Shadi

Solday did not bring any lessons with it, but instead the obligation to assist the artificer in the workshop for a full bell. While Martel did not know what this entailed, he had helped his father often enough around the smithy. He wondered if magic would be involved; he imagined how one might use sorcery to improve crafting or even weave spells into the items.

Once the breakfast bell had ended, Martel made his way to the workshop. He entered a large room filled with numerous tools, workbenches, a forge, and more things he could not recognise. Beyond that, doorways opened into other chambers. The noise of people at work permeated the space. Tools cutting or grinding, hammers clanking, the hiss of fire being awakened.

A handful of other students arrived at the same time as Martel, novices and acolytes alike. They obviously knew their duties, as they all continued past him to take up a workstation or move deeper into the complex. After a short while, only Martel remained.

Eventually, he was approached by a middle-aged man with imposing forearms, wearing a leather apron. Martel recognised a smith when he saw one, and he could only assume this was the master of the workshop.

"You're new?" asked the smith. "Tall for a novice."

"Yes, master, today is my first day here. I'm Martel."

"Hah, good name!"

Martel laughed a little, feeling more at ease. "My father thought so. He was a smith."

A heavy hand fell onto Martel's shoulder, but the gesture was not unkind. "Well, let's put you to work. I'm Master Jerome. If you're new, I'm guessing your magical talents remain raw."

"Yes," Martel admitted, a little embarrassed.

"No bother. There's plenty of mundane work to be done. When you become an acolyte, depending on your gift and your interest, we may find better work for you, even teach you a craft."

His ears pricked up at that. While being a weathermage remained his ambition, learning a craft, perhaps like his father's, sounded useful. "I would like that. I was hoping maybe I could work some more bells besides the one I'm scheduled."

"Your family far from here, boy?"

"Up in Nordmark, yes."

"And your pa ain't around anymore."

Martel shook his head. "Caught a fever last winter. My brother has his forge now."

The artificer nodded a little to himself. "I'll see if there's an opportunity for you to earn a few coins. For now, go through that door." He pointed. "That's the washery. You'll help with laundry today. The servants will show you what to do."

"Will do, master."

Master Jerome winked and pushed the boy in the back towards the washery before returning to his own work.

~

Washing clothes proved to be dull and tiring labour, but Martel did not mind. He was accustomed to helping with chores from home, and like in the kitchen, the servants proved friendly, if distant. Martel began to understand a divide between the servants of the Lyceum and students like himself. Even if he did not see it, at least not yet, they knew; he was but another in a long line of novices passing through their home and work area. They spoke of people and made jests known only to themselves and not him. When the bell rang, Martel bid them a polite farewell and left the washery.

Before he could depart from the workshop itself, the artificer called out to him. "Martel, boy, one moment."

"Yes?"

"I have a letter that needs delivery to a craftsman in town. Would you like to earn five coppers?"

Although generally ignorant on the monetary value of labour, even Martel knew that was good payment. The idea of being helpful to Master Jerome also suited him. "I'd be happy to, master."

"Good. This letter is for Farhad the watchmaker." He waved a piece of parchment around.

Martel mouthed the name, as unfamiliar as the trade this master apparently plied.

"He lives in the Khivan enclave, southeast in the city. If you go to the harbour and turn east, you'll find it. He has a shop on the big street near the fountain square. I'm sure if you ask for Master Farhad's workshop, you will get there easily enough." Extending his hand with the letter, the artificer gave Martel a serious look. "Five coppers when you return upon successful completion of your task."

"Yes, master," Martel agreed, taking the letter.

Master Jerome grinned. "Excellent." His smile vanished. "Make sure you are back before nightfall. Don't be out in the city after dark, especially not in the southern districts."

"I'll be back before then, I promise."

"Good. Off with you!"

~

After a quick detour to his room for his scarf, Martel braved the city once more with the letter safely tucked inside his robe. Relying on Master Jerome's instructions, he went south towards the harbour. It was easy to find. In the distance, the tall masts of ships rose, animal trains of goods moved to and from that location, and the smell of salt lay in the air as the wind blew towards him.

Approaching the harbour, he noticed the change in surroundings. Not simply the buildings, which seemed to be dominated by warehouses and public houses. Rough-looking sailors congregated on the streets, some of them inebriated despite the early hour of the day. They seemed quick to both laughter and anger, and Martel kept his distance. Various women, who despite the cold did not appear warmly dressed, shouted propositions at him and laughed at his embarrassed demeanour.

Not eager to continue further, Martel followed the next part of his instructions and turned east. After a while, the area changed again. No warehouses lay here, nor did caravans of donkeys and servants traverse the street with goods. The inhabitants wore a greater variety of clothes, some of it clearly of foreign origin. He encountered more beggars, and the buildings were old and often in need of repair. Unlike the great insulae that filled the other residential districts, these homes were far smaller and often built of wood rather than stone.

It occurred again to Martel that he did not know what a watchmaker did. Watching was something one did; he could not comprehend how one might craft the act. Thankfully, simply asking for Farhad's workshop gave him further directions from the locals, in particular to look for a shop sign with a sundial on it.

He walked down the main street of the district, such as it was; in comparison to elsewhere in the city, it ran narrower, and the paving was in poor condition. Furthermore, he noticed an increase in unusual garments, and words of a foreign tongue could be heard on occasion. Given Master Jerome's instructions, he could surmise both people and language were Khivan, at least in origin. Martel knew nothing about them except that the Empire was currently at war with Khiva; he had never met any before as their people seldom came as far north as Nordmark.

