‘Ugh! I’d rather have my head shaved than spend one second in the servants’ quarters,’ she spat.
With those words the side door opened and Mayweather, Jeffrey and several other servants stumbled out, many still rubbing sleep from their eyes.
‘My apologies for our lateness, my lord,’ Mayweather said in a humble voice. ‘We had thought you would be arriving in the morning when you did not arrive before the eleventh bell.’
‘Yes, well, we decided that Corcillum’s drinking houses were a far more enticing place to be tonight than this . . . establishment,’ Tarquin said icily, then pointed at Jeffrey. ‘You, boy, take my bags up to my quarters and be careful with them. The contents are worth more than you’ll make in your lifetime.’
Jeffrey hastened to obey, giving the golden-haired nobles an awkward bow as he passed them.
‘Let me show you to your quarters, my lord. Follow me, both of you,’ Mayweather said, waddling up the steps as the servants unloaded the carriages. Fletcher caught a glimpse of the two nobles following Mayweather, then his view was obscured as the carriages wheeled around and thundered out of the courtyard.
Soon Fletcher was alone again, filled with disgust at what he had just witnessed. He had always pictured nobles as generous and fair, leading their own men to fight in the war and giving up their adolescent children to serve as battlemages. He knew that many of the nobility of fighting age risked their lives every day on the front lines, leaving their families at home. But he had found these spoiled brats to be the complete opposite of what he had expected. He hoped that not all the noble-born novices would be like the two specimens he had just encountered.
Fletcher waited a few minutes, then snuck out of the gatehouse, making his way back to the main entrance in the shadows of the courtyard walls. Just before he stepped into the moonlight, he heard a creak from the drawbridge behind him.
He spun round to see a figure just before it vanished out of sight, running down the road. A figure with long red hair.
23
The nobles arrived late for breakfast, sitting on the other side of the room and completely ignoring the group of commoners. Tarquin and Isadora led the way, clearly having established themselves as the ringleaders, although the casual backslapping and guffawing made Fletcher think that most of the nobles already knew one another.
‘Why are they ignoring us?’ Atlas asked, looking over his shoulder as the nobles began to make loud comments about the poor quality of the food.
‘This is normal,’ Seraph said matter of factly. ‘The nobles always stay separate from the commoners. I snuck past one of their rooms the other day. They’re the size of our entire quarters and then some!’
‘I don’t think it should be this way,’ Rory said. ‘Are we not going to be living together for the next two years? There are only five of them. Surely they will get bored of each other’s company?’
‘I doubt it,’ Fletcher ventured. ‘One of the servants told me that the nobles often spend their free time in Corcillum. It is us who will be stuck in this castle with little to do. Our best bet will be to befriend some of the older commoners.’
Even as he spoke, a dozen second years began to stream into the hall, talking loudly. They split into two groups and sat on separate tables, but unlike the first years, the two cliques seemed to be talking to each other with no clear animosity. Yet judging by the quality of their uniforms, Fletcher suspected the table divide was between nobles and commoners once again.
‘They’re down for breakfast early,’ Seraph commented as both tables of second years looked them up and down, with special attention placed on Othello. One of them nudged another and pointed at Ignatius and the Golem, who Othello had named Solomon. The dwarf shifted and lowered his head over his meal, uncomfortable under their gaze.
‘I wish we could have breakfast at the same time as they do every day. There’s enough room for hundreds of us to eat in here.’ Genevieve yawned, resting her head in her hands. Fletcher eyed her red hair with suspicion. Was she the figure he had seen leaving Vocans last night?
As the servants finished laying out breakfast for the new arrivals, the room suddenly hushed. Looking up from his meal, Fletcher saw the Provost stride into the room, followed by two men and a woman who were dressed in officers’ uniforms. With a start, he recognised one of them to be Arcturus, his milky eye staring resolutely ahead. The man showed no sign of recognition. The elf girl strode in behind them, causing a stir. She walked with her head high to a seat further down from the commoners’ table. Her Canid curled beneath her, its bushy tail stiffening as it glared around the room protectively.