Firebrand

By the time they went downstairs to eat, the other guests had disappeared, and thankfully, Lucrecia was too busy with chores to converse, allowing them to eat their meal in peace. The food was typically Asterian, though all of it containing spices or flavours that would be considered strange in Morcaster. The bread was seasoned in ways Martel could not recognise, but which gave it a little kick. The same held true for the strips of rabbit, and the vegetables seemed fried in butter rather than oil, which he did not mind; in a funny coincidence, the same method of cooking was employed in distant Nordmark.

Sleep came with some difficulty. After days at sea, quiet except for the hull of the ship occasionally creaking, Pataliputra proved different. Even late at night, people moved about outside on the street. The heat during midday kept workshops and taverns closed for hours, necessitating that trade be conducted after dark. The intermittent shouting of vendors hawking their goods – or so Martel presumed, unable to understand their speech – woke him up each time he thought he might fall asleep. When he finally found embrace in the realm of dreams, it felt like only moments later that the sun shone through their window, waking him up.

Meals were a communal affair, including breakfast; every guest staying at the roadhouse ate together. The others, four of them, looked as suggested by Lucrecia to be clerks and merchants. Placing plates of freshly baked bread on the low tables in the common room, their hostess gestured toward the two mages. “New arrivals! Introduce yourselves, everyone, don’t be shy!”

“I am Eleanor Fontaine, and my companion is Martel.” They both sat down, and Martel reached out to grab a piece of bread. “We are travellers, as you have probably guessed. Martel is a student of Sindhian alchemy.”

“You’re a wizard?” exclaimed one of the guests.

“We both are,” Martel replied.

“You should have seen this one,” Lucrecia squealed, pointing at Eleanor. “Carrying a chest the size of herself up the stairs! Oh, but let me introduce everyone. That’s Gerald, here to study smithing.” A young fellow with the physique of swinging hammers all day bowed his head. She pointed to the next. “Flavian, he’s also new, a clerk with a trading house.”

The fellow in question stood out for a simple reason; his eyes were blue. “We hail from the same province, I’d wager,” he remarked with a smile. “Pleasure to meet someone else from Normark.”

Martel noticed the pronunciation, suggesting that he came from near the Tyrian border rather than the southern regions. “You’re far from home, though I suppose the same can be said for me.” “Octavius, an important trader in spices,” Lucrecia continued, gesturing at a portly man dressed too hot for the weather.

“Our good hostess is too kind, as generous with compliments as she is with her food. I’m but a lowly servant in a trading house with a presence in numerous cities on either side of the Emerald Sea,” he declared in pompous fashion.

“And you’re too modest. Aren’t you in charge of your office here in the city?”

“True, true, I have that privilege,” Octavius beamed.

“And this is Clara, who works for the Asterian envoy to the court of Pataliputra,” Lucrecia concluded. The only other woman present bowed her head as well. “Ah, but I forget my duties!” She hurried back to the kitchen. Seeing a variety of unasked questions on the faces of his breakfast companions, Martel grabbed another piece of bread.

The pair of travellers separated; Eleanor went to explore the city while Martel, armed with his staff and a letter from Rana, set a course for one of the five great structures that dominated Pataliputra. Standing in the middle of the street, Martel had no trouble seeing the towers that rose in the horizon, each placed within its own district with a suitable distance to its peers. No other buildings than those dedicated to alchemy could compare; not even the palace of the prince who ruled the city came close in height.

Recalling instructions from Rana, Martel moved toward the northernmost tower. His staff served him well making his way through the throng of people on the street, helping him keep his footing. His other hand had a tight grip on his valuables; such a crowd had to be a pickpocket’s dream.

After an arduous walk, Martel reached his destination, rising up in grey stone. It had a Sindhian name he could not translate, and Rana had not bothered explaining its meaning. The great door into the tower was shut; it had a bronze ring green with age for knocking, attached to a grotesque mask of a less-than-human face with a tongue extending a full foot and a single horn protruding from its brow. Grabbing the ring, Martel gave it a good knock.

Nothing happened. After waiting a brief while, Martel tried the door; it was locked. He tried knocking again repeatedly to no avail. Perhaps they did not accept visitors at this hour, or they were engaged in work that kept them from answering the door.

