Book Of The Dead

The inside of the ballroom was an even more opulent display of wealth. Floating chandeliers drifted overhead, made of concentric rings, each rotating a different direction and speed than the one before. Enchanted gems hovered around these lights, sending glittering beams of fractured light around the room that rippled off crystal pillars, creating patterns that played across the fountains that poured down the walls and ran into a stream beneath their feet.

Birds formed of mist swooped and coasted high overhead amongst the beams that supported the vaulted ceiling, which was itself concealed behind a magickal cloud.

Guards in ornate armour lined the walls and manned every entrance and exit, their decorated, gleaming weapons no less effective for the ostentation. Each one would be at least level forty, the rank of a Silver slayer, and capable of slicing Tyron in half with a single blow.

Around the outside of the room, long tables groaned with food, meats, cakes, pies of all kinds and varieties, each one more over-decorated than the last. When he spotted the six-tiered cake that dominated the central table at the head of the ballroom, covered top to bottom in a perfectly realistic image of who he presumed was Lady Shan, he almost groaned at the absurdity of it all.

Then the cake winked at him.

“What’s wrong?” Yor hissed under her breath.

“They enchanted the cake decoration,” he managed to choke out, sounding strangled.

She flicked her eyes to the object in question then back to him in a second.

“Such a simple thing,” she sniffed. “I don’t see why you’re so upset.”

He wanted to launch into a detailed explanation of the amount of time and effort that would go into such a pointless waste, but then he remembered who he was talking to.

“I suppose this is all rather ho-hum compared to the soirees they throw at the Court?” he sighed.

The vampire's eyes gleamed with hunger.

“I attended Lord Virek’s ball twenty years ago. We arrived at his castle by gondola, traversing a canal filled with fresh blood.”

Tyron frowned.

“Wouldn’t… wouldn’t the blood clot?”

She looked at him as if he were an idiot. He rolled his eyes and nodded.

“Blood magick. Right.”

Still seems like a stupid waste. You were boating on your own food? What’s the human equivalent? Sailing a lake of gravy? What’s the point?

Despite his misgivings, he knew the point. This was all a display, a show of wealth and power designed to impress on the guests the strength of House Shan.

As he took in the scene, and the many attendees, drifting from conversation to conversation, laughing and gossiping amongst each other, he felt strongly just how much he disliked it. Much as his parents had.

Not once or twice, but many times had Magnin Steelarm impressed on his son just how much he detested gatherings such as these.

“Waste of my time,” he would groan. “Being locked in a bright, shiny cage with a bunch of puffy birds is still being locked in a cage. You wouldn’t believe how much we were able to charge them to attend these things.”

He shook his head, shaggy black hair swaying around his face.

“Your mother liked the food, but eventually I had to say I was done with it. I’d rather eat your mother’s cooking off the campfire. Though don’t tell her I said that.”

“Wipe that expression off your face,” Yor discreetly jabbed him in the side with a sharp elbow. “You either look bored out of mind or as if you want to murder these people. Neither is a good look to have. Master yourself.”

With a grunt, Tyron mastered his expression and forced the memories and the emotion they carried away.

“I apologise. I’ll be focused from this point forward.”

“See that you are. This is an opportunity that you may not see again. Networking is the entire point behind these events, though youthful indulgence and play is also encouraged,” she flicked her eyes toward an amorous couple in the shadows at the back of the ballroom, being a little more friendly than was strictly appropriate. “No doubt the Shan’s were elated to have an opportunity to meet with the premier enchanter in the city, but when he couldn’t attend, your invitation was vetted, of that I am certain. You wouldn’t be here unless someone wanted to meet you.”

“Well…” he shrugged his shoulders, feeling awkward in his many-layered robes, “what do we do?”

Yor rolled her eyes.

“We talk, to people. You aren’t so socially inept as this, I know you aren’t. Do your best to appear wise beyond your years, the robes should help with that, and try to smell like money.”

“Smell. Like money.”

“Yes, but not current money, future money.”

“That makes a lot of sense.”

“Hush. Now lead me around the ballroom, I need to be seen.”

“Fine.”

Doing his best to mask his emotions, Tyron allowed Yor to take him by the arm and led her to a small group talking near the centre of the ballroom. Unsure what to expect, he was surprised to see that most weren’t as young as he suspected, but likely closer to himself in age. They easily made way and allowed the new pair to join their circle, bringing them into the conversation with ease.

“Master Almsfield, a pleasure to meet such an accomplished young craftsman,” a dashing gentleman extended a calloused hand, a swordsman perhaps.

“The pleasure is mine,” Tyron replied.

“And who is this charming young lady accompanying you?” the swordsman said, eyes sliding toward Yor, a warm smile on his face.

Of course.

“This is a business associate and friend, Yorin Kiris, owner and operator of the Red Pavilion.”

“Oh, I have heard a lot about this establishment,” a young aristocratic lady tittered.

“Most of it good, I hope?” Yor purred.

“Oh!” the lady blushed. “Ah. Y-yes. It has become very popular… amongst the Slayers.”

“I would love to cultivate a more genteel clientele, but it is so difficult to provide services that will suit every customer. The Slayers like their entertainment… rough, which is not suited to a more elegant customer.”

Further blushes and abashed glances fluttered around the group and Tyron felt as if Yor’s work was already done for the evening. Just like that, they had been hooked. The swordsman looked like he was about to offer to duel Tyron there and then for the privilege of keeping her company for the evening.

With what grace he could muster, Tyron excused them from the group and moved to the next.

In this manner, they drifted from one group to another. He tactfully avoided bringing Yor to the group Lady Shan was in, lest Victor let his control slip in front of the hostess.

