pointed out.
“Aye, aye.” The Irishman put his hands up. “I’m simply saying that when your emotions cool, try to see her side as well. This cause means a great deal to her, like her divorce writ large.”
“I know.” Kip clasped his paws together. “But she doesn’t know…”
He turned to Coppy, who nodded reluctantly. “Kip’s right,” he said. “We’re maybe in for much worse if we join this fight and lose.”
Malcolm draped his arm over Coppy’s shoulder. “I understand,” he said. “And besides, this,” he gestured around to include Kip, “this will survive any political movement. What we’ve been through together, why, it’s like a war.”
“It is, rather,” Coppy said. “Complete with battles.”
Kip turned to the otter. “You understand, right? To become a sorcerer…”
“I know you’re doing what’s important to you.” Coppy sighed and put a paw to his forehead. “Malcolm’s right. I know we’ll still be friends.”
“Of course we will. Why would we not? Because I’m leaving to study in London? I’ll be back.” He gestured toward the bag. “I’m not even taking all my things with me.”
“Probably should take more than that, though,” Malcolm chimed in.
“It’s not about that.” Coppy’s tail slid across some papers on the floor. “Everyone’s busy and I don’t know about Master Windsor…”
“You’re doing better with him. You said so.”
“Yes, but…what if things go bad again?”
Kip put a paw on Coppy’s shoulder. “Then you’ll have Emily send me a note and I’ll come back.”
“She’ll have to come visit you to find out where to send it.”
Malcolm patted the otter’s shoulder. “I told you, don’t worry. She’ll come around. At worst she’ll come visit the fox to keep on with the argument.”
“Well, that’s true.” Kip laughed, and that felt good, but Coppy still didn’t. So he said, “Look, do you want me to bring anything to your family? Maybe you can come with Emily when she visits. Tell her you want to see London and that she’s the only way you can get back.”
“I’ll give you a letter to take to my family,” Coppy said. “But I don’t know if Windsor will let me go to London.”
“Come on Sunday. He can’t tell you what to do on Sunday.”
“Patris and Odden tell you what to do in your spare time.” Coppy slid out from Malcolm’s arm and walked over to his bedroll, where he took out a piece of paper and a pen.
Kip appealed to Malcolm. “You understand why I’m going to London, right?”
“Of course.” The Irishman beamed and patted Kip’s arm. “You go become a big fire sorcerer and come back here and burn off Patris’s wig until he lets you run the college.”
It was nice to have someone who could make you smile like that, especially when everyone else was turning their back on you. Briefly Kip wondered if he were under a sorcerous hold, if he was convinced of some reality that nobody else could see, but at least Malcolm understood what he was doing, what he had to do.
That reminded him that he should go see Master Jaeger to ask him if there were sorcerers in London who could help him practice breaking spiritual holds, but he had to meet the translocational sorcerer from London in just under an hour, so he didn’t know if he would have time. Away from the Tower, it wouldn’t be as pressing an issue, but now that he knew about it, Kip wanted to learn as much as he could. He thought he was doing well with the spell, but without practicing under a real spiritual hold it was hard to tell.
“Here,” Coppy stood and held out the piece of paper to him, folded over with an address written on the outside. “It’s got the street on it. Just ask for the Lutris family and you’ll find them.”
“I’ll find them.” Kip tucked the letter into his bag. “I wish I could take you with me, but I won’t be gone for very long. Come on, this isn’t good-bye.”
“It’s good-bye for a little bit.” Coppy reached out and embraced Kip, his eyes squeezed shut.
Kip hugged back, guilt choking his throat. But Coppy could handle it here, and besides, Coppy had protected Kip through the last year. Now it was Kip’s turn to help him. Farley hated Calatians but he particularly hated Kip, and Patris hadn’t attended a single one of Coppy’s lessons to threaten him with expulsion. Without Kip, hopefully Coppy could have a quieter time here. “You watch out for Emily and Malcolm, okay?”
“Of course.”
Coppy looked as though he wanted to say more, and Kip worried that if the guilt got any stronger, he wouldn’t be able to go through with leaving. And then his eye fell on Peter’s journal, and gratefully he reached down and took the red leather-bound book in his paw.
The magic worked. Coppy looked around, puzzled, and then wandered back to his own bedroll, where he sat down and took out a spell book. Malcolm said, “Coppy, I’m going to find Emily, eh?”
“Cheers,” Coppy said. “I’m working on my precision in this physical spell.”
