Original Work Grandmaster (A Schooled in Magic Universe Novel)

Hi, everyone

Grandmaster is something of a prequel to the Schooled in Magic series, set roughly 100 or so years before Emily’s arrival in the nameless world. It is mainly an expansion of The Grandmaster’s Tale, a novella that explains how Grandmaster Hasdrubal became Grandmaster, but with a great deal of further development. It will also be a great deal darker than the average Schooled In Magic novel, more Tom Brown’s Schooldays than Harry Potter.

It should be completely stand-alone, but don’t let me discourage you from reading the other books. You can download the first few books in the series through Kindle Unlimited (link below).

It Schooled in Magic

As always, I welcome comments and feedback. Everything from spelling mistakes to logic errors or contradictions would be very welcome.

I’ve been working on expanding my list of ways for people to follow me. Please click on the link to sign up for my mailing list, newsletter and much - much - more.

The Chrishanger

Thank you

Chris

PS – if you want to write yourself, please check out the post here - Fantastic Schools - Call For Submissions . We are looking for more submissions.

CGN

 

Prologue

From: A Revised History Of Whitehall School. Emily Voidsdaughter.

It is extremely difficult to put together an accurate history of Whitehall School.

History was not just written by the victors, in this case, but the losers, neutral observers, and uncountable number of historians who worked at one or more removes; they never visited Whitehall, and never saw any of the events they wrote about personally, but that never stopped them putting together accounts of a history that bears little resemblance to the truth. If accounts of my defeat of the Necromancer Shadye, an event that took place only ten years ago, are already beyond recognition, how can we expect truth in accounts of events that took place nearly a thousand years ago? The primary sources themselves are in dispute. Relatively few accounts from the founders of the school have made it to our current era intact; we simply don’t know how many works of history or personal reflection have been lost, in the time between then and now. The neat and tidy picture of the school’s history presented by the official committee simply cannot be taken for granted. History is never neat and tidy.

Despite that, it is possible to determine the existence of three distinct eras within the school’s overall history.

First, Whitehall was largely an independent school and research centre, teaching students regardless of their origins while developing newer and better ways to make magic. Many of the high magics we still practise today stem from that era; so do traditions such as magical education for young woman and a certain meritocracy where magic is concerned. The school was effectively controlled by a council of the senior teachers, men and women who answered to no one save for themselves and their apprentices.

Second, Whitehall served as part of the Empire’s education system, turning out sorcerers trained to maintain the Empire as well as unite the continent under a single banner. Research and development took a backseat during that era; instead, the school focused on inviting students from all over the continent, particularly those from aristocratic or well-connected magical bloodlines. Whitehall was not just a school of magic, but a place for the future movers and shakers of the Empire to meet each other and develop contacts and patronage networks that would prove useful in their post-schooling careers. In that era, Whitehall answered to the Imperial Board of Education, which established a school board that respected the opinions of the Grandmaster and the tutors while not necessarily being bound by the decisions.

Third, Whitehall became a semi-independent school under the Allied Lands, maintaining a rather fragile balance of power between the White Council, the various kingdoms of the northern continent, the magical communities and mercantile networks. The school declared itself to be politically neutral, taking students regardless of their background (as long as they had magic; particularly promising students were granted scholarships, saving them from having to sign over their future lives in exchange for magical education) and attended to enforce, with varying degrees of success, a no-politics zone within the school. On paper, the school board maintained a degree of control over the school; in practice, a Grandmaster who knew where the bodies were buried could secure a great deal of independence for himself, as long as he maintained the balance of power and ensured the school remains effectively neutral.

There was no guarantee that Whitehall would successfully transition from the second era to the third. The collapse of the Empire ensured that old certainties fell everywhere, and there was no way to be sure that whatever political structure would take its place would respect the traditions of Whitehall or not seek to set up magical education institutes of its own. The sudden shift in the balance of power raised all sorts of opportunities for men who dared to dream big, yet felt restrained, even constrained, by the Empire. It is clear, even from those works of history that have made it into the modern era intact, that there were numerous plots to take control of the school, the ruins of empire, or even the entire continent. If even one of those plots had succeeded, history as we know it would have been very different.

I speak with the benefit of hindsight. The people of that era had no way to know what the future would hold. They acted based on what they knew at the time: some trying to seize power for themselves; others trying to find roles for themselves in the new political structure; still others, the traditionalists, maintain the essence of Whitehall School even as the world changed around them. It was a nightmarish time, when nothing could be said for certain; a wealthy and powerful man one day could easily lose everything the next, a well-connected client could discover his patrons were no longer in any position to assist him, even if they were inclined to do so. Those who backed the wrong horse were often trampled to death, while those who made it through the chaos often discovered that the world had still changed and nothing could be taken for granted any longer.

This account, set roughly one hundred years prior to my arrival in the Nameless World, is a story of how Whitehall School threaded the eye of the needle, saved itself from chaos and subordination, and became the school we know today. It is a picture of a school that is both very familiar and yet very different, a school often more brutal than our own and yet slowly groping its way towards the modern world. Many of the names mentioned in this work are familiar, magicians who survived into the modern era, and yet even they are very different to the people we know. But they were children once, and young.

And now, without further ado, let us step into the past of Whitehall School where a single question dominates all minds:

The Empire is gone.

What will take its place?

 

Chapter One

“We all must embrace change,” Grandmaster Boscha said.

Hasdrubal tried not to roll his eyes as he stood at the window and watched the first students returning to Whitehall School after their summer holidays. The Empire had died ten years ago, in the wake of a world-shaking conflict that had threatened the entire world, and no one had quite acknowledged, even to themselves, that the old order had passed away and the new was waiting to be born. The search for the rumoured Imperial Heir, the lost child of the Final Emperor, had been fruitless; so too had the search for a bastard child, no matter how lowly, who could be placed on the throne to return everything to the way it had been before the war. Boscha veered between mindless optimism and a stubborn refusal to admit that anything had changed, even as the student demographic shifted around them and the provisional government in the White City slowly gave way to various factions preparing their own bids for supremacy or independence.

Mistress Constance spoke into the silence. “Embrace change, Grandmaster? What do you mean by that?”

Hasdrubal allowed himself a tight smile as Boscha spluttered. “The world is not what it was, Mistress Constance,” he said, crossly. “Our place in the Empire is no longer certain. We must reach out now, discarding the vanities of the past, to shape our place in a brighter future.”

