She kept an eye on her watch as Master Grave started to talk, lecturing them on the importance of keeping their cool during a battle. Much of it she already knew, but she was impressed by how he encouraged them to prepare endless waves of spells and trigger them, when the time was right. Some of the spellwork was strikingly complex, yet she was sure she would master it in time. It was almost a disappointment when she had to rise and walk out of the tent. Sergeant Miles was standing there, looking grim.
“You need to work on your physical fitness,” he said, once they’d moved to a nearby tent and cast privacy wards. “You’re not at the right level.”
Emily bowed her head. “I know.”
“Good, because you’re going to be working very hard,” Sergeant Miles told her. “Don’t slack off, whatever happens.”
He gave her a sharp look. “You wanted to talk to me?”
“Yes, Master,” Emily said. “Last night, someone tried to drug me.”
Sergeant Miles blinked. “Drug you?”
“They slipped a potion into my glass,” Emily said, bitterly. She wasn’t sure why he was surprised. Was it the sheer blatancy of the attempt? “I think it would have made me act like a ...”
Her skin warmed. It was embarrassing even to talk about it. “Like a whore.”
“I see,” Sergeant Miles said. His face darkened. “Do you know who?”
Emily shook her head. If she’d known who, she would have confronted him ... but there had been just too many suspects. Her back had been turned. Any number of people could have slipped the potion into her glass and then watched the results from a safe distance. Maybe they’d even left the tent, trusting in the rumor mill to spread the word. There was just no way to know.
“It might have been one of the horsemen,” Sergeant Miles muttered. He looked down at the ground and spat. “It’s just the sort of thing they’d find funny.”
“It isn’t funny,” Emily said, tartly. Even if no one had taken advantage of her ... her reputation would not have survived. And she hadn’t been the only woman in the room. What if one of the other ladies had wound up dancing naked on the tables? “I could have been ...”
“But you weren’t,” Sergeant Miles said. “And there’s nothing pointing to a potential suspect.”
He sighed, heavily. “We may never know who did it,” he admitted. “You need to watch your back. Check everything you drink. And eat too. Did you check the food you ate just now?”
Emily colored. She’d been so hungry she hadn’t thought to check. It seemed unlikely that the food could have been poisoned, but she had to admit it was possible. A dozen powerful magicians could be killed, easily, if they drank poison. It had happened before.
“Check,” Sergeant Miles ordered.
“Yes, Master,” Emily said.
“I’ll discuss the matter with General Pollack,” Sergeant Miles said. “But we can’t do anything without a potential suspect.”
Emily gritted her teeth in frustration. He was right. None of the horsemen — noblemen to a man — would tolerate a search of their private belongings, let alone interrogations under truth spells. The innocent among them would be lodging complaints with their superiors, demanding General Pollack’s immediate removal. Hell, the guilty man would be lodging his own complaints. He wouldn’t want to stand out from the rest.
She wanted to scream at him, to demand to know if he would have taken it more seriously if he had been the target. But she knew she was being unfair. A student at Whitehall who tried to drug another student would be unceremoniously expelled. Love potions were banned for a reason. But here? There were politics involved. Keeping the army together was more important, even to her future father-in-law, than finding and punishing the guilty.
I can rig spells around everything I have, she thought, darkly. The apprentices would know to be careful, but mundanes — even noblemen — might not realize the dangers. And the next person to touch one of my things will be turned into a frog.
“Fine,” she snarled.
“Don’t talk to me like that when someone else can hear,” Sergeant Miles said, warningly. “I won’t be able to let it pass.”
Emily felt a stab of disappointment in herself. Somehow, she forced herself to calm down. It wasn’t his fault. “Yes, Master.”
Sergeant Miles turned away. “Follow me,” he ordered. “Master Grave will be waiting for you.”
He led her out of the tent, past a line of other tents towards a small training field. Emily couldn’t help thinking of a boxing ring, complete with ropes to keep boxers in and allow spectators to watch. Master Grave was standing there, holding a shining sword in one hand and a wooden sword in the other. She couldn’t help feeling another flicker of sympathy for Casper. The nasty smile on Master Grave’s face suggested he was a dangerous maniac.
