Grandmaster

(A Schooled in Magic Universe Novel)

Christopher G. Nuttall

http://www.chrishanger.net
http://chrishanger.wordpress.com/
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Cover by Brad Fraunfelter
www.BFillustration.com

All Comments Welcome!

Contents
Cover Blurb
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight

Cover Blurb

A new stand-alone novel set in the Schooled in Magic universe!

A hundred years before Emily, the world is in chaos. The Empire is in ruins. Old certainties are collapsing everywhere. The provinces are becoming kingdoms, the magical aristocracy is trying to redefine its place in the new world disorder, the commoners are being ground under and bold or desperate men are preparing their bids for apotheosis or nemesis. The world teeters on the brink … and Whitehall School is caught in the middle, a pawn of greater powers.

For common-born magicians Alan and Irene, scorned and despised by their aristocratic peers, the challenge is to keep their heads down long enough to graduate and go out into the world as qualified magicians. For Walter, Heir to House Ashworth, the challenge is to take advantage of the chaos to build an unassailable position and put himself in firm control. For Hasdrubal, Charmsmaster of Whitehall, the challenge is to protect the school from outside powers seeking to subvert or destroy it …

And they will all be swept up in a desperate battle to save Whitehall, because the school is now the centre of a plot to remake the world once and for all.

Prologue

From: A Revised History Of Whitehall School. Emily Voidsdaughter.

It is extremely difficult to put together an accurate history of Whitehall School.

History was not just written by the victors, in this case, but the losers, neutral observers, and an uncountable number of historians who worked at one or more removes; they never visited Whitehall, and never saw any of the events they wrote about personally, but that never stopped them from putting together accounts of a history that bears little resemblance to the truth. If accounts of my defeat of the Necromancer Shadye, an event that took place only ten years ago, are already twisted beyond recognition, how can we expect truth in accounts of events that took place nearly a thousand years ago? The primary sources themselves are in dispute. Relatively few accounts from the founders of the school have made it to our current era intact; we simply don’t know how many works of history or personal reflection have been lost in the time between then and now. The neat and tidy picture of the school’s history presented by the official committee simply cannot be taken for granted. History is never neat and tidy.

Despite that, it is possible to determine the existence of three distinct eras within the school’s overall history. 

First, Whitehall was largely an independent school and research centre, teaching students regardless of their origins while developing newer and better ways to make magic. Many of the high magics we still practice today stem from that era; so do traditions such as magical education for young women and a certain meritocracy where magic is concerned. The school was effectively controlled by a council of the senior teachers, men and women who answered to no one save for themselves and their apprentices.

Second, Whitehall served as part of the Empire’s education system, turning out sorcerers trained to maintain the Empire as well as unite the continent under a single banner. Research and development took a backseat during that era; instead, the school focused on inviting students from all over the continent, particularly those from aristocratic or well-connected magical bloodlines. Whitehall was not just a school of magic, but a place for the future movers and shakers of the Empire to meet each other and develop contacts and patronage networks that would prove useful in their post-schooling careers. In that era, Whitehall answered to the Imperial Board of Education, which established a school board that respected the opinions of the Grandmaster and the tutors while not necessarily being bound by their decisions.

Third, Whitehall became a semi-independent school under the Allied Lands, maintaining a rather fragile balance of power between the White Council, the various kingdoms of the northern continent, the magical communities and mercantile networks. The school declared itself to be politically neutral, taking students regardless of their background (as long as they had magic) and attempted to enforce, with varying degrees of success, a no-politics zone within the school. On paper, the school board maintained a degree of control over the school; in practice, a Grandmaster who knew where the bodies were buried could secure a great deal of independence for himself, as long as he maintained the balance of power and ensured the school remained effectively neutral.

There was no guarantee that Whitehall would successfully transition from the second era to the third. The collapse of the Empire ensured that old certainties fell everywhere, and there was no way to be sure that whatever political structure would take its place would respect the traditions of Whitehall or not seek to set up magical education institutes of its own. The sudden shift in the balance of power raised all sorts of opportunities for men who dared to dream big yet felt restrained, even constrained, by the Empire. It is clear, even from those works of history that have made it into the modern era intact, that there were numerous plots to take control of the school, the ruins of empire, or even the entire continent. If even one of those plots had succeeded, history as we know it would have been very different.

I speak with the benefit of hindsight. The people of that era had no way to know what the future would hold. They acted based on what they knew at the time: some tried to seize power for themselves; others tried to find roles for themselves in the new political structure; still others, the traditionalists, tried to maintain the essence of Whitehall School even as the world changed around them. It was a nightmarish time, when nothing could be said for certain; a wealthy and powerful man one day could easily lose everything the next, a well-connected client could discover his patrons were no longer in any position to assist him, even if they were inclined to do so. Those who backed the wrong horse were often trampled to death, while those who made it through the chaos often discovered that the world had still changed, and nothing could be taken for granted any longer. 

This account, set roughly one hundred years before I attended Whitehall, is a story of how Whitehall School threaded the eye of the needle, saved itself from chaos and subordination, and became the school we know today. It is a picture of a school that is both very familiar and yet very different, a school often more brutal than our own and yet slowly groping its way towards the modern world. Many of the names mentioned in this work are familiar, magicians who survived into the modern era, and yet even they are very different to the people we now know. But they were children once, and young.

And now, without further ado, let us step into the past of Whitehall School where a single question dominates all minds:

The Empire is gone.

What will take its place?

Chapter One

“We all must embrace change,” Grandmaster Boscha said.

Hasdrubal tried not to roll his eyes as he stood at the window and watched the first students returning to Whitehall after their summer holidays. The Empire had died ten years ago, in the wake of a world-shaking conflict that had threatened the entire world, and no one had quite acknowledged, even to themselves, that the old order had passed away and a new was waiting to be born. The search for the rumoured Imperial Heir, the lost child of the Final Emperor, had been fruitless; so too had the search for a bastard child, no matter how lowly, who could be placed on the throne to return everything to the way it had been before the war. Boscha veered between mindless optimism and a stubborn refusal to admit that anything had changed, even as the student demographic shifted around them and the provisional government in the White City slowly gave way to various factions preparing their own bids for supremacy or independence. 

Mistress Constance spoke into the silence. “Embrace change, Grandmaster? What do you mean by that?”

Hasdrubal allowed himself a tight smile as Boscha spluttered. “The world is not what it was, Mistress Constance,” he said, crossly. “Our place in the Empire is no longer certain. We must reach out now, discarding the vanities of the past, to shape our place in a brighter future.”

His voice hardened. “Or we will not have a future.”

Hasdrubal felt a flash of anger. Gods, but he detested the man. Boscha had been Grandmaster when Hasdrubal and his three brothers had been students, and he’d never been anything but a crawler, a man who sucked up to anyone more powerful than himself—and their children—while putting down anyone who lacked even a fraction of the immense power the Grandmaster wielded. He favoured the well-connected and shunned those who lacked powerful families or skills he could use to benefit himself. But then, perhaps it was not surprising. For someone who was secure in his life, holding one of the most prestigious posts in the world, Boscha could be surprisingly insecure at times. Perhaps the rumours of something inhuman in his ancestry were actually true.

Hasdrubal frowned, inwardly, as the first set of carriages began to arrive. Some tacky and ostentatious, designed to show off the family crest and remind everyone of the family’s wealth and power; some carefully designed for simplicity, to make it clear the family saw no need to proclaim their status to all and sundry. It was hard not to feel a twinge of envy as he saw Juliet Brava, a spoilt brat with few redeeming features, get a hug from her mother before she turned and scampered into the school. The roads weren’t safe these days, even for magicians; it spoke volumes about the love the mother felt for her daughter that she’d accompanied her on the journey. Juliet didn’t know how lucky she was, to have a mother who actually cared. Hasdrubal himself had never known a mother’s love.

Boscha walked up behind him. “Is something distracting you, Master Hasdrubal?”

Hasdrubal turned to face him. His eyes had been destroyed long ago, burnt out of their sockets during an experiment he preferred to forget, but his magic still let him see the Grandmaster clearly. Boscha was tall and pale, and yet there was something about the way he held himself that made him look misshapen, as if someone had cast a particularly nasty series of limb-lengthening charms on him and the damage had never truly been repaired. His hair was dark and oily, spilling around his shoulders like liquid night; his eyes were darker still, set within a face that had more than a hint of demihuman ancestry, in that it looked subtly wrong to the human eye. There were all sorts of rumours about his early life, rumours that refused to die no matter how many harsh punishments were handed down to rumourmongers. His angry reaction to questions about his ancestry didn’t put the rumours to rest. It just suggested there was some truth buried under the bovine faecal matter.

“There are fewer students than there should be, Grandmaster,” Hasdrubal said. There were at least seventy carriages in plain sight, but there should have been more. Last year, there had been disputes over who had precedence to enter the courtyard first. “How many families are keeping their children home?”

“Too many,” Boscha said. His eyes lingered on the scene below for a long moment, then he turned and stalked back to the table. “Come. Sit. I won’t keep you long.”

Hasdrubal kept his response to that to himself. Boscha was known for being unreasonable for all sorts of reasons. He played favourites, promoting his toadies and excusing students he felt might be of use to him, rather than upholding the school’s famed neutrality. He issued detentions that would make a royal torturer blanch, insisting—when challenged, which happened rarely—that they built character. He turned a blind eye to rampant bullying, corruption and outright criminality, spending most of his days playing politics while using the school as a personal—and heavily warded—fortress. Worst of all, he held very long and boring staff meetings. 

Personally, Hasdrubal thought they were cruel, unusual, and extremely sadistic punishment.

He sat, facing Mistress Constance. The older woman, prim and proper as always, looked as if she would sooner be somewhere, anywhere, else. Her angular face was framed with greying hair, tied up neatly in a bun; it was odd, despite nearly seven years on the job, to see her as a peer rather than a tutor. She’d drilled Hasdrubal and his brothers in alchemy, running her class with brutal efficiency and never letting anyone get away with anything. Beside her, Mistress Pepper winked at Hasdrubal. She was far closer to Hasdrubal in age and one of the few he could call a true friend. It helped that she had even less patience for the Grandmaster’s speeches.

Boscha cleared his throat. “The world is changing,” he said. “And we must embrace it.”

Hasdrubal tried not to groan as he kept talking, hitting his senior tutors with an endless series of platitudes that meant—as far as Hasdrubal could tell—very little. Boscha had a plummy aristocratic voice that grated on Hasdrubal’s nerves, a grim reminder of his dear Uncle Mago, and made Hasdrubal want to cast all sorts of nasty charms on Boscha. Or rip out his tongue. He’d never met anyone who was as fond of the sound of his own voice as Boscha, and he’d grown up as part of House Barca, a family known for their egos. They were still sneering at House Ashworth for being able to trace its bloodline back only five thousand years. Personally, Hasdrubal thought the records had been faked years ago, and nothing older than a few hundred years was reliable, but there was nothing to be gained from arguing. Uncle Mago had thrown a fit when he’d dared ask how reliable the ten-thousand-year-old records actually were.

He should have been a tutor, Hasdrubal thought. The students would eat him alive.

“The old order is gone,” Boscha continued. “It falls to us to consider what shape the new order should take.”

Well, Hasdrubal thought. Of course.

“We must take this opportunity in both hands and seize it,” Boscha continued. “Both for ourselves, and for the good of our community.”

Hasdrubal wished, suddenly, that Boscha had given the speech in front of the students. Someone would have hurled a tomato by now, even though the student would then have been flogged to within an inch of his life and whatever was left of him put in the stocks. Students had low boredom thresholds, particularly when it came to kneeling on the stone floor in a manner that was pretty much a stress position, and Hasdrubal couldn’t blame one or more for lashing out. Perhaps he would volunteer to administer their punishment himself, so he could take them somewhere that sounded unpleasant but was nothing of the sort. Maybe he could convince the Grandmaster that a few hours in the White City, attending pointless meetings, was sufficient. But Hasdrubal doubted he’d get the joke. 

Or he would, Hasdrubal reflected. He just wouldn’t see it as a comment on him.

“There are matters that need to be attended to,” Boscha said. “And I’m sure we are in agreement on this point.”

“Quite,” Madame Clover said. Hasdrubal was surprised she’d managed to get a word in before Boscha found something else meaningless to say. “We need to do something about students getting injured by other students. And quickly.”

Hasdrubal winced, inwardly. Whitehall had always been a rough place—students had been establishing the pecking order since the school’s founding, through force of magic, intimidation and breeding—but it had been getting worse recently as the chaos outside the walls started to spill into the school. He and his brothers had been lucky. The four young men had watched each other’s backs, and they’d had the advantage of growing up in a magical household, but other students—particularly the newborns—weren’t so lucky. A student who didn’t even know he had magic a year ago was hellishly vulnerable, when he found himself in Whitehall. On paper, he’d come into his magic at the same time as his peers. In practice, he was so far behind that catching up was incredibly difficult. They tended to find themselves slaving for the older boys. It was the only way to get some protection.

Hasdrubal had always felt sorry for those boys and done what he could to help. But it hadn’t been enough.

“Boys will be boys,” Boscha said, dismissively. “It is of no concern as long as it doesn’t impede their learning …”

Madame Clover cut him off. Hasdrubal admired her bravery. Very few people would dare lay a hand on a healer, or hurl a spell, but it was still risky to interrupt her superior. Boscha had quite a few ways to get back at her without making it obvious. Or he might just start looking for a replacement.

“The problem is getting out of hand,” Madame Clover snapped. “The day we broke up for summer, I had nine students in the infirmary, all hexed well beyond the point they could heal themselves, and a girl someone had slipped a love potion! She was lucky, sir, that her friend realised the problem and dragged her to me for a curative before it was too late. She could have been raped!”

Hasdrubal shuddered. Love—lust—potions were nasty. The basic brews would turn their victim into a mindless creature, lost to reason as they tried to satisfy their lusts … with consequences that could easily be imagined. The more advanced and dangerous brews were far worse. The victim would become obsessed, either submitting themselves to the brewer or taking them by force. There were horror stories about people who’d meddled with such potions and wound up hurt, or dead. None of them were particularly reassuring. How could they be?

“It will teach her a useful lesson,” Boscha said. “She could have checked her drink for potion before taking a sip.”

Madame Clover glared. “That same week, I also had twenty servants who’d been hexed or cursed,” she raged. “Two manservants were turned into toads, a maid was trapped in a mirror, and another spelled into walking around naked …”

Boscha shrugged, as dismissively as before. “They knew the risks when they chose to work here,” he said. “There’s no shortage of people willing to take their place.”

The worst of it, Hasdrubal reflected, was that Boscha was likely right. Whitehall was a dangerous place to work, if you lacked magic, but the wages were high, and you got your basic needs met, letting you save your money instead of spending it on food, drink and somewhere to sleep. It said something about magical society, Hasdrubal supposed, that while the senior families found magical abuse of mundanes to be contemptible, they rarely bothered to do anything about it. Boscha was unlikely to face any rebukes for not cracking down hard on students who abused the staff. It was much more likely he’d be scolded for cracking down. And yet, he had the power to tell the whiners to get lost. He just had to use it.

