Spare the Rod

  Marci emerged from the washroom some ten minutes ter, face raw and eyes puffy. Anke smirked at her, although Of seemed concerned and agitated. That was nice that he could tell she had been a bit upset-

  "Wear this, and walk," he said, tossing her his cloak.

  "What? Why?" said Marci, blinking at the dark grey garment.

  "Because I just heard some of the local enforcers say they were looking for a fairy," he said, jerking his head down the still full ptform. "And telegrams exist, you know."

  Marci hated walking.

  Walking was for non-Fairies, those cursed to live without wings. She could walk, and indeed many of the muscles needed for bancing her body in flight were the same as were used for walking, but it still sucked.

  "I look ridiculous," said Marci as she walked out of the station between Anke and Of, holding onto their hands as if they were her parents, and with his cloak folded double over and drawn up into a hood. "This is humiliating."

  Of was six foot three or something, Anke five foot eleven, and Marci four foot four, so without her wings to put her at or above their eye height she suddenly felt very small and childlike.

  "Don't make a scene, sweetie, or you won't get any dessert," chided Anke, who was loving every second of this incredible discriminatory ruse.

  The road outside the station was paved, but very dirty. Carriages, mostly horse but a few that were arteficed, horseless, and spewing blue smoke into their air, rumbled past on the cobbles. Across the street from them were trendy shops. Lit up windows showed off a veritable cornucopia of goods: mannequins with the test Saxmoor fashions (tight skirts in tartan and flower patterned blouses seemed to be 'in'); freshly baked bread and the pastries the region was famous for; an apothecary with hundreds of tiny potions and tinctures in a rainbow of colours, marked with tiny, spidery handwriting; a jewellery store which was having a 'sale on enchanted amulets;' and several bars offering a range of mouth-watering sounding spirits, wines, and beers.

  Lots of alleyways, with less swanky-looking operations forked off the main street, and it struck Marci that there were a lot more destitute people around than she remembered when she'd st visited six years earlier. Had she heard something about that? Something-something-'enclosures?'

  Across the street from them, seemingly in the direction they were heading, were three enforcers, their garb red and gold in the local noble houses' colours standing out in the crowd. Two of them seemed to be in the process of shaking a grubby looking drunk down for money, while the third was leaning against the wall next to an alleyway and zily rolling himself a cigarette as he looked out over the street.

  "Oh, honey!" said Anke loudly as they crossed the street, and drawing the attention of the third enforcer. "We should get the little one an apple strudel!"

  Marci's boot squelched as she stepped in horseshit. "Fuck!"

  This. This was why she hated walking; the ground was filthy.

  "Little one, nguage," admonished Anke. "Or I won't buy you a treat!"

  "I hate you so fucking much," scowled Marci, trying and failing to wipe her shoe, and almost tripping as the two others pulled her up onto the curb and towards the alleyway.

  "That's it, no strudel for you!" scolded Anke.

  "Anke, maybe tone it down a bit?" said Of, smiling at the enforcer, who, with a very specific gesture and a look of intense focus cast a very poor rank one cantrip to light the cigarette, singing his fingers. It wasn't quite as brain-dead as what Anke did with her contracts, but it was about as far removed from proper wizardry as a rock from a mountain: all rote learning, trial and error, no understanding or theory.

  "Children these days, no respect for their parents," said the enforcer, shaking his head as they went past. "You should give her a good hiding. That's what my Da did, and look how I turned out."

  "Oh, I do agree," said Anke, nodding along with a couple of well-dressed humans. "Why, little Marcelle has been indulged too long! A good paddling, that's what you need, young dy."

  Marci's eye twitched.

  "I'm going to curse you," whispered Marci as they passed into the alleyway, which seemed to be primarily filled with carpentry and woodworking shops. The hub-hub of the main street fell away, repced by the faint sound of sawing, the banging of hammers, and a rumble of an aetheric generator. "I'm going to curse you so badly."

  "And now threatening your dear mother, who would do anything for you!?" said Anke. "Didn't I raise you-"

  Magic fred around Marci's fingers as she cast a complex charm, using the fact that they were holding hands to channel the mana into Anke's body. Since the elf was a spellcaster, there was a bit of resistance, but Anke was a shit spellcaster, who had spirits and demons and elementals to do the heavy lifting for her, and Marci battered down her defences.

  There was a crackle of static energy, and Anke's voice died on her lips.

  It took a few moments for her to realise what exactly Marci had done. Then she skidded to a stop, pointing at her throat and mouthing voicelessly at Marci, who grinned smugly from beneath her hood.

  "…!" mouthed Anke.

  "Marci, don't curse Anke," sighed Of, looking up from the scrap of paper he seemed to be following.

  "Don't do what, sorry?" said Marci.

  "I'm sensitive enough to feel you did something to her," said Of. "A Silence?"

  "…!"

  "I have no idea what you're talking about," said Marci.

  "We're supposed to be ying low, you know?" said Of, gncing back down the mostly empty alleyway towards the main street.