“Emily,” Master Grave said. He nodded to Miles. “I’ll take it from here.”
Emily held herself steady as Sergeant Miles turned and walked away. She wanted him to stay, but she knew he couldn’t. Master Grave looked her up and down, then flipped the wooden sword around and held it out to her, hilt first. Emily took it, feeling the charm on the wood take her measure. The wooden sword couldn’t cut anything, but in all other respects it was identical to a real sword.
“En garde,” Master Grave ordered.
Emily barely had a second to lift the wooden blade before he lunged at her. She parried the first blow, but the second got through her defense and slapped against her thigh. She yelped in pain, struggling to remain upright as he cracked his blade against her fingers. Her hand unclenched, letting go of the wooden blade. It dropped to the dusty ground and lay there.
Master Grave snorted, rudely. “How long has it been since you’ve lifted a blade?”
“I had a quick refresher course,” Emily said. “But ...”
She shook her head. She’d learned the rudiments during first and second year, but she hadn’t really practiced since. Sergeant Harkin had told her, bluntly, that she would probably never make a good swordswoman. She simply didn’t have the strength or endurance to make it work. Lady Barb was the only woman she knew who was just as skilled with a blade as she was with magic. Even Mistresses Danielle had admitted that she was a better magician than swordfighter.
Although she did teach me a few tricks with the dagger, Emily thought. And she warned me not to use them unless I was desperate.
“You’ll have to work harder,” Master Grave said. He jabbed the tip of his blade at the wooden sword. “Pick it up and fight.”
Emily kept a wary eye on him as she picked up the sword, but he didn’t move until she was ready to face him again. This time, he darted backwards and forwards, as if he wasn’t willing to drive his blade straight into her defenses. Emily found herself struggling to keep up with him, trying to block his jabs even though she couldn’t tell which ones were real thrusts and which ones were trying to fake her out. He danced around her, forcing her to keep turning to face him. It was frustrating. She knew he could have struck her again, if he’d wanted.
He lunged forward and she parried, barely. And then he dropped down and swung out his leg in a low kick, knocking her over. Emily hit the ground, gasping in pain as her shoulder struck the earth. It might look dusty, but it was solid ground. Master Grave strode over to her and pointed his sword at her throat. She was trapped. Magic crackled around her, demanding release ...
“You need to learn the basics before we can put you in the line,” he said, firmly. “You were taught to fight as an individual, not part of a group. You’ll be training with me every day until you actually know what you’re doing. Or have an accident.”
“Yes, sir,” Emily said, choosing to ignore his last remark. She didn’t think he’d actually maim her. And Casper would be pleased, if no one else. His master wouldn’t be looking over his shoulder all the time. “I’ll do my best.”
She sat upright the moment he removed the blade. Her body was aching again, her shoulder threatening to g
o stiff. She wanted — needed — a warm bath, but she knew one wouldn’t be forthcoming. She’d be lucky if she could rig up a makeshift shower through magic. Her aches and pains would remain untended.
“Good,” Master Grave said. He didn’t offer to help her stand. Instead, he waited for her to pick herself up, holding his sword casually. “Because the next person you meet in a swordfight will actually be trying to hurt you.”
Emily sighed, then raised her sword as he started towards her again.
Chapter Twelve
EMILY DECIDED, OVER THE NEXT FIVE days, that her first impression of Master Grave had been correct. He was a dangerous maniac. When he wasn’t forcing her to run, or practice with swords, he was forcing her to fight hand-to-hand with some of the other apprentices — without magic. Her body was covered in so many bruises that she was mildly surprised she didn’t ache all the time. Casper and Sawford seemed to take an unholy delight in making her hurt, pushing her right to the limit. But she was getting used to it, slowly.