No one in their right mind wants their children to learn bad habits, Hasdrubal thought, crossly. They’ll reflect badly on their parents.

“The point, sir, is that we are allowing some of our students to run rampant,” Madame Clover insisted. “And it is going to bite us.”

“It is vitally important we encourage them to develop their powers,” Boscha said, tartly. “That which doesn’t kill them makes them strong.”

“That which doesn’t kill can still inflict a great deal of harm,” Madame Clover countered. “It is only a matter of time, sir, before someone winds up dead!”

“Or broken,” Hasdrubal added. “There’s no point in fighting if you can’t win.”

Boscha gave him a sharp look. Hasdrubal looked back evenly. He’d met serfs on their plantation fields, working their asses off to grow a tiny crop … serfs who were so battered by their masters that they couldn’t even raise a hand to defend themselves or their wives and daughters. They lived in the mud from birth to death, unable to stand up for themselves. They had legal rights, true, but they couldn’t claim them. Their masters would crush them if they tried. And so they just trudged their way through life.

“They can win,” Boscha said. “If they apply themselves …”

“They keep getting knocked down,” Hasdrubal said. “At some point, after being knocked down repeatedly, you start wondering if you should bother getting up again.”

Boscha didn’t seem impressed. Hasdrubal sighed inwardly. He knew how Boscha felt. It was hard, almost impossible, to understate the gulf between a magician born into an old and powerful family and a magician who was the first in his family. The former knew enough theory to be able to put it into use, when he came into his magic; the latter was learning from scratch, forcing him to scramble to catch up before it was too late. It was like pitting a toddler against a grown man and expecting the toddler to win. Worse, perhaps. It was like migrating to a city-state and discovering, too late, that the rules were different, and your opponents knew how to manipulate them to best advantage.

Heads, I win, Hasdrubal thought, tiredly. Tails, you lose.

“That speaks to a weakness in their character,” Boscha said, finally. “They must develop their character, and their ability to handle the ups and downs of life, before they start tackling the more advanced magics. An untrained magician incapable of doing so becomes a major threat, as you know. You’ve certainly killed enough of them.”

Hasdrubal raised his head proudly and looked at Boscha. “Twelve years ago, I killed a magician who went mad because he was mistreated,” Hasdrubal said. It was true, if one overlooked a few minor details. “He had to die. At that point, he was a maddened creature who couldn’t be redeemed, who posed a danger so great that imprisoning him was not an option. But that doesn’t excuse the way he was treated.”

Boscha looked back at him. “I was treated poorly until I proved myself, too,” he said, flatly. “I turned out all right.”

“And if you were treated poorly and still say that,” Hasdrubal snapped, “it’s proof you didn’t turn out all right.”

Magic spiked. Hasdrubal thought, for a moment, that Boscha was going to start a fight. What Hasdrubal said had been cutting and unpleasant, the sort of thing Boscha could use to justify cursing him into next week if he didn’t back down and grovel … Hasdrubal gritted his teeth, readying himself. Boscha wasn’t a weakling—he couldn’t have held the wards if he wasn’t amongst the most puissant magicians in the world—but Hasdrubal had a lot of combat experience, particularly at knife-range. He was fairly sure Boscha was nowhere near as skilled. His career before Whitehall was something of a mystery—there were students who thought Boscha was a homunculus—but he’d never given the impression of having any combat experience. Indeed, the fact he constantly harped on his position was a very strong sign he didn’t feel particularly secure.

“The problem is spreading to my classes,” Mistress Constance said, before it was too late. “Last term, I had to discipline both Adrian and Walter for throwing dragon’s root into another student’s cauldron, causing an explosion that could have wounded or killed half the class. Frankly, I am on the verge of banning both students permanently. Alchemy is dangerous enough at the best of times, when everyone is behaving themselves, and those students are going to get someone killed.”

Hasdrubal kept his face impassive with an effort. Adrian of House Rawlins and Walter of House Ashworth had been friends practically since birth, two handsome and cocky young men who would have gone far, if they hadn’t turned their magical talent to making everyone else’s lives miserable. They knew better than to cause trouble in his class, thankfully, but everywhere else … they and their toadies, Jacky McBrayer and Stephen Root, caused havoc. Hasdrubal lived in hope that, one day, they would cross the line to the point they could be expelled. But they were good at making themselves appear innocent …

“I believed we discussed the matter at the time,” Boscha said. “They insisted it was an accident.”

“An accident,” Mistress Constance repeated. Hasdrubal could hear the sneer in her voice. “A piece of root accidentally levitating itself into the air, and accidentally flying across the chamber and accidentally splashing into another student’s cauldron and triggering a reaction … all accidentally?”

“Unless you have clear proof it was done with murderous intent, you cannot bar them from your classes,” Boscha said. “There are rules …”

Mistress Constance fixed him with a stern look. Hasdrubal had to admire Boscha’s nerve, if nothing else. Mistress Constance was a skilled alchemist as well as a powerful magician, and she hadn’t risen to the top of her profession without being extremely driven. If she’d been looking at him like that, Hasdrubal would have feared for his life. 

“They are undisciplined, arrogant, and rude,” Mistress Constance said, coldly. “And foolish, too.”

Hasdrubal felt a stab of sympathy. It was rare for someone to openly look down on a sorceress for being female—it was a good way to end up a toad—and no one did it twice, but Adrian and Walter were disrespectful as hell. Hasdrubal knew their fathers. The poisoned apples hadn’t fallen too far from the tree. Boscha might not take the disrespect seriously—he might not even be aware it was there—but Mistress Constance had no choice. And she couldn’t teach the little brats the lesson they so sorely needed.

“They are also talented young lads with astonishing potential,” Boscha said. “They just need some proper guidance.”

“So give it to them,” Mistress Constance said. “Or tell their parents to send them to Stronghold.”

“Or to Widow’s Peak,” Hasdrubal muttered. The fact there was a necromancer squatting in the old fortress wasn’t a problem. Adrian and Walter might think highly of themselves, and they did have quite a bit to brag about, but a necromancer would have no trouble turning them both into a quick snack. “Why not …”

Boscha gave him a sharp look. “We are here for the benefit of all students, Master Hasdrubal.”

“Some students are beyond saving,” Hasdrubal pointed out.

“They said the same of you and your brothers,” Boscha countered. “And that means …”

There was a sharp tap at the door, which opened to reveal Daphne. The Grandmaster’s assistant stepped inside and dropped a neat little curtsey, then went to one knee as she waited to be acknowledged, keeping her eyes firmly lowered. Hasdrubal studied her warily. She looked young, and there was no shortage of rumours about just why she’d gotten the job, but Hasdrubal knew there was more to her than met the eye. She had a reputation as a backstabbing sneak who could be relied upon to tattle to her boss if someone did something, anything, Boscha could hold against them. She hadn’t changed a bit since they’d been in school together.

Boscha glanced at her. “Yes?”

Daphne cleared her throat. “Sir, you have a meeting with Lord Archibald Rawlins in ten minutes.”

Boscha nodded. It looked as if he was glad of the interruption. “We’ll continue to discuss the matter later,” he said. 

Hasdrubal wondered, idly, what matter? Adrian and Walter … or whatever he’d intended to discuss when he called the meeting? Two hours sitting at the table … for what? Hasdrubal still didn’t know. If it turned out to be something minor, after all that, he was going to be pissed!

The Grandmaster stood and left the room, Daphne following him like a puppy. Hasdrubal stood himself, exchanging brief looks with the others. They’d had their differences over the last few years, but few liked Boscha. Or his willingness to tolerate the intolerable. He made a mental note to ask Mistress Constance or Mistress Pepper for a drink later, in his quarters. If nothing else, they could compare notes and see if they could determine just what their lord and master was doing this time.

It nagged at him as he stepped through the door and headed down the maze of stairs and corridors to his classroom. Boscha … was a puzzle. Hasdrubal didn’t pretend to understand what the Grandmaster was thinking. He’d known people from all walks of life, from commoner-born serfs and merchants to princes, kings and magicians, but Boscha didn’t fit any pattern. Perhaps he really was a homunculus. Or a dragon in disguise. Stranger things had happened. Or so he’d been told.

And like it or not, change is coming, he reflected sourly. We have to be ready.

Chapter Two

“Alan!”

Alan Serfson breathed a sigh of relief as he saw Irene Roper hurrying towards him, her long brown hair flowing in the breeze. She was his only friend, even after four years at Whitehall, and he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that her parents disapproved of their friendship. If she hadn’t had magic, if he hadn’t had magic, they would have been separated—by force, if need be. He was the bastard son of a prostitute, his father a mystery; the orphanage had practically sold him to one of the farms outside Dragon’s Den as a fieldworker, where he would have stayed as a de facto serf for the rest of his life if he hadn’t tested positive for magic. She was a carpenter’s daughter, one rung on the social ladder above him. They weren’t supposed to be friends. Her parents feared he’d drag her down. And the worst of it was he couldn’t blame them.

Irene smiled and gave him a quick hug. The sight of her always took his breath away. She really was beautiful, her brown hair and brown eyes making her stand out even in a field crammed with aristocratic girls who could afford any kind of cosmetic treatment or cast any kind of glamour they liked. There was no one in the school who could hold a candle to her, in his eyes, and she drew all kinds of attention from other boys and girls alike. It was a minor miracle she chose to spend time with him, when there were so many others. Perhaps it was enough for her that they came from the same town, or perhaps … no. He knew better than even to hope she might like him.

She stepped back as a pair of carriages rushed past them, the drivers cracking the whips so hard Alan felt sorry for the poor horses. They probably wanted to make sure they got to the school quickly and dropped their charges off, before their company became too much to bear. Alan had yet to meet a single decent aristocrat in his entire life, and he would sooner have spent his life as a mercenary than work for them as a career. There was nothing wrong with hard labour, but doing it for men who thought his birth made him lesser was just galling. He wanted to be something more than just a servant. Or a serf.

Irene scowled as the carriages vanished in the distance, then looked at him. “How were your hols?”

Alan felt a flash of the old resentment. Irene didn’t understand. How could she? She had a loving pair of parents, who gave her no more chores than the average girl-child. She hadn’t had to work from dawn till dusk, tending the fields, hewing wood and drawing water and every other task his master could find for him, making it impossible for him to study magic over the holidays. The terms of his indenture were quite clear. He wasn’t allowed to use magic outside school until he graduated, not even to support or defend himself. There was going to be a reckoning, he promised himself, when he finally left school. His bastard of a master was going to spend the rest of his days croaking on a lily pad.

“It was fine,” he lied, vaguely. Irene didn’t need to understand the true brutality of his life. She had never seen the scars marring his back and buttocks, nor had she realised he could be beaten for any—or no—reason at all. “I did a lot of work.”

Irene looked him up and down, her eyes worried. “You’re looking well, at least.”

“I was outside most of the time,” Alan said. He’d soaked up a great deal of sun—and, thankfully, his master saw the value of not starving him. There was no point in expecting him to work if he was too weak to do the work. “You spend most of your time indoors.”

“You know what Father is like,” Irene said. “Doesn’t want me to go outside without an escort.”

Alan rolled his eyes, although he understood the older man’s point. Irene was young and pretty, and there were plenty of bravos and blades in the town who would happily take advantage of her, with or without her consent. There were ever-more troops passing through as the old order disintegrated around them, new kingdoms springing up all over—some barely lasting as long as it took to get word from one end of the continent to the other —and nothing could be taken for granted any longer. Alan didn’t care. It didn’t matter to him who ruled the world. All he wanted was to complete his final years of schooling, then move on to a glittering career far from Dragon’s Den. And to turn his former master into a frog.

“Two years left,” he said, tiredly. “Shall we go?”

Irene nodded, then walked beside him as they started up the muddy road to Whitehall School. There were no carriages for them, unless they were prepared to pay, and neither had the money. Alan was saving what few coins he’d been able to obtain over the years, keeping them well away from his master for fear they would be confiscated; Irene’s father probably couldn’t afford it either, unless he was far more successful than Alan knew, and in any case he wouldn’t. He’d told his daughter not to develop airs and graces, or ideas above her station; he feared, probably correctly, that it would be all too easy for Irene to be sucked into the aristocracy of magic and never return. It spoke volumes about his life, Alan reflected. The orphanage would be delighted to send a child into the magical community. It would be one less mouth to feed. There was no room for sentiment when you were permanently on the edge, one bad week from starving.

“Fifth year,” Irene said. “Who’ll be the prefects?”

“Walter and Adrian, probably.” It was hard to keep the snarl out of his voice. Walter was everything he wasn’t: rich, handsome, well-connected, privately educated … a sneering bully who had never missed a chance to put Alan down, right from the very first moment they’d met. Adrian, Walter’s best friend, wasn’t any better and was arguably worse. He was dangerously unpredictable. “Who else comes close to those two?”

“You’re not a bad student,” Irene pointed out. “Top of the class in Alchemy and Charms, that’s you.”

“Hah.” Alan felt another flash of resentment. He was top of the class, through working hard and spending much of his time in the library; he certainly couldn’t afford private tuition in any given subject, even from a student a year or two older than himself. Walter seemed to take it as a personal insult that a serf like Alan was actually outpointing him, which made the bullying worse. If he spent as much time studying as he did tormenting Alan, he would be right at the top of the class. He wasn’t dumb. Just mean. “You think they’d listen to me if I got the badge?”

Irene grimaced. Prefects had a difficult role, caught between the demands of being authority figures and being students. It was easy for a prefect to fall into the trap of thinking their authority made them little gods, with the power to do whatever they pleased; easy, too, for the rest of the students to keep thinking of them as peers, rather than superiors. Alan had no friends and supporters at all, apart from Irene, and part of him was sure she’d leave him if someone else made a better offer. They were only close because they shared the same hometown. There was no other reason they could be friends.

He kept the thought to himself as they walked, the air blowing hot and cold as they neared the school. The trees seemed to be growing closer to the road with every passing year, casting a long shadow over the landscape. He couldn’t help finding it ominous, even though he knew worker gangs from Dragon’s Den trimmed them back every summer to clear the road for the students. It was hard and thankless work, and he was grateful he’d been spared it for the past two years. This summer had been marked by heavy rainfall, making the task far harder than normal. The road was muddy, and puddles of water lay everywhere … he glanced up, silently assessing the chances of rain. He’d worked in the fields long enough to develop a sixth sense for weather. It felt as if it were going to rain shortly. Hopefully, they’d be in the school by the time it came tumbling down …

Something moved, behind him. Alan barely had a chance to grab Irene and yank her aside before a carriage roared past, driving right through a puddle and covering them both in muddy water. Alan swore out loud, one hand lifting into a casting pose before he caught himself. Using magic outside school, even on the way to school, was frowned upon, and the last thing he wanted was to start the year with a detention—or worse. The carriage slowed, just long enough for a head to stick itself out of the window and jeer at them. Walter. Of course it was Walter. Who else would it be?

“Knob,” Irene muttered. The water had drenched her robes, which were now clinging to her in unfortunate places. Alan looked away before she caught him staring. “Prat …”

“Hey, sweetheart,” Walter called. “You want a ride to school?”

