Playing the Fool

For more than a fiveday, Martel did not leave the Lyceum. He attended classes, ate his meals, and practised his spellcasting. On a few occasions, he passed Eleanor in the corridors, or their eyes met briefly in the dining hall; that was the extent of their interactions. He saw Maximilian at some of the meals, declining the mageknight's invitations to hit the taverns, and otherwise kept to himself. He did not bother trying to make another friend; at present, all his classes were with other novices several years younger than himself.

His last day with Mistress Vana came, at least for the foreseeable future. Returning to the Vault of Water, Martel and the other novices were given a series of exercises to conduct, each of them testing their ability to shape the blue liquid. Martel got through them all, whether raising water into a pillar, reverse its flow, create a small maelstrom, or calm the waves into a quiet surface. While he knew such were basic spells that any decent mage could cast at will, Martel felt reassured by Mistress Vana's behaviour and acknowledgement of his progress. Becoming a watermage, and weathermage after that, was within his reach.

He also made sure to pay attention in Master Fenrick's classes, though since he enjoyed the subject, that was hardly a chore. Martel might not be able to remember everything he was taught, but simply being made aware of a particular subject allowed him to read more about it in the library at his leisure.

"I believe I hear the bell ringing, which concludes not only this lesson, but also our topic concerning the stars. Next fiveday, we delve into the bleaker matter of maleficars." Master Fenrick gave half a smile seeing his novices exchange looks. "I thought that might get your attention. But you'll have to wait. See you this afternoon."

For Martel, the brief message held more than the promise of an interesting lecture; a month had passed since the event with the maleficar in the slums, and Martel had not paid it a single thought since then.

~

Martel was not getting involved. He was not going to barge through the copper lanes, hunting down a dark sorcerer, who certainly would be far more powerful than anything he could handle anyway. He would not do anything to attract trouble.

But – he did have friends in that district, whom he knew the maleficar had targeted. Quite possibly, the warlock remained a threat to Weasel and his gang. Although Martel had visited them last fiveday, it had only been for his own sake. He had been too preoccupied with the upcoming fight to even consider if the children needed help. He had not even asked about Sparrow. It reminded him of Weasel's accusation about how Martel only helped to make himself feel better.

At least Martel had silver to spare, and gifts quelled a guilty conscience. Going to market, he picked up a handful of the more common herbs that he imagined they could use in their provisional apothecary.

Going straight west after into the merchant quarter, Martel made sure to avoid the harbour as he moved towards the slums in the south-western part of Morcaster. Soon, the familiar house beckoned.

The children greeted him with their usual enthusiasm, questions, and remarks already before he reached the backdoor. The novice laughed, begging them to hold on at least until he was inside and had gotten rid of the bundle in his arms.

Depositing the herbs on the table in their common room, he looked around, once the children gave him a moment to breathe. "Where's Weasel at?"

The small chief appeared as if summoned from the shadows. He had a habit of doing that. "Back again? Who do you need followed this time?"

"Nothing of the sort. Just a few gifts." Martel motioned towards the plants he had delivered. "And I wanted to ask about Sparrow."

"Oh, you remembered about her, did you?"

"Everything's a barb with you, isn't it," the novice retorted. "How is she?"

"Sparrow's fine. Not your concern anyway."

"I guess not. But if you've had any more trouble with whoever took her, you'd need someone with knowledge of the arcane," Martel pointed out. However ill-suited the novice might be to tangle with a maleficar, the children were surely in a worse position to deal with such a nefarious individual.

"Well, we've had no trouble. Barely any news. Well, discounting all the trouble in the harbour!" Weasel's mouth turned into a rare grin. "Big prize fight with this leather-gloved fellow, turns out his opponent could use magic! Huge brawl broke out, and the mage damn near burned the place down."

That was an exaggeration, Martel knew; his little wall of flames had been barely more than sparkling lights. "What's it to you?"

"Nothing. I keep my nose to myself. Stay out of other people's business."

"Unless you can make coin from it, I wager."

Weasel shrugged. "That would make it my business, after all."

"Well, I have nothing to do with prize fighting. Not my business either." Basically true, counting from the last couple of fivedays.

"That's good. Now that it's moved to the copper lanes, I wondered if we'd start to see you hang around our little part of town."

Martel frowned. "Wait. They're doing fights here now?"

"In The Copper Drum." Weasel's face lost its smug expression. "If you intend to go, make sure to leave our name at home. We don't want to cross paths with the Copper Lady. Better for our health."

Martel did not intend to go, yet he could not help but ask all the same. "When's the next fight?"

"There's one every Solday, I think, and sometime else in the fiveday. Don't rightly remember."

Martel was not getting involved. His business with Kerra had concluded. There was nothing gained by pursuing this.

But – tomorrow was Solday, and he wondered if the Copper Lady had played him for a fool in more ways than one.