Magic made life in the camp easier, of course. Sergeant Miles had taken pity on her, after the first couple of days, and showed her a handful of spells she could use to stay relatively clean. And while she was the weakest of the apprentices physically — and she doubted that would ever change — she was among the strongest magically. Sawford had shut up after she’d deflected every one of his hexes, then thrown him face-first into a tent. Gaius and Cat had cheered her loudly after that.
But it hadn’t stopped her from having to work. When she wasn’t exercising, she was practicing her spells; when she wasn’t practicing her spells, she was brewing potions to prepare for war. She’d expected the other apprentices to make snide remarks about women’s work, but it seemed they’d all been forced to brew potions after their arrival. Emily didn’t really blame their masters. The army needed a stockpile of everything from painkillers to sleeping draughts. Lives might depend on her work.
And the potions I brew now may do more than save lives, she thought, grimly.
She stirred the liquid in the caldron as it slowly turned green and started to bubble, then flipped over the hourglass. It had to bubble for precisely ten minutes before she could take it off the heat and let it cool down, then bottle it up. Healing potions — capable of mending cuts and bruises — were a very delicate to brew, even though she’d mastered it in second year. And it could only be produced in small amounts.
Because the magic surge would grow too strong if you simply tried to scale up the recipe, she mused. It was one of the moments when magic didn’t seem to obey its own laws, let alone the laws of science. But then, the surge was the moment when the mixture actually became a potion. There’s no way to dampen it down.
She sat back and waited, reaching for the chat parchment to scribble a brief note to Caleb. He’d been as surprised as her when he’d heard that Casper had joined the army, although he had noted that General Pollack probably wanted his eldest son to win glory. Emily had a private suspicion that it wouldn’t be easy. Casper was far from weak — magically or physically — but his control over his own magic wasn’t good. Stronghold spent less time on the basics than Whitehall, and it showed. Casper might be in for a nasty surprise if he tried to push Caleb around again. Caleb might not have Casper’s raw power, but he had skill and finesse.
There was no immediate reply. He’d be in class, Emily suspected. Students had been sent to see the Warden for using chat parchments in class, even sixth years. She put the parchment aside, keeping a wary eye on the hourglass. There was only a very brief window of opportunity to take the potion off the heat before it was ruined beyond repair. Professor Thande hadn’t cared about wasted ingredients, back in class, but General Pollack probably felt differently. Everything in the camp had been carried over hundreds of miles.
They should have set up a portal here, she mused, as the last few seconds ran out. They could just have brought in whatever they wanted.
She took the caldron off the heat and placed it to one side, carefully testing the magic. It looked as though the brewing had been successful, although she wouldn’t know until it had cooled down. She settled back in the chair, taking a few minutes to relax. Sergeant Miles or someone would have something for her to do soon, she was sure. She’d make the most of the opportunity to relax until it was gone.
The flap opened. Emily turned, expecting to see Sergeant Miles. Instead, she saw an infantryman wearing a very basic uniform. He stared at her in shock, his face twisting into a wave of emotions that puzzled her. His unshaven face almost looked ... scared. Hadn’t he known she was there?
She cocked her head. “Can I help you?”
The man swallowed. “Do you have healing potions?”
“Some,” Emily said. There was a large stash in the charmed chest, but she wasn’t sure if she was allowed to give them out or not. She wasn’t at Whitehall any longer. “What do you need it for?”
“Just a healing potion,” the man said. “A basic healing potion.”
Emily felt her eyes narrow. “I can’t give you one at random,” she pointed out. “I need to know what it’s for.”
She watched the man hesitate. It wasn’t hard to guess what he wanted, not after seeing similar behavior in the Cairngorms. He’d picked up something nasty from one of the whores and didn’t dare take it to his superiors. They’d be more likely to blame him for rendering himself unfit for duty than trying to heal him. And he wouldn’t want to talk to her about it. She was a woman, probably several years younger than he was. But then, she wouldn’t find it easy to talk to a male doctor about feminine issues either.
“I’ve got the pox,” he said, finally. He jabbed a finger at his groin. “It hasn’t gone away.”
