Although Grimm loved books and read all he could, he did not understand most of what the Magemaster had said, and he feared that all Kargan's lessons would be given in this rapid-fire, impenetrable style.
Perhaps the other boys were trained in this sort of language, he thought. Maybe I'll never get the hang of it! He risked a surreptitious glance at the rest of the class, but the blank, stunned expressions of the other Students suggested that they were as confused as he.
"Sounds complicated, doesn't it?” Kargan beamed like a madman. “It is. Yet this is one subject you will have to learn and understand before you take the ring. I did not lie: from the understanding of runes comes the whole panoply of performed magic and sorcery."
Kargan paused to let his words sink in, his head swivelling back and forth like an owl's as he scanned his stunned flock.
"Like music,” he said, “if you do not have the ear for it, you may be able to scratch out a few simple spells by rote, but you will never become a spellcaster, any more than a tone-deaf urchin can play for the Gallorley Philharmonia."
A wide, seraphic grin appeared on the mage's face. “So let's see if any of you has a half-way decent ear. You're all going to sing for me!” Kargan's expression suggested that he had just offered the Students some marvellous treat, but some of the boys looked aghast.
What has singing to do with magic? Grimm wondered, and he could tell he was not alone in this thought.
Kargan turned to Madar, sitting at the right hand side of the front bench. “Stand up, boy! What is your name?"
In a tiny voice, the boy stammered, “M-Madar Gaheela, Lord M-Mage."
Kargan nodded, and his own voice reduced in intensity to a bearable level as he said, “Ah, yes; Gaheela. Your father would be Ahad Gaheela, the master trader? In that case, I trust you have inherited his love of music, and even a little of his talent. I heard him playing the violin when I was an honoured guest at last year's New Year Recital in Ayre. It was most moving!"
He regarded the boy with apparent respect, but he did not speak. As the silence became uncomfortable, Madar blurted, “I can play the violin, the vihuela, the trumpet and the dulcimer, Lord Mage. Last year I won a credential as First Cantor in the Preslor Abbey choir."
"EX-cellent!” crowed the strange mage. “Then I am sure you won't have any problem singing this little phrase. Sing it exactly as you hear it, and don't try to interpret it. We're looking for perfection here, Gaheela, not artistic impression."
Kargan produced a silver flute from his robes and played a fluent, liquid ten-second phrase with trills and strange intervals. After clearing his throat, Madar repeated it in a clear, strong voice.
Kargan nodded. “You may sit down, Gaheela, that was quite adequate.” Almost as an afterthought, he added, “Almost acceptable, in fact."
Grimm saw Madar stiffen, and he could tell his friend felt affronted. Nonetheless, the red-headed boy sat and said nothing.
Kargan played a different phrase to each boy, each of whom repeated the flute's notes with varying degrees of success. For some of the boys, Kargan had to repeat the phrase several times, each time with growing impatience. To those who performed well, Kargan offered a humorous mock-insult or faint praise, but Grimm could see that they were actually tokens of affection. Boys who had no ear for music were merely thanked and asked to return to their seats, and Kargan made no comment on their lack of musical talent. After half an hour, he reached the boy on Grimm's left. Grimm noticed that Madar turned and offered Argand a friendly but mournful grimace.
"And your name is?"
"Argand Forutia, Lord Mage"
"How's your singing, Forutia?"
"Lord Mage, I don't know. I have never sung."
"WHAT?” Kargan's eyes were wide and his jaw slack. “A boy who has never sung?” The Magemaster's expression suggested that he considered this the worst misfortune that could possibly befall a child.
Shaking his head, the mage seemed to gather his composure once more, and he spoke in a more reasonable tone. “Well, then, Forutia, now is your time to start! Please sing this."
He played another phrase on his flute. The boy took a deep breath and began to sing. Or rather, he began to recite in a rhythmic monotone. His timing was fair, but the single note Argand seemed able to produce hovered achingly distant from any note or interval in any standard musical pitch. Kargan stood aghast. Apparently misinterpreting the Magemaster's expression, Argand began again on a different droning delivery with no greater musical merit than the first.
"Thank you, Forutia. Thank you; that will be quite enough, Forutia! ENOUGH! STOP! DESIST! CEASE!” cried Kargan in ever-growing anguish, as Argand continued to struggle with the phrase.
Poor Argand looked distraught. Granfer Loras had told Grimm of people who never understood singing; that, to them, it had always seemed a rather contrived poetry. Grimm had not quite believed him at the time, but he did now.
Closing his eyes and shuddering for a moment, it seemed that Kargan had decided to take pity on the boy; Argand had obviously tried his best, even if the result had been less than melodious. “Thank you, Forutia,” he croaked. “Perhaps your talents lie in other directions. You may sit."
Argand descended to his seat, wiping sweat from his brow as one or two sniggers arose from the anonymous depths of the class. Kargan stamped his foot and glared, his face pale except for a pair of bright red spots on his cheeks. This was no mock-fearsome pretence but a face suffused with true anger. “I will have no laughter in my class at another's misfortune!” he boomed, and Grimm could now tell the difference between Kargan's play-acting and his real emotions.
