He paused, tapping one finger against his cheek. “When magic is involved, the White Council has the right to take the lead,” he added. “This can include dealing with magicians, but also with magical creatures and magically-binding contracts. If you serve as a Mediator, you will be called upon to create such contracts—or to try to break one, if it was created illegally. Such tasks also require an awareness of both human and magical law.
“A secondary aspect of your career will include meditating disputes between the different Allied Lands. Most of you, I suspect, will be aware that there are clashes between the Allied Lands on a regular basis. I might direct you, for example, to the endless skirmishes between kingdoms and city-states, or commercial disputes that threaten to turn into wars. It is the task of the Mediators to attempt to moderate such disagreements and maintain a united front against the necromancers.”
For a long moment, he gazed at Emily—and then continued. “For the remainder of this lesson, I will give you a brief overview of the basics and a reading list for further study,” he concluded. “Should you wish to remain in this class, you will be expected to research precedents and cases that date all the way back to the foundation of the Allied Lands themselves—and be ready to quote them when necessary. Many of you will find them tedious and boring, but they are vitally important. Attention to detail matters even outside learning magic.
“We will also be practicing debating and rhetoric,” he added. “You will be expected to present evidence in support of an assertion—or to counter it. This is excellent training for law-related work—and also for writing essays, if you haven’t mastered it by now. I intend to hold a debate every Friday afternoon, using topics chosen by you. You may pick anything you like, as long as you are prepared to argue for it—or against it.”
Song put up her hand. “Are you saying, sir, that I might have to argue against something I support?”
“Precisely,” Master Tor said. He held up a hand before she could object. “A frequent problem in arguments is that both sides are incapable of seeing the other’s point of view, which ensures that they see each other as monsters who need to be fought, tooth and nail. If you try to look at the argument from the other person’s point of view—if you try to uphold their side of the argument—you will come to understand it. You may then be able to look for a workable compromise.”
Emily wasn’t so sure that she agreed. It was true that political debates and internet discussions back home had degenerated into shouting matches rather than reasoned discussion, but there were subjects that could never be upheld. She couldn’t put together an argument that supported the suppression of human rights or forced marriages, even though there were people who did both with enthusiasm. How could she be forced to defend them?
“Alternatively, you may be able to determine that there is truly no justice to their claims,” Master Tor added. “In that case, you can win allies by proving it—rather than simply asserting it to be true. The power to convince people to support you willingly can often be more powerful than the strongest—or subtlest - of mind-control spells. It is a technique that requires absolutely no magic to make it work, just training and discipline.”
He gave the class a thin smile that didn’t quite seem to reach his eyes. “However, we are moving slightly off topic,” he said. “How many of you are familiar with the Sorcerer’s Rule?”
Emily put up her hand. A dozen others joined her.
“The Sorcerer’s Rule states, specifically, that a sorcerer who makes a new discovery in the field of magic cannot be forced to share it with other sorcerers, even by the White Council,” Master Tor said. “That isn’t quite the impediment that you might imagine. Once a new magical technique is proved to be possible, research wizards and sorcerers will start attempting to duplicate it. They do, in fact, have a very high success rate. Only a handful of spells remain the exclusive property of their developer.”
He shot Emily a quick glance and then addressed the classroom as a whole. “That is but one of the laws enshrined by the White Council of the Allied Lands,” he told them. “There are others that, like the Sorcerer’s Rule, apply only to sorcerers. A sorcerer can do whatever he likes to protect his home, as long as it doesn’t conflict with the other laws. The only real requirement is a clear line marking his property—a ward or a wall. And if he happens to catch a criminal breaking in, he can do whatever he likes.”
Emily nodded impatiently. She’d known that for a long time.
“The only exceptions to their general freedom are spells that are classed as the Black Arts,” Master Tor continued. “Demon summoning is specifically forbidden, as is any form of magic intended to drain a person’s magic and life force and use it—necromancy, in other words. A magician who chose to create a homunculus would be bending the rules; legally, such creatures can only by created by direct permission of the White Council. And creating one that can actually pass for human is completely forbidden.”
He scowled around the classroom, his eyes flickering over Emily and moving on. “You may be called upon to judge a fellow magician—and to stop him, if he is breaking the law,” he explained. “In that case, knowing what is actually forbidden can only help you.”
Emily shivered as she realized what he meant. A sorcerer like Void would be incredibly hard to control—or stop. No wonder they had so much freedom; the local City Guard wouldn’t want to go out on a limb to stop them unless they were getting completely out of hand.
She listened as he ran through a series of laws and examples, outlining what they would have to deal with if they became Mediators. It was illegal in almost all kingdoms for non-magicians to experiment with runes and other forms of subtle magic, no matter the justification. Animal and inanimate object transformation was perfectly legal, provided the victim was allowed to keep their human mind. Depending on the exact circumstances, it was either a cruel practical joke or assault. Turning someone so completely into an animal that they lost their human thoughts, however, was classed as murder.
It made a certain kind of sense, she decided, reluctantly. She’d been an object—one of Melissa’s nastier tricks—and she’d hated it, but she’d also managed to return to human form. Destroying her mind completely, on the other hand, would have killed her...
