Honor's Price

by Sever Bronny

  “Thank you,” Augum and Bridget mouthed as they left the counter, raising their hoods and not glancing toward the four occupiers of their kingdom who chatted rather amiably amongst themselves, unaware of who had just visited and what had just transpired.

  The Recalcitrant Scholar

  “I didn’t even ask the teller his name,” Augum said as the group of friends hurried away from the bank lest the overseers catch on. He and Bridget had just finished explaining what had happened.

  “Well, it was mighty brave of him to help,” Haylee said. “But I’m worried. What will the countess do once she finds out? I mean, I know it was a loan to you, but you know she won’t look at it that way.”

  “I guess we’ll find out,” Augum replied.

  Isaac snorted. “What will they do, confiscate the castle?”

  “Let’s not make light of a dire situation,” Bridget said. “We all know they can do worse. Anyway, what’s done is done. Best to concentrate on getting the scroll.”

  They strode in silence for a bit.

  “Unnameables help me, imagine if we got robbed,” Jengo muttered.

  Leera punched him in the shoulder. He was so tall she had to strain to do it. “Don’t jest about stuff like that either.”

  “Back to punching, are we?” Isaac said, sticking close to Caireen.

  “I never gave it up,” Leera said in sanctimonious tones. “Merely took a break.”

  “Where is this arcaneologist anyway?” Laudine asked.

  “This way.” A limping Haylee took them down a narrow alley that forced them to go in single file.

  “Maybe I should take the lead,” Augum blurted, earning a withering look from Haylee.

  “Afraid I can’t handle point?”

  “Sorry. Of course you can.” The assassin wouldn’t strike anyway seeing as he’d be heavily outnumbered. But that wasn’t an excuse. “And I apologize.”

  “Apology accepted.”

  Haylee skipped from alley to alley, each one grungier than the last, until they stood before a rugged small oaken door. Etched in the old stone above it were the weathered words The Recalcitrant Scholar. There was no handle.

  “Sure is tucked away, isn’t it?” Jengo said, glancing around the tight alley. “Like he’s hiding out.”

  “He’s a she,” Haylee explained. “An ancient but wise she. And she’s Sierran.”

  “Just like me!” Jengo said.

  “Yes. Anyway—” She held up a palm. “Shyneo.” Her hand suffused with ice that shone brightly. She placed that hand against the door and it opened inward with a creak.

  “Mighty clever,” Laudine said. “This way only warlocks can get in.”

  The group entered in single file, leaving the wind behind and replacing it with a deep silence. The place smelled of minerals and myrrh and the musty fragrance of old parchment. It was cramped and dimly lit by iron candelabras that hung from a high ceiling. The walls were rough stone and lined with towering bookshelves and yawning cubby holes stuffed with yellowed scrolls. Loose books and parchments sat in random stacks throughout the place. A pile of leather-bound tomes teetered on an ornately carved desk brimming with scrolls, drying sands and a wide assortment of quills made from exotic bird feathers.

  “Good morning,” said a rather congenial but croaky voice. It took them a moment to realize it was coming from the desk, behind the pile of stuff. “Come closer, please.”

  They walked toward the desk, hands clasped before them as if not to disturb the sacred and deep scholarly quiet of the place. There, behind the towering stack of books, they found an old woman hunched over parchment, holding a giant brass magnifying glass which she used as an aid to see the parchment she was meticulously inscribing. She had mottled ebony skin and wore a colorful headscarf. A string of fine pearls hung around her leathery neck.

  “Do you know what this is, saplings?” she wheezed, not looking up.

  They leaned forward.

  Jengo gently cleared his throat. “That appears to be a certificate of some sort, my lady.”

  “It is indeed that. This is a certificate of birth. Noble birth. Non-arcane parchments have power too, you see. For with this certificate, a young lordling, the son of a noble warlock, will inherit a grand estate. My job is to methodically craft the right words so its authenticity cannot be questioned no matter how much time has passed.”

