Dark apprentice, p.6
Dark Apprentice, page 6
“I can do that.”
“And for god’s sake, stop with the idle chatter. Get to the point. She doesn’t care much for formality.”
“Are you suggesting I just walk up to her and ask about, I don’t know, teleportation or something, without so much as a greeting?”
“Yes.”
“That sounds rude.”
“Does she seem particularly polite to you?”
“No, but—”
“Try it. Look, you came to me, remember?” The barkeep clapped a hand on Nikolai’s shoulder and turned to go inside. “Be direct!” he called out as the door swung closed.
Nikolai walked through the alley, rats scurrying from the human intrusion. Here and there, windowsills sported saucers of milk, bread, sometimes wine. More elaborate displays were decorated with flowers or vines. The practice had baffled Nikolai when he’d first arrived. Petrov explained they were offerings for the fae. More like a feast for vermin and a waste of good food. Ridiculous how Magi could be as superstitious as the Mundane.
The barkeep suggested he ask Medea about magic, but what kind? It had to be something that would differentiate him from all previous applicants.
A rat carrying a chunk of bread half the size of its body bolted across Nikolai’s shoe. He kicked at it and managed to overset a nearby saucer, which clattered against the cobblestones. A stout woman poked her head out the window to chastise him for bringing bad luck. Didn’t he know not to mess with fairies? He apologized and handed her the bowl, which she yanked out of his grasp with a muttering of Gaelic.
Ridiculous. Each saucer he passed flagged the occupants as weak and incompetent. What did Magi have to fear from fae, if they even existed? He doubted Medea would stoop to making such an offering.
There was a thought. He could ask Medea about the fae, couching it as a foreigner’s interest in local customs. Given her age, she was bound to know something of how the practice had evolved over time, and it would give her an opportunity to showcase her unique knowledge. Best of all, it was unlikely a previous hopeful had broached the topic.
The following day, he pushed aside his reservations about appearing rude, slid into the seat across from Medea without so much as a greeting, and asked her what she knew of the fae. At his question, her cold indifference morphed into surprise and then suspicion.
“And this is of interest to you, why?”
“Because I accidentally spilled one of their offerings last night and want to know how much trouble I’m in.” His smile made it a jest. “I’m not from here. In Russia we have stories of Leshy and Vodyanoy, but I’ve never taken them seriously. They sound too much like tales spread by Mundanes who don’t understand magic. But in Haven, Magi speak of the fae as if they were real. I just want to separate fact from fiction. I figured if anyone knew it would be you, given how long you’ve lived and how much you’ve seen.”
The explanation seemed to mollify her, and the flattery slipped by unremarked. The barkeep hadn’t been kidding. She launched into a lecture so overly detailed he had difficulty pretending to listen. There were no fae. It was just the regional name for spirits, a form of sentient magic that influenced religion and culture across the globe. On and on she went, from animism, to ancestor worship, to polytheism and monotheism. Her diction, already exceedingly formal, became even more so. She began to gesticulate, her voice rising with her enthusiasm until it was almost a shout. Had it not been for the sound barrier, the whole inn would have been bombarded with her inane minutiae.
She was in full stride on Eastern belief systems with no sign of slowing when he dared check his watch and found he’d been sitting for an hour and a half. It took him fifteen more minutes to politely interject and excuse himself. Her mouth opened and closed several times, as if she could barely contain herself from spouting more information. At least this time she seemed sorry to see him go.
He spared a glance at the barkeep on his way out. The man stifled a laugh.
That night, Nikolai stayed up late contemplating his next move. There was a plethora of questions he wanted to ask Medea. How did she keep herself young? How did she kill the Collective delegation? Where did she get the gold to buy the inn? How did she cast spells without a wand?
All too obvious. Others had come before him, each asking the same questions.
The safest play was to repeat what he’d done today—ask her some general magical question. But greatness didn’t come from playing it safe. He had to go beyond distinguishing himself. In every encounter she’d had the upper hand. He needed to subvert her expectations and knock her off balance. On Friday he strolled into the Hanged Man, question at the ready.
“You’re immortal . . .” he began. Her body tensed. Good. She thought she knew where he was going with this. “Is there any special wisdom you can impart, something that would normally take several lifetimes to learn?”
Her eyes widened and she leaned back in her chair. She looked to the side for a moment. Had he managed to stump her?
When at last she spoke, her self-assured tone was absent. “I don’t know. Everyone learns differently. What might be as natural as breathing to me may take another ages to master. I honestly cannot say if I’m more gifted with magic, or if I’m simply better by nature of my longevity.”
“But what of nonmagical wisdom?” This was a gamble. Magic was her strength, and she’d shown disdain for personal questions. The question was peripherally personal, but more than that, it demonstrated his willingness to learn more than magic.
“It’s the same problem, isn’t it? We all have different lessons to learn.” Her mouth curved in a wry smile. “After all these centuries, I still have trouble understanding people.”
From what he’d seen that didn’t seem to be the case, but he did not contradict her. “How about me then? What’s a lesson you think I could learn?”
