Bud Sparhawk - Magic's Price

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First published in Analog, March 2001

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Jacob could hardly contain himself as he followed his family toward the spring festival where, he hoped,

he would finally see a magician.

Until this year it seemed that there was always some reason for missing the magician. Sometimes the

magicians did not come to the festival. In other years they came without warning, passing through the

town so swiftly that, by the time Jacob learned of them, they had already departed. Three times they had

arrived after the family had left the winter festival and once the entire family had been so sick that they

had missed the festival entirely.

But maybe this year would be different. Maybe this year he would finally be lucky.

Jacob wondered if even a magician would be able to find his way through the town's dimly lighted

streets. This older section of the town was a confusion of close-packed buildings and immense ancient

devices, most of unknown purpose.

Perhaps the magician had no need to traverse the narrow streets. Perhaps he would descend from the

sky on lightning bolts, amid claps of thunder. Maybe he would suddenly appear in a flash of light or

through some more mysterious, magical method. But no, these were childish fantasies. The magician, if he

arrived, would probably walk the streets like any other man.

The villagers had decorated the square with orange, red, and blue lanterns for the winter festival. The

colored lights threw a pattern of complementary shadows in every direction. Jacob toyed with his own

shadow for a few moments, observing the way the shadow's colors changed as he shifted position. Why,

he wondered, were some of the shadows green instead of black? After a few moment's consideration he

realized that each shadow's color was the complement of whichever lamp threw it. Not only that but it

varied in intensity with the distance from each lamp. He moved back and forth, fascinated by the

changing colors.

Evangeline, his older sister, rudely pulled him back into reality and an awareness of the crowd. She

glanced around to see if anyone had been watching his antics. “Why are you doing that? Dancing around

like a fool,” she scolded. “Act your age for once, would you?”

He started to explain but stopped. Ev was smiling over his shoulder, no longer paying him a bit of

attention. When he turned he saw that Lars Torfsen had captured her attention. Just as well, Jacob

thought; Ev would never understand about the lights and, even if she did, she'd probably dismiss it as of

no practical use.

He watched her walk toward Lars with that peculiar swaying motion she had adopted of late. “Huh, and

she thinks I looked silly,” he muttered.

The crowd's din assailed Jacob's ears. Everyone was in a festive mood. The group at the kegs were

cheerily toasting one another and each passerby with raised mugs and shouts of recognition. The more

sober among them were scarcely less restrained than those well into their mugs.

People pressed in on Jacob from every side, so close that he could smell their sweat and foul, malty

breath. He couldn't understand how anyone could enjoy being so jammed together in this suffocating,

constricting, and uncomfortable crowd. But he would endure it for the chance to see a magician.

His family's arrival caused no little commotion. People crowded around them, shouting and extending

hands to be shaken and presenting cheeks to be kissed. A bustle of women greeted his mother and Pam

with shrieks and embraces, then led the two away, all jabbering at once and so swiftly that Jacob couldn't

understand a word they said. Nor did he want to.

Jacob winced whenever one of the villagers pinched his cheek or remarked about how tall and

handsome he had gotten. He bridled at their constant observations on his red hair and striking lack of

resemblance to his father. He held his tongue, wishing the whole while that he could escape. But no, for

the possibility of watching a magician at work he would bear all this unwanted attention, all this squeezing,

embracing, squealing, shouting, laughing, farting, sweating, overeating crowd of packed humanity.

Jacob looked around, alert for any sign of a stranger, for a glimpse of the bearded face that his father

said always marked a magician. But how could he tell if a stranger were a magician? Most travelers, and

many of the local farmers, wore beards, so that was no distinction. Would the magician be taller—larger

than life? Would he be handsome or ugly, young or old? Would his hair be silver or gold? How would his

appearance differ from the too-familiar faces of these people he'd known all his life? What would his

clothing be like? How would he speak, walk, or laugh?

Jacob's imagination ran rampant, building a mental pastiche that changed with every random supposition.

Perhaps the mage would come as a giant and loom over the town like a storm cloud; lightning bolts for

his hair and thunder for his voice. That startling image came from a childish fantasy that he had long ago

thought he'd outgrown.

