The Last Philosopher: Part One

The rule of rules

The endless night showed no desire to turn into the threat of a dim tomorrow. So, the ageing headmaster inhaled the soothing smell of old books and pipe tobacco, counted to five, exhaled hard, and put the grudging thoughts of his agile mind to work. The council's rule of rules was his primary suspect, what he blamed for his Dark nightmares. And not only because the rules had been a pet peeve of his for centuries.

You do realise that you're the longest serving member on the council? his loathing considered.

"So? It's not my fault that the vote for evermore rules keeps going against me."

Yeah! We have to be part of the system to abuse the system, his inner sorcerer growled.

With yet another inner conflict put on hold, he went back to blaming the boringly evil council, the group that supposedly governed magick for the best of all sorcerers.

Being as they were, magick users despised the rules but had no problem enforcing them on others. This meant that ever since Empris was founded, most had accepted the council's regulations as a necessary evil.

Well, a bit of evil is to be expected, the yes-man in him argued.

"But what the rules have done is make it impossible to do any proper magick!"

The way his council mishandled the rules in the name of security, spite, or any other popular claim meant the group could do whatever it pleased and call it justice, as long as three of the five headmasters agreed. The best way to describe the city's law and order was that they could arrest anyone for nothing more than claiming innocence.

You could suggest more exceptions for your fellow council members? The headmasters wouldn't deny themselves the liberties they deny to others.

"Pfft, if I do that, they will think I'm up to something." The headmasters tended to assume everyone guilty until proven innocent.

Refocusing, he admired his scowl in the reflection. He had the bushiest eyebrows he had ever seen on someone almost entirely human. The swarthy hairiness was all he got from his Kor side. Not that he wanted their fangs, but the muscles would have been handy for leaping up the stairs.

Reconsidering the rules, he drew the same conclusion as always: that many were just silly. Like how one couldn't wear a fake beard if it might cause giggling. That kind of pettiness made living on the Pentakl plain precarious, even for the most law-abiding sorcerer. Still, they couldn't regulate everything, and where the rules failed, tradition stepped in to fill the gap. One even provided an escape from the plain and city with the same names.

The 'if you don't like it, then get out' tradition, his cynicism thought, bringing a wicked little smile to his wrinkled cheeks.

Sorcerers were allowed to leave the green plain, to become free sorcerers, and take their chances in the frozen wilds. In a fake show of generosity, the council even provided servants and provisions. A low price for getting rid of those showing signs of thinking for themselves.

They're probably better off anyway, his justification thought.

What he knew was that even against the odds, some found a way to survive. Confirmed by the deep valleys where small towers of grey stone rose above the pine trees. They were nothing like the housing towers for the city's separate, and unequal, magick schools. But they were the best option. Not that being accepted by free sorcerers was easy.

Giving his sleepy mind a break, he lit his calabash pipe. The smoke rose slowly, flowing into the shadows of his apartment. The pipe was the second of his three personal items, and the habit gave his grey beard a sickly, yellowish colour.