actually. Ten
times ten thousand books. More than that. More books than you could ever read.”
Abenthy’s voice grew vaguely wistful.
More books than I could read? Somehow I doubted
that.
Ben continued. “The people you see riding with
caravans—charmers who keep food from spoiling, dowsers, fortune-tellers, toad
eaters—aren’t real arcanists any more than all traveling performers are Edema
Ruh. They might know a little alchemy, a little sympathy, a little medicine.”
He shook his head. “But they’re not arcanists.
“A lot of people pretend to be. They wear robes and
put on airs to take advantage of the ignorant and gullible. But here’s how you
tell a true arcanist.”
Abenthy pulled a fine chain over his head and
handed it to me. It was the first time I had ever seen an Arcanum guilder. It
looked rather unimpressive, just a flat piece of lead with some unfamiliar
writing stamped onto it.
“That is a true gilthe. Or guilder if you prefer,” Abenthy explained with some satisfaction. “It’s the
only sure way to be certain of who is and who isn’t an arcanist. Your father
asked to see mine before he let me ride with your troupe. It shows he’s a man
of the world.” He watched me with a sly disinterest. “Uncomfortable, isn’t it?”
I gritted my teeth and nodded. My hand had gone
numb as soon as I’d touched it. I was curious to study the markings on its
front and back, but after the space of two breaths, my arm was numb to the
shoulder, as if I had slept on it all night. I wondered if my whole body would
go numb if I held it long enough.
I was prevented from finding out, as the wagon hit
a bump and my numbed hand almost let Abenthy’s guilder fall to the footboard of
the wagon. He snatched it up and slipped it back over his head, chuckling.
“How can you stand it?” I asked, trying to rub a
little feeling back into my hand.
“It only feels that way to other people,” he
explained. “To its owner, it’s just warm. That’s how you can tell the
difference between an arcanist and someone who has a knack for finding water or
guessing at the weather.”
“Trip has something like that,” I said. “He rolls
sevens.”
“That’s a little different,” Abenthy laughed. “Not
anything so unexplainable as a knack.” He slouched a little farther down into
his seat. “Probably for the best. A couple hundred years ago, a person was good
as dead if folk saw he had a knack. The Tehlins called them demon signs, and
burned folk if they had them.” Abenthy’s mood seemed to have taken a downward
turn.
“We had to break Trip out of jail once or twice,” I
said, trying to lighten the tone of the conversation. “But no one actually
tried to burn him.”
Abenthy gave a tired smile. “I suspect Trip has a
pair of clever dice or an equally clever skill which probably extends to cards
as well. I thank you for your timely warning, but a knack is something else
entirely.”
I can’t abide being patronized. “Trip can’t cheat
to save his life,” I said a little more sharply than I had intended. “And
anyone in the troupe can tell good dice from bad. Trip throws sevens. It
doesn’t matter whose dice he uses, he rolls sevens. If he bets on someone, they
roll sevens. If he so much as bumps a table with loose dice on it, seven.”
“Hmmm.” Abenthy nodded to himself. “My apologies.
That does sound like a knack. I’d be curious to see it.”
I nodded. “Take your own dice. We haven’t let him
play for years.” A thought occurred to me. “It might not still work.”
He shrugged. “Knacks don’t go away so easily as
that. When I was growing up in Staup, I knew a young man with a knack.
Uncommonly good with plants.” Abenthy’s grin was gone as he looked off at
something I couldn’t see. “His tomatoes would be red while everyone else’s
vines were still climbing. His squash were bigger and sweeter, his grapes
didn’t hardly have to be bottled before they started being wine.”
times ten thousand books. More than that. More books than you could ever read.”
Abenthy’s voice grew vaguely wistful.
More books than I could read? Somehow I doubted
that.
Ben continued. “The people you see riding with
caravans—charmers who keep food from spoiling, dowsers, fortune-tellers, toad
eaters—aren’t real arcanists any more than all traveling performers are Edema
Ruh. They might know a little alchemy, a little sympathy, a little medicine.”
He shook his head. “But they’re not arcanists.
“A lot of people pretend to be. They wear robes and
put on airs to take advantage of the ignorant and gullible. But here’s how you
tell a true arcanist.”
Abenthy pulled a fine chain over his head and
handed it to me. It was the first time I had ever seen an Arcanum guilder. It
looked rather unimpressive, just a flat piece of lead with some unfamiliar
writing stamped onto it.
“That is a true gilthe. Or guilder if you prefer,” Abenthy explained with some satisfaction. “It’s the
only sure way to be certain of who is and who isn’t an arcanist. Your father
asked to see mine before he let me ride with your troupe. It shows he’s a man
of the world.” He watched me with a sly disinterest. “Uncomfortable, isn’t it?”
I gritted my teeth and nodded. My hand had gone
numb as soon as I’d touched it. I was curious to study the markings on its
front and back, but after the space of two breaths, my arm was numb to the
shoulder, as if I had slept on it all night. I wondered if my whole body would
go numb if I held it long enough.
I was prevented from finding out, as the wagon hit
a bump and my numbed hand almost let Abenthy’s guilder fall to the footboard of
the wagon. He snatched it up and slipped it back over his head, chuckling.
“How can you stand it?” I asked, trying to rub a
little feeling back into my hand.
“It only feels that way to other people,” he
explained. “To its owner, it’s just warm. That’s how you can tell the
difference between an arcanist and someone who has a knack for finding water or
guessing at the weather.”
“Trip has something like that,” I said. “He rolls
sevens.”
“That’s a little different,” Abenthy laughed. “Not
anything so unexplainable as a knack.” He slouched a little farther down into
his seat. “Probably for the best. A couple hundred years ago, a person was good
as dead if folk saw he had a knack. The Tehlins called them demon signs, and
burned folk if they had them.” Abenthy’s mood seemed to have taken a downward
turn.
“We had to break Trip out of jail once or twice,” I
said, trying to lighten the tone of the conversation. “But no one actually
tried to burn him.”
Abenthy gave a tired smile. “I suspect Trip has a
pair of clever dice or an equally clever skill which probably extends to cards
as well. I thank you for your timely warning, but a knack is something else
entirely.”
I can’t abide being patronized. “Trip can’t cheat
to save his life,” I said a little more sharply than I had intended. “And
anyone in the troupe can tell good dice from bad. Trip throws sevens. It
doesn’t matter whose dice he uses, he rolls sevens. If he bets on someone, they
roll sevens. If he so much as bumps a table with loose dice on it, seven.”
“Hmmm.” Abenthy nodded to himself. “My apologies.
That does sound like a knack. I’d be curious to see it.”
I nodded. “Take your own dice. We haven’t let him
play for years.” A thought occurred to me. “It might not still work.”
He shrugged. “Knacks don’t go away so easily as
that. When I was growing up in Staup, I knew a young man with a knack.
Uncommonly good with plants.” Abenthy’s grin was gone as he looked off at
something I couldn’t see. “His tomatoes would be red while everyone else’s
vines were still climbing. His squash were bigger and sweeter, his grapes
didn’t hardly have to be bottled before they started being wine.”
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