Small Magics by Erik Buchanan Page B

around us, they focus on amusing themselves, usually at the expense of others.”
    Frederick Needham smiled. “It’s a common disease. It’s called being young.”
    “Nonsense,” John interrupted, surprising Thomas both with his tone and his agreement with the bishop. He had heard some stories of his father’s youth, and knew that John Flarety was not one to talk. “The problem,” John continued, “is that these young folks have lost their sense of what’s right.”
    “Quite correct,” agreed the bishop, warming to the topic. “Not to reflect on you, Merchant Tripoli, for I am sure you tried—” the words slid out of the bishop’s mouth in a way that was just this side of insulting, “—but you have to admit that the young of today are much wilder than what they were. And what’s worse, rather than keeping them close to hearth and home, where they can be properly disciplined, fathers are sending their sons away and placing their education in the hands of those whom they barely even know. Thomas here,” a pair of fingers flicked quickly, dismissively, in Thomas’s direction, “for example.”
    “And a sad example he is,” agreed John. “I sent him away for schooling and he comes home penniless and threadbare and as near as I can tell, hasn’t learned a thing.”
    The words were like a knife, driven into Thomas’s stomach and twisted. He opened his mouth to protest, then firmly shut it. There was nothing he could say that his father wouldn’t refute, and Thomas had no intention of arguing with the man at the dinner table. Whatever was going on, he wouldn’t be the one to embarrass the family. He could see the very tight expressions of his mother and brother and guessed that they were thinking very similar thoughts. Around the table, all the other guests were looking distinctly uncomfortable.
    “I know he dresses up well enough,” John Flarety continued, “but you wouldn’t have known it yesterday. The boy was a disgrace. Holes in his jacket and a ragged bag on his shoulder. He looked like a vagrant.”
    “Sadly true,” said the bishop. “Isn’t it, young Thomas?”
    I will not start a fight at this table. “Apparently, your Grace.”
    “And what’s worse,” said John, “he was carrying a sword! And a duelling sword at that! That wretched school took my money and my son and sent back a vagrant and a brawler!”
    The tension in the room was almost visible. Thomas had to struggle to catch his breath, the air felt so thick. The bishop looked unperturbed by it all. He sipped at his wine and surveyed the various faces in the room before turning to Thomas. “And what do you have to say about this?”
    “I will admit to being threadbare,” Thomas said, keeping his eyes on his father. He forced himself to speak quietly. “And I will admit to carrying a sword. But I am not a vagrant and I am not a brawler.”
    “Indeed?” The word rolled off the bishop’s tongue, and the condescension that came with it put Thomas’s teeth on edge. “Then how did you waste all your father’s money?”
    Waste? Thomas was starting to intensely dislike the man. “I didn’t waste it. I’m a student. I spent it on books.”
    The bishop smiled and leaned closer, like a snake getting ready to strike. “And what sort of books do you read, young Thomas?”
    “Philosophy, mostly.”
    “Pagan philosophy, no doubt.”
    “ Ancient philosophy,” Thomas corrected.
    “The ancients were pagans,” the bishop said. “They did not believe in the High Father or his gifts. They had their own, false gods.” He turned to the others at the table. “And here you see the root of the problem. The Academy teaches the young the supremacy of pagans over the teachings of the church!”
    Thomas felt his teeth clenching. “No. The Academy uses ancient philosophy to teach us the importance of logic and reason, not—”
    “And they teach it to be more important than belief in the High Father!”
    “No—”
    “The ancients