"These are the potion locker rules," Miss Tempest had said. "What you can carry on you, you can use in a match. What you can wear can go home with you. That includes potions on a bandolier, or a sword on your belt in a scabbard. Anything you are not sufficiently prepared to transport can still be used in class, but will live in the potion locker between classes."
"I am aware that this rule is of benefit to the wealthy above the not-wealthy. But you will discover as you go through life that the wealthy shall remain privileged by their wealth, and I am not attempting to teach you to be high-functioning in some theoretical society of perfect justice, but instead in the one in which we find ourselves."
"This is not a bad thing. It merely illustrates the reality of the world you’ll be entering. The wealthy bring advantages to the table, but also, there are times when making the investment of your wealth is a poor use of your resources. To illustrate this point, the potion cabinet will not be locked, and I shall not be investigating claims of missing items taken from within. The principle is, if you cannot afford to protect something, then you should not invest in it. How are you meant to do that? Possibly try making friends, is where I’d start."
Dalliance had loved the idea. His imagination on fire, gung-ho to find something to stock his part of the potion locker (which was very much like a foot locker, but with narrower cubbies than one could stick a shoe in), on the walk with his sister, Dalliance had, among other things, been poking in and around stores and factory outlets. He had checked wastebins, raising questions from his sister, and shortly before dropping her off for the day, had seen a sign labeled Free Tooth Extraction. Numbing is extra. On a whim, he had made his first purchase.
So, first thing he did Firthsday morning, Dalliance came through the door with an unlabeled jar—the label which he'd carefully removed with his hunting knife—and two brown paper sacks. All three of these he pushed into the potion locker, taking up the whole of the cubby at the top right of the cabinet. As he left the corner by the potion locker and washed his hands at the basin, just on the off chance that someone had previously touched the potion locker with potion on their hands, the other students began to enter the class.
The plain brown glass jar, painted with black enamel, was lifted, examined, and replaced, but no one took it, or the sacks further back behind it. Other students put their own items into the cabinet, which shortly took on the form of an eclectic apothecary’s shelf.
"We ended our last class," she said, "on an exhortation that you prepare yourselves for your first round of practicals. So, in brief, why are you here? You're here to become a better wizard. And I find that students excel when given the opportunity to one-up one another. Thus, today's practicals shall be a series of one-versus-one duels. Later this week, we shall have team-versus-team and, if you are sufficiently high-performing, classroom-versus-me type practicals are upcoming."
"For each of you, we shall be selecting three opponents. Though if your opponent is left unable to compete through the action of another student, then you will have just lucked out. First, how is it that you're the only name in my classroom beginning with an 'A,' Mister Aldrin?"
"In any case, you . . . ." She pointed randomly. "Effluvia Early. You shall be Aldrin's first opponent. Is there anyone who wishes to be his second opponent?"
There was a scattering of raised hands.
"Gus."
"Very well. And Mister Aldrin's third, I shall choose . . . she'll be one who did not raise their hand."
Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author.
"The purpose of this," she explained, "is that the first pick should be somewhat random; at least, that is the assumption. The second pick is those who think they have a good chance against you, so we can assume you’ll find the contest a little harder than average. And the last pick is those who did not, though of course, there are confounding variables for everything. Of course, these are just assumptions. Perhaps no one volunteered because no one thought they could beat you, or perhaps no one volunteered because they were like you and have no desire to be in a multitude of options. Still, it's a little attempt to get you a little bit of variety."
She rapidly iterated through the rest of the class, picking, for Dalliance, Sterling from the two who volunteered against him (Sterling and Effluvia), the blue-haired young man with the stubble, and a boy by the name of Whippoorwill, who looked almost as birdlike as his name.
Dalliance watched the cabinet like a hawk as student after student made a trip to it, equipped themselves, and then entered the circular arena set in the classroom’s center, but nobody took his jar.
He turned his [Prediction] on at the last second so as to at least enjoy betting against himself as to which of his classmates would win which matchup, though most of the fights were relatively harmless. One pair blew one another over in mutually embarrassing failure. Another ended up slap-fighting and rolling around on the polished floorboards.
When it came to his turn, Dalliance almost sprinted off to the cabinet, leaving the two sacks and carrying the jar with near-reverence to the ring. Miss Tempest watched him with evident amusement.
"Dalliance, you and Mister Whippoorwill here are to stay within the bounds. Use any equipment you can carry, and cease all maleficium promptly upon the end of the bell. Take your positions."
The volatile compound in Dalliance's jar was sequestered by a simple pressure cap, as might be found on a mason jar. Dalliance worked on it for a couple of seconds as he took his place in the ring, opposite the wispy young bird man.
Miss Tempest clapped her hands. "Begin!" she commanded.
The bird-boy launched into a chant for a spell Dalliance didn’t recognize, which rapidly grew longer than any spell chant he had ever seen cast. The air began to buzz with static discharge. He popped the lid a little off of his jar, holding it far out in front of him.
Dalliance cast [Gust] with his right hand, propelling the breeze, directing it over the mouth of the jar and toward the other boy.
Fulmination cracked and was re-formed as a blazing, two-handed sword of coruscating energy formed in the boy's grip, and he didn’t waste a second stepping forward to bring the blade to bear.
On his second stride, a look of peaceful confusion flickered through slate-dark eyes, which rolled back in his head. The spell fell from nerveless fingers to flicker out of existence as the boy crumpled unconscious on his back. Not wasting any time. Dalliance capped the jar.
There was a scattering of applause, led by Mrs. Tempest as she casually approached the arena edge.
"An easy win," she said to him. "And now your classmates will see the benefits of bringing volatile compounds for gaseous distribution. A word of caution, though," she said. "It would not be unthinkable for you to badly poison someone through an overdose of that particular chemical. And there are other weaknesses as well, which we shall no doubt see evidenced in future bouts." She waved a hand, and the unconscious boy floated to the side. "In this case," she assured the room, "our ward does act to negate deadly poisonings, so you are quite safe."
"If you would, Sterling." The boy had apparently seen the error of his previous approach and reached out prior to class, at least to judge by the fact that he was already there and already knew what was going on when class was beginning. He took his artifact sword and strode to the other side of the ring.
"How very like you," he said, gesturing to the jar, "but you’re becoming a bit predictable, don’t you think?"
Dalliance didn’t say anything. Was poison really ‘his’ thing? He didn’t think it counted as a signature to use something twice.
He opened the jar. Sterling spoke a word of power, and his own weapon blazed to life.
"Mark!" said Mrs. Tempest.
And Sterling darted forward.
