The Book of Magic Read online

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “It’s my job.”

  * * *

  —

  We cut him up with a forester’s crosscut saw. If you aren’t familiar with them, they’re the big two-handed jobs. Two men sit on either side of the work; one pushes and one pulls. I took my turn, out of some perverse sense of duty, but I never was any good at keeping the rhythm.

  * * *

  —

  I left my home village with mixed feelings. As I said before, once you’ve been through the experience you’ve been dreading for so long, you feel a certain euphoria; I’ve been back now, I won’t ever have to do it again, there’s a giant weight off my shoulders. But, as I walked up that horribly tiring long hill, I caught myself thinking: no matter how hard I try, this is where I started from, this is part of who I am. I think the revenant issue is what set me thinking that way. You see, revenancy is so very much a Mesoge thing. You get them in other places, but wherever it’s been possible to trace ancestries, the revenant always has Mesoge blood in him, if you go back far enough. God help us, we’re special. Alone of all races and nations, we’re the only human beings on Earth who can achieve a sort of immortality, albeit a singularly nasty one, born of spite and leading to endless pain. Reliable statistics are impossible, of course, but we figure it’s something like one in five thousand. It could be me, one day; or Gnatho, or Quintillus, or Scaevola—learned doctors and professors of the pure, unblemished wisdom, raging in the dark, smashing railings and crushing windpipes. And, as I said, they always—we always—come back, sooner or later. They—we—can’t help it.

  Gnatho, a far more upbeat man than I’ll ever be, used to have this idea of finding out how we did it, why it was just us, with a view to conquering death and making all men immortal. I believe he did quite a bit of preliminary research, until the funding ran out and he got a teaching post and started getting more involved in Order politics, which takes up a lot of a man’s time and energy. He’s probably still got his notes somewhere. Like me, he never throws anything away, and his office is a pigsty.

  * * *

  —

  The river had calmed down by the time I got to Machaera, and the military had been out and rigged up a pontoon bridge; nice to see them doing something useful for a change. A relatively short walk and I’d be able to catch a boat and float my way home in relative comfort.

  One thing I’d been looking forward to, a small fringe benefit of an otherwise tiresome mission. The road passes through Idens: a small and unremarkable town, but it happened to be the home of an old friend and correspondent of mine, whom I hadn’t seen for years: Genseric the alchemist.

  He was in fifth year when I was a freshman, but for some reason we got on well together. About the time I graduated, he left the Studium to take up a minor priorship in Estoleit; after that he drifted from post to post, came into some family money, and more or less retired to a life of independent research and scholarship in his old hometown. He inherited a rather fine manor house with a deer park and a lake. From time to time he wrote to me asking for a copy of some text, or could I check a reference for him; alchemy’s not my thing, but it’s never mattered much. Probably it helped that we were into different disciplines; no need to compete, no risk of one stealing the other’s work. Genseric wasn’t exactly respectable—he’d left the Studium, after all, and there were all sorts of rumors about him, involving women and unlawful offspring—but he was too good a scholar to ignore, and there was never any ill will on his side. From his letters I got the impression that he was proud to have been one of us but glad to be out of the glue-pot, as he called it, and in the real world. Ah well. It takes all sorts.

  As with the things you dread that turn out to be not so bad after all, so with the things you really look forward to, which turn out to disappoint. I’d been picturing in my mind the moment of meeting: broad grins on our faces, maybe a manly embrace, and we’d immediately start talking to each other at exactly the same point where we’d broken off the conversation when he left to catch his boat twenty years ago. It wasn’t like that, of course. There was a moment of embarrassed silence as both of us thought, hasn’t he changed, and not in a good way (with the inevitable reflection; if he’s got all middle-aged, have I too?); then an exaggerated broadening of the smile, followed by a stumbling greeting. Think of indentures, or those coins-cut-in-two that lovers give each other on parting. Leave it too long and the sundered halves don’t quite fit together anymore.

