There was a pause. “Very good,” Gordian said, his voice artfully bland. “Are there any questions?”
Cirroc waved, cheerfully. “What happens if you get too many assistants?”
“I will spread the workload out as much as possible,” Emily said. It was hard to keep the irritation out of her voice. Sergeant Miles wouldn’t be pleased if Cirroc—or Johan or Mathis—joined the dueling club. They’d have too much to unlearn. “I’ll need to recruit some assistants from the lower years, just to ensure some continuity.”
“I’d like to assist,” Cirroc said. “Anyone else?”
Jacqui gave Emily a sweet smile. “I’d like to assist too,” she said. “I do have a dueling badge, if you’re interested.”
“Emily beat Master Grey,” Melissa said, her voice edged. “I was there.”
“And she lost to a mere apprentice,” Jacqui pointed out, snidely.
Caleb shifted, uncomfortably. “There was nothing mere about my brother.”
Emily looked down at the ground. Casper’s death had weakened her relationship with Caleb, even before it had been destroyed. She wished Casper hadn’t died, she wished ... she pushed the thought aside, sharply. There was no point in wishing for things she knew she couldn’t have. Casper had died bravely and well. She knew that would have made him happy.
And Casper had graduated from Stronghold and become an apprentice, she thought. And that marked him as a competent magician.
Gordian smiled. “Can we have a third volunteer?”
“I’ll do it,” Cerise said. “I may not know much about dueling, but I am a good wardcrafter.”
Emily looked from Cerise to Jacqui. She had the uncomfortable feeling that she’d been outmaneuvered, somehow. She didn’t trust either of them very far, if only because they’d hexed Emily and her friends while Melissa and Alassa had had their stupid little feud. But they were competent magicians and she needed them. If there were no other volunteers, she wouldn’t have a choice. She couldn’t do everything herself.
They didn’t know I’d be elected, she thought. Did they?
It didn’t seem likely, she decided, as Gordian ran through a list of rules and regulations for older students. The nomination and election had been held at the end of the holiday, with everyone involved sworn to secrecy until the prospective candidate had been notified. It was possible Jacqui and Cerise had guessed, she thought, but how could they have been certain?
They would have known I failed my exams, she reminded herself. And they know I’m not the most popular student in my year.
She gathered herself. Maybe she was just being paranoid. Jacqui and Cerise had every reason to want to be involved, if only because it would look good on their resumes. They’d be able to talk it up, when they were interviewed by prospective masters. And if they sabotaged the club, she could handle it. It wasn’t as if she cared that much about it.
“The first year students will arrive in two days,” Gordian said. “Classes will restart the following morning. You will have access to the library from today, so I advise you to brush up on your studies and make sure you’re ready to hit the ground running. This is your final year. You must not waste it.”
He smiled. “If you have any further questions, you may address them to the Head Girl,” he added. “I believe her door is always open.”
Emily ground her teeth, silently. She was obliged to have office hours—and post them on notice boards all over the school—but she knew they would just cut into her spare time, such as it was. If no one came, she supposed, she could sit there and get on with her own work, yet ... she had a feeling it wasn’t going to be that easy. She’d never approached the Head Girl for help, not in her office, but other students might have a different view.
“I’ll post office hours in the next few days,” she said, finally. Her face flushed as a handful of snickers ran around the room. She had no idea what she was going to do, if she was faced with a problem she didn’t know how to solve. Perhaps she could just dump it in Master’s Tor’s lap. “But I am going to be very busy.”
“Very good.” Gordian looked from face to face. “Thank you for listening.”
He turned and walked out of the room, Master Tor following like a duckling hurrying after its mother. Emily’s fingers played with the bracelet on her wrist for a long moment as chatter broke out again, her mind torn between staying in the common room and hurrying to the library. There would be new books there, freshly printed ...
She rose and headed out of the room. Caleb followed her.
“Emily,” he said, sounding nervous. “Can we talk?”
Emily glanced at her watch. She didn’t want to talk to him, not now. Things were just too awkward. The only good thing was that she was fairly sure Caleb hadn’t wanted to be Head Boy. He’d certainly never expressed interest in the post.
“Perhaps later,” she said. “Frieda and I were going to go up the hill this evening.”
“Tomorrow afternoon, then?” Caleb said. “It’s important.”
Emily honestly wasn’t sure she wanted to be alone with him. She knew it wasn’t wise, but her body was reminding her just how much she’d enjoyed everything they’d done together ... once they’d gotten over the fumbling, of course. Part of her wanted to drag him into her bedroom, even though she knew it was a bad idea.
“Tomorrow,” she said, finally. Perhaps they could meet in the library. “Is it private?”
“Yes.” Caleb’s face reddened. “Sorry.”
“It’s all right,” Emily said. “I’ll see you in my office, after lunch.”
“Thank you,” Caleb said. “And congratulations.”
“Hah,” Emily muttered.
