Boardinghouse

Carefully, Taylor etched characters into a thin sheet of mana-tempered silver. His tools pressed and creased Langtree's Alignment Model into the reflective surface, with new labels for concise identification, and symbols to either operate on the alignments or react to them.

Langtree's theory arranged magic attributes into multiple planes. The top plane contained energy attributes, arranged in a square: light, sound, fire, and lightning. The middle plane controlled earth, water, wood, and metal. The lowest plane contained all the so-called dark attributes, like gravity, force, and necromancy.

As Taylor worked, the plate became more than a piece of metal. It took on new weight, as symbols and magic fused into new potential for manipulating reality. Inventing new magical systems was fun, even when they were limited in scope. The final moments were the best part, as he completed the glyphs whose definitions would close the circle of meaning. When that happened …

All the mana imbued in the silver writhed and wiggled under his engraving tool, tore itself from his grasp, and was sucked away, pulling part of Taylor's mana with it. It didn't transform. It didn't explode. It didn't go anywhere. It was just gone. The sheet was interestingly-engraved silver, and nothing more.

When enchantments failed, things tended to break. When spells or rituals went awry, energy went wild. And when magic systems failed to cohere, magic disappeared. Taylor had authored several magic systems throughout his many lives, so he was no stranger to the phenomenon, but he didn't know where all the mana went. His favorite theory was that failed systems were sucked into parallel universes where they had coherence, but he didn't have any evidence for that outside his own imagination.

He pulled down a list pinned to his wall and scratched out the last of four entries: Langtree. Taylor was disappointed, but he wasn't surprised. None of the leading theories on magic attributes or mana alignment could sufficiently explain observed phenomena. The theories were all deficient in some crucial way. He'd left Langtree for last because he thought it was the worst of the bunch. For a magic system to work, the creator had to base the new system on a good functional understanding of what he was manipulating. If profound conflicts within the proposed system made that impossible, it ceased to exist.

There were several leading theories about mana attributes, but they were based primarily on three pieces of evidence. (1) Most magicians were superior at a single type of magic and struggled with all other types. (2) When Knexenk blessed humans with a class, they had an entry for "attributes" in their statistics. (3) There were magic items that could detect and measure someone's attributes. They were rare, and nobody knew how to make them, but the devices were real, and they agreed with the class system.

As he cleaned up his workspace, Taylor reminded himself that failure was a kind of progress. Knowing the existing theories were wrong should push him toward a new theory that was right. Eventually. Some day. After his tools were put away, he crunched and rolled the silver between his hands like putty until it was a thin rod, then fed it through a die several times, using progressively smaller holes, until the silver was drawn into thick wire. He wound the wire around a wooden spool. He put the die away, swept the spool into his satchel, and checked his room.

His space was atypical for a boarding house, large with an inconveniently sloped ceiling and tall piles of furniture taking up half of the area. He had asked to take the garret so he'd have room for his workbench. And, since the proprietors couldn't rent it out because it wasn't properly finished, Taylor didn't feel so bad about getting it for free. He left the bed unmade and several articles of clothing tossed over the back of a chair. The last thing he did before leaving was check the round mirror hanging on his door at eye level. A simple wooden mask covered it, reflecting light from the eyes and mouth. Taylor took the mask and glimpsed his own green eyes and slightly hawkish nose before covering his face. That image was replaced with night-blue hair over an expressionless mask of blond wood. Only then did he unbolt the door.

When Taylor died in his last life, he had woken up in the world of Aarden in the body of an eight-year-old child who was left for dead. The body came with a curse: anyone who saw his face hated him. Until recently, Taylor had been content to manage his curse while he regained some of his former power. Now, he had enough magic, money, and independence to pursue a real solution. He also had clues to follow.

A real curse-breaker, a warden who worked for Governor Syndony, had looked at him and declared that, whatever Taylor had, it wasn't a curse as he understood it. He could verify the curse's effect, but he couldn't find a source. There was something very unusual going on, even for the domain of curse-breaking.

His second clue was acquired during his unplanned trip into Maltemali, or the Spirit Realm. That's where summoned "spirits" dwelt when magicians weren't calling upon them to fight. The so-called spirits (who were perfectly corporeal within their realm) seemed wholly unaffected by his curse. And that begged a profound question: what if he wasn't cursed at all? What if his condition was an irregularity in his mana, something that made him feel alien? People who were exposed to his curse had a variety of responses. Some feared him, some despised him, and others attacked him. He'd been called a monster more than once. If his mana was strange enough, it would explain their behavior.

That led him to explore a topic he had long disparaged: the idea that mana had attributes. The implications threatened to upset his own beliefs about magic, but he was doing the research anyway. The magic tools and class system of this world were measuring something, even if people's understanding of it was twisted. Taylor was confident that, given enough time and resources, he could solve the puzzle and discover the truth about the attributes. That knowledge would make him stronger, even if it didn't help him with his curse.

