by Ann Macela
“Walcott!” Ed barked. “We’re not forcing anybody to do anything. That’s enough distortion and lies for one evening. Your time is up. Sit down.”
“Is this what you want?” Walcott boomed into the mike, waving his free hand at Ed again. “To be silenced?”
“No!” someone in the audience yelled from the right.
“To be cast out like the garbage?”
More no’s, again from the Traddies.
“To be deprived of your rightful place in the practitioner world?”
“No!” “Never!” “Tell it, brother!” “Amen!” The calls came from the right—and surprisingly from the middle of the hall.
Ed stood, called for order, and told Walcott again to sit down.
“We must fight for our heritage!” Walcott shouted. “Join me, and we will prevail! “
A large number of people in the middle and on the right stood up, cheering and shaking their fists at the Fomsters. Prick’s adherents jeered and responded with catcalls. Wads of paper and a few plastic water bottles began to fly between the groups.
The Swords drew their weapons and rushed to put themselves between the Fomsters and the larger middle section. Their blades flashed as they disintegrated the missiles.
Baldwin did not bother with a sword. Instead he took Walcott by the shoulders, spun him around, and forced him into his chair. Snatching the mike from the speaker’s hand, he tossed it to an usher.
When the first paper wad flew, Marcus jumped to his feet to go to Gloriana, who had also risen, and they came together behind Ed. Marcus pulled her toward the back of the stage and put his arms around her while security officers entered to help the Swords.
They both watched Baldwin, who pushed Walcott down in the chair again when the tall thin man tried to stand up. The demagogue glared and sat still. The two men were shouting at each other, but the noise from the crowd drowned out their words. Even Ed’s shouts for order through his microphone were lost in the cacophony.
People in the center section began to force the missile throwers among them to sit down, and security officers moved in to help. A couple of fistfights broke out, however, then a few more.
The Swords were too occupied with projectiles coming from the Traddies to help with the fights, and Marcus glanced around to calculate the best exit strategy if the situation got worse. The door behind and to their left was the closest. If need be, he’d drag Gloriana out, whether or not she wanted to come. He looked to Baldwin for an indication of the action to take.
In a sea of gesticulating people, flying paper wads and water bottles, and tremendous uproar, the Sword stood quietly surveying the situation as though he was watching a sporting event. After a few moments, he stepped up onto the stage in front of the table. He brought his hands together, and his large weapon appeared, its silver blade bright, with its tip pointing down. Almost nonchalantly, he stabbed the tip into the platform floor.
Booooommmmm!
Thunder shook the room, the crystals in the chandeliers tinkled madly, and Marcus’s stomach lurched. The noise and commotion abruptly stopped—except for one group of fighters who still punched and pummeled their opponents.
Baldwin reversed his grip and, blade up, swung his weapon out over the audience, bringing it to a stop pointing at the contentious knot of combatants. One man raised his hand with a bottle of water in it. Crack! A beam of energy from the tip of the sword shattered the plastic and drenched the brawler. Baldwin moved his aim to his neighbor who was cocking his fist.
The would-be gladiators froze. Wide-eyed but quiet, they watched the weapon swing slowly to a neutral position.
Into the silence, Baldwin spoke in a calm, reasonable tone. “Everybody, sit down.”
The audience sat. A number of men even lowered themselves to the floor when no chair was nearby.
“Here’s what we’re going to do. The Swords are going to identify certain persons. Those people will leave immediately through that door.” He pointed to one of the exits. “Security personnel will show you where to go from there. If you are selected and do not leave voluntarily, we will assist accordingly. I advise you not to try our patience further. The rest of you sit tight—and find chairs if you’re not in one.”
The Swords indicated people, mostly Traddies, mostly missile-throwers, with the tips of their weapons. Nobody resisted.
As the rabble-rousers began to file out, Marcus realized he and Gloriana were still standing at the back of the stage and holding on to each other like they were in a windstorm. Trying not to think of how good it felt, he loosened his grip and whispered, “Are you all right?”
“Yes,” she whispered and took a step backward. She didn’t look at him, only took her seat again.
Marcus did likewise. Ed still stood, arms crossed over his chest.
Baldwin stepped down from the stage and motioned two of the Swords to him. When they arrived, he said, “Escort Mr. Walcott to the security offices, and keep him there.”
“See here.” Walcott stood and glared down at the shorter man. “You have no right—”
“Oh, yes, I do, Mr. Walcott. Indeed, I do. First, if you think to the contrary, you should read the rules for these gatherings as posted on the Web site and at the doors and printed on the back of the evaluation forms. Second, we told you what would happen if you repeated your incendiary remarks. If you want to resist, however, feel free. I haven’t used my stun spell in some time, and your shenanigans give me a great reason.” John gave the thin man a smile that promised gleeful and probably painful suppression of even the slightest mayhem.
Walcott scowled, but went quietly with the Swords.
When all the major belligerents—mostly Walcott’s followers and a few Fomsters—had exited, and those without chairs had found them, Baldwin turned to Ed. “It’s all yours.”
“Horner and Pritchart, after we adjourn, come up here with your two most important coleaders,” Ed ordered, and he scanned the room. “I’m calling a halt to our debate—or does someone have an important point to make?”
