An elbow caught me in the chest and I felt the hideous agony of my ribs snapping. I yanked back on the robes or shirt I’d grabbed and snaked my injured arm around their neck, getting a chokehold. Clawed fingers dug into my arm and tore lines of fire down it. I snatched a handful of hair with my good hand and twisted, trying to snap the assailant’s neck. The movies all lied about how easy that should have been, and I repeatedly accomplished nothing as more elbow strikes crunched into my now shattered ribs while we desperately grappled on the floor.
We collided with the low table in a flailing struggle, sending waves of torture through my chest and forcing me to spit acrid blood. I gave up my attempts to separate spine from brain and squeezed their neck with all my dwindling strength, searching their face with my fingers for something to squish. Nails found eyeball and I pressed. A sickening, squelching pop sent fluids gushing over my hand like the world’s most vomit-inducing jelly candy.
In a blur of motion, I was suddenly airborne; they had somehow rolled forward—in contemptuous denial of my superior leverage and physics in general—and thrown me over their shoulder with inhuman strength. I crashed down hard on my back several paces away and the room’s darkness was replaced with blinding stars and red. It had to be an aether ability, a part of me noted dispassionately while the rest of me screamed incoherently.
It was over. My chest was a furnace of suffering and every breath caused a coughing fit, compounding endlessly as I choked out coppery blood. By the faint light of the open window, I watched with a dark satisfaction as their silhouette struggled to stand, leaning heavily on the couch and cradling their head. They took a stumbling step towards me, then another. A grim calm settled over me.
I shut my jaw and lips, still wracked with coughing, and my mouth slowly filled with blood. The memory of the raven that had started all of this rose unbidden, its calls echoing above all other sounds. A manic smile threatened to sabotage my efforts. I didn’t know if that bird had been the Allfather of legend—or one of his agents—but I was resolved to earn a place in his hall tonight, just in case. The attacker paused at the end of the couch, then took a faltering step towards me.
They fell to their knees, crawling until they loomed over me. I launched my head forward, spitting a mouthful of blood and phlegm in their face. They fell back, shrieking in outrage with a woman’s voice. It put a slight damper on my satisfaction, but she had caught me sleeping, unarmed, and without any magic to defend myself; I thought it was still a good showing on my part.
“Night take you, stop fighting,” she growled at me with a crackling and hoarse voice. Between coughs and spikes of pain, I told her what she could go do to herself and helpfully suggested various objects that I thought would be ideal aides for that endeavor. Not exactly the last words I would have planned, but I was beyond caring.
“I’m Layla; stop or I’ll bite you!” she snarled.
“I bet you’re good at that,” I retorted before my befuddled brain could register the first part of her command. I blinked hard, trying to focus on her, but it was too dark to make out any details. She was roughly the right size and had the same style of hair...
“Layla? Why?” I coughed out, confusion and disbelief warring.
“Why what?” she croaked, irritation dripping.
“Why are you killing me? I fed you,” I said. My voice cracked and another painful fit of coughing overcame me. She slid closer to me, hanging above me.
“For the love of day, I’m not killing you! Drink this,” she said, reaching over and pushing my jaw open. A stream of something thick, cool, salty, and metallic filled my mouth and I realized with horror what it was: blood. Her blood. I spat it out and threw another punch at her, clocking her in the jaw. I nearly passed out from the agony. The strike was weak, barely moving her head, but she yelped and slapped me.
She yanked my arm and sat on it, pinning my good hand to the ground. Terror and desperation teamed up and allowed me to throw another punch with my free hand, but she caught my wrist, pressing it to my hip. I clamped my jaw shut, shaking my head and squirming to get any control. She poked my broken ribs—hard—and I screamed. She shoved her wrist in my mouth and I rolled my head to the side, trying to dislodge her without success.
I clamped my throat shut and sawed my teeth around her wrist, grinding against the bone. She screamed and headbutted me. I saw a flash of white and then nothing.
I regained my senses with a jolt. Sitting up, I felt at my ribs. The pain was gone, and I realized too late that I had used my injured hand. My no longer injured hand. Layla had turned on a light and was sitting in the armchair across the table from me, frowning. Blood was smeared down one side of her face and her chin, but she still had both eyes. Hatred and betrayal roiled within me. I jumped to my feet and balled my fists.