His voice hardened. “Or we will not have a future.”

Hasdrubal felt a flash of anger. Gods, but he detested the man. Boscha had been Grandmaster when Hasdrubal and his three brothers had been students and he’d never been anything but a crawler, a man who sucked up to anyone more powerful than himself – and their children – while putting down anyone who lacked even a fraction of the immense power the Grandmaster wielded. He favoured the well-connected and shunned those who lacked powerful families or skills he could use to benefit himself. But then, perhaps it was not surprising. For someone who was secure in his life, with one of the most prestigious posts in the world, Boscha could be surprisingly insecure at times. Perhaps the rumours of something inhuman in his ancestry were actually true.

He frowned, inwardly, as the first set of carriages began to arrive. Some tacky and ostentatious, designed to show off the family crest and remind everyone of the family’s wealth and power; some carefully designed for simplicity, to make it clear the family saw no need to proclaim their status to all and sundry. It was hard not to feel a twinge of envy as he saw Juliet Brava, a spoilt brat with few redeeming features, get a hug from her mother before she turned and scampered into the school. The roads weren’t safe these days, even for magicians; it spoke volumes about the love the mother felt for the daughter that she’d accompanied her on the journey. Juliet didn’t know how lucky she was, to have a mother who actually cared. Hasdrubal himself had never known a mother’s love.

Boscha walked up behind him. “Is something distracting you, Master Hasdrubal?”

Hasdrubal turned to face him. His eyes had been destroyed long ago, burnt out of their sockets during an experiment he preferred to forget, but his magic still let him see the Grandmaster clearly. Boscha was tall and pale, and yet there was something about the way he held himself that made him look misshapen, as if someone had cast a particularly nasty series of limb-lengthening charms on him and the damage had never truly been repaired. His hair was dark and oily, spilling around his shoulders like liquid night; his eyes were darker still, set within a face that had more than a hint of demihuman ancestry, in that it looked subtly wrong to the human eye. There were all sorts of rumours about his early life, rumours that refused to die no matter how many harsh punishments were handed down to rumourmongers. His angry reaction to questions about his ancestry didn’t put the rumours to rest. It just suggested there was some truth buried under the bovine faecal matter.

“There are fewer students than there should be, Grandmaster,” Hasdrubal said. There were at least seventy carriages in plain sight, but there should have been more. Last year, there had been disputes over who had precedence to enter the courtyard first. “How many families are keeping their children home?”

“Too many,” Boscha said. His eyes lingered on the scene below for a long moment, then he turned and stalked back to the table. “Come. Sit. I won’t keep you long.”

Hasdrubal kept his response to that to himself. Boscha was known for being unreasonable for all sorts of reasons. He played favourites, promoting his toadies and excusing students he felt might be of use to him, rather than upholding the school’s famed neutrality. He issued detentions that would make a royal torturer blanch, insisting—when challenged, which happened rarely—they built character. He turned a blind eye to rampant bullying, corruption and outright criminality, spending most of his days playing politics while using the school as a personal—and heavily warded—fortress. Worst of all, he held very long and boring staff meetings.

Personally, Hasdrubal thought they were cruel, unusual, and extremely sadistic punishment.

He sat, facing Mistress Constance. The older woman, prim and proper as always, looked as if she would sooner be somewhere, anywhere, else. Her angular face was framed with greying hair, tied up neatly in a bun; it was odd, despite nearly seven years on the job, to see her as a peer rather than a tutor. She’d drilled Hasdrubal and his brothers in alchemy, running her class with brutal efficiency and never letting anyone get away with anything. Beside her, Mistress Pepper winked at Hasdrubal. She was far closer to Hasdrubal in age and one of the few he could call a true friend. It helped that she had even less patience for the Grandmaster’s speeches.

Boscha cleared his throat. “The world is changing,” he said. “And we must embrace it.”

Hasdrubal tried not to groan as he kept talking, hitting his senior tutors with an endless series of platitudes that meant—as far as Hasdrubal could tell—very little. Boscha had a plummy aristocratic voice that grated on Hasdrubal’s nerves, a grim reminder of his dear Uncle Mago, and made Hasdrubal want to cast all sorts of nasty charms on Boscha. Or rip out his tongue. He’d never met anyone who was so fond of the sound of his own voice as Boscha, and he’d grown up as part of House Barca, a family known for their egos. They were still sneering at House Ashworth for being able to trace its bloodline back only five thousand years. Personally, Hasdrubal thought the records had been faked years ago, and nothing more than a few hundred years old was reliable, but there was nothing to be gained from arguing. Uncle Mago had thrown a fit when he’d dared ask how reliable the ten-thousand-year-old records actually were.

He should have been a tutor, Hasdrubal thought. The students would eat him alive.

“The old order is gone,” Boscha continued. “It falls to us to consider what shape the new order should take.”

Well, Hasdrubal thought. Of course.

“We must take this opportunity in both hands and seize it,” Boscha continued. “Both for ourselves, and for the good of our community.”

Hasdrubal wished, suddenly, that Boscha had given the speech in front of the students. Someone would have hurled a tomato by now, even though the student would then have been flogged to within an inch of his life and whatever was left of him put in the stocks. Students had low boredom thresholds, particularly when it comes to kneeling on the stone floor in a manner that was pretty much a stress position, and Hasdrubal couldn’t blame one or more for lashing out. Perhaps he would volunteer to administer their punishment himself, so he could take them somewhere that sounded unpleasant but was nothing of the sort. Maybe he could convince the Grandmaster that a few hours in the White City, attending pointless meetings, was sufficient. But Hasdrubal doubted he’d get the joke.

Or he would, Hasdrubal reflected. He just wouldn’t see it as a comment on him.

“There are matters that need to be attended to,” Boscha said. “And I’m sure we are in agreement on this point.”

“Quite,” Madame Clover said. Hasdrubal was surprised she’d managed to get a word in before Boscha found something else meaningless to say. “We need to do something about students getting injured by other students. And quickly.”

Hasdrubal winced, inwardly. Whitehall had always been a rough place—students had been establishing the pecking order since the school’s founding, through force of magic, intimidation and breeding—but it had been getting worse recently as the chaos outside the walls started to spill into the school. He and his brothers had been lucky. The four young men had watched each other’s backs, and they’d had the advantage of growing up in a magical household, but other students—particularly the newborns—weren’t so lucky. A student who didn’t even know he had magic a year ago was hellishly vulnerable, when he found himself in Whitehall. On paper, he’d come into his magic at the same time as his peers. In practice, he was so far behind that catching up was incredibly difficult. They tended to find themselves slaving for the older boys. It was the only way to get some protection.

