Chapter 108: 108: The Academy Test XVIII
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"They will not pass a test that belongs to the people who built this city. And if they pass," he added, the word passing from quiet plan to iron promise, "they will not enjoy the road out."
"Sir," the steward said, which meant you were speaking like a fool with coins.
"I will speak to Cousin Varne in the morning," Fartray continued and repeated his old statement. "He sits near Master Hale more than most. He can ask if the void magic is safe in a room with other people. He can suggest it is not. He can remind them that donors do not like risk. He can ask small rules to be moved. Doors can be closed by small rules."
The steward said nothing. He was paid to understand how rooms moved. He was also paid to know what could not be moved without breaking something you would miss later.
Fartray tied the fresh sash with a jerk that made the knot ugly. "Find who the boy did this to me," he said. "Hier the thugs in the south side of the city. Find me a pair of hands near the city gate who do not mind dark work if the price is bright. I will not be mocked by a village boy and a pet."
The healer met his eye, then looked away. She was young. She had seen pride burst before. It always looked the same and never learned. But she never saw a ding dong that small on an adult’s body. It was like a child’s private part.
"Sir," the steward said again, softer now, which meant you will do what you will do, and I will spend the week mending it.
They left the antechamber by the back passage. The ruined clothes went to a tin bin in the little yard behind the house. A groom set a controlled fire with a long taper and watched until only black lace of ash remained. It smelled like wasted money and something smaller.
Inside, the party found its balance. The trio took a brisk piece and beat the air into shape for people again. Sevrin told a better story than the one the room wanted to tell and most guests agreed to listen to it instead.
Still, the thin ring of laughter had done its work. It would go to breakfast and to lunch. It would drink tea in three houses and be retold wrong in five. It would reach ears that enjoyed small gossip. It would reach Fartray’s bed as a whisper under the window, though the window would be closed.
Back at the Bent Penny, John turned on his side and watched the sky cut a sliver between roofs. Fizz slept with one paw over his belly and the other tucked under his chin. His whiskers twitched once, as if he were counting stars in a dream.
"Do not start a war we cannot finish," John had said.
"I would never," Fizz had answered. "Not a big one."
The city took a long breath and spent it. The one-hand clock leaned past another mark. The academy kept its shape. Plans grew in two places: in a small, neat room above a tavern where a boy counted steps to a gate, and in a large bright house where a noble learned the hard way that cloth tells the truth when it is asked the right way.
Fartray lay awake much longer than he meant to. He stared at the high plaster and saw the yard again. Not the mud. Not the jokes. The dark, round, silent thing on John’s hand. It lived in his head like a stone you cannot ignore after you put it in your pocket.
His ears still felt hot. His jaw hurt from the way he had held it in the hall. He tried to breathe slowly. He tried to think of clean water and smooth stone. The jokes would not let him.
"Low tide in Aqua."
He heard the voice again. Calm. Like a weather report. It slid under his skin.
"The river dried up."
A second voice, friendly and cruel at the same time.
"Small ding dong."
That one came like a pin. Small. Sharp. It hit, then hit again in memory. He saw the fan that hid the mouth that said it. He saw the eyes above the fan. Bright. Happy to hurt.
"Fetch a magnifying glass."
"Postage stamp."
"Demo version."
"Thimble heir."
The words lined up at the foot of the bed like thin men in blue coats. They bowed. They did not leave.
He told himself, "I am Fartray of Aqua. I am a circle two mage. I am near circle three. I am not small. It’s average size." He said it twice to made himself believe. He did not sound like himself. He sounded like a boy practicing to be a man in an empty room.
He saw the valet’s face again, so careful, so blank. He hated the blank most of all. He could live with laughter; laughter could be punished. Blank could not be touched.
He saw Sevrin’s smile. Lazy. Sharp. Cousin and knife in the same shape. "Thimble heir," Sevrin had said softly. Everyone heard it. Everyone pretended not to.
Lady Siris had said, "Be kind." Even that hurt. Kindness falls on someone weak.
The healer’s voice came back too. "No chalk. No rune taste. Heat in the thread."
Not a spell. Not a mark he could point at. Not a thing he could carry to a master and say, See, this proves it. He needed it to be a curse from the street. He needed it to be that spirit’s work. If it was not, then it was him. He could not let it be him.
He tried to picture the moment as a story he could tell tomorrow. "A lamp fell," he would say. "A sleepy servant. A bad oil." The words felt thin. Everyone would nod. They would keep the jokes. Thin words do not beat thick laughter.
He rolled to his side, then back to his back.