Firebrand

Chapter 43: Against the Stream

Chapter 43: Against the Stream

Against the Stream

The journey home proved uneventful, which Martel was thankful for. The visit to the Stone of Archen had given him more excitement than he needed, even if the students themselves were to blame, himself included. And while Martel was no stranger to rough sleeping, he had gotten used to his own bed in his own room. Not to mention proper meals and freshly baked bread that the kitchens of the Lyceum could provide. As much as he respected Master Fenrick's knowledge of all matters arcane, his skills in organising a small expedition like this had proven to be basic, meaning rather simple fare for all meals of the day.

They arrived on a Manday, nearly two fivedays after they set out. Passing through the gate, the sounds and smells of the city immediately struck them from all sides. Martel had not missed this particular aspect of life in Morcaster, but as the Lyceum came in sight, his first thought was the feeling of returning home.

~

The afternoon was still young as Martel placed his few belongings back in his room. This gave him plenty of time to visit Shadi later and relate everything that had happened on his trip, and he could even take care of something else first.

He wondered briefly how and where to approach Mistress Rana. In the end, he decided on the apothecary rather than her personal chamber, considering he had never spoken to her before. It did necessitate walking through the infirmary, and he spent a moment steeling himself as the sound, sight, and smell of sick people reminded him of his father's last days. Rushing past the beds filled with ill people, almost knocking a nurse over, Martel reached the apothecary.

Opening the door, he found two people at work. One was the apothecary's assistant, whom he had met before; the other, a tall woman wearing a richly embroidered green robe, had to be Mistress Rana.

"Excuse me, Mistress Rana?" As Martel spoke, the two women turned around.

"Yes? What is it, boy?" The apothecary spoke Asterian with a slight Sindhian accent; the only other trace of her heritage were some coloured beads woven into her hair.

"I would like to work for you." Originally, Martel's had hoped to gain permanent work for Master Jerome, like Henry did for the overseer by manning the desk at the entrance hall. But the artificer only employed acolytes who had acquired the magical skills to make them useful. By the time Martel got that far, most of his days at the Lyceum would be over. If he wanted to learn a trade, something he could combine his magic with, he needed to start earlier. And although he was loath to give Cheval any credit, the acolyte's mention of a healing potion had roused Martel's interest.

"I have an apprentice, and you are a novice. The answer is no. Nora, get back to work."

"I'll work for free," Martel said quickly, surprising everyone including himself; Nora, who had just picked up her knife to continue cutting herbs, arrested her movement. "As long as I'll learn. I don't have the luxury of time, waiting until I am an acolyte."

The Mistress of Elixirs gave him a scrutinising look. "You understand that you must follow my directions to the slightest detail. The smallest deviation and you could ruin my labours. There will be no excuse for sloppy work. Sleepiness, hunger, a headache – it does not matter. One mistake, and you are banned from my apothecary."

"I understand." Martel nodded eagerly.

"I will expect you to work one bell every single day, either the second or the third."

"I'll be here."

Mistress Rana crossed her arms. "Very well. I will give you the chance to prove yourself. Come over here." She turned back towards her table, and Martel joined her. "This herb is called strangleroot. I need it finely chopped in as small pieces as you see here." She pointed at the bits of green on the table next to a knife. "Here is the important part. Now the herb has been dried, it must not touch moisture. One drop of your sweat will ruin its potency."

Martel thoroughly dried his hands in his robe.

"Show me your work."

Having eviscerated his share of vegetables in the past, Martel confidently grabbed the knife and began cutting.

~

Supper was a bell away, but Martel figured that if he made haste, he could squeeze in a visit to Shadi and make it back home for mealtime. Mistress Rana had shown if not enthusiasm, at least acceptance of his skill so far, and he was invited back tomorrow. This did not make him an apprentice to the apothecary yet, but it felt like something to be excited about and one more thing to tell Shadi.

Leaving the Lyceum, Martel went south. He had barely reached the market district when he noticed a change. When he and the others had entered the city earlier this day, they had come from the north and passed through the affluent districts before they reached the school. The southern parts of Morcaster, holding more inhabitants and less wealth, seemed different. The market, which should be bustling with trade and the jangling of coin, had closed shops. Not from a lack of footfall, as Martel found it difficult to get through the crowd; but the citizens of Morcaster had not come to buy or sell.

Anger lay in the air. People shouted and raised their fists. Pushing, shoving, trampling. Martel became caught in the throng of people, forcing him along. He tried to summon his magical shield to protect himself, but it availed nothing against the constant push and pull of the crowd. He could not properly hear or understand any of the furious words that surrounded him, nor did the people seem inclined to elaborate.

Finally, he managed to draw himself to the side and duck in between two stalls. Trying to control his rising panic, Martel pressed himself back and kept out of sight as the horde of people continued to move through the district. Only as the multitudes began to thin did he dare to leave his refuge. The angry mob had seemed directionless at first, but it appeared to mostly move southwards. Already, the horizon had darkened, and Martel had not even made it out of the market district. Abandoning his goal for now, he turned around and went back to the Lyceum, still mindful to avoid the crowds.