Mage's Blood (27 page)

‘Go and stick it up your boyfriend’s arse.’

Besko snorted, spat into her lap and turned.

He ran straight into Alaron’s fist.

Alaron had been seething from the moment Besko addressed his mother, and his temper stoked higher at every word. Besko’s message shocked him: that Elena could be a traitor was inconceivable, however little he knew her. That the council could strip away his family’s property was surely wrong. And the man’s manner was insufferable. He was swinging before he’d even thought the thing through, and his fist hammered into the man’s nose with a satisfying crunch, sending the Grand-Magister reeling.

Before he could follow up, big arms enveloped him from behind and Sergeant Harft hissed in his ear, ‘Stop it, you fool!’

Alaron struggled furiously until Magister Besko’s bleeding furious face pushed into his and all of the air in his throat stopped moving. For an instant he didn’t recognise what the Magister was doing, then he panicked, flailing desperately, unable to make a sound. He tried to counter the Air-gnosis, but without a periapt his efforts were pitiful. His vision swam as Besko laughed and pulled back his fist.

‘Sir, stop – he’s just a boy—’ Sergeant Harft swung Alaron bodily away from the blow. ‘Your career, sir!’

That made Besko pause. He wiped his bloody nose on his sleeve
and glowered at the sergeant. ‘What does it matter if I throttle the little turd?’ He twisted his hand and the force tightened around Alaron’s throat.

His mother snarled distantly as Alaron felt himself begin to pass out, and then all of a sudden the pressure was gone and he fell against the sergeant, gulping down air despite the pain.

Besko spat again. ‘Ah, I suppose you’re right, Sergeant. He’s not worth it.’ Besko’s face loomed in front of Alaron. ‘Hear that, boy? You’re not worth it, and you never will be.’ He turned back and repeated, ‘Out by the thirtieth, you old hag,’ then stormed out of the room.

Sergeant Harft gently set Alaron on his feet. ‘Are you okay, lad?’

Alaron tried to speak, but his throat was agony. He nodded.

‘I’m sorry, lad. I had no idea what this visit was about. I am sorry, ma’am.’

‘Get out of here, Harft,’ Alaron’s mother snapped, then her voice mellowed. ‘And tell your Maggie hello from me.’

Harft nodded as he backed out. ‘Yes, ma’am.’

Alaron sat on the floor and massaged his throat.

‘So, you’ve got the family temper, have you?’ Tesla said. ‘There might be hope for you yet. But you’ve got about as much sense as your aunt.’

‘Wha—?’ Alaron tried again, as the pain in his throat lessened. ‘What did Auntie Elena do?’

‘I’ve no idea,’ Tesla snorted. ‘Volsai business. They’re all evil rukkers, those pricks. Your aunt fitted right in, I’m sure. She was a heartless little snot. But she knows how to sink a knife in. I hope she gave those bastards hell.’

The Great Hall of Norostein was packed with the well-to-do of Norostein, especially the magi, for this was a night for all of the descendants of the Blessed Three Hundred to show off their wealth and status as the newest graduates were welcomed into the fold. Marriage alliances would be made or confirmed, careers would be launched. Rich non-magi paraded their own children, hoping to catch
the eye of the young men and women who were the centre of attention: the day belonged to the graduates.

Normally the governor presided, but as matters of state required his presence at the Winter Court in Bres, the Noros king was here. His position had been emasculated since the Revolt, but the twenty-two-year-old king was nonetheless an important figure. His father had been executed after the Revolt and he himself had spent most of his life confined in Lukhazan Palace. The slim, rather timid young man looked out enviously at the real powerbrokers of his kingdom.

Alaron was in his best grey robes. His hair had been cut and glowed reddish in the gnosis-lamps festooning the hall. His father was with him. His mother was still at the manor, after his father lodged papers with the council to forestall the eviction. The papers proved Elena’s funding was legally a gift and therefore could not be confiscated, and thus Tesla Anborn could not be evicted – but without Elena’s payments they could not afford to keep the manor anyway. It made Alaron’s graduation all the more imperative.

Ramon, standing beside Alaron, was tricked out in his Sabbadai best, but neither could match the opulence of the Pure as they swanned about in gilded velvet hose and doublets, fingers adorned with gold rings, their fine leather boots polished to a mirror-finish. All the women sighed at Malevorn, Seth and Francis as they swaggered past, bowing to all of the graduation candidates from the girls’ Arcanum, kissing hands and making florid compliments that had the girls simpering and blushing. Alaron watched the trail of adoration they left behind with disgust. Then he saw the Webers arrive and ducked behind a pillar, but he hadn’t been quick enough. Gina, a serious-looking girl, detached herself from her father and walked towards them. Her straight blonde hair was coiled into an old-fashioned bun; she looked like she was intent on going straight from schoolgirl to matron.

