Spite

After several miserable days filled with fear, terror, dread, and plenty of pain, Martel felt vindicated by the victory on Malday. Getting a second full night's sleep in a row did not hurt either, and he faced Glunday in a reasonable mood. He just needed to get through two lessons of fire magic, avoiding detention in the process, and he had two easy days ahead.

Arriving at the apothecary in the morning, Martel quickly set to work making salves. Nora still only spoke when absolutely needed, and he felt too worn by recent events to care. So he simply laboured in silence.

Halfway through his shift, Mistress Rana appeared, coming down from her laboratory. "Martel, tomorrow I want you to be here at sixth bell instead of second. I trust that will not be an issue?"

"Not at all. May I ask why?"

"I need you available in the workshop upstairs for more than two hours at a time if you are to learn proper alchemy. But both yours and my mornings are too busy to accommodate that. So, tomorrow afternoon, we shall work into the supper bell as needed, and you may create your first potion. Understood?"

"Yes, mistress. Tomorrow at sixth bell." Martel knew it would be something simple, probably the same kind of elixir as he had worked on last – repetition was the road to mastering any skill – but he still felt excited at the prospect. He would learn every recipe available to him and practise as much as needed; one day, hopefully, he would have the knowledge and skill to make small vials with the power to defy death.

"Good. Remember to practice working on the herbs. See you then."

***

As the acolytes gathered in the Circle of Fire, Martel thought he sensed a slight change in the mood. Usually, they either avoided each other's gazes or simply scowled while waiting for Moira to appear. Today, while none of them looked happy as such, let alone ventured to speak, the normal hostility seemed muted.

Their teacher arrived, looking at each of them in turn until they felt uncomfortable under her gaze. "So, you finally managed to beat a rabble of empty-headed oafs, useless for anything other than waving swords around and blocking arrows with their faces. Was it the threat of detention that finally made you wise up?"

The acolytes exchanged glances; nobody seemed eager to draw Moira's attention. Finally, Harriet spoke up. "We're better than them. And we were tired of letting them win." She tried to sound confident, but Martel imagined that she felt the same unease around their teacher that he did.

The edge of Moira's lip curled upwards in a contemptuous expression. "Spite is an undervalued emotion when it comes to motivating people."

Martel realised her strategy in this; his first class in the Circle of Fire, she had belittled the other acolytes at his expense, making them all feel spiteful towards him. Just to motivate them to work harder. There was a method to her cruelty, it seemed, but it was still cruelty all the same.

"If you little fools had any sense, you wouldn't need any motivation – you'd understand the value of fighting together even with people you dislike," Moira continued. "Maybe once it's real and soldiers are dying around you, it'll sink in. But until then, I'll find ways. I expect you to repeat your performance from yesterday every Malday. You let those mindless thugs beat you, it's detention for all of you. Every time you fail."

None of the acolytes dared to voice any discontent loudly, but Martel saw his own emotions expressed on their faces.

"You lot seem displeased. I'll remind you that in war, you don't get to fail twice." She muttered something in addition, which Martel could not hear, but only reinforced the imagery of her as a crazed witch. "For today, let's see how well your newfound unity holds up. You'll fight in pairs and be measured on your performance as a team. Harriet and Edward, William and Martel. If one pair gets hit ten times in total, they get detention tonight."

Sighing, the acolytes spread out across the Circle of Fire.

***

A short and hastily scribbled note found its way to Martel as he checked for mail after lunch.

Martel,

Everyone is well.

We are back home.

Keep to yourself.

F

A bit cryptic, but still possible to deduce. He assumed the sender was Flora, letting him know that the potion had worked. The last line he interpreted as a suggestion of avoiding contact for the time being. Probably wise, in case the inquisitors still prowled the streets looking for them. And if they were back in the bridge district, Martel could go see Weasel and pay him what he still owed without any chance of being seen together with the mercenaries.

He could also look in on Julia. He felt a flash of worry; it had been a while since he last saw her, and if she was in any trouble, he had no way of knowing. Part of him considered if he should go check on her tonight. Yet he quickly dismissed such thoughts. No point assuming the worst; besides, Julia had survived on her own for a while. She was not helpless. Best to let things quiet down and see her on Solday when he would go to see Weasel as well.

Setting his concerns aside, Martel took out the herb given to him by Mistress Rana for his exercise in alchemy. He had a spare bell to practise igniting its magic; he wanted to have some progress to show before his lesson tomorrow in the apothecary. He might have to give it another try tonight, after his second class in fire magic, assuming he could dodge detention again. Trying not to feel overwhelmed by everything he had to learn, everything he had to do, Martel pushed his thoughts from his mind and focused once more on the stubborn, little plant in the palm of his hand.