by Tim Susman
Emily, assured of her Selection, grumbled that she was going to learn to translocate herself to wherever they were so that she would have some pleasant company if they all left. Malcolm thought he would either go to the military or as an apprentice; he’d talked to Master Vendis about his defensive spellwork, shown him the two spells he’d mastered, and Vendis had said he was impressed. When Malcolm had pressed for a confirmation of his Selection, Vendis had said that the issue was “tricky,” and that he would have to “put some thought into it.”
“I’ve no idea why they feel they must keep to themselves,” the Irishman said. The four of them sat on the floor with Neddy close by for warmth. “Surely by now he knows whether or not he’ll Select me, just as Odden knows whether he’ll Select you.”
“Master Argent’s told me he will Select me,” Emily said. “And I heard that Master Waldo has promised Jacob a Selection, and Master Warrington the same for Matthew.”
“It’s because you’re friends with us.” Kip curled his tail around his knees and picked up a paper. In the light of the torches and the phosphorus elemental, he made out a scrawl of letters detailing a purchase of linens from 1733. He crumpled it in his paw and tossed it over to Neddy, who scurried forward and devoured it. “It’s because he has to be sure Patris won’t make his life miserable for three years for daring to associate with someone who of his own volition associates with Calatians.”
“And your father is his calyx,” Coppy added.
“Maybe not for much longer.” Kip folded his arms across his knees and rested his head on them. He didn’t know what would happen when his father moved to Georgia, but he suspected that Vendis would want to find a calyx closer to home. The thought flitted across his mind that Vendis might be waiting to see if someone else Selected him so that if not, Vendis could take him as a calyx, which might make it difficult to have Malcolm as his apprentice. If that was the case, then Kip was going to disappoint his father’s master; he wasn’t going to be any nearer New Cambridge than his father was, and maybe farther.
Monday morning when the Selection was to take place, Kip and his friends arrived from the basement and found the desks arranged in the Great Hall as if for class, in neat rows on the carpet. They took their accustomed seats as the other students filtered down the stairs and did the same, though no master waited at the front of the room.
“How long you suppose they plan to make us wait?” Malcolm asked the moment he slid into his seat beside Emily.
Kip’s ears caught footsteps on the stairs. “They’re coming,” he said.
Malcolm frowned, but as the footsteps grew louder, he slouched back, affecting disinterest. Under the desk, where only the students behind him—Kip and Coppy—could see, he wrung his hands together in visible display of turmoil much like that in Kip’s own stomach. The fox kept his tail and paws still as the footsteps quelled the rest of the muttering among the students.
Ten masters in their formal black robes lined with crimson velvet and gold stitching walked single file into the Great Hall. Patris, at the head of the formation, stood behind the podium, while the other nine arrayed themselves behind him. Kip could name almost all the Masters present: from left to right behind Patris, he saw Windsor, Vendis, a tall red-headed portly man he assumed was Warrington, Brown, Splint, Odden, Sharpe, Waldo, and last, Argent. He assumed that the missing sorcerers, Campbell, Jaeger, and Barrett, remained in their rooms.
Patris launched into his speech without so much as a “good morning.” “The Selection is a time-honored ritual at the College, and before that at the King’s Academy since its founding, by which method the current sorcerers choose the young men…” He paused, staring down at his podium; beside Kip, Emily sat up straighter and folded her arms. “Who will make up the next generation of sorcerers,” Patris finished. “The work you have done these past months will determine what path you take from this day forward. Because of the dire straits in which the school finds itself now, the sorcerers have chosen to evaluate your talents over two months rather than over a year, as is customary. It may strike some of you as unfair to have such a short period in which to prove your worth, but I assure you that in our discussions over the past week, we have taken pains to consider every aspect of your education. In fact, we have spent far more time than usual in meetings to finish our evaluations.”
“What does he want, a medal of honor?” muttered Malcolm over his shoulder. Emily covered her mouth with her hand, and Kip and Coppy exchanged tight, tense smiles.
