A Mage Of None Magic (Book 1)

by A. Christopher Drown

  Sounds of civilization grew as Niel neared town. Faint snippets of conversation mingled with the continuous screech of sea gulls and the pleasant crunch of the pebbly beach beneath his boots. Goosebumps crept up his arms from a sudden, chilly gust. The warmer southern weather made it easy to forget that winter fast drew near.

  He found the dock master’s booth on the side of the docks nearest to him. More shack than booth, the tiny structure looked cobbled together from the same worn, weather-greyed planks as the pier. Niel approached and stepped into line behind several scruffy men he presumed were sailors wanting work. Above the booth’s counter a rough, chiseled sign stated all business was to be concluded by sundown.

  The sun slipped closer to the horizon, pulling long shadows from the hilly coastline, smearing once-concealed purples across the evening sky.

  Niel hoped it wouldn’t be too long a wait.

  ***

  “I said, Next!”

  Niel’s eyes snapped open to reveal the angry dock master leaning half-way out of his booth. He must have drifted off while standing in line; the six or seven men ahead of Niel a few moments ago were nowhere to be seen. Embarrassed, he stepped to the counter.

  The dock master—a muscular man with a shaved head and a bushy black mustache drooping to either side of his chin—withdrew into his hovel with a reproachful snort. The gold hoop in his left earlobe identified him as a veteran seaman. Calluses scabbed thick fingers clearly better suited for hoisting and rowing. Niel wondered how he’d ended up a clerk.

  “State yer business,” the dock master croaked.

  “Yes, please,” Niel replied. “I’d like to know if any vessels in port are headed for Aithiq.”

  The man shook his head and looked down at the papers scattered over the uneven shelf that served as his desk. “Another fool gonna start a whole new life, eh? Maybe have a peep at the savages while you’re at it? What’s yer name?”

  Reluctantly, Niel told him. Apprentices never gave their names happily. Such knowledge, used properly, could yield great power over an individual. Once confirmed by the College, tradition granted magicians the right to change their names; apprentices and novices were expected to do without such protection. The practice had always seemed backward to Niel, but it supposedly helped weed out those not clever or resourceful enough to avoid such perils.

  To chase back the encroaching darkness the dock master picked up a candle flickering near a pile of wooden stamps and with it lit a dented oil lamp hanging overhead. He then searched the manifests occupying his desktop and finally held up a greasy-looking sheet of vellum. Despite the obvious necessity given the man’s job, actually seeing someone like the dock master being able to read took Niel aback.

  The man grumbled. “Only one I got leavin’ any time soon is the Alodis. Jorgan’s ship.”

  “Would you not normally recommend Captain Jorgan?”

  The dock master crossed his arms over his broad chest. “Well, the Alodis herself is a fine craft. Good crew. Jorgan’s kinda peculiar, is all.” He held out his slab of hand. “A copper.”

  Niel dug two fingers into his belt pouch and produced the coin. “I suppose he’ll have to do. When does he get underway?”

  The dock master accepted the coin and plunked it through the slot of a small metal box behind him. “Right now.”

  Niel’s eyes widened. “Now? At night?”

  The man gave a shrug and jotted Niel’s name down on the sheet in a clumsy script. “As I said—peculiar.” He pointed his quill toward the ships. “Best hurry.”

  Stories abounded about the crags and reefs of Lyrria’s southern coast. In the black of night a less-than-master pilot could easily gut his vessel on the rocks lurking just below the water and lose his ship only a short distance from shore. In the bargain, anyone finding themselves overboard would likely be pulled down by the undertow and shredded.

  Not seeing any choice if he hoped to keep his schedule, Niel slung his pack over his shoulder and ran.

  ***

  In the glare of sunset the Alodis proved a daunting sight. Her twin masts loomed black, her half-furled sails blazed, soaked through with the fiery blood of the dying day. She seemed to brood at the dock, tugging at her moorings rather than floating contentedly like the other vessels berthed nearby. Her riggings showed no signs of grime and frays, though, and toward the bridge a polished brass compass gleamed.

