Familiar Ground

Martel entered the Hall of Elements and greeted his teacher with a smile. "I'm still having trouble controlling two different elements at the same time," the novice admitted, "but I have made some progress." He summoned a flame in each of his hands. At the same time, the fires rose into the air and began swirling around both master and student in increasingly elaborate patterns. Finally, he let them disappear. "Not the same as combining elements, but if I can control two different effects with the same element, maybe I can build on that."

Master Alastair nodded with a pensive look. "Possibly. Certainly, it is worthwhile for you to keep practising this. More control over your magic is always good. I see that your exercises have helped you, considering your progress since our last class only two days ago."

There was some truth to it, though Martel's advancement had come about from his practising with the dice, rather than the specific exercises shown to him by his teacher. Having no reason to elaborate on that, Martel just nodded.

"By the way, I checked with Mistress Juliana. Your new course for Maldays concerns the aqueducts and waterworks, she told me."

Martel nodded again. "Yes, though I don't quite understand what I'll be doing."

"I wanted to give you a little warning. Nothing bad, mind you. But Mistress Vana is in charge of this course as the Mistress of Water. Once you become an acolyte, if you are to become a weathermage, your principal training will be with her."

"Oh, I see."

"That also means, if she is not happy with you or your water skill, she may refuse to train you as such. So I suggest you make a good impression," Master Alastair advised him.

"Got it. I'll do my very best."

"Good lad."

~

In between lessons and lunch, Martel continue practising with the dice. When he threw them too fast, he had trouble making it look natural when he stopped them again, and making sure both of them landed on the same symbol at the same time also proved a challenge. But if he let one fall from his hand first and waited a few moments before letting the other follow, he could usually shift his attention fast enough. This was still harder than simply moving flames in the air, where he had complete control over speed and direction.

Then again, he did not have to win every single throw. In fact, that would probably raise suspicion. He would simply bet small, accept the occasional loss, but make sure to win most rounds and make a profit. When he finally felt confident, he gave the dice back to Henry with thanks for having borrowed them; tonight, he would enact his plan.

~

After a hasty supper, Martel went into town. In his pocket, he had a few silver pieces borrowed from Maximilian. Not a lot, so he would have to bet very carefully and be sure to win the first rounds. Once he had built up a small sum, including enough to pay his friend back, he could be a little more relaxed and allow room for error or even lose on purpose.

He walked a familiar path to the only place where he knew for certain to find gambling. Above the door, a sign hung depicting a goose with golden feathers.

"Unusual to see you alone," the barkeep called out as he entered.

"Friends are busy with studies," Martel claimed, not wanting to explain why he had felt it best to appear alone.

"Can I get you a mug of something?"

"No thanks, Jerold, maybe later." Martel was not thirsty, and he thought it best to save all his coin for the dice, at least until he had some winnings added to them.

His father had always told Martel never to gamble; it made a mockery of honest work for honest coin. But his father had also told him never to set foot inside a tavern, at least not until he was a grown man, and Martel had long since broken that commandment.

He headed towards the tables reserved for games of chance. Already, three men sat dealing cards, and two traded a pair of dice between them along with the occasional coins.

Nodding to the burly fellow who kept an eye on things and ensured good order, Martel approached the table with the dice players. Suddenly, his mouth felt dry. He wondered why he felt so anxious. He had been in fights and had to rely on his magic more than once to get him out of a tight spot. At worst, he risked a few silvers, not his life. Somehow, this made him more nervous, perhaps because rather than being thrust into the situation without warning, he was deliberately walking into it by his own design.

"Do you mind if I join you?"

The two men, who looked like hardened workers with calloused hands, glanced up at the beardless youth in his role. "If you got the coin to lose."

Martel patted his pocket, which gave a soft jangle in response. But before he could sit down, one of the card players look over.

"Aren't you friends with the young viscount? Marche or something."

Martel stared like a beaver at a bursting dam, caught off-guard by the unexpected question. He could not even think of whether to say yes or no.

"Yeah, that's right. I've seen the pair of them in here all the time, got those pretty young legs with them."

Martel glanced at his feet, completely clueless.

The burly guard stepped over. "Sorry, guy, no mages at the table. If we had to ban your friend, that extends to you."

Martel opened his mouth to protest, but he could not think of what to say. Denying the truth seemed pointless, considering they clearly knew who he was. No point in pretending he lacked the gift for magic; mere association with Maximilian had sealed his fate.

Accepting defeat, Martel turned around and left. He did not feel like traversing the market district in search of other pastures, but he was not ready to give up. He simply had to find another establishment where he would be a completely unknown face. Tomorrow was another day.