Adrian stuck his head out of the carriage, saw Irene and wolf-whistled. “Nice tits!”

Walter elbowed him. “Come on in, the water’s fine,” he said. “We won’t hurt you.”

“You can dry off in here,” Adrian added. “Just take off your clothes and …”

Irene purpled. “Get bent, you …”

Adrian giggled, and nudged Walter. “I think she likes you.”

Alan reached for his magic, even though he knew it was dangerous as well as futile. Walter was a spoilt brat, but he was a skilled magician. Adrian was almost as good. No one would be penalising them for putting a pair of their fellow students in their place, when they were heirs to the lords and masters of the known universe and their victims so lowly they barely registered in anyone’s awareness. The driver cracked the whip before he could make the final decision, the carriage shifting into motion and rattling away up the road. Alan shook his fist after its retreating back, a surge of bitter helplessness and naked hatred running through him. He would do anything to see Walter brought down, even if it meant his own death and damnation. It was bad enough that they went after him, but going after Irene …

“Knobhead,” Irene said, squeezing the water out of her robes. They were lucky they’d left most of their supplies at school, over the summer. The robes were charmed to resist far worse than muddy water, but books were a very different story. “If he was a chicken, the fox wouldn’t eat him.”

Alan allowed himself a moment to contemplate the happy image of Walter being rendered powerless, turned into a chicken and fed to ravenous foxes, then shook his head. “Are you alright?”

“Could be better,” Irene said. “You?”

“Yeah,” Alan said. 

He bunched his fists in helpless rage. He wanted to protect his friend, yet he was powerless. It seemed a sick joke that he had magic and yet there was nothing he could do to help her. Walter wasn’t fool enough to come within punching range, and even if he did, Alan would probably be expelled for striking the Heir to the Duchy of Blank. Or whatever. Walter bragged so much it was hard to tell if he was really the heir to half the continent, as it seemed sometimes, or if he was just making it up. Alan would have bet on the latter, except the tutors gave him one hell of a lot of leeway. They wouldn’t do that for anyone who didn’t stand in line to inherit more land and power than common sense. 

“Two more years,” he muttered, as they resumed their walk. He ignored the water dripping from his robes. They’d seen worse, over the years. They would either dry up during the walk or he’d be able to dry them once he reached the school, using one of the housekeeping spells he’d mastered over the years. Walter had made fun of him for that, but Walter was used to having a small army of servants shadowing his every move and cleaning up his messes. “Two more years.”

“Yeah.” Irene took his hand and squeezed it lightly. “Two more years.”

***

“I think she likes you,” Adrian said, as he settled back into his chair. “You just need to get rid of the serf first.”

Walter scowled. He couldn’t pinpoint the moment when he’d realised he desired Irene, for all that she was a common-born magician from a decidedly common family. She was beautiful and clever and really quite charming, when she felt the urge to be. Her background was unfortunate, and normally Walter wouldn’t be allowed to take her as anything other than a mistress, but the old order was passing away—he’d heard his old man declaim on the subject time and time again—and surely that meant the old rules were passing away too. It wouldn’t be that hard to train her up, to give her lessons to hide her origins; the combination of her beauty and his family name would be quite enough to keep tongues from wagging, as long as she behaved herself.

And yet, she was a commoner …

He felt a surge of disgust as he contemplated the odd little mongrel who’d walked beside her. Alan Serfson—the surname wasn’t even a family name, just a reminder of someone who was one step above the gutter—had no father, no mother and nothing, certainly nothing that should interest a girl like Irene. And yet, she was a commoner too … it was hard to reconcile his desire for her, his urge to bed her and have done with it, with his belief neither she nor Alan should be anywhere near Whitehall. They were the wrong sort, commoners who had lucked into magic rather than aristocrats of good breeding. It felt wrong to lust after her, and yet he did. It felt even worse that she paid so much attention to Alan, of all people. He was even lower on the social scale than herself.

“The sooner I put him in his place, the better,” he muttered. “And then she’ll see sense …”

“And open her legs for you,” Adrian finished. “Lay her and then let her go.”

Walter scowled. Adrian was his best friend, practically his brother, and yet … he could be remarkably crude at times. Walter wanted more than just a quick lay and yet … he shook his head in dark amusement. The sooner he found a solution, the sooner he put the pair of them firmly in their places—Alan in the gutter, Irene on her knees in front of him—the better. And then everything would be as it should be.

“I heard a rumour that commoner students are going to be banned,” Adrian said. His parents were even more well-connected than Walter’s, which was remarkable given that House Ashworth was one of the most powerful clans in the magical community. “Unless they find a proper patron, of course. You could offer her your patronage in exchange for some fun.”

Walter shrugged. It would be difficult if all the commoner students were expelled. Who would fag for the aristocrats, if there were no more commoners? Who would fawn on them, who would praise their feats and provide cover for their exploits? Who would run and fetch anything their senior desired, who would warm a toilet seat for their master so he didn’t have to freeze his bum …? Perhaps just the arrogant commoners could be expelled, the ones too dumb to realise they were on the bottom and would never be anywhere else. The rest could stay. Or go to a lesser establishment. Whitehall was a linchpin of the magical community and would remain so. 

The carriage rattled as it passed through the gates and into the courtyard, coming to a stop right outside the entrance. Walter stood and opened the doors, jumping down and nodding to himself as he saw Jacky McBrayer and Stephen Root waiting for them. They were nothing more than toadies, lesser aristocrats who had hitched their education to his in exchange for later patronage; they might consider themselves his friends, but to him they were little more than unpaid servants who would do anything he asked. And whatever they thought they’d been promised, he saw no reason to give it. They were not worthy.

Jacky, a weedy young man, stepped forward. His voice was just a little too eager. “Did you have a good holiday, My Lord?”

Walter strode forward into the Great Hall, ignoring him. The rest of the students were already gathering, save for a few stragglers like Irene and Alan Serfson. They were forming into groups, each one a tiny reflection of greater power struggles outside the wards. The Wolves kept their distance from the Bloodworms; the Siroccos glowered at the Milos and their clients, ready to fight the moment anyone started casting spells. There was a nasty edge to the air, a hint of imminent conflict. Walter allowed himself a tight smile as his allies joined him. There were times, his father had been known to complain, when you couldn’t cough for fear someone would take it as a sign to start something violent. Walter had thought he was exaggerating at the time. He knew better now.

But it doesn’t matter, he told himself firmly. He was an Ashworth and that, in the end, was all that mattered. We will always come out on top.

Chapter Three

Irene would never admit it, certainly not to him, but she was worried about Alan.

Their friendship had come about by accident, and probably would never have happened if they hadn’t attended the same school, but she’d grown to care about him a great deal in the last four years. It wasn’t easy to say why, even when her father had threatened to belt or switch her for spending time with a lad so far beneath her that any sort of relationship would be bound to drag her down. Alan wasn’t always a nice person, at least on the surface; he had a bitter and sardonic view of the world, always ready to ascribe the worst possible motivations to anyone who happened to be nice to him. She could have walked right past him, her nose high in the air, and yet she hadn’t. She’d taken the time to get to know him and discovered he had both a good heart, which made him head and shoulders above just about everyone else, and a drive to succeed that dwarfed hers. But then, she could go back to her family, accept an arranged marriage and spend the rest of her life as just another goodwoman. Alan didn’t have that option.

She felt the remnants of the water trickling down her body and pooling in her boots as they crossed the outermost wardlines and stepped into the school grounds. A dozen or more coaches and carriages were grouped outside the main entrance, their drivers engaged in loud arguments over just which aristocrat had the right to disembark first … she tried not to snort in disgust at their nonsense, even as she led the way to the side entrance. It might be the servant’s entrance—de facto if not de jure—but she wasn’t too proud to use it. There was nothing to be gained by fighting her way through the crush at the main doors, not when she was a commoner. She knew too many aristocrats, high above her and yet still very low on the social scale, who wouldn’t hesitate to make themselves feel better by trying to put her in her place. And if she pushed back too hard, their friends would pile on too.

Alan said nothing as she opened the door and led the way through a maze of corridors, a sure sign he was brooding. Irene wanted to give him a hug, and she would have if he’d been her brother or cousin, but Alan disliked being touched that openly, so she refrained. She didn’t blame him. She’d seen the bruises on his back and … she shuddered, helplessly. Her parents had never hesitated to beat her when she misbehaved, and she hated the combination of pain and humiliation with a white-hot fury, but Alan had been tortured. His master didn’t see him as a son, or even a worker, but a beast of burden. And there was nothing she could do about it. Alan was too prickly to react well to her trying to do anything. She didn’t even think he knew she’d seen the scars.

“Here we go,” she muttered. “Good luck.”

“There’s no such thing,” Alan muttered back, as she pushed the door open and led the way into the Great Hall. “You know better than that.”

Irene was tempted to say something cutting, but the sight of the Great Hall—as always—took her breath away. The space was vast, bigger than humanly possible; hundreds of lightglobes hovered overhead, casting an eerie radiance over the scene. The students of Whitehall were gathering in front of her, waiting to hear from their tutors; she felt her heart sink, despite the elegance surrounding her, as she noticed the factions taking shape in front of her. The aristocrats—magical and mundane—were banding together, the commoners either joining their patrons or standing alone, a prize for whoever won the coming war. There was a nasty vibe to the air, a sense that violence could break out at any moment; she shuddered, helplessly, as she spotted Walter, surrounded by his cronies, smirking as he eyed the growing crowd. He seemed utterly unthreatened by the bad feeling in the air.

“Bastard,” she muttered. Her father would beat her if he heard her using that word; her mother would wash her mouth out with soap. She didn’t care. There was no lesser word suitable for a bullying leering rectum like him. “If he …”

A ripple ran through the air. She looked up, towards the stage. Grandmaster Boscha stood at the podium, gazing down on his students. Irene tried not to shiver. Boscha was just … wrong, in so many ways. He was a powerful magician, and yet he fawned upon the well-connected students, overlooking their japes and pranks but coming down like a ton of bricks on any commoner student who dared step out of line. His appearance didn’t help. They called him the crookered man, with reason. Irene had no idea what had entered his bloodline, or why, but he clearly wasn’t wholly human. He looked like a humanoid grasshopper trying hard to pretend to be human.

She felt Alan bristle beside her and squeezed his hand again. Alan had never liked the Grandmaster. Irene didn’t blame him. She didn’t like the man much either.

The rest of the tutors stood around the hall, some looking ready to trap the students in the chamber and the others seeming ready to run. The former held thin canes in their hands, symbols of their authority as much as instruments of ass destruction. Irene had always thought it a little puerile for the tutors to brandish their weapons so openly, when they each had enough power in their fingertips to make anyone who annoyed them regret it, but she wasn’t daft enough to say so out loud. She’d been caned twice in her schooling, and she had no intention of giving anyone a chance to cane her a third time.

Grandmaster Boscha cleared his throat. “Welcome back to yet another year at Whitehall School,” he said, his voice thin and reedy and lacking in the power she’d come to expect from senior tutors. “Those of you who are politically aware will know the world is changing, and we must change with it. The old rules no longer apply in most cases and the new rules are still being devised.”

Irene didn’t know what he meant, but it didn’t sound good. She’d been ten years old when the Final Emperor died—there were hundreds of stories of just how he’d died, each one crazier than the last—and since then, the Empire had been slowly disintegrating. Being trapped in Dragon’s Den had isolated her from the rumour network flowing through Whitehall, but she’d seen the troops moving through the town and heard whispers that came and went so rapidly it was hard to tell which ones might be true. There was an Imperial Heir. No there wasn’t. There were several Imperial Heirs, readying themselves to fight for the throne. There were …

“There will be changes over the coming weeks and months,” Boscha continued. “Some aspects of the school will be reformed, to bring it into the modern era. Other aspects will be discarded as we feel our way into an uncertain future. You may welcome these changes, as they come into plain view, or you may feel as though those changes threaten your future. It does not matter. Our priority is to secure the future of the school. We hope you will always have a place here. But if you choose to leave …”

Alan put his lips close to her ears. “He’s going to kick us out, bet you.”

Irene scowled. It hadn’t been easy for her to win a scholarship—and Alan had had a far harder time of it. It wasn’t just the money, but the need to purchase everything from robes to school textbooks that made attending the school so difficult. Walter and his cronies could purchase the very best of everything with pocket change, while they had to scrimp and save and buy as much as possible second-hand. And they’d still had to make use of various funding schemes to ensure they were properly equipped.

And Walter keeps saying we don’t belong here, she thought, numbly. What if all this is just a prelude to kicking us out?

She felt her heart sink. She loved magic. She was good at magic. And yet, she couldn’t practice legally until she graduated, and if she wasn’t allowed to graduate … she knew she could leave, practice magic beyond the Empire’s ken, but it would be a life always on the run, always looking over her shoulder for the Witchhunters. The Empire took a dim view of unauthorised magic. She doubted that would change, no matter what happened to the Empire itself. The magical aristocracy didn’t want competition.

“No bet,” she muttered back.

Boscha kept speaking, saying much without saying very much at all. She wondered, as her head started to ache, if he was going to get to the point before nightfall or if he was just going to go on and on until his body collapsed through lack of sleep. She risked looking around and spotted a number of younger students looking thoroughly bored and a couple of older students exchanging rude messages through sign language. Walter himself was watching Boscha, a faintly amused smile dancing over his lips. Irene guessed Walter had some idea of what was coming, even though she was starting to suspect Boscha himself didn’t. It wouldn’t surprise her. She’d looked into Walter’s background and … well, while it wasn’t as impressive as he’d claimed, it was still pretty darn impressive. He stood to inherit control of an entire clan of magicians. If she’d been more interested in social climbing than making something of herself, she might have tried to befriend him. But she knew what happened to commoners who tried to get too close to the aristocracy. They got burnt.

“And so we will march towards the future, with our eyes open wide,” Boscha finished. Irene hoped he knew what he’d been talking about, because she didn’t. “It will be a grand future for our school.”

He paused. “There is one final matter that must be addressed. The fifth year prefects.”

Irene braced herself for bad news. There were traditionally four prefects chosen from each of the upper years, two male and two female, and they were almost always scions of the aristocracy. In theory, from what she’d heard, they were supposed to be great leaders of men—it was funny they were never credited with being leaders of women—and could be relied upon to do their duty; in practice, they veered between unpleasant rectums and really unpleasant rectums. She made a mental bet with herself that Walter would be chosen, perhaps alongside Sigrún and … she wasn’t sure who else. The Grandmaster wasn’t supposed to take political issues into account, when he made his choice, but everyone knew it happened anyway.

“It is never easy to make a choice between so many deserving candidates,” Boscha continued. “The prefects are the voice of the Grandmaster. They must be obeyed.”

“As long as they’re watching,” Alan muttered, snidely. “Do you think he gets to keep all the bribes or just the ones from the successful prefect’s family?”

Irene had no idea, although she suspected bribery would be a better way of choosing the candidates than anything else. With only four slots open and nearly a hundred possible candidates, there was no choice Boscha could make that wouldn’t offend someone … and that someone wouldn’t hesitate to make his feelings known. Or hers … in her experience, it was often the aristocratic women who took the lead when it came to battling for status, for their children if not for themselves. She didn’t envy the Grandmaster his choice. No matter what, someone was going to be pissed.

