Dalliance walked along Lapidarian Place, the chiseled stone ceiling passing slowly overhead. It was cool in the shadow of the rock; it was always cool here. But the vague shiver he felt in his limbs did not originate in the air around him. It came from the soon-coming meeting with Parsimony Pleasant.

  He had been most unhappy with Dalliance the last time they'd met. And from the letter, the one Dalliance had read all those months ago but still kept hidden in his things, he knew the man's feelings. Its current position was at the bottom of a brand-new pair of riding boots. Charity had convinced him to buy them, to make a good impression on her father the next time he saw the man.

  That meeting had yet to happen, but her considering it a possibility, Effluvia had told him, meant the Troubles were not necessarily done with Dalliance Rather, [Aeromancer]. Which was good. "You need a noble patron," she had told him. The idea of using a friend as a contact for later seeking patronage seemed icky, but he had bought the boots just in case.

  That letter, though, had quite definitively indicated the amount of investment Parsimony felt for his by-blows. Let us not talk of the children. Let us never talk of the children. Let us talk only of our love.

  It was a shame, Dalliance thought, that he had to discover he was related to such a colossal jerk. But there it was.

  His blond hair and spare features, which had shed their baby fat early on and remained relatively thin, along with his large eyes, were straight from his father—his blood father. No wonder he’d never looked craggy and brutal. Although he’d never really thought about it when he was younger: he had never realized how obvious it was until Effluvia pointed it out in the aftermath of the inquest.

  "You’re lucky he didn’t want a scandal," she had said. "It could’ve gone badly if he had just not cared. There would have been nothing you could do, and all of your secrets, small though they might be, would have been dragged out in front of the entire realm."

  She had explained this over a pale blue cup of coffee, which she had introduced with, "Would you like to try a mana potion?" and which did seem to invigorate his mana production to an extent.

  "The thing is," she had said, "legitimacy springs from authority. Cleverness lends you some too, but you were on his home turf. Every little clever thing you did risked being twisted or ignored if he were willing to take just a little bit of a bloody nose to give you yours."

  It was, he thought, a true and alarming lesson.

  And now, walking up the street past the patisserie and the noodle shops where he and Charity had had morning meetings these last six days, Dalliance realized he was still on someone else’s home turf. He could afford to buy a cup of noodles every day, but the wealthy, and he had no doubt Parsimony counted among them, might be capable of purchasing the noodle shop.

  Perspective. Earnest had been telling him he lacked perspective.

  Sometimes he felt a little bit hurt that nobody wanted to spend as much time talking to him about the things he did very well, like sneaking Whimsy out. Instead, nowadays, she talked about how thin her bed was, how cold it was at night—which, it being the beginning of summer, seemed insane—how thin her clothing was, how much more novices had to do than farmers' chores, which again seemed patently absurd on its face, as Dalliance recalled entire days in which the chores never stopped.

  She had not quite come out and said, "Let me go back," but Dalliance sometimes wondered. Perhaps it was the stark difference between Charity's treatment of Whimsy when she visited the convent and his mother's treatment of her. Perhaps she wanted to stay in the city to be near Charity.

  The feeling of being sidelined in one's own family in favor of someone you brought into the conversation was unceasingly annoying to Dalliance. Not that Charity didn’t have her good points, but he had found himself looking for her weak points, if only to assure himself they existed. So what if she was a better person than he was.

  Of late, Dalliance had begun to regret promising to do better, as it seemed that he simply wasn’t a very good person. Perhaps he could’ve spared himself some frustration. He couldn’t seem to go an entire day without doing or thinking something he was sure ran counter to his committed course.

  He’d complained as much, but Charity had said that was stupid—one of the few very blunt words she allowed herself—and that being lazy did not mean you were incapable. Which statement had been deeply, deeply frustrating.

  He was at the door. His blood father had chosen a bakery, or so it seemed from the outside. Pies and rolls. Upon entry, he identified soups and more vegetable entrées. The [Wizard], Parsimony Pleasant, lounged in his booth like a magistrate holding court, relaxed but definitely alert as Dalliance approached. His smile never reached his eyes.

