Bernt shifted his weight, trying to find a more comfortable way to stand. He briefly considered sitting down on the floor, but remained standing. It wouldn’t be professional. The chairs lining the walls of the small waiting area in front of the magistrate’s office were filled with people who’d been waiting even longer than he had, staring judgmentally at the harried-looking secretary who sat behind a small desk, trying to manage an office where there were always more people coming in than were leaving.

  When he’d first arrived, she’d gotten up and disappeared for a few minutes, giving Bernt hope that his meeting might be a priority. Maybe she was announcing him. But then she’d reappeared, settled back into her seat and resumed taking in new arrivals. That had been nearly two hours ago.

  Finally, as Bernt was trying to decide whether it would be rude of him to use his stoneshaping to create a seat from the material of the wall he was leaning against, something happened. The door opened and Archmage Carlan swept in, shooting him a glare that seemed, somehow, as smug as it was hostile. The head of the Norhold Mages’ Guild barged into the magistrate’s office, ignoring the secretary entirely as she tried to politely get his attention in a vain attempt to preserve the order of her waiting room.

  A moment later, a confused-looking man emerged, followed by the magistrate himself. The old woman’s gaze swept around the room, before finally landing on Bernt.

  “Underkeeper Bernard, please.”

  Magistrate Marola sighed tiredly as she rounded her desk and Bernt settled down onto a plain wooden chair across from her. Archmage Carlan stood off to the side, eyeing him with a flat, patient gaze. The magistrate sorted a few papers, pulled out a slim folder and opened it to review its contents for a second. She looked exhausted, like someone who hadn’t been sleeping much for days on end. Apparently, the new duke had been keeping her on her toes.

  “Thank you for coming,” she finally began. “I trust you’ve heard the news?”

  “I have,” Bernt nodded. “I expected that this might affect my project, though I would have thought I’d be summoned to Archmage Carlan’s office for that.”

  “I’m afraid the new duke has preempted the guild. Archmage Carlan is here merely as a witness.” She produced a small stack of papers, removed one and handed it to Bernt. “The duchy is working to restructure its spending to better reflect the current needs of the kingdom. This is a notice cancelling your contract with the Beseri military and suspending any further funding for your joint project with the Mages’ Guild.” Then she produced another paper, and handed it over. “Additionally, I have here a directive to offer you a position among the Norhold Underkeepers.”

  A cold, queasy feeling began to work its way through Bernt’s stomach. Having his contract terminated was disappointing, but he’d expected something like that to happen. Inviting him to rejoin the underkeepers, though… that was something else.

  Centuries ago, the original underkeepers had been mostly the dropouts of the Mages’ Academy and those who failed to form proper investitures. People who could efficiently perform maintenance down in the sewers, and who wouldn’t be seriously threatened by slimes, rat men and the occasional alchemically mutated animal. Hydromancers like Uriah were ideal for the job, but they took all sorts. A few years after the order’s founding, legend had it, the king’s court mage had gotten drunk at an important meeting and embarrassed his liege. To express his displeasure and appropriately chastise the archmage, the king had placed his disgraced advisor in charge of the city’s underkeepers, symbolically and perhaps literally dragging him through the muck.

  With that, a new tradition was born—one that had only grown in scope and popularity in the intervening generations. Today, Beseri Underkeepers were, as an institution, composed less of the incompetent castoffs than mages who had inconvenienced, insulted or embarrassed someone important.

  The new Duke Brinwald, it seemed, wanted to send a message.

  Bernt could refuse, of course, but he had to be careful. Powerful nobles had a tendency to become irate when they felt their authority was threatened. At the same time, Bernt didn’t want to stay here if his project was canceled. He had other places to be and things to do—things that weren’t compatible with a job cleaning Norhold’s sewers. He could afford, at least, to work out exactly where he stood.

  “I believe our contract had a notice period,” he said carefully. “It was meant to prevent me from simply leaving while the duke brought in burnouts from across his lands for treatment, but it applies to all parties. It would be a breach for me to accept another position before it expires.”

  The archmage straightened and spoke in sober, matter of fact tones belied only by the sparkle in his eyes.

  “Your contract, as you’ll recall, also called for you to show substantive progress in your endeavor to create new sorcerers. Discretion for what constitutes such progress rests with me and, ultimately, with the duke.” He smiled. “As we are now in agreement that such progress has not been made, funding for your little project will be suspended immediately. Of course, if you wish, you may continue to pursue your research for another month, but neither the guild nor the duke have further need of you. You are, therefore, free to pursue other endeavors.”