Patris launched into a short history of Selections and the various colleges of sorcery that Kip lost interest in quickly. Some of the sorcerers also looked bored; Waldo and Argent leaned in close to each other, whispering. Odden and Sharpe fidgeted, Warrington examined his fingernails, and Splint stared up at the ceiling. Master Windsor stayed standing at attention, and though he didn’t appear to be following the speech at all, neither would he meet Kip’s eyes.
“…long and storied history of which some of you will now be a part,” Patris concluded some ten minutes later. He looked out at the class as though checking to see that they were all paying attention. Kip couldn’t stop his fur from bristling up on his neck and tail, but at least that wasn’t visible. Neither could he keep his paws still any longer, so he focused on keeping them on his legs where their tapping would be silent.
“You know that some of you will be assigned to the Royal Civil Corps, there to help build the roads and buildings that will make the Colonies the jewel in the Empire’s crown. There is a great frontier to the West waiting to be developed and claimed, and your work will be integral in securing it. Some will go to His Majesty’s Army or Navy, to fight for the Empire against those who would tear it down. All your skill and learning will be needed to help our forces defeat the Spaniards. And some will be chosen as apprentices to sorcerers here in the Tower. This last is a great honor, not bestowed lightly, and we expect that those of you so chosen will live up to the responsibility of being not only exceptional sorcerers, but exceptional men as well.” This time he did not hesitate over the word “men.” Emily gave a small sniff, and Kip bit his lip, but neither of them said anything aloud.
“A few of you will not hear your names called at all,” Patris said. “You have demonstrated no talent for sorcery, and we will not recommend you to any other work.”
Kip glanced at Coppy, but the otter stared straight ahead. Of course he would prefer not to be recommended, to be allowed to go home and work on the Isle for himself and his people. If he were sent to a civil corps, much less the military, they would dictate where he was to be posted and what work he had to do.
Patris shuffled the papers on the podium and brought one to the front. “The students recommended to the civil corps are: Cobb. Cooper. Smith.”
Two rows ahead of Kip, Mark Smith slumped in his desk. Kip’s eyes were on Farley’s back. He would have guessed that Farley’s talent lay in the military, but he’d rather hoped to see his nemesis building roads for a living. He had noticed that Patris had said that those chosen for the military would go to the military, no choice, and so he swallowed and prayed he would not hear his own name in the next round.
Coppy, by contrast, looked bright-eyed at the omission of his name. “Military,” he whispered to Kip. “Never woulda thought it!”
Maybe, Kip thought, some of the Calatian units had heard of them and requested Calatian sorcerers. Maybe he and Coppy would be assigned together. That wouldn’t be so bad. Travel to exotic places, good pay, and sorcerers usually fought from a distance and were well protected, or else were kept behind the lines to move supplies.
“The student recommended to His Majesty’s Army and Navy is Carmichael.”
That was all. Kip sank back into his seat and looked up at Master Odden, trying to read the expression behind the bushy black beard. But the sorcerer remained impassive as Patris went on, and it was from Patris himself that Kip got his only indication of what his fate might be.
“Students
selected to apprentice to a Master are to be commended, for an apprenticeship is awarded not solely because of talent in sorcery. Hard work and proper comportment are also key to being Selected. This year, despite the paucity of apprentices in the College, we Masters refused to relax our standards. We are delighted to Select the following students for their apprenticeships in Prince George’s College of Sorcery. As I call your names, please come up to stand beside the Master who chose you.”
He didn’t look delighted; he looked as though he’d bitten into an apple and found multiple worms there. Kip’s ears came up. Though Odden remained impassive, hope blossomed in the fox that he would become an apprentice.
“As my apprentice,” Patris began, “I select Victor Adamson.”
Kip’s good mood evaporated. Adamson? The one who couldn’t cast a single spell? Announced first, as though he were head of the class, and apprenticed to the headmaster, to boot? In front of him, Emily hissed, but he couldn’t look up to meet her gaze for fear that he’d burst out yelling at the unfairness of it all. What was Adamson going to do as an apprentice? Bring a whole lot of the senior Adamson’s money to the College, he reminded himself bitterly.