Hasdrubal had always felt sorry for those boys and done what he could to help. But it hadn’t been enough.

“Boys will be boys,” Boscha said, dismissively. “It is of no concern as long as it doesn’t impede their learning …”

Madame Clover cut him off. Hasdrubal admired her bravery. Very few people would dare lay a hand on a healer, or hurl a spell, but it was still risky to interrupt her superior. Boscha had quite a few ways to get back at her without making it obvious. Or he might just start looking for a replacement.

“The problem is getting out of hand,” Madame Clover snapped. “The day we broke up for summer, I had nine students in the infirmary, all hexed well beyond the point they could heal themselves, and a girl someone had slipped a love potion! She was lucky, sir, that her friend realised the problem and dragged her to me for a curative before it was too late. She could have been raped!”

Hasdrubal shuddered. Love—lust—potions were nasty. The basic brews would turn their victim into a lusty creature, lost to reason as they tried to satisfy their lusts … with consequences that could easily be imagined. The more advanced and dangerous brews were far worse. The victim would become obsessed, either submitting themselves to the brewer or taking them by force. There were horror stories about people who’d meddled with such potions and wound up hurt, or dead. None of them were particularly reassuring. How could they be?

“It will teach her a useful lesson,” Boscha said. “She could have checked her drink for potion before taking a sip.”

Madame Clover glared. “This week, I also had twenty servants who’d been hexed or cursed,” she raged. “Two manservants were turned into toads, a maid was trapped in a mirror, and another spelled into walking around naked …”

Boscha shrugged, as dismissively as before. “They knew the risks when they chose to work here,” he said. “There’s no shortage of people willing to take their place.”


The worst of it, Hasdrubal reflected, was that Boscha was likely right. Whitehall was a dangerous place to work, if you lacked magic, but the wages were high, and you got your basic needs met, letting you save your money instead of spending it on food, drink and somewhere to sleep. It said something about magical society, Hasdrubal supposed, that while the senior families found magical abuse of mundanes to be contemptible, they rarely bothered to do anything about it. Boscha was unlikely to face any rebukes for not cracking down hard on students who abused the staff. It was much more likely he’d be scolded for cracking down. And yet, he had the power to tell the whiners to get lost. He just had to use it.

No one in their right mind wants their children to learn bad habits, I thought, crossly. They’ll reflect badly on their parents.
“The point, sir, is that we are allowing some of our students to run rampant,” Madame Clover insisted. “And it is going to bite us.”

“It is vitally important we encourage them to develop their powers,” Boscha said, tartly. “That which doesn’t kill them makes them strong.”

“That which doesn’t kill can still inflict a great deal of harm,” Madame Clover countered. “It is only a matter of time, sir, before someone winds up dead!”

“Or broken,” Hasdrubal added. “There’s no point in fighting if you can’t win.”

Boscha gave him a sharp look. Hasdrubal looked back evenly. He’d met serfs on their plantation fields, working their asses off to grow a tiny crop … serfs who were so battered by their masters that they couldn’t even raise a hand in self-defence or the defence of their wives and daughters. They lived in the mud from birth to death, unable to stand up for themselves. They had legal rights, true, but they couldn’t claim them. Their masters would crush them if they tried. And so they just trudged their way through life.

“They can win,” Boscha said. “If they apply themselves …”

“They keep getting knocked down,” Hasdrubal said. “At some point, after being knocked down repeatedly, you start wondering if you should bother getting up again.”

Boscha didn’t seem impressed. Hasdrubal sighed inwardly. He knew how Boscha felt. It was hard, almost impossible, to understate the gulf between a magician born into an old and powerful family and a magician who was the first in his family. The former knew enough theory to be able to put it into use, when he came into his magic; the latter was learning from scratch, forcing him to scramble to catch up before it was too late. It was like pitting a toddler against a grown man and expecting the toddler to win. Worse, perhaps. It was like migrating to a city-state and discovering, too late, that the rules were different, and your opponents knew how to manipulate them to best advantage.

Heads, I win, Hasdrubal thought, tiredly. Tails, you lose.

“That speaks to a weakness in their character,” Boscha said, finally. “They must develop their character, and their ability to handle the ups and downs of life, before they start tackling the more advanced magics. An untrained magician incapable of doing so becomes a major threat, as you know. You’ve certainly killed enough of them.”

Hasdrubal raised his head proudly and looked at Boscha. “Twelve years ago, I killed a magician who went mad because he was mistreated,” Hasdrubal said. It was true, if one overlooked a few minor details. “He had to die. At that point, he was a maddened creature who couldn’t be redeemed, who posed a danger so great that imprisoning him was not an option. But that doesn’t excuse the way he was treated.”

Boscha looked back at him. “I was treated poorly until I proved myself, too,” he said, flatly. “I turned out all right.”

“And if you were treated poorly and still say that,” Hasdrubal snapped, “it’s proof you didn’t turn out all right.”

Magic spiked. Hasdrubal thought, for a moment, that Boscha was going to start a fight. What I’d said had been cutting and unpleasant, the sort of thing Boscha could use to justify cursing Hasdrubal into next week if he didn’t back down and grovel … Hasdrubal gritted his teeth, readying myself. Boscha wasn’t a weakling—he couldn’t have held the wards if he wasn’t amongst the most puissant magicians in the world—but Hasdrubal had a lot of combat experience, particularly at knife-range. He was fairly sure Boscha was nowhere near as skilled. His career before Whitehall was something of a mystery—there were students who thought Boscha was a homunculus—but he’d never given the impression of having any combat experience. Indeed, the fact he constantly harped on his position was a very strong sign he didn’t feel particularly secure.

“The problem is spreading to my classes,” Mistress Constance said, before it was too late. “Last term, I had to discipline both Adrian and Walter for throwing dragon’s root into another student’s cauldron, causing an explosion that could have wounded or killed half the class. Frankly, I am on the verge of banning both students permanently. Alchemy is dangerous enough at the best of times, when everyone is behaving themselves, and those students are going to get someone killed.”