‘Hello, Alaron.’ She held out her hand. She was wearing a green and gold velvet gown with a plunging neckline that drew his eye despite himself.

‘Uh, hi,’ he answered weakly. He stared at her hand.
What—? Oh
yeah!
He flushed red and bent over it, not quite making contact.

Gina struck a pose. ‘How did your exams go? Are you confident? My best was in Clairvoyance and Divination.’

‘Um, good. Yeah.’

Ramon leaned in. ‘Buona sera, Donna Weber.’

She snatched her hand away. ‘Oh, hello – are you still here? What was your name, sorry?’

‘Shaitan. This is part of my realm.’

Gina curled her lip faintly. ‘Mmm. Oh look, Father wants me.’ She pointed to where her father was bending Vann’s ear. ‘Shall we join them, Alaron?’ She offered her arm.

‘Um, I – I’ll just get a drink. Ramon?’

Gina sighed irritably and stalked away.

‘Changed your mind again, amici?’

‘She’s an insipid cow.’

‘Nice wide hips, though,’ observed Ramon. ‘Good for child-bearing.’ Alaron blushed while Ramon cackled, discomforting the well-to-do families about them.

‘You’re disgusting,’ declared Alaron. ‘I’m going to miss you.’

‘Of course you are. Being stuck alone with Donna Weber will be no fun for you at all. No sense of humour.’ Ramon snickered. ‘Fills a bodice nicely, though.’

Naturally, the Pure couldn’t resist calling past. ‘Ah, the two failures,’ sneered Malevorn. ‘I’m surprised you bothered to turn up at all. Neither of you will pass – especially you, you little Silacian slime,’ he told Ramon.

Francis Dorobon looked down his nose at them. ‘You know, my kingdom has thousands of Rimoni scum in it. You can’t trust any of them. They’re all thieves and liars.’

Ramon eyed Francis. ‘Then why don’t you go back and see how long it is before you get a stiletto in the back, O Beloved King?’

‘My family’s restoration to the throne of Javon is well in train,’ Dorobon said loftily. ‘The Crusade will ensure my rightful place is returned. I think my first act as king will be to round up all the Rimoni vagrants and have them crucified.’

Alaron took a step towards Francis, angry words forming, but Malevorn interposed himself and they stared into each other’s eyes, noses nearly touching. ‘You have something to say, Mercer?’

All of the beatings he had taken at Malevorn’s hands flashed before his eyes, and every drop of resentment sang in his mind. ‘Yeah, I’ve got something to say. You’re a gutless coward who—’

Malevorn spat in his face and he spat back, his spittle striking a small shielding an inch from Malevorn’s face. The pure-blood blew it back nonchalantly, spattering Alaron’s own spit into his face. ‘Got something in your eye, Mercer?’ He smiled. ‘Don’t make an exhibition of yourself just yet. You wouldn’t want to be thrown out and miss the big show.’ He turned away.

Alaron grabbed his shoulder. ‘Hands off, you little worm,’ he snarled and grabbed Alaron’s wrist, wrenching it painfully. ‘Don’t ever touch me again.
Ever
.’ He shoved Alaron back and he and his friends swaggered away.

Alaron winced, but the worst thing was seeing other mage-born parents smirking behind their hands at his discomfort.

A bell rang and a herald proclaimed the beginning of the ceremony. They filed into the main hall where the governor heard plaintives and supplicants. His ornate throne remained empty in his absence; the king had to sit in a plainer seat below it. All about the room, the pillars and arches were carved into leaf-motifs gilded with gold paint. The painted ceiling depicted the ascension of Corineus. Crystal chandeliers captured and radiated the myriad gnosis lights, and the guests glittered no less. Ladies wearing necklaces with centre-stones of priceless sea-pearl walked gracefully on the arms of magi luminaries. The talk was boastful, while unseen currents of rivalry and influence pushed and pulled.

Alaron tried to restore his spirits by picturing himself as one of them.
I am a quarter-blood after all. That’s not so bad. If I can distinguish myself on Crusade
… He pictured an audience with the Noros king, no longer a puppet but with full regal authority.
Rise, Lord Alaron, Emancipator of the Realm, approach the throne of your grateful king!

