Student and Master

Written by Splendiferous_Potato

This would be the last time Caldwell would rely on Orlov for meteorological predictions.

It was the fifth day past the two days that Orlov claimed they would have rain, and now even Caldwell was feeling himself becoming worn down beneath the constant pitter-patter and complaining from the foremen and laborers. On the third day, Caldwell managed to purchase some levity for the men in the form of a few casks of Vargan National; but as was the trend in this span, the inebriation did not outlast the weather.

On the sixteenth day of Thauric, Caldwell pulled his cloak over his shoulders like a shawl and parted the canvas doors of his tent to inspect the day. Like a wave, he was deafened by the odor of mud, petrichor, tobacco and ash. The fires lit in the evening to celebrate the Day of the Soldier were still steaming in the center of the camp. The large rudimentary effigy of a soldier they had erected was merely blackened boots and a crumbling thigh. Caldwell expected the laborers to be groggy and dim after a night of excessive drinking, but he was surprised to see them milling about the camp, loading up carts and bags with tools and supplies to begin preliminary work on the site of their keep up the hill. Caldwell’s keep.

Despite the heavy rain, about a dozen or so new laborers answered Orlov’s labor request and jumped off the decks of passage vessels from all corners of the Farath Strait. They were an eclectic bunch. Mostly men, some women, all ages between sixteen and sixty. They seemed happy to work and earn a bit of money while under the protection of “distinguished ‘eroes, such as yerselves.”

That was the oddest thing for Caldwell. He completely understood coming a long way for coin and shelter, but being called a hero? That was odd. What they did in Varga and Drasser was not heroic — it was practical. War makes travel difficult, and when there is a reward on the other end of their “heroics,” can it really be claimed that they are selfless paragons for fighting the enemies of their employer? Caldwell struggled to accept this praise, but was more than willing to cosign on their efforts as employees of Orlov Blackstone, which makes them Caldwell’s employees by default.

Caldwell ducked back behind the canvas and struggled to pull his boots on for a few moments, leaning against his desk to gain some purchase. He quickly brushed his hair and pulled it back out of his face, fighting bedhead fiercely, and picked up his stool and ledger. He pinned the doors of his tent open, and with a quick gesture and muttering, he kicked the tent-pole. A long and wide canvas, of the same construction as his tent, unfurled like a rug over his head. It would have surely come crashing down on top of him, had wooden poles, nearly two inches thick, materialized out of the ground like trees and caught the far corners of the canopy in the air, and pulled it taut about a foot and a half over Caldwell’s head. As he smiled, pleased with himself, he moved his stool from under his arm to place it in the ground before looking down and seeing that he was still standing in the mud. Caldwell cursed, and stepped back inside his tent to fetch the rug leaning against the corner of his tent, and then unfurled it a foot at a time, whispering an incantation under his breath to wick away any collected water in the indentations in the earth. Once he had unfurled his rug, he quickly spread a bit of sand along the edges of the rug to keep the water away. Frustrated and disheveled, he finally took his seat and unwound the string that held the ledger shut. Caldwell began reading, and the hours ticked away.

Around mid-day, when the contrast between the brightness of the sun and the pallor of the rain was at its highest, another ship from Eastport made landfall at the large dock. Caldwell watched the sails as the ship approached, and sent a young worker to fetch Orlov.

The activity of the camp was already hectic, with all of the stationed laborers throwing around hard equipment and supplies as if they were made of lace and paper. The cacophony of shouting and scraping metal, wood and stone was about to be enhanced threefold by the excited voices of fresh faces, old friends reuniting, and people trying to figure out which way to go and whom to speak to for positions and pay.

Without order or rhythm, men began marching up the road, loads of stone and bags of mortar being dragged by teams of mason apprentices and workhorses. As they reached the middle of the camp, they were split up into labor divisions. Orlov thought it was prudent that a team be assembled to work on different facets of the keep, and Caldwell deferred to his experience.

