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quiet, this is a library
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Cam's in the library, waiting for Renée. "Waiting" here means "browsing until a quarter hour after ostensible meeting time". Renée is supposed to meet him here - on the way home for both of them, him from high school and her from elementary where she teaches kindergarten - but she is rarely punctual. Her co-workers or stray parents or the principal keep her after and Cam does notebooking, does homework, looks at the contents of shelves. It's a fine arrangement.

Today the contents of shelves don't seem so pleased with the setup, and one attacks him when he stumbles into a stack. Specifically, it tumbles onto his head. That's gonna hurt for a while. He picks it up to tuck it away again.

It says, So You Want To Be A Wizard.

Heh. Mis-shelved. This is a nonfiction row. Or maybe it's about stage magic or something? Cam's not going to find any use in that either, he can just about eat dinner without impaling himself on a fork and certainly shouldn't be handling delicate props, but it could be diverting while he waits for Renée and he wasn't finding anything else. He flips it open.

It's more interesting still than that; it's presenting itself like an actual guide to wizardry. This'll kill a whole afternoon with pleasant escapism. Cam checks it out, then turns around and spots Renée coming down the sidewalk. He bags the book and goes out to meet her.

At home, he takes it out of his backpack. The plastic film on it - it did have some, right? Just like every other library book? - is gone. Maybe it didn't have any. He didn't write it down; he's not sure. It doesn't look like a library book now. But it still says So You Want To Be A Wizard and he still wants to pretend to be a wizard for a bit, kill some time, put off U.S. History homework. He flips it open. He reads.
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There is a brief foreword, introducing the book as a 'manual' with which the discerning reader (who wouldn't have found it in the first place without a certain natural aptitude) can, if they choose, learn the Art of wizardry. Capital A.

The first chapter, 'Preliminary Determinations', discusses signs that one may be suited to the Art. Language features heavily: natural wizards are frequently drawn to words and books and languages, reading, writing, speaking. Curiosity is another. An inquisitive, exploratory nature, the kind of mind that wants to understand the world around it.

'Words,' apparently, 'are the wizard's most basic tools. With them a wizard can stop a tidal wave, talk a tree out of growing, or into it—freeze fire, burn rain—even slow down the death of the universe. That last, of course, is the reason there are wizards. See the next chapter.'
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Pfft. Cute, little pretend manual. Barnum Effect your way into suspension of disbelief. Only a tiny fraction of people who pick up a book like this wouldn't like to be described as linguistically talented and curious. Whether they are or not. (Cam is, though.)

Slow down the death of the universe? Okay, that sounds potentially compelling. Cam's more concerned about people, but if he can't work out immortality that doesn't imply despair; new people can come into existence and need a place to live. Go on, little pretend manual.
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It goes on in that vein for a while, providing tantalizing hints of the effects a wizard can accomplish paired with tempting descriptions of the qualities that imply talent.

The promised next chapter switches to a new topic: 'History, Philosophy, and the Wizards' Oath'.

The chapter opens with a creation myth, delivered in a straightforward, matter-of-fact style that casually drops phrases like 'when life brought itself about'. Apparently, around the time of this event, life also brought about some gods - 'Powers' - to help it invent practical things like light and gravity. None of these beings are named specifically in the myth save one, the 'Lone Power' or 'Lone One', whose contribution to the exercise was unique and unwelcome: death.

The business of wizards, it seems, is to mitigate the effects of that inclusion as much as possible. To slow down entropy by conserving, preserving, and serving all the forms of life.

The manual goes on to finally reveal the mechanism of wizardry: a language called 'the Speech', apparently magical, which can be used to communicate with any living or nonliving entity and can describe reality with such precision that the description changes the thing described.

It's rather baldly pessimistic in its outlook: death cannot be conquered, entropy cannot be reversed. But these things can be fought. That is a wizard's job.

'No one should take the Wizards' Oath who is not committed to making wizardry a lifelong pursuit,' it cautions, although it goes on to add that there is no penalty for abandoning it later and that, since 'magic cannot live in the unwilling heart', those who find the Art too heavy a burden will have no trouble setting it down.

A final warning: 'Should you decide to go ahead and take the Oath,' it says, 'an ordeal of sorts will follow, a test of aptitude. If you pass, wizardry will ensue...'

There is no mention of what happens if you fail. After the ellipsis, the page is blank, and centred alone and undecorated on the facing page is the text of the Wizards' Oath itself.
In Life's name, and for Life's sake, I say that I will use the Art for nothing but the service of that Life. I will guard growth and ease pain. I will fight to preserve what grows and lives well in its own way; and I will change no object or creature unless its growth and life, or that of the system of which it is part, is threatened or threatens another. To these ends, in the practice of my Art, I will put aside fear for courage, and death for life, when it is right to do so—till Universe's end.
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Hmm. Does Cam like this oath? He may like this oath, which is unusual for him and oaths. The bit about threats is both vague and restrictive - what, he can't talk a sandwich into existing so he doesn't have to go down the stairs? - but meh. The sandwich will totally come to exist in a threatened system. The universe, as the book keeps reminding him, is a threatened system. He could change anything he wanted if this were nonfiction. He wants life to go on. ("Well", which is undefined in the text but pretty well clear in Cam's head.)