“Why did you do this?” I bellowed at her. She jerked back, eyes wide.
“I—I didn’t mean to!” she stammered. I shook a fist at her.
“How could you ‘not mean to’? You shoved your blood down my throat—that wasn’t an accident,” I accused. She held up her hands defensively.
“That was to heal you!” she said.
“I didn’t want your ‘healing’. I wouldn’t have needed healing, if not for you,” I snapped at her. She cringed.
“I’m sorry! Dai, I didn’t—” she started.
“Save it,” I spat. She curled up and tugged at her hair. I scoffed, unable to muster any empathy.
“You know, it figures; I survive a terrorist attack from cultists and their pet legion of undead, only to get killed by the monster I tried to help. Of all my failings, it was compassion that took me out,” I said, bitterness and regret threatening to bury me.
Tears streamed down Layla’s cheeks, leaving wandering streaks in the blood. The fight left me and I stepped back, sliding down the wall and jarring my tailbone, but I didn’t care. It didn’t matter anymore. Nothing did.
“You... think I’m a monster?” Layla whispered between quiet sobs. I shrugged, indifferent.
“I didn’t, not before. But then you killed me, so...” I said. She hid her face behind her knees and wailed.
“I’m sorry! I didn’t—I didn’t know you’d—you’d react like that,” she sobbed, voice hitching and breaking. I rolled my eyes and waved dismissively, but she couldn’t see me.
“Now what? Are you going to teach me how to do vampire things, or is this more of a ‘figure it out yourself’ situation?” I asked with feigned irreverence. She sniffled and looked up, her face screwed up in confusion.
“What?” she asked, bewilderment evident. I rolled my wrist, motioning for her to be more forthcoming.
“The least you could do is show me how to blend in and such. Maybe toss in some cool vampire powers, unless I have to wait for that,” I said as if talking to a particularly slow child. She shook her head, blinking rapidly.
“Dai... you’re not a vampire, and we don’t have any control over the cold,” she said, utterly flummoxed. I squinted at her, then pressed two fingers against my windpipe. Slowly, I felt my pulse throbbing away as ever. I threw up my hands.
“How? What was all of this, then?” I asked, anger and confusion returning. She rubbed her nose with the back of her wrist and sniffed.
“I came up for our... talk. I found you sleeping and I—I tried to wake you. But you hit me,” she said, wincing and massaging the side of her head. I crossed my arms and glared at her.
“You grabbed my head—and why were you close enough for me to elbow you in the skull?” I asked, an accusatory tone slipping in. She flushed and looked away, refusing to meet my eye.
“Um. I was... well, I thought that maybe... um,” she waffled, turning bright pink. I closed my eyes, sighing. My head thumped against the wall and I kneaded my temples with the meat of my thumbs.
“You tried to kiss me,” I stated dryly. She shook her head franticly, but the color on her cheeks deepened and I stared at her, unamused.
“I thought it might bring back your memories of me!” she said without pausing. I raised an eyebrow.
“And the blood?” I asked.
“It... carries my aether, until you absorb it. I’m not a Healer, but... I have some practice healing my own injuries. Your weave would have kept me out if I tried doing it like a mage,” she said.
I started laughing; slow at first, but building to uncontrolled howling. I toppled over and pounded a fist into the wall. Layla watched, concern and bewilderment growing. After several more fits, I gasped for breath and pushed myself back up to a sitting position. I leveled my gaze on her, mixed emotions flaring up.
“At first, I thought you were some cultist assassin, here to get revenge after we repelled the attack on the Adventurers’ guild. Once you tossed me, I knew I was dead. When you tried to get me to drink your blood...” I said, trailing off.
“Maybe I’ll be at peace with it, one day. Right now? I’m not ready to become... like you,” I finished, shaking my head. Layla bit her lip.
“Dai, how do you think being like me happens?” she asked. I blinked.
“I—don’t know, exactly. One theory I’ve heard is that it’s transmitted through bites, but they said that about zombies and werewolves, too. The other option is that I have to drink your blood, then die, and I come back three days later as... one of you,” I said, searching her for a reaction. She burst out laughing.
