Your Magic or Mine? (19 page)

After dinner, Marcus followed Ed and Morgan into the ballroom and up on the stage. The room, larger than the one in Austin, held over five hundred people. The stage was higher also, and he had a clear view up the center aisle all the way to the entry doors. Two large screens hung from the ceiling on either side of the stage, ready to display the speakers. Four camera operators and several men with microphones lounged against a side wall, and he could see more people in the camera booth above the doors. On stage a sound technician completed his check and conferred with Ed.

Marcus plopped his black leather folder on the left-hand side of the table. He searched for and found their parents sitting over at the right near some side doors. Good, Alaric was making sure they could leave if a disruption occurred. He watched Morgan wave at them, and he rubbed the small pain behind his breastbone by pretending to straighten his tie. Despite his attraction, he still couldn’t believe she was his soul mate.

Certainly not.

No matter how hot his dreams or painful his center or active his libido.

He hadn’t said a word to Judith or Stefan about soulmate possibilities. No sense in stirring those deep waters. His parents were leaving for Europe in a few days, so after tomorrow he wouldn’t have to worry about them hearing rumors. Her parents hadn’t given him an indication they suspected it, either—which was fine. Neither he nor Morgan needed any interference or matchmaking.

Especially from George, whose phone calls he had not returned. Even though he himself knew they could
not be
soul mates—not after what he’d seen of her magic in the greenhouse, he also knew his stubborn friend wouldn’t give up on the idea. Thank God George and his parents didn’t correspond.

He looked over at his parents again. He had arrived late last night and had lunch with them today—with the main topic being their usual polite discussion of his career. Stefan encouraged him as always to look for a position among the Eastern universities. Judith only asked him if he was truly happy—a surprising departure from her normal comments.

The four parents seemed to be getting along. They actually shared a laugh when Alaric swung his arm in a wide arc, then poked a finger at his father.

Morgan stepped up next to him, and he felt his nostrils flare when her scent reached him and swirled around in his lungs, practically making him dizzy. At least he wasn’t repeating the reaction he’d had when he first saw her in the dining room—the response he’d had to use his note folder to hide. He thrust his itching hands into his pockets to keep them from reaching out to touch her.

She didn’t seem to react to their nearness, but simply waved a hand at the foursome. “Looks like Daddy’s telling tales again.”

“Mrs. Shortbottom, no doubt. Let’s hope he doesn’t have some new ones at the end of the evening.”

“Amen to that.” She took a step away and placed her dark green portfolio on the table by her chair.

Ed finished with the technician and came to stand with them. “We’re going to open the doors and start as soon as people are settled. Tonight we’re asking the audience to fill out a questionnaire about the event, including their opinions on the issue. It’s not scientific, but should give us some ideas for the future meetings and let us hear from those who didn’t ask a public question. If you’d like, we can go over them after the debate.”

Both he and Morgan nodded in agreement as the ushers opened the doors. A few people rushed to the front and claimed front-row seats. Others followed more sedately, and it wasn’t long before the seats were filled.

Morgan, Ed, and he remained standing and identified people they knew for each other. Prick sat on the left in the middle on the aisle, with a couple of other mathematicians from local universities Marcus recognized. The Horners marched down the center and took seats in the second row on the right. Morgan waved at a trio of women, clearly friends of hers. In their black Sword robes, Baldwin and Cabot took their positions, one to each side in front of the stage.

Marcus turned to Ed. “Do both sides understand the rules?”

“Yes, I spoke personally with Pritchart and Horner and made the situation absolutely clear.” He hauled a large timepiece out of his pocket. “I have the stopwatch Alaric recommended. Are we all set?”

Marcus exchanged a glance with Morgan, who shrugged and said, “I’m ready.”

“So am I,” he replied.

Ed grinned. “Then it’s showtime.”

“Therefore, we at the Traditional Heritage Association call upon all practitioners to band together against this attempt to destroy our time-tested spell-casting methods,” Calvin Horner stated, his voice practically quivering with indignation and certitude. “We don’t need change simply for the sake of change. We don’t need the Council or anyone else telling us how to do our business. We must stop Forscher’s pernicious formula now, or we will certainly pay later. Thank you.” He sat down to much applause—from the right side of the hall.

As he looked out over the audience, Marcus concentrated on keeping a straight face. Daria had done a much better job of explaining the THA position at the rehearsal. Horner played to his supporters, appealing to emotion, to scare tactics, and to thinly veiled sarcasm about the “Fomsters,” his name for the Future of Magic crowd. Of course, the man did not even consider studying the equation in an unprejudiced manner. No, he wanted to bury the “abomination.”

Marcus glanced at Morgan. While he would have liked to stare at her, doing that made his body react and his thoughts go off on tangents, so he kept his attention on the speaker. From her body language, it appeared she was doing the same.

She did seem to be unhappy, also. They had tried to establish a neutral tone, both basically repeating their opening remarks from the rehearsal. She had even agreed with the need to study his equation. The applause had been polite.

After Horner came Prick, from the left side. The participants had divided themselves up spontaneously, with the FOM on the left and the THA on the right. Where were the people in the middle of the question? He made a note to speak to Ed about a different chair arrangement.

When Horner first stood up to speak, he had taken a microphone to the front below the stage and faced the audience. Very clever, Marcus thought, to give the impression of being in charge. Prick must have come to the same conclusion, because he walked down the aisle from his seat in the middle to take a stance where his opponent had.

