by Tim Susman
“There have been rumors about the school,” the young man said once the tent flap had fallen shut behind them, “that you started a fire that it took three masters to extinguish.”
His eyes searched Kip’s, and the fox resisted the urge to boast. “Only one master,” he said. “But he was the third to try.”
Victor rubbed his chin and scratched where it looked like he hadn’t shaved in two days. “Odden.” When Kip nodded, he went on. “It was a clever trick, however you managed it.”
Kip began to protest that he hadn’t managed it, that it had been an accident, and then he caught something, perhaps a light scent or a glitter in the other’s eyes, and he decided that he didn’t have to tell Victor everything. “I—well, to tell the truth, Master Odden thought much the same thing. He’s beginning private lessons with me tomorrow.”
“We’ve not even begun alchemical magic, much less defensive magic. Would you perhaps be willing to sit down with me and walk through what happened? I am most interested in the science of sorcery, and you are the only student capable of having a satisfying discussion about it, save perhaps Jacob Quarrel.”
Even though you can’t even gather magic yourself, Kip thought, and then felt ashamed of himself. “Why don’t I have a few lessons with Master Odden first,” he said, to put off the decision, “and then I will discuss what I’ve learned with you.”
Victor nodded and pushed back his hair. “I shall look forward to it.” He gave Kip a smile, and the words and the smile brought back again a memory of Saul. But Saul wouldn’t have left Kip to spend time with Farley. They’d been friends, the two of them, at least as close as a human and Calatian could be.
Or was that true? Emily and Malcolm treated him as an equal, and that did not remind him of Saul as much as Adamson’s insistence that he could remedy things between Kip and Farley without any tangible evidence of doing so.
It didn’t matter, anyhow. Saul was dead, his body probably still lying beneath the rubble of one of these tents, perhaps even the dining tent they were standing outside. There was no benefit to be gained from stirring up those memories. He had Coppy, Emily, and Malcolm, and he found that he cared less and less whether Victor Adamson was able to control Farley Broadside.
Tuesday evening, on the way to his lesson with Master Odden, Kip passed Master Windsor on the stairs. The dark-haired sorcerer, lost in his own thoughts, barely even moved to make room for the fox. Kip, only too glad not to engage him in conversation, hurried up and crossed the Great Hall in high spirits.
It wasn’t until he’d put a paw to Master Odden’s door that he caught the scents inside and remembered which students were housed in Odden’s chambers. Not that it mattered; even if Napoleon himself waited beyond that door, Kip would pass him to get to his private lesson. He opened the door.
Three pairs of eyes turned to him from two desks and a bed. The students unfortunate enough to share quarters with Farley were hunched at their desks and looked pale and skittish, like rabbits when an eagle passes overhead. Farley, by contrast, lay on his bed on the other side of the room.
“Ey,” he said, stirring as Kip came through the door. “Humans only. Get out before we skin you.”
The rote threat was delivered in a bored tone. Only when Kip stepped farther into the room did the youth stir his bulk and sit up. “Not joking,” he said, and stuck out a leg, which Kip easily avoided. “This is our quarters. Get your filthy flea-ridden hide out, you damned animal.”
The smell that arose from Farley’s bed as he moved invited a retort, but Kip bit his lip. “I’m here for a lesson with Master Odden,” he said.
“Like hell.” Farley hit the floor with a thump behind Kip, and despite himself, the fox hurried his steps to the Master’s door.
“It’s Kip Penfold, sir,” he called, knocking. “I’m here for the lesson.”
Farley’s odor filled the air behind him, but at that moment the door opened with a waft of peppermint tingle. Kip stepped through, turning to allow himself the satisfaction of seeing the gaping jaw of Farley disappear as the door swung shut behind him. Then he lifted his muzzle and stood as respectfully as he could, taking in every detail of the room he’d entered.
