"Good morning. I'm sure you're aware that this course is very full, so I want to make sure that everybody who signed up is here. Wouldn't want to keep a spot for somebody who isn't interested enough to come. I will now call out your names, and you should lift your hand."
The class groaned. This was highly unusual. The lecture hall was full, and it could fit a hundred students. Was he really going to call out all the names on the list?
Apparently, he was.
I started to absentmindedly draw a sketch of the professor. Drawing people helped me understand them since I had great difficulties reading people. I sketched his face, copied his stern, serious expression. The way he stood, with his back straight, one foot on a sharp angle from another. There was something on the back of my brain telling me I had seen it all somewhere…
"Miss Bedwen. Is Miss Bedwen not here?"
I stood up, notebook still in my hand, and looked at the stand.
"Here."
"Next time, Miss Bedwen, make sure to pay attention. Don't make me call you twice." He seemed annoyed, and he licked his fingers to turn the page. That gesture — how he absent-mindedly put both his index and middle finger to his lips before turning the page — made me realize…
"You can sit, Miss Bedwen. No point in standing."
I had been too surprised by the realization and hadn't sat down. My notebook fell out of my hands. I bent to pick it, struggling to organize my thoughts.
I had seen that gesture before. Hundreds of times, when my mother read books at night, first to me, then to my brothers. My brothers also had a tendency to do that. And they also looked a lot like the professor. Besides, his surname was identical to mine. And my family had adopted mother’s surname when father married her. Professor Bedwen was my grandfather.
Mother never told us anything about her family. As far as I knew before, we didn't have any extended family. Why had she kept that secret? Why did she not tell me he was living in Ashford? Why did she lose contact with him — was it because of my father's origin? Or was it because I was born dark arall in a light arall family, a very rare occurrence, an oddity, a freak.
After the class finished, I decided to approach that man. Although I refused to take part in my father's sessions of ancestor adoration after my sixteenth birthday, I was still the firstborn of the family, and making sure everybody in our family was taken care of was my duty. Being raised Yllamese is quite a burden. I lingered, which was quite easy, considering I was in the middle of the row and I had to wait for everybody to exit if I didn't want to step on everybody's toes again. I try to do that only when necessary.
He was surrounded by excited students, who were blabbering about how excited they were to listen to the lecture (very common in light uninitiated young arall). My brothers always showered me in adoration, and I know enthusiasm like that can be grating. Being the infallible older sister is a very high standard after all. I stayed, waiting for them to finish talking. They weren't really saying anything, just purging their feelings, and he wasn't paying too much attention to them. His eyes were wandering the classroom, and he noticed me. I stood there, with my bag on my shoulder. I would wait for him.
He got rid of the adoring crowd quite quickly, seemingly with lots of experience.
"So, Miss Bedwen." The classroom was almost empty, the last few students heading towards the exit. "Did you stay to apologize for your behavior earlier?"
"That also. Look, I'm sorry about being so distracted. It's just that I was so excited to finally meet you, I've heard so many things…" Buttering up people was the usual tactic when caught in the wrong.
He seemed exasperated.
"Look, Miss Bedwen." He tapped his messenger bag impatiently. "You are probably a relation of mine, but, considering I've never even heard of you before, we are very distant relatives. There are certainly few people who share our illustrious family name…"
Illustrious family name? Seriously? Who did he think he was? Mother never mentioned our family was noble or anything like that.
"…but I would like you not to spread any rumors on our family ties, or expect any leniency."
So my grandfather is a pompous fool who thinks everybody wants something out of him. Poor guy.
He may have been a very respected lawyer, and all that, but money was never the objective for me. Money is just a way to keep score, and unearned money doesn't help much in that. I certainly would not cling on to a man who didn't want me for money. I would earn it all myself.
Still, getting close to my grandfather was probably a good idea.
There is an Yllamese story about Karim, whose demented father had rejected him, and who came every day to wash his father's feet and feed him, only to be kicked out every time. My grandfather had rejected me, and if I was a proper Yllamese firstborn, I would come back and show my respect, lower myself, until I was accepted into the family.
I'd always thought Karim was an idiot.
I smiled at this man who didn't want to be my grandfather.
"Fine. But could I write my minor thesis with you, sir?"
There was a bit of Karim in me, I guess. Somebody had to take care of this rich old fool.
"If the work is interesting enough, I could take a look at your proposal, Miss Bedwen. But why the sudden interest?"
"Well, sir, I didn't have any classes on the law before," I avoided them because they were boring and useless, "but I've realized today that the law is quite relevant for the material development of alchemy."
He seemed skeptical.
"Alright, then, Miss Bedwen. Try to interest me." And he left.
Collecting rumors about my grandfather was quite an easy task. First, I had to verify he was indeed my grandfather, and I wasn't embarking onto a fool's errand of saving somebody else's relative. Unlikely, considering the likeness, but still possible. Prof. Bedwen did indeed have a daughter named Claire. She apparently died in a train robbery twenty-one years ago (my parents moved to Crow Hill twenty-one years ago), and she would have been the same age as my mother.