  "Something that Anke's silence has vastly improved."

  Anke made a rude gesture and then pointed at her throat insistently.

  "And if she were a real wizard, she'd be able to dispel it."

  Anke's brow twitched. She raised her hands.

  "Ah, there you are, m'luvvers!" came a booming voice from the direction of the main road, passing by the group of enforcers.

  "Friends Of, Anke, and Marci!" came another higher pitched, raspy tone in a very loud register. "We are most pleased to see you!"

  Of sighed. "So much for stealth."

  Marci grinned and turned to see the st two members of their little party: Gillian and Tissa.

  The first was a normal sized man (a dwarf), a good solid five foot five, with broad shoulders and a barrel-like chest. He was wrapped in several yers that only served to add more depth to his stout appearance: a gleaming scale-male shirt over a padded linen underclothes, and bright blue coat adorned with runic sigils over the top. Steel shod boots enclosed his paddle like feet, into which were tucked heavy canvas trousers.

  Bright blue eyes peered out from a heavy blonde brow, a neatly cropped beard outlined his brick-sharp jaw, and an omnipresent pipe was gently smoking in his wide mouth. His long hair was eborately braided back from his face, and had many more runic sigils and charms worked into it. Lastly, at his belt, hung a rge hammer embzoned for what Marci knew was the dwarven rune for the earth surrounded by dozens of lesser runes.

  Gillian stepped forward and wrapped Marci in a hug, lifting her off the ground and twirling her around.

  The second, Tissa, or more accurately Tiskakessaklevekar, was not normal size. She was six foot nine or ten or something utterly mad; an Arana, often known as 'lizardfolk,' hailing mainly from the southwestern deserts. She had soft green scales, with pale cream on her belly and neck, slitted irises that were so pale a yellow they were sometimes hard to see against her sclera, a mane of white feathers that ran from her scalp and down her neck, a pair of horns that curled back from her skull, and a short muzzle from which her long red tongue occasionally flicked to lick at her eyeballs.

  Tissa was, as ever, cd in the heaviest pte armour that Marci had ever seen, intricately wrought inch-thick metal etched in complicated and detailed patterns and scenes. The armour extended down her long, whippy tail, ending in a razor-sharp bde that was currently wrapped in cloth to make it less lethally dangerous while in town.

  She had a massive double headed give in its case-sheath over her back, and despite the incredibly weight she was bouncing lightly in her boots, waiting for Gillian to put Marci down before wrapping the small fairy is a hug of her own and lifting her high into the air.

  "We are so pleased to see the Friend Marci!" said Tissa, nuzzling at her cheek in what Marci knew was an Aranan show of great affection. "We have missed her ever so much! We were not sure that Of would find her!"

  "Nice to see you too, Tissa," said Marci, hugging her back.

  Tissa wasn't everyone's cup of tea. Arana were famous, culturally, for having next to no social filter, or, perhaps more accurately, honesty was prized above almost all else. They would tell you exactly what they thought of you, and could get offended quite easily if they discovered that someone had lied to them—even in a retively minor way.

  But Tissa was a sweetheart: a blunt, but lovely sweetheart.

  "We missed you at the station," said Gillian as Marci was put back down.

  "Right, yes, had some trouble back in Krefeld," said Of, gesturing to Marci. "Might be best to… keep it down, hmm? And get off the street?"

  "Arr, right you are," nodded Gillian. "Come on, we've got some…" He trailed off, staring at Anke, who was still angrily miming. "What's got your goat, ss?"

  "Marci cursed her," said Of with a sigh. "A Silence."

  "…!" mimed Anke, pointing to her throat.

  "Well maybe you shouldn't have threatened to paddle me, eh?" said Marci.

  "We feel like we are missing some context," said Tissa.

  "We were pretending that Marci was our kid," said Of, gncing back down the ne. "Anke got too into it."

  "…!" gestured Anke, miming strangling something roughly fairy-neck sized.

  "Ah, I see!" said Tissa loudly. "We are not wanting to attract attention? We understand!"

  The entire party winced as Tissa's booming voice rang down the alleyway. Marci gnced back to see that the smoking enforcer was staring down the alleyway at them. His eyes met hers, and she saw understanding filter through his thuggish brain.

  "Hey! You lot! Stop right there!" he said, tossing his cigarette away. "Hans, Stefan, leave that sack of shit, that's the fairy the Captain wants!"

  "Exactly how much 'trouble' did our Marci get into?" asked Gillian.

  "She burnt down a textile mill," said Of.

  "I was defending myself!" protested Marci. "And it was half a mill!"

  "So, we're not looking to be questioned then," said Gillian, reaching down and unhooking his hammer.

  Power crackled around his hammer, and the major earth rune and several other, specific runes lit up before he smmed the weapon down on the cobblestones.

  There were shouts and screams as earth and rock erupted upwards, breaching through the cobblestones and blocking the street entirely in a sheet of rock, ten feet high. Immediately, whistles began to sound, and Of swore.

