Alchemical Magic

Chapter 3

3

When I joined them in the pub, I was surprised by how decent the place was.

The Black Bull Inn was one of those places in Ashford I avoided because it was known for being a place where dark arall met. And, since I wasn't interested in pissing contests, I'd been avoiding my fellow magical people, and never stepped foot there.

My fellow alchemists also avoided this place. Most people don't want their drunken slurs to get them in fights, and dark magicals are known for being sensitive. And loving a fight.

I expected this to be a run-down place with broken furniture and dirty, small windows. But it was way nicer than that.

The furniture here was solid; the tables were made with two-inch thick oak boards, and the chairs were simple and solid in their construction, with no upholstering. The big windows were segmented, and I could see they were made of the more expensive and less fragile alchemical glass (it has a special glint I can notice).

Everything here seemed to be made more durable than any ordinary pub. And I could notice the faint, acrid smell of fire retardant, evaporated because of the evening heat. Of course, the only reason I can smell it is that I'm very good at identifying substances by smell.

I saw them sitting around a big table, all nineteen of my classmates.

I nodded at them, ordered myself a pint of what looked like decent ale, and headed towards them while going around the smaller tables.

I had to be very delicate here; the pub was full of dark mages.

Why did they come and socialize with each other? Most of our kind are insufferable pricks. Why would they want to spend time with people like that? I guess it's one of those things about men I don't understand.

When I reached the table, I placed the beer tankard of the table and sat on the chair they left for me, between Sidney and a guy named Axton.

"Hi Sid, Ax," I said, taking off my fedora (a hat is very useful both in winter and summer when you spend your days walking outside) and placing it on the table. "What's up?"

"Hi Dana," Sid said, slapping me on the shoulder. "We were wondering if you'd come. We've never seen you around here. I thought you avoided this place."

Right. They did notice I'd been avoiding dark arall.

"I just had my own group, that's all," I said. "I'm studying alchemy, and I wasn't planning on going through Initiation until recently."

"Yeah, we've heard of you. The only dark arall in the Alchemy Department. It's said the ninnies from the yard have been trying to kick you out," he said, with something that sounded like glee.

At me being almost kicked out, or at the failure of the yard, I'm not entirely sure. Maybe it's both.

The yard, or IAIRD, the Interpersonal and Intercultural Relations Department, is the light magic department. Of course, nobody can pronounce IAIRD, so it gets pronounced as 'yard'.

"Yeah," I said, taking a sip of the tankard. "Especially Professor Derwen. He spent my entire first year trying to provoke me into fights. It was really hard to keep myself from punching that guy, but I managed. I just reported him for harassment several times."

Of course, I and Professor Derwen made peace this year, but that is information I better not share. Having a light mage as my Master is bad enough. If they think that I have too many light acquaintances, they pounce on me.

"Well, anything that keeps the yard unhappy is good," Ax said, slapping my back so strongly it would create a bruise.

I couldn't leave it like that, so I also slapped him, pretending to stay friendly.

"Anytime," I said. "Can't let those flower boys win."

That's another term to insult light mages.

"Isn't you Master a flower boy?" Sid asked. I sensed that there was an attack there, that they were trying to say something.

"He's also my grandfather," I said, putting the beer aside, balancing on my feet, ready to stand and fight. "So careful there."

Apparently, they hadn't heard that information. We had a big party that introduced me to most of Grandpa's social circle, just a week ago (it even appeared in the society pages of some national newspapers). But then, mages are too insular. And it's strange to imagine a dark arall (especially a male one) that reads the society pages.

"How come?" Steve Bustach, who was sitting in front of me, asked. He changed the angle he was sitting at, mirroring my pose. All of them did.

"My mother was born without magic," I said, ready to punch anybody who insulted me, "and then she married my father and run away to Caerland. I grew up there, and just met my grandpa this year, when he moved to Ashford from Ecton."

They stared at me intently, absorbing this new information.

"You don't look at all like him," Sid said. "I've seen Professor Bedwen. There's no similarity between you."

"I get that a lot," I said. "What can I say? I'm more similar to my father, who's Yllamese. It's probably hard to see the similarity because I'm biracial."

Yeah, I'm darker-skinned than most Kalmari, and my facial features are different in subtle ways. But it all gets overshadowed by the me being dark arall, with the characteristic black, uniformly colored hair, and dark, almost black eyes.

Magical polarity trumps race.

"So a prominent light mage's daughter run off with a darkie? An immigrant one? Why haven't I heard this story?" Ax asked.

I stared at him. My father wasn't a darkie; he was an ordinary person from Yllam. But did I want to raise this?

It seemed like they had their story, a story that would allow them to enjoy some schadenfreude at my Grandpa's expense. And with no awkward questions being raised, like how come I was born dark if my father isn't (I've got no idea; my brothers are all light arall, like Grandpa). So I did what I always did when it's convenient: I smiled and I lied.

