I, for one, imagine that we envy them.
Silent creatures with sorcery hitherto unknown?
Who are they to keep their gifts a secret?
We humans have a habit of stripping mysteries bare,
And what we cannot understand, we fear.
And what we fear, we domesticate.
~~On the Nature of Djinn, Before the First Binding
----------------------------------------
The needlework took far longer and was far more expensive than Callam had hoped. He tried to haggle at one point, but his efforts proved fruitless; he had never dreamed of owning highborn clothes before, so he knew little of their price. Eventually, he resigned himself to his fate, sitting sullenly as the seamstress poked, prodded, and stabbed him twice with a small needle, then told him that ‘none of it would do!’ and that the process would have to ‘begin anew.’ By the time she finally accepted his money—seven coppers and the full two rymers he had been given—it was well past three and easing into four.
Callam’s least favorite time to be midtown.
In the hustle and bustle of the midday market, it was easy for him to forget the conditions that led to Port Cardica’s prosperity—or for him to remember the disparities that drove its people to unrest. Come late afternoon, those inequities became impossible to ignore. Callam stepped out of Gilded Robes and Garments to promises of an early-morning delivery, and found himself caught among a throng of onlookers cheering a city guard. The man was built like a naval galleon—broad-shouldered and bearded, with a stomach so large it parted the crowds.
He dragged a young girl behind him by her hair, completely indifferent to her begs and whimpers.
Dozens followed, eager to see if she was destined for the stocks or the gallows. Callam looked on, his fists clenched. He hated how meted justice was base entertainment for the masses. Surely one of her fellow thieves would help her escape, or perhaps an onlooker would step in and request leniency. The girl was missing a finger, after all, marking this as her second offense—at best, she’d lose her hand.
All Callam heard were laughs and the occasional taunt of “Thief!” Then came the sound of his voice, as he shouted out “I’ll—”
"Ruddites, Guards, let’s not sour this afternoon with such crass cruelties," a blue-eyed man to Callam’s left interrupted. Dust spread from where the Scriptor stood, as if his sudden appearance among the crowds had brought about the breeze. The salty, crisp smell of ocean brine came next, heralded by awnings that rustled like sails in the wind.
“Scripter Raele,” grunted the guard, looking over his shoulder and frowning. “This brat nicked flour and salt. Port’s crawling with rats like her. Will you make all their victims whole?”
Raele? Why’s that name familiar?
“No,” the man said, walking forward. “But the citywatch should know the futility of culling rodents. Kill one, and five more appear, each angrier and hungrier than the last. Feed them instead. Show them mercy, teach them skills, and you will make fine Ruddites of them yet.”
Where the mage’s speech might have moved the onlookers, it did nothing to sway the guard—the man appeared dead set on seeing the girl punished. He violently tugged at the girl's locks, only to slowly look down in confusion.
Callam followed the sentry’s eyes, then felt his own go wide.
The rough man was holding nothing but hair. Twin pigtails were sheared short and the little girl was nowhere to be seen. In response, the man yelled in outrage, a few Ruddites laughed, and Callam whipped his head around—he spotted the young thief a second later, disappearing into the throng. Raele, for his part, didn’t look surprised. The Scriptor flashed the crowd a wide smile, then suddenly went stoic.
“Well, it seems the rumors are true: we are destined for ruin. For a Port’s guards to be outsmarted by children, and an urchin at that? Perhaps you’re the ones in need of lessons.”
Turning to the crowd, the sentry spat, “Which of you helped her!” His words fell on deaf ears. The people had gotten what they craved—a show at someone’s expense. That a street kid had escaped in the process mattered little to them.
A well-executed misdirection. Callam thought, grinning. Part of him still couldn’t believe he’d seen a Scriptor help a street kid. Yet, there were times to pry and times to leave things be. This was the latter, and he was thrilled he hadn’t been forced to use his signet to cover the girl’s bounty. He knew little about the Tower’s credit system, but plenty about pennylenders and their collecting methods.
Best I avoid debt when possible.
Slinging his book bag over his shoulder, Callam made for his next destination: the novelry. It wasn’t the longest walk, but it served as another stark reminder of the life he’d escaped. He cut through the shadowed alleys of lower Vaile, nearly slipping on the cobblestones that paved the narrow pathways between the slanted buildings. Puddles of rainwater wet his sandaled feet, and his shoes were soaked by the time he reached the barred windows marking inner Solitude, the halfway point. A labyrinth of backstreets, the area was safe only for Scriptors and holy women. Callam grimaced as he passed a handful of Ruddite ladies working the streets. Lower-caste men were sent to the mines. Women, well…
This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.
At least miners were allowed proper clothes.
Callam looked away, his stomach in a knot. I’ll change those customs, he promised himself. One day. Siela had never worked those shifts, yet he knew she would have, had it meant keeping a roof over his head.
The final stretch to oceanside—the wealthy part of the port—required some legwork. So, Callam tossed his bag behind him, climbed the steep stone fence that hugged a tenement for support, then jumped down onto a stack of wooden crates. From there, he crossed a handful of thin rotting planks that passed for roofs in the slums and dropped to the ground.
