Vicious Magick (24 page)

As if emerging from a long tunnel, the four
of them follow the path out of the Mucklands and across the fields
surrounding the Darrinian Capitol. They can tell it’s the Capitol
because the buildings are huge, bureaucratic, and imposing. Shaped
like huge hammers and fists (one building is even shaped like a
blindfolded ogre holding scales, the seat of the legislature), the
office buildings make up the nerve-center of Darrinian political
decision-making.

Xenophobic
Darrinians

The Darrinians, by nature, have always been
fierce isolationists, jealously protecting their privacy and
self-determinance. In the interest of protecting said isolationism,
they sent their spies and their armies into neighboring lands to
ensure that their own lands would remain isolated. As a result of
this constant aggression, the Darrinians are now never invited to
participate in the bi-annual Continental Council or the Upper
Kleighton Lympic Sports Meet, which is held every six years.

Once, in the early days of the Lympic Sports
Meet, the Darrinians agreed to host the Meet. When the delegations
and fans arrived from the farthest reaches of Upper Kleighton, they
were fed a grand feast, every bit of which was drugged. Their
guests fell into a deep sleep, and they awoke to find themselves
being expaled. As there were no survivors to report home with the
details, the Darrinians have maintained that nobody ever showed up,
possibly because they all got lost. Natually, they were the de
facto winners of every event, but have been since banned from any
participation in the Meet.

It’s for all these reasons that Zanther,
Madra, and Novanostrum enter the Darrinian Capitol with an air of
hesitation. The girl riding piggyback on Novanostrum’s shoulders
does not seem concerned.

“I don’t know what you’re all so worried
about, I’ve been here dozens of times and nobody’s ever expaled
me.”

“That’s because you’re a native,” Zanther
explains, “foreigners like us, they’re not so keen on.”

Novanostrum smiles. “Don’t worry, I’ve got a
plan.”

Philosophers

While no group of people is more loathed than
arithmancers, philosophers might be a very close second. The goal
of a scientist is to make our knowledge of the world more concrete
and complete, whereas a philosopher spends his time taking
concrete, known things and making them vague and indefinite. A
scientist says, ‘Rain is water falling from the sky,’ while a
philosopher asks, ‘What
is
rain?’

‘I just told you, it’s water falling from the
sky.’

‘What’s a sky?’

‘It’s that big greenish-bluish thing where
the birds live.’

‘How can I trust your answer when I don’t
even know if you’re real?’

And on and on and on it goes. You ask a
stranger if he has change for a goat only to find yourself
listening to a fifteen-minute dissertation on how what he thinks of
as green might be a totally different color than what you regard as
green and before you know it, you’re punching and punching and
kicking and someone is pulling you off of this bleeding stranger
and your new shirt is ruined, spattered with blood.

They register at the inn using
Darrinian-sounding names and clean up. Without all the dried blood
covering her body and after running a comb through her hair, Risma
is actually quite attractive. Novanostrum does not ignore this
fact.

“So…uh…Risma. How would you feel about
getting a glass of wine with me?”

“Sounds like lots of fun. I’ve never been on
a date with a wizard before. Will you do some magic for me?”

“Well, I work on commission.”

“Put on a show for me, maybe I’ll put on a
show for you.”

High Hell and Low Hell