Kutch Pirathon sat by a swollen brook, idly lobbing pebbles into the rushing water. He was growing restive. For the hundredth time he glanced at the tumbledown stone cottage further up the barren hill. Its ill-fitting door remained resolutely closed.
He sighed and continued bombarding the stream. There was little else to do. The hillside had nothing to offer but dripping scrub, a few withered trees and a lot of rocks. His only company was a brace of circling crows.
In truth, he could have employed himself gainfully. He was obliged to, in fact. More than obliged; bound by an oath. He should be undertaking the mental exercises necessary to advance in the Craft. His time was supposed to be spent honing his will, recognising the vital currents and channelling them. But they were techniques taught to him by his master and he couldn’t focus properly for thinking about the old man. There was no shaking off the feeling that he had let Domex down, that he might still be here if it hadn’t been for his timidity. Neglect of duty added to his guilt. Yet, for the moment, his heart wasn’t in it.
His melancholy would have deepened had the door of the cottage not creaked open. He looked up to see Caldason emerging. Flinging the last of the stones at the stream, Kutch stood and dusted off his breeches. He watched as the Qalochian addressed a few last words to the elderly hermit he’d consulted. Then he waited as he made his way down the crude path to him.
During their short acquaintance, Kutch had found that Caldason wasn’t one to volunteer information. Nor was he easy to read. Now was no exception.
‘What happened?’ Kutch asked.
‘Nothing.’
‘Oh.’
‘But you weren’t to know he couldn’t help. I’m grateful for you bringing me here.’
They began their descent.
Kutch still didn’t know what Caldason’s problem was, beyond the so-called fits. He tried fishing. ‘Did he, er, say anything at all about your… condition?’
‘He didn’t
say
anything. He wrote his questions on a slate.’
‘Ah, yes. Of course.’
‘Is he naturally dumb?’
‘No. When he was a boy, his father cut his tongue out. To stop him talking about the mysteries of the Craft. It was the kind of thing they used to do in those days.’
‘The world’s just full of delights,’ Caldason remarked cynically.
‘His father would have had it done too, by
his
father. The knowledge was passed down, generation to generation, and that was the price. It was considered normal in some branches of the Craft until not that long ago.’
‘I thought magicians were constrained by secrecy anyway.’
‘True. Though I’m not sure how reliable some of the licensed ones are.’ Kutch jabbed a thumb at the hovel. ‘But he can be trusted.’
‘So why did they go in for mutilation?’
‘It was extra insurance. Some of the older practitioners think it was a good thing and should be brought back. Maybe they’ve got a point. It seemed to work.’
‘You wouldn’t have minded your master doing it to you then?’
‘Well…’
They continued in silence.
After a few minutes, Kutch ventured, ‘You don’t seem disappointed. About him not being able to help, I mean.’
‘I’ve learnt not to be.’
‘There are other seers I can recommend.’
‘Maybe provincial sorcerers aren’t up to what I need.’
‘A lot of them are as good as any you’ll find,’ Kutch replied indignantly. ‘They just prefer the solitude of the countryside. They’re less likely to get harassed by the authorities too.’
‘Like Domex? All right, low blow. Sorry. But the fact is there’s more money and status in the cities, and that tends to attract the best talent. Perhaps that’s where I’ll find the right magician. If there are any left I haven’t already tried.’
‘Come on, Reeth, there must be
thousands
of them.’
‘I’ve been searching longer than you know.’
Kutch didn’t expect any expansion on that and was proved right. Silence descended again. They reached the foot of the hill and struck out for the house. A gentle wind ruffled the trees.
The quiet was broken only by distant birdsong.
At length, Caldason said, ‘So, how far advanced in magic are you?’
After yesterday’s display with the homunculi, Kutch reckoned his companion already knew the answer to that. It was Caldason’s way of changing the subject, or being polite. But he played along with it. ‘Fourth level, going on fifth.’
‘Sounds impressive. Out of how many?’
‘Sixty-two.’
‘Right.’
‘Mind you,’ Kutch quickly added, ‘anything above twenty-three’s considered pretty rarefied.’
‘I think I must need the highest possible level.’
Caldason’s expression was inscrutable. It was difficult to tell if he was serious or making an uncommon attempt at humour.
‘I may have a way to go in my practical studies,’ Kutch admitted, ‘but I do understand something about occult philosophy. Whatever ails you should have a magical remedy. It’s just a case of finding it.’
‘I’m not so sure of that.’
‘Let me tell you about one of the Craft’s basic principles.’
‘Careful, you don’t want to lose your tongue.’
‘It’s not really giving anything away. We’re taught that magic is energy, and energy can’t be destroyed. It can only be converted into something else.’
‘That much I’ve heard.’
‘Then you’ll know that spells vary in quality and durability.’
‘Of course. That’s what determines their price.’
‘I’m not talking about their coin value. I’m referring to their strength. For example, there’s no reason why a building couldn’t be a glamour, and last forever. But creating and maintaining it would be incredibly expensive.’ He pointed to a boulder at the side of the track. ‘That rock could be a glamour. It would only take a simple spell. Except nobody would bother. What would be the point?’
‘What are you getting at?’
‘I’m guessing that what’s wrong with you is magical in origin.’ Caldason gave no hint that Kutch was right. The youth carried on. ‘If you are under some kind of enchantment, it should be possible to convert its energy from malignant positive to benign negative. In the same way that the rock could become non-rock or the building cease to be and rejoin the energy pool. At least, that’s the theory.’
Caldason looked thoughtful. ‘You put it better than most other magicians I’ve spoken to, Kutch. But why haven’t any of them been able to do it?’
Kutch felt a glow at the compliment. He also took the Qalochian’s words as tacit confirmation that his problem
was
magical. ‘I don’t know. Maybe the spell, if it
is
a spell we’re talking about, is especially powerful. Or the result of some really esoteric branch of the Craft. There are many different disciplines, you know.’
‘Something rare enough to be unknown to most sorcerers, you mean?’
‘It might be. Or it could be a question of balance.’
‘Balance?’
‘Another cardinal law of magic. The Craft has rules just like the mundane world, as we call it. For instance, drop a stone and it falls to the ground. It’s obeying a rule. A glamour looking like a stone might fall upwards, or fly, or mutate into something else. But it would still be following a rule; one dictated by the type of spell governing it.’
‘I don’t see where balance comes in.’
‘My master would have said that a real stone falls because of the balance between our expectation and experience. We expect the stone to fall. Stones have always fallen. So the stone falls. In magic the balance is between reality and unreality. There has to be symmetry for the spell to work. The same way the military and magical balance between Rintarah and Gath Tampoor stops one empire overcoming the other.’
‘I think I almost understand that,’ Caldason said. ‘But how does it apply to me?’
‘Maybe you’re caught too tightly between the real and the unreal. As if you were in a clamp.’
‘Like Bhealfa.’
Kutch smiled. ‘Yes. Or it could be that the balance is out of kilter, blocking rescue.’
‘Neither seems a comforting thought.’ If Caldason resented learning from someone so much younger, he had the grace not to show it. ‘Ironic that it should take a humble fourth level…’