Generally, laborers wore hats that indicated their team and position in the camp, generally by color. The foundation team wore hats painted with a blue stripe, the road and support crew had the red stripes, and the vallation crew had the green stripes. The only people who did not wear these hats were members of Orlov’s construction officer crew, which consisted of himself and three other masons, and the members of Into the Wild — the ridiculous name for the allies Caldwell had gained since he had arrived in Canacea several months ago. When it came to naming groups of people, Caldwell tended towards the mantra of the pet chickens: if you name it, you’ll get attached to it.

To keep himself calm in the coming haze, Caldwell pulled his pipe out of his breast pocket and began stuffing it when he saw something out of place in the camp. A woman, slight in frame, with a hood pulled over her head, stood with the paralysis of fear in the center of the bustling camp, trying in vain to get anybody’s attention. She was not wearing a cap, and it was plain to see that she was a long way from home. She was far too clean and far too shocked by the temperature and ruggedness of the landscape to be from anywhere near the Farath Strait. She was also very fair of skin, but not quite as fair as the locals. Light skin, no freckles, and slightly pointed ears hidden very well by ash brown hair. Of course, Caldwell knew that half-elves were common in all parts of Ilucin, but were particularly common in a part of the world where people tended to share her complexion - Akroma. If anybody less perceptive than Caldwell had perused her person, they may have also missed the minor detail of her brooch, which had a very particular shape — the Brass Rose of Ridweth Academy. She was a very long way from home, indeed. About as far from their place of origin as Caldwell was, in fact. A noteworthy thing, indeed.

She must be a recent graduate, snatched up by Orlov to help work on the keep and do some of the calculations and more tedious work required for such an endeavor. She must not have stuck out as much to the other workers, and in fact must have been mostly invisible to them. They were either too occupied with their load or not interested in pointing her in the right direction. She had a large bag on her shoulder, and was carrying a large wrapped tome in her hand, by the looks of it. She held out tightly and close to her chest, and was tapping on shoulders and asking questions.

Caldwell threw her a lifeline. He conjured a small mote of bright flame in his hand and threw it into the air, directly over his head. The light cut through the rain and commotion and caught her eye. She followed the arc down to him, and he waved her over. She took about a minute to navigate the cart ramps, dolleys, livestock and opened boxes to reach him. She stopped at the edge of the tent, water droplets rolling off of her hood, but Caldwell beckoned her beneath the canopy to get dry. She thanked him profusely, then stepped underneath.

“You’re here for work, yes?”

“Well, yes, but I —”

“Excellent. Well, you’ll want to speak with Mr. Blackstone, the Master Architect. If you follow this path North for just a few minutes, you’ll come up upon a similar camp to this one. The gray tent in the corner with all of the tables in front of it is the Head Mason’s Tent. Tell them that you were sent by Master Ca—”

“Caldwell Fleetstone!”

Caldwell was taken aback, stepping onto his back foot as he was reaching for his quill and ink.

“. . . yes, that’s me. How do you know me? Do I know you”

“No, you don’t know me. We’ve never met, actually. I started at the academy a year and a half after you left town.”

This meant she was fairly young, at least eleven years younger than Caldwell. He suddenly became acutely aware of how old he was.

“But I am actually quite familiar with who you are. I was told you were a sort of handsome older guy, black hair, sort of skinny, blue eyes, would probably have a beard, had a thing for the color purple . . .”

She began to trail off as Caldwell became sort of self-conscious.

“Well, purple is a great color, wouldn’t you agree?.”

“Oh, yes, of course. I prefer green, but I certainly respect your wrong opinion.”

Caldwell smirked.

“But actually, that isn’t how I know who you are. For one, your hair isn’t black, it is dark brown. Also, your beard isn’t the same color as your hair. It actually seems to be on the gray side. Also, I’d argue that cloak is more of a lavender or a magenta than a standard purple. How old are you, anyway?”

Caldwell blushed hard. He hadn’t thought to trim his beard in a while, and hadn’t realized that he was going gray.

“I do believe it is none of your business how old I am, Miss . . . what is your name, child?”

“Miss Osmęnos. Lysandra. You can call me ‘Liz,’ but to be honest, anything but ‘child’ is fine by me.”

