Firebrand

Chapter 55: Clothes Make the Mage

Chapter 55: Clothes Make the Mage

Clothes Make the Mage

Shortly after the first bell had awakened the Lyceum, Martel heard a knock on his door. This had happened only a few times, and he wondered at the occasion. Dressed just in his long nightshirt, he unbolted and opened his door. On the other side, he found Maximilian. "Good, come with me. The tailor is waiting."

"Tailor? I have clothes," Martel replied confused.

The young nobleman gave him a look. "Martel, you are not attending my father's feast in a plain, brown robe. Not to mention, no need to announce your status as a mere novice. Now, come along." Martel turned around to put on his clothes, but the acolyte stopped him. "The less you wear for your measurements, the better. Besides, he is just upstairs waiting in my room."

In nightshirt and with bare feet on the stone floor, Martel followed his friend up the dormitory tower. They quickly reached Maximilian's room, larger than his own and more richly furnished. Inside stood a man with a long, strange ribbon. Curiously, it had little markings all over. "Stand here. Feet apart," the tailor commanded, and Martel obeyed without understanding. An odd ritual followed, where the craftsman stretched his ribbon along Martel's limbs and around his waist, chest, and neck. He finally understood why Maximilian's clothes fit him so well, rather than hanging like an over-sized sheet around his body.

As the tailor called out measurements, the mageknight acted as apprentice and wrote them down. A while later, the task was complete, and the needle-wielder left to complete his work. Only when he became alone with Maximilian, the ritual at an end, did Martel regain his senses. "Max, how much will this cost?" He did not think his friend would make him pay for a new set of clothes, but he did feel uncomfortable at the thought of how expensive this would be, regardless of who bore the cost.

"Hardly much. Since we are the same height, he will fit some of my clothes to your measurements." The mageknight pulled his black tunic on, giving Martel a glance, who felt relieved to hear the tailor would not be making a whole set from scratch. "Are you going to breakfast in your nightshirt?"

~

As the day passed, Martel grew increasingly excited and nervous at the same time. Tonight, he would attend a feast among the high nobility of the Empire; a year ago, this would have been unthinkable. As it was not a feudal province, Nordmark did not have landed nobility as such, nor great palaces or the like. Thus, Martel had little to no experience of what to expect, but just seeing a palace from the inside was sure to be splendid.

Maximilian provided little help clarifying what Martel should envision. "It is the usual affair." The acolyte shrugged. "Most of the nobility will be there, probably a member of the Imperial family, but obviously not the man himself. There will be some music, a minstrel, dances, and like a monkey, I will display my skills as a mageknight."

Unsure of what a monkey was, Martel moved on. "What of me? You really shouldn't expect too much of me."

"Relax, you are acting like you have anything on the line. Look, I will do some fighting against different opponents, show some tricks and whatnot. At the end, you shoot some bolts of fire at me, which I deflect with my shield or something." Maximilian waved his hand around. "You know. Whatever will look impressive to the ungifted."

"Alright…"

"My father's horses will pick us up at fifth bell."

"I can't," Martel quickly said. "I got class at sixth."

"Calm your ears. I got us both excused."

The novice widened his eyes. "We can be excused from attending class? Nobody told me!"

~

A carriage stood outside the main gate right after fifth bell. The door had a coat of arms depicting an axe, which seemed rather fitting for his friend. A servant held the door for Maximilian and him to enter the carriage. Once ready, the driver spurred the horses into motion.

"This does go a lot faster than walking," Martel remarked, looking out of the window.

"That is the idea," Maximilian replied. He leaned back, stretching his neck. "We will take the carriage back after my performance, so better make sure you have eaten before that."

"Alright. What's the food going to be like?"

The young nobleman laughed. "Anything you can imagine, and too much of it."

The carriage rumbled against the paved streets, travelling northeast. Martel had never been to this part of the city, but it reminded him of the temple district. Broad streets of stone lined by lamps with magic glow, no dark alleyways or dirt roads in sight. They passed more than one patrol of city guards, and trees grew to provide shade for those on foot, few as they might be. The number of carriages was another peculiarity; anything with wheels in the districts south of the Lyceum would be carts, carrying goods. The air smelled different. With neither the saltwater from the harbour or the refuse that lay piled in the slums, Martel's nose was left mostly untroubled. Lastly, he noticed the lack of beggars, maimed veterans, and homeless people in general.

~

Arriving at the Marche estate, Martel saw several other carriages in front of the main doors into the mansion, but their driver continued past to reach the stables. "I told him to take us through the back so we can change clothes," Maximilian explained. "It would take us ages to get through the big entrance."

That also avoided any issue of the nobility seeing a novice in his brown robe attending as a guest, Martel considered.

Soon after, the carriage came to a halt, and they stepped out. "Follow me," Maximilian told him.

Turning his head every way, Martel saw the long row of horses in the stables, each of which would cost a handful of silvers at least, if not more. The mansion itself did not disappoint either. It rose many floors, probably equal to the height of the Lyceum. Unlike the school, built as a small castle, this building did not appear to have any defensive capabilities. Large glass windows adorned the upper floors. Even around the back, numerous doors gave entry, including some larger ones to drive a cart through; Martel guessed it allowed for easy delivery of goods, such as big barrels of drink for a feast.

As they walked inside, the servants quickly stood aside and bowed their heads seeing the master's son. Martel hurried after, feeling uncomfortable with the deference shown, even if only towards him by proxy. Paying the other people no heed, Maximilian led Martel through the small passageways that connected the servants' quarters to the upper floors.

Soon, they entered richly furnished chambers, all of the furniture exquisitely carved. "Here we are." Maximilian began undressing while Martel still looked around. The bed was larger than his room at the Lyceum. A wardrobe stood, large enough to hold all the clothes Martel had owned in his life; two more could be found elsewhere in the room. "Your clothes are there." The young nobleman pointed at a set of clothes on a wooden dummy.

Martel reached out to touch the white shirt. It felt softer than any other material he had ever touched. Above it lay a blue doublet with silver patterns, which might be wool. Trousers also in blue with a red belt and black shoes completed the set. Removing his brown robe, Martel could scarcely believe how pleasant these garments felt, or how well they fitted him. He suddenly saw the value of a tailor. He only made an exception with the belt, keeping the one given to him by Master Jerome.

Maximilian waved him over to stand in front of a mirror. Martel regarded himself from head to toe, and his image stared back. He had never seen such a clear reflection of himself before. Even if he had, Martel would not have recognised the boy in the mirror. Dressed in silk and dyed wool, wearing shoes that looked nice but would certainly wear out after several days on the road. He studied his own face, committing it to memory. He was unsure how to feel about his blue eyes; Martel liked them, but he knew others did not.

Next to him, Maximilian opened a bottle and let a few drops fall into Martel's hair before doing the same to himself. "I thought it best you do not smell of dusty classrooms," the mageknight grinned. He was dressed similarly to Martel, except wearing different colours and with his family crest on his chest. "There we are. Let us get to this celebration."