Docks End, his home. It was ironic how the worst part of the city bordered one of the best. Almost as if the aristocrats like looking down on us. Callam would have to stop by Pier Seven come nightfall, but for now he ducked under one of the rickety docks, rolled up his pants, and waded the five-minute stretch to Oceanside’s soft sands.
He didn’t have to take this route anymore. But it was quicker, and old habits die hard.
At least I won’t have to sneak in this time he thought. The mercantile gate loomed just ahead; in the past, he’d been forced to scale around it. Not today—although he still fidgeted a bit as he approached. Years spent evading guards left him feeling out of place.
“Ho there!” shouted the sentry. “What is written?”
“Is foretold and forbidden,” Callam responded, in the formal vernacular. One glance at the man confirmed he was a stickler for processes. Not a hair on his head or beard was misplaced, and even his eyebrows seemed combed.
“Name and star level?” Either could get Callam in.
“Quill, fourth tier.”
The man’s reaction was instantaneous. Where a moment before he’d been polite yet standoffish, now his posture was subdued.
“I… I was unaware, sir. Not to trouble you, but I’m charged to check every spellbook…”
“Not at all,” Callam said, and pulled out his grimoire. It had only been a day, but he wasn’t sure he’d ever get comfortable with being spoken to like nobility.
A quick glance at the cover later, and the sentry rolled up the gate to let him in. There was no forging star levels, as far as Callam knew—the books wouldn’t allow for alterations or etchings post-binding.
Music met Callam—a gentle harmony that caressed him with soft, lyrical notes. This was not the rowdy din of the sailors’ shanties sung throughout the port. No, this was the sound of practiced hands, trained to make a listener’s heart soar. The flutes trilled ever higher with each step he took up the winding hill, and, when he stopped to catch his breath, the harps chimed a melody that all but felt like an autumn breeze.
Of course, if anyone had asked, he’d have sworn his preference for drunken ballads and tavern tunes. Yet even he couldn’t help but hum along as he made his way to the bookstore.
Poet’s hand. Why is everything in Oceanside so damn nice?
Several placards led Callam’s way. He ignored most of them; he’d visited before, always in the dead of night, his breath fogging the glass with the other orphans brave enough to risk this side of town. Despite their eagerness, they’d never dared to break in. Books were sacrosanct, and they’d lose more than a hand if caught.
Still, they’d dreamed.
Callam only drew a few strange glances as he walked. The worst scrutiny came from a group of Seekers sharing in his destination. They snickered at his outfit until they realized they were all headed in the same direction. Then, it was all smiles. Callam grinned widest of all—the Seekers’ carried at least a dozen heavy purses among them, none particularly well hidden.
If one happened to go missing… Callam shook his head. He wouldn’t risk everything now for a few coins—especially when he had so little to gain. Better I focus on finding the bookstore and learning all I can about magic, Seedlings, and Archives.
“Lore & Leaf’s Fine Leather Manuscripts,” read the brick storefront when he finally arrived. Shaded by a large Aurelian Oak and flanked by two dimmed streetlamps, the novelery was one of many shops vending in Oceanside’s most upscale pavilion. Teens gathered around the bookshop’s arched red door, chatting and enjoying sweets from a neighboring chocolatier.
Callam took a moment before entering, suddenly self-conscious of his sweat-soaked shirt. Only when he was certain he was dry did he walk in.
“By the prophet…”
No matter how many times he saw them, books never lost their allure. And here, they were everywhere. Rounded shelves were stacked high with volumes, while a dozen little nooks were filled with patrons, each nose-deep in their novels. Paperfowl hopped here and there, cooing, occasionally chased by cat-like critters with ink-splotch markings.
“...in lands of the Far Away, the…” shared one storyteller in a far corner, his feet surrounded by nobleborn children.
“Novels and maps on the ground floor, scholarly ventures upstairs,” said the middle-aged doorwoman, looking up from where she was scribbling at her desk. “We'll need to confirm your literacy, of course… unless you’re with one of our gold-pin members?”
“Here for myself,” Callam replied absentmindedly, fetching his tome from his bag.
“Excellent,” she said, after peeking at his grimoire. “As a four star, your first four visits are on us. After that, you’ll have to apply for membership. Now, what can we help you with today? Just name the volumes you seek, and our fetchers will bring them to you.”
Convenient. “How many can I borrow at once?” Callam asked. “Err, I mean peruse?” He scratched his head.
“As many as you’d like, long as they don’t leave with you. You can’t borrow them—this is no library. But if you’d like to sit down and read them for a few minutes before purchase… well, no one’s the wiser,” the doorlady said with a smile.
“Got it, I’ve a good idea of what I’m after.”
“Just wait here for a minute, then. Someone will be with you shortly.” With a ding, the lady rang a small bell on her desk.
Less than thirty seconds later, a cheerful-looking young man with light brown hair and a toothy smile appeared. He had tucked his own tome inside a satchel hung across his chest and was carrying a pile of books.
“Hill, be a dear and help this boy out, would you?”
“Consider it done,” the mage replied with a wink. Looking Callam up and down, he added, “First time? Follow me to where words and magic meet.”