The Cursewright's Vow

Chapter 29: The Apprentice, Part 1

The boy had never been measured for an outfit before, and he expected to be stung with the tailor's needle at every turn.

"Master Cursewright, if you would please instruct your lad to stop flinching," grumbled old Medderith. His shop had done business here at the corner of Clocktower and Eventide Streets for over forty years, and not once in that time had he been commissioned to do work for a brothel orphan. But the cursewright's coin was good, and his business had been directed here by a member of the Argent Council. Medderith was a savvy enough businessman to lay aside prejudices in the face of honest payment. Still, the boy did need not to squirm so much.

"Casimir, don't flinch," Ammas said with a smile. "Medderith does good work. If you stay still he'll be done all the sooner."

Casimir sighed and turned back to the mirror. The final adjustments Medderith was making to these light gray robes were tortuous, but inwardly he was really quite pleased. Never before had he worn a set of clothing so fine, and certainly not any that were the mark of an arcane tradesman. Ammas had told him these were probably the first set of apprentice robes to be newly stitched in twenty years. That filled him with a peculiarly sad pride. He wondered what Othma would make of it.

Ammas leaned on his walking stick, studying the robes critically. They were trimmed with black, marking them as the robes of a cursewright's apprentice, and while they were very close to his memory of the ones he had worn as a youth, something about them still seemed a trifle off. Unless he stumbled across a folio of robe patterns in the Othillic Libraries they would have to make do, he supposed. Casimir seemed taken with them in any event.

"I may be coming to you for another set shortly, Medderith. I hope you're not planning on retiring any time soon."

Medderith's scowl lightened somewhat, which was as close as he usually got to smiling. "None of my journeymen are fit to stitch a woman's undergarments, much less arcane robes. Your business is always welcome, Master Cursewright."

It had been several months since the Argent Council had posted the public proclamations of his new status, but Ammas was still uncomfortable being addressed this way. It also reminded him of certain things he would rather not have dwelt on, but that wasn't Medderith's fault.

As he studied Casimir's robes Ammas caught sight of his own reflection and the exquisite robes he had commissioned from the tailor for himself just last month. Trimmed with plush, midnight-black rabbit fur and adorned with subtle threads of gold forming symbols and sigils like the ones that dangled from the brim of his hat, they were surely the finest cursewright robes he had ever owned. Years in frugal exile had taught him to disdain such extravagance, but he had been obliged to purchase a few sets that were suitable for audiences with the Argent Council or the Doge. His most frequent host had been the Lady Zinna, who had been the one to murmur in his ear that he ought to stop dressing himself in rags and suggested Medderith's shop. Barthim was convinced Lady Zinna would be proposing marriage by next Yearsend, and loath though Ammas was to admit it, he thought Barthim was probably right.

"That will do it," Medderith said, rising up to his feet with a grunt. "I've left your lad's robes with a good amount of material in the sleeves and hem, so they shouldn't need much alteration as he grows. Which he seems to be doing like a weed."

"So boys tend to do," Ammas said, squeezing Casimir's shoulder with a smile. "Send one of your journeymen to the temple tomorrow and I'll pay the bill in full."

"Not tonight?" Medderith's scowl returned.

"Unfortunately I'm liable to be busy this evening. If it bothers you that much, come on by tomorrow and I'll treat you to dinner at the Lioness. I imagine it'd do wonders for your business."

Medderith shook his head irritably. "I'd rather no more commissions from your friend the Beast just now."

Ammas and Casimir exchanged a grin. "A shame. I think it's some of your finest work." Sweeping his hat off his head with a flourish, Ammas bowed and hustled Casimir out of the shop before Medderith threw them out.

As was usually the case when the pair of them had business in the wealthier parts of Munazyr, Ammas and Casimir drew no small number of curious glances and intrigued whispers, all the more intense today due to Casimir's new manner of dress. Occasionally they would be greeted by someone passingly familiar with the cursewright (such greetings were always highly visible and meant to be seen by envious onlookers). Ammas usually let them be content with a smile and a faintly jaunty salute with his new walking stick. That itself was the subject of gossip, most of which made the ivory-handled teak device out to be some fabulous bit of cursewright magic. In fact its origins were entirely mundane; it had been a gift from the Doge in thanks for curing Sergeant Lyros. As much as Ammas appreciated it -- despite having recovered from the events at Gallowsport he still felt the need for a prop if he had been on his feet for a while -- he had been more pleased with the financial consideration the Argent Council had granted him for his service, and more pleased still with the fact that Mielle Thalia had named him an official consultant to the Argent Brand.

"You still owe me, though," she had informed him over seretto tea and coney stew at the Four Winds, the tiger-dancer glaring daggers at the two of them. "You're too valuable for me not to take advantage of now, Ammas."

"I'll take that in the spirit it's meant," Ammas had grinned, clinking his teacup against the Captain-Commander's. "How is Lyros?"

"Still shaken up, bad dreams at times. But nothing so bad as the first night he changed, or that fit that overtook him near Autumnsend."

Ammas, who knew Lyros must have felt Yvelle's demise and the mass death of so many of his bloodline, had merely nodded and expressed his gratitude that the Sergeant would be returning to his patrol on the Old Godsway. Now, walking side-by-side with his apprentice (Casimir was now tall enough that he reached just above Ammas's elbow), the politic smile he offered to well-wishers on Clocktower Street began to curdle. 

Mielle hadn't meant her appointment this way, but it occurred to him not for the first time that he was being drawn into the city's political games, and as Varallo Thray had so kindly pointed out to him, that was something for which he was particularly unsuited. The business he must attend this evening stank of such games, and he wondered if he had been too eager to accept the Grand Chancellor's offer. Returning to the less affluent districts of the city, where passersby tended to avoid him if they noticed him at all, brought with it a palpable sense of relief.

"There's something I want you to keep in mind, Casimir," he said lightly to his apprentice as they turned onto the Old Godsway.

"Yes, Ammas?" Casimir turned attentively to his master.

"I have no idea who the Emperor is sending me, but they're liable to be a good deal older than eleven -- "

"I'm twelve," Casimir reminded him, yet again.

Ammas grinned. "Whoever he sends will be long past his coming of age, let us put it that way."

"All right," Casimir said, satisfied now.

"The point is, you have been my apprentice for over a year. So whoever comes to me -- no matter how old they are, even if they're as old as I am -- you are the senior apprentice. Don't forget it. Don't go too far and try ordering them around, of course -- "

"I wouldn't do that, Ammas."

"I'm sure you wouldn't. But don't let them order you around, either." 

They walked in a comfortable silence, enjoying the first mild day since Yearsend, the gutters of the Old Godsway chuckling with dirty rainwater from the previous night's storm. "You've seen things many sworn cursewrights never saw. You're an excellent student, and I owe you my life, and the Emperor's own daughter owes you her soul. So just remember that if we end up with some Imperial toady who doesn't know a curative potion from a tankard of swill."

"I'll remember," Casimir said reverently. As they neared the temple and the Prideful Lioness, the boy's face glowed with pride.