The first Master’s office he’d ever set foot in lived up entirely to his expectations. Around the walls rose bookshelves crammed with thick leather books and papers, interrupted only by a long oak desk at which Master Odden now sat, covered with more papers and a small copper pot. Near the back of the room, a raised platform had been cleared of everything save a small pile of kindling, and Kip’s pulse quickened when he saw it.
A burst of heat from Kip’s left drew his attention to a small brazier, and when he looked down at it, he saw a sleek glowing phosphorus elemental looking back at him. “Good evening,” he said.
“Oo, I like this one,” the elemental said. “Got manners. What’s yer name, love?”
“Kip Penfold,” he said.
“Penny is rather new,” Master Odden said, setting down the paper he held, “and I doubt that your fame has reached her ears, even if she were capable of remembering it.”
“I’ll remember his name, see if I don’t,” the lizard hissed.
“Now,” the sorcerer said, as though Penny hadn’t spoken, “come over by the kindling, Penfold. You may sit if you like.”
There was no chair near the platform, so Kip remained on his feet, tail curled around one leg, attentive. Odden gestured to the kindling. “We shall begin with the basic fire spell, and once you have cast it, see if you can break it.”
The spell no longer dominated Kip’s mind as it had two days ago, but the words remained familiar. He gathered magic and breathed in the scent of wood. His mind turned the dry wood scent to crackling ash as he recited the spell; the hot crackle of fire bloomed in his mind.
Heat brushed his fur. Fire burned merrily around the kindling, and Kip reached out to it, though his fingers became uncomfortably hot when they were a foot away. Behind him, scrabbling against the copper brazier evinced Penny’s interest, but she didn’t make a sound.
“Now,” Odden said, “extinguish it.”
Kip hesitated a moment, then broke the spell. The fire went out, leaving the room darker and colder.
“Hah.” The sorcerer leaned back in his chair and stroked his beard. “Again.”
Again Kip brought forth fire, and again extinguished it. Master Odden made him repeat the practice once more, and then said, “Enough.”
Kip turned his attention to the desk and the sorcerer. Penny took advantage of the silence to say, “Could do with a bit more of that kind of magic about,” but again Odden ignored her. Kip, though, turned to meet her eye and smiled, and to his surprise, she winked at him.
“Cast your mind back,” Odden said. “Something must have happened differently, and while its cause might not be in you or the words you spoke, you might have borne witness to it. What was different about that first time?”
Kip closed his eyes and tried to remember. “I was excited to cast the spell,” he said. “I’d never done it before, and it was—I felt driven to do it. Coppy had gone to fetch Master Windsor to supervise, but I couldn’t even wait that long.”
“And you’ve not felt that way since.”
“No. I still love the fire…” He breathed in the smoky reek that normally grated on his nose; now it felt encouraging and uplifting. “But it doesn’t…possess me as it did then.”
“Interesting choice of words. There was no other difference that you can recall?” Kip shook his head. “Very well. Then we must conclude that either your emotion and excitement added some binding to the spell, which was broken by an ordinary unraveling, or that some outside agency influenced both your emotions and the fire. While you are certainly not the usual student, and the effect of the magical blood in your body must be taken into account, I do not believe that your emotional state has the power to affect a spell thusly. It is not unheard of, of course. It is told that the Great Feat of the Rolling Rocks
came about when the chief of the people who became the Visigoths faced the destruction of his entire tribe, and that he poured his desperation into them. But that is a rare example, and besides, he was an accomplished sorcerer. The others I know of all resulted similarly from extreme duress under external forces. Notably absent in your case. So I lean toward the second explanation, of an outside agent that affected both your mood and the spell. Demon or sorcerer, that’s the question here.”
“I don’t believe it was a demon, sir,” Kip said, and then stopped, because he wasn’t certain about being able to smell demons and didn’t want to reveal this ability.
Odden smiled. “Of course we would like to believe that our actions are all our own, but one can never be sure. In any event, Burkle keeps an eye out for demons and did not report any, so I will cautiously agree with you. And that leaves sorcerers. None of the current apprentices have that level of ability—well, unless—hmm.”
