A Clash of Magics by Guy Antibes (read this if txt) 📕

style when he saw one. They headed back to the inn. Potur wasn’t expected until dinner, so they sat in the common room nursing the thin beer they sold in Khartoo. Potur finally joined them.

“Do you want to eat here or in the dining room? The food is more to my taste here,” he said.

Trevor nodded. “Here, of course. Is that all right, Lissa?”

“It is,” she said.

“Were you successful at the docks?” Potur said.

Trevor had his entire story ready, but when he finished, Potur laughed. “Those two shops are owned by the same person. You could have done worse, but not by much. If you would have asked me, I’d say the going discount was seventy-five percent. Watch the fitting. They still might want to stick you with ready-made parts.”

“Have you bought a diving outfit before?”

Potur shook his head. “That is for rich young people, like you. People who are interested in style. I’m sure the magicians will be looking for that quality in you, so don’t take your outfit back.”

“Why do they call it a diving outfit?” Lissa asked.

“Fishermen wear a similar outfit when they work. The cloth is tightly woven and waterproof. The cloth also comes from some animal with fur or hair or something that is warm when wet. They use the hair to make a thick fabric. You can swim in the stuff, but if you dive with an outfit on, you need weights to go down because the outfits are buoyant. Fishermen wear them so they won’t drown.”

“So even the name is an affectation,” Trevor said.

Potur nodded. “It is indeed, now that you mention it.”

They ate a meal that wasn’t elegant, but the fish stew was seasoned to perfection. Although Trevor hadn’t experienced the taste before, he liked it. If Khartoo had stinky air, it certainly had tasty food to make up for it.

Potur and Trevor rode to the docks to pick up Trevor’s outfit. He tried on the pants and frowned. The shirt was too small, as was the tunic. “I can’t buy this,” he said to the woman who had waited on him earlier in the day.

“Let me make some alterations.” She slipped in the back, and a few moments later, Trevor tried on the outfit that was measured for him. He gave the woman a tip and wore the outfit out into the foggy air.

“How do I look?” Trevor said in the magic light that illuminated the shop’s doorway.

“Black,” Potur said. “If you have to sneak around in the enclave, that is the outfit to choose.”

Trevor brightened. “And I’ve already chosen it.”

They returned to the inn, where Trevor modeled his new attire. He checked the quality and found nothing amiss. He wondered why the woman bothered to cheat him if she had already made a custom outfit. Trevor shook his head. Some people couldn’t help themselves, he guessed.

“I’ll take Lissa with me,” Potur said. “The magicians won’t talk to you if you bring an uninvited guest.”

“I suppose so,” Trevor said, adjusting his black outfit. He was unused to wearing the sword on his waist, but he didn’t have much of a choice if he wanted to make an impression and get some good information before the enclave magicians discovered he was immune.

He took Lissa aside. “Could you charge my sword and cuirass with magic? You won’t be with me, and if I get in a tight spot, I won’t have anyone to help me.”

“I’m not sure I’m able to put enough magic in to make it work,” Lissa said.

Potur knocked on the door. “Time to go. I’ll bring your horse back to the stable.”

Trevor found his contact, and he boarded a small boat with a single sail, waving to Potur as he left the port. Trevor had been on a boat before, and on the bay, the waves didn’t rise and fall like he thought they would out on the open sea. Their progress was steady, and he could see that boats could be faster than walking or riding around the crescent that made up Khartoo.

They landed at a large dock. Across the entrance was the word “ENCLAVE.” Trevor was here, but without Lissa, he felt a bit more exposed than he expected. Trevor looked up at the building complex above him, a jumble of various sized buildings and styles clustered together, going straight up from the bay. He paid for his transportation and walked to a man at a desk guarding the entrance.

“I’m here to see Master Borziz,” he said, handing a slip of paper that Potur had given him. The note covered a large denomination of the paper money used in Khartoo.

“Runner!” The clerk snapped his fingers. “Master Borziz.”

“This way, sir,” the boy said as they quickly marched into the enclave.

Trevor followed him through the twisting warren of narrow lanes swarming with tiny wagons and rickshaws. The enclave had its own transportation system, it seemed. The only comforting sight was plenty of men and women wearing diving outfits.

He climbed three flights of stone steps and then went through alleys and more steps until the boy opened a painted wooden door. The building didn’t have a speck of brick showing through its plaster, although the wood on the door had been painted over many times.

“This way,” the boy said. He deposited him in the waiting room filled with young men and women, many wearing diving outfits. Windows looked out at the bay dotted with ships of all kinds.

“Give this to the secretary.” The boy handed back the slip of paper that had recently wrapped a banknote.

“I’m here to see Master Borziz,” Trevor said, handing his paper to the secretary. The woman shook the paper and looked at both sides. “Is something missing here?”

Trevor sighed inside. The woman wanted a bribe. Trevor tried to make it as discreet