Firebrand

The Golden Goose

After assisting Master Jerome for a bell, as was his duty every Solday, Martel worked for another bell, this time getting paid. The task was even interesting, at least at first. Using a strange liquid, and wearing gloves, Martel washed away ink from parchment. Before Jerome showed it to him, the novice had never even suspected this could be done. He simply assumed once spent, the parchment was of no further use.

Yet with careful work and the right tools, the ink could be scraped and removed, leaving the parchment almost as good as new. After instructing Martel and overseeing his work for a while, Jerome left him to it.

While the novelty of the task soon faded, Martel discovered another interesting facet of this task. It gave him a unique view into the Lyceum. So far, he had only received a few notes himself; most of the scraps of parchment were of this variety, summoning students to tasks or meetings.

Yet now and then, he got a glimpse of teachers leaving frosty messages to their colleagues, or students making jests. One in particular held a drawing of Master Fenrick, accentuating some of his less fortunate features. Martel was almost sorry to remove it. In this manner, he earned a silver piece in the most entertaining way yet.

~

Adding another coin to the first, Martel went for lunch. With a tight grip on his silver – owning money was still new to Martel, and he felt uncomfortable walking around with it – he grabbed his bread, fruits, cheese, and slice of mutton and looked around.

As before, Jasper waved for him to sit with the elemental acolytes. Martel nodded in recognition but kept looking, wanting to handle his errand first and be freed of the coins burning in his hand. Finally, he saw Maximilian.

Approaching the table of mageknights while balancing his plate of food, Martel spoke his name quietly.

"Hey there." Maximilian gave him a nod.

"I just wanted to repay you. For the other day." Shuffling his food a little, Martel extended his palm with the silver coins.

Maximilian blew out his breath. "Mate, I invited you along. Do not insult me. Save your coin."

"Oh. Well, if you are sure."

"It never crossed my mind."

Martel was reminded of their differences again; he had thought about those two pieces of silver constantly from the moment Maximilian paid for his entry at the tavern.

"Are you going to sit and eat or what?" asked the mageknight. "You are making me nervous, standing there. Sit down."

A little stunned, Martel looked at the other mageknights at the table, who clearly did not share Maximilian's attitude. Yet he did not feel he could reject the invitation and risk upsetting who might be his only friend at the Lyceum. Since a spot was open opposite Maximilian, Martel felt compelled to take it.

As he did so, the nearest mageknights rose quite demonstratively and left. "Sorry," Martel mumbled.

"What for?" Maximilian looked at him with a frown. "We need to get you some confidence, mate. You already put one mageknight on his back."

"I guess." Martel began to eat slowly after shoving his coins into an inner pocket.

"I got an idea. How are your classes looking today?"

"Oh, I don't have any duties for the rest of the day."

"Great. I got weapon practice after lunch, so let us meet at sixth bell."

"Alright... to do what?" Martel patted his pocket, just to check his coins had not fallen out.

"You want to pay me back?" Maximilian grinned. "You are buying first round."

~

At sixth bell, the pair of tall boys left the Lyceum. Going south, they passed the great marketplace that drew people from the entire city. Reaching the point where the market district transitioned into the harbour, Maximilian finally stopped and turned right. He steered towards a large building of several floors, built in stone. Over the door hung a sign with a goose in golden feathers.

Martel had passed by it once or twice, but never paid any attention to it. Now he followed his friend inside. Compared to the tavern yesterday, this seemed more orderly. Besides drinking, some people sat at tables, eating food. The staff wore clean clothes with barely any stains. While the clientele did appear mostly male and forty years or older, the mood and patrons seemed less raucous.

The new arrivals walked up to a counter. Behind it stood an older man in work clothes, and several large barrels were stacked on top of each other with a tap inserted. "Two," Maximilian declared, holding up two fingers. "From that barrel over there." He pointed to towards the end.

"Four pennies," mumbled the tavernkeeper as he grabbed two mugs.

"That is your cue," Maximilian told Martel.

"Right, right." He began digging into his pockets to find four copper coins. As the proprietor returned with two full mugs, Martel placed the payment on the counter.

