The mage-born would be allowed inside, but the commoners had to keep vigil in the square, praying as much that the rain would hold off as for divine favour. Pickpockets worked the crowds and drunks still reeling from the previous night’s celebrations pissed where they stood, usually about the heels of the person in front of them. Young men strutted about, eyeing the girls pretending not to be eyeing them. The crowd was a sea of pale flesh and greasy brown hair, white bonnets and green felt hats. Spontaneous choruses of traditional songs echoed about the plaza, songs of the Revolt, songs of the mountain kingdoms, old folk songs. Some harmless fights kept the Watchmen occupied. The air was laced with perspiration and beer, the smoke of the foodstalls blended with the drizzle, but the throng was in good humour.
Inside the courtyard of the Town Hall, the gentry waited. In a few minutes, the governor would lead them in procession through the crowd to the cathedral. Awaiting him in the courtyard were the landowners, the richest of the merchants, and, first and foremost, the magi families of Norostein, not that there were many; Noros had never attracted many of the descendants of the Blessed, and the Revolt had taken a heavy toll. Now there were just some seventy adult magi gathered under awnings. A few of the young men were showing off, using gnosis-shields to keep off the rain, and one young woman was amusing her friends by conjuring watery creature-forms out of the drizzle. There was laughter in the air, but tension too: young magi were always seeking opportunities to dominate weaker rivals.
A small bony youth with an olive complexion wormed his way through the courtyard, flicking wet black hair from his face. His colouring marked him as an outsider. The babble of voices and the heat of the packed bodies hit him like a wave, but he worked his way past the most boisterous of the young men without attractingundue attention. He peered into the darkest recesses of the courtyard to where the lightweights among the magi-children skulked and spotted the person he was looking for. He slid in beside a gangling figure with a drip of water or snot hanging from a long thin nose. Lank red-brown hair was plastered to a pale, morose face.
‘Alaron,’ the swarthy newcomer greeted his fellow, dangling a small wicker basket full of steaming sweet dumplings under his friend’s dripping nose. They both wore the robes of Turm Zauberin, the all-male gnostic college of Norostein. ‘Three fennik it cost me!
Rukka Hel
– festival day prices!’ He took a dumpling and swallowed it whole, then thrust the basket at his friend. ‘Bloody merchants, eh?’ he added slyly.
‘Thanks, Ramon.’ Alaron Mercer grinned despite himself. His father Vann was a merchant himself; he could see him just a few yards away, chatting to Jostyn Weber. Alaron wolfed down a dumpling and looked around. ‘What a waste of time. The service will be at least three hours long, you realise.’
‘At least we’re inside,’ Ramon observed. ‘The commoners get stuck out here in the rain all afternoon – they can’t even sit down.’ He glanced around, looking like a ferret peering out from its burrow. Ramon Sensini was a secretive young man, the son of a Rondian mage (whose identity he’d never shared) and a Silacian tavern-girl. The Turm Zauberin gatekeepers had initially refused him entry, even though he’d funds enough to enrol, but he had shown the Principal a letter and that had got him in.
As usual, Alaron had a bee in his bonnet over the festival. ‘Did you know that every Sollan festival has had some stupid Kore ritual put in its place? I mean, could they be more brazen? There isn’t even any evidence that the gnosis has anything to do with the Kore! And Johan Corin was actually born a Sollan worshipper! Why does no one remember that? I read in a book that—’
‘Alaron, shush! I agree, but it’s blasphemy.’ Ramon put a finger to his lips, then pointed
Inside the courtyard of the Town Hall, the gentry waited. In a few minutes, the governor would lead them in procession through the crowd to the cathedral. Awaiting him in the courtyard were the landowners, the richest of the merchants, and, first and foremost, the magi families of Norostein, not that there were many; Noros had never attracted many of the descendants of the Blessed, and the Revolt had taken a heavy toll. Now there were just some seventy adult magi gathered under awnings. A few of the young men were showing off, using gnosis-shields to keep off the rain, and one young woman was amusing her friends by conjuring watery creature-forms out of the drizzle. There was laughter in the air, but tension too: young magi were always seeking opportunities to dominate weaker rivals.
A small bony youth with an olive complexion wormed his way through the courtyard, flicking wet black hair from his face. His colouring marked him as an outsider. The babble of voices and the heat of the packed bodies hit him like a wave, but he worked his way past the most boisterous of the young men without attractingundue attention. He peered into the darkest recesses of the courtyard to where the lightweights among the magi-children skulked and spotted the person he was looking for. He slid in beside a gangling figure with a drip of water or snot hanging from a long thin nose. Lank red-brown hair was plastered to a pale, morose face.
‘Alaron,’ the swarthy newcomer greeted his fellow, dangling a small wicker basket full of steaming sweet dumplings under his friend’s dripping nose. They both wore the robes of Turm Zauberin, the all-male gnostic college of Norostein. ‘Three fennik it cost me!
Rukka Hel
– festival day prices!’ He took a dumpling and swallowed it whole, then thrust the basket at his friend. ‘Bloody merchants, eh?’ he added slyly.
‘Thanks, Ramon.’ Alaron Mercer grinned despite himself. His father Vann was a merchant himself; he could see him just a few yards away, chatting to Jostyn Weber. Alaron wolfed down a dumpling and looked around. ‘What a waste of time. The service will be at least three hours long, you realise.’
‘At least we’re inside,’ Ramon observed. ‘The commoners get stuck out here in the rain all afternoon – they can’t even sit down.’ He glanced around, looking like a ferret peering out from its burrow. Ramon Sensini was a secretive young man, the son of a Rondian mage (whose identity he’d never shared) and a Silacian tavern-girl. The Turm Zauberin gatekeepers had initially refused him entry, even though he’d funds enough to enrol, but he had shown the Principal a letter and that had got him in.
As usual, Alaron had a bee in his bonnet over the festival. ‘Did you know that every Sollan festival has had some stupid Kore ritual put in its place? I mean, could they be more brazen? There isn’t even any evidence that the gnosis has anything to do with the Kore! And Johan Corin was actually born a Sollan worshipper! Why does no one remember that? I read in a book that—’
‘Alaron, shush! I agree, but it’s blasphemy.’ Ramon put a finger to his lips, then pointed
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