The Cursewright's Vow

Chapter 29: The Apprentice, Part 3

 Knowing better than to argue this, or Barthim's read on the Munazyri public in general, Ammas excused himself and led Casimir into the temple he could now call his own, rather than a ruin in which he merely squatted. Its transformation since the day they had fled the city through the catacombs below was as profound as that of the Prideful Lioness next door, if not more so. 

Only last week the workers had packed up. They hadn't moved far; Barthim had been so impressed with their handiwork that he immediately hired them to build his inn's expansion. The crumbled gray stone walls were now plastered in white. All the tall windows were fitted with a smoky glass; not so much as a single cracked pane was to be seen. The chapels Ammas had converted into storerooms and laboratories were now fitted with sturdy doors, protected by both mundane locks and his own arcane seals. The iron braziers in the long aisles had been replaced with new, less battered models, and shining lamps hung from the arches and blazed in sturdy brass fittings high up on the clean white walls. 

The upper floor had been similarly rebuilt, its dusty chapels converted into chambers that might be used as sickrooms, libraries, or workshops as need dictated. Casimir still lodged up there, and Ammas supposed he would be converting one of the chambers into another bedroom soon enough. Over the entry to the catacombs was a stout iron portcullis; an even more impregnable vault door had been constructed down below. Ammas relied on these pieces of ironmongery to protect the temple from what lurked beneath the city, as he had yet to find a new airy spirit to tame. Lately he had considered assigning this duty to Casimir; it would make an effective examination of what lore the boy had learned over the course of his apprenticeship so far.

"It's my turn to cook," Casimir said, reaching for his key to the portcullis.

"Not tonight. Let's take Barthim up on his offer of dinner."

Casimir grinned. "Want a chess lesson, then?"

"If it's not too much trouble." Ammas's eyes narrowed. "You haven't mentioned this to Barthim, have you?"

His apprentice laughed. "No, Ammas. I want to see the look on his face when you finally beat him as much as you do." With that he darted upstairs, returning a few minutes later with his board and chessmen.

Ammas was already seated at the scarred old table where he still conducted client interviews and worked on his own research when necessary. He had begun penning an account of Carala's illness, carefully concealing her identity. Whatever else, he was the first cursewright to cure or kill ritual werewolves in centuries, and that was worthy of recording. Varallo Thray hadn't said whether the Emperor's grace extended to publication, and the notice of consent that hung in this very room didn't mention it, but even if his account wound up gathering dust on a shelf in the Othillic Archives, it needed to be set down.

Casimir and he played chess until the sun went down, the boy patiently explaining that he was too protective of some pieces and too eager to sacrifice others, and that he couldn't forget to develop his defenses just because he saw an opening. Ammas struggled to follow his apprentice's advice, but he had to admit his game had improved somewhat over the last few weeks. They only stopped when they realized each could hear the other's stomach growling in hunger.

"I think," Ammas said, leaning back and rubbing his eyes, "that our Imperial visitor is running late. I'll bring up a few morsels. No need for us to go hungry while we wait. Go keep watch out on the portico. Leave the board. Let's have you play our new arrival. Get a sense of their head for strategy."

Nothing Ammas could say would have pleased Casimir better. The boy arranged the board for a new game and headed toward the temple doors while Ammas went down to the catacombs. He emerged with a loaf of bread wrapped in cloth, a jug of cider, and a fresh pouch of seretto leaves, joining Casimir on the portico just as the city clocks were striking nine. 

Next door the Prideful Lioness was a blazing beacon of cheer and laughter, mouth-watering smells of Barthim's cooking -- a blend of Siraneshi and Vilain cuisine that was unlike anything found elsewhere in Munazyr -- rose to spice the air of the Old Godsway. Ammas and Casimir made some small talk concerning what this new apprentice might be like while the tea steeped over a fire Ammas kept just inside the temple doors. 

Casimir was convinced the witch-finder Ammas had cured in Vilais would be sent to learn the cursewright's trade. "He knows who you are, and he knows there really were werewolves hunting people. They can't leave him where he is."

"I'm not sure I like how canny you're getting, lad," Ammas said, shaking his head, pouring himself the evening's first cup of tea. Casimir smiled.

Lights began bobbing far down the Old Godsway, the sort of lanterns that shone from the frame of a high class carriage or hansom. Ahead of it a mounted rider trotted down the road, silver glittering on the horse's tack. Soon Ammas recognized the livery of the Argent Brand, and rose to his feet as he realized Mielle Thalia herself was the rider.

"Good evening, Ammas," she said, frowning as she smoothly dismounted. Ammas noted she was in her dress uniform, service medals glittering at her heart, boots freshly polished. "I expected better of you. I thought we had an understanding. I don't appreciate being ambushed like this."

"What are you talking about?" Ammas said, utterly bewildered.

The Captain-Commander's eyes narrowed. "Surely you know."

"I really don't, Mielle."

"Your new -- apprentice?"

"Yes?" Ammas's eyebrows knitted together in puzzlement. "I informed you as soon as I heard from the Chalcedony Palace."

"You don't think I needed to know? I had to round up a dozen men. The guardsmen at Peddlers' Gate nearly sent up a signal we were being invaded."

"Mielle, I swear to you I have no idea what this is all about."

Mielle Thalia's look softened, then became wryly amused. "Then you've been ambushed too, I suppose. Your apprentice passed the borders of the Anointed Realms with a military escort of twenty men. Their Captain was none too pleased to be stopped at the city gates, and would not turn over his passenger until I arrived with a few squads of my own. I trust once your apprentice is safely in your custody my men won't be needed anymore?"

"Not at all," Ammas said, still very much at sea. "No one told me anything about an escort."