  The sailor at the bottom of the gangway had only grunted and jabbed his thumb up toward the ship when Niel asked to speak to the captain. Doubting he’d get much accomplished standing about the deck, Niel weaved his way astern through a forest of sweaty, tattooed torsos until he came to a smallish man dressed in black atop a high wooden crate.

  The man wore a slouching cloth cap that lent him an air of menace not unlike the Alodis herself. At his waist hung a gentleman’s blade with an ornate silver handle, while into the other side of his belt were tucked several small scrolls. The man’s hand clutched a much larger scroll with which he pointed to other crates as they came aboard, shouting directions on where to place them.

  Given how the sailors moved without question as the man orchestrated, Niel assumed he’d found the captain. He approached and waited patiently for Captain Jorgan to finish his instructions. And he waited. And he waited. Until finally, at the end of a particularly colorful string of orders that included a theory on how each and every one of the sailors’ mothers must have mated with Belavian slugs to have birthed such lazy creatures, the man snapped his head around to Niel and screamed, “WHAT?”

  Niel jumped, then stammered. “Captain Jorgan? I wondered if… Might I—”

  “No. No room. Get off.” And with that, Jorgan returned to his work.

  Niel stood flustered by the brevity of the conversation. Likely the captain had thought he wanted to load cargo. Sailors weren’t exactly the cleverest of specimens, after all.

  Niel cleared his throat and started again, with a smile. “Excuse me, Captain, I think—”

  All activity came to a halt as the tip of a sword whipped into place not two thumbwidths from the end of Niel’s nose. He hadn’t seen Jorgan draw the weapon, but nonetheless the captain stood poised with his arm extended, aiming his blade squarely at Niel’s head. It flashed red and gold in the waning sunlight, long and needle-like, as most gentlemen’s blades were meant more for piercing than slashing. Examining the wicked point so closely for himself, though he had to cross his eyes to do so, Niel had no trouble imagining how efficient it would be at such a task.

  “Either remove yourself as a whole,” the captain snarled, “or I will do so a piece at a time.”

  From behind, a large hand clamped down on Niel’s shoulder. Niel’s eyes followed the arm upward until they arrived at the stubbly face of a hulking sailor—fair hair, narrow eyes, and a wide grin lacking two front teeth. Niel returned the smile with considerably less enthusiasm, just before the sailor lifted him by his shirt collar and started for the railing.

  “There you are!” someone called out. “What took you so long?”

  The captain lowered his sword and squinted in the direction of the new voice. The sailor holding Niel turned, thereby swinging him around as well.

  A handsome young man moved briskly to the forefront, arms open, eyes intently on Niel, a relieved expression on his lightly-bearded face. His clothes were worn but well-fitting—dark suede breeches, a loose white shirt laced up the front with black cord, and a long leather vest. His coal black hair ran shoulder-length, with a few locks tousled in front of brilliant blue eyes. Like the captain he wore a blade, though a broader one.

  The young man placed his hands on Niel’s shoulders. “I didn’t think you’d make it!”

  Niel managed another weak smile. “That makes two of us.”

  “You know this lubber, Arwin?” Jorgan asked.

  Arwin faced Jorgan with unabashed sincerity. “I do indeed, Captain. This is the person I mentioned when I came aboard.”

  Jorgan sheathed his s
word. “You said nothing of a companion this trip.”

  Arwin looked confused. “I’m certain I did, sir. Most certain.” As the captain opened his mouth to counter, Arwin hastily added, “Oh yes, you’re right.” His tone became instantly, deeply remorseful. “Captain Jorgan, I do apologize for my oversight. I was unforgivably stupid for not telling you about my friend here.” For emphasis, he added a slight bow.

  Jorgan looked hard at Arwin, then at Niel, and then back at Arwin with a stern frown. “You’re lying.”

  Arwin took a half-step backward and placed a hand over his heart. “How could you say such a thing?”

  The frown became a smirk. “Because you’re a liar?”

  Laughter erupted from the crew, and everyone collectively resumed their preparations to get underway. Jorgan signaled for the sailor to set Niel back on his own feet, then turned to mind the last pieces of cargo being lowered into the hold.

  Arwin gave Niel a friendly nudge. “Let’s stow your things, shall we?”

