The coach brought Turold across town to Milkwort, in earlier centuries a military garrison, now an up-and-coming district of Belladonna. Here the Academy and the Council had slowly overtaken the surrounding streets until you could scarcely bump into someone who wasn’t an astrologer, sorcerer, or wizard-aspirant. Peeking out the window, he spied a crush of sorcerers in heated debate in front of a bookstore, their robes green and sable, suggesting members of the Sixth and Seventh Circles (poor bastards).
Whatever the cause of the dispute, it was merely an excuse to size each other up, to determine who was the greater obstacle to fame and glory. That had always been Turold’s advantage: no one ever thought him important enough to scheme against. He had exploited those biases to the hilt, advancing surreptitiously to the Third Circle. Only then did he realize he had never enjoyed his ascent, since each step up the ladder risked a greater plunge down. He would meet some of these poor devils at the bottom.
The coach pulled to a halt before the ‘little castle,’ a battle-scarred tower that had once formed part of a grand fortress. It wasn’t a place you wanted to be summoned to. People tended to disappear here, lost after weeks of interrogation and internment. If Sonya Vasilyevna had been arrested, she might have begun implicating people to lessen her offense. People like him, whom she didn’t trust and assumed would implicate her in turn. Very well, he knew a few things about her that might raise an eyebrow. He wouldn’t share them unless he had to, but he fully intended to fight fire with fire.
No one met him at the entrance, which gave him pause. If he was truly in danger, someone would have accompanied him to the tower, where a cadre of guards would be waiting, like dogs for the messy leftovers. He scanned the road but couldn’t see anyone who expected him, or even noticed his arrival. He almost plopped back in his seat. Was this a joke? A mistake? Was Lord Gramsteed just trying to get him out of the way?
“You getting out?” the coachman barked.
He apologized and tipped the coachman (three krouck and a ball of lint—his total wealth at the moment), entering the building a shade more relaxed, but still on his guard. Several astrologers were chatting and milling about, but none paid him the least attention. He finally flagged down a young woman who looked important, as much for her cloak as her briskness (she was running late).
“Excuse me?” he said, trying to match her stride. “I was summoned here, I think. The name is Turold.”
“You were supposed to be here an hour ago,” she said, cutting him a look. “Upstairs, down the Great Hall, knock at the third chamber. They’re expecting you.”
“Wonderful, just upstairs? Do you know what this is about? I wasn’t told.”
She came to a complete stop, her brow furrowed, clearly biting her tongue. After taking a breath she lowered her head and forced out the following words:
“You know, some people work hard, very hard, to be noticed in this place. They come from nothing, they work endless hours without sleep or thanks, and for what? The slightest hope of recognition.”
“I can relate,” he said.
“Can you? I highly doubt it,” she said, glowering. “Why work hard when you have connections to fall back on? Whenever you need a favor, you merely dash off a letter to Lord So-and-So, writing, dear me, I’ve heard about this new position and would be dashed if I didn’t get it for myself. What do you say, can you put in a good word? Capital! See you at the club this evening!”
“Er, I’ve never been to a club,” he said, taken aback. “And no one even answers my letters, much less some Lord So-and-So. Forgive me, I’m confused; you think I’m trying to get some position? But they haven’t promoted me in years.”
“Years? Heavens forfend!” she snapped. “And here I’m still waiting for my first. But I suppose you lose perspective from such great heights, looking down upon the hoi polloi. I’m surprised you even found the condescension to address me in person…I suppose I should count it an honor. Yet somehow, I don’t.”
“Have I insulted you? I was merely summoned here by Lord Gramsteed—”
“Ah, there it is! Lord Gramsteed himself. Cashing in favors left and right. Well, he certainly paved the way for you, then. As I said, you’ll find your party upstairs, down the Great Hall, knock at the third chamber. Good-day, Turtle.”
“Turold,” he called after her, but she was no longer listening.
What in the world did she mean by ‘cashing in favors’ and not working hard? Moments ago, he had expected to be clapped in chains and marched to the interrogation room, his home for the next few days (if he was lucky). Now, it seems someone was waiting for him upstairs to greet him with open arms about…well, he couldn’t imagine.
