Chapter One: "There are things on heaven and earth, Horatio, Man was not meant to know." —HAMLET ONE of the few redeeming facets of instructors, I thought, is that occasionally they can be fooled. It was true when my mother taught me to read, it was true when my father tried to teach me to be a farmer, and it's true now when I'm learning magik. "You haven't been practicing!" Garkin's harsh ad- monishment interrupted my musings. "I have too!" I protested. "It's just a difficult exer- cise." As if in response, the feather I was levitating began to tremble and wobble in midair. "You aren't concentrating!" he accused. "It's the wind," I argued. I wanted to add "from your loud mouth," but didn't dare. Early in our lessons Garkin had demonstrated his lack of appreciation for cheeky apprentices. "The wind," he sneered, mimicking my voice. "Like this, dolt!" My mental contact with the object of my concentra- tion was interrupted as the feather darted suddenly toward the ceiling. It jarred to a halt as if it had become imbedded in something, though it was still a foot from the wooden beams, then slowly rotated to a horizontal plane. Just as slowly it rotated on its axis, then swapped ends and began to glide around an invisible circle like a leaf caught in an eddy. I risked a glance at Garkin. He was draped over his chair, feet dangling, his entire attention apparently de- voted to devouring a leg of roast lizard-bird, a bird I had snared I might add. Concentration indeed! He looked up suddenly and our eyes met. It was too late to look away so I simply looked back at him. "Hungry?" His grease-flecked salt and pepper beard was suddenly framing a wolfish grin. "Then show me how much you've been practicing." It took me a heartbeat to realize what he meant; then I looked up desperately. The feather was tumbling floor- ward, a bare shoulder-height from landing. Forcing the sudden tension from my body, I reached out with my mind . . . gently . . . form a pillow . . . don't knock it away.... The feather halted a scant two hand-spans from the floor. I heard Garkin's low chuckle, but didn't allow it to break my concentration. I hadn't let the feather touch the floor for three years, and it wasn't going to touch now. Slowly I raised it until it floated at eye level. Wrap- ping my mind around it, I rotated it on its axis, then en- ticed it to swap ends. As I led it through the exercise, its movement was not as smooth or sure as when Garkin set his mind to the task, but it did move unerringly in its assigned course. Although I had not been practicing with the feather, I had been practicing. When Garkin was not about or preoccupied with his own studies, I devoted most of my time to levitating pieces of metal—keys, to be specific. Each type of levitation had its own inherent problems. Metal was hard to work with because it was an inert material. The feather, having once been part of a living thing, was more responsive . . . too responsive. To lift metal took effort, to maneuver a feather required subtlety. Of the two, I preferred to work with metal. I could see a more direct application of that skill in my chosen profession. "Good enough, lad. Now put it back in the book." I smiled to myself. This part I had practiced, not because of its potential applications, but because it was fun. The book was lying open on the end of the work- bench. I brought the feather down in a long lazy spiral, allowing it to pass lightly across the pages of the book and up in a swooping arc, stopped it, and brought it back. As it approached the book the second time, I dis- engaged part of my mind to dart ahead to the book. As the feather crossed the pages, the book snapped shut like the jaws of a hungry predator, trapping the missile within its grasp. "Hmmmm ..." intoned Garkin, "a trifle showy, but effective." "Just a little something I worked up when I was prac- ticing," I said casually, reaching out with my mind for the other lizard-bird leg. Instead of floating gracefully to my waiting hand, however, it remained on the wooden platter as if it had taken root. "Not so fast, my little sneak-thief. So you've been practicing, eh?" He stroked his beard thoughtfully with the half-gnawed bone in his hand. "Certainly. Didn't it show?" It occurred to me that Garkin is not as easy to fool as it sometimes seems. "In that case, I'd like to see you light your candle. It should be easy if you have been practicing as much as you claim." "I have no objections to trying, but as you have said yourself so many times, some lessons come easier than others." Although I sounded confident, my spirits sank as the large candle came floating to the work table in response to Garkin's summons. In four years of trying I was yet to be successful at this particular