Huguel

8

He props his head in his hand, one elbow on the workbench, looking every bit the brilliant-but-misunderstood astralchemist of his reputation. In the forge, the fire crackles merrily, the naft bubbling and popping.

"You're probably wondering, why did the great Farhad-e Kimiyagar hire me? Why would someone of his towering genius, perhaps the greatest mind of his generation, need an apprentice?" His eyes twinkle.

Farhad is still spoken of highly at the University, at least by the students, despite having graduated some twenty-odd years ago. They tell stories of his exploits. Of how he accidentally set fire to the Archives when his model khalicraft collided with a lantern and exploded. Or how he flung himself from the tallest wind tower with a pair of homemade wings and flew for half a parasang before crashing into the Sea of Dust—and breaking both his legs. The Ostadan are more measured in their praise, recalling his lax study habits, but they don't deny his talent.

There are less-flattering stories about him as well, of course. That he's a Revolutionist. That he has ties to the Legion of the Black Lion. But such rumblings about prominent Vatani are common these days. And just about everyone you know is breaking the law in some way, whether it's reading banned books or drinking outlawed alcohol.

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