Hasdrubal kept my face impassive with an effort. Adrian of House Rawlins and Walter of House Ashworth had been friends practically since birth, two handsome and cocky young men who would have gone far, if they hadn’t turned their magical talent to making everyone else’s lives miserable. They knew better than to cause trouble in his class, thankfully, but everywhere else … they and their toadies, Jacky McBrayer and Stephen Root, caused havoc. Hasdrubal lived in hope that, one day, they would cross the line to the point they could be expelled. But they were good at making themselves appear innocent …

“I believed we discussed the matter at the time,” Boscha said. “They insisted it was an accident.”

“An accident,” Mistress Constance repeated. Hasdrubal could hear the sneer in her voice. “A piece of root accidentally levitating itself into the air, and accidentally flying across the chamber and accidentally splashing into another student’s cauldron and triggering a reaction … all accidentally?”

“Unless you have clear proof it was done with murderous intent, you cannot bar them from your classes,” Boscha said. “There are rules …”

Mistress Constance fixed him with a stern look. Hasdrubal had to admire Boscha’s nerve, if nothing else. Mistress Constance was a skilled alchemist as well as a powerful magician and she hadn’t risen to the top of her profession without being extremely driven. If she’d been looking at him like that, Hasdrubal would have feared for his life.

“They are undisciplined, arrogant, and rude,” Mistress Constance said, coldly. “And foolish, too.”

Hasdrubal felt a stab of sympathy. It was rare for someone to openly look down on a sorceress for being female—it was a good way to end up a toad—and no one did it twice, but Adrian and Walter were disrespectful as hell. Hasdrubal knew their fathers. The poisoned apples hadn’t fallen too far from the tree. Boscha might not take the disrespect seriously—he might not even be aware it was there—but Mistress Constance had no choice. And she couldn’t teach the little brats the lesson they so sorely needed.

“They are also talented young lads with astonishing potential,” Boscha said. “They just need some proper guidance.”

“So give it to them,” Mistress Constance said. “Or tell their parents to send them to Stronghold.”

“Or to Widow’s Peak,” Hasdrubal muttered. The fact there was a necromancer squatting in the old fortress wasn’t a problem. Adrian and Walter might think highly of themselves, and they did have quite a bit to brag about, but a necromancer would have no trouble turning them both into a quick snack. “Why not …”

Boscha gave him a sharp look. “We are here for the benefit of all students, Master Hasdrubal.”

“Some students are beyond saving,” Hasdrubal pointed out.

“They said the same of you and your brothers,” Boscha countered. “And that means …”

There was a sharp tap at the door, which opened to reveal Daphne. The Grandmaster’s assistant stepped inside and dropped a neat little curtsey, then went to one knee as she waited to be acknowledged, keeping her eyes firmly lowered. Hasdrubal eyed her warily. She looked young and there were no shortage of rumours about just why she’d gotten the job, but Hasdrubal knew there was more to her than met the eye. She had a reputation as a backstabbing sneak who could be relied upon to tattle to her boss if someone did something, anything, Boscha could hold against him. She hadn’t changed a bit since they’d been in school together.

Boscha glanced at her. “Yes?”

Daphne cleared her throat. “Sir, you have a meeting with Lord Archibald Rawlins in ten minutes.”

Boscha nodded. It looked as if he was glad of the interruption. “We’ll continue to discuss the matter later,” he said.

Hasdrubal wondered, idly, what matter? Adrian and Walter … or whatever he’d intended to discuss when he called the meeting. Two hours sitting at the table … for what? Hasdrubal still didn’t know. If it turned out to be something minor, after all that, he was going to be pissed!

The Grandmaster stood and left the room, Daphne following him like a puppy. Hasdrubal stood myself, exchanging brief looks with the others. They’d had their differences over the last few years, but few liked Boscha. Or his willingness to tolerate the intolerable. He made a mental note to ask Mistress Constance or Mistress Pepper for a drink later, in his quarters. If nothing else, they could compare notes and see if they could determine just what their lord and master was doing this time.

It nagged at him as he stepped through the door and headed down the maze of stairs and corridors to his classroom. Boscha … was a puzzle. Hasdrubal didn’t pretend to understand what the Grandmaster was thinking. He’d known people from all walks of life, from commoner-born serfs and merchants to princes, kings and magicians, but Boscha didn’t fit any pattern. Perhaps he really was a homunculus. Or a dragon in disguise. Stranger things had happened. Or so he’d been told.

And like it or not, change is coming, he reflected sourly. We have to be ready.

 

Chapter Two

“Alan!”

Alan Serfson breathed a sigh of relief as he saw Irene Roper hurrying towards him, her long brown hair flowing in the breeze. She was his only friend, even after four years at Whitehall, and he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that her parents disapproved of their friendship. If she hadn’t had magic, if he hadn’t had magic, they would have been separated – by force, if need be. He was the bastard son of a prostitute, his father a mystery; the orphanage had practically sold him to one of the farms outside Dragon’s Den as a fieldworker, where he would remain as a de facto serf for the rest of his life if he hadn’t tested positive for magic. She was a carpenter’s daughter, one rung on the social ladder above him. They weren’t supposed to be friends. Her parents feared he’d drag her down. And the worst of it was he couldn’t blame them.

Irene smiled, giving him a quick hug. The sight of her always took his breath away. She really was beautiful, her brown hair and brown eyes making her stand out even in a field crammed with aristocratic girls who could afford any kind of cosmetic treatment or cast any kind of glamour they liked. There was no one in the school who could hold a candle to her, in his eyes, and she drew all kinds of attention from other boys and girls alike. It was a minor miracle she chose to spend time with him, when there were so many others. Perhaps it was enough for her that they came from the same town, or perhaps … no. He knew better than even to hope she might like him.

She stepped back as a pair of carriages rushed past them, the drivers cracking the whips so hard Alan felt sorry for the poor horses. They probably wanted to make sure they got to the school quickly and dropped their charges off, before their company became too much to bear. Alan had yet to meet a single decent aristocrat in his entire life and he would sooner have spent his life as a mercenary than work for them as a career. There was nothing wrong with hard labour, but doing it for men who thought his birth made him lesser was just galling. He wanted to be something more than just a servant. Or a serf.

Irene scowled as the carriages vanished in the distance, then looked at him. “How were your hols?”