  She finished an ornate squiggle before telekinetically floating over a jar of drying sand. The cork popped off and the jar sprinkled the parchment with aqua-colored sand. Amazingly, the woman moved on to another task while the jar worked, as if the two were independent of each other. She was either using highly advanced and nuanced Telekinesis or a spell Augum had not heard of. He desperately wanted to ask how such a thing was possible when she drew another parchment before her and spoke on in her patient way, all while writing out a billing notice in beautiful, flowing script, the other hand holding the large magnifying glass.

  “One could task a special quill to write arcanely, but all truly great works, especially things like spell scrolls, require the hand. Only the hand can infuse the arcane art into the ink and parchment, imbuing it—or rather, borrowing—the requisite arcane power drawn from the eternal arcane ether. Mind, each letter must be perfectly infused with the spell, so to create a scroll from a spell requires one to have detailed knowledge of said spell, as well as the ability to cast it again and again, into every letter. So to speak. It is … a little more complicated than that. Nonetheless, that is why scrolls are so costly, my dears.”

  By the time she finished talking, the certificate of birth lay completed before her. She put down the magnifying glass, heated up a stick of blue wax, dribbled it onto the parchment, and stamped it with a large wax seal. “Ah, a young lord is thus born in the ledgers,” she wheezed as she gingerly placed the stamp aside. “And a dynasty continues for another generation.” She folded her wrinkled hands and glanced up with cloudy owl-like eyes. “My name is Mrs. Pierra Avis Fortescue, of the clan Fortescue, of the Sierran desert of the south. I see before me a blur of a man who could perhaps be Sierran. Am I wrong?”

  Jengo once more gently cleared his throat. “You are not, Mrs. Fortescue. My name is Jengo Okeke, of the Okeke clan of the Deserts of the South, Sierra. My parents went north to escape war, settling in the Ravenwood as merchant miners. Mother died along the way from consumption, leaving Father to raise me on his own.”

  “And you are a warlock.”

  “5th degree, healing, Mrs. Fortescue.”

  “Admirable. We desperately need more healers, that we do indeed.” She nodded at the group. “I do not do business without introductions. Who might the rest of you blurry creatures be? You see, they do not make spectacles thick enough for my poor eyes, eyes that are beyond the repair of all known arts, eyes that have taken quite the turn in the last two years. I even purchased a rare Legion-era Orb of Hearing only to find it of no help at all, although I did sell it for a small profit. Did you know that Orbs of Hearing were commonly confused with Orbs of Seeing in the war? People can be fools with enchanted objects. Mighty fools indeed. Now, where were we?”

  “Introductions, Mrs. Fortescue,” Jengo replied.

  “Ah, yes, do go on.”

  One by one, the seven others introduced themselves. When they got to Bridget and Leera, Mrs. Fortescue smiled warmly. When they got to Augum, she nodded to herself and said, “I am an old woman, and have had the fortune to serve many of your mothers and fathers and grandmothers and grandfathers. Your former father, Lord Stone, stood in that very place where you stand. As did your mother once. Even your venerable great-grandmother visited my humble shop—and on more than one occasion, for she was a most ambitious scholar of the arcane arts, a most ambitious scholar, if I may say so. There was much pressure for her to become an arcaneologist, you know. Yes indeed. But she refused, much to the detriment of the craft, I said at the time. Yet she turned out quite all right, did she not?”

  The sense of history of
the place must have gotten to Augum for he found his tongue rather tied. Numerous historical questions came to mind, none of which he had the sense to verbalize.

  “Now that we are properly introduced, may I inquire as to the nature of your business?”

  “We need a scroll crafted for us,” Bridget said. “It’s an off-the-books spell by the name of Oath Displacement.”

  “Mercy me, that is a most rare spell. Do you have academy permission to purchase a spell so beyond your degree? And notice I did not say ‘beyond your competence,’ for I know the power of desperation and true patriotism, of love and loyalty and valor.”

  Bridget hesitated only a moment. “I am afraid we do not have permission to purchase or cast this particular scroll, Mrs. Fortescue.”

