031 – Workplace

***

“You have an unusual fire, Strythe,” Fightmaster Putrizio said.

“Unusually good or unusually bad?”

“That remains to be seen.”

Putrizio sat at a desk in the Hall of Discipline. Every few minutes one of the lower ranked fighting instructors entered the sub-building. They came to the fightmaster with questions about setting up the training halls for the novices and resuming the daily drills and exercises. The instructors’ comings and goings didn’t help my attempt to meditate. I sat cross legged on a woven straw mat in the middle of the training room.

“Generally speaking, a mage newly enkindled burns with an unsteady flame. It flares up with their excitement and sputters low when they lose heart. It responds to their passions and state of mind. Your fire does not. It burns evenly no matter what.”

“So that’s good.”

“Maybe. It could show a high degree of control. Or it could indicate that you lack human passion. That you are a drab, bloodless, manikin incapable of lofty emotions or poetic sentiments.”

“So that’s good.”

“Yes, that’s– Wait! No. That’s bad. Of course it’s bad. You’ll never reach the highest forms of swordcraft as an insensate lump of flesh. You need a refined spirit to feel the music of battle,” he said. “Your strange accident might be responsible for your static fire.”

“Fightmaster Putrizio, is it possible to artificially enkindle a fire?”

“That depends on what you mean. Proper training can increase a spark’s odds, and poor training can drastically lower them. Stressful experiences sometimes help ignite a fire. But those methods only help. There is no way to ensure a young spark enkindles their flame. And the only other way is for a powerful daemon to transform a person into a monster.”

“I understand.” The sudden transfer of my mind to Strythe’s body might have been an undiscovered way to enkindle a fire. But due to its similarity to daemonic possession, I planned to keep that knowledge to myself. I didn’t want people to think of me as a monster.

“In addition to being too steady, your soul is far too hot. It’s a wonder you haven’t damaged your body. You need to cool your fire. Should you have good control, then this will be easy for you. But should your fire be stuck burning at its current rate, it will be a crippling disability which you might not overcome.

“Because your fire doesn’t flare up or die down on its own, you won’t be familiar with the experience. That will make it difficult for you reproduce. Meditation and visualization techniques are the only ways for you to learn. So keep at it.”

“Fightmaster. Assuming this is a permanent condition, which of the three methods would be the best for me to pursue?”

“In that case, you would certainly want to favor augmentation. Both enhancement and projection require burning a great deal of mana rapidly. That means you must cool your fire to store a reserve of mana and then heat it up to use your techniques. Augmentation is less restricted by this.”

“I see. Thank you.”

I closed my eyes and redoubled my efforts to meditate. Augmentation? No thanks. I didn’t want to become some huge muscle freak or weird mutant. Those types of powers did not help with my goals to revive the science of aetherics.

Visualization lessons were to help a new magi control their inner fires. Because they had to adjust to gaining a sixth sense totally unlike those they had from birth, it was easier to imagine a fire inside their bodies, a swirling flame giving off heat and light. By relating their magic sense to their normal senses—a sort of self-induced synaesthesia—they could perform magic. So in reality, an ‘inner fire’ was just a metaphor for something too alien to describe.

Due to having an unusually steady fire, I visualized one of the methane burners from the chem labs at the Research Society. With no air mixed in, it let out a flickering yellow flame like a candle; but increasing the air-to-fuel ratio burned the methane gas completely, yielding a sharp, blue flame. In my mind, I adjusted this burner over and over and tried to sense any corresponding changes within my soul.

A minion in a skull masked noisily entered the Hall of Discipline and saluted Putrizio.

“Fightmaster. We have a problem. The workers want to build the kitchens on the opposite side of the citadel from the minions’ dining hall, and so the cooks are complaining.”

“I suppose I better check on it then. Strythe continue your exercises and try not to die.”

“Yes, Fightmaster.”

Putrizio had done very little teaching since we arrived at the citadel. He’d walk through the training hall to observe the novices performing their morning drills and then would make brief comments to the instructors. It was the same for disciples. He met with us individually for about fifteen minutes a day to discuss things. He taught no classes. He gave no lessons other than short lectures. As senior disciples, Zambulon had given me more instructions, and Yurk taught through sparring rather than explaining things.

When I studied at the Community of Scholars, we did things in the same way. While taking advanced classes from the higher ranked scholars, I had to teach entry level classes. The older scholars didn’t have time to do it all because they had their own research projects to work on. But I don’t know what Putrizio did in his off time. Not research. He wasn’t in the Hall of Discipline. He just disappeared for most of the day.

He was less of a hands-off teacher and more of a days-off teacher.

I was happy not to have some cruel taskmaster looking over my shoulder, but I also worried about my unusual fire. For a problem like this, I needed guidance from a more experienced mage.

With no more instructors storming in and out of the sub-building, I concentrated on my meditation. Wind streamed over the mountaintop and whistled through the citadel’s empty windows. Hammers rang through the hall and workers shouted as they hauled carts up the ramps and stairways. The citadel felt more alive now that more people had arrived. Human activity merged into a hum of background noise, much like that of a city.

