A Mage in the Making

by Alastair J. Archibald

  Each table was furnished with gleaming knives, forks and spoons in a bewildering number of varieties, a tasteful, fresh arrangement of flowers, fine linen napkins neatly folded into silver rings, delicate fingerbowls and an assortment of sauces and condiments.

  Grimm did not need to ask which area was reserved for the charity Students, and he unconsciously edged towards the rude stone tables.

  "This is the Refectory, Grimm,” the mage said. Grimm thought this statement somewhat superfluous, but he held his tongue. “The larger area is, of course, reserved for mages and wealthy Students. I will sit with you here, in the area allocated to charity Students."

  Doorkeeper spoke with an uncharacteristic, pompous air, as if bestowing a great honour. He sat on one side of one of the tables and Grimm sat opposite him.

  The boy was about to ask how one obtained food in this deserted place, when the large door opened and a boy of maybe fifteen years of age emerged. He was clad in a starched white kitchen suit, and he wore a clean apron and a white cap that struggled with only partial success to retain a mass of unruly, greasy black locks. He sauntered across the floor with no apparent urgency, his head bowed.

  Then, he noticed Doorkeeper and hurried across the room to arrive at the table, almost breathless. Bowing his head, he brought a card from his uniform pocket and smartly presented it to the mage. “Lord Mage, what is your pleasure?” he recited in a singsong manner, as if parroting a rote phrase.

  Doorkeeper examined the card at some length, yawned and stretched luxuriantly. “I think the roast pheasant stuffed with truffles would be rather nice with wild mushrooms, new potatoes and asparagus spears."

  He handed the card back to the boy, who performed an obsequious bow and made to leave. Doorkeeper caught him by the sleeve. “Where are you going, boy?” He spoke with a commanding tone that surprised Grimm with its power. “My companion is also hungry."

  The boy stammered, “But Lord Mage, he is just a charity boy, by the look. I assumed that he would be having the standard fare."

  "A charity boy he is but, for today only, he dines with me as my guest."

  The boy bowed clumsily, handed the menu to Grimm with a perfunctory gesture, and stood before him, arms akimbo ... a picture of contempt. Grimm scanned the card with nervousness that approached panic. Turning to Doorkeeper, the boy whispered urgently in the old man's ear, “Doorkeeper, I can't read this; not any of it!"

  Doorkeeper nodded, and whispered, “Goodness me; of course! I'm sorry, yes indeed. The menu is written in High Darian, which you will learn soon enough. The rich boys are taught it almost from the time they leave their mothers’ knees, as soon as they learn to talk their own languages. It is the tongue of the educated, and I have been familiar with it for so long that I can't remember when I couldn't speak it. As a charity boy, you will have no menu to consult, as there is usually only a single choice."

  He turned to the serving boy, who snapped smartly to a stance of attention from his earlier pose of studied, slovenly disdain.

  "For my young friend,” drawled the major-domo, “how does a dish of roast beef with wild leeks, yams and dumplings sound to you? Good. We'll put some flesh on those skinny bones yet, eh, Grimm?” This last was greeted by Grimm with a nervous smile as he saw the serving boy roll his eyes in a theatrical manner, his face bearing an exaggerated expression of disgust at the old man's charity.

  Doorkeeper turned with surprising speed for one so old and bent, and he snapped, “I may not be a bloody Weatherworker or a Shapeshifter, but I am a mage, for all that! I'm not in my dotage yet, young man! Your name is Dortel, isn't it? Have you forgotten that mages all have ten eyes in the backs of their heads?

  "While Grimm is with me, you are to treat him with the respect due to the guest of an Acclaimed Mage, or Master Threavel, whom I seem to remember is your supervisor, will hear of my displeasure, and you won't be able to sit for a month! Is that clear to you? Or would you rather feel the sting of my Mage Staff on your backside?"

  The boy swallowed, and his face paled. It was plain from his fearful expression that he knew better than to raise the ire of a Mage, even one as lowly as Doorkeeper, especially when that mage knew his identity. Grimm guessed that the serving lad knew Master Threavel's temper only too well, and that the prospect of being submitted to the chef's tender mercies scared him far more than the prospect of being walloped with a mage's Staff.