  Dalliance had thought a lot about how he wanted this conversation to go, thought a lot about the warnings he'd gotten, about how he had to hide the truth of his prediction ability. On the whole, in the end, he decided it was not worth the risk. Lacking that advantage in defence, instead, he would go on the attack.

  And so, he did.

  "Wizard Pleasant," he said formally.

  His opponent raised an eyebrow without comment at the manner of address.

  "Master Rather," he said instead.

  They were going to be pleasant today. Very civil.

  "I had not, I admit, anticipated such a prompt return on my note," he said.

  "I’m about to be very busy," Dalliance noted. "It seemed the best option to go ahead and get any complications to my schedule out of the way. Besides, I was curious what you could possibly want, since your ploy at my teacher really hasn’t got anything to do with me, now that I’ve graduated.”

  His father considered this. "My 'ploy' is simply the push-and-pull which any system requires from its members to remain functioning. My role, to succeed, must produce tiered children, ideally of higher quality. His, to deliver them whole to their families. It was the business of adults, and none of yours in any case."

  He stirred his coffee thoughtfully, but the steam was rising too strongly to drink as of yet, or so his expression suggested.

  “As for your punctual response, you will likely find such quite efficacious in your future endeavors, provided you do not pair its exercise with bald accusations going forward.”

  Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

  Dalliance tried not to glare at his mother’s lover.

  The [Wizard] took a sip. "I suppose we shall have to try to make this brief." He managed to sound almost disappointed without making it Dalliance's fault. How did he do that?

  "I, too, underwent the ceremony you are about to perform," he told Dalliance. "If you would accept it, I have some advice which may help you. Despite the exquisite food in this establishment, I recommend you eat only lightly, for they will make you run a great distance."

  Dalliance stared at him, at the obvious change in topic. Butt out, you’re too young to have opinions.

  Fine.

  "We won’t gain any experience through it."

  "It’s to agitate the mana channels in your body, to ensure an accurate reading." He sounded abruptly cheerful about it, and not even the slightest bit sympathetic.

  A waitress, having wandered past, was flagged down with what appeared to be an entirely spontaneous flash of golden light around the wizard's upturned hand.

  "I didn’t hear you speak or see you move your hands," Dalliance noted, as she bustled off.

  "As one progresses," Pleasant said archly, "one can do without some of the little conveniences."

  Dalliance thought of his missing fingers, found himself looking down at his hands. His blood father’s gaze tracked the movement.

  "Not, I am afraid," said the wizard, "for quite some time, by which point you may well have figured out how to remedy your digital situation yourself."

  Dalliance nodded. He didn’t feel any gratitude in his heart, but the wizard was playing nice.

  The waitress’s return was heralded by the warm aroma of tomato and leek soup, served simmering in a bread bowl, generously topped with sour cream and red and yellow spices that Dalliance did not recognize. The smell was convincing, and he ordered his own.

  As she left, Dalliance returned to the topic at hand. "Your daughter and I haven't heard from you," he said reproachfully, "for our entire lives, and now you reach out. What do you want?"

  "A man is not allowed curiosity?" countered Parsimony Pleasant.

  Dalliance shook his head. "Not when his daughter goes around in thin clothing, sleeping on hard mattresses, and is cold at night."

  "How tragic," said the man. "I suppose that I have allowed for a lapse in the care of young Miss Whimsy. You see, I had anticipated her continuation in the household of . . . well, your mother, and that she would thrive under her mother's doting care for the foreseeable future."

  "Her mother," Dalliance retorted, "was not the issue."

  There was a look of faint appreciation on Pleasant's features for a brief second. Dalliance didn’t trust it any more than he trusted the man's other expressions.

  "To step up and do the needful thing," said Parsimony Pleasant, "is to take responsibility for the problem. Something you may not have considered is that responsibility implies authority. If you do not have the authority to solve a problem, then you cannot be held responsible for your failure to do so, after all. And it is clear that those who seize authority must follow through on their responsibilities, or else we cry foul."

  Dalliance didn’t like his tone.

  "So, young Master Rather," he continued, "having stepped forward into the shoes of fatherhood, taking authority in that name, I imagine you find yourself in a bit of a conundrum."

