Efrain was well situated in what he now referred to as ‘his’ office, having done two books worth of corrections, when he first heard the knock.
“Come in,” he said, closing the half-done third and seeing the Mentor enter.
“I’m sorry for disturbing you, master Efrain,” he said, “but wanted to ask you if you were going to the festival.”
“The festival?” Efrain said, looking out through the window and beginning to see the oranges and reds of another sunset, “oh right. I should probably go. It’s been too long. I’ll just finish this book and grab a boat to the plaza.”
“Won’t you be late?”
“The first half-hour is generally priests prattling.”
Avencia managed a smile at that.
“I think you should come. You might find that some traditions have not been kept.”
Efrain looked at him, then back at the book.
“Maybe so. In any case, I still want to finish the book. I won’t be long. Go ahead of me.”
The man bowed, nodded, and retreated out through the doors. Efrain was left with a frankly embarrassing bestiary of magical creatures. The documents were so chalk full of errors and mistruths that he even started doubting himself on several points. When he began to realise that the classification scheme was hopelessly outdated, he decided the whole thing needed to be binned and redone.
Picking up an ink quill, he scrawled a tidy ‘USELESS’ across its front cover. Satisfied that his work was done and already thinking up a new taxonomy for the creatures involved, he stood and walked out. The students gave him nervous looks as he walked down the centre of the hallway, presumably having heard the story of a substitute teacher decrying a foundational text. Efrain thought of the exacerbated moaning of the students when faced with the prospect of relearning it from square one.
If anything, the image redoubled his commitment.
Soon however, he was on his way to the plaza, making mental notes to include a wisp-mother in the introductory bestiary. He realised with a start that he had no idea where either Innie or Clara was, and that both would be an excellent resource. Mentally shrugging, he drew up a list of questions for the pair. He’d find them at some point, he was sure of it. For now, there was the festival feast, where Efrain was fortunately well dressed for the occasion. Here, most of all, he wouldn’t stick out that much.
It seemed that the initial formalities had been dispensed with, and that the feast was well and truly underway. Efrain took in the hot spiced air with relish, though it proved to not be particularly exceptional in any way he could recall. Still, the image of the cooks working at the centre station slicing up the red backs was a pleasant one. The fact that it seemed the matriarch was working along with them even more so.
He incuriously inspected some of the stalls, not finding anything of great worth or surprise to him. It would always be the deals that rose out of the various ambassadors and traders from different lands that would be the most valuable. The rest was largely eye-candy, shiny trinkets, finely made for the most part, but on the whole unimportant.
The food however, smelled good enough that Efrain missed his ability to eat. Karkos cuisine had always been a league ahead of almost everything else. He thought about his past life at that moment - had he ever come this far east? If so, then why? The thrill of discovery? Some academic purpose?
He was shaken out of his consideration when he brushed a shoulder with a shrouded figure in a smooth mask. Most of the others had taken care to avoid them, but Efrain had simply walked right past. Instantly, a wave of powerful nausea overwhelmed him, so strong his vision swam.
The figure stopped a pace past him, and slowly turned to look at him. The mask was perfectly smooth with two narrow eyeholes, the rest of the person’s figure vanished. It was dark enough that Efrain could see very little of the colour, or the shape, but he knew they were focused directly on him.
“Yes?” Efrain said, wondering what the nausea was from.
The figure said nothing, only turned around and continued walking onwards. Efrain simply dismissed it as strange, then turned sharply.
It was magic, that familiar buzz, absolutely, and strong enough that it interfered with his own undeath enchantments, he was sure. He caught a glimpse of the figure as he rounded a stall, seeing the slightest shimmer of the air around him. Efrain was left, staring off in that direction with an increasingly concerned shopkeeper to his right.
“You alright?” the man inquired in Karkosian, severing Efrain’s focus.
“Yes, I’m fine,” he quickly said, “do you know that man?”
“What man?” the shopkeeper said.
“The one in the light grey robes with the smooth mask.”
“An Occluded? Where?” said the shopkeeper, who craned their neck out to stare back and forth at the crowd.
“The one that was just- you know what, forget it. I’m fine, that’s all that matters,” Efrain said.
“As you wish, sir. Would you like to buy anything?”
