Fletcher mounted the wide stairs and pushed through the double doors. Best to find the Provost before breakfast was served; then he could introduce himself to the other students over the morning meal. He was not going to be a loner again.
He stepped into a huge atrium with twin spiral staircases to his left and right, stopping on each floor. Fletcher counted five levels in total, each one bordered by a metal railing. The ceiling was supported by heavy oak beams; massive struts that held the stone above in place. A dome of glass in the ceiling allowed a pillar of light into the centre of the hall, supplemented by crackling torches set in the walls. At the very end of the hallway was another set of wooden doors, but it was the archway above them that drew Fletcher’s eye. The stone was carved with hundreds of demons, each one more breathtaking than the last. The attention to detail was extraordinary, and the eyes of each demon were made up of coloured jewels that sparkled in the light.
It was a huge space, almost wasteful in its design. The marble floors were being polished by a young servant, who gave Fletcher a weary look as he walked his dirty boots over the wet surface.
‘Could you point me in the direction of the Provost?’ Fletcher requested, trying not to look behind him at the footprints he had left.
‘You’ll get lost if I don’t show you,’ the servant said with a sigh. ‘Come on. I’ve got a lot of work to do before the nobles arrive, so don’t dawdle.’
‘Thank you. My name is Fletcher. And yours?’ Fletcher asked, holding out his hand. The servant stared at him with surprise, then shook it with a happy smile.
‘I can honestly say I’ve never been asked that by a student,’ the servant said. ‘Jeffrey is the name, thank you for asking. If you’re quick I’ll show you up to your quarters afterwards, and sort out any laundry for you that you might need doing. Begging your pardon, but from the smell of your garments it seems you need it.’ Fletcher reddened but thanked him all the same. Although he had washed himself the night before, he had forgotten that his clothes still smelled like sheep.
Jeffrey led him up to the first floor on the east side and down a corridor opposite the stairway. The walls were lined with suits of armour and racks of pikes and swords, left over from the last war. Every few steps they would walk past a painting depicting an ancient battle, which Fletcher would have to tear his eyes away from as Jeffrey pulled him onwards.
They passed by a set of large glass cabinets, stacked with jars of pale green liquid. Each one contained a small demon, suspended eternally within.
Finally, Jeffrey slowed down. The servant pointed to a huge mace hung up on the wall. It was studded with sharp stones, each the size and shape of an arrowhead.
‘That’s the war club that belonged to the orc chieftain of the Amanye tribe, taken as a trophy in the Battle of Watford Bridge. It was actually the Provost who struck him down,’ Jeffrey said with pride. ‘A great man, our Provost. Strict as a judge, though. You be careful of him; look him in the eye and don’t backchat. He hates both the spineless and the insolent in equal measures.’
With those words Jeffrey stopped at a heavy wooden door and banged on it with his fist.
‘Come in!’ shouted a booming voice from inside.
17
The room was stiflingly hot compared to the chilled corridors. A blaze crackled in the corner of the dim room, spitting sparks that were sucked up into the flue of the chimney.
‘Shut the damned door! It’s bloody freezing out there,’ the voice boomed again. Fletcher jumped to obey as he noticed a figure sitting behind a large wooden desk in the centre of the room.
‘Let’s be having you, step lively now. And remove that hood from your face. Don’t you know it’s rude to cover your head indoors?’
Fletcher hurried into the room and pulled his hood down, revealing the demon that had taken refuge there soon after Fletcher had set foot in Vocans.
The figure harrumphed and then struck a match, lighting a lamp on the corner of his desk. The glow revealed a walrus of a man with a white handlebar moustache and thick mutton-chop sideburns that dominated his features.
‘I say, that’s a rare demon you’ve got there! I’ve only seen one of those, and that wasn’t on our side, either.’ The man snatched some glasses from the desk and peered at the imp. It shied away at his gaze, causing the old man to chuckle.
‘They’re fragile little things, but powerful. Who gave it to you? I’m supposed to be informed whenever someone manages to summon a demon outside of the usual species,’ the Provost boomed.