"I imagine that many of the rest of you have ears little better than our friend Forutia's,” the Magemaster hissed. “Let it be known that I detest smugness and self-satisfaction, and I WILL NOT TOLERATE IT IN MY CLASS! I will have RESPECTFUL SILENCE in this class unless I ask for comment! Is that clear?"
Kargan stood with his arms akimbo, a picture of fury. “I asked if that was quite clear,” he said in a low, threatening rumble.
"Yes, Lord Mage!” The Students’ reflexive response rang out as if uttered by a single voice.
The mage grunted and turned to Grimm, who stood, now feeling a little sheepish at having wanted to cover his ears at Argand's unmusical eruption.
"Name?” snapped Kargan, not yet over his fit of temper.
"I am Grimm Afelnor, Lord Mage.” Grimm's voice was almost a whisper.
Kargan raised an eyebrow, but not in disapprobation, and his face brightened at once. “So you are the grandson of Loras Afelnor?” he asked.
"That is my Granfer's name, Lord Mage."
Kargan nodded. “Ah, that man had a splendid voice. I shall be glad if you have but one-tenth of his talent. Do you sing?"
"Yes, Lord Mage. Granfer says I have what he calls a perfect ear."
"Ha!” Kargan snorted. “If I had one copper bit for each time I heard that, I'd be a rich man. Still, if Afelnor approves of your voice, it must at least be of an acceptable quality. Kindly sing this.” He played another, different phrase on his flute. Grimm echoed it at once, in a sweet treble. Kargan played a longer, more complicated phrase and again Grimm reproduced it without effort. Then, Kargan asked Grimm to repeat the first phrase without the aid of the flute. Half way through the phrase, Argand joined in with the flute, and seemed well pleased to find the two sounds in perfect agreement.
He spent the next few minutes setting vocal tests and traps for Grimm, but the boy negotiated these with ease. He loved music almost as much as he loved literature, and this seemed more like pleasure than work.
Kargan gave a satisfied smile and spoke in a more gentle voice than usual, as if he feared that Grimm's ears might be damaged by his usual stentorian delivery. “A perfect ear, indeed,” he said, “with a voice to match. Precious tools, Afelnor, precious tools they are, and all too rare; take care of both. They will be of great aid in your appreciation and application of magic. You may sit."
/> He turned to the class and adopted another one of his forbidding facial expressions. “Now, if I know boys,” he said in a voice that, although only mock-serious, bore an unmistakable undertone of steel. “Some of you will be thinking evil thoughts about young Afelnor, not least because of his charitable status.
"Be grateful for your silken robes, your fine food and your warm cells. Enjoy them; they are your prerogatives of rank, and I for one would never begrudge them. However, Afelnor has something rare and precious that cannot be purchased, cozened or stolen. Allow him the comfort of his talent, and do not think ill of him for it."
He leant forward, clasping his hands in the small of his back, as if to give his words more force. “Should I hear of any spiteful words that might come Afelnor's way because of my praise of his voice, the perpetrator will FEEL THE BACK OF MY BLOODY HAND! I, too, have a good ear; most sensitive, it is. You would be astonished at what I can hear at times!"
His glare swept the room like the beam of a lighthouse, and nobody seemed willing to meet it.
"I am glad that is well understood,” Kargan purred. “A little warning: in future, I may expect any of you to sing without notice. So; practice, practice, practice!"
He punctuated the last three words by flexing his knees, so that he looked like a frog about to leap. Kargan was plainly at least a little deranged, and Grimm fought to maintain a stony face at this ludicrous spectacle.
"He's quite mad,” Argand muttered.
Grimm nodded. “I know,” he whispered, “but I think I like him."
"Then you must be mad, too.” Argand tapped his right temple with an extended forefinger.
"Now, the next boy,” Kargan roared, returning to his mission. “Your name, boy?"
"Akad Horth, Lord Mage,” another Student squeaked, his face beetroot-red, and Grimm could not tell if that was through panic or an overwhelming desire to laugh.
"Well, Horth, let us hear your rendition of this little tune..."
* * * *
Kargan relentlessly assayed the singing talents of the rest of the class. Some had a poor command of tone, some lacked a sense of cadence and others had weak voices. Some sang very well, and they were given lukewarm compliments, but Kargan seemed careful not to insult or belittle any of the Students.
When all the recitals were finished, Kargan moved to the huge slate at the front of the class and unrolled a scroll with twenty or so strange characters on it, which he attached to the board. Grimm noticed that the scroll duplicated part of the mural around the classroom.
The Magemaster interlaced his fingers and flexed, making his knuckles crackle like gunfire.
"The FIRST RUNE FAMILY!” he boomed. “They are no more or less important than any other rune group, but they are the first that we will study. To begin, you will just learn the names of the runes until they are well-seated in your thick skulls!"
