‘No, sir, Father has more use for it than I. But I have been given a juvenile Anubid, that was captured before I came here.’
‘Good. You will have need of it soon.’ Rook turned to the next noble, Penelope.
‘And you are?’
‘Penelope Colt . . . from Coltshire.’ She curtsied nervously. This earned her a noncommittal grunt from Rook, who moved on to the last noble, the small, mousy haired boy who Fletcher had seen following Tarquin around like a lapdog.
‘I’m . . . My name is Rufus Cavendish, from the Cavendish Downs,’ the boy stuttered.
‘Cavendish Downs. I have not heard of it. Who are your parents?’ Rook asked, his black eyes boring into Rufus’s face like a hawk’s.
‘My mother died when I was young. She was Captain Cavendish. My father is not of noble blood.’
‘I see,’ Rook said disinterestedly, then turned away. Clearly the Cavendishes were not a noble family of significant standing or importance.
He turned his baleful gaze upon Fletcher, his small eyes flicking from his sword to the golden buttons of his uniform.
‘And you? Where are you from?’
Fletcher hesitated, then ventured. ‘I am from the north, sir, near Boreas. My name is Fletcher.’
‘A Faversham, then? I did not know that they had a child who was of age. How have you escaped my notice?’
Tarquin’s voice cut in before Fletcher could respond.
‘He’s not a noble, sir. He’s just a pleb.’
‘Preposterous. I am an Inquisitor, I know the name of every common adept. Who are you, boy?’
‘I . . . was sponsored, sir. I read a summoning scroll that I . . . found . . . and summoned a demon. Arcturus discovered me and brought me here.’
‘Did your parents not think to send you to the Inquisitors as soon as they discovered you were an adept? And Arcturus found you? He is not allowed north of Corcillum, how did he come by you?’
‘I’m an orphan, si—’
‘An ORPHAN!’ Rook hissed, interrupting him.
‘Yes, but it’s not what you think!’ Fletcher cried, realising what Rook must be imagining.
‘He’s broken the rules! The arrogant bastard thinks he can cheat the agreement he made with the old King, sending summoning scrolls to Boreas’s orphans in secret! Oh, I’ve got him now!’ Rook spat with glee.
‘He didn’t!’ Fletcher shouted.
‘Quiet! We thought we had seen the last of your ilk long ago. Lady Faversham shall hear of this,’ he hissed, prodding Fletcher hard in the chest.
‘You’re wrong! Ask the Provost!’ Fletcher yelled.
‘Oh, I will, don’t you worry. But it can wait. We have to measure everyone’s fulfilment levels first. Follow me, all of you!’
They trooped behind Rook as he led them out of the summoning room and up the stairs of the west wing, all the way to the top and then down the corridor to the southwestern tower. Only Othello understood what had just transpired, laying a comforting hand on Fletcher’s shoulder.
‘Don’t worry, it will all get straightened out,’ he whispered in Fletcher’s ear.
The others eyed him with a mix of suspicion and confusion, but the silence that hung in the corridors prevented them from asking him any questions. Tarquin and Isadora were positively skipping, though whether it was because of Fletcher’s public humiliation or the coming lesson, he was not sure.
This tower contained no spiral staircase. Instead, it was a huge tube of empty space, with the floors knocked through on every level. An enormous pillar stood in the centre of the room, made up of many segments that were embedded with multicoloured Corundum crystals. It stretched all the way to the top of the tower, glittering as beams of light cut across it from arrow slits in the old tower walls.
‘This is a fulfilmeter, the largest of its kind. Each segment represents one fulfilment level. By touching the base, a summoner or demon can discover what level they are. Now, who shall go first?’ he mused, looking only at the nobles. ‘Malik, if you are anything like your father, you will impress. Lay your hand on the base stone. Let us see what calibre of summoners we have here today.’
Malik strode forward without hesitation, kneeling at the first segment and pressing his hand into the base of it. For a moment nothing happened, then suddenly the crystals on the first segment glowed with fierce intensity, lighting the room with kaleidoscopic beams of light. A dull pulse of sound echoed in the room, followed by another as the next segment flared into light. More followed, until fourteen segments had been lit. Malik held his hand there for a further minute before Rook pulled him to his feet, flickering out the lights as the hand was removed.
‘Well done, boy. The average for a noble-born is eight when they first start, so you are above the curve. Soon you will be a level twenty like your father. Next!’
Isadora flicked her mane of ringlets and stepped forward, pressing her hand to the fulfilmeter. Again the dull sound echoed, followed by the scattered lights. Twelve this time.