Of course, that wasn’t quite true. In the back of his mind, he wondered…could they have met in secret and reviewed his application (over a decade old now) for the Second Circle? Impossible—they would have summoned him earlier, followed the baroque protocols and ritual humiliations demanded by the code. It would never be like this, so spur-of-the-moment, so out-of-the-blue.
Unless that’s how these things actually worked? He wouldn’t know, having never advanced to the truly elite. Hildigrim never spoke of it, and even when asked, only demurred and said it was “rather lackluster.”
And so was this.
Turold made a dash for the stairwell which he mounted in record time. Walking swiftly down the Grand Hall, his eyes scanned the walls and counted the chambers. There was the first, some sort of banquet hall…followed by numerous paintings (hideous portraits)…a ballroom…a second chamber, full of several people sitting in the dark (a séance?)…a storeroom, full of crates…more paintings, at least a dozen garish landscapes…
The third chamber: a closed door, a guard with halberd standing laconically beside it. As he approached, the guard knocked on the door. ‘Enter’ cried a voice. The guard gestured him to do so.
As he gently opened the door, he spied a long table with six people sipping tea and staring intently at the figure beholding them. Only two he recognized: Lord Blatavasky and Sir Thomas Sorridge. No sooner had he crossed the threshold than the tea-sippers burst into spontaneous applause. Turold froze, almost fainted. It’s a trick, he thought to himself. A way to catch me off guard and then arrest me. They must have done the same to Sonya Vasilyevna. Run for your life!
“Turold, come in, come in,” Sir Thomas said, rising from his chair. “You looked positively stunned. Weren’t you expecting this?”
“Expecting…what?”
“Didn’t Lord Gramsteed tell you?”
“Tell me? I–no, not a thing. What?” he stammered.
The men looked at one another and laughed good-naturedly. Not a hint of malice. They’re still going to kill me, I can feel it.
“Turold, it’s unanimous,” Lord Blatavasky said, in his rich basso. “You’ve been elected to succeed Sir Otrygg as the next Astrologer Royal, effectively immediately. That’s why we’ve summoned you. But surely you knew?”
How to respond to this? The joke had gone sour, unless it was a form of torture itself. Yes, that must be it, the interrogation started with this. Dashing his hopes, mocking his aspirations. To think, a diminutive magician who couldn’t even attain the Second Circle thought he could be elected Astrologer Royal of the Realm! Can you imagine?
“What, no response? The famous Turold of Larkspur, speechless?” Sir Thomas asked.
“Surely you jest…I’m not worthy, not old or wise enough to advance to such a post,” he replied, feeling dizzy.
“On the contrary, your late master lobbied hard for you behind closed doors. He virtually insisted on it. We have the paper here, signed with his own hand. One of the last things he ever did,” Sir Thomas explained, placing the letter on the table.
“But so many others…Sonya Vasilyevna,” he whispered.
“Oh, well, it seems she felt the same,” he chuckled. “When she learned the Council’s decision, she attempted a coup. She has many powerful supporters. Or so she thought.”
“Don’t worry about her, she’s made her bed,” Lord Blatavasky said, gruffly. “But we expect great things of you. You must continue the work that Sir Otrygg abandoned, decipher his notes and recover the Codex, if it still exists. Are you up to the task?”
“I…yes, the task, an honor, I accept,” he said, in approximately that order.
“Then come have some tea with us, to celebrate your appointment,” Sir Thomas announced, to thunderous applause. “We welcome you to our ranks, the first of many such appointments. It is my opinion that you’ve been overlooked for far too long. I’m glad you still have a few friends, and powerful ones, at that, who saw fit to rectify our error.”
Turold gave a half-smile, thinking of the young woman’s acid-laced words: why work hard when you have connections to fall back on? With Hildigrim and Lord Gramsteed in his corner, who else did he need? Not even Sonya Vasilyevna had the power to countermand it. Taking his seat, his stomach turned uneasily; it would be his first drink as a man of importance. The first time he could sit heads-and-shoulders with anyone in the room.
Strangely, he didn’t like it.
