Firebrand

Familial Duty

Although dismissive of Flora's offer, Martel ended up giving it more consideration than he initially thought. Obviously, if he wanted to be a weathermage and return to Engby, he could only do so in the employ of the Empire. Working for these Night Knives meant travelling across the continent or beyond, he surmised.

But if Martel decided to become a seamage, pursuing the dream of seeing distant lands, maybe he should consider doing so for the employer who would pay him the most. Martel had no illusions about their benevolence; if these mercenaries bought his contract, he would have to work off that debt same as the Empire demanded of him. But presumably he would do so faster if he was really better paid, and especially if he received a share of the spoils for each journey. Something appealed to him of having a stake in the outcome of such a voyage beyond simply ensuring his own survival.

The crux of the matter was whether he could deny doing a specific task. If these mercenaries came to him and demanded that he participated in an ambush, just like Flora had done against him, would he be allowed to refuse? Using magic to defend a merchant ship plying its trade was one thing; lying in wait to kill people he had never met was something else entirely.

The next morning at breakfast, Martel turned to his only source of answers at this early hour. "Max, have you ever heard of the Night Knives?"

"You could let me finish my first portion of porridge before badgering me with questions," came the growling reply.

"Hung over, are we?"

Maximilian made some grumbling sounds and carefully ran his spoon through his bowl.

"Good morning, fellows." Henry the air acolyte sat down next to Martel, and his greeting elicited more annoyed noises from Maximilian. "Oh, Martel, a letter came for you yesterday, it's out at my desk. What were you talking about?"

"I was just curious. I heard about this band called the Night Knives. Wondered what others knew about them," Martel explained.

"Never heard of them," Henry admitted, digging into his own meal.

"They are mercenaries," Maximilian barked. "One must explain everything to you lot."

"What else do you know?"

"What more do you need to know?" the mageknight replied, standing up to get a second serving, bowl in hand. "They fight for gold rather than honour. I suppose for commoners, merchants and the like, whose sole comfort is their wealth, that will do. I would not trust them to guard my dirty underwear."

~

Martel grabbed the letter from home as he passed through the entrance hall, though classes and chores kept him busy until the afternoon. When he finally had time to himself, back in his room, he opened the envelope. It had come from his mother, and Martel was a little surprised to read it. It had been about a month since he sent his last letter north; scarcely enough time for it to arrive and his mother to send a reply back. Perhaps their letters had crossed each other in the post.

My dearest boy,

I am sorry to put this burden on you, but you have to know. Do you remember I wrote to you about John having a cough? He had one for a long time, and now he has taken a turn for the worse. Master Ogion helped us as best he could at first, but he has been called away far north on duty, and we do not expect his return for months. Certainly not before winter has ended.

Keith took John to see the alchemist in Littleborough, and he gave him a potion that helped, but it cost all our savings. The man said another would be needed to complete the cure, more expensive than the first. He is gathering the herbs for it while we collect the money to pay. We are all trying to help, your sisters contribute everything they can, and even William gave the few coins he had earned shearing wool over the summer. But Keith doesn't have much work come winter, and he could sell his tools, but then he won't be able to work next year.

My clever boy, can you help? I don't know the things you learn in the city, but you told us of your skills and earning money. Father Julius tells me of something called a 'silver letter', a way to send money with the Imperial post. They will guarantee that the coin arrives. We need another thirty silvers at least for the remedy, in addition to what we at home can gather. If that's too much, then anything you can do to help would be good. John is doing better now, thanks to what the alchemist gave him, but his cough has returned. With winter on the way, I am just so worried.

Love,

Mum

Martel thought about his sweet younger brother, quiet and serious even at play, but eager to learn letters and hear stories. He imagined the boy lying in the bed that the children shared, pale and sweating from fever. He tried to hold on to what his mother had written, that John had improved and was not exactly at death's door, but the unpleasant imagery of his dear brother wasting away intruded itself nonetheless.

Martel opened the drawer in his desk and surveyed his wealth. Two silver pieces, courtesy of Flora. And he owed nine pieces already.

If only the letter had arrived a few days earlier, back when he still had five golden crowns in a sock. Could he ask Shadi for the money back? If she found out why he needed it, she probably would not object, even if it would be awkward to explain that Martel had commissioned the watch, and not Max as he had pretended.

Maybe he could ask her for some of it back, if he needed it. But Martel was a mage with valuable and rare skills. A year ago, thirty eagles would have been an exorbitant sum. Now, he had earned that amount several times over, once in a single night. While that had been a unique event, Martel figured there were ways he could earn the money. And he did have other friends he could ask to borrow from.

Yes, no need to panic. Martel had picked up a few things about alchemy from Mistress Rana, and it sounded like the alchemist in Littleborough had given John a potion of fortitude, bolstering his health while working on a specific remedy to cure John's particular ailment. Judging by how long John had coughed before other symptoms appeared, and how his mother described him now, this was not a rapid illness. Martel had time. He would ask his friends to borrow what he could and take the opportunity to do work where he found it, collecting the rest. He would send the full sum, more even. He would save his brother.