Maximilian grabbed them both, and they turned to search for a place to sit. The room looked full, but the mageknight located a small table pushed to the side with a small lamp providing illumination. Scavenging some chairs, the pair sat down and took their first draught of the drink.

"You've been here before," Martel remarked.

"For sure. It is a modern place, serving food also. And you can even rent rooms on the upper floors."

"That sounds expensive. Who would want that?"

Maximilian shrugged. "Sometimes a room away from home can be useful." A sly grin spread across his face.

Martel hurried to drink from his cup, hiding his blush.

"When you are the son of a count, a mageknight, and as handsome as me, you learn such things." The acolyte laughed.

"I'm sure," the novice mumbled.

"Where is it you are from? Where in Nordmark?"

"Town called Engby."

"Leave someone broken-hearted in Engby?" Maximilian's grin increased. "Or waiting for you to return."

"No, nothing like that."

Emptying his tankard, Maximilian set it on the table, crossed his arms, and leaned back. "Are you telling me that those blue eyes never ensnared anyone? Or perhaps they are locked on someone here in Morcaster, huh?"

"Well," Martel admitted, "there may be someone I like."

"Hah! Someone I know?"

The novice shook his head. "I doubt it." He hesitated. "She's Khivan. Lives in their quarter."

Maximilian nodded a little, his expression unreadable. "You do not see many of those in Nordmark, I imagine."

"Never, really."

"Well, I am glad you are not wasting time. Wait here, I will get the next round." The mageknight grabbed their mugs and left for the counter.

Feeling awkward by himself, Martel glanced around the room; at the same time, he did his best to avoid actually looking at anyone, lest he might invite any kind of trouble. He shifted his gaze to the small lamp on the table, providing scant light.

As the moments dragged on, he began feeling uncomfortable. He looked towards the counter, but could not spot Maximilian.

Finally, two men approached him. In their fifties or so, they looked like day-labourers or such, with rough hands and sinewy arms.

"Look, you can't sit here alone, taking up tables and chairs. Let us have it," one of them demanded.

"My friend is coming back. Sorry, you'll have to find another," Martel replied.

"Listen to this whelp. Bet he has soft hands. Never worked a day in his life," the other labourer spat; he had a vicious scar running down his face. "Now he thinks he's a big man."

"Look, don't make trouble. You and your friend can go elsewhere," the first one suggested.

"What is happening here?" asked Maximilian, returning with two ales.

The two men gave the mageknight a look, noticing his black tunic and the sword by his side. "Who is this? Your bodyguard?" sneered the scarred man.

Maximilian laughed. "As if! Rather, he provides protection for me. Tell them, Martel."

Martel, having no clue what he was meant to say, opted for a delaying strategy. "Should be obvious. Doesn't need saying."

"Indeed." Maximilian's smile turned to an overbearing expression. "My friend here is a mage. He could turn you inside out with just a look."

The labourers exchanged looks. "Horseshit! He's some scribbler's boy, nothing more."

"Show them, Martel."

Having to act fast, Martel pointed his finger at the small lamp with its flame. He poured his magic into the fire, and it shot upwards like an arrow. Startled, all of them stumbled backwards, even Maximilian.

The mageknight recovered first. "Anything else?"

The labourers hurried away, eyes cast down and muttering to themselves.

With a satisfied look, Maximilian sat down, placing one cup in front of Martel. "Well done."

"That was a little intense."

"I doubt they would have dared much. But we should get you a staff. Good for defending yourself, and it sells you better as a mage," the acolyte laughed.

"Good idea." Being armed in some way or another did make sense in a city like Morcaster.

"I knew someone would try to make trouble," Maximilian admitted. "Just had to wait a while."

"You knew? Wait, did you stay away on purpose?"

"Guilty." Despite his admission, the mageknight did not seem burdened. "I told you, Martel, you need confidence. Look how you sent them off! It will take you far."

"I suppose."

"You want that Khivan girl of yours to like you? Confidence," Maximilian claimed, raising his mug.

Martel grabbed his own and did likewise. "To confidence."

"Cheers to that!"