A Bitter Drink

Practising the different elements during his lesson with Master Alastair, a question came to mind. He had been introduced to the specifics of water, air, and soon also earth; what of the fourth? "Master, will I be doing a monthly course involving fire? Just as I have done one for the other elements."

"No, no." The teacher shook his head. "It would only endanger your secret. Besides, we already know you are skilled with fire. Fortunately, Mistress Juliana is in charge of your schedule and has simply left it out. That will give you more time to prepare for your examination."

"I'm still not sure how that is supposed to go, or what is expected of me."

"All in good time," Master Alastair reassured him. "Now practice your air and fire again. If you are ever out in a thunderstorm as a weathermage, you better know how to direct lightning away from yourself."

~

Martel stood with Maximilian outside the gate of the school. "Should I have changed my clothes?" the novice asked, suddenly remembering that he was going to a palace.

The young viscount waved his hand around in a dismissive gesture. "No, better that you look like a mage. My father is not one to be impressed by clothing, anyway."

"Oh, all right. Wait, am I trying to impress your father?"

"No, not him. Well, perhaps initially, and we should not get us ahead of ourselves."

Martel gave him a confused look. "What?"

"Never mind. Just be as you are, answer my father's questions, and make polite conversation."

Martel could not grasp what made Maximilian seem almost anxious, other than the impression that his friend was perhaps a bit cowed by his father. Before he could ask again, the carriage arrived, ready to bring them to the seat of the House of Marche in Morcaster.

~

On the drive, Martel tried a few more times to get an explanation from his friend about the nature of their visit. Receiving only vague answers, the novice had to settle for patience.

They entered the stately mansion through one of the smaller entrances like last time, rather than through the front doors. The majordomo waited for them, bowing in greeting.

Maximilian inclined his head in response. "Where is my father, in his study?"

"I was told to bid you wait for him in the western drawing-room, and he shall join you shortly."

"Very good. Martel, follow me." As the servant went off in one direction, Maximilian led his friend in another. A little confusingly, they walked towards east.

They reached a chamber with rather strange decorations. On all the walls hung masks, weapons, and what Martel assumed were tools. The headgear was colourful, resembling animals or birds and such. A vicious-looking dagger with serrated blade hung next to a buckler. As for some of the other items, he did not know what to make of them.

Maximilian took a seat in the largest chair. "I always rather liked the western room."

"But why is it called that? This is the eastern part of the house."

The young nobleman laughed. "It has nothing to do with that. All these decorations, they come from the Western Isles."

What an odd notion, Martel thought, to decorate an entire chamber solely with objects one would never use. He supposed that happened when you had a big house with more rooms than needed.

The doors opened to allow a man entry. Not quite as tall as Maximilian, but with the same build, he wore the fine clothes one would expect from a count. His beard was full, but carefully trimmed, and he walked with confidence.

Seeing his father, Maximilian leapt up from the chair and bowed his head. Unsure about etiquette, Martel mirrored the gesture.

"I am the count of Marche," he spoke in introduction, not that the novice had been in any doubt. "You must be Maximilian's friend, Martel. Welcome to my home." His voice was brusque, but not hostile.

"Thank you for the invitation," Martel hurried to say.

The count motioned towards the chairs, and Maximilian quickly stepped aside to let his father take the largest seat. "Do you enjoy drinking coffee?" he asked of Martel as he motioned with his hand for a servant to enter.

"I don't know what that is," the novice admitted.

"It comes from the isles," Maximilian quickly explained. "Similar to black tea. Most invigorating."

"It has yet to reach Nordmark, I imagine. Some sugar for our guest," the count commanded as the servant sat down a tray on the table between them. While his father and Maximilian took their cups, the attendant poured a large spoonful of cane sugar into Martel's.

Curious, the novice accepted his drink and tasted it. Bitter, even with the sugar. He did his best to avoid showing his reaction on his face.

"My son tells me you are skilled. And already learning alchemy."

"Yes, my lord." He was not sure what else to say. "I like to learn as much as I can."

"Commendable. But I understand you will not seek the path of a mageknight, nor battlemage, for that matter." Emptying his cup, the count kept his eyes on Martel.

"No, my lord." The novice looked at Maximilian, wondering what he was meant to say. "I intend to work the weather, either on land or at sea."

"There are some who must, I suppose. But my son claims you played a part when he took down the Tyrian berserker."

"I helped. Maximilian took the brunt of the fight." Martel glanced at his friend again, who sat uneasy in his seat.

"I see." Silence developed as the count continued to scrutinise the novice, who did not dare to speak. "Martel, while you drink your coffee, will you excuse me and my son? I require his attention for a family matter."

As his host stood up, the novice scrambled to do the same. "Of course, my lord."

~

Moving to a different chamber, the count turned around to look at his son. "I am not convinced."

"I tell you, father, Duke Cheval has taken an interest in him for a reason."

"None at the Imperial court has ever hired an alchemist before."

"They may not have considered the opportunity to hire one trained in Sindhian methods before," Maximilian argued.

"Regardless, we may already be too late, if the duke has taken control of the boy."

"If that were the case, Martel would have told me. In any case, he may be of use with His Highness, giving me a chance to gain favour."

The count stroke his beard. "Fine. Invite him."

"Yes, father."

"Also, I have decided you should marry the Fontaine girl."

Maximilian cleared his throat. "Eleanor?"

"Certainly not the younger," the count scoffed.

"Very well, father."

"Keep it quiet for now. Go back with your friend. I will see you next fiveday."

Maximilian bowed his head. "Yes, father."