Alan felt a flash of the old resentment. Irene didn’t understand. How could she? She had a loving pair of parents, who gave her no more chores than the average girl-child. She didn’t have to work from dawn till dusk, tending the fields, hewing wood and drawing water and every other task his master could find for him, making it impossible for him to study magic over the holidays. The terms of his indenture were quite clear. He wasn’t allowed to use magic outside school until he graduated, not even to support or defend himself. There was going to be a reckoning, he promised himself, when he finally left school. His bastard of a master was going to spend the rest of his days croaking on a lily pad.

“It was fine,” he lied, vaguely. Irene didn’t need to understand the true brutality of his life. She had never seen the scars marring his back and buttocks, nor had she realised he could be beaten for any – or no – reason at all. “I did a lot of work.”

Irene looked him up and down, her eyes worried. “You’re looking well, at least.”

“I was outside most of the time,” Alan said. He’d soaked up a great deal of sun – and, thankfully, his master saw the value of not starving him. There was no point in expecting him to work if he were too weak to do the work. “You spend most of your time indoors.”

“You know what Father is like,” Irene said. “Doesn’t want me to go outside without an escort.”

Alan rolled his eyes, although he understood the older man’s point. Irene was young and pretty and there were plenty of bravos and blades in the town who would happily take advantage of her, with or without her consent. There were ever-more troops passing through as the old order disintegrated around them, new kingdoms springing up all over – some barely lasting as long as it took to get word from one end of the continent to the other –and nothing could be taken for granted any longer. Alan didn’t care. It didn’t matter to him who ruled the world. All he wanted was to complete his final years of schooling, then move on to a glittering career far from Dragon’s Den. And to turn his former master into a frog.

“Two years to go,” he said, tiredly. “Shall we go?”

Irene nodded, walking beside him as they started up the muddy road to Whitehall School. There were no carriages for them, unless they were prepared to pay and neither had the money. Alan was saving what few coins he’d been able to obtain over the years, keeping them well away from his master for fear they would be confiscated; Irene’s father probably couldn’t afford it either, unless he was far more successful than Alan knew, and in any case he wouldn’t. He’d told his daughter not to develop airs and graces, or ideas above her station; he feared, probably correctly, that it would be all too easy for Irene to be sucked into the aristocracy of magic and never return. It spoke volumes about his life, Alan reflected. The orphanage would be delighted to send a child into the magical community. It would be one less mouth to feed. There was no room for sentiment when you were permanently on the edge, one bad week from starving.

“Fifth year,” Irene said. “Who’ll be the prefects?”

“Walter and Adrian, probably.” It was hard to keep the snarl out of his voice. Walter was everything he wasn’t: rich, handsome, well-connected, privately educated … a sneering bully who had never missed a chance to put Alan down, right from the very first moment they’d met. Adrian, Walter’s best friend, wasn’t any better and was arguably worse. He was dangerously unpredictable. “Who else comes close to those two?”

“You’re not a bad student,” Irene pointed out. “Top of the class in Alchemy and Charms, that’s you.”

“Hah.” Alan felt another flash of resentment. He was top of the class, through working hard and spending much of his time in the library; he certainly couldn’t afford private tuition in any given subject, even from a student a year or two older than himself. Walter seemed to take it as a personal insult that a serf like Alan was actually outpointing him, which made the bullying worse. If he spent as much time studying as he did tormenting Alan, he would be right at the top of the class. He wasn’t dumb. Just mean. “You think they’d listen to me if I got the badge?”

Irene grimaced. Prefects had a difficult role, caught between the demands of being authority figures and being students. It was easy for a prefect to fall into the trap of thinking their authority made them little gods, with the power to do whatever they pleased; easy, too, for the rest of the students to keep thinking of them as peers, rather than superiors. Alan had no friends and supporters at all, apart from Irene, and part of him was sure she’d leave him if someone else made a better offer. They were only close because they shared the same hometown. There was no other reason they could be friends.

He kept the thought to himself as they kept walking, the air blowing hot and cold as they neared the school. The trees seemed to be growing closer to the road with every passing year, casting a long shadow over the landscape. He couldn’t help finding it ominous, even though he knew worker gangs from Dragon’s Den trimmed them back every summer to clear the road for the students. It was hard and thankless work and he was grateful he’d been spared it for the past two years. This summer had been marked by heavy rainfall, making the task far harder than normal. The road was muddy, puddles of water lay everywhere … he glanced up, silently accessing the chances of rain. He’d worked in the fields long enough to develop a sixth sense for rain. It felt as if it were going to rain shortly. Hopefully, they’d be in the school by the time the water came tumbling down …

Something moved, behind him. Alan barely had a chance to grab Irene and yank her aside before a carriage roared past, driving right through a puddle and covering them both in muddy water. Alan swore out loud, one hand lifting into a casting pose before he caught himself. Using magic outside school, even on the way to school, was frowned upon and the last thing he wanted was to start the year with a detention – or worse. The carriage slowed, just long enough for a head to stick itself out of the window and jeer at them. Walter. Of course it was Walter. Who else would it be?

“Knob,” Irene muttered. The water had drenched her robes, which were now clinging to her in unfortunate places. Alan looked away before she caught him staring. “Prat …”

“Hey, sweetheart,” Walter called. “You want a ride to school?”

Adrian stuck his head out of the carriage, saw Irene and wolf-whistled. “Nice tits!”

Walter elbowed him. “Come on in, the water’s fine,” he said. “We won’t hurt you.”

“You can dry off in here,” Adrian added. “Just take off your clothes and …”

Irene purpled. “Get bent, you …”

Adrian giggled, and nudged Walter. “I think she likes you.”

Alan reached for his magic, even though he knew it was dangerous as well as futile. Walter was a spoilt brat, but he was a skilled magician. Adrian was almost as good. No one would be penalising them for putting a pair of their fellow students in their place, when they were the heirs to the lords and masters of the known universe and their victims so lowly they barely registered in anyone’s awareness. The driver cracked the whip before he could make the final decision, the carriage shifting into motion and rattling away up the road. Alan shook his fist after its retreating back, a surge of bitter helplessness and naked hatred running through him. He would do anything to see Walter brought down, even if it meant his own death and dammination. It was bad enough that they went after him, but going after Irene …

“Knobhead,” Irene said, squeezing the water out of her robes. They were lucky they’d left most of their supplies at school, over the summer. The robes were charmed to resist far worse than muddy water, but books were a very different story. “If he was a chicken the fox wouldn’t eat him.”

Alan allowed himself a moment to contemplate the happy image of Walter being rendered powerless, turned into a chicken and fed to ravenous foxes, then shook his head. “Are you alright?”