  “Then that will be my gift to you. Permission to purchase and cast the scroll.” She waved a hand idly as if brushing away a stain. “As I did for your great-grandmother, Lord Stone, so I do for you. Consider it tradition.” Then she wagged a finger. “But it will cost you, as it cost me, for I so happen to have a scroll of that very spell. It is an old scroll, older than I. In point of fact, I do not know if there is anyone left alive in Solia who even knows of this spell—with perhaps one exception, and she resides in the Library of Antioc.”

  “We have money,” Leera blurted. “We can pay.”

  “It is a great sum, my dears. Are you sure it is a necessary spell?”

  “Very necessary,” Augum said, ignoring the doubts raised by The Grizzly who had said it was likely a complete waste of time and money. And it was a lot of money too, a fortune. All money he’d have to one day pay back.

  Mrs. Fortescue’s cloudy owl-like eyes narrowed as she studied Augum carefully. “Your actions have proven that you do not seek to replace your former father as the Lord of Death … thus far.”

  “I only wish—no, I need—to accept my past and the entirety of my bloodline.” For the sake of the kingdom. For the sake of himself.

  “To what end is the question … is it not? After all, it is conceivable I may be put to the question for this transaction, if not by the powers that be, than by history.”

  Augum hesitated, unsure if it was wise to tell her his plan. “I will never follow his path, Mrs. Fortescue,” he said instead. “He was a cold-blooded mass murderer.”

  “Your conviction is a balm on the wound of worry.” She nodded. “Very well then,” and as the group visibly relaxed, she raised a hand and closed her eyes. “Let me see here …” She let out a long sigh. “Ah, yes, here we are.” She pinched two fingers at the air and tugged lightly. Somewhere behind them came a soft crinkling noise. They turned and saw an age-blackened scroll slip out from one of the highest shelves. A thick layer of dust fell off it as it floated over their heads, settling onto the desk before her.

  “The spell is delicate and complicated. As with all scrolls, you will have to take care to be precise with pronunciation, visualization and gesture.”

  Bridget and Augum opened their satchels, rooting about for the crowns. “How much do we owe you, Mrs. Fortescue?” Augum asked.

  “Precisely two thousand nine hundred and fifty-eight crowns.”

  One could almost hear the simultaneous whistling plummet of eight hearts in the silence that followed.

  “You do not have that sum, do you, my dears?”

  Bridget swallowed. “We do not, Mrs. Fortescue.”

  “How much do you have, young woman?”

  Bridget looked skyward, lips moving silently, as she took a few moments to add up the sums. “In total, I believe we have two thousand crowns, seven spines, and four castles.”

  “Nine hundred and fifty-seven crowns, two spines and six castles short,” the arcaneologist said without missing a beat. “Hmm.” Mrs. Fortescue placed her hands on the desk in thought. “Hmm.” She inhaled in her patient way and then exhaled. “Hmm.” She tapped the desk twice with a finger. “Everything matters, my dears. Everything matters. Especially how we spend our time, for time is the most precious commodity of all.” She leaned forward. “Yet another reason why scrolls are so expensive. They take precious time to craft. That time becomes ever more valuable as you get older. It becomes … extremely valuable, if I do say so myself. A long time ago I paid a princely sum for this scroll, a sum that on balance cost me a great amount of my time and effort.”

  The group said nothing. Nobody moved or breathed.

  Mrs. Fortescue leaned back again, folding her hands over her large belly. “But I recognize sometimes there are … extenuating circumstances. Thus, I have decided that you shall pay nineteen hundred forty-eight crowns, seven spines and four castles, and not a castle less.”

  “Leaving us with exactly fifty-two crowns,” Augum noted after an arithmetical pause. A cool wave of relief swept over him, tempered only by the fact they would be totally broke and at the mercy of Canterran whims.

  “There are eight of you. Six of you are 7th degree, two are 5th. That is, if my blurry vision has not mistaken the color of your robes and your lack of golden armbands.”

  “It has not, Mrs. Fortescue,” Augum replied, impressed.

  “Then barring any additional fines, that will pay for one more day with the invaders, will it not?”

  “It will, Mrs. Fortescue.”

