Dark apprentice, p.5
Dark Apprentice, page 5
“Word has it that you kill them. You could let me live.”
“The training kills some of them. I do my best to select students with talent enough to survive the challenges I throw before them. Not all of them make it, but that is not of what I speak. I am talking about men like you, who come to me begging for tutelage, only to turn around a few years hence and attempt to slay me.”
“Ah, you kill them in self-defense. I had wondered.”
“It is hardly self-defense to swat a gnat. You are talented. Of that, I have no doubt. I can feel the potential thrumming inside you. I would not seek to waste my time and yours only to watch you die. Go. Live and learn. Become as powerful as you wish, but not by me. I do not wish to kill you.”
“I would not dream of challenging y—”
“Do not lie to me!” She looked up then, daggers in her eyes. “I know what you are. Do you think I cannot recognize your type after so long? You do not wish to learn magic. You wish to learn dark magic.” There was distaste in how she uttered the word.
“And if I do? Who better to teach me?”
“That’s the rub. My reputation damns me to endure the overtures of men such as yourself.” Her gaze fell to her hands. She idly pinched each fingertip from pinky to thumb on one hand before switching to the other. “I train them, even though I know how it will end. Some spend years with me. Always there comes a day when they believe they have learned enough. Not wanting anyone to follow in their footsteps, they seek to destroy that which fashioned them—me.”
Her eyes snapped back to him.
“I cannot abide such insolence. As if they could learn in half a dozen years what I spent multiple lifetimes cultivating! I weary of it. Begone.” She flicked a wrist in his direction and picked up her book. “Find someone else to teach you.”
“I’m going to go order a drink. Can I get you anything?”
She scoffed and shook her head, not as an answer to his question, but at the question itself. He got up and headed to the bar, wincing as a wall of sound assaulted him a few feet from the table. It was as though the world had paused and come rushing back.
“What’ll it be?” asked the elderly barman.
“Tea.” He did not want to numb his brain just now.
The barman laughed. “You look like you need whiskey after dealing with her.” He nodded in the direction of Medea’s table.
“Whiskey would be preferable, but just the tea, thank you. I’m afraid she’s not too happy with me.”
“Don’t take it personally, she’s rarely happy with anyone.”
“You know her well?”
“She’s been staying here for generations. Owns the place, though I doubt she remembers.” He picked up a filthy mug and began to wipe it clean.
“How can she own a place and not remember?”
He shrugged. “She’s old. Forgets a lot, I imagine. The way the story goes, my great-grandfather was in debt. Had to put the place up for sale, and the man wanting to buy it planned to tear it down. Medea came the next day with a bag of gold and bought it on the condition that we always have a room for her.”
The action was oddly philanthropic, given what little he knew of her. There must have been a reason. No one made a purchase like that without expecting something in return.
“The room you keep for her—is it always the same, or does it change?”
“Always the same.”
Interesting. Did she stash something there? “How long is she staying?”
The barkeep suddenly looked uncomfortable. “Why do you want to know?”
“I don’t plan on provoking her, if that’s what you’re thinking.” Nikolai gave what he hoped was a disarming laugh. “From what I’ve heard, it wouldn’t end well for me. No, I’m trying to persuade her of something and want to know how much time I have.”
The barkeep snorted. “Yeah, she gets a few of those. But she hasn’t taken an apprentice in some time. Better for business, in my opinion.” He set down the mug he’d been wiping. Despite the thorough scrubbing, it didn’t look any cleaner, brown streaks mottling the clear glass.
“Why would that make a difference?”
“Because her apprentices usually don’t survive, and there’s always some hotheaded relative of the deceased trying to pick a fight. At least she kills them outside, but no one’s coming in here to buy drinks as long as there’s a corpse lying out front.”
Nikolai could’ve told him that wasn’t the only issue. The place was a dump. It was surprising they had any customers at all, corpse or no.
“The real problem is if a newer Enforcer is on watch,” the man continued. “Then things can get ugly.”
“I thought they weren’t supposed to engage with her?”
The barkeep picked up another mug, focusing intently on it. “Young men tend to ignore the rules. Think they’re more capable than they really are—begging your pardon, sir.”
“No offense taken. Is it true she killed nineteen Collective delegates?”
The barkeep shrugged. “She did something to make them turn a blind eye. But it’s not like she goes around killing people left and right. They probably figure it’s better to have one body in the street than half a dozen, so they leave her be and clean up the mess.” The barkeep shot a glance at Medea, then leaned toward Nikolai and whispered, “I hear there are other things she does, though, that they don’t like so much.”
Nikolai scooted closer. “Like what?”
“I hear she kidnaps Mundanes for her experiments.”
Nikolai raised an eyebrow. “Surely they’d do something if that were true.”
“Just what I’ve heard.” The man straightened and his tone became more formal. “But you wanted to know how long she’s here. Her room is paid up through next Tuesday. I don’t think you’ll have much luck, but I’ll tell you this—if by some miracle you do manage to convince Medea, don’t cross her. I’ve seen her disembowel men without so much as a wand.”