“Yes, I do,” Gloriana answered.
“And I,” Marcus said.
“Gloriana, you go first,” Ed said and sat down.
Gloriana rose and picked up her microphone. “From the gross distortion tonight of what both Dr. Forscher and I have been advocating, I would like to make my feelings and recommendations perfectly clear.”
Good, Marcus thought, exactly what he wanted to do.
“When I first spoke of the possibility,” she continued, “that Dr. Forscher’s equation would be used to teach casting and that we had to beware of forcing it on practitioners, I meant the words to be a warning only. Advice to take precautions against compelling any method. Not an expression of reality. Certainly not an indication of a conspiracy.
“Some practitioners have taken my words and twisted them, made them into a threat that doesn’t exist. To the members of the THA, I say, you have taken this idea too far. There is no real split in the community, no division between THA and FOM. On the contrary. In these discussions, we have discovered a broad middle basis, a consensus, for maintaining and building on our current methods. At the same time, we have identified the need to research new spells and new ways to cast them. I call on all practitioners to work together in both endeavors. Thank you.” She sat down to scattered applause.
Marcus rose. “I, too, wish to make myself clear. I agree completely with Dr. Morgan. From the beginning I have called for the need to study and refine my equation. The formula is a jumping-off place to explore more casting methods. Some of those methods will be rightly discarded for a variety of reasons. Some may prove useful for the new spells we’ll need as our jobs evolve and progress brings new professions we can only speculate about at present.
“I’ll admit my hubris and overexaggeration in my remarks about cauldron-stirring and energy-wasting. I believe there is a place for tradition, and I further believe we can combine the old and new in our casting.”
H
e shot a glance at Gloriana, but she was not looking at him. Maybe she would with his next words. He couldn’t help smiling while he said, “Let me give you an example. I learned a new spell the other day—an ancient spell, strength or invalescere. I taught it to myself from a spell book for novices. Despite the precise directions, I had trouble making it come together. We all know how the new can be confusing. Fortunately, I had some help from a spell-caster who can use not only the old, but also the new. I was able to cast the spell as she explained it by applying the equation. Let me tell you, the exhilaration I felt when I succeeded was totally emotional.”
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Gloriana’s head whip around, and he felt her shock as she understood what he’d related. Good, mission accomplished. Now to take on the Fomsters.
“To my mathematical colleagues and others who belong to FOM: You have taken the idea of the new too far. Denigrating, disparaging older, more traditional methods of casting does no good. Many, many practitioners are using those methods, and their spells hold no more or less potency than those cast with the equation. There should be no split among us. Casting is still an individual art—yes, art. To practice magic better and to better the practice of magic, we all need to be involved. I, too, call on all practitioners to work together with the old and the new methods. Thank you.” He looked at Gloriana when he sat down, but she was again gazing at the audience.
“Thanks to both of you,” Ed said. “Folks, these two fine people have been on the chopping block over this controversy. Let’s give them a round of applause.”
Ed started clapping, and the audience—even Pritchart and Horner and their cohorts—joined in.
“Our last debate is next Saturday in San Francisco,” Ed said when the hall was quiet again. “I suggest to everyone that we use that venue to concentrate on the ways we can blend the old and new, start working on the research and calibration needed for the equation, and take a hard look at the efficiency of our traditional ways. Please, you mathematical types, keep it all in plain English. Thank you and good night.”
While the audience filed out, Pritchart, Horner, and their people gathered in front of the stage. Baldwin looked them over and said, “Come with us.” He led them all down a side hall next to the ballroom into a conference room with several round tables.
They arranged themselves around a table as they had been in the ballroom. Marcus and Gloriana sat on either side of Ed, with the Fomsters to Marcus’s left and the Traddies to Gloriana’s right. Baldwin sat in the middle between factions.
Ed looked sternly from Horner to Pritchart and back again. “Gentlemen, I really expected better of you.” The two leaders opened their mouths, but Ed continued, “I’m not interested in excuses or blaming someone except Walcott and his band of idiots. Here is a true fact for you to believe: We will not permit such an uproar to happen again. Right, John?”
“Right,” Baldwin said. “The next time, people could get hurt. If someone panics and runs into a sword blade, they could be killed. The last thing we need is for somebody to try throwing even the simplest spells. I do have a couple of questions for FOM and THA. Did you have any inking about Walcott’s plans for his inflammatory speech or infiltrating the middle with his troublemakers?”
Pritchart spoke first. “No. Look, to begin with, we were having a little fun with the stick-in-the-mud Traddies. We want them to be intellectually honest instead of all that appealing to emotion. Those guys can’t take a joke, and they threw first. We responded to protect ourselves.”
Marcus thought Prick sounded self-righteous. It had appeared from the stage, however, that the first missiles came from the right. Horner, on the other hand, looked distinctly uncomfortable when the attention focused on him.
“No, I didn’t have any idea what Walcott planned, either,” the THA leader said. “I knew, of course, that some of our supporters hold extreme views, but I certainly didn’t expect Gordon to become so …”
“Rabid?” Gloriana suggested.
