Summoner: Book 1: The Novice (21 page)

Fletcher was shocked by the cool way Arcturus spoke about the suspicion he was under. He wondered whether Arcturus would be capable of such a crime. Lord Faversham owned most of the lands around Beartooth and was a rich and powerful man.

‘Of course, most orphans had been identified and trained up by the time they found out about all this, so as a compromise those that had already been discovered were allowed to stay,’ Arcturus continued. ‘The only condition was that we would not be referred to by our noble surname, hence why I am known as Captain Arcturus, my first name. I have three half-brothers of about my age, also fighting in the army. There are probably more out there, completely unaware of who they are. I am not allowed to test children in the orphanages, much as I would wish to. Yet somehow, fate has brought you to me.’

Fletcher barely comprehended these last words. He was too deep in thought. Could his father be Lord Faversham? Did that mean his mother had been alive in Boreas his whole life?

‘Fletcher, I may be wrong,’ Arcturus’s voice floated by. ‘You may be just another orphan, you are many years younger than me after all. I don’t even know if Faversham continued his infidelity after he had his first child with Lady Faversham. But what are the chances of an adept orphan that was abandoned near Boreas being one of the few not descended from the nobility?’

‘So you are saying I am the bastard love-child of Lord Faversham, and my mother is either a mistress at best or a courtesan at worst?’ Fletcher said bitterly, coming out of his reverie.

‘And my half-brother . . .’ Arcturus Faversham said.

38

Fletcher had stormed out of Arcturus’s office. He was full of anger; but who with, he did not know. Ignatius spent much of the night hissing, small rings of smoke puffing from his nostrils as the others laughed and joked at dinner.

‘I may not be sure who I’m angry at but you definitely haven’t a clue, have you?’ Fletcher murmured under his breath, scratching Ignatius’s chin. It was quite funny to see the little demon’s confused agitation, which cheered Fletcher up somewhat.

Fletcher had managed to laugh off his meeting with Arcturus to the others, claiming that he had just been scolded like a naughty schoolboy. Of all his new friends, only Othello noticed his despondency, knocking on his door after they had all gone to bed. Fletcher decided to tell him everything – after all, he needed to return the level of trust Othello and his family had placed in him. But Othello was unimpressed with Arcturus’s story.

‘It sounds like Arcturus is reading too much into it if you want my opinion,’ Othello said, scratching at his beard. ‘He must be desperate to find more of his family and is ignoring several things to make your story fit with his own. I have heard of Lady Faversham, for entirely different reasons. She is the old King’s cousin and was famous for her great beauty, back in the day. I sincerely doubt that after Lord Faversham’s behaviour came to light that old King Alfric would have allowed the lord to continue shaming his royal cousin in this manner. Nor would his son, King Harold.’

‘But what if he did? What if he had a moment of weakness, years after it all came out?’ Fletcher asked.

‘Even assuming that he would be so foolish, why were you abandoned just outside of Pelt? Surely the desperate woman in question would leave you in an orphanage or doorstep in Boreas, not somewhere as obscure and far from the city as Pelt. I mean, it’s almost on the elven border!’ Othello exclaimed.

‘Maybe she didn’t want me to end up in a workhouse like Arcturus did,’ Fletcher replied, equally as stubborn, although he was not quite sure why he was supporting Arcturus’s side of the argument.

‘If she cared enough to do that, then why did she leave you to freeze in the snow, with not a stitch of clothing or a blanket? No, Fletcher, there is more to it than that. Don’t be disheartened by Arcturus’s theory. Just be glad you have him on your side and that you had the good fortune to run into him in Corcillum.’

With those words, Othello went to bed and left Fletcher feeling considerably better but a lot more confused.

‘Who the hell am I?’ Fletcher whispered in the darkness. Ignatius mewled in sympathy and burrowed his head into Fletcher’s chest.

Despite the events of the day, Fletcher’s sleep that night was the undisturbed and dreamless sleep of the exhausted.

The noviciates waited in the summoning room for their next lesson in etherwork. Fletcher was hoping to see Lovett, but knew that it was far more likely that Arcturus would be taking the lesson. His attempts to visit the infirmary had been in vain – Dame Fairhaven had seen to that. She informed Fletcher that she was sure Captain Lovett would not like to be pestered by her students whilst in her paralysed state, and that her reading to Lovett was enough to keep the captain entertained. The discovery that Lovett was completely paralysed but conscious of her surroundings only increased Fletcher’s desire to see her, but the door was closed firmly in his face.

