“A monster isn’t gonna let you catch your breath!” Cyril warned his initiates. “They don’t get tired. They don’t get sympathetic. So we need to be lean and mean. And a lot faster getting up this hill!”
The initiates showed for training at sunrise rather than by the sound of the bell tower. Cyril ran them from the abbey to the coast, between the main docks and a few lesser used ports. Separating the two boatyards was a sheer cliff face one hundred meters up. It was impassable from the water, but coming from the mainland it was perfect for conditioning.
Wild grass sprang up from the loose stones that rattled with every step from the kids. The ivy that infested the city grew freely and blossomed into pretty yellow flowers. Cyril stayed at the bottom and watched as the three of them made another trip down the hill, half running and half sliding.
Wakahn watched Soraya almost fall on her rear and started protesting. “This is an unsafe place to train,” he said. He was sweating through his clothes. They all were.
“You’ve picked an unsafe line of work,” Cyril replied. “This is about as safe as it gets on this job.”
“At least this place isn’t haunted,” Wakahn injected some venom into those words. Fair. Cyril really should not have brought rookie wardens to a place crawling with monsters. He thoroughly investigated the hillside before bringing his initiates this time. Despite the complaints, Wakahn followed Piper and Soraya up the hill again.
Cyril was distracted from watching them by a caravel pulling into port. Away from the popular docks. The cliff on which his initiates ran provided some coverage from the attention of the city guard. Loosely armored swordsmen still surveyed the boats, but with less traffic they paid less attention. The caravel unloaded crates to a small parade of awaiting dock laborers. Shuffled in with the cargo, a passenger also disembarked. A hood covered their head.
The caravel bore no distinct markings on its sail or hull. Along the port side of the kell hanged a statue of a stag. Its prongs caught the sunlight. The workers followed a path around the cliff’s incline and towards the port. The hooded passenger was lost. Cyril craned back towards the stag ship but they weren’t there. It was always the innocuous puzzles that seemed to capture his attention.
“Cyril… Cyril!” Piper was yelling. The warden turned to her. “We’re done.”
The man stretched out some clingy sleepiness in his bones. A side effect of his hangover. Waking up twice in Lyrique with such a headache probably wasn’t helping his impression with the kids. He was just glad they hadn’t seen him wake up on the floor.
Cyril suggested they find some lunch together and led them back towards main street (walking, not running) to find somewhere that would let sweaty teenagers dine.
In the day, main street cleared out the night tables and the braziers and the little torchlights to make way for people. Throngs of people still dusted up the wide street. Many efforts had been made to carpet the road in stone or tile, but the people of Lyrique ultimately determined they’d wear it all out in a year or so and be back to walking on the dirt again.
Couriers ran special packages from ships to their destination, or from clients out to ports to be delivered even further. Nicely dressed men and women moved in tight-knit packs to carry out their shopping sprees in broad daylight. Clumps of city guards monitored all of the action like stones breaking up the natural flow of a river. Daytime performers danced and juggled and recited stories for attention and donations. Hawkers advertised the wares inside different shops.
On the other side of the hill from the clandestine docks was a tall building attached to one of the thin wooden ports. This was built for smaller ships than the larger ports that extended further into the bay. A pretty little boat rocked with the waves. Its sails were bundled up tightly but the flag still flew with the same symbol that decorated the door of the building. A puffed up pelican over a compass rose.
A dog barked at the group of them. It was aggressive and loud, but didn’t leave the brightly varnished dock to chase them.
“Sorry!” A girl shouted. She was lounging on the little boat knitting something. “He’s not very friendly, but he won’t follow you.”
“Nice boat,” Cyril said. Even though he knew very little on the subject of evaluating the quality of ships in any regard.
The girl was young. Perhaps the same age as the initiates. She may have been smiling, Cyril didn’t want to cross the dog and get any closer. “We’re keeping an eye on it.” The dog barked throughout the brief conversation.
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Cyril nodded and kept walking. He realized where he had seen the pelican on the compass rose. Some of the wardens from the night tables had the same emblem tattooed on their skin. Seems like that cliffside wasn’t as available as he thought. Practicing in front of a neighboring guild was only marginally better than practicing in monster territory.
After some exploring and a little haggling, Cyril convinced a hawker to seat the four of them. The restaurant smelled like fresh bread. Light streamed through its open windows. The place was run by a family and their son served the group water in cold metal mugs. He didn’t make eye contact when he concentrated on the task.
