Bridge

When I finally found the man whom, as far as I'm concerned, I'm destined to kill, he was building bridges. Of all the stupid things to do with your ten per cent time, making scale models of viaducts has got to rank among the stupidest. Just typical of Lord Smartypants Suitov Iceheart the Sixteenth.

When I say Iceheart was building bridges, I mean he was chattering rubbish and a blue-white sketch in three dimensions was appearing to assemble itself across half the room. Illusion magic, you know.

"...domesticated callow bean and carob bean and hello Weft, the chief Soprone domesticates are chickpea wheat and flax, the silphium's the money crop across the straits in Quetchia, Soprone's most stable colony, now hold awhile, relax," Frozheart concluded, turning to greet me.

"What is that supposed to be?" I asked, which was stupid of me because he answered. Mention cantilevers to me and my eyes cross. I understand arches. They're round at the top. Why can't people stick to arches?

If I'd kept asking he would have kept phrasing it down until he got me to understand. If knowledge is a communicable disease, you get people like Suitov who try to pass it on out of spite.

Instead I said "What's with the verbiage?"

"I asked Dolahan to teach me her working technique." Dolahan's an elite battle mage. She's a voks. I'll say no more. And that's another thing about Frostyveins. He keeps trying to learn how other people do things. Think about things, even. He even tries that on me, and as far as a generation of brother trainers could ascertain, I don't think at all.

He added "With debatable success. The trick is in the sound of the words, not the meaning. I have ever-deepening respect for Dolahan. Suppressing those parts of the brain is harder than one imagines."

"Right," I drawled.

"Basaltine would be much better suited to this method, I suspect."

I crouched down and stroked the sleeping hound, who muttered "Rabbits, rabbits, rabbits."

It's taken me a while to get over the idea that stroking the familiar is the same as stroking the master. It isn't. They may both share the sensation of contentment, but not, thank grace, the sensation of my hands.

Mind you, if Suitov ever wanted to be stroked he'd have plenty of volunteers.

"And why try to master all these techniques? Why not stick to waving your hands around?" I asked.

"To learn. To become more flexible. To experiment, compare and contrast and strike at the underlying principles. Not to mention that if I ever lost a hand I'd be harmless." He's patient when I ask incomprehensible questions like that. If you want to see him in deep discomfort, ask him But what's the POINT of books? and watch him remain polite and informative. Oh, I love messing with his head.

The bridge remained half-built. I knew he was holding the entire thing in his mind, in some sense, while talking to me. That scares me sometimes.

"Get back to work, then," I kindly suggested.

"At your whim," he said with appropriate seasoning of irony.

I'd be embarrassed trying to ad lib nonsense words in front of company. Watching Suitov, I had to guess he wasn't. Sometimes I think he's nervous of me. Sometimes I think he wants me to think he's nervous of me, and sometimes I think he wants me to think he wants me to think...

"...rustle radish ravenous revert respect sustain spectator thistle speculate rack eff permit reticulate suppose supplant surprise suspect repair red rasp --" Chillbrain continued effortfully. The lizard loves his sibilants.

And "Insane?" I put in sweetly just as he faltered.

The latest girders on the bridge turned pink in surprise. I did that.

Suitov grinned at me, which I'm pretty sure was genuine. He's almost like a lonely child sometimes, dying to share his latest game with someone. "Mordacity," he raised.

I said "Pointless." More pink lines propagated.

"Caprice."

And, well, you don't need me to transcribe the back-and-forth bridge-building that followed. Let's just say the words got sillier and ever more made-up, I started to see what he was driving at with this method, and the finished illusion was a sorry sight. It looked like a stupidly powerful metalkinetic had been let loose on it and decided halfway through that he wanted it facing in a different direction. Even I know cantilevers aren't meant to work THAT way.

I walked through it, pink and ice blue and insubstantial as it was.

"Icebreath, remind me never to set foot on anything you say," I told him.

"I always knew we were talking at crossed purposes," he remarked.