Vainglory: A LitRPG Adventure, page 42
“It’s easier. The spell you gave me is stronger because it’s more of an open-ended magic; it can do many different things. This one does a specific enchantment every time you cast it. Not only that, but it doesn’t create something from nothing like some other spells. This one just brings out the hidden strength in an object and sweet-talks it into acting a certain way. Those are easier kinds of spells to master.”
“Sweet talks? Like in my example, if I cast this on a stone, would that mean the spell is talking to the stone?”
“More like it’s talking to the bit of spirit in that stone that’s connected to the rest of the universe. It gives the stone purpose.”
“Huh. I like it. So getting an existing object to do something is easier than creating an object out of nothing.”
“An object, an element, a spirit, aye.”
“But the ‘reveal secrets’ spell doesn’t create…” Ward stopped speaking, remembering the weird phantoms who’d shown him the secrets of his room at the inn.
“That spell digs things out of people or objects, and it looks deeply. I tried it once after you left. Cast it on my dead sister’s favorite comb.” She shuddered. “Learned something I wish I hadn’t. Also cried bloody tears for an hour!” She laughed and then scooped the contents of her pan into a big wooden bowl. Carrying it over to the table, she asked, “Almost done?”
“Yeah, just checking to make sure I didn’t make any mistakes with your little stick figures.”
“Don’t forget the timings.”
“Nope, got ’em.” Ward folded his paper in half, then scooted back from the table. “Sure you won’t let any others go?”
Again, she laughed. “Not for anything you’d be willing to bargain!”
Ward knew better than to press his luck, and he felt pretty good about the spell she’d given him; it sounded useful in a thousand different ways. “Will you be offended if I don’t stay to visit?”
“Shoo! Go on! Get out there and take care of your important business.” She smiled the whole time she waved him off.
Ward went to the door and called back to her, “I’ll try to stop by again before I leave town.”
“Do that! Also, get yourself a good grimoire before someone pickpockets those spells off ya.”
“That’s just what I’m planning to do right now.” Smiling, Ward slipped out the door. It was swollen with moisture, and he had to pull hard to get it to close properly. Brushing his hands together, he turned to the gate and briskly walked back toward town. As he put a little distance between himself and the hut, Grace appeared, walking beside him. “Hey.”
“Hey, yourself. That went well, didn’t it? I was impressed the old lady gave you that spell for free.”
“Not for free, Grace. She gave it to me ’cause I was a shitty bargainer when I went there before.”
“Well, she still could’ve charged you. I would have.”
“Yeah, but you’re not nice. I’m nice, which makes normal people want to be nice back. See how that works?”
“Nice? I can think of a few people with aching skulls around Tarnish who might disagree! So, where next? The magical dentist?”
“Hah. Yeah, I guess so. He’s an artificer, so I can ask him about a spellbook while I’m checking on my bullets. Gonna inquire about a hemograph, too. I mean, a better one than I’ve got. What do you think of this spell I got?”
“It certainly sounds good. If you can cast that spell on a bullet…” She trailed off, clearly savoring an imagined scenario. “I bet you could make quite a trick shot.”
“Even if it doesn’t work on a bullet, I could enchant my spear. The first guy who messes with me is going to regret it, right?”
“Seems like it. Let me ask you something: When you do that memorizing thing—you know, the meditative dance routine—can you tell which movements are for which words?”
“Yeah. I mean, I’ve only done it once, for one spell, so I’m not sure it’s always like that, but when I was shifting from position to position, I could tell what words resonated. It was like… a harmony, I guess. I could feel when the word I focused on was responding to the movements. Why?” Ward nodded to the guard on duty as he walked through the gate. Traffic was light, and he wondered why that was. Were there certain days people brought things in and out of the city for trade? Were there market days?
“Well, if you start to learn more and more words and learn how they work, I wonder if you couldn’t start to build your own spells.”
