Fires of Memory

by Washburn, Scott;

  “Now what does this display tell us? It—oh, Mr. Kafallen, you can open the drapes now, thank you—it tells us that the results of a magic spell, the product, if you will, obeys the same physical laws as the rest of nature. But it also tells us that the way it produces that product operates in some different way from what we are used to. Clearly, the light from this device is not sunlight that has been transposed somehow—or if it is, it has been subtly changed during the transposition.”

  “Sir?” a hand raised among the students. “How can you tell which?”

  “An excellent question. As you are aware, I am still in the early stages of my research. Right now, I am working to collect the basic information from which conclusions can be drawn. I have examined a number of magical devices and I have attempted to measure quantitatively what they do. For example, I have several devices that are used to produce heat for warming rooms or carriages. Using Dr. Alpronzo’s new mercury thermal measuring instrument, I have calculated just how much heat the devices produce. Also, it is well known that magical spells are not infinite in nature, and thus I am attempting to discover if the amount of heat produced lessens with time.”

  Jarren looked at the student who had spoken up. “I know that this does not exactly answer your question, Mr. Ulnar, but I’m afraid I have no exact answer at present. Eventually, I expect my studies to take me to meet with those practitioners of magic who still exist. I hope they will be able to answer some of my questions. But at this stage I am doing the very necessary groundwork to enable me to know what questions to ask.”

  Jarren tugged at his robes slightly, silently admiring the red trim of a probationary master scholar and continued. “Now, let me demonstrate another example of my research…”

  An hour later, the lecture and the question and answer period concluded. Jarren felt drained but elated. It appeared to have gone very well. At least none of the other masters had shouted denunciations at him, nor had the students made rude noises or catcalls. He had been to lectures where such things had happened.

  As he walked back to the tiny office he had been assigned, Dr. Mirtas emerged from a side corridor and grabbed him by the arm.

  “Jarren! I sat in on your lecture just now, and I was very impressed!”

  “Thank, you, sir,”

  “I must admit that I had been rather skeptical when Hano told me what you were up to. What was it? Two, three years ago?”

  “Four, sir.”

  “That long? My, how time flies. But in any case, I think you are making some real progress—and making a few converts as well.”

  “That is good to know, sir.” Jarren spoke in a level tone, but he was really quite flattered by what he was hearing. Vindication! Well, some, anyway.

  “If you have a moment, I’d like to show you something and ask a few questions of you.”

  “Certainly, sir.” The diminutive Mirtas led Jarren through the maze of narrow passages that crisscrossed Toldorf Hall and finally into his small workshop that was in a shed built on to the rear. It was filled with tools and stacks of metal sheets and wood planks. As they entered, Mirtas shouted for his assistant.

  “Quors! Are you ready?”

  “Yes, sir,” answered the young man from the rear of the shed. “Just coming to a boil now.”

  “Good! Here, Jarren, you’ve seen this before haven’t you?” Jarren moved closer and saw what Mirtas was talking about. There was a small copper boiler standing over a fire. A pipe ran from it to another pipe that was bent at both ends and mounted on an axle in the center. As Jarren watched, steam began to spurt out of the two open ends and the pipe revolved around the axle; slowly at first, but faster and faster as the steam pressure built up.

  “Yes, sir, I saw this when you demonstrated it for the faculty last month. Very impressive, sir.”

  “Yes, isn’t it? I’ve been trying to think of possible applications for this. Perhaps to push a carriage. The first problem is the fire. Rather awkward trying to stoke a fire in a moving carriage. But today when you mentioned those magical heating devices, it gave me an idea. Do you think one of those would be strong enough to boil water? If so, we could dispense with the fire entirely!”

  “That’s very interesting, sir,” said Jarren, “I never would have thought of such a thing myself.”

  “That’s because you have your head up in the clouds, boy! Just like most of the so-called masters around here. Theoretical knowledge is fine, but I say it should be put to work! Now, if we did away with the fire, would it make the most sense to put your magical heater underneath, where the fire was, or actually place it inside the boiler so no heat at all is lost? Are they proof against water?”

  “I’m not really sure, sir,” said Jarren awkwardly. “I’ve had to borrow the items I study for the most part. I’d not be able to do anything risky with them without getting permission.”

  “Ah, I see. Well do you think…”

  Mirtas bent his ear for an hour before Jarren managed to break away. It was wonderful to have your opinion sought out, but Jarren was finding out that it could be a bother as well. Still, Mirtas’s project looked to be very interesting. He put that out of his head as he hurriedly climbed the stairs to reach Hano Beredane’s office. Jarren was scheduled to play with the university’s chamber orchestra next week and there was a rehearsal later this afternoon. He needed to see Beredane, go back his room to get his cello and his music, and get over to the concert hall, and he had not realized it was so late. He knocked and went in. His old master looked a little older, but was as irascible as ever

  “Good afternoon, sir.”

  “Quite a little performance you put on this afternoon.”

  “You saw it, sir?”

  “Oh yes. I was in the back where you obviously didn’t notice me. Very impressive.”

  “You thought so?” asked Jarren eagerly.