  But never mind. After half an hour, we were able to talk to each other, albeit somewhat formally and with excessive pains to avoid any possible cause of disagreement. We had the advantage of both being scholars; we could talk shop, so we did, and it was more or less all right after that.

  One thing I hadn’t been prepared for was the luxury. Boyhood in the Mesoge, adult life at the Studium, field trips spent in village inns and the guest houses of other orders; I’m just not used to linen sheets, cushions, napkins, glass drinking vessels, rugs, wall hangings, beeswax candles, white bread, porcelain tea-bowls, chairs with backs and arms, servants—particularly not the servants. There was a man who stood there all through dinner, just watching us eat. I think his job was to hover with a brass basin of hot water so we could wash our fingers between courses. I kept wanting to involve him in the conversation, so he wouldn’t feel left out. I have no idea if he was capable of speech. The food was far too rich and spicy for my taste, and there was far too much of it, but I kept eating because I didn’t want to give offense, and the more I ate, the more it kept coming, until eventually the penny dropped. As far as I could tell, this wasn’t Genseric putting on a show. He lived like that all the damn time, thought nothing of it. I didn’t say anything, naturally, but I was shocked.

  Over dinner I told him about my recent adventures, and then he showed me his laboratory, of which I could tell he was very proud. I know the basics of alchemy, but Genseric’s research is cutting-edge, and he soon lost me in technical details. The ultimate objective was the same, of course: the search for the reagent or catalyst that can change the fundamental nature of one thing into another. I don’t believe this is actually possible, but I did my best to sound impressed and interested. He had shelves of pots and jars, two broad oak benches covered with glassware, a small furnace that resembled my father’s forge in the way a prince’s baby son resembles a sixteen-stone wrestler. He couldn’t resist showing me a few tricks, including one that filled the room with purple smoke and made me cough till I could barely see. After that, I pleaded weariness after my long journey, and I was shown to this vast bedroom, with enough furniture in it to clutter up the whole of a large City house. The bed was the size of a small barn, with genuine tapestry hangings (the marriage of Wit and Wisdom, in the Mezentine style). I was just about to undress when some woman barged in with a basin of hot water. I don’t think I want to be rich. I’d never get any peace.

  * * *

  —

  I woke up suddenly, feeling like a bull was standing on my chest. I could hardly breathe. It was dark, so I tried lux in tenebris. It didn’t work.

  Oh, I thought.

  My fault, for not putting up wards before I closed my eyes. There’s an old military proverb; the worst thing a general can ever say is: I never expected that. But here, in the house of my dear old friend— My fault.

  I could just about speak. “Who’s there?” I said.

  “I’d like you to forgive me.” Genseric’s voice. “I don’t expect you will, but I thought I’d ask, just in case. You always were a fair-minded man.”

  The illusion of pressure, I realized, wasn’t so much the presence of some external force as an absence. For the first time in my life, it wasn’t there—it, the talent, the power, the ability. Virtusexercitus, a nasty fifth-level Form, suppresses the talent, puts it to sleep. For the first time, I realized what it felt like being normal. Virtus isn’t used much because it hurts—not the vic
tim, but the person using it. There are other Forms that have roughly the same effect. He’d chosen virtus deliberately, to show how sorry he was.

  “This is about the chair of Logic,” I said.

  “I’m afraid so. You see, you’re not my only friend at the Studium.”

  I needed to play for time. “The bear trap.”

  “That was me, yes. Two cousins of my head gardener. It’s a shame you had to kill them, but I understand. I have the contacts, you see, being an outsider.”

  You have to concentrate like mad to keep virtus going. It drains you. “You must like Gnatho very much.”

  “Actually, it’s just simple intellectual greed.” He sighed. “I needed access to a formula, but it’s restricted. My friend has the necessary clearance. He got me the formula, but it came at a price. Normally I’d have worked around it, tried to figure it out from first principles, but that would take years, and I haven’t got that long. Even with the formula I’ll need at least ten years to complete my work, and you just don’t know how long you’ve got, do you?” Then he laughed. “Sorry,” he said. “Tactless of me, in the circumstances. Look, will you forgive me? It’s not malice, you know. You’re a scholar; you understand. The work must come first, mustn’t it? And you know how important this could be; I just told you about it.”

