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Ah, this was something he’d wondered about. He accepted the glass she brought him, noting she’d given him a more generous portion this time. Did that mean she was less angry? She was certainly more forthcoming than ever.
“Done with the tray?” She eyed his clean plate. “Unless you want to eat the cutlery.”
“I’m done. That was good, thank you.”
“Thank Missus Ryma. I can order a second plate if you want?”
“No, that’s plenty.” Any more and he’d have a gut ache. Surreptitiously, he noted she stacked his plate on top of another. So she’d eaten, too. Good to know, since she seemed to get annoyed when he asked. “Bring me the dagger, and let’s see to that leash at least,” he said as she detoured to put another log on the fire.
She plucked up the blade and brought it to him, holding it out hilt first. Taking it, he recalled the moment he’d thought she might attack him—and how he’d been so dead on his feet she could’ve succeeded. She was unwinding the chain leash where she’d looped it around the collar, then rotated the whole thing and lifted her chin so he could see the lock.
Studying the mechanism, he continued the conversation. “This is something I don’t understand about the Convocation. If the houses have been intermarrying all this time, why can the wizards of one family perform only one kind of magic?”
“Aha. The short answer is: That’s not the case. Think about the Convocation scorecards. I know you saw mine. I assume you saw yours?”
He jerked his chin in agreement. He’d looked at it just long enough to verify his MP score was adequate to apply to restore House Phel, then tossed it in a drawer. As she seemed able to do, Veronica followed the thought, giving him a knowing smile, watching him down her long nose. “You barely glanced at it, didn’t you?”
He shrugged, refusing to be embarrassed. The lock didn’t seem to be responding, so he wedged the tip of the blade into the top link of the leash, whispering to the silver to release, which it did. The leash fell away, and he tossed it aside. She let out a sigh of relief, her breasts rising and falling with the breath, her nipples showing dark through the thin cloth. The scent of wine and roses thickened between them, and the urge to cup those breasts, stroke her nipples, to once again hear her moans of pleasure nearly overwhelmed him. Moans of faked pleasure, he reminded himself, clearing his throat and glancing up at her, to find her watching him warily again.
Moving with slow deliberation, so as not to alarm her further, he set the enchanted blade on the table beside the bed and picked up the wine. “I’m sorry, the lock isn’t responding. We’ll have to try something else tomorrow.”
She considered him a moment, as if he’d surprised her. Then she stepped away, not quite fleeing, but close to it, and took up a strip of cloth he recognized as being his shirt in happier times. “I’m sureyoumemorized my scorecard,” he suggested.
“Everybody does,” she said, deftly winding the cloth around the collar. It wasn’t that huge—about the width of three of his fingers—but looked large and far too heavy on her slender neck. “In the Convocation, it’s like knowing someone’s rank and house. The columns on the cards represent the major categories of magic, the rows are the subgroups that you showed strength in, the number your magic potential score in that category and subgroup. They only include the subgroups that we show any potential above a three in.” She waggled her eyebrows. “I have a very long scorecard.”
He recalled the many rows on her card but hadn’t known what that meant, just that her overall score indicated high potential. His card had been quite short. Though she was being playful—definitely tipsy from the wine—he didn’t respond in kind to the innuendo. “Then you have potential in many categories.”
“Subgroups,” she corrected. Finished with the cloth, she retrieved her wine and this time didn’t bother to go around the bed, instead crawling over his legs back to her spot. “That’s part of why I’m considered a high-potential familiar, along with the numerical scores. I could work well with a wizard from most any house. Familiars are paired by the Convocation with wizards that will be able to use their skills, and they then become part of that family, and house.”
She went quiet, swirling her wine, and Gabriel spoke quickly to divert her from dwelling on that. “Do wizards not move to other houses?”
Blinking at him, she surfaced from her dark thoughts. “They do, but not often. Most wizards have MP scores in only one or two categories. Or their scores are overwhelmingly high in one category and unremarkable in others. Usually, a wizard’s major talent is their family house’s magic, and then they just stay there. You know, enter the family business, rise in the ranks, maybe take over as lord or lady of the house someday.”
“But if a wizard has high scores in a different category than their family house, or scores high in multiple categories?”
“That’s when it gets interesting. The houses licensed for that category of magic will offer to take those wizards on. Sometimes if a wizard has multiple potentials, it becomes a bidding war—and they get offered all kinds of incentives to join that house. Once a wizard contracts with a house, they’re not allowed to use their subsidiary talents for anything but a nonprofit hobby—and even then, they don’t flaunt the ability.”
“Ah.” He nodded and sipped his wine. Now that she’d relaxed around him, they were actually getting along. It was kind of lovely, sharing this cozy room with her, the rain now pouring outside, the fire crackling merrily, his belly pleasantly full and his head drifting with wine and pain herbs.
“That’s why there’s the appearance that, say, only House Refoel wizards can perform healing magic,” she continued. “Many wizards in other houses have a smattering of healing magic, but they’re not allowed to use it professionally. House Refoel holds the monopoly.”
“That’s why you were concerned that I created a magical artifact by enchanting the silver blade.”
She toasted him with her glass. “It’s particularly sticky when you cross a High House’s license, as opposed to a lower-tier house. I’m certainly not going to tell House El-Adrel, but if any of their wizards come across your blade—or anything else like it that you may have made—then House Phel will owe them a penalty. I assume House Phel can’t afford much in the way of penalties.”
This was why he needed her. Or someone like her, but it was too late for him to take anyone else for his lady wife. “You assume correctly,” he replied grimly, draining his wine and setting the glass on the table beside the big bed. He wondered what kind of penalty House Refoel would exact if they found out about the fertility magic he’d used to ensure success with Veronica—or worse, what her reaction would be. Bad enough that she felt trapped with him by chance. She’d likely see his manipulating the Trials as the worst kind of cheating, and possibly the ultimate betrayal. He rubbed the back of his neck. “Do these penalties always take monetary form?”
“Depends. The Convocation trade council makes the decisions, and those can get ridiculously complicated. It could be that you’d owe El-Adrel a slice of trade from whatever House Phel sells.” She frowned. “Areyou selling anything? We couldn’t find out much there.”
Because there wasn’t much to find out. “I’m still working on that part.”
The look she gave him was almost pitying. “What were they before?”
“What do you mean?”
She sighed for his obtuseness. “Before House Phel… fell.” She kept a straight face, but a lilt in her voice told him she’d heard the jokes. “What was your major export?”
“I have no idea.”