Continuing deeper into the enclave, he saw his destination; a sign above a shop door depicting a sundial. As he approached, his expression turned apprehensive. In front of the workshop stood a girl about his age, with hair cut short. She was not the cause of his apprehension; that stemmed from the three boys, also around fifteen or sixteen, who jeered at her. She in turn replied with a furious voice, using words that would have earned Martel a cuff on the head from his father.

Martel could not determine the reason for the argument, but it seemed clear that one party sought to offend, and the other was on the defensive. His heart began to beat at twice the pace; he had never been much for fighting, nor did he have any skill. His bruises from the other day proved as much. But he could not stand aside and let three harass one, even if everyone else on the street seemed indifferent.

"Hey!" he called out. This got their attention; it occurred to Martel that he had not considered what to do next.

"What do you want?" came the sneering question from the tallest of the boys.

"I got a letter to deliver, and you're in my way." Martel tried to send them his most intimidating glare.

"Look at this scrawny scribbler," snorted another of the thugs.

"Little feather boy strayed far from home?"

"Here to help the Khivan bitch, are we?"

Martel possessed no magic that could help him in a fight. The magelight he might summon could not hurt anyone. But, he realised, they did not know that. "I'm not a scribe," he said in the calmest voice he could command while extending his hand. A flame appeared out of nowhere, hovering above his palm. "You shouldn't mess with a mage."

The boys stared at the flame with wide eyes before they turned tail and ran. As Martel let the flame disappear, the girl bent down to pick up a rock. She flung it with a sure aim, hitting one of her tormentors in the back of the head, and he almost stumbled before continuing his flight.

She turned towards Martel. "Just so he remembers it tomorrow." Her angry demeanour vanished in the blink of an eye, changed into a bright smile. "That was amazing. You can do magic?"

"Just a little," he replied with a shrug, trying to dress the truth up as modesty. "I study at the Lyceum."

"That's so great! I've never met a wizard before."

"If you come to my school, you'll see lots."

She laughed. "I'll keep that in mind. I'm Shadi, by the way."

"I'm Martel."

"Are you hungry?"

"I suppose. I'll probably have to go back to the Lyceum now or I might miss lunch." The idea of missing a meal put a fright in him.

"Nah, come with me. I was on my way out when those yokels came by. There's a tavern close by that's got good food."

Martel's only experience with taverns was the one in Engby, which his father had forbidden him from entering. But the prospect of a friend free from the entanglements at the Lyceum enticed Martel to such a degree, Shadi could have suggested they opened a portal to the Netherworld and he would still have followed. Another issue presented itself, though.

"I don't have any coin. On me." He hurried to add the final words so she would not think him penniless, even if that was the case.

"It's not much, I'll pay this time. Consider it my thanks for helping me out." She winked.

The prospect of a second time pleased Martel; especially as he might at that point have coin to return the favour. He suddenly remembered his errand. "First, I need to deliver this letter to Master Farhad's workshop." He looked up at the sign hanging over the door. "Is that here?"

"Master Farhad," Shadi giggled. "So funny to hear someone refer to dad that way. Yep, you found it."

"That's lucky." His fingers fumbled inside his robe and dragged out the letter.

"Let me take it," she suggested. "I'll go inside and leave it, grab a few things, and we'll go eat."

"Sounds good to me." Martel gave her the parchment and watched her scarper inside. As the door opened, he caught a glimpse of a workshop full of strange tools, small bits of metal formed into odd shapes, and large wooden casings he could not grasp the use of.

Quickly, Shadi returned with a smile and a large piece of cloth she swaddled around her neck. She locked the door. "Old man's asleep. He needs his nap," she explained with a wry smile. "Let's go!"

~

The place in question proved to be a small house with an open wall providing access to a kitchen. Even from a distance, Martel could smell the food. It was a strange mix of meat and spices; upon approach he realised the place served lots of items, which accounted for the unusual blend of scents. "Two fish in bread," Shadi told the man who accepted her money. He stood behind a counter that Martel now saw was hollow; a fire burned slowly inside, keeping it heated along with the bowls placed upon it. Deftly, the seller grabbed two pieces of flatbread and wrapped them around some fish. Shadi grabbed them both and gave one to Martel.

Back on the street, he took a careful bite. He could not recognise the fish, which had a strong flavour; yet hunger always proved the best seasoning, and he ate it with delight. The bread, freshly baked, provided a satiating feeling as well.

"I've never seen a place like that," Martel admitted between mouthfuls. "Back home, a tavern is a place for drunkards. That's what my dad said, anyway," he quickly added.

"If you go to the harbour, that'll probably be the case," Shadi admitted with a grin. "But most places in Morcaster, a tavern's just a place that'll sell you food. Or drink. Where are you from?"

"Nordmark. I've only been in Morcaster a fiveday."

"Hey, I can show you the city! There’s lots of places to see all over."

Finishing his lunch, Martel smiled even as he still chewed. "That sounds great."

"You can come by the workshop when you want. Dad doesn't need me there all the time anyway."

"Alright. I don't have much to do on Mandays or Soldays."

"And you can show me more magic!" Shadi suggested.

"Certainly." Hopefully by then, he would have learned some.

They continued for a while through the Khivan enclave, talking and walking until Martel remembered Master Jerome's admonishment about being out after dark. The winter sun already hung low on the horizon, so he told his new friend farewell to return home to the Lyceum. It was only on the way back he realised that he never found out what a watchmaker made.