He drifted off in thought, staring past Kip to the wall of bookshelves. “Tell me,” he said, “did you come up from the basement to cast your spell, or in from outdoors?”
“In from outdoors, sir.”
“Did you encounter a figure in a white robe?”
Kip frowned. “No, I don’t believe so.” His mind flicked back to a white shape in the orchard, but that had been days previous.
The sorcerer nodded slowly. “I believe I have learned enough to make my own inquiries. Thank you, Penfold.”
The words had a note of dismissal, and Odden began to turn his bulk back to the desk. Kip cleared his throat. “Sir?”
“Eh? Hm?” Odden answered without looking back.
“I was—that is, I understood that there were to be further lessons?”
“Of course, if you like. Tuesday and Thursday, we said?”
“Yes, sir.” Kip exhaled. “And one more question, if I might?”
Odden didn’t move, but didn’t say no, so Kip went on. “Are you in need of an apprentice?”
Now the sorcerer did turn, and Kip thought he saw the beginning of a smile. “Are you offering yourself?”
“If you would have me.”
“Hmm. Hmm.” Odden regarded him up and down. “Well, Penfold, look here.” He held out a hand. Three seconds, and fire blossomed in his palm. His eyes met Kip’s over the fire.
The fox reached out, meeting heat as real as the fire he’d created. “Touch it with your mind if you like,” Odden said. “Know it.”
With his mind? Kip frowned, started to gather magic, but as soon as purple flickers appeared over the black fur of his paws, Odden said, “Not with magic. Like magic.”
Like magic. Kip drew magic from the earth, he knew. Did Odden mean…?
He raised his eyes to the sorcerer’s, dark behind the dancing reflection of the flames. The bearded face gave him the barest of encouraging nods.
So…what if he focused that attention on the fire? Tried to draw magic from it as he did the earth? He stared and reached out tentatively and found—
—a welcoming hunger, a drive to consume but not a malicious one, simply the nature of devouring as magic was the nature of change—
—and he drew in a warm breath and looked up to Master Odden’s eyes. The bearded sorcerer smiled. “Ah, I thought as much,” he said, and the flame went out. “Penfold, you have begun to know fire. Sorcerers with a true affinity for fire are rare and precious, but there are sorcerers who simply like to burn things, which is not the same. If you can learn fire enough to hold it in your hand…” He waved his fingers, which showed no ill effects from being in close contact with the fire. “Paw, what have you. Hold it for as long as I did just now, and I will certainly Select you, no matter what Patris wishes.”
Kip nodded. “I will practice it.”
He walked out past Farley’s increasingly agitated taunts, ignoring them as effectively as if they had burst into flame moments after leaving the young man’s mouth. He barely felt the stone beneath his paws, all the way down the stairs and to his bed.
12
Woman's Touch
Two days later, as Kip returned from his second lesson, Emily surprised them all with some news of her own. “Master Argent says he is inclined to Select me,” she said with a smile, tossing her hair.
They all gaped, Kip and Coppy and Malcolm. The Irishman was the first to recover his tongue. “He told you this, did he? And how did this happen? Simply walked up and asked you to be his apprentice?”
“Not exactly.” Her smile took on a faint smugness. “I have been talking to him about how interested I am in sorcery and how impressive it all is and how much I am in awe of what he’s doing and if perhaps I slip in the odd compliment about how attractive he is, well…”
“Aye, ‘well.’“ Malcolm folded his arms.
Emily did pause, but her smile lost none of its smugness. “Today I showed him some of the strides I have made in learning translocational magic. And he said that I had shown quite enough aptitude to be an excellent apprentice.”
“That’s not all you showed him, I’ll wager,” Malcolm said with a glance at her neckline.
“It’s wonderful.” Kip reached out to clasp Emily’s hand in his paw, beaming. “See, there’s two of us with hope, and nearly a month still for the other two.”
“In view of the rest of the class, I’m not terribly worried.” Malcolm’s expression didn’t change. “For myself, I mean.”