“Oh, there are many lessons I think you could learn—patience for one.” Despite the return of snark, her next words were thoughtful. “There is something, though you probably aren’t ready to hear it. Reputation is everything, especially when you’re immortal. Are you prone to exaggeration? Quick to anger? Forever running late? Do you borrow items and never return them? Such things follow you.”
She paused, brow creasing as she studied the table. “The pursuit of wealth, status, appearance—these things do not matter as much as who you are. If hundreds of years ago I gained a reputation as a liar, it would still be following me, even if I’d done nothing but speak truth since. It’s more than simple honesty. Integrity matters.” Her eyes locked on to his momentarily. “Decide what your principles are and hold to them, no matter what.”
Was she unaware of her own reputation as a murderer, or had she intentionally cultivated that persona? It had to have some downsides. Did she wait until she was too powerful to be opposed before letting loose with no regard to consequences? He kept these questions to himself but continued on to general magical topics, making philosophical inquiries whenever he could.
Lunch ran nearly two hours, for he aimed to depart on a positive note. Petrov would be cross, but he’d be leaving the man’s service soon enough. Progress with Medea was more important.
On Saturday he hit a snag. Petrov, now feeling better, required him to stay and mind the shop all day while he ran errands. How would Medea interpret his absence? Would she think him inconsiderate? Cowardly for giving up? Worst was the possibility she might not care at all. There was no way to notify her, and it was full dark when Petrov returned to help close the shop. Nikolai left in a sour mood.
He made his way to the Hanged Man on the off-chance Medea was in the common room for dinner. The normally sleepy village was alive with the sound of young men and women out for a good time. Haven, like most Magi towns, had managed to insulate itself somewhat from the country it occupied. While the rest of Ireland faced economic crisis and mass emigration, and Catholicism kept the majority of Irish women subdued, Haven plodded along much as it always had. Citizens were in reasonably good spirits and never lacked for food, and women were treated as equals.
Unfortunately, in recent years this had gained Haven somewhat of a reputation as a place to be. Every Saturday there was an influx of young people from neighboring towns with little else to do but drink their sorrows away and dream of better lives beyond their country’s borders. Their coin was good, and locals tolerated them as long as they behaved themselves and did not overstay.
Nikolai took a shortcut down the alley between shops. Drunken laughter erupted from the Spotted Sow—not unusual at this hour, except that it came from behind the pub rather than in front of it. He rounded the building and saw the source. Three young men had cornered Kate, the barkeeper’s younger daughter, while she emptied the trash. Two stood in the alley while the third, a huge bulk of a man, blocked the pub door. They loomed over her tiny frame, too close and too familiar. One of them toyed with her red curls as the others probed her with questions.
When did she get off work? Why wouldn’t she join them for a drink? They were only looking for a good time; didn’t she want to have a good time? Kate deflected with noncommittal answers. She held the trash can in front of her like a shield, her back pressed against the building as if hoping to be absorbed by it.
Fucking amateurs.
Nikolai kept his current trajectory down the alley, straight toward the men. As he passed, he caught his shoulder against that of the nearest man.
“Watch it!” the man snarled.
“My apologies—the stench was so bad I mistook you for one of the trash cans. Although now that I see your face, it’s obvious I’ve gravely insulted trash cans everywhere.”
The man blinked without comprehension. Nikolai sighed internally and forced himself to make a crude joke about the man’s mother. That, at least, was guaranteed to bring blows. Sure enough, the man stepped forward to take a swing.
Nikolai danced back to the wall, peppering his assailant’s face with jabs, and dodged the next punch. The man’s fist crunched satisfyingly as it hit the bricks. The other two were closing in fast, girl forgotten. They did not fight as a unit, but as separate, enraged animals more likely to get in each other’s way than to land a proper blow.
The smaller man reached Nikolai first and pummeled him in the chest. A normal man might shrink back from such an onslaught. Nikolai leaned into it, closing the gap and bringing up his knee into the man’s groin. The man staggered and fell over, whimpering.
Big man was here. It was he who’d been blocking Kate’s escape. Now he loomed over Nikolai, biceps bulging against his sleeves. Something collided with Nikolai and sent him sprawling to the ground.
The first man straddled him, striking at his face with one fist, his broken hand cradled against his chest. Stupid. He should have used his injured arm to block.
A punch to the throat and Nikolai was able to roll the man off, directly into the path of his friend. The giant stumbled, inadvertently kicking his own friend in the back of the head and knocking him out cold, but caught himself against the wall. He roared at Nikolai and charged.
Nikolai hastily retreated farther down the alley, dodging boxes and other refuse as he unlocked doors with the wand concealed up his sleeve. Closer. Closer. Come on, get into position. There!
BAM!
The door flung open, slamming the man in the face. He staggered back, clutching his nose, then tripped over a pile of boxes and fell with a crash.
“Collido.” The pummel spell hit the man in the back of his head, knocking him out cold.
Nikolai stood grinning, adrenaline coursing through his veins. Dueling was fun, but it didn’t compare to the rush of a brawl. It was exactly what he needed after a shitty day. Too bad the feeling wouldn’t last.