“No! Who told you any of that? That’s—that’s ridiculous!” she said through a hail of giggles and hiccups. I frowned.
“Well, how does it work, then?” I asked.
“Everyone knows. When someone dies, they sometimes become a ghost, if their weave is strong and they have some reason to... stick. Then, if a ghost keeps their sense of self and is powerful enough, they can possess a body. That helps them stop leaking aether so fast. If it’s someone else’s body, they’re called a ghoul, but if it’s their own body...” she said, gesturing down to herself. I stared at her in disbelief.
“Wait, so you’re actually a ghost, and your body is dead?” I asked, unconvinced. She crossed her arms.
“Not anymore, it’s not. I fixed it. Who wants to walk around in a rotting husk?” she said.
“Then why is your blood so cold?” I asked, looking for holes in her story
“Because it’s cold outside, and I don’t need to keep it warm! It’s a waste of aether, most of the time...” she said, exasperation flaring.
I fell silent. She wasn’t joking; this was just how vampires worked here, apparently. No ancient clans of blood-sucking parasites obsessed with lineages and hierarchies—just a convoluted way of being sort-of, kind-of, not-quite dead anymore. What did her condition even mean? More importantly, could her body have become a zombie while she was still a ghost? It seemed rude to ask.
“So, if you’re actually alive, doesn’t that mean you generate aether? Why did you need some from me?” I asked, trying to wrap my head around everything. She looked embarrassed at my question.
“It’s... complicated. Normally, living things do make their own aether, but I... died. My body doesn’t make aether anymore—no, I don’t know why. But life also requires aether, so I have to use some to keep everything going,” she explained.
We didn’t speak for a time after that. Slowly, I got to my feet and walked over to the couch, plopping down heavily. Layla had uncurled and was now sitting with her legs tucked behind her. There was plenty of blood still on her face, and I could make out dark bruising around her neck. A spike of shame shot through my guts.
“I’m sorry I hit you,” I whispered. She swallowed hard and shook her head.
“It’s alright, I understand,” she said.
“It’s not alright, but... thank you. Next time you need to wake me up, maybe try noise first, yeah?” I asked, ruefully. She chuckled.
“You know, I think I just might.”
Layla and I stayed up talking for another hour. I gave her the story of the attack on the Adventurers’ guild and she told me about narrowly missing the massacre in the market. She had closed her stall early and went home to prepare for our meeting. She was wearing a once-elegant dress that I had brutishly ruined in the fight and probably would have been stunning if not for all the blood.
I learned that she had dated Daivon for two years before he went missing. They’d met one day when he was visiting the Tower and passed her stall in the market, buying a cleaning charm from her. She didn’t have any family left—her parents were adventurers that died in a Stalker ambush when she was young—and she had grown up in a charity orphanage run by the Crown. The Khans sponsored a few similar institutions and the two had bonded over it.
We said our goodbyes and I watched her disappear out of the window and over the fence. I closed it behind her and slumped onto the bed. She had healed herself and cleaned up in the bathroom, but that did little to ease my guilt. I knew what was happening to me. It was getting more dangerous, fast, but what could I do? Violence was far more common here than my life on Earth had prepared me for, and I was handling it as best as I could.
The next morning, I awoke from a blessedly dreamless sleep. The room was a mess. There were blood stains and smears on the floor, walls, and furniture. I didn’t want to explain what had happened—or let the staff start rumors about it—so I trudged into the bathroom and filled the sink with water, using a spare towel like a mop to get the worst of it.
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Once I was less likely to be suspected as a serial killer, I ran a hot bath and settled in to relax. I must not have done a great job cleaning myself the previous day because the water turned pink seconds after I dunked my head. It took two more rounds of rinsing and half a bar of harsh soap to scour every trace of combat from my body.
Finished and feeling almost human again, I dressed in new clothes and left the bathroom to find breakfast waiting for me. My stomach made me acutely aware that I hadn’t eaten since yesterday morning and I nearly dove into the fragrant noodle soup. It wasn’t what I would have normally considered breakfast fare, but I didn’t care. The savory dish had small chunks of unidentified vegetables in a salty and slightly earthy broth alongside the pale noodles. I downed it and finished the complimentary oat-like drink I was growing accustomed to. Looking around, I was disappointed to find I had consumed everything and was still hungry.