  "How far is this pce, and is everything packed?"

  "Yes, we are all packed and ready to go!" said Tissa, who was trying to speak in a lower register, and mostly failing. "We have even bought some provisions and gear for Friend Marci!"

  "OK, then we grab our stuff, and then get the hell out of the city," said Of. "Marci, some fog please."

  'Fog' was, despite its rather innocuous name, a rather complex, difficult, and power-hungry spell. Considerably more difficult than anything she had cast in quite some time. But still, she was a powerful wizard, and if she'd bothered to have submitted her thesis, she'd have gotten her Mastery.

  She had this.

  Hopefully.

  Circles and runes formed around her, burning fiments of coalesced mana circuits that were themselves the result of smaller cantrips, as she prepared to cast the Greater Spell.

  Magic was often divided, for wizards, between things they could cast purely using internally shaped mana, with sigils and arrays formed and banced in their minds, and those they needed to physically manifest in order to keep everything in its proper pce. It was, obviously, much slower, although safer in that if they blew up and backfired, they wouldn't turn you into a red mist. Usually. Well, less often.

  She'd heard of wizards who could cast 'fourth rank' spells like Fog without the need for manifested aides, but they were archwizards all, and, at thirty-three, Marci was not yet at that level. Ranks were based not on the effects of the spell, but on the complexity of the matrices required to cast them.

  A rank one spell was simple, and even a non-wizard could, given enough time, learn to visualise the proper forms and channel mana into it by rote and with the aid of mnemonics and gestures. They wouldn't understand what they were doing like an actual wizard would, but Of knew several, such as 'Firebolt,' and the 'Scrubbing Charm.'

  Some of the simpler rank two spells were possible for non-wizards to learn, but difficult because they contained four matrices that were interacting with each other, and thus required adjustment and calcution. They were, but virtue of their complexity, capable of more powerful and subtle magic. Things like the curse that Marci had pced on Anke fell into this category.

  Following the 'Square Rank Rule,' rank three spells required nine matrices, and were the purview of wizards alone. The fireball she had hurled back in Krefeld had been an example. While in appearance, if not size, simir to a 'firebolt,' it was an order of magnitude more complex, requiring all sorts of clever arcane mathematics to keep the explosive force contained until impact.

  Rank four spells required sixteen separate matrices, and were usually only attempted by gifted wizards at the end of their bachelors, with some wizards never even making an attempt. Marci had, despite doing little to no assignments or coursework, got her degree by successfully demonstrating three during her final practical exam: Fog, Lesser Transmutation, and Teleport.

  They were also much more power-hungry spells, and usually Marci would have wanted a mana-potion on hand to scarf after casting one.

  She moved through the forms methodically, manifesting circuit after circuit, her eyes flicking over her conjured circles as runes shifted and morphed in response to her thoughts, adjusting for the local ley field, the lunar phase, and a dozen other variables that if not banced would produce a rather rge and spectacur explosion.

  A bead of sweat ran down her forehead and into her eye, and her hands shook as she struggled to bance and align everything. Fuck. This was hard, harder than she remembered. She'd never had this much trouble with a fourth rank spell, had she? Not since she'd been a student.

  Time past, she could cast rank five spells reliably, and six with assistance of a more experienced wizard. Her mastery thesis had actually been on a rank six spell, Greater Transmutation, and how it might be significantly streamlined, and she'd been working towards managing it without the aid of another wizard.

  Had she really regressed so far…?

  "Marci!" said Of, putting a hand on his sword as whistles began to blow from a cut-through to their right. "Hurry up!"

  "I've got it…" said Marci, re-bancing a matrix. She could do this. She could do this.

  She checked everything again as she felt the array beginning to degrade, the mana surging through the circuit starting to wear through. Part of her wanted to abandon to attempt, start over. She felt out of her depth. She hadn't done this in so long…

  "Marci!" shouted Of.

  No. It was all right. She was sure of it. She was a powerful and skilled wizard. This was a successfully prepared Fog spell. It would work. It would.

  Holding her breath, she poured a rge chunk of her personal reserve of mana into the spell, and the previously white runic arrays lit up blue as the raw power flowed through them, shifting and changing and channelling with mathematical precision into precisely the right form necessary to produce the effect she wanted.

  Then they vanished, and a split second ter a pulse of impossibly thick fog rolled outward, surging up into the sky and down the alleyways and out and out and out for what Marci knew would be exactly thirteen point three miles, and st for thirteen point three hours. Well, if not dispelled: but it was a pain in the arse to dispel, and any nearby wizards, if there were any skilled enough, would charge through the nose for that kind of tricky and annoying service.

  "Hah!" she gasped, doubling over, slightly winded. "Like to see… fucking Crance… manage that!"

  "It is true, Friend Crance is not capable of such great feats of spellcraft," said Tissa appreciatively. "Friend Marcy is a remarkable wizard!"

  "Yes, yes, we can stroke her ego ter," said Of, grabbing Marci's hand, and then Gillian's. "Now come on!"