  ***

  Niel offered silent thanks upon seeing the cramped cabin had two beds. He hefted his pack and let it fall onto the one that appeared unclaimed.

  Arwin unbuckled his sword belt, hung it on a nearby peg, and fell back onto the other bunk. “I know it’s not much,” he said as he crossed one boot over the other and folded his hands behind his neck, “but it beats swimming. Jorgan’s not much on accommodation.”

  Niel thought of the sword in his face. “You don’t say.”

  Arwin chuckled. “So, what purpose compels you toward the emerald majesty of Aithiq?”

  Niel faced his unexpected host. “At the risk of appearing ungrateful—”

  “Yes?”

  “—who are you?”

  “My name is Arwin, of course. Pardon my saying so, but you really should have gleaned that from my little exchange with Jorgan up there.”

  “Yes, I gathered your name. What I meant was, why would you bother coming to my rescue?”

  “I was lonely?”

  Niel gave Arwin a doubting look. “With respect, you give the impression of being able to provide yourself considerable entertainment.”

  Arwin propped his head up on an elbow. “True enough. Then try this one: I have a proposition for you.”

  “A proposition? Pardon my saying so, but why should I be interested in a proposition from a complete stranger?”

  “Because I trust my instincts. And we’re not complete strangers. You know my name, which means it’s only fair you tell me yours.”

  Again, Niel balked from a feeling of exposure. “It’s Niel.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Niel.” Arwin perched himself on the edge of his bunk. “Now, would you like to hear what my instincts tell me about you?”

  “Actually—”

  “First, you’re a student at Fraal University. I infer this mostly from your age and your clothes. Ordinary enough, but just a little nicer and not as worn as most. That means either you have money or your sponsor has, and so there you have it—Fraal.”

  Niel looked down at his tunic and breeches.

  “Second,” Arwin continued, “my guess is you’re more specifically an apprentice at the College. Regular students carry more baggage, heavy on books. You have but one pack, and magicians-to-be travel light, mostly by foot—something to do with being able to survive the journey or what-have-you. I mean, any run of the mill student smart enough to attend Fraal would be smart enough to ride a horse, but you can’t.”

  Niel grew uneasy at the stranger’s too-accurate suppositions. Danger bred from flaunting one’s stature or position, and this swordsman had summed up Niel’s circumstance after knowing him scarcely minutes.

  “And last,” Arwin said, “because Fraal is quite a way from here, my guess is you’re on a sabbatical of some sort. Am I close?”

  Niel sat, unsure how to respond.

  “By your face, friend, I think I am.”

  At that, Niel’s unease heated into indignation, regardless of whether the swordsman spoke the truth. He felt his ears and neck flush and prickle. “Sir—”

  Arwin stopped him by holding up a palm. “I don’t mean to pry or embarrass, only to demonstrate that I do have some competence so you might take my proposal seriously. I’m sorry if I offended you.”

  The apology sounded sincere, but then, so did the petty drama played out for Jorgan’s benefit earlier. A muted voice from above deck called out the order to shove off.

  “No offense,” Niel said. “I’m just… tired. And a little out of sorts. And more than a little far from home.”

  Arwin opened his mouth to reply, but closed it again, as though he had reconsidered. Instead, he offered another small smile.

  One decidedly less pleasant than before.

  4

  From between the marble balcony’s glass-paneled doors, Ennalen watched the narrow avenue. Fine linen curtains played about her in the steady morning breeze. The nights had recently turned cold enough to redden the nose and cheeks as one strolled the College grounds. Soon there would be snow.

  She suppressed a shiver and hugged the ancient book in her arms, then savored a long, settling breath that brought a delicate floral tang from the garden below—the last of that year’s Golden Julias, a frail autumn blossom that happened to be her favorite. Weeks had passed since emerging from her self-imposed isolation within the stale labyrinth of the Main Library, but the novelty of fresh air had yet to abate. Not that she had any complaints; she seldom ventured out during the winter months anyhow, preferring the geniality of late spring. Besides, if events progressed as she intended—especially given how long she had toiled, and how many times she had been convinced this point would never arrive—then missing a few nighttime strolls would be a paltry expense.

