Just then, Justarius's disconcerting manservant approached them from the kitchens. Even after several months, Guerrand could scarcely suppress a shudder at the sight of the hideous owlbear. The name was appropriate enough for the nearly eight-foot-tall creature that looked like a cross between a giant owl and a bear. Denbigh had a thick coat of ocher-colored feathers and fur. The eyes above his sharp, ivory beak were red-rimmed and heavy-lidded. Around his neck hung a string of shrunken skulls separated by threaded fangs.
Denbigh reached a sharp claw toward Esme. She calmly took the tankard the manservant offered her. "Thank you, Denbigh. How did you know I needed a drink?"
"Denbigh not," snarled the owlbear in a voice that sounded like a nail on ice. "Orders."
"Well, thank you just the same," Esme said, unfazed. She leaned back in her chair and sipped her drink.
Seeing the claw reach for his own tankard on the table, Guerrand quickly put his hand over the top. "Don't worry, Denbigh. I have enough."
"Denbigh not worry," he snapped. The owlbear shuffled away, looking horribly out of place in the perfectly manicured garden. Guerrand shuddered again, watching him depart for the kitchens.
"You still don't feel comfortable around Denbigh, do you?"
"No, I must confess I don't. The servants I'm accustomed to don't have fur or snap at you."
Esme shrugged. "Considering that owlbears aren't known for their courteous natures, Denbigh does pretty well, I think."
"What kind of name is that for an owlbear, anyway?"
"It's the name given to every manservant who's ever worked here. I suspect Denbigh's owlbear name would be pretty unpronounceable to us anyway."
Guerrand frowned. "Why doesn't Justarius hire something, well, a little more human-looking?"
"Three reasons, I think. Believe it or not, Denbigh runs the villa quite efficiently If he were more pleasant to look at, all of the other mages would try to buy him away I think you can guess the third reason, after doing the tile exercise. Justarius doesn't judge something's worth by the outer package; he visualizes the inner owlbear."
"Frankly, I can't see that the inside of an owlbear looks any better than the outside," said Guerrand with a playful grin, "but I know what you mean."
"Speaking of judging the inside of a person," said Esme, artlessly twirling her tankard between her hands, "how well do you know Lyim Rhistadt?"
"Lyim?" Guerrand repeated stupidly, startled by the abrupt change in subject. "Not well. Well enough. Why?"
"I was just wondering," she said. "You two seem to spend a fair amount of your free time together, yet you seem so different."
"I'll grant you we're opposites," he said, leaning back to ponder. "At first our friendship was based on convenience; we were two apprentices headed for Palanthas. But I've come to admire Lyim. He has a great deal of natural talent. And he seems to draw excitement to him, like a moth to a flame."
Esme nodded her agreement. "I'll admit he's intriguing. Lyim has an air of reckless danger about him."
Did he detect more than a casual interest in her voice? Guerrand felt his chest tighten. What difference does it make if Esme is interested in Lyim, he scolded himself. I've got but one thing to do here in Palanthas, and that's learn magic. I can't allow myself to be distracted.
Suddenly, both Esme and Guerrand's heads shot up as they heard Denbigh's long claws scraping over the paving stones toward them again. Behind the shuffling, vicious-looking owlbear was the very apprentice mage of whom they'd been speaking.
Guerrand felt his mood dip further. Lyim was impeccably dressed in an outfit Guerrand had not seen before. Lyim reminded him of a strutting peacock, a comparison he'd bet Lyim would enjoy.
The other apprentice had traded his enveloping robe for a crimson velvet cape that splashed over his shoulders and flowed to the floor like a waterfall of blood. Beneath the cape was a black and crimson tunic heavily embroidered with thick silver and gold threads. The tunic was gathered into the waistband of lacquered black leather trousers. They were, in turn, tucked into calf-high cuffed leather boots that had been inlaid with bright crimson-dyed leather in the shape of two, great, stretching dragons.
"Understated, but I like it," pronounced Guerrand with a smirk. Lyim looked more like a dashing cavalier than a typically dowdy mage.
"Good day, fellow apprentices." Bowing, Lyim swept the feathered cap from his wavy, shoulder-length dark hair, displaying a fashionable thick braid down the back. He preened and spun in a circle for their benefit. "It's a far cry from those dreadful burlap robes I must wear at Belize's when studying." Blinking, he finally noticed Esme and Guerrand in the plain garb they were required to wear at Villa Rosad. "It looks perfectly fine for you, Guerrand," he managed without a blush. "As for Esme, she would look enchanting in a barrel."
"Thank you… I think," said Esme with a frown.
"That costume must have cost a fortune," murmured Guerrand, his eyes taking in the detail and craftsmanship. There was no note of envy in his voice; Guerrand knew better than to try to compete with Lyim-or anyone-in the category of haute couture.
"Spoken like the noble who would know," said Lyim, still preening. At last he pulled out a chair and carefully lowered himself into it so as not to crease anything. He leaned forward abruptly on his elbow. "Actually, it cost me not one steel piece," he whispered conspiratorially. "It's amazing what shopkeepers are willing to give you when you mention that you're apprentice to the Master of the Red Robes. You should try it," he said, nodding his head at both of them. "Justarius isn't as important, of course, but I'd wager you'd get something."
Guerrand shook his head. Lyim's tactics might have amused him, if it didn't remind him so painfully of the way Rietta did business. He should have been indignant at Lyim's own form of extortion, yet he wasn't. It was difficult to explain, but there was a difference in intent between Lyim and Rietta.
If the flamboyant apprentice was unaware of the insult he'd leveled against their master, Esme wasn't. Guerrand could see her bristling, forming a scathing reply. Suddenly, her expression softened and she looked at Lyim with exaggerated pleasantness.
"Speaking of the great Belize," she said, "how are your lessons progressing, Lyim? Learn how to polymorph yet?" Guerrand swallowed a laugh-it was a spell years beyond any of their abilities.
Predictably, Lyim was oblivious to her sarcasm. He slipped a piece of cured ham from Guerrand's plate and held it high to nibble while he spoke. "The instruction is going quite well, I believe. Well enough for Belize to let me alone with his spellbooks, anyway. You remember me mentioning his published works, don't you Guerrand?" His friend nodded. "I finally have a set at my disposal. Before Belize left, he instructed me to spend a minimum of two hours each day memorizing specific spells."
"Left?" squealed Esme. "You mean he's not even home with you?"
Lyim unconcernedly munched the ham. "He's gone more and more these days. Even when he's at home, he's frequently locked away doing research." Lyim shrugged. "The Master of the Red Robes is a busy man."
"He just hands you manuals?"
Lyim grinned. "A beautiful arrangement, isn't it? Who said apprenticing was difficult? I get to live in a gorgeous villa and read the master's books, and my afternoons and evenings are my own." He put his booted feet up on the marble table and leaned back lazily with his hands behind his head. "It certainly fits in well with my style."
Esme merely shook her head in disbelief.
"I've already added three new entries to my own spellbook," said Lyim. "I'll demonstrate one for you both tonight, if you're good and come along with me to this wonderful little inn I know on the waterfront. It's a bit seedy, but aren't most truly interesting places? It's quite safe enough, at least for mages. Still, Esme, you should wear your arm bracelet."