“First, we have Walter from House Ashworth,” Boscha said. There was a round of applause, mainly from Walter’s cronies and students who couldn’t really afford to offend him. Walter walked forward, grinning and waving cheerfully … as if he'd just scored yet another goal on the playing field. “Second, Adrian of House Rawlins.”

“Interesting,” Alan muttered, as a second round of applause split the air. “They should know better than to make the applause sound rehearsed.”

Irene had to smile, although … the political implications were odd. Ashworth was a powerful house and closely allied with Rawlings, which meant Boscha was putting a hell of a lot of power in the hands of a single faction instead of spreading it a little more evenly. He’d have to choose the girls very carefully if he wanted to balance it out, which meant … she shrugged. It didn’t matter to her. She’d have to keep her head down no matter whose family had offered the biggest bribes. And so would Alan.

“Third, we have Sigrún of House Sirocco,” Boscha continued. That was another interesting choice. House Sirocco was trying hard to stay neutral, and Sigrún herself had done a very good job of it. She might have made a better choice if Boscha hadn’t chosen both Walter and Adrian … Irene didn’t know what it meant. 

“And finally, we have Irene, Daughter of Tomas.”

Irene blinked. What?

“Irene,” Boscha said. “Come forward.”

Irene had to force her legs to move. A faint titter ran through the crowd as she stumbled forward and up onto the stage. Walter gallantly held out his hand in a very ungallant gesture indeed; Irene glared at him, realising too late she’d been manipulated into making a mistake. And there had been no good outcomes. If she’d taken his hand instead, she would have looked like yet another client submitting to her patron. Her master.

She forced herself to stand beside Boscha, feeling uncomfortably naked even though she was fully dressed. It hadn’t escaped her notice that hardly anyone, even her fellow commoners, had clapped for her. The Grandmaster had put her out on a limb and was busy sawing off the branch behind her … why? Walter had a powerful family and could count on support from his clients; she had no one, except perhaps Alan, and he couldn’t provide even a fraction of the support Walter could expect. And that meant …

“I have faith the four chosen prefects will handle their new roles perfectly,” Boscha finished, his words echoing around the chamber. “You may now head to the dorms and collect your room assignments from the dorm mothers and fathers. Dinner will be served as normal in the Dining Hall; lessons will start tomorrow, so make sure to pick up your timetables before class. Prefects, remain behind. The rest of you; dismissed.”

He turned as the students started flowing out the doors, heading up to the dorms. “This way.”

Walter nudged Irene as the Grandmaster led them into a sideroom. “It looks like we’ll be working together.”

“Great,” Irene said, sarcastically.

Walter smiled, brightly. “It is, isn’t it?”

She swallowed the response that came to mind as Boscha motioned for the four new prefects to sit, then handed out the badges. They were simple gold coins, marked with the school’s insignia and a rune she didn’t recognise, yet the mere act of pinning her badge on her chest made it feel real. She’d wondered if it was a joke, no matter how much face the Grandmaster would lose by changing his mind so rapidly. And yet … why her?

“This will not be an easy year,” Boscha said. “The political situation is uncertain, to say the least, and many families are thinking twice about allowing their children out of their mansions, let alone allowing them to attend school. Your role as prefects is mainly to keep the peace, which means tapping down any conflicts between the various factions with neither fear nor favour. You are authorised to administer corporal punishment, if need be, as well as assign detentions and other punishments. If you encounter something more grave than normal misbehaviour, you are required to report it to the tutors. We are relying on you to use your judgement to determine what should be reported, and what shouldn’t.”

Sigrún looked irked. Irene tended to agree. Getting a reputation as a sneak would end one’s social life at Whitehall beyond all hope of repair, even if one was obliged to report anything beyond the pale to the tutors. Or if what one was reporting was something that really had to be reported. Boscha had just set them up for failure, if they made a mistake. Or even if they didn’t.

“You will be called upon to patrol the school regularly,” Boscha continued. “Your lessons and meal schedules will be adjusted to compensate. Should you encounter misbehaviour, you will deal with it appropriately. Again, we are relying on you to use your judgement. If you have doubts, raise them with the older prefects first.”

“Yes, sir,” Walter said. “We won’t let you down!”

“Glad to hear it,” Boscha said. “Now, you may head to your dorms. You will start your duties tomorrow.”

Irene frowned as he turned and swept out of the chamber. Why her? Why …?

Walter came up behind her. “We’ll be spending a lot of time together,” he said. “Perhaps you could join me for a drink …”

“I’m late for a very important appointment,” Irene said, curtly. It wasn’t entirely a lie. If she left her new roommate, whoever she was, alone for too long, she’d have the entire room arranged to her own liking by the time Irene arrived. “I’ll see you later, I am sure.”

Walter gave her a sharp look. “I can open many doors for you …”

Irene met his eyes. “And I have no time for you,” she said. She didn’t understand Walter, and she didn’t care to. “Bye.”

“I’ll see you later,” Walter said, with a wave.

Not, she thought as she walked away, feeling his eyes boring into the back of her head, if I see you first.

Chapter Four

“Why her?”

Hasdrubal poured himself a drink, then passed the bottle to Mistress Constance once she’d finished checking the wards he’d woven around his chambers. There was little real privacy in the school, unless one happened to be a charmsmaster, and Hasdrubal had been through too much to believe Boscha would respect his privacy if he felt the need to challenge it. There’d been at least one scandal, hushed up at the time, in which a Grandmaster had used the wards to spy on his female students, and there was no reason it couldn’t happen again. Hell, a case could be made he had the legal right to spy on his staff.

“She is a bright student,” Mistress Pepper said. “But you’re right. She is an odd choice.”

Hasdrubal raised his glass to her, then sipped. She was sitting on the sofa, legs curled under her to give the impression of a cat at rest. She was a couple of years younger than him, with raven-dark hair and a face that showed more character than classical beauty. It was hard to believe, sometimes, that she was a defence mistress, and there was always at least one student, every year, who challenged her openly, assuming she couldn’t possibly do anything to them. She never failed to put them in their place. Hasdrubal might have been tempted to court her, if things had been different. The curse etched into his body suggested it would be a very bad idea.

“She is an excellent charms student, as you know,” Mistress Constance said. “But outside formal education, she is a very odd choice indeed.”

“Yes.” Hasdrubal studied his glass thoughtfully. “She’s pretty much at the bottom of the social hierarchy in her year.”

He frowned, unwillingly recalling the issues that came with being a bastard son—legally speaking—of a magical aristocrat with plenty of magic, bottomless curiosity and a complete lack of scruples when it came to asking what would happen if I did this? Hasdrubal and his three half-brothers had been a gang in their own right, when they’d attended Whitehall, and it had saved them from the worst of the abuse other, more isolated, students faced as a matter of course. Very few had picked a fight with him, knowing that it meant picking a fight with the rest of the gang.

And most of the other candidates would have at least some support from the rest of their year, he mused. The aristocrats could call on help from the rest of their factions. But someone right at the bottom would be completely alone, no matter how talented a student they were. It was unlikely Boscha would back them, and even if he did, their authority would rest on the Grandmaster rather than their own personal charisma or magic. Why someone who cannot hope to maintain order?

“Perhaps he sees something in her,” Mistress Constance said, slowly. “If he’s looking for more clients …”

Or someone to work for him in a more … carnal … role, Hasdrubal thought, darkly. It wasn't forbidden for teachers to enter relationships with their students, as long as the students were of legal age, but it was heavily frowned upon. The magical families would be furious if their children—and magical students were technically considered children until they graduated—were seduced by their tutors, particularly if promises were exchanged before the families had a chance to assess and formalise the relationship. But what could young Irene offer him except her body?

He shook his head. Boscha wasn’t a very nice person, a crawler to those above him and a rectum to those beneath, but lechery had never been one of his character flaws. Hasdrubal had never heard any rumours about Boscha having a relationship with anyone, which spoke volumes about just how precarious his position truly was. If he were a little more stable, one of his patrons would probably have found him a bride. Perhaps he went to the brothels in Dragon’s Den—there were a pair of very high-class and utterly discreet brothels, so heavily warded that the identities of their customers were impossible to discern—but if he did, there’d been nary a whisper of it. and yet … that just added to the mystery. Why make Irene Roper, common-born Daughter of Tomas, a prefect?

“It could be political,” he mused. “Who else could have gotten the role?”

“He chose Sigrún,” Mistress Pepper pointed out. “You’d think there would be some attempt at balance.”

Hasdrubal couldn’t deny it. The prefects served for two years, unless they were removed from their post for gross misconduct … which took some doing. The mere fact that the four prefects had already been selected locked out the rest of the year, denying them the chance to serve in the role, wield authority and generally prove themselves to their peers. The magical families would be raging when they found out that one of the coveted slots had been given to a commoner, no matter how capable; if nothing else, the prefecture was heavily biased towards the Ashworth and Rawlings factions. Hasdrubal’s eyes narrowed as he contemplated the possibilities. Perhaps that was the point.

“Walter has his moments, but Adrian is a straight-out troublemaker,” Mistress Constance said, sipping her drink. “It won’t be long before Boscha regrets appointing him.”

“Boscha would sooner see the whole school burn down than admit he made a mistake,” Mistress Pepper said. “And Walter would be wiser to ditch his friend before it’s too late.”

“He won’t,” Hasdrubal predicted. “They’ve been through too much together.”

He sighed, inwardly. There was something reassuringly simple about teenage boys, particularly ones from wealthy and powerful families. They were loyal to their friends and wouldn’t dream of abandoning them, and when someone did, they were shunned even if their friend had crossed the line so badly there was little hope of coming back. Hasdrubal understood the repugnance felt for every last snitch, shared by every schoolboy and most schoolgirls, but there were limits. There were some things that could not be tolerated, some things that had to be reported to the teachers.

Yeah, he thought, sourly. And who can trust schoolboys to make those sort of judgements?

“You’d think we could have a word with them,” Mistress Constance said. “They’d listen …”

Hasdrubal doubted it. He wasn’t that much older than the students, but as far as they were concerned, he was old enough to predate Lord Whitehall himself. Mistress Constance was even older, in their eyes, and Mistress Pepper was just too attractive for the boys to take her wholly seriously, even after she’d taken them to the mat and taught them she’d earned each and every honour displayed on her classroom walls. Telling Walter he needed to ditch his friend would only make him cling closer to the wretched brat, something Hasdrubal would have considered admirable if Walter and Adrian didn’t bring out the worst in each other. It was a shame they couldn’t be separated by force, or required to work with someone—anyone—else, but Boscha would never allow it. He was too close to their families to risk offending them.

“There’s no point in telling them anything,” he said, tiredly. “They’ll never listen.”

Mistress Pepper nodded, disdainfully. “There’ll be trouble with the rest of the factions, for sure,” she said. “We’ll have to keep them apart.”

“And Boscha knows it,” Hasdrubal said. “What is he thinking?”

“Perhaps he wants to cause chaos,” Mistress Constance said. “If he does it in my class …”

Her voice was cold enough to make Hasdrubal flinch. Alchemy was never safe, even when the students received one-to-one tutoring by expert alchemists. Mistress Constance ruled her class with a rod of iron, sending anyone who dared cause trouble to the Warden without hesitation, but there was always someone looking to find ways to make cauldrons explode or scatter their contents across the room. A quick-thinking student could toss an ingredient into someone’s cauldron, then watch the explosion from a safe distance; someone a little sharper could pretend to do so, forcing the victim to ruin their own potion in a pointless attempt to prevent an explosion that was never going to happen. There was always someone, no matter how many students found themselves unable to sit comfortably for a week. And Walter was going to be targeted by a whole bunch of other students.

“He should have balanced the prefecture,” Hasdrubal agreed. Irene was a good student, but she wouldn’t make a good prefect. Not unless something else changed. “Why not … why not one of the other, more well-connected students?”

“He wants to flatter his patrons,” Mistress Pepper said.

Hasdrubal wasn’t so sure. “But in such a clumsy way?”

It made no sense. Sure, Walter and Adrian would be raised high if they managed to do their duties despite the enmity of two-thirds of their year, but the odds wouldn’t be in their favour. It was far more likely they’d be knocked down, time and time again, until even Boscha had to admit it wasn’t working. Perhaps that was the point, perhaps Boscha was trying to knock them down a peg or two. But why? It seemed a mad plan to ensure he wound up with no patrons at all. It just made no sense!

“I dare say we’ll find out soon enough,” Mistress Constance said. She finished her drink and placed the glass on the table. “Are there any other matters of concern, or can I go get some sleep before the rigours of the day begin?”

“Nothing, beyond resolving to keep an eye on the situation,” Hasdrubal said. “Pepper?”

“William of Glister and Alice of Heart’s Haven have been walking out together,” Pepper said, dryly. “They were briefly together last term, but today I saw them orientating on each other. I dare say sparks will be flying soon enough.”

Hasdrubal grimaced. “Teenage romance.”

“Yeah.” Pepper smiled, without real humour. “They must have managed to remain in touch over the hols.”

“I'm surprised her father allowed it,” Mistress Constance said. “Their families have been at loggerheads for decades.”

“Or maybe that’s the point,” Hasdrubal said. The aristocratic families weren’t above manipulating their children for their greater goals. “The two kids fall in love, get married without waiting for permission, the families make a big song and dance about the ungrateful brats who have just rendered a permanent victory over their eternal foes impossible, then quietly accept the whole thing as a face-saving way out of the permanent conflict.”

“I’ll keep an eye on them anyway,” Mistress Pepper said. “They may have the quiet blessings of their families, or …”

“They may not,” Hasdrubal finished. “Or they do, and someone at school doesn’t know it, and … starts something.”

He stared into his glass. His other half-brothers, the legitimate brothers, and cousins had talked a good game about defending the family honour and preserving the old decencies, which had been code for beating up anyone they didn’t like and harassing students who happened to have unfortunate family ties. Some had wound up being penalised by their own parents for interfering in adult matters, but it had never seemed enough to stop them making asses of themselves. If the Patriarchs of Glister and Heart’s Haven had quietly decided a relationship between their children was enough to put an end to an increasingly pointless feud, they were unlikely to share that little detail with the rest of the families, at least until matters had progressed too far to be stopped. And that meant all it would take to ruin the whole progress was a single idiot with more breeding than common sense.

And in this school, there is no shortage of those, he reflected, crossly. I could name a dozen who might do something stupid, entirely convinced they’re doing the right thing.

“I’ll keep an eye on them,” Mistress Pepper said. “And maybe have a private word with Alice, if it seems to be needed.”

“Don’t let Boscha catch you doing it,” Hasdrubal said. “The last thing you need is to give him an excuse to sack you and bring in one of his cronies.”

“He has cronies?” Pepper raised her eyebrows in mock disbelief. “How much do you think he’s paying them?”

Mistress Constance stood. “I’ll leave you two youngsters to stay up all night, if you feel the need,” she said, crossly. “I need my sleep. Tomorrow will not be fun.”

Pepper grinned. “If you hate kids, why are you working in a school?”