  I hadn’t been listening when he told me. It went straight over my head, like geese flying south for the winter. “You’re saying you had no choice.”

  “I tried to get it through proper channels,” he said, “but they refused. They said I couldn’t have it because I wasn’t a proper member of the Studium any more. But that’s not right, is it? I may not live there, but I’m still one of us. Just because you go away, it doesn’t change anything, does it?”

  “You could have come back.” They always do, sooner or later.

  “Maybe. No, I couldn’t. I’m ashamed to say, I like it too much here. It’s comfortable. There’re no stupid rules or politics, nobody to sneer at me or stab me in the back because they want my chair. I don’t want to go back. I’m through with all that.”

  “The boy at Riens,” I said. “Did you—?”

  “Yes, that was me. I found him and notified the authorities. I had to get you to come out this way.”

  “You did more than that.” I was guessing, but I had nothing to lose. “You found a natural, and you filled his head with spite and hate. I imagine you appeared to him in dreams. Fulgensorigo?”

  “Naturally. I knew they’d send you. You’re the best at that sort of thing. If it had just been an unregistered natural, they could have sent anyone. To make sure it was you, I had to turn him nasty. I’m sorry. I’ve caused a lot of trouble for a lot of people.”

  “But it’s worth it, in the long run.”

  “Yes.”

  Pain, you see, is the distraction. As long as I could hurt him, in the conscience, where it really stings, I was still in the game. “It’s not, you know. Your theory is invalid. There’s a flaw. I spotted it when you were telling me about it. It’s so obvious, even I can see it.”

  I didn’t need Forms to tell me what he was thinking. “You’re lying.”

  “Don’t insult me,” I said. “Not on a point of scholarship. I wouldn’t do that.”

  Silence. Then he said, “No, you wouldn’t. All right, then, what is it? Come on, you’ve got to tell me!”

  “Why? You’re going to kill me.”

  “Not necessarily. Come on, for God’s sake! What did you see?”

  And at that precise moment, my fingertips connected with what they’d been blindly groping for: the bottle of aqua fortis I’d slipped into the pocket of my gown earlier, when we were both blinded by the purple smoke. I flipped out the cork with my thumbnail, then thrust the bottle in what I devoutly hoped was the right direction.

  * * *

  —

  Aqua fortis has no pity; it’s incapable of it. They use it to etch steel. People who know about these things say it’s the worst pain a man can suffer.

  I’d meant it for Gnatho, of course; purely in self-defense, if he ambushed me and tried to hex me. Pain would be my only weapon in that case. I had no way of getting hold of the stuff at the Studium, where they’re so damn fussy about restricted stores, but I knew my good friend Genseric would have some, and would be slapdash about security.

  The pain hit him; he let go of virtus. I came back to life. The first thing I did was lux in tenebris, so I could see exactly what I’d done to him. It wasn’t pretty. I saw the skin bubble on his face, pull apart to reveal the bone underneath; I watched the bone dissolve. You have to believe me when I say that I tried to save him, mundus vergens, but I just couldn’t concentrate with that horrible sight in front of my eyes. Pain paralyzes, and you can’t think straight. It ate deep into his brain, I told him I forgave him, and then he died.

  For the record; I think—no, I’m sure—there was a flaw in his theory. It was a false precept, right at the beginning. He was a nice man and a good friend, mostly, but a poor scholar.

  * * *

  —

  As soon as I got back to the Studium, I went to see Father Sulpicius. I told him everything that had happened, including Genseric’s confession.

  He looked at me. “Gnatho,” he said.

  I shook my head. “No,” I said. “You.”

  He frowned. “Don’t be silly,” he said.

  “It was you.”