Chapter Seven
STEPPING INTO THE FIFTH YEAR COMMON room felt a little like stepping back in time. It hadn’t been that long since Emily had been a Fifth Year student herself, even though she hadn’t spent that much time in the common room. A pair of familiar faces greeted her, but the remainder were strangers. In hindsight, perhaps she should have paid more attention to the year below her. But when had she had the time?
Never, she thought. She placed the folders she was carrying on the sideboard as all eyes followed her. I never had the time.
She leaned against the wall and listened to Gordian giving the Fifth Years a short speech. It was, more or less, what he’d told Emily and her class last year, although he avoided any snide references to students on probation. Or, for that matter, to the oaths she was still meant to take. She couldn’t help wondering just how long he intended to let the matter rest. Perhaps he was still hoping for something that would allow him to summarily expel her from Whitehall.
Which would be interesting, she thought. She could feel the wards at the back of her mind, just waiting for her to reach out and make contact. He can’t make me leave if I don’t want to go.
She sighed, inwardly, as the speech came to an end. Gordian was in one hell of a spot, one he wouldn’t be keen on admitting to anyone else. He was supposed to be the supreme authority in Whitehall, yet he wasn’t. She could overrule him, if she wished. Except ... she wasn’t sure how far her command over the wards actually stretched. She was a founder, not the founder. And so much had been added, over the years, that a skilled wardcrafter could probably impede any attempt she made to take control of the wards.
“The Head Girl will now talk to you about the mentoring scheme,” Gordian finished. “Lady Emily?”
Emily resisted the urge to play with her bracelet as she stepped away from the wall. The Fifth Years turned to look at her; some admiring, some suspicious, some simply doubtful that she could be the dreaded Necromancer’s Bane. Emily couldn’t help wondering precisely what they’d expected, although she had a pretty shrewd idea. Between the statues, the paintings, and the ballads, it was a minor miracle that anyone believed she was Lady Emily.
Because everyone knows that Lady Emily is ten feet tall and breathes dragon-fire, Emily thought. And could pass for Honor Harrington on a
bad day.
She cleared her throat with an effort, then glanced down at her notes. Aloha had spoken from the heart, but Emily couldn’t do that without losing track of something. It was important to cover all the right details, without confusing them or making it seem impossible. Frieda had advised her to imagine the audience naked, but it hadn’t helped. Emily felt naked as she stood in front of them.
I suppose it would get their attention, the cynical part of her mind noted. But they wouldn’t take me very seriously.
“Some of you were raised in magical households or had magical tutors,” she said. “You were taught everything from which fork to use at dinner to when and where you could use searching spells without mortally offending your host. By the time you arrived at Whitehall, you knew everything you needed to know to blend in with your new environment. You even knew enough of the fundamentals of magic to speed through the basic classes and proceed to the higher ranks.”
She paused. “That isn’t true for all of you. You were raised in isolated households or non-magical households, where you were not taught anything you might need to fit into magical society. My father”—she paused to allow them to remember who her father was supposed to be—“certainly didn’t teach me the fundamentals, let alone how to behave in school. I had some trouble because of it.”
A low rumble of surprise ran through the room at her frank admission. It was true, but she wouldn’t have hesitated to make it up if necessary. There wasn’t a stigma against newborn magicians—like Imaiqah and Frieda—yet they were at something of a disadvantage until they learned the basics. Alassa, at least, had been given some tutoring in etiquette, even if she’d chosen to ignore it. And while Emily normally paid as little attention to the social graces as she could get away with, she had to admit that some of the formal etiquette was rooted in cold practicality. A student who failed to master it would always be at a disadvantage.
“The purpose of the mentoring scheme is to ensure that all of our new students are prepared as quickly as possible for magical life,” she continued. “You are required to assist them in learning everything from the magical basics to etiquette, at least for the first couple of months. The vast majority of your mentees won’t need you after that, although we hope you will continue to listen to them and assist when necessary. If nothing else, you’ll have the basics of a patronage network of your own when you leave Whitehall.”
She glanced down at her notes as she heard a rustle running around the room. It wasn’t that likely to be a useful patronage network, but there was no way to know for sure. Emily would bet good money that Tiega and Jasmine—two of the students she’d mentored last year—would become something spectacular, if they survived their education. And two more of her mentees had powerful family connections. Who knew what they’d become in the next couple of decades?
“We are aware that this will mean taking time out from your studies,” she added. “Last year, we discovered that the demands on our time were minimal past the first three months—I only had a handful of requests for assistance after I returned to Whitehall. If you do find that you are spending more of your time assisting the younger students than you can afford, come find me and we’ll sort it out. We don’t want the students becoming dependent on you.”
“Her door is always open,” Gordian said.
Emily swallowed several nasty responses that came to mind. So far, she hadn’t had any interruptions, but she knew it was just a matter of time. The remaining students would return to Whitehall tomorrow and classes would resume. After that ... she suspected she’d be very busy. She’d already planned interviews with Professor Armstrong and Professor Lombardi to begin work on the arena. She honestly wasn’t sure how she’d manage to balance all of her new responsibilities with her studies.