"In Life's name, and for Life's sake," he murmurs, "I say that I will use the Art for nothing but the service of that Life. I will guard growth and ease pain. I will fight to preserve what grows and lives well in its own way; and I will change no object or creature unless its growth and life, or that of the system of which it is part, is threatened or threatens another. To these ends, in the practice of my Art, I will put aside fear for courage, and death for life, when it is right to do so — till Universe's end."

It will be right to put death aside for life till the Universe ended. Yep. That's how he's going to read that line. Cam wishes to go on as long as the universe does and everybody else can come too as long as they're not in someone else's way.
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The small noises of his environment fade slowly with each word of the Oath, until end drops into a complete absence of sound that persists for one more silent heartbeat.

Then it all comes back at once, like somebody took their finger off the mute button.
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Okay. That's weird. But this isn't a particularly loud neighborhood. Even parties full of people have moments when everyone's between utterances at the same time. Maybe songbirds and air conditioners do the same thing.

Cam turns the page.
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The next page is a listing of wizards in his geographical area. It's pretty short; apparently there aren't that many wizards in Phoenix.

Close to the beginning of the list, there is an entry for Campbell Mark Swan (novice, pre-rating), with an address and phone number.
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That -

Okay Christ he can't explain that except hallucination or magic wow. He should have turned this page first. He should have read the entire thing cover to cover before saying anything aloud.

But he thought he was playing.

Ooookay.

Well, he can still read it cover to cover now, this time with considerably more fascination and attention.
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Apart from Campbell, there is one 'Senior' wizard listed in the area and two more with no rank marked, but power ratings given on an unexplained scale. The Senior wizard comes with an address but no phone number, and their name is apparently Salix.

After the directory, the manual dives straight into the Speech: vocabulary, alphabet (all 418 common symbols), pronunciation (with a note that dialects vary widely between species and this version is human-specific), and grammar. This section only covers the basics, and very few words in the vocabulary list are explicitly defined; for anything that expresses a concept already found in English, even for some things that are only pretty close, the meaning is unobtrusively and naturally obvious.
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This is cool. And apparently it's way easier than Spanish. Cam gets out a notebook and practices writing symbols and transliterating things, humming to himself. He's not going to go bother strange wizards with the letter X in their names until he's gotten as far as he can with the book and a reasonable dose of caution. Then they can present him with the wizard equivalent of the SAT, he guesses.

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The Speech is magically understandable, but it's not magically writable; the symbols take an ordinary amount of practice and memorization. On the other hand, if he writes out a word correctly and looks back at it later, it's just as transparent to his mind as the version in the book.

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He's going to start notebooking in this language once he has it down well enough to not be consulting the table of symbols every time he needs to put down the next letter. He likes it. He copies the entire table into his notebook so he can have the reference without explaining to the guys at school why he is reading a book about wizards. He gets enough crap for steering well clear of all forms of sporting activity.

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After the initial vocabulary lessons, there are further sections dealing with the language - subheadings like 'Descriptive Naming' and 'Measurements'. Before it dives into these, the manual notes that specific technical vocabulary not covered in this introduction will be provided with the spells that require it, and 'this reference will adjust to usage'.

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Ooh. This is not just a magic book, or a magic book. It's a magic book.

...This distinction makes sense in Cam's head.

Read read read read read read read (notetaking!)

Yeah, the library's never getting this back, he'll tell them tomorrow after school that he has tragically lost it and cough up however much.
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Descriptive Naming, according to the manual, is a tricky subject. To really get at the essence of something, you can't just use names like 'this chair' or 'John Smith' such as you would use in ordinary conversation. This is especially true of people. You have to be able to describe a person uniquely, in terms of their own qualities and nature, in order to include them in a spell.

There is a worksheet provided for the naming of humans, in case he wants to try it on himself.
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He does! He does want to try it on himself!

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The questions range from the obvious (date of birth, height and weight) to the bizarre (favourite colour, favourite weather conditions). The list is extensive, but the formulas are set out plainly; writing out a serviceable descriptive name for himself is tedious but not particularly difficult.

A cautionary note, set off from the rest of the page in a thinly outlined rectangle, warns that writing and pronouncing his name correctly is of the utmost importance. There is significant leeway for ambiguous or missing answers in the formulas themselves - it's possible to create a sufficiently accurate name on incomplete information - but a typo, mispronunciation, or wrong answer can lead to unforeseen and usually unwanted changes when the incorrect name is used in spellwork.
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Ooh. Noted. He's very diligent. (His favorite color is silver and he likes clear, cloudless weather, the sort that would be the most fun to fly in if he could fly.) (He wonders if he can talk himself some flying when he's learned more.)

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As it happens, there is a section on Practical Spelling a little later on. But before that comes Preliminary Exercises.

The first of these reads:
To change something, you must first describe it. To describe something, you must first see it. Hold still in one place for as long as it takes to see something.
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...Okay?

Cam rearranges himself for comfortable holding-still instead of comfortable reading-and-notetaking. He sits, he waits.
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Nothing particularly interesting happens, for a few minutes.

