Probably, I thought, cynically. It isn't as if anyone would complain.
I reached for my notebook and started jotting down ideas. The ancients had known a thing or two that hadn't been included in the instructions, but I suspected I could duplicate it ... given time. It wouldn't be that hard to forge an Object of Power that allowed me to work with very small components, although it would be tricky. I’d made watches, in the past, but they were simple clockwork. An Object of Power needed to balance its innards with the spellform ...
They were very clever, I reminded myself. I felt a stab of envy for Tyros and his friends, even though I knew they’d been little more than slaves. They’d had access to decades - centuries, perhaps - of institutional knowledge. I had only fragments, half of which were dangerously untrustworthy. We might have to go all the way back to first principles.
Another clatter echoed down the hall. I sighed and walked to the door, looking up and down the corridor before closing it firmly. Magister Tallyman had told me to leave the door open while I was alone in the workroom, but he was at the dinner and would be there until late evening. The toasts and speeches alone would take hours. I considered locking the door briefly, then dismissed the thought. Rose was supposed to be coming down to join me. I didn't want to accidentally lock her out.
Returning to the workbench, I forced myself to parse out the instructions line by line. It was always irritating to see just how much the original writers had taken for granted - and how much had been forgotten over the years - but I was getting better at filling in the missing pieces. Merely understanding how the magic field worked was helpful, as it explained precisely where the power came from. I rather thought Magister Niven would have been proud of me. I was no longer taking anything I read in books for granted.
And yet, we haven’t had any time to talk, I thought. Questioning Assumptions, at least, was a class I could take with the rest of the year, but Magister Niven and I hadn't found time to talk afterwards. I’d been too busy with potions and forging. What will he tell me when we do?
I put the notebook aside and tried to think. It was fairly easy to measure a person’s magical potential, but harder - a great deal harder - to measure the level of ambient power in the surrounding air. The only way to measure the magic field, as far as I could tell, was to draw on it ... which would obviously drain it. I wasn't about to go around casting energy-intensive spells, even if I could. It would just make matters worse. I was starting to think that measuring magic was like trying to measure oxygen by breathing. And yet, there had to be some way of proving the field’s existence. Tyros had done it, after all.
He could have written that down, I told myself. It would have been far more useful than self-pitying whining!
I shook my head in annoyance. That was unfair. Tyros had had excellent reason to make sure he never wrote the details down. He’d done everything in his power to make sure that the first person to read his manuscript was a fellow Zero, but no one knew more than I just how unreliable magic became as the spellforms started to wear out. His spells had lasted nearly a thousand years, yet ...
Perhaps if I rig up a set of runic diagrams and carve them into a disc, I thought. There actually was a children’s toy that did something like it, one I suspected had been designed more to irritate parents and nursemaids than entertain children. Something that will react to the magic without using it.
I scribbled down a handful of notes without taking any time to parse them out. I’d go through them later and sort out the gold from the dross. Water could go through a waterwheel without being drained - and a waterwheel could be used to measure the water’s speed and pressure - and I thought I could measure the magic field in the same way. The real question was what happened to the magic after it was turned into a spell. Was the power gone forever or did it merely blur back into the background?
The door opened. I looked up, expecting to see Rose. Instead, Isabella stepped into the room. She’d exchanged her dress uniform for black trousers and a red shirt, the latter clearly designed for someone a little older than she was. I felt an odd sense of kinship, knowing precisely what my mother would have said if she’d seen me wearing anything like it. Isabella’s mother would probably have the same reaction. I’d never formally met Lady Jeannine Rubén - I’d only seen Isabella’s mother a couple of times - but I’d heard she was snootier than Great Aunt Stregheria. If that was true, and it was hard to believe, it was quite an accomplishment.
I glared. “What do you want?”
Isabella looked back at me, evenly. “You’re not the only one who has permission to leave the dorms during this ... trying time.”
“And who gave you permission to leave?” I demanded. “I’m sure no one wants you running around ...”
“You’re the one who asked me to accompany her to pick up the food,” Isabella said, sweetly. “Or do you happen to believe that only you are special enough to get special treatment?”
Her smile grew wider. “You and your sister are really very much alike.”
I gritted my teeth. “Alana and I are nothing alike!”
“Oh, you are,” Isabella said. “You are both used to claiming privileges.”
“Get out,” I ordered.
Isabella mocked me. “I didn't realise that this was your workroom,” she said, waving a hand to encompass the giant chamber. “Is that your playhouse in the corner?”
I followed her gaze, trying to put a lock on my temper. Someone - one of the upperclassmen, perhaps - had designed and built a miniature wooden house. It was big enough to look impressive, but too small to be anything other than a child’s playhouse. I didn't think it was designed for anyone over seven or eight years old. I wasn't even sure why Magister Tallyman had allowed it to be built in the first place. It was just too out of place.
