The Galactic Mage Page 16

  The air—or whatever served for air on Luria—was not meant for men, just as the air that Altin used was not meant for fish. Each creature could only breathe on its respective layer. Up or down, a device was needed if you wanted to survive outside your own plane—a device like the fish bowl was. You had to bring your own layer with you; that was the simple trick. Altin knew of men who dug for clams and sponges using inverted tubs to bring air beneath the surface of the sea, and clearly Lena’s fish were doing fine having, in a manner of speaking, brought their water up into the air. So that was all that Altin had to do. However, he was not quite sure if his bowl needed to be inverted or upright. Did Luria require the fishbowl or the sponge-divers’ technique? Of that he had no clue.

  He cast a seeing spell back up to the moon and flitted his vision about, but nothing helped him figure it out. At length he decided to cover both bets and just seal himself completely in. It was the safest course. All he needed now was the right spell to pull it off.

  He ran down to his bed chamber and got the book from which he learned the two elemental warding spells. He recalled reading something about an igloo spell that might be made to work. He found the passage and read through it eagerly, but it did not contain the details of the spell, only the magician’s name: Polar Piton. Altin cursed. He wanted to get started on learning the spell now, not just the act of finding it. He wasn’t in the mood to dig through another mountain of books.

  He took a few deep breaths, realizing his thoughts were moving in a sloppy direction, towards haste and recklessness, and he forced himself back into a disciplined state of mind. The whole incident with Lena had unhinged him. Incidents like that were why he hated going to town. The more contact he had with the outside world, the more complicated things became, throwing his focus and equilibrium out of whack. He closed his eyes and calmed himself. Agitation was not a good base for doing research. Once he had his impatience in check, he headed downstairs, intent on finding reference to Polar Piton in Tytamon’s massive library as he knew there was no reference to the explorer in his own. He’d read every one and that name did not ring familiar to him at all.

  The best way to find a book in Tytamon’s library was to ask the ancient mage what he had on a given subject and then ask where it was. Tytamon knew every book he had, and nearly every page of every one as well, for, like Altin in his private library, Tytamon had read each at least once, and, more often, several times. But it was just Altin’s luck that Tytamon was gone from Calico Castle at the time, forcing Altin to find what he needed on his own. Which meant it was going to take a lot of time.

  Tytamon’s vast collection of books was housed on seven floors of his enormous tower, each chamber circular and ringed with shelves stuffed with books, many of which dated back to the earliest days of the Magical Revolution, and some even older than that. Tytamon had been diligent in his early years, cataloguing all his books as he collected them, still enthusiastic in his relative youth and with the joy of creating such a massive resource as this would eventually become. And because of this youthful exuberance and discipline, the top three stories of his library each had several ledgers that listed books by title, general content description and approximate location in the room, which was at least something given that each chamber of Tytamon’s huge tower was fifty paces across. The old man could pack a lot of volumes into a space like that, particularly when each room was filled with shelves placed so closely together there was barely room for Altin to walk between them without his shoulders brushing against the books.

  Hoping for some luck, Altin went to these upper floors first. He spent a few hours going through the catalogues seeking something that suggested the possibility of finding some obscure reference that might lead him eventually to Polar Piton’s work. But he found nothing. There was one reference to “Chills” in a work on the lowest of the three catalogued floors, but it had nothing that Altin could use. So he was forced to the lower four floors and perusing book by book. He tried sending Tytamon a telepathic request, but the old man’s mind wasn’t open to outside thoughts; he was either blocking or in discussions with someone else. Altin really wished the ancient mage would come home.

  He spent the better part of twelve hours working through the shelves before hunger and fatigue got the best of him. He wasn’t even a quarter way through the room. One room. He sighed and took himself down to the kitchen to get something to eat. Pernie was there, sitting by the fire.

  “Hullo, Master Altin, sir,” she greeted him, smiling wide. “I seen yer dragon again today, sir.”

