Slowly the group was peeled apart and taken to their various quarters, with the merchant Amicio shuffling off the children and paladins to his junior, taking the commander and captains for himself. Efrain was left with the so-called mentor, who was in a state of nervous agitation.

“Alright, you’ll need to explain why you’re about to have a fit,” Efrain said.

“Well, of course, of course, you wouldn’t know me,” said the mentor, “I came to the post of mentor long after you’d left the city.”

Efrain thought the title vaguely rang a bell, and he was beginning to have a dread certainty of the origin of it.

“Please do not tell me you’re a cast-off from Nicolo, aren’t you,” he said, the image of the far too charming ‘scholar’ coming to mind.

“I-If you’re referring to Nicolo Zarrentini, our most honoured founder, then yes.”

“That… bastard,” Efrain said, “I told him that it was a joke! A joke!”

The man shrank back from the apparent anger of Efrain, before growing significantly more confused as Efrain began to howl with laughter.

“The ass was always fond of his pranks. I believe he even said that he ‘wanted one to follow me into the grave,’” Efrain said, shaking his head, “it was so long ago.”

“But-but didn’t you- weren’t you part of the first convocation of the academy?”

“It was in Aimstand’s kitchen,” Efrain complained, “two hundred years ago, and they were both so drunk that if they’d taken a few steps to the left, they’d have drowned in the canal. ‘Convocation’ was one way to put it.”

This was clearly not the secrets that the mentor desired, judging by his rapidly reddening face.

“It was an old joke between friends, the idea of starting and academy of magic,” Efrain said, “I left, what, two hundred years ago?”

“But your name… and your books?”

“My books?” Efrain said, desperately scanning his memory of published works.

“Well yes. Your books. The ones you left behind. We use them as a foundation text for most of our students and…”

Efrain didn’t even let him finish, rather grasped him suddenly and violently by the collars.

“You don’t mean to say that… my old notes are used to teach. Students. Magic?” he said, voice trembling with horror.

“Yes?” said the man, who was beginning to sweat profusely.

“Those aboslute motherf-” Efrain said, as a loud gong rang out into the canal.

“Oh!” said the man, “We’ll have to pick up this conversation later, that’s the signal for canal clearing. We’d better be off before they close it off for the Festival traffic only.”

“Am I staying with you, then?” Efrain said, trying to drop the note of absolute menace in his voice as best he could.

“Yes, yes that would be correct,” he said, “as soon as I heard you were coming, I prepared the finest office in the academy for you. It’s not much, but I believe that you would enjoy seeing the labours of your wor…”

The man trailed off as he remembered the last few minutes of conversation.

“Either way, I would hope you’d at least examine it.”

“I would be happy to, mentor,” Efrain said, straightening himself, “particularly the notes.”

The man shrank at his venom but lead Efrain to his boat all the same, and they set off down the canals to the south.

“The Academy, as you might know,” he said, “is still located in the old district. As such, academy studentship is still a prized opportunity, if only to gain access in and out.”

“Gain access?” Efrain said.

“Well, it’s been monitored for thirty years, restricted to only business, and those with invitations only,” he said, patting a pin on his inner shirt, “academy students have numbered passes that-”

“No, why is it restricted in the first place?” Efrain said.

“Oh. Oh of course! You wouldn’t be aware. The Miram estate burned down almost thirty years ago. Suspected arson, though no suspects were ever caught.”

“Oh really?” Efrain said, “what a pity. I remember the old houses well. They had the most wonderful curtains.”

“The Mirams?” the man said, “I’ve only ever heard stories.”

“So the whole old district has been restricted? From where to where?”

“Just before the shipyards, master Efrain, to the tip of the white stone ziggurats. Of course the major western canals to the shipyards remain open.”

“What?” said Efrain aghast, “that much? Why, that was half the city last time I was here.”

“Yes, well,” said the man, adjusting his spectacles, “the Eisen and Poutash have been buying up immense amounts of property throughout the district for, well about eighty years now. The ‘old district’, as we now call it, is effectively two large estates with the central trade offices between.”

“Huh,” said Efrain, “well that’s not surprising, I suppose. They were always greedy.”

The man exclaimed in shock at him as they rounded a bend in the canal.

“My dear master Efrain!” he said, “the Eisen and Poutash are dear patrons, especially the former, who’ve been supporting this institution for generations!”

“Uh-huh, say,” Efrain said, trying to piece the names beyond the vague historical context that he remembered them in, “do you remember the family trees?”

“The family trees? Of the houses? Well, I certainly could give a guess,” said the man, “incidentally, Karkosian history is something of a passion of mine.”

“Well then, the Eisen,” Efrain said, “I distinctly remember something about them. In my time it would’ve been about two hundred years. So, give or take four to five generations from now.”

The man thought for a moment, and snapped his fingers.

