Chapter Twenty-Three

Charity hadn’t expected to return to the Peerless School. Most students only returned if they chose to become teachers – and only after ten years of experience teaching or tutoring outside the school. There was so much competition for each place at the school that only an experienced magician had a hope of gaining a job.

She remembered the first day she’d walked through the giant doors and into the entrance hall when she’d been a mere eleven years old. The hall had seemed massive at the time, easily capable of holding the two thousand students who had gathered to watch the new bugs enter the building. They had been addressed by the Administrator personally, before they were divided up between the dormitories and sent to their first classes. The old man – he’d seemed ancient at the time – had been reassuring to the young children, convincing them that they would soon grow used to living away from their families. And he’d been right.

The thought made her wince as she stepped into the deserted entrance hall and waited. Only the Grand Sorcerer had full and free access to the school; the wards would already have notified the Administrator of her presence and summoned him to greet her. She waited, looking around the room at the paintings hanging from the walls. One of them showed a man carrying a wand in one hand and a staff in the other, his face too handsome to be real. A note at the bottom identified him as Valiant, one of the great heroes of the First Necromantic War and the founder of modern magical theory. He’d died sometime between the two Necromantic Wars, having set the stage for the Peerless School.

It wasn’t long – only five minutes – before the Administrator made his appearance. Charity couldn’t help a twinge of disappointment as she saw the man, even though she knew that her Administrator had died during the struggle to select the next Grand Sorcerer. He’d been a power in the city, she recalled; the new Administrator was nothing more than a puppet, selected by Light Spinner personally. Given time, he might become a power, but for the moment he was nothing more than her servant. Charity scowled, inwardly, as the Administrator made his approach. It just felt wrong to see someone else wearing the black and gold robes of the Administrator.

“My Lady,” the Administrator said. “You graduated a year ago, as I recall.”

“Yes,” Charity said. “I’m surprised you recall me.”

“I recall all of my students,” the Administrator said. “You were the one who put frogspawn in Yasmin’s potion during her half-term tests.”

Charity flushed at the memory. “I was an immature little brat at the time,” she said. “The weeks of detention taught me a lesson.”

“They’re very effective,” the Administrator said. He gave her a thin smile. “And I understand that you’re working for the Emperor now?”

“Yes,” Charity said. She wasn’t surprised he knew. The only thing that moved faster than thoughts exchanged between master and apprentice were rumours in the Golden City, where everyone who wanted to be someone had sources in all kinds of places. “I am his assistant.”

“An interesting post to have,” the Administrator mused. He looked at her, his green eyes bright with amusement. “Do you offer suggestions, from time to time, or do you merely do as you are told?”

“Both,” Charity said. “I’m afraid I didn’t come to bandy words with you.”

“They never do,” the Administrator said, mournfully. “Everyone who comes to see me wants something.”

Charity shrugged. “It’s the price of your job,” she said. “But it’s also the chance to build your own web of power within the city.”

“And you will be doing the same, of course,” the Administrator agreed. “And you seem to have an unfair advantage.”

“Maybe,” Charity said. The Administrator could act against the Emperor. She couldn’t do anything that knowingly opposed her master. “The Emperor sent me here with a request.”

The Administrator lifted one eyebrow. “He did? It will be our pleasure to serve.”

That, Charity knew, was what she was afraid of. “He wants thirty-three young students, the youngest you have, all born of mundanes,” she said. “I am to take them back to the palace.”

She hoped – prayed – that the Administrator would refuse to grant her request. There weren’t any good uses for young students, unless one happened to be a Sixth Year looking for a servant. The Emperor couldn’t want them for anything good, particularly not children from families that enjoyed no power or influence. But would the Administrator have the backbone to order her to go back to the Emperor and tell him to go to hell? It had only been six months since he’d assumed his role, hardly long enough to build up a power base among the school’s staff. They might support him ... or they might seek to curry favour with the Emperor instead. There was no way to know.

Short of actually doing it, she thought. And then it might be too late.

“Thirty-three newborn students,” the Administrator mused. “Did he say why?”

“He wants them to learn from him personally,” Charity lied. She couldn’t tell him anything else, not when it would spite the Emperor. “He is a powerful sorcerer, after all. They could learn a great deal from him.”

“I’m sure they could,” the Administrator said. “But learning to use magic too quickly can have unpleasant side effects.”

“I know,” Charity said. Her early struggles with magic hadn’t been fun, even though her father had paid for private tutors from a very early age. The students often became impatient at their slow progress from tiny little spells to the ones that really impressed people, but they had to learn to walk before they could run. “The Emperor is determined, though.”