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Sit sit sit sit someone is talking -

No. Somethings.

...They have his voice. That's weird.

They're his notebooks.

The one closest by is easiest to hear.

"He's going to have tremendous fun with magic."

"He doesn't believe in magic."

"But oh how he wants it."

"Yes, so much, so much -"

"But it's real. He's found some."

"That's lovely."

"He'll study so hard. He can if he cares."

"He doesn't care about school. School is dull."

"He cares about his future, though, that he does, school matters some there."

Cam is a little weirded out. But they're his, aren't they?

"Notebooks?" he asks tentatively.
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There is a chorus of "Cam!" "Hi, Cam!" "Hi!"

The voices aren't really voices; they aren't made of sound, that's just his brain's interpretation of information he is getting from somewhere other than his ears. There is a papery sort of texture to them, and they glide like the stroke of a pen.
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"Hi!" laughs Cam. "Wow you talk, that's amazing."

"We always have!"

"Now you can hear us."

"We wanted to help you!"

"You've been getting on all right but we can help."

"We're yours. Please don't worry about having told us secrets."

Cam is smiling a fascinated, pleased smile. "Not worried," he says. "Are you all - your own minds?"

"A little!"

"You change over time."

"But we're all yours."

"Cam, volumes one through forty-nine."

"You can do magic now! You could hook us up."

"We won't mind. We'd be one book if they made notebooks that size that you could carry."

"Ask the manual!"

Ask the manual. Huh. It would be a little silly if Cam's own notebooks and literally no other books could talk, wouldn't it?

"Manual?" he inquires slowly.
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The not-voice of the manual is a little older, more androgynous - less Cam.

"Spells for enchanting books," it says. "Practical Spelling, subheading five. Page three hundred and twelve."

And it starts reading out the appropriate page.
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Cam can read faster than it can talk; he says "thanks" and flips through its pages.

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There are several spells for enchanting books; the first one listed is for his exact purpose, combining multiple volumes into a single book with a manageable physical size that nevertheless contains all the preexisting information. There is a note that it's a variant on one of the spells used to enchant wizards' manuals themselves.

The required technical vocabulary is provided. There are no obscure special materials, like there are for some of the more difficult spells in later chapters. All Cam needs is a pile of books, enough paper to wrap them in, a writing utensil, and his voice.
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Cool.

Can he combine the notebooks with the manual, make the manual look like a spiral notebook...?
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This particular spell advises beginners not to try combining pre-enchanted books.

(The manual, if asked, will tell him it can look like a spiral notebook if it wants to. There is a reason not just anybody picks these up.)
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Cam does ask. He is pleased with the response! Now his manual looks like a spiral notebook.

He goes and gets some Christmas wrapping paper to wrap all his notebooks up, and then reads the details of the spell.
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It's a simple enough procedure: assemble, using the provided vocabulary and structure, a spell description that names each of the books and asserts that they will be collected into a single volume with the desired properties. Write the spell on the paper. Wrap the books in the paper. Speak the spell out loud.

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Cam goes through a couple drafts - on looseleaf, since he needs to put his current notebook in the group - before he and his chorus of notebooks are satisfied with the designed end result. He copies it onto the silver-snowflake Christmas paper, stacks the notebooks, wraps the Christmas paper around and cuts it off the roll, and then, carefully and rhythmically, reads through his spell.

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The result isn't flashy: abruptly, the Christmas paper contains a significantly reduced amount of book. Or rather, the same amount of book, compressed into significntly less space.

"Ooh," says the newly unified voice of Notebook. "I feel all sleek and stuff."
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"You are all sleek and stuff," Cam says, scooping it up. "I feel like I should name you or something. Do you have, I dunno, a gender?"

"No," says the notebook. "Or, rather, yes if it's convenient."

"Gracenote," suggests Cam idly. "Grace for short. I'll probably wind up she-ing you."

"That's fine by me," says Grace contently.

"Awesome." And he flips to the "end", where are all his magic notes quite intact, and resumes studying magic.
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The manual has plenty more to tell him. And since he can talk to it now, it obeys direct requests for more information by expanding the sections that interest him or advising him on which page to turn to for a particular subject. Naturally, these page numbers are not going to remain constant, but they stay put long enough to be useful.

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"Will little post-it note flags stay put in you or should I just navigate by talking?" Cam asks the manual. "Also, should I name you too, or do you come with a name, or are you just named your title, or what?"

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"I don't have a name, or an opinion about having one," says the manual. "I'll keep post-its attached to the right pages, and I won't get rid of pages with post-its on them."

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Cam gets himself some post-its. He doesn't feel nearly as urgent about naming the manual as he did about naming Gracenote.

He focuses on learning the language for now. Figuring out what to do with it will be more amenable to multitasking; he can do that while he half pays attention to English class.

He is irritated about having to leave off when Renée calls him down to dinner, and he takes Grace with him, though he doesn't try to write in it at the dinner table. He tells Renée that he found a really cool book at the library and that it is about wizards. She draws the obvious, incorrect conclusion. He lets her.