Why did my mother decide to disappear like that? I wrote her a letter. I would not get an answer for at least two weeks; the train takes a week to get to Crow Hill, and mail needs to be sorted and delivered.
I would stay close to that man, whatever the answer was. He raised my mother, after all. He couldn't be too bad, considering what an amazing woman she was.
My mother never shared much about her family, or, for the matter, about her life before she met my father. I knew virtually nothing about my parents' lives before me. But I knew my mother was educated in a university at a time when that was still considered inappropriate for a non-magical woman. The fact that she got an education said good things about my grandfather, and their disagreements are not my business.
I actually got a call about the job I applied for. It was a bit weird, though. They asked me to sign a confidentiality agreement, which they gave me a week in advance. They also told me to go to a different location; the induction would happen quite close to campus, in the old Alchemy Department building. The mystery was drawing me in; arall tend to be very nosy, a trait I usually kept under control.
The old Alchemy Department had been built in an era when the worst thing alchemists could do was burn it. It had been built in solid brick, with big windows that gave plenty of light, and no air filters. Modern Alchemy was quite a bit more dangerous, so the new building had been built with solid, reinforced concrete, each corridor blocked by solid fire doors. Windows were only used for lecture rooms, and labs were lit with a closed-loop smokeless gas lighting system. The air vents contained filters that could get rid of most poisons. It was a death trap designed to keep whatever creative students came up with inside the building.
I had never gone into the old Alchemy building, as it was occupied by administrators. The occupation of this beautiful, brightly lit building, that should belong to alchemists, by paper-pushers offended my sensibilities.
After I signed the confide
ntiality agreement and gave it to the secretary, who also witnessed it, I was escorted to an office. The door sign said "Capt. Greggs".
Why would a captain of the Army be in the administrative building of the old Alchemy Department building? The secretary who escorted me knocked before I could hesitate, and I went into the room. The Captain was sitting behind a desk full of folders and papers. He seemed like he had been here, in this office, for a while, and it wasn't a temporary thing. What was happening here?
"Ah, Miss Bedwen." He stood up and extended his hand for a handshake. It was firm, but not forceful. "I'm so glad to see you here. I've asked around, and you seem to be quite a talented student. We're so lucky to have you."
Why did it feel like he was buttering me up? Why would a low-level grunt job temp get interviewed by a Captain, no less? (I was quite fuzzy on the Kalmar Republic's army ranks, but my understanding is that a Captain is above a Lieutenant, so not the lowest rank).
"Thank you," I said, sitting down on the chair. "I must admit I'm quite surprised at being here. The job description wasn't very explicit. I thought it would be more of a repair job…"
Capt. Greggs smiled at me, leaning back in his leather chair.
"Oh, no. It would be a waste of such a talented mind to have you do such menial tasks! We have already hired a drop-out student for the intended job. You are here for another project. A side project of the Intelligence Corps."
The Intelligence Corps? What kind of job would an alchemist do there? I only had a vague idea of what they did, but the only job I could think of was in explosives making — and if there's anything that interests me less than the machine repair job, it's explosives making. Sure, at first explosives are cool things that go boom. But after living for years in a mining town (and assisting mining teams with calculations) I'd realized that exploding things in mines mostly meant lots of calculations based on estimates of the type of rock and density and air pockets and angles — all those estimates being no more than wild ass guessing. The haphazard manner in which those calculations were followed — miners frequently did things because they "felt a hunch" or "well, ten pounds of gunpowder seemed too little for this hard rock" made all that even more pointless. The worst bit was that usually, the miners were right. My university education and skills would be completely wasted on that.
"I do not specialize in explosives." Starting to think of it, the job I could get at the coach station sounded better and better. Sure, it probably wouldn't look too good on my CV, but at least repairing machines would be real Alchemy. And it certainly paid better than waitressing (I never got any tips — can't bear smiling to a client).
"Yes, I've seen your student record. Specializing in machinery and industrial processes, aren't you? Don't worry, that's precisely what we'd like to hire you for."
That's a relief. But what would the Intelligence Corps be working on in machining? Trains, cars and chemical manufacturing are, in general, civilian industries. Save the reinforced cars and trucks the military occasionally uses, there is nothing the military does that civilians can't. And the weapons and ammunitions research is definitely not part of the Intelligence work.
"We wouldn't want you to enter this project blind, so I was authorized to show you a part of it. Just remember, everything we discussed in this interview falls under the confidentiality agreement you just signed. Here, look." The captain carefully took a tiny object out of the drawer and handed it to me.
When I took it, I was deeply disappointed. It was just a button in some glass casing. A button? What's so special about it? It sure looked different, but it's not like buttons are only used in the Kalmar Republic.
Capt. Greggs probably saw the skepticism in my face and decided to disperse some of it.
"The button may look ordinary. But you need to look more carefully," and he pointed at a microscope that was sitting in the corner of the office.
