The Delusionist's Son

by Danny Macks

  Silva gestured toward the buckets. “I saw the mine. Is it bad here?”

  “Not as bad as Cupriton. A lot of the sludge settles out before the stream gets this far.” She shrugged. “What can ya do? Trust in Heaven and pray.”

  Silva dropped two silver coins and a charged ley stone in her hand. “Supper sounds lovely.” Right now, there wasn’t much more he could do, either.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  The Home for the Misshapen was much as Silva remembered it from his early apprentice days. High on a hill, the rectangular blocks of plain grey stone which made up the complex appeared like nothing so much as a prison, with high walls surrounding the buildings and every trickle of ley energy carefully bent elsewhere. Inside, plain white tiles covered floors and four feet high on the walls. The wooden chair rail which bordered the tile was scratched and, in some places, chewed.

  Despite the hour, Dr. Anguilla, the facility’s chief surgeon, met Silva personally.

  “Thank you for coming.” The doctor shook Silva's hand. “I guess it’s true what they say about the Vatics. I was planning to send you a letter, about your father.”

  Silva hadn't dreamed about his father. His few remembered dreams seemed locked in some kind of loop about school. “What seems to be the problem?”

  “Well, I hate to be melodramatic, but I think your father is killing himself. When we admitted him, he was running some kind of low power spell. It didn't seem to have any effect we could see, so we let it run out of energy naturally. The drugs keep him from casting anything new, but this spell doesn't appear to dissipate when he sleeps. A portion of the spell appears to include solar collection, so we sequestered him in the basement.”

  Silva's mind jumped ahead. “He’s burning through his own health.”

  The doctor nodded, his face a mask of professional concern. “I know you two didn’t part on the best of terms–”

  “He’s still my father,” Silva interrupted. “I’ll do what I can.”

  The patients in the Home for the Misshapen all wore mustard yellow robes and a faint dazed expression — a side effect of the drugs which kept them restrained — and some did have the horrid burns and deformations which had given the facility its name. But, when Silva first entered the Home for the Misshapen as an apprentice, he’d been surprised at how relatively healthy many patients appeared. Some looked almost normal to the apprentice’s untrained eye.

  His time serving in the hospital had been torture. He could never seem to grow the tough emotional shell the drudges and commoners working here developed. Every tortured soul staying here could have been his father. Now one of them was.

  The basement hall leading to his father’s cell contained no windows. The only light came from a candle Dr. Anguilla carried in a filigreed bronze holder. He also carried a washcloth, inside a steel basin full of water. The doctor slid aside a small iron shutter on a tiny window, raised his candle to peer inside, then unlocked the door with a thick brass key.

  Inside, the walls and floors were covered with thick padding. The scent of human shit slapped Silva's face as soon as the door opened and he gagged before he shoved a hand over his nose. Dr. Anguilla seemed unaffected. Father sat against the back wall, bound in a canvas jacket with long sleeves tied behind his back, several buckles in the front, and a strap which ran between his bare legs.

  “Is it breakfast time already?” Given the doctor’s warning, Father's voice sounded surprisingly strong. Other than the smell, he appeared as good as he sounded. As Silva stepped into the room, the smell suddenly disappeared. Father smiled. “The errant son returns. I’m sorry I couldn’t decorate. Dr. Anguilla has been entirely unreasonable in his treatment.”

  The illusion. His father was still running that damn mental illusion. And, despite the drugs in his system, he was still in control of it.

  Dr. Anguilla set down the candle and basin near the door and unbuckled Father’s straitjacket. Shouldn’t he have an orderly doing that? As expected, when the soiled jacket was removed, his father looked healthy in a manner entirely inconsistent with his confinement. Illusion.

  “Dr. Poincer, a telecommunications expert, identified the scroll you designed for your doctorate dissertation and acquired another copy for my master exam," Silva said. "Everyone is impressed I'm attempting something so difficult.”

  “I expected nothing less of your mother’s son," Father replied. "And the other matter? I’ve heard rumors. Even here.”

