I cast a glance over at the boy, who looked like a light had just gone on in his head.
“And so’s he, I think.”
Before I knew what was happening, the father had grabbed the front of my allover and lifted me off the ground. I had to try, very hard, not to lash out, with pistol or with magic.
“My boy’s no hell-damned mage.” He rattled me against the wall with every word. I hoped like hell the wall could take it. “You hear me? He’s a good boy, not some dirty mage, and you aren’t taking him away.”
As previously noted, I am not a tactful man and I’d used up the day’s supply, plus my hand was throbbing like a bastard. I had all this juice sloshing round and a black chuckle in the back of my head saying Do it, go on, show the stupid sod. And, well, I had this inexplicable aversion to being called dirty, unholy or all those other things they called mages. Made me cranky.
The spell was going to be something small but impressive. I’d discovered that rearranging air could have some pretty spectacular effects and it was just a little thing – use a blast of air to push him away, maybe rearrange my face from my disguise to look like his for a moment. Nothing much, just enough to show him what I was about, and perhaps shut him up about how mages were dirty.
I’ve never been one for restraint, though, and Dendal’s sermons on mastery and control couldn’t quite overcome my stinging ego, so what actually happened was he ended up blasted into the other wall, bringing down a shower of damp plaster and knocking a small and badly done picture of the Goddess face-first on to the pile of rat bones. The lack of restraint hadn’t done wonders for my head either. Little black spots kept swimming past my eyes on their way to somewhere.
The father glared up at me with his mouth open, and looked at his own face on mine. It’s handy for freaking people out, satisfying if petty. Another boom-shudder pierced the sudden silence, brought another shower of plaster raining on his head and made the hovel shiver like an old man with ague. A chunk of ceiling made a bid for freedom, smashed the picture of the Goddess through the rat bones, and I wondered just how safe this building was. The superstructure should be all right – barring a catastrophe such as me going batshit, it had been built to withstand a lot. But individual buildings, bolted on an age ago, bolts probably rusty, or synth-eaten… maybe not so much. I began a swift calculation of how far it would be to fall if the floor gave way. Too far for my liking.
But after a few heart-stopping moments of absolute terror, everything settled back to almost normal. The boy sat, gobsmacked and speechless, his gaze pinging between me and his father. I had less luck with the father as he got up.
I used my best weapon: my oversized mouth. “Yes, I think he’s a mage, and no, we aren’t dirty, or unholy or any of those other things Ministry told you to believe. We’re men and women who can… do a little extra. Bet you get a bit of work in Trade when you can, right?”
A moody shrug, wary but belligerent still. Then again, I was feeling pretty belligerent myself.
“Who do you think got the factories running again so you could work? So you could earn a pittance, yes, I know, but better than the fuck-all you earned while they weren’t running. Who do you think is lighting the streets? Helping heat this place so we don’t all freeze our bollocks off? It’s not much, but it’s something. I don’t know how much you know about what happened with the Glow, with the ’Pit, but most of it’s probably crap. The news-sheets print what their patron cardinals tell them to, and it’s bullshit. What isn’t bullshit is: mages make Glow. Mages power Trade. Mages might be all we’ve got to beat the Storad off and we need them. Need. Right now. So are you going to tell me how dirty I am, in which case I shall showcase some of my better spells, which you will regret, quite possibly over a protracted period of time? Or will you let me train your son so he can help us all out of this mess? If not, you let the Storad just walk in and fuck us all over, worse than even Ministry. Because they will if they get the chance. They care about Trade, about machines, and factories. Maybe they don’t eat babies, but they don’t give a shit about what’s down here, or who, and while they may not come down and kill us outright, I don’t see them coming over all charitable and feeding us.”
This little speech seemed to terrify the boy even more, but the father beetled his brows like he was really thinking. Another boom-shudder that rattled the walls – they were definitely getting closer together – gave a bit of added weight to what I’d just said.