Perhaps I should have taken Void up on his offer, she thought. The apprenticeship offer—an unconditional offer—was at the bottom of her trunk, hidden behind a series of obscurification charms. But I didn’t want to leave Whitehall.
She looked from face to face. “Do you have any questions?”
A young man with a shaved head eyed her challengingly. “Why is this even necessary?”
Emily stared at him, evenly. I just answered that question, you idiot.
She controlled her annoyance. “Apart from students raised in magical households, who are taught the basics from a very early age, far too many students come to Whitehall with only a very sketchy idea of everything from the rules and regulations to the reasons for their existence,” she said with icy patience. Master Tor had said the same thing, word for word. She’d used a memory charm to make sure she recalled it correctly. “Some students understand the dangers from the start, others have to learn the rules as they go along—and sometimes they only learn a rule when they get in trouble for breaking it.”
She paused. “Does that answer your question?”
The young man gazed at her for a long moment. Emily looked back at him, knowing better than to back down. Sergeant Miles and Lady Barb had told her, time and time again, that she would be tested, her authority challenged. Showing weakness would be held against her. It wouldn’t make any difference, she’d been assured, if she was male or female. Anyone who wanted to push the boundaries would challenge her.
“Yeah,” he said. “But can’t they learn on their own?”
Emily smiled. “And what sort of results would they get if they tried?”
Grandmaster Hasdrubal had argued that students should learn on their own. Emily understood the logic, but she didn’t agree with it. Gordian, whatever else could be said about him, had a point. She’d been hellishly ignorant when she’d been sent to Whitehall, even though her discoverer was supposed to ensure she received a full briefing on how to handle the school before sending her there. Void, for whatever reason, had barely told her anything before summoning a dragon to fly her to Whitehall.
And I didn’t even get whatever allowances are made for newborn magicians, she thought, sourly. Everyone thought I was his daughter.
“It might be fun to throw ingredients into a caldron and see what happens,” a young girl said.
“You might be lucky if you were only sent to see the Warden,” Emily said. Professor Thande took a lax view of health and safety, but even he would be appalled if someone threw ingredients into a caldron at random. The prospect of an explosion would be alarmingly high. “I’m sure the healers would enjoy fixing the damage—if they could.”
She looked from face to face, silently trying to gauge who understood and who would be a problem. The newborns would probably understand better, she thought, although it was hard to pick them out from the rest. Four years in Whitehall had eroded all the tells. Even the ones who didn’t have a family name might have had magical contacts and training before they came to Whitehall. She’d just have to hope most of them at least tried to take care of their charges.
“There are two other things I need to make clear,” she said, “before I give you the paperwork and assign you to your students. First, you are not being given servants or pets. You are expected to treat your mentees like little brothers and sisters, but you are not allowed to get so close to them that you don’t let them flourish into decent magicians. You will assist them in growing. You will not do the work for them. Nor will you put them to work on your behalf.”
She allowed her voice to harden. “If any of you abuse your charges, I will make sure you regret it. You will be severely punished—at best—if you mistreat them. I will do everything in my power to make sure you are expelled.”
“And I will back her up,” Gordian said, quietly.
Emily kept her face under tight control. She had no idea if she could get someone expelled, although she could probably deny someone access to Whitehall itself if she fiddled with the wards. But then, she was practically plagiarising from Master Tor’s speech. He’d said the same thing, in similar words. And she thought he’d meant it too.
“If you have problems understandin
g where the line is drawn, come speak to me,” she added, carefully. “But if you cross that line, you will be severely punished. Do you understand me?”
She waited for them to nod, then went on.
“The second point is that you will have limited power to assign punishments,” she said. She knew she’d done it, even though she hadn’t wanted to do it. Sending someone to be caned had never sat well with her. “You can give them everything from lines to a trip to the Warden. If you abuse this power—and you will be tempted—you will face the same punishment yourself, only worse. Those of you who issue unnecessary or excessive punishment will regret it. I will make sure of it.”
There was a long pause. Emily gave them a moment to let it sink in, then leaned forward.
“Are there any more questions?”
“Just one,” a dark-skinned boy said. “How much help are we actually allowed to give them?”
“You are expected to show them how to find the answers for themselves,” Emily said. “If they ask a question about how dragon scales react with unicorn dung, you can point them to 1001 Alchemical Combinations or Florid Foliage Files ... even Basic Potions for Imbeciles, all of which can be found in the library. You are not to give them the answers, no matter how much they beg and plead. Your objective is to help them develop their scholastic skills, not make them go away.”
One of the boys snorted. “But what about our study time?”
“If you have problems coping, come to me,” Emily said, patiently. “We’ll do a review two months into the program. We’ll sort out any problems then.”
She held up a hand. “I know it won’t be easy, at first.” She held up a set of papers, silently thanking Aloha for her foresight. The end-of-year reports had included outlines of all the problems the mentors had faced. “My year had problems too, some of which are listed here. If you have other problems, we’ll deal with them.”
The Gordian Knot (Schooled in Magic Book 13) Page 7