I left my room, on the hunt like my ancient ancestors. The kitchen was on the first floor near the dining room, so I hurried downstairs and through the arch. Ester was sitting at the table and chatting with Basil. They looked up as I entered and gave me warm smiles. I nodded to them and strode over.
“Who do I have to duel to get more food?” I asked jokingly. Ester snorted and then covered her mouth. Basil tutted and flagged a servant over, ordering a second breakfast for me. The maid scurried away and I sat across from the two women.
“Ready for today?” Ester asked me.
“I will be, in a few minutes. Why, what’s today?” I asked. She gave me a flat look.
“We’re going to the Tower, so you can see what classes are like,” she said. My eyebrows shot up.
“They’re still holding classes after yesterday?” I asked. She gave a half shrug.
“Of course. Part of Urall’s goal is to instill fear—make the population more susceptible to her disease. On that, the Tower and Crown agree: they must be denied victory at every turn, and hunted to extinction,” she said matter-of-factly. It had a brutal logic to it. I wondered how the people felt, though; would they all return to their normal routines as if nothing had happened?
The food came out and I was lost to the world for a solid thirty seconds. Ester struggled unsuccessfully to contain fits of laughter as the meal vanished. Basil scolded me lightheartedly and then excused herself to attend her duties. Ester watched her leave and then looked me over.
“How are you doing, Dai?” she asked.
“Good,” I said, a little too quickly. She tilted her head.
“Really?” she said, a hint of challenge in her voice.
“I’ll live,” I said. Under my breath, I added, “probably.”
“Tell me,” she insisted. I didn’t answer for most of a minute, and she stared at me the whole time. I rolled my shoulders, looking for an excuse to give, but finally relented.
“I killed four people yesterday. Almost died just as many times. Thirteen adventurers did die. A mage took a lance through the chest in front of me—I was right next to him—fought alongside him; saw him laugh with his friends just minutes before. And the ghosts...” I said, shivering. Ester sat still, listening.
“They say I’m supposed to see their faces. At night. I guess that’s one advantage to always being exhausted: no dreams, yet. I’m... not looking forward to a calm day,” I finished. Ester bowed her head and then looked up.
“These things happen. As long as evil exists and is vanquished, those who face it are forced to carry its burden. This is why well-ordered societies are necessary—but I know that’s faint comfort for you. Consider this: you did not truly kill those men; they died long ago, the very core of their beings lost to corruption. You simply destroyed the enemy’s weapons, no different than the wraiths they subjugate,” she consoled. My gaze snapped to hers. Most of the time, Ester was warm and full of empathy, but then she would say something like this and sunder the pattern.
“Is there no room for mercy or redemption to you, then?” I asked. She shook her head.
“Of course there is, but redemption is for the redeemable, not everyone. Urallites—especially their killers—all carry a memetic pathogen; a sickness of the mind, transmittable through weave and word. Many people have bad ideas, but some ideas are so foul that no one can hold them. The idea holds the person, and strangles them to death,” she said. I sat back heavily.
“I’ll... have to think about this. Thanks for trying,” I said. Ester gave me a sad smile and stood.
“I’ll go get ready to leave. Visiting the Tower might help distract you long enough to get some clarity,” she said, running her hand down the table and leaving the room.
It was a completely alien perspective to me. The antidote to bad ideas should be good ideas, not execution. Where does it end, and who gets to decide when an idea is “irredeemable”? What had to have happened to make someone as sweet as Ester think like this?
We reconvened in the lobby after gathering our heavy coats and hats. I followed her out to the street and she set a quick pace. There were a few people moving around in small groups—an improvement from yesterday evening. We followed the flow of the crowd and a pattern soon emerged. Everyone was carefully keeping a subtle distance from other groups, even slowing down to avoid getting too close. Furtive and wary glances caught out of the corner of my eye, hands held awkwardly inside thick coats, slight flinches whenever someone made just a little too much noise—it all painted a picture of a city on edge.
