The Blade Itself

“Don’t tell me, Juvens’ Principles of Art?”

“The very first lines,” said Bayaz.

“Forgive me for saying so, but I’ve been on this world for more than thirty years, and I’ve yet to understand a single thing that’s happened. To know the world completely? To understand everything? That’s quite a task.”

The Magus chuckled. “An impossible one, to be sure. To truly know and understand even a blade of grass is the study of a lifetime, and the world is ever changing. That is why we tend to specialise.”

“So what did you choose?”

“Fire,” said Bayaz, gazing happily into the flames, the light dancing on his bald head. “Fire, and force, and will. But even in my chosen fields, after countless long years of study, I remain a novice. The more you learn, the more you realise how little you know. Still, the struggle itself is worthwhile. Knowledge is the root of power, after all.”

“So with enough knowledge, you Magi can do anything?”

Bayaz frowned. “There are limits. And there are rules.”

“Like the First Law?” Master and apprentice glanced up at Logen as one. “It’s forbidden to speak with devils, am I right?” It was plain that Quai didn’t remember his fevered outburst, his mouth was open with surprise. Bayaz’ eyes only narrowed a little, with the faintest trace of suspicion.

“Why, yes you are,” said the First of the Magi. “It is forbidden to touch the Other Side direct. The First Law must apply to all, without exception. As must the Second.”

“Which is?”

“It is forbidden to eat the flesh of men.”

Logen raised an eyebrow. “You wizards get up to some strange stuff.”

Bayaz smiled. “Oh, you don’t know the half of it.” He turned to his apprentice, holding up a lumpy brown root. “And now, Master Quai, would you be good enough to tell me the name of this?”

Logen couldn’t help grinning to himself. He knew this one.

“Come, come, Master Quai, we don’t have all night.”

Logen wasn’t able to stand the apprentice’s misery any longer. He leaned toward him, pretending to poke at the fire with a stick, coughed to conceal his words and whispered, “Crow’s Foot,” under his breath. Bayaz was a good distance away, and the wind was still rustling in the trees. There was no way the Magus could have heard him.

Quai played his part well. He continued to peer at the root, brow knitted in thought. “Is it Crow’s Foot?” he ventured.

Bayaz raised an eyebrow. “Why, yes it is. Well done, Malacus. And can you tell me its uses?”

Logen coughed again. “Wounds,” he whispered, looking carelessly off into the bushes, one hand shielding his mouth. He might not know too much about plants, but on the subject of wounds he had a wealth of experience.

“I believe it’s good for wounds,” said Quai slowly.

“Excellent, Master Quai. Crow’s Foot is correct. And it is good for wounds. I am glad to see we are making some progress after all.” He cleared his throat. “It does seem curious that you should use that name however. They only call this Crow’s Foot north of the mountains. I certainly never taught you that name. I wonder who it is you know, from that part of the world?” He glanced over at Logen. “Have you ever considered a career in the magical arts, Master Ninefingers?” He narrowed his eyes at Quai once more. “I may have space for an apprentice.”

Malacus hung his head. “Sorry, Master Bayaz.”

“You are indeed. Perhaps you could clean the pots for us. That task may be better suited to your talents.”

Quai reluctantly shrugged off his blanket, collected the dirty bowls and shuffled off through the brush towards the stream. Bayaz bent over the pot on the fire, adding some dried-up leaves to the bubbling water. The flickering light of the flames caught the underside of his face, the steam curled around his bald head. All in all, he looked quite the part.

“What is that?” asked Logen, reaching for his pipe. “Some spell? Some potion? Some great work of High Art?”

“Tea.”

“Eh?”

“Leaves of a certain plant, boiled up in water. It is considered quite a luxury in Gurkhul.” He poured some of the brew out into a cup. “Would you like to try it?”

Logen sniffed at it suspiciously. “Smells like feet.”

“Suit yourself.” Bayaz shook his head and sat back down beside the fire, wrapping both hands around the steaming cup. “But you’re missing out on one of nature’s greatest gifts to man.” He took a sip and smacked his lips in satisfaction. “Calming to the mind, invigorating to the body. There are few ills a good cup of tea won’t help with.”

Logen pressed a lump of chagga into the bowl of his pipe. “How about an axe in the head?”

“That’s one of them,” admitted Bayaz with a grin. “Tell me, Master Ninefingers, why all the blood between you and Bethod? Did you not fight for him many times? Why do you hate each other so?”

Logen paused as he was sucking smoke from the pipe, let his breath out. “There are reasons,” he said stiffly. The wounds of that time were still raw. He didn’t like anyone picking at them.

“Ah, reasons.” Bayaz looked down at his tea-cup. “And what of your reasons? Does this feud not cut both ways?”