‘Who the hell am I?’ Fletcher whispered in the darkness. Ignatius mewled in sympathy and burrowed his head into Fletcher’s chest.
Despite the events of the day, Fletcher’s sleep that night was the undisturbed and dreamless sleep of the exhausted.
The noviciates waited in the summoning room for their next lesson in etherwork. Fletcher was hoping to see Lovett, but knew that it was far more likely that Arcturus would be taking the lesson. His attempts to visit the infirmary had been in vain – Dame Fairhaven had seen to that. She informed Fletcher that she was sure Captain Lovett would not like to be pestered by her students whilst in her paralysed state, and that her reading to Lovett was enough to keep the captain entertained. The discovery that Lovett was completely paralysed but conscious of her surroundings only increased Fletcher’s desire to see her, but the door was closed firmly in his face.
‘Nice togs,’ Genevieve said, giving him a thumbs-up. Fletcher smiled and fingered the collar of his new jacket.
Uhtred had been as good as his word, sending Fletcher a beautiful dark blue uniform as well as his sword with the morning deliveries. The gold buttons on his jacket and pants had even been embossed with the curling silhouette of a Salamander, much to Fletcher’s delight. The scabbard was of the finest quality, made from firm black leather and burnished steel. Fletcher saw that the sword had also been whetted and was accompanied by an oiled cloth and a reminder for Fletcher to look after his weapon, as it was a tool of the finest workmanship.
He was glad to have it, as he had been forced to use a wooden stick whilst Sir Caulder took him and the other commoners through the basics of swordplay. The noble children had all been tutored from an early age and had not accompanied them, though Malik and Penelope had briefly watched from the sidelines before becoming bored and leaving. When Fletcher asked why they were being taught to battle each other after what Sir Caulder had told him about fighting orcs, Sir Caulder had snapped, ‘The tournament, boy. They’ll be having you fencing and God knows what else. No use having all you commoners lose in the first round because you’ve only been taught how to fight a seven-foot savage instead of a noble with a rapier.’
The reminder of the tournament had filled Fletcher with dread and sent him running to the library, where he had buried himself in books. He had not been alone – most of the other commoners accompanied him. Growing up with fully-qualified battlemages for parents had put the noble noviciates far ahead of their common counterparts, breezing through most of the teachers’ questions with little difficulty.
There were thousands of demons to learn the names, measurements, strengths and weaknesses of, even if most of them could not be found in the part of the ether that Hominum’s summoners had access to. The eighteen Canid breeds alone had taken Fletcher most of the weekend.
The sound of the door slamming behind him broke into his thoughts. A tall, slender man had entered the summoning room. At first Fletcher thought that it was Arcturus, but when the man stepped into the wyrdlight, he saw that his uniform was different, cut from black cloth with silver trimming. His face was sallow and bearded, with small black eyes that glittered as they surveyed the students.
‘My full title is Inquisitor Damian Rook, but you may call me sir. I will be instructing you in the art of etherwork until Captain Lovett has recovered from her . . . accident. Fortunately for you, Scipio has decided to hire a more competent teacher this time around.’
His words earned a smirk from Tarquin and a discreet titter from Isadora, much to Fletcher’s disgust. Rook ignored this and turned to the commoners, studying them through hooded eyes.
‘My my, it feels as if it was only yesterday that I tested you,’ Rook said, in a low voice that commanded absolute obedience. ‘Genevieve, Rory, Seraph, Atlas, as well as the dwarf and the elf, will stand in a line over there.’
Fletcher’s friends moved with alacrity, lining up against the far wall. Rook ignored them and instead scrutinised Fletcher and the nobles, walking around them as if they were horses on sale.
‘A good turnout this year. Tarquin, Isadora, it is good to see you here. I hope your father is well?’ he inquired.
‘Aye, sir, though it has been several months since last I saw him,’ Tarquin replied, with unusual politeness. Fletcher wondered what kind of man would command the respect of a noble like Tarquin. How did they know each other?
‘You are clearly a Saladin, if I am not mistaken,’ Rook continued, stopping in front of the olive-skinned boy.
‘I am Malik Saladin, son of Baybars Saladin, hailing from the lands of Antioch,’ Malik replied, jutting his chin out proudly.
‘Of course. Your father’s Anubid fought right alongside my Minotaur at Watford Bridge. Were you fortunate enough to be gifted it?’