The market came into view and I released some of the tension from my shoulders. They had cleaned up since last night. The debris and bodies were gone, the stalls repaired. Only close examination revealed the small divots in the cobbles that hadn’t been there before and the empty stalls hidden between the others. More than a dozen blue shields appeared on my map as we passed through—the Kingsmen were out in force, just out of sight.
We were almost out of the market when I saw a familiar face. Layla was standing in a stall near the exit, smiling and chatting with customers. Her stall was painted blue and purple, with a huge selection of necklaces and amulets hanging on a pegboard. Our eyes met and she winked at me when no one was looking. I smiled and looked away.
Ester led the way into the tower and the robot receptionist swiveled silently to greet us. It bore a strong resemblance to the ghosts I had fought yesterday and I forced down a shudder. A few steps in, a message popped up.
Connection request from: Hapheti
Its creepy eyes stared at me, unblinking. I leaned towards Ester and whispered.
“It sent me a connection request; what should I do?” I asked quietly. She rolled her eyes.
“She is the one that will give you credentials to come with me, so accept it unless you want to sit here for the next two hours,” she hissed at me.
It was unsettling, but I reluctantly followed her advice and a new green dot appeared on my map. A message box popped up in my vision.
Welcome to the Haylomsha Academy of Aetheric Studies. I am Hapheti. As a new visitor to the Academy, you do not have any access permissions. Would you like to submit an Aspirant application to join the upcoming coterie G-416?
I read the message and looked for a way to reply. I was able to will text to appear under Hapheti’s words and composed a response.
“No. I am only visiting for the day to audit a class,” I sent.
The Academy’s classes are not open to the public and require access permissions to attend. A sponsoring member of rank ‘Adept’ or higher with access to the target class is required to grant a visitor access emblem. Do you have a sponsor for your visit today?
I looked at Ester.
“Do I have a sponsor today?” I asked her. She nodded lazily and pointed to herself.
“Ester Batai is my sponsor,” I sent to Hapheti.
I am contacting Adept Ester Batai for confirmation, standby.
Hapheti’s mechanical form rotated smoothly to face Ester. After several seconds of staring and blinking, Ester turned to me and smiled. Hapheti faced me and sent another message.
Confirmation successful. I have added a visitor access emblem to your system. Please enjoy your visit to the Haylomsha Academy of Aetheric Studies. Is there anything else I can do for you today?
“No, thank you,” I sent, feeling awkward about thanking the robot after the fact.
Ester led me up the lift to a higher level. The wall dissolved in front of us and we stepped into a wide circular hallway with wooden doors along the interior. We passed several doors until Ester picked one out and angled towards it. When I got closer, an overlaid icon appeared in my vision with a label: Room 1015. We pushed our way in and the door swung silently on its hinges.
Inside was a medium-sized room with two large blackboards at the front. The bulk of the room was occupied by a staircase of platforms climbing towards the ceiling in the back. It looked exactly like any university classroom from Earth with auditorium-style seating, minus the desks. Several people were already sitting in the student section and Ester led me to a spot halfway up the stairs.
Over the next ten minutes, people trickled in until fifteen students sat scattered throughout the room, some chatting with their neighbors while others studied metal tablets. I leaned over to Ester and whispered.
“What are those tablets? I’ve seen some before, but never got a good look,” I asked.
“Memetic anchors. We use them to keep notes or pass information around. It’s more compact and reusable than writing on clay or chalkboards,” she said.
“Why not paper?” I asked. She gave me a scandalized look.
“Who would waste paper on student notes? Do you know how hard it is to make?” she said. I slapped my forehead. No sunlight means no trees, and therefore no paper. They had to have some way of growing plants—the grass outside the Tower was proof of that—but it must take some effort beyond sticking seeds in the ground and waiting.
An older man entered the room—the teacher, if a lifetime of education was any indicator. He walked to the lectern and placed his tablet on it. The chatter died down and the teacher surveyed the class, his eyes landing on me. He inclined his head with a little wave and began addressing the room.