  "It will ... it will be as you desire, Lord Mage,” the boy stammered. “I had no wish to offend either you or your guest."

  As the boy scuttled off to the kitchen, Doorkeeper bellowed, “A goblet of your best Torian Red for me, and a glass of iced lemonade for my companion! You'll know that I'll know if you spit in it or otherwise spoil it, and I'll make you rue the day you were born!"

  When the servant had disappeared, Grimm said, “You didn't have to do that for me, Doorkeeper, I'm sure I would have been happy with the ordinary food."

  "That wasn't just for your benefit, Grimm. Certainly, I wanted you to have at least one fine meal here. You may not be lucky enough to eat as well again for a long, long time and, in truth, you are a skinny lad; but that wasn't my only reason. That little tyke thinks he's a cut above you charity boys; if there's one thing I can't abide, it's bigotry.” He noted Grimm's puzzlement at the last word and added, “Snobbery, that is."

  Snobbery was a concept Grimm knew well; he remembered the way rich men often looked at his grandfather when he was shoeing their horses, as if it irked them to have to come into contact with a lowly blacksmith.

  The serving boy appeared after a brief interlude, an array of trays and plates balanced in an artful array across his arms. He sped to the table in a graceful glide and laid steaming meals out before Doorkeeper and Grimm, his manners and bearing impeccable. He bowed and rushed away, to return with a silver tray bearing a green bottle, a full goblet of ruby wine and a carafe of iced lemonade with slices of lemon and cracked ice floating on the top.

  "That was well done, boy,” said Doorkeeper. “You do have talent after all. Remember your manners and you will make more friends and fewer enemies here. You may go.” He took a hearty draught from his glass.

  With a respectful bow, the boy took his leave with evident relief, as a group of six brown-robed figures rushed in, just before the bell ceased its strange, inaudible tolling. There was a gaggle of boys, presumably charity Students, a tall, skinny, dark-skinned man of maybe forty, whose robes hung slack around his skeletal frame, and two older men, both of whom sported long, grey hair and white beards.

  These last two must be mages, or nearly mages, Grimm thought. A long beard seemed an obligatory badge of rank, since all the mages he had met in the House wore one.

  One of the grey-haired men had a mottled, discoloured face and scabbed, stained hands. His face, combined with his black, wrinkled robe made him look to Grimm like a prune with legs. The other was ashen, bald and sunken-eyed, his face almost resembling a skull.

  Doorkeeper raised his glass to the group and took another long swallow from his goblet.

  "Gentlemen, won't you join us in here in the cheap seats,” he crowed, “just for a change?"

  The older men acquiesced with slightly nervous nods, planting themselves with evident reluctance on the stone benches. The young Students went to a corner table, their continual, impenetrable, loud babble suggesting that they were engaged in some sort of bizarre shouting competition.

  "Keep it down, will you, lads? There are civilised people trying to eat in peace here, you know!"

  Doorkeeper's stentorian bawl overpowered the din by a considerable margin and hurt Grimm's ears. The boyish racket diminished by the very slightest level, but did not stop.

  "Only just in time, eh, Funval?” called Doorkeeper to the brown-skinned man over the boys’ clamour, heedless of the fact that his voice was louder than any of theirs. It seemed as if Doorkeeper liked to unwind a little over lunch; Grimm had seen the same effect when Granfer Loras had been sampling the first cider
of summer.

  "Funval, allow me to introduce our newest Student, Grimm Afelnor. Grimm, this is Funval, an Adept of Herbalism. He is so dedicated to his craft that he often neglects his nutrition in the pursuit of his staff and ring. He's expected to be Acclaimed very soon, after years of diligent study and service, aren't you, Adept Funval?"

  Without waiting for a reply, Doorkeeper continued. “The pale-skinned gentleman to his left is Numal, who is getting very good at Necromancy, I hear."

  Grimm remembered from his earlier reading in the library that Necromancy had something to do with dead bodies, and a fugitive shiver passed through him.

  "I'm sure he washed his hands before coming here, didn't you, Numal? Our spare-framed friend here is Malwarth. He is becoming a promising Adept Alchemist, yes, very good, which explains his strange complexion; the noxious substances that he plays with all day have left their indelible marks, eh, Malwarth? Each stain a badge to be worn with pride, I'll be bound."

