al Conversations with Friends
With Martel's conscription as an alchemist at an end, nothing prevented him from resuming his regular classes, including those in fire magic. Early in the morning, he stood in the western courtyard and stared at his banner hanging from an upper window. He shivered lightly in the cold; presumably, the others felt it even worse, being born to a warr climate.
If the cold bothered Moira, she did not allow it to show. She wore a cloak outside her purple robe, but she seed at ease with the weather, unlike the acolytes keeping their hands inside their sleeves. "Don't wait for my sake," she told them with her usual deaning tone. "You all know your task."
Martel glanced back at the fabric lightly blowing in the wind, marked by his initial letter. He could attempt a lightning bolt; he knew the spell well enough that it would not make him feel like his insides had been wrung out. The only question was whether he would hit. He had never aid at anything that far away, and he had little idea how reliable his accuracy would be, and if it decreased the further away he aid. It would look poor if his spell went through the window and hit a student inside.
Considering that option a last resort, Martel tried the other possibility. He allowed his magic to reach out. It had plenty to tell him, so he had to stay disciplined. Rather than allow it to spread in every direction, like his sense of hearing, he wanted it to behave like his eyesight; focused straight ahead.
Trying to shape it was a weird sensation, like attempting to box in air with his bare hands. He could to so extent direct it in one cardinal direction or another, but it still spread out like a cone in front of him, and the effect dissolved long before it could connect to the wavering fabric hanging out of the window.
Next to him, Harriet shot off a fire bolt that made it little over halfway before turning to nothing. Disdainful laughter could be heard from Moira. Doing his best to ignore everything else, Martel tried again.
***
At dinner, Maximilian graced Martel with his company. "Ah, but you missed a night, Nordmark! Wonderful music, played by this troupe all the way from Anvallum! Plenty of daughters to dance with, even so who would not be scared away by the brusque deanour of a battlemage."
In his thoughts, Martel compared Maximilian's event with his own yesterday and found it a little difficult to take his words seriously; he avoided articulating this and simply smiled, letting the viscount talk all he wanted.
"And lest you doubt , I will have it known, your absence was noticed."
"Really? By whom?" Martel could not think of anybody else present at the Imperial celebration who would care about him, except Eleanor, and she knew he had no intention of participating.
Maximilian leaned forward and managed to whisper the answer in a loud manner. "None other than Prince Flavius, heir to the Imperial throne!"
Martel blinked, unsure how to react.
"I know, what an honour! I helped it along, of course. I saw him briefly and made sure to ntion how I t him last year, along with you."
Of all the people in the Empire, Martel would be hard pressed to think of anyone whose attention he desired less.
"Do not worry." Maximilian gave him a cunning smile. "He told to ensure you returned on the last night, just like last year, for a private eting."
Martel slowly closed his eyes and clenched his fists to keep himself from saying anything he might regret. Finally, he was able to string together a row of words that could not be considered offensive. "Why would you do that?"
The mageknight stared at him, confused. "Martel, he will be the emperor one day. You will serve him in his legions. Do you not understand all the privilege that could follow by having his friendship?"
"I see it clearly from your point of view, as his future praetorian. But Max, my rank is locked. I'm not seeking advancent, nor is it even available to in the first place. Mageknights may advance in rank, but I'll live and die as a battlemage." Even with his limited knowledge of the legions, Martel knew as much.
"That is your problem, Nordmark! You lack imagination. Impress the prince, and he will demand that you serve at the imperial court instead."
"As what? Heater of his bathwater? I set things on fire, Max, which is famously not considered welco inside buildings."
"You do all that enchanting, right? What use is that on the battlefield? Light and heat, those are most welco inside any ho." The mageknight leaned back with his arms crossed and a smug expression.
Martel struggled to find a good retort, so he resigned himself to a scowl and renewed attention on his al instead of his friend.
He heard rather than saw the grin on Maximilian's face as the latter spoke. "My father's carriage will pick us up the usual ti on Solday."
***
The afternoon passed as the morning, but as Martel sat down for the evening al, he found himself with a companion once again. This ti it was the other half of his circle of friends. "Have you heard?" Eleanor asked.
"If this is about the Imperial palace, I'm not to bla. Maximilian insisted." And while Martel might be willing to disappoint his friend, he did not feel ready to defy the heir to the Empire.
"No, the rumour about the pestilence. I thought maybe with your work in the apothecary, you might know more than others."
"Oh, that. It's already dealt with. I went with Mistress Rana myself to deliver all the cures to the afflicted ship."
"I guess you have not heard," Eleanor considered. "Or maybe it is just a rumour and nothing more."
"Heard what? What do you an?"
"Pestilence has broken out in the copper lanes. The entire district is being quarantined."
Martel looked at Eleanor, and for the second ti today, he found himself at a loss for words.
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