‘Arcturus sent me,’ Fletcher said, hoping that answer would be enough.
‘Impress him, did you? We haven’t had a novice brought in by a battlemage for quite some time; two years now, I think. You’re lucky, you know. Most of the commoners are given weaker demons to start off with. Mites, usually. They’re easier to capture and, when we need a new one, a battlemage is chosen at random to provide it. Doesn’t put them in a generous mood, unfortunately. Not the best system, but it’s the only one we’ve got. In any case, I shall be having words with Arcturus about it.’
Fletcher nodded dumbly, earning himself a stern glare.
‘There’s no nodding here. You say “Yes, Provost Scipio, sir”!’ the man barked.
‘Yes, Provost Scipio, sir,’ Fletcher parroted, standing up straight.
‘Good. Now, what do you want?’ Scipio asked, leaning back in his chair.
‘I want to join up, sir; learn to become a battlemage,’ Fletcher replied.
‘Well, you’re here, aren’t you? Be off with you. Registration is tomorrow, you can make it all official then,’ Scipio said, waving him away. Fletcher left, dumbfounded. He was careful to close the door behind him this time. It had all been so easy. Somehow, everything was falling into place.
Jeffrey was waiting for him, an anxious look on his face.
‘Everything OK?’ he asked, leading Fletcher back to the stairs.
‘More than OK. He’s allowed me to join up,’ Fletcher said with a grin.
‘Not surprising. We need every summoner we can find, that’s why we started making all the changes. Girls, commoners, there’s even . . . well . . . you’ll see for yourself. It’s not my place to say,’ Jeffrey muttered. Fletcher decided not to pry, instead being careful not to lose his footing on the dark stairwell.
‘There aren’t many fires or torches here,’ Fletcher observed as they trudged up the steep stairs.
‘No, the budget is strained as it is. When the nobles arrive we will warm the place up. Everything has to be just so for them, or they complain to their parents. Half of them are spoiled little popinjays, but don’t get me wrong, some are nice enough fellows,’ Jeffrey panted, pausing when they reached the fifth and final floor. Fletcher noticed Jeffrey was even skinnier than he was himself, with dark brown hair that contrasted starkly with a pallid complexion that was almost verging on the sickly.
‘Are you all right? You don’t look so well,’ Fletcher asked him. The boy coughed and then took a deep, rattling breath.
‘I have terrible asthma, it’s why they won’t let me join up. But I want to do right by my country, so I serve here instead. I’ll be all right, just give me a second,’ Jeffrey said, wheezing.
Fletcher felt a growing respect for Jeffrey. He had never felt particularly patriotic, with Pelt being so far removed from any major cities, but he admired it in others.
‘I didn’t see Scipio’s demon. What kind does he have?’ Fletcher asked, making conversation as Jeffrey began to breathe more easily.
‘He doesn’t. He used to have a Felid, but it died before he retired. They say it broke his heart when he lost it. Now he just teaches and manages Vocans,’ Jeffrey said.
Fletcher wondered what a Felid might be. Some sort of cat, perhaps?
They walked on past dimly lit corridors to the very corner of the castle, where another staircase spiralled upwards. Jeffrey eyed it with apprehension.
‘Don’t worry, I can manage from here. Just tell me where I need to go,’ Fletcher volunteered.
‘Thank God. You can’t miss it; the commoners’ quarters are at the very top of the southeast tower. I’ll send someone up for your laundry later; for now, there’s a spare uniform in every bedroom upstairs, try a couple on and see which of them fits. You don’t want to be known as the smelly one on your first day,’ Jeffrey said, already hurrying away.
Fletcher resisted the temptation to shout the question that had come unbidden to his mind. Why did the commoners have separate quarters? He shrugged it away and began his long journey up the stairs, knowing from what he had seen outside that it was quite a way.
At intervals off the staircase there were wide, round chambers, each one filled with old desks, chairs and benches, amongst other bric-a-brac. The wind whistled through the arrow slits in the walls, chilling Fletcher to the bone and causing him to put his hood up once again. He hoped it would be warmer upstairs.
As he rounded what felt like the thousandth step, he heard a boy’s voice above him.
‘Hang on, that’s one of the servants. I think they’re going to call us for breakfast!’ The boy’s voice reminded him of Pelt, the accent common, and hinting at a rural upbringing.
‘I’m starving! I hope they don’t make us sit in silence like last time,’ a girl’s voice followed.