The Thorn of Dentonhill (3 page)

“Everything,” Prens moaned.

“Can you narrow it down to something I can answer in five minutes?”

“The five hundred and five rule,” Oaks said.

Veranix nodded. This was one of the few things he actually understood. “One out of every five hundred people is born with the basic, raw ability to channel
numina
.”

“To do magic,” Prens said.

“Not exactly.
Numina
is just the energy that powers magic. Channeling the energy is meaningless if you can't do something with it. That's the other part. Of those one in five hundred, only one in five also have the ability to shape
numina
in any sort of useful way.”

“Why does that matter?”

“Well, that's how you do magic. Channel the
numina
through yourself, and shape it how you want it.”

“But if you can channel it, then . . .” Oaks trailed off, looking more confused.

“This is how I got it,” Veranix said. “Imagine
numina
is like water under the ground. Doing magic is like digging a well.”

“I've helped dig a well,” Prens said.

“So the one in five hundred, that's like a spot where the water level is high enough that it's worth digging a well.”

“Where you can actually get the water.” Prens nodded.

“But it doesn't do you any good unless you have bucket or a pump or something to bring up the water.”

“And that's the one in five,” Oaks said.

Prens looked troubled. “So why is it that only one person in twenty-five hundred can actually do magic? Why do just a few people have the ability?”

“God decides,” Oaks said.

Prens ignored him. “And where does
numina
come from?”

“God makes it.”

“That's your answer for everything you don't get!” Prens rubbed his temples and sighed. “Even in theology class, it won't be the right answer!”

“There are a lot of theories about both questions,” Veranix said, “but the truth is no one really knows. Or, at least, I don't think so. These are questions for Delmin. Anyway,
numina
just is.” He pulled a little bit into his body and shaped it into sparkling lights that he let jump from one hand to the other. “It exists everywhere, always flowing, like the wind. I can feel it, but I can't explain it.”

“See, I was right,” Oaks said. “God makes it.”

“That doesn't mean—”

“Give me another—”

“I don't have to give you another—”

“All right, all right,” Veranix said, getting up from the chair. “Five minutes are up. Good luck to you both. Delmin is in the lunch hall. I'm going now.” The two of them were still arguing when he went into his bedchamber.

The chamber was narrow and cramped. There were two thin beds, two small writing desks, and one wardrobe, all made from raw, unpainted wood, graying and cracked with age. Unlit candles sat on each desk, as well as several books and loose papers. Two unlit oil lamps hung over the beds. A small window on one wall let in a trickle of sunlight. The window had been designed to open only a crack, and there were iron bars covering it. Veranix had spent a fair amount of time fiddling and magicking with the window and bars so he could get out that way, while making it look like they were still intact.

Veranix stripped off his jacket and boots and dropped onto his bed. He lay there for a moment, and then sat back up. He fished out the papers he had stolen the night before. As ready as he was to sleep, he was more anxious to find out what he had, and if it was useful.

Most of the papers were documents about the cannery: payroll, inventory, and money owed to Fenmere. Legitimate money, at least. Nothing about
effitte
or other illegal activities. Veranix grumbled to himself. Waste of time, the whole thing. He might as well just keep knocking over street dealers.

Veranix thumbed through them all again. On one receipt, he noticed something scratched on the side with a charcoal pencil. It was smudged, but it was still mostly legible.

Pellistar Dock 12, Maritan 8th, two bells past midnight.
Interesting. Anything that arrived at the docks at that hour had to be illegal. Most likely an
effitte
shipment. That was something worth checking into.

Tonight was the eighth of Maritan. It was going to be another long night. Veranix wanted to sleep until nighttime, but he couldn't allow himself more than two hours. There were still afternoon lectures to attend.

T
HE SUN WAS
hanging low when Veranix came out of the lecture hall. As good as his nap had been, a Rhetoric lecture undid it all, leaving him drained and weary. He was also famished from skipping lunch. The call for dinner service wouldn't ring for another hour.

A pair of hands gripped Veranix's shoulders. His whole body tensed. He was about to strike out blindly at the owner of the hands before he caught a glimpse of the gangly body behind him.

“Still awake after that one?” Delmin asked him.

“Barely.” Veranix relaxed as he turned to his friend.

“You hungry?”

“Always.”

“I have it on very good authority that tonight's meal at Holmwood is fish stew.” The last two words were ominous.

Veranix shuddered. “Oh, that won't rutting do at all.” Fish stew at Holmwood was notoriously awful. Common wisdom among the students was that the noxious concoction was the kitchen's method of clearing out rotting food from their stores. Veranix had had enough of fish for quite some time.

“I don't know about you,” Delmin said, “but I can definitely spare a few ticks tonight for a real meal.”

“Agreed,” Veranix said. “Blazes, I'll spend half a crown to avoid fish stew.” They walked across the campus lawn to the south gate.

The south campus lawn was a wide, open field of lush greenery, with trees shading the walkways between the buildings. Several young men had stripped off their coats and rolled up their shirtsleeves to play a spirited game of tetchball. Some girls from the women's college, housed on the north side of campus, had come to watch. Their uniforms matched the boys', but with long wool skirts and high-collared blouses, though most of them did not keep them buttoned as primly as their headmistress would have liked.