“I don’t hate kids,” Mistress Constance said. If looks could kill—and there were spells that could do just that—Pepper would be a smoking pile of ash on the sofa. Or a frog croaking on a lily pad. “I hate students who don’t follow instructions designed to keep them safe, or don’t listen in class when I’m trying to explain precisely why they shouldn’t mix two ingredients that will explode if you put them together, or … the handful of students who do listen, and show a degree of conceptual intelligence, make up for the rest. Normally.”

She nodded politely to Hasdrubal, then strode out of the door and closed it behind her. Hasdrubal checked the wards automatically, concerned the brief opening might have given someone an opportunity to insert a probe into his spellware and peek into the chambers. There was nothing … he told himself he was being paranoid, although even paranoids had enemies. Magical espionage was rife amongst sorcerers, as lesser magicians sought to unlock the secrets of their superiors, and he had enough of a reputation to merit being watched by his lessers. And Boscha might be concerned about why three of his senior tutors were meeting under a smothering blanket of wards. He’d probably suspect they were talking about him.

Pepper cleared her throat. “Why do you like teaching?”

Hasdrubal hesitated, considering his answer. It had been a job at first, one he’d been mildly surprised to receive. There’d certainly been no shortage of rumours about the incident that had killed two of his half-brothers and left the third a little unhinged. And blinded him … the spells he used to see were almost perfect, perfect enough that there were times he could forget that he was blind, but … his eyes itched. He could never quite forget.

“It’s interesting,” he said, finally. “When you have a decent student, someone willing and able to learn … someone capable of putting in the work to learn … it’s incredibly satisfying. You watch them make connections in their minds, putting their conclusions down on parchment … they’re not always right, of course, but it’s still remarkable. And then you have the rare student who can move ahead in leaps and bounds …”

“You make it sound like a calling,” Pepper teased.

“It’s more than that,” Hasdrubal said. “The tutors I knew … most didn’t offer any sort of helping hand to the students. Sink or swim, they said, and too many sank. I told myself that I could make a difference, offering pastoral care to students who didn’t have fathers or families willing to advise them, perhaps even assist the truly promising students to rise high despite their births. And yet …”

He shook his head. “It was never easy to do anything of the sort,” he added. “If I were Grandmaster …”

“You’d be caught in the same political whirlpool as our beloved lord and master.” Pepper’s tone dripped sarcasm. “All the old certainties are falling everywhere. No one knows what to do, so they all pretend everything is normal … and then, in a single moment, no one will be able to maintain the pretence any longer and the whole thing will just fall apart. And who knows what will happen then?”

“Not me,” Hasdrubal said. What would happen? If there was an Imperial Heir, where was he? Or she? The male line normally took precedence, but the aristocracy were so desperate for a ruler that they’d probably accept a female without demur. “It’s been nearly a decade and …”

He shrugged. “If any of the Emperor’s wives were pregnant, they would have given birth years ago. There’s no one else, or they would have come forward by now.”

“Unless they don’t know who they are,” Pepper pointed out. “If you were raised on a pig farm, with no memories of anywhere else, would you know that you were really someone of royal blood?”

Hasdrubal had to smile at the thought. “A pigsty monarch?”

“There have been weirder rulers,” Pepper said. She brushed her hair back, her voice contemplative. “And how would you know?”

“You wouldn’t,” Hasdrubal said. It didn’t matter how much royal blood someone carried if they’d grown up on a pig farm. They wouldn’t have the training to project power and authority, the gravitas and auctoritas that monarchs relied upon to overawe their lessers. There were fake kings and emperors who’d looked better than the real ones, because they’d had training the others lacked. “You’d never know anything of your past.”

He felt a twinge of pity for the pigsty monarch, a monarch who might not even exist. It wouldn’t be easy to move from a farm to a castle, let alone learn how to wield power and understand its limits before it was too late. Perhaps they’d be better off putting it aside and returning to the farm … if that were even possible. The fact they had the blood meant they’d have to be the player or the played upon. There was no room for compromise in such matters. Their mere existence was a threat.

“Charming,” Pepper said. She stood, brushing down her robe. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Try not to murder too many of the little blighters.”

Hasdrubal had to smile. “No promises, Pepper,” he said, as he stood himself. “But I’ll do my best.”

Chapter Five

Alan hadn’t known just who would be assigned as his roommate when he’d returned to Whitehall for his fifth year. He hadn’t bothered to put in a request to share with anyone. There were rules against girls and boys sharing rooms, naturally, and there was no point in asking to share with Irene … but there was no one else he particularly wanted as a roommate. His peers veered between bullies and bystanders, hangers-on who did nothing to help him for fear of drawing the bully’s attention themselves … he didn’t really blame the bastards, even as he mentally railed against them for their cowardice. He would have done the same himself if he’d had the option. But he didn’t.

His mind was churning as he made his way down the corridor, careful to keep his eyes open for threats, and stopped outside his door. Irene was a prefect … he had no idea what that meant, but he doubted it could be anything good. Walter had probably organised it, damn the brat, just to keep her away from him. Or to get her alone … Alan had seen the way Walter looked at her, sometimes, and he knew the bastard wanted her. He’d also seen too many young women in Dragon’s Den who’d been used, abused, and finally discarded by aristos to believe his intentions were even remotely honourable. And yet … Irene knew that, didn’t she? She wouldn’t let herself be seduced by a few gold coins and promises that would prove as frail as a castle made out of sand?

He knew his thoughts were unworthy; it wasn’t as if Irene belonged to him, and yet the thought of Irene and Walter being alone together burned. She didn’t have to be seduced to be deflowered and defiled, Walter was strong enough to force her and well-connected enough to make sure all the blame fell on her. She’d inflamed his passions by showing him her ankles, he’d declare, or simply lifted her dress and bent over so he could take her … Alan felt sick at the very thought. He knew the realities of the world, knew how chasteness counted for nothing when the man was strong and the woman was not; he knew how easy it would be for Walter to claim Irene had consented, he knew how many aristos would even argue she should be glad of his attentions. He knew …

I should be with her, he thought. Irene would hate him thinking that and yet … he couldn’t help himself. If I were there …

The thought mocked him as he pushed the door open, bracing himself for a shock. The bedroom was larger than his previous chamber, two beds resting against the east and west walls and a door, at the rear, leading to a private washroom. Better than the communal facilities of the last four years, he told himself firmly, as he spotted William of Glister sitting on the east bed. William wasn’t one of his regular tormentors, thankfully, but … he was still an aristocrat. A pair of heavy trunks sat beside his bed, one open to allow the owner to unpack and stow his clothes under the bed or in the wardrobe. It was yet another reminder that he had very little to call his own. The knapsack slung over his shoulder was all he had.

“Adam, isn’t it?” William sounded unconcerned, although there was a hint of tension in his voice. “You’re Adam?”

“Alan,” Alan corrected, sharply. They’d attended the school for the last four years. William really should know his name, as well as the names of every other student in both their year and the two surrounding years. But then, Alan wasn’t important. There would be no marriage alliance for him, no hope of anything beyond his own apothecary or spellshop. It would be a step up for him, but he’d still be far beneath any of his current peers. “My name is Alan.”

William looked unconcerned, a subtle insult Alan would have missed a few years ago. Names were important to magicians, and forgetting someone’s name was a slap in the face, a suggestion they were just too insignificant to remember. Or curse. And yet, it was hardly the worst insult he’d faced over the last few years. William might prove to be one of his better roommates.

“You stay on your side, and give me the room every so often, and we’ll get along just fine,” William said. “And if you want to bring someone to the room too …”

“Fine, whatever,” Alan said. He dumped his knapsack on his bed and scowled. The handful of books he’d collected over the years, after they’d passed through at least three or four pairs of hands, rested on the table; a bottle of water, charmed to remain cold, rested beside them. “I’ll give you peace if you give me peace.”

“Of course,” William said. “Hey, are you using that wardrobe? I could use it …”

“Knock yourself out,” Alan said. He had two robes, both patched up heavily, and a small collection of clothing that had been repaired so often it was hard to believe there was anything original left in the garments. If William wanted to make use of a wardrobe he didn’t need, he could be Alan’s guest. He’d owe Alan something for it anyway. “I don’t need it.”

“Great.” William stood and opened his second trunk. “What were you doing on your hols? I went to the White City, then to Beneficence and then the islands of Silverdale …”

“I was working,” Alan said. It was hard to keep the snarl out of his voice. Silverdale was supposed to be a beach resort, where the aristocrats let down their hair and pretended they weren’t aristos for a few short days … not, of course, that they dismissed their servants and cooked and cleaned and wiped their rears for themselves. The idea of him visiting such a place was as absurd as the idea of anyone willingly marrying Walter. “You know, working in the fields to keep the town fed.”

“Sorry.” William at least had the grace to sound a little embarrassed. “Did you at least make some money?”

Alan snorted. William had never worked in his life. The idea of him actually earning money was just absurd. And that meant he couldn’t even begin to understand the harsh realities of Alan’s life. He’d heard a story about a princess, once, who had constructed her own little peasant village, dressed herself in a peasant outfit and played at being a peasant girl, milking cows and growing strawberries and serving her family in a manner that was an absurdly sanitised version of village life. The dumb bitch didn’t realise she’d likely be beaten by her mistress in a real peasant village, or groped by her master, or forcibly seduced—raped—by her master’s son. And she thought it was real!

“A few hundred gold,” William said. “Or perhaps more …

Alan laughed, bitterly. “More like a handful of bronze, at best,” he said. He’d never seen a gold coin until he’d won his scholarship, and even then he’d never been allowed to handle one. “I was mostly paid in bread and board.”

He shook his head. There was no point in explaining the truth. William wouldn’t believe him—or worse, he would. And then make fun of Alan, the magician working in the fields for a pittance. His pity would be worse still …

“I wasn't kidding about needing the room to myself sometimes,” William said, with the air of a man desperate to change the subject. “If you need it too … I can leave without asking questions.”

Alan shrugged. William had a girlfriend. Of course he did. He wasn’t ugly and he wasn’t dumb, just ignorant and naive. And he was the heir to … Alan didn’t pretend to understand William’s position within his family, but he was important. There was no shortage of girls who would overlook something far worse, if they had a chance to marry him. The lucky bastard probably thought it was all his natural charm too.

“I’ll call in the favour later,” he said. He had no obligation to leave the room, not even if William wanted to sport madly with some girl with more sense than her lover. Doing it would mean William owing him something. And that could prove useful later on. “Let me know when you want to be alone.”

William tossed him a salute. “Of course!”

Alan shrugged, then stuffed his clothes under his bed and lay down. The bed felt soft and welcoming, a little too soft after spending so long sleeping on straw. William puttered around, sorting out his endless supply of clothes and muttering to himself … Alan reminded himself, firmly, that William was very far from the worst possible roommate he could have. If he’d been paired up with Walter, one of them would probably have killed the other the very first night. And who knew what would happen then?

If Walter killed me, he’d get a medal, Alan thought. But if I killed him, I’d get the rope.

He closed his eyes. Perhaps he’d skip dinner. It would hardly be the first time he’d been hungry over the last few years. Or maybe he’d go find Irene … how long would it take for the Grandmaster to educate her on her duties? Alan had no idea. The prefects didn’t seem to do much beyond scolding younger students and looking for excuses to wallop them with hairbrushes, slippers or canes. They’d certainly never tried to help him with anything other than developing an extreme resistance to pain. And he’d learnt that from his master.

“Two more years,” he muttered. “And then I can get out of here.”

William glanced at him. “Yes?”

“Never mind.” Alan flushed. “I'm just thinking aloud.”

***

“You took your time,” Adrian said, as Walter pushed open the door and stepped into the bedroom. “The old man call you back to give you some private lessons?”

Walter shut the door behind him. “I asked her to spend some time with me, and she said no.”

“You’re not being firm enough,” Adrian said. “You have to make it clear to those commoner bitches that you are the one in charge, that you are flattering them with your attentions and they should be pleased to get them.”

Walter snorted. “And does that work out for you?”

Adrian smiled, like the cat who’d eaten the canary. “Yeah,” he said, drawing out the word. “It does.”

Walter resisted the urge to make a rude remark as he looked around the bedroom. There weren’t supposed to be any servants in Whitehall, but his father’s assistant had spread some coin around and made sure his trunks were unpacked and stowed away before Walter took formal possession of the bedchamber. The servants had done a good job, he noted; they’d hung a handful of portraits on the walls, specially commissioned to showcase his family’s wealth, power and extensive network of clients. It was a shame he hadn’t been able to bring some of the more … interesting … paintings he’d collected, but his mother would have been furious if she’d found out, and that would have ended badly. His mother maintained the social proprieties at all times, and the gods help any of her children who embarrassed her socially. Walter was the apple of his father’s eye and he knew it, but his mother’s wrath was to be feared …

He strode over to the bed and sat down, grinning. “I guess I’m a prefect!”

“We’re both prefects,” Adrian corrected. “Our rightful place at last!”

Walter grinned. The appointment hadn’t been a surprise. His father had told him he’d be prefect well before he returned to school, making it clear he expected Walter to do the best he could to uphold the family name. Adrian had been a surprise, but only a small one. His family had enough wealth and power to make it happen, no matter how many others were trying to ensure their sons got a shot at the job. Walter smirked as he contemplated the thought of how his rivals were already reacting to the news, weeping and wailing and gnashing their teeth at how brilliantly they’d been outmanoeuvred. No doubt outraged letters were already heading home, just to rub their noses in their failure. The next two years were going to be great!

“Yeah,” he said. “Go us!”

“And you have a chance to court Irene,” Adrian added. “I bet that’s why she got the role. Get her away from that bastard friend of hers, give her a chance to see your natural charm … babies next year, perhaps?”

Walter grinned. It was hard to tell what the Grandmaster was thinking, when he’d selected a girl of no family to serve as a prefect, but he didn’t care. Irene and he would be spending a lot of time together and who knew how it would all work out? She’d certainly need his support if she wanted her title to be anything more than an empty word, which would make it tricky for her to reject his advances … he thought about watching her shuck off her robes, her perfect body coming into the light, and felt himself harden. He was the hunter and she was the prey and she would be his, no matter how demurely she struggled. Women were meant to put up a show of resistance, to pretend they weren’t interested, just to make it clear they weren’t giving up their maidenheads to just anyone. It would take time, perhaps, but she would open her legs for him in the end. He was sure of it.

Adrian leaned back on the bed. “You as bored as me?”

“I could be,” Walter said. Adrian came up with half their ideas for crazy adventures, Walter himself came up with the rest. “What do you have in mind?”

“We could always go looking for the bastard,” Adrian said. “Put him firmly in his place.”

Walter considered it for a long moment. The bastard—Alan Serfson—had never shown them proper respect. Walter might have respected his gritty determination to maintain his independence, to spit in their eyes even as they showed him, time and time again, why he should bend the knee to them. They were young men of good breeding, he was a bastard who had somehow lucked into magic … and the attentions of the girl he wanted. Walter didn’t know what Irene saw in the strange little boy, with inky dark hair and darker eyes, but he didn’t have to know to detest it. It wasn’t right! She should be kneeing before him, grateful for the chance to rise in the world, not …

“Better not, not now,” he said. “It’s not the time.”

