“Depends on which way you’re pointing the lightning, doesn’t it?”
That was one of the last places where Kit dropped a token as he came to the far end of the exhibition hall, at the other end from where he and Nita had come in. That whole area down by the restrooms had been set aside as a casual meet-and-greet space, where people could deal with personal or medical needs, get a drink or a bite to eat without having to go out to the food court, and generally take a break from the chaos of the main space.
Kit went and got himself a cola, feeling that he could use a little kick from the caffeine, and moved over to one side to drink it and look at the people around him. There was something so terrific about being in a place full of wizards who weren’t in a life-or-death situation: you kept seeing unexpected things, or things that perhaps shouldn’t have been unexpected.
He found himself watching a couple of wizards doing what he at first mistook for the beginning of a dance, and then for a session of tai chi. But suddenly he realized they were signing. They were leaving long bright trails of power in the air as they traced out words and phrases in a Speech-recension he’d never seen before—something very condensed though no less fluid or graceful than the written forms of the Speech he was used to, and nonetheless looking completely different.
Of course there’s a way to use the Speech without speaking, Kit thought. Why would the Powers leave anybody out of wizardry just because they can’t hear? Why has this never occurred to me?
“I’m an idiot,” he said to himself.
“A moment of realization there?” came an amused voice from beside and behind him.
Kit turned to see Tom ambling over with something latte-looking in one hand. “Hey!”
“Been here a while, yeah?”
“How can you tell?”
“You’ve got that spell-shocked look.”
Kit laughed. “Yeah. At first we thought we’d come in early and beat the crowd . . .”
“Good luck with that,” Tom said. “I’m not absolutely sure, but if you asked the setup staff, I bet they’d tell you that some of these kids were lined up waiting to get in before dawn.”
“Wonder what the people who live around here made of that . . .”
Tom chuckled. “Probably not much. Some of the trade shows that come in here, like that big comics convention—they’ve got so many out-of-the-ordinary people attending them and wandering around outside that our group probably looks dull by comparison.”
“I guess so,” Kit said. “It’s just weird to be doing something wizardly right out in the open.”
“Well,” Tom said, gazing around, “it’s not like New York’s not a big tourist destination. Lots of wizards want to come to town for reasons that have nothing to do with the Art. And since all the contestants and mentors involved are on travel subsidy, it kind of makes sense to have this part of the event someplace they might not have the time or energy to spare to get to otherwise. If they’re going to take the time and effort to contribute, the supervisory structure may as well give them something back.”
Kit nodded. “Anyway,” Tom went on, “seen anything particularly worthwhile? The end of pick time is upon us. Not much more than five minutes now . . .”
“A lot of things.” And then Kit had to laugh. “You know what kept distracting me, though? Wondering if someone was about to slip somehow and blow everything up.”
Tom’s grin was edged with good-natured irony. “As if working with you two when you got started wasn’t like juggling chainsaws sometimes,” he said. “And don’t even get me started on Dairine.” He took another swig of his coffee. “But don’t worry yourself too much. There’s a proctoring task force full of very smart Senior Wizards hidden away under the surface of every Invitational. They’ve signed off on every wizardry individually, and all of the projects taken together, before any of them are allowed into the same room.”
Kit put his eyebrows up as the thought occurred to him that Tom’s expertise was writing specialized spells and debugging them. “And if I wondered if maybe you were one of the proctors . . .”
Tom smiled slyly. “If I thought you were going to run around announcing the fact, I’d refuse to confirm or deny. But why would you bother? Since the proctors aren’t involved in the judging, none of the contestants are going to care.”
Kit grinned. “Okay. But seriously . . . how much effect do our picks have on the judging?”
“Exactly what it says in the rules description in the manual,” Tom said. “‘Picks may come to constitute significant weighting on the judges’ choice.’”
“May.”
“Look, we may be wizards but we’re not omniscient, any more than the Powers are,” Tom said. “If something about some spell snags the attention of a whole lot of wizards, even for reasons they can’t fully articulate, it merits extra attention from the judges. Any spell may have a secret message buried in it: a hint at something else useful that that wizard’s doing. Or something they’re not doing that they ought to be—that we all ought to be. You can’t tell until you look closely, sometimes in a group. Or sometimes only when someone drags you over to a wizardry and makes you look at it extra hard. So we make sure that can happen, if people feel strongly enough about it.”
Kit nodded. “Neets did that to me once or twice. Wouldn’t take no for an answer.”
“Well, you know by now that sometimes she’s worth listening to.”
“Uh, don’t let her hear you say ‘sometimes.’”
Tom smiled lightly. “I hear you there.”
“So what now?”
“Besides the judging?”
“No—I mean, are they going to throw us out of here for that?”
“No need . . . it’d only increase the stress. Not to mention the ferocity of the last-minute politicking.” He gulped down the last of his coffee and chucked the empty cup into a nearby wet-recycle bin. “Because nothing’s more dangerous than a wizard who feels passionately about something. And in this crowd . . .”
He looked down the length of the hall. Kit, following his glance, noticed something else: the noise level was rising. It was already considerably louder than when he’d started talking to Tom. Additionally, he could see people on both sides standing around some spell-displays and arguing.
“I’d say there’s some passion,” Tom said.
The sound of a soft chime echoing through the huge room made everything a touch quieter for a few seconds . . . and immediately, as it faded, the noise of the crowd rose again, louder this time. “Five-minute warning?” Kit said.
Tom nodded.
Over the heads of some people arguing down by one of the nearest exhibits, the one with the lightning, Kit caught sight of Nita and waved at her. She nodded at him, with an amused sideways glance at the people who were more and more loudly arguing the pros and cons of the antimissile defense. Nita rolled her eyes as she passed them. Directly behind her, some other wizard, a swarthy teen in a three-piece suit, walked by and said in a carrying voice, “Increasing entropyyyyy, people . . . !”
The argument got only marginally quieter as Nita walked by it, then started to scale up again. She came over to Kit and Tom, shaking her head.
“I’m ready for a break,” she said.
“You’ll be getting one,” Tom said, “and so will they. Half an hour.”
“They’re going to judge all this in half an hour?”
“The judges have been working all day,” Tom said. “This is just the crosscheck session, where last-minute developments get dealt with and the picks are factored in. If you’re going to get something to drink and find a quiet place, this is the time to do it, because it’ll get pretty unquiet back here for that half-hour.”