A Promise Made in Silver

While Martel's evenings were full of excitement and anxiety, his mornings and afternoons remained predictable and practically dull in comparison. He did not mind this; on the contrary, Martel had no appetite for risk, even when it paid off. He could never understand Maximilian, gambling large sums of money, not to mention an important gift from his father. The only way Martel could ever imagine betting money would be if he knew he winning was assured, and even that had failed spectacularly for him.

Thus, Martel happily appeared in the workshop, ready to do whatever mundane task Master Jerome had for him. It proved to be an easy one today, cutting feathers into quills.

The artificer directed Martel to the workstation and tools before he made to leave. Quickly, Martel intercepted him, as a question had come to mind. "Master, you enchant objects, right?"

"I do indeed." He gave an amused smile. "Why, you have a great need to get something enchanted?"

Not as such, but wearing his leather armour during the fights had reminded Martel of the artificer's abilities. While last night had gone well, it had hardly been an overwhelming victory, and Martel wondered if perhaps he could gain an advantage in another way besides empowering magic. "Not right now, I was just curious if it's something you use often. For instance, do you put temporary enchantments on your tools?"

"A well-made tool is magical enough on its own," Master Jerome laughed. "I do use some enchantments at times, or if the situation calls for it, a rune or two also works well." He gave Martel a sly smile. "And when you are an acolyte, you will learn the craft behind both. For now, I suggest you grab that entirely ordinary knife and begin sharpening those quills."

Accepting the answer, even if it did not help him as such, Martel went to work.

~

Once he had finished his labour in the apothecary, not to mention eating a hefty lunch – fighting and sparring gave a good appetite – Martel went into the city. In his hand, he carried the same bag that had held his belongings when he first arrived to the Lyceum some eight months ago. Except now, rather than old clothes and a few provisions, the bag held a single, wooden box, which he had bought at the market for two silvers. Martel assumed that the old, ordinary-looking bag would discourage any interest in its contents, but should any take too keen an approach, the young mage did not feel concerned. By now, he had experienced a bit of everything and felt able to handle himself in any situation that might arise on the streets of Morcaster on a clouded Solday afternoon.

That did not mean he acted carelessly. Besides hiding his box inside the bag, Martel avoided the shortest route to the Khivan enclave, which went down the main thoroughfare south, straight through the market and then the harbour. Even if his other visits had been in disguise, Martel figured it was best to avoid the port for now. So he took a slightly longer route going east before finally heading south and reaching the Khivan quarter.

Martel had not been here since the day of the riot. He began to feel uncomfortable, the further he went, as the memories returned. Shouting and screaming, the smell of blood and smoke in the air. Getting knocked down, the rioters attacking him and Shadi in the temple, exhausting his magic just to force them out and keep himself and her safe.

He looked down the street towards the square where the big fight had happened. Last he looked upon it, bodies lay across the cobblestones, more than a few of them never to move again. Blood had stained the area in places, and he remembered seeing a torn ear lying on the ground. Martel shivered at the thought of the sheer rage that had gripped these people, making them ready to inflict violence and even death on others.

Thankfully, he did not have to go further. To his right lay the workshop of Master Farhad. Remembering his last encounter with the man, Martel was not sure if he should step inside. It would have been best if he could talk to Shadi alone, but he had no expedient way of getting a message to her, and he had little time to wait for a reply anyway.

Feeling awkward, Martel tried the door. It was unlocked. He opened it quietly to see the watchmaker himself seated at his workbench, engrossed in his assembly of some kind of machinery. Looking further, Martel saw his friend sitting at the table in the middle of the room, likewise engaged in a task involving polishing tools and nails and other little bits.

Her eyes widened. "Dad, I'm going to take a walk, get some air."

"Be back soon. Need you later," he mumbled without looking up.

"I will," she promised and left her seat. A moment later, she stepped outside, closing the door behind her. She gave Martel a quick hug. "What are you doing here?" she asked with a quiet voice.

Martel glanced around the street, just to make sure nobody was looking. "This is for you. Open it once you are inside." He opened his bag to let her see the contents.

She reached down to take hold of the box. "What's inside?"

"Fifty pieces of silver."

Her eyes widened. "You're not joking, are you?" As he shook his head, she spoke again. "My dad will never accept that!"

"Don't tell him it's from me." Martel had anticipated this, given how Master Farhad had acted during the last encounter. "Tell him you found work in town. Bring him a handful of coins now and then over the next fiveday."

Her eyes welled up. She placed the box on the doorstep behind her and gave him a tight embrace, mumbling her gratitude.

"It's alright," Martel told her while awkwardly patting her short hair. "I won't let anyone take you away. You belong here."