Blood of the Delphi (The Harmatia Cycle Book 2) Page 10

  “We don’t do rooms,” he said. “The inn’s three doors down.”

  “Please.” Rufus snapped out his hand, holding the door. “I have no money for the inn, but if you have a fiddle to spare, I could entertain your guests instead…”

  “Not interested,” the halfling dismissed.

  “Please,” Rufus pressed. “My son could die.”

  The halfling batted Rufus’s fingers away. “That’s not my problem. If you want money for a bed, go sell your horse.”

  “We need the horse.”

  “More than your life?” The halfling reached across and yanked Rufus’s hood down with a sharp tug. “That’s what I thought. I know your face—you’re a wanted man.”

  Rufus stepped back, hugging Joshua close to him. He hadn’t expected to be so easily recognised.

  Kill him. The instinct jumped to his fingers, which twitched, ready to summon a flame. He pushed it down. The halfling hadn’t called him by name and wasn’t shrinking back either. He clearly only knew Rufus for a criminal—not a Magi.

  “It’s a misunderstanding,” he said.

  “Is it now?” the halfling cocked an eyebrow. “Well, even so, you’ve put me in a sticky spot. I’m law-bound to report sightin’s of renegades and crooks—I should be callin’ for the town-guard right now.”

  Kill him! The thought felt more like an order. Rufus shuddered, grinding his teeth. He wasn’t a savage—he could negotiate. He could find another way. “Please,” he said tightly. “Please don’t. Please.”

  “Now why should I be doin’ favours for a man on the run?” the halfling picked at his nails, leaning on the door frame. There was an invitation there—an opening.

  If you don’t want to kill him, then what are you willing to offer instead? The question throbbed in his mind.

  He looked down at Joshua. The boy was barely conscious, slumped against Rufus’s side, his face milky white. Rufus already had his answer. Anything—he would do anything.

  “Well?” the halfling waved his hand.

  Rufus swallowed, bending his head submissively. “I’ll do whatever you want,” he said in a low voice.

  The halfling’s eyes grew heavy and dark. “Hm…” He pretended to deliberate, tapping his lips. “I’ll tell you what then,” he offered, his gaze travelling down Rufus’s body, “you’re skinny and sickly lookin’, but you’ve a pretty enough face, so I’ll give your boy a room…so long as I get to keep you in mine.”

  Rufus felt his stomach twist, but he kept his voice steady. “Yes, sir.”

  It was threatening snow. A cold wind had harrowed the city all morning, clouds gathered forebodingly in the sky. The forum was deserted, and anyone who did brave the streets hurried about their jobs as quickly as possible, eager to return to the warmth of their homes. Zachary sat at the top of the stairs above the main entrance in the Magi academy, his head rested in his hands, elbows on his knees. The hallway was silent and dark, but he didn’t mind. It had been announced there was to be a council meeting with the King in the next hour, and the solitude gave Zachary time to compose himself.

  The door below him opened and three haggard looking students bustled in with the first flurry of snowflakes. They hugged books close to their chests and shook off the snow which clung to their hair and boots. They were older, no doubt waiting to be apprenticed. Zachary watched them lazily as they went by, each glancing briefly at him and bowing their heads in respect. He responded with a cheerless nod, waiting for them to be gone before, with a quick look in either direction, he reached into his pocket and produced a stone.

  As boys, he and the other students had played a game upon these stairs, and without anything better to do, Zachary had gathered a number of stones and come to test his skill. Holding the stone up, he dropped it on the top step and watched as it bounced down, counting how many of the ledges it struck before stopping. Eighteen—he could do better. Zachary tried again and watched the second stone bounce eagerly past the first to the twenty-fifth step.