Adrian gave him a pleading look, but Walter stood firm. The school was buzzing right now, with dozens of students returning from hols and trying to sort themselves out before classes started tomorrow. There’d be tutors buzzing around too and not all, sadly, understood that he was the heir to a mighty family and thus should be allowed to do whatever he liked. Master Hasdrubal and Mistress Constance had no patience with his attempts to liven their classes up, and Mistress Pepper … she’d not only wiped the floor with him, when he’d contemplated her smile, but humiliated him in front of the entire class. Bitch. She would pay, when Walter became the master of his family. He’d already planned her fate in elaborate detail …

There was a knock on the door. “It’s them,” Adrian said. “Bet you.”

Walter waved a hand, casting a simple opening spell. The door opened to reveal Jacky McBrayer and Stephen Root, both looking around with interest. Their eyes went wide as they saw the hampers of food stacked against the far wall, treats for favoured sons from their loving families. They’d be asking to be put on the list of approved visitors shortly, Walter was sure, but it wasn’t going to happen. Jacky and Stephen were useful, true, but in the end they were just cronies who’d stay with him because they had nowhere else to go. They needed him far more than he needed them.

“Congratulations on your new job,” Jacky said. He was short and pudgy, odd in a magician. He was very far from inept, but his fatal combination of laziness and cowardice kept him from being all he could be. “Did you really have to wrestle a dragon for the role?”

“Of course not,” Walter said. He stood and struck a dramatic pose. “I just had to show off my natural leadership skills and general goodness.”

“And your father bribed the tutors,” Stephen said. He was tall and thin and a little more realistic about the balance of power than Jacky. Unless Jacky was pretending … no, no one could pretend to be such a lazy idiot for long, let alone let himself take the blame for all kinds of pranks that resulted in short sharp shocks to the rear. “How much was it?”

“How dare you make such unfounded accusations?” Adrian snickered. “How could you think we didn’t get the posts on merit!”

“You’re brilliant,” Jacky said. “You deserve it.”

Walter felt a flash of contempt. Crawler.

The dinner bell rang. He stood, brushing down his tailored robes and inspecting his appearance in the mirror to make sure his new badge was clearly visible. Start as you meant to go on was good policy, according to his father, and it was vital he established his authority as quickly as possible. There would be challengers, of course, and if they knocked him down …

His friends fanned out around him as they made their way down to the dining hall. He didn’t pretend to understand everything that was going on, but one thing was clear.

This was going to be his year.

Chapter Six

“Why you?”

Irene scowled as Alan asked the question, the same question that had been bothering her all night. Why her? Her grades were fine, particularly given her unfortunate birth—a fact quite a few aristos had delighted in pointing out, from time to time—but hardly enough to justify making her a prefect. She had no illusions about the qualities the senior tutors looked for when it came to selecting their eyes and ears amongst the students: power, connections, a handful of other qualities she knew she lacked. It wasn’t as if she had any sort of connections outside the school. Her father might be one step above the bottom, certainly when compared to Alan, but they were so far below the aristos they barely registered … if they registered at all.

“I wish I knew,” she admitted. Thankfully, their rooms weren’t that far apart. Her roommate, Alice of Heart’s Haven, had congratulated her on her appointment—she’d actually managed to make it sound sincere—and then gone to sleep. “Perhaps there was no one else …?”

Alan shook his head. Irene couldn’t disagree. There were at least thirty candidates who were more qualified than her, thirty girls who were going to be pissed at her for stealing their slot. It wouldn’t be long before they started insisting she’d done something immoral to get it, something so unspeakably horrid no one would dare say it out loud even though everyone knew what they meant. Certain things were universal, she’d discovered very quickly; the backbiting amongst the young girls of Dragon’s Den, as savage and unpleasant as it was, was equally matched by the backbiting and backstabbing amongst the aristos. The latter claimed to be better educated than the former, but there was little real difference in how they treated people they disliked. Worse, perhaps. A girl back home might spread vile rumours about her; a girl at Whitehall might try to turn her into a toad instead. And the latter would probably get away with it too.

“Perhaps it was Walter’s fault,” Alan said, as they started walking down to breakfast. “You know he’s been sniffing around you for years.”

Irene shrugged. Walter was … odd, one moment trying to prop her up no matter how awkwardly, the next trying to put her down with stunning brutality. It was rather like watching a little boy pulling on the pigtails of a girl he liked, while lacking the language to explain why he liked her and wanted her to notice him, but … Walter was twenty! He’d be an adult if he’d grown up without magic, probably married and a father already … probably also facing severe consequences for his behaviour, behaviour that could never be tolerated in a village. The idea of Walter spending a day in the stocks made her smile, although she doubted he had the strength of character to face up to his sins and work his way back to favour afterwards.

“I don’t think Walter could convince the Grandmaster to promote me,” Irene said, instead. “He’s not his father, just …”

“Why else?” Alan scowled down the corridor, as if he expected the empty air to be harbouring assassins. It wasn’t impossible. Walter and his cronies had mastered invisibility spells two years ago and could sometimes be found lurking in the shadows, ready to cast charms on new students and old enemies. “He wants to spend some time with you.”

Irene snorted. “I doubt it,” she said. “You’re being paranoid.”

“Bet you he tries to get you alone,” Alan said. “Watch yourself, if he does.”

“He’s not his father,” Irene said, again. “He’s not even close to wielding his father’s power.”

Alan looked unconvinced. Irene wasn’t surprised. Walter had been picking on Alan since Day One—and Irene since Day Ten—and Alan both hated and feared him, the latter something he could never admit to anyone else. Admitting fear was weakness, if you happened to be a man; everyone knew it. Irene had never been quite sure if being a woman made you luckier than your male counterparts, but she had to admit there were some advantages. She could cry without anyone making fun of her, mostly, or taking it as a sign to pick on her some more. Alan didn’t have that, not really. She knew he’d run off to hide and cry a few times, something she could never tell him. It would destroy what remained of his pride.

She scowled, inwardly. Her father was a big man in town, but he didn’t even begin to have the level of disposable income Walter’s father had, let alone the raw power and connections that made him a big fish in a big pond. Irene couldn’t even begin to grasp how much money it would take to bribe the Grandmaster, but for Walter and his cronies it was probably pocket change. A sum that would turn her life around, put her father’s woodworks on a solid footing … it was nothing to them. Perhaps Walter had spent an unimaginable sum to make sure he had a chance to be alone with her, just for an hour or two a night. Or perhaps Alan was just being paranoid.

The thought mocked her as they walked into the dining hall and joined the line snaking towards the tables of food and drink. There was a nasty vibe in the air already, as the factions took shape and form; she tensed as she saw a handful of new bugs pushed out of line and told to go to the back of the queue by older students who smirked as they saw her and her gold badge. Irene gritted her teeth, then stepped forward. It was a test, no matter how unscripted. 

“Go back to your places,” she told the new students. She’d never liked being pushed around by older students, particularly the ones who thought that being older and stronger gave them the right to do as they pleased. The tasks they gave the younger students were often humiliating and always boring, from braiding hair to cleaning underwear. “And you, stop pushing the younger students about.”

The ringleader stared at her, a third year … no, fourth year … whose name escaped her. He was a heavyset lad from a family that was barely aristocratic, which meant he was right at the bottom of the aristo hierarchy. He compensated by making life miserable for the commoners, who hated his guts and yet didn’t quite dare strike back because all the aristos would gang up on them. His piggy eyes narrowed as they met hers, then dropped to her breasts—their shape barely visible under the robes—in a blatant attempt to unsettle her. Irene felt Alan bristle behind her, his magic sparking as he prepared to fight. He’d never been one to give up, no matter the odds against him.

“You commoner bitch,” the lad snarled. “Do you even know who I am?”

“No,” Irene said, honestly. She’d probably known the lad’s name at some point, but she couldn’t be bothered to recall it. “Who are you?”

“I’m Thomas of Heart’s Haven,” the lad said. “And that makes me more important than you, so get down on your knees and …”

Irene laughed. “My roommate is of Heart’s Haven,” she said. It wasn’t the first time she’d met a lowly aristocrat claiming a title and a family name that wasn’t remotely his, thinking the poor ignorant commoner girl wouldn’t know any better. Irene hadn’t grown up memorising the names and details of near-dead families, true, but she could read a person well enough to tell he was lying. “Should I check with her?”

Thomas flinched. “I …”

Irene pressed her advantage. “I am a prefect,” she said, tapping the badge. “Detention. Detention for all of you. Report to the Warden for assignment after breakfast, and don’t let me catch you doing this again.”

For a moment, everything seemed to hang on a knife-edge. Irene knew she had few friends at school and fewer still who would jump into a fight to save her, but she was a prefect. The Grandmaster would be furious if one of his chosen agents was attacked the very first time she exerted her authority, which meant Thomas and his cronies were likely to be thrashed to within an inch of their lives … if they were lucky. It might cost her the title, if she couldn’t assert her authority … she wondered, again, just why she had been picked for the role. There were plenty of others who had far more authority within the school, and the nerve to use it.

“I don’t feel like eating now,” Thomas snapped. “I’ll see you later.”

He shot a nasty look at the students he’d been trying to intimidate, then marched out of the hall, his goons falling in behind him. Irene tried not to roll her eyes in disgust. He would still have to report to the Warden, still have to endure a detention doing something unpleasant and menial over the next couple of days, and still … she hoped he wouldn’t pick on the new bugs again, when she wasn’t around. She suspected she’d be disappointed. Bullies rarely liked it when they were forced away from their chosen prey.

“Nice one,” Alan muttered. She couldn’t tell if he was being sarcastic or not. “He’ll be back soon, bet you.”

“No bet,” Irene said. Starting classes on an empty stomach was asking for trouble. She’d learnt that lesson as a new bug herself. “Make sure you eat lots too. They’ll be testing us, mark my words.”

She saw Alan grimace and winced, inwardly. She’d had at least some time to practice over the summer hols, but Alan had not. She didn’t pretend to understand the agreement between Whitehall and Alan’s master, when he’d won the scholarship, but one rule was very clear: Alan was not allowed to do magic outside school, on pain of summary expulsion. It made it hard to practice—and to defend himself. But once he graduated …

They reached the table and helped themselves to breakfast; steaming cauldrons of hot porridge, bacon and eggs, fresh-baked bread and jam, bowls of fruit … it was a wonder, really, that there were few overweight students in Whitehall. Walter and his cronies bitched and moaned about the food, whining as if they were eating water and gruel … she didn’t pretend to understand why they hated it so much, when there were so many choices and no real risk of ever running short. She had never eaten so well in her life, and Alan … his master had never precisely starved him, as far as she could tell, but he’d never had anything like enough to eat. She’d had to urge him to take more, back in their first year, while trying to keep him from sneaking out food to hide in the dorms. It wasn’t as if there was any shortage, or risk of being denied food as punishment. A student could be whipped until they bled, and it was perfectly legal, but starving someone was considered beyond the pale.

“Don’t look up,” Alan muttered, as they found a table on the edge of the room. “But His Nibs has just arrived.”

Irene flicked her eyes up, just long enough to note Walter and his three cronies sweeping into the hall. Walter was wearing a perfectly tailored suit, carefully charmed to show off his muscles and draw attention to his face without ever quite crossing the line into outright indecency; she didn’t want to think about just how much money the outfit had cost, probably enough to feed a poor family for a decade or two. His hair was neatly tailored too, as if he’d visited a barber; she rolled her eyes as she noted a handful of the younger girls staring at him, stars in their eyes. They didn’t know him. Adrian, beside him, looked an elegant mess; his robes were torn in a number of places, giving him a distinctly dishevelled look. His long, dark hair spilled around his shoulders, adding to the impression of a man too bohemian—and too wealthy—to care what others thought of him. The other two looked poorer, their outfits nowhere near so well-tailored. Jacky fluttered around them and laughed too loudly at their jokes. It was easy to see how much he feared he’d be tossed out, one day. Irene wouldn’t have cared to bet against it.

“Interesting,” Alan muttered. “Note the factions …?”

Irene followed his gaze. A number of aristos were circling around Walter like planets around a star, but others were purposefully keeping their distance … some orientating around other aristocratic students. The battle lines were being drawn in front of her, at least a dozen different aristocratic factions … she allowed her gaze to wander the room, noting the handful of commoner students isolated and excluded from the rest, prizes for the victors in the oncoming conflict. The thought made her grimace painfully. Walter probably saw her as just such a prize.

“Never,” she muttered, as she devoted herself to her food. “Not now. Not ever.”

***

Walter ran his hand through his hair, accepting the admiration of his clients and the adoring stares of the girls as was his due. The former weren’t his clients so much as their families were his family’s clients, but who was counting? They would be his clients in the fullness of time, as fathers shuffled off the mortal coil to be replaced by sons finally ready to take their place in the world, so why waste time? He could snap his fingers and they’d do anything for him, or his father would know the reason why. He’d had to make an example of a little fool who thought being a year older meant he gave the orders, back in first year, but after that it had been smooth sailing. And why not? He was his father’s son. Power and respect was his due.

His eyes flickered around the room, alighting on Irene. She looked completely unimpressed as she dug into her food, the little mongrel beside her shooting Walter a look of absolute hatred that he returned with a wink. Of course she wouldn’t be impressed … yet. A few days or weeks of shared duty and she’d come around, of course she would. Who wouldn’t? The fact she resisted his charms was one of her charms, as far as he was concerned. One day, she would be his … one day, he’d teach her to avoid mongrels and spend her time with those of strong blood instead.

Jacky hurried up to the table, a tray of food in his hands. “I heard a story,” he said, as he put the tray in front of Walter. “Irene chased Thomas out of the hall!”

“Really?” Walter studied the tray, then reached for his knife and fork. He didn’t lower himself to collect gossip. That was Jacky’s job. “She did?”

“Apparently, she threatened to curse him,” Jacky said. “What cheek, eh?”

“Mind your tongue,” Walter said. It was a shame that Irene had resorted to threats, but it wasn’t as if she had the power or connections to make even a pathetic little turd like Thomas bend the knee. The prat was only an aristo by courtesy and everyone knew it. Except him. “I’m sure he deserved every last bit of it.”

He smirked at Jacky’s crestfallen face. His family weren’t much better than Thomas and everyone knew it too, including him. He was useful, but only so long as he was reminded, time and time again, of his place in the world. There was nothing to be gained by letting him get uppity.

“Probably the bastard’s influence,” Adrian said. He ate without regard for table manners, a reaction to his mother’s unrelenting strictness about everything. Walter didn’t blame him. Lady Rawlings had been known to hex her children for crimes as minor as leaving a button undone or speaking kindly to the servants. “The sooner he’s gone, the better.”

He paused. “And we can’t have her going around threatening aristocrats.”

“Of course not,” Jacky said. His eyes were wide with admiration. “Who knows where she’ll stop?”

Stephen leaned forward. “You two are prefects now,” he said, tersely. “Do you really want to do something that’ll reflect badly on the Grandmaster?”

