The Young Magician (The Legacy Trilogy) (26 page)

The man seemed to sense his nervousness. ‘You have some gains to make yet, Samuel. Study hard and I will visit you again soon. Tell no one. It will only make matters more difficult for us both if you do.’

With that, the man vanished before Samuel’s eyes. Samuel’s jaw almost dropped open with surprise. Quickly, however, curiosity took over as he wondered what manner of spell the man could have possibly used to disappear like that. He enhanced his
sight
again and examined the area for any remnants of magic. A glint in the corner of his eye caught Samuel’s attention and he turned in time to catch sight of faint sparks of magic flickering towards the library doors. The doors then quietly opened, just enough for a man to slip through, then closed softly behind. Samuel smiled. This man was certainly a very powerful magician, yet his vanishing act was not nearly as impressive as it first seemed. Still, Samuel admitted, the man had somehow learned to render himself invisible to the eye and
almost
invisible to magical detection, which was no trivial feat. Yet something about the man was certainly worrying. Samuel was intrigued. He sack back down and continued pawing over the book by Garrum, but his thoughts were on the man and his fabulous aura. He had never imagined a person could emit such incredible power. Samuel would keep this to himself, as he had been warned, for he hoped they would meet again and the next time, Samuel would be prepared to study the man and learn some of his wonderful spells.

Samuel and Eric were out in the city, walking through the deafening din of the markets. Some of the busy vendors and passers-by let their eyes linger on the boys, showing a mix of curiosity and concern. Some cheered and laughed as the two passed. Some ignored them altogether. They had both become used to the many and varied reactions and had long stopped noticing any stares and whispers directed towards them.

‘Let’s see what they have in here,’ Eric called as they wandered down another jostling market street. The air in that direction was filled with the spicy odours of grilling meats.

Just then, Samuel heard his name being called out from afar. Balthazar, of the Union of Modern Magicians, was hurrying towards them with his white robes billowing, almost tripping him over. He was calling out, ‘Master Samuel!’ at the top of his lungs. Samuel groaned. The man had been dogging him at every opportunity since their first meeting, ever insistent that he leave the Order and join his group. Samuel was growing sick of him. Some of the other magical societies had approached Samuel on occasion, as they did most apprentices, but none had proved so persistent or annoying.

Samuel quickly looked for Eric, who had vanished into the nearest doorway, and pushed after him, hoping Balthazar had not noticed his route of escape.

Inside, it seemed to be the business place of a tailor or cloth merchant. Enormous bolts of various colours and fabrics crowded the walls, leaning against each other, some at dangerous angles—Samuel suspected that if one fell on him, it would probably crush him to death. The small shop was dark and confining, smelling of camphor and other pungent odours. It could definitely do with another window or two.

The merchant emerged from a back room, his smile faltering on sight of the boy’s dark clothes.

‘How may I help you, Young Lords?’ he asked with his hands pressed together lightly in the manner of someone from the Spice Islands. His eyes said that he was of Sammalan descent, yet his skin bore the paleness of Amandia, declaring his mixed heritage. Such men were scorned in their homeland, but were not uncommon in Cintar.

‘You have some fine cloth here, merchant,’ Eric said with a regal demeanour.

‘You have a keen eye, Young Lord,’ the tailor returned. ‘I keep some of the best linens in the city.’

Eric rubbed the hem of a shirt, picking it out from a dozen others that were hanging from the ceiling on long lines of string. ‘This looks quite interesting.’

The tailor immediately drew a long measuring tape from his pocket and put his arms around Eric to measure his girth. ‘That could not possibly do, Young Lord. It is but a simple rag. Let me prepare something befitting of your worth.’

‘No, no,’ Eric stated firmly. Samuel’s cheeks ached from suppressing his laughter. ‘We have no time for that. We need something at once. Something not black.’