“You are also required to be familiar with laws governing various magical creatures,” Master Tor continued. “Gorgons, for example, are barred from most human settlements, as are werewolves. Mermen and mermaids are welcome in coastal towns, but rarely welcome elsewhere. Vampires and Night Stalkers are to be exterminated wherever they are found...”
Emily found her voice. “Why?”
Master Tor turned to scowl at her. “Why what?”
“Why,” Emily asked, “are Gorgons and Werewolves barred from human settlements?”
“They are often dangerous,” Master Tor said, finally. “A werewolf is not a man who becomes a wolf, but a wolf who becomes a man. Even in human form, their conduct is more animal than human. They can never be trusted completely.”
His eyes met Emily’s. “Have you ever met a werewolf?”
Emily shook her head, mutely.
“As you seem determined to demonstrate your ignorance in front of the class,” Master Tor said, “you can give me an essay on Werewolf culture and society—such as it is—before the end of the weekend. I think three to four scrolls should be enough.”
Emily scowled at his back as he turned away. She already had a long reading list—and writing even three scrolls of parchment would take hours, once she’d done the research. As punishments went, she decided, it was brutally efficient. And educational.
But the Gorgon seemed a decent person, once Emily had managed to overcome her reluctance to look her in the eye. How could someone condemn all Gorgons, even if a few of them were bad people?
Easily, her own thoughts answered her. Racists have been doing it for hundreds of years.
“Should you discover a magical creature out of its tribal la
nds,” Master Tor continued smoothly, “you may be required to push it back into its territory—or destroy it. We will be discussing the precedents for each individual decision later in the year.”
He turned to his desk and picked up a piece of parchment. “Would any of you like to hazard a guess and tell me what this is?”
“A magically-binding contract,” Lin said. It was the first time Emily had heard her new roommate speak in class. “I think...”
“You are correct,” Master Tor informed her. He held it up in front of his face, pretending to read it. “This contract stipulates that I will take Mistress Kirdáne to eat in Dragon’s Den this weekend. If I choose not to go, I will have itchy feet for the rest of the day.”
There were some giggles from the students. Master Tor scowled at them.
“This may be a very basic contract, but there are few limits when it comes to writing them,” he said, tartly. “And the consequences may be a great deal worse.
“At base, a contract is an agreement that one person will do something—or suffer the consequences,” he added. “A magically-binding contract uses the signer’s own magic to enforce the agreement. The consequences can be far worse than itchy feet; a person can suffer dreadful pain, or death—if, of course, the contract does not attempt to enforce the agreement directly. I could insist that you all sign a contract that you remained silent in class and you would find yourselves unable to speak, if those were the terms of the agreement.
“There are four principle rules when it comes to crafting magically-binding contracts. First, they must be entered into willingly, with a full awareness of both the terms of the agreement and the punishment for breaking them. Second, they must be crafted as carefully as possible, to avoid loopholes and misjudgements. Third, one must not ask for the impossible—or for a person to die. Fourth, and finally, you cannot make a magically-binding contract with a mundane. They simply lack the magic to make it work.
“Magically-binding contracts are prevalent in many areas of our society,” he explained. “It is not uncommon for marriage agreements to be magically-binding, particularly among the greater magical dynasties. However, asking someone to sign a contract is often seen as clear proof of mistrust. It has been known to lead to fighting—and worse.”
There was a long pause, then he started to rattle off examples. Emily listened, remembering the deal she’d made with the fairies. She hadn’t exactly had much choice, even if she hadn’t been mind-controlled into making the agreement. Did it count as a magically-binding contract? All of her research suggested that it did, but the only way to be sure was to test it. And that could prove fatal.
“Crafting a contract is not difficult,” Master Tor said, once he’d finished the examples. “I dare say that most of you, with a little research in the library, would be able to do it. That will, however, ensure that you are expelled. A poorly-designed contract is not a laughing matter. Outside Whitehall, only accredited sorcerers are permitted to design contracts and to offer their services to other magicians who might want to use them. Unfortunately, that doesn’t stop rogue magicians from crafting their own and selling them to the less scrupulous elements of our society.”
Emily looked down at her notes, resisting the urge to rub her eyes again.
“I have a question,” Imaiqah said, after she had raised her hand and been acknowledged by the tutor. “Could someone write out a contract in a different language, then lie about its contents?”
“Not in practice,” Master Tor said. “If someone believed—honestly believed—that the terms of the contract were different from what they truly were, their magic would go by what they believed to be true, rather than what is actually true. Breaking a contract isn’t easy because you would have to believe that you weren’t actually breaking the agreement.”
Emily considered it as he offered them more examples. A contract-breaker would have to lie to himself—and do it so well that he wasn’t even aware that he was trying to fool himself. It wouldn’t be easy to do that, not without endlessly chasing his own tail. But if someone erased his memory of signing the contract, or revised the terms and conditions he thought he was following, he could break the contact. Yet he would never know what he’d done...and could never know. The results might be disastrous.