He brings the manual to school with him and manages not to break it out till lunchtime.
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It's reorganized itself slightly; the primer on the Speech is noticeably thicker, and includes a lot more specialized vocabulary for dealing with minds. Maybe it's been talking to Grace about Cam's needs, or maybe it just observed what he tends to focus on.

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Speaking of minds, can Cam improve his own? Maybe tack on a clause at the end of his ridiculous long "name" about how also, has a perfect memory and thinks ten times faster than the next candidate down?

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He is strongly advised not to try it.

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Awww, why not?

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The only information the manual will give him about self-modification is that it's an advanced practice that can be dangerous to novices.

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Okay, that's one for later then. Cam makes a little mark in Grace next to that line. (He's sorted his wants into personal amusement, instrumental value, and repair work, and sooner, later, and research project.)

A lot of the personal amusement and some of the instrumental value involves attaching superpowers to himself, is that just generally going to fall into not-sooner?
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Yes. There are no preset spells for acquiring superpowers, although there are spells that let him mimic them in various ways - walk on air by making it solid under his feet, repel injury by warding his person against physical harm, breathe underwater by creating a magical air filter. Most of them are not meant for long-term use, even the ones that are focused on him instead of his environment; the personal wards are the most durable out of all of them.

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Well, that's something, at least, he feels very positive about being warded against harm, he's always sort of wary around stairs and the fact that he seems to be in the process of winding up almost as tall as Charlie and no longer fully knows where his limbs end doesn't help.

At least Speech seems amenable to creating magical tools. There's Grace, who's awesome - and, it occurs to him, manages to sound like a girl because she's speaking with the voice he had before it dropped; they don't actually match anymore but she still feels himself-y when she talks; he might have to rename her if hers decides to crack and fall too. Maybe he could offload his processing wants onto a computer, if he had his own computer. (He should have his own computer. Maybe if he asks for nothing else on his birthday. Or can he just talk a computer into existing from scratch?)
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Talking objects into existing is also not something wizardry is equipped to handle. It's possible to talk a computer into being a much better computer, but he'll have to understand computers pretty well before it will have much chance of working out to his satisfaction.

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Well, hm. Will things other than books talk to him? Maybe he can buy an ambitious broken computer for cheap from somebody, have it tell him what it wants to be when it grows up, and Speechify it so.

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He is theoretically capable of having a conversation with just about any object or creature he chooses, if he addresses it in the Speech.

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...Okay, wait just one second, does talking to things make them smarter, or does he need to start figuring out how to live on fruit and ethically farmed eggs and dairy?

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Talking to things does make them smarter - as does doing magic near or on them, with a cumulative effect over time - and even so, simpler life forms (or nonlife forms) will tend to produce simpler conversations no matter how eloquently they are addressed.

The manual chooses this moment to let him know that the Senior wizard in his area is a housecat.
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...Okay. He's not going to be racist about the housecat thing. He can deal.

At some point he's going to see what the most intelligent conversation he can get out of a tater tot and one of those goats Renée's friend Lori keeps may be, not eat those individuals whatever his results, and feel comfortable eating as normal unless they're smarter than he expects.

He wants to know more about how this works, though. (Will he get smarter if magic happens around him enough?)
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The manual rearranges itself to create an entire chapter on the side effects of magical practice.

In essence: yes. But perhaps not the way he thinks. Working with the Speech will make him better at understanding things - anything and everything, from his own thoughts to quantum mechanics to the conversations between the stars. It won't speed up his brain any, but it'll give him a little more room to store things, because the vocabulary of the Speech takes up a lot of space and brings its own extensions.
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Okay, cool perk.

Whoops, that's it for lunchtime. He hasn't really eaten enough, and this is only partly because he's conflicted about being able to talk to it. He packs up the manual, chugs his juice for the calories-from-sugar to get him through to the end of the day, and goes to class, studying vocabulary words between interesting portions of lectures. This looks like notetaking to everyone else, so he gets away with it.

He goes to the library after school as usual. "Hi," he says to the librarian. "I took out a book yesterday - and, uh, yeah, it's not coming back, what's the replacement fee?"
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"What book?" says the librarian.

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"It was called So You Want To Be A Wizard, I don't have the receipt on me, but." He hands over his library card.

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"Hmm," says the librarian. "No, it doesn't look like you have any outstanding books. Are you sure you didn't just forget you returned it?"

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"...If you don't have it in your system, that sure does sound like an explanation, doesn't it!" observes Cam. "Okay. So I don't owe you twenty dollars or anything?"

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The librarian laughs. "Nope."

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"Great. I love not owing you twenty dollars."

Off he goes to a quiet library corner.

"You might've warned me," he says reproachfully to his manual.
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"You didn't ask," says the manual.

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"I really should've thought of it, I guess. Hey, is there a way to talk to you and Grace not-out-loud?"

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"You can write in me!" says Grace.

"Nonvocal speech is often difficult for humans," says the manual, "but there are a few ways around that."
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"I know I can write in you," laughs Cam. "That won't always work, though, if I have my hands busy." He flips the manual open and hunts up ways around that.

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It's possible to speak silently in many different ways; the easiest for humans is to pronounce the words of the Speech in one's mind. If the intent is to be heard and understood, the result often conforms.