The tailor then stood back and rubbed his chin. ‘Ah, I see, Young Lords. Not black. Then I only hope there is something here that may fit you. That one is three sizes too small at least. Just give me time to find something a tad more suitable.’ And he began strolling between the rows of garments thoughtfully. ‘Ah, I believe there may be something in here.’

With that, he began rummaging through one tight rack of clothing, pulling out first one, then another of the purest white shirts with frilled collars and billowing sleeves. The two boys immediately pulled their drab black shirts over their heads and laughed as they buttoned themselves into their elaborate new raiments.

‘You look like lords of the palace,’ the tailor proclaimed.

Samuel ran his hands over the smooth cloth. It was a welcome change from their normal wear. Eric looked like a different person, appearing very strange in such a decorative garment.

‘Are they to your liking?’ the tailor asked.

‘Wonderful!’ Samuel replied.

‘Perfect!’ Eric echoed. ‘How much are they worth?’

The tailor seemed taken aback. ‘I thought you were jesting, my Lord. These clothes have been measured for someone else entirely. They are far from suitable.’

‘No, I insist,’ Eric replied.

The tailor sighed and continued, with a shrug of his shoulders. ‘They are five and a half crowns each. I am sure you will not find as fine quality at such a price anywhere. I would normally not expect Lords of the Order to pay for anything, but my dear wife would not forgive me for giving away two pieces of such fine cloth.’

Eric scooped some coins from his pocket and handed them to the tailor.

‘Thank you very much, Young Lords,’ the tailor returned with a contented smile, quickly sorting the coins in his palm.

Samuel did not know how much Eric had given him—it did not really matter. They received a regular purse from the Order and, with nothing to spend it on, money held little value for them. Samuel had long ago given up counting his own collection of coins—something he could never have imagined himself doing once upon a time.

‘What shall I do with these?’ the tailor asked, plucking up their black shirts with his fingertips.

‘Keep them, burn them—as you wish,’ Eric said. Then to Samuel he turned. ‘Let’s have some fun.’

Samuel nodded and could not keep from leaping and laughing as they re-entered the bright and bustling street, with the tailor shaking his head behind them.

‘What shall we do first?’ Eric asked. ‘Nobody knows who we are. We could do anything!’

‘We could go to a wrestling match,’ Samuel replied, squeezing between a farmer and a goat. ‘I hear they have them over in the south quarter. Or the races in Northbank?’

Just then, a stream of children flew through the crowd shortly ahead. The two boys grinned and looked to each other. As one, they leapt into flight and followed the weaving children. Men and women alike swore as they pushed through them to keep up with the street-wise youths, men and women who would never swear at members of the Order. At last, out of breath, they emerged from the body-filled streets and out into a quieter square, lined with apartments and the occasional inn. For the first time, a trickle of fear touched Samuel as he realised the trouble they would be in if anyone from the Order recognised them. They would be polishing floors for a week. His anxiety was short-lived, however, as he found they had reached their destination.

A circle of children had formed in the square and were kicking a ball.

‘Football!’ Eric gasped, bearing a great grin.

They hung at the edge of the game with great expectant grins until one boy, perhaps the youngest of the lot, came over to them.

‘You can play if you like,’ he said, complete with dirty face and running nose. Samuel and Eric were quite a bit older than them, but the two young magicians were eager for some fun.

‘Which team can we join?’ Samuel asked.

The boy turned and examined the game a moment. ‘One on each, I suppose.’

Samuel walked to the boys on his team, who were now in a huddle, talking tactics.

‘Are you new in town or just passing through?’ one of the older boys asked as Samuel joined them.

‘New in town,’ Samuel replied with a grin.

‘Are you any good?’ another asked him.

Samuel bobbed his shoulders. ‘Not really.’

‘Why are you dressed like that?’ the first boy asked. Samuel did suppose his new shirt was quite lavish. ‘Been to a funeral?’

‘Ah, yes,’ Samuel lied with a grin and the boys just shrugged back.

