The Grandmaster's Tale

Chapter 6

I ran.

Jacky popped out of nowhere and opened his mouth. I zapped him with a freeze spell and darted past, hearing his body crash to the floor behind me. The last thing I needed was for someone to shout CAVE before I caught the guilty party in the act. Someone else ran past, her pale eyes wide. I gritted my teeth as I ran around the corner, bracing myself as best as I could. There were few adults with the naked sadism of students. The youngsters tended to lack the awareness of possible consequences that dominated adult thought.

The scene before me was horrific. Alan was bent over, hands clutching his chest. Blood spilled from between his fingers and dripped on the floor. Geraldine stood next to him, frantically casting healing spells that refused to take … she was too frantic, part of my mind realised dully, to properly complete the spells. Walter, Adrian and Stephen stood nearby, faces twisted into leers. Other students were watching, unsure what to do. They scattered the moment they saw me. I was almost relieved. The bullies had gone too far, finally …

“Stand back,” I ordered Geraldine. She was trying her best, but she wasn’t helping. “Let me …”

I cast the freeze spell on Alan, then levitated him into the air. It was hard to get a good look at the wound—his hands covered everything—but judging by the neat tear on his robes his attacker had used a cutting charm. I was surprised Alan was still alive. The charm could have cut his entire body in half, putting him beyond all hope of salvation. I snapped out a pair of spells to clean up the blood—I didn’t want to leave it lying around, not when someone could use it to curse him from a safe distance—then levitated Alan down the corridor. The audience had vanished. I told myself it wouldn’t protect them. I’d seen enough faces to get their owners on the hot seat, then sweat them until they gave up the rest. It wasn’t fun and games, even by a sadist’s standards, any longer. It was attempted murder.

“They tried to grab me,” Geraldine stammered. She was in shock. She wouldn’t have been so open about what had happened if she’d been thinking straight. “Alan tried to stop them, and they cursed him and …”

“Later,” I snapped. Alan had lost a lot of blood. The wound could be sealed easily enough, but replacing the blood would be harder. I caught a passing firstie and sent him to take a message to Mistress Constance, asking her to meet me in the infirmary. She might have to whip up a potion to encourage his body to replenish its blood reserves. “Let me keep him alive first.”

Madame Clover’s eyes widened as I levitated Alan into the infirmary and dumped his frozen body on the nearest bed, then hurried to grab her wand and start casting diagnostic spells. I stepped back, taking Geraldine’s hand and pulling her out the way, too. Madame Clover was a practiced healer, one of the best in the world, but she could only do her work without interruption. Mistress Constance joined us moments later, her face grim. Madame Clover barely looked up as she snapped orders, demanding that I help her with some charms and the alchemist brew a pair of healing potions. She didn’t find anything for Geraldine to do, which might have been a mistake. The poor girl could only stand by the wall, watching in horror as the healer fought to save her friend’s life. I hoped—prayed—Alan would be fine. I hadn’t dared knock him out, not when it might push him over the edge. But being trapped in a wounded body, unable to move a muscle, wouldn’t do wonders for his mental state either. It might end very badly indeed.

I’ll keep an eye on him, I promised myself, although I knew it wouldn’t last. Alan would graduate, then leave without looking back. Perhaps I could convince my brother to give him an apprenticeship …

Madame Clover stepped back, after what felt like hours. “He will be fine,” she said, finally. On the bed, Alan looked almost childlike. The wound was gone, but his clothes were still stained with blood. “He just needs a few days of rest to replenish his strength, even with the potion.”

“He’ll …” Geraldine stepped forward. “Can I stay with him?”

“As long as you don’t disturb him,” Madame Clover said. “He’s in a healing trance right now. He has to come out of it on his own.”

She motioned for Mistress Constance and I to follow her into her office. “A bad business,” she said. The office was supposed to be secure, but I cast a handful of privacy charms anyway. “I was half-afraid the wound would be charmed to make it impossible to close and seal. Even so … he was lucky to survive. An inch lower and it would have sliced right through his heart.”

“Attempted murder,” I said, savagely. “They can’t get away with this.”

Mistress Constance looked at me. “Are you sure?”

I scowled. Boscha couldn’t cover for the little bullies now, could he? And yet, it had been hours since I’d broken up the fight and taken Alan to the healer. Anything could happen in a few short hours, from the bastards running away to their master finding a way to excuse their crimes. I couldn’t think of anything that would—it wasn’t a harmless little prank like turning a passing student into a toad—but that didn’t mean someone else couldn’t. Boscha wasn’t stupid. And he had a strong incentive to find a way to bury the whole incident.

“I don’t know,” I admitted, finally. I met the healer’s eyes. It pained me to say the next words, an admission of weakness as humiliating as confessing you were being bullied by your peers. “Will you stay with him?”