Efrain politely refused and went on to move on towards the greater crowd. He spent some time green with envy at the dishes before approaching the edge of the plaza. Before he could hail one of the academy ferrymen, he was confronted with a fresh-faced page.
“Master Efrain?” said the boy, flushed and eyes wide.
“What is it?”
“Sir, they want you down in the hall of the dead,” he said, “there’s a problem. Someone’s sick. They think it’s magical sir, they need your help.”
“Really?” Efrain said, not quite believing it, “who sent you?”
“The Mentor, please sir, it sounded urgent.”
He clambered aboard, wondering what kind of ‘magical’ ailment would present itself in the hall of the dead? He was soon in the silent northern outflow and was pushed towards the Hall’s solitary island. The lower doors in the stone structure were open, ferries of all kinds moored around it. Efrain entered into the lower halls, greeted by red-robed priests who led him to the upper halls.
The youth was perhaps seventeen, stocky but staring glass-eyed at the ceiling. His left arm was horribly swollen from the shoulder down, patches of red, purple and even some black going up into the neck. Priests were around him, dabbing at his head with a cool cloth, as he slurred names into the air.
“And why do you need me?” he asked.
The priests that had led him blinked.
“Well, you were recommended,” one said, “a master of healing arts. Master Avencia said so.”
Ok, this bootlicking is getting annoying, said Efrain.
“Maybe so. Nothing magical about this, though,” he said.
“Why would there be?” said the priest, staring blankly.
“What? I was told that-” Efrain stopped.
Had the boy been wrong? Had he misheard? Or-
“We were told you might be able to save young master Carim’s life, without losing the arm.”
“So this is the boy everyone is saying was poisoned?” Efrain said, kneeling by his side.
“Well, yes, despite our best efforts the wound, well it mortified,” said the priest, bowing in shame.
“Well there’s your answer,” said Efrain, “the boy’s rot-touched. That’s it. Whoever told you to take the arm was right. The flesh is dying.”
He indicated the blackened hand of the swollen appendage.
“Well, with all due respect to mistress Claralelle, I-”
“Wait, it was Claralelle who told you to take the arm?” Efrain said, appalled at the man’s stupidity.
“Well yes-”
“Well get her here and let’s take the bloody thing off!” he said, “she wouldn’t say that if she could save the limb.”
The priest, flustered, ran off to fetch the woman, answering the question of where she’d been the whole time.
Of course she’d be at a hospital, Efrain thought, I wonder how she got accepted so fast.
“You two,” Efrain said, “Begin boiling water. As much as you can. We’ll need it clean if we’re to amputate.”
The remaining attending priests ran off leaving Efrain alone with the boy.
“There you are,” said a familiar voice from the outer balcony, “I was wondering what interesting pursuits had led you to abandon an old friend.”
“I hardly abandoned you,” Efrain said, “you lot went out on your own.”
Innie rolled over on the balcony, staring at him with those luminous amber eyes.
“So, he’s that bad?” Efrain said, “considering how you’re hovering like a raven ready to stake a claim.”
“Check for yourself,” said the cat.
“Well, both his pulse and breath are fast and weak,” Efrain said, “but I’d say a more pertinent indicator is the soul-eater lounging five paces away.”
“Oh, the necromancer now has a problem with creatures that feed on death?” she said, tail twitching this way and that.
Efrain was saved from the effort of making a retort as Claralelle, now dressed in a robe that was obviously too broad for her, strolled into the room. She took one look at the young man, and began undoing a tool belt and letting it roll onto the floor.
“Told them,” she said, “now the infection’s spread to the blood. Yup! He’s in trouble now.”
“W-what do we do?” cried one of the priests.
“That depends,” said Clarallell, smiling vacantly as she laid out an assortment of scalpels and scissors, “do you do preemptive last rites?”
“No,” said one of the priests, who’d gone pale.
“Well, then,” Efrain said, “you’d best contact his family. They get to have the final say.”
“What?” Claralelle whined, “We’ve already waited long enough.”
“I am not having you create even more chaos than we’ve had already,” he said, “it’ll take, what, under an hour? If he dies, then so be it.”