  “Indeed. But what do you have planned for an encore?”

  “I…I’m not sure I understand, sir.”

  “Well, it is just that you have become one of the best-known people in the university. I’ve even heard that you’ve had some offers to speak in Duma.”

  “Yes, that’s true. In Nivenza, too. I was going to mention it to you.”

  “Hmmm,” grunted Beredane. “Jarren, you are making a name for yourself. Normally that's a good thing, but are you aware the church is taking interest in your activities?”

  “The Church?” said Jarren in surprise. “What does the Church have to do with me?”

  “In the end, nothing, hopefully. But I’ve received a letter from the archdeacon of the city reminding me—politely—that the official Church position on magic is that its practitioners are heretics. He doesn’t name you specifically, but the implication was plain.”

  “But…but that’s absurd!” protested Jarren. Beredane’s frown got deeper.

  “Jarren, the Church doesn’t have the sort of power in the city it did a hundred years ago, but you can’t go around dismissing them like that! At least not in public.”

  “Are you suggesting I should curtail my research—or modify my findings—to please that superstitious gang of…”

  “Jarren!”

  “I’m sorry, sir, but I can’t forget how they nearly burned Darvanor when he first proposed his theory that the Earth was not the center of the universe. Am I going to be persecuted the same way?”

  “Jarren, calm down. I doubt very much it will ever come to that. It’s not like you are practicing magic yourself—and the university would stand by you on an issue like this if it ever did come to it—but you need to keep in mind the sensibilities of these people. I’ve listened to your lectures, and it seems as though reports of them have gotten back to the Church. Now, it is rather evident when you speak that you are keenly interested in magic and would welcome an open return of magic-users to the world. While I can’t blame you for that, a bit more restraint on your part might be in order. A good researcher needs to be unbiased in any case.”

 
Jarren considered this. It was true that he did get a bit enthusiastic in his lectures… “All right, sir. I can see what you are saying. I’ll try to be more… sedate—but I won’t stop my research!”

  “No one is asking you to. Just use a little common sense, eh? Let’s consider the matter closed—for now. But as for your research, you have succeeded in creating a lot of interest in magic, Jarren. But to this point, your research has been entirely observational. While there is nothing wrong with that, people are going to soon start to demand more. I noticed how you sidestepped all the questions about how it is done this afternoon.”

  “I don’t know how it’s done, sir.”

  “Exactly! You have a series of phenomena—and I am willing to concede your initial proposition that these are phenomena that somehow fit into the natural order—but your information about them is strictly quantitative. You have faithfully recorded everything, but you have an explanation for nothing. People want to know more. I want to know more. How do you plan to give us all what we want?”

  “I will have to start researching the actual process by which spells are cast and magical devices created.”

  “Indeed you will! How and when do you plan to start?”

  “I…I’m not sure, sir. I will need to travel—and so far you have not approved any of my requests to do so.”

  Beredane growled. “There is nothing you can do here in the city? Surely there must have been some records left by the old wizards. Have you checked? And what about the local practitioners who still exist? Can nothing be learned from them?”

  “Oh, there are many records, sir. Tomes and tomes of them. Many right here in the university archives—I was amazed at how much. Some of it has been useful, but most is not. I have found nothing that gives a clue on how the spells are done.”

  “Nothing? That seems rather strange, don’t you think?”

  “Yes, sir, I do. There are countless descriptions of the effects of spells, but not a single instruction on how to bring them about. I am coming to suspect that the records have been deliberately hidden or destroyed.”

  “Perhaps. Perhaps the few magic users who were left after Soor hid the records because they worried that they would be too dangerous for untrained people to use.”

  “Yes, sir, that is a real possibility. I’ve consulted with some of our historians, Doctor Liegly, especially, and he tells me that after Soor, there were many incidents where uncontrolled magic did damage or caused injuries. It was about that time that the Keridian Revelation was adopted by the Church and most cities began to drive the practitioners out. Perhaps they took all the records with them—those their persecutors didn’t destroy.”

  “There are some practitioners left,” said Beredane. “Even in Sirenza.”

  “They are hard to find because of our dear churchmen, but I’ve talked to some. Most are fakes. But even those who are real had little to tell me. They have spells that were passed down to them and learned entirely by rote. They have no more clue how they make those things happen than I do.”

  “Indeed? So how do you plan to proceed? You could just make your study an exercise in antiquarianism, a recording of devices and deeds. Certainly there is some value even in that, but hardly the task for a top scholar.”

  It took a moment for Beredane’s statement to sink in. Top scholar? Me? When it did, he got rather flustered for a few heartbeats and lost his train of thought. “I…I’m going to have to widen my search, sir. Travel.”

  “Yes, I’m forced to agree with you now. I believe I can squeeze some funds out of the chancellor. He’s been quite impressed with your progress, too, by the way.”

  “That’s wonderful, sir!”

  “Don’t let your head swell up too big for your hat, Jarren!” said Beredane gruffly. He took off his spectacles and stared at him.

  “Where will you go first?”