‘Nice togs,’ Genevieve said, giving him a thumbs-up. Fletcher smiled and fingered the collar of his new jacket.

Uhtred had been as good as his word, sending Fletcher a beautiful dark blue uniform as well as his sword with the morning deliveries. The gold buttons on his jacket and pants had even been embossed with the curling silhouette of a Salamander, much to Fletcher’s delight. The scabbard was of the finest quality, made from firm black leather and burnished steel. Fletcher saw that the sword had also been whetted and was accompanied by an oiled cloth and a reminder for Fletcher to look after his weapon, as it was a tool of the finest workmanship.

He was glad to have it, as he had been forced to use a wooden stick whilst Sir Caulder took him and the other commoners through the basics of swordplay. The noble children had all been tutored from an early age and had not accompanied them, though Malik and Penelope had briefly watched from the sidelines before becoming bored and leaving. When Fletcher asked why they were being taught to battle each other after what Sir Caulder had told him about fighting orcs, Sir Caulder had snapped, ‘The tournament, boy. They’ll be having you fencing and God knows what else. No use having all you commoners lose in the first round because you’ve only been taught how to fight a seven-foot savage instead of a noble with a rapier.’

The reminder of the tournament had filled Fletcher with dread and sent him running to the library, where he had buried himself in books. He had not been alone – most of the other commoners accompanied him. Growing up with fully-qualified battlemages for parents had put the noble noviciates far ahead of their common counterparts, breezing through most of the teachers’ questions with little difficulty.

There were thousands of demons to learn the names, measurements, strengths and weaknesses of, even if most of them could not be found in the part of the ether that Hominum’s summoners had access to. The eighteen Canid breeds alone had taken Fletcher most of the weekend.

The sound of the door slamming behind him broke into his thoughts. A tall, slender man had entered the summoning room. At first Fletcher thought that it was Arcturus, but when the man stepped into the wyrdlight, he saw that his uniform was different, cut from black cloth with silver trimming. His face was sallow and bearded, with small black eyes that glittered as they surveyed the students.

‘My full title is Inquisitor Damian Rook, but you may call me sir. I will be instructing you in the art of etherwork until Captain Lovett has recovered from her . . . accident. Fortunately for you, Scipio has decided to hire a more competent teacher this time around.’

His words earned a smirk from Tarquin and a discreet titter from Isadora, much to Fletcher’s disgust. Rook ignored this and turned to the commoners, studying them through hooded eyes.

‘My my, it feels as if it was only yesterday that I tested you,’ Rook said, in a low voice that commanded absolute obedience. ‘Genevieve, Rory, Seraph, Atlas, as well as the dwarf and the elf, will stand in a line over there.’

Fletcher’s friends moved with alacrity, lining up against the far wall. Rook ignored them and instead scrutinised Fletcher and the nobles, walking around them as if they were horses on sale.

‘A good turnout this year. Tarquin, Isadora, it is good to see you here. I hope your father is well?’ he inquired.

‘Aye, sir, though it has been several months since last I saw him,’ Tarquin replied, with unusual politeness. Fletcher wondered what kind of man would command the respect of a noble like Tarquin. How did they know each other?

‘You are clearly a Saladin, if I am not mistaken,’ Rook continued, stopping in front of the olive-skinned boy.

‘I am Malik Saladin, son of Baybars Saladin, hailing from the lands of Antioch,’ Malik replied, jutting his chin out proudly.

‘Of course. Your father’s Anubid fought right alongside my Minotaur at Watford Bridge. Were you fortunate enough to be gifted it?’

‘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.

‘The Forsyth blood is strong. Zacharias will be proud,’ Rook said, helping Isadora to her feet.

Tarquin followed suit, lighting up twelve again.

‘Twins usually have the same fulfilment level, but it is worth checking,’ Rook muttered, half to himself, as he shook Tarquin’s hand. Fletcher’s heart felt like a stone in his chest as Tarquin pushed past him roughly to stand at the back. They were all so powerful – Lovett was only level eleven!

Penelope was a level seven, but she seemed happy, smiling and nodding as she stood up. Rufus was a level nine, a result that earned him a backslap from Tarquin and a grunt of approval from Rook.

‘Now for the commoners. You first, dwarf. A level eight, at least, from what I hear, given that you were able to summon a Golem. The average for commoners is five of course, but then you are a special case.’

‘Why do commoners have lower fulfilment levels, sir?’ Rory asked, shuffling his feet.