Cirroc nudged Emily. “I have to go down to the dueling field,” he said. “Will you be okay here?”
“Probably,” Emily said. Gordian hadn’t commented on Cirroc tutoring Frieda, but Emily would have bet good money that Gordian would object if Cirroc missed dueling. The second round of the contest had to be repeated, after all. “I’ll see you later.”
She watched him go, feeling a flicker of odd affection. Cirroc was the sort of guy she would have found frightening, back on Earth. Strong enough to take what he wanted, used to taking what he wanted ... Emily had never understood why some women found that enticing, even attractive. A man strong enough to pick her up was also strong enough to force her down and take her. And yet, Cirroc was far from just dumb muscle. Stupid magicians simply didn’t last very long.
“The finger isn’t quite stable,” Celadon said. Emily dragged her attention back to him. “We need to make them with more care.”
“You made this one,” Frieda jibed. She pointed a finger at a mark. “That’s your sigil there, isn’t it?”
Celadon scowled. “I was expecting you to ruin it,” he said, nastily. “I didn’t bother to make them perfectly ...”
Frieda’s face darkened. Emily felt her magic surge.
“Behave,” she said, sharply. She glared at Celadon. “You should be pleased that someone else has actually managed to master your spell.”
Celadon looked back at her, then nodded curtly. Emily sighed, inwardly. Cirroc had told her that Celadon found her more intimidating than him—something Emily still found a little unbelievable—but he was also more inclined to challenge her. Most magicians didn’t seem to like the thought of dealing with someone far more powerful than themselves, even if it was a fact of life. Perhaps that was the real reason students were separated by age and ability, Emily reflected. The younger students would be spending far too much time, otherwise, trying to knock the older students off their pedestals.
“Cast it again,” he ordered, shortly. “We cannot afford to fail when they inspect our work.”
Frieda’s face darkened, but she cast the spell again and again. Emily nodded in approval. A good spellcaster—and Frieda was good—would find it easier and easier to cast the spell as they practiced. Celadon looked irked, then relieved. Emily watched as he organized the fingers, before starting to cast the spell himself. He was right, unfortunately. Failing to cast the spell—even once—during the presentation would probably get them marked down.
“I’ll set up the caldron,” Celadon said. “You get ready to insert the finger.”
Perhaps another name would be better, Emily thought. Professor Thande would probably insist on it. A student who put a real finger in a steaming caldron would instantly regret it, if he survived. But that isn’t a problem right now.
She tossed possible alternatives around and around in her mind as Celadon set up the caldron and started to brew with practiced skill. The more complex healing potions were never easy to brew, not even for a skilled alchemist. Emily couldn’t help wondering if there would come a time, soon, when people would bless Celadon’s name. Healing potions were expensive simply because they were very hard to brew. Anything that made them easier would be warmly welcomed.
Except for the alchemists who feel they’ve lost status, she reminded herself. And everyone else who had something to gain from keeping the potions expensive.
It wasn’t a pleasant thought. The Accountants Guild had collapsed when the New Learning had exposed just how badly it had exploited its position, but its absence had played a major role in Vesperian’s Folly. And that had nearly destroyed a city. She wondered, idly, just what consequences might follow if the alchemists lost some of their influence, then dismissed the thought. The consequences were probably unpredictable. Besides, the fingers couldn’t be used to produce tailored potions. That required a skilled alchemist with plenty of spare time.
“The brew is ready,” Celadon said, softly. “Insert the finger ... now.”
Emily leaned forward, watching with interest as Frieda gently lowered the finger into the yellow liquid. She wasn’t sure if Celadon should be counted as a genius or not, but she had to admit that very few people would willingly try to use a wand—or anything charged with magic—to make potions. Professor Thande had warned them, time and time again, to be very careful that their tools were cleansed of magic, pointing out that an unexpected surge of magic could be very dangerous. Celadon had looked past the dangers and seen opportunity.
The liquid started to bubble, then turned a sickly green.
“That’s not meant to happen,” Celadon said, surprised. He sniffed the air over the caldron, then sat back hastily. Emily muttered a charm to dispel the stench before it spread any further. “What did you do?”
“I didn’t do anything,” Frieda said. “The spell was perfect.”
“The brewing was perfect too, until you inserted the finger.” Celadon picked up one of the other charged fingers and examined it. “You must have messed up the spell, somehow.”
“Or you messed up the brew.” Frieda’s fists clenched as she stepped back from the worktable. “The slightest mistake could have caused an unexpected reaction.”
“I didn’t make a mistake,” Celadon snapped. “This potion is so simple a child could do it!”
“Then why didn’t you?” Frieda slammed her hand onto the table. “The spell was perfect!”
“You probably didn’t anchor it properly,” Celadon said. His voice lowered, becoming more annoyed than angry. It grated on Emily’s ears as Celadon picked up three of the unused fingers and waved them at Frieda. “Practice again, on these three and ...”
Frieda snarled. Her magic flared around her. “Do not talk to me like that!”
Emily cleared her throat, loudly. “Calm down, both of you,” she snapped. “Did you expect success on the very first try?”
“It worked for me.” Celadon didn’t even look at Emily. “Why wouldn’t it work for Frieda?”
“Because you messed up the brewing,” Frieda snapped. Her fingers were playing with her bracelet. “You said yourself that the spell was perfect!”
“It only takes a tiny error to mess up the potion,” Celadon countered. “And if you can’t master the spell, what hope do you have of passing? You’re going to fail because you’re too stupid to count to eleven without taking off your shoes!”