Waylian followed the old man into an adjoining room. Light filtered in through four windows, lancing through the musty air. Four study tables sat in a rough square, islands in the midst of yet more books and parchments. At each of the tables sat one of Sequeous’ apprentices, head bowed in studious observation, quill scratching away with calligraphic precision.
Three of the apprentices were withered and stooped, peering over their labours in a parody of the old men they would one day become. They would end up looking much like their master sooner rather than later. Only one of them still looked his real age. He was young, broad of shoulder, wide of jaw.
‘Josiah?’ Sequeous said, and the largest apprentice looked up from his parchment, quill appearing tiny in his huge hand. The boy gave no answer, just sat with a blank expression on his face. ‘This is a messenger from the Tower of Magisters. You are to go with him.’
Josiah nodded obediently and walked over. Waylian noted how tall he was, how broad. It was a physique more suited to a squire of the knightly orders, where such burgeoning strength would be trained and honed, rather than wasted in an old man’s study.
‘Hello,’ said Waylian.
The boy only stared back as though he’d just been asked some tricky riddle.
‘Off you go, Josiah. You shouldn’t keep the magisters waiting.’
The boy complied obediently, and Waylian turned and led him to the front door like a cow gone to milking.
When Sequeous had slammed the door behind them, Waylian turned to Josiah. ‘Nothing to worry about,’ he said, trying his best to reassure the young lad. ‘I think they need scribes at the Tower, that’s all. They’ll just be trying you out. It’s an excellent opportunity, by all accounts. Though if you’d prefer to stay here with Master Sequeous I’m sure they’ll understand.’
But Waylian wasn’t taking Josiah to the Tower. Gelredida had given him strict instructions to take the boy to another address in the city.
Josiah just regarded Waylian with his deep-set eyes. They no longer looked vacuous, and instead were regarding him with keen scrutiny. Waylian had to admit — it unnerved him a bit.
The Tower of Magisters was roughly north-east of the Trades Quarter, but Waylian took them south. The boy seemed placid enough at first, but any hope Waylian might have had that Josiah would come along quietly were soon dashed.
‘Where are we going?’ the boy asked suddenly.
‘Just a slight detour,’ Waylian replied. ‘Nothing to worry about.’
‘That’s the second time you’ve said that.’
‘Said what?’
‘“Nothing to worry about.” You’ve said it twice now. That kind of makes me think I do have something to worry about.’
‘Well …’
‘What’s going on here?’ Josiah’s voice rose. He seemed to become more threatening. Waylian was acutely aware of the size difference between them — Josiah could easily thump Waylian into the ground.
‘I’ve just got to make a quick stop off. Won’t take long.’
Josiah stared at him, as though searching for any sign of deception in Waylian’s face. All Waylian could do was look back until finally, the big lad seemed satisfied.
‘All right then,’ Josiah said, calm once more. ‘Let’s go.’
They carried on walking until they reached the north end of Dockside. The sea air was chill there, a cold wind blowing in from the Midral Sea, twisting its way through the alleys of the district. As surreptitiously as he could, Waylian checked the slip of paper in his hand and the address written on it, hoping he would find the second address more easily than the first. Too much dawdling might reveal the fact he had no idea where in the bloody hells he was going.
Fortunately, the streets of Dockside were easier to navigate than the Trades Quarter, and Waylian soon found the address. He fumbled in his pocket for the key to the little house and let them both in.
Inside the air was fusty, and the cobwebs draped over the furniture were thick as lace and it was obvious no one had been here for weeks. Gelredida had told him to bring Josiah and wait for her to meet them, but how long would that be? How was he supposed to force this giant of a boy to stay if he didn’t want to?
‘Just take a seat,’ said Waylian, dusting off a chair with his hand. ‘Won’t be long.’
He was relieved when Josiah did as he asked, but then wondered what in the hells he was going to do next.
Perhaps some scintillating conversation, Grimmy. You know — the sort you use to charm the ladies into your bed and the birds from the trees.
‘So, a scribe?’ said Waylian, with no idea what else he should talk about. ‘Must be an interesting line of work.’
‘Not particularly,’ Josiah replied, glancing around the room as though it were daubed with shit. Waylian could understand that — calling this place a hovel would have been overstating it. ‘It’s pretty boring really.’
‘But old Master Sequeous seems nice enough.’
‘He’s a cantankerous, doddery old fool, and the sooner he keels over and dies the better.’
‘But it must be better working for a scribe than making arrows for some slave driver.’ Waylian couldn’t help feeling a pang of regret as he remembered those helpless orphans in the Northgate slum.
‘I suppose,’ said Josiah. ‘But only marginally.’
And now Waylian was stumped. It was clear Josiah didn’t give a toss about Sequeous, or about how lucky he’d been to escape the squalor of Fletcher’s orphanage.
He glanced at the door, willing Gelredida to arrive. The moments seemed to spread out, growing ever more uncomfortable. With every passing breath Josiah seemed to get more fidgety until he could contain himself no longer.
‘Look,’ he said, rising from his chair. ‘I’m not waiting round here all day.’ The confines of the small room emphasised how much he towered above Waylian.
‘But … it won’t be much longer,’ Waylian replied, his fear of failing Gelredida still outweighing his fear of Josiah.
‘Not really my problem. Give my regards to the magisters, won’t you.’
He moved towards the door, but Waylian moved to block his way. The ridiculousness of Waylian trying to stop his huge adversary was not lost on him.
‘Maybe we could talk some more,’ he said, desperate to delay Josiah. ‘What was life like back in the slums? Must have been difficult for you.’
Josiah’s brow furrowed. ‘It was just about as shit as you’d imagine. But what I’m bothered about is how you know where I came from? Who told you I was from the slums? Who told you I used to be one of Fletcher’s boys? If you’re just looking for apprentice scribes how do you know about my past? And why are you so interested in me?’
All very good questions, Josiah. Wish I could answer them.
‘It’s … erm …’
‘Get out of my way.’
Josiah looked determined. Waylian was going to blow it again.
‘No. You can’t leave yet.’ He tried to muster all the power and authority becoming of a magister. He most likely sounded like a petulant toddler. ‘We have to wait here for someone. Then all your questions will be answered.’
‘Fuck that,’ Josiah replied, reaching past Waylian for the door handle.
Without thinking, Waylian grabbed his wrist. It was thick, and he could hardly get his hand around it, but that didn’t seem particularly important as Josiah regarded him with fury.
A hand snapped forward and grabbed Waylian by the throat, slamming him up against the door.
‘You going to stop me then?’ growled Josiah. ‘What are you going to do?’
Waylian wanted to be both defiant, and apologetic. Unfortunately, neither option was possible with his throat constricted as it was.
Rage and humiliation welled inside and, for a fleeting moment, he thought he was about to manifest some kind of power — that power he’d felt in the Chapel of Ghouls, and when Nero and Ferenz had come to his chamber to intimidate him.