For the final time, the priests were sent scurrying. Efrain wondered why they seemed to lack all direction - there must be a head priest somewhere that had the authority and experience to command them. Or so he hoped, anyways; this was quickly getting out of hand, and he still wasn’t entirely sure about why he was there.
It took less than an hour, much to Efrain’s surprise, and the patient was still alive, though Clarallelle claimed that his fever had worsened. He wasn’t sure how she was able to tell, but she seemed confident enough to dissuade him from questioning. The family member they brought forth was his older sister, who they met outside. To make matters even worse, they discovered that the only reason she was here was because her parents were out of the city.
“However, they are rushing back as soon as possible. We expect them tomorrow afternoon,” she said, eyes flicking to the door, “is he…?”
“He’s alive,” Efrain said, “barely. The infection is spreading, and the arm is beginning to die.”
He tried to keep a note of petulance out of his voice. This was not his job, and he had no idea why he was here to be sure, but this woman was about to make one of the biggest decisions of her life.
“Is he going to die?” she said, tears beginning to well in the corners of her eyes.
“Possibly. My acquaintance says that the arm needs to be removed, and I’m inclined to agree with her. That might not save him either.”
“Oh. Well, then what are you waiting for?” she exclaimed, “cut the thing off!”
Efrain was surprised by the decisiveness.
“My lady I-”
“When a sailor gets his arm crushed by a taut rope, do you wait for it to mortify? No! Do it, if it’s what’s necessary.”
Well, that’s good enough for me, Efrain thought as he went back into the room.
Once informed that she had an excuse for her behaviour, she immediately went to work setting up. Fresh towels were laid down, with pots of boiling water set up beside them. Claralelle took great care to clean around the shoulder, ignoring the boy's moans.
“Alright,” she said, taking out a scalpel, “you lot, hold him down please! The less he moves, the better.”
“Anyone who can’t take the sight of blood better leave,” Efrain said glumly, “this is going to be messy.”
The procedure was surprisingly quick, Claralelle’s strong dexterous fingers slicing and suturing muscles and tendons in minutes. The boy was left without his arm, moaning weakly as he tried to move away from the source of pain. Some of the priests carried him away to another room, taking the severed limb with him. The remainder stayed to clean the blood from the wooden slats of the floor.
“That went well!” said Clara, her grey robes splattered with blood.
“Uh-huh,” Efrain said, “now, I have to go to the academy and have the supplicating idiot explain why he just had me hack off a boy’s arm.”
“You did great!” Clara said, with her usual blunt cheeriness.
“Thanks,” Efrain said, feeling exhausted, “you can talk to the sister.”
He left them, hoping that Clara wouldn’t burn the cover he’d given her, clambering upon an academy boat. Night was in full effect, the various lanterns that covered the city glowing in oranges, reds and yellows. By the time he got back, he felt a cold wrath settle in his stomach.
The mentor was waiting in his office, fidgeting like a child as Efrain settled into the chair.
“Hello Avencia,” Efrain said.
“The boy! Is he alright? Does he still live?” said the mentor.
“Before that, do you want to explain to me why you led me there on the pretence that it was magical?”
“The- the pretence?” he said, “Well, master Efrain, why wouldn’t it be? Such a horrible case in such little time, and if it wasn’t posion then-”
“It was a perfectly mundane infection,” Efrain said, “did you just do this because you wanted some… academy representation at the halls of the dead?”
The man paled.
“You can’t be serious,” Efrain said, disgusted, turning back to the books, “and the boy’s alive by the way. At least when I last left him.”
“Oh, oh that’s a relief. He’s one of our students, you know. A real good’un, that’s him,” he said, “I would’ve gone to see him, I would’ve, only…”
And here’s the real reason, Efrain thought, looking at the man’s beleaguered face.
“Well, I…” he trailed off, then he steeled himself, “I can’t stand the sight of blood. It makes me faint!”
“And instead of asking me for a favour, or some other type of request, you manipulate me into coming by baiting me in with something ‘urgent’ and about ‘magic’?” Efrains said, trying to keep his voice as mild as possible.
“Well, urm… I wasn’t sure if you would come,” he said.
The man was actually beginning to sweat in front of Efrain, which was unexpected. There was something to it that bothered him beyond simply being angry. Something tickled at the back of his mind - he needed to think, and not have this blubbering excuse for a scholar on his back.