  His sense of triumph was short-lived. Zachary stared glumly up at the doors below him. It was here that he’d first seen Rufus Merle. That day Zachary had caught sight of the boy sneaking through, disguised among the other students, as he went into the library. He’d stuck out to Zachary because he’d been carrying a stack of books far too complex for a boy his age. Zachary remembered thinking him to be a foolish student, overambitious and trying to impress his tutors. Little had he known that Rufus was actually carrying the books to conceal the even more complicated, forbidden scrolls within, which he was stealing away to read. Never had Zachary known a man so effortlessly able to understand magic and mathematics, and recall the finest details of anything he read so easily. In many ways, that was what frustrated Zachary the most—Rufus was an innovator, and in ten years should have brought Harmatia into a new age…Instead, he’d fallen head-sick and deserted them for the wilds.

  Zachary lobbed another pebble onto the stairs. It bounced all the way down and skidded across the floor to the feet of Marcel Hathely who stepped into the building, his shoulders peppered with snow. Marcel stopped short, staring at the stone. Slowly he panned his pale, golden eyes up to Zachary who raised his hands innocently, another pebble already clenched in his fingers.

  “Go and sulk somewhere else,” Marcel said.

  “I am not sulking.”

  “You are throwing stones at me—you are a sulking.”

  “Well I am now,” Zachary said, tossing the last one down sullenly, “but only because you said it.”

  Marcel gave a listless sneer and started up the stairs. Zachary edged over and Marcel sat heavily down beside him.

  “Are you here to scold me?” Zachary asked, and Marcel pulled out his pipe. He filled it carefully and lit it in silence. Zachary rolled his eyes. “Oh, I see,” he muttered. “You’re above it all.”

  “You are not a child.” Marcel breathed out heavily. “Throw stones if you wish.”

  “Oh, you know what I mean.” Zachary leant over and stole Marcel’s pipe, putting it between his own lips for a drag. Something dangerously predatory appeared in Marcel’s face. Zachary returned the pipe quickly and Marcel took it, and tucked it into the other corner of his mouth. Zachary watched him, tapping his foot impatiently, waiting for the reprimand. It didn’t come.

  “You’re angry with me,” he prompted, impatient to get it over with.

  Marcel exhaled, his brow furrowing. “You have not earned my anger, however much you want it.”

  Zachary shivered. “I almost got Fold killed the other night.”

  Marcel again took some time to respond. He never spoke without thought. “Emeric went of his own volition,” he finally said.

  “Oh, horse-shit—we both know Fold wouldn’t have done anything of the sort were it not for me.”

  “I did not state otherwise.” Marcel blew out a ring of smoke and watched it float out across the stairs. Zachary pinched the bridge of his nose.

  “You haven’t spoken to me for days.”

  “You chose to avoid me.”

  Zachary winced at the truth of it. He’d gone through pains to avoid both his friends the last week, though he hadn’t been entirely conscious of his efforts. He messaged his temples.

  “Hexias give me strength,” he cursed. “Can’t you just be angry with me and have done with it? This is like bleeding a rock!”

  “Your own anger is punishment enough.”

  “Sons of the gods—what is wrong with me?” Zachary hid his face with a moan.

  “You dwell too much.”

  “But it was so stupid. Notameer be my witness—the King is not a man I wish to cross…And yet my own foolish curiosity drove me to pursue him, when I should have left well enough alone.” Zachary closed his eyes tightly. “And when he discovered he’d been followed, I should have caused the distraction to escape, not you. But I couldn’t conjure a coherent thought. I was reduced to a snivelling child.”

  “You are yet young,” Marcel said and
Zachary choked.

  “I am thirty-nine years old.”

  “Hm,” Marcel hummed in agreement, and then shrugged. “They say our minds age slower.”

  Zachary had heard the same thing. Everyone knew that the more magic you used, the longer you were prone to live. In-fact, it was often possible to assess the level of a Magi’s strength by how young he looked comparative to his age.

  New theories, however, suggested it didn’t end with looks alone. Analysis in the last four decades had shown that the delayed aging process wasn’t only external, but affected faculties of the mind as well. It made sense—young Magi were notoriously regarded as immature when they were first apprenticed, and often behaved closer to adolescents than men. If the theory was correct, then developmentally Zachary was barely in his twenties.

  He wondered if that really excused his behaviour.