  Dr. Anguilla retrieved the basin and quietly began to wash Father’s body. Although Father’s body appeared clean to Silva's eyes, the washcloth left his body soiled and darkened the water in the basin. The doctor wrinkled his nose but otherwise kept his face impassive.

  “The yellow diatoms in Winterhaven are destroyed. I’m making a good living cleaning up the remaining pockets of wemyd infection.”

  Father slumped against the wall. “After all these years, the one idiot who undid all my work turned out to be my own son. You don’t even know what you've done.”

  “Enlighten me.”

  Father glanced at Dr. Anguilla. “That’s why he’s here. He’s a parasite, living off the work of his betters.”

  “Now, now,” Dr. Anguilla said calmly. “None of that. Let’s all try to remain civil, shall we?”

  Silva shoved his hands in his robe pockets and adjusted his vision. Dr. Anguilla’s aura was slightly green, but fully charged and a half-formed spell hovered at the edge of his aura. He was too close to Father for the spell to be a shield. It was likely a stun bolt. Father, on the other hand, looked totally drained. Where was he getting the power for the illusion? His health. The doctor hadn't lied. Father was killing himself over a damn illusion.

  Your father’s been many things, but he’s never been a fool, a feminine voice said in Silva's ear. You need to ask yourself why he is doing this.

  Father’s jaw dropped and his eyes glistened. “Oh, my dear. I’ve missed you so much. Where have you been?”

  “You know she’s not real,” Silva said, grinding his teeth despite his attempts at self-control. “Mother died.”

  Father blinked several times then wiped his eyes on his wrist. “My memories are real enough.”

  Was Mother's voice all Father's work? That didn’t quite make sense. If Mother’s voice was only a product of Father’s memories, a programmed illusion like the phonograph, how had she advised him when he was miles away in a situation his father knew nothing about? Despite his own protestations otherwise, Silva wasn't sure any more.

  “Silva,” Father said, interrupting his reverie, “did you know Dr. Anguilla once invented a spell? He invented one of the foundation sigils which make up the lightning rote the military and some enforcers use.”

  “I had a very small part,” Dr. Anguilla said with a small smile. “Many people contributed to the final rote.”

  Father took the washcloth from Dr. Anguilla and vigorously washed himself. “Don’t be modest. The sigil you supplied was a stroke of genius. After you left Winterhaven, you made electricity act in ways no one had ever seen before.”

  Dr. Anguilla had visited Winterhaven? That explained the green in his aura. And the doctor understood electricity in a manner totally out of keeping with his medical training. Kate.

  Dr. Anguilla had learned about electricity from Kate while she was trapped, adapted the knowledge to this world, then took all the credit for the discovery. Even locked in a shield, Kate influenced the world. Silva refocused and saw both Father and Dr. Anguilla studying him. Reading faces was well within the doctor’s specialty. He was likely excellent at it. Father was right, he was a parasite.

  Give him an excuse and he’ll have you stunned and admitted before morning, Father said.

  Silva swore he hadn't seen Father's lips move.

  Ask Kate about the yellow. She didn’t believe me, but she listened.

  Dr. Anguilla’s eyes flicked back and forth. From Silva's incomplete facial control, he could tell Father was communicating, but no
t how.

  “A truce,” Silva said aloud. “Let my father out in the sun and I’ll give you the sigil used to control the yellow, a full week before the board approves its use.”

  “That hardly seems safe,” Dr. Anguilla replied. “We still don’t know what spell he’s running.”

  “Don’t be an idiot, Anguilla,” Father snapped. “Contact Dr. Poincer in the capital and he’ll give you a copy. It’s harmless.”

  Master spells were never harmless. But Dr. Anguilla was studying Father, not Silva, and Father’s facial control was excellent.

  *****

  After a night at the inn and a hard walk, Silva arrived back at the capital shortly before noon. He wanted to track down Kate, but needed to visit the judicial building first to report what Drudge was doing to the countryside.