“Could be better,” Irene said. “You?”

“Yeah,” Alan said.

He bunched his fists in helpless rage. He wanted to protect his friend, yet he was powerless. It seemed a sick joke that he had magic and yet there was nothing he could do to help her. Walter wasn’t fool enough to come within punching range and even if he did, Alan would probably be expelled for striking the Heir to the Duchy of Blank. Or whatever. Walter bragged so much it was hard to tell if he was really the heir to half the continent, as it seemed sometimes, or if he was just making it up. Alan would have bet on the latter, except the tutors gave him one hell of a lot of leeway. They wouldn’t do that for anyone who didn’t stand in line to inherit more land and power than common sense.

“Two more years,” he muttered, as they resumed their walk. He ignored the water dripping from his robes. They’d seen worse, over the years. They would either dry up during the walk or he’d be able to dry them once he reached the school, using one of the housekeeping spells he’d mastered over the years. Walter had made fun of him for that, but Walter was used to having a small army of servants shadowing his every move and cleaning up his messes. “Two more years.”

“Yeah.” Irene took his hand and squeezed it lightly. “Two more years.”

***

“I think she likes you,” Adrian said, as he settled back into his chair. “You just need to get rid of the serf first.”

Walter scowled. He couldn’t pinpoint the moment when he’d realised he desired Irene, for all that she was a common-born magician from a decidedly common family. She was beautiful and clever and really quite charming, when she felt the urge to be. Her background was unfortunate and normally Walter wouldn’t be allowed to take her as anything other than a mistress, but the old order was passing away – he’d heard his old man declaim on the subject time and time again – and surely that meant the old rules were passing away too. It wouldn’t be that hard to train her up, to give her lessons to hide her origins; the combination of her beauty and his family name would be quite enough to keep tongues from wagging, as long as she behaved herself.

And yet, she was a commoner …

He felt a surge of disgust as he contemplated the odd little mongrel who’d walked beside her. Alan Serfson – the surname wasn’t even a family name, just a reminder of someone who was one step above the gutter – had no father, no mother and nothing, certainly nothing that should interest a girl like Irene. And yet, she was a commoner too … it was hard to reconcile his desire for her, his urge to bed her and have done with it, with his belief neither she nor Alan should be anywhere near Whitehall. They were the wrong sort, commoners who had lucked into magic rather than aristocrats of good breeding. It felt wrong to lust after her and yet he did. It felt even worse that she paid so much attention to Alan, of all people. He was even lower on the social scale than herself.

“The sooner I put him in his place, the better,” he muttered. “And then she’ll see sense …”

“And open her legs for you,” Adrian finished. “Lay her and then let her go.”

Walter scowled. Adrian was his best friend, practically his brother, and yet … he could be remarkably crude at times. He wanted more than just a quick lay and yet … he shook his head in dark amusement. The sooner he found a solution, the sooner he put the pair of them firmly in their places – Alan in the gutter, Irene on her knees in front of him – the better. And then everything would be as it should be.

“I heard a rumour that commoner students are going to be banned,” Adrian said. His parents were even more well-connected than Walter’s, which was remarkable given that House Ashworth was one of the most powerful clans in the magical community. “Unless they find a proper patron, of course. You could offer her your patronage in exchange for some fun.”

Walter shrugged. It would be difficult if all the commoner students were expelled. Who would fag for the aristocrats, if there were no more commoners? Who would fawn on them, who would praise their feats and provide cover for their exploits? Who would run and fetch anything their senior desired, who would warm a toilet seat for their master so he didn’t have to freeze his bum …? Perhaps just the arrogant commoners could be expelled, the ones too dumb to realise they were on the bottom and would never be anywhere else. The rest could stay. Or go to a lesser establishment. Whitehall was a linchpin of the magical community and would remain so.

The carriage rattled as it passed through the gates and into the courtyard, coming to a stop right outside the entrance. Walter stood and opened the doors, jumping down and nodding to himself as he saw Jacky McBrayer and Stephen Root waiting for them. They were nothing more than toadies, lesser aristocrats who had hitched their education to his in exchange for later patronage; they might consider themselves his friends, but to him they were little more than unpaid servants who would do anything he asked. And whatever they thought they’d been promised, he saw no reason to give it. They were not worthy.

Jacky, a weedy little man, stepped forward. His voice was just a little too eager. “Did you have a good holiday, My Lord?”

Walter ignored him, striding forwards into the Great Hall. The rest of the students were already gathering, save for a few stragglers like Irene and Alan Serfson. They were forming into groups, each one a tiny reflection of greater power struggles outside the wards. The Wolves kept their distance from the Bloodworms; the Siroccos glowered at the Milos and their clients, ready to fight the moment anyone started casting spells. There was a nasty edge to the air, a hint of imminent conflict. Walter allowed himself a tight smile as his allies joined him. There were times, his father had been known to complain, when you couldn’t cough for fear someone would take it as a sign to start something violent. Walter had thought he was exaggerating at the time. He knew better now.

But it doesn’t matter, he told himself firmly. He was an Ashworth and that, in the end, was all that mattered. We will always come out on top.

 

Chapter Three

Irene would never admit it, certainly not to him, but she was worried about Alan.

Their friendship had come about by accident, and probably would never have happened if they hadn’t attended the same school, but she’d grown to care about him a great deal in the last four years. It wasn’t easy to say why, even when her father had threatened to belt or switch her for spending time with a lad so far beneath her that any sort of relationship would be bound to drag her down. Alan wasn’t always a nice person, at least on the surface; he had a bitter and sardonic view of the world, always ready to ascribe the worst possible motivations to anyone who happened to be nice to him. She could have walked right past him, her nose high in the air, and yet she hadn’t. She’d taken the time to get to know him and discovered he had both a good heart, which made him head and shoulders above just about everyone else, and a drive to succeed that dwarfed hers. But then, she could go back to her family, accept an arranged marriage and spend the rest of her life as just another goodwoman. Alan didn’t have that option.

She felt the remnants of the water trickling down her body and pooling in her boots as they crossed the outermost wardlines and stepped into the school grounds. A dozen or more coaches and carriages were grouped outside the main entrance, their drivers engaged in loud arguments over just which aristocrat had the right to disembark first … she tried not to snort in disgust at their nonsense, even as she led the way to the side entrance. It might be the servant’s entrance – de facto if not de jure – but she wasn’t too proud to use it. There was nothing to be gained by fighting her way through the crush at the main doors, not when she was a commoner. She knew too many aristocrats, high above her and yet still very low on the social scale, who wouldn’t hesitate to make themselves feel better by trying to put her in her place. And if she pushed back too hard, their friends would pile on too.

