Chapter 6: Lechery (not really), Listening, and Laundry

Tess stirred in my arms, awoken by my morning mantra ritual, no doubt. She blinked a few times, cleaning the sleep gunk and dried tears from her eyes. Clear, she noticed what, or who, she was using as a pillow. A sad smile crossed her features, fleeting, then suddenly morphing into her more natural impish grin.

“Don’t get too excited, buddy.”

“Wouldn’t think of it, pal.” My reply was oh-so-smooth. “Besides, your head is as heavy as anvil.”

“’Cause my mind is a steel trap, don’t you know?”

“A mouse trap, maybe.” This was how we diffused things when it got awkward. She was still resting against me.

Tess placed one hand against my chest, pushing herself off and coming to a graceful stand. Then, with both hands pushing on her back, she arched into a stretch. I did my best not to stare.

“Damn,” she suddenly said. She gazed out the kitchen window, gauging the growing height of the morning sun. “It’s late!”

By my inexpert judgment, it was no more than an hour past dawn. Sure enough, the clock readout on my HUD agreed. Before the big contact of fifty [torchlight] scrolls had crossed master Alric’s desk, I’d still be snuggly asleep.

“Go, get ready,” I told her. “I’ll reheat some porridge for you.”

“Thanks,” she tossed back as she headed to the bath.

I heard the water running in the shower before I even made it to the kitchen. There, I heated up enough of the gruel for both of us, along with buttered toast. I snagged a couple of the local equivalent to apples, purple-skinned and super sweet, barely managing to get everything placed before Tess reappeared. Her still-wet hair was pulled back into a practical pony, with beads of water darkening her already jet-black curls.

She shoveled down the thick porridge in moments, carb-fueling for the day of running ahead of her. Holding a piece of toast between her teeth, she shoved the apple in a pocket and threw me a wave of thanks before rushing out of the apartment.

“Have a good day,” I told the closing door.

I ate my breakfast more sedately, waiting for the scroll of [heat; minor ] in the pipes to recharge. Buying a multi-use scroll able to charge itself hadn’t been cheap, but worth it. If I’d cheaped out and gone for single-use scrolls, I would have had to buy them from Master Alric by the dozens. Even with my Apprentice’s discount, the cost would soon outstrip the higher quality one. I still needed to float my idea of inserting the scrolls directly into the plumbing to the Artisan’s Guild. It would need some sort of quick-change mechanic for it to be practical. I’d work on that after the looming contract was fulfilled.

Oh, crap! I forgot all about the exercise I was supposed to do last night. Master Alric was bound to ask me about it, and I don’t think he’ll take cradling a friend to sleep as an acceptable excuse.

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He didn’t ask. When I got to the shop, the Master was up and already working. That was three days in a row. I was a proud apprentice. He didn’t even berate me for showing myself after him. He was busy prepping all of the parchment needed for the order. Fifty-three, mid-quality sheets. He always purchased an extra three backups before a batch order. It allowed for the occasional, and only occasional, mistake. Why was it always three? Maybe it was a magical number (School House Rock!). These were rarely needed, he was a master crafter, but the habit helped to keep the shelves stocked with supplies. He often went ahead and made duplicates of whatever was ordered, too. This gave him a continual supply to sell to walk-ins. Especially with something like [torchlight], there was always a need.

When there wasn’t a contract to work on, he worked on the on-hand supply. There were a few staple scrolls in constant demand by the populace. Not every elf was a mage. They could access [mana], yes, enough to trigger a scroll or magical item. Like you didn’t need to be an electrician to flick a light switch. To become an actual mage, one had to attend a dedicated academy, and have enough potential to pass the entrance exams. I’d thought about trying my hand, but the thought of being utterly scrutinized by examiners and professors made my skin crawl. Who knew what they would find out, or what they would do about it? Even though my implants would undoubtedly give me an upper hand, I couldn’t take the risk.

The author's tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

In addition to the ever-popular [torchlight]--who didn't need to see at night? Bats, rats, and...vats? No, that's a book--there were [heat]ing scrolls of the minor, average, and greater quality. Scrolls of [chill], in all levels, for food storage; [preserve]; [lock] and [unlock]; [purify]. A whole host of them to meet everyday needs. The elves used all these in place of the technology that had developed on Earth. There was pretty much a magical equivalent of most things I was used to. No Internet, smartphones, or video games, sadly. Only practical stuff. There was a gap in the market here for, say, a savvy entrepreneur misplaced from their home world (insert evil laughter).