A mere carpenter could have put it together, I thought. There was something slapdash about it that reminded me of the box I’d made. Unless it has a hidden purpose ...
I dismissed the thought. “Fine,” I growled. “Just don’t come too close to my workbench.”
“Perish the thought,” Isabella said. “But is it your workbench?”
“It's where I’m working,” I told her. It was hard to keep my voice even. “And you have been told not to go too close to my work.”
I looked up at her. “You remember the explosion that nearly killed me and Rose? That happened because Rose stepped too close to the potion.”
Isabella opened her mouth, probably to make a snide remark about me not working on a potion, then closed it again. I watched her walk around the workbenches, careful to keep well clear of my workplace, and head into the backroom. The clatter of rattling pieces of wood and metal echoed back to me before she emerged, carrying her current project. It looked like an oversized dispeller. I thought it was a workable design, but it was just too big to be practical. It was nearly a third of her size.
“That isn't going to be very effective.” I couldn't resist a jibe. “You’ve put in too many lines of power.”
“But that will compensate for the standard anti-dispeller spells,” Isabella pointed out. “The extra redundancy will keep the spells from being overwhelmed.”
“Maybe,” I said. “You’re taking a chance, though.”
Isabella huffed and placed her project on the workbench. I studied it as she turned to collect her tools, careful not to go too close. The design was better than I’d expected, for someone who hadn't taken her forging lessons seriously before she’d gone to Jude’s. I supposed it would work, if she was careful where she used it. A simple transfiguration spell wouldn't stand up to the dispeller, but a house ward might pump back enough power to make the dispeller explode. Or ... she knew, as well as I did, that there were quite a few spells to break Devices of Power. There were limits to just how far she could scale up the compensator concept without the whole Device of Power collapsing under its own weight.
She should have asked Akin for help, I thought. I was sure she would
sooner have gone home and admitted failure than ask me for help. He’d be able to simplify the whole thing.
I turned back to my notebook, feeling torn. I wanted to get changed, then get to work, but I didn't want to leave the workroom while she was present. I wasn't even sure I could leave the workroom. There was a good chance, technically, that I was supposed to supervise Isabella as she worked. I was Magister Tallyman’s assistant ... maybe, just maybe, the only reason she’d got permission to come to the workroom was because I was already there.
And I’m certainly not changing in front of her, I told myself. And if I ask her to leave ...
I agonised for a long moment - if I asked her to leave, she would certainly file a complaint - and then reached for another ancient manuscript. Magister Tallyman had had them all copied, something that left me unsure if I should be pleased everyone could read them or concerned about what the copying process might have left out. I’d seen a handful of really old manuscripts where the writing - and little diagrams - in the margins had been more important than the text. Who knew? Someone could have encoded his work and hidden the key somewhere in his notes to pose an interesting challenge for his successors.
Because they liked messing with our minds, I thought. Or because they wanted to make us figure out where they were coming from before allowing us to learn their secrets.
Isabella worked in silence, her head bent over her work. I was surprised and not a little suspicious. Normally, I would have expected her to be snapping and snarling at me. She couldn't be that worried about the mocks, could she? I doubted she’d fail. The worst that would happen was that she’d be told she needed to work harder to prepare for the real exams.
She looked up and saw me. “Don’t you have something better to do with your time?”
“I have to keep an eye on you,” I said, partly because it was true and partly because I knew it would get under her skin. “You’re working very hard.”
“And you’re not working at all.” Isabella sneered at me. “Aren't you meant to be forging a flying machine?”
“I think trying to forge it here would be a mistake,” I said. I was fairly sure I could forge a second flying machine - or at least the Object of Power that had made my original framework fly - but I didn't want to experiment at Jude’s. “It would be better to do it in the countryside.”
“Where you might land in a tree if something went wrong,” Isabella pointed out. “Why don’t you forge a teleport gate instead?”
I shrugged. There was no way I could forge a teleport gate. I didn't even understand the equations behind teleport gates. What few details had survived the empire’s fall hadn't been too clear. I was fairly sure we were missing pretty much everything. But I wasn't about to admit that to her. She’d be pleased to hear there was something I couldn't do. I ...
The school shook, violently. I tensed, unsure which way to jump, as a handful of glowing light crystals exploded, pieces of crystalline debris raining down on the floor. I ducked under the workbench, instinctively, as a couple more crystals shattered. Isabella appeared under her own bench, her face taut and worried. I forced myself to think, hard. One of the wardstones we’d emplaced under the school over the last two days wasn't too far away. It must have exploded. I had known it was just a matter of time before something blew.
I crawled out into the suddenly dim workroom as soon as I was fairly sure there wasn't going to be a third set of tiny explosions. The power distribution network must have taken a beating too, now the wardstone was gone. Or ... I frowned as I realised I might well be completely wrong. If the wardstone was gone, everything should have gone. We should have been plunged into darkness. Instead, several crystals were still glowing.