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Yeah, everything comes down to learning this language, doesn't it.

Cam studies.

Renée picks him up, and he does a little actual homework because he does sort of care about school results, and he studies more Speech.

(He picks at his dinner.)
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The Speech continues to be easy to learn.

He could probably manage a rudimentary conversation with a food item now.
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Yeah, he's not gonna do that in front of Renée, but he takes one of the muffins that's for dessert up to his room without first biting into it.

"...Hi, muffin," he says. To the muffin.
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"Hi," the muffin echoes.

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"...How's being a muffin treating you?"

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This is apparently too complex a question for the muffin; it utters the muffinly equivalent of "Ehhh...?"

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"Do you have... thoughts?" Cam tries, encouraged.

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"I'm a muffin," says the muffin.

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"Yes, you are a muffin. Okay. Do you care if you get eaten? Would that hurt you or bother you at all?"

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There is a short pause, then the muffin repeats, "I'm a muffin," in the exact same friendly but not particularly comprehending tone.

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Okay. This is not an intelligent muffin, apparently, it's just a muffin that has a voice interface. Maybe he'll eat it after all.

"I'm gonna bite you," he tells it, in case this prompts some sort of more sophisticated or emotional response.
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This prompts no response whatsoever.

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He nibbles delicately on the edge of the muffin top, and listens.

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Nope.

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Bite. (It really is very good.)

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The muffin continues to express no opinions about its impending digestion.

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Okay then. Om nom nom. He's still going to have to talk to a goat; he'll tell Renée that he's experimenting with vegetarianism. She'll probably even experiment with vegetarianism too if he does. He's fourteen and no one will give him a hard time if it turns out not to last long should it be the case that the goats can do nothing beyond identify themselves as goats.

He very deliberately eats through their supply of goat cheese over the course of the next experimenting-with-vegetarianism day, then suggests a visit to Lori. Renée calls Lori, Lori's free, off they go.

Cam wanders into the backyard where the goats hang out during the day. There are three of them, and they have names - Millie and Betsy and Vivian - but he's not sure if they know that they have names, so he walks up to Vivian and says, "Hi, goat."
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"Hi," says the goat. "Do you have food? I want food."

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"Not on me, sorry. How smart are you?" he asks. Because the answer is "smarter than a muffin" but there are probably *literally* rocks smarter than that muffin.

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"Are you sure?" says the goat. "Are you really sure?" She attempts to investigate his claims of foodlessness.

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"I'm really sure," snorts Cam.

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"But I want food," says the goat. "I can eat this!" And she grabs for his sleeve.

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"Is Lori not feeding you enough?" asks Cam, moving his arm out of the way and stepping back.

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"I get lots of food," says the goat. "I want to eat that!"

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"You can't have it, it's my sleeve," Cam says. "It doesn't belong to you. How would you like it if somebody ate you?"

Because that is the question, isn't it?
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"I don't want things to eat me," says the goat. "I want to eat things!"

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Okay, this goat is not smart. But it's capable of not wanting to be eaten.

"How about your milk, do you care if people take that away?"
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"I like it when that happens!" says the goat. "I also like food."

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Okay. Goat, at least well-treated mostly-a-pet goat, does not object to being milked, may or may not suffer existential dread but doesn't want to be eaten, and is well and thoroughly obsessed with food.

He goes into the house and gets a treat for Vivian, and ones for the others too so he doesn't get mobbed on his way back out of the yard.
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The goats are very enthusiastic about their treats, but none of them exhibit what you'd call sophisticated cognition.

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Babies don't exhibit sophisticated cognition either, yet Cam would not eat one!

He goes right on "experimenting with vegetarianism".

Later, he addresses the tree in his backyard, on the theory that it will be evidence about other plants the way goats were evidence about other animals. "Hi, tree."
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"Hi, human," says the tree.

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"How smart are plants?" he asks. "I'm concerned about my dietary habits."

(Nothing he's talked to so far has reacted badly to being talked to like it was smarter than it was, so he may as well start there.)
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"Depends on the plant," sniffs the tree.

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"Okay, so you're either smarter than a goat or my meter's off, and I've already decided the conversation I had with a goat sufficed to make me a vegetarian, can you give me a scale here? Dandelion goat oak tree...?"

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"I," says the tree with immense dignity, "have never spoken to a dandelion in my life."

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"What can you tell me, then? I've tenatively okayed dairy products, but I'm not actually sure if I can live on those. Are fruits and nuts okay or would that make me infanticidal, is wheat capable of wishing to live...?"

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"Fruits and nuts are made for creatures like you to scurry around and eat," the tree says patronizingly.

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"Thanks," he says, ignoring its tone. Maybe trees vary in personality and he can find a more helpful one. "And you've never spoken to a stalk of wheat in your life, I'm guessing?"

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"Of course not," says the tree.

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"Because they're not the sort of company you want to keep, or just because they don't grow in this yard?"

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"All of the above," says the tree.

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"And you don't care to keep company with wheat and dandelions because?"

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"I don't see what business that is of yours," the tree says haughtily.

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"All right then."

