Cohost writing prompt: @Making-Up-Adventurers — This wizard’s little black book and spellbook are the same book
“Conjuration theory,” Priscott says, in a voice soft and patient as dew-damp moss growing, “says that when one summons a creature, one is not snatching an example from the further reaches of the cosmos; one is instead reaching into the pattern of things and finding the world-memory of a kind of thing, and plucking it like a lute string, so that the world manifests a single specific potential example of the kind, that could exist but previously didn’t.”
“Priscott,” Havel says affectionately, “I’m not a wizard, I don’t care, and I’m just here as a third party to ensure that neither of you tries to obviously swindle the other.”
“Forgive an old man,” Priscott says blandly. “My only joys left in life are my work, and talking about it.”
Havel looks at the effervescent, and faintly fluorescent, cocktail in front of the wizard, and raises a sceptical brow.
“The genius of Margravar Bluefinger,” Priscott continues, ignoring him, “lies in the astonishing, exacting precision with which he has learned to search and stimulate the deep lattices of the world-memory. It should be all but impossible; it’s well-established how to, for example, conjure a bird; even a songbird. Margravar’s secret techniques allow him to do such feats as a Casbrian pippit, fledgeling, fearless of humans in disposition.”
“I’ll bear him in mind should I ever need one,” Havel says. “So you’re stealing his book to learn his techniques, then?”
“Havel, dear,” Priscott says, and smiles thinly. “Such curiosity, for a man who’s only here to ensure neither I nor the book-thief swindle the other.”
Havel shrugs and sips his beer, and then the rogue arrives, a chubby little androgynous youngster with the flats of filed-down helling horns on their forehead, dressed in a threadbare once-fashionable cloak — and, much less conspicuously, vastly expensive, comfortable, hard-wearing boots of silent tread. They slide into a seat opposite Priscott, flash a shy little smile, and wordlessly push a cloth-wrapped rectangle across the table.
“I shall take a few moments,” Priscott says, “to glance through this. I do not doubt you; but Margravar is more than cunning enough to substitute a cursed replica, and should he have done so, I will gladly recommend you a colleague who can remove any lingering effects.”
The rogue nods, still wordless, and sits back in their chair with total apparent unconcern. Priscott unwraps the tome — smallish, thin, bound in black leather, tooled with embossed knotwork — and opens it, unhurriedly, leafing through the first few pages. Each is headed, in a strong and slanting hand, and then densely packed with notes and diagrams and arcane minutiae; Havel pretends to be disinterestedly watching the room.
A Blonde, the first page is headed, out of the side of his eye. A Brunette, the next.
Priscott turns goodly sheafs of pages at once; Havel catches only quick glimpses.
Identical Twins, Inexperienced but Enthusiastic, of Sheltered Noble Class.
A Youthful Libertine of Considerable Expertise with Women, Nervous to First Take Masculine Pleasure.
A Jaded Brothel-Worker from Candonia.
The Very Likeness of Eleanor of Rhun.
The next sheaf turns over to blank pages; Priscott pauses momentarily, riffles back to the last few pages of conjurations.
Eleanor of Rhun (Aged 20 Summers).
Eleanor of Rhun (Aged 40 Summers).
And the last, facing the first blank page: Priscott of Blacksands on the 3rd Day of Evenswatch, Kingsyear 642, before—
Priscott, with a single neat, unhurried motion, tears out that last written page before Havel can read the last of the heading. Rolls the removed leaf into a tight cylinder, and tucks that into his belt; closes the book; re-folds the cloth around it, and places a pouch of coin atop.
The wizard pushes the thing entire back across the table.
“Please,” he says, soft and patient. “That is payment as agreed; furthermore, do as you will with the tome. It may be of worth to some magical researcher or book collector. I do not believe it to be harmful to you.”
The rogue smiles and nods, picks up the pouch and book, and slides out of the chair and away.
Priscott, after the youngster has gone, lifts his ridiculous drink to his lips and takes several deep swallows before setting it down.
“Do you value my company, Havel?” he says evenly, and Havel stares, thinking of a long, unspoken understanding that they do not speak of serious matters, or of the company they keep each other, or ever confuse the two; of drinking in beer gardens beneath the summer twilights, of fishing in the lazy river with poles set some relaxed, unspeaking distance apart; of the wizard’s desperately hungry mouth, hot on Havel’s cock, and Havel always waking alone.
“Yes,” Havel says, uncertain how serious to make his tone.
“I do not care to ever discuss Margravar Bluefinger, save to note that he is a genius of his craft,” Priscott says.