  “Yes, he was here,” Altin said, lifting the lid on a large stone trough that was enchanted with a cold spell for keeping food fresh. He spotted a portion of mutton left over from a few nights back and lifted it out. He realized Pernie was watching him and reminded himself that he was going to try to be nicer to the girl. “He was having his lunch,” he added to that end.

  Encouraged by this rare attention, Kettle’s insistence that Pernie leave the mages alone dissipated like fog before a breeze, and she began to chatter on in earnest. “He’s so big. I’m going to have one too one day you’ll see, an’ then when I’m a powerful wizard like you an’ Master Tytamon, I’m going to fly into the mountains and breathe fire on all the orcs an’ then there won’t be no more an’ no one will have to be afraid. I will, don’t ya think, Master Altin? Someday, I mean. An’ I’ll kill them all too. Every last one.”

  “That’s rather extreme, isn’t it? Killing them all?” He set the mutton leg on a wooden tray and sliced off a large chunk. “Humans learned a long time ago not to kill every last one of anything. It’s bad, Pernie. Even if what you want to kill seems evil at the time.”

  “Nipper says orcs is what killed my mom an’ dad. He says orcs is nastiest of anything. Nipper says the world is better off if they was all dead. That’s what he said an’ he knows because he fought in the Orc Wars an’ has a big scar on his chest. Did he ever show ya his scar because it runs all the way across his whole chest an’ belly an’ he could of died from orcs?” She was growing excited, and Altin could sense a headache coming on.

  He returned the remainder of the mutton to the coldstone box and ate the portion he had cut as Pernie prattled on about the orcs in the hills and about magic and dragons and pretty much everything else that could possibly be discussed in the time it took to eat three slices of mutton and an apple from the basket near the window. When he was done, he smiled at her and tried to find a polite way to leave. Shouldn’t Kettle be watching her?

  “Well, I have to go back to work,” he said at last. “You have a nice night, Pernie.”

  “You’re suppose to have some water with yer food,” Pernie said as he tried to leave. “Eight glasses a day for a man yer size. Kettle told me so an’ she wouldn’t never lie about that. I’m supposed to have six, but I already had mine.”

  Altin looked at her, bewildered, unsure if even hurricanes had so much wind. And what was he supposed to say to that? He wasn’t thirsty. He knew, intellectually, that indulging the child was best, but that would just encourage her for the next time that they met. His purpose in being nice to her was not to endure more of her endless noise.

  “I’m not really thirsty. I need to get back to work. So, good night.”

  “Ok, Master Altin, sir. Have a good night, sir. An’ I won’t say that ya didn’t drink yer water like ya should neither ‘cause Kettle gets to scolding if ya miss yer water or won’t eat yer greens. So I won’t say nothing, I promise.” She smiled at him, a genuine full-body smile that was pure as a drop of dew.

  He looked down at her and started to smile back. She was cute, he could admit that. He caught himself, however, and kept himself from being sucked in. He always got so uncomfortable around her. He shook it off. All of it. Besides, he had work to do. “Goodnight, Pernie.” And with that he left. Several hours passed before he finally went to bed.

  He woke early the next morning, just at the break of day, and went immediately back up to
Tytamon’s library and recommenced where he’d left off. A quick check had proved that Tytamon had not yet returned, and so Altin spent the rest of the day going through each book in turn, sliding them out, opening them, scanning sections for any hint of elemental or shielding spells, seeking the paired appearance of “P”s that would mark mention of Polar Piton’s name. Anything at all. But he got nothing.

  This really was a horrific way to keep a library, he reminded himself as he went along, much as he did on every occasion that found him on the lower four floors of Tytamon’s library over the last eleven years. If Tytamon ever put him in charge of these, the first thing he would do would be to straighten them all out. The city libraries had the new catalogue systems with the enchanted divining mirrors installed. Walk up to the mirror, put your hands on the edge and look into the glass—the next thing you know, the shelf you need is reflected in the image at your back. It wasn’t even that complicated of a spell to do if one was a diviner of even marginal skill. Altin was certain Tytamon could do it if he’d just be willing to spend the time. If it was left to Altin, he’d have to pay to have it done. Which, given the number of books, would cost a fortune and take an excruciatingly long time to carry off. He understood why Tytamon procrastinated though; each book had to be read into the spell, making the process a painfully laborious thing to do. Divining was always like that, and this was just another example of why Altin told himself he couldn’t be bothered to take it up. Divination simply took too much time.