“No, of course not for yourself, but if you’d failed to notice, the rest of us aren’t exactly the kind of student a Master is accustomed to taking on.” Emily’s smile did disappear now. “So perhaps you could have a little sympathy.”
“That’s not what I meant,” Malcolm responded, just as sharply. “And besides, as me ma used to say, ’tis better to be garbage than Irish in New York, for at least if you’re garbage, someone will pick you up out of the gutter.”
“Please,” Coppy said. “We all want to get chosen. I’ll work hard and maybe I’ll have a water affinity or something like Kip’s fire…maybe some master will want me.”
“You’re a sight better than everyone save Quarrel, Carmichael, and, well, Broadside, though I hate to say it. The brute’s got a talent for throwing things around.” Malcolm grimaced, his attention off Emily, and perhaps that was Coppy’s intention, because the otter relaxed and leaned back on his tail.
Emily went to bed early that night, walking a little stiffly, and Kip pointed that out to Malcolm as they sat under one of the sconces while Coppy studied on his bedroll. “Maybe she snapped at you because she’s having her monthlies?”
“Is she?”
Kip nodded. “I think so. She’s wearing perfume but I caught a hint of blood. She bathed yesterday and today.”
The Irishman grimaced. “Friend, I wondered that myself when I first met her. But with many weeks more since then and no change in her sharp tongue or wit, I’m forced to conclude that that is merely her nature. And knowing Emily, I wouldn’t expect her to use her monthlies as an excuse for anything she said, so even if it is true, I’ll shoulder the blame. I shouldn’t have spoken so about her and Argent. Even if that’s true as well.”
“If one of the Masters had a great liking for Calatians,” Kip said, “I wouldn’t hesitate to use that to my advantage.”
“Even if he wanted to do to you what Argent no doubt wishes to do to Emily?” Malcolm kept his voice low.
Kip glanced in Coppy’s direction, but the otter didn’t make any sign he’d heard. “Why not? For one thing, I don’t believe Argent will ever actually get to do to Emily what he wants. And for another…if it’s the only way I’d get to study sorcery, of course I’d do it.”
Malcolm nodded. “Aye. I believe you would. And for what it’s worth, I believe I would as well. Sadly, there’s as little hope of a Master swooning over an Irishman as a Calatian.”
When Malcolm went up to bed, Kip fell onto his bedroll, but he was not quite tired enough to sleep. Coppy lay in his bed with Introduction to Sorcery an
d Kip didn’t want to disturb him. Restless, he reached up for the red journal again, wondering if Peter Cadno had any experience that might help Coppy with his selection.
struck my fingers with such force that I have not been able to write in this book for two days. And yet he was met with only mild reprimand, whereas my every transgression, however slight, is punished and ridiculed. There are days when the practice of sorcery is a joy to my heart that shields it from every sling and arrow; there are days when black clouds fill my sky and I know that no matter what I do it will never, never suffice.
* * *
January 28
I have recovered some of my good spirits thanks to Master Primus. For several days the attack on me rendered me dispirited enough to forego my attempts to speak to the Masters on the topics of their research. But today I sought out Master Primus, who has always been kind to me, and I spoke about the attraction of his work in spiritual magic. There was some connivance to it, but also risk, for Primus is not well liked at the College, and gaining his favour might mark me forever outcast. But I do not delude myself into thinking that I do not already bear that mark, or that I could ever shed it, and Primus has no apprentice, nor is likely to find another in the present group of students. I was careful not to imply that he and I were of a kind, only that the same thoughts appealed to us both. In truth, I find his research implausible and distasteful, but it is no more than I would do to be allowed to study sorcery.
* * *
January 30
My mother tried to bring me a basket of bread and apple wine today but was turned away at the door. I was told of it only this evening or I should have gone to prevent it, even risking that they might not allow me to return. I had not realized until I heard the news what a powerful feeling her presence inspires in me and how much I miss her—and indeed any of my family. Our home
