“Excellent, excellent!” cried Kathegetes, and he was away.

Anthē, with Tromo, and Zantheus went either side of him, struggling to keep up with his surprisingly fast pace of both walking and talking. Leukos inverted his infuriating habit by now falling back several paces behind them while he wrote. But they barely noticed this as Kathegetes proceeded to launch question after question at them, trying to extract as much information from his new-found friends as possible.

“Tell me, Miss Antay, I presume, from which corner of Dahma do you hail? Have you been travelling long? How is it that you came upon these three young ragamuffins?”

“Er... I’m from Ir originally...” said Anthē. She ignored the fact that he had mispronounced her name.

“Ir? Ah yes, Ir, down on the coast. I’ve heard it’s terribly hot down there in Midbar. Very temperate climate, wouldn’t you say?”

“Yes... Um, I’ve been travelling for about...” Anthē began, unsure which of the Professor’s questions to answer.

When she hesitated, Leukos, who was eavesdropping, said “One month, three weeks and five days.”

“My goodness, that is a long time,” said Kathegetes. He turned to his other flank. “And you, Zamalus, have you been travelling for the same amount of time? How is that you have ventured outside of the Aythian sanctuary? Surely you are not romantically linked to this woman,” –Anthē snorted– “since members of your Order are forbidden to marr? Unless you are some sort of renegade?”

Zantheus, similarly overwhelmed by this barrage of enquiry, tried to address the questions that had been fired at him one by one. “No, I am not any sort of renegade. I am not romantically linked with this woman. I found myself in Ir after some...unfortunate events, which I am still trying to determine the nature of.”

“Now now, sir knight,” said Kathegetes, “one should never end a sentence a preposition with.” He chuckled to himself, but only Leukos got the joke. His head moved again, looking back over his left shoulder. “And you, young sir –Trogo, was it? Are you a familial relation of any member of this motley crew? Speak up, boy!”

“He can’t,” said Anthē.

“My dear woman, whatever do you mean?”

“He’s a mute. He doesn’t talk.”

“Oh, rotten luck old chap, sorry about that. Intriguing. Would you say his disability is more somatic or psychological?”

Anthē did not understand this question, but Zantheus answered it for her. “His voice works perfectly well. He has only to open his mouth and use it.”

“Ah, so it’s psychological then,” Kathegetes diagnosed. “Perhaps the result of some sort of trauma... Maybe one of my colleagues can take a look at him.”

“Hang on,” said Anthē, who had figured out what ‘somatic or psychological’ meant, “he doesn’t need anyone to ‘take a look at him’. He’s fine just the way he is. I like that he doesn’t talk.” She glanced over at Zantheus. “I’d much rather that than if he talked half the rubbish that comes out of your mouth.” She squeezed Tromo’s hand. He squeezed back.

Zantheus chose to ignore this remark. He had a question of his own. “Kathegetes, when you say ‘we’ –who are these ‘colleagues’ you speak of?”

“There you go again,” said Kathegetes. “Who are these colleagues of whom you speak?”

“Pardon?” asked Zantheus, confused.

“Oh, likeminded people, Zantheus: cooperative persons with whom I am in league, other questers for Enlightenment, you know. We make quite a wonderful little community. The Memshalah Government funds us, and-”

“The Memshalah Government?” butted in Zantheus. “By this you mean the Government of Qereth?”

“Why yes, old bean, who else?”

“We are close to Qereth here?”

“Well yes, relatively speaking. Though it’s still a good month or so away if you’re travelling on foot. Is that where you’re headed?”

“Yes,” said Zantheus. He was inexpressibly relieved. This was the first time on his journey that he had heard someone mention Qereth with whom he was not travelling. Of course, he had never really doubted it was a real place, but... it was good to hear it out loud.

“I say,” said Kathegetes, noticing the joy in Zantheus’s face, “you really are a most peculiar fellow, Sir Zannius. An Aythian knight, you say? Remarkable. You simply must allow my colleagues and me to interview you upon our return to the Academy.”

“It’s Zantheus,” said Zantheus.

“Quite right.”

“This ‘Academy’,” asked Anthē, “how long until we get there?”

“There? Why, we’re basically here! Look, see for yourself!”

A few fields away they could just make out a cluster of buildings. As they got nearer, Kathegetes peppering them with questions all the while, it became clear that the phrase ‘little community’ had been a gross understatement. The Academy turned out to be the size of a small town.

They arrived at a tightly packed network of houses. Some chickens ran out in front of them, chased by a toddler. Two girls passed them by, carrying pails of milk. They giggled when they saw Zantheus.

“Are they your ‘colleagues’?” asked Anthē sarcastically.

“Well no, not as such. You see, we’re a very preoccupied bunch, we Philosophers. We can hardly spare the time to concern ourselves with certain...domestic matters. So we employ a number of servants to look after that side of things for us. And they look after it very well, too. This way, if you please.”

