sight INflames Richard A. Bartle Copyright °C Richard A. Bartle sight 2 INflames Preface Vast numbers of thanks are hereby presented to my alpha-testers, Gail Bartle and Roy Trubshaw, and to my beta-testers, Len Holgate, Clem Chambers, Ronan Flood, Trevor Martin, Bridgette Patrousky, Viktor Toth and Anne Wilson. Without their efforts, the rest of the book would read as badly as this preface does... I would also like to thank Andrew Rolfe for creating the .pdf version of the manuscript that you are now reading. sight 3 INflames sight 4 INflames sight 5 INflames Chapter 1 Magic was all about Roween, even here, and she hated it. She’d been staying in the inn almost a week now, far from towns of any consequence, waiting, trying to keep dry. It rained forever on the northern borders, heavy rain, monotonous, an unending, dull, background strum that was always present, nagging at her, drumming, insisting that it be heard no matter what she did to try shut it out. Rain, magic. If only she could once again imagine silence... She paid the barman, silver, took her coffee over to a table some way from the entrance. It was warmer, less damp there, and the distant, cloud-filtered light greyed everything to drabness, ghosted people, hid their faces; hid their eyes. The bar was busying up. Locals mainly, the usual shifts of homeward-headed miners, loggers, potters; later, there’d maybe be some of the heavy labourers who kept the rivers banked, stopped the roads and bridges from washing away. Roween glanced around, tried to look bored, picked out the day’s new outsiders: three of them — better-dressed sorts complaining to one another about their rooms, self-consciously avoiding mention of the weather. Likely they worked in sales or something; no-one she knew, anyway, no-one she was expecting. Folk here never talked about the weather, ever. Climate control is smart enough magic for the areas where it’s controlled; it’s not so smart for wherever the bad stuff crashes instead. Last time there’d been more than a day of sun in the borderlands was maybe four or five years ago, and as for night-time... Roween recalled the perpetual streams that striated the sloped window of the garret she’d rented; she shuddered. When was the last time these people had seen a star? Crack! The main door swung open wide, jarring against its stop with a juddering creak. A heartbeat passed, two, no-one entered, then just as a shout went up, "Keep out that wet!" a woman appeared, tall, young, dangerous. Throwing back the hood of a cloak as light and as dry as ashes, she paused in the doorway; her high-styled, painfully blonde hair almost gleamed as she looked about, minding for movement, eyes alert with a wincing intensity. She was Someone, and she was making an Entrance. Whispers began, low, fearful. Roween heard a hushed voice nearby — "Who..?" — but she didn’t reply, took a slow breath instead, deep, long, tried to stop her pulse from dancing stupid. It’s her, it is her, Conley of Malith. So it was starting. A man grabbed Conley by the arm. "Nice cloak, lady," he sneered. "You’re either very rich, or one big mage..." "Both," she replied, glancing at his hand, "like you’re both very drunk and one big empty-head." She walked across to the bar, the workman’s grip slackened impotent by the nervous laughter of his peers. The barkeep eyed her, face stone. "And what can I get you, miss?" She smiled, turned to face the crowd. "I’m looking for someone, a girl: she’s short, dark-haired, with quirky, crooked eyes. She came this way six, perhaps seven days ago." The room went silent, dead but for the patient patter of the rain. "I see..." Conley straightened, looked back to the barman. "You’d remember her, I think — she pays coin." He met her eyes, seemed to freeze, his cheek twitching briefly. sight 6 INflames "Well?" A nod, short, towards the corner farthest from the door. "Thank you," sweetly. "Now, let’s see if co-operation is contagious..." Stillness. Languidly, Conley strode over, stopped before a table. Behind it was seated a small figure in a large, leather greatcoat, bobbed hair framing a thin face, attractive in a way, except... Conley snorted, folded her arms. "Look at me." Roween obeyed, betrayed herself. "The librarian’s daughter, yes..." Conley was half-smiling; she broke to a grin, then immediately frowned. "Outside — now." "Inside." Glared, "Outside!" "Inside." For an instant, Conley looked like she might pick Roween up by the hair and drag her into the rain, but she