  Careful not to glare at the archmage, Bernt addressed the magistrate. “You are aware that this means you won’t have anyone to restore your burned out mages?”

  “We thank you for your contribution,” Magistrate Marola inclined her head. “However, we have made other arrangements. The Mages’ Guild approved your restorative procedure five weeks ago, thanks in no small part to your continued experimental efforts and the data you’ve generated. I believe the guild should have notified you?”

  Bernt took a deep breath and let it out, trying not to appear as blindsided as he felt. He’d been gone too long, and he’d missed too much. But the Mages’ Guild was always supposed to take over the burnout procedure eventually. He’d only done it here because they’d been so slow to roll it out. He’d been expecting the suspension on the sorcery project, too, sooner or later. They hadn’t made any progress in too long. He didn’t have anything to show, and it stood to reason that it would come to this.

  Being volunteered for the Underkeepers, though… that was something else. They didn’t have to do that just to get rid of him. And, as he considered that, he realized that they couldn’t.

  “I… don’t think I’ll be staying then, actually” he said finally, careful not to smile as the first outline of a plan began to form in his mind. “I’ll continue my research elsewhere. Far away. Will that be satisfactory to his highness?”

  “The failure of your ‘research’ is well known by now, underkeeper.” Archmage Carlan said before the magistrate could respond, emphasizing the last word. “I believe you’d have to travel quite far indeed to find patronage again. I would advise you to stick to what you know.”

  Magistrate Marola frowned severely at the archmage’s outburst, but then settled her gaze back on Bernt. “Look, I would think that someone allowing himself to be referred to as ‘the’ Underkeeper would know better than this. Are you aware what could happen if you decline such a referral?”

  The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  Bernt did know. Coercion, blackmail, and very rarely, murder. He didn’t say that out loud, of course. That would have given insult to the new duke, and made getting out of here that much more difficult. Instead, he sat back in his chair and let out a regretful sigh that, even to his own ears, almost sounded sincere.

  “I know how underkeepers are recruited, yes. But I still can’t accept the offer. I have a conflicting commitment.”

  Carlan scoffed angrily and the magistrate squinted at him, as if expecting some kind of trick. “And what is that?”

  “I’m already an underkeeper in the city of Halfbridge, technically. Resignations can only be finalized in person, and I haven’t returned since last year. I could apply for a transfer, of course, but I see no reason to do that.”

  Carlan scoffed. “You’re telling me the head of your order didn’t terminate you for abandoning your duties in absentia?”

  Bernt shrugged. “He put me on leave without pay. Ed doesn’t like to lose people.”

  ***

  An hour later, Bernt was cramming the last of his research notes into his enchanted bag in his office. Everything else he owned in this city had already been in there, since he’d only just returned. Uriah and Katrin looked on, still stunned.

  “So, you’re really going back home to be an underkeeper?” Uriah asked incredulously.

  “No!” Bernt scoffed. “I mean, sort of, maybe. I’ll need to see if it’s just the new duke and Carlan that have it out for me, or if this is bigger.”

  Katrin made a skeptical noise. “I don’t think it’s just my cousin. I know for a fact that King Renias personally asked my father to get rid of you last year.”

  Bernt scowled. “I know, but I thought they’d be over it by now. Do they really still think I’m a warlock? Or is it because of our project? I know the Madzhuris don’t like it, but the guild at least should appreciate—”

  “No, it’s not that.” Katrin waved his protests aside. “At least, it’s not that simple. To the Madzhuris, you’re a suspect that their priests had imprisoned as a rogue warlock and a demon worshipper. My father…” she paused, her face twisting first with grief and then worry. Bernt didn’t understand the complexities of succession in noble families, but the fact that she was sitting here in his lab while her cousin took her father’s title and his city couldn’t be a good thing for her. Katrin was losing more than just her father.

  After a moment, she swallowed and continued, “My father took extraordinary measures to save you—nearly started a war with Madzhur and the Sacral Peaks at the same time. And immediately afterward, he put you in charge of important magical research on his payroll. The Madzhuris probably take it as a sign that the king isn’t sincere about cooperating with them. Not while you’re still safe in your position here.”

  “Or while your father retained his position controlling our border with them…” Bernt added slowly, realization dawning. He licked his lips, his mouth suddenly dry. “They considered him a warmonger. That’s why you think the king had him killed.”

  “That, and the fact that he was killed by a priest of Noruk,” Uriah said and glanced toward the door, making sure no one was listening. “Not a Madzhuri one, either. One of ours. He wasn’t smited by his god—one of Renhild’s guards had to kill him. Officially, they’re saying he went rogue.”

  “Hells,” Bernt swore. “And people believe that?”