He turned in between a small house and a barn and in a matter of paces they were confronted by a very large, grandiose building. It towered over the rest of the structures, with imposing stain-glass windows high up near the roof on either side of the central block. The centre-piece, however, was an enormous clock with huge steel hands, mounted above the tall wooden doors by which you entered the building. It struck now, ringing out the hour with three loud, sonorous bells.

“Right on time,” said Kathegetes, taking out his pocket watch on a chain. “In we go!”

In through the doors, and they were immediately in a stuffy little room, most of the space in it being taken up by a long desk. At this sat a bedraggled looking man carrying the extra weight of middle age. He had his head cocked back and was snoring peacefully.

“Morning, Doulos,” said Kathegetes. The man suddenly snapped to attention and said “I didn’t touch your apple pie ma’am, it weren’t me!” He looked surprised when he saw Kathegetes in front of him.

“Late night last night was it, Doulos?”

“Yes Professor. No Professor,” said Doulos, flustered. “Is there any way I can be of assistance, Professor?”

“Any post?” asked Kathegetes. At this Doulos turned round and consulted a vast collection of wooden slots arranged in a grid on the wall. Each one bore a different name in gold lettering just below it, and all manner of strange and interesting things were housed within them. Granted, most of them were just stuffed full of paper, but there were also parcels, pipes, vegetables, bottles of wine, and, in one unfortunate case, a dead pigeon, protruding from them. Doulos ran his finger along to the slot marked ‘Professor Kathegetes Kalodidaskalos’ –it was rather small lettering– and retrieved the lone item contained therein.

“Just this parcel, Professor,” he said, handing it to Kathegetes, who thanked him. “Will there be anything else, Professor?”

“As a matter of fact, yes, there will. You may have noticed that I appear to have accumulated quite a consortium of guests. They will be requiring accommodation for the night, and I would like them to dine with me at formal hall. I trust you can make the necessary arrangements?”

“Yes, Professor,” said Doulos. “How many of you are there?”

“Four,” said Leukos.

“You’ll give yourself cramp if you go on writing all the time like that.” The Porter opened one of the many drawers in his impressive desk. There was a clink of metal. “You’re in luck,” he said. “We have three adjacent spare rooms at the moment, all in the Main Quad, one with a nursery –for the young master.”

“Splendid,” said Kathegetes, taking the keys. “I will escort them to their quarters. You may resume your nap, Doulos.”

“Th-thank you Professor,” stuttered Doulos as they quit the stuffy room. They turned again and went through another set of doors into a long high-ceilinged corridor. It was lit by high windows, below which hung a collection of portraits of men dressed in similar attire to Kathegetes, striking serious poses and with a whole host of degrees and varieties of facial hair.

“Former Provosts,” Kathegetes said.

“What is a Provost?” asked Zantheus.

“A boss, essentially.” Kathegetes stopped at the end of the corridor and showed them a portrait on their left. This man was younger than most of the other ‘Provosts’ in their pictures. He was rare among them in that he had no facial hair to speak of, and the grey hair he did have on the top of his head was well trimmed and brushed back sleekly instead of being wild and messy like most of the other Philosophers. He had a hint of the sinister about him, though you were unsure whether this was simply the way the artist had rendered him or if it had to do with some inherent quality in the subject. “This is our current Provost, Professor Epistaseis,” said Kathegetes.

“He looks a bit creepy,” said Anthē.

“Fine, fine upstanding man,” mumbled Kathegetes, a bit awkwardly. He led them to the end of the corridor, where it split in a T-shape into left and right passageways, with yet another set of double doors at the junction.

“I shall take you through there in a moment,” said Kathegetes. “But first we must drop in on my quarters so that I can drop off this package.” He whisked them off down the left-hand corridor. They passed by two sets of staircases, then turned off onto a third. Zantheus was astounded by the sheer size of the place. Tromo set to work imagining what lay behind the myriad doors, what odd things Philosophers got up to when they were at home. He marvelled at the strange names written above the doors in that same gold lettering: Chief Biochemiphysicologist, Professor Hodegos; Chief Anthrpologologist, Professor Padieutes Nomodidaskalos; Chief Bibliographologist, Professor Empaiktes Huperdidaskalos. His imagination had plenty to work with when they arrived in Kathegetes’ room. It was massive, of course, and high-ceilinged like every other room in the place. It was also extremely cluttered, most of the space being taken up by four large tables strewn with bits of paper, soil, plants, bottles of brightly coloured liquids, animals in cages, candles and, best of all, in one corner a large mechanical device connected to a bubbling pan of water, crammed full of cogs and gears and levers and working away with a satisfying rattle. Amidst all this clutter stood a young man, much younger than Kathegetes, in a long white coat with all kinds of wonderful stains, who now looked up at Kathegetes through spectacles miraculously thicker than his own. He was slightly spotty.

“Hi Professor!” he said.

“Hello, Mathetes,” said the Professor.

Mathetes’ voice went suddenly squeaky for a moment when he saw Anthē, Zantheus, Tromo and Leukos come in behind Kathegetes.

“Oh, I see you’ve brought company.”

“Yes, these are Zamakos, Tromē, Leuthean and Ano.”

“Close enough,” said Leukos.