While the carpenter was droning endlessly about how his son was about to become the mason's

apprentice and asking how soon Jacob was to be apprenticed to the town's tinker, there was a

commotion on the far side of the square. The crowd parted. Three strangers walked to the middle of the

square. From the way everyone kept their distance Jacob knew that this had to be the magician. But why

were there three? He supposed that a magician always traveled alone.

The three were like nothing he'd imagined. None were giants, nor was their appearance out of the

ordinary, or so it appeared at his first appraising glance.

The tallest threw back the cowl of his frayed and tattered, travel-stained cloak to reveal a face the color

of dark leather and in sharp contrast to his white beard and hair. Small white marks, as if he'd been

burned with a brand, marched across both cheeks. There were deep creases around his eyes and mouth,

as if he'd spent a lifetime of peering into the distance. His hands were as dark as his face, and as callused

as a farmer's. His erect posture and quick movements were at odds with the signs of age. There was

such an air of authority, of competence about him that Jacob knew that this was not a man easily ignored.

The shorter, stockier magician on white beard's right wore a dull brown cloak that was only slightly less

travel-worn. His beard was black as night and trimmed closely to follow the curve of his jaw. His eyes

were hidden behind the mirrored goggles that reflected the square's colored lanterns in miniature. His

head swiveled from side to side, watching the crowd. Only one of his hands was visible, for he kept the

other tucked deep inside his cloak.

In sharp contrast to massive bulk of the dark man, the third magician was slight of frame and had a long

cascade of bronze hair that spilled from the back of a red cap. It was a woman, Jacob realized with a

start. Somehow he had never imagined that a magician might be a woman! As she turned her head to

glance in his direction he noticed that her eyes were very large and a wondrously luminous green. Even

from this distance he could tell that those bright eyes were sprinkled with tiny golden flecks, much like his

own. A slight smile played on her lips. Her movements were fluid and graceful, as if she were dancing to

some languid, silent fiddler. She was the most beautiful woman Jacob had ever seen.

“Who speaks for the town?” the older magician asked quietly, but with sufficient force that his voice

could be heard clearly throughout the square.

William Moore, the village headman, was roughly propelled into the empty space surrounding the

threesome. He stumbled for a bit, as if he'd not expected to be so rudely presented as spokesman. To his

credit he recovered quickly.

“Who be you?” he asked in his booming voice and then repeated it even louder, just in case he had not

made the question sufficiently forceful. “And what be your reason for coming to our town?” He smiled, a

darting, nervous, insincere little twitch at the corners of his fat mouth that disappeared in an instant.

“I am Arthur Thomas,” white-beard answered as forcefully. “I am a magician and in your service.” His

tone made the bland statement sounded like a rebuke for the chill greeting. “I hear there is a tower on a

farm nearby. Where can I find the owner?”

“There!” William Moore replied quickly and pointed directly at Jacob's father. “George Kettleman, over

there, the demon's tower's on his farm.” He did not sound pleased that anyone would want to see the

tower. Like most villagers, he felt that such a mystery was better left alone.

The woman with the magician casually glanced where William Moore had pointed and then jumped as if

a thorn had pricked her. She started to open her mouth to say something, and then closed it. Her hand

darted nervously to the arm of the white-bearded man like a bird seeking a branch.

What, Jacob wondered, had so alarmed her? White-beard brushed her hand aside and began striding

purposefully toward them. The dark man with the hidden eyes stayed by his side, one hand still hidden

beneath his cloak, his head still making that constant, sweeping motion.

“Kettleman? Is that your name?” Arthur Thomas asked with authority. When his father nodded the

magician turned and motioned for the woman. “This is Tash Pallas, my, uh, assistant,” he introduced her.

“And the other is Blade, just Blade.”

Arthur Thomas. Jacob was amazed that the old magician should have such an ordinary name. The

woman's name, on the other hand, was mysterious, strange, exotic and quite what one would expect of

someone with magical powers. Blade's name was as menacing as his appearance. A shiver ran through

him. These were obviously people of power.

“I am,” Jacob's father replied to the magician's query, “and this is my son.” He put a protective hand on

Jacob's shoulder and squeezed hard. Jacob wondered why his father was making such a point about him.

