Warding is as much an art as it is a skill. The theory is there, the patterns of curves, straights, angles. The channels for the threads of force to flow through. That is immutable. Magic works the way it works.

  But it is up to every warder to make it his own, to find the flow that corresponds to how his mind works, his strengths and his weaknesses.

  At the Academy, they taught warding by rote, using straight edges and curve templates. I'd learned to fake it during classes, holding the template in one hand and unfocusing my eyes to draw freehand with the other.

  I'd become void-loving good at it. Maybe as good as the best rectors. I'd never gotten a chance to find out.

  I needed all that skill now.

  The bullets were twenty millimeter ball rounds. That gave me a surface area of twelve square centimeters, less half blocked by the casing that held the ball.

  I considered popping the ball out, but I wasn't sure I could mount it back in without tools. All I had to work with was my engraving drill, and a small multi-tool I'd managed to smuggle into the Hall of Unity. Either would make for a poor reloading press. And I had no idea how the primer and powder would react to being pressed badly. A society that dueled using meter-long pistols might prime them with lead azide for all I knew. Voidmunching idiots.

  I put the round down and focused on my breathing, stilling my racing thoughts. I was here to ward a bullet, not study the comparative anthropology of firearms. Half of twelve was six. Flat, it would be an area that would fit in the circle of my thumb and forefinger. I could engrave a ward on six square centimeters. My bit would do half-a-millimeter thick lines, less if I held it lightly.

  You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

  But that would risk a break in the line, and a shattered ward. I only had five rounds, and no way of getting more. I didn't dare to risk them on poorly drawn lines, warding them properly would be difficult enough. Curved surfaces were inherently prone to force leaks. I'd work slowly and take care with every round.

  Five rounds, but I'd need two fired at the same time.

  Wards, at their most basic, alter forces by either absorbing or enhancing them. A dousing ward absorbs heat, a flame ward enhances it. But a flame ward triggered at absolute zero would do little, with no heat to enhance.

  What I wanted was wards that attracted each other. To do that, I would have to create a pair of matched pull wards that flowed over into push wards on the sides. I'd have to balance the bullets in flight, while they were spinning, and alter their courses toward each other.

  I'd seen it done with ships. It was the principle behind warded docking clamps on carriers. Which had carefully aligned, meter-sized wards.

  I had six square centimeters, and a half-a-millimeter engraving bit. I drew a breath, felt it slip between my lips, a slow, sensuous warmth, and toggled the engraving drill. With a high-pitched whine, it spun into motion, its tiny vibrations transforming into a solid pressure in my hand as it picked up speed.

  Four hours later, I had a headache, bleary eyes, a cramping hand, and five ready-to-ward bullets. Now all I needed was to infuse them, which I did, conjuring threads of force from around me.

  It came, a skittering warmth very much unlike the cold threads of force in the void. Working magic on a planet is so much nicer.

  Three of the bullets sparkled greenish blue for a second as the wards took hold. The fourth shattered, sending bits of lead spraying into the air. Lucky that the ward was so small that it contained little force. I only needed two pairs, one to shoot, and one as backup.

  I conjured another thread of tingling, jumpy warmth and directed it into the fifth ward. It shimmered blue, then flashed. I threw up my hands before me expecting it to shatter, but the force merely bled away, leaving the ward inert.

  So much for backup. Crud.