A Clash of Magics

by Guy Antibes

  They landed at a large dock. Across the entrance was the word “ENCLAVE.” Trevor was here, but without Lissa, he felt a bit more exposed than he expected. Trevor looked up at the building complex above him, a jumble of various sized buildings and styles clustered together, going straight up from the bay. He paid for his transportation and walked to a man at a desk guarding the entrance.

  “I’m here to see Master Borziz,” he said, handing a slip of paper that Potur had given him. The note covered a large denomination of the paper money used in Khartoo.

  “Runner!” The clerk snapped his fingers. “Master Borziz.”

  “This way, sir,” the boy said as they quickly marched into the enclave.

  Trevor followed him through the twisting warren of narrow lanes swarming with tiny wagons and rickshaws. The enclave had its own transportation system, it seemed. The only comforting sight was plenty of men and women wearing diving outfits.

  He climbed three flights of stone steps and then went through alleys and more steps until the boy opened a painted wooden door. The building didn’t have a speck of brick showing through its plaster, although the wood on the door had been painted over many times.

  “This way,” the boy said. He deposited him in the waiting room filled with young men and women, many wearing diving outfits. Windows looked out at the bay dotted with ships of all kinds.

  “Give this to the secretary.” The boy handed back the slip of paper that had recently wrapped a banknote.

  “I’m here to see Master Borziz,” Trevor said, handing his paper to the secretary. The woman shook the paper and looked at both sides. “Is something missing here?”

  Trevor sighed inside. The woman wanted a bribe. Trevor tried to make it as discreet as he could. Her face brightened. “You’ll be next.”

  Trevor heard people behind him groan with disappointment. He might have groaned himself had he known his name wouldn’t be called for another hour, but then he followed the secretary into Master Borziz’s office.

  “Des Boxster. That isn’t a Maskumite name.”

  “My father was a Fulerian,” Trevor said. “I grew up in the mountains.”

  “Figures. I wondered where your height came from,” Borziz muttered, half to himself. “Magical ability?”

  “Mostly defensive,” Trevor said. Potur had told him that he had to show some ability. When they talked about his lack of magic, Potur came up with the idea that he could call his immunity a kind of magic and probably get a few levels of interviews while he learned more about all the cabals in the enclave.

  Borziz twisted the end of his mustache. “What defenses can you demonstrate?”

  “All spells,” Trevor said, “without using charms.”

  The master laughed. “All spells? You know that is impossible.”

  Trevor cocked his head. “You can test me.”

  “We will. We will,” Borziz filled out a form and took a pencil, and rubbed a facsimile of his token on the page. He pointed to another door. “Your journey in the enclave starts right now. Follow the white line.”

  Trevor wanted to ask the man questions, but it was apparent that wasn’t going to happen since he had already barked for the next applicant out to his secretary.

  He walked down a corridor, and the line turned a few times, but Trevor memorized the way back. He was getting a bit more anxious with his failure to obtain any kind of information from his first encounter. Trevor’s foray into the enclave could blow up at any minute.

  The white line led to a bench in front of an alcove. Only one other applicant was sitting before him, but six doors were leading out.

  “Next,” a white-robed woman said. She took the other applicant, leaving Trevor alone in the alcove.

  “You there,” a red-robed man said as soon as he opened the door. “Come into my lair,” the magician said dramatically. “Paper.”

  Trevor handed the magician what Borziz had filled out.

  “Hmmm. A defensive specialist?”

  Trevor nodded. “I’m terrible at everything else.”

  “That is an unusual talent. How do you propose I test you?”

  Trevor shrugged. He hadn’t expected that question. “You can shoot some fire at me or wind. I won’t burn or be knocked over.”

  “Let me check for charms. The magician ran his hand along Trevor’s neck. “No amulets.” He patted down Trevor. “No charms on your body. Is that a ring on your finger?”

  Trevor waved his fingers at him. “I believe it is.”

  “I’ll do the joking,” the magician said, frowning. He clutched Trevor’s fingers. “Odd feel to that ring, but it is no charm. Stand there.” He pointed to a spot in the middle of the room and floated a ball of magic light at Trevor. As it hit him, it popped and disappeared.

  The magician blinked his eyes and performed the same spell. “No one has had a defense against my sparkle trick.” He tried wind and fire and finally shot a thick rod of white lightning at Trevor’s head. The magician’s jaw dropped. “I just tried to kill you!” He walked over and poked his finger at Trevor’s throat. “Just in case that leather armor that you wear was charmed, I aimed a bolt at your head. I had expected you to die.”

  “You do that for a screening test? There won’t be many successful applicants that way,” Trevor said drily.

  “I told you, I do the jokes, but that wasn’t a bad wisecrack.” He scribbled something down on the paper. “You’ve passed. I’m sending you on. Where did you learn this magic?”

  “It is a blessing from Dryden,” Trevor said.

  The red-robed man laughed. “Dryden.” He shook his head. “I suggest you don’t use that name anymore. There are those here who hate Dryden. I may not be one of them, but you will never know.” He handed the paper to Trevor. “Through that door and follow the blue line.”