Madame Clover nodded. I allowed myself a moment of relief. No one, not even Boscha, would dare manhandle—physically, emotionally or magically—a healer. The Healers Guild would never stand for it and they’d bring immense pressure to bear on the community, convincing the board to fire Boscha before they lost access to healers themselves. The wretched man wouldn’t have a chance to bully Alan into forgetting what had happened … or something. I didn’t know how far he would go, but I feared the worst.

“There’s something else you need to know,” Madame Clover said, quietly. “I did a blood test. If I’d needed to find someone who could donate some blood to him ... it wasn’t necessary, but …”

I nodded. Healers wouldn’t use donated blood unless they were desperate. At best, it created a whole web of obligations and debts between the two that could be impossible to navigate or easy to abuse; at worst, it could bind the two together permanently or affect their magic in unpredictable ways. No one in their right mind would take the risk, if there was any other choice. Healers might be oathsworn to foreswear all debts, but the donor might not be so kind. Donating blood was so risky, and came with so many complications, that it was impossible to demand the donor do anything. And taking the blood by force was even worse.

Mistress Constance frowned. “What did you find?”

Madame Clover hesitated, noticeably. “He’s his son.”

I blinked. “What?”

“Alan is Boscha’s son,” Madame Clover said. “I checked twice. There’s no mistake.”

“Impossible.”

The word slipped out before I could help it. The Grandmaster’s son would be born with a silver spoon in his mouth. Boscha had all the experience and connections to ensure his child entered society at a very high level, enough of both to make up for any … irregularities … in his birth. His son might be spoiled so rotten he could give Walter a run for his money when it came to being an entitled brat. Alan wasn't spoilt. He was a poor boy from the local orphanage, his mother dead and his father a mystery …

And yet, there was something oddly familiar about him.

“If that’s true,” Mistress Constance managed, “does Boscha know?”

“There’s no relatives listed in his file,” Madame Clover said. “I suspect not.”

I nodded. Boscha wouldn’t leave his son in an orphanage if he knew the boy existed. Even bastards had rights, in magical society. No one would fault him for not taking the child into his home, but … he should, at the very least, have ensured the kid was adopted by a decent couple and given a steady upbringing. There were quite a few common-born children whose so-called parents had been paid to take and raise them as their own. The lucky ones, I had often thought, were the ones who never realised they were adopted. The ones who did often had trouble coming to terms with the fact …

“He doesn’t know,” I muttered. Alan didn’t know either, or I was a monkey’s uncle. “Do we tell him?”

“No.” Mistress Constance’s voice was very firm. “Boscha doesn’t know. How’ll he react?”

I nodded, curtly. Boscha had no legitimate son. He wasn’t even married. He might … he might acknowledge the boy and take him into his household, or he might pretend the young man simply didn’t exist. Or … I hated to admit it, even of Boscha, but he might kill his bastard son. I knew at least one bastard who’d died under suspicious circumstances. No one knew for sure, but the general theory was that the poor kid’s stepmother had resented his presence and murdered him. Boscha had plenty of options if he wanted to dispose of his son in a manner that couldn’t be traced back to him.

A thought crossed my mind. He has the Grandmaster’s blood …

Someone knocked, hard. Madame Clover cancelled the privacy wards. “Come!”

A young girl peeked in, her eyes nervous. “The Grandmaster requests the presence of his senior tutors, immediately,” she said. “I …”

“Thank you,” I said, curtly. It was all too clear she expected to get in trouble for bringing bad news. I’d known tutors who’d punished the bearers of bad news … idiots. It was a great way to make sure no one told you anything they didn’t think they wanted to hear, including a battle being lost … a battle that could be won if you knew to send reinforcements before it was too late. “You may go.”

The girl fled, as if the hounds of all seven hells were after her. I groaned.

“Take care of Alan,” I said. “And Geraldine.”

Madame Clover nodded. I wondered, numbly, if she’d add the truth to Alan’s records. It was her duty, and yet it would be all too revealing, if someone looked at the scroll. Would Boscha bother to look? I didn’t know. There was no reason to think he knew or cared about Alan, even though Walter and his cronies had been using him as a punching bag for years. I scowled as we made our way up the stairs, the tension in the air so thick it could be cut with a knife. The last time I’d felt anything like it, my brothers and I had been trying to start a war …

“Ah, come in,” Boscha said. He was very genial for a man whose clients were on the verge of being expelled. I didn’t like the look of it. “Please. Sit.”

I sat, studying him thoughtfully. It was hard to believe he’d fathered Alan, but now I knew they were related I could see some similarities. The general cast of his face … there was at least sixty years between them, I was sure, but …

“As you know” —Boscha’s voice was so smug and self-assured I wanted to hit him and to hell with the consequences— “there was an unfortunate incident earlier today, in which a young man was gravely wounded. The person who cast the spell, Stephen Root, made a full confession to me. I do not believe he intended such harm; but the damage was quite significant, and there was a very real risk his victim would have died, if he didn’t receive proper attention. It was most unfortunate.”