“Huh. Maybe I could! I mean, I’ll know what kinds of movements to make with each word, and if I try to use them in ways similar to spells I’ve already mastered—”
“Exactly! At first, at least. You could try to experiment more broadly as you gain more power. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”
“That’s what I was going to say. Never know—I might pick up enough new spells to keep us both happy and busy. Maybe I’ll twist something out of Nevkin when I catch him.”
“Woah!” Grace laughed. “Starting to sound more and more like me. I love it!”
“All right, I’m lost. Can you guide me to the guy’s shop?”
“The guy?” Grace pointed to the left side of the next intersection. “Turn that way. His name’s Mr. Frine.” Ward followed her directions, and after another ten minutes of pleasant strolling, he walked through the door accompanied by the ding of a distant bell. He went straight up to the counter and was already standing there, leaning one elbow on the wooden top, when the artificer stepped through a side passage obscured by a burgundy curtain.
“Ah! Mr. Dyer, I’m pleased to see you. I’ve finished one of your bullets, but I thought we should test it before I go through the trouble of crafting more.”
“One, huh? Have you been waiting long to test it? I’d have liked to get those bullets in hand by tomorrow.” Ward tried not to frown, but he was annoyed that the man hadn’t asked him to come to test the bullet sooner.
“I hope you’ll remember our bargain—you agreed not to try to rush my process. I only finished the casing yesterday, and my friend took a bit longer than I’d hoped to get the mix right on his alchemical fire. If it works, I should be able to do the other nineteen casings all at once, and they only need twelve hours or so to absorb enough mana for the inscription to catalyze.” When Ward only nodded, frowning, he continued, “Would you care to come back to the alley to try it out? You have your pistol?”
“Yeah.” Ward pulled on his lapel, opening his jacket to reveal the pistol’s grip. “Should I walk around outside?”
“No, just follow me.” He gestured toward the rear of the shop, and Ward followed him out, through his little stock room, and then into the back alley. Small crates were stacked against the building beside the door, and Mr. Frine picked one up and took a few paces down the alley until he stood behind his neighbor’s rear door. “I’ll set this crate here. If you can shoot it, the bullet should slow enough as it passes so it won’t bounce far off the cobbles.”
“No, no. Put it there in front of that barrel full of scrap. That’ll keep the bullet from bouncing through someone’s window.” Ward wondered at the guy’s idiotic perception of bullet ricochet mechanics. It made him want to go and buy a thick metal helmet and a breastplate—who knew when some moron would decide target practice down an open alley was a good idea. As he thought about it, he wondered why he didn’t hear more shots going off. There didn’t seem to be any law about it. As Frine moved the crate, he pulled his gun from its holster. “Hey, I never hear people shooting around town. Is this illegal?”
“Not, per se, but the watch would likely frown on it. We’ll be back inside before anyone knows where the explosion came from; don’t worry.”
“Explosion?” Ward looked around for Grace, wanting a conspirator to share in his snark. She wasn’t visible, though.
“Well, what do you call it when a bullet explodes from a barrel?” Mr. Frine asked as he returned, holding out a silver, rune-etched cartridge in the palm of his hand. The lead bullet was flat and shaped just like the one he’d given the man as an exemplar, making it a close match for his other .357 rounds. It felt right in his hand and looked like a work of art with all those runes on the casing.
“Pretty.” Ward took it and held it up in the light. “I’d call it a gunshot, Mr. Frine,” he added off-handedly as he popped open the cylinder of his revolver, put the bullet into the chamber just left of the top center, and then snapped it shut. He pulled the hammer back with his thumb, rolling the cylinder so the round was under the hammer, and then he pointed the gun at the crate and gently squeezed the trigger. A thunderous boom sounded, a black cloud of smoke erupted from the gun, and a fist-sized hole exploded in the barrel above and behind the crate. He’d missed a shot he could’ve made blindfolded with proper ammo. “Jesus Christ.” Ward opened and closed his mouth, trying to get his ears to pop.
“It works!” the artificer crowed, obviously delighted with his work. Ward popped open the cylinder on his gun and held it up, turning it left and right, worried he’d damaged the firearm with the unorthodox ammunition.