exercise. If Garkin was going to keep me from food until I was successful, I could go hungry for a long time. "Say, uh, Garkin, it occurs to me I could probably concentrate better on a full stomach." "It occurs to me that you're stalling." "Couldn't I...." "Now, Skeeve." There was no swaying him once he used my proper name. That much I had learned over the years. Lad, Thief, Idiot, Turnip-Head, though derogatory, as long as he used one of these, his mind was still open. Once he reverted to using my proper name, it was hopeless. It is indeed a sorry state when the sound of your own name becomes a knell of doom. Well, if there was no way around it, I'd just have to give it my best shot. For this there could be no half- effort or feigned concentration. I would have to use every ounce of my strength and skill to summon the power. I studied the candle with a detached mind, momen- tarily blanking the effort ahead from my consciousness. The room, the cluttered workbench, Garkin, even my own hunger faded from view as I focused on the candle, though I had long since memorized its every feature. It was stout, nearly six inches across to stabilize its ten-inch height. I had carved numerous mystic symbols into its surface, copied painstakingly from Garkin's books at his direction, though many of them were par- tially obliterated by hardened rivulets of wax. The can- dle had burned many long hours to light my studies, but it had always been lit from a taper from the cooking fire and not from my efforts. Negative thought. Stop it. I will light the candle this time. I will light it becaus,. there is no reason I should not. Consciously deepening my breathing, I began to gather the power. My world narrowed further until all I was aware of was the curled, blackened wick of the candle. I am Skeeve. My father has a farmer's bond with the earth. My mother was an educated woman. My teacher is a master magician. I am Skeeve. I will light this can- dle. I could feel myself beginning to grow warm as the energies began to build within me. I focused the heat on the wick. Like my father, I tap the strength of the earth. The knowledge my mother gave me is like a lens, enabling me to focus what I have gained. The wisdom of my teacher directs my efforts to those points of the universe most likely to yield to my will. I am Skeeve. The candle remained unlit. There was sweat on my forehead now, and I was beginning to tremble with the effort. No that was wrong, I should not tense. Relax. Don't try to force it. Tenseness hinders the flow. Let the energies pass freely, serve as a passive conductor. I forced myself to relax, consciously letting the muscles in my face and shoulders go slack as I redoubled my ef- forts. The flow was noticeably more intense now. I could almost see the energy streaming from me to my target. I stretched out a finger which focused the energies even more. The candle remained unlit. I couldn't do it. Negative thought. Stop it. I am Skeeve. I will light the candle. My father. . . . No. Neg- ative thought. Do not rely on others for your strength. I will light the candle because I am Skeeve. I was rewarded by a sudden surge of energy at the thought. I pursued it, growing heady with power. I am Skeeve. I am stronger than any of them. I escaped my father's attempts to chain me to a plow as he had my brother. My mother died from her idealism, but I used her teachings to survive. My teacher is a gullible fool who took a thief for an apprentice. I have beaten them all. I am Skeeve. I will light the candle. I was floating now. I realized how my abilities dwarfed those around me. Whether the candle lit or not was inconsequential. I am Skeeve. I am powerful. Almost contemptuously I reached out with my mind and touched the wick. A small bright ember appeared as if in answer to my will. Startled, I sat up and blinked at the candle. As I did. the ember disappeared, leaving a small white plume of smoke to mark its departure. I realized too late I had broken concentration. "Excellent, Lad!" Garkin was suddenly beside me pounding my shoul- der enthusiastically. How long he had been there I neither knew nor cared. "It went out," I said plaintively. "Never you mind that. You lit it. You have the con- fidence now. Next time it will be easy. By the stars, we'll make a magician of you yet. Here, you must be hun- gry." I barely got my hand up in time to intercept the re- maining lizard-bird leg before it smacked into my face. It was cold. "I don't mind admitting I was beginning to despair, lad. What made that lesson so hard? Has it occurred to you you could use that spell to give you extra light when you're picking a lock or even to start a fire to serve as a diversion?" "I thought ...
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