In an instant the officer had him up against the wall, holding him by the scruff of his neck. Fletcher’s imp hissed, but a warning growl from Sacharissa silenced it.
‘Don’t ever presume to touch me again, you little prig. I’ve just saved your life, then you decide to tell me a preposterous lie. Everybody knows that summoners must be given a demon by someone else before they can capture their own. Why, next you’ll claim you walked into the ether yourself and plucked a demon out like a pea from a pod. Now tell me, which summoner gave you the demon?’
Fletcher kicked at the air, choking as his windpipe was crushed. A name floated, unbidden, to his mind.
‘James Baker,’ he gasped, patting at the officer’s hands. He let Fletcher down and smoothed some imaginary wrinkles on his jacket.
‘I’m sorry, I let my anger get the better of me,’ he apologised, his face filled with regret as he saw the welts his fingers had left on Fletcher’s neck. ‘The war takes a toll on the mind. Let me make it up to you. I’ll book you a room at my inn and I’ll send you up to Vocans Academy on one of the supply wagons tomorrow. My name is Arcturus. And yours?’ He held out his hand.
Fletcher took the hand and shook it, the violence instantly forgiven at the mention of the academy. Its reputation was legendary; the training ground of battlemages since Hominum was first founded. What took place there was a closely guarded secret, even to the soldiers that fought alongside them. Arcturus’s invitation was far beyond anything Fletcher had dreamed possible for him and his demon.
‘Fletcher. No harm done; I’d have far worse than a bruised neck if it wasn’t for you. The way in which I received my demon is rather a complex one, which is why I was confused by your question. I’ll explain it all to you tonight if you’ll let me,’ Fletcher replied, wincing as he rubbed his throat.
‘Yes, you can tell me over dinner and a drink. My treat, of course. If I remember correctly, James Baker was not a very powerful summoner, so capturing a rare Salamander demon like yours would certainly have been beyond his means – though I suspect he would have kept it for himself if he’d managed to get hold of one,’ Arcturus mused, continuing down the street.
‘Is that what it is?’ Fletcher asked, looking at his demon. He grinned as Arcturus turned into an expensive looking inn, smelling the telltale scent of cooking from inside. Tonight he would stuff himself with food and soak away his troubles in a hot bath. Then, tomorrow, it was on to Vocans Academy!
16
Fletcher did not learn much more from Arcturus that night. The man was as good as his word, buying Fletcher a steak and kidney pie and listening to his story – leaving out Didric’s part, of course. No sooner had Fletcher finished speaking than Arcturus excused himself and disappeared to his chambers. Fletcher didn’t mind; he bathed in a steaming hot bath with a full belly and slept between silk sheets. Even the imp had feasted on a fresh, minced steak, devouring it in seconds before nosing his bowl for more. If Arcturus could afford such finery, surely the life of a summoner could not be all bad.
In the morning he was woken by an impatient man, who claimed that he had been instructed to take Fletcher to the academy. When Fletcher emerged into the street, the man bade him hurry up and sit beside him in the front of the wagon, or he would be late for his morning delivery of fruit and vegetables.
The journey took over two hours but the driver evaded Fletcher’s attempts at small talk, his face pinched with worry at the traffic on the road. Instead, Fletcher passed the time by allowing the imp to ride proudly on his shoulder, grinning at the curious glances from people as they trotted by. After Arcturus had allowed Sacharissa out in the open so brazenly, Fletcher did not see why he couldn’t do the same.
He tried to picture Vocans, but he knew so little about it that his mind ranged from imagining a sumptuous palace to a comfortless training ground for fresh recruits. Either way, his excitement mounted with every turn of the cart’s wheels.
Finally, they arrived at the frontier with the southern jungle, the boom of cannon echoing in the distance. Whereas before the dirt road they were travelling on was surrounded by green fields, this land was thick with weeds and pitted with heavy gouges in the earth, evidence of the war that had since passed this land by.
‘There’s the castle,’ the driver said, breaking his silence. He pointed at the murky shadow of what looked like a mountain ahead of them, obscured by a thick fog that hung in the air. The wagon had joined a queue of others, though these were delivering heavy barrels of gunpowder and crates full of lead shot.
‘Is that where the King lives?’ Fletcher asked.