“Enough mixing, for now, Book.”

I breathed a sigh of relief. It was going to cost me a fortune to get the stains out of my work robes. Good thing I had two sets.

“Yes, Mater Alric. Should I start the infusion?”

“Obviously, Book. What else would you be doing?”

Ah, snark. My training would not be complete without it. “Yes, Mater.” Always a safe response.

This was the tricky part. If I screwed up, the ink would be useless. Well, it would still be ink and could be used as such. Just not for magic scrolls. There was only one chance at a successful infusion. Something about creating holes in the individual cells formed from the process, letting out the stored potential. Either it took on a nice, silvery sheen, or turned into a milky gray mess. Alric would sell the latter to Mr. Wordsworth on the cheap, who used it for his apprentices to practice with. He had three of them, all his sons. His youngest, Magali, was in his early teens, so he needed a lot of practice. I sympathized. It made me feel better that some use was made of my failures. By the by, if Mr. Wordsworth was as old as he looked, and Magali as young as he looked, the only thing I have to say is…You go, Mr W.!

Guess what? Time to get to work.

First, I quieted my thoughts (harder than Master A. would think). Then I opened up my innate wellspring of [mana]. The elves were born with an anatomical organ for this. For me, an artificial receptacle took its place. I have no idea how the technology meshed with natural magic. I did have an advantage, here. My control over the collection of [mana] was regulated with a programmed algorithm, not a ‘feel’. It also negated the fear of losing too much internal [mana] to leakage. If sloppy, an elf could shave years off of their life force. Could that be why Wordsworth looked so much older than his offspring? That never occurred to me before.

This was where I’d always let the ambient life energy fill the receptacle on its own. It took considerable time. My artificial storage seemed to hold an immense amount. That larger-than-normal capacity was one of the reasons Master Alric had given in and taken me on as his apprentice. His eyes had about popped out at it. Thinking back to the lecture from yesterday, I wondered if I could take this step more aggressively. How do you bribe an energy, alive or not?

Bribing, at its core, was the same as coaxing. They both were the art of enticing something to listen to you in return for a reward. The only thing I could think of was purpose. Every living thing needed a reason to not merely exist, but to progress along its individual path. Plants wanted to grow, baby birds wanted to fly, and apprentices wanted to learn. So I did something on the rare side for any student. I listened. Since I learned by listening, I listened to the [mana].

Except, that wasn’t right. Close, but not on the mark. I was one step too soon. If listening was the teachings of the instructor, that instructor still needed someone to listen to them. There was no point in lecturing in an empty classroom. Right now, my classroom, the internal vessel, was empty. I needed students. And how do you get butts in the seats? You offer them the opportunity for a better future. So, I offered. Come to me, gather in my classroom, and I’ll give you something you desire. A purpose.

Played the metaphor a little hard. It was also one of those ‘aha!’ moments, the kind that seem so obvious in the rearview mirror. The trick of it was to take the path for the first time. Once there, you could smack yourself in the forehead for taking so long to get it.

“I give you potential," I muttered. If Master Alric thought I was crazy, talking to myself, he did not interrupt. “Potential, for a purpose to come. Join me, gather in my classroom.” OK, that last line might have seen Alric raising an eyebrow. I made sure to keep the ongoing chant in my head, and not out loud where I could be judged and found wanting.

The reservoir filled fast after that. In not time at all, I was primed and ready to deal out a little purpose to the [mana] flooding to me. I cast a side glance at Master Alric. The astonished look in his eyes would feed my ego for days to come. The purpose I gave to the [mana] was a two-step one. Fill this ink with life, and the ink would be used by a Master crafter. One that would in turn impart a greater purpose, a respectable purpose. Even if not flashy, it would be a noble one.

Craaack!!

The bulk storage carafe exploded, ink splaying everywhere. It dripped from the ceiling, coated the walls in rorschach images, and pooled in the creases of my second—and only clean!—set of robes. Master Alric’s fine leather slippers were soaked through. A single drop of ethereal silver, high-quality ink clung to the tip of his nose.

Alric’s eyes slowly uncrossed, their focus shifting from the shining star on the end of his patrician proboscis (he-he, alliteration), and fixed firmly on me.

“Too much?”

“Too much.”