“I guess, technically. It ain’t pretty, though.” Ward snapped the cylinder shut after pulling out the casing. “Doesn’t look like it damaged my gun, but maybe you could lighten the load on the next ones you make. Like, 20 percent less powder.”
“Powder?”
“Yeah, the, uh, alchemical fire.”
“Oh, it’s more crystalline than powdery, but sure, I can do that. I’ll just pack a bit more cotton fibers into the casing to keep it from jostling around.”
“Yeah, that’s good. Listen, I didn’t notice anything off when I looked at the bullet, but you have to be sure the thing is exactly the same size as the example I gave you. If the lead is too narrow, it’ll fit in the gun and shoot through the barrel, but the rifling won’t work right. It’s got to be perfect, okay?”
“Understood, sir. I’ll try to have them ready for delivery tomorrow at noon. While the casing enchantments are catalyzing, I’ll cast the bullets and be sure to measure them from every angle.”
“Perfect. Now, before I leave, you wouldn’t happen to know anything about grimoires, would you?”
“Grimoires?” He looked confused for a second, but then he laughed and shook his head. “Spellbooks! Naturally, I do! I keep all of my artificing runes in one. Anyone who works with mana, be they artificer, enchanter, alchemist, or”—he nodded to Ward—“sorcerer, strives to keep their secrets safe from prying eyes. Come into my shop, and I’ll show you a book I have for sale.”
Ward followed him back inside, setting the empty cartridge on the counter when they got back to it. Mr. Frine pocketed it, then went back to his stock shelves, rummaging. “That seemed really loud. Do you think it damaged your gun?” Grace asked, suddenly sitting on the counter beside him.
Ward shrugged. “I hope not. It was louder than my other bullets but didn’t kick much more than usual. I think it’s just the way that shitty explosive sounds.”
“What was that, sir?”
“Nothing. Just musing.”
Grace smiled, gently tapping one of her polished nails on her chin. “I am sort of like a muse, aren’t I? That’s what I should have called myself when we first met. I wonder how your attitude would change if you considered me a muse and not a devil?”
“Personally, I’m glad you didn’t lie. Let’s keep things honest, yeah?”
“Sure.” Grace turned to regard Mr. Frine as he returned and set a sturdy, black leather book on the counter. It had fine silver hinges on the cover and four silver posts topped with knurled nuts going through the binding behind them.
“The book is designed so you can add and remove pages as needed. See?” Mr. Frine loosened the knurled nuts on the posts, then opened the cover to show Ward how the pages were loose and could be lifted off the four posts. “You just put holes in your page and slip them onto those posts. I have fifty blank pages in here, but you can remove or add as many as you can fit inside the cover.”
“Nice. And is it enchanted to keep people from reading my stuff?”
“Oh yes! Look here.” He showed Ward a multi-layered spiral diagram of weird runes inside the cover and, at its center, a dime-sized inlaid circle of silver. “Place a drop of your blood on this ritual circle, and the book will become attuned to you. Anyone else who tries to open it will find naught but blank pages.”
Ward grinned, closing the book and pulling it closer to him on the counter. “Very nice, indeed, Mr. Frine. Now, before we talk glories, what can you tell me about hemographs?”
44
A GOOD MOOD
“Hemographs?” Ward detected a note of scorn in Mr. Frine’s voice. “I have one, but it’s been collecting dust for nearly a decade. Only sorcerers take any stock—” His eyes bulged out behind his spectacles, and he looked at Ward as though he’d just been caught with his fingers in someone else’s pie. He’d clearly forgotten who he was speaking to for a moment. “There goes my mouth, running away from me. Of course! I have a wonderful model here. Let me go and fetch it!”
Ward didn’t mind the slip; if anything, it would help him if he decided to try to buy the hemograph, assuming it proved to be better than the one he’d gotten from the dead scav. Frine bustled into the back room, and Grace cleared her throat. “Seems like ‘normal’”—she made air quotes—“folks don’t use those things.”