Walter waved his hand, dismissively. The Grandmaster knew just how well connected his prefects were, it was why they’d gotten the posts. There was no way they’d be sacked unless they really screwed up, and that wasn’t going to happen. Their family history was a long list of noble achievements, glorious victories, stunning successes … he looked forward to seeing his own name in print, his children and grandchildren looking back to admire his name and deeds.

Of course, as his father had once remarked, it helps when you pay the men writing the history books.

“We’re going to have to do something,” he said. He owed it to her to do something, if only because her failure would reflect badly on him. His family name made him the senior prefect even if she didn’t see it that way. “Nothing too harsh, just … something to remind Irene of how badly things can go, if she doesn’t listen to us.”

“And spread her legs for you,” Adrian said.

Walter elbowed him. “It’s for her own good,” he said. It was true, too. His private tutors had once told him there were some lessons that could only be learnt through pain. Better to get it over with before it was too late for her, and the lesson she learnt—finally—was too much for her to handle. “We’ll teach her a lesson.”

“Right you are,” Jacky oozed. “Perhaps if we …”

Stephen looked unsure. “Is this wise …?”

“No,” Adrian said. He giggled. “But does it matter?”

“It’s wise,” Walter said. “If we don’t do it, who will?”

Chapter Seven

When he’d been a student, Hasdrubal had once had a nightmare in which he’d somehow become a tutor and found himself trying to control a classroom, teaching himself as well as his brothers and a ghastly collection of oiks, cads, sneaks, bullies, milksops and lazy buggers who could barely be bothered to do the reading before attending class. It had been a hideous nightmare that had left him with a certain amount of sympathy for the tutors, although that hadn’t lasted past the next detention he’d earned. And yet, the thought haunted him every time he stepped into the classroom and nodded to his class. Was that his face in the front row, staring up at him? Or was it just some unlucky student who happened to resemble his childhood self?

He took a long breath as he marched up the row, eyes sweeping the classroom for signs of trouble. There was no shortage of students who wanted to show off their bravery by hexing his chair, or his desk, or trying to get out of prep by casting invisibility spells on the scrolls he’d prepared the night before; he’d certainly cast his fair share of spells in the classroom, during his own childhood, when he’d been an immature little brat. His brother had called him an immature big brat now … Hasdrubal pushed the thought aside as he reached the top of the classroom and turned to face the students. A handful of chairs were empty, Walter and his cronies timing their arrival so they entered at the very last moment. If he was lucky, they’d miss their last chance and have to make up the lesson afterwards. If not …

“Welcome to your fifth year of charms,” he said, shortly. The good thing about teaching the fifth years was that all the poor students, the ones who had little hope of earning their mastery, had chosen not to continue studying charms. Good. If they couldn’t pass the end of year exams with a decent grade, they'd be wasting their time in his class. “We have much to cover, when it comes to casting ever-more complex pieces of spellware and rooting them within spellstones. The learning curve is very steep, so stay focused. I expect you to not only read around the subject outside class, but practice too.”

The door opened. Walter stepped inside, every inch the reigning monarch visiting the slums. Hasdrubal felt a hot flash of anger which he suppressed violently, before it could turn into actual violence. He’d known Walter’s father when Hasdrubal and his brothers had been young men, and the poisoned apple hadn’t fallen far from the tree, although Lord Ashworth had been a man in more than one sense of the word, and his son was anything but. It was deeply frustrating to realise there was a very capable and intelligent magician buried somewhere inside Walter, someone who could be great, if he wasn’t held back by his own failings. His friends weren’t much better … not, Hasdrubal was sure, that Walter considered Jacky and Stephen his friends. Adrian was the only one who was truly a peer and …

“You’re on the edge of being late, Mr. Walter,” Hasdrubal said, coldly. The locking charm on the door came to life, an instant too late to bar the four troublemakers from his class. “Do you have an excuse?”

“I was speaking to some of the firsties, sir,” Walter said, in a tone that was half sugar-sweet and half disdainful. “They needed to be shown around the school.”

“It’s their job as prefects, sir,” Jacky put in. “They need to …”

Hasdrubal fixed him with a look. “And what’s your excuse?”

Jacky sputtered. “Sir, I …”

Hasdrubal cut him off. “Sit,” he ordered. Jacky was a crawler, someone so low on the social hierarchy that his only hope of any kind of protection was doing anything, anything at all, for the more powerful students in his year. The odds were good he’d be discarded as soon as the four students graduated, tossed aside with no friends and a great many enemies to his name. Hasdrubal had seen those kind of dynamics before, and they rarely ended well. It was a shame. Jacky wasn’t stupid, nor inept. Just trapped. “We have much to discuss.”

He watched the four boys sit, noting how the mood of the classroom shifted around them. Boscha might as well have hurled an explosion charm into the student dynamics, when he’d appointed both Walter and Adrian to the post. It was just a matter of time before someone did something stupid, either out of a desire to embarrass the two or out of desperation when they started abusing their authority. It would have surprised many of his students, Hasdrubal was sure, to realise he’d been a student once too. He knew how many plots and plans danced around the school, some cold and harsh, others born of anger and a bitter desire for revenge. If there weren’t a few plans being finalised already, he’d eat the cloth covering his eyes.

“How many of you did your reading over the summer hols?”

A number of hands shot up, nearly every student in the class. Hasdrubal’s eyes narrowed. Alan was the only one being honest, he noted, keeping his hand down even though his friend Irene had her hand firmly in the air. Walter nudged his cronies, then pointed and laughed. The prat probably didn’t realise that not everyone had access to private libraries; some people had to work for a living. Alan’s master was in for a nasty surprise when Alan graduated and could perform magic outside school. It couldn’t happen to a nicer person.

Hasdrubal snapped his fingers. A spellware diagram appeared in front of the class. “Walter,” he said. He’d see if Walter really had been doing the reading. “Tell me what’s wrong with this diagram?”

Walter hesitated, studying the diagram carefully. The flaw was relatively simple, but surprisingly difficult to pinpoint if you didn’t understand the underlying factors affecting the charm. It had taken a surprisingly long time for Hasdrubal to come up with a plausible mistake, one a caster could use without making it blindingly obvious … the sort of tiny flaw, a chink in the armour, that could easily become a very real danger if left unchecked. And if Walter hadn’t done the reading, he’d have very little hope of finding it.

“There’s too much power flowing to the fourth thaumaturgic incant,” Walter said, finally. “It can’t be stabilised without additional support structures, which don’t exist.”

“No,” Hasdrubal said, coldly. “You are severely exaggerating the power flowing through the spellware. Try again.”

Walter looked embarrassed as he studied the diagram. “I don’t know, sir.”

“And there I was thinking you’d done the reading,” Hasdrubal said. He allowed his eyes to sweep the classroom. “Would anyone else like to answer the question?”

There was a long pause. Some students probably hadn’t done the reading themselves. Others were unwilling to risk embarrassing Walter, or perhaps being embarrassed themselves if they got the answer wrong. Hasdrubal promised himself, not for the first time, that if he ever wound up in a position of power he’d ban politics from the school. Walter was wasting his time fighting his father’s battles, and so were all the others. Better to concentrate on their studies and leave the endless struggle for power to the adult magicians.

Irene raised her hand. “It’s the first spell component, sir,” she said. “It’s out of line.”

“Correct,” Hasdrubal said. “The first spell component is ever so slightly out of alignment. 

He paused, letting it sink in. The glitch was actually easier to spot than it should have been, the spell diagram drawn far larger than a real assortment of charms and incants woven together into a greater whole, but he wasn’t surprised Walter had missed it. He was a strong magician and, perversely, that worked against him. He could override problems with his spellcasting by sheer force of will, which didn’t work when dealing with complex spells or spells intended to maintain themselves long after he was gone. 

“As the spell is cast, and inserted into a spellstone, power flows out of the spellware and into the ether,” he explained. “The outflow can damage or destroy the spells woven into the overall charm”—he pointed to the components on the diagram, outlining how the sudden shift in magic degraded them—“or simply deny the spellware the power it needs to remain intact. Either way, it damages and ultimately destroys the spellware, rendering it worse than useless.

“Walter insisted the fourth thaumaturgic incant was overpowered,” he added. “Walter, why were you wrong?”

There was another pause. Jacky shifted beside Walter. Hasdrubal made a minor bet with himself that Jacky knew the answer, but was too scared to offer it in front of his patron. It would be amusing to set the question as an essay and see who came up with the right answer then, but he didn’t have time. They had far too much material to cover.

“Because it wasn’t the answer you were looking for,” Walter said, with a brilliant smile. “Right?”

“Only on the surface,” Hasdrubal said, rather crossly. “You claimed the incant was overpowered. You’re wrong. Why are you wrong?”

Walter flushed, but conceded defeat. “I don’t know, sir.”

Hasdrubal glanced around the class. “Anyone care to try to answer?”

Starling held up a hand. “The power flow is drained before it reaches the fourth incant,” he said, cheerfully. His family was one of Walter’s rivals. He cared nothing for Walter’s embarrassment—and vice versa. “Walter would be right if the incant was alone, but it’s part of a sequence, and by the time the power reaches the incant, it’s too weak to do any real damage.”

“Correct,” Hasdrubal said. The look Walter shot Starling promised bloody revenge. “The power flow passes through a number of other incants, as you said, reducing in power with each transit.”

He banished the diagram with another snap of his fingers, then faced the class. “The problem with dealing with basic charms is twofold,” he said. The matter had been covered in the reading, true, but it never hurt to go over it again. “First, because you know what the charm is supposed to do, it is very easy to let your unconscious desires steer the magic into doing what you want it to do. That makes you think you’re doing the right thing, where—in reality—you’re taking a shortcut that makes it much harder to progress later on. You are not mastering the art and yet you do not realise it. It is the difference between cooking a nice meal for yourself and buying dinner at an eating hole. The latter is quicker and easier, as long as you have the gold, but you’re not the one actually cooking the food.

“Second, because most of you have a surfeit in power, your magic is strong enough to cover any flaws in your basic spellwork. You can power your way through any minor problems …”

He broke off as he noticed Walter exchanging whispers with Adrian. “And is there a reason, Mr Walter, that you are not paying attention in my class?”

Walter flushed as the class tittered. “I was just telling my friend that we have enough power to solve any problem.”

“There is no such thing,” Hasdrubal said, with icy calm. “Why do you feel that way?”

“Sir … you said we can power our way through any problem,” Walter said. “And we do have power to spare.”

“You can and you do, until the power runs out,” Hasdrubal said. “You are not a god, young man, nor is anyone else on this mortal plane. A strong man may lift an immense weight for quite some time, if he wishes, but he will be unable to hold that weight up indefinitely. If you are free with your power, tossing it around as if you have an unlimited supply, you will leave cracks in your spellware, weak spots that can be exploited and turned against you. A skilled magician need not be your superior in raw magic to crack your defences, if they are superior to you in skill. And one careful enough to wait, to let you burn through your own power, will finish you off after you run dry. You are strong, yes, but strength isn’t everything.”

He returned to his lecture. “The problem with powering your way through any problem is that the spellware grows used to you supplying additional power, which means it rarely—if ever—has any existence outside you. Such pieces of flawed work rarely last long once you cut them loose. Worse, they can be subverted by a magician who knows what he’s doing … while you are under the delusion you know what you’re doing.”

His eyes swept the classroom. “Can anyone give me an idea of the problems caused by these issues?”

Alan stuck up a hand. “If you don’t know what the spell is intended to do, you can’t cast it?”

“Precisely.” Hasdrubal shot Alan an encouraging look. It was a shame he hadn’t been discovered earlier. No magical family would ever admit it, but there were quite a few that had taken in newborn magicians and raised them magical, pretending they were the bastard children of magical bloodlines. Alan could have had a far better life, if anyone had noticed his existence before it was too late. “And why is that true?”

“Because he’s incompetent,” Adrian cracked.

“You can report to the Warden after class,” Hasdrubal said, curtly. He disliked beating students personally, even if he understood the reasoning behind it. Magical education was dangerous. A student who indulged in horseplay was likely to get himself killed, which would be a bad thing even if he didn’t get others killed too. Better a sore rear than a funeral service. “Alan?”

Alan smiled, just for a second. It was gone so quickly Hasdrubal barely noticed it. “Your magic fills in the gaps in the spellware,” he said. “But it can’t do that if it doesn’t know what the spell is intended to do. A lifting charm is very different from a lightening charm, even if they look very much alike to the uneducated eye, and so … you could cast one and get the other if you didn’t know which one you were casting.”

“You’re too optimistic,” Hasdrubal said, with a reassuring smile. “If you don’t know what the spell is intended to do, it can be very dangerous to try to cast it.”

He stepped back, gazing around the classroom. “This week, we will be focusing on two things … three, if you haven’t already done the reading. Go to the library this evening and do it, read through the books and try to grasp the basics before it is too late. You won’t progress without it.”

The words hung in the air. “First, we will be studying ways to analyse spells and determine precisely what they do before we try to cast them. We will be looking at spell diagrams and working out how the magic flows, and what it does, before we do anything else. Your test will be resoundingly practical; I’ll be giving you new spells, with orders to work out what they do before it is too late. Get it wrong and you’ll be dealing with the consequences.

“Second, we will be focusing on precision. It is no longer enough to draw out rough doodles and expect them to work. You will draw out perfect diagrams, accounting for every last variable, before you start casting spells for real. I will be extremely thorough when it comes to examining and critiquing your work, pointing out every last mistake; you will come to hate me, very quickly, but it has to be done. You can no longer throw raw magic at a problem and expect it to work. You will focus on precision, without wasting a single drop of magic. Do I make myself clear?”

There was a general mutter of assent. Hasdrubal knew better than to take it for granted. The weaker students already knew how to ration their magic, how to cast spells that drained as little raw power as possible. The remainder would find it hard, at least at first, to craft their spells so precisely they didn’t waste any magic. Getting them to the point they could cast such spells without thinking was immensely rewarding, but never easy.

“One other point,” he added, slowly. “Some of the magics we’ll be studying can be extremely dangerous, if used unwisely. You are not to mess around with them, either here or in the spellchambers. If you try and get yourselves hurt, it’ll be your own stupid fault. If you get someone else hurt, the consequences will be as dire as I can make them.”

He handed out a series of spell diagrams, and puzzles to solve, then sat back and watched as his students worked their way through them. Some students were good, with an almost instinctive and sometimes misleading grasp of the subject; others needed to take it carefully, parsing out the spellware piece by piece. Hasdrubal made a minor bet with himself that some of the latter would drop out within a week or two. They’d be lucky to make a passing grade if they didn’t shape up in a hurry.

The bell rang, right on time. “Alan, remain behind,” Hasdrubal ordered. “The rest of you, dismissed.”

He smiled, inwardly, as the students hurried out of the classroom, Irene hesitating by the door until Hasdrubal motioned her out. Alan kept his eyes lowered, but Hasdrubal could read the tension in his hunched pose. It was painfully reminiscent of his own childhood, save for the fact he’d had three brothers and a family name … if one granted only under protest. Alan had no one. And yet there was something oddly familiar in his face. Hasdrubal couldn’t put his finger on it, but it was there.

“You had less time to do the reading than others,” Hasdrubal said, curtly. “You can borrow the textbooks from my own private collection, if you wish, and read them in your bedroom.”