He stooped to grab his hat. It was sodden with something; he didn’t like to imagine what. The commotion had attracted the attention of the locals. Light spilled from several open doors along the alley leading back to the Spotted Sow.
One of them perfectly illuminated Medea’s disapproving face.
5
THE SPOTTED SOW
Medea glared at the unconscious swine. The boy had bloodied them, but not enough. She scanned their bodies. Aside from a few minor injuries and a concussion, they were in perfect health. A nicked blood vessel here, deprivation of oxygen there, severing of the spinal cord, perforation of the intestines, so many ways to kill them . . .
The boy was suddenly at her side. “I know this looks bad, but—”
“Is that all you’re going to do?”
“I . . . what?”
“Is that all you’re going to do?” She gestured to the bodies. “Surely they deserve more.” Some of her more zealous apprentices would have decorated the walls with their guts by now.
“Uh, there’s not much more I can do. They’re not locals. If I hurt them too badly or they go missing, Haven gets investigated by outsiders.”
That sounded . . . remarkably rational coming from him. But still, there were ways around the law. Hadn’t Petrov taught him anything? Pain was just as good, especially when interspersed with brief periods of relief.
“You could always cast a slow curse,” she said, “something that wouldn’t take effect until they were home.” She had a nice spell that compressed the kidneys in just the right way.
“True.” He leaned in and smiled. “Know anyone who could teach me such a thing?”
She rolled her eyes and turned aside. “Walk with me.”
At the mouth of the alley, she reached back with her magic. Haven might let such transgressions slip, but she did not. She gave no outward sign of spellcasting as she placed the tracking wards. The last thing the boy needed was more incentive to seek an apprenticeship.
She turned onto the street, trading the packed earth of the alley for cobblestones. The smooth surfaces felt pleasant, if a tad damp. Normally she stepped from stone to stone, avoiding the space between them when she could. With the boy at her side, she endeavored to walk at a more consistent pace. His stride was longer, and he’d have a hard enough time keeping himself from walking ahead without her ambling.
“Did you lose your shoes?”
“I try not to wear shoes unless absolutely necessary,” she said. The risk of attack was too high in a place like Haven. Besides, who needed shoes when you had shields? An imperceptible barrier protected her soles from filth but still allowed sensory information through. Shield was her favorite of the basic spells. So versatile and functional!
“What brought you back there? Were you following me?” The boy had a stupid grin on his face.
Did he really think she would follow him? Or was it a jest? When in doubt, assume the person was asking an honest question.
“No, it was the noise of those brutes. I was with a client and heard them through the window.” The noise had been a welcome distraction. Potential clients never liked it when you turned them down. No matter how many times she explained she wouldn’t remove hexes placed by another, people got mad.
“What client? What were you doing for them?”
“Business with my clients is confidential. Did you know the red-haired girl?” Medea had arrived in time to see the girl bolt through the back door while the boy toyed with her attackers.
“Not well, but yes. Haven isn’t exactly big.”
Odd, he didn’t seem like the chivalrous type. “Why did you rescue her?”
He paused a little too long. Of course. She should have known. All men were the same.
“I don’t know. I was in a bad mood and they irritated me.” His tone lacked conviction.
“I see. So it wasn’t so she would feel compelled to fuck you later?” Her tone was harsh, her choice of words deliberate. The boy seemed taken aback, and she braced herself for a flurry of excuses.
His reply was matter-of-fact. “No. Kate’s a little young for me.”
A frown creased his brow, and they walked in silence for a time. Interesting. Maybe he didn’t even know the reason he’d saved the girl, acting on impulse with no real thought as to why. She took the opportunity to scan his body.
Healthy male, forebrain still developing, but that was normal for his age. The forebrain was responsible for long-term planning and restraint, and it continued to grow until the midtwenties. It was the reason she’d waited until then before halting her own aging process, though at the time she didn’t know what the structure did, only that she should probably allow it to finish growing.
More concerning was his undersized amygdala. He could have been born that way, or it might have been the result of early trauma. It explained some of the behavior she’d seen—getting in her face about the dagger for one. The amygdala processed emotions. Aside from anger, everything he felt—if he felt anything at all—would be muted, fear especially. Too much fear was limiting, but not enough was just as bad, particularly when coupled with an immature forebrain. There was literally nothing holding him back.
As if to emphasize her train of thought, out of nowhere he shot her a knowing smile and said, “I prefer more mature lovers.”
Heaven help her. She shook her head and walked faster. Thankfully, he seemed to realize his error, for he slipped back into pensive silence, the best kind. They were almost to the Hanged Man when he spoke again.
“I saw three assholes pawing after pizda they didn’t deserve because they were too lazy to put any effort into making themselves genuinely desirable. Women choose mates based on qualities that they want to pass on to their offspring—strength, fitness, cunning, the ability to amass resources. It’s a contest, and those men know they’re losers. They can’t even be bothered to try. It just pissed me off.”
At least he’d sorted it out for himself. There was hope for him yet, if he could learn to think critically about his actions. That was one benefit to the small amygdala—emotions would have no bearing on his decision-making. He’d do well under pressure . . . if he didn’t get himself killed first.
“And I was running late, so it felt good to take it out on someone,” he added.