Alan said nothing as she opened the door and led the way through a maze of corridors, a sure sign he was brooding. Irene wanted to give him a hug, and she would have if he’d been her brother or cousin, but Alan disliked being touched so openly and so she refrained. She didn’t blame him. She’d seen the bruises on his back and … she shuddered, helplessly. Her parents had never hesitated to beat her when she misbehaved, and she hated the combination of pain and humiliation with a white-hot fury, but Alan had been tortured. His master didn’t see him as a son, or even a worker, but a beast of burden. And there was nothing she could do about it. Alan was too prickly to react well to her trying to do anything. She didn’t even think he knew she’d seen the scars.

“Here we go,” she muttered. “Good luck.”

“There’s no such thing,” Alan muttered back, as she pushed the door open and led the way into the Great Hall. “You know better than that.”

Irene was tempted to say something cutting, but the sight of the Great Hall – as always – took her breath away. The space was vast, bigger than humanly possible; hundreds of lightglobes hovered overhead, casting an eerie radiance over the scene. The students of Whitehall were gathering in front of her, waiting to hear from their tutors; she felt her heart sink, despite the elegance surrounding her, as she noticed the factions taking shape in front of her. The aristocrats – magical and mundane – were banding together, the commoners either joining their patrons or standing alone, a prize for whoever won the war. There was a nasty vibe to the air, a sense that violence could break out at any moment; she shuddered, helplessly, as she spotted Walter, surrounded by his cronies, smirking as he eyed the growing crowd. He seemed utterly unthreatened by the bad feeling in the air.

“Bastard,” she muttered. Her father would beat her if he heard her using that word; her mother would wash her mouth out with soap. She didn’t care. There was no lesser word suitable for a bullying leering rectum like him. “If he …”

A ripple ran through the air. She looked up, towards the stage. Grandmaster Boscha stood at the podium, gazing down on his students. Irene tried not to shiver. Boscha was just … wrong, in so many ways. He was a powerful magician and yet he fawned upon the well-connected students, overlooking their japes and pranks and coming down like a ton of bricks on any commoner student who dared step out of line. His appearance didn’t help. They called him the crookered man, with reason. Irene had no idea what had entered his bloodline, or why, but he clearly wasn’t wholly human. He looked like a humanoid grasshopper trying hard to pretend to be human.

She felt Alan bristle beside her and squeezed his hand again. Alan had never liked the Grandmaster. Irene didn’t blame him. She didn’t like the man much either.

The rest of the tutors stood around the hall, some looking ready to trap the students in the chamber and the others seeming ready to run. The former held thin canes in their hands, symbols of their authority as much as instruments of ass destruction. Irene had always thought it a little puerile for the tutors to brandish their weapons so openly, when they each had enough power in their fingertips to make anyone who annoyed them regret it, but she wasn’t daft enough to say it out loud. She’d been caned twice in her schooling and she had no intention of giving anyone a chance to cane her a third time.

Grandmaster Boscha cleared his throat. “Welcome back to yet another year at Whitehall School,” he said, his voice thin and reedy and lacking in the power she’d come to expect from senior tutors. “Those of you who are politically aware will know the world is changing, and we must change with it. The old rules no longer apply in most cases and the new rules are still being devised.”

Irene didn’t know what he meant, but it didn’t sound good. She’d been ten years old when the Final Emperor died – there were hundreds of stories of just how he’d died, each one crazier than the last – and since then, the Empire had been slowly disintegrating. Being trapped in Dragon’s Den had isolated her from the rumour network flowing through Whitehall, but she’d seen the troops moving through the town and heard whispers that came and went so rapidly it was hard to tell which ones might be true. There was an Imperial Heir. No there wasn’t. There were several Imperial Heirs, readying themselves to fight for the throne. There were …

“There will be changes, over the coming weeks and months,” Boscha continued. “Some aspects of the school will be reformed, to bring it into the modern era. Other aspects will be discarded as we feel our way into an uncertain future. You may welcome these changes, as they come into plain view, or you may feel as though those chances threaten your future. It does not matter. Our priority is to secure the future of the school. We hope you will always have a place here. But if you choose to leave …”

Alan put his lips close to her ears. “He’s going to kick us out, bet you.”

Irene scowled. It hadn’t been easy for her to win a scholarship – and Alan had had a far harder time of it. It wasn’t just the money, but the need to purchase everything from robes to school textbooks that made attending the school so difficult. Walter and his cronies could purchase the very best of everything from pocket change, while they had to scrimp and save and buy as much as possible second-hand. And they’d still had to make use of various funding schemes to ensure they were properly equipped.

And Walter keeps saying we don’t belong here, she thought, numbly. What if all this is just a prelude to kicking us out?

She felt her heart sink. She loved magic. She was good at magic. And yet, she couldn’t practice legally until she graduated and if she wasn’t allowed to graduate … she knew she could leave, practice magic beyond the Empire’s ken, but it would be a life always on the run, always looking over her shoulder for the Witchhunters. The Empire took a dim view of unauthorised magic. She doubted that would change, no matter what happened to the Empire itself. The magical aristocracy didn’t want competition.

“No bet,” she muttered back.

Boscha kept speaking, saying much without saying very much at all. She wondered, as her head started to ache, if he was going to get to the point before nightfall or if he was just going to go on and on until his body collapsed through lack of sleep. She risked looking around and spotted a number of younger students looking thoroughly bored and a couple of older students exchanging rude messages through sign language. Walter himself was watching Boscha, a faintly amused smile dancing over his lips. Irene guessed Walter had some idea of what was coming, even though she was starting to suspect Boscha himself didn’t. It wouldn’t surprise her. She’d looked into his background and … well, while it wasn’t as impressive as he’d claimed it was still pretty darn impressive. He stood to inherit control of an entire clan of magicians. If she’d been more interested in social climbing than making something of herself, she might have tried to befriend him. But she knew what happened to commoners who tried to get too close to the aristocracy. They got burnt.

“And so we will march towards the future, with our eyes open wide,” Boscha finished. Irene hoped he knew what he’d been talking about, because she didn’t. “It will be a grand future for our school.”

