“These white-eyed children could sense the energies in the world around them. Natural abilities varied, but the basic talents were often the same: pushing waves in water, conjuring gusts of wind, coaxing sparks to grow into mighty infernos. Sorcerers have an instinctual ability to listen to the magic inside the elements and give them a little push. These talents, when practiced in the wild, create what we call a Mage. Well, they did.”
He wanted to have another dig but the ground he was going for was all mined out.
“A Mage with training becomes a Wizard. These are the most powerful, skilled and hardest to explain of all the spell-casters.” He made a gesture, signifying himself, without any hint of irony. “Some say that only a student of Keats University is a true Wizard. That’s where I studied, of course, but I’ve never been that much of a snob. What’s important is the level of ability. Wizard training teaches a Mage to reach out beyond their immediate vicinity, latch onto the elements in their purest form, and summon them into the space between their hands. When I needed fire, I opened up a portal to a world of brimstone and flame. When I wanted to fly, I brought wind from the unknown to under my feet. If I wanted to hold a man in place, I would conjure gravity into my fingertips and draw him into my grasp.”
There was no mistaking the relish on the old man’s lips. His white-pupil eyes shrank into slits and he gritted his teeth, remembering the days when he had deadly powers at his disposal.
I saw plenty of Wizards cast spells while I was in the Opus. I even heard about the location of this unseen place. After I defected to the Human Army, and they convinced me that the Wizards were trying to wipe us out, I handed over that information. When the Humans went out there to dip their machines into the magic, it froze itself up in response.
“So, those are the Sorcerers,” I said. “What’s the other one?”
He blinked, like he’d forgotten where he was.
“The other what?”
“The other type of spell-caster. You said that—”
One of his fingers was tapping against his empty glass. I got the hint and signaled Boris for another round.
“Oh, the other spell-caster? Yes, yes, yes. The Witches and the Warlocks. Longer fingers than you lot, which gives them certain talents. I’m sorry I left them till last because they really are a disappointment by comparison. All they do, essentially, is play with the magic that has already seeped into the physical world. Like cooking. Mash one thing with another thing and sprinkle on some essence of whatever-you-call-it and, for a moment, it unlocks the magical energy trapped within. A poor substitute for real spells but I have seen a well-stocked Witch create quite a bit of trouble. More than—”
“No fookin’ way!”
I looked back over my shoulder. Boris the bartender was halfway to our table, drinks in his hands, and grimacing in regret. He’d been caught out. Back at the bar, Clangor was red-faced, fuming, and pointing his finger right at me.
“What the fook are you doing back here?”
Boris gave me a look that said, Sorry, but could you kindly fuck off before the little bugger starts smashing things? I nodded to say that I would.
I hadn’t even finished my first drink but I threw enough coins onto the table to cover them all. I stood up, raised my arms in submission, did a respectfully apologetic bow and made for the exit, but the Dwarf was more ale than brains and didn’t want to let me go.
“I asked you a question!”
He was off the stool, trembling in anger, with a pendulum of spittle hanging from his lip.
“I just came to see a friend. I didn’t mean to intrude.”
His tankard hit the doorframe, splashing cheap beer over me and the welcome mat.
“Friend?” He did one of those laughs that’s really just an audible sneer. “You don’t have any friends, Fetch. Not in this bar. Not in this city. Not anywhere. You know that, don’t you?” He stepped closer and I backed up the stairs towards the door. “If I was still as strong as I was before your lot fooked up the world, I’d cut you off at the knees, then the waist, then the neck, then put my foot down on your empty fookin’ head and crack it open right here on the floor.”
I looked around. I shouldn’t have.
I’d worked at The Ditch. Then I’d drunk at The Ditch, every day. I’d bought my share of rounds for every regular in the place and they’d bought their share for me. But their eyes were down. Nobody said anything. Nobody looked up. Nobody was going to argue with the Dwarf.
“Fook off,” he said.
And I did.
The last thing that happened to me in the Human Army was getting blasted in the chest by a bolt of pure magic. The scar had never quite healed and the pain occasionally tried to peel open my ribs. Once I was outside The Ditch, I opened a fresh pack of Clayfields and bit down on the end of the twig, sucking in the juice. It helped, but my breathing was still too shallow.
It had been stupid to go back there. I’d talked to enough Wizards in recent years to know that none of their powers were working. Not even a faint wisp of anything. The papers said that in Keats University there were still students and staff trying to unlock the old magic every damn day. If those dedicated experts couldn’t crack it, I doubted an untrained Mage had any chance. Even if they did, it was unlikely that the first thing they’d do, when wielding their returned power, would be to blast a businessman in the face with a miraculous post-Coda fireball.
That left the Witches and Warlocks: long-fingered magic users who never summoned anything on their own but only dug the dormant power out of organic matter around them. As far as I knew, none of that stuff worked anymore either.
Well, not like it used to.
I pulled the Clayfield out of my mouth and examined the chewed-up end. It had been magical once. Powerful enough to numb my whole body. Now, it was only a shadow of its former self. Even so…
A hint of power remained. An echo that had been packaged up by folks who knew that a piece of old-world magic hidden in the plant might still have some use.
I put the Clayfield back between my lips and drank in the flavor.
Yes, it was something.
5
I called Warren’s house and a woman answered the phone. She told me I could find him at Hamhock’s Ceramics, a defunct factory in the middle of the manufacturing district. The wind traded shifts with the snow as I made my way across town, wishing that I’d taken the time to sew up the knee of my trousers.
Back when the fires were burning, the snow in Sunder would go brown while it was still in the air. Post-Coda, it waited till it hit the ground before soaking up the ash, rust and rubbish. At least it didn’t stink so much. In summer, the sewers cooked like a casserole.
The manufacturing district was a ramshackle mess of factories and wholesale markets on the west side of the city. I did most of my shopping down there, rather than splurge on the Main Street vendors who charged extra for the same product if it was hanging on a better quality hook.
I’d passed Hamhock’s many times but had never been inside. It was two stories high with a roller door that filled the whole front wall. Half a dozen chimneys sprouted from the roof, along with a large wind turbine that turned at a hypnotic speed.
The roller door was open and the inside of the building was a mess. Gray-brown slurry covered the ground, walls, machinery, and most of the workers. There were drying-racks full of unfired pottery: vases, bowls and plates. Some pieces were glistening wet, others dry, and a few were cracking into pieces. The turbine on the ceiling was connected to a huge vat full of slip, so that the spinning on the roof churned the mix below, occasionally sloshing it over the sides.