Swords & Dark Magic - By Jonathan Strahan Page 0,138
augmented light. I must spare you the rather intricate technical paradoxes—all of them mutually contradictory—involved in this transaction, but by so doing, they will rekindle it.”
Hew blinked. “They will rekindle…the sun?”
“Rekindle the sun. Just so! Another flagon, my dear friends?”
* * *
SCOTT LYNCH was born in Saint Paul, Minnesota. He worked a variety of jobs, including as a dishwasher, waiter, Web designer, freelance writer, and office manager, before publishing his first novel, The Lies of Locke Lamora, in 2006. Part of the Gentleman Bastard Sequence, concerned with the life of thief and con man Locke Lamora, and set in the world of the shattered Therin Throne Empire, the series is projected to run to seven books. In addition to being a 2007 John W. Campbell Award, William L. Crawford Award, and Locus Award finalist, Scott is a volunteer firefighter, certified in both Minnesota and Wisconsin. He lives with his wife, Jenny, in the city of New Richmond, Wisconsin.
* * *
IN THE STACKS
Scott Lynch
Laszlo Jazera, aspirant wizard of the High University of Hazar, spent a long hour on the morning of his fifth-year exam worming his way into an uncomfortable suit of leather armor. A late growth spurt had ambushed Laszlo that spring, and the cuirass, once form-fitted, was now tight across the shoulders despite every adjustment of the buckles and straps. As for the groin guard, well, the less said the better. Damn, but he’d been an idiot, putting off a test-fit of his old personal gear until it was much too late for a trip to the armory.
“Still trying to suck it in?” Casimir Vrana, his chambers-mate, strolled in already fully armored, not merely with physical gear but with his usual air of total ease. In truth, he’d spent even less time in fighting leathers than Laszlo had in their half-decade at school together. He simply had the curious power of total, improbable deportment. Every inch the patrician, commanding and comely, he could have feigned relaxation even while standing in fire up to his privates. “You’re embarrassing me, Laszlo. And you with all your dueling society ribbons.”
“We wear silks,” huffed Laszlo, buckling on his stiff leather neck-guard. “So we can damn well move when we have to. This creaking heap of boiled pigskin, I’ve hardly worn it since Archaic Homicide Theory—”
“Forgot to go to the armory for a refit, eh?”
“Well, I’ve been busy as all hells, hardly sleeping—”
“A fifth-year aspirant, busy and confused at finals time? What an unprecedented misfortune. A unique tale of woe.” Casimir moved around Laszlo and began adjusting what he could. “Let’s skip our exam. You need warm milk and cuddles.”
“I swear on my mother, Caz, I’ll set fire to your cryptomancy dissertation.”
“Can’t. Turned it in two hours ago. And why are you still dicking around with purely physical means here?” Casimir muttered something, and Laszlo yelped in surprise as the heat of spontaneous magic ran up and down his back—but a moment later, the armor felt looser. Still not a good fit, but at least not tight enough to hobble his every movement. “Better?”
“Moderately.”
“I don’t mean to lecture, magician, but sooner or later you should probably start using, you know, magic to smooth out your little inconveniences.”
“You’re a lot more confident with practical use than I am.”
“Theory’s a wading pool, Laz. You’ve got to come out into deep water sooner or later.” Casimir grinned, and slapped Laszlo on the back. “You’re gonna see that today, I promise. Let’s get your kit together so they don’t start without us.”
Laszlo pulled on a pair of fingerless leather gauntlets, the sort peculiar to the profession of magicians intending to go in harm’s way. With Casimir’s oversight, he filled the sheathes on his belt and boots with half a dozen stilettos, then strapped or tied on no fewer than fourteen auspicious charms and protective wards. Some of these he’d crafted himself; the rest had been begged or temporarily stolen from friends. His sable cloak and mantle, lined in aspirant gray, settled lastly and awkwardly over the creaking, clinking mass he’d become.
“Oh damn,” Laszlo muttered after he’d adjusted his cloak, “where did I set my—”
“Sword,” said Casimir, holding it out in both hands. Laszlo’s wire-hilted rapier was his pride and joy, an elegant old thing held together by mage-smithery through three centuries of duties not always ceremonial. It was an heirloom of his diminished family, the only valuable item his parents had been able to bequeath him when his mild sorcerous aptitude had won him a standard nine-year scholarship