Many Words

Like a vacation, Eirik thought without enthusiasm. He walked across the grounds, wondering if he might have gotten off easier if he’d thrown his lot in with Baltasar. Probably, he thought, but there was no use in speculating about it now.

He came to the library. It was one of the smallest buildings in the compound, its collection consisting mainly of volumes too narrow in scope, too obscure, or too much of both to be considered for inclusion in the Library of the Prefecture for the Preservation of History, and therefore on a very short list. Eirik nodded to the librarian, who didn’t even notice him, and wandered back through the shelves. They brought back fewer memories for him than they would have for most aendemancers; Baltasar was a firm believer in practical experience as a teaching tool, and besides that had very little time for books to begin with. Eirik had learned Elvish in the library, and following that had never really had any reason to come back.

He did remember the study rooms at the back of the building, though, and only one had a closed door. He chanced it, and opened the door on Alvarsson and his aspirants. The master paused mid-lecture and raised an eyebrow.

“Master Alvarsson,” Eirik said, smiling at him with enough venom to drop a dwarf at twenty paces. “I’m not interrupting anything, am I?” From the books open in front of the aspirants and Alvarsson’s glare, it was clear that he was, but he breezed onward anyway. “I need to talk to your students about our upcoming trip, if you don’t mind.”

“Spoke with Master Hrafnssen, did you?” Alvarsson said, looking to the aspirants and then back to Eirik. There was a calculating glint in his eye while he let the silence drag on for a moment or two longer than strictly necessary, and finally said, “Very well. Speak with Master Eskilsson, then, take your midday meal, and meet me here when you’ve finished. Understood?” At last he looked away from Eirik and to his students. They nodded, and with a chilly nod of his own to Eirik, Alvarsson left.

Eirik sat down and gave the aspirants a smile which held nothing besides amiability. On the way to the library he’d asked Book to dredge up their names from the memory of whenever it was that they’d been introduced to him. “Brynjar Alfsson and Nissa Skräskyddsling, correct?” he said, making sure to sound a hint uncertain, as if he had to think about it—Book’s existence could only very tenuously be justified under the Code’s rules about magic of the mind, and Eirik made every effort to keep it a secret.

Brynjar smiled back, but the girl frowned. “Master Alvarsson’s mad at you,” she said.

“We disagree on a few things,” Eirik admitted. “Guild affairs. We’ve never been on the friendliest of terms.” A bit of a lie by omission, but he saw no reason to burden them with the details. “That’s hardly relevant, though. Has anyone told you where we’ll be going and what we’ll be doing there?”

“Only that we’re supposed to go with you,” Brynjar said.

“Were you at the Assembly?”

“Only for the first day. It was a little boring, we thought.”

Eirik chuckled. “It didn’t get any better. In the end, we decided to offer admission to Anja Grevdarsdottir, and I’ve been chosen to deliver the invitation.”

“What about us?”

Eirik wasn’t really free to give them the actual reason. Baltasar had told him that there was a budding rivalry between Alvarsson and himself, and that Eirik and these aspirants were merely the opening moves in what would no doubt go down as one of the greatest examples of the game of Guild politics in history. Telling them that they were nothing but pawns in a larger scheme wouldn’t do anything for their confidence in the Guild, and they weren’t allowed to start losing that for another five or eight years. Eirik had come up with an alternate explanation. “Two reasons,” he said. “First, she’s going to have questions. I don’t spend much time at the Guild anymore, and even if I did you would still be better than me at answering questions about what it’s like to be an aspirant. Second, it’s a fine opportunity for you to practice what you’ve learned. We’ll be working on your skills along the way.”

“We haven’t worked much magic, though,” Nissa said.

“Everyone has to start somewhere,” said Eirik. “We’ll be leaving tomorrow morning, and we’ll likely be away for a little more than two tendays. Be packed and ready to go at sunup tomorrow. I’ll hire a coach for us. Any questions? Alright, then, off to lunch with you. No reason to inconvenience Master Alvarsson more than I have to.”

The aspirants bowed their heads and left, and Eirik sighed. He had a few things to do himself—first, get his own affairs in order, and second, leave a letter at the docks for the Wandering Spirit, expressing to Captain Eriksson his deep regret that he would not be joining the ship’s company for the run back to Mikelsfjord.