  “The tunnels afterwards…?” Marcel suddenly said.

  Zachary went cold. Marcel watched him.

  “Would you like to talk about that?”

  So his hesitation and tense shoulders hadn’t gone unnoticed as they were fleeing Sverrin. Zachary had known they wouldn’t, even so, he’d rather hoped no one would remark on it.

  “Not particularly,” he said. Marcel gave him an expectant look and Zachary threw his hands in the air. “You can’t have all my secrets, Hathely!” he joked. “You’d be too powerful.”

  Marcel harrumphed and then conceded with a nod. Zachary was glad he didn’t push the issue. A peaceful quiet grew between them.

  “Perhaps,” Marcel eventually said, and Zachary was surprised to hear him break the silence again, “you should take some time away?”

  “Away from Harmatia?” Zachary asked. “To where? Certainly not to Corhlam.”

  “Kathra.”

  “Sigel’eg would be no better.”

  “La’Kalciar.”

  Zachary thought on this.

  “Thornton lives there,” he recalled. During his time at the academy, Zachary had made many enemies, especially in his youth when he’d been a favourite to pick on and bully. One boy in particular had been his rival—Isaac Thornton, a rather soft-faced lad with brown hair, fair skin and dark grey eyes which betrayed a certain sadness Zachary recognised. Even then, he’d understood that Isaac’s disdain for him had been more out of self-preservation than malice. The pair shared a common trait in tragic childhoods. Isaac had known that so long as the teasing was focused on Zachary, he himself would be spared from it.

  Of course, the brusque attitude they’d had for each other had changed as they grew, and though they never exchanged pleasant words, Zachary had always delighted in fighting Isaac, who was as dedicated to the sword as he was. They’d duelled often, and in that a companionship had been formed—a companionship which became friendship during the Warriors’ Assessment.

  “He owes you,” Marcel remarked and Zachary shook his head.

  “No he doesn’t.”

  “You saved his life.”

  “And he defended mine.” Zachary thought back on the day. The path to being a Magi required that each student catch the eye of a current Magi and be apprenticed to him. Whichever sector you wished to enter would mark how you showcased your ability. Theorists would write papers, architects produced designs, and warriors would go through the Warriors’ Assessment. It was the only assessment with a history of fatalities, and students entered it prepared for the risk.

  Each year the mode of assessment would vary and often attracted a crowd who would come to view it as a sport. It would begin with meagre tasks—duels, shows of strength, speed and skill, then there would be the final exam. Some years were bloodier than others, but for Zachary’s a dangerous course had been constructed, and the students had been split into two groups. Zachary had led one, and Isaac was in the other. The purpose of the assessment was to traverse the course, collecting items, and make it together to the other side as quickly as possible. Magic, to everyone’s surprise and horror, had been forbidden.

  “We are to be Magi! And yet they will not assess us on what we aspire to do!”

  Zachary recalled the complaints and laughed at people’s simplicity. Magic was a tool—the mark of a Magi wasn’t his ability to use it, but the qualities he possessed that defined how he would.

  Both teams had traversed the course, and Zachary took great pains to see his through safely and without injury. The other team had used Isaac’s natural wit and quick feet to their advantage, and sent him ahead to clear a path.

  The course had been partially constructed around a lake just outside the capital. The winter had been particularly harsh that year, so the lake was frozen over. The competitors had all been careful to avoid it, unwilling to test the strength of the ice.

  So cautious had some of them been about the lake, however, they hadn't watched their feet properly, and one of the boys accidentally set off a hidden trap buried in the snow. Isaac took the brunt of it and was struck by a sling so hard he was knocked onto the ice. The force of the fall had been enough to shatter the top layer, and Isaac, barely conscious, was swallowed into the water.

