Handing It Over

Solday morning, Martel made his way to the workshops for his recurring chore. At this point, as he and the other students arrived, they did not wait for Master Jerome to appear and assign them work. Everyone simply moved to the same station they had commanded last, which for Martel meant the laboratory.

As he entered, he noticed that the tools and ingredients for the fire pots still lay on one of the worktables; Master Jerome had told him not to bother removing them when he finished his lesson yesterday. He had not made much progress; either he failed to infuse the mixture with magic, meaning nothing happened, or he did it too fast, making it catch on fire before he could close the jar and interrupt the ignition process.

He was just about to start his work when Master Jerome entered. "Not so fast, my young spark. No ink-making for you."

"Alright." Martel stood up again. "Where should I go?"

"Here." The artificer grinned seeing the acolyte's confusion, but his expression quickly became serious again. "Until you've learned how to enchant those little fire spitters, I want you to use this bell on Soldays to practice." He gestured towards the table with the pitch and oil.

"Really?" It did not sound like the Lyceum to grant Martel deliverance from his chores; or rather, it did not sound like the headmaster, and given their last conversation, he did not imagine the overseer was inclined to grant him favours either.

"Yes. Once you're on the field, there might come a moment where you've exhausted your magic and you need a last spell. Having one in a jar will be handy. So a little more time for you to practise this craft won't hurt." He gave a wry smile. "I've got other workers who can make ink."

Martel felt a little touched. As with Master Alastair teaching him extra lessons, it was good to know that people cared about him. "Thank you."

The artificer inclined his head in reply. "Now, get to it. Enchantment won't learn itself."

***

In the afternoon, Martel met with Eleanor as they had agreed to continue their studies into Tyrian runes, searching for something to help her sister. For now, it was slow and laborious work pouring through tomes, noting mentions and descriptions of any magic that seemed to affect the mind.

Looking up from his current book, Martel glanced over at Eleanor. "I am happy to keep investigating, but wouldn't it be easier if we found a bard first, who could tell us about the magic? Rather than us searching in the dark."

"I thought of that."

Of course she had.

"Of those I could find in Morcaster, none had such an ability. They both claimed it was beyond them. Skálds with such power rarely leave Tyria, they claimed, and I would have to send for them specifically. Which would require quite a sum of gold that my father must pay."

"And he won't pay unless you can convince him it's worth it."

She nodded a little. "I asked Master Fenrick as well, but he didn't know for certain if skálds can heal the mind the way they can confuse it. Which is not sufficient for my father. Hence our continued reading."

Accepting this, Martel returned his attention to his book, turning the next leaf.

***

Morning and afternoon duties complete, a final obligation awaited Martel in the evening. With a familiar bundle under his arm, walking swiftly to escape the strange looks that the presence of the artefact seemed to draw, Martel left the Lyceum.

The Keeper awaited him at their usual spot, and Martel handed over the relic. He felt odd for a moment that nobody in the tavern seemed interested at all until he remembered that to these people, it was just some dirty rags. And if they knew what lay inside, he doubted they would be interested in a severed hand. So strange to feel its presence so powerfully while those around him were clueless.

"Thanks. Just to avoid the trouble that revealing a disembodied limb might cause, I won't unpack it here, but I trust our five-fingered friend has not been damaged?"

"I don't think we could if we wanted to. Not that we tried, obviously," Martel quickly added. "You'll find it as good as new – for a hand three centuries old, anyway."

The Keeper gave a satisfied smile. "Good. Whatever anybody was trying to accomplish, I believe they have been thwarted. The Pact remains in effect as ever, protecting my humble self and now also you. The Friar will spread the word immediately. Every Ninth Lord is responsible for protecting you on their territory. Any thug giving you trouble, they won't live to regret it."

Reassuring, though Martel could have used that last fiveday. At least now, between the Lyceum and the Pact, he ought to be safe. "But you still don't know who employed the Silver Serpents to steal it in the first place, right? What's to stop them from trying again? You don't even know for sure what they were trying to accomplish."

"Searching for that answer will keep me busy," the Keeper admitted. "But such plots are not easily instigated. The resources spent to acquire the wardstone, bringing the islanders here and supplying them, along with actually paying them, it all adds up. Perhaps not a huge cost for a Ninth Lord to bear, but with nothing to show for it, they might be a little more cautious about trying again."

"Ruby is probably going to find out," the mage considered. She had quite the advantage, given she had someone to question. "You may want to follow her trail rather than seek your own."

"Perhaps. But that's my headache. I won't trouble you further on this," the jester-like fellow said.

Martel got the sense this was not spoken out of concern for his time, but rather, as a manner of concluding their business. Which suited him fine. "I suppose we're done, in that case. Enjoy your hand."

"Pleasure working with you, Master Martel."