  The capitol building was tall and imposing with wide steps which led up to thick columns over three stories tall. A clock above the front entrance, itself fifteen feet tall, chimed the hour as Silva approached.

  “It may be best to wait,” a bass voice said behind him. “Most of the clerks take lunch right now.”

  Silva schooled his features and turned to face the inquisitor. “Have you been following me?”

  “Should I?” The inquisitor smiled at his own joke.

  Silva wasn't amused and glanced away. His gaze landed on Adeline Presley leaving the building. As Silva watched, she held out her arm and whistled. Several grey doves swooped down onto her arm. He waved and saw her gaze shift, but she made a point of ignoring him. She spoke softly to the birds and handed each of them some seeds and a small tube.

  “If you’ll excuse me,” Silva said to the inquisitor, “I see a friend I need to speak to.”

  Ignoring the hint, the inquisitor stepped toward Adeline. “She doesn't appear very friendly. Let’s say hello anyway.” When Silva moved to follow, the inquisitor added. “You don’t seem to be a terribly popular person, Mage Vatic. I can’t imagine why.”

  Adeline sent the birds away with their packages, scowled at Silva, then smoothed her expression, but Silva could still sence the scowl. “Good day, officer. What can I do for you?”

  “Actually, I wanted to see what I could do for you. We haven’t been introduced.” The inquisitor held out his hand, palm up. “I’m Brenin Dwufin.”

  Adeline gave Inquisitor Dwufin her hand. Behind him, Silva rolled his eyes as the inquisitor bent forward and kissed a knuckle. She let her hand linger in his when he straightened and even smiled a bit, instead of yanking it back and wiping it on her robe, as expected.

  Silva held out his own hand, but she didn’t take it. “I’ve met Mage Vatic.” She took a deep breath, forced a smile and said to Inquisitor Dwufin, “Perhaps you can help. I’m trying to lodge a complaint, but the clerks inside aren’t being very helpful. A coal mine in my county is ripping up the countryside and choking the creek which provides several towns with water.”

  Dwufin pulled a small book and a stubby coal pencil out of his pocket. “Do you know the mage responsible?”

  “That’s the problem,” Silva said, inserting himself into the conversation. “The contraption used isn’t magical at all. I don’t think the laws which govern responsible magic use apply.”

  “Ah.” Dwufin put away his book. “Which makes it a local problem.”

  “The judge who signed the permit doesn't even live in the area. He has a second house here in the capital and insists the ‘digging permit’ is legal.”

  “Well, if it’s only a little digging …” Dwufin fell silent as his eyes shifted back and forth between the other mages.

  “You need to see it,” Adeline insisted.

  “Drudge Delan is involved.”

  Inquisitor Dwufin locked eyes with Silva and both mages took a physical step away from the intensity of his gaze. Silva could swear he felt fingers riffling around inside his brain. “Are you mentioning that name due to our conversation the other day? I warn you, lying to an Inquisitor is–”

  “Silva is a stiff-backed ass,” Adeline interrupted. “But an honest one.”

  Silva knew his facial control slipped at those painful words, but Inquisitor Dwufin smiled, his own congenial persona slipping back into place. “That may be, but–”

  “Don’t believe me. Look for yourself,” Silva insisted. “It’s upstream from the Home for the Misshapen, which technically puts it in your jurisdiction.”

  He nodded. “I know an enforcer in that area with some influence. I’ll contact her–”

  “Officer Neran recently died,” Adeline said. “… and junior enforcer Enthus took a leave of absence.”

  “Suicide,” Silva said, perhaps too hastily. “I think it needs to be you. The machine being used is a large-scale version of the cannon Drudge used to take down the absorption shield at Winterhaven.”

  “I can’t promise anything,” Dwufin said noncommittally, “but I’ll see what I can do.”

  Both mages nodded and said polite farewells. After the inquisitor left, Adeline gave Silva a firm hug. He stiffened and she released him immediately. Silva wasn't used to hugs, even as a child.

  “You don’t know how much I appreciate this,” Adeline said.