  He took the rind of his bread bowl and broke it into sops, dropping them into the soup to soak it up before leaping upon them individually with spoon and knife. He appeared to be completely disinterested in the fork set beside them upon the napkin.

  "I have something you want," Dalliance said. He was being brash, and he knew it, but the silence was getting to him.

  "Oh, assuredly," confirmed Parsimony Pleasant. "Yet I find it hard to bring myself to trust in the outcome of any little exchange we may engage in, after standing opposite you in the inquest, in which," he said taking a bite, "you lied to me.”

  Dalliance stared at him.

  “Without setting off the Zone of Truth."

  The waitress arrived with Dalliance’s bowl, but he didn’t have the presence of mind to thank her properly. Or to address its contents.

  "I made rigorous inquiries among my cousins, aunts, and uncles," Parsimony continued, "to see who among your 'kin' could possibly have granted you inheritance of the [Levitation] spell, which evolves, as you know, into [Locomotion]. To a man, they told me they had been unaware of my by-blows."

  He’d been on the wrong track. Good.

  Dalliance felt the pressure around his chest lighten, and felt his appetite return.

  "I imagine they also said," Dalliance said, into the waiting silence, "they were most impressed at you standing up to take responsibility for the situation."

  What, he was supposed to volunteer things Pleasant wanted to know?

  Parsimony Pleasant's face did not alter one iota. "However," he said, "I have now guessed it. None of the Rathers possess any magic. Neither did your mother’s side, though they are unfortunately sparse on the ground. And so, it is the young Miss Effluvia, and the mystery is solved. Blood brothers, are we?" he asked dryly. "It had not occurred to me to use such a mechanism to get around the enchantment, and of course, being so out of sorts, I did not keep you in the Zone for as long as I could have. Perhaps another two or three pointed questions—" He paused, reading Dalliance's face like an open book. "Oh," he said. "So you did know that was a risk. Perhaps you’re a Rather after all. You show your uncle’s impetuous nature."

  "If you don’t have anything that you want from me," Dalliance said, "then let’s be done."

  "No, that isn’t true as such," said Parsimony. He glanced at the timepiece on his wrist. "Your commencement begins in two hours. There’s plenty of time. Do eat your food before it gets cold."

  There wasn’t anything Dalliance could think of to respond with that didn’t sound childish. Besides, he was hungry. He tore off his own rind, a bit more messily than the wizard had, dropped its bits into the soup, and speared a chunk with a fork.

  The soup was rich, the leeks were just this side of crispy, the tomatoes were sweet, and the whole thing was creamy. The sops even had bits of burnt cheese on them. He found himself regretting having ruined such a nice meal with the company he was keeping.

  "I did not say I would not deal with you," Parsimony said, "merely that I do not trust you, and that your bargaining chips have less value than you may believe."

  "I just want you to set aside a stipend for my sister," Dalliance said.

  Parsimony raised his eyebrows. "Truly?"

  "I will be taken care of," Dalliance said. “Scholarship, remember?”

  Rubbing it in the man’s face was probably a bad idea.

  The wizard pursed his lips. "And if, in the future, you find yourself in want of a second spell of similar quality . . . ah. You intend to entreat young Miss Early once more?"

  Dalliance did not comment.

  "Should you find," said Parsimony, "that in the future you wish access to a spell or reagent, and have the desire to call upon such contacts as I have at my disposal, and should you acquit yourself with dignity and restraint, I will hear you out. Every mage needs a starter spell or two. This," he said, "is appropriate compensation for your silence, from my perspective. As for the stipend for your sister, I should have provided it regardless."

  Parsimony took a sip of his coffee, not looking away from Dalliance. He winced at the flavor an instant later.

  “Did you even want to see her?”

  The [Wizard] stirred sugar into his coffee, one, then two scoops of the stuff. He looked like he was about to say something different: but again, read Dalliance’s face quite clearly.

  “You were testing me, and I’ve failed it already, haven’t I? And so the son has weighed my soul, and found me wanting.”

  He didn’t look particularly upset.

  Dalliance took his food to go.