Firebrand

Relieved, Martel stepped onto the pier in Morcaster as soon as the ship had moored. He had his belongings over his shoulder; Eleanor carried their travel chest on her back, nearly the same size as herself, which drew plenty of looks. “I’ll get us a cart,” he promised.

As the last time, they went to the establishment formerly known as The Golden Goose for their lodgings; the troupe welcomed them again, eagerly inquiring about their journey into the land of those who would hate magic. An evening was spent recounting it all before the two travellers could retire.

“Do you want to go with me to the Lyceum? I don’t imagine my talks of alchemy with Mistress Rana will interest you, but the other teachers might be pleased to see you.”

Looking at the wall opposite their bed, Eleanor spoke with uncharacteristic hesitation. “I thought I might try to visit my family.” ᴛʜɪs ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ ɪs ᴜᴘᴅᴀᴛᴇ ʙʏ novel·fiɾe·net

Martel felt the pangs of different emotions; thrilled that she would do this, yet fearful that it would go poorly. “I think that’s a tremendous idea.” He dared not say more, lest he raised her hopes only for them to be dashed, should her family refuse to see her.

“I will find out tomorrow whether it is or not. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight.”

The Lyceum looked the same as ever. Martel imagined that nothing could disturb those walls, ancient and strong. As he crossed the threshold, he drew no particular attention. He saw students hurrying through the entrance hall, barely affording him a glance; if they did, their eyes lingered on his black staff rather than his face. None of them knew the latter, he imagined; at best, they would know his name. Seeing a girl in the red clothing of a fire acolyte walk by, Martel hoped that she was learning enchantment under Master Alastair and that she would never have to cast a spell against an enemy.

As usual, nobody questioned the presence of a mage, although his black staff attracted looks. Reaching the apothecary, he saw a boy in green robes preparing herbs; he looked so young, he could only just have become an earth acolyte. “What do you need, master?” “I seek Mistress Rana. I’m her former student. Is she in her chambers?”

The apprentice glanced at Martel’s red garb and black staff, neither suggesting an alchemist or earthmage. “She is, but I would disturb her at your own risk, master. She’s engaged in her experiments.”

“Understood.” Martel walked past the boy to enter the backroom and go up the stairs until he could knock on the door to the laboratory. “Mistress Rana? It’s Martel.”

It took a while before the door opened. The tall Sindhian woman with the occasional grey streaks in her black hair looked much like Martel recalled. “A surprise. Come inside, boy. You’ll have to excuse me if I’m watching my cauldron while we talk.”

“Of course. I come unannounced, after all.” Martel stepped inside to see the familiar sight of countless reagents and ingredients; a strange smell filled the chamber, emanating from a bobbling cauldron. “Devising new potions?”

“Trying to recreate old ones, but using materials found more readily up north,” she explained as they both peered into the murky liquid. “Last I heard, you were sent to Khiva. Good to know those ignorant fools didn’t kill you just for being a mage.”

Martel was tempted to ask her about the supposed elixir for the Khivan king, to learn whether his guesswork was true, but he imagined she had been sworn to secrecy, and he did not wish to put her in the awkward position of lying. “They treated me with respect, mistress, do not worry about that. But for my next trip, I intend to see Sindhu and hopefully improve my skills in alchemy.”

She gave him a doubtful look. “If you’re thinking of being taken on as an apprentice, I don’t think any masters of any Tower will accept you. Not when you’ve already learned Asterian magic.”

“I figured as much. But I should like to simply learn any recipes they’d be willing to teach, or knowledge on how to get the most out of reagents and so on. Anything, really. Not to mention, your advice on what useful materials might be procured while I’m there.”

A burst of air from her cauldron distracted her, and she began stirring. “I suppose I can write a letter of recommendation to my old master. He’s less strict than most – he endorsed me taking this position where many others would have balked.”

Martel bowed his head. “That would be most appreciated, mistress.” He glanced at the cauldron, where the liquid boiled more and more. “Is that supposed to happen?”

With a loud noise, the contents flew out of its confines and splattered across the wall. Rana sighed. “No, it’s not.”