“Fine,” Efrain said, opening one of the books, “don’t do it again.”
The man blinked in surprise, and got up to go a little too fast.
“Yes- yes, a thousand apologies, yes. Never again, I promise,” he said, backing away from the desk.
Whatever anger had driven Efrain up from the docks was quickly being replaced with curiosity. Was this the way that the man always acted, or was something about this situation making him nervous?
“Oh, and one more thing,” Efrain said, “that teacher whose class I interrupted?”
“Professor Domnimico?” the mentor said, “What about him?”
“Would you mind sending him up here? Whenever he has time,” Efrain said, “I just had a few questions for him about the texts and how they’re used in the classrooms day-to-day.”
The man’s head bobbed so quickly that it practically vibrated as he left. Efrain was certain of it - something was off about this whole thing. He sat back in the chair and began reading through the rest of the third volume. The professor with the scrupulously maintained beard bowed as he came.
“Please, come in,” Efrain said, rising and checking that Avencia was not hiding just outside the door frame.
There were the cursory introductions and Efrain gave a summary apology over his behaviour in the classroom. When he explained his chagrin about his youthful notes being used as a basis for classwork, the professor shivered in sympathetic horror. Any rough patches were quickly smoothed over as Efrain asked a few questions about the actual practice of instruction.
After collecting a pageful of notes on some of the more pernicious aspects of it, he walked over to the door and made sure it was shut. A hand went up, the air shimmered and the sounds within the study took on a slightly distorted sound.
“My word,” said the professor, “is that a distortion hex? Just like that?”
“We can discuss that later,” Efrain said, sitting back down before him, “I just had a few sensitive questions that some need not hear.”
The old professor looked quite nervous at that, and Efrain spread out his arms in a gesture of friendship.
“Oh, have no fear. You won’t get in any trouble. But I’m very interested in a particular student here, the first son of the Carim?”
The professor, though still confused, took on a look of disgusted disinterest.
“Oh, that one,” he said, contempt in every line of his face, “Why?”
A ‘goodun’’ is it? Efrain thought, let’s find out what you’re hiding, mentor.
Efrain was well situated in what he now referred to as ‘his’ office, having done two books worth of corrections, when he first heard the knock.
“Come in,” he said, closing the half-done third and seeing the Mentor enter.
“I’m sorry for disturbing you, master Efrain,” he said, “but wanted to ask you if you were going to the festival.”
“The festival?” Efrain said, looking out through the window and beginning to see the oranges and reds of another sunset, “oh right. I should probably go. It’s been too long. I’ll just finish this book and grab a boat to the plaza.”
“Won’t you be late?”
“The first half-hour is generally priests prattling.”
Avencia managed a smile at that.
“I think you should come. You might find that some traditions have not been kept.”
Efrain looked at him, then back at the book.
“Maybe so. In any case, I still want to finish the book. I won’t be long. Go ahead of me.”
The man bowed, nodded, and retreated out through the doors. Efrain was left with a frankly embarrassing bestiary of magical creatures. The documents were so chalk full of errors and mistruths that he even started doubting himself on several points. When he began to realise that the classification scheme was hopelessly outdated, he decided the whole thing needed to be binned and redone.
Picking up an ink quill, he scrawled a tidy ‘USELESS’ across its front cover. Satisfied that his work was done and already thinking up a new taxonomy for the creatures involved, he stood and walked out. The students gave him nervous looks as he walked down the centre of the hallway, presumably having heard the story of a substitute teacher decrying a foundational text. Efrain thought of the exacerbated moaning of the students when faced with the prospect of relearning it from square one.
If anything, the image redoubled his commitment.
Soon however, he was on his way to the plaza, making mental notes to include a wisp-mother in the introductory bestiary. He realised with a start that he had no idea where either Innie or Clara was, and that both would be an excellent resource. Mentally shrugging, he drew up a list of questions for the pair. He’d find them at some point, he was sure of it. For now, there was the festival feast, where Efrain was fortunately well dressed for the occasion. Here, most of all, he wouldn’t stick out that much.