“I think I know what you’re looking for,” he said, “you’re wondering who master Nicolo married.”

Ah, that had indeed been it - Nicolo did always go on and on about this one girl, who Efrain was fairly sure was well beyond his league. She was an Eisen, now that the memories had jumped to the surface of his mind. No wonder the academy had generational funding if one of the founding fathers had married in.

“Yes, yes,” Efrain said, “I think she was a branch family member, if I recall correctly.”

“No, master Efrain, you’re mistaken,” said the man, wearing a fairly familiar expression - a combination of fear of failure to please, and taking delight in correcting an error in a field he knew quite a lot about.

If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

“Oh?” Efrain said, “bold claim, mentor. Back it up.”

The man once more pushed his spectacles up the bridge of his nose and began to recite.

“About a hundred-and-eighty years ago, master Nicolo married Hymatia Eisen. Hymatia Eisen was a daughter to Fielia Eisen, the matriarch of Eisen, hence he did not marry into a branch member of the family. He married into the direct, matrilineal line, represented by current matriach Aysatra, head of the Eisen family. Who is succeeded by, well…”

The man dropped his eyes, apparently embarrassed on behalf of the people he’d just named.

“Succeded by who?” Efrain said, leaning forward in the boat.

“Well, that’s the problem, master Efrain. In fact it’s one we currently struggle with. Oh, I do hate politics, but everything’s political in Karkos when money’s involved,” he said, putting on a expression reminiscent of a begging dog.

Efrain did not find it particularly charming, and pushed the man to go on.

“Well, that’s the thing,” he said, “the matriarch Aysatra, who is as youthful and vigorous as a woman half, no, a third of her age, is still well… older. There’s a clamour at the house of the Eisen on who’s supposed to replace her in the most deeply unfortunate event that she might… expire. No, no that make me sound like I’m talking about food and-”

“I get the point,” Efrain said, “spare me the flattery of a person who’s not even here. This matriarch doesn’t have a direct descendent?”

“Well, yes…” said the man, “but, it’s not exactly simple. The direct heir left the city some time ago.”

“And this relates to the academy, how?” Efrain said, “not that I care, just curious mostly.”

“Well, of course,” he said, “some at the house of Eisen… well, they think that our research and education is hopelessly outdated.”

“You mean useless,” Efrain said, more than ever wanting to get his hands on those notes and burn every copy he could find.

“Well, yes,” said the man, raising his hands in a gesture of helplessness, “some have used those words.”

“And you’re concerned that if they’re elected to leadership, your funding will be gone,” Efrain said flatly.

“Exactly. You’re quite insightful, just as the records suggested,” said the man, sniffing.

Before they could pick up the conversation, their polemen, dressed in the same blacks as the academy master, spoke up. They were before a river gate of sharpened palisades, which Efrain immediately recognized as the remnants of the old outer wall of the city, painted a bright red. The guards before it were dressed in ornate brass armour, studded with a set of small pearls and seashells.

Not quite the legion of sand and sea of old, though the aesthetic sense clearly meant to harken back to it. Efrain idly wondered how different the city would be if the legion actually still existed. In all the histories he’d read, most of their military exploits were suprisingly minimised, save for the few folk legends about them. Of course, most of those authors immediately left out the fact that almost all the legion commanders were women, which given many history writers were men, made sense.

The guards checked the proudly displayed pin, nodded, and opened the canal gates. Efrain immediately noticed the difference in the stone work as the passed beyond. It was more worn, but unmistakable paler, bringing back fond memories of days and nights spent in these canals over two centuries ago. He was just glad he was returning in a black, and not the horrid purple robes that he often inhabited while he was here.

The streets were noticeably quieter here, no doubt everyone was completing the final administration for the Festival. The buildings were also considerably older, their wooden slates near the water thick with strands of seaweed and barncles. Efrain more than once recognized the shape of an alley, or more noticeable deviations in the stonework. It was funny just how much he remembered of the old city and its details, and how little of his friends.

A couple of twists and turns, and Efrain started to recognize the part of the district he was in. Catching a glimpse of the mountains in the fading sunset, and a bridge or two he recognized, though they’d been significantly upgraded and replaced. With that information, he finally realised where they were, and more importantly, where they might be going.

“Noooo,” he groaned, “he didn’t.”

The mentor attempted to calm him, not understanding why he was so audibly distraught. The answer soon became quite clear as Efrain recognized the exact route they were taking. By the time they’d passed through the two statues, now dancing fish rather than the familiar wolves, Efrain’s worst fears had come true.

“He’d better not be buried on the academy grounds,” he said, his fingers fidgeting.

“I mean - and here we are!” said the academy master, clearly glad to move on to another subject.

Efrain looked up, nearly threw himself over the side, and forced himself to look up again. To say that it was exactly the way he remembered it would’ve been a lie. It had clearly expanded to include the surrounding pyramids, connecting them with bridges and walkways where what were presumably students passed by. The centre pyramid was kept more or less the same, with the same augurs drawing up water to the top, cascading it down in falls across terrace after terrace of gardens.