Right now, the king looked more like a sulky youth as he called
for the ceremony to begin. ‘Lords and Ladies of Noros, I ask Grand-Magister Besko to begin proceedings,’ he said without enthusiasm.

Besko!
Alaron felt a tightening of his throat, as if his windpipe could remember the man.

The Grand-Magister began a speech written by Governor Vult, recalling the great traditions of the Noroman magi, speaking of the past glories of those who had graduated from these two premier colleges, Turm Zauberin and Saint Yvette’s Arcanum. Names of the better-known past graduates were invoked, many of them present in this room and all of them pure-bloods. None of the generals of the Revolt were named except Vult himself, though many were graduates, and Auntie Elena didn’t rate a mention either. The speech did recall Vult’s own ‘happy memories’ of college life, commended the graduates for their efforts and wished them well for their glittering futures in service to the emperor. To Alaron it went on for ever.

Then Principal Lucien Gavius took the stage. He too rattled on for hours, and Alaron’s impatience became feverish. He reassured himself by rating his own performance in the exams. By his reckoning his final mark should be in the seventies, well above the requisite fifty-nine and enough for a bronze star – lowest of the merit awards, but still respectable.

Then Gavius was joined on stage by the principal of Saint Yvette’s, who called forward her graduates. Gina looked radiantly confident as she received a silver star, a very creditable graduation.
No wonder Da is so keen on her
. He bit his lip, feeling as if the walls were closing in, narrowing his future.

Then it was the turn of the boys of Turm Zauberin. Gavius beamed about the room. ‘Lords and Ladies, some years stand out more than others, and this is of course due to the quality of the candidates. This year, we have been blessed with not one but three candidates of unsurpassed quality. I truly believe this year will one day be recalled with wonder, that three such blessed young men illuminated our ancient and revered towers.’

Ramon made a gagging gesture to Alaron.

‘The first of these exceptional young men is Malevorn Andevarion.’
Malevorn stood and walked into the middle of the room to collect his results. Mothers’ eyes brightened, ageing spinsters licked their lips and daughters clutched their breasts. With his black hair curled about his shoulders, his mature and regal face caught the myriad light and reflected it as if he were haloed, the embodiment of the legendary warrior-magi of the Rimoni Conquests. ‘Malevorn is the son of Jaes Andevarion, the great general whose service to the emperor is well-remembered for valiant courage in the face of adversity,’ Gavius went on. Alaron snorted softly; Malevorn’s father had been a failure and a suicide, disgraced by his defeats at Robler’s hands in the Revolt. ‘Malevorn has been a revelation, not only for his superlative skill and impeccable breeding, but also his single-minded pursuit of excellence. He has been a model student, ever courteous, thoughtful and supportive of his fellows. He has even attained the status of trance-mage, the first in many years whilst still at college.’ This revelation earned an appreciative gasp and rich applause. Alaron watched Malevorn soaking it up, visibly fighting to look humble.
If only they knew what kind of bullying creep you really are
, he thought dourly. Then he reflected,
It probably wouldn’t make a jot of difference. They’d admire you even more
.

Gavius awarded Malevorn a gold star, the highest merit. ‘Malevorn has accepted a commission in the Kirkegarde, the protectors of the faith. A career of unsurpassed glory awaits.’ Gavius took up a periapt of pearl and placed it into his waiting hands. Malevorn could no longer contain himself. He raised his hands to the skies and roared, displaying the glittering gem. Everyone in the crowd applauded at this apparent display of youthful exuberance. Alaron saw it as sheer triumphal arrogance.

After a minute of milking the applause, Malevorn moved to stand to the left of the king’s throne. The king looked envious, and oddly insignificant beside him. Gavius started again. ‘The second of my “Golden Trio” is Francis Dorobon, the rightful king of Javon. Francis has been a model student who will be sorely missed. To know him is to understand the true nature of breeding, both in terms of gnosis and in terms of manners, dignity and carriage. I commend to you,
Lords and Ladies, Prince Francis Dorobon of Javon.’ More applause, more swaggering. Another gold star.

Alaron watched all of this back-slapping with distaste.
When I get my periapt, I’ll accept it quietly, not prance around like a show pony
.

Gavius said, ‘Normally we give the graduation periapts in alphabetic order, but I am taking the liberty of slightly amending the order. I apologise to these young men for the slight change of protocol when they are clearly dying to know their results. But it is only proper to now welcome to the stage the third of my Golden Trio, Seth Korion, son of Kaltus Korion, Marshal of the South.’