Ward leaned forward on the counter, resting his chin in his hand. “I guess it wouldn’t tell you a whole lot if you weren’t gathering mana, changing things up from time to time. Everyone would just be a ‘basic’ human with ‘tin’ or ‘tier one’ readings.”
“Well, make sure this guy doesn’t fleece you; sounds like he hasn’t been able to sell this thing—” She clamped her mouth shut as Mr. Frine returned, carrying a small, polished wooden box about the size of a big hard-cover book. He set it down on the counter in front of Ward and rubbed a soft cloth over the rich, cherry-colored wood, brushing off some dust and exposing bright brass hinges and an inset brass knob. “It’s a little bulkier than some, but the artificer who traded this to me swore it was worth its weight in gold to a sorcerer like yourself.”
Ward chuckled. “My, but your tune has changed.”
“Well, to be fair—”
“Now, Mr. Frine, I’m a fair man; let’s both speak as though we understand that neither of us wants to get fleeced. I’m willing to admit that I don’t think you’re an idiot if you’ll do the same for me.” He stared hard at the little man until he slowly nodded.
“Fair enough.” He touched the little burled knob. “Twist this to open the lid.” He demonstrated, turning the knob until a click sounded, and then he lifted the lid to expose a smooth expanse of faintly green-tinted glass, beneath which Ward could see the tell-tale liquid that would spell out his readings. “All of the enchantments are on the interior, beneath the aetherflux.”
“Is there a needle?”
“Ah, yes.” He tapped his fingernail on a small brass circle in the upper left-hand corner. “If you depress this little button, allowing your finger to descend beneath the surface level, a needle will rapidly take a sample. I tried it once when I first acquired the device, and it stung, but nothing worse than the prick of a pin.”
“No way to clean the needle?”
“Why would you need to? The device carries a rather heavy charge of etheric spark. It would surely kill any germs or bacteria—nothing alive could exist within it for more than a few seconds.”
Ward was unreasonably relieved to hear the man mention germs and bacteria; he’d been afraid the strange steam-age society hadn’t developed an understanding of such things. “Etheric spark?”
“Energy derived from the ambient mana in the air. It’s what powers most devices like this.”
“Mmhmm.” Ward nodded, reaching for the box, turning it left and right, and examining all the corners. He tilted the cover on its little hinges, ensuring none were loose. It appeared to be very well made. He gestured to the brass circle. “May I try it?”
“Of course.” Mr. Frine looked at the device and then at Ward. He gestured toward the back room. “I’ll unpack some stock to give you a little privacy.”
“Much appreciated.” Ward watched him leave, then touched the brass “button” with his finger. “Here goes,” he muttered, more than a little leery of sticking his finger into the weird mechano-magical device. Grace leaned close but held her tongue as he slowly depressed the metal disc. His pointer finger had sunk into the box about a quarter of an inch when he felt a strange, static tingling. He spasmed at the sensation and pulled his finger out.
“You chicken!” Grace laughed. “Come on, Ward, just do it fast. Push it down; don’t think about it.”
He sighed, ignoring her, and put his finger back on the metal. “Three, two—” Grace reached out and jammed his finger down. The metal sank, it clicked, and something stabbed his finger. It felt exactly how he thought it would: like someone stabbing a needle into his flesh.
“Shit!” he cussed, yanked his finger out, and the brass disc snapped back into place, plugging the hole. Despite his hasty withdrawal, the box came to life. The screen lit up with faint luminescence, and the aetherflux began to shift and roil as something like ticking gears sounded from within. “That was an asshole move.” Ward stuck his finger in his mouth and watched the liquid swirl.
Grace stretched out atop the counter, her nose an inch from the edge of the box, watching. “I thought it was funny.”
“You think it’ll show as much as Maggie’s?” The aetherflux had begun to glow and separate, forming lines and whorls, the component pieces of words and letters shifting toward each other.
“No idea, but I hope so. I like the green color of this one; it’s pretty.”
Ward snorted, but before he could think of a response, the glowing, liquid numbers and letters displayed his readings in a neat, orderly table.