“Hey, Calbert!” one of the tetch players, blond and muscled, called. “Get over here!”

“Not today,” Veranix called back. “Next time!”

The player—Veranix recognized him as Tosler, rich son of a Lacanjan shipping merchant, biding time in school until the father figured he was ready to run some business—came halfway over to Veranix and Delmin. He spoke with the slow drawl of the coastal archduchy. “Listen up, Calbert. We're putting together a tetch squad, see . . .”

“I can't be on a squad, Toss,” Veranix said.

“Neither of us,” Delmin added. The rules about magic students playing in any official sporting squad were detailed and explicit. “Potential unfair advantage” was the language used. In Delmin's case, that was probably a blessing, as his tetch game was terrible.

“That's because mages cheat!” one of the other players yelled out. That was the real reason for the rule, because most people didn't trust mages to play fair. They didn't trust mages at all.

“Shut it!” Delmin shouted back.

“Ease off!” Tosler said. “No, look, we're making a squad because the University is hosting the Grand Tournament this summer.”

Veranix nodded. The Grand Tournament of the High Colleges of Druthal was coming to Maradaine, and most of the athletically minded students could talk of nothing else. “I know that, but I still can't serve on a squad, especially for the Grand.”

“Not as a player,” Tosler said. “But maybe as a coach or something? Give us some tips. Nobody hits a triple-jack like you.”

“That's because mages cheat!” the other player yelled again.

“Get off it!” one of the girls snapped. Veranix didn't know her, but her scarf was red and gray. He briefly wondered how many magic students there were up at the women's school.

Veranix considered Tosler's idea. There were no rules against him doing that. If he wasn't dead by summer, it might be fun. “I'll think about it, Toss. We've got to go.”

“Sure, sure,” Tosler said, and he ran back over to the game.

“Grand Tournament this summer,” Delmin said as they went back toward the campus gate. “Everyone's making such a thing.”

“Still a lifetime away,” Veranix said quietly.

A high stone archway marked the south gate of the campus. The path toward it was flanked with flagpoles and life-size statues of founders. Five flags stood on each side, one for each Archduchy of Druthal. Centered in front of the arch was one more statue—a twelve-foot colossus of bronze—and flagpole, larger and higher than the others. The statue was of King Maradaine XI, who had united the ten archduchies in 1009. Flying above him, the flag of Druthal, dark blue with two crossed pikes over a golden circle, the circle in ten colored segments.

Two cadets in gray army uniforms stood at the arch, sabers hanging sheathed at their hips. Veranix didn't know either of them, but they were both students in the University's Army Officer Program. Campus guard duty was part of their training. Fortunately for Veranix, most of them did not take it too seriously. They usually only nodded in approval as students left or entered campus.

On the other side of the arch was Lilac Street, and the busy madness that was Aventil Neighborhood. Opposite the campus wall was a line of shops, buildings made of rough stone and chipped plaster. Every shop had some of its wares displayed on wooden tables out in the street, and other carts with more merchandise were squeezed into any inch of spare space, making it nearly impossible to determine where one shop ended and the next began. Horse carriages, pedalcarts, and handtrucks filled the street, as people darted between them to cross from one side to the other. Newsboys stood in the middle of walkways, hawking their prints and promising lurid stories.

“Scandal on the Parliament floor!” one shouted. “Two ticks for the
South Maradaine Gazette
!”

“City alderman mistress tells all!” another shouted back. “Just one tick for the
Free Aventil Press
! The News you really want!”

As soon as Veranix and Delmin emerged from the arch, a young man came right up to them, clearly lying in wait for students to come out. He was roughly dressed, his pants, waistcoat, and jacket each from different suits, worn and threadbare. On top of his head was a gray hat, with a wide, round brim and flat top.

“Gentlemen, gentlemen, gentlemen,” he fired off with manic glee. He stood with his arms wide, as if threatening to embrace them. “What would you fine young men be seeking tonight? Pleasure or sport of any kind?” Veranix kept his eyes on the boy's hands, knowing all too well how quickly they could find purses and pockets.

“We'll find it ourselves, thanks,” Veranix said, moving to walk around him as widely as he could manage. The boy bolted backward to stay ahead of them.

“Now, now, gentlemen, that's no way to get along. No way to get along at all. You boys should know well enough that the neighborhood boys are always on hand to help out lads like yourself.” He smiled at them.

“We know that just fine,” Delmin said, not making eye contact with him.

“Right you are,” the boy said. “So what will it be? I have it on good authority that in Golman's Club, just over there, awaits the finest dark beer in Aventil—”

Veranix couldn't help but let out a laugh at that. The boy continued, scowling at Veranix.

“Also there will be at least five bouts of bare-knuckle boxing. Fine sport just to watch, my friends.”

“In Golman's Club?” Veranix asked. “That's six blocks over, on Violet.”