“It doesn’t,” Emily said. Lady Barb had had a great deal to say about the issue, starting with men who were too foolish to seek out help before the pain became unbearable. “I’ll see what I can find.”
She opened the chest and dug through the collection of charmed gourds. There were quite a few healing potions that could help with the pox, unless the man had been cursed instead of infected. But a curse would be blatantly obvious ... she removed a gourd and checked the label, then held it out to him. It would taste foul, but it should start the healing process.
“Drink as much clean water as you can,” she advised, as he lifted the gourd to his lips and drank. “You’ll have an uncomfortable couple of days, but you should be better afterwards.”
“Thank you, Your Ladyship,” the man said. He didn’t seem deterred by the taste. He’d probably eaten worse. The infantry had never invited anyone for dinner. She had a feeling she knew why. Their food was very basic, at best. “I ... I can’t pay for the potion.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Emily said. Were the infantrymen expected to pay for their own medical care? She wasn’t sure she wanted to know. The potion was simple, by her standards, but it probably cost more than an infantryman earned in a month. “Just be careful in the future.”
The infantryman bowed. “I will never forget it, My Lady,” he said. “And ...”
He looked up as the tent flap opened and Gaius stepped in. “Emily ...”
“One moment,” Emily said. She took back the empty gourd and put it aside. She’d clean it, later. “Let me know if it doesn’t work.”
The infantryman bowed, then turned and walked out of the tent. Gaius watched him go, his nose wrinkling in obvious disapproval. Emily frowned as she turned back to the caldron, testing it carefully. The potion wasn’t cool enough to bottle yet.
Gaius coughed. “What was he doing here?”
“He needed a potion,” Emily said, flatly. Lady Barb had made it clear that she was not to discuss a person’s private medical details with anyone. “And I gave it to him.”
“A bad move,” Gaius informed her. “They’ll all be wanting potions.”
Emily met his eyes. “Would you turn your back on someone in need?”
Gaius looked back at her, evenly. “And woul
d you hand out potions to everyone until you run out of potions?”
He snorted. “The infantry have the chirurgeons. Let them cope with the wounded.”
“Hah,” Emily said. She’d met some of the chirurgeons. Jade’s mother was a decent woman, but there was so little she could do without magic. She’d admitted, openly, that she’d probably shortened the lives of some of her patients. Some of her remedies were actively harmful. “They’re not that good.”
“It’s their job,” Gaius said.
Emily shook her head. She wouldn’t have placed her life in a chirurgeon’s hands unless she was desperate. Even resetting a bone could prove lethal, if the chirurgeon made a single mistake. And they couldn’t even begin to cope with the pox. She wondered, absently, if anyone was keeping an eye on the whores and the other camp followers. A single whore with the pox might infect half the camp.
Of course not, she thought, sourly. They don’t care about their soldiers.
“And you should be careful,” Gaius added. “You don’t want to harm your reputation.”
Emily scowled at him. “And how does helping a wounded man harm my reputation?”
“You were alone with him,” Gaius pointed out. “Do you think that looks good?”
“I’m alone with you,” Emily snarled. She wasn’t sure if Gaius was trying to be helpful or if he was trolling her, but she wasn’t going to put up with it. “Does that look good?”
She rolled her eyes as she turned back to the potion. Alassa wouldn’t have given a damn about being alone with someone from the lower orders. Hell, Emily knew she’d been naked in front of her servants, male and female alike. But Alassa was from a different social order, the very height of society. She thought as little of being naked in front of her servants as she did about being naked in front of a horse. Emily ... had rather different standards.
“That’s different,” Gaius said. “You’re a young woman in an army camp. You have to watch yourself.”
Emily bit down a sarcastic response. There were only three sorts of women in the camp: camp followers, wives and mistresses, and whores. She was the only exception, a sorceress-in-training. Maybe he had a point, but she couldn’t turn her back on someone in need. It wasn’t as if she needed to care about the opinion of a common soldier.
11- The Sergeant's Apprentice Page 12