“You don’t have to be a mathematician to see the worth of using a precise, clear, modern approach to spell-casting,” Pritchart said, and Marcus began to hope the man would present a better, more coherent argument than Horner had. His wishes were dashed, however, when Prick continued. “Horner’s ‘Traddies’ would have us believe we cannot formulate a general theory of the casting universe. I say we can and must, or be doomed to outmoded, inefficient, anachronistic casting methods that will only keep us from reaching our potential.”

Marcus gritted his teeth and kept his face blank while he listened to Prick appeal to the very emotion he was denying existed and, even more infuriating, act like he had been the equation’s creator. Finally Ed called time, and Prick smirked his way back to his chair amid much applause.

Fortunately, the question-and-answer parts of the program went smoothly, as the audience responded to the questions he and Morgan posed and asked some good ones of their own. A number of participants agreed with the need to study the formula and clarify how one determined the amount of power and other elements in the spell. A few adherents from each camp had their say, but for the most part everyone acted politely—if you didn’t count the “if looks could kill” stare downs and pointed remarks from time to time.

Finally, after a few summation comments, Ed declared the session at an end. Marcus and his parents and the Morgans gathered together in the room where they had eaten supper.

“We and the Forschers are going out for a drink,” Alaric said. “Why don’t you two come with us?”

“Ed’s bringing back the evaluation forms everybody filled out tonight, Daddy,” Morgan answered. “I’d like to see those first. After that, I’m going to bed. I’m exhausted. I’ll call you in the morning.”

“Thanks, I’m going to take a rain check,” Marcus said. “I have an early flight tomorrow. I’d better say good-bye. It was a pleasure to see you and Antonia again.” He shook hands with her parents before walking over to his own.

“Good job, Marcus,” Stefan said. “Listening to those blowhards on either side makes me wonder about the state of education and the ability to create a logical argument in this country.”

“Thank you, Stefan,” he answered and basked for a moment in his father’s highest praise before adding, “I’m not looking forward to the remainder of the circus.”

“You’ll do well,” Judith said and gave his arm a squeeze. “We’ll follow your triumphs on the practitioner Web site. I’m sure our European colleagues will have many questions about the debates.”

“Come on, Judith, I could use that drink.” Stefan shook Marcus’s hand. “You’ll demolish those idiots, I’m sure.”

Judith gave Marcus’s arm another squeeze. Then she surprised him by stretching up to kiss his cheek. “We’ll miss you on the Fourth of July.”

“Me, too,” he replied and fought an impulse to hug her. He had to remind himself that she didn’t like to be “mussed,” and lowered his arms, which had been rising of their own accord. He glanced over at the other family and saw Morgan get and give big hugs from her parents, and a little twinge of something that might have been regret—or jealousy—flickered through his mind.

He watched the parents leave, but before he could say anything to Morgan, in came Ed and John, their arms full of papers.

“Here are all the evaluations,” Ed said, placing the stack on the round dining table. “Let’s divide them into categories of Traddies, Fomsters, and neutrals to begin with. Watch for the agree-disagree scores, too. They may help you decide where the writer stands.”

“That sounds reasonable,” Gloriana said and sat down across the table from Forscher. She had watched him and his parents out of the corner of her eye and wondered briefly at the reserve they all showed. Didn’t even give their son a hug when they weren’t going to see him for months. Thank goodness those stiff and starched people weren’t her parents.

Ed and John divided up the forms, Ed indicated where to put each category, and they started reading.

“Here’s a good one,” Ed said about three minutes later.
“‘All you people and your ideas remind me of is the government trying to force us into categories that don’t fit us. THA wants us this way; FOM wants us that way. My wife dragged me here tonight. I have no time for it. I’m only trying to make a living.’
He doesn’t like anybody.”

“I’m sure there are many who feel the same way,” Gloriana said. “Too busy to want to bother learning new methods.”

“Apathy or disinterest. That’s what the THA is counting on,” Forscher said, “and why FOM is trying hard to be incendiary.”

Gloriana met his eyes when he said the word
incendiary
, and her magic center must have taken the word to heart because it immediately grew warm. She snapped her gaze back to the paper in her hand. Don’t look at him, she admonished herself. She was only encouraging the imperative.

After a few minutes, she glanced at the piles of paper. The FOM and THA sides were about equal. The middle pile was noticeably smaller.

“Uh-oh,” John said. “Here’s one that’s definitely not apathetic.
‘What is wrong with you people? Forcing us to change the way we cast is worse than idiotic! It’s criminal! Who do you think you are? You all should be banned from spreading such blasphemous ideas!’
Oh, my. Blasphemy yet, and with lots of exclamation points. Agrees totally with all the THA statements and is totally against the FOM ones. He signed it, too, so he’s not hiding—Gordon Walcott.”

“That’s one of Horner’s, all right,” Ed said. “One of his inner circle. Walcott will be taking Horner’s place in the next debate.”

“He sounds more radical than Horner.” Forscher grimaced. “Precisely what we need.”

Gloriana sighed and kept reading. Two forms later, she came on one written in big black letters. “Here’s an even angrier one from the FOM side. ‘
The THA is pathetic! The Traddies are crazy to stand in the way of progress! They should all be buried because they’re already brain-dead!’
The writer makes no attempt at an argument and gives the opposite scores from the one John read.”

“Is there a name on it?” Forscher asked.

“Yes. The handwriting is atrocious, but it looks like … B-something … Dorf? … no, Dortman.”

“Ah, Brad Dortman. He’s been one of Prick’s sycophants for quite a while. I’m only acquainted with him from conferences and a couple of articles. Not very impressive in either his writings or his manners.”

“Who’s speaking for FOM next time?” John asked.

“Brubaker,” Ed answered. “I hope he doesn’t go off into math never-never land like he did in Austin. We’ll lose half the audience from sheer incomprehension and put the other half to sleep.”