Arthur Thomas barely nodded, but said nothing. The lovely Tash was still tugging on his sleeve, trying to

get his attention. The magician was clearly becoming annoyed, for he turned and spit out a string of harsh,

angry syllables in a foreign language.

Tash Pallas replied softly in the same language. Unlike Arthur Thomas’ jarring syllables, her lips

produced a flow of sweet, musical words. Her voice was so sweet that Jacob didn't want her to stop.

Arthur Thomas’ eyebrows rose and he glanced in their direction as Tash Pallas spoke. Only when she

finished did he speak. “I think we shall stay here overnight to see what services the town might need.

After our work here is finished we'll want to examine the tower. I would appreciate it if you could

accommodate us. We will pay or even work for our keep, if necessary.”

Jacob felt a thrill run through him. Magicians, three of them, were going to come to his farm. He would

be able to watch them, talk to them, and be with them. It was more than he could have hoped for, more

than he had ever expected. Come what may, he would never forget this priceless moment.

But his father hadn't answered. He was staring at the magician in stony silence, taking the measure of the

man.

“George,” mother said as she lay a hand on Jacob's shoulder. “George.” There was a note in her voice

that Jacob had not heard before.

His father glared at her. “For your sake, then. All right, magician. I will see what we can provide.” There

was no hospitable warmth in his voice.

The magician nodded knowingly—he had heard the exchange—and turned away. “William Moore, I'm

starved! Can we get something to eat around here before we look around to see what's needful?”

“There's much in the town that you'll declare needs your attention, I'm sure,” William Moore answered

dryly as Jacob's father headed for the kegs. His mother remained where she was, looking after her

husband with a forlorn look on her face.

Perhaps, Jacob wondered as he followed the magicians, he could acquire magical skills by copying the

magician's behavior. He tried to emulate the way Blade kept his right arm hidden and to gesture with his

stiff left fingers as Arthur Thomas had done. By evening's end he was even squinting to give his eyes a

creased, learned look.

“Are you sick or something?” Ev asked when they finally met back at the stable. “Why are you scowling

like that?” Her favorite scarf was in her hand and she appeared flushed. She fidgeted as she adjusted her

clothing inside her cloak. She brushed a few strands of straw from her hair.

And she thought his behavior strange.

“Jacob, did you hurt your arm?” his mother chimed in when she noticed the way he was holding himself.

Jacob sighed and shook his head. “No, I'm fine.” The terribly ordinary women of his family would never

understand the ways of magicians. Neither of his sisters would ever be as worldly as the wondrous,

beautiful, and mysterious Tash Pallas.

* * * *

For as long as Jacob could remember he had wanted to learn magic. He had never felt comfortable

around his dull, shallow, and unimaginative classmates. Not a one of them shared his interest in the

ancient machines and all wondered what he found so interesting about them. Despite their taunts he

maintained his burning desire to learn the mystic arts, a desire that set him apart. “Weird Jacob,” they'd

say and shrug, “But then, what can you expect?” The last part no doubt overheard from their parents.

He'd gotten and given many a black eye after he learned what that oft-repeated slur implied about his

dark-haired father and even darker-haired mother.

But, he sometimes wondered, perhaps there could be a kernel of truth in those veiled accusations. Could

there have been a magician among his ancestors that had endowed him with this red hair? Maybe that

would explain why he was so attracted to the old machines that lay scattered about. None of his

classmates seemed to care about the mysterious forces that powered the mill, that heated some homes

but not others, and that provided heat and light to a few. No one asked about the silent machines in the

fields that refused to rust. They only accepted this without question, and went on with their dull, daily

lives.

The old tales spoke of a time when those machines surged with power, letting a single man farm

thousands of acres. The Kettleman tractor was one of the few machines that continued to function, and

that fact was viewed with suspicious awe.

Dead or not, all of the old devices were both fascinating and intriguing to Jacob. He'd often imagined

himself a magician as he probed the machinery's innards. When he was much younger he'd tried to

restore a broken grinder with a wave of his hand, to fix the a broken plough with a touch of his little

finger, and to bring a blackened lamp to life with a single intense stare. But none of these actions

produced any result, no matter how hard he tried. Perhaps it took more than skill and desire. Perhaps it

was a magician's inherent ability.