“Abine used to pay for our meals when she took us out to eat,” Piper said. She finished her water already.
“Somehow I doubt that,” Cyril said flatly. The money he’d received as an advance on his pay had been pitiful. Combined with the meager funds he’d brought from the Central Continent meant he only had about a hundred notes to his name. If Bu wasn’t letting him sleep at the abbey then Cyril would probably be on the streets. “Wasn’t my choice for you guys to switch masters by the way,” he thought to add.
“It was ours,” Wakahn said.
“One we made separately,” Piper added. She turned to Cyril. “We saw you fight her.”
“You did?” Cyril didn’t know that. Bu probably kept it a secret so he wouldn’t go bragging about stealing Abine’s students. He remembered back to his first return in Lyrique. There had been a number of strangers overlooking the fight with Abine. At the time, Cyril thought they were other wardens, but the light made it impossible to make out.
“You pushed her around without any spellcraft,” Piper said. “We thought you were a new teacher. We didn’t know you used to work at the guild too.”
“So it was your idea to learn under me? Not Bu’s?”
“We both made the request right after the fight,” Piper said.
“Separately,” Wakahn emphasized again. “I obviously submitted my letter of apprenticeship withdrawal to Master Abine first. Then I spoke with the boss.”
Cyril didn’t know that either. Perhaps him being an instructor wasn’t the old man’s idea after all. Could his life have really taken on such a trajectory because of these two kids? Or because he had picked a fight with Abine? The kids seemed to be waiting expectantly for some response for him.
The son returned with their sandwiches instead. Warm bread squeezed produce and thick slices of ham. Wakahn seemed suspicious of the meal. Rich kids. They had been served, but the owner’s son didn’t leave the table.
“Are you…” he began to ask. He was younger than he looked. “Wardens?”
Soraya’s eyes lit up, but Cyril shot her down. “I am. These three will be. Some day.” Those last two words protected the pride of the initiates, if only a little bit. They didn’t put a damper on their server’s attitude whatsoever.
“You work with Master Migtrolio?”
The wind fell right out of their sails. “We work for the other guild in Lyrique,” Cyril said. “Gwyllion Abbey. On the west side of town.”
“Oh,” the boy said. He didn’t hide his disappointment and left without saying anything else. The teenagers began eating in silence. The fine food did not fully patch the wounds dealt to their collective ego.
Cyril smirked. “Well I was saving this until the end of the day, but it won’t change anything to tell you now. I’ve convinced our boss to let us try a job. Together. As a team of sorts.”
Confusion flickered between Wakahn and Piper. Soraya tried to say something through the food, failed, and clapped her hands instead.
“Nothing has been officially decided yet, but he’s scouting for an opportunity that’s appropriate for your skills. There’s a few conditions to his agreement.”
“Will we get paid?” Piper asked.
“Is it a government job?” Wakahn asked.
“Mmf ah hmm?” Soraya asked.
“Swallow your food. Yes and I don’t know. We will each be paid a portion of the rewards after the guild’s cut. Bu is still deciding exactly what the job will be. He’s scouting clients for us as we speak.”
“Master Abine always said that it was an initiate’s job to train. Not to divert our focus by working,” Wakahn said.
Piper ignored him. “What’s our cut?”
“Whatever I say,” Cyril said. “And that sandwich is coming right out of your end so you better enjoy it. Now, like I said, there’s a few conditions. One, you three must prove you can act as a team.” Wakahn and Piper made eye contact and scoffed at one another. “Second, we are gonna find you a denizen,” he jabbed a finger at Soraya. “And three, whatever I say for the duration of that mission goes. Whatever. I. Say. If I tell you to do something out there, I hear no questions and I hear no protests. I field no debates. Understood?”
The three initiates nodded. Only time would tell how well they obeyed their own agreement.
“Lastly,” Cyril fished in his red coat’s pocket for the documents Xin had given him. “These. They are permission slips.” Soraya groaned. “You will have your parents sign them. If they have questions they can find me at the guild.”
Piper immediately returned the document. Xin had taken the time to hand write the agreements laid out on each paper. A favor that had not been easily secured.
“What, yours won’t sign it?” Cyril asked.
“Not likely. They’re dead, moron.” Piper was handing the paper back to Cyril. He meekly accepted the piece of paper and apologized. Not even Wakahn tried to heap an insult on. Despite Cyril’s good news, the sandwich’s taste had remained disappointing.