Refusing the offered hand, Efrain barged past him to take the steps two at a time.

“Wait! Wait master Efrain! I-” the man’s voice fell further and further behind as Efrain practically ran into the pyramid.

It was still a mess hall, but it was now one of long tables and high back chairs. The banners and plaques above proclaimed a short history of sport and scholarly achievement. Students, predominantly dressed in black, some with colourful stripes that Efrain didn’t bother to try to decode, stared at him. As did the cooks, still busy in the large kitchens that he himself had once manned.

The academy master had almost caught up to him when he took off again, striding through the aisle between the tables and out the other end of the pyramid. Yes, it was all the same, the same flower pots, and the marble steps and the little waterfall with the cracked edge. Two centuries, two bloody centuries, and Aimstand never bothered to fix the thing.

Efrain felt a internal bout of triumph at being proved right as he continued up the steps, before, finally, coming at last to the top.

The garden at the flat top of the pyramid was still as beautiful as ever, and the flowers he’d cultured still survived, although the blooms were less luminous than before. Efrain stepped out into the shallow pool that dominated most of the area, and noted that at the far end, where there used to be a stone bench, sat a gravestone.

“Found you, bastard,” he said, taking off towards it.

“Please, master!” said the man, practically sobbing if not for the fact he was out of breath.

Several of the more senior looking students had followed, looking totally flabbergasted at the display. Efrain did not stop, nor even look back at the procession, merely took off through the pool until he reached the steps to the little knurl of turf and flowers. There he stopped, parking his hands on his hips, staring at the inscription on the stone.

“Nicolo Eisen,” he said, drawing every word out, “Father, Teacher, Friend.”

“Muh-Master,” said the man, soaked up to his knees from his hurried splashing, “master, what-”

“Oh, calm yourself,” Efrain said, “I’m not going to do anything.”

The several students that had followed looked in utter confusion at the two men.

“Master?” one of them inquired, “should we get the guard?”

“No,” the man wheezed, bent over to catch his breath.

“Hold on a second,” Efrain said, bending over himself to gaze at the inscription, “what’s this?”

“That’s founder Nicolo’s grave, master Efrain,” said the mentor.

“Yes, I know that,” Efrain said, “I’m old, not blind. What’s this inscription below?”

“Oh yes, that,” he said, drawing himself back up to his full height, “It’s actually quite the mystery. No one really knows the language, but it was put there by order of founder Nicolo. Some of our teachers and students have spent quite a bit of time over the years to-”

“I’d told you I’d do it,” Efrain said.

“Pardon?”

“That’s- that’s what it- oh fuck you Nicolo!” Efrain said, “‘I’d told you I’d do it.’ That’s what it says!”

The mentor had gone white, while some of the students looked on the verge of fainting from confused apprehension.

“By all rights, I should burn this place down,” Efrain sneered at the stone, “is that what you wanted? ‘Founder’? If the gods were good, you’d still be alive, so I could kill you myself.”

“Please do not do that!” wailed the man, “I can’t understand for the life of me why you’re so angry! I thought you would’ve been happy, maybe even proud of what we’ve achieved!”

“I’m not angry at you, you idiot,” Efrain said, rounding on the man, “I’m angry at that smug piece of flotsam happily buried under his lovenest.”

“What?” said the mentor, the sentiment echoed by almost all the students present.

“All right, all of you, gather round. My first lesson,” he said, and, most likely out of habit, the students fell into a neat semi-circle.

“This will be a test of one question, and the one to get the answer right on their first response gets…” he turned to the mentor, “do you have some kind of regular award for achievement here?”

“Well, we do have ribbons that correspond to-”

“Great, first one to guess correctly gets a ribbon,” Efrain bowled through, “the question is this - why did Nicolo learn magic in the first place?”

The students stared at each other, daring the others to respond first.

“Well, come on,” Efrain said, “someone must have a theory.”

“Because he wanted to expand his own horizons?” a brown-haired boy said.

“Wrong!” Efrain said, “if your texts say that, they’re also wrong.”

“Because he wanted to shore up the city of Karkos’s defences while expanding on its knowledge?” said a girl with a slightly crooked nose.

“Also wrong,” Efrain said, shaking his head, “that’s exactly what he would say. You take that from a speech?”

“Well…” said the girl.

“Nicolo, you preening, self centered-” Efrain said, holding his head in his hands.

“To impress a girl?” said someone.

“Who said that?!” Efrain said, the class parting to reveal a younger, shaggy-looking boy.

“Well, you said that it was his ‘lovenest’ so…” he shrugged sheepishly.

“Mentor, get this young man a ribbon. If you need a reason, then cite him actually paying attention.”