“Good morning, everyone. I hope you all noticed we have a new face today, Mr. Daivon Khan,” he said, gesturing to me. Every head turned in my direction and I fought down a spike of panic. I looked at Ester and she motioned for me to stand. Gritting my teeth and putting on my “I’m politely not annoyed with what’s happening right now” smile, I got to my feet and waved around the class. I received a few half-hearted waves in return and started to sit, but Ester cleared her throat and shook her head.
“Welcome, Mr. Khan! What brings you to our Advanced Memetics class today?” the teacher asked.
“Thank you. I am considering applying to join the Tower and my friend Ester offered to let me sit in for a class, to see what life is like here,” I said. He clapped his hands and beamed.
“Excellent! Good thinking, scouting the territory, so to speak. I’m Master Bluebell. The material is a little advanced for a newcomer, but I’m sure you’ll get a feel for how we do things,” he said, waving to me, which I took as the signal to sit.
“Now, let us start with a review of last week’s assignment,” he started.
The class continued about as expected. Master Bluebell lectured and occasionally called on students to answer questions. He didn’t use the blackboards, instead projecting images in the air with aether. Most of the class was gibberish to me, but odd instances of familiar concepts caught my attention. An hour in, Master Bluebell wiped his display clean and started on a new topic.
“Now, we’ve discussed the importance of anchoring and covered several common methods, but the working Memeticist has more goals to consider than simply storing shards. Oftentimes, it is useful to sort a collection of shards by some criteria—for example, their aetheric decay rate. Doing this manually for a small number of shards is plausible, but much slower than a purpose-built memetic sub-construct,” he said. The display showed a cluster of circles, each with a number written inside. Master Bluebell flicked his hand like a conductor and the circles moved, forming a horizontal line. They floated into place one at a time, starting with the smallest number and ending with the largest.
“I’ve already given one problem with this approach, but who can tell me what the largest issue with manual sorting is?” he asked. A girl with long platinum locks shot her hand into the air, one finger pointed up and a tiny light emanating from the tip. He pointed at her.
“Non-memeticists cannot use manual methods, so constructs made for the public must be self-sufficient,” she said.
“Exactly! No one would be pleased if a baker handed them a box of flour instead of bread, would they? Even if you only ever intend to build constructs for your own personal use, sorting by eye fails for large collections. Imagine trying to sort hundreds or thousands of shards. It could take hours, or days! To address these shortcomings, allow me to introduce the first of Algentir’s methods,” the teacher said. His display reverted to a cluster of circles.
“First, every shard is moved into whichever position is fastest,” he said. The circles all moved to form the line without regard to the numbers inside them.
“Then, we test each position in the collection, starting at the front. Compare the shard with the one to its right. If its sorting criteria is larger, swap the shards’ positions. Then move to the next position, whether a swap occurred or not. Continue this way until we reach the end of the collection. This is called a single ‘pass’. At the end of the first pass, the largest shard is guaranteed to be in the correct position at the end of the collection,” Master Bluebell explained. His display animated, and pairs of adjacent circles were highlighted one at a time, swapping places whenever the circle on the left was larger. This ended with the largest number all the way to the right. The class murmured in interest.
“This can be repeated, ignoring the already sorted portion of the collection. Each pass will sort one more shard into the correct position. Therefore, if we perform as many passes as we have shards, then we will sort the entire collection, no matter how many shards are in it,” he finished. With a flourish, the circles quickly jostled around, shifting and jumping as swaps ushered the larger numbers to the right and the smaller ones to the left. They came to a rest in a perfectly sorted line.
“This approach always works, as long as you have a well-defined sorting criteria. However, it has a critical flaw. Can anyone guess what it is?” the teacher asked, scanning the room. The students stared at the display, some mumbling to themselves and making small, thoughtful gestures with their fingers, but no one lifted their hand.
I was dumbfounded, gobsmacked, and quite possibly flabbergasted. He had just taught them Bubble sort, a common algorithm for new computer programmers. I had learned it in a summer camp just before I left home for college. This version was dressed up in aether and magic, but it was unmistakable.
“Anyone? No one wants to hazard a guess?” Master Bluebell entreated. With no one else responding, I hesitantly raised my hand, finger pointed up. Ester looked at me like I had grown six extra heads. Master Bluebell’s eyebrows shot up and he pointed at me.