How did I not notice it before? Now that I saw it, it sure stood out. It was the only practical thing among all the reams of paper in this office. I examined it; it was a modern microscope, with underneath electrical lighting powered by a battery. It must have cost a fortune! Electricity was a completely new field, and lightbulbs were still very expensive — which is why we still use gas lighting in the city. It's a pity such a great tool lies to waste in a paper pusher's office.
I carefully placed the button with the case onto the stage, turned on the fiddly illuminator — and saw nothing due to the reflections. Playing with the diaphragm and the aperture did not help much — I needed to open the case.
"May I?" I asked, more as a token of politeness than as a real question, as I took the button out of the case, using some tweezers. The upper side of the button didn't seem to have anything interesting, even after I moved it around quite a bit, examining every millimeter of its surface.
"What? Oh, yes, do take it out. The interesting part is on the back."
I turned it over, and sure, I could see it: an inscription in tiny, tiny symbols, that looked a bit like ancient Yllamese, but I wasn't really sure. The symbols were tiny and barely visible even with the microscope's 400x magnification. That meant the symbols were less than a millimeter long. It was very fine work, very detailed. Only some of the best goldsmiths could do work this fine. But why do this much work, for a button that was made of simple plastic?
I continued examining the button. Symbols like that are usually used for magic — to guide the path for it. Despite specializing in Alchemy, I'd attended quite a few courses on Applied Magic. I never intended to become a mage, which required an Initiation, and intensive study of magic. And who'd hire an alchemist who's a magician?
I couldn't use magic — not before the Initiation. But I could sense it. All magicals can sense magic — both dark and light, although the precision decreases when it's the opposite magic.
So I stood up and breathed, closing my eyes, trying to feel the surrounding environment through the sixth sense. Meditation is necessary for all arall, whether we go through Initiation or not, to learn self-control. Otherwise, you could end up using magic before Initiation — and that could end up badly.
Feeling magic is not like seeing it. It's more like feeling another person's presence behind you. You don't see him or hear him — but you know he's behind you. That's how feeling magic works. It's a vague, inexact feeling. Unlike the beauty and mathematical accuracy of alchemy, magic is vaguer. So, I tried to feel the room and its contents. I felt the Captain. He was large and covered in objects — some of them dangerous. Feeling dangerous magic is almost instinctive — our bodies feel it more keenly than other types of magic. I tried to feel what was directly in front of me, concentrating on the area around my arms, where the microscope and the button were. I felt the microscope — its lamp was partly regulated by magic, and fire-related magic always feels like danger. But there was nothing else that was magical there. I breathed again, making my last attempt to see anything else — and that's when I felt it. A really vague feeling, like a feather falling on a thick wool jacket — but there was something there.
Captain Greggs, who'd been observing me this whole time without uttering a single word, decided to say something.
"So, Miss Bedwen, did you feel any magic in the button?"
"Ah, no. I thought there might be something magical in them, but I felt nothing." The vague feeling I had was not enough.
"Oh, I see. Well, that's a pity, but I guess it's expected. Only one of our most experienced magicals could see the symbol. Mages that have very fine vision are rare."
"And what did they see? Did the magic follow the symbol?"
"I guess you can turn off the microscope now, Miss Bedwen. Now that you've seen it, I guess I can share the details with you."
After I turned off the illuminator, placed the button back into its casing, and covered the microscope with the protective cloth, I sat down on the chair again. Captain Greggs leaned in, interlacing his fingers, probably trying to tell me as little as he could while a
wakening my curiosity.
"How well do you know the history of Kalmar, Miss Bedwen?" he asked, and I blinked at the non sequitur.
"Well, as well as any graduate of a school does, I guess. It's not like we focus much on it in University — there are plenty of other, more important things."
He nodded as if saddened by the state of my education. It was pretty offensive — I was a good student, although I never showed interest in anything beyond coursework in anything but Alchemy and anything related to it. Applied Magic had only been tangentially interesting to me, as alchemists need to collaborate with magicians — I thought I could give it a go. I gave up once I realized how unsystematic and haphazard magic was.
He stood up and pointed at a big world map that was hanging on the wall.
"You see this?" he traced the borders of Kalmar with his fingers. "This is Kalmar. And this," he pointed at a tiny island on the south coast, quite close to Yllam. "This is Forg island. It belonged to Yllam until recently, when after a small border skirmish, it ended in our hands."
The so-called Forg island was so tiny it was but a speck on the map. I approached it and lowered my head to see better. It almost seemed like it had been added with a pen after printing. I looked more closely. Yes, it was definitely added at a later point; the ink was a bit darker than every other line on the map. Nobody but the military would care about that island; even they probably only cared about it for some geostrategic reasons.
"Well," Captain Greggs clearly saw my skepticism. "To secure the island, we stationed a platoon there."
An entire platoon for an island that small? The island must be quite important. But poor guys. They must have been bored to death. You can't even march very far (I was fuzzy on military entertainment, but in my understanding, marching was as entertaining as it got outside of fighting).
The Apprentice's Path: The Alchemist #1 Page 2