There is only one tree in this yard - this is Arizona - but there are some trees down the street, and he can sit in one and "talk to himself" without that being a disaster.

"Hi," he says to the next tree.
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"Hi!" says the tree. This one sounds younger, somehow, and much more friendly. "How're you? You talk, that's exciting."

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"I do talk! It is fantastically exciting. I'm doing all right except for an ethical crisis! You see, I only recently realized that things other than humans talk, and now I have to figure out how smart they are and what it's okay for me to eat."

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"Oh," says the tree. "Well, I'm not sure I'll be much help. I don't think you could eat me even if you wanted to. Maybe the leaves," it says, rustling them dubiously. "But I need to keep most of those or I can't eat."

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"Not you personally. I just don't know where to find a lettuce farm or a field of rye to talk to. I'm hoping to get some information about plants in general. The last tree says fruit and nuts are for eating, but I don't know about other stuff."

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"Sorry," says the tree, "there just aren't that many other plants around here."

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"Okay. Can you tell me if I should be dreadfully appalled by things that are made of wood?"

At least Grace will not need any new pages.
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The tree rustles anxiously. "I don't like to think about it."

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"Okay. Boy, I have more work to do than I originally suspected, I guess."

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"What kind of work?"

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"Well, I can eat a bizarre diet and not buy wooden things of my own volition, but that doesn't stop anybody else. So I have to learn a lot of magic and find reasonable alternatives to that sort of thing that doesn't kill anything smart. And here I was thinking that I'd just, you know, cure iodine deficiency in sub-Saharan Africa and call that a good day's work."

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"That does sound like a lot," says the tree. "Good luck!"

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"Thanks! Have you got a name? You are friendlier than the tree in my yard."

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"Sure! It's—"

The name doesn't translate the way words do; it's a particular pattern of light falling through branches.

"What's yours?"
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"...Cam," says Cam. "I don't think I can pronounce yours."

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"I don't think I can pronounce yours either," laughs the tree. "How about I call you Leafless?"

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"I am arguably leafless!" Cam agrees. "You can be Leafy. I had better not make friends with too many trees, huh?"

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Leafy giggles.

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"What kind of range does talking like you talk have? There's some grass over there, the Harrises have a lawn, can you hear it or should I go talk to it and see if I can extrapolate to cereal grains?"

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"I've never tried talking to grass," says Leafy. "And I don't think grass has tried talking to me either. So I don't know if I can hear it or not."

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"Okay. Is it nice, being a tree? I'd probably be bored, but perhaps you are not."

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"It's kind of lonely," Leafy rustles. "But maybe that's just because there aren't many other trees around."

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"Yeah, it's pretty dry in Phoenix," says Cam. "Maybe I'll come study out here in good weather, would that be nice?"

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"That would be very nice!"

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"All right. Anything else you can think of to tell me that might help me revise my habits in light of more things than previously understood being able to talk?"

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"Sorry," says Leafy. "I'm just a plain old Blue Palo Verde, I'm not especially wise or anything."

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"...Hm," says Cam, when it occurs to him to wonder who would have been likely to render the name of this tree's species aloud in its hearing. He pulls out Grace, scribbles in her for a bit, and, while he's looking at his notes, hears her say -

"Your brain's just rendering what Leafy said as words in English, and that's the word in English for this kinda tree," Grace says.

"Yeah," agrees Cam after a moment. "...Ah, Leafy, this is Grace, she's a notebook, I hope that's not awkward."
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"I suppose she can't help how she was made," says Leafy. "Hi, Grace."

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"Hi!" says Grace.

Yeah, Cam needs to obtain a computer if he can no longer in good conscience support the book industry. Sigh. Maybe he can buy used books? The secondary sale market can't drive up demand too much, can it?

"I'm gonna go investigate the grass," says Cam. "Later, Leafy."
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"Bye, Leafless! Bye, Grace!"

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Cam goes up to the grass. He pretends to need to tighten the laces on his sneakers so he isn't just randomly sitting on the sidewalk.

"Hi, grass."

He'll get used to addressing random inanimate objects any day now.
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"Hi!" "Hi!" "Hi!" "Hi!" "Hi!" "Hi!" "Hi!" "Hi!" "Hi!" "Hi!" "Hi!" "Hi!" "Hi!" "Hi!" "Hi!" "Hi!" "Hi!" "Hi!" "Hi!" "Hi!" "Hi!"

...and so on.
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"...Hi, this specific tuft of grass!" he says, pointing at one and then going back to tying his shoes. "How smart are you?"

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"Hi!" "Hi!" "Hi!" "Hi!" "Hi!"

Apparently grass is not very good at telling whether or not it is being pointed at. The number of plants answering him is at least smaller.
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"Do you have any feelings either way about being mowed or eaten or whatever?"

Suspects "no".
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A short silence.

Then three tufts say "Hi!" and two say "We're grass!", not quite in unison.
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Yeah, grass is apparently more like muffin than like tree. "Thanks," Cam says anyway, and he finishes fiddling with his shoelaces and goes to sit under Leafy and write in Grace about what he thinks he can and can't probably eat pending further chats with plants and animals.