The Administrator eyed her for a long moment, then bowed his head. “I will have the children assembled,” he said. “And you may take them back to the palace.”

He turned, leaving Charity to stare at his back in despair. How could he simply give up the children he had sworn to protect? It was horrific. And yet she thought she understood the mark of a small mind. He would do as he was told, for the alternative – losing his power and place – was unthinkable. Why, he would fall from being one of the most respected magicians in the city to being one of the least. The luxury of his quarters would be replaced by a garret on the edge of town, if he was lucky. But at least he would have been able to keep his soul.

And what, a voice in her head asked her, of yours?

It isn’t my fault, Charity thought back. I didn’t know he was a monster ...

Quickly – too quickly – the children assembled in the hall. They all looked young, wearing the same basic uniform – black trousers for the boys, long black skirts for the girls – and looking at her with disturbingly trusting eyes. Charity could see the subtle signs that none of them had been raised in magical households, although it was clear that they had taken to magic like ducks to water. No one would pick on them for being born into non-magical families, she knew. The Great Houses had long since learnt the folly of trying to exclude new blood from their family trees. Her younger siblings, if her father had still been in charge, would probably have found themselves married to newborn magicians. The gift of the gods could not be allowed to fade away into nothingness.

And besides, she reminded herself darkly, it was always safer to pick on the magicians with limited power. And, whatever else could be said of new magicians, they rarely lacked raw power.

“Please take care of them,” the Administrator said. Charity wanted to curse him into next week ... or something else foolishly destructive that would bring the school’s wards down on her like a hammer on a nail. “They are young and, as yet, unaware of etiquette.”

Charity sighed, inwardly. She’d had ruthless etiquette lessons from the moment she’d first manifested her magic, until she knew precisely how deep a curtsey she should offer to anyone in power. But newborn magicians wouldn’t have any such training until they reached the Peerless School. They hadn’t just been taught how to use magic, she knew. They’d been taught how to fit in with the rest of their peers.

And who to know, she thought, remembering just how many magicians had flocked around her during her final year. The school makes sure we all know each other, even if we can’t stand to see the other’s face.

She looked at the children and shivered, inwardly. They all looked so young – the youngest was nine, a freak whose powers had developed earlier than expected – and they appeared completely innocent, as if butter wouldn’t melt in their mouths. Charity knew better – her first year had been spent establishing her place in the pecking order, exchanging pranks and hexes with her fellow classmates – and she had no doubt that the innocent faces before her were capable of the same level of bloody-minded malice. If they hadn’t been accustomed to struggling to hold themselves ahead of the others when they arrived, they sure as hell were now.

Her gaze lighted on a girl who couldn’t have been any older than Chime – who might well share classes with Charity’s youngest sister – and she shuddered, again. The Emperor wanted children ... and he couldn’t want them for anything good, not if he was selecting children without relatives who might make a fuss. But there was nothing she could do to stop him.

“Follow me,” she ordered. She hesitated, then felt compelled to cast the standard child-protection spells her tutors had once used, when they’d taken the children out into the Golden City. None of the kids would be able to wander very far without her noticing ... if, of course, they dared. The Golden City wasn’t always a safe place for children. “And don’t lose sight of me.”

Outside, the sun was already starting to set. The streets were almost deserted, save for the ever-present soldiers and a handful of patrolling magicians. Charity felt another pang of guilt and grief as she nodded to the magicians, then led the children past the Great Library – carefully skirting the damaged road – and down towards the Imperial Palace. Many new soldiers had appeared outside it and were being reviewed by officers wearing dark red uniforms and supervised by red-robed magicians. The children had been talking quietly amongst themselves, but they stilled when they saw the small army. There couldn’t have been more than a hundred soldiers in the area, yet it looked like an invincible force.

A child with a wand and a couple of spells could stop them all in their tracks, she thought, darkly. Mundanes couldn’t beat magicians who knew to expect them. But the magicians supporting the soldiers – and the protective amulets they wore – would help shield them from magic before it was too late. And most of the city’s population doesn’t have magic.

She kept her face impassive as she led her charges past the soldiers, who stared at her with dark calculating eyes. Charity was used to being ogled – she knew, without false modesty, that her face was beautiful – but there was something different about the stares. It wasn’t lust, it wasn’t a desire powerful enough to overwhelm common sense; it was something different, something darker. And then it struck her. Jamal had looked at their family’s maids in the exact same way. They hadn’t been people, not to him. They’d been things, things he could use. Charity shuddered at the memory, then forced herself to keep walking normally, rather than either breaking into a run or drawing her wand and firing off hexes at the men. The Emperor would not have been pleased.

