Chapter Thirteen #2
Maximilian’s nostrils flared. “Weren’t you listening to what I just said?
” He leaned forward. “An artificial machine is not the same thing as a human being. The flick of a switch or the press of a button does not replace years of honing a craft. To imply as much is an insult to every trained sorcerer who has dedicated their lives to the study.”
Vesper crossed her arms. “So, this is all about pride?”
Maximilian took another long sip of his latte before he answered.
“I began training in sorcery when I was a Year Five student. At eleven years old, I was attending lectures and demonstrations, following a rigorous curriculum complete with practical and theoretical testing. Everything I can do now? It’s a direct result of that training.
I am proud of the work I’ve done, and I have every right to be. But that’s not what this is about.”
“Then what is it about, Mr. Kite?”
Maximilian looked her over. “Tell me a way you think incantations could make the world better for the general populace.”
Vesper considered. “Incantations can be used to clean the air, I saw as much in Stonehaven. Why not do that in other parts of the city?”
Maximilian steepled his fingers. “Spoken incorrectly or without the proper knowledge, the same incantation that adds oxygen to purify the air could poison it.” He pointed to her mug. “The same Thaumaric incantation I just used to warm your mug could set this entire coffeehouse ablaze.”
Vesper shivered.
“There’s a reason sorcerers undergo years of training,” said Maximilian. “The Gladwell Machine allows people to bypass that. Think of all the time you’ve spent honing your craft as a writer. Imagine if someone could just press a few buttons on a machine and call themself a writer too.”
“That’s hardly the same thing,” said Vesper.
Maximilian leaned forward. “Isn’t it?”
“No.” A touch of annoyance colored Vesper’s voice.
“What the Gladwell Machine does is provide access to those who would never have it otherwise. Thaumaric is only taught at expensive private institutions that most people can’t afford.
It’s a form of gatekeeping. Mr. Gladwell’s device creates equality. ”
“It creates the illusion of equality,” said Maximilian.
“Sure, that machine might allow someone to say a Thaumaric incantation, but without proper training, they could hurt themselves, or worse, others.” He leaned forward.
“Sometimes, there’s a reason things aren’t widely accessible.
Sometimes, power has to be guarded and protected. ”
Vesper’s mouth twisted, as though she’d tasted something sour. “Spoken like someone who’s always had access to power.”
He sat back and crossed his arms. “Spoken like someone who’s never had something worth protecting.”
Vesper recoiled, as though he’d struck her. She tried to remind herself that Maximilian didn’t know her background, that he had no idea exactly how wrong he was. Anger bubbled up in her anyway. She looked up at him, eyes narrowed.
“Do you really think my life has been a walk through a rose garden?” she said quietly.
Maximilian tensed. “Hang on, Evans. That’s not what I—”
Vesper rose. “Good day, Mr. Kite.”
She dropped a five-gild bill onto the table and turned before the sorcerer could say anything else. It was an odd reversal of the first time they’d met here: This time she was the one who headed out the door.
Outside the coffeehouse, Vesper hugged herself tight as the late autumn breeze picked up.
Just an hour ago, people had stood on the sidewalks milling about and socializing.
Now everyone was walking with stern purpose, keen to get out of the cold as quickly as possible.
She was still looking back and forth along the street when her eyes caught on something. Someone.
The man walking down the opposite side of the road was of medium build, with wavy golden-blond hair, and a cleft chin.
He was wearing the plain white shirt of a laborer, trousers, and dusty brown boots that looked like they’d seen far better days.
Vesper’s mouth went dry as she stared at him.
His clothes were different, but there was no mistaking that man.
It was Francis Gladwell.
No. Logic told Vesper that that was impossible.
She’d seen Francis Gladwell’s corpse with her own two eyes; she’d watched a medical examiner cover his body with a sheet.
The inventor was dead—everyone knew that—and yet she stood there and watched as that very same man continued down the road.
He was almost to the end of the block when she found her voice.
“Mr. Gladwell!”
The inventor’s head shot up, confused. His eyes panned the street a moment before landing on her.
“Francis.” Vesper took a step forward. “It’s Vesper Evans, from the Globe. I—”
Without warning, the inventor turned and ran, sprinting away in the opposite direction.
“Wait!” Vesper ignored the looks of people around her as she hitched up her skirts and started after him.
“Mr. Gladwell, please!” She tried to cross the street, but now it was congested with coaches and horses.
Vesper maneuvered around them as quickly as she could, disregarding the coachmen who shouted at her as she darted around them.
She reached the other side of the road and looked around, but the inventor was already gone.