Alan didn’t lift his head. “I won’t take charity … sir.”

Hasdrubal ignored the younger man’s tone. “It isn’t charity,” he said, dryly. Alan would expect to be charged for the loan, a charge that could be far worse than mere money or time. Perhaps Hasdrubal could arrange for Alan to be a classroom assistant, if he wished. It would keep him from feeling too indebted. “It’s me wanting to make sure you know what you’re doing, so you can pass my class.”

“I’ll think about it,” Alan said. Hasdrubal knew that was a yes; Alan just wanted to look the gift horse in the mouth before committing himself. “May I be dismissed, sir?”

“You may,” Hasdrubal said. “Collect the books after classes today, if you please.”

Alan nodded, then hurried away.

Chapter Eight

Alan wasn’t used to people being nice to him.

They weren’t, as a general rule. Most people wanted something in exchange for their assistance, and he had very little to offer, save perhaps a certain skill at charms. His general lack of connections ensured he could do nothing to repay his patrons, and his general lack of good looks and charms ensured he couldn’t repay them in a more … intimate … fashion. The very thought was sickening, all the more so because he knew there were some students who’d gained protection through giving their bodies to their older and stronger peers. He would sooner die, he’d told himself when he’d first heard of students selling themselves, but the point was moot when no one was looking to buy. And yet …

His mind churned as he left the classroom, wondering just what Master Hasdrubal wanted from him. The offer of access to his books was generous, incredibly so. The professor would be within his rights to specify almost any price for his generosity, and the fact he hadn’t worried Alan. It almost certainly meant the professor was waiting for him to build up his debt before calling it in, leaving Alan caught between the devil of giving the older man whatever he wanted and the deep blue sea of being known as a man who didn’t repay his debts. That would be awkward. He didn’t owe many debts right now, thanks to having little to offer in return, but things might change after he graduated. The reputation might come back to haunt him later on.

He frowned, eyes flickering from side to side, as he realised Irene wasn’t waiting outside. He didn’t own her, but … she might have hurried to the next classroom, the only hope for evading the bullies, or she might have been swept off her feet by Walter and his goons. The corridor was suspiciously empty, leaving him wary … he muttered a perception spell as he started to walk, cursing Master Hasdrubal under his breath. Whatever the man had in mind, his little speech had consumed time Alan didn’t have, forcing him to take the shortest route to Mistress Constance’s classroom. He was tempted to be late or skip the class altogether, even though he knew he’d be lucky if he just got six of the best on the bare. The pain didn’t bother him, much, but the prospect of being late and earning the tutor’s ire was not to be borne. If he was late or missing for the first class, there was a very real risk of being permanently removed.

And there’ll be no way back in, he reminded himself, his eyes flickering from side to side. It’ll be the end of my dreams.

He kept walking, keeping one hand in a casting pose. Whitehall was a maze at the best of times, the corridors seeming to switch randomly so that a classroom that was right next door one day could be right at the other side of the building the next. Alan had tried to spend some time exploring, alone and with Irene, but it was never safe to be caught alone, particularly by older students who wanted targets for their hexes and curses, someone to run and fetch for them or, on one particularly miserable day, warm the toilet seat for them. The memory made Alan’s cheeks burn with shame and remembered horror. He was technically old enough to order a younger student to run errands for him, but he was damned if he was going to do anything of the sort. It would make him lazy, lazy and cruel. And he wasn’t confident they’d do as they were told. It wasn’t as if he could trace his ancestry back millions of years.

Sweat prickled down his spine. The corridors were rarely so empty, not when students should be rushing from class to class. The air was silent, disturbingly so; it brushed against his skin, sending chills down his spine. There were horror stories of students who walked down the wrong corridor and found themselves in a whole other world, a dark reflection of Whitehall, or discovered a hundred years had passed in the blink of an eye. Alan didn’t find the stories particularly terrifying. The idea of travelling into the future and arriving long after Walter and his cronies were dead was tempting, if only he could find a way to do it. But it would mean leaving Irene behind …

Something shifted, behind him. A spell snapped through the air … he jumped to one side, casting a wide-edged hex over his shoulder. The odds of hitting anyone were low, but hopefully it would distract them long enough for him to hit them with something nastier or beat feet if the odds were against him. A flash of light behind him and a yelp suggested he’d hit something, although clearly not hard enough to silence the bastard. It had sounded like panic, rather than pain … Jacky, perhaps, unless a younger student had decided to try his luck. Picking on an older student was a good way to get thrashed, literally as well as figuratively, and the few younger students who actually managed to do it gained a lot of respect. Alan would have been more understanding if the respect hadn’t come at his expense.

He ducked a second hex, then muttered a summoning charm. The air shifted—the spell had no specific target, so it was trying to latch onto everything—and shimmered, then Jacky flew out of thin air and right into the near wall, barely managing to cast a spell to catch himself before it was too late. Alan was morbidly impressed. Jacky was a known coward and prone to panic, when caught alone, but he wasn’t completely inept. Walter had probably thrown him into the wall time and time again, forcing him to learn how to save himself. Or something. Alan didn’t care. Jacky would discover, the moment he left school, that his usefulness had come to an abrupt end. Walter wouldn’t want anything to do with him, and who could blame him?

Jacky turned, his hand shaking. Alan slammed a muscle-locking charm into Jacky and watched, with a hint of nasty satisfaction, as his muscles shuddered into a painful rictus. Someone would have to free him quickly, if he wasn’t to have muscle pains tormenting him for the rest of the day; somehow, Alan doubted his friends would come to his aid. They’d probably prefer to see Alan get in trouble for preventing Jacky from attending class, never mind that was exactly what they’d do to him. And … he cast a light spell and hurled it down the corridor, trying to override whatever illusion spell Jacky’s friends were using. They couldn’t be far away. Jacky was too much a coward to fight him without backup within shouting distance.

Got you, he thought. A face had appeared within the light, just for a second. It wasn’t clear if the newcomer had realised he’d been spotted or not, but it hardly mattered. And now …

He cast a light spell, making it as bright as he could while turning away to avoid the blinding radiance. Someone screamed, flickering into visibility … he saw Stephen stumble against the wall, then get knocked over by Adrian. Alan’s heart missed a beat. He hated both Walter and Adrian, the two loathsome pieces of dog shit, but Adrian was easily the most dangerous even though his friend was both more powerful and skilled. He was just terrifyingly unpredictable, prone to shifting from casual bystander to murderous monster without warning; it was impossible, completely impossible, to say what would set him off. Walter was bad, but Adrian … he had no limits, no sense there were lines he shouldn’t cross. Sheer terror kept Alan from striking first, terror of what Adrian would do. And was Walter right behind him …?

Adrian growled, then cast a curse. A beam of pure fury lanced towards Alan and struck his protections, the sheer force of the blast picking him up and hurling him down the corridor. He had a brief impression of Stephen freeing Jacky before the spell slammed him right into the wall, hard enough to knock the breath from his lungs. His body slumped, his bottom hitting the ground. He forced himself to scramble to his feet as Adrian paced towards him, magic crackling around his hands. His mouth was set in a leer, his eyes dark with pleasure … Alan cast a spell of his own, without any real hope it would get through his protections, followed by a smaller tripping spell. The latter was so low-powered it was just possible it would remain unnoticed until it was too late … Adrian stumbled, nearly tumbling to the ground before he managed to catch himself. Alan cursed under his breath. The bastard really was good.

“Get him,” Jacky called. “Get him!”

Alan hurled a curse past Adrian, at Jacky, then forced himself to run. Stephen looked reluctant to fight—he’d always been the most decent of the four, although he was far from being a decent person—but somehow Alan doubted that mattered, not when his friends were taking fire. Adrian bawled something incoherent and cast another spell, a blaze of white-hot power that shot over Alan’s head—close enough to nearly set his hair on fire—and crashed into a statue further down the corridor. Alan hopped over the wreckage and kept running, trying desperately to put enough distance between him and his enemies to reach the alchemy classroom before it was too late. They wouldn’t dare cause trouble there …

“Stop him,” Adrian bellowed, as a pair of younger students appeared from nowhere. “Stop him!”

The students scattered. Alan didn’t blame them. He rather wished he could do the same, but that wasn’t an option. There was nothing he could do to appease the bullies, and even if there were something, it wouldn’t last long. Adrian was just too unpredictable. Jacky and Stephen probably helped point him at suitable targets, for fear of becoming targets themselves. He couldn’t blame them for that either.

A spell caught his foot, swinging him up and over and into the air. Gravity asserted itself, his robes threatening to fall to expose his underclothes … he heard Adrian laugh as he tried to preserve his modesty, saw his grinning face under him as the spell slammed his foot into the ceiling. It was too much … he muttered a cancellation charm, bracing himself for a sudden fall and impact. Adrian’s mouth opened wide as Alan fell, crashing into him and sending them both to the ground. Adrian grunted in pain. He might be a skilled magician, with plenty of experience in animal and inanimate forms, but simple physical pain would be rare in his world, while Alan spent his summers working in the fields. He wasn’t the strongest fieldworker ever known, not even close, yet he was stronger than Adrian … 

“I knew you liked me,” Adrian said. “I knew it!”

Alan flushed, then drew back his fist and brought it down hard. Adrian gasped in pain and jammed his fingers into Alan’s chest, making him gasp too. A spell blasted Alan in the chest, picking him up and tossing him down the corridor … Jacky and Stephen had re-entered the fray, damn it. Alan doubted he’d be allowed to remain at school if he cracked Adrian’s skull—magic could heal so much it was easy to forget there were wounds it couldn’t treat—but part of him didn’t care. If he could beat Adrian to death …

“Say that you like me,” Adrian jeered. “Say it!”

Alan launched a spell, then turned and started to run. A spell flashed past him, distracting him for a second … too long. Another spell slammed into his legs. A dull sensation overwhelmed them, his body veering back and forth as if … he looked down and swallowed, hard. His lower body had been turned to stone. He couldn’t move anything below the waistline … he’d been turned into animals before, or inanimate objects, but this was somehow worse. It was hard to think clearly, hard to cast a simple cancellation charm … the charm didn’t work. Horror washed through him. It was supposed to be impossible to turn someone into something else permanently, or at least forbidden, but if anyone was prepared to break that rule it was Walter and his wretched friends. Where was Walter?

Courting Irene? Alan shuddered at the thought. Or trying to rape her?

Adrian stalked forward. “Say that you like me,” he said. His tone was intense. It was hard to tell if he was serious or if he was just being unpleasant. Magical aristocrats turned a blind eye to men who loved men, as long as they did their duty to their families and sired children, but Alan had grown up in a town where being attracted to men meant there was something seriously wrong with you. “Say that you like me …”

His fingers glimmered with red light. “Say that you like me …”

Alan gritted his teeth, then spat. Adrian recoiled, as if Alan had hurled a lethal curse. Alan grinned—he’d spent months shovelling horse manure, which had given him remarkable tolerance for bodily functions—and tried desperately to find a way to counter the spell Adrian had cast. It was odd, in that it shimmered around him and defied easy analysis. The standard cancelling charms simply didn’t work.

“You’ll pay for that,” Adrian growled. He drew back his fist. “You’ll pay …”

“Stop,” Irene shouted. Alan looked up to see her, Walter right behind her … the wretched bully was grinning from ear to ear, never a good sign. “Stop it now!”

“Look,” Jacky jeered. “He needs a girl to save him!”

Adrian laughed, like a loon. “Right you are,” he said. “I guess we know who wears the pants in this family!”

Alan flushed, helplessly. Back home, any boy who needed a girl to save him was not and never would be a man. Girls were weak, unable to stand up to a man; fathers and husbands could put them in their place, anytime they liked, and the girls would just have to do as they were told. The magicians looked at it slightly differently, when magic ensured the girls were more equal to the boys, yet even they … Adrian’s giggle shook him to the core, triggering off every last insecurity he had. Irene had saved him and yet, part of him hadn’t wanted to be saved. Not by her.

“Undo that spell,” Irene commanded. “Now.”

Adrian gave her a long, considering look, his gaze lingering on her breasts more than long enough to make her uncomfortable. “Or what, oh girl-with-the-longest-legs-in-all-the-world?”

Irene hesitated. Alan felt his heart sink. There were four bullies facing her, and as long as he remained stuck, he couldn’t do much to help her. Walter would probably hit her with a spell designed to strip her naked, or compel her to take off her clothes, and then … Alan reached desperately into his bag of tricks, searching for something—anything—that would give them a chance to escape. It had gone too far for there to be anything but blood, which meant …

“Let him go,” Irene said. There was a hint of desperation in her voice. “Let him go and …”

“Or what?” Adrian leered at her. “Why don’t you get down on your knees and …”

“No need for that,” Walter oozed. “We’re on the same side, are we not?”

“Yeah,” Jacky said. Beside him, Stephen looked doubtful. “We are …”

“And just what,” a new voice said, “is going on here?”

Alan felt his heart sink, again, as Master Hasdrubal strode into view. Adrian hesitated—for a crazy moment, Alan thought Adrian might actually attack the tutor—and then stepped aside. Jacky and Stephen inched away, into the shadows; Alan wondered if they’d actually gotten away. Master Hasdrubal missed little, for all that he had a dirty cloth wrapped around his eyes. It was unlikely either of the two boys had escaped.

“This … commoner … blinded me,” Adrian whined. “I was merely putting him in his place.”

“By using forbidden magics, magics known only to a handful of families?” Master Hasdrubal sounded unimpressed. “And you, Walter? What is your excuse?”

Walter put on his noble face, so pure and honest and so trustworthy that no one in their right mind would possibly take it seriously. “Sir, Irene and I were discussing our duties when we heard the racket and hurried to investigate,” he said, in an earnest tone. “She took the lead while I hung back, in case she needed help …”

“And you didn’t think to try to cancel the spell?” Master Hasdrubal studied him for a long, cold moment. “Or to do anything to back up your comrade?”

He stepped forward, his magic surrounding him. Adrian stepped to one side, his eyes narrowing briefly before a bland expression covered his face. “Adrian, Walter, you will both report to the Warden—now—for punishment,” he ordered. “I …”

Adrian squawked. “But my eyes …”

“I will deal with the other two myself,” Master Hasdrubal said, coldly. He cast a spell. Alan felt his legs return to normal. “Go.”

Adrian and Walter exchanged glances, then Walter risked a step forward. “Sir, we have Alchemy …”

“And you’re wasting your time playing games when you should be in class?” Master Hasdrubal shook his head. “Report to the Warden. Mistress Constance will give you a make-up class, if you ask very nicely and don’t waste her time. Go.”

Alan groaned, inwardly, as Adrian and Walter skulked away. He’d been saved by Irene, and then Master Hasdrubal, and … he knew better than to think it was the end of it. They’d be back and then … gods, he hoped they wouldn’t have to share the make-up class. That would be bad.

“Get to class,” Master Hasdrubal ordered. “I’ll deal with you later.”

Irene looked relieved. She’d probably expected a thrashing. “Yes, sir.”

Alan said nothing. All he wanted to do was run and hide and lick his wounds.

But that wasn’t an option. Not now. And not ever.

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