Story #156 - Common Ground

Common Ground

Magic cracked in the air, and Mafferty Talbot hit the ground.

A long moment passed with no corresponding energy discharge, and he became aware of a low laugh floating over the sparring chamber.

“Maf,” Plesson Druger said, still chuckling, “you’re such an easy mark.”

Mafferty stood, brushing the dust off of his silk tunic, but didn’t reply. Plesson had been after him for weeks to come and see the tricks he’d learned in the Common, and Maf had finally agreed to meet. He hadn’t really believed that Pless would use any of the magic he’d learned on another Citizen, but that didn’t mean he was going to risk getting a Firelance to the face – and the clothes he had on were expensive.

“Lunch?” Plesson asked, and Maf nodded. His business would survive without him for an afternoon, and even after his friend’s near-attack, he still felt the need for company. He’d grown up with Pless, but the years had drawn them apart as the Talbot family business grew and Druger undertook his studies at the Common of Magics. His friend would never have actually harmed him, and Plesson’s company was better than none.

They passed other groups waiting for their chance to use the chamber, and Maf saw at least three faces that had been tattooed with the distinct marks of the Common. Pless didn’t speak to any of them, and they didn’t acknowledge him; there was an unspoken rule that apprentices at the Common wouldn’t interfere with each other when they were outside the Halls, especially if they were collectively engaged in an activity the Common expressly forbid.

Sparring chamber magic had killed more than one aspiring Wizard, but the Common couldn’t afford to persecute every student that disobeyed – their enrollment numbers were simply too low.

Plesson was smirking when they made it out onto the street.

“What?” Maf was curious about what Pless thought was so funny; since they had first met over twenty years ago, the taller man had always been the one with a smile on his face, and he usually had a good reason for it.

“The others in there – not all of them are students.” Plesson was trying hard not to laugh, and Maf could feel himself start to smile as well. There was something about Plesson’s open face and his curly brown hair that made his mirth infectious, even if the circumstances weren’t particularly hilarious.

“What? You’re telling me that some of those were –“

“Instructors,” Plesson said, nodding, “and not just introductory-level ones either. The one closest to the door was a Grand Marker.”

Maf let out a long breath. Grand Markers were the cream of the crop – the most elite magic users in the world, and were known for their odd temperaments. He’d take Pless in the sparring chamber over one of the Markers any day.

He was disappointed in his performance, nonetheless, since he’d spent the last six months working on his swordplay. Maf needed a distraction from the shop, and he had a natural talent for the blade.

“You did quite well, considering,” Pless said quietly. He had always wondered if Pless could read his mind, though his friend assured him that no Wizard possessed that power, no matter how advanced their skills.

“I…” Maf hesitated. “Not as well as I should have. You’d never have used magic on me, and I knew that. It was that energy, Ples – I reacted more out of instinct than control.”

“That was the point,” Ples said seriously as they made their way through the crowd toward the market. “I’ve learned a great deal at the Common, and one of the most important lessons that its self-important Wizards have taught me is the power of fear. Spun up correctly, even small acts of magic can seem massive and imposing, enough that a brave soul,” Ples shot him a look, “will think twice before attacking.”

Maf raised an eyebrow. He’d always heard that Wizards were reckless to the point of stupidity, but Ples was painting a different picture.

“I suppose I never thought about it like that. I assumed that with ultimate power, those at the Common would do whatever they wanted, whenever they wanted.”

Those around them gave them a wide berth as they moved into the market square. Plesson’s solid red robe marked him out as a Wizard in training, and the people of the city had no interest in accidentally earning his ire.

His friend grimaced as he saw a woman turn from him in fear. He had always been the one of them to make connections, even among the common people, and the fact that he was now the cause of his own rejection was obviously affecting him.

“Tral’s?” Maf asked, and Pless nodded. They had been eating at Tral’s for years, ever since the business changed ownership. The first iteration of the restaurant had focused on out-of-city cuisine, much of which they both found unpalatable. The current owner offered a blend of old favorites with just enough variation to keep them both happy.

They hadn’t even made it past the serving girl at the front door before Tral himself came bounding around the corner. A huge man with dark black mustaches, Tral was typically slow-moving and deep-voiced.

“They’re here!” He squealed, his hands grasping for the edges of Plesson’s robe. “They’re back!”

“Hold on, man!” His friend drew back, tearing the robe from Tral’s fingers. “What in Sky are you talking about?”

“The Addir! I just saw one in the kitchen. Looked right at me, and then faded out of existence. Damn thing could be anywhere, now – right behind us, even!” Tral shot a look over his shoulder and then tried to move forward again, but Maf stepped between the restaurant owner and his friend.

“This is a very serious allegation, Tral,” he said softly, “and will carry harsh penalties if you are wrong.”

“Follow me!” Tral cried. “Follow me! It left something behind in the kitchen.”

Maf glanced at Plesson, who nodded. Addir hadn’t been seen in the city for two years, but that didn’t mean the snake-people were gone forever. Another war with their kind was inevitable, but it seemed unlikely they would be appearing in Tral’s kitchen to declare it.

“Lead on, Tral,” Maf said.


- D