  The god of war required his followers to choose an allegiance and to serve it unerringly. So, priests of Noruk swore themselves to a ruler, not just their temple. An oath like that wasn’t broken lightly, and the consequences were neither merciful nor subtle. Killing your own duke would qualify, unless you’d gotten your orders from someone higher in the chain of command.

  “We’re not supposed to believe it,” Uriah grumbled, “How will the Madzhuris know he did it, otherwise? As long as nobody important contradicts the story, everything is fine.”

  “And if they do? Don’t you think anyone is going to have a problem with this?”

  Katrin smiled hollowly. “They weren’t there to see it. Who’s to say what happened? Nobody wants to stick their neck out for a dead man.”

  Bernt didn’t know what to say to that, so, after a moment of silence he let out a breath and changed the subject. “You could come with me, you know. Iriala indicated last year that she’d fund our research. Maybe the offer’s still good. I’m going to talk to her about it, even if I do end up back on the shit patrol.”

  Uriah snorted and shook his head. “Nah. There aren’t any water confluences up north that we know about. Getting lucky with an elemental at the confluence in Kallrix is still my best chance. I’m not going to give up, now. We’re too close.”

  “What if it doesn’t work out?”

  “Miria isn’t so far away.” The hydromancer looked over at Katrin, who smiled at him. “We’ll go together and book passage to Port Darmouth on the black cliffs. Their Mages’ Guild said they don’t do any research into sorcerers when we asked, but I can’t imagine they really don’t have anything. We can check out their libraries in person. The city’s also supposed to have an enclave of natives that we might be able to talk to. We’ll continue our research there, closer to the source.”

  Bernt nodded, first slowly and then with more conviction. “You’re right. Yeah, it’s the right move.” He offered the two of them a tight smile. “We can keep in touch and share notes. At least you’ll always know where to reach me.”

  “You could come, too, you know.” Katrin added slowly. “We could all go. My cousin can’t reach you in Miria, and I doubt the king would care what you do if you’re not in the country anymore.”

  Bernt tried to picture it, just for a moment—leaving Besermark behind. Miria might have answers for him. They could turn Uriah into a sorcerer to heal his damaged spirit and, maybe, they could turn Katrin’s dream into reality as well. He could start over, pursue whatever interested him. No one there would know who he was, or care. They wouldn’t know he was an underkeeper, or that he’d been accused of being a rogue warlock and a traitor to humanity itself. Their temples hadn’t even been represented at the Conclave where he’d been accused.

  But it was only a dream, and one that would have him abandoning the people he cared about. He’d left friends behind in Halfbridge, his job, his home. All the familiar places and routines that added up to a life that felt grounded and comfortable in a way he’d never quite appreciated until it was gone. And now… well, leaving wouldn’t just be a research trip for him—not if a duke and maybe the king himself had his eye on him. If he ran away to another country, it would be an admission that he’d done something wrong. Even if the nobles didn’t, the Temple of Noruk would smear him further in his absence, and he’d be lucky to be able to return home at all. Ever.

  That… irked him. He’d only ever tried to do what was right. To look out for his familiar, his friends and himself. He’d fought to protect his city, and then the entire country, even if it was more a result of circumstance than personal conviction. Nobody was going to force him out of his home for that, no matter how they decided to interpret it.

  “I… miss home,” he said finally, not wanting to explain his feelings to his colleagues. “We have help there, too—Archmage Iriala and Ed. And I want to talk to Magister Pollock. He has a way of looking at things that could help us.

  He had Jori to think about, too, though he didn’t mention her in front of Uriah. The other mage had always been suspicious of demons, and he hated them with a passion since he’d witnessed a horde of them tear through a city while he was standing in it. They’d had their share of conversations on the subject, and neither were going to change their minds at this point.

  Right now, Jori was trapped in the hells with her pack, fighting a guerilla war against an unkown number of other demonic factions, most of whom were vastly more powerful than hers. He was partly to blame that she hadn’t been able to get out, and it was past time that he did something about that. Maybe, if he was home, he could help.

  “Okay,” Uriah grimaced, probably guessing at least partly what Bernt was thinking. “When are you heading out?”

  “Right now.” Bernt said, slinging his enchanted bag over his shoulder. “I want to be gone in case they come up with some excuse to nail me down here in the city.” He needed to stop by the Scryer’s Office to let Ed know what was happening, and maybe Pollock, but he could spare those five minutes, probably. He strode the door, turned around and looked around the laboratory one more time, taking it in. Then he let out a breath and smiled at his colleagues one last time.

  “I’ll be in touch.”