“Swot,” Emily muttered beside Kip, and that broke his tension, allowing him to relax in his seat. He flashed her a tight smile.
Adamson had walked up to stand beside Patris. The white-haired sorcerer brushed hair out of his eyes and continued. “The apprentice to Master Waldo will be Jacob Quarrel.”
Quarrel, a lanky young man with a mop of black hair and a scruffy beard, stepped up quickly as Master Waldo came forward to greet him. The two exchanged words briefly and then stepped back into line, Quarrel a step behind his Master.
“At least he can actually perform sorcery,” Kip muttered to Emily.
“Nice to know they take that into account,” she replied.
“The apprentice to Master Vendis will be Malcolm O’Brien.” Patris read it quickly, without inflection.
Malcolm turned and flashed a wide smile to Kip, Emily, and Coppy, then marched quickly up to the front. Master Vendis shuffled his feet beneath the folds of his robes and made space for Malcolm, but did not speak to him.
“The apprentice to Master Warrington will be Matthew Chesterton.” There was less hostility there, but still no enjoyment, none of the pleasure Patris had shown in reading out Adamson’s name. Perhaps it was merely that he saved that emotion for his own apprentice. Kip thought there was likely another reason. Not that Matthew Chesterton had done anything particularly offensive to Patris, but he was the last name Patris was going to read before he got to the distasteful ones.
The red-haired boy had barely gotten to the podium before Patris read the next Selection, quickly. “The apprentice to Master Argent will be Emily Carswell.”
Emily took her time getting to her feet, returning Kip’s and Coppy’s smiles, and stepped carefully up to the front of the Hall, clearly prolonging the moment to antagonize the Head. He ignored her, and as she reached the podium, he said, “Master Odden selects Philip Penfold.”
For a moment, Kip couldn’t breathe or move. He stared up at the front, his ears straight up, his brain still buzzing with the words. Odden had done it somehow, had overcome Patris’s objections and had saved Kip’s…life, perhaps. The relief of not having to think about military service, or Georgia, or the Isle overwhelmed him, and it wasn’t until Coppy hissed, “Kip!” at him that he got to his feet, nearly knocking down his chair in the process. It caught his tail, so he had to extricate himself before hurrying up to the front.
“Don’t take much to be an apprentice,” Farley sneered as Kip passed, looking entirely unconcerned about his own standing.
But behind him, the elementals had figured out that Kip was going to stay, and from the fireplace came a small chorus of cheers. “Hooray for Penfold!” “Good on yer, fox.” And up on stage, Emily beamed and Malcolm barely restrained himself from jumping up and down, fidgeting until Master Vendis turned and spoke sharply to him. Kip wished his father could be here to see, wished he could tell him right away rather than having to wait hours, maybe even a day. He wanted to thank his father for all he’d done, all he’d given up, so that Kip could have this chance, and Kip wanted him to see that all that work hadn’t been wasted.
When he reached his place beside Master Odden, the sorcerer turned and said softly, “We will discuss the implications of this presently.”
Kip nodded, his throat still feeling tight and unusable, and stared out at the Great Hall. Farley and five other students remained at the front, most of them looking down at their desks or playing with quills, and Coppy sat alone in the back. The otter was smiling up at Kip, and Kip felt an ache in his heart at not even having considered his friend’s state. He’d assumed that whatever happened to him and Coppy would happen together, good or bad, and that he would have the choice of remaining with the otter if he wanted. But Coppy’s smile held not a trace of sadness or jealousy; he was genuinely delighted for Kip and proud of his friend. He opened his mouth to whisper to Master Odden, to plead with him to take on Coppy as well, but Odden turned to him as though reading his thoughts and shook his head slowly. Kip closed his mouth and lowered his head.
“The rest of you,” Patris began, but Master Windsor stepped forward.
“Clement,” he said, softly, but Kip’s ears caught the word.