  He stopped briefly for lunch—a hot meal at Kettle’s insistence as she declared that he was looking “pinched and thin.” She’d wandered into Tytamon’s library looking for him, having not seen him in a couple of days, and would not be placated until Altin had something warm to eat. Apparently Pernie had ratted him out concerning the nature of yesterday’s meal. After eating, he returned and spent several more hours trying desperately to find any reference to Polar Piton and his accursed protection spells. But still he couldn’t find a thing, not even a mention of the elusive wizard’s name.

  Vexingly, Tytamon’s trip was a long one, and the ancient wizard was four more days in returning by the time Altin finally saw him and could ask him for some help. He’d only gotten through a floor and a half of the un-catalogued books by the time Tytamon came home.

  “Good afternoon, my boy,” the ancient mage said cheerfully upon seeing Altin. His parchment skin looked tanned as if he’d been to some distant beach and there was distinct energy in his step. “What are we looking for?”

  Altin glanced up at him and had to suppress his annoyance at the old man’s healthy, pleasant tone. The chipper attitude seemed to mock Altin’s miserable last few days. “Polar Piton,” Altin said. “Anything on him at all. I haven’t found a thing. I have more references to him in my small library than you do in this whole damn collection.” He was being a bit melodramatic, he knew, but he did still have two-and-a-half floors to go, both of which were more than thrice the size of his collection on their own, and he felt it important to let his frustration through.

  “Hmm. Polar Piton, you say.” Tytamon stroked his moustache where it ran round his mouth and blended with his beard. He was too well rested to be bothered by his apprentice’s surly tone. “Not familiar with the name. What’s he famous for?”

  “Nothing, really, just some arctic region stuff. Polar exploration mostly, I think. Pretty minor, but useful industrially.”

  “Ah. Well, perhaps that’s why I haven’t heard of him. Always a fire man myself. Never had the thing for the cold spells like you do.”

  “I like fire.”

  “I know. Not my point though. Anyway, I can save you looking any more. I don’t think I have it. In fact I am certain that I don’t.”

  “Damn. Then I’ll have to go to Crown.”

  “If it matters, then indeed you will.” He smiled happily, as if a great problem had been solved, annoying Altin to no end. “Say hello to Karroll if you run into her; I haven’t seen her in an age.”

  “Let’s hope I don’t,” Altin said, grimacing and hating how Tytamon spoke so familiarly of the Queen. And as if Altin was just going to trot up to the Queen’s entourage and say, “Hey there, Tytamon says, ‘hello,’” if he saw her coming down the street.

  “Why not? She’s a great old gal. How can you possibly not like the Queen?”

  “Liking her has nothing to do with it. She makes me uncomfortable.”

  “Well she shouldn’t. She’s very easy to talk to you know. A magician of your stature needs to learn to be at home with the royals anyway. You’ll be called before them often enough as time goes by. You will see.”

  “You might be right, but that doesn’t mean I have to go out of my way to be with them right now.”

  Tytamon just laughed. “Fair enough, my boy. So when will you leave?”

  “I’ll leave now.”

  “Now? You’re not going to teleport are you?”

  “Not all the way.” He turned his eyes towards the book that was in his hands.

  “One day you’re going to get caught and the teleporters are going to have you whipped. Or you’re going to land inside a pig and that will be the end of it for you.”

  “I’ll be fine. I do it in the air anyway. In flight, on Taot’s back.”

  “You could land inside a bird.”

  “The bird would land inside us. But it won’t. I mean, what are the odds? And I always look before I leap.”