“Her room is paid up, is it? My good man, are you telling me you charge the owner of this fine establishment for room and board?”
The barkeep returned a broad grin. “I told you, she doesn’t remember.”
Nikolai laughed. “Your secret is safe with me.”
The barkeep moved away to greet another customer, returning only to deposit a mug of tea, its dark brown handle worn to pale beige after so much use. The warmth of the mug seeped into Nikolai’s hands as he considered the problem. Petrov said Medea sometimes disappeared for years. If she left Haven, he would likely never get another chance to convince her. Time was the enemy, and he only had a week.
Why did Magi have to be sensitive to telepathy? Manipulation was so much easier with the Mundane. He’d have to do this the hard way. Nikolai picked up the mug and made his way back to Medea’s table.
4
PERSUASION
Damn, he was coming back. “My answer is still no.”
The boy set a mug across from her and sat down like he had every right to intrude.
“Let’s start over. I’m Nikolai.” When she didn’t reply, his eyes strayed to her book, Tous les hommes sont mortels. “You speak French?”
“No, I simply enjoy staring at words without comprehension.”
For a moment he seemed taken aback and she hoped he might leave, but he plowed ahead. “Can I speak plainly?”
“Probably not, but you can try.” No reason to respect someone blatantly disrespectful. Responses to the tactic usually fell into one of two categories. Either they called her all sorts of colorful names and stormed off, which was a definite win, or they eventually cast aside social conventions and gave it back just as harshly, which meant they were finally being their honest selves—also a win.
She had the pleasure of seeing him struggle to remain civil in the face of her unbridled hostility. He recovered quicker than most.
“I know you won’t train me, but there is much I could learn from you. All I ask is a bit of your time.”
As if time wasn’t a precious commodity. She crossed her arms. “I had intended to read my book.”
“Don’t you have plenty of time for books? As an immortal, I mean.”
“The thing about books is that people keep writing more of them. While I may have an eternity, I can never quite catch up.” It was a common misconception that immortals had unlimited free time. Yes, they didn’t have to worry about running out per se, but their days were still consumed by all the small necessities of existing—eating, sleeping, bathing, shitting, chores. There were never enough hours in the day to do all the things you wanted to do.
“I’m not asking for an eternity. I’m asking for one hour every day for as long as you’re here.” He reached into his coat and pulled out something wrapped in brown paper. A sandwich, which he proceeded to eat. Sure, just make yourself at home.
“A few lunchtime conversations. Surely that’s not too much to ask? It pales in comparison to the years your apprentices have stolen from you. You don’t even have to kill me at the end.”
Damn, he was persistent. If she turned him away now, he’d just try something more annoying, like showing up when she was with a client. Needling him was moderately entertaining. She could make it work, provided certain conditions were met.
“You’re dedicated, I’ll give you that. Fine, lunch. But if I tire of you, you will leave without hesitation, is that clear?” Let’s see if he could stick to an agreement.
He nodded.
“What is it you wish to know?”
“How did you deaden the sound? It’s truly masterful.” He looked around them as if to emphasize his point.
Dear god, this was going to be a long week. “I see. Start with a general spell that is in no way dark and attempt to flatter me. I’m not impressed.”
He blinked and pressed on. “Actually, I wanted to know because I do not wish to be overheard asking anything illegal.”
She almost snorted. “I doubt that was your true motive in asking, but nice redirection. It’s a modified shield spell. The key is to focus on what you want to keep out, or in. You must be specific. In this case, I want most sound kept out.”
He was doing his best to hold back a smile. Smug little shit. She didn’t normally tell people the next part, but his ego was begging to be punctured.
“Sounds pertaining directly to me can penetrate the bubble, and those are amplified so I know if someone is talking to me, or about me. Speaking of which, everything the barkeep said about me was true.”
The timing was perfect. She got him right as he was drinking from his mug. He choked, slopping tea over himself. She handed him a napkin.
“You have tea on your shirt.”
He took the napkin and dabbed at his front. “You heard all that?” he said between coughs.
“Yes. Now, are you going to ask me anything worthwhile?” Please make it a good question. Something interesting.
“What’s the most powerful black magic spell you know?”
Goddamnit. Always so predictable, century after century. The worst part was he had potential. Already she could see him wasting his life pursuing dark magic with the same narrow-mindedness as her previous apprentices. Medea picked up her mug and found it empty. She set it resolutely back down.
“Magic is neither black nor white. This is something I have often tried, yet continually failed, to impress upon my students. There is only the caster and their intent.”
“And if their intent is to do harm, what is the most powerful spell they would use?”
“In the hands of a master, any spell can be dangerous.”
That garnered a flash of youthful irritation, quickly concealed. Chilling to think how much better he’d get at controlling these little tells over time.
“Now I have a question for you.” She pierced him with her gaze. “Why do you want this so badly?”
“What do you mean?”
“Surely you must have a reason for wanting to learn so-called ‘black’ magic.”
“Because magic is power, and black magic is the most powerful of all.”