It seemed that the initial formalities had been dispensed with, and that the feast was well and truly underway. Efrain took in the hot spiced air with relish, though it proved to not be particularly exceptional in any way he could recall. Still, the image of the cooks working at the centre station slicing up the red backs was a pleasant one. The fact that it seemed the matriarch was working along with them even more so.
He incuriously inspected some of the stalls, not finding anything of great worth or surprise to him. It would always be the deals that rose out of the various ambassadors and traders from different lands that would be the most valuable. The rest was largely eye-candy, shiny trinkets, finely made for the most part, but on the whole unimportant.
The food however, smelled good enough that Efrain missed his ability to eat. Karkos cuisine had always been a league ahead of almost everything else. He thought about his past life at that moment - had he ever come this far east? If so, then why? The thrill of discovery? Some academic purpose?
He was shaken out of his consideration when he brushed a shoulder with a shrouded figure in a smooth mask. Most of the others had taken care to avoid them, but Efrain had simply walked right past. Instantly, a wave of powerful nausea overwhelmed him, so strong his vision swam.
The figure stopped a pace past him, and slowly turned to look at him. The mask was perfectly smooth with two narrow eyeholes, the rest of the person’s figure vanished. It was dark enough that Efrain could see very little of the colour, or the shape, but he knew they were focused directly on him.
“Yes?” Efrain said, wondering what the nausea was from.
The figure said nothing, only turned around and continued walking onwards. Efrain simply dismissed it as strange, then turned sharply.
It was magic, that familiar buzz, absolutely, and strong enough that it interfered with his own undeath enchantments, he was sure. He caught a glimpse of the figure as he rounded a stall, seeing the slightest shimmer of the air around him. Efrain was left, staring off in that direction with an increasingly concerned shopkeeper to his right.
“You alright?” the man inquired in Karkosian, severing Efrain’s focus.
“Yes, I’m fine,” he quickly said, “do you know that man?”
“What man?” the shopkeeper said.
“The one in the light grey robes with the smooth mask.”
“An Occluded? Where?” said the shopkeeper, who craned their neck out to stare back and forth at the crowd.
“The one that was just- you know what, forget it. I’m fine, that’s all that matters,” Efrain said.
“As you wish, sir. Would you like to buy anything?”
Efrain politely refused and went on to move on towards the greater crowd. He spent some time green with envy at the dishes before approaching the edge of the plaza. Before he could hail one of the academy ferrymen, he was confronted with a fresh-faced page.
“Master Efrain?” said the boy, flushed and eyes wide.
“What is it?”
“Sir, they want you down in the hall of the dead,” he said, “there’s a problem. Someone’s sick. They think it’s magical sir, they need your help.”
“Really?” Efrain said, not quite believing it, “who sent you?”
“The Mentor, please sir, it sounded urgent.”
He clambered aboard, wondering what kind of ‘magical’ ailment would present itself in the hall of the dead? He was soon in the silent northern outflow and was pushed towards the Hall’s solitary island. The lower doors in the stone structure were open, ferries of all kinds moored around it. Efrain entered into the lower halls, greeted by red-robed priests who led him to the upper halls.
The youth was perhaps seventeen, stocky but staring glass-eyed at the ceiling. His left arm was horribly swollen from the shoulder down, patches of red, purple and even some black going up into the neck. Priests were around him, dabbing at his head with a cool cloth, as he slurred names into the air.
“And why do you need me?” he asked.
The priests that had led him blinked.
“Well, you were recommended,” one said, “a master of healing arts. Master Avencia said so.”
Ok, this bootlicking is getting annoying, said Efrain.
“Maybe so. Nothing magical about this, though,” he said.
“Why would there be?” said the priest, staring blankly.
“What? I was told that-” Efrain stopped.
Had the boy been wrong? Had he misheard? Or-
“We were told you might be able to save young master Carim’s life, without losing the arm.”
“So this is the boy everyone is saying was poisoned?” Efrain said, kneeling by his side.
“Well, yes, despite our best efforts the wound, well it mortified,” said the priest, bowing in shame.
“Well there’s your answer,” said Efrain, “the boy’s rot-touched. That’s it. Whoever told you to take the arm was right. The flesh is dying.”
He indicated the blackened hand of the swollen appendage.
“Well, with all due respect to mistress Claralelle, I-”
“Wait, it was Claralelle who told you to take the arm?” Efrain said, appalled at the man’s stupidity.
