Chương 17

Cal let his hand fall from the sword.

"Armsmaster Kilhane." Bors gave no sign that he heard Cal. His gaze travelled once over Cal's damp shirt, the folded sash beside the cistern, the scabbard across his palm. An assessment, perhaps. The scar made his expression difficult to read, though it did nothing to soften it. Cal retrieved the sash and straightened. His feet still prickled, and one knee seemed to have developed a private objection to standing. He kept both conditions out of his face.

"Is there some matter I can assist you with, perhaps?" The lamps hissed beneath the eaves. Somewhere inside the nearest hall, wood struck wood in a slow practice count. Bors remained beside the weapon racks, broad shoulders at rest, blue eyes fixed on Cal. The silence dragged out until it became deeply uncomfortable. Cal waited. He had learned patience in hospitals, first as a student and later as the patient. The important distinction was that hospital staff eventually told you what they intended to do.

Bors looked towards the narrow yard. His attention settled briefly on the patch of paving where Cal had meditated, then returned to Cal's face. Still nothing. Then, just as silently as he had appeared, the armsmaster turned and walked away. His boots made little sound on the scored stone. He passed beneath the next lamp, crossed the mouth of an enclosed court, and disappeared into the martial hall without once looking back. Cal watched the empty doorway. … That was weird.

He checked the practice square in case several hours of meditation had somehow produced some evidence of misconduct on his part. The cistern remained intact. The paving had suffered no fresh damage. His sword was still peace-bound, his sash legitimate, and wasting an entire day just sitting instead of practising his swordmanship seemed more his prerogative and less a matter that fell inside Academy discipline. That left Bors Kilhane's purpose still unknown to him.

Cal buckled on the sword, fixed the bronze badge at his hip, and abandoned the matter before curiosity persuaded him to follow a Steel-rank armsmaster into a dark building. He had survived the day. Further ambition seemed unnecessary. You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story. The route back to the noble residences took him across two lamp-lit courts and up enough stairs to remind him of his numb knee. Dinner was underway when he entered Elara's sitting room.

A covered dish and three plates occupied the table. Mirelle sat with one hand beside her cup, listening half-heartedly, perhaps already accepting that interruption would only lengthen the account. Elara had turned slightly towards the door. Nessa was speaking around a forkful of stewed carrot and gesturing with the fork besides. Cal offered the room a bow.

"My lady. Mistress Saye. Nessa."

"You're late," Nessa said.

"Nessa," Mirelle warned.

"He is. The kitchen sent the meat back once already." Cal glanced at the covered dish.

"Ah, many thanks. I was starting to feel a bit famished." Nessa frowned, apparently uncertain what to make of his reply. Elara lowered her eyes to her plate, but the corner of her mouth tightened. Cal continued towards the household passage. Sweat had dried beneath his shirt, his feet hurt, and the prospect of putting clean water on his face had acquired considerable moral force. He stopped near the doorway to remove his boots rather than carry yard dirt into his room. Behind him, Nessa resumed her report.

The gossip concerned a practice accident in one of the mage courts. Details arrived in the order Nessa had collected them: a crowd, a faculty porter, an apprentice healer summoned at a run. Cal was barely listening as he loosened the first bootlace. Academy artefacts were expensive, which appeared to concern the servants more than the injured students.

"It was a brazier," Nessa said.

"One of the proper practice ones, all worked metal and runes around the bowl. They put them in the fire courts so students can cast into them without setting the walls alight."

"An admirable precaution," said Mirelle.

"Usually. This one burst." Cal pulled the knot free. The artefact had split across its iron bowl when the student fed fire into it. Pieces struck two nearby pupils. The caster had escaped with burns along one hand and a cut beneath his chin, though Nessa reported the injury with the disappointment of someone promised bloodier material.

"They say his mana was too strong for it," she continued.

"Strong enough to make the whole thing go off. A Crown scholar too, from Bletchmoor. Aren Mills, they called him. The Mule." Cal's fingers stopped inside the loosened laces. John remained bent over the boot. His pulse gave one heavy stroke against his throat. From the edge of his vision, he noticed Elara had been watching him, her spoon suspended above the plate. Mirelle's attention remained on Nessa, who had moved on to the question of whether the Academy charged scholars for damaged property.

Cal drew the boot off with a firm pull and set it beside the wall. The second knot had tightened. He picked at it with his thumbnail, face composed before Elara could make out the shock on his face, while the lady in question slowly lowered her spoon.