  Ennalen quashed an urge to move downstairs and wait in the front courtyard, then scolded herself to be still. If by some chance the person she anticipated had slipped by unseen—not impossible given his talents—he had explicit instructions never to sneak into the building. She greatly doubted he would have been either noticed or caught, but her rapid ascension to the office of Magistrate had yielded plenty of watchful detractors within the Ministry of Law, and the late, precarious stage of her plans demanded more prudence than ever. Besides, even at such early hours, visitors were formally announced and seated in the common room to learn whether or not they would be received. And, of course, he would be.

  Ennalen ran her thumb along the coarse pages of the book she cradled, the one she had pulled from amongst the study’s expansive, ceiling-high shelves. A wry smile tugged at her mouth because she knew upon those pages played out a story far older than the crumbling volume itself, a story for which as a child she had never particularly cared.

  Life, it seemed, was replete with its little ironies.

  The blush of dawn warmed to a powdery blue as the new day grew and brightened. As much as Ennalen resented leaving her vigil, her regular duties beckoned. She stepped back into the study, latched the doors, and bitterly resigned herself to patience for at least one more day.

  ***

  Sala of Basselwick, the repulsive man cringing in the Revelator’s Circle, so resembled a salamander that when she first met him years ago Ennalen thought the person who introduced him had been making a joke. Sala’s large black eyes blinked far too often, and the ever-present sheen of perspiration on his slender frame gave him a slippery appearance. She still half-expected his tongue to dart out and lick his eyebrow.

  Beginning literally the hour of her ordainment as a Magistrate, Ennalen had vigorously pursued an open campaign against Members of the College who exploited their influence over underlings in their charge. She made well-known her willingness to hear any complaint pertaining to such abuses and to publicly investigate on behalf of any claimant who came forward against his or her teacher. Doing so had earned her the disapproval of most of the Membership for ‘swinging her sword about the glassmaker’s shop,’ as the saying went. She once had even
toyed with the idea of actually wearing a sword to court in response to the reproach, though such a ghastly act would likely have landed her in the Revelator’s Circle.

  In short order her labors bore fruit. The number of legitimate accusations brought to her greatly decreased and, much to her relish, solidified her reputation as someone whose attentions were best avoided. Even the reclusive Holistic Fraternity lent her a round-about validation by drafting a letter of concern to her superiors, warning that her crusade was ‘a disruptive and self-destructive endeavor,’ or some such banality.

  So be it, Ennalen had thought. She sheltered no delusions about her very personal—and most recently, very selfish—motivations. When all was said and done, she would much rather be the source of her own destruction than allow anyone else the privilege.

  Sala’s apprentice had come to Ennalen with a story of bizarre dreams of being violated, dreams that would come and go on a regular basis. An inspection of Sala’s workshop revealed traces of Lady’s Thigh in a mortar, all but confirming his guilt.

  “One last time, Brother Sala,” Ennalen said in full courtroom voice, “does it remain your contention that you’ve no knowledge of how the Lady’s Thigh found its way into your workshop?”

  “Yes, Magistrate,” Sala replied. “As I have said, I do not work in herbamancy. I’ve no use for such a component.”

  “You’ll pardon me, Brother Sala, if I point out that even if herbamancers enjoyed special dispensation to possess Lady’s Thigh—which they do not—one need not actually be an herbamancer to reap its benefits.”

  A thin rustle of laughter moved through the gallery. A hard look from Ennalen returned the chamber to silence.

  “Yes, Magistrate,” Sala answered.

  The tiny rare flower called Lady’s Thigh took its name from a bawdy old drinking song about a thief under a dining table, discovered because of his inability to resist temptation. The flower’s petals, when ground, mixed with wine and imbibed, induced a state of euphoric aphrodisia, rendering one mindlessly enthusiastic toward any sexual advance. The drug also had remarkable curative properties, granting an aggressor great latitude in indulging more sadistic appetites with no worry of telling marks or scars. A victim would have little or no recollection of such an assault, and practically no physical evidence to support an accusation if he or she did. Given the celibacy imposed upon the Membership, the College forbade the substance.