“Mr. Khan? You’d like to take a guess?” he asked, surprised. I nodded.
“This method is too slow. It’s better than sorting by eye, but doing an entire pass for each... shard... will quickly grow out of hand. If you had ten-thousand shards to sort, then you would need... one-hundred million comparisons to sort the list,” I said. The teacher’s face was a picture of delighted surprise and he started clapping.
“Well done, Mr. Khan! You are precisely correct, of course. You said you aren’t even an Aspirant yet? Very impressive! What method would you prefer to use instead?” he asked me.
“Quicksort, or Merge sort if room isn’t a concern,” I responded immediately. A moment later, I screamed internally. Daivon definitely would not have known any of this. I stole a glance at Ester. Her mouth hung open, gaping at me. Yep, that was going to be a problem.
“Hmm, I’m not familiar with those techniques. Care to demonstrate one for the class?” Master Bluebell asked. Ester clicked her mouth shut and narrowed her eyes at me. Welp, the cat was out of the bag, the milk had been spilled, and the kitchen was probably on fire. No point holding back now. I stepped out into the aisle and walked down to the lectern.
“I don’t know how to use your display; do you have something I could write with—chalk maybe?” I asked, motioning to the blackboard. The teacher held up a finger in a waiting gesture and started rummaging through a storage cupboard in the corner of the room. I carefully did not look back at Ester. After a few seconds of clattering, Master Bluebell returned and handed me a pristine stick of white chalk.
Merge sort was my favorite sorting algorithm—yes, I had a favorite sorting algorithm, sue me—and it was easy to draw, so I started sketching it out. Soon, the board was covered in a diagram of boxes and lines with numbers written in them, forming a reverse-hourglass shape. I spent a few minutes projecting my voice and explaining how it worked to a fascinated class and teacher.
“As you can see, these sub-lists merge repeatedly until they are all joined in one big collection again, which is why this technique is called ‘Merge sort’. At least, that’s what I call it. Do you recognize it by another name, Master Bluebell?” I finished.
“Incredible! That was a near-perfect explanation of Algentir’s sixth method, although your terminology is odd in places,” the man said. He rubbed his chin and took on a shrewd look.
“Where did you study before?” he asked. I couldn’t give him the real answer, so I cast around and saw Ester, arms crossed and drilling a hole in me with her eyes. No help from there. I took a breath and committed to my story.
“I’m not sure. I had an... incident, recently. Lost most of my memories, but the strangest things pop up from time to time. Edacien—uh, Master Dervish—said he couldn’t help me so...” I said, shrugging at the end. Master Bluebell’s eyes filled with sympathy.
“Ah, I’m sorry to hear that. Memory maketh the man, as we like to say. Such a tragedy, but you seem to be rebounding admirably. If you do decide to apply as an Aspirant, be sure to mention me as a recommendation. I think you’d make an excellent addition to the Tower,” he said. I thanked him with a short bow, then returned to my seat beside Ester, not meeting her gaze.
The class continued with demonstrations of more techniques. All of them were familiar, although they seemed to prefer circles instead of boxes in this world. It must have been related to magic’s affinity for that shape. The animated display made following each process simple and clear. That would have made learning a hundred times easier if I’d had access to it back on Earth.
I mulled over his offer as the class was winding down. Magic was critical to this society and was the key to learning how I’d been brought here and how I might go home. More immediately, it was a survival tool and a potent weapon in the right hands. Joining the Tower might take up a good portion of my time—and I’d have to do homework, the absolute bane of my formative years—but it would also give me structure and a goal to reach for, instead of the blind flailing I’d been doing so far.
Master Bluebell’s recommendation pushed me over the line. My otherworldly knowledge was a resource I had very few ways to leverage, but his class showed me a way to make it useful. I resolved to submit an application when the chance presented itself.
Master Bluebell dismissed the class and the students all stood to leave. I hazarded a look at Ester. She wore a mask of neutrality. I swallowed. She knew something wasn’t right. I started trying to talk to her, but she held up a hand.
“Not here. Let’s go,” she said curtly. She nearly flew down the stairs and I trailed behind her.
I wasn’t cut out for undercover work.