"Because everybody thought my mother was dead," I replied, relaxing my stance and taking a sip of the strong, hoppy beer. Since they were all mirroring me, they also relaxed, also drinking from their tankards. Dark arall read body language and mirror it almost instinctively, so being aware of it makes you control the situation. "Remember, there was a famous train robbery twenty-five years ago? Well, everybody thought my mother died then. But she survived, and lived in Caerland, without bothering the authorities."

That seemed to explain things to them.

"So, is it true? That they don't check your documentation in Caerland," Sid asked.

"Nah, that's a myth. They do. And if you committed a crime, they'll kick you out. But other than that, the feds don't know who lives there. It's not their business. That's why mother was left alone. She committed no crimes," I explained. Then I looked around. "Is there nobody else who's from Caerland here?"

Everybody around the table shook their head.

"No, there are a few guys from Caerland in our department," Sid said, "but they got Initiated earlier. We're the last bunch to go through Initiation in our class year."

I nodded. Initiations were staggered for magicals. With practical classes with a max cap of twenty students, you couldn't have the entire intake Initiated at once. So they staggered them across the four years, teaching theory to those who weren't yet Initiated. Usually, those left for last, for the end of the fourth year, were the weakest of the intake, and I was now one of them. Which is part of the reason Professor Alarch is so frustrated with us. That and his general assholiness, that is.

Weak dark arall stay in Caerland. There's no good reason to go study and get a huge debt to then earn much less than the stronger dark mages can.

They usually don't even bother with the whole Initiation thing, just living their life without using magic. There's little point in studying magic when you're weak.

Finding out I was weak at puberty (when the magic expresses itself) was one of the reasons I pursued Alchemy, a field in which success didn't depend on inborn characteristics.

Of course, when I had my uncontrolled Initiation, my strength grew, something that doesn't happen in a controlled Initiation. But then, nobody dies at controlled Initiations, either. And uncontrolled Initiations are illegal.

So I was now a solid four level mage, with chances to grow much higher, if I developed my magic (whereas originally I was a level one, so weak Initiation would be dangerous for me).

I took another sip of the beer, which was actually good. I might come here more often, now that the guys know me.

"My Initiation was a last-minute thing," I said. "I saw that there was a lot of potential in combining alchemy and magic and make a lot of money. There are very few alchemists who are dark arall, and even fewer who are mages. I've heard there are around five in total in the entire country."

"Only five?" Sid said. "Must be big bucks you'll be earning, right?"

"I expect so," I said.

They nodded.

Making a lot of money is one of the most common ambitions among dark arall. We're driven by our magic to the drive for status and comfort, the aggression it provokes in us being the main tool. Ambition, they could understand.

"Maybe I should become an alchemist," Sid said. "I'm only a level three mage, after all. They said I can grow to level six. What's your level?"

Here comes the pissing contest. There's no way to avoid it; trust me, I've tried many, many times back when my magic was found to be among the weakest.

"Four," I said. "And they said I can grow up to seven."

I actually didn't know what the limit of my magic could be. According to grandpa, since I went through not one, but two uncontrolled Initiations (the second one happened after a chemical attack blocked my magic and I forced myself to use magic again), it's very difficult to estimate what my real level is or could become.

"Mostly," Grandpa said, after an unsuccessful attempt at measuring my magic, "you'll know when you reach your limit. For now, it seems like you are at least a four, but we don't have a reliable way of measuring it until your magical channels are fully integrated and developed."

I got frustrated when I encountered the lack of precision and the haphazard ways things were measured in magic. How inaccurate everything was, and how everybody used magic just by their feels. If alchemists worked that way, we'd still be exploding towers instead of building steam engines.

"Not bad," Sid said. "All of us are threes or fours. All the sixes and up got Initiated in the first two years, and they're studying the powerful stuff now."

I could sense a bitterness in his voice, and resignation at his place in the magical status hierarchy.

"I'm sure we'll be able to make some decent money," I said, "if we apply ourselves and study the more complex magic. If only we figure out how to make those artifacts."

"Yeah, I have no idea how it works. He keeps saying we should see the magic, but I can barely detect the bigger loops. Who sees magic at that level?"

I could see the magic.

"No idea," I said. "Maybe some nerds."

I then felt a pang of hunger in my stomach. The beer, hoppy and bitter as it was, was not filling enough.

"I think I want to eat something," I said. "Do you know what's good in here?"

"Well, they have quite a decent stew here," Sid said.

"I guess I'll get that, then," I said.

By the time I came with the order (they had no waiters here), the guys moved on to another subject, so I just sat, listening to them trash-talking the teachers.

Overall, it was a nice night out, and when we were leaving, Sid declared I was 'alright, for a gal'. Of course, none of them offered to accompany me home. The thought would never cross their mind.

I'm too used to ordinary people and to grandpa, who's a gentleman. I need to get used to these people, my people, again.