“Well yes-”
“Well get her here and let’s take the bloody thing off!” he said, “she wouldn’t say that if she could save the limb.”
The priest, flustered, ran off to fetch the woman, answering the question of where she’d been the whole time.
Of course she’d be at a hospital, Efrain thought, I wonder how she got accepted so fast.
“You two,” Efrain said, “Begin boiling water. As much as you can. We’ll need it clean if we’re to amputate.”
The remaining attending priests ran off leaving Efrain alone with the boy.
“There you are,” said a familiar voice from the outer balcony, “I was wondering what interesting pursuits had led you to abandon an old friend.”
“I hardly abandoned you,” Efrain said, “you lot went out on your own.”
Innie rolled over on the balcony, staring at him with those luminous amber eyes.
“So, he’s that bad?” Efrain said, “considering how you’re hovering like a raven ready to stake a claim.”
“Check for yourself,” said the cat.
“Well, both his pulse and breath are fast and weak,” Efrain said, “but I’d say a more pertinent indicator is the soul-eater lounging five paces away.”
“Oh, the necromancer now has a problem with creatures that feed on death?” she said, tail twitching this way and that.
Efrain was saved from the effort of making a retort as Claralelle, now dressed in a robe that was obviously too broad for her, strolled into the room. She took one look at the young man, and began undoing a tool belt and letting it roll onto the floor.
“Told them,” she said, “now the infection’s spread to the blood. Yup! He’s in trouble now.”
“W-what do we do?” cried one of the priests.
“That depends,” said Clarallell, smiling vacantly as she laid out an assortment of scalpels and scissors, “do you do preemptive last rites?”
“No,” said one of the priests, who’d gone pale.
“Well, then,” Efrain said, “you’d best contact his family. They get to have the final say.”
“What?” Claralelle whined, “We’ve already waited long enough.”
“I am not having you create even more chaos than we’ve had already,” he said, “it’ll take, what, under an hour? If he dies, then so be it.”
For the final time, the priests were sent scurrying. Efrain wondered why they seemed to lack all direction - there must be a head priest somewhere that had the authority and experience to command them. Or so he hoped, anyways; this was quickly getting out of hand, and he still wasn’t entirely sure about why he was there.
It took less than an hour, much to Efrain’s surprise, and the patient was still alive, though Clarallelle claimed that his fever had worsened. He wasn’t sure how she was able to tell, but she seemed confident enough to dissuade him from questioning. The family member they brought forth was his older sister, who they met outside. To make matters even worse, they discovered that the only reason she was here was because her parents were out of the city.
“However, they are rushing back as soon as possible. We expect them tomorrow afternoon,” she said, eyes flicking to the door, “is he…?”
“He’s alive,” Efrain said, “barely. The infection is spreading, and the arm is beginning to die.”
He tried to keep a note of petulance out of his voice. This was not his job, and he had no idea why he was here to be sure, but this woman was about to make one of the biggest decisions of her life.
“Is he going to die?” she said, tears beginning to well in the corners of her eyes.
“Possibly. My acquaintance says that the arm needs to be removed, and I’m inclined to agree with her. That might not save him either.”
“Oh. Well, then what are you waiting for?” she exclaimed, “cut the thing off!”
Efrain was surprised by the decisiveness.
“My lady I-”
“When a sailor gets his arm crushed by a taut rope, do you wait for it to mortify? No! Do it, if it’s what’s necessary.”
Well, that’s good enough for me, Efrain thought as he went back into the room.
Once informed that she had an excuse for her behaviour, she immediately went to work setting up. Fresh towels were laid down, with pots of boiling water set up beside them. Claralelle took great care to clean around the shoulder, ignoring the boy's moans.
“Alright,” she said, taking out a scalpel, “you lot, hold him down please! The less he moves, the better.”
“Anyone who can’t take the sight of blood better leave,” Efrain said glumly, “this is going to be messy.”
The procedure was surprisingly quick, Claralelle’s strong dexterous fingers slicing and suturing muscles and tendons in minutes. The boy was left without his arm, moaning weakly as he tried to move away from the source of pain. Some of the priests carried him away to another room, taking the severed limb with him. The remainder stayed to clean the blood from the wooden slats of the floor.