A nasty thought struck me. “Isabella ... cast a spell.”
Isabella frowned and cast a spell. A glowing ball of light sprang into existence, growing brighter and brighter as it rose into the air. I sagged in relief as I turned towards the closed door. The magic hadn't gone! We hadn't lost everything ...
“Cat,” Isabella said. “Take off your protections.”
I stopped, then turned back to her. She was pointing a spellcaster at me. I didn't recognise the design, although it was fairly clear it wasn't one of mine. It was far too crude to be an Object of Power. She held something else in her other hand, a Device of Power I didn't recognise. And ...
She jabbed the spellcaster at me. “Take off your protections.”
“What?” It was a struggle to speak. “What are you saying ...?”
Isabella stepped forward. “I’m telling you to take off your protections,” she said, coldly. The tip of the spellcaster began to glow. “And I’m telling you to do it now.”
I stared at her in disbelief. Was she mad? She could cast spells at me all day with that spellcaster and they’d just break apart when they touched my protections. Did she expect me to just take off my protections and let her hex me? What was she doing? What was she thinking? My mind raced. Isabella wasn't stupid, so clearly she had something in mind ... but what?
“I don’t think so,” I said. My hand dropped to my own spellcaster. “What are you doing?”
Isabella jabbed the spellcaster at me. A hex lashed out, only to shatter in a burst of light as soon as it struck me. I yanked my own spellcaster from my belt as she fired useless hex after useless hex at me, doing nothing more than blinding me for a second or two as the spells disintegrated. She ducked the spell I sent back at her, but it was just a matter of time until I got her. We both knew I was the stronger ...
... And it was suddenly very hard to breathe.
I gasped for air, unsure of what was happening. My lungs were working, but ... there was no air. Isabella snickered as my hand went to my throat, half-expecting to feel something preventing the air from reaching my lungs. My other hand seemed to spasm, completely against my will. The spellcaster clattered to the floor as my legs buckled, leaving me falling to the ground. My lungs were burning ...
“Well,” Isabella said, as my vision began to blur. I heard footsteps, all around me. “Not so clever after all, are you?”
And then the darkness reached up and swallowed me.
Chapter Thirty-One
My head hurt. My throat hurt. My eyes ...
I forced my way back to wakefulness slowly, struggling against a tempest that threatened to drag me back down into the darkness. My body felt ... numb. No, it had feelings, but they were blurred. I felt as if I wanted to be sick, yet I couldn't be sick. There was a foul taste in my mouth that I wanted to spit out, but ... my jaw refused to work properly. And I was in darkness ... it took me longer than it should have done to realise, in my dull state, that my eyes were closed. I had to fight to remember how to open them.
“Well,” a voice said. A very familiar voice. “I’m glad to see you’re awake.”
I shrugged, trying to focus my mind. There might be worse people to see when waking up than Great Aunt Stregheria, but I couldn't think of any. Even Carioca Rubén would be preferable. She was standing in front of me, her arms crossed under her breasts. Her dark eyes were alight with cold amusement, but her vulture-like face was otherwise impassive. I couldn't shake the feeling that she was very - very - pleased with herself.
“You can try to move, if you like,” Great Aunt Stregheria told me. “But you’ll find it quite futile.”
She was right. I could move my head, barely, but everything below the neckline was frozen by magic. No wonder I felt so odd. Different parts of my body were moving at different rates. I couldn't feel my bracelet or earrings or any of the other Objects of Power I’d forged to protect myself. Someone must have searched me, thoroughly, before I’d recovered. The taste in my mouth suggested they’d dosed me with potion too.
I glanced around the room, trying to put off the moment when I’d have to look at her face again. It was a bare room, probably a storage compartment ... although it was large enough to serve as a workroom in a pinch. Someone had stripped the room bare of everything
that might be useful, then drawn magical geometric diagrams on the stone floor. I was standing in the centre of the diagrams, held firmly in place by magic. Someone had gone to a great deal of trouble to keep me prisoner.
“Pay attention,” Great Aunt Stregheria said, sharply.
I swallowed, hard. My mind refused to process what I was seeing. Someone had attacked the school and kidnapped me - again - while the Crown Prince and most of the city’s aristocracy were in residence. I couldn't wrap my head around it. They had to be out of their minds. And Great Aunt Stregheria had betrayed the entire family ...
It was hard to speak. “What have you done?”
“Taken power,” Great Aunt Stregheria told me. “The power I was denied when your father was a little boy.”
“You’ve committed treason,” I said. The concept was horrific. A House War was one thing - and I was suddenly sure I knew how all those rumours had started - but actually attacking the Crown Prince and his Household Troops? How had she done it? The troops would be skilled magicians in their own right ... I stared at her in horror as the pieces fell into place. “You and the Crown Prince have committed treason!”
The Zero Equation (The Zero Enigma Book 3) Page 30