  Mrs. Fortescue waited patiently, until the friends realized she was waiting for them to place all the money before her. They quickly did so, withholding the requisite crowns for tomorrow’s due. She then telekinetically arranged the money into the burlap sack Augum had given her, and cleared the sack off the desk.

  “Sometimes what we perceive as tragedy is only opportunity hungry for expression. Let it motivate you to find a solution to the problem at hand.” She gestured at the scroll. “Goodbye, you young tempests of bravery, you tragic foals of fate. Goodbye … and good luck.”

  Bridget took the blackened old parchment and put it in her satchel.

  “Goodbye, Mrs. Fortescue,” they all said, and left The Recalcitrant Scholar.

  A Bold Plan

  Laudine loosed a great sigh as she pressed her hands to her chest. “Wasn’t Mrs. Fortescue simply divine? After my own heart, that woman is. A true poet and artist.”

  “Yeah, well, I can’t believe she didn’t flat out hand the scroll over to us as an act of charity and patriotism,” Haylee muttered as they strode along the snowy streets toward Olaf’s house. “Stingy old hag. Even took the castles.”

  “You know it doesn’t work that way,” Bridget said. “We’re lucky she waived almost a thousand crowns as is. The arcaneological guild code forbids extravagant reductions in costs. They’re not supposed to slash prices like that.”

  “Yeah but now we don’t have enough money to pay any fines they levy against us.”

  “She left us with gold to pay tomorrow’s daily, which she didn’t have to do.”

  “Maybe we should skip classes today,” Leera said.

  “I know you’d love that,” Bridget snapped, only to rub her eyes and groan. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that. But we can’t skip too many classes as we’ve got to keep tabs on what’s going on. And we must assume exams will take place.”

  “What’s the point though?” Laudine asked, clenching a dramatic fist. “ ‘Condemned is the rabbit that returns to the hunting ground.’ We need to make money just to attend classes. It doesn’t make sense.”

  Bridget stopped, forcing the whole group to stop with her. “So what do you want to do?” she asked, looking around at them. “Give up? Is that it? Is that what we’re down to here?”

  “Of course not, Bridge,” Augum said. “They’re just … venting. You know we’re in a tough spot. The entire kingdom is.” He urged her to continue walking with a gentle hand motion.

  She sighed. “Of course. I apologize. You know me, I can be a bit … wound up,” and she resumed the pace.

  Jengo scratched an old scar on his chin. “What we need to do is find a rich noble to back us.”

  “We had a rich and genero
us whale among the minnows,” Leera said. “Furnished the castle, remember? But then Haylee here nagged him for better and better stuff until he dropped off the face of Sithesia.”

  Haylee rolled her eyes but did not dispute the assertion.

  “Back in Tiberra rich nobles supported students as benefactors,” Caireen said. “Patronage, that’s what they called it. Surely there’s a system like that here.”

  “Good luck with that,” Isaac muttered. “They’ll be too busy hiding their fortunes. Yes, there’s the guilds, but they’ll be shoring up their savings too. Besides, only a warlock noble would support a student warlock. Ordinaries think we’re heathens or witches or devils. Right now it’s ‘I got me and mine and everyone else can choke on it.’ Everyone’s out for themselves, with no room for charity. That’s what happens when a tyrant murders more than half the population, leaving everyone to pick up the pieces.” After a tense pause, he added, “Sorry, Aug, didn’t mean to drag your former father into this.”

  “It’s fine,” Augum said hopelessly. “Everything you said is true.”

  Still, that killed the conversation and they walked on in gloomy silence, passing through a part of the city that had been razed in the Legion War. Augum glanced at the charred and hollowed-out brick buildings and wondered if the Canterrans would finish the destruction.

  When they got to the Black Arena, which was along the way, they saw two overseers manhandling a woman. “Let go of me!” she was shouting. “How dare you! Do you know who I am? You’ll pay for this, you will!” And she wasn’t the only one. They witnessed a squad of Canterran soldiers, who glanced fearfully over at the group of friends, cart off two meek young men.