As he grew older and wiser he learned how to fix simple mechanisms, such as the broken linkage on the

heater—much to his mother's appreciation—and which got him an extra large slice of warm apple pie.

When simple repairs of household things no longer held his interest he turned his attention to the more

complex, but inoperative devices stored in the barn, where they had been dumped for lack of a better

place. Who knew, his father often said, but they might someday provide useful.

His attempts to study these ancient devices were frustrating. He couldn't understand the machines’

innards. There were strange boxes that, when opened, revealed small cities with brightly colored houses

and silver trails. The boxes were connected with solid pipes through which nothing could flow. And what

was one of make of the heavy disks?

He often wondered what forces might lurk inside those tiny, closed, multi-colored dwellings, what

mystical creatures hastened along those silvery avenues on their magical tasks, and what functions were

performed when they reached their destinations. Despite a lack of revelations from his probes, he

nevertheless dreamed of someday harnessing the inhabitants to do his bidding. But that day would have

to wait; any attempt to remove and inspect the tiny towns was to risk the wrath of his father.

“Best to leave alone what you don't understand,” his father had scolded when he first came upon one of

Jacob's early exploratory surgeries. He had been sitting in the barn, surrounded by arms and levers,

knobs and buttons, linkages and motors; the scattered entrails of his mechanical patient.

“But,” Jacob wailed after his spanking, “How can I ever understand if I have to leave everything alone?”

His father's silence was answer enough, so, ever since, he'd confined his studies to those times and places

where no one could discover him.

His father had been harsh, no doubt because he himself was so often suspected of being not entirely

unskilled in the arcane arts. The continued operation of the tractor and the fact that there was a

mysterious tower on the farm supposedly lent credibility to this belief. To imagine he was in concert with

the demon was not such a large leap of belief.

The tower stood taller than any building in the area, nearly three times the height of their silo. Thick glass

surrounded its topmost section. The tower was so hard that not even a nail could scratch it. There was a

ladder on one side and, by climbing it, Jacob could peer through the glass. He could see a bank of

instruments just beyond the glass and, once, he'd seen them flash red and green. Once he'd pressed his

ear close to the glass and heard a distant rumble, like the noise the tractor made before he put it in gear,

which made him wonder if there was a mighty engine buried inside. Or was it the snoring of the demon

who lay sleeping inside? Jacob never mentioned the flashing lights or the grumbling demon for fear his

father would suspect him of meddling. Just as he tried to keep his fascination with the dead machines a

secret passion.

But all that had been years before, when he was a child. Now he was almost fully grown—soon to be a

man—and had to make a decision about being the tinker's apprentice after the harvest. But that was

later, after the harvest passed. Now he would be able to watch the magician repair a broken machine or

restore life to a dead building and, by watching him work, perhaps learn enough simple spells and magic

to free himself from ignorance.

* * * *

Jacob's father was muttering to himself, but loud enough so that all could hear during the long ride home.

“Put them in the barn, damn meddlers.” Too many draughts from the keg slurred his words. “Should have

said no. Nothing but trouble they'll be.”

Jacob's mother softly corrected him. “They'll sleep in the house like proper guests, George. We'll not

treat them otherwise. Pam and Evangeline can double up, and Jacob can sleep in the loft. Yes, we'll put

the men in Jacob's room and the girl can sleep in Evangeline's room.”

“Why can't she use Pam's,” Ev pouted. She knew who would have a pallet on the floor for a mattress.

But there was no arguing with mother once she decided. Even his father knuckled under to her decision

with a gruff, “Damn lot of trouble for nothing.”

Mother continued planning aloud, unmindful of his father's bitter comment; “We'll need to bring in extra

food—George, you'll bring up the meat from the smoke house, a hock and some lamb, I think would be

best. Then we'll need extra wood and the cistern will need filling. Oh, there's so much we have to do to

get ready for our guests.”

“You don't have to be so damned friendly,” his father growled. “Isn't like they were family.” Jacob

detected a note of uncharacteristic anger in his father's voice, but couldn't determine if it was directed at

the situation or at his mother. “Jacob can get all of that for you. I have to be out early to work the valley

fields.”