  The strange-looking Adept nodded, absently, presumably still lost in the mysteries of his craft. He sat hunched in an uncomfortable-looking cross-legged pose, his gaze distant, as if seeing beyond the walls of the Refectory to some far-off place.

  Doorkeeper took a wolfing bite of his meal, and Grimm remembered that he, too, had food in front of him. The dish looked delicious, and he took a hearty portion from his own plate, aware of the envious looks that some of the younger Students cast his way.

  "Eat up, Grimm” carolled the old mage, “you won't be getting meals like this every day, I'm afraid.

  "Ah, gentlemen, here comes the waiter to take your order."

  Doorkeeper bent back to his meal, as did Grimm. Although Grimm found Doorkeeper a likeable old man, he found it was nice to have a momentary respite from the mage's ebullient banter, even more so than when he was trying to play the stern, erudite mage.

  It appeared that the waiter, Dortel, had heeded Doorkeeper's advice. He brought the Adepts’ meals with a cheery smile, and he served the yammering Students their more basic sustenance without insult, to be rewarded with polite thanks from a few of the boys before they launched into their meals with ferocious gusto. It seemed that food, at least, could still the Students’ voices, even if only for a short while.

  The rest of the meal passed in relative peace, apart from slight snuffling noises as Doorkeeper wolfed down his fare; the three Adepts picked at theirs like birds. The mage released a mighty eructation, scratched his armpits and leant back for a moment in his chair.

  "Ah well, brothers, I regret that I have a lot to do for this evening. I must be word-perfect with my speech for the gala tonight, and I haven't finished it yet. So much to do for a busy mage, so much work..."

  Doorkeeper carried on for a while about his vital and onerous duties, but, eventually, even he wound down. “I'm sure that you'll look after Grimm, eh, gentlemen?” The prune and the skeleton gave swift, nervous nods, further enhancing the impression Grimm had of them as exotic birds.

  Doorkeeper levered himself to his feet with his old staff and walked away. Grimm liked Doorkeeper a lot, but he felt a general release of tension as the old man left the Refectory, flinging his arms wide in a theatrical gesture to open the doors and letting them slam with a boom behind him.

  Chapter 9:

  Strange Characters

  After a long pause, the pale Necromancer, Numal, winked at Grimm, causing the boy to give an involuntary start.

  "Suddenly quiet, isn't it, Grimm?” he said in a pleasant voice at odds with his fearsome appearance. “We all love Doorkeeper, but he can be a bit too much sometimes."

  The Necromancer might have an austere aspect, but Grimm sensed the genuine warmth and humour in his words. Smiling, he replied, “Well, maybe sometimes Doorkeeper does talk rather a lot."

  Numal moved close to the boy. “You're scared of me because of my calling, eh, boy?” Grimm, stammering, tried to deny this, but he dissembled poorly. “Well, don't worry, Grimm; I am still a human being, for all that. I do spend my days in the dark, reading signs from rabbits’ entrails and bleached bones, but only because I have to. Necromancy may be my vocation, but it is not one that I ever sought."

  Numal's voice became wistful and dreamy as he continued. “Once, I had dreams of being a bold Questor, making my own way in the world, or a mighty Weatherworker, who could make the sky tremble my passing, but it was never to be so. Such, I suppose, is life. I did not ask to become a Necromancer; the calling was decreed for me by the Magemasters. Nonetheless, their wisdom is evident. 'The road was not chosen for me; it has chosen me'; that, by the way, is just one of the many sayings that the Magemasters will throw at you over the years.

  "Some of the mysteries of the craft are now becoming clear to me and, although the subject is distasteful to many, I now see that, if I am to be a Mage at all, it is to be as a Necromancer. The Magemasters are quick to assay a Student's worth and capabilities, and they are fine judges indeed. For too long, I thought myself worthless and without vocation, but now I may find my true potential in the calling chosen for me."

  The mottled, multicoloured Malwarth leaned close, wafting strange, yet not unpleasant chemical odours in Grimm's direction. “For me, the years in the Scholasticate have flown past like dreams.