A handful of slaves carrying heavy boxes walked past her as she entered the building, leading the children down towards the Throne Room. Charity glanced at the label on one of the boxes and almost froze with shock. Crystals could store magic, she knew, but why would the Emperor want so many perfectly-cut crystals. The guilds who controlled the crystal trade kept the prices high, even for the Grand Sorceress ... or the Emperor. How much of the city’s budget had the Emperor just spent on crystals? There were more in a single box than the Peerless School used in a year!

But there was no point in asking the slaves. She stepped to one side and motioned for the children to follow her, to allow the slaves to walk past, and then led the children into the Throne Room. The Emperor was alone, thankfully, reading a book that fairly reeked of dark magic. Charity shivered, unable even to look at the book without feeling sick, then hastily prostrated herself in front of the Emperor. The children seemed confused – she heard a couple giggle quietly – then copied her. There was a long pause, then the Emperor looked up and cast his gaze over the children.

“You have done well,” he said, firmly. “And I welcome these children to my home.”

Charity cringed, inwardly. The children had been brought to the palace like lambs to the slaughter ... and she was their betrayer, the traitor who’d bought them there. There was no hope for forgiveness from the household gods, not now. She was damned beyond any hope of redemption for what she had done. And yet, she knew she couldn’t leave. There wasn’t even the option of surrendering her magic in breaking the oaths. She’d sworn to him willingly, after all. All she could do was pray he would free her, one day.

But he won’t, she thought. Why should he?

The Emperor clapped his hands. There was a low rustle, then the curtains behind the Golden Throne parted, revealing a number of young women wearing gauzy outfits that made Charity think of dancers in the night. The outfits concealed nothing; she found herself staring at one young women in particular, her breasts clearly visible despite the material covering them. Behind her, the children tittered as the newcomers dropped to their knees, staring down at the marble floor as if they were unworthy to gaze upon the Emperor. It would have been comical, part of her mind noted, if it hadn’t been so serious.

They’re slaves, she realised, numbly. She looked at the women closely and realised what was missing. But they’re not bound by magic. They’re willing slaves.

The Emperor smirked. “You will take these children to their rooms and you will prepare them,” he ordered. “They are to be treated well, but kept safe and secure.”

He looked at the children. “Place your wands on the ground, then go with my ... servants,” he said. “This is not a place for you to practice your magic.”

One of the boys, braver or stupider than the others, was moved to protest. “We were told never to let go of our wands ...”

The Emperor’s face darkened. He snapped his fingers, without bothering with further argument, and the boy became a tiny statue of himself, his wand clattering down to the marble floor. One of the servant women stepped forward, picked up the statue and carried it out of the room. The other children stared in horror, then dropped their own wands practically in unison. Charity watched, helpless, as they were escorted away by the servant women.

“I wonder what they’re teaching students these days,” the Emperor mused. “Clearly, obedience wasn’t on the syllabus for the year.”

“I was taught never to be without my wand,” Charity offered, as she straightened up. “They must have been told the same thing.”

“That was at school, where anyone could prank you at any moment,” the Emperor reminded her, dryly. “Or were you in the habit of practicing magic without a wand?”

Charity shook her head. The wand she carried had been specifically chosen for her by her father, who had had it made specially. She would sooner have cut off her own arm than surrender her wand, even though her father had tried to insist that she learnt to use magic without it. The wand was practically part of her. But then, the Emperor was right. Anyone could prank a fellow student at any time and, without a wand, cancelling the prank might be difficult.

And if you were late to class because someone had turned you into a toad or fixed your feet to the spot, she thought, it was always your fault.

“I thank you for your service,” the Emperor added. “Pick up their wands, then take them down to the ritual chamber. The masters will be glad of them.”

Charity hesitated, then did as she was told. None of the wands were anything more than pieces of wood, probably crafted by woodcarvers rather than magicians. Not that it really mattered, her tutors had told her. The wands served as focus tools for magicians; they weren’t magic in their own right. As long as there was no iron in the wands, anything would serve. But it still felt strange to be holding someone else’s wand.

Because there are few taboos as strong as those against destroying a wand, she thought, morbidly. You could practice nasty pranks on a younger student and no one would care, but break a wand and the tutors would have you in detention for the rest of the year.

A nasty thought struck her. The Emperor had mentioned a ritual ... and masters, who had to be ritual masters. Rituals were common, but if they involved wands and children ...

“Your Majesty,” she said, as she picked up the last wand, “what are you going to do with the children?”

“Wait and see,” the Emperor said. He smirked, again. “Wait and see.”