Wrong. So wrong that not correcting him was like ignoring a knife twisting in her gut, but she had a point to make, and that was more important. “And why do you want power?”
“Why . . . what?” The confusion on his face spoke volumes. He didn’t know. He hadn’t even thought about it.
“Why do you want power?”
“I want to improve the lot of Magi. I want to make the world a better—”
“That’s not even a good lie.” She sat back and pinched the bridge of her nose.
Liars were the worst. Habitual liars often couldn’t distinguish between reality and their own fabrications, ignoring objectivity for whatever made the best narrative in their heads. How could people live like that?
“It’s one thing to lie to me—it’s another to lie to yourself. Misunderstanding your own motivations only leads to heartache. Don’t answer, just think on it. I believe we’re done for today.”
She picked up her book and pretended to read, praying he’d at least keep his word to leave when she said so. If he didn’t, she’d have to hurt him. After a moment she heard the blessed sound of chair legs scraping across the wooden floor and the sandwich being rewrapped. At least he had that much self-control.
“Until tomorrow,” he said.
Medea made a noise to indicate she’d heard, then held her breath until his footsteps abruptly muted upon crossing the sound shield.
Nikolai ruminated on their conversation all the way back to the shop. Tomorrow he’d do better. The rest of the day passed in a blur. Customers came and went, enchantments were cast, orders taken. He scarcely noticed any of it. Medea’s question kept popping unbidden into his mind.
Ridiculous question, really. Why not have power? There was nothing to be gained by not having it. Power got you things. Money. Sex. Admiration. Fear. It got you across borders that weren’t meant to be crossed, in with people who would have turned you away. Power kept you fed when everyone else was starving. No matter how high the bodies piled up, power ensured you weren’t one of them. As well ask why he wanted to breathe.
Medea said she didn’t expect an answer, but clearly it was important to her, so he had to think of some sort of response. What would other black magic practitioners want? Political influence? Their own country? Wealth? He’d need an answer that was closer to the truth but set him apart from previous applicants.
In the meantime, he had to figure out how to best approach her. She was suspicious, and his questions had clearly offended her somehow. At this rate he’d never convince her before she left Haven.
Best stick with tried and true tactics. Building rapport was as simple as giving people the opportunity to talk. Most experienced happiness or validation when allowed to speak freely about themselves. These positive feelings were inadvertently attributed to the listener. He would provide a sympathetic ear and mine what she divulged for nuggets of interest. Find a person’s passion and you had a key to their heart.
Nikolai entered the Hanged Man on Wednesday determined to make a better impression. He greeted Medea warmly and asked if he could sit. Her stony gaze didn’t inspire confidence, but he went ahead with his usual strategy of asking open-ended questions.
What brought her to Haven? “Business.”
What was her book about? “I’d know if someone stopped interrupting my reading.”
Why did she vanish for years at a time? “I get sick of people.”
What was the best part of being immortal? “Not dying.”
Before he could adjust his technique, she picked up her book and pointed to the door. Discontent festered within him like a rotting tooth as he made his way to the shop. Why couldn’t she carry on a conversation like a reasonable person? She was conceited; that was it. Her power had gone to her head. Or, the thought nagged at him, she was purposely trying to drive him away. She would find he did not give up so easily.
Petrov was surprised but pleased to see him back so early. Pale and weak, the man had returned to the shop yesterday afternoon. Today he sat on a stool at the counter. As soon as Nikolai walked in the door, Petrov wobbled to his feet and retired to his office. Well enough. Nikolai wanted time to think.
Perhaps he ought to take an opposite tactic with Medea, but what would that entail? Acting as though he didn’t want an apprenticeship? She’d know that for a lie. Insulting her? Disrespecting her? Too risky. He’d already lost two days. He needed advice from someone who knew her.
Petrov was out of the question; Nikolai was not yet ready for his master to know how seriously he sought a replacement. The book dealer didn’t seem to know Medea all that well. She was a valued client, but there was no deeper relationship. The only other person he could think of was the barkeep of the Hanged Man.
Petrov went home midafternoon, claiming he still felt weak, leaving Nikolai to close up the shop on his own. He returned to the inn and scanned for Medea. Thankfully, she was absent from the common area. He approached the barkeep and asked for a quick word outside, hoping her auditory spell had a limited range. The barkeep called a young lad over to cover for him and led Nikolai into the alley behind the inn.
“Rejected, eh?” said the barkeep.
“Yes. I don’t get it. She seemed insulted by my questions. I have no idea what I’m doing wrong. Any advice?”
“You’re not trying to hit on her, are you? Because that’s a good way to get yourself killed.”
“No, nothing like that. I’m just trying to work up to an apprenticeship, I swear.”
“Also a good way to get yourself killed.” The man crossed his arms and leaned against the bar door. “Look, you’re going about this all wrong. If you want to get Medea talking, ask her about magic.”
“I have. She seemed insulted.”
“Then you probably asked about black magic. Everyone asks about that. Pick something else. The more obscure the better.” The barkeep chuckled to himself. “Just be prepared to sit there all day while she answers.”
