The wizened Kwen trailed off as he gave Sciona another once-over. “Forgive me for asking, but are you alright, Highmage?” There was something too concerned—too knowing—in the way he asked.
She looked away from the soft gray of those eyes. “Yes.”
“Are you quite sure? You look as though—”
“How often does the scrap metal bin get emptied?” she asked.
“A truck comes from the steel mill to pick it up at the end of each week, ma’am.”
“So, it’s still here?”
“In the back warehouse, yes, Highmage. I’ll show you if you like.”
“Yes, please.”
Dermek led Sciona down a back corridor to the warehouse, where she immediately began plucking through the scrap metal for the pieces of her broken spellograph. Many mages didn’t know all the mundane bits and screws of a spellograph, but Sciona easily picked them out among the other screws, bolts, and wires in the bin. She had her cousin to thank for that. Alba, with her long, strong fingers and affinity for following instructions, had worked in a spellograph repair shop for five years after graduating junior academy and had been kind enough to share her training materials with her nosy younger cousin. There was the typewheel, the knob, the shift lever—oops, not that shift lever, this one. There was one link screw, two link screws… how many more did she need?
“Um—” Dermek cleared his throat in discomfort. “Ma’am, if I may, you shouldn’t…”
It was almost certainly against policy to let anyone pick through scrapped Magistry machinery, but Sciona was a Highmage. Dermek faced a terrible choice between telling a highmage what to do and violating policy—both of which could get him fired on the spot.
“Shouldn’t what?” Sciona asked sweetly, though her sweet voice had rarely ever worked on anyone—even when it wasn’t ragged from weeping, shouting, and vomiting. It was undoubtedly the white robes that made Dermek rethink his words.
“You shouldn’t go digging in there without gloves,” he said after a pause and pulled a pair from a shelf to hand to Sciona. “You’ll cut your hands.”
“Oh, thank you.” She smiled and pulled the oversized gloves on. “And could I have a box, too, please?” she added, realizing that the larger pieces of the machine would never fit into her shoulder bag.
“Of course, Highmage.” The Kwen still looked apprehensive as he took an appropriately sized box from a nearby shelving unit and set it beside her.
“Mr. Dermek,” she said to distract him as she continued her search through the scrap metal. “If you don’t mind me asking, what tribe are you?”
Dermek looked taken aback. “What?”
“My friend, Thomil, said there are lots of tribes out in the Kwen, all of them different. I’m curious about yours.”
“The Mersyn.” He said it quietly. Like a prayer.
“I haven’t heard of them.”
“You wouldn’t have—even if you are the type of Tiranishwoman to know one Kwen tribe from another. They lived far beyond the Venholt Mountains.” But not far enough to be out of range of magic. For all Sciona knew, no habitable place in the world was.
“Lived?” Sciona said softly. “They’re not there anymore?”
“I doubt it. My mother strapped me to her back and crossed the range to Tiran near-on eighty years ago. My father wanted to stay with his ailing parents, said he’d join us after the next thaw.”
“Did you ever see him again?” Sciona asked.
Dermek shook his head. “Some Endrastae who came through the barrier a few years later told my mother the rest of our tribe hadn’t made it. She didn’t believe them at first. But I think, after more Kwen came through the barrier, then more, then more, saying the Mersynae hadn’t been seen in five years, then ten, then fifteen, she just… It wore at her, and she… Well, it’s not important, Highmage. Sorry for rambling on.”
“No, I’m sorry.” Sciona’s hands had stilled on the scrap metal. “I didn’t mean to bring up something so painful.” But what had she been expecting?
The head janitor shrugged. “My father and everyone I knew would be dead now anyway. It’s in the past.”
“Right.” Sciona clutched a handful of spellograph screws hard. “But things are about to change. The future has to be different. It will be different.”
“You think so, Highmage?”
“Tell me, Dermek… If somehow, some of your people lived, and there was a chance you could protect them from Blight—but it was a small chance and very risky—would you take it?”
“Gods, of course, ma’am!” the janitor said. “I’m old. My chances at life are all gone. If there was a prayer that I could protect anyone from Blight, I’d take it, risks be damned—if you’ll excuse my language.”
“You’re certain?”
“Certain as Blight, Highmage.”
“Perfect.” Sciona dropped the last few screws into her box. “Then, I’m going to need your keys.”
“It is my final determination that the Kwen female, who dresses improperly, labors outside the home, and engages all manner of masculine activities unbefitting her supposed sex does not qualify for a woman’s rights and protections under Tiranish law. We do not afford the cow gentler treatment than the bull, nor do we afford the mare gentler treatment than the stallion. If we begin making exceptions among our human beasts of burden, sloth will take them, and we, the true Tiranish, will know no peace. On this basis, I dismiss the claim that the Kwen complainant may claim in the court the same rights and protections as a Tiranish lady.”
—Archmage Justice Mandor Therwin （249 of Tiran）
ALBA LAUGHED WHEN Sciona lay the pieces of the spellograph before her. “They were going to throw this away?”
“They already had. I rescued it.”
“Thank goodness for that!” Alba said as she tied her leather work apron behind her.
“So, you can fix it?”
“Sure. I mean, some components are a little bent, and it looks like we’re missing a screw or two.”
“Shoot, really?” Sciona had been so sure she’d gotten them all.
“Yeah. Post-325 models like this have six screws securing the base instead of four, but it’s not a problem. They should be easy to replace. Hang on while I get my kit.”
“Thank you,” Sciona said as Alba re-entered the room, brushing a bit of dust off her old repair kit. “I know this is a lot to ask after a long day at work.”
“Yeah,” Alba said, “which is why you’re going to wash the dishes.”
“Right.” Sciona had almost forgotten her end of the deal. Alba and Aunt Winny usually took care of the housework and left her to her studies, but since she was bringing Alba into her work, it seemed only fair that she pick up some of Alba’s.
“If you even remember how to wash dishes,” Alba teased gently.
That was all Alba ever did—gently tease—about Sciona’s total disinterest in housework. In another household, that attitude would have been actively punished, but not here. Alba and Aunt Winny had always picked up Sciona’s slack in the house while she pursued her every ridiculous aspiration. Sometimes Sciona wondered if it was faith: the idea that if they just took care of the house and let Sciona study, great things would come of it. But Winny and Alba didn’t care for glory the way Sciona did or wealth the way so many Tiranish did. That was what made Sciona think it wasn’t faith at all—no notion that Sciona’s talent would one day reward them with status. It was love.