Pleasantries were exchanged, people enquired as to how prosperous his business was and the health of Master Willhem, to which he managed courteous replies. His guest didn’t speak much, she didn’t need to, but he was grateful she was able to show a little more restraint as the evening wore on.

“Over there,” Yor nudged him in the side, “that’s young Magister Shan. In the group by the ice sculpture.”

“Which one?”

“The swan.”

“Not the sculpture, which person?”

“The one in the red robes,” she rolled her eyes. “You don’t see the family resemblance?”

“They’re in the shadows, I can’t see in the dark.”

“Poor mortal….”

Attempting to appear casual, he began to shift them in that direction, but found his work was done for him when another young gentleman noticed him and exclaimed: “Ah! Master Almsfield, I was hoping to speak to you tonight. If you have a moment?”

Yor shot him a significant look and Tyron schooled his features as he stepped into the circle of conversation.

“Lukas Almsfield, at your service,” he performed a short bow and introduced his associate, who drew all eyes for a moment.

“Yes… yes! As I was saying, I’d hoped to have a moment to chat with you. But where are my manners! I am Lord Ammos Greyling. It’s a privilege to meet someone as young and accomplished as you.”

“Ammos, who is this commoner?” Magister Shan spoke with a barely concealed sneer. “Is this who you requested we invite?”

Ammos Greyling appeared to be slightly older than Tyron, perhaps twenty-five, tall, with blonde hair and an easy-going smile on his face. He turned to Regis without missing a beat.

“Of course! As you know, the commoner, Master Willhem, the most respected and successful Arcanist in the province, was expected to attend, and I’m certain you hadn’t objected to his presence?”

“Of course not,” Regis rolled his eyes.

“Well now, are you also aware of just how many of his many apprentices have received his personal endorsement over the years?”

“No.”

He spoke the word curtly, but there was a hint of interest in the trainee-magister’s eyes now.

“Two,” Ammos grinned. “Just two. The first was–”

“Annita Halfshard.”

“... Right! And the second is this young man in front of you. Impressive, no? Of course I had to meet him!”

With the objections dealt with, Ammos turned back to Tyron with a flourish.

“You may or may not be aware, but your senior apprentice, Annita, exclusively does commission work for the noble houses, so we are all familiar with her incredible skills.”

Tyron bowed once again.

“It’s an honour to be mentioned alongside such luminaries as Master Willhem and Master Halfshard. I still have a long road before I can compare my abilities to theirs.”

“Is it true that your primary Class isn’t Arcanist?” Ammos asked, leaning in, eyes wide.

A little confused, Tyron nodded.

“That’s right. I took it up as a secondary.”

“Fascinating! What do you say, Regis? Are you impressed now?”

It appeared as if he may indeed be a little intrigued. At least his sneer had dissipated as he examined Tyron head to toe with an evaluating gaze.

For his part, the Necromancer tried to keep his eyes on Ammos. Standing this close to a Magister was a gust of oxygen onto the ever-burning embers of rage in his chest. Internally, he fought to contain it as he carried on the conversation.

“Unfortunately, unlike my Master and Master Halfshard, I have directed my expertise in other areas, so it’s unlikely I’ll be able to service the great houses in the same manner.”

“I’ve heard something of this,” Ammos noted, green eyes twinkling. “You opened your shop in Shadetown, of all places. Quite the scandal!”

Tyron frowned.

“Is it really? Master Willhem was more than willing to attend the opening and place his plaque on the store.”

“That was the scandal! Imagine that old fusspot stumbling around outside the walls. The poor thing.”

Ammos chuckled and shook his head as Regis contributed a question.

“You mentioned you focused on other areas. What has been the focus of your craft?”

“Conduit magick,” Tyron answered immediately.

These two would have no interest at all in his advances in efficiency and what he was capable of achieving with low-grade cores. It was unlikely they’d even seen a low-grade in their lives.

“In the field of networking, arrays and conduits, Master Willhem declared I was his equal. I’m not sure I believe him, but I can certainly state my ability in this area is exceptional.”

“His equal?” Regis muttered.

“As I said,” Tyron smiled, “I personally don’t think it’s true, but his praise is welcome.”

It had cost a huge chunk of the wealth his parents had left for him to purchase his apprenticeship with Master Willhem, but it had been worth every gold piece.

“With a reputation like that, you would easily find work for the Slayers, or the noble houses,” Ammos noted, “so why would you open a store outside the walls?”

So I can practise Necromancy in my basement without people prying.

He couldn’t very well say that.

“To increase any craft in level requires not only improvements in understanding and technique, but also volume. Outside of the city, I sell largely cheaper wares and do small commissions, but the flow of work is constant and large.”

“I see. Attempting to raise your skills as quickly as possible. I should expect no less from someone who completed their apprenticeship in half the time.”

Ammos Greyling was full of praise.

“I hope you aren’t so busy that you aren’t willing to take on any additional work?”

It was likely that Tyron had only been invited for this moment. The lordling had wanted to evaluate him in person, to see if he was worthy.

“I am, of course, more than happy to entertain commissions from the noble houses, if they deem me worthy.”

He turned to Regis.

“As a commoner, of course I am in no position to discriminate between the great houses. Should the Shan family have a desire for my expertise, I would be more than happy to provide it.”

Or the magisters….

“Wonderful!” Ammos grinned. “It just so happens I have a little something I’ve been working on. Nothing grand, but if you would be available, I’d love for you to take a look over it as a… consultant, of sorts. Naturally, you will be compensated generously.”

“It would be my pleasure.”

Tyron bowed once more, not even having to fake the smile on his face.

If he could impress at this commission, he could expect others. Regis had personally heard him accept the task, and would likely hear of his performance. All he needed was a foot in the door.