He paused. “There is one final matter that must be addressed. The fifth year prefects.”

Irene braced herself for bad news. There were traditionally four prefects chosen from each of the upper years, two male and two female, and they were almost always scions of the aristocracy. In theory, from what she’d heard, they were supposed to be great leaders of men – it was funny they were never credited with being leaders of women – and could be relied upon to do their duty; in practice, they veered between unpleasant rectums and really unpleasant rectums. She made a mental bet with herself that Walter would be chosen, perhaps alongside Sigrún and … she wasn’t sure who else. The Grandmaster wasn’t supposed to take political issues into account, when he made his choice, but everyone knew it happened anyway.

“It is never easy to make a choice between so many deserving candidates,” Boscha continued. “The prefects are the voice of the Grandmaster. They must be obeyed.”

“As long as they’re watching,” Alan muttered, snidely. “Do you think he gets to keep all the bribes or just the ones from the successful prefect’s family?”

Irene had no idea, although she suspected bribery would be a better way of choosing the candidates than anything else. With only four slot open and nearly a hundred possible candidates, there was no choice Boscha could make that wouldn’t offend someone … and that someone wouldn’t hesitate to make his feelings known. Or hers … in her experience, it was often the aristocratic women who took the lead when it came to battling for status, for their children if not for them. She didn’t envy the Grandmaster his choice. No matter what, someone was going to be pissed.

“First, we have Walter from House Ashworth,” Boscha said. There was a round of applause, mainly from Walter’s cronies and students who couldn’t really afford to offend him. Walter walked forward, grinning waving cheerfully … as if he'd just scored yet another goal on the playing field. “Second, Adrian of House Rawlins.”

“Interesting,” Alan muttered, as a second round of applause split the air. “They should know better than to make the applause sound rehearsed.”

Irene had to smile, although … the political implications were odd. Ashworth was a powerful house and closely allied with Rawlings, which meant Boscha was putting a hell of a lot of power in the hands of a single faction instead of spreading it a little more evenly. He’d have to choose the girls very carefully if he wanted to balance it out, which meant … Irene shrugged. It didn’t matter to her. She’d have to keep her head down no matter whose family had offered the biggest bribes. And so would Alan.

“Third, we have Sigrún of House Sirocco,” Boscha continued. That was another interesting choice. House Sirocco was trying hard to stay neutral and Sigrún herself had done a very good job of it. She might have made a better choice if Boscha hadn’t chosen both Walter and Adrian … Irene didn’t know what it meant. “And finally, we have Irene, Daughter of Tomas.”

Irene blinked. What?

“Irene,” Boscha said. “Come forward.”

Irene had to force her legs to move. A faint titter ran through the crowd as she stumbled forwards and up onto the stage. Walter gallantly held out his hand in a very ungallant gesture indeed; Irene glared at him, realising too late she’d been manipulated into making a mistake. And there had been no good outcomes. If she’d taken his hand instead, she would have looked like yet another client submitting to her patron. Her master.

She forced herself to stand beside Boscha, feeling uncomfortably naked even through she was fully dressed. It hadn’t escaped her notice that hardly anyone, even her fellow commoners, had clapped for her. The Grandmaster had put her out on a limb and was busy sawing off the branch behind her … why? Walter had a powerful family and could count on support from his clients; she had no one, except perhaps Alan, and he couldn’t provide even a fraction of the support Walter could expect. And that meant …

“I have faith the four chosen prefects will handle their new roles perfectly,” Boscha finished, his words echoing around the chamber. “You may now head to the dorms and collect your room assignments from the dorm mothers and fathers. Dinner will be served as normal in the Dining Hall; lessons will start tomorrow, so make sure to pick up your timetables before class. Prefects, remain behind. The rest of you; dismissed.”

He turned as the students started flowing out the doors, heading up to the dorms. “This way.”

Walter nudged Irene as the Grandmaster led them into a sideroom. “It looks like we’ll be working together.”

“Great,” Irene said, sarcastically.

Walter smiled, brightly. “It is, isn’t it?”

She swallowed the response that came to mind as Boscha motioned for the four new prefects to sit, then handed out the badges. They were simple gold coins, marked with the school’s insignia and a rune she didn’t recognise, yet the mere act of pinning her badge on her chest made it feel real. She’d wondered if it was a joke, no matter how much face the Grandmaster would lose by changing his mind so rapidly. And yet … why her?

“This will not be an easy year,” Boscha said. “The political situation is uncertain, to say the least, and many families are thinking twice about allowing their children out of their mansions, let alone allowing them to attend school. Your role as prefects is mainly to keep the peace, which means tapping down any conflicts between the various factions with neither fear nor favour. You are authorised to use corporal punishment, if need be, as well as assign detentions and other punishments. If you encounter something more grave than normal misbehaviour, you are required to report it to the tutors. We are relying on you to use your judgement to determine what should be reported, and what shouldn’t.”

Sigrún looked irked. Irene tended to agree. Getting a reputation as a sneak would end one’s social life at Whitehall beyond all hope of repair, even if one was obliged to report anything beyond the pale to the tutors. Or if what one was reporting was something that really had to be reported. Boscha had just set them up for failure, if they made a mistake. Or even if they didn’t.

“You will be called upon to patrol the school regularly,” Boscha continued. “Your lessons and meal schedules will be adjusted to compensate. Should you encounter misbehaviour, you will deal with it appropriately. Again, we are relying on you to use your judgement. If you have doubts, raise them with the older prefects first.”

“Yes, sir,” Walter said. “We won’t let you down!”

“Glad to hear it,” Boscha said. “Now, you may head to your dorms. You will start your duties tomorrow.”

Irene frowned as he turned and swept out of the chamber. Why her? Why …?

Walter came up behind her. “We will be spending a lot of time together,” he said. “Perhaps you could join me for a drink …”

“I’m late for a very important appointment,” Irene said, curtly. It wasn’t entirely a lie. If she left her new roommate, whoever she was, alone for too long, she’d have the entire room arranged to her liking by the time Irene returned. “I’ll see you later, I am sure.”

Walter gave her a sharp look. “I can open many doors for you …”

Irene met his eyes. “And I have no time for you,” she said. She didn’t understand Walter and she didn’t care to. “I’ll see you later.”

But not, she added mentally as she walked away, feeling his eyes boring into the back of her head, if I see you first.