The next morning, sunlight poked cautiously into Eirik’s room. Eirik grunted, rolled over, and went back to sleep.

A knocking at his door roused him again, only a few minutes later. He grumbled and got out of bed, wondering who it was that wanted him at this infernal hour of the midmorning, and what it was that couldn’t wait until some more sensible time, like the afternoon.

He yanked the door open, and had to look down to see two aspirants. The first, a boy, was lifting his arm to knock again, while the second, a girl, was trying to stop him. Both were about ten or twelve, and they froze when they saw him. The boy recovered first, elbowing the girl as he bowed his head. She followed suit.

“Good morning,” Eirik said, once it became clear that they weren’t going to ignore the silly rule about saying nothing until recognized by a superior.

“Good morning, Master Eskilsson,” the boy said. “Are you well today?”

“Do you have a good reason for waking me up?” Eirik snapped. “If you do, could you skip the pleasantries and tell me?” The boy’s mouth worked for a second, and he looked to the girl for help. She had none to give. Eirik softened; not everyone had grown up with Baltasar as their point of reference for acceptable standards of politeness. “I’m fine, thank you,” he said, making an effort to sound warmer. “What can I help you with?”

“Master Hrafnssen told us to ask you if we’ll be ready to leave today,” the boy said cautiously, watching Eirik as if worried he would bite. The girl whipsered something to him, and the boy quickly added, “He said we should give you this, too.”

Eirik took the letter from him, unfolded it, and pressed his lips together. A few moments passed before he remembered that the aspirants were still there. “I’m not sure when we’ll be going just yet. Where will you two be later today?”

“We’ll be studying in the library with Master Alvarsson,” the boy said. “Until the evening meal, I think.”

Eirik smiled. He managed to keep his rising ire out of his voice. “Well, if I haven’t found you by then it’ll have to be tomorrow or the day after. Is that all?”

“Yes.”

“Then I’ll talk to you later,” he said. In unison, they dipped their heads and scurried off. Eirik retreated to his room and glowered at the letter as he read it in full.

Ten minutes later he was stalking across the grounds toward the canteen. In his years as an aspirant, he had developed a strategy for getting into shouting matches with Baltasar. It had two elements: take him by surprise, and get a good running start. Even when he managed both parts, it wasn’t anything approaching a guaranteed success.

Still, he was going to try. He marched into the canteen, spotted Baltasar alone at his usual table, and was there in a matter of moments. He slammed the letter down in front of Baltasar and shouted, “What is this?”

If he hadn’t been watching very closely, Eirik would have missed the instant of surprise that showed on Baltasar’s face. Calm chased it away, and the old man picked up the letter and read. Eirik glanced to the side, and as he expected the rest of the mages in the canteen had barely noticed. Most of them wore the perpetually hunted look that stemmed from long association with spirits; their eyes darted around, only momentarily settling on things just out of normal sight.

“It’s a letter,” Baltasar said. “A fine example of one, informative and to the point.”

“You know that’s not what I meant,” Eirik shouted, punctuating with a fist to the tabletop. “You’re sending me west doing what amounts to a courier’s job, and forcing me to take—”

“It was Alvarsson’s idea, you imbecile, and he wanted an official reprimand lodged with the Council. I talked him down to this,” Baltasar said. He spoke with the sort of exaggerated patience normally used with small children or the insane. “You’re wrong about the girl, and an idiot for thinking I’d let a difference in opinion stop me from using your vote the way you would, but I can’t stop you from being wrong and stupid.”

“What does he want the reprimand for? I did everything right,” Eirik said. He wasn’t getting any less angry, but he felt the target of his ire shifting.

“You didn’t recruit the girl right then and there,” Baltasar said. “If I thought she was a prospect and not a menace I’d agree with him. If you’d tried to talk to her, you would have seen she had potential.”

Eirik sighed and shook his head. Once again, he’d leaped to conclusions that were entirely wrong, and was worse off for it. “Well, what now?” he said.

Baltasar smiled. “Think of it as a vacation.”