Kargan dabbed his face with a blue handkerchief. He was slightly red in the face and perspiring freely, but he showed no sign of slowing the pace.
"Where was I?” he muttered before continuing. “Ah, yes, the First Rune Family! These twenty-nine basic runes are used for the first spells you will ever master: the Minor Magics. They are also used in most other spells that you will ever encounter. Recite after me: Adzh, Karkh, Tekh, Rukh, Urth..."
* * * *
By the end of the afternoon, the boys were tired and hoarse with recitation, but Kargan had lost none of his energy and volume. The man seemed indefatigable. When the bell rang, he looked quite disappointed.
Clearing his throat, he said, “Copy these down and learn them well. Tomorrow, I shall expect all of you to recite them by heart and to be able to write them in a fair hand. If you cannot master these runes, I shall be VERY DISPLEASED, and we will carry on until they are known by all!"
Again, Kargan produced his broad, infectious smile, implying that some great fun was in store for the shell-shocked Students.
"It may interest you to know that I have a small pet bird who can recite them all. He is no captive Mage Shapeshifter, I assure you, but a true representative of the avian persuasion! When you have thoroughly absorbed these runes at least as well as my feathered companion, we shall move on to the manner in which these are coupled together to make spell syllables; the basic vocabulary of the craft. Later, we shall consider the written forms of the runes and the methods of joining them into fluid script. Thank you, gentlemen. That will be all."
The boys trooped out of the class, with little conversation, as each looked at his slate. There was much to be done before the morrow. Grimm breathed a deep sigh of relief as he left the room. Kargan was a strange, complex, emotional man, and the boy thought it would take a little while before he became used to the Magemaster's mercurial moods.
Chapter 13: Class Enemies
In the refectory that evening, Grimm was sitting alone at a plate of cold salt fish and boiled cabbage when he was joined by Madar and the tone-deaf Argand Forutia, who were brought sumptuous meals which had been prepared for them. Others in the hall had similar fare but had snubbed him, and Grimm had caught the chilly words “rotten pauper” and “guttersnipe” from some.
"Grimm, may we join you?” Madar asked in a friendly manner. Grimm nodded, wary of a prank, despite the boy's frank, open face. The fact that these rich boys wanted to join him at the poorer end of the Refectory put him on his guard.
"You talked of your grandfather. Wasn't he a mage here?” Argand asked.
"Doorkeeper said he was, but Granfer never talks ... talked of it."
Argand swallowed a mouthful of roast meat with some difficulty. “Some other boys were saying that he was quite a senior mage, is that right? Don't worry, we're not going to blab or set you up."
Madar gave his head a vigorous shake in apparent disavowal of any intended treachery.
"I was told that he was a Questor, whatever that is,” Grimm said.
Madar whistled, impressed. “Crohn said that they were one of the best kinds of mage."
Grimm continued with difficulty. “He ... they don't like him here. He ... he did something bad. I don't really want to say any more.” His heart full, he looked down at his meagre meal, but his hunger had vanished.
Argand put a meaty hand on Grimm's shoulder. “Don't worry, Grimm, we'll look after you, won't we, Madar? Your secret's safe with us. Here, have some roast lamb. I'm stuffed.” Madar and Argand piled Grimm's plate high with delicacies, and Grimm stammered thanks, with tears in his eyes at their generosity. After a moment's hesitation, he began to attack the pile of food before him, discovering that he was hungry, after all.
"Don't mention it Grimm,” said Madar. “Argand and me know what it's like to be nobody. Both our Das had to earn their money instead of being given it, and the boys who were born rich don't like that. You'll soon see that there're class differences, even among rich boys."
"And I like you ‘cause you didn't laugh at me like the others did,” Argand said, raising a dismissive hand as Grimm opened his mouth to reply.
"Oh, I know you wanted to, but you were nice enough not to join in. Not like that stuck-up lot over there.” Argand stuck a contemptuous thumb towards a cackling knot of well-dressed boys.
"That slimy toad Shumal Tolarin over there's the worst of them,” Argand said. “His father's a magi ... magistrate or something, and he doesn't like my Da because he had to borrow money off Da when things were tight. He treated me like a leper at our first school until I got bigger than him and gave him a good thrashing. He knows he'll get it again if he tries anything funny. He always goes around with that soppy limpet, Ruvin Terruren, but Ruvin runs away like a scared rabbit if anyone threatens him when Shumal isn't around to look after him."
"And Shumal doesn't like me ‘cause my Da grew up in the slums but earns more now than his Da,” chimed in Madar. “'Cause he grew up poor, he—my Da, that is—knows how to fight. He taught me, too, ‘cause I wasn't very big or strong. Shumal knows whatever he gets from Argand, he'll get f
rom me, too.” Madar's voice held no trace of boasting. He spoke with a confidence that spoke of experience.
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.
The Chronicles of Grimm Dragonblaster [Book 1: A Mage In The Making] Page 10