  Tytamon started to say something, a word that began with a sibilant sound, but cut it off. “You’ll do what you want, regardless of what I say. I hope you find your book.”

  “Me too.”

  With that the elderly magician turned and headed for the stairs. He looked tired suddenly, as if the rest he’d gotten from his trip had just been washed away.

  “I am careful,” Altin called to his back.

  “Transportation Services has ‘clean rooms’ for a reason, Altin,” the old magician said, standing in the door. “The entire system, of which you became a part when you joined the Teleporters Guild, was devised for a reason. The systems in place today were devised over centuries of slow, painful and meticulously wrought understanding. Much of it bought at horrible cost. TG’s policy didn’t just happen by mistake.”

  Altin moaned, annoyed. “I know. You think I didn’t pay attention when I was there? I just don’t feel like standing in line. And I don’t want to pay for something that I can do myself, and with far less effort.”

  “It’s not your money anyway.”

  Altin looked away, cheeks coloring, but then turned back. “You brought me here. I didn’t ask to come.”

  “No, they brought you here.”

  “Whatever. You could have turned them down.”

  Tytamon recognized a pointlessly combative stance when he saw one; he’d seen enough of them in nearly eight hundred years to know. He smiled, a wan, resigned thing, and turned his back to go. “You’ll do what you want, Altin. Good night.”

  Altin watched him until his feet, climbing up the slowly winding stairs, disappeared behind the lintel of the door. He blinked into the emptiness, wondering what had just gone wrong. He couldn’t help thinking that he’d just done it again. Whatever “it” was. One thing was sure; he was getting tired of people making him feel like this. Really tired. With a grunt, he turned and stormed out.

  Chapter 17

  Altin appeared two leagues outside of Crown, Taot never having lost a wing-beat and already quite used to teleporting with Altin across the skies. Altin always prepared him for the jump, and the dragon seemed little phased by it anymore. They were very high up, and from this altitude the massive city was little more than a great blur of grays and browns packed into a box and surrounded by a patchwork of assorted fields whose various crops gave the whole scene the look of a giant earth-toned quilt.

  Crown City sat at the junction of the bloated Sansun river and its largest tributary, the Decadent Limb, roughly a hundred leagues from Calico Castle. Spre
ading for fifty measures in every direction around the city were acres and acres of farmland, worked by a quarter-of-a-million serfs and vassals, and overseen by at least a half-thousand lords and barons, many of whom held titles rooted in dubiously royal blood. Inside the city lay the most modern and disparate assemblage of architecture as had ever been gathered in all the history of Prosperion. Where Leekant boasted unity or at least an overall architectural theme across its four quarters, Crown had nothing resembling a unifying style at all. In fact, the only aesthetic trend in Crown was that there was no trend at all. Wood buildings stood next to marble, single-story next to nine. Thatched roofs, tile roofs, brass and beaten tin. It was as if the city’s founders just threw open the gates and welcomed in anyone who had the ability or willingness to construct. That’s not quite how it happened, but it had the same net effect. And yet, despite all this disparity, or perhaps because of it, the city was a uniquely sumptuous whole.

  And located at the heart of the city lay the Royal Palace, an opulent undertaking that had required a hundred and sixty years, a thousand magicians and forty-four thousand men to build. Its highest spires reached nearly a half-measure into the sky, and it spanned an area encompassing a full square league. It was, in short, enormous. And there was not one modern amenity that it lacked. No room ever got above or below sixty-eight degrees. Rain never blew through its ever-open windows, and a lightning strike could not catch any of it on fire. In the massive grounds that surrounded it, its trees were the largest anywhere in the land, and it boasted an oak tree that stood over one hundred and eighty paces high and took four full minutes to walk around at the base. In addition, the Royal Gardens swarmed with birds from every corner of the world, including a few species brought from the shores of dangerous Duador and none of which could get past the bird-free wards that were enchanted to keep them on the grounds.