“Come along.” Malcolm beckoned the otter. “It’s a nice enough day out that we can work in the practice tent.”
And Malcolm walked out the door and Coppy buried his nose in his book. Kip walked over to Neddy’s space, looking for bare stone he could touch to speak to Peter in relative privacy.
The glowing lizard looked up as Kip came by. “Sounds like you’re leaving,” he said. “Goin’ back to the Flower?”
Kip stopped. He looked from the book in his paw to Neddy. “You can see me?”
“Course.” The elemental tilted his head. “Should I not be able to?”
“No, no.” Kip crouched down. “Yes, I’ll be going for a while. You’ll still be bound here, never fear, and Coppy will tell me if you get too cold and need to go back. Shouldn’t be for a month or more yet.”
He could release Neddy now, let Emily find her own way to heat the basement. But that would be petty, beneath him, and deep down he knew that they’d find agreement again. So he smiled at Neddy’s bright eyes and set a paw to the stone to say a quick Good-bye to Peter.
There was no response. He hadn’t expected any. So he replaced the journal, hefted his bag, and walked upstairs to go to London.
8
Master Cott
When Master MacDougal, the British sorcerer with the thin face and scraggly red hair, gripped his shoulder with a strong bony hand, Kip wasn’t sure what to expect. There was a moment’s disorientation and then the air was warmer, more humid, and smelling strongly of water and refuse. “Come,” the sorcerer said with a noticeable northern burr. “I’ll take you to Master Cott.”
Clouds filled the sky overhead, but of a smoother, flatter texture than the puffy, rolling clouds Kip saw so often back in Massachusetts Bay. He and Master MacDougal stood on a wide stone rooftop surrounded by a parapet very like the roof of the White Tower. This one, though, showed signs of hundreds more years of age: lichen on the stone and dirt in the larger crevices where some hardy moss still struggled to survive. And unlike the roof of the Tower, there were four other towers around them, one ancient one within the walls that connected the other four. To Kip’s right was a lighter, newer tower; to his left, a taller one that flew the Union Jack. Before him sloped a green hill down to the great murky snake of the River Thames, but he had only a moment to look at it and across at the thick mass of settlement before MacDougal called sharply to him.
Also unlike the White Tower’s roof, this roof had stairs leading down. MacDougal led Kip down to a thick wooden door which he opened by placing his hand against it approximately where a lock would be. There was a grinding sound and then the door swung away from them.
“Is that a spell?” Kip asked, and MacDougal grunted. “Will I be taught it?”
“D’you expect to go to the roof often by yourself?”
The curt response set Kip’s ears back. He hefted his bag onto his shoulder and said, “I don’t know,” even though MacDougal didn’t seem interested in his reply and in fact did not pursue the conversation further.
They walked down the gently spiraling stair past two landings before MacDougal stopped and opened another door in the same fashion, striding forward into a narrow hallway barely wide enough for two to walk abreast. Sconces in the walls held some kind of magical light, which Kip paused to sniff and investigate, but the light had no odor, and in the time it took him to sniff, MacDougal had walked on another five feet without stopping, so Kip hurried to catch up.
They passed eight doors, four in each side of the wall, before MacDougal stopped and rapped on one, adorned only with a bronze plaque in the center that read, “COTT.” When he got no response, he yelled through the door. “Cott! Got your Colonial Calatian here.”
Some scuffling came from behind the door, getting closer. MacDougal gathered his lungs and yelled, “Cott!”
“He’s coming,” Kip said.
MacDougal ignored him, but didn’t call out again, even though it took another fifteen long seconds for Cott to come to the door, during which Kip became very aware of the smell of fried meat and body odor that hung around MacDougal, both from his breath and from his robes, which had been much less obvious out in the open air.
And then the door opened and Kip had to look down to look into the face of Master Cott, barely five feet tall if that, a man who filled out his robes amply and wore a cheerful smile on a round face framed by an untidy mop of bright blond hair. “So it is,” he said, “so it is. Come inside, Mister Penfold, and let us get acquainted.”
He took Kip’s paw with a strong grip and pulled him into the room. Behind Kip, MacDougal said sourly, “Oh, it’s all right, it’s no trouble at all, glad to be of service.”
“Oh, Ian, thank you!” Cott turned to wave, but MacDougal had already turned his back. “Well.” Cott let go of Kip to close the door. “That’s Ian. He’s like the weather around here: either cloudy or about to be. Heh heh! Now, let’s get you seated and talk about your time here in London. I have the letter from your Master Odden, and a somewhat shorter one from your Headmaster. Please, this way.”