  "It has been hard work, but when I strike my Staff, crafted by my own hands, on the Breaking Stone and it rebounds, I will know that it was all worthwhile. Every day I spend with my books, my potions and my carving brings that day closer."

  The brown-skinned Herbalist, Funval, grimaced, looking at the other Adepts with an expression of doubt at their fine words. “As far as my parents were concerned, it was either to be magic or the navy for me. They tossed a coin, one of the few they had, and decided on this place. An uncle of mine used to be a Second Rank Reader here, and so I was in.

  "I would far rather have spent my days in the sun and the wind as a sailor, seeing the world and its wonders, but I ended up as a Student for seven years and a Neophyte Herbalist for seventeen more. I've been slogging away as an Adept for five years now, and all I can say is that at least the food and the beds are better. What do you think of the Scholasticate, then, youngster?"

  Grimm thought for a while; the Adepts’ flowery speech had rather taken him aback. “It's bigger than I thought, sir,” he hazarded. “I just thought there would be more people here."

  Enthused by Funval's openness, Malwarth, the Alchemist nodded. “Neophytes and Adepts, unlike Students, do not always have to eat at fixed times, to avoid distraction,” he said, “and the average Adept spends every waking moment polishing up his spells or working on his Staff. I only came here because I'm getting sick of having my best conversations with a lump of wood. I live with it, I sleep with it, and I dream of the bloody thing."

  This meant nothing to the boy, but he remained silent.

  "I meant what I said about how it will all be worth it on the day of my Acclamation, but dedicated as I am, even I need a break now and again,” the Alchemist declared.

  Numal sighed. “Well, now that you come to mention it, Malwarth, it does get tedious at times. I always wanted to be a singer, a dancer or some other kind of entertainer. In my youth, I was told that my imitation of Daffo the Clown was highly amusing."

  Grimm's mind performed acrobatics, much in the manner of the famous Daffo, as he was assailed by the ludicrous image of the stern, pale Necromancer as a clown with brightly-coloured motley, a green wig and a painted smile. He struggled to resist a strong urge to burst into a fit of hysterical giggling. Just as he feared he might be about to explode with the effort, he was saved by the inaudible, yet persistent Refectory bell.

  Funval, Numal and Malwarth made their excuses; each had much work to complete before the start of the Scholasticate year. The members of what Grimm thought of as the Student Shouting Team rose as one and trooped out of the doors; the Refectory was again quiet, and the boy was alone.

  In the sudden, stark silence, Grimm felt quite lost, and he trudged ba
ck to his cell with a sullen gait. With nothing else to do, he picked up his solitary book and began to read again. Doorkeeper had told him that the Rules were important, and he was determined not to fall foul of some stern-faced Magemaster.

  By the time he had reached Rule 4.23.6, 'On the third day of every second month, each Student shall wear on his left breast a red ribbon in honour of Tharmal the Wise, Third Prelate of the House', his eyes had begun to glaze over. He was about to head again for the Library when there was a soft tap at the door. It was Dalquist, and Grimm was happy to see him: anything to distract him from the Rules!

  "Dalquist, thank you for coming to see me again!” he crowed.

  Dalquist beamed. “Grimm, I have my first Quest!” he cried. “I wanted you to be the first to know. I leave in three days."

  "How long will you be gone?” Grimm asked, his eyes wide and almost frightened.

  "I'm afraid I don't know. I will come back to see you when I can, I promise."

  Grimm opened his mouth to speak, and the Questor raised his hand. “I can't tell you anything about the Quest, so please don't ask me, Grimm."

  The boy did want to know about the Quest; the Book of Rules and Regulations had given brief accounts of the achievements of a notable Questor or two, and yet Grimm had no idea what they actually did.

  Instead, he asked, “Are you looking forward to it?"

  Dalquist rubbed his chin as if his brown beard had begun to itch, and he lowered himself onto the chair by Grimm's bed. “I want to do it because, for the first time, I will be doing a service for my House and my Prelate, instead of taking from it.

  "On the other hand, I am prepared to admit that the Quest is not what I would have chosen for myself,” he sighed, evidently somewhat uneasy, “but it is not for a mage to question his superiors. And it will make a true Questor of me at last.