He wondered what it would be like to walk with his face exposed to sunlight, surrounded by people who ignored him. It was an exciting prospect, but also a frightening one. Since the first day he donned a mask, he'd never intentionally been around other people without one. He didn't think he was ugly, but he didn't have much experience making proper expressions. He'd be strange until he learned how to use his face properly, and he didn't know what other people would think. The idea of people looking at him made him nervous.

Taylor put the problem aside for the moment and careened down the stairs and into the kitchen, where Cook had piles of boxed meals waiting for him. There was enough to feed two hungry boys for five days. Taylor pulled a storage box from his satchel, packed the lunches inside, charged the engraved preservation wards with magic, then put the box away. It narrowed strangely as it passed through the too-small opening of his satchel, until it was fully inside.

"Thank you, Cook!"

"Of course, Young Master. Enjoy your hunt."

He stopped by the common room, at the house's shrine, which they kept on a shelf. A parade of gods stood in a row. Behind them rose miniature pillars and a painted sky, as if they were installed inside a temple crèche. Taylor clapped his hands together twice and said a quick prayer. They didn't speak to him today, but that was fine. The Old Folks paid him more than enough attention already.

Blake waited by the front door to help him into his armor: a leather tunic on the outside, with rows of thin bronze scales on the inside, riveted in place. Brigandine was his favorite kind of armor because it was easy to make and simple to repair. Taylor could put it on by himself, but it was awkward, and Blake insisted on helping. He held his arms out while the handyman fastened the several belts and buckles that kept the armor in place.

Since being disowned, Taylor didn't have a house anymore. He had money, but not a regular income. Or a family name. Yet somehow, he still had servants. He had tried renting his own apartment in a different building, but they snuck in and moved his things into their boarding house, where they could cook and clean for him. He tried to pay them, but they refused the money. Finally, he gathered them in one place and formally dismissed them. Of all people, it was sour-faced Chambers who set him straight. He was pretty sure she didn't like him, and it had nothing to do with the curse.

"Are you dissatisfied with our service? Recently, that is."

"No, Miss Chambers. This is not a reflection on your abilities. I'm just not in a position to support a staff right now. You shouldn't have to serve someone who can't provide you with anything."

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"Are you angry about how we treated you in the past, before the masks?" Until he was eight, they had treated him very poorly indeed. But managing his curse had profoundly changed their relationship.

"I'm over that. The past is past."

"Do you doubt our loyalty to you?"

Loyalty was a big word. They weren't talking about the kind one could buy. They had served his late mother since she was little and had been devoted to her. For whatever reason, some of that had been transferred to him. They insisted on taking care of him even when it didn't benefit them.

"No, Miss Chambers. My concern is that I may be unfairly taking advantage of people who deserve better. You three have this place. You don't need to serve anyone."

"Young Master, everyone serves someone. We serve you. The boarding house allows us to do that. Do you look down on us so much, you think we don't know our own minds, or what's good for us?"

"I don't look down on you. I just never thought it through in quite that light."

"Of course, we have certain expectations of our Young Master. That one day, when he settles into an address, he will call for us, no matter where that may be. He will pay us when he is able. And, that he will henceforth respect our loyalty," she started to cry, "and not break our hearts with talk about dismissing us for our own good, like there was somewhere else we should be."

The maid sobbed into a white handkerchief while Cook patted her on the shoulder. Blake nodded in agreement. Taylor was too shocked to speak. He didn't know they felt that way about him. He didn't know Chambers had that much feeling in her. It cast his attempts to be rid of them in a callous light. One of the great lessons from his previous lives was the importance of loyalty, its value, and how to maintain it. It wasn't like he wanted to get rid of them. He was just trying to do the right thing. But if they were so adamant about staying …

"If that's the way you truly feel, then I admit I was wrong. None of you is dismissed. Few people are as fortunate in their servants as I, and I'm grateful to have you."

Taylor had served many masters over many lives. Some of them had been worthy of respect, but none had elicited a sense of loyalty beyond the abstract. He couldn't comprehend what deep wellspring fed his servants' insistent devotion, but he knew what they offered him was precious. So he let Cook feed him, left his bed unmade for Chambers, and asked Blake to make his masks and help him with his armor. Given they had the boarding house to look after, he was careful not to add too much to their burdens, but he made sure to call on them a little each day.

Tristan was a tall horse, which gave Taylor a good view of the commercial district as they passed through. It had changed over the summer, from struggling to thriving. Midway was a garrison town, and the blue uniforms of the Imperial Expeditionary Force were everywhere, their red piping and brass buttons winking in the late summer sun. Both battalions had returned to their home base, bringing an influx of imperial salaries with them. Taylor noticed the average age of soldiers had plummeted over the last few months. The ten-year campaign in Restoration had ended in failure, and many veterans decided they had had enough and departed for greener pastures. Younger men were recruited to fill the gap.