“P-p-pleased to meet you,” said Mathetes. He seemed particularly enthralled by Anthē, who nodded at him in acknowledgement of his enraptured and terrified stare.

“I’m just about to show them to their rooms,” said Kathegetes, “They’re staying for the night and we’re going to interview Zandabus tomorrow. But I thought I’d deposit this here first: Part 39-X has finally arrived from Sepher!”

“Ha! It took them long enough!” snorted Mathetes, though he was genuinely excited. Kathegetes plonked the parcel down on the last remaining few inches of space on one of the tables and tore it open. Inside was what looked like twisted bit of metal piping, though Anthē thought it must be more than just this from the way the two Philosophers’ eyes shone with delight as Kathegetes held it up.

“Ahhh, part 39-X!” they said in unison.

Slowly, solemnly, as if they were performing a sacred ritual, they walked over to the mechanical contraption and carefully inserted it into the coggy mass. Kathegetes pulled one of the many levers and, to their wild-eyed glee...

...the wheels started to rotate fractionally faster.

“Fascinating!” proclaimed Mathetes.

“Marvellous, marvellous!” agreed Kathegetes.

They stood, slightly bent over, for a while, transfixed by the machine, making little crooning noises.

“Um...can you show us to our rooms now?” said Anthē eventually.

Pulled out of his reverie, Kathegetes said “Excuse me? Oh yes, of course, of course my dear. Right this way. I shall see you maybe in a quarter of an hour or so, Mathetes.”

“Yes, Professor,” said Mathetes. “N-n-nice to meet you,” he waved to the four as they left the room.

They went back down the stairs and made for the T-junction, where they now turned left through the double doors. This brought them to a very big, square courtyard, with very well looked-after grass in the middle.

“Please don’t walk on there,” said Kathegetes.

Once they were inside another building, they were shown their rooms. Anthē and Tromo were first.

“Here we are my lady and young sir, I hope these lodgings are to your liking.”

“Ok, thank you Kathegetes,” said Anthē.

“Not at all.”

Anthē shut the door, leaving the others outside, and turned around to inspect her room properly.

“Well, haven’t we done well for ourselves, Tromo?”

It was practically identical in size to Kathegetes’ room, big and with a high ceiling from which a chandelier hung. The same grand, tall windows lit the room excellently. But its contents were very different, and far more to her liking: The centrepiece was an enormous four-poster bed, on to which Tromo jumped up straight away and started to bounce. She did have a desk, but instead of being littered with boring papers, atop it sat a selection of fruit. Next to the desk was positioned a very comfortable-looking leather chair. Two wardrobes stood next to each other by the wall. Anthē strolled across the cream carpet, struggling to keep herself from laughing out loud with glee, and looked at the view through the windows. It took her breath away. Below her stretched out an enchanting garden, thick with flowers and trees and hedgerows, brimming with colour. A memory flared before her. It had reminded her of another garden –the one from the dream. Could this be it? Could this be the garden from her dream?

She put this thought to one side as she carried on investigating her room. To her right were two doors. She opened the first one, nearer the window. It held another bedroom of much smaller proportions, consisting of a miniature bed with animals on the quilt, and a trunk in the corner. “Tromo, this must be for you!” she called out. Tromo wandered in tentatively and looked around. Apparently satisfied, he strode over to the trunk, but only stared at it. Confused as to his hesitance, Anthē encouraged gently “Go on, open it.” Very slowly, cautiously, Tromo lifted the lid. Anthē smiled when he found a pile of toys inside. More toys than he could dream of. He took out a little mouse and eyed it with suspicion. “Look, you have to wind it,” she said. She had seen one of these at a market before in Ir. She took the key on the top and turned it five times, listening to it click, and then placed the mouse on the floor where at once it sped along on four tiny wheels. Tromo was jubilant. He grabbed it and repeated the procedure for what would be the first of many times.

Anthē left him to discover the toys by himself and went back into her main room. She tried the second door, and now she laughed aloud at what she found: A gleaming, ridiculously ornate bathroom.

“Will the lady be taking her bath now?”

Anthē jumped. A voice had spoken from behind her. It belonged to a young girl, just on the cusp of adolescence, dressed in an apron. Another servant.

“Oh...” said Anthē, not really knowing what to say, “thank you, but I can take care of myself…”

“I’m sure you can, Ma’am,” said the servant girl, clearly pleased that Anthē was not going to treat her condescendingly, “but it’s my job, you see. You may as well let me look after you, what with me getting paid to do it and all.”

“Well...alright then…” said Anthē reluctantly.

“Very good, Ma’am. I’ll start filling the tub. We should get you cleaned up before dinner, they’re a terribly fussy bunch, these Philosophers. There’d be no end of talk if a young lady such as yourself came to formal hall dressed as you are.”

Anthē looked down at herself. Her boots were muddy and had holes in them. The colour had long since faded from her dress, and where it was not in tatters or torn it was ruined by food- and grass-stains. Her cloak had bits of twig and wheat embedded in it, along with a few dead insects.

“Fair enough,” she said.