The Spirit Lens by Carol Berg

the smoldering stick into my hand, and crouched beside the hearth. The offending stench and smoke rose from a crucible set upon a tripod over an unnaturally intense fire. “I need worktables,” he said as he dropped yellow clots from a paper packet into the crucible, causing rills of blue flame to flare across his stinking mixture. “Three of them, each exactly three metres long. One with a polished stone surface, the others planed oak. And cupboards with lockable doors. Two at the least. Four would be better.”
    “You didn’t inform the steward of these needs, when we spoke to him yesterday?”
    “How was I to expect that folk hiring a mage had no idea what a mage needs to do his work?” He poked at the belching contents of the crucible with a stirring rod, then glared at me over his shoulder. “Well, get on then, apprentice. The sooner you’ve done, the sooner we clear this damnable stink.”
    “Sonjeur de Duplais is King Philippe’s cousin, Master Dante,” stated the lady firmly, “engaged to acquire and catalog books. If you need manual labor, we can fetch a workman.”
    “He might be the Pantokrator’s maiden aunt for all I care. He does what I tell him in the manner I prescribe or he’s no good to me and might as well dive headfirst out the window right now. Is that understood?”
    Arrogant. Unyielding. Ungraceful. Even the cool Damoselle ney Billard fumed.
    “I serve at the queen’s pleasure, Master,” I said quickly. “To that end, I shall be honored to take on whatever tasks you assign and to learn whatever you might teach.” Especially why a man who disdained common sorcerous practice needed a circumoccule, a ring used to enclose particles arranged for traditional spellworking. And to learn why he had dragged me into a position that would make our investigation impossible. And to learn why this chamber thrummed as if a hundred musicians played at once, all of them different tunes.
    Raising my brows and venturing a grin to soothe the lady’s concerns, I shrugged out of my wrinkled doublet and bent to the work, first reheating the smoldering end of the stick—once a chair rung, I guessed—then shoving it through the gouge. Soot and char brought a minimal useful balance of spark, air, and wood to spells that focused heavily on the elements of base metal and water. A standard practitioner would embed other preferred particles into a permanent ring—fragments of colored glass, perhaps, or a few well-chosen herbs, and always nuggets or links of silver—the most perfect substance, encompassing all five of the divine elements. But who knew what Dante’s plan was? The sulfur bespoke unsavory complexities.
    “Get it hotter and move faster,” snapped Dante. “The wood must be well seared as I lay down the lead.”
    “Very well then,” said the administrator, equanimity recovered, though the toe of her elegantly small foot tapped rapidly on the ruined floor. “Have Sonjeur de Duplais bring a list of your additional requirements to my office this afternoon. Shall I have these excess furnishings removed?”
    “Aye,” said Dante, carefully ladling the first dipper of molten lead into a charred segment of the groove. “And the window rags as well. They’re useless and ugly. I’ll keep yon bed and the eating table and such.” He jerked his head toward an open doorway in the end wall. “And you can leash your simpering maidservants and prancing footmen. None sets foot in my chambers unless I give them leave. The assistant will clean what needs cleaning. Now out with you, and let us to our work.”
    “Certainly, Master. Divine grace, and to you also, Sonjeur de Duplais. As I mentioned earlier, I am at your service.” The lady gazed at me intently, communicating a sincere concern and intent to help, which pleased me considerably. I acknowledged her kindness as well as I could from my ungraceful posture on the floor.
    My task completed, I sat back on my heels. I expected Dante would stop once