Tristan didn't need much guidance because he knew where they were going. They often came this way in the afternoons, down the street that ran between the market and the best storefronts until they reached Midway's school. Education was optional, but nearly all children went to the town's subsidized school. Taylor's feet barely hit the ground before a gray-furred wolfkin boy separated from the crowd of children and charged at him. There were only a few years between them, but Taylor took his role of adopted big brother seriously. The energetic furball collided with him and held on for several seconds before letting him go.

"Are we going fishing?"

"Not today." Taylor pulled a length of gray leather from his satchel and tossed it to the furry youngster. Its weight betrayed the bronze lining.

"Is this really for me?!" He got his arms through the sleeves but was too excited to manage the straps. Taylor snugged the armor around him and worked the buckles for him. Since he had gone to the trouble of making a special alloy and borrowing a forge, there was no reason to skimp on time and materials. He'd made a large quantity of the scales, enough for several more jackets of brigandine like his own. Using a few for his little brother was no sacrifice.

"We're hunting today. Maybe for the next several days. Do you remember the checklist?"

They went through the list together. Food, shelter, emergency medicines, mana potions, weapons, rope, and sundry tools.

"Did we forget anything important?"

Kasper knew the answer right away. "Information! What are we hunting?!"

"You'll find out very soon. This is a contract job, so what do we have to do before we leave town?"

"Talk to the client. About the job and money and stuff."

Taylor threw the wolfkin boy into Tristan's saddle and climbed up behind him. Kasper waved at the crowd of envious children as they left. The first few times Taylor had come to pick him up from school (usually to go fishing), he had worried about sullying his little brother's reputation. It turned out that having an older brother who was mysteriously masked and a known monster hunter was a positive influence on Kasper's reputation.

The client in this case was the Legate of Midway, Marco. He was widely known as Blue Marco on account of his odd skin color, which he inherited from an elvish ancestor. In most town halls, it would be strange to see an armored boy stride in like he belonged there, with an even younger child in tow. But the people who worked for Midway's legate greeted Taylor with respect and complimented the wolfkin pup's new armor. The two boys were let in to see Marco without delay. He was in the map room, arguing with an IEF officer.

"Moving troops takes time and supplies, Marco. Most of my men are greener than grass, and half of them don't have boots that fit."

"What about a reconnaissance unit? They're supposed to move quick."

"They've been moving nonstop for the past ten years. The ones I have left are all on extended leave. I can put a proper company in the field if you give me three days."

"My men might not have three days. Oh, look who's here. Someone who can actually do something. Commander, meet Taylor. You're just in time."

"Commander." Taylor nodded at the officer, a man in his thirties.

"You're the one my swordmaster keeps raving about? I thought you'd be bigger. Who's the little guy?"

Kasper snapped the Commander a passable salute. "Campmaster Kasper, sir!" The display earned him a return salute and an amused smile.

"Still no word from the wardens?" Taylor pushed footstools to the table so he and Kasper could stand on them to see the map.

Marco shook his head. "The last marker I have for them is on a hill about here, well inside the Rosewood. They sighted ents, had a successful first engagement, and then nothing for two days. I hope their tablet is damaged and that's why they haven't reported in, but we're seldom that lucky."

"Is there a large-scale map of the area?"

The legate pulled another map close. Taylor helped himself to the man's paper and ink and cast one of his favorite utility spells. A thin line of ink streamed from the well to the paper, copying the map in every detail. Taylor spoke while the magic ran its course. "I can carry medicine and supplies with me."

Marco yelled loud enough to be heard down the hall. "Gladys! Bring the crates!" Then normally, "anything else?"

Taylor listed the usual three. "Tablet, warrant card, and terms."

Marco put a slate of dark glass and a card of stamped steel on the map. "Standard per-head fee for recovering my men, sixty percent on monster parts. If there's a vent, twenty percent on crystals."

"I want eighty percent on monster parts this time around."

"Not that you don't have me over a barrel here, but why?"

"Because I'm not charging you anything for recovering your men. I know these guys. I don't need an incentive to bring them home. Plus, we both know there has to be a vent somewhere nearby, and the crystals are worth a lot more than some entwood. Besides," he shrugged, "I need the parts."

"You can have the monster materials. All of it," the legate decided. "Just bring home as many of my wardens as you can."

"How old are you, son?" The Commander, shocked into muteness until now, finally found his voice.

"Almost eleven." Taylor decided to head off his questions before he asked. It would save time. "I don't have a class, but I'm a capable magician. I've captured bandits, hunted dire wolves, and killed wyverns. When Reginar tried to force me to join Rossignol's circle, I blew his arm off and put a hole through his spirit companion. I'll be fine."

Men hauled two wooden chests into the room, and Taylor sucked them into his satchel while he spoke. Once he had everything stowed away and the warrant card tucked into a pocket, he nodded at Marco.

"You'll hear from me tonight."

After the human boy and his even younger wolfkin assistant trotted their horse down the street, the commander turned to Marco. "What are the chances he'd take a commission in the IEF?"

"Zero," laughed Marco, "maybe less."

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