eyes, waiting for the troops to settle down.
Armitage looks a bit like someone’s scary mother. (Take that as you will.) And she wears an old macintosh no matter the weather. Her eyes can twinkle with humour one second and turn to flint the next. And you really don’t want her shouting at you.
Not at all the type of person you imagine leading the country’s supernatural police force. But there you go. Appearances can be deceiving.
She finally waves a piece of paper in the air.
‘New memo from on high,’ she says. ‘Name change time.’
Everyone in the room gives a cheer and Russells, a plump guy who is the official liaison between us and ORCU, a good guy doing a job no one wants or likes, gets up and flips a white board around, revealing a list of names with betting odds scrawled next to them.
Here’s the thing. Delphic Division, and even ORCU to a certain extent, are an embarrassment to the government. They seem to take it as a personal affront that the supernatural actually exists, so take great pleasure in making life as difficult as possible for us. (The only reason nobody’s blabbed about us to the press is because Armitage casts binding spells on the entire parliament. She catches them every year at the Christmas party to renew the charm, the one time of the year they all actually attend parliament so as to get their share of the free food and drink.)
One of the petty ways parliament makes life difficult for us is that when we fill out requisition forms and expense reports for the guys who pay the wages and approve budgets, we’re not allowed to mention magic, wizardry, magicians, sorcerers or anything like that.
Only problem is, they don’t know what official language they want us to use. It changes every couple of weeks.
The first time we got a memo, they said we had to use the word hex instead of magic.
Which meant we were all . . . Hexers? Hex-people? None of us knew, so we sent a memo back to ask.
Silence. Then a week later another memo saying that we were now known as Augurs, and the term for what did was Augury.
Someone even higher up didn’t like that. A week later we got a new memo and were told to use Theosophist, and to call magic Theosophy.
Russells loved that. Said it made him feel official. I hated it. Sounded like a subject you’d study in college.
So Armitage, Parker and I sat down to come up with our own possibilities. I came up with Dwemer and Dwemercraft. (It’s Old English.) Parker hated it. She suggested mage, magus, or magi. I laughed in her face. No way was I going around calling myself a magus. I’d have to start wearing robes if I did.
Armitage wanted enchanter, but the head honchos responded with a resounding no, saying we weren’t in a Disney movie.
I gave up and left them to it, deciding to just call the power shinecraft. It fitted for me. Sort of suggestive but not up its own arse. And I just refer to all of us as conjurers.
But here we are in a new week with a new memo, which means a new official name. Armitage theatrically clears her throat.
‘The powers that be would like us all to know we are henceforth and forthwith to be referred to as . . .’
She draws it out. Too much reality television for her.
‘. . . As mages !’
Groans roll around the room, loudest from Parker. The only one who doesn’t groan is Simmons, a skinny guy who looks like he can hide behind a street light. He cheers loudly, which means he wins this month’s pool. Lucky bastard. I could have done with that money. ’Course, there wasn’t much chance my entry would have been picked. ‘Pretentious arse-baskets’ isn’t really a term I see the president of the country using. At least, not officially.
‘All right, all right. Settle down,’ says Armitage. ‘Start of a new week and all that. You’ve all got your case loads. Get to work. London?’ She looks in my direction. ‘My office.’
I heave myself up from my chair, ignoring the knowing looks from everyone who
Armitage looks a bit like someone’s scary mother. (Take that as you will.) And she wears an old macintosh no matter the weather. Her eyes can twinkle with humour one second and turn to flint the next. And you really don’t want her shouting at you.
Not at all the type of person you imagine leading the country’s supernatural police force. But there you go. Appearances can be deceiving.
She finally waves a piece of paper in the air.
‘New memo from on high,’ she says. ‘Name change time.’
Everyone in the room gives a cheer and Russells, a plump guy who is the official liaison between us and ORCU, a good guy doing a job no one wants or likes, gets up and flips a white board around, revealing a list of names with betting odds scrawled next to them.
Here’s the thing. Delphic Division, and even ORCU to a certain extent, are an embarrassment to the government. They seem to take it as a personal affront that the supernatural actually exists, so take great pleasure in making life as difficult as possible for us. (The only reason nobody’s blabbed about us to the press is because Armitage casts binding spells on the entire parliament. She catches them every year at the Christmas party to renew the charm, the one time of the year they all actually attend parliament so as to get their share of the free food and drink.)
One of the petty ways parliament makes life difficult for us is that when we fill out requisition forms and expense reports for the guys who pay the wages and approve budgets, we’re not allowed to mention magic, wizardry, magicians, sorcerers or anything like that.
Only problem is, they don’t know what official language they want us to use. It changes every couple of weeks.
The first time we got a memo, they said we had to use the word hex instead of magic.
Which meant we were all . . . Hexers? Hex-people? None of us knew, so we sent a memo back to ask.
Silence. Then a week later another memo saying that we were now known as Augurs, and the term for what did was Augury.
Someone even higher up didn’t like that. A week later we got a new memo and were told to use Theosophist, and to call magic Theosophy.
Russells loved that. Said it made him feel official. I hated it. Sounded like a subject you’d study in college.
So Armitage, Parker and I sat down to come up with our own possibilities. I came up with Dwemer and Dwemercraft. (It’s Old English.) Parker hated it. She suggested mage, magus, or magi. I laughed in her face. No way was I going around calling myself a magus. I’d have to start wearing robes if I did.
Armitage wanted enchanter, but the head honchos responded with a resounding no, saying we weren’t in a Disney movie.
I gave up and left them to it, deciding to just call the power shinecraft. It fitted for me. Sort of suggestive but not up its own arse. And I just refer to all of us as conjurers.
But here we are in a new week with a new memo, which means a new official name. Armitage theatrically clears her throat.
‘The powers that be would like us all to know we are henceforth and forthwith to be referred to as . . .’
She draws it out. Too much reality television for her.
‘. . . As mages !’
Groans roll around the room, loudest from Parker. The only one who doesn’t groan is Simmons, a skinny guy who looks like he can hide behind a street light. He cheers loudly, which means he wins this month’s pool. Lucky bastard. I could have done with that money. ’Course, there wasn’t much chance my entry would have been picked. ‘Pretentious arse-baskets’ isn’t really a term I see the president of the country using. At least, not officially.
‘All right, all right. Settle down,’ says Armitage. ‘Start of a new week and all that. You’ve all got your case loads. Get to work. London?’ She looks in my direction. ‘My office.’
I heave myself up from my chair, ignoring the knowing looks from everyone who
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