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"Hi again!" says Leafy. "That was fast. What's grass like?"

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"It's about as smart as a muffin. I don't think I have to worry about grass, which is good, because wheat's a grass and avoiding wheat would be hard, especially for a vegetarian."

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"That's good," says Leafy. "What's a vegetarian?"

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"Somebody who doesn't eat animals. The goat I talked to was capable of expressing a preference on the subject. I'm going to extend the courtesy to all animals until I actually get a chance to talk to somebody's goldfish or something and see what the spectrum is."

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"I don't eat animals!" says Leafy. "Am I a vegetarian?"

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"You're way better, you have so much moral high ground, you're an autotroph," says Cam. "Which I guess is a kind of vegetarian, technically. I wonder if I can just be an autotroph." Does the manual know? It was iffy on permanent superpowers, but maybe he can just declare himself not in need of nourishment and his body will believe him well enough to be getting on with, three times a day unless he wants a glass of milk or an apple.

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"I don't want high ground," says Leafy, "water drains away from it!"

...It's possible that at this point Leafy is teasing a little.
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"But it's closer to the sun," says Cam innocently. "Hey, manual, can I just not eat, one way or another, and be okay?"

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"No," says the manual. "You can convince your body to put off its needs, but not indefinitely."

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"Can I cover for an unbalanced diet?"

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"Yes, but not indefinitely."

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"Ooookay."

He'll look up some information on nutrition.

"Let's see the spells for that so I can mark 'em."

For while he does that and sets up interviews with various members of the plant and animal kingdoms.
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The underlying principle seems to be that you can convince your body its needs have been met, but if you keep on doing that, it will catch on and stop believing you. The more of its needs you are actually meeting, the easier it is to fool it about the gap.

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Fair enough. Maybe he can find suitably ethical multivitamins.

Bleah, this isn't going to be fun.

Can he talk tofu into actually tasting like chicken, maybe?
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Yes he can!

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Oh cool! Well then, that makes this much simpler. He puts a new color of post-it on the spells that he will be using for compensating for his newly expanded ethical sphere.

On his way home, he spots a woodpecker. "Hey woodpecker," he says, not getting too close.
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"Hi!" says the woodpecker.

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"How smart are you?"

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"What kind of a question is that?" says the woodpecker aggrievedly.

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"I'm having an ethical crisis sorta thing. I'm asking everything. So far, trees, smart, grass, stupid, muffins, stupid, goats, not too bright."

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"What's a muffin?"

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"A human food item. I don't think you'd like it."

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"Whatever, then," says the woodpecker, and takes off.

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Okay. Woodpecker: possibly brighter than a goat. Or at least less obsessive. This calls for no revision to his current meal plan.

Renée is still on board with experimental vegetarianism, and dinner is a tofu thing. He takes one bite of it, and then Renée has to go to the bathroom, and he mutters at it the spell the manual provided for this purpose, that he'd like it to taste like chicken.
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Using the Speech in conversation is not materially different from using English except in terms of who understands you; using the Speech in the casting of a spell carries with it a subtle sensation of being listened to, as though the Universe is paying special attention.

It also takes energy. Not a lot of energy, for such a small spell, but a noticeable amount - like climbing half a flight of stairs.
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Hmm.

He would like to read more about the energy requirements of spells. He anticipates doing a lot of them, after all. Will this harm him? Will it be unpleasant? He would like to be on the correct page of the manual before Renée gets back from the bathroom, please.
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In short: Doing spells is tiring. Doing bigger spells is more tiring. But it isn't any likelier to harm him than any other form of exertion. Less, actually, since the amount of moving around involved is negligible.

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Does it get easier with practice?

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Somewhat, yes.

But, separately, his actual power output will decline with age. The most powerful wizards are children. Older practitioners have to make do with using less power more efficiently.
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Oh, for goodness sake. Why?

"You're very absorbed in whatever you're reading," observes Renée.

The manual currently looks like a spiral notebook. "Yep," Cam says without elaboration.
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A child's mind has more potential, more imagination, more flexibility. The latter two are the qualities that, lingering in adult wizards, tend to lead to them settling at higher power levels.

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Tips and tricks? Also, is this sort of thing shareable? Can he go to work with Renée and harvest energy from the kindergarteners in some potentially sketchy but not necessarily unethical way?

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No. A wizard's power level is a property of the wizard.

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Dangit. Okay. He'll have to be creative. If he happens to meet any particularly clever and cooperative kindergarteners can he make them their own manuals, or share his, or otherwise wizardify them, or do the manuals just capriciously drop themselves into people's laps and refuse to be community property?

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Those who are meant to be wizards will find their own manuals. Those who aren't, will not. Attempts to force the issue rarely go well.

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Grr.

Maybe when Cam is very very good at wizarding he can address this problem. It is a dumb way to run a magic system. In the meantime, he's going to get as good at wizardry as fast as he can, because apparently time is of the essence.

And he's going to cultivate his imagination-flexibility-etcetera. (He writes this down in Grace and she hums agreement.)
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Although it's not especially relevant, the manual also mentions at this point that wizards are strongly advised against directly lying. Since their main power is changing reality with their words, it follows that they should be very careful how they describe things they don't mean to change.