“I will not permit it,” Patris hissed back. “You said last night that—”
“I have changed my mind.” Windsor spoke in soft steel.
The other sorcerers looked at each other. Splint and Brown whispered, but Kip was focused on Windsor and Patris and missed what the others were saying. He hardly dared hope, but there could only be one thing they were talking about, one person left whose Selection would enrage Patris. Windsor was taking a chance on Coppy; Kip’s desperate bargain had saved his friend.
“No,” Patris said. “He is not ready.”
“The potential is there, and you cannot prevent my decision.”
“Announce it yourself, then.” The Head turned to the class. “Those of you not chosen, good luck with the rest of your lives. You must be off the College grounds by sunset today.” He grabbed the sleeve of Adamson’s robe and marched him around the side, past the empty fireplace and to the stairs.
Master Windsor stepped up to the podium. “The apprentice to Master Windsor will be Copper Lutris,” he said without ceremony. “Lutris, join me in the basement, if you please.”
The other sorcerers muttered among themselves, clearly as surprised as Kip himself was. “Bloody hell,” muttered Jacob Quarrel, just down from Kip. Coppy, for his part, looked more shocked than happy. He’d stood but hadn’t taken a step toward the front yet, and as he looked at Kip, the fox tried to give him an encouraging smile, tried to put all the happiness bursting in his chest into that expression. But Coppy only smiled weakly in return, then scrambled to follow Master Windsor to the basement stairs.
Malcolm leaned back to grin at Kip, bouncing again, until Master Vendis reached out to restrain him. And then Master Odden turned to face him, looking up from under his bushy eyebrows. “All right, Penfold,” he said. All around them, sorcerers were talking to their new apprentices. “Come on.”
They mounted the stairs, Kip’s tail lashing with excitement all the way through the smell of Farley in the room outside Master Odden’s office and into the office itself, still thick with phosphorus and smoke. Master Odden shut the door and gestured to the chair behind his desk. “Have a seat.”
There was no other chair in the office. Kip looked to the sorcerer for confirmation, got a nod, and shakily seated himself in the large wooden chair, curling his tail around his hips rather than threading it through the back. Still giddy from having made the bargain to keep Coppy with him at the college, he folded his paws in his lap and looked up, willing himself to concentrate.
Odden paced to the dais and back to the door, then faced Kip. “You know the difficulties that lie ahead of us both,
though perhaps not so much those that I am facing.” He held up a hand. “Let me finish. Patris is understandably concerned about your temperament, and even setting his biases aside, the issues he raises have merit. One,” he counted on his fingers, “your presence here attracts unwelcome attention and puts you in situations in which your temper will be sorely tested. Two, your presence here may unsettle the balance between sorcerers and their calyxes. Three, there is the rather serious question of what use you will make of your powers. The revolutionary elements in Boston have been discussed often inside these walls, and now that you are to be an apprentice, I may tell you that the Crown has advised us to be prepared to use our powers against our fellow Americans within the next five years, and that the revolutionaries have approached many of our number to sniff out our loyalties. One of the reasons your class is being rushed into apprenticeships is to increase the sorcerers available to us as soon as possible. Rather than the general rounding of spells you would expect to receive in your first year, you will each be asked to focus on your chosen discipline. Patris’s concern is that the revolutionaries will promise liberties to the Calatians—this has already been mentioned—and that you will turn your powers to that cause. As it seems very likely at this point that you are a fire sorcerer, a rare and powerful commodity, this is greatly worrisome, and his preference was that you not be trained at all rather than risk you becoming a weapon that might turn on us.”
Rare and powerful. Kip filed that information away for future review. “Sir,” he said, “do you think the attack on the College came from revolutionaries and not from the Spanish?”
The sorcerer rubbed his beard. “I cannot say. I would not dismiss it as a possibility. Windsor is the one studying the attack through the lens of history and he seems to think that if Spain had launched an attack so successful, they would have followed it with another by now. But perhaps the survival of the Tower has confused them and delayed their next attack.”