“Strythe!”

“Gah!” I jumped backwards as Hwilla shouted my name.

“Finally, we have some time alone.” She grabbed on and hugged me tightly.

“Hwilla. This isn’t the place for romance. What if the others showed up?”

“Zambulon and Yurk went up to the roof to watch the Goadsmen try to net one of the devil-birds. They won’t be back for hours. And Putrizio just went down to the training hall.”

“Still. One of the instructors or novices might come in. Let’s not do this here.”

“Are you saying you want to go somewhere more private?”

“No. That’s not what I’m saying at all. Look Hwilla. Things have changed. I have no memory of us dating, therefor we are no longer dating.”

“That’s fine. We can start over from scratch. This can be our second first date. I already know how it will go.”

“But I’ve changed too. I may not be the same person you last dated. What did you like about the old Strythe anyway?”

“You’re so rugged. Always tossing around the other novices in sparring sessions and beating the younger boys to a pulp.”

“Sorry to inform you that violence no longer appeals to me. Negotiations and compromise are the proper way to work through conflicts. I only pulp as a last resort.”

“But you were always very kind to me. You encouraged me when I was depressed and told me that everything would work out in the future,” she said.

“Again, things are different now. I have become a realist who doesn’t believe in making bold claims with no supporting evidence. Optimism is more or less a learning disability in my opinion.”

“And you’re so tall.”

“My amnesia has changed that too. I’ve completely forgotten how to be tall. I’ve shrunk by ten percent. None of my old clothes fit.”

“Are you rejecting me!” She let go of me and stepped back in surprise.

“Yes! I mean no. Not exactly. But yes. I am. My decision isn’t a judgment on you, Hwilla, because I don’t know you. You’re a complete stranger to me. So don’t take it personally. I would reject any other skull-masked girl just the same.”

“You want me to give up on our love?”

“Absolutely.”

She was finally getting it…

“Well, I refuse! You always told me to never give up, and that, if I kept working hard, all my dreams would come true. And you were right! I enkindled my spark and became a disciple. And I wished you could join me. And you did you! So next I’m going to fix your brain and make you remember me. You’ll get to know me whether you like it or not.”

“I’m getting a preview of your personality right now.”

I crawled away from her and reached for my singlestick. She was going to pounce again any second.

“Strythe!” a voice called from the entrance.

“Gah! Why does everyone have to shout my name at the top of their lungs?”

Malisent entered the Hall of Discipline and looked around jealously at the construction work.

“You’ve already got doors in here, eh?” she muttered.

“Mistress Malisent.” Hwilla saluted our superior officer, and I begrudgingly followed her example. Cult protocol.

“You. Disciple girl. Get lost. I have to talk with this fool in private.” She waved Hwilla away.

“Yes, mistress.” Hwilla nodded and quietly departed the sub-building. I dearly wished I had that kind of authority over her.

“Thank you for that. You got here just in time. Actually a few minutes late, but it’s better than nothing.” I pulled up my mask.

“Don’t get me involved in your buffoonery. I’m here for my money. You failed to deliver it yesterday.”

“It took me awhile to divide it. The trolls collected a real variety of coins from their victims. I didn’t know the exact metal content of each type, so I first separated them by minting and then into thirds. You can rest assured that I haven’t given you the debased coins. It’s all even and fair.”

I opened the lid to the money box. She glanced inside but didn’t bother counting it.

“Fine. Bring it along to my apartment.”

“You’ve already picked a place?”

I lugged the box off the counter. It wasn’t that large but it weighed over seventy kilograms. I held it against my hips and waddled after her.

“Yes it’s near the top.”

“The top floor? You couldn’t have picked something closer?”

“I’m one of the high ranking officers. Of course I’m going to be at the top. I want to be close to the dark lord’s throne room and audience chamber where he will hold his court.”

It seemed the cult had bestowed a symbolic meaning on the placement of one’s quarters; the higher up you were in the hierarchy, the higher up in the actual building. Minions and monsters were at the base, disciples a floor up, and officers high in the clouds. Workers were converting the top floor to a penthouse apartment for the dark lord and preparing everything for his imminent arrival.

The worst part was that, without elevators, there was no quick way from the bottom to the top. We had to walk around the periphery of the building, go up a ramp, cut through a long utility tunnel, mount a flight of stairs, cross the whole citadel, and climb an external stairway while watching the sky for devil-birds. It was like a three dimensional maze. The workmen had as hard a time as me, carrying up wood timbers and furniture to the future apartments of the cult’s elite.

A dark inner corridor came to an open portal, revealing a dizzying view of the landscape and sky. A perilously narrow walkway extended from the citadel’s sloping walls to a lonely turret that Malisent had chosen as her new home. This was another site without safety rails, but the heavy load of metal in my hands gave me confidence the billowing mountain winds would not blow me off this high perch. Not far above us, the screeching devil-birds made their nest.

“Nice place ya got here.” I dropped the heavy box on the ground.

