The boys sang out an enthusiastic greeting.
"We have been practicing our writing," said Theobald. "We were just about to conclude for the day. Perhaps you would like to see some of our work, Archmagus?"
Actually there was only one pupil in whom Antimodes was interested, but he solemnly walked up and down the aisles and regarded with feigned interest letters that were every shape except the correct shape, and one game of x's and o's, which the player made a vain attempt to cover up by overturning his ink bottle on top of it.
"Not bad," said Antimodes, "not bad. Quite. creative. some of these." He came to Raistlin's desk -his true goal. Here he paused and said with sincerity, "Well done."
A boy behind Raistlin made a noise, a rude noise.
Antimodes turned.
"Pardon, sir," the boy said, with apparent contriteness. "It was the cabbage for lunch."
Antimodes knew that noise hadn't been caused by cabbage. He also knew what it implied, and he immediately realized his mistake. He remembered the ways of small boys-he had been a bit of a troublemaker himself as a youth. He should not have praised Raistlin. The other boys were jealous and vindictive, and Raistlin would be made to suffer.
Trying to think of some way to rectify his mistake, prepared to point out a flaw-no one was perfect, after all-Antimodes looked back at Raistlin.
On Raistlin's thin lips was a pleased smile. One could almost call it a smirk.
Antimodes swallowed his words, with the result that he very nearly choked on them. Coughing, he cleared his throat and walked on. He saw nothing after that. His thoughts were turned inward, and it wasn't until he came face-to-face with Master Theobald that Antimodes realized he was still in the classroom.
He stopped short, looked up with a start. "Oh. er. very nice work from your pupils, Master Theobald. Very nice. If you wouldn't mind, I should like to speak to you privately."
"I really should not leave the class…"
"Only for a moment. I'm certain these fine young gentlemen"-Antimodes gave them a smile -"will be content to study on their own in your absence."
He was fully aware that the fine young gentlemen would probably take advantage of the opportunity to play marbles, draw obscene pictures on their practice scrolls, and splatter each other with ink.
"Only a moment of your time, Master Theobald," Antimodes said with the utmost respect.
Scowling, Master Theobald stomped out of the classroom, leading his way into his private quarters. Here he shut the door and faced Antimodes.
"Well, sir. Please make haste."
Antimodes could already hear the uproar break out in the classroom.
"I should like to talk to each pupil individually, if you please, Master Theobald. Ask them each a few questions."
At this, Master Theobald's eyebrows nearly took wing and flew off his head. Then they came together over the puffy eyelids in a suspicious frown. Never before in all his years of teaching had any archmagus ever bothered to visit his classroom, much less demand a private chat with the students. Master Theobald could only jump to one conclusion, and he did, landing on it squarely with both feet.
"If the conclave does not find my work to be satisfactory." he began in huffy tones.
"They do. Quite the contrary," Antimodes said, hastening to reassure him. "It's just some research I'm conducting." He waved his hand. "Investigating the philosophical reasoning that prompts young men to choose to spend their time in this particular course of study."
Master Theobald snorted.
"Please send them in to see me one by one," said Antimodes.
Master Theobald snorted again, turned on his heel, and waddled back into the classroom.
Antimodes settled himself in a chair and wondered what in the name of Lunitari he was going to say to these urchins. In reality, he wanted only to talk to one pupil, but he dare not single out Raistlin again. The Archmagus was still pondering things when the first, the eldest boy in the school, entered the room, abashed and embarrassed.
"Gordo, sir." The boy made an awkward bow.
"And so, Gordo, my boy," said Antimodes, embarrassed himself but attempting to conceal it, "how do you plan to incorporate the use of magic into your everyday life?"
"Well,'s-sir," Gordo stammered, obviously baffled, "I don't rightly know."
Antimodes frowned.
The boy grew defensive. "I'm only here, sir, 'cause my ma makes me come. I don't want to have nothing to do with magic."
"What do you want to do?" Antimodes asked, surprised. "I want to be a butcher," Gordo said promptly.
Antimodes sighed. "Perhaps you should have a talk with your mother. Explain to her how you feel."
The boy shook his head, shrugged. "I've tried. It's all right, sir. I'll stay here until I'm old enough to be apprenticed, then I'll cut and run."
"Thank you," Antimodes said dryly. "We'll all appreciate mat. Please tell the next boy to come in."
By the end of five interviews, Antimodes's antipathy for Master Theobald had changed to the most profound pity. He also felt alarmed and dismayed. He had learned more in fifteen minutes talking to these five boys than he had in five months of traveling throughout Ansalon.
He was well aware-he and Par-Salian had often discussed it-that mages were viewed with suspicion and distrust by the general populace. That was as it should be. Wizards should be surrounded with an aura of mystery. Their spellcasting should inspire awe and a proper amount of fear.
He found no awe among these boys. No fear. Not even much respect. Antimodes might blame Master Theobald and did blame the master for some of the problem. Certainly he did nothing to inspire his students, to lift them from the common everyday muck of ignorance in which they were wallowing. But there was more to it than that.
There were no children of nobles in this school. Insofar as Antimodes knew, there were few children of nobles in any of the schools of magic in Ansalon. Only among the elves was the study of the arcane considered suitable for the upper class, and even they were discouraged from devoting their lives to it. King Lorac of Silvanesti had been one of the last elves of royal blood known to have taken the Test. Most were like Gilthanas, youngest son of the Speaker of the Sun and Stars of Qualinesti. Gilthanas could have been an excellent mage, had he taken the time to study the art. But he merely dabbled in magic, refused to take the Test, refused to commit himself.
As to humans, these children were sons of middle-class merchants, most of them. That wasn't bad- Antimodes himself had come from such a background. He at least had known what he wanted and had been willing to fight for it, his parents having been completely opposed to the very idea of his studying magic. But these children had been sent here because their parents had no idea what else to do with them. They were sent to study magic because they weren't considered good enough to do anything else.
Were wizards truly held in such low regard?
Depressed, Antimodes huddled down in the overstuffed chair, as far from the fire as he could drag it, and mulled this over in his mind. The depression had been growing on him ever since his trip to Solamnia.
The knights and their families had been polite, but then they would always be polite to any well-to- do, fair-spoken traveling human stranger. They had invited Antimodes to stay in their dwellings, they had fed him roast meats, fine wines, and entertained him with minstrels. They had not ever once discussed magic, had never asked him to assist them with his spellcasting, or made reference to the fact that he was a wizard. If he brought it up, they smiled at him vaguely and then quickly changed the subject. It was as if he had some type of deformity or disease. They were too polite, too well bred to shun him or openly revile him for it. But he was well aware that they averted their glances when they thought he wasn't looking. In truth, he disgusted them.