“We will cover all of these in more detail later,” Master Tor concluded. “Are there any final questions?”
Emily remembered Harry Potter and raised her hand. “Could you create a game where the players were bound to compete –and couldn’t back out, at least without giving it an honest try?”
“Easily,” Master Tor said. He didn’t seem irked by the question. “Indeed, I believe that is actually done, in certain Ken matches. There was a big scandal over players being lured away by other teams and the captains started insisting on proper contracts.”
Alassa snorted. “What were the terms of the agreements?”
“If the contracts were broken, the players were never able to play again,” Master Tor said. “This led to situations where players deliberately played badly, because the only way they could escape the contracts was to have them torn up by the captains.”
Emily was still following her first line of thought. “But you couldn’t force someone to play, could you?”
“No,” Master Tor said, shortly. “A person can only enter into a contract if they have full awareness of the terms and conditions—and accept them.”
A student Emily didn’t know put up his hand. “But someone could sign the contract without actually intending to keep it,” he pointed out. “What happens then?”
“The contract is written on charmed parchment,” Master Tor said, with surprising patience. “If you didn’t want to uphold your word, the contract will not activate itself. It’s as simple as that.”
He smiled, dryly. “To answer what will probably be your next question,” he added, “the contract is really lodged in a magician’s magic. Merely destroying the parchment will not destroy the contract.”
Emily shuddered as she realized the implications. It would be easy to get wrapped up in a morass of contracts and agreements, each one with nasty penalty clauses. Master Tor was right; the class might be boring, yet it was also vitally important. Maybe he didn’t like her—and she had no idea why he’d taken such an instant dislike to her—but she had to learn from him, even if it meant spending much more time doing research.
“You’ll pick up the class schedules from my desk,” Master Tor concluded. “If you wish to remain in this class, the first formal lessons are on Monday and Tuesday. Sort out your timetable and come to me if you have a problem balancing your classes.”
His hand fell on Emily’s shoulder as the class started to vacate the room, holding her back.
“Ignorance isn’t a sin,” he said, when the room had been cleared. His disapproving gaze bore down on her. “But making pronouncements from ignorance isn’t a virtue either.”
“Yes, sir,” Emily said. It wasn’t fair—she hadn’t made any pronouncements—but there was no point in arguing. She just wanted to get away. “I...”
“Three to four scrolls,” Master Tor reminded her. “And I suggest that you read widely. Far too much information on werewolves is inaccurate.”
Emily nodded, then fled the room. Alassa and Imaiqah met her outside.
“Nice guy,” Alassa said, sardonically. “What does he have against you?”
“I have no idea,” Emily said, tiredly. She wanted to sleep so desperately. “But it really doesn’t matter.”
Alassa snorted, but held her peace.
Chapter Eleven
THE REST OF THE WEEK WENT surprisingly quickly in a whirlwind of taster classes and a handful of social engagements. Emily discovered that she enjoyed Construction and Warding, although the tutor told the class—rather bluntly—that it might be years before they were ready to start building their own houses and warding them against all comers. Apparently, there were more advanced studies to be done after they g
raduated from Whitehall, particularly if they wanted to work with the nexus points. Animal Bonding, on the other hand, proved a waste of time. If there was a creature out there willing to bond with her, it wasn’t in the small zoo Mistress Kirdáne demonstrated to the class. The fact that Imaiqah had picked up a hamster, of all things, was a minor irritation.
Etiquette was tedious, even though the tutor explained that they would be touching on swordsmanship and penmanship as well as basic manners. Artwork was thoroughly boring; Emily tried, mainly for Imaiqah’s sake, and discovered that her drawing and painting hadn’t improved over her work when she’d been a young child. The only other class—New Writing and New Math—had made her laugh when she’d realized that it taught the letters and numbers she had introduced. Clearly, the Grandmaster had decided that the students needed to know them as well as the older script.
Unsurprisingly, she spent most of her evenings in the library. Each of the classes had a long reading list, mostly composed of books that were specific to the individual class. Emily had a feeling that Subtle Magic, Law, and Construction and Warding were linked together, but it didn’t seem that way from the reading lists. And she had a long essay to write on werewolves from Master Tor. By the time the weekend rolled around, she was exhausted and just wanted to sleep.
“Don’t forget we’re going to Dragon’s Den,” Alassa said, on Saturday morning. “You need a break.”
“Five days,” Emily muttered, tiredly. “Five days and I already need a holiday.”
“You should be spending more time just relaxing,” Alassa informed her, blithely. “Come and watch us play, even if you don’t play yourself.”
Emily snorted. Alassa could never be a combat sorceress, or anything apart from princess and later Queen of Zangaria. In one sense, it didn’t really matter what degrees she brought home—or if she qualified as anything at all. Her blood had already determined her future. Emily, on the other hand, needed qualifications...at least if she wanted to be anything more than Baroness Cockatrice. But it was tempting just to go back to her castle and hire tutors, rather than coping with the pressures of Whitehall. Last year hadn’t been so stressful, at least when Shadye hadn’t been attacking the castle.
Study in Slaughter (Schooled in Magic) Page 10
