Alastair Archibald - A mage in the making

Grimm gasped. "You mustn't fight-it's in the rules! They'll throw you out!"

Argand laughed. "That's only if you're caught doing it, you idiot," he crowed. "You don't fight out in the open where anyone can see, silly! Anyway, I hear they don't press the rules too much here if you've got money."

"I've heard that, too," said Grimm. "But what if Shumal tells on you?" He felt concerned for his bold new friend, fearing that lessons learnt in a primary school playground might not apply quite as well to the austere Guild House.

Madar spoke up. "Not even Toady Tolarin would dare to peach," he said. "His life wouldn't be worth it, I promise you. Me and Argand've been at lower school with most of these boys since we were little, and ratting on other boys is one thing you don't ever, ever do. He might try to get even with us somehow, but even he wouldn't dare tell. He knows his life wouldn't be worth living if he did."

Grimm felt dubious, but he kept his counsel. These two boys' confidence seemed in stark counterpoint to his own complete ignorance.

"You'd be surprised how many boys come into class with black eyes they got from falling down stairs or walking accidentally into doors," Madar said. "I've had my share of them, but I always got even on the quiet."

"But not telling doesn't apply to us," Argand said, and Madar nodded in agreement. "If that pig, Shumal, or anyone else starts on you, don't you be scared to tell us; just never, ever tell any of the Magemasters. And if you ever do come here with a black eye and say you walked into a door, I'll give you another one." Argand flourished a large, admonitory fist. "You must always, always tell your friends the truth."

"But I'd rather tell everybody the truth," Grimm said, "I was always told not to lie, and I really don't want to lie to the Magemasters. They'll know if you don't tell the truth, anyway."

Madar sighed, as if confronted by a rather stubborn and doltish pet. "Of course they know, and they know that you know they know… you know?" he got out with some effort, as if his mouth were running ahead of his brain.

"It's all part of the game-it's not lying to them, Grimm. Those old fools'd rather stay in their cells with a bottle of wine at night and let us sort out everything among ourselves. The Magemasters here might wear wizards' cowls and big beards and carry their big mage staffs-staves, is it?-but they aren't any different to the teachers at our old school.

"They want you to keep trouble away from them, not come running every time you get a bloody nose. And they still tell you to say who did it to you, even though they don't want to know. They'll despise you if you do squeal, even if they ask you to your face. Lying about fighting is about the only lie you can get away with to a teacher… or a Magemaster. We know, we really do.

"They all make a big thing about how important telling the truth is in this place, but it's just like Lower School, really. We'll make sure you don't get any nasty black eyes to explain."

"I can fight, too," Grimm said, with a touch of defiance, "I can fight my own battles."

The two other boys were no taller than Grimm, but much broader and more muscular, and they proffered him identical, indulgent smiles, as if listening to the babble of a feeble-minded relative. "Well, let's just forget about that for the moment, shall we? Call it a trade: I'll fight for you, and you can try to teach me this singing thing."

"And I'll fight for you and you can teach me how to see this aura thing Crohn talks about," Madar added.

"That's fair enough." Grimm smiled and shook hands with Argand and Madar. Despite his confident boast, he had no experience of more than minor scuffles.

"If you don't mind too much, we really ought to practice these rune things first," he said, "I can't remember half of them, and Crohn will be testing us tomorrow."

"That's the second thing, not first," Madar corrected. "You eat up first, and then we'll have a go at the prunes."

"Runes," Grimm said.

"Whatever. You're really quite skinny, Grimm, and I think you need to put some meat on your bones. 'Specially if you're serious about all these battles you're going to fight. You wouldn't last ten seconds, the state you're in now."

Madar tried to wink, although he ended up just screwing up one side of his face.

Grimm giggled, nodded and addressed the serious business of tackling the heaped plate in front of him.

Thorn Virias, the mighty Mage Questor and Prelate of Arnor House, was deep in mortal combat with nothing more fearsome than a stack of papers. Anybody who imagined the life of Prelate of a Guild House was a glamorous sinecure, he thought, was either a fool or misinformed.

The tale told by the papers was depressing. The intake of paying Students was down over the last year by a fifth; that would make the House budget tight. Almost as bad was the fact that there was only one new charity case this year: the Afelnor boy. Thorn couldn't very well attempt to make Questors of fee-paying pupils, not when their parents were the kind of civic dignitaries who could make life very difficult for him indeed, if word ever reached them that their darling child had not been treated in accordance with his high social standing.

Some of the boys' fathers were Guild Mages themselves; some of them were even High Lodge incumbents. Some of the application letters made it plain that Arnor House had not been their first choice, which worried Thorn. He yearned for more Questors, but he knew he could not forge such mages from the sons of wealthy parents who might well know the risks involved in the Questor Ordeal.

Thorn remembered only too well the long months of his own Ordeal, and he hated his mother for having allowed him to undergo it, even if it had made a Mage Questor of him. The wealth and status he had earned from a lifetime's Quests had not assuaged that feeling in the least.

Nonetheless, a good Questor was worth a hundred pampered, well-paying Students, no matter how long they remained in the Scholasticate. Thorn had little compunction about putting yet another Student through the same Ordeal that he had so unwillingly undergone.

It was a fine line to walk. He might have few scruples about putting a hundred boys through the Ordeal in order to gain one new Questor, but High Lodge would have their eyes upon him. As Prelate of Arnor House, he could argue that the risk was worth the reward, but only so far. He was meant to have the welfare of all of his flock at heart, and a reputation for callousness might hurt irrevocably his prospects of election to the post of Dominie. No matter that he felt forced onto that road by Lizaveta's insatiable, vicarious drives; if he were ever to become the Dominie, it would be on his own terms.

Thorn never missed a chance to fulfil High Lodge's requests, regardless of the risk to the mages that he so willingly dispatched to aid in some High Lodge Quest or Great Spell. It was easy to justify this aid as being for the good of the whole Guild.

Nevertheless, although Weatherworkers were occasionally called upon to relieve drought or famine in some Guild demesne, and good Readers were in some demand for the successful completion of Great Spells, High Lodge often demanded Questors for such activities, and Thorn had precious few of these to spare.

Arnor House had but three Questors: Olaf, Xylox and Dalquist.

Olaf was approaching his century, and too old to withstand the rigours of the trail. Dalquist, his youngest Questor, was still only a First Rank Mage, and it might take some time before he became accepted.

Xylox, who carried the Guild cognomen 'the Mighty', was still in his thirties, and he was well-respected by Lord Dominie Horin. Thorn had proposed the powerful Questor for the most difficult and dangerous Quests High Lodge had to offer, so as to raise Arnor House's profile in the eyes of the Dominie. So far, the mage had been successful, and the Prelate trusted he would continue to be so.