Chapter 281: Rolled Up
Rolled Up
His decisions and plans made, Martel walked back from the copper lanes. He took an unusual route for his return to the Lyceum, disguising where he had been. His stomach rumbled with the knowledge that he would miss supper, and he had no money to buy any; his wages, given to him this morning by Mistress Rana, had been delivered to Weasel as promised for his services last night.
The little rascal had demanded twice that for helping Martel out with his plan tonight, but thankfully, Marcus had decided that the Night Knives would cover it. A small price to pay for saving Flora's life, and as Marcus was the only conscious member of the mercenary band present in Morcaster, none could argue against it.
Back at the castle, Martel felt ready to drop. He had not slept for two days, crossing the city back and forth several times. His body yearned for rest, which was why he had to deny it. If he lay down, he would sleep clear through until morning.
Gnawing on an apple from his drawer, saved from breakfast and intended for Julia, Martel opened his window. The cold wind met his face much like a slap, reinvigorating him. Leaning over the windowsill, Martel prepared himself for a long wait.
***
When his Khivan clock struck ten, Martel blinked repeatedly and pulled himself upright. Once the shutter had been closed, he shuffled out of his room. Weasel should be here soon, so to speak. Martel had told the boy to arrive two hours after last bell had rung; how close he could hit that mark was another matter. Organising these affairs would be a lot easier if everyone had a Khivan clock.
Noticing himself straying towards unhappy thoughts, Martel quickly descended the boys' tower and went to the workshops, his appointed meeting place. He walked just past the threshold to the area and leaned up against the wall, out of sight from anyone walking down the hallway. Finally allowing himself some rest – Weasel knew where to look for him – Martel sank down to sit on the ground and nodded off.
***
"Wake up, wizard man, you can sleep after the job."
A small, thin finger, little more than bone, jabbed Martel's cheek. With utmost reluctance, the acolyte opened his eyes. "Alright, I'm awake. Let's go." He looked at his accomplice for the evening, covered in soot making him dark and difficult to spot.
"Before we go up. None of your little flames," Weasel warned him. "Besides attracting attention or waking people up, they'll ruin our night eyes. And then we won't find this little vial of yours."
"Got it." As weird as it felt to take orders from a boy half his size, maybe even half his age, Martel had to accept Weasel's experience on endeavours like this.
"Now, I should have asked this earlier, but you were out the door too fast. How sure are you that we'll find what we're looking for?"
"Well, he mentioned that he owned such an elixir. I can't imagine he's had reason to use it."
"Any chance he was just running his mouth? I ain't staying here all night looking for something that ain't real." Weasel crossed his arms.
"His father is the richest man in the Empire. Pretty sure they can afford a healing elixir."
"Alright. Lead the way. This once."
On quiet steps, at least in Weasel's case, the pair walked to the dormitory tower and ascended its floors. They continued until near the top. With no windows in the hallway, they walked in nearly complete darkness, Martel fumbling his way along the wall to reach the right door. Keeping silent, he poked Weasel to indicate their destination and stepped aside.
He could not see what the boy did and had to simply wait. Moment after moment passed, turning into minutes, as he heard Weasel cautiously tinker with some kind of tool. The tiniest sound reached Martel from the bolt that locked the room from the inside, being ever so slightly moved.
Martel's exhaustion battled against his nerves – if anybody discovered them, he was unsure whether he could talk his way out of it. Weasel's presence would be impossible to explain away.
Another sound, this time from the door slowly opening. Time for the next step. Weasel entered as the first, Martel second.
He realised the value of the boy's advice; tiny strips of moonlight made it through the shutter on the window, which felt like bountiful illumination compared to the pitch-black hallway.
Martel quickly glanced over the chamber. To one side, the bed with a sleeping Cheval. Next to it, an armour stand, a wardrobe, a drawer, a desk, some chairs – this room had to be three or four times bigger than his own.
Weasel had already begun looking through the desk. Following suit, Martel picked up everything on the drawer that looked vaguely in the shape of a vial or small bottle. Round object with a lid – jar of perfume. Another similar item, strange smell – oil for hair, Martel guessed. What a fop. An actual bottle – just ordinary wine.
As Martel placed it down, he misjudged it, putting the bottle down too close to the edge. It immediately fell back against him, making him desperately try to catch it with his hands. As it fell through his fingers, he finally reached out with his magic to grab hold of the bottle and arrest its movement.
Releasing a deep sigh of relief, Martel carefully put the bottle down. He did not bother looking at Weasel; he had no doubt the boy wore a scornful expression.
Continuing through the drawer, Martel found a lot of clothes, but nothing of interest. Weasel moved towards the armoire, which seemed an odd place to stash a vial worth twenty golden crowns.
Feeling like the obvious places had turned up empty, the acolyte began to despair. He got down on the ground, looking under the bed. Underneath was as empty as the mind of the loathsome mageknight sleeping on top.
He felt Weasel prod him with his foot. Getting back up, Martel saw the boy holding a sock. Wondering how to silently explain the vast differences between fabric and glass, Martel's objections quickly proved unnecessary. Sticking one hand into the sock, Weasel pulled out a small vial.
Nodding towards the door, the boy swiftly left, Martel behind him. Once outside, the door carefully closed, Weasel placed the vial in the acolyte's hand. "This it?" he whispered.
Even in complete darkness, Martel could see the faint glow of magic filling the liquid. Placing his hand around it, he felt the power through the glass. "Yes. Stars, who hides something like this in a sock?" It took him a moment to remember he had hidden his own stash of coins once in the same kind of place. Still, not something worth twenty crowns.
"Wasn't hiding it. You said he brought it on a journey. I figured, to keep it from breaking during travel, he rolled it up inside clothes."
Martel placed the vial back in Weasel's palm. "Get this to Flora."
Their hushed conversation was overruled by noise from the spiral staircase – boisterous singing, in fact, accompanied by the light from a lamp.
Panicking, Martel glanced in every direction. Should he hide back in Cheval's room? Or hope to talk his way out of it?
"Nordmark, what in Nether's name are you doing here?"
"Max! We –" Martel looked around. No trace of Weasel. "I couldn't sleep. Wanted to see if you were still up."
"Not for much longer! Look, I meant to ask you to join me tonight, but I could find no trace of you all day! I cannot be held responsible in that case."
"Understandable," Martel said graciously. "My own fault. I'll go out with you another night."
"Splendid! Now stand aside. I have a mighty need to relieve myself of tonight's ale, and after that, my bed beckons me."
"I wouldn't dream of standing in your way." Clapping the mageknight on the shoulder as he passed, Martel went down to his own floor and finally sought sleep.
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