Afterward, Martel visited his other teachers. He got a hefty embrace from Jerome, spent a while discussing fire enchantments with Alastair, and showed his staff with its fireglass gem to Fenrick. The day still young, he decided to seek out other old acquaintances, making his way to the copper lanes.

The closer he came to the district, the more people he saw. While not strange that the slums would be crowded – such was inherent to the district, being the destination for those who had nowhere else to go – Martel could not recall seeing the streets so overrun. His clothing and staff, not to mention self-assured bearing, kept him from being pestered, and he had no issue making his way forward, but it seemed an ill sign of the times.

He reached the small alley that he knew so well, along with the dilapidated house. Martel expected his approach to have been espied already, but as he came closer, nobody opened the door. Reaching it to push it open, he looked into an abandoned building. Judging by cobwebs and dust, none had lived here in a long time.

Suddenly afraid, Martel strode across the alley and used his staff to knock heavily on the nearest door. Eventually, an old crone opened, her expression becoming fearful at seeing the intimidating mage. She tried to shut the door, but he placed his weapon into the opening and forced it back. “The children who lived across,” he spoke with a harsh voice. “Where are they? What happened to them?”

“Please, I’m just an old woman!”

“Where’s the children?” Martel all but yelled.

“At the Drum, good master, don’t hurt me!”

He took a step back in surprise, which she made use of to shut the door at last. Unsure what to think, Martel began walking toward The Copper Drum.

The building looked the same; not that anything about it was noteworthy. A ramshackle of structures strung together like pearls on a string, looking ordinary from the outside on purpose. Yet within, Martel knew that all manner of vices could be found, and he had walked the long corridors and seen the basements, hiding more.

Usually, there would always be one or two men outside, looking casual but well-armed and acting as guards and lookouts. Now, Martel saw five. They stood or sat leaned up against the wall, but the long daggers in their belts and scars on their faces told him of their true nature and purpose.

A year or little more had passed since Martel had exiled Kerra, back when he ruled the city as captain prefect. He doubted she was back; she remained an outlaw, regardless of who ruled, and her loss of position and wealth would prevent her from obtaining a pardon. But even in the copper lanes, coin could be made by those lacking scruples, and Martel had no doubt someone else had stepped in to take the mantle of Ninth Lord.

Sensing a hand come close, or rather its heat, Martel swung around with empowered speed to grab the offender by the wrist, ready to swing his staff into their temple. A girl, not too old, though malnourishment always made it hard to tell their age, shrieked in fear and tried to pull herself away to no avail.

“Mouse.” Martel released his grip on her to the effect that she fell on her back.

“Martel? Is that you? You look so different!” She got on her feet.

“You should know better than to steal from a wizard.”

“I couldn’t see that from behind, could I?” She shrugged. “You just looked rich.”

He was, by the standards of the copper lanes. Just one of his belt pockets held enough gems to buy a sizeable house, in one of the better districts too. “What’s this I hear that you children live in the Drum?”

She rubbed her back. “You haven’t heard? Weasel took over. Everyone’s calling him chief now.”

Martel blinked, looking from the girl to the tavern. He found it hard to believe, given the boy’s young age, though living on the streets would turn any child into an adult fast. And Weasel had always possessed enough ambition and cunning to make up for other vulnerabilities.

This meant Weasel was, presumably the Ninth Lord. Martel did not wish to tangle with that, nor could he now offer anything the band of children needed. Perhaps if he had done something last year, before leaving the city with Eleanor, he might have found them a better way to survive than through criminal activities, but his only thought had been to escape his duties, the intrigues and politics of Morcaster. Nothing good would come now of approaching Weasel, and truth be told, what would be the point? The children presumably had their needs met. Digging out a silver piece, Martel threw it to Mouse and left.

Back at The Golden Goose, Martel found Eleanor already returned, in the common room sharing company and drink with the actors. After exchanging greetings with them, Martel got a seat next to her and gave her a questioning look.

“They refused to let me in,” she answered before he could ask. “I did not press the matter.” She spoke in a light tone of voice, and Martel let the subject rest; yet later that night, once they were alone in their chamber, he held her as she cried.