As soon as they reached home Jacob began gathering the things his mother had enumerated. He lugged

hunks of meat from the smoke house and hauled boxes of dried fruit and preserved vegetables from the

family's root cellar.

His mother fussed about, herself too wound up to sleep. “I do hope they won't be disappointed with

dried and canned fare,” She fretted. “No, I'm sure they'll understand that it just isn't possible to have

fresh food this season.” She produced two apple pies she had baked a day earlier and examined them as

if they were to be entered in the contest at the annual harvest fair. “I think I will serve these.” There was

nothing better than mother's pies. Neither Pam nor Jacob objected to the idea, but Pam did, and got a

small slice for herself. Mother always spoiled her.

Hours later, exhausted by the excitement of the long day and the night's work, Jacob fell into bed and

closed his eyes, waiting for sleep's sweet embrace that did not come. How could he sleep when, in a few

hours the new day would break, the day the old magician might arrive to perform his magic. In a few

hours the beautiful Tash Pallas could be here. He didn't know which prospect excited him the more.

She had smiled at him.

* * * *

When Jacob jerked awake he discovered that a cold mist had shrouded morning to gray unfamiliarity. He

quickly bundled against the damp and set out to first feed the chickens and then see to the other animals’

needs as they huddled in the barn's warmth. Dan and Brandy stamped their hooves, impatient for their

morning ration of oats and dried apples. Throughout the day Jacob kept watch to the east, hoping to be

the first to sight the magicians, but he was always disappointed.

By nightfall the mist had turned to a light, drifting snow. His father stared at the wintry scene. “Better

check the fences near the tower tomorrow.”

Jacob nodded. He'd already assumed that had to be done. His father wouldn't want even a magician to

think they were remiss in maintaining their fences. The tidy farm was a point of pride with him, a sign that

he was properly husbanding the land, as did all of the farmers hereabouts.

Jacob enjoyed riding Dan along the fence line. It gave him a certain sense of pride to see the newer

fence rows he and his father had added to those of his ancestors. He slowly rode Dan along the tall rock

wall that formed the eastern boundary and turned at the copse of trees that marked the northern edge

and the beginning of the stack pole fence. He noticed that some of the cross poles had become dislodged

so he let Dan graze while he put these back in place.

On the western line he found a section of older wooden rails from his grandfather's time missing. It

looked as if a herd of mos-ox had blundered through. The rails were probably buried under the snow

nearby. He tramped around and, as he located them, pried them free, and worked them back into place.

By the time he was through his boots, jacket, and gloves were caked with mud.

He was halfway to the southern boundary of the field when he noticed a small figure kneeling down and

looking at the edge of a pillar she had cleared of snow. It was the woman magician—Tash Pallas.

Tash stood and waved at him. Jacob waved back and turned Dan toward her. “What are you doing out

here?” Tash asked. She pointed at his jacket. “You look like you've been working hard.” She had a

strange, lilting accent.

“Checking and fixing the fences,” Jacob replied in answer to her first question as he dismounted. “Can I

ask what you're doing?”

Tash laughed. “You can. It's a fair question. I'm just checking a subsystem.”

Jacob liked the way she laughed—a musical sound that ran up and down a scale, quite unlike Ev's

raucous bark or Pam's high-pitched giggling. This close the bronze-haired beauty didn't appear as old as

he'd first thought. As a matter of fact she looked to be close to his age, but so much more worldly, so

much more sophisticated, and so very, very beautiful.

He came abruptly to ground when he recalled that a magician had the power to be any age they wanted.

He could make no assumptions about Tash's age. She was no mere girl; she was a magician and that

alone demanded respect. “I didn't mean to pry, ma'am,” he said apologetically.

Tash laughed again. “You weren't. Most people I've met wouldn't have asked anyway.”

Jacob coughed. “Yes, that's what everybody says, that I ask too many questions about things. It's like

those old machines I keep trying to understand....” He stopped. Babbling was one of the things he hated

about himself.

Tash raised an eyebrow. “You want to know how the machines work? Is that it?”