“That went well!” said Clara, her grey robes splattered with blood.
“Uh-huh,” Efrain said, “now, I have to go to the academy and have the supplicating idiot explain why he just had me hack off a boy’s arm.”
“You did great!” Clara said, with her usual blunt cheeriness.
“Thanks,” Efrain said, feeling exhausted, “you can talk to the sister.”
He left them, hoping that Clara wouldn’t burn the cover he’d given her, clambering upon an academy boat. Night was in full effect, the various lanterns that covered the city glowing in oranges, reds and yellows. By the time he got back, he felt a cold wrath settle in his stomach.
The mentor was waiting in his office, fidgeting like a child as Efrain settled into the chair.
“Hello Avencia,” Efrain said.
“The boy! Is he alright? Does he still live?” said the mentor.
“Before that, do you want to explain to me why you led me there on the pretence that it was magical?”
“The- the pretence?” he said, “Well, master Efrain, why wouldn’t it be? Such a horrible case in such little time, and if it wasn’t posion then-”
“It was a perfectly mundane infection,” Efrain said, “did you just do this because you wanted some… academy representation at the halls of the dead?”
The man paled.
“You can’t be serious,” Efrain said, disgusted, turning back to the books, “and the boy’s alive by the way. At least when I last left him.”
“Oh, oh that’s a relief. He’s one of our students, you know. A real good’un, that’s him,” he said, “I would’ve gone to see him, I would’ve, only…”
And here’s the real reason, Efrain thought, looking at the man’s beleaguered face.
“Well, I…” he trailed off, then he steeled himself, “I can’t stand the sight of blood. It makes me faint!”
“And instead of asking me for a favour, or some other type of request, you manipulate me into coming by baiting me in with something ‘urgent’ and about ‘magic’?” Efrains said, trying to keep his voice as mild as possible.
“Well, urm… I wasn’t sure if you would come,” he said.
The man was actually beginning to sweat in front of Efrain, which was unexpected. There was something to it that bothered him beyond simply being angry. Something tickled at the back of his mind - he needed to think, and not have this blubbering excuse for a scholar on his back.
“Fine,” Efrain said, opening one of the books, “don’t do it again.”
The man blinked in surprise, and got up to go a little too fast.
“Yes- yes, a thousand apologies, yes. Never again, I promise,” he said, backing away from the desk.
Whatever anger had driven Efrain up from the docks was quickly being replaced with curiosity. Was this the way that the man always acted, or was something about this situation making him nervous?
“Oh, and one more thing,” Efrain said, “that teacher whose class I interrupted?”
“Professor Domnimico?” the mentor said, “What about him?”
“Would you mind sending him up here? Whenever he has time,” Efrain said, “I just had a few questions for him about the texts and how they’re used in the classrooms day-to-day.”
The man’s head bobbed so quickly that it practically vibrated as he left. Efrain was certain of it - something was off about this whole thing. He sat back in the chair and began reading through the rest of the third volume. The professor with the scrupulously maintained beard bowed as he came.
“Please, come in,” Efrain said, rising and checking that Avencia was not hiding just outside the door frame.
There were the cursory introductions and Efrain gave a summary apology over his behaviour in the classroom. When he explained his chagrin about his youthful notes being used as a basis for classwork, the professor shivered in sympathetic horror. Any rough patches were quickly smoothed over as Efrain asked a few questions about the actual practice of instruction.
After collecting a pageful of notes on some of the more pernicious aspects of it, he walked over to the door and made sure it was shut. A hand went up, the air shimmered and the sounds within the study took on a slightly distorted sound.
“My word,” said the professor, “is that a distortion hex? Just like that?”
“We can discuss that later,” Efrain said, sitting back down before him, “I just had a few sensitive questions that some need not hear.”
The old professor looked quite nervous at that, and Efrain spread out his arms in a gesture of friendship.
“Oh, have no fear. You won’t get in any trouble. But I’m very interested in a particular student here, the first son of the Carim?”
The professor, though still confused, took on a look of disgusted disinterest.
“Oh, that one,” he said, contempt in every line of his face, “Why?”
A ‘goodun’’ is it? Efrain thought, let’s find out what you’re hiding, mentor.