  Trevor entered a corridor. Different colors were painted on the floor, including a light blue with barbs to indicate direction. He walked outside, where the line led him to the next building and upstairs, ending up at a bench against a wall facing double doors.

  He took a deep breath. The red-robed man really would have killed him. It confirmed to Trevor that Maskumite magicians possessed little restraint and lacked consideration for others. He knew that Maskumites and, even more so, those in Khartoo weren’t the most honest of people, but the Maskumites he had met in the streets didn’t display the same disregard for people that he had seen in his short encounter with the enclave, but he needed to learn specifics.

  Trevor wondered if he would fail at this step. He was prepared to do that since he didn’t think he would get away with being a defensive specialist forever. The door opened, showing three magicians sitting at a table. The person opening the door had ink stains on her fingers, indicating she might be a scribe of some kind.

  “Paper, please.” She held out her hand for Trevor’s score sheet. He stood up and walked into the room. He felt their eyes considering him, and it made Trevor uncomfortable.

  “You are expecting to use the sword?” one of the magicians said.

  The others jeered at Trevor.

  “My talents are defensively-oriented, and I have found that I can wield a blade to make up for my lack of offensive spells.”

  The three magicians laughed.

  “At least you’ve made our evaluation duty a little more interesting,” a magician with a thick curly black beard said.

  They asked Trevor general questions about magic, theoretical questions that exhausted all that Trevor knew, but he realized that his travels had helped educate him in magic. He was woefully ignorant when he started out in Presidon. Trevor’s time spent in Viksar had been more instructive than he had appreciated.

  “Why do you want to enter the enclave?”

  “I don’t really know,” Trevor said. “I came to learn more about what possibilities there are for me. I don’t want to spend my life as a guard.”

  “Yet you know no offensive magic,” one of the three interrogators said.


  “I will repeat myself. I don’t want to spend my life as a guard,” Trevor said, trying to change the subject.

  “Then what can you do?” the woman at the desk behind him asked.

  “I’m not sure what my possibilities are. I am untutored except for my ability to shed magic,” Trevor said. He wanted an orientation where he could ask questions.

  The three interviewers looked at the woman, who nodded. The trio behind the table excused Trevor. He returned to the bench in the corridor, now shared by a teenager wearing a diving outfit too.

  “You are from Khartoo?” the youth asked.

  “No. I come from the north, but I like this,” the boy said.

  The youth tapped his fingers on his thigh, showing his nervousness. Trevor was probably just as anxious, but he had learned long ago how to suppress outward signs, not that he was always successful.

  “You are looking forward to being in the enclave?” Trevor asked.

  “I am. It isn’t the magic part that concerns me, but what cabal I’ll be allowed to join.”

  “Do they determine that in there? What difference does the cabal make?”

  The boy shuddered. “Life or death,” he said. He looked closely at Trevor. “You really don’t know?”

  Trevor tried to produce a very confident smile, folding his arms. “Tell me.”

  “There are fighting cabals and spying cabals, ruling cabals and servant cabals. At present, as far as I know, there are twenty-two of them. Some cabals go through their members quickly, especially fighting and spying cabals. Life can be very short in the wrong organization.”

  Trevor nodded. “I know what you mean. I had an evaluator who tried to kill me.”

  “Red robe?” the youth asked. “They are fighting. Not all applicants make it through a red-robed evaluator. Do you want to be a fighter?”

  “Not me. I don’t know what I want, but I’m not that bloodthirsty. Are guard cabals fighters or servants?”

  “Generally, servants. They live a lot longer. I’m hoping I can link up with an administration cabal. That is the safest, and I can use my head.”

  “Have you had a sufficient education to do something like that?”

  The boy furrowed his brow. “Education?”

  Their conversation was interrupted. “Boxster, you can come in now,” the woman clerk said, poking her head out the door.

  Trevor would have preferred to talk to the young man some more, but that wasn’t to be.

  “We have decided you can start in a yellow cabal.”

  “I don’t know what yellow means,” Trevor said truthfully.

  “Those are considered a spying cabal. You train for a year in the cabal. If you rise in the estimation of your peers, you will become a full member. If you don’t, we will feed you to the sharks in the bay,” the man in the middle of the table said. The magician handed Trevor’s application back and pointed to a door behind him. “Tell the woman at the yellow desk what we decided.”

  Trevor guessed he had succeeded in getting himself into one of the kinds of cabals that exposed magicians to death. His idea to walk up and get an orientation wasn’t working in quite the way he intended.

  The door opened into a large room filled with desks, and Trevor walked to the bright yellow one. Trevor guessed they corresponded to the general classification of the cabals. That would mean the red desk was for fighting cabals and the yellow for spying.

  “I was told to give you this.”

  The woman, dressed in a dark blue robe, looked up and took the paper. Maybe dark blue was for administration, Trevor thought.

  “I don’t know who will want you,” she said.

  “Are you a member of a cabal?” Trevor asked.

  “Of course. We all are in an administrative cabal.” She sneered. “Did you think I was a spy?”

  “What do the spy cabals do?” Trevor asked.

  “They sneak around and find information, of course.”