  “Ridiculous. Look, I can prove it. I don’t have clearance for restricted alchemical data. But Gnatho does.”

  I nodded. “That’s right, he does. So you asked him to get the data for you. He was happy to oblige. After all, he’s your friend.”

  “You’re wrong.”

  “Genseric had to find the natural. You’re hopeless at that sort of thing; Gnatho’s very good at it. If you’d been able to, you’d have done it yourself. But you had to leave it to Genseric.”

  He took a deep breath. “You’re wrong,” he said. “But assuming you were right, what would you intend to do about it?”

  I looked at him. “Absolutely nothing,” I said. “No, I tell a lie. I’d withdraw my name for the chair. Just as you’re going to do.”

  “And let Gnatho—”

  Oh, the scorn in those words. He’d have hit me if he’d been able. He’s always looked down on Gnatho and me, just because we’re from the Mesoge.

  “He’s a fine scholar,” I said. “Besides, I never wanted the stupid job anyway.”

  * * *

  —

  The boy from Riens duly turned up and was assigned to a house. He’s settled in remarkably well, far better than I did. Mind you, I didn’t have an influential senior member of Faculty looking out for me, like he has. He could go far, given encouragement. I hope he does, for the honor of the Old Country.

  I’m glad I didn’t get the chair. If I had, I wouldn’t have had the time for a new line of research, which I have high hopes for. It concerns the use of strong acids for disposing of the mortal remains of revenants. Fire doesn’t work, we know, because fire leaves ashes; but if you eat the substance away so there’s absolutely nothing left— Well, we’ll see.

  He’ll be back, my father used to say, like a pig to its muck. I gather he said it the day I left home. Well. We’ll see about that, too.

  ◆ ◆ ◆

  Books by Megan Lindholm include the fantasy novels Wizard of the Pigeons, Harpy’s Flight, The Windsingers, The Limbreth Gate, Luck of the Wheels, The Reindeer People, Wolf’s Brother, and Cloven Hooves, the science fiction novel Alien Earth, and, with Steven Brust, the collaborative novel The Gypsy. Lindholm also writes as New York Times bestseller Robin Hobb, one of the most popular writers in fantasy today, having sold over one million copies of her work in paperback. As Robin Hobb, she’s perhaps best known for her epic fantasy Farseer series, including Assassin’s Apprent
ice, Royal Assassin, and Assassin’s Quest, as well as the four fantasy series related to it: the Liveship Traders series, consisting of Ship of Magic, The Mad Ship, and Ship of Destiny; the Tawny Man series, made up of Fool’s Errand, The Golden Fool, and Fool’s Fate; the Rain Wilds Chronicles, consisting of Dragon Keeper, Dragon Haven, City of Dragons, and Blood of Dragons; and the Fitz and the Fool trilogy, made up of Fool’s Assassin, Fool’s Quest, and Assassin’s Fate. She’s also the author of the Soldier Son series, composed of Shaman’s Crossing, Forest Mage, and Renegade’s Magic. As Megan Lindholm, her most recent book is a “collaborative” collection with Robin Hobb, The Inheritance & Other Stories.

  Doing a favor for an old friend is always a risky business, full of potential disappointments and pitfalls, especially when the old friend is someone you haven’t seen or spoken to for decades after an acrimonious breakup—someone who once betrayed you, someone you know better than to trust. And especially in a case where dangerous magic is involved.

  ◆ ◆ ◆

  MEGAN LINDHOLM

  The phone rang. I stripped off my rubber gloves and reached for it. It’s an old house phone, yellow, with a dial, still mounted to the wall. It works. I like it.

  “Good morning. Tacoma Pet Boarding.”

  “Celtsie, it’s me, Farky. Don’t hang up.”

  I hung up. I put my gloves back on. I don’t know what Tooraloo’s owner had been feeding the cat, but it wasn’t hitting the cat sand, and getting it off the side of the cat box was requiring some serious scrubbing. And scrubbing cat diarrhea was preferable to talking to Farky. He’d suckered me for the last time.