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...Noted. Cam doesn't usually outright lie, but he does lie by omission and by drawing misleading partial sketches of reality. So this is suitable for him anyway.

What happens if he lies to describe the world as being nicer than it is? He supposes he might magically exhaust himself rendering the earth a utopia. Would that happen?
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Any deliberate misdescription of the world that is not part of an intentional, carefully constructed spell is a bad idea.

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...Why, though?

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Because unless it is part of a carefully constructed spell, it might have unintended effects.

And because the Lone Power also invented lies.
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Wait, what? Someone had to invent lies? Lies come pretty straightforwardly with, like, being able to conceive of other creatures having minds. You want this other mind to represent a state of the universe that isn't true, you can manipulate that representation thusly, bam. Lies. Presumably someone had to do it first, but it's the sort of thing that would be easily reinvented.

Cam side-eyes his manual.

Ironically, he thinks it may be lying.
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The manual makes no claim that the Lone One is the only being to invent them, but apparently It was the first, and still has some connection to lies and to those who use them.

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A connection which amounts to what, precisely?

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They attract Its attention and increase Its power.

Neither of these is something a wizard wants to be doing.
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Its power consists of what? What does it do, how does it do it, what things does it tend to occupy its time with, this really does seem like an entity Cam needs to read up more on -

Although he's not totally sure he trusts the manual on this subject.

Especially since it's only direct lies it claims ought to be eschewed.
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Well, if he asks, the manual does have more information about the Lone Power.

Apparently the polite thing to say upon meeting It is "Fairest and fallen, greetings and defiance."

It spends Its time increasing entropy, disorder, death, and suffering in the worlds. It is one of the Powers who aided in their creation, so while Its abilities are far beyond those of any wizard, they are of the same general kind.
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So... it's a nasty sorta wizard with large (infinite?) energy reserves that's fluent in the Speech?

Also, why is there a polite thing to say to the inventor of death? Is it actually less likely to kill you if you are polite to it?
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The manual has no answers to these qestions!

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It may be that Cam should go visit that housecat sooner than planned.

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The housecat's entry in the listing of nearby wizards is still there, looking just the same.

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Cam is not really sure how one goes about visiting a housecat, and at fourteen he doesn't have quite that much freedom of movement around Phoenix. But he copies the address into Grace for later rumination.

And he goes on learning the language.
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Fully half of the manual is now devoted to the Speech; all the non-marked introductory material has been squeezed out until there is barely anything left except the Oath on the very first page and the wizard directory after it, and the subsequent chapters on magic are fairly terse unless Cam asks about something. The manual is definitely taking the hint about his area of focus.

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Can he get stuff that has squeezed out back later?

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Of course! He only has to ask.

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All right then, this will not alarm him. He makes sure he has a nice meta-index going in Grace, who just contains an unlimited number of pages because she's awesome.

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How resourceful of him!

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Cam does that!

This not-sure-if-he-should-trust-the-manual thing is annoying, though. Up in his room, with Renée elsewhere occupied until they're scheduled to go to a movie in an hour, he asks:

"Where does your information come from? It's in English, much of it anyway, and assembled into sentences; that doesn't just happen. Do you write it yourself or are you pulling it from a central source? How do you know it?"
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The contents of wizards' manuals are written partly by other wizards, partly by automatic processes...

...and partly by one of the Powers. In fact, some species rely entirely on the Whisperer to provide their spell frameworks in personal communications, because for one reason or another they are not physiologically suited to literacy.
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Cam would like to know more about the Powers, please.

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What more would Cam like to know about the Powers?

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Who are they, what do they do, what are their personalities and eponymous powers like, which features of the universe are they credited with as a counterpart to death/entropy/etc.?

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There are not any biographies available.

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That's not very friendly of them. Can he complain to the management?

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No.

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Hmmmm.

That goes in the long-term project section in Grace's chart, then.

In the meantime, he has a language to learn. This book is not completely untrustworthy; it has successfully taught him to talk to inanimate objects and trees and turn tofu into something edible-tasting.

But he copies anything really important into Grace.
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The manual doesn't seem to be offended about this, or even to particularly notice.

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"...How smart are you?" Cam asks the manual.

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It expands the section on how manuals work.

Somewhere, perhaps not a physical somewhere but somewhere all the same, there is a full manual with all the information any wizard could ever conceivably need. Individual wizards' manuals are able to hold small subsets of that store at a time. The primary function of the manual, therefore, is to select the right information at the right time based on its wizard's interests, needs, and level of prior knowledge. That is what manuals are good at. Since Cam talks to his, it can also summarize small pieces of its knowledge verbally, or read itself to him.

And that's it.

His manual is not really conscious or alive in any meaningful sense.
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Okay. That's worth knowing.

"Are you conscious?" he asks Grace.

"I think so," she says. "I might be less conscious than you, but I think I'm some conscious. I have a lot of you in me and you're conscious."

"Okay," says Cam. He pats her.

She giggles. "That doesn't mean I have a nervous system."

"Indulge me," snorts Cam.

"Okay," she says cheerfully.