  * * * * *

  Matt stood up in his saddle and looked back at the column. No straggling. Good. The thirty men of his troop were closed up nicely, which was more than could be said for the Varag scouts. He had no clue where half of them had gotten to, and the rest seemed to be ranging aimlessly about. But with any luck, he would not need their services. The well was only a few miles ahead and there was definitely something there. A huge cloud of birds could be seen circling the area. There was something dead there; perhaps many somethings.

  “We are going to have to be on the alert, Sergeant,” said Matt to Sergeant Chenik. “If this is as bad as it looks, the whole patrol may have been wiped out. It is possible that they—whoever ‘they’ might be—could be waiting in ambush for any search party. Meaning us. Have the men check their flints and their priming.”

  “Right, sir.” Chenick turned his horse and went back down the column, passing on Matt’s orders. While he did so, Matt followed the order himself. He took his pair of flintlock pistols out of their saddle holsters and checked them. The flints were new and tightly fixed in the hammers. The priming in the pans seemed fine, too. There was no way to check the actual loads, but he’d had Cofo pull them and reload them only two days ago. They ought to be all right. He gave his carbine a similar looking over. Some of the other officers made fun of him for carrying the shortened musketoon, but he was glad he had it. A pistol wasn’t accurate beyond a dozen yards. He wanted to be able to hit something at greater distances, if necessary.

  Of course he knew what Captain Vargos—or even Phell for that matter—would say: ‘It’s not your business to be shooting at things, Mister Krasner. Your job is to command! Let your troopers do the shooting.’ They were right, too. If Matt did his job and his men did theirs then in theory, he should never need to shoot at anything; except, perhaps, during a melee on horseback, in which case, his pistols would do better, anyway.

  That was all true, but he still carried his carbine. He just liked having it. And since he was an officer, he could do so and no one could tell him not to. He put the weapon back into its holder just as Chenik came back up beside him.

  “We need to get the scouts back, sir. No point in havin’ the buggers if they don’t do their job now.”

  “Very well. Have the bugler sound the rally. I’m sure they know the call. Whether they’ll obey it is another matter entirely, of course.” A moment later, the bugle rang out and echoed off the low hills. They were at the very edge of the plains. He did not worry about alerting any possible enemy. In these barren lands, there was almost no concealment. Anyone waiting up ahead would have spotted their white uniforms and dust cloud hours ago. The call was sounded twice, and after a while, several of the scouts reappeared and headed back for the column. One of them appeared to have already been at the well. At least he was coming from that direction. When the Varag got closer, Matt waved him over to them. The man did not seem at all happy.

  “Well? What did you see?”

  “Very bad, master, very bad,” stuttered the man and then added a rapid string of something else in his own tongue. Most of the Varags spoke some form of Berssian, and Matt had learned a few words of their language, but his own Berssian wasn’t all that good, either.

  “What was that? What did he say, Sergeant?”

  “Not sure, sir. But I think he found the patrol and they’re all dead.”

  “Is there any sign of who did it? Is there anyone else up there? Did you scout the area? We don’t want to run into an ambush.” The man babbled something else and shook his head.

  “Sounds like it’s clear, sir,” said Chenik.

  “All right. We’ll go ahead. Deploy the first section as skirmishers.”

  “Right, sir.” The orders were given and eight men spread out in a very thin line in front of the column. Matt put the rest of the men into a single rank. Once the skirmishers were a hundred yards ahead, they all went forward at a walk. The well was only a mile away and the buzzards were thick on the ground and overhead. As they got closer, Matt could see the birds grouped in tight clusters on the ground. He did not have the slightest doubt about
what they were doing.

  Closer still, and Matt gave the order to break into a trot. If there were any ambushers waiting up there, no sense in giving them an easy target. The skirmishers reached the outskirts of the well and a black cloud of buzzards rose into the air with a chorus of angry squawks. They pushed right on through to the other side and fanned out. No shots were fired. Matt led the rest of the troop up in support. He halted them when they reached the well.

  They had driven off the buzzards, but the flies had completely ignored their gallant charge. Matt looked about and his stomach heaved. He had seen dead men before, but never quite like this… Chenik came up beside him.

  “I’ll get a burial detail together, sir.”

  Chapter Two

  “All of them were dead?” asked Brigadier Gerressan.

  “Yes, sir,” replied Matt. “We counted twenty-eight bodies. The hetman tells me that there were thirty men who had gone out, but all those we found were dead.” Matt had already given Major Macador all the details upon his return to the fort, and he was quite sure he had passed them on to the fort’s commander, but he was going over it all again for the benefit of the other officers. They were all sitting around a large table in the officers’ mess. The commanders from his own regiment were there as well as those of the 52nd Musketeers, the artillery, and the leader of the local Varags.

  “Was there any sign as to who did this?” asked Gerressan.

  “No, sir. We found no trace of anything at all. The bodies had been completely stripped, which is not unusual, but there was nothing else either. No broken arrows or lances, no bodies of any attackers, not even any discarded papers from cartridges. It would appear that they were taken by surprise and were unable to fight back. Perhaps at night. We did find some tracks, sir. They led west.”

  “Surely there is no doubt who did this!” snarled the Varag hetman. “Those miserable Kaifeng shall pay!”