He glanced around; he felt himself being observed by the people on the street, especially those manning stalls and selling a variety of items, though mostly food. They might know why nobody at the tower answered the door, but Martel could not ask them, as he barely spoke a word of Sindhian. He would simply have to pass the time for a while and come back later.

Martel drifted through the district, spending a few coins on food and especially something to drink, feeling the heat of the rising sun. When he estimated half an hour had gone by at least, he returned to the tower and knocked again. As before, he had no luck. Fınd the newest release on NovєlFіre.net

Feeling impatient and frustrated, he decided nonetheless to keep waiting; he had no purpose in the city besides getting into this building, after all. He did walk around the tower, which took a while, hoping to find another entrance, to no luck. Finding a spot with shade, he settled down to continue his wait; sooner or later, someone else would have to enter or leave the tower, and when they did, he would make his way in.

Time crawled by, and Martel did not find himself one step closer to getting inside. Nobody approached the tower, and nobody left. Finally, his frustrations reached a boiling point; he strode over and smashed the bronze ring against the door.

To his surprise, the door opened. A Sindhian wearing a robe entirely in green stared at him and said something.

“At last. I have been here a while.”

“We know. We saw and heard you,” replied the young man, either a clerk or an apprentice.

“Then why didn’t you open?” Martel asked, astonished.

“Only a man who knocks three times has important matters.”

The battlemage was in no mood for sophistry, but he swallowed his anger, having more important business. “I have a letter to Master Gotama.” Martel retrieved it from an inner pocket and waved it about.

“Give it here.”

“I am to deliver it to him personally. I have business with him.”

The Sindhian looked at him, annoyed. “I’ll let him know. Wait until then.”

He tried to shut the door, and Martel swiftly placed his staff in the opening. “I’ll wait inside.”

A scowl greeted this declaration, but the Sindhian did not object, and Martel could finally step into the tower. The entire floor was a single, open chamber, except for the very middle, which held a spiral staircase. This served as a dining hall, looking at all the tables and benches. Martel wondered if the students lived here, given the tower did not have nearly the size of the Lyceum, or maybe they only received their meals.

Taking a seat on a bench, Martel watched the stairs. Apprentices clad in the same green garments moved up and down; there had to be lower levels beyond the ground floor. Beyond that, he could not make any observations, and he resorted to continue his wait.

Finally, an elderly Sindhian man, a large, grey beard on his face, came down the staircase. He was dressed entirely in brown, except for his head, which was wrapped in red fabric. Beyond that, he had a variety of little metal pieces pinned to his chest in various shapes. An odd choice in ornaments, but every place had its own style.

The alchemist noticed Martel and steered toward him, who in turn got up and held out the letter he had brought. “Master Gotama?”

“Yes. That’s for me?”

Martel nodded and handed it over. “From Mistress Rana in Morcaster.”

The Sindhian unfolded it and gave it a quick read. “You know alchemy?” He looked up at his visitor.

“I do. She taught me for one year. I should like to learn more.”

“Prove it.” The alchemist pulled out something from his pocket and placed it in Martel’s hand.

Looking down, he saw a dried, brown leaf; not a plant that Martel recognised, but the principle of Sindhian magic worked the same. Understanding the test, Martel drew the dormant magic out until the leaf shone red.

“Hm. Adequate. Few of my fellow masters would accept the idea of outsiders learning our craft, and even fewer would entertain the idea of teaching an outsider themselves. Though Rana knows me well. I am not one to turn away those in search of knowledge.”

“You’ll teach me?”

“Only potions to heal and alleviate. There’s enough hurt in the world that I don’t mind teaching how to cure it, but you’re not one of my apprentices, deserving of my full knowledge. Anything that harms, I won’t show you,” Gotama declared.

Martel did not mind; it would undoubtedly take years to learn everything the alchemist could teach, longer than Martel planned to stay in Sindhu. And he already knew plenty of ways to cause harm. “I thank you for the opportunity to learn,” he replied, inclining his head.

“Hm. Very well. Come back tomorrow at the second hour after dawn.”