“Just so, just so,” said the boy, “And if you don't want to walk that, I've got my cousin right over there with his pedalcab. He can run you by in a whistle.” He pointed down the street, where another young man in a flat-top hat sat with a three-wheeled carriage, ready to pedal off at a moment's notice. Given that these two weren't in their territory, that at least was smart.

“Right,” Veranix said. “For how much?”

“Tell you what, tell you what,” said the boy, “Since you are two smart University boys, I'm not going to try and pull any fleece here. Four ticks each for the ride.”

“Four ticks?” asked Delmin, stammering a little. “That's . . . that's not unreasonable.”

“That's the spirit, lad.” He slapped Delmin on the shoulder. Delmin winced. Veranix stepped in between, getting in the boy's face.

“We're heading up Rose Street, chap,” Veranix said.

“Rose Street,” the boy said with a nod. “So it's full stomachs and willing laps you seek.”

“Just the meal,” Veranix said. He walked away, pulling Delmin with him.

“Oh, come now,” the boy said, catching up with them. “Young men like you are always looking for a clean doxy for a roll. Over on Violet we've got more than a few.”

“I'm sure you do,” Veranix said. He looked the boy up and down, taking in every bit of his look. “You're pretty keen on bringing us over to Violet. Most students don't go farther into the neighborhood than Rose or Orchid.”

“I'm just trying—”

“To pull some University coin to your streets,” Veranix said.

“Hey now,” the boy said, drawing himself up, trying to make himself look taller than Veranix. “Most you Uni kids don't know what they can find over by Violet.”

“I'm sure,” Veranix said. “But the real question is, do the Rose Street Princes or Hallaran's Boys know you are trying to push into their territory?”

“What you know about it?” the boy said. He scowled and gripped Veranix on the shoulder, pushing hard.

Veranix instinctively slapped the boy's hand away. “Just what I see and hear. I go into Aventil enough to recognize the usual faces who do hassles and shakes. And they never push to Violet. I don't know what gang you and your cousin are in—”

“Knights of Saint Julian,” said the boy proudly. His hands went into his coat pockets as he glowered at the two of them. “We'll be running the Uni gates in due course, so you all better learn some respect.”

Veranix presumed the boy was getting ready to pull out a knife. It would be a stupid thing for the kid to do, but street gang kids always did stupid things.

“Veranix,” Delmin said nervously, “Why don't we just . . .” He trailed off, and looked around them. Everyone on the street was minding their own business.

“We're going over to Rose Street now,” Veranix said, pointing down the block. “If you want to follow us, maybe into the Turnabout, you can tell everyone how they need to respect the Knights of Saint Justin.”

“Saint Julian, mate,” the boy said, his eyes narrowing in anger.

“Right,” Veranix said. “Shout that over on Rose Street.” Veranix grabbed Delmin by the coat and pulled him around the corner.

“Sweet blasted saints of every town!” Delmin swore. Veranix noticed his friend was pale and covered with sweat. “What the blazes were you doing, trying to get us stabbed by a ganger?”

“Please,” Veranix said, looking back behind them to see the kid wasn't following them. “That kid was already off his block. He wasn't going to stab a student in the middle of the street in broad daylight. The RSP and Hallaran's Boys would hit back in Saint Julian territory hard.”

“How . . . how do you know this sort of thing?” Delmin stared at him. “I grew up in Maradaine, and I don't know what which gang would do to who and why.”

“You grew up on the north side,” Veranix said, walking down Rose Street. “Stately houses and tree-lined walks around the Parliament house.”

“It's not all like that,” Delmin said. “And you grew up on a merchant caravan, even farther away.”

“Right,” Veranix said quickly, remembering what Delmin believed about his past. He unconsciously glanced over to the window of the apartment over the postal depot; the apartment his parents lived in for only a week. Absently, he wondered who lived in there now. He shook off the thought, turning back to Delmin. “But we live right off of Aventil, and I pay attention to what's going on in the neighborhood.”

“Is it just me, or is the neighborhood getting more dangerous?” Delmin asked.

“It's you,” Veranix said. He looked down Rose Street, filled with clubs and taverns. The street was narrow, a handful of carriages crammed in single file heading east toward Waterpath. All the shops and houses here were brick, stone, and plaster, nothing higher than three stories. Sunlight reached the street in this neighborhood, unlike Dentonhill, and that warmth and brightness extended to the residents. Along the walkways were several makeshift stands with brick stoves, where locals grilled meat and dished out soup for a few ticks, all of them greeting passersby with a wave and a smile.

Aventil was a decent neighborhood. The Aventil street gangs weren't organized, beyond agreeing that Fenmere's crew shouldn't cross into the neighborhood, nor were they particularly dangerous. They would pick pockets, hustle, and burgle. Sometimes they would aggressively support the neighborhood, pushing people into giving their business to specific vendors, and then shake their favored vendors for a share of the profits. Despite that, they mostly stayed away from flat out bullying and extortion. They would muscle in on brewers to control the sale of beer or cider, but they didn't touch dangerous drugs like
hassper
or
effitte
, stuff that shredded people or ruined lives. Only bosses like Fenmere trafficked in trash like that.