Chương 38: I need to borrow Apprentice Kestovar

Anabeth sat up straight so quickly Fabrisse wasn't entirely certain he'd seen it. One moment she was leaning over a rotating stone with ink on her sleeve. The next she looked like she'd spent three years practicing posture in front of a mirror.

"Miss Montreal," she greeted. The sentence emerged with such perfect diction that Fabrisse almost dropped his quartz.

"Lady von Silberthal." Lady? Is Anabeth a noblewoman? In hindsight, he supposed he shouldn't have been surprised. Von Silberthal sounded exactly like the surname that would be attached to ancestral estates.

"It is a pleasure to see you again," Anabeth said.

"You don't need to be formal."

"Of course. My apologies." Why is she talking like that? It was like watching a completely different researcher inhabit the same body. Severa nodded, then bowed lightly toward Hajin.

"Magus Assistant Min. I hope I'm not interrupting anything critical."

"What business do you have?" Hajin asked. Severa met his gaze.

"I need to borrow Apprentice Kestovar briefly," she said.

"A personal matter, but one that intersects with institutional relevance. If it helps, Exemplar Konan is likely already aware of what this concerns." Hajin said, "I need to see proof of Exemplar Konan approving displacements of first-session apprentices." Severa inclined her head again.

"Of course. And under ordinary circumstances, I'd never presume to extract a new apprentice without formal clearance." She stepped lightly forward, just enough to meet Hajin's gaze at the proper angle of deference.

"But I believe this qualifies as a gray-zone prerogative under Interdepartmental Clause 8. 4b, which allows for provisional removal of a student in the event of a time-sensitive matter involving arcane resonance. You must have heard of the recent... incident." Clause what? Synod Magi really need to stop citing rules. It turns everything into a threat. Hajin regarded her in silence for a long moment, then nodded. Severa turned toward Fabrisse.

"Let's go, Kestovar." Fabrisse didn't move. His hand was still resting lightly on the drawer of layered sediment samples, his hat slightly askew. But I was about to move on to minerals. And I don't want to meet your father. As Severa began towing him toward the door, Fabrisse glanced back. Anabeth had somehow resumed her previous posture with suspicious speed. The floating stone was already spinning again. When she noticed him looking, she discreetly raised a thumb and mouthed, "Good luck."

A moment later she seemed to realize that wasn't particularly dignified. The thumb vanished, replaced by a perfectly composed nod.

"Can this wait?" he asked Severa. Severa walked over in three decisive steps and clasped his wrist. If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

"You can keep the hat," she said. Then she tugged him toward the door. As they stepped into the hallway, Severa released his wrist but kept walking at a pace that forced Fabrisse into a light jog to keep up. Her voice dropped into the clipped cadence she always used before something important.

"First, don't bow unless my father bows first. He won't. Second, speak only when addressed. He expects complete answers, but brief ones. Don't put yourself down. He mistakes modesty for dishonesty."

"That's a lot for a greeting."

"Third, do not touch anything in the room unless asked. Do not sit unless told. Do not contradict him, even if he says something wrong. Correct him only if you can do it in fewer than seven words and with evidence." They rounded a corner. The stone beneath their feet gave way to veined marble carved with warding sigils, and the corridor grew noticeably dimmer. Fabrisse adjusted the strap of his satchel.

"Do I really have to remember all of that? I'm not exactly going to fool him into thinking I belong here. I'm just some guy from the commune." Severa gave him a glance that might have been dry amusement, or maybe just mild pity.

"Please follow the instructions to the best of your ability. You're capable of that much, yes?" Fabrisse noted the condescension and decided he shouldn't respond to that. Instead, he adjusted his crooked hat and started mentally repeating the rules before one of them escaped. They reached the end of the hall. The doors here were shadowhewn myrrenwood, a deep, obsidian-toned timber harvested from pre-aetheric groves long sealed by the Order.

On the doors, copper inlay traced through the grain like quiet lightning, framing the inverted triangle crest of the Montreal line, pointing straight down like a descending spear. Fabrisse didn't know how much myrrenwood cost, not to mention this variant, and the fact he didn't know probably meant it cost a lot.

"Oh, and one last thing," Severa said as she opened the door.

"Don't talk about rocks."

"I won't." The foyer opened into the vaulted space of the Montreal residence. Enchanted sconces floated several feet from the walls, hosting curated ancestral illusions: projections of regal-looking Montreals in flowing robes, each accompanied by a hovering caption in old Auric script. One of the ancestors had a staff made entirely of geodes. That was cool. A butler emerged immediately from the left vestibule. He was pale and starched, with a monocle so polished it practically cast a beam.

"Miss Severa," he said, then turned to Fabrisse, then said nothing.

"Head Butler Berrick," Severa replied.

"Where are the others?"

"I will call in the butler assistant." The 'head' butler waved, and a younger butler rushed in from the side hall holding what looked like a glowing clipboard made of smoked glass.

"Apologies, Miss Severa," he said breathlessly.

"Master Montreal is currently attending to the final movement of the parlor orbit. He's requested an additional minute." This butler did not wear a monocle.

"Yes," said the first butler in a voice as still as ice, "and you are now late in delivering that update. Please inform Master Montreal that Miss Montreal has arrived and has brought..." He eyed Fabrisse again.

"A secondary."

"A guest," Severa supplied. The younger butler vanished in a puff of wind. Why do they have a butler for a butler? They were led down a hallway lined with porcelain-inlaid book spines that weren't books, but decorative replicas of texts that didn't exist yet. Fabrisse passed a chessboard that played itself in four dimensions and a silence orb—a floating sphere that absorbed all sound for five seconds every minute. That chessboard was probably lavastone. Stable to twelve hundred degrees.

Excellent for volcanic chess. He resisted the urge to chuckle to himself.

"Master Montreal is a man of many inventions," the head butler said a single line to Fabrisse before proceeding to saying nothing else. Even Severa hadn't been talking. Fabrisse reached toward a glowing brass filigree that looked like a lever. Severa smacked his hand. Finally, they were brought to the main reception chamber. A gold-framed plaque hung outside the door. MONTREAL | PARLOR | ACTIVE CONVERSATION RATE: 17. 3 WORDS/MINUTE (Exceed at your own peril.) Fabrisse was suddenly very aware of how often he muttered to himself. Then the butler opened the door. Light spilled from the parlor. And there he was. Severa's father.