“Well, ‘Liz,’ you still haven’t answered my question.”

“Oh, yeah. So, as I was saying, your clothing and hair weren’t enough to go off of, and I didn’t know what you sounded like, but I did know a bit about you from Professor Dunlae, and the whole get-up with the roof and the rug and the special stool and the goofy pipe with the smoke monsters sounded exactly the way Prof described you.”

Caldwell was stunned. Not only was he just aggressively preconized by this young upstart in the construction camp of his own keep, but he heard the name of his best friend for the first time in three years. He did not know how to respond.

“I must say, I’m impressed. You have a sharp mind, Miss Osmęnos.” Caldwell finally dipped his quill into the ink and began writing her name on the ledger. “However, your deduction raises a new question. Why would one of Ferg’s students all the way across the world to help build a castle?”

“Oh, you probably think I’m a mason. I probably should’ve mentioned that I’m an alchemist back when I was talking earlier. Sorry about that. I was so excited to tell you how I figured it out that I forgot to actually introduce myself.”

“No need to apologize. I do the same thing all the time. Why would Orlov hire an alchemist?”

“He didn’t! I still have no idea who Orlov is, even though he sounds really important from the way you have been talking about him. Is he in Into the Wild too?”

“No, he isn’t — wait, why are you here, then?”

“I’m actually here to see you.”

Liz began unwrapping the tome in her hands, dropping the wax paper and fabric wrapping as she tore it off. After a moment, she presented the cover of the book to Caldwell with outstretched arms. The Pedant’s Guide to Rudimentary Illusion.

“Prof told me you were a fan of something called ‘equivalent exchange.’ He said if you took me in, you would teach me the basics of illusion magic, and that I would teach you the basics of alchemy. He said that you love learning new stuff, and that you were always ‘bloody shite’ when it came to brewing in any sense of the word. He also said that you may take me on as an assistant and student just because he sent me your way.”

Caldwell laughed. This girl was probably pretty bright if Ferg sent her his way.

“Aye. It pains me to admit that alchemy has never really been my forte. I would be glad to take on an academic. It would be a nice change of pace from what I’m used to.”

As he finished that sentence, Caldwell dryly eyed the bustling camp behind them.

“Awesome! Okay, that is amazing. Okay, okay . . . so can I please put this bag down? Can I stay in this tent? Is there food somewhere? I really need a nap.”

She threw her bag through the tent doorway and placed the book down on the rug as she pulled her hood down. She then reached into her pocket for a small vial of red powder and dashed a speck of it onto her hands. She clapped her hands together, and with a smooth and fluid motion, rubbed her hair. In an instant her hair was dry, smooth, and flat against her shoulders.

“I can show you where the food is, and we will see about getting you a tent. I’d prefer not to share, if it’s all the same to you.”

“Oooooh, good idea. I snore really loud.”

“Lovely.”

They made their way to the mess tent to sit and eat breakfast. As they took their first few bites, she looked up at Caldwell and brushed a few stray oats from her lower lip.

“Alright, I can’t contain myself. I made up the whole bit about noticing the gray in your beard and the cloak color thing earlier.”

“Oh? What do you mean?”

“I actually didn’t notice anything about you. I mean, I guess you are kind of handsome in a sort of ‘grizzled older guy with a dark mysterious history’ sort of way. And Prof was mostly correct about the personality things. But that isn’t how I knew who you were.”

“Oh. Well, how’d you know, then?”

“Your name is on your ledger. I saw it when you called me over.”

There was a pause. Caldwell put his spoon down and rested his chin on his folded hands for a moment, and Liz froze in place. Then, the two erupted in laughter.

“I think it’s going to be fun having you around. I suspect Nirka will like you a lot.”

“Oooooh I can’t wait to meet them! They aren’t mean, are they?”

“I wouldn’t say so. Qemuel is a bit prickly, but he will warm up to you over time.”

The two put away their bowls and started on their way out. After a long and deep sigh, Liz projected a big, goofy smile at Caldwell.

“So, where do we begin?”