  Why hadn't he noticed how pretty her smile was? The dream image of Adeline in a short corseted dress flashed across Silva’s imagination, but he made an effort to not let it show on his face. “While you’re in town, could I interest you in lunch?”

  The smile disappeared.

  “What did I do?” Silva asked. “That was a perfectly reasonable request.”

  “There’s more to hiding your thoughts than controlling your face, Mister Vatic,” she said, rudely emphasizing her reduction of Silva's proper title. “I’m a beast speaker, and your average bird has better facial control than any human. How about controlling your thoughts instead of only your face, next time you ask a woman to dine with you?”

  Silva grinned. “So a next time is a possibility?”

  She whirled and stomped away.

  Silva watched her leave the square. Anger gave her a long stride which pulled her robe taut across her legs with each step. After she departed, he took a cleansing, meditative breath. He still needed to find Kate. He didn’t have time for this.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  In the weeks since Silva had seen Kate, she had somehow acquired an office in a building staffed with surveyors, engineers and other technician crafts, despite her lack of formal accreditation or steady income.

  The lift was missing its power line and the directory said Kate’s office was on the fourth floor. He considered powering the lift with his own energy, but reconsidered. He’d spent years training himself to conserve power and — despite his change in circumstances — couldn't justify the exception to spare leg muscles.

  “She’s a drudge,” a voice growled as Silva caught his breath outside the office door. “You can’t expect me to pay to schedule an appointment. And don’t you dare read that prepared speech again.”

  The office contained a small waiting area with a wooden bench, a woman seated at a small desk and a chalkboard behind her with a math puzzle upon the board. Several charcoal pencils and a stack of paper rested on the bench. A red-sleeved journeyman mage leaned over the secretary, trying to intimidate her physically. The secretary had a glazed expression Silva suspected was self-induced, through some type of mind rote.

  “I’m not saying you have to pay,” the secretary said, while making the sign porters used to remind people to tip. She gestured to the board. “That’s what the riddle is for.”

  Silva studied the chalkboard. It contained three math equations, but had meaningless symbols where numbers should be.

  (♠ x ♠) + (♣ x ♣) = (♦ x ♦)

  ♠ + ♣ + ♦ = 70

  ♠ + ♣ - ♦ = 12

  ♠ = ?

  While the ley bender tried to browbeat the secretary over the silliness of riddles as business practices, Silva took a seat and contemplated the board. The riddle was actually a pu
zzle: a specific type of puzzle from Kate’s homeworld called álgebra. Mother would have loved puzzles like this. She loved solving them and loved inventing them for her son.

  Just as the exasperated ley bender paid the secretary her “bribe” and received his appointment for the following week, Silva wrote on a piece of paper:

  ♦ = 29

  Using only the bottom two equations, he had gotten that far then was stumped. The secretary turned to him and asked, “May I help you?”

  “I’d like to see Miss Janos,” Silva said. “I’m a personal friend.” There was something familiar about that top equation. Something about triangles. Kate liked triangles. When Kate and Silva had done puzzles together, there had been many triangles. The secretary was saying something about friends having to make appointments, but Silva largely ignored her.

  The secretary stepped out from behind her desk into Silva’s line of vision, blocking the view of the chalkboard. “If you don’t want to pay me, there’s a surveyor down the hall who will gladly solve the riddle, but he charges more than my little tip.”

  Right triangles! That’s what Kate called them. Silva drew a right triangle on the paper next to the partial answer, stood, and handed it to the secretary. “Show Miss Janos this.”

  The secretary frowned at the paper. “That isn’t the answer on my sheet.”

  Silva grinned and sat back down. “Show it to her anyway.”

  The secretary knocked and stepped into the back room. A moment later, Kate rushed out. The hopeful expression on her face transformed into an amused smirk when she saw Silva. “I should have known the ‘math prodigy’ sitting in my waiting room was you. Come on back.”

  Kate’s office contained a desk, piled with papers, and a table off to the side with a mad collection of tubes in various states of assembly. More papers filled all the corners. In the center of the side table was a bell jar with some kind of pump attached to it.