The game began again and a cheer went up at once as Eric intercepted the kick off and was across the square in a flash, sending the ball like an arrow into the goal.

‘You didn’t tell us he was that good!’ another of Samuel’s team mates declared. ‘I wish we’d picked him!’

‘Sorry,’ was all Samuel could reply. Eric seemed even better than when they played in the school. The air of excitement had obviously empowered him.

The next kick-off saw two of Samuel’s teammates attempting to guard the energetic Eric. Each time he tried to dart away from them, they were only a step behind and kicking at his ankles. Samuel laughed as he saw Eric’s patience starting to wear thin.

‘Here!’ someone cried and Samuel lurched into life as the ball sailed towards him. Instinctively, he kicked it, but it went high and wide, bouncing off the wall of a neighbouring building, then back down into the square. Eric laughed and Samuel scowled back at his friend.

The game went on. Samuel tried his hardest to intercept the ball wherever he could, but these boys were all very good despite their age and he had not played for some time. His fitness and enthusiasm could only carry him so far before he began to tire. Spying his chance, Samuel leapt for the ball as it careered free from the opposition and he kicked it with all his might. He winced as he bruised the end of his toes within his soft sandals. The ball arced towards the goal area with too much force and not enough accuracy. It would have sailed far too wide, but Samuel would not have it. At the last instant, the ball curved sharply, bounced before the wide-eyed goalkeeper and ricocheted between his legs into the goal.

All Samuel’s team gave a great hoot, but the opposition were left aghast. Eric was shaking his head slowly, but smiling.

Samuel limped over to him. ‘I think it’s time to go. I’m stuffed.’

‘I agree. And another shot like that and we’ll be lynched,’ Eric replied.

They called farewell to the two teams of boys and trotted from the cobbled square.

‘How are we going to explain our clothes?’ Samuel asked.

‘Oh,’ Eric replied. ‘I hadn’t thought of that. We’ll throw these shirts away and say we lost ours by the river. Or perhaps we can try climbing over the wall behind the larder?’

Samuel smiled and shook his head. Some of the best ideas were always short lived.

Master Glim looked on as Samuel and Eric left the square. He had been amusing himself by watching them for some time, since he had spied them sneaking through the markets, obviously up to mischief. They would never catch him following them, of course. He remembered his own youth, when he had done such things time and time again, more often than not receiving a clip on his ear from one of the niggly old Masters when they heard of his adventures. He had hoped for the lads to continue cheating, so he could cancel their spells and chuckle at their confusion, but they had proved wiser and had left of their own volition.
Let boys be boys
, he thought to himself with a laugh and turned back towards the school after them.

‘Hello, Samuel,’ Eric said, using the Old Tongue as he entered the dormitory.

Samuel
, in the Old Tongue sounded more like
Summuly
, but
Eric
, being a more modern name, was still pronounced as
Eric
.

‘Hello, Eric,’ Samuel returned, using the same language. ‘Where have you been?’

‘A few of us with Moving and Lifting spells were unblocking some of the sewers.’

‘That must have been pleasant!’ Samuel finally replied. ‘It smells like you did well.’

‘What are you studying?’ Eric asked and leaned over Samuel’s shoulder, causing Samuel to screw up his nose.

‘Some works by Zencoshia Xykoquotu, an ancient philosopher who seemed to think that women could use magic nearly as well as men.’

‘Sounds ridiculous—and not just his name.’

‘It is. I’ve found several volumes of works discussing women who actually did manage to spell, but it seems that they rarely progressed past making love potions and wart creams.’

‘Oh?’ Eric remarked curiously. ‘I’ve always wondered why that was.’

‘Yes,’ Samuel continued. ‘This philosopher dabbled in the area and after losing thirty or forty of his concubines he decided that there was something innate about them that made their spelling...
unstable
.’ The last word was in Turian, as he could not remember the correct Old Tongue equivalent. ‘It turns out he went on to research the ability of animals to use magic, but that’s the last anyone saw of him.’