The interior of her apartment was completely austere, more of a windswept cave than a house. The workmen hadn’t touched the place yet, but haulers had delivered a gigantic pyramid of crates and boxes containing all of Malisent’s worldly possessions. Several of the huge trunks were tipped on their sides and opened to reveal massive racks of clothes. Black dresses, overcoats, cloaks, and robes decompressed from the trunks. They had been packed to bursting.

“Damn it all, Strythe. Why didn’t you deliver this money a week ago. Now it’s too late.”

“Because I hadn’t collected the coins yet, you hadn’t cleared the upper levels, and you hadn’t moved in. The workers are still open for bribes, so what’s the trouble?”

“The workers aren’t the issue here. The problem is Veylien. That hideous woman has stolen away my Zvidsi.”

“Your what?”

“My needleman. My sewster and seamstress. My personal tailor! The creator of all my bespoke clothing and jewelry.”

I looked at the massive, overflowing trunks. “I think you have enough to last awhile.”

“She’s a genius costumer and couturier! A polymath. Sewing, quilting, embroidery, millinery, jewelry, lace making; she can do it all. She’s a goddess of needle and thread. An angel with a pair of scissors. I went to great pains to hire her as my servant; it involved breaking into a palace in Gargléon and abducting her in the middle of the night.”

“Maybe she’s still angry at you for kidnapping her. I know I am.”

“No that’s not it. I did it to get her out of her previous contract. If she quit, it would have tarnished her reputation, but a good old fashioned abduction left her blameless. That’s how important she is to me. I became an outlaw to have her. Well, truthfully, I was already an outlaw… but I added another crime to my list.”

“So go offer her more money.”

“I can’t. She’s holed up in Veylien’s apartments. Going there could spark a war. And I don’t want to give Veylien the satisfaction of seeing me so desperate. That’s where you come in, minion.”

“No no no. Do not get me involved in your rivalry. You and Veylien can’t fight without angering the dark lord, but she can squish me like a bug and no one would say a thing.”

“I can also squish you like a bug.” Malisent grabbed me by the collar and yanked me close.

“You would have done so by now. Your excessive threats have blunted their effectiveness. And as much you need your tailor, you need me for your non-fashion related goals.”

“Go over there and talk to her. Be my go-between. You’re just another skull in the crowd, so you can slip in unnoticed. There are workmen going in and out of the place all day and night. Find out why Zvidsi left and what she wants.”

“Yeah? And how much will you pay me?”

“You were already paid in advance from Browk’s gold box.”

“I’m not going into that death trap. Veylien would recognize my fire in an instant. And I have my own issues to deal with. Number one being my messed up fire. I need to meditate in peace.”

“Your fire? If you help me get back my tailor, I will share with you a special method for cooling one’s fire.”

I remembered her last special teaching method. Her familiar, Orma, paralyzed me with venom. Trusting witches always brought trouble.

***

I had my own problems to deal with. But now I also owned a box of coins and a bag of crystals. The officers had claimed parts of the citadel for themselves, and I planned to follow their example. No one gave me permission to claim a place of my own, but no one stopped me either. My new workshop was a modest sub-building on the south face of the citadel, not too far above the Hall of Discipline. The only access to it was by way of narrow exterior stairway, so no one would ever accidentally wander past this place. It had circular windows, two stories, a lean-to roof, and plenty of space for my modest plans.

Making the workshop livable was of secondary importance to getting the right tools.

The workmen had signed six-year contracts. The cult prohibited vacations and letters home in order to keep our remote location a secret from outsiders. So the workers were here for a long time. It turns out that wasn’t an unusual arrangement. Lots of new outposts to the continent worked the same way, but with less flamboyantly evil leaders. To practice their trades, the workers brought everything necessary to set up workshops. And what they couldn’t bring, they could craft on site.

I mixed in with the workers to see what sort of equipment they used. Obviously, they had no power tools or complex machinery. Their hand tools were well crafted, but made from primitive materials. No carbide blades or diamond drill bits here. I spent lavishly to get a collection of useful tools. One foreman agreed to set up some metal working equipment for me, including a new brick kiln, in exchange for a small bribe and an agreement to let him use it from time to time. Unlike the cult’s officers, I requested something useful and productive, so the workers sympathized with me as a fellow craftsman.

Unfortunately, what I really needed were lapidary tools for working stone. Dop sticks, chisels, sandpaper, and burs. I wanted to shape the jagged chunks of quartz into something easier to handle. Grinders and slabsaws existed, but they needed to be custom built and then powered with leg muscles. One of the workers also knew how to build a hand-cranked ball-mill for crushing materials into fine powder.

Crafting things in the modern era was a lot more exercise than back in my day.

The people of this era did use waterwheels to power machines such as stone mills and trip hammers and chain pumps. But there was no flowing water on the mountain top. Everything had to be done by muscle power. For lifting heavy loads, the workers used teams of oxen, often pulling on a cable attached to a block and tackle. I admired how much they could accomplish with such limited options.

Building my own workshop would take a lot of effort, but at least I wasn’t starting from scratch with just sticks and rocks.