  Zachary had watched from where his team was already ahead, dismayed to see that rather than lose time in fetching him out, the opposing group—all Isaac’s childhood friends—decided to leave him for dead and continue. Zachary had only had a few seconds to make his decision. He relegated his position as captain to another member of his team, barked instructions for them to finish the course, then turned back for Isaac. He negotiated his way through the perilous traps back to the lake and, with a burst of magic, split the ice and dove in. Zachary could still remember the suspended moment of cold panic as he hit the water, his mind growing numb. For a few dreadful seconds, he’d forgotten what he was trying to do. Then he’d spotted Isaac in the gloom, and with great difficulty had seized the boy around the waist and dragged him out of the water. And just in time too, for Isaac was near drowned, and spluttered out a lungful of water as Zachary pounded him on the back.

  Of course, regardless of the deed, Zachary’s use of magic disqualified him from the assessment. This, he’d been happy to accept, but nothing could prepare him for the mocking taunts of the opposing team who, for their decision to leave Isaac, had all been able to finish the course. They’d laughed and jeered, and Zachary had been gobsmacked.

  “You fucking animals—you’re boasting? You left your friend to die! You should be ashamed!” he’d cried, but his words had only elicited more mockery. Shame was the last thing on their minds.

  Before he knew what he was doing, Zachary had launched himself at the leader, bellowing profanities. He bloodied the boy’s nose, wiping the ill-deserved glee off his face, and it had taken three Magi to haul Zachary off.

  Zachary had been sent straight before Belphegore to answer for this ‘violent attack’. Many Magi had been present, including several professors who thought very little of him.

  Fear had gripped Zachary then. His professors threw their accusations with pleasure, denoting him as savage, calling him uncontrollable—though he’d seen other boys do worse without reprimand. Their allegations grew as the father of the boy he’d struck came and put gravity on the situation. Zachary had stood, small in the middle of this web of hatred, defended only by Isaac, who’d stormed into the room, still wrapped in a blanket, lips blue from the cold.

  “This man owed me nothing and risked everything to save me. If this is the kindness Arlen Zachary extends to a mere bully, then there’s no man I would sooner call brother.”

  The words had given Zachary strength enough to keep his back straight. The professors squabbled amongst each other and decreed that there was no way he could be welcomed back into the academy.

  Fortunately for Zachary, Belphegore had agreed, but for an entirely different reason. He’d been looking over Zachary’s reports throughout the commotion, and having confirmed his success and notable grades in class and in battle, Belphegore decided that Zachary was indeed no longer fit to be a student,
and would thus have to become his apprentice as a Magi. When asked, with horror, by the father how Belphegore could come to such a conclusion, Belphegore had calmly stated:

  “Perhaps, were my choice dictated by politics, it might have been your son I chose. Fortunately for me, I may choose my apprentice as I see fit. And for that, I am very glad, because I could never apprentice a man so swiftly capable of putting gold, glory or success before the lives of those he leads.”

  Zachary celebrated those words every time he donned his Magi robes.

  Isaac too, for the firm friend he’d become to Zachary, was apprenticed by Lord Farthing, and went on to become an ambassador in Kathra, in the province of La’Kalciar. He and Zachary exchanged letters still, though they’d not seen each other in many years now. The idea of visiting him was certainly tempting, but…

  “I can’t leave Harmatia,” Zachary finally decided. “Not now.”

  “You think it needs you?”

  “I think I would struggle to come back.” He rose to his feet. “We’d best go,” he said, Marcel rising too. “It’s almost time for the council meeting—Sverrin has never been a patient man.”

  Rufus lay still on the bed, curled around himself. His lips and body were tired and his mind sluggish. The halfling hadn’t bothered to undress him properly—his trousers were around his ankles, his decency covered only by his chemise which he huddled beneath, cold and shivering.

  “You did good.” The halfling lounged in a decedent chair opposite, smoking. “I pride myself in sellin’ the finest the market can offer. You’d fit nicely in my ranks. Your father must’ve been a Gancanagh, like mine.”

  Rufus shook his head, and the halfling snorted.

  “Then your mother must’ve bedded one and kept it to herself,” he insisted. “You’ve got a fine taste on you…A real pleasure.” He sucked deeply on his pipe and let the smoke out through his teeth. Rufus grimaced.