Kip followed the diminutive master through a room smaller than Odden’s study, barely more than a narrow hallway from the door to the closed window that looked out over bare trees and another stone tower. Bookshelves lined the walls, and as in Master Jaeger’s office, many of the shelves were laden not with books but with sheafs of paper bound with twine or ribbons, although Cott had a full two shelves of books as well. Kip saw no cabinet where a knife and goblet might be kept. Perhaps Cott felt no need to summon demons or work large magics.
Beneath the window stood a wooden desk that fit so squarely against the wall that it might have been built into the room. Only one chair sat pushed into the desk, so Kip wondered whether he would remain standing. But the sorcerer opened a door set into the wall before the desk and gestured for Kip to precede him. “Let’s go talk in here,” he said. “The study is fine for research, but when I have company I prefer the workroom.”
The workroom, it transpired, was a space the size of the entire basement of the Tower, with three windows across one wall and stone benches here and there along the interior walls. The otherwise bare space also contained three stone tables, two of which had been set on their side with the tops facing the center of the room, and the third of which stood in the far corner and bore upon it a small wooden chest reinforced with bronze that, Kip realized, would be just the right size for a goblet and a knife. Ash dusted the large bare space in the center of the room, and soot streaks marred the ceiling.
Cott closed the door behind them. “I inherited this space from Master Belladon, who mostly works with plants. He’s happier with his garden anyway. He’s over in that tower.” He pointed out the window. “We can visit him if you like. He’s very nice. But this space is far more suited to working with fire. There’s the tables we can use for shields, there’s windows to open if the room gets stuffy, or smoky, or dangerous, heh heh, although if you’re any good, there won’t be much danger.” His eyes sparkled. “Let’s see.”
With a theatrical wave, he conjured a fire in between them, close enough for Kip to feel its heat on his muzzle, let alone his feet. He jumped back and dropped his bag. “Go on,” Cott said, “put it out.”
Kip reached for the fire and felt around its edges the force keeping it alive. Come away for later, he told it, drew its power away and into himself.
The fire and the heat vanished, and Cott’s smile grew larger. “Now try this one.”
This time he vocalized a spell, but Kip couldn’t see any difference in the fire—until he reached out to pull it away. This fire stayed despite his initial coaxing. He met Cott’s eyes over the flames. “Should I keep trying?”
“Until you run out of ideas.”
It reminded him of the fire he’d lit in the Great Hall, the one only Odden had been able to extinguish, and Odden had mentioned a binding of sorts. He could speak a banishment spell, but would that even work on inanimate flames? Cott was taking his measure,
not only of what he’d learned but of his ability to work with fire itself. So he reached out again, this time breathing in his surroundings. This fire was part of England, of London, of Master Cott, and it had been called into life here and Kip was here to take it back. This was the end, but no fire ever really dies; it would be born again, and soon, to judge by the look of the room. He could hold it until then. He understood it.
The fire bowed gracefully and died.
Cott clapped his hands together. “Splendid! I did not hear you unmake the binding, so I presume you simply spoke to the fire?”
“Yes.” The space where the fire had been was still warm. Kip touched the floor with a toe. “Was that what I should have done?”
“Yes, of course. Undoing magical bindings is something Master Odden will take you through in some months.” Cott bustled over to the table under the window, the one with the chest on it. “Now come over here for a moment. Tell me what you’ve most recently learned.”
Kip walked over, staring at the chest. Cott wasn’t going to cut him and take his blood, was he? “I’ve learned the summoning of demons,” he said. “And their banishment.”
For the first time, Cott’s smile flickered. “Ah,” he said. “So you have witnessed the ritual of the calyx.”
“Yes.”
“It must have been very difficult.” The man’s hand rested on the wooden chest and caressed it. “None of that here. You should have no need to summon a demon; in fact, as a general rule we avoid the summoning of demons here at King’s. We have enough human servants to do for the chores, so I believe the Master of Students has a demon, you know, to supervise the use of magic, and of course for particular jobs they are needed, but…in any case, all the work we do with fire will come from within you, so I hope to avoid such difficult situations. Now, if you wish to work with fire on a greater scale, it will be a necessary unpleasantness. It’s one we’ve all grown used to, although of course I can see why it would be more difficult for you. But rest assured, we all understand and appreciate the sacrifice your people make. There may be some who do not express, ah, but,” here he looked away from Kip and out the window, “I have always supported your people and I am very pleased to see that one of you is developing your talent, that is, ah…”