Jacob blushed with shame. He knew he shouldn't have mentioned it. But it was too late to call back the

damning words. “Yes, ma'am,” he replied quietly. “I do.”

“Stop that ma'am business,” Tash snapped. “Why do you want to learn about them?” She leaned close,

quite close. He could smell the warm aroma of her, practically tasting her sweet breath.

She didn't appear to be angry, Jacob noticed. “I don't know,” he said. “I just want to see what makes

those machines work.” He grinned. “I even got one of them to start moving ... for a little bit, anyway.”

Just a few years earlier, when he'd barely a hair on his chin. It had been the big, dead harvester that

stood next to the town's common stable. He had been messing around in the cab when he jiggled a key

on the panel to see what would happen. Every kid in the town had done that at some time in the past, but

never before had anything happened.

This time, however, he heard a soft click and, before the sound registered, the harvester lurched forward

and threw him backwards. Before he could climb back onto the seat the prow of the harvester had

smashed through the side of the stable. There was a crash of timber and a storm of falling hay as the

harvester continued to grind forward, crushing all before it. Bales of hay tumbled from the loft on either

side, sacks of feed hit the ground and split open, and the two horses suddenly freed from their stalls

bolted and ran, terrified, through the town.

Onward the harvester pressed, crushing two wagons under its massive tracks, until it came to rest

against the stables’ opposite wall, which teetered precipitously, creaked, leaned, and then fell to earth

with a roar of splintering wood. When Jacob climbed down from the cab the entire building was nothing

more than a jumbled heap of lumber and assorted debris.

“Thank God you're safe,” the first person to arrive said when he saw Jacob climbing from the wreckage.

“What happened?”

“I don't know,” Jacob lied quickly. “I was feeding one of the horses when...” he stopped. The man was

staring at the object in Jacob's hand. It was the key to the harvester.

The destruction of the old stable was a serious matter, but this was of less importance to most of the folk

than the fact that it had been the red-headed Jacob who had managed to bring the machine to brief, if

destructive, life.

“For certain,” everyone whispered, “he does have magician's blood.” Then they would smile, as if his

actions had confirmed their worse suspicions. The resurgence of this cut his mother deeply, although she

tried not to show it in public. His father glowered when he heard of this and perhaps that fueled the anger

that warmed Jacob's seat for his part in the demolition.

The pain he had caused his parents was partially offset by the reaction of the other kids. Every youngster

in town rushed out to jiggle the keys and switches of the dead machines in hopes of repeating Jacob's

actions. He became a hero of sorts, at least for a few weeks.

Jacob stopped speaking. Why had he told her about that episode? As usual, his mouth had moved faster

than his brain.

Tash closed her eyes. Without warning she spit out a series of words; “Seek, unknown, problem, logic,

number.” With each word her facial expression changed, quite at odds with the words that continued to

roll so quickly off her tongue.

Jacob became confused by the torrent of words pouring from her lovely lips, so close to his ear. He

tried to figure out why she was spewing such nonsense, but, before he could concentrate on one word,

she had said another, and another. “Basic, failure, inside, twisted, puzzle.” On and on they came until

Jacob's mind was swirling in confusion.

Finally the torrent of unrelated words stopped. Tash opened her eyes and turned her head so she could

look straight into his eyes. “Tash,” she said simply. Then her face bloomed with a smile so bright that he

felt as if the sun itself had suddenly blazed through the clouds, bathing him in its radiance.

He couldn't help but smile in return.

“Sorry,” she said and her smile quickly faded. “That last was pretty unprofessional.”

Jacob had no idea of what she was talking about. “Never mind,” she continued as she took his arm and

led him away from the pillar. “Let us talk of other things. Tell me of this farm, this place where you live.”

“It would be better to ride,” he suggested. The thoughts of being so close was quite appealing. He

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ThisebookispublishedbyFictionwisePublicationswww.fictionwise.comExcellenceinEbooksVisitwww.fictionwise.comtofindmoretitlesbythisandothertopauthorsinScienceFiction,Fantasy,Horror,Mystery,andothergenres.Fictionwisewww.Fictionwise.comCopyright©2001byBudSparhawkFirstpublishedinAnalog,March2001NOTICE:Thi...

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