collected in time, calmed herself, iced. "Fine. Inside then. It’s your secret..." Roween glanced away. She’d mind-run this encounter a hundred times, felt she ought to be able to cover whatever approach Conley took. And yet... She bit her bottom lip. Conley was pulling up a chair. Behind her, the locals wavered between staying to watch events and getting the life out while they still could. Conley paid them no heed at all, staring only at Roween, forcefully, determined. The smaller woman took another sip of coffee, leisurely faced her destroyer. "I want to know," Conley began, then faltered. "Look, I just want to know how you fixed those books." Roween nodded, slowly, the relief welling inside her. Conciliatory, managing her arrogance. She glanced down, thumbed the handle of her mug. "Fixed in what manner?" Someone was finally closing the door. Conley heard, fluttered her hand to sanction it but didn’t turn, remained focused on Roween. "Fixed in whatever manner it takes to clear the magic off every one of them!" Roween looked up, registered the anxiousness in Conley’s face. Perhaps aloofness is the wrong way to deal with her? She cleared her throat, spoke. "I know about books," swallowed, "grew up with them. Until about ten years ago, anything real sensitive they used to seal direct, half a day of gestures over each one. Took another half a day to unseal them when you wanted a read. Some special thirty-gesture segment wound in near the end, stopped you getting in unless you knew it. These days, they just slap on a Magicorp binder and it responds to a spoken password. Current opinion is, there’s no way to crack either type of seal open. Makes sense: people keep a lot more than just books behind Magicorp binders." Conley was tapping on the table with a fingernail, agitated, hurried. "Well current opinion is wrong, and wrong in a big way. Those books weren’t just opened, the seals were completely wiped. Their binders are nothing more than polished copper discs with the Magicorp logo stamped on the front, there’s not a buzz of magic inside — it’s as if they’re blank. As for the older books, it would have taken twenty years to undo all of those, even if the wound-in sequence of every one was recorded, which it wasn’t." People were beginning to sneak away, fearful, edgy. Another ten, fifteen minutes, then the law-and-order mages would be here. sight 7 INflames Roween continued. "And you think I know something about it? A lowlife bookfetch like me? You’re the doctor of magic, you figure it out." Conley’s eyes were diamond. "Listen, Roween, I’m trying to be patient, but I don’t like the way you’re throwing walls! I’ve travelled some considerable distance to find you, and now I’m here I’d greatly appreciate it if you didn’t play dumb. You know exactly what happened in that room, and you know its implications on the whole of science." She gripped the edge of the table. "Stop pretending you don’t! I could easily... Tell me, I must — " her voice shook as she retained control. "Just tell me what happened!" "Uncross my eyes." Conley was caught off-balance. She opened her mouth to speak, didn’t seem to find words. "I’ve had this squint all my life. They can do fancy cosmetic magic these days, some of the city clinics. People go in, come out you don’t recognise them. So uncross my eyes, should be simple enough for you." There were audible mutterings in from those who had chosen to stay. Conley smiled, unsure. "Is — is that all you want? If I give you normal eyes, you’ll tell me what happened to those books?" "I’ll show you." She shrugged, pulled up her right sleeve. "Fine, well, let’s see, I don’t know the sequence for a permanent fix off-hand, but I can do you a temporary to be going on with. Only illusory, of course, your vision won’t change, but your looks certainly will. Can you make a focus?" Roween obliged, holding her hand fixedly, fingers touching, pointing inwards, thumb on the second joint of her forefinger. She made mental note as the young mage began her gestures: wrist, palm, fingers, fingers — hot, she’s fast — wrist, point, fist — yes, she’s starting a minor illusion — palm, point, fingers — so she’s honest, anyway, could have tried a one-line charm or something. Conley slid into the gestures with graceful speed, locking each one just long enough for it to take before she went on to the next. She watched what she was doing, but inattentively; her hand seemed almost animated, independent of her will. Roween could only gaze and admire.