Book 7: Chapter 61: Cheers
Next morning, after another communal breakfast where Martel let the others do most of the talking, he separated from Eleanor and returned to the tower. This time, he was spared having to knock repeatedly and hang around; a few other apprentices arrived when he did, and though they glanced surreptitiously at the tall Asterian in their midst, nobody protested when he entered together with them. Martel noticed that only a small handful came from the outside, suggesting that others had their sleeping quarters in the tower itself; either that, or this school had barely any students.
It took Martel a few questions and more than one attempt at being understood in Asterian before he received directions to Gotama’s workshop. He went up the spiral staircase two floors before passing through the door. Surroundings reminiscent of Rana’s laboratory back at the Lyceum greeted him, though of a much greater scale.
Numerous fireplaces – he counted five on either wall to his left and right – and plenty of worktables. Added to that, shelves like a library fanned out from the pillar in the centre of the floor, where he stood on the staircase, but stocked with ingredients instead of books. Letting his eyes wander, Martel noticed a strict organisational pattern.
One shelf held glass bottles from top to bottom, each filled with powders; another had the same type of containers but all with liquids. Next held an endless number of stalks from dried herbs, while its neighbour had only the leaves, and so on. Some held reagents that Martel could only guess at; they looked like animal parts, but the writing upon them was Sindhian, leaving him ignorant. Given Martel saw only a handful of apprentices in here, he assumed the upper floors likewise held workshops, each as well-equipped and worth an emperor’s ransom.
As Martel observed, so the others observed him; stepping across the threshold drew all eyes on him, causing work to cease. Some harsh mutterings from Gotama sent the apprentices back to their labours, and he beckoned for Martel to approach. “Before you can be trusted with alchemy, I must ensure your training has been adequate.”
Martel assumed that to be the case, considering how strict Rana was as a teacher, but better to prove it than argue. “Yes, master.”
“Follow me.” The alchemist led Martel to a table, shooing away another apprentice already at work. “You know how to prepare this?”
Martel looked down, seeing an assortment of familiar herbs. “Yes, master.”
“Get to it.”
Grabbing a knife, Martel began chopping. If he closed his eyes, he could believe himself to be back at the Lyceum. Back at the guesthouse, Martel barely made it in time for the evening meal. He sat down next to Eleanor, leaning back into the couch.
“How was your first day?”
“Well, I learned that my chopping is rough and uneven,” he chuckled. “So far, it feels no different than being taught by Mistress Rana. I was also given a chore to complete tonight.”
“What might that be?”
“Learn the Sindhian letters, so I can read the writing on the shelves, lest I fetch the wrong ingredient and turn potion to poison,” he jested.
“You had your first lesson in alchemy?” asked the merchant Octavius with an excited voice.
The interjection reminded Martel of their company. They were a strange band, few of them having anything in common, whether in terms of trade, upbringing, or years lived. The merchant was in his fifties, as was their hostess; the others, Clara and blue-eyed Flavian, looked to be in their thirties or older, while the smith Gerald seemed close to Martel in age. “Yes,” he replied curtly with a brief glance at the trader. “How did you spend your day?” he asked of Eleanor, looking in her direction again.
“It was marvellous. I rode an elephant.”
“How was it? Like a horse?”
“Not quite, but I do like the thought of riding it into battle,” she mused. “Oh, and I saw their smiths. Lovely jewellery, but they had a blade that looked thin and barely curved, and yet strong enough to cut through boiled leather with ease.”
“They have the best steel,” muttered Gerald. “Why I was sent here. And their potions are clever, lets you handle the heat of the forge.”
“Perhaps you should get yourself such a blade,” Martel suggested, to which Eleanor shook her head.
“It is meant for a different kind of fighting. Besides, I trust in my current sword.” Her hand touched the hilt of the Archean weapon forged with enchanted metal.
“What of news from home?” Octavius made another attempt to join their conversation. “While I naturally receive constant tidings from the headquarters of my house, I am most curious of how wizards will have experienced the recent turmoil in Morcaster.”
“We are less informed than you,” Eleanor replied courteously. “We have barely been to Morcaster in the last few years.”
“You plan to stay in Sindhu?” asked Flavian.
“For a while.” Martel grabbed more of the chicken stew that Lucrecia served with rice; Eleanor found it a tad spicy for her tastes, but the heat did not trouble him.
“We intend to stay as long as we enjoy it here,” Eleanor added to Martel’s reply.
“In that case, you’ll enjoy it more if you develop a taste for Sindhian wine,” Flavian laughed. “It’s a little different than what we’re used to back home. Especially those of us from up north, but you’ll learn to appreciate the flavour.” He grabbed the jug on the table and filled their cups.
“Where did you work in the Imperial administration?” asked Clara. “Sometimes, mages are sent to us to do their years of service. The envoy usually has a mageknight as a guard.”
“The legions.” Martel hoped his brief answer would dissuade further questions. The issue with keeping Asterian company meant that everyone spoke Asterian and used it on him. Someone like Clara would know that mages served at least five years, and she might figure out that both he and Eleanor were too young to have finished their service, and if she followed that line of speculation, she might guess why. While that would not necessarily be a problem, Martel had found himself enjoying the privacy of foreign lands, where none cared about the Firebrand.
“We were fortunate to receive our discharge with the end of the war.” Eleanor smiled and raised her cup. “A delightful vintage. Cheers to Sindhu.” The others followed her gesture and repeated her words.