  Trevor nodded. Of course, he thought, but did the spies go out stirring up trouble in other countries? Knowing that would make this masquerade worth the risk.

  “I assume you know how to use that sword?” the woman asked.

  Trevor looked down at the hilt of his sword poking from his cape. “I do.”

  She made a notation. “There is a waiting room over there.” She pointed to yet another door on the far end of the room. “The cabals will be notified you are waiting. You’ll have to interview with anyone interested.”

  “And if no one is interested?”

  “Then we will pat you on the head and send you on your way, but remember you only get one chance to join the enclave, and this is it,” the woman said.

  Trevor was getting less interested in what these people had to tell them. He had learned that instead of one magician’s guild, the administrative cabals managed the other cabals’ existence. He could be wrong, but he hoped to learn more during the following interview.

  The small, sparsely furnished room had a window that looked out to sea. He pressed his nose to the window to see how far up he was. Three stories, maybe four, he thought, with a long, long drop directly into the bay. Trevor opened the latch and pushed the window open to smell the sea. It didn’t smell any better from up here than down in the city. Trevor didn’t see a way to climb down the sheer sides of the building if something went wrong.

  The door opened behind him. Trevor quickly turned around and closed the window. He was sure his nose had left an imprint in the glass. The old magician waved his hand in front of his face.

  “I’ve never gotten used to the smell. They say it is the seaweed in the bay. Out on the open water, the smell isn’t so bad.” The little man showed a quick smile before he became serious. “Sit and give me your application.”

  Trevor sat on a plain chair, but the magician sat in the only other chair in the room, an overstuffed affair with cushions that had seen better days.

  “No offensive spells,” the man said, pursing his lips. “That is like walking around with no arms. What else do you have to offer?”

  “I use a sword for offense.”

  The magician shook his head. “I’m passing on you.”

  “Can I ask you a question?”

  “One, only. I’m a busy man,” the magician said.

  “What do spy cabals do? I come from the mountains, and we don’t have cabals.”

  The magician smiled. “None that you know about, and that is the beauty of it all. We roam around Maskum, checking up on our enemies without them knowing. When the moment arrives, we can take care of any threats, but my cabal doesn’t trust those who use weapons.” The man stood. “Frankly, I’m not sure that you will find a place in the enclave. We often accept defective magicians to turn into projects, but spy cabals generally don’t bother.” He gave Trevor a hint of a bow and left.

  About a quarter-hour later, another magician entered. This one was even older, with wispy hair on a balding skull. He put out his hand for Trevor’s application without a greeting of any kind. Perhaps the old man was constipated or just incredibly arrogant.

  “Boxster.” The man said as he began to read. “I have heard the name from somewhere. It isn’t traditionally Maskumite. Are you a defensive specialist? I haven’t seen many come through here who have made it through Arum Danzul. What makes you think you can be a spy?”

  “I don’t,” Trevor said. “I was assigned to talk to you.”

  “And I was assigned to talk to you,” the old magician said. “Come up with something,” the man asked with exasperation plainly in his voice.

  “I spent some time as a scout. It doesn’t show because I wasn’t in the regular army. I know woodcraft and know how to hunt.”

  “Hunt,” the old man said. “You would be doing the hunting, all right. Our cabal has many enemies.”

  Trevor blathered on about understanding army movements. “Do you lend members of your cabal to the army?”

  The old man blinked slowly. “The army lends us me
n when we need to fight battles.”

  “I wasn’t ever close to the officers. You mean you run the army?”

  “Run isn’t the right word. We direct some of the armies. No cabal is allowed to have complete control,” the man said.

  The way the old man said it, Trevor had wished he had Lissa by his side because he didn’t think the old magician spoke the truth. The door opened again, and a magician slipped in. Trevor immediately turned his eyes back to the old man. Gareeze Plissaki had just entered the room. Trevor had just learned more than he wanted to know.

  The old man told him about a few exploits of his cabal, but none of them included international espionage. Plissaki fiddled with his hands and stepped up by the interviewer.

  “You don’t look impressed that a magician has appeared virtually out of thin air?” the old man said.

  “He wouldn’t be,” Plissaki said, narrowing his eyes. “It appears the fly has been caught in the spider’s web.”

  The old magician turned to Plissaki. “What do you mean?”

  “I know this Boxster. He is actually Prince Trevor Arcwin, whom we believe to have recently become a tool of the Dryden Seers.”

  The old man stood up. “This is the one who saw through your spell?”

  Plissaki nodded. “He is, and now he is going to die.”

  A bolt of white lightning splashed against Trevor’s chest. He truly was caught in a trap of his own making. He didn’t think he could fight his way out of the enclave. He had gone through too many doors and down too many corridors to remember what he tried to memorize. He glanced out the window as he drew his sword.

  He had one way out and he hoped the diving outfit would allow him to swim. The old man was already at the door crying for help. Trevor plunged his sword in the old man’s back and was ready to do the same to Plissaki when it appeared the old man’s alarm attracted lots of magicians. He lunged at Worto’s former counselor, not knowing how deeply he had wounded Plissaki before throwing open the window and jumping into the briny water too many feet below him.