My mind raced. Stephen had cast the spell? I didn’t believe it. Stephen wasn’t a bad student—he wouldn’t have clambered into fifth year if he hadn’t passed last year’s exams—but I’d been trying to bash advanced charms into his head for the last four years, and I knew he didn’t have the skill to cast a cutting charm under such circumstances. Sure, a panicked magician could lash out with immense force, but if that had happened Alan’s body would be splattered up and down the corridor. Boscha was lying. Or he’d been lied to.

“I believe it was an accident,” Boscha said. More proof, if I needed it, that Boscha had no idea Alan was his son. “However, we need to send a very firm message that such misbehaviour will not be tolerated. Accordingly, I have suspended Stephen Root for the rest of the year. He’ll have the opportunity to resume his studies next year. It will mean starting fifth year again, unfortunately, but he’ll have to cope. Somehow.”

“An accident,” I said. My voice could have frozen a desert. “He should be expelled.”

“He made a full confession,” Boscha said. “He will be punished, and the entire matter will be put behind us.”

My mind raced. I didn’t believe Stephen had cast the spell. But he’d confessed … I guessed Walter and Adrian, whichever one had wounded Alan, had … convinced … Stephen to take the fall. Stephen’s family wasn’t that important, in the grand scheme of things, but Walter and Adrian could offer all sorts of rewards, if Stephen confessed and accepted suspension. It would look pretty bad on his record, after he graduated, yet … it would be easy for Walter or Adrian to find him a post. Their families could certainly afford to give Stephen almost anything he could reasonably demand in exchange for his service. Damn them.

And someone has been punished, I thought, bitterly. Boscha had all the excuse he needed to let the matter drop. There’s no need for anyone to investigate further.

“However, this incident is just the tip of the iceberg,” Boscha continued. “There have been a great many disciplinary problems over the past few weeks, all of which will make it harder for us to convince the board we are in control. I …”

Mistress Constance snorted. “Are we talking about the boy who made a girl’s clothes fall off? Or the girl who cast a penis-enhancing spell on a boy? Or the person who charmed a mirror in the locker room so they could spy though it? All of which you dismissed on the grounds boys will be boys?”

Boscha ignored her. “There are not enough staff members to patrol the corridors and tackle troublemakers before they … ah, make trouble. Nor are there enough prefects. Accordingly, I have put together a list of fine young men from respectable families who will be appointed prefects—additional prefects, as it were. They will remain on duty at all times, with authority to intervene at once if they see anyone causing trouble. I expect you to give them your full support.”

I glanced at the list. Twenty names … all of whom, I knew, were part of Boscha’s underground training sessions. I was surprised there weren’t more … who was missing and why? My mind raced as I considered the implications. Boscha was taking control of the school … no, that was absurd. He already had control of the school. One might as well steal something one already owned. What was the point? I was sure I was missing something, but what?

“There will be more prefects than older students,” Master Waybright observed. The librarian was a traditionalist to the core. I had been reluctant to approach him, because I feared he might side with Boscha, but perhaps I’d been wrong. “It seems a little unbalanced.”

“There will still be fewer prefects than students,” Boscha said. “They will still have to work overtime to patrol the corridors.”

“I note that Walter did nothing to keep Stephen from gravely injuring a fellow student,” I pointed out, sourly. “He should be dismissed for failing in his duties, like Miss Geraldine.”

“Stephan confessed he ignored his friend’s orders,” Boscha said. “He insists that Walter really was trying to stop him … indeed, Walter was kind enough to bring Stephen to me so I could hear his confession.”

I bet he was, I thought, sourly. Geraldine got attacked, tied up and perhaps molested … and she lost her badge. Walter did nothing to prevent a student from injuring another, if he hadn’t cast the spell himself, and he got to keep his badge. After they worked out what to tell you, naturally.

It didn’t please me. Student alibis tended to be fantastically complex—they’d never heard of the KISS principle—and they could be broken quite easily, if one asked the right questions and then zeroed in on any discrepancies. Whatever mountain of nonsense Walter had concocted could be taken apart, if Boscha bothered to try. But why would it? Pretending to accept whatever nonsense he’d been told was the easiest way to put the matter to rest. It had even given him a convenient excuse to tighten his grip on the school.

“I trust you will all assist the new prefects in carrying out their duties,” Boscha said. “Now, about the arrival of the school board …”

I kept my face blank as the meeting wore on. Whatever had really happened, and I suspected I knew the truth, they’d gotten away with it. Worse, Boscha had been able to use the incident for his own benefit. It had worked. And I still didn’t know what he was really doing.

But I knew, now, how I was going to find out.