“Precisely,” Horner said, nodding his head. “I hope you all realize that I and my inner circle had nothing to do with Walcott’s words or actions or those of his followers. We totally repudiate them. He’s been on the periphery as far as the controversy and the THA are concerned. Yes, he’s been important in some of my other projects. Unfortunately we had a falling-out over tactics to oppose Forscher’s formula, and he hasn’t been to meetings or participated in our planning since before the meeting in Denver.”
“The one where he first spoke and the Swords used their weapons?” Marcus asked. Horner had probably not tried to discourage or investigate Walcott, either.
“Yes. After that, he sent me a note to the effect that we were not standing up for our views strongly enough and he wanted nothing to do with us.” Horner grimaced. “I expected to have to fight him for THA leadership, but we didn’t meet after that.”
“As I remember his diatribe,” Marcus said, “Walcott said, ‘Join me,’ not ‘Join THA’ at the end.”
“Exactly,” Horner said with a sigh that had to be relief.
“All right. Enough of Walcott,” Ed said with a dismissive wave. “John and I will read him the riot act and keep a close eye on him and his buddies.”
“There’s another matter to discuss,” Baldwin said. “These threatening flyers or e-mails to Ed or our two speakers.”
“We’ve written letters to all the High Council members and to you, Ed, and we encouraged our THA members to do likewise. I assure you that we always called for a reasoned approach,” Horner said.
Prick snorted. “Yeah, right, as reasoned as you’ve been in your speeches.”
“Watch it, Pritchart,” Ed growled.
“No, we haven’t written letters or threatened anyone, either,” Prick said. “We figured the decision makers already had their minds made up, and we liked the way the discussion’s been going for more spell research in general. Why? What’s going on?”
“All three of us have received some disturbing letters and e-mails, and I assume you’ve seen some of the flyers around the hotel,” Ed explained, and Horner and Pritchart nodded. “Those messages have become more and more threatening and vicious over the past two weeks.”
“We caught one of the people putting them up, and she’s with Walcott’s bunch,” Baldwin said. “We’re backtracking on the e-mails, but they’re originating in public computers in libraries and cafés. We’re taking them very seriously, so tell your supporters to cool it in their correspondence. The last thing we need is an escalation to real violence.”
“Speaking for the THA, I hope you catch the villains,” Horner stated.
“Amen,” Pritchart added.
“All right, let’s concentrate on the future.” Ed looked up from what he’d been writing on his notepad. “Here’s what we’re going to do for San Francisco, and none of it is negotiable. Traddies and Fomsters, first, get the word out to your people that the debate will be calm and reasonable. Second, you six are to come up with ways to work together, to try the equation, refine it. You will also look at older, more traditional spells and see if they can be made more efficient.”
He held up his hand when both sides started to protest. “I’m not asking for a comprehensive study, only an example or two. Split up into couples of a Fomster and a Traddie. Try a spell together. Surely there are enough low-level universal spells that all talents can do. Marcus, what was the spell you used?”
“Strength.”
“Okay, start there. How you organize yourselves is up to you. Be ready to report. Talk to your supporters and tell them the new order of things. Encourage looking at the other side. They can protest in writing and in person if they wish, but we will have no riot. Make that crystal clear. Any questions? No? Then good night. John, let’s go take on Walcott.”
Everyone stood, and the Traddies and Fomsters split themselves into groups to talk about their tasks. Baldwin and Ed left.
Marcus turned to Gloriana. She was so beautiful and l
ooked so exhausted that he simply wanted to take her in his arms and hold her. That wouldn’t do, however. He had to remember his resolve. He couldn’t be her soul mate.
She gave him a smile that lit up her face. “Did you really teach yourself to cast invalescere?”
“Yes. You told me how when you put it in the context of the equation. It took me a few tries before I could work it correctly. I learned something about calibration in the process, and I’m pleased with the results. Thank you.”
“I told you how to use the equation with the spell? Me? The intuitive caster? I didn’t even realize I had used it.”
“Yes, you were specific about power levels.”
“I still don’t understand how to use the formula.”
“I think you do, but you’ll have to experiment and decide that for yourself. It may change your whole idea of the process.”
“There’s something else we have to do first.” She looked around before she whispered, “Marcus, we really must discuss what I’ve learned from Lulabelle. She had news that might make big changes for us, too.”
He winced internally at her statement. If they were alone again together, he doubted they’d spend too much time talking, and mating would only make it harder for him to walk away from her—as he must do for both their sakes.
He was pondering what to say when Prick interrupted, “Hey, Forscher, come over here and tell me and Horner about the spell you learned.”
“Excuse me, Gloriana,” he pleaded, for once grateful to the blowhard. “First things first.”
Gloriana watched him walk over to the two men and start talking. Within a minute, they were sitting at a table again, scribbling equations and diagrams. One of the other twosomes called to her, and she went to help them at another table. When she looked back at Marcus several minutes later, his entire group had vanished.
“Where’d they go?” she asked the remaining pair.
“They said something about getting a drink